Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Izuku’s had the the same tab open for months.

“Can a quirkless person become a hero?”

It’s the first thing he sees when he unlocks his phone that morning, groggy and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The question always packs a bit of a punch; something about the way Izuku’s mind says it adds such a weight to it. Maybe to other people -- ones with quirks -- the question is laughable: but to him? To Izuku, who's quirkless and quiet and weak? It's everything, everything Izuku has ever reached for, wondered about, everything he hopes to be in the future.

Izuku has asked this of both himself and the internet. Finding no answers in himself, he then turned towards pursuing the internet's wisdom, scrounging for something he could use to fuel his dreams. Every time he asks that one, simple question, the answers are the same.

Yet, whenever he’s had a particularly awful day, Izuku finds himself browsing search results, opening forum threads and news articles in hopes of finding some sort of validation. A, “maybe,” he could latch onto, or an, “it’s never been done before - but it’s worth a shot I guess,” that Izuku could burn into his irises until it’s all he can see. Until it replaced the mocking of his peers and the derisive sneer of Kacchan.

Izuku wishes he could keep his focus on his goal, rather than the looping feed of negativity that plagues him day in and day out.

He never finds anything that would bolster his hopes. Each article, every forum post or social media thread all say the same thing. “No way. Quirkless people can’t do a thing!” If Izuku is particularly unlucky, find that the asker is someone like him: Quirkless and desperate and wanting to help, only to be ripped to shreds without a care.

After every search, every rephrasing of the same question, Izuku’s left feeling worse off than before. He’s not sure why he does it, as Izuku knows that the only person who’s really cheering for his success is himself. And that’s all Izuku should really need, and yet, somehow, it's not enough.

Izuku peels himself from his bed, briefly wishing he could crawl back under the covers and sleep in, but the urge is quickly dismissed. Izuku has always liked mornings, but he'd stayed up late the night before, so he didn't manage as much sleep as he would've liked. If he gives into the temptation and turns back towards his bed - it's over. Izuku will have lost.

Best not to test it.

"Izuku, breakfast is ready!" his mother calls, just as Izuku finishes fumbling with the buttons on his uniform. He quickly grabs his phone, slips the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, and rushes to the kitchen.

"C-coming!" Izuku replies, stepping into the kitchen a moment later. His mother hands him his lunch, which Izuku quickly shoves into his bag, and sits down to eat.

"Is it possible? Can it be done?"

Despite the opinion of the vast majority, Izuku still wants to cry yes, if only to give himself a fighting chance. Despite everything, despite his precarious, hopelessly fragile dreams, Izuku tosses himself into that pit of vipers again and again, hoping that maybe this time he'll strike gold, and all the pain would've been worth it.

Izuku hasn't found it yet. But he will, one day. Maybe not now, maybe not anytime soon, but it's better than never. Besides, he's still only in junior high, and even if Izuku's only got one shot at this, it's not over for him yet.

It’s not Izuku’s “one day” yet. Not today.

Today, all Izuku can do is hunch in his seat and try to shield himself from everyone else in the classroom with shaking fingers and thin, weak arms. His only weapon is his intellect, the words and analytical skills that Izuku had cobbled together over the years in hopes that he could hone it into something others would find useful. But over the years, Izuku has found that no one wants his words or commentary. They're considered weird and creepy, so they've steadily become muted, the volume on his thoughts turned down to where it’s only a steady stream of half-spoken mumbles, thoughts and guesses and opinions that only Izuku can understand fully.

The teacher's just collected the classes career aspiration forms, and despite his fervent wish to attend Yuuei and his fantastic, hard-earned grades, Izuku somehow feels flush with shame in his choice in schools. He prickles with humiliation, nearly bursting out into hives just by the thought of his teacher reading the form. It makes him want to curl up and hide, or somehow snatch the sheet back from the teacher and change his answers. In the heat of the moment, Izuku felt compelled to be honest with himself and his choices, and so he'd hastily put down Yuuei. Izuku regrets. So much. With that, he hastily decides to duck his head and keep himself out of sight.

Kacchan is screaming, laughing haughtily and with all the assurance of someone who thinks they're above everyone. The ladder of their classroom is fairly clear-cut - Bakugou Katsuki resides at the very top, even above the teacher, and everyone else is below him; with varying levels of popularity and influence among their classmates, some upheld more than others, some existing at the bottom, unseen. And Izuku...

Izuku knows where he falls on that ladder.

“Can I become a hero?”

The teacher is saying something, but Izuku isn’t listening all that attentively; couldn’t, not over the cheers and hollering of his classmates. He does try to keep his eyes on the man, however, peeking over his arm as he was. The teacher side eyes Izuku, then peers down at a form he’s holding in his hand. Izuku flinches, and tucks his head further into his arms.

“Say…didn’t Midoriya want to attend Yuuei too?” the teacher drawls, sounding bored, like the observation just happened to slip out, and wasn’t meant to be malicious. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe Izuku was just overreacting, but he does know what happens next, and it’s a nightmare every time.

Kacchan's laughter cuts short, and Izuku can see the moment he freezes out of the corner of his eye. Then, jeering laughter resounds, closing in on Izuku like twin tidal waves, threatening to drag him under. It’s the look in Kacchan’s eyes that scares him the most, though. It’s the thing that tightens the knot of anxiety strangling his lungs until it’s unbearable, turns a slight quaver into quaking shakes and his hands into useless lumps of flesh that can do no more than quiver and futilely try to placate him.

"All you can do is write in those lame notebooks!"

"You don't even have a quirk!" They cry, jabbing their fingers into open wounds so casually, practically relishing in the string it causes him. His teacher, of course, looks on, seeming almost bored with the whole debacle.

Izuku, for his part, splutters incoherently. He finds himself jerking to his feet, weakly attempting to defend himself. "Y-Yuuei has been a-admitting quirkless students f-for a few years now! Just because there's no p-precede-"

His desk explodes, throwing him from his seat and sprawling out onto the floor. He'd taken his eyes off of Kacchan, and now he had to pay the price for it.

Bakugou stands above him, looking at down him as if he were the dirt under his feet. Izuku tries to hide how his singed hands shake, pressing them down against the floor, trying not to wince as his palms twinge.

"K-Kacchan-"

Bakugou growls, cutting him off. "Deku... what the fuck makes you think you can get into Yuuei?"

Izuku hunches in on himself, avoiding looking directly into Bakugou's eyes. "I-it's been my dream since I was a child," he mumbles, "There's no h-harm in t-trying, r-right? N-nothing ventured n-nothing gained..."

It's not the right thing to say, it seems, because Bakugou's lip curls in disgust. His hands pop. "Pathetic." Bakugou spits, hands twitching as he battles with the urge to beat Izuku into the ground right then and there.

The rest of the class relishes in the spectacle, unsurprisingly. Izuku’s eyes catch his teacher’s, and the man just looks at him impassively.

The apathy was always more painful than Kacchan’s antipathy could ever be. Izuku just stares at his scuffed shoes. The class laughs and jeers a little while longer, but Bakugou seems to be done with him. The teen swivels around and heads back to his seat without any further taunts.

Izuku tries to breathe through it, careful as he hauls himself up from the ground. He doesn’t want to be too loud and turn that rage and pity back onto him. the sideways glances he’s getting from everyone else is already getting to be too much. He’s quick to slide into his seat so the teacher can resume class, but Izuku knows he won’t really be able to focus on anything the man is saying, so instead, he pulls out his hero notebook as a suitable distraction.

