Chapter Text
Father’s fury towards me eventually cooled—figuratively, that is—and it helped that I no longer neglected the fire side of my training regiment. He didn’t question my sudden change of heart; he wasn’t an emotionally complex or sensitive enough man to consider motives or psychology or subterfuge. In his mind, a problem disappeared the moment it no longer caused him any difficulties, which I was sure not to do. Working my quirks back towards synchronicity would be enough trouble without his A+ disciplining methods, so my angry outbursts at him grew fewer and farther between, eyes too locked on an elusive approaching evil to bother with the grittier aspects of my homelife.
It was a matter of time, that’s all I knew. The next window of opportunity to find Izuku would present itself, and I would precede from there.
I kept my book bag conveniently next to my futon at eye level from my pillow, outline of the toy phone a mere lump of shadow in the dead of night. I’d had no expectations as to where I’d be when it went off, what I’d be doing, thinking, anticipating, but I had imagined myself conscious.
My duvet lay bunched up around my feet, pillow corner clutched to my chest and neck bent like I was praying on my side. The relative safety and simplicity my life had taken on had made even my sleeping habits looser, breaths becoming shallow after a few minutes of lying there instead of clinging to bone-stiff wakefulness. Swirls of dreams twitched behind my eyelids, some good, some bad, most disjointed narratives mimicking the previous day: dull-faced Shinso picking at his lunch, Iida fanatically directing the class, Uraraka floating overhead while pelting Kaminari with grapes, Mina cheering her on and showing the class the pictures she’d snapped of me in her leopard print blanket at the Sports Festival. Happy snatches of life. I was sorry to jolt awake from them.
RING RING RING RING RING
I bolted upright, head snapping back and forth as the phone dial pealed to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Fumbling with the bag strap, my hair stood on end under the deafening chorus, sure that father would burst through the door any second like a loud-mouthed comet and crush the device in his fist. Eager to quiet it, I pushed the accept call button and pressed it to my ear while still half asleep.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Figured.”
“Yeah, heh, sorry it’s so late.”
I rubbed the drowsiness from my eyes, sitting up. “It’s fine. Are you… fine?”
“I’m fine. Do you want to talk?”
“Yes.”
“Can we meet in person?”
“Sure.”
“Right now?”
“Okay.” I clammered to my feet, arm stretched out blindly in the pitch black.
“There’s a park about a block away from your house. You know it?”
“Tomodachi Park?”
“Yeah, meet you there in ten minutes?”
“I’ll be there.” The line went quiet for a moment, but not dead. Staticy breaths, shuffled feet. I swallowed. “Want me to bring food?”
A dry chuckle. “Sure. Please, actually. I’m starving.”
“Alright. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
“See you.”
I almost asked to stay on the line with him until then—sure he’d disappear forever otherwise—but instead I clicked the end call button and sighed as the static ceased. Ten minutes. I’d be able to find and protect him in ten minutes. To ask for anything more would be pathetic.
Without much thought, I grabbed the Midoriya family photo, slipped a navy blue lounge robe over my pajamas, and shuffled into my quietest house slippers, breath even and bated as I pushed open the bedroom door. Tatami floors have a natural rustle when walked upon, their pliable quality the perfect foundation for sleeping on a futon, less so for sneaking around. Deftly, I crept down the hallway, slipping around the corner into the kitchen. The slouched figure silhouetted in the fridge light stopped me cold in my tracks.
Crap.
Thankfully, it wasn’t my father’s back toward me, too short and shoulders too thin, but it didn’t have the soft curves of Fuyumi’s frame either.
“Natsuo?” I whispered, and he swung around, half a milk bread roll stuffed in his mouth. “What are you doing here?” Natsuo had moved out of the house the second he’d turned 18, and spotting him at home had been a rare sight since then.
“Shhh!” He tore off a chunk of the roll and glanced around wildly. “Dad doesn’t know I’m here. Fuyumi and I were hanging out, but I got too tipsy to drive home. Please don’t tell him.”
“I won’t.” I padded forward, peering past him into the fridge. “As long as you don’t tell him what I’m doing.”
“Which is?”
“Meeting someone.” I shoved four milk rolls into my robe pocket and extracted a tupperware of sushi.
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“From school?”
