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The ice ball that took up the majority of his cup twirled to rest on its heavier side after some time melting into his whiskey. It made tiny wind chime sounds occasionally. Visible cracks formed in the sphere's center, forming golden cobwebs inside. The ice would touch his nose and upper lip with every tilt of the cup for a sip of burning self-loathing. Glass clicked and skidded against the wooden bar table.
Someone sat down in the barstool beside him. "I didn't take you for an alcoholic," Hitoshi commented, not looking at him.
Izuku said nothing, resting his chin over the table and folding his arms in front of his mouth.
"When Uraraka told me you came here, I didn't believe her," Hitoshi continued, adjusting the voice changer he let hang around his neck to a more comfortable position.
Izuku didn't say anything. Too exhausted to. He heard the other off-duty Hero ask the bartender how much he'd had. Izuku didn't pay attention. The soulless table was the one silent friend he needed right now. Maybe they just didn't understand he wanted to be alone, even though he'd had plenty of that, from his childhood to his adulthood. A month or longer wouldn't make much of a difference.
Hitoshi hooked an arm under his elbow to pull him up on limp feet. "I'm taking you home."
He didn't say anything. His stomach ached, like it was scratching itself with tiny rat claws. He went with wherever the other man took him. With his arm slung around Hitoshi's neck, he was dragged out and into the street's night with the speed of a sloth. His heated face tingled and the slightest breeze momentarily made him aware of his body temperature. They passed staring eyes as he sluggishly wobbled through the street like a zombie, the iron soles of his shoes scraping concrete. He didn't question how Hitoshi knew which apartment he stayed at. He didn't exactly care at the moment.
Hitoshi held him up as they stood in front of his door. "Got your key?"
They stood there for some time. After a while, Izuku's legs begged to go lax, forcing him to reach back into his utility belt and get his apartment key. Hitoshi was a patient person. He'd end up waiting all day for him if Izuku was any slower.
He dropped his dead-weight, sorry-excuse of a body over the sunken couch. Relieved over finally being able to go limp, Izuku sighed, his half-lidded eyes staring at the dark ceiling.
Hitoshi draped himself a one-person couch, his phone to his ear. "Yeah, I found him… Where you said he would be… It's fine… He looks out of it," he kept pausing after every answer. "I'm done for the day. Want me to babysit him? I don't have anything... You want to talk to him?"
He felt Hitoshi look his way with his usual droopy eyes. "Don't think he'll say much but okay." Grunting, he leaned closer to press his phone to Izuku's ear. "It's Uraraka."
Ah. That's how he knew where he lived.
Izuku sighed, his energy at zero.
"Izuku? Hello? Izuku? You there?" she sounded both worried and sad on the other end.
Hitoshi answered for him. "He hears you," he said loud enough for the phone to pick up.
"Izuku, I'm just about to clock out. I'll stop by the market and head over, kay?" It sounded like she was talking to a child.
Maybe he was, at the moment.
…
He remembered the sound of ice clinking and hard cubes bobbing in the water whenever his mom dunked the rag in to let it chill. His teeth chattered and he mostly breathed from the corners of his mouth. His nose was clogged, useless, his body snuggled deep in his All Might themed bed, body shivering no matter how hard he wrapped himself in his blanket. He still had that baby-face back then. He remembered how his mom touched his cheek with the back of her hand, judging how worried she should be.
"My poor baby…" she cooed sympathetically. She stroked his shoulder through the blanket, wanting to comfort him in any way, to ease the pain and discomfort of her child's illness. "Do you want another blanket, Izuku?"
Yes. He was chilly. Even if it didn't feel like the blanket he had was doing anything. The cold was in his bones. His muscles remained tightly coiled. He curled into the tightest ball in an effort to close in on warmth. The moist clothe would fall off his head whenever he turned on his side. She simply rearranged in a way that it sat half on his forehead and the side of his head.
He never did thank her for those days.
…
Hitoshi finally got up when they heard the handle of the front door click.
"I left it open," he said, heading for it.
"Thanks, Shinso." She had crinkly paper bags in each arm. "You didn't have to wait."
Hitoshi shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't have anything. He's easy to babysit right now, anyway."
Placing her bags on the counter, she came over behind the couch armrest Izuku had the top of his head pressing to. He saw her looking at him upside-down. With a frown, she reached over to feel his head, then his cheek. With a disappointed sigh, she drew back.
"Izuku…" she even sounded disappointed. Disappointed and sad.