He really needs to update his entry on Kamui Woods, the fight from this morning had spurred some new theories on how the hero’s quirk works. The only thing Izuku had that was arguably suitable for a hero was his analytical brain, and by proxy, his notebooks. They were his pride and joy, something spawned out of necessity and ended up a hobby; collecting something of a wealth of information on heroes, their quirks, and how they fight.

Izuku is still shaking—and his handwriting is messier than it usually is—but there’s something calming in hero analysis. It’s familiar territory, something that sharpens Izuku’s focus down to a fine point and pulls his mind away from his environment and any lingering negativity. He looks towards the board again only to check the time. His teacher definitely notices his inattentiveness to the lesson, but he doesn’t call him out. In fact, Izuku’s sure that the man doesn’t really care about him or what he does at all.

He can’t say that he’s totally fine with that, but it’s a pattern that’s emerged in quite a few of his previous teachers, so it’s not quite unexpected. The rest usually regard him with varying levels of pity, and, if he’s lucky, treat him like they would any other student.

Though, none of them ever defend him from Kacchan, meaning their efforts in acting as if they don’t care about his quirklessness are pointless.

Izuku happily spends the rest of class doing just that, the lull of his thoughts easing off his shaking fear that had so tightly squeezed his heart and lungs. He’s in the middle of creating a new entry for Mount Lady when the bell rings, the chime startling him from his narrowed focus and up towards the front of the classroom. It brings with it a small surge of anxiety. It bubbles up, simmering under his skin and pooling in the center of his chest, but he tries his best to ignore it, and focuses on stowing away his things for the trip home.

So, of course, he doesn’t see Kacchan approach him once again—and by then it’s too late to avoid him. Izuku had thought it was over for today. He’d hoped that watching Izuku get laughed at by all of his classmates would’ve been enough to quell his anger, but it seems that wasn’t the case.

By then, Kacchan has already snatched his notebook from his desk, just as Izuku turns back to stuff it into his bag along with his other school supplies. Kacchan has seen the titles of his notebooks many times over the years, but Kacchan skims his eyes over the characters printed on the cover as if it’s his first time seeing one, reading it aloud. “For the Future… Hero Analysis Number Thirteen…” he drawls, raising an eyebrow, looking derisive. Then, he takes the notebook that Izuku has poured all his time and energy into and places it between his palms, his quirk firing off, creating a rancid scent of sweat and singed paper.

“Y’know,” Kacchan says, Izuku’s decimated notebook dangling from his hand, “I’m a bit of perfectionist. All great heroes have some kind of story… some kinda amazing beginning… meaning that I’ll be the first from this shitty school to make it into Yuuei. Not you, shitty Deku.”

He says all of this nonchalantly, as if they’re conversing about the weather. He doesn’t even seem mad, and that makes it all the more terrifying. Kacchan leans forward, a blank look on his face and, casually, almost carelessly, tosses Izuku’s notebook out of the open window.

Izuku gasps, tears pricking his eyes as he watches his notebook—his plans for the future, the only thing he’s got—fly out of sight. “T-that’s-!”

But Kacchan cuts him off, leaning forward to get into his face, grabbing his shoulders in a manner that appears almost friendly.

It isn’t.

The smell of sweat begins to permeate the room once again, and Izuku has to bite his lip to restrain the whimper of pain that wants to leave his mouth. Kacchan puts on a smile, wide and with his eyes shut tightly. It’s a shadow of a friendly face, fake and less than genuine. Izuku knows that it’s a thinly veiled threat, because his shoulders burn,like cigarette butts being ground into the skin of his shoulders - searing and prickly. “So don’t get in my way, okay?”

Izuku is quivering and something in him seems to buckle under the threat, so he says nothing in reply. It was likely rhetorical, less of a question and more of a demand, one working under the assumption that Izuku would give up at Bakugou’s behest.

Kacchan backs away from him, releasing sweaty palms and flippantly shoving them into his pockets. He makes to leave the classroom, refusing to give Izuku a single glance.

“Kinda pathetic…he doesn’t even try to defend himself,” murmurs one of Kacchan’s friends. The other nods in agreement. The two make to follow Bakugou, but stop short when Bakugou halts at the doorway.

“If you wanna get a quirk so bad…throw yourself off the roof, and hope you get one in the next life!”

Something in Izuku cracks. His heart screams in anguish, wailing in resentment and a dizzying amount of anger. Izuku jerks, turning around to voice the hurt, the how could you say that-But there’s a lump in his throat, and he chokes on it. Izuku says nothing, silent as the sound of footsteps fade away. So he stays, chest shuddering and jerking as the despair rises up in his throat and chokes him, leaving him to starved for oxygen. For a few long moments, Izuku is frozen in time, eyes dilated and disbelieving.

Like a dam breaking, the passage of time rushes back. His limbs, stiff and shaking unlock, and in that empty, pale-lit classroom, Izuku sways suddenly. A great, heaving sob wrestles itself from Izuku’s throat, cutting through the quiet of the room. Izuku’s breath is stuttering, and he has to grip onto the nearest desk to keep himself upright. Tears roll down Izuku’s cheeks, and he brings his other hand up to muffle his sobs, since it just keeps coming and coming, and he can’t get it to stop. The salty water pours down his cheeks in fat globs, collecting on his chin before dripping onto the desk.

Izuku can barely breathe, chest jerking and shuddering, his throat congested. Izuku hiccups.

He stays like that for a while, shaking and shuddering, alone and left with only indecision and his own thoughts. Eventually, the tears ebb, and the force of his shaking diminishes. Izuku clears his throat once, palming at his eyes to dab away the leftover tears.

Izuku sniffles as he exits the classroom, attempting to clean himself up with a handkerchief his mother had given him. The teen winds down empty hallways, with only the sound of his own sniffles and the squeak of his shoes to accompany him. The courtyard is empty of people, thankfully, so Izuku manages to retrieve his notebook with little difficulty. A curl of anger rips through him at its ruined state, sopping wet and nearly eaten by fish. He shoo’s the koi away, scowling slightly.

He’d have to blow dry it… see what he could save from the notebook. It was too far gone to be of use any longer, but Izuku hopes the writing is still legible enough for him to transcribe into a newer one. He uses the hem of his shirt to soak up some of the water, dabbing carefully at the fragile paper and weeping ink. He knows he won’t be able to save all of his observations, but something is always better than nothing.

His notebook may be charred and wet, but at least it’s not a crumbling pile of ash - words contained ground up and blown away.

Once Izuku is sure his book is dry enough that he can carry it home without it falling apart, Izuku leaves the courtyard, shoulders hunched and clutching the ruined book to his chest. One of his hands is strangling the strap of his backpack, as if to squeeze out the negative thoughts swirling in his mind. His hands are cracked and singed, and moving them too abruptly sends sharp twinges of pain up his arms.

He really was quite weak, wasn’t he?

The thought causes Izuku to mentally rear back in horror, ‘No! Well, maybe I’m weak now but… not forever! I’ll show Kacchan! I’ll get into UA and become a hero, even if no one else believes that I can!’He could do it. He could become a hero, even if he was frail and quirkless, he would do it, he couldn’t give up!