We did meet at the USJ, so… “Yeah.” After considering for a moment, I reached into the far back of the fridge to take the vat of soba I’d hidden behind the stacked beer cartons to eat later. Everyone likes cold soba, right? I noted the bear cartons were significantly less full than they had been that morning, though Natsuo’s breath could have told me that. I quirked a brow at him. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“No, no.” He waved me off. “I’m relieved, if anything. Fuyumi mentioned you were being less rebellious. I was starting to get worried.” I tilted my head, squinting at him in the dull light. “It’s your job to stick it to the old man now that I’ve moved out.”
My mouth twitched, sheepish. “I won’t let you down.”
“Bravo,” he hiccuped. “You may survive to adulthood yet.”
“Take care of yourself, Natsuo.” I slipped back into the shadows. “Don’t drink anymore. Dad will know Fuyumi didn’t empty those cartons by herself.”
I slipped out of the house under the quiet string of Natsuo’s muttered curses.
I realized something about Tomodachi Park as I cut through its bermuda grass lawn, squinting through the treeline for movement. I’d had so little to do with playgrounds in my childhood and so little to do with them in the future, it struck me that that night would become its primary significance to me. Tomodachi Park would be the place where I met the criminal Izuku and said the things I’m about to say and did the things I’m about to do. Everyday as I passed it on my way to school and everyday I returned home, I would remember the soft rustle of grass, the damp night air, the lonesome cumulus clouds, the dry swallows of apprehension, and Izuku peeking out from behind a evergreen oak tree.
He waited until I was near before revealing himself, slinking out with his hood partly drawn.
“Did I scare you?” I cocked my head at him with a smirk. There I was, clad in pajamas and a robe with pockets overflowing with bread and hands laden with tupperware, and Izuku shrank back like I was poised to attack. “I wouldn’t have brought soba if I was here to kill you.”
“Did anyone follow you?” I grimaced at the tense edge of his voice.
“No. We’re alone.” His hand lingered on the tree bark another moment before shuffling out of the shadow. “Izuku.” My breath caught. “What happened?” From the last time I’d seen him, I didn’t think he could look much worse. And, though it’s true that his shoulder no longer oozed blood and his clothes were fresh and orderly, the improvements stopped there. The bruised quality of his eyes had another dimension of exhaustion, uneven patches of red scuffing up his skin. He held himself gingerly, distrustfully, like his body would fail him. A bandage peeked out from under his sweatshirt sleeve.
“I’m fine.” He waved me off. “Like I said, multiple quirks, wears on the body. And let’s just say the League has been none too pleased with me.” He shrugged a shoulder—not the one Stain had skewered.
“Don’t you know anyone with a healing quirk?”
“Yeah, me. That’s why they keep me around,” he snorted. “I figure, no point bleeding on my open wounds, not from lack of trying, through.”
“Not funny.” I glared.
“Aw, sorry.”
I chewed my lip, looking him up and down. His skin almost had a yellowish quality, freckles dredging his skin like pox marks. “I brought food. Let’s sit down.” I sat with crossed legs, and he inched closer, settled down as I arranged the food between us. “I brought soba, sushi, milk bread rolls, and– ah, shoot. I forgot the silverware.”
“That’s alright,” he chuckled, wetting his cracked lips as he peered into the vat of soba. “Any food is finger food with the right attitude.”
“You’re more sardonic than usual.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Izuku’s head bobbed at the meal in front of him, fingers twitching, breath short, but he held back, eyeing me like I’d snatch it away. “Eat,” I sighed. “You can trust me.” After another moment’s pause, he dug in. Scooping out slimy cold soba with his right hand and holding two milk rolls in his left, his neck snapped back and forth as one washed down the other. I picked shyly at a sushi roll and averted my eyes. The sight of him, desperate, ravenous, tense, was too familiar. Soon, detached sniffles punctuated the pauses between cicada clicks, and I chanced a look. Izuku was crying, bulbous fat drops tracking down his hollow cheeks, though he hardly noticed, too focused on choking down a milk roll before it grew legs and ran away. A strange sort of sob rumbled from his throat; it was almost a whine, almost a word, but lifeless and disconnected. A bodily response of a dissociated mind.
Minutes passed. The food decreased. The life returned to Izuku’s eyes. He stopped suddenly, cheeks bulging with the last of the sushi, and seemed to remember I was there.
“Sorry,” he gulped. “I probably look crazy.”
“You look unwell,” I grunted. “Don’t they feed you?”
“It’s not quite a live-in situation.”
“So they bleed you then kick you out?”