"You're good handling him on your own?" Hitoshi asked, putting on his shoes.
"Yeah. Thanks again."
With Hitoshi gone, she phoned his agency, something about overworking and not coming in tomorrow. With that done, she began undressing him, stripping off every piece of costume he should've removed at his agency. He was still dead on the couch, heavy and unmoving. She zipped down his jumpsuit and had to flout him to slip it off his broad shoulders.
"I worry about you," she said, sandwiching his hand between two of hers. "Everyone does. Can you please stay home tomorrow? For me?"
It wasn't that he didn't feel guilty. He was. He very much was. He still hurt people. He still hurt her without trying. Why did he always hurt loved ones the most? Why did he do that? Why was he like this?
"Izuku, please, I just want you to rest. Come on, I'll help you get dressed."
She fetched his folded home clothes from his dresser. His other casual set was in his bag at work because he'd failed to return. "Can I have your hands?" She had his shirt pulled into a ring with three holes for where he had to maneuver into. After putting her through his crap, giving her his clammy hands was the least he could do.
…
She worried. She worried he suffered every second. She worried he might not decide to come home one day. He had the tendency to suffer in silence, like that protected others from whatever was after him. They knew what was after him this time – what lingered and would continue to do so for longer.
Ochaco loved Inko like a second mother. She couldn't imagine losing her own mother. Inko vanishing was a wakeup call to her. She imagined half of Izuku vanishing with her. It was something she did not want to experience; the loss of a darling. It broke her heart, seeing him walk into his old apartment, a blank look on his wide-eyed face, going through each room and expecting his mother to be there, expecting the calls and papers to be false – a lie, and finding nothing. It was like a puppy looking around for that person he loved, not realizing they weren't coming home.
It hurt seeing him like that. It hurt it lasted like that for a week, before he turned hollow, then snapped at a Villain he could've handled without that much force, then melted into a quiet, withdrawn man opting to watch the city from the tops of buildings for as long as he could, staying up there through rain and snow and slapping wind begging him to get down.
He was always reckless, bordering on self-destruction. Now, it seemed like he wanted to cross his limits.
He'd retreat to a bar after patrol hours, sometimes not visiting the agency building and leaving his bag there for the next few days until he'd finally decide to take it home before doing it all over again. He was never a drinker. He'd told her dad once he didn't like alcoholic drinks. She had found out about his nightly retreats after she'd called him and he answered drunk off his ass.
And now, he ignored the warning signs of a fever and did it all over again.
She wanted to be angry. She just couldn't get angry at him. Angry at the circumstances, yes, but at him? That was harder. He was already being painfully punished for nothing. He added more salt to his own wounds.
He moved at a snail's pace when she helped slip his pants on and flouted him to his bed. His hand was flat on his stomach the whole time, his face a grimace. He was in pain.
"Does your belly hurt?" she asked, gently placing him over the sheets. "Are ya gonna throw up? I'll get a bowl – hold on."
The whiskey he had probably wasn't helping his stressed body fight the assaulting virus. He threw himself at the bowl she brought to bed, vomiting bubbly yellow strings, his stomach visibly clinching. Guttural groans came out before and after every round. He hugged the bowl, pressing his forehead to the cold lip. It pained her to see him like this, panting painfully, and she just stood there unable to do much for him other than rub his back.
He was taking it harder than when he'd lost his mentor, and she could understand why. He had his mother for far longer. She'd been his only friend for when he was too young and timid and lonely. Izuku wouldn't be Izuku if it weren't for Inko.
Ochaco ignored the putrid smell and dabbed at his mouth with a damp washcloth. He'd always taken care of her after she exceeded her weight limit, rubbing her back and holding her hair, offering to carry her and just being there. When he seemed too exhausted to move, flat on his queasy stomach, she replaced the bowl and brought a clean washcloth to cool his head and flushed cheeks. His blurry eyes finally focused on her when the wet washcloth smeared the side of his head.
"Hey, sleepy," she said, leaning down to look him in the eye, giving him a sad smile. "I called you in sick for tomorrow so you're staying home, okay? I start work late so I might call somebody to help you out here."
He smooshed his face into his pillow, miserable, unable to tell if his aching stomach muscles were after-vomit spasms or the weight of his guilt.
"And don't think of going to work. I'll drag you back if I hear of you out there," she warned playfully, or as playful she could manage with how sad he looked and sounded. He was subdued for the past few weeks. It was disturbing – painfully quietly, even. The word vomits she knew him to do had all but vanished, leaving behind the book cover with no pages inside to spread knowledge.