His classmates, Kacchan, that one store clerk… they were all just jerks! Izuku pats his own cheeks in an effort to physically jog his brain into absorbing his self-pep talk, completely lost in his thoughts. The boy crosses under an overpass, shaded from the bright sun for a few short moments.

Only the shuffle of his sneakers against the rough concrete reaches his ears, dragging against the occasional patch of gravel, until a gloopy, rushing tide intercepted his senses. Izuku only has a second to react before the substance surrounds him in a cloying, wet Shlick across the pavement. Slime and muck spins and warps his vision as he freezes for a single moment, only to thrash wildly in the amorphous grip. Izuku opens his mouth to scream and rage against whatever is drowning him, but he chokes on slime and sewage and for the second time that day - he can’t breathe.

The muck is in his lungs, a thick mucus that prevents all the oxygen from getting in. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe—he can’t breathe—he can’t breathe... oh god he’s going to die—!

‘…What if I never breathe again?’

A quiet, accepting part of his mind plays with the thought before his darkened vision lights up like fireworks and his head becomes too hazy to think. Panic becomes buried in a frost of oxygen deprivation. His struggles slow down, and just as Izuku feels his body give a final tremble, about to give in - he can breathe again. Suddenly, his body is freed of its thick prison of sludge and sewage. The slime is blown away in all directions, leaving him defenseless, collapsed on the ground. His body hunched over, sputtering, coughing, clearing his lungs free of debris. His head spins. He feels as if he could fade away at any moment, but he strains his neck to peer at the face of golden savior. Through his dull, blotched vision, he catches a glimpse of a bright, sparkling grin, and faints away.

Izuku returns to consciousness quickly, out a hoarse grunt and moving to swat whatever is slapping his cheek away, only to notice that, no, he’s not in his own bed, but on harsh concrete with the sun beating down on him. There’s something shadowing his face, and Izuku cracks a bleary eye open only to catch sight of gravity-defying hair and chiseled face.

All Might.

With a gasp, Izuku shoots up into a sitting position and scrambles backwards. He’s spluttering, face reddening at the sight of his idol right there. His idol, who just saved him, oh god- But then he sees the expression on All Might’s face, smile less than its usual blinding grin, appearing more like a waning moon than a glowing sun. There’s a slight tick to his brow, and though on anyone else this expression wouldn’t be noticeable, Izuku thought All Might looked… worried, somehow.

But for who? There was no one other than All Might that he could see... Izuku’s eyes dart around for a moment, looking for any injured civilians in the vicinity, until Izuku pauses.

‘Oh.’ Izuku recalls, dazed.‘I’m the injured civilian.’

Izuku’s jaw unhinges splutter and placate the hero, but bile rises in his throat and he’s bent over, hacking and spluttering as a nasty, green sludge dribbles from his lips, mixing with spit and stomach acid as he begins to heave, body shuddering in an effort to remove all the waste that forced its way in. Izuku’s wheezing and coughing, spitting up more and more of that foul substance, the fit squeezing his chest until his ribs are wracked with pain. During this, All Might hovers, he doesn’t touch Izuku, doesn’t pound on his back to assist him in removing the slime, but it’s a near thing. The hero is leant over Izuku, a hand a few scant inches from touching back, hesitant, as if one touch and Izuku will shatter.

‘All Might, too? Do I really seem that fragile, like a harsh wind will blow me away?’

Thankfully, Izuku’s coughing fit does eventually die down, the sobbing, choking coughs and green spittle lessening to the point where Izuku only has to clear his throat once to breathe deeply again. All Might takes this as his cue to speak. Hesitantly, quietly, All Might tentatively addresses Izuku.

“Young man… would you like me to phone a hospital?” All Might questions, and while Izuku knows he’ll probably end up with some sort of infection, he’d really rather not worry his mother and All Might more than he already has. So Izuku waves All Might’s concern off, stuttering shyly. “A-ah, there’s no n-need for that! I-I’m fine, A-all Might!”

All Might’s brows furrow a tad deeper, but the hero doesn’t push. “If you say so, young man. I… I’m glad you’re alright!”

“I- um! Yes!” Izuku stutters, swaying to his feet. Izuku has to bite his lip in order to prevent himself from breaking out into a soppy, ugly smile. He spots the terrible sludge that had attacked him safely stored in a plastic bottle, and Izuku can’t resist the sigh of relief he lets out knowing the threat has been dealt with.

With that out of the way, and Izuku back on his feet, he goes to collect his things. His backpack and its contents are strewn across the pavement, haven been flung off in his struggle, and Izuku picks each item up with care, placing them into his backpack. He’s quiet while he does this, both from a mixture of shock and awkwardness, as he’s got his back turned to All Might, of all people, who stands quietly behind him, holding a plastic bag and the bottled villain. Quietness and All Might are antithesis, All Might’s broad smile and boisterous laughter an antonym of calm and quiet, yet here they are, quiet, both waiting for some imagined tension to break.

The tension snaps when Izuku goes to pick up his hero notebook, the thick silence shattered by the resurgence of Izuku’s fannish tendencies. ‘Proof!’Izuku’s mind screams, demanding Izuku extract an autograph from All Might before it’s too late. Izuku inhales sharply, whirling around. His jaw unhinges from where it had ground his teeth together only a moment before, his facial joints locked like glue.

“All Might, sir!” Izuku shouts, bowing deeply. “Will you sign my notebook?!” He’s blushing as he says this, a bit embarrassed by how he geeks out of stuff like this but… he can’t help it. He might as well embrace it, right?

Besides, liking heroes could never be a bad thing! They wereHeroes! All Might, for his part, bursts into hearty laughter, shoulders shaking under the force of his rumbling laughter. It’s bright but, controlled somehow, as if once practiced but, over time, became as natural as breathing. “Of course!” All Might says, taking the marker Izuku has frantically fished from his bag from him, along with his notebook. Izuku flips to a relatively clean, empty page, and All Might signs it with a flourish. The signature is blocky and very obviously All Might’s and really, it was just as Izuku had imagined it-

All Might addresses Izuku once again, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Young man, in that notebook of yours… was that a costume I saw? I don’t mean to assume, but am I right in presuming you want to be a hero?”

Izuku freezes, going stock still.

The moment of truth was here. Slowly, Izuku exhales, timidly replying to the hero’s question. “I-I uh, yes! I-it’s been my dream s-since I was little…” he pauses, taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes shut. “I-I’ve always wanted to be a hero, o-or to at least try, even if I don’t have a quirk!” There’s a pause after he says it, and Izuku warily peeks an eye open.

The sparkling that had shrouded All Might’s visage seemed to die, the stars bursting around him shattering to pieces and fizzling out. His bright demeanor dimmed, and Izuku’s idol brings a large, well-muscled hand up to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck - a nervous habit, it seemed.

‘Well, if nothing else, I’ve learned some new things about All Might, right?’

All Might clears his throat. “Ah, kid… It’s best to be realistic. I don’t mean to, er - deter you, but heroism is quite deadly to even those without quirks! Those without even a quirk as a baseline of protection… would surely die. For your sake, it’s best to pursue something… safer.”

He looks awkward, but there’s a determination in his eyes, as if grinding Izuku’s dreams under his heel is just, something difficult but must ultimately be completed in order to better society.