“There’s a new guy who’s pretty nice.” He shrugged. “Well, nice is the wrong word. Little rough around the edges, like you, and boy, does he hate your dad. Still, we’ve kinda come to an understanding.”
“I’m not rough around the edges,” I huffed.
“Well, you do seem to be softening up. Last time we talked, you threw a bottle of bleach at my head; I’m getting whiplash.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” I said. “And learn… about you.”
“Oh.” He stopped eating. “What did you learn?”
“Your last name is Midoriya.” He flinched at the word, eyes downcast as he knotted grass between his knuckles. “You went to Aldera Middle School. Bakugou bullied you. Your dad left when you were young.” Another flinch. “You lived with your mom. Had a neighbor named Grandmama Onishi.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Yeah. She told me about you.”
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Izuku’s voice was soft, lilted with nostalgia. “What color was her hair?”
“Pink.”
“Hmm, good. I like her quirk.”
“You like all quirks.”
“I should hope so. I’m killing myself to have one– uh, well, three.” He blanched, realizing what he just said. “Sorry. I sound bitter.”
“Are you?” I whispered. “Killing yourself? Dying?”
He shrugged, not looking at me. “My situation isn’t ideal. I mean, they’re relatively weak quirks by themselves, simple emitter types, nothing that changes my physiology. It’s just a lot for my body to go from no quirks to three. I don’t know how you manage two when they’re so powerful.”
“That’s how I was made.” I hummed, thinking of Natsuo, Fuyumi… Toya. “It took a lot of tries for my father to get me right.”
“Your dad’s a jerk,” he muttered.
Izuku pulled his knees up to his chest, eyes flicking to steal glances at me before returning to the ground. A question lingered on his chapped lips, and he gnawed the scabbed remains of his fingernails to smother it down. I swallowed. Hard. Say it. My eyes stung. Tell him you know about… about…
“Why don’t you hate me?” I winced at my own question, and Izuku blinked.
“What?”
“My father, he… Shouldn’t you hate me? Because of what he did to your… your…” I buried my face in the crook of my elbow, not crying, not tired, just desperate to block it all out. Him, the park, the sky, myself, they were cardboard cutouts of the present falling away to the great black pit in my stomach, one indivisible factor echoing down through my skin, my DNA, my chromosomes. “I’m so sorry. He’s the reason your mom is dead, and I’m–” Genetics. Heredity. Patrimony. “I’m–” Eugenics. Darwinism. Natural Selection. Breeding. “I’m–” Congenital. Consanguineous. Quirk Marriages. Designed. Forged. “I’m just like him.”
Boink!
Something light yet solid clipped my head, hitting my shoulder as it fell to the side. I removed my arm. The now empty sushi tupperware lay abandoned with crumbs spilling out on the soft grass beside me. Reaching for my head, my hand came away with a few grains of white rice and a greenish swab of wasabi.
“Did you,” I guffawed. “Throw this at me?” Izuku made no attempt to hide it, arms crossed and face snarky.
“I’m not useless,” he snapped.
“I, uh, never said you were.”
“But I’m quirkless.”
“Genetically speaking, yes.”
“Well, you’re not your father, even if you are his son.”
“That’s not the–”
“Same? Yes it is.” Izuku scooted forward, pushing aside the empty containers between us. “Listen, I was born genetically inferior to the rest of humanity, but that doesn’t mean I’m worth less than anyone else, right? I mean, Shouto, I’ve started a revolution based on this and you haven’t even looked into it? The people we’re born to be don’t exist, only we do. You’re not your father, just like I’m not mine, and thank heavens for that.”
“But your mom–”
“Died looking for me. My actions got her killed. You had nothing to do with it.” I snapped my mouth shut before managing a comeback, a wave of exhaustion lapping over us. I hadn’t even considered it, but we were both carrying the weight of Inko Midoriya’s death on our shoulders, laden with guilt and regret and resentment while her real killer walked free with a clear conscience.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours, either.”
I drew the old family photo from my robe pocket and wordlessly handed it to him.
“Grandmama Onishi gave that to me. Thought you might want it.” Izuku drew a breath.
“Mom.” He whispered, tracing her face with his fingertips. Tears dribbled down his chin, streaming and soft, and I wondered when he’d started crying and how he was able to cry so naturally, how freely the salt water wet his face without shudder or shame, an innate reaction instead of a moment of weakness.
“She was pretty,” I said.