She brushed back his messier-than-usual hair. It was enough to send him into a sniffling fit into his billow, shaking his shoulders as he did so silently. He didn't have to be like this. He didn't have to torture himself till sleep kidnapped him. She was pissed, but not at him. Maybe she was to blame? Maybe she just had to do better for him, because he was obviously not doing too well on his own.
"Izuku…" She was about to hug him from the side when he turned his face away and failed to move farther.
"Stop," he whined, sniffing. "I'll get you sick."
Really? That was what he worried about? "It's fine. Think I can handle some germs."
…
He urged her to go home. She knew better than to leave him on his own. Knowing him, he'd try to get up and leave early so she wouldn't catch him. He'd done that before and she knew he'd try again - even earlier to be on the safe side. No matter how much he begged her to go home, no matter how many times he used that kind voice of his that tightened harp strings in her heart, she held her ground, even pulling out the futon she knew he had tucked away, unfolding it by his bed so she'd hear him and be close enough in case his fever took a turn for the worst.
She woke up when his bed beside her creaked.
"Sorry. Bathroom. Didn't mean to wake you," he said, sitting upright and struggling to push off the bed.
She had to help him to the bathroom.
"Ochaco, you don't have to–" He put up his hand to stop her and almost fell back.
She coaxed him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't worry about it!" she whispered, helping him stand on wobbly legs. She had to flick on his lamp to help him maneuver in the dark grey of his apartment of tiny plastic figures, books and posters. One would think a teenager lived here by himself. Maybe she just saw him as that Izuku from high school, never grown up in her mind, just like she never felt grown up as an adult, thrown in the world to deal with adult work, expected to forget about everything she held onto back then or to not cry like a child. Expected to figure out how to deal with everything by herself, because that was what adults did; expected to not miss her mom and dad, because adults didn't need those anymore.
He ate half his breakfast early morning, which was better than nothing. He'd been reluctant, but she was just as stubborn, standing there over his bed and bothering him over food, eventually spoon-feeding him the first four spoonfuls. He tried to get out of bed again without letting her know if it was a bathroom break.
Which meant he had something else in mind to do.
"Izuku, no," she said, gently pushing him back down. "Stay there!" she pleaded.
"Need to get to work…" he managed through a painfully-tight throat. He gave her that pathetic look, the one that silently begged and she'd often give into whatever he wanted because no grown man had to be this cute. Izuku was emotionally expressive, which made him easy to read, easy to understand, and easy to sympathize with.
And right now, he was the saddest boy, asking why his mom wasn't here to nurse him while he simmered in bed.
"No, Izuku. Not today," she begged him to have mercy on himself, stroking his hand in an effort to ease the agony he stuffed within himself.
She'd seen him sick before. He still managed to talk and drop kind words here and there. He was deathly quiet here. His silence worried her the most. He never stopped thinking. His thoughts would spill out one way or another. Silence meant everything was piling up and he'd explode again, like how he raged against a robbing Villain with a forceful punch that didn't need to be so powerful and a lion's roar that sent even the police force pedaling back, because their Deku was not okay.
Her Deku.
The boy who blushed when asking her if she could teach him hand-to-hand combat and got pinned by her over six times on the first day. He took those takedowns like a champ, learning from mistakes, improving himself to get to her level.
Her Deku.
The young man who wrestled with her at gym, and still got tripped by her swift hand sweeps and surprise kicks, challenging him to switch between focusing his attention on her hands and legs.
Her Izuku.
The man who grew in some ways, but stayed true to his core. He was wiser, but still tended to panic. He was taller, yet, still smaller than most Heroes. He had the knowledge of multiple scholars, and spilled them out in long, complex sentences. He was more confident, but still blushed a tomato red when asking her out for dinner. He learned easily, but had to practice calling her Ochaco. She even walked in on him practicing saying her name to a wall.
She continued to flout him whenever he tried to roll out of bed with excuses of this and that, and after many failed attempts, he sighed in defeat, going limp over the sheets. "You win," he proclaimed, exhausted.
"Good," she said, pulling the blanket from under him and covering him up once more. "Goodnight," she told him with a satisfied smile and booped his nose with a pink-padded finger.
He released a half-hearted snort, forcing a tired smile half-submerged in his pillow.
Perhaps, 'adult' was just another word with unrealistic expectations.