Something in Izuku, the piece of him that had held all the pieces of his heart together, disintegrates, and the rest of Izuku goes with it. Izuku is frozen, his eyes blown wide as he stares at All Might silently, looking stricken.

There’s a little voice in the back of his head screaming, shouting and railing against the stillness that’d come to control him, fusing his joints together. All Might simply chuckles awkwardly, hastily making an exit with a quick farewell, but Izuku isn’t listening. There’s a torrent of despair filling him, a chill in his feet rising and rising like water being hosed into a bucket, one that’s pushing and swirling against Izuku’s insides, accompanied by a high-pitched buzzing loud in his ears. One that Izuku’s heard for the second time that day, reappearing as his world crashes and burns just as Izuku had put it back together again. There was a gaping void opening up beneath him, threatening to swallow Izuku whole and never, ever let him go.

Izuku watches, still and silent, as All Might high-tails it away.

Then, Izuku’s desecrated notebook slips from his numbed fingers, clattering to the ground. It causes a chain reaction, and a ripple runs through Izuku’s shocked form, releasing him from his paralysis only to turn Izuku boneless. Izuku drops heavily to his knees with a thump.

Izuku’s eyes are empty as he curls up in the middle of the road, loud hiccuping sobs erupting from his throat. He’s mourning what would have been, what could have been, what shouldhave been. Izuku cries and hiccups and shudders on the ground, alone as his dreams die, along with any sense of personal direction Izuku's managed to cling to for all this time.

What would he do now? If he couldn’t be a hero… what was the point in existing at all?

Izuku dusts himself off, eventually. The boy wipes his tears away with quavering hands and gingerly gets up from the ground. His lungs burn when he breathes too hard, and he aches all over, but there’s an encroaching emptiness that’s settled in Izuku’s bones, and he can’t muster up enough energy to really feel anything about it.

Quietly, silently, like the air around him became a void that sucked up all the sound, Izuku pulls on his backpack, futilely attempting to wipe off just a little more of the nasty sludge coating them, silently giving up and limping home. Izuku hides his face from the prying eyes of passersby, knowing that he looks like a mess and wishing to hide for their stares. He’s hunkered down, shoulders hunched and shaking. Izuku’s eyes stay firmly angled towards the ground as he totters down the streets.

There’s a hero fight going on, just nearby. Izuku tries not to look, tries to let go, but he can’t help but sneak a furtive peek at the battle, anyway.

Izuku stops in his tracks, crushing the straps of his backpack in his vice-like grip.

The sludge monster.

Kacchan!

The thing has Kacchan.

Izuku’s feelings about Bakugou are… complicated. On one hand, there’s a lingering awe surprise delight that wells up when Izuku sees Bakugou succeed, fly higher and higher and reach for the stars and go past even that. But on the other hand… Izuku hate hate hates Bakugou. Izuku hates what Bakugou has done to him, what Izuku’s been reduced to at Bakugou’s hands, how someone who should have been his hero, his friendis at the forefront of his torment, spearheads it, revels in Izuku’s pain.

Somedays, Izuku wishes Bakugou would just disappear. He never does.

Izuku thinks about being encased in muck, of the horrible pressure on his lungs and how he choked and gagged and couldn’t get enough air-

And then Izuku’s running, dredging up strength he didn’t know he had and bolting across the street. As he runs, as his legs ignore the rationality of Izuku’s mind, running and moving on instinct, Izuku nearly laughs.

His legs are moving on their own, right into the face of death, but Izuku couldn’t feel any lighter. He’s roughly elbowing his way through the gathered crowd, stumbling as he breaks through the wall of pedestrians. One of the heroes on scene shouts at him to get back to—but Izuku lunges forward, towards where Bakugou is, teary-eyed and desperate as he chokes in the same way Izuku did.

His hands are flaring, but it does nothing against a villain that’s liquid sewage.

Bakugou’s cronies bemoan Izuku’s stupidity from the sidelines, but Izuku just narrows his eyes at the amorphous villain, slinging off his backpack once again. It was going to be in total disrepair after all the abuse it’s dealt with today, but still, Izuku flings it with all his might, nailing the villain right in the eyes. The villain roars in pain, and the contents of Izuku’s backpack clatter to the ground. Other than the anger and pain of the villain, the area is silent.

Izuku pants, stepping forward to try to free Bakugou from the muck, but he doesn’t have to.

Once again, All Might intervenes: once again, All Might saves the day. With a single punch, All Might blows the villain apart, the strength of the punch making the air ripple, and nearly flinging Izuku off his feet.

The clouds part for All Might, and All Might only.

Izuku experiences the same awe he always has, but this time, the emotion is coupled with the urge to… turn away from it all, close his eyes and angle his head away from that power and the man who wields it.

It feels too bright for Izuku now. Like, Izuku, now that he’s been told there’s no way for him to be a hero, can no longer look into that light, draw the same strength from it as before. Izuku is so dim, compared to All Might.

He doesn’t want to look up to something he can never reach, and the emotion nearly brings him to tears again.

Bakugou is quickly extracted from the sludges grip. He doesn’t faint, doesn’t vomit or fanboy. He stands tall and proud, and though he coughs up a bit of the sewage, that’s all.

The other heroes, the ones preventing the gawking bystanders from getting too close to the battle and possibly getting injured, approach Izuku.

“Amazing!” one begins, gesturing wildly, “That was quite heroic and clever! A bit dangerous for someone without a license but… you have the courage of a hero! If I may inquire, what is your quirk?”

“Ah, I-I um. I don’t have a quirk.” Izuku admits. He’s getting flustered, and his face heats up with the praise.

‘Maybe-?’ Izuku starts to think, a small flame of hope sparking in his chest, where All Might had extinguished it.

The heroes’ expressions shift, going from one of pride and gratitude to concern and… yeah, that certainly is pity. How many times has Izuku seen that expression?

“Quirkless?! That’s incredibly dangerous, incredibly foolish!” and then the scolding begins. Izuku is trapped under the disproving gazes of the heroes, and the hole being burned into the back of Izuku’s skull; Bakugou is waiting for him, it seems. Izuku’s eyes sting, but he stays silent, accepting the lectures with a mere nod. It doesn’t make sense that Bakugou stares at him solely, and not the heroes praising him for his bravery. Izuku doesn’t know why he seems to draw Bakugou’s attention like a moth to a flame.

One of the heroes had been nice enough to collect his things for him, but Izuku can’t feel grateful, even as he gives the man a cursory bow in thanks. One of the straps on his backpack is torn, so Izuku deigns just to carry it in his hands.

Izuku feels the weight of his own quirklessness bearing down on him heavier than ever, crushing him under the pressure of it, and Izuku feels the shaking start as he slips away from the scene, withdrawn.

He just wants to go home.

But he can’t, not yet, because the world isn’t done with kicking him yet, even though he’s curled on the ground. Bakugou yanks him by his backpack, pulling Izuku to face him. The blonde teen’s face is red, veins pulsing as Bakugou gets in his face and rages, shakes Izuku, demands Izuku not help him, never help him.

Distantly, Izuku realizes he must be freaking Bakugou out, what with the way Izuku stays silent, looking through Bakugou as if Izuku’s somewhere else entirely. But there is nothing. In the place where his will to cry and beg and placate once was, there’s only a raw sort of ache and a frosty numbness. It’s like there’s cotton packed inside of Izuku’s brain, creating a soft wall between him and his environment.