“Yeah.” He sniffed. “Nice too. Caring. She made the best katsudon. She would have liked you, gotten you to loosen up a bit.” He hummed at the thought. “We should have met before. We would have become friends, I think, even just by bonding over our terrible, fire-quirked dads.” I peered at the photo.
“Our fathers are a lot alike.”
“You have no idea, but who needs ‘em?” He shrugged, looking me in the eye even as his brimmed over. “You’re nothing like him, Shouto. When I found out about what happened to my mom, I really tried to hate you. I researched everything about your family, trying to find ways to… to hurt you all. But, the more I learned, the more I saw we had in common. That’s why…” His face scrunched up, struggling for the right words. “I told them not to hurt you at the USJ. That’s why I healed you.” He shrugged. “Because you’re like me.”
I’m like you? I wondered. It was certainly never Izuku’s face that lingered in the periphery of every mirror, haunted the classroom windows, reflected in the sink water ripples. Izuku was never the monster under my bed, nor was he much my likeness. I’m like him? How could I be like someone so… good? My thoughts were interrupted as he reached out and took my hand, uncurling my fingers so my palm faced the sky.
“Look.” He placed his hand next to mine and aligned our scars. “We’re the same.” I hummed, hating the hot prick in my eyes as warmth radiated from his skin, fingers brushing. Such a deep cut, both indented and swollen, pale and tender.
“When’d you get yours?”
“Oh,” he sighed. “The day Izuku Midoriya died.” My stomach shriveled. Izuku frowned at our adjacent hands with pinched concentration, nibbling his lip as a shadow overtook his face. Brewing. Remembering. “I was fourteen.” He started. “On my way home from school, I was attacked by a villain. All Might saved me, and even as he was leaving… I knew I had to ask him. So stupid.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I asked him if a quirkless kid could become a hero. ”
“What did he say?” I already knew.
“He said no.” Izuku shrugged. “I guess I should have expected it, but man, it gutted me. He left me on a rooftop, and I just wandered around through the streets for a while. There was some villain attack I was going to but… I never got there. They always say quirkless people are easy targets, but I barely put up a fight when some hand reached out and pulled me into an alley. They pushed me down, raised their sword. I didn’t even think; I just blocked it with my hands. Screamed my head off, too. Someone should have heard me. People were running by the mouth of the alley, away from or towards the fight: civilians, police officers, heroes. I was screaming, but they all just wanted a look at All Might as he took down the villain. I didn’t matter. No one came to save me. I was warped away, and next thing I knew, the League was turning me into a Nomu.” I winced. “I tried to fight. Didn’t work. Tried to beg. Didn’t work. Tried to die. Didn’t work.”
“Izuku,” I whispered. “You don’t have to–”
“Please let me.” His eyes screwed shut. “I want to tell someone. I want to tell you , because– because you’d understand. When I heard about my mom, it’s like I was awake for the first time in months, but I woke up in Hell. I was so… angry. ” His voice trembled. “I’d stopped fighting them, by that point. Sensei was impressed by my brain, so they didn’t make me a full Nomu, and I was so angry at Endeavor and heroes and everyone , I joined the League just to… I don’t even know.” Izuku shrugged. “I dug up all the information I could on Endeavor… learned something very interesting.” He gulped. “But by the time the USJ came around, I wasn’t mad any more, at least not at you. My goals changed. Sensei can give and take quirks; so, if we win, quirkless people can get powers. We won’t have to depend on heroes. We’ll be safe.” He tore out chunks of grass in fistfuls, eyes dull and distracted.
“You don’t sound so sure of that anymore.” My stomach churned. The last time he’d recited his plans, Izuku had practically vibrated with the ideas, passion flushing the sallow dents of his cheeks, warming his scarred hands. Now… he was cold.
“No one else in the League is too onboard with my plans. Even Sensei– he doesn’t think it’ll work, says it’ll be better if we retain the power, especially since the cause isn’t doing very well. It’s my fault. I wasn’t supposed to kill Stain.” He shivered, hands retracting into his sleeves.
“You need to get out of there, Izuku.” I leaned forward. “It’s not safe.”
“I was never safe,” he whispered. “Not without a quirk. That’s why I need to do this. Things are about to get much worse for the quirkless, for anyone with a quirk the government doesn’t like. Something bad is coming.”
“What is it, Izuku?” A black, hollow dread pooled in my stomach. “What’s coming?” His gritted teeth and glazed eyes glinted in the lamplight of a distant street, skin milky and incorporeal under the moon.