Izuku is still shaking, his hands nearly vibrating. Izuku’s… done with all of this.

‘No more.’ Izuku thinks, and the thought gets caught in a loop, a cycling litany of no more no more no more. Bakugou scoffs, kicks a rock at Izuku, and stomps off. Izuku slowly resumes his walk home, trying to piece himself back together on the way back. It’s like trying to reassemble broken china without glue: it doesn’t work. The pieces balance, only to waver and topple, leaving him in pieces than before.

Izuku’s breath hitches.

When Izuku arrives back at his apartment, he knows there’s no way his mom won’t notice something’s off. Izuku is bruised, his clothing is torn and broken, he’s got burns on his hands and dried sludge on his skin—and he stinks. He’s still shaking, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

Izuku is standing in front of the door, trying to breathe. He inhales, slow and long, and holds his breath for a few beats, before exhaling sharply.

He forces himself to steady, hikes up his backpack into a more comfortable position, and turns the knob. The door opens with a loud creak, and Izuku flinches, because it means there was no possible way he can make a discreet entrance.

“Izuku, welcome back!” his mother calls, pattering into the hallway. As soon as she sets her sights on Izuku she’s a flurry of anxiety and motherly concern. She manages (Through the use of tears and self-blame and worry) to corral Izuku into letting her treat his bruises and burns. Izuku’s mouth stays firmly shut the entire time, no matter what Inko says to try and extract answers from him.

As soon as the last band-aid is placed over disinfected cuts, Izuku makes his escape. He shoo’s his mother off, placating her with words ground out through gritted teeth. He’s fine, really, Mom - Izuku says, making a break for the restroom before quickly locking the door and turning the tap for good measure.

The water is loud, beating against the base of the tub as the basin slowly fills with hot water. Normally, Izuku would just shower, except, Izuku’s feet ached. In fact, everything ached. Plus, the longer he spent in the bath, the longer he could stave off more questions. Questions Izuku really didn’t think he could answer at that very moment.

Maybe when he was on his deathbed?

Yeah. Deathbed sounded good.

Izuku flinches slightly at the temperature as he tests it with his toe, but his body aches, and despite how it burned against the skin of his legs, Izuku steps fully into the tub and sits down, submerging sore muscles and bruises.

The water really was too hot, turning his skin red and causing, but Izuku found he didn't really care. Mundane discomforts - different from the choking muck that'd drowned him only hours before were familiar, easy to minimize in comparison.

Izuku simply soaked in the bath for a long while, blandly watching the water lap at the sides of the tub. During this, Izuku’s anxiety builds in his chest. He attempts to distract himself by trying to scrub the sewage out of his tangled curls.

He manages to wring the substance from his hair, fortunately, but it doesn't serve as a suitable distraction from the simmering dread and anxiety clawing at his lungs and throat. With a sigh, Izuku shakily hauls himself up and out of the bathtub, mechanically drying his body and toweling his hair.

The boy wraps the towel around his waist and takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. Nothing about him has changed, even if everything has. He still has freckled skin, curly green hair and matching green eyes, is still skinny and wearing gangly limbs not yet grown into. Izuku turns away, facing the door. The teenager squares his shoulders, gulps lightly, and unlocks it.

He steps into the hallway, heart in his throat.

...It’s silent, no teary-eyed mother in sight. Izuku hears noise coming from the direction of the kitchen, and breathes a sigh of relief. Izuku assumes she's channeling all her worry into making dinner, but that's a battle he’ll deal with thirty minutes from now. Izuku carefully, like a creeping spy, tiptoes down the hall and sneaks his way inside his room. The door of his room clicks shut, and the sight and familiarity of his space, with its comforting assortments of hero paraphernalia and the lack of anyone in his space causes Izuku’s tense form to sag, sizzling anxiety draining into a deep-seated exhaustion; one that burrows in his bones and stiffens his muscles, pulls at his mind to hide somewhere and never come out.

Izuku soldiers on, dutifully pulling on some pajamas and sitting down at his desk rather than his bed.

‘I… should do my homework.’ Izuku thinks, the thought wispy and empty, like everything in Izuku’s mind has been poured out, and all that was left were vestiges of past compulsions. He opens up his textbook to the latest assigned chapter and begins to work. His hands shake and quiver the entire time, so violently opposed to everything Izuku is doing to regain a sense of normalcy that his hands can barely clench his pencils.

Izuku ignores the tightness in his throat and the tears that carve a canyon into his cheeks. Izuku tries to take notes through his tears, though salty droplets sink into his note pages and distort his vision.

How many times has he cried today? How many times has he been torn down today? How many?

...He’d nearly died today. Yet nothing had changed.

Nothing at all.

Izuku is still quirkless, still useless, still cowardly, even as he’d tried to save Kacchan from the villain. A villain that had nearly killed him, too. Tomorrow, Izuku would go to school and be treated like he always is, even if All Might said that there was no way he could be a hero. It wouldn’t really change anything.

The shattering of Izuku’s world won’t shatter anyone else’s life, it wouldn’t have even a ripple effect on the world around him.

The only thing that had changed was Izuku’s perception of All Might, a hero who was brighter than the sun and who was always able to lift Izuku’s spirits. Because All Might... All Might didn’t believe Izuku could be a hero, either.

...Even Izuku doesn’t believe he could be a hero anymore. He should have known.

(He did know. He’d known this entire time, how could he not? He had just been in buried neck-deep in his own denial.)

Izuku drops his pencil and doesn’t pick it up again. Instead, he only tries to quiet his burgeoning sobs, and keep the rest of his breakdown quieter still, even as all the repressed emotion from the day’s events burst from where it’s been held, and Izuku drowns once again.

He finishes his homework, eventually; wipes his tears away and does what he can about the ruined contents of his backpack, making sure to email his teachers about the assignments given today, attempting to negotiate an extension or receive a copy he can print out. Izuku knows they’ll scold him tomorrow, for this. He doesn’t mention the villain attack, though if any news trucks were on scene, they might have seen it, anyway.

His mother asks him if he wants any dinner, which he refuses, claiming to have had a big lunch. (A lie. Izuku’s mother packs his lunch, and she and Izuku both know it’s not enough to leave him still full, even though it’d been nearly half a day since lunch. She gives him a look that stomps on Izuku’s already shattered heart, but doesn’t call him on it. Instead, Inko tells Izuku that she loves him, and that she’s there if he needs her.) Izuku appreciates the sentiment, but his gut roils at the thought of eating anything, just as his mind twists itself in circles and heightens his nausea.

Izuku tries to visit the local hero news sites, checking for updates and to see if there are any articles on what happened that afternoon, but he ends up freezing periodically, finding himself spacing out, as if he’s become unanchored from his body and will drift away at a moment's notice, unable to focus properly.

He coughs up a little more muck.

He checks the clock, and it informs him it’s about seven thirty from when he checked it. Izuku simply rises from his desk chair, shuffles to the edges of his bed, and falls face-first onto it. His mind brings him no commentary, so Izuku deigns to just… lay there a moment. Soon, though, pressing his face directly into his bedsheets becomes too suffocating and uncomfortable to bear, so the boy turns over onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Izuku blinks, and blinks again. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the ceiling, where they absentmindedly trace the notches and ridges in the drywall pattern. His mind is silent, devoid of chatter where it is usually a torrential flood of information, of analysis and commentary.

Izuku, lost somewhere in his head that’s deep and quiet and in utter shreds, simply stares up at the plaster, awareness of his environment falling away like his mind is caught in a web, unable to focus on the spider lurking nearby, instead snagged on how sticky the web was, how tangled and trapped he felt.

There’s a knock on his door, wiping away the cobweb that had blanketed his mind, and his mother’ soft voice carries through the thin wood of his door.

“Izuku, are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” She says, cautiously, careful, like any word out of place and Izuku will shatter like porcelain. “I-I made katsudon… the leftovers are in the fridge…?” As her question tapers off, awkward and concerned, Izuku gives in.

He- he couldn’t drag her into his mess. It’s not her fault that Izuku’s like this, weak and hard-pressed to accept it.

She’s sacrificed so much for him, and he can’t even eat the food she makes.

With the disparaging thought embedded in his mind, Izuku sniffles, and on sore legs, hauls himself to his feet. He shuffles and wobbles his way to the door, gently pulling it open. His mother looks relieved at his appearance, even if he says nothing. Her tangled fingers unlatch from where they’d been gripping each other, and are drawn up to hover near his shoulders, as if to guide him to the kitchen.

Izuku is silent as he enters the kitchen. He’s too withdrawn, too exhausted to speak. He winces as he pulls the chair out from where it was tucked into the table, it’s screech as it’s dragged across the floor grating on sensitive ears. Izuku practically falls into the chair, bringing his hands up to rest on the table.

His mother pulls out half-cooled leftovers from the fridge, peeling off the plastic wrapping covering it, and sets the bowl into the microwave. Izuku watches the bowl spin passively, thinking only of how he’s going to force all of that food into his stomach and coming up empty. The timer beeps, loud and piercing in the tense, silent space. His mother has been growing anxious with his silence, a yawning emptiness where his chatter and nervous tittering usually is, bright and passionate.

Izuku gets up only to pull a pair of chopsticks out of the drawer, before sitting down again. A bowl of katsudon is set down in front of him, and Izuku nearly vomits.

Izuku mumbles a quick, “Thanks for the food.” and tries to make room in his stomach.

He really doesn’t feel like eating.

Izuku does it anyway, picking up his chopsticks and dipping them into the bowl. They seem heavier than they usually are, like they’re made of steel rather than polished wood, but Izuku forces his grip on them to tighten, even as he picks at his food instead of eating it. In the end, despite how hard Izuku tries, he’s only able to eat a couple pieces pork and little bit of the egg and rice.

He’s wracked with guilt as he rises from the table and wraps the food again, setting ti back into the fridge for later. His mother looks at him as if her world is collapsing and she’s powerless to stop it. Izuku knows it’s his fault, and hates himself for it. ‘Tomorrow,’ Izuku vows. ‘Tomorrow… Tomorrow I-I’ll stop this, and make it up to her.’

He finds himself in his bed again, absently checking his phone. He’s refreshing the page every ten seconds, as if that’s enough time for something new and engaging to appear in his feed, and time drips by like molasses, seconds stretching on like hours. He goes back to his home screen, stares at his All Might wallpaper for a second, before he presses his thumb over the icon for his browser once again.

He expects the same content to be shown from the last time he’d opened it, but his tired eyes catch on an article from a hero-fan group he ghosts.

The article is not on heroes, for once, but on the poverty rates of quirkless people. The title makes Izuku’s stomach drop, unsettling the small amount of dinner he was able to consume, but Izuku finds himself pressing the link, opening it. He skims the opening paragraph, but the further on Izuku reads, the more the chittering, nervous part of his mind wakes up. His throat is dry by the time he’s done reading it, and he tries to blink away the panic that laps at his eyes and chest.

He peers at the comparison chart again, and a desperation takes hold, sinking its claws into him. Panic crashes over him, whispers that had circled his mind like sharks reaching a quick crescendo, like gasoline suddenly lit.

“That can’t be it. That won’t happen to me, right? That’s not all there is, right?... right?” Izuku babbles to himself, voice pitched high and very close to broken. He jumps from his bed, throwing off the covers and wobbles to his desk, sitting down heavily and harshly pressing his thumb on the “on” button of his computer. Izuku’s leg bounces as he waits for the machine to start up, whirring and clicking. His hands sweat.

The dream he’d tended to so carefully in his heart seems to unfurl, the dying, flickering embers of passion bringing about a last, desperate cry for some sort of hope,to let him revive this dream just one more time-!

He spends an hour scouring the internet for affirmation. The keywords he's input into the search bar so many times before, Can a quirkless person become a hero?, failing him once again, leaving wisps of smoke and ashes on Izuku’s tongue.

It’s a lot of nothing, nothing, nothing<, and that means Izuku is a lot of nothing, nothing, nothing. He makes a noise like he’s dying, shaking fingers tapping the keyboard furiously, phrasing and rephrasing the question in a hundred different ways. In his frenzied haste, Izuku accidentally pushes the wrong key, switching tabs from his browser to his hero blog.

He’d created it on a whim, impassioned and overwhelmed with a need to spill his guts onto a page where people could see it, rather than have his gushing words fall on deaf ears and fade away to become part of the atmosphere, invisible and dissolved. He’d only made one post on it so far - a small analysis of a hero new to the industry, because after he’d hit post, he’d become unconfident in himself, unable to bring himself to expose his thoughts to others on any other occasion. It, like the tab on his phone, had been open for months, wasting away. Izuku liked to tell himself he’d gather the courage to make another post tomorrow, but tomorrow became today, and then yesterday, and it never really happened.

(There was a fear, lodged so deep in Izuku’s mind he couldn’t pull it out no matter how hard he tried to rationalize it away, that, somehow, people would be able to tell that he was quirkless, just from his posts.)

He’d only gotten a few likes on his first post, and luckily no negative feedback, and glanced over its statistics quickly, fingers positioned to switch the tabs over again, resuming his search. But the notification symbol at the corner of the screen was highlighted, little bell blinking, signaling to Izuku that someone had interacted.

Izuku inhales, heart beginning to pound.

He exhales, slowly, hand clenched and stiff over his mouse. Cautiously, as if it’d jump out of the screen and attack him, Izuku takes a peek at it, unable to contain his curiosity.

The loading icon whirls as it loads the new page, computer huffing for a moment.

...It’s a link.

There’s no commentary attached, the link has no obvious identifiers in it. The URL is compressed, and there’s no label on the rest of the link. All-in-all, it’s incredibly suspicious. Izuku should just delete the comment, as it’s most definitely a scam, but… Izuku has always been too curious for his own good. What does Izuku really have to lose, even? Maybe the “You’re a winner!” pop-up ad will make him feel better.

“Besides,” Izuku mumbles. “I almost die-died today, I’m pretty sure it couldn’t get any worse than that…”

(It could. It could always get worse. But Izuku couldn’t find it in himself to care.)

Izuku clicks the link, ignoring how his hands shake with nerves.

He’s expecting loud, obvious scam advertisements, or for his computer to suddenly crash, but instead of virus’ or scams, the page loads into what looks like… a forum? Confusion washes over Izuku, and he scrunches his face. His eyes rove over the page, taking in the beige coloring of the boxes, the simple but effective design, and plain lettering of each section.