“Shouto.” He grabbed my wrists, hard enough for it to hurt. “Quirk Marriages were just the beginning.”
He closed in on himself after that, miserably fiddling with the edges of the family photo, worrying over the creases and picking crumbs from the fabric of his pants. The sky softened from its inky matte shade to hues of navy and violet; stars retreated to their sunlit hiding places; more and more headlights moseyed their way down the nearby suburban street, and I watched him, content for the first time since the Sports Festival. He’s safe. We’re safe. I can protect him.
“I should go,” he whispered, drawing up his knees.
“What?”
“You have school in a few hours, and I have to get back before Shiggy figures out where I am.”
“Can’t you…” Stay? My mouth went dry. “I don’t think you should go back.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Somewhere I can keep an eye on you.” I shrugged. “I could get you help. I have this teacher—Aizawa-sensei—he could help you. You don’t have to go back.” It was no use. Izuku clambered to his feet on wobbly knees, scarred knuckles wrapped around backpack straps.
“There’s no helping me, Shouto. I made a choice; I have to live with the consequences. Besides,” he smiled. “There are people depending on me. I can’t let them down. I’ll do what it takes to protect them.”
“Who will protect you?”
He blanched, forehead creases deepening. “You’ve changed a lot since we last talked,” he muttered.
“You have, too,” I hummed. “Your hope is gone.” His face fell in confirmation.
“I can’t give up.”
“You’ll die.”
“Have a little faith, Shouto.” He chuckled, a sly grin lifting his eyes. “I can’t be that bad off with the Number 2 hero’s son on my side.”
“I can’t protect you if I’m not by your side.”
“We’ll see each other again.” He stole another glance at the photograph in his hand. “Thank you for this, by the way.” He whispered, nodding at it and the general mess of tupperware and crumbs strewn across the grass. “You didn’t have to. You could have turned me in or ignored me. It would have spared you a lot of trouble.”
“You could have let Stain kill me and Iida. It would have helped your cause, spared you pain.” I shrugged. “This is nothing.”
“This is everything .” Izuku insisted, eyes suddenly wide while he blathered through his words. “You’ve done everything. You helped me at the Sports Festival, befriended Shinso, checked up on Grandmama Onishi, saved me from the Hero Killer, brought me food. Y- you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met besides my mom.”
I laughed despite myself, bending at the waist and shaking my head. I’m nice? Never once in my life had I nor anyone considered myself ‘ nice .’ “You’re trying to cheer me up. Shouldn’t I be doing that for you?”
“I don’t need to be cheered up, Shouto. I’m happy.” He smiled softly and slid the photo into his sweatshirt pocket with reverent care.
“Happy enough to stay?”
“Happy enough to know I have to go. Every quirkless person deserves to be as happy as I feel.” Izuku stepped back, drawing his hood so wild bunches of green hair gathered around his face like a lion’s mane.
“You’re a good person, Izuku,” I sighed. Already, he was slipping through my fingers again. I had half a mind to grab him by his soft tufts of hair and never let go. “You don’t deserve any of this. I wish– I mean– I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m worried. I never worried about anyone before I met you, and now… there are so many people I want to protect.” As per my usual habit of expressing sticky, complicated feelings, my mouth went dry, and the air sagged with the weight of unfinished sentiments. Izuku tilted his head, gnawing his lip as he waited for me to continue. An agonized voice screamed incoherent curses in my head for me to say something, do something , not to fail him like I did for Iida. Don’t let him go. Don’t let him go. Please, you’ll lose him if you let him go. “I’ll see you again,” I managed, swallowing hard. “So take care of yourself, alright?” His eyes softened, but unmistakable guilt flickered across them like a single corrupted film frame.
“Shouto,” he started. “Before I go, I should tell you something, just in case I–”
“Tell me when I see you again,” I cut him off. “Take care of yourself so you can tell me next time.”
His face fell, nodding reluctantly. “Okay. I’ll tell you when I see you again.”
We exchanged bows, deeper ones than any casual goodbye would require. A horrible pit expanded to consume my stomach as he receded into the trees, empty as the vat of soba laying at my feet, and again unknowable words rose and died in my throat. It was as if my sixth “villain detector” sense had sprouted a new limb and warned me of a different danger entirely. The danger of losing someone. In the absence of an immediate, adrenaline-inducing threat, it was a cold, slow poison, and I wrapped numb arms around my waist to feel solid instead of the intangible twinge of failure and the premature ache of loss.