He stops dead when he notices it’s for quirkless people. Not made by quirkless people for something like hero-stalking or economics, but, for them, about them, and—going by the about section—by them.

His feet go cold, a chill encroaching and snaking up his body until the beat of his heart is loud and forceful in his chest against the still frost of anxious spiking through him.

‘How did they know?’ Izuku thinks, eyes wide. He’s never broadcasted his quirklessness, never wanted to put it anywhere for people to jeer and laugh at, but this site… the more he looks at it… seems to be okay? There are no pop-ups, despite having been on the page for several minutes already. There are none of the signs of being a scam, and now that he’s on the page, the search bar shows the full web address. “quirkless.net/”

It’s not very creative, per say, but it certainly is descriptive. And really, for a site about quirklessness, does it really need to be? Izuku eyes a recently opened thread, his interest flaring. It’s titled “[Discussion] Quirkless Heroism?”

And oh yes, is Izuku interested in that. Faster than Izuku had thought, any hesitation slipping away, Izuku slams his left-mouse button, furiously clicking the link. The page blanks and reloads, a stubby but engaging thread opening, and Izuku nearly crows in delight.

Izuku… has to reply. Because there’s someone like him in this thread, and there’s a maybe in here, too.

Funny, that the day All Might himself crushes his dreams and tells him no, he finally gets his “maybe.”

His fingers itch, and some part of Izuku compels him to reply. His first thought is to refuse, to do as he does with everything else and keep his opinions to himself, saved for only his notebooks and when his lips, unbidden spill his secrets in streams of quick, jumbled consciousness. However, his second thought refutes this. It’s a site for quirkless people, and the person who sent him the link is obviously under the (accurate) impression that Izuku is quirkless. It’s for quirkless people and he - probably - wouldn’t be punished for giving his, totally warranted, opinion on here.

It should be fine.

However, Izuku finds he has to create a profile to do so. He cannot anonymously post to the thread. It makes sense, because Izuku’s seen firsthand what that kind of ability does for quirkless spaces, knows how people will come in and mock and pester the small sites, just because they can hide their identities and think what they’re saying doesn’t matter.

It should be fine.

Izuku leans back in his chair, pondering his options. Izuku peering up at the rigid plaster of his ceiling, furrows his eyebrows.

He makes a leap of faith. He presses the little “sign up” button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It brings up an account creation form, and Izuku quickly, but reluctantly, types in his email address and password. Then, he gets stuck.

He’s supposed to create a username. Something everyone can call and remember him by, and the weight and responsibility of having to choose just the right one makes his palms sweat.

Izuku, embarrassingly enough, panics a bit (more than "a bit", anyone else would say) and before he knows it, he’s typed in the word “Deku” as his username, and pressed “create account”.

The username is not taken, and he’s redirected back to the homepage of the site. He has an account. Izuku has joined this forum and he has called himself Deku,of all things.

He should’ve just gone with “AllMighty826” like he did for his blog. Regret cuffs him upside the head for a moment, but Izuku swallows it down in favor of skimming over the site rules, helpfully listed on the very front of the page. It’s standard stuff, if adapted for quirkless people, and Izuku quickly jumps over to the [INTRODUCTION]thread, and nervously begins to type a comment out.

“Hi.” Izuku starts. His face twists, and Izuku presses the backspace key, deleting it. He types out several comments, brushing sweat-slick hands on his pants intermittently.

“You can call me Deku- no… that’s not right. Um-”

“And I’m quirkless- th-that’s redundant… everyone here is quirkless, I think...”

When Izuku finally types out something he’s marginally satisfied with, he hits send without reading over the comment, fast enough to where he won’t be able to second-guess himself.

And, with that, Izuku is a fully-fledged member of “quirkless.net”.

The teen quickly opens the heroism thread up again, opening the text box for a new comment. Izuku argues the pros and cons of the previous opinions in the thread, agreeing and refuting some points they’ve brought up. After all, UA is no allowing the admission of quirkless students, so… so it’s not all bad! Even if no quirkless student has a gained admission yet, and they’re banned in hero courses pretty much everywhere else… that door is still open.

(Just, maybe, not for Izuku.)

Then comes the hard part. His mouse hovers over the “Post” button once again, and this time Izuku can’t bring his hand to press the button, twitching but refusing to click. It’s a simple action, harmless, and there really is nothing to be afraid of, but anxiety drums up in Izuku, the sweeping cold resettling in his bones and making his head pound.

In the end, Izuku brings his other hands up and over his eyes, squeezing them tight as he forces his stiff, quavering finger to hit the button anyway.

His hand falls away from his eyes, and Izuku peeks at the screen with one eye. It posts. The page has refreshed, and there’s a little banner at the top of the screen that says “Comment posted successfully!”.

Nothing happens.

Izuku flinches anyway.

He can’t bear to sit on the thread and wait for a response, so he clicks back to the homepage. Izuku’s running away again, he knows, but he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as the title page and rules pop up once again.

It doesn’t last for long, as Izuku spots that the [INTRODUCTION] thread has been updated, merely a few minutes ago.

Izuku hopes it’s not in reply to him. He crosses his fingers as he opens up the introduction thread, forwarding to the most recent additions.

A small part of Izuku expects backlash, but what he gets instead is a pleasant rush of “Welcome” and “Hi!”’s from several people.

...They seem rather excited to have him. Izuku flips.

The boy gestures wildly at his computer screen, arms flailing as his face goes bright red, hot in his embarrassment. The positive attention makes him smush his face into the keyboard, in a pathetic effort to cool his overheated face down. Izuku’s head whips up, and shaky, tangled smile pulls at his lips as he rereads the messages added in reply to his introduction.

Izuku flings himself to his feet, chair rocking from the force of it, and paces his room for a while. There’s a flare of joy in his chest, making his lips twitch, even as his hands writhe and grip his chest, and Izuku throws himself onto his bed, gets up, and does it again. Multiple times.

The smile threatening his cheeks sprouts fully, small and shaky but convincingly pleased, mirroring his flushed cheeks.

Izuku spins around once more, and forces himself back to his desk, sitting down and taking several deep breaths before he gets up, again, and continues to be incredibly embarrassing.

What if his mom had walked in?!

He’d die, for sure. They’d lock eyes and Izuku would combust, right there. He’d die and his mother would cry and there’d be an embarrassing funeral where his mom would end up regaling his last moments, of how he discovered his quirk only for it to kill him. Kacchan would probably kick his grave.

Izuku forces the thought from his mind before it can spiral further. There’re butterflies in his stomach, fluttering and tangled, and he’s just so nervous! Should he reply? Thank them somehow?

Ah… it was all just so embarrassing! He’d probably mess all of this up…

The sludge monster, how he drowned and nearly didn't come up for air, whips through his mind. He nearly died today, fumbled and fucked up over and over today, so…

What was one more fuck up? At least this one wouldn't get him killed.

(Probably.)

Carefully, but with his chest thrumming in pleasure, Izuku types out a small “Thank you!” in reply to the kind words. Exhaustion pulls at his legs and mind. Head tipping as sleep threatens to overcome him, a big yawn forces itself from Izuku’s throat.

The day really had been long, and his bones and muscles screamed for rest. Izuku clicks off his computer, only half-listening as the machine winds down, and gets ready for bed. Sleepily, Izuku brushes his teeth and says goodnight to his mother, noting with brief relief her delight in the increase of his mood.

Izuku climbs into bed, slips under the covers, and promptly passes out.

Izuku finds himself addicted. He quickly finds himself spilling his guts in a way he never thought possible, growing closer to several users and getting progressively more attached to what had instantly become a safe-haven for him.

In real life, when he’s forced to stow his phone into his pocket during class, the bullying gets worse.

A trade, it seems. Izuku gains a safe haven, only for his school life to truly become hell. Only a week after his dreams shattered, a few of his yearmates cornered him on the roof. Izuku tries to placate them, to calm their temper and redirect it, but it’s in vain. They beat him up anyway.

He drags himself home, black and blue, but makes a point to stop into a public restroom and at least attempt to clean himself up before entering his apartment. He really didn’t want to destroy his mom’s happiness so soon after the incident with the sludge villain.

Izuku’d been… not happier but, brighter, as if, despite it all, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. His mother picked up on this, and it made her happier as well.

Izuku liked it when his mother was happy, and was determined to make sure nothing disturbed it, if only for a little while. He couldn’t hide the bloody scrapes and bruises forever.

At school, everyone avoids his seat like the plague, and during lunch, Izuku finds that Bakugou grows more violent than previously thought, taking every misstep, every casual remark like a violent challenge. As his friends multiply, so do his bruises.

His offline life, directionless and benign, continues unbidden. He gets good grades, and Izuku receives what he thinks is the only complimented he’s ever gotten from a teacher when his report card rolls in, demonstrating high A’s. She’s awful about it, though, attributing his success to somehow “overcoming his quirklessness”. Izuku feels mildly offended, but it’s a step up from the others, who boredly handed him high A after high A, making no remark whatsoever.

It’s apparent that they don’t care, and Izuku tries not to be too hurt by that. He knows this by now.

Despite his declining situation in real life, Izuku feels something in him settle. The bullying doesn’t stop, and the apathy displayed towards him becomes progressively stifling, but Izuku finds himself breathing easier.

His hands still shake, and his eyes still fill with tears due to cutting words and dispassionate remarks, of prospects Izuku might not be able to reach, but all he has to do is pull out his phone and check his messages, and it’s like everything slips away, if only for a moment.

The boy finds the forum site so… disconnected from him. He can just, reply to their messages on the board, without fear of them worrying out his physical state, or too pathetic to engage with. It’s like he’s passed some sort of test, and now that he’s past that point, the site won’t turn their backs on him.

(His head pounds, heart thumping in chest, at the thought of messing up so bad no one talks to him anymore. It sends off distressing sparks of anxiety every time his thumb hovers over the “send” button, fingers wavering.)

They don’t know about Bakugou. They don’t have to know. They don’t know about the sludge villain, or how All Might, personally, told Izuku he couldn’t be a hero. They don’t have to know about the heavy heavy apathy and the simpering pity thrown onto him day-in and day-out.

Things, are going well, too well, and each day that passes without much incident eases something tense in him, even as his mind whispers its anxieties to him, chattering and bickering and howling “It’s only a matter of time!” like hollow wind-chimes.

During this time, Izuku, reluctantly, hesitantly, like he’s betraying all his hopes and dreams (Squashed as they are.), looks into schools other than UA. Specifically, non-heroic high schools. It’s painful, and none of them draw Izuku in like UA does, but he still makes a list of the ones he doesn’t dislike, that he could tolerate, and hands it to his mom.

She’s the one who asked, after all. She cajoled and needled and pleaded, and how could Izuku refuse? He had tried, of course, firmly stating he’d get into UA (neither of them believed it), and that looking for alternatives was unnecessary. However, when her eyes filled with tears, nervously spilling her worry, Izuku crumbled.

Getting into UA feels more and more like an old dream as the days go on. Izuku’s not sure how to feel about that, but for now it just makes his chest ache and his throat tight.

He tries not to think about it.

(He pointedly glosses over most of the non-UA hero schools, of their “no quirkless admission” labeled red and bright. He vents about this to his mom, and they spend a good three hours jokingly envisioning what, exactly, they’d say to the principal if they had the opportunity. His mom doesn’t call Izuku out on the wet sheen that sits on the rim of his eyes, and Izuku says nothing about the strained note in her voice.)

The rest of the world sort of… fades out. Izuku finds himself giggling in the quiet of his room, up later than he would’ve been six months previous because both Armageddon and GDIMP seem to exist solely at night. He’s more tired in the mornings, and tends to nod off during class, but Izuku doesn’t stop.

Izuku can admit he’s a little obsessed, finding himself utterly immersed in his budding new online life.

“Move, nerd!” Bakugou sneers, elbowing Izuku out of the way.

Izuku sighs, absently rubbing at where a sharp, pointy elbow nailed him. He knows he’ll have a bruise there later, but it’s fairly easy to hide, and kacchan didn’t use his quirk on him, at least.

Izuku ignores the way the class giggles, voices hushed and amused.

It happens on impulse, overcome by the need to rant. Izuku, in a fit of anger, posts it before he can think better of it, and suddenly Izuku freezes, realizing what he’s just done. Izuku stares down at his post and feels nothing but heavy, horrible, regret.

He panics, because there’s no way to delete a post from the thread. What if someone made fun of him? Maybe an Endeavor fan was online and they saw.

Izuku spends a few moments mashing his face against his desk, groaning in abject misery.

His computer pings, and Izuku’s head flies up, chin resting on the desk as he refreshed the page to view the new post.

The message is from Armageddon0600.

His head lifts, and his eyes go wide.

‘It’s… not bad. They even… agree with me.’ Izuku thinks, a bit dumbfounded. The actual message itself sinks in, and Izuku flusters, covering his face with his hands.

It’s not that big of a deal, but Izuku can’t remember the last time anyone actually listened to any of his rants about heroics, whether it be dismissed with benign indulgence, or with sparkling, angry insults.

It takes a few hours before Izuku’s calmed down enough to check the thread once again.

The owner has the site has replied to his post, and Izuku hopes, dearly, that he’s not being scolded. He crosses his fingers and his scrolls down, revealing the contents of the message. It’s an image, and it seems loosely like the one he snapped of Endeavors attack. It’s not a photo though, and everything in it seems hand drawn. It’s faintly political, what with all the red symbolism and how it’s connected to Endeavor, but the accompanying message alleviates Izuku’s anxiety (politics always seems to ramp up his anxiety), and melts his heart.

“I got kinda inspired,” The message reads, “I hope you don’t mind me using your endeavor snapshot as a reference. It’s a good photo.”

Izuku saves the drawing to his computer, wiping away a few of the tears that smuggled themselves from his eyes, and writes a gushing reply back.

More pinging.

Izuku wants to believe them, so badly, to drink in their words like a dying man given water, but Izuku knows, knows with a painful ache, that their words are only a dumb wish. Naive and bright, refusing to even acknowledge the reality.

The reply back is quick.

Oh.

Oh. Izuku blinks, mouth slightly agape. It’s like the air was punched from his lungs, stolen in one fell swoop, and he’s left to scramble for oxygen. The statement resonates, pokes something dead and withered in his core, and the deadened, weakened, nearly buried thing sparks to life once again.

Deep in his heart, a dream reasserts itself, reroots.

Oh.