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"Why did Kacchan do that?" Izuku asks. It's one of those shards of memory that lingers far longer than it should, muddying over years and re-rememberings, but never completely fading away.
Izuku can remember the question, his grazed knees, the sun shining on the grass. He can remember his mother helping clean him up, smiling a comforting smile and saying, "I don't know, sweetie. I think he was angry."
Izuku isn't sure if the question that comes next comes from his mother, or if it's just something he's thought about so much over the years that it's gotten tangled up in the memory, an unwitting passenger. "Don't you get angry, Izuku?" someone asks.
In hindsight, Izuku is sure the thoughts that come next can't be part of the memory. His five year old self wouldn't be capable of this kind of self-analysis. But the thing is, Izuku thinks he knows what anger is. It's not really that distinct from other kinds of overwhelmed, when the world is too loud, too much, too impatient and needling - and so he cries, because this happens every time a feeling is too large to hold all of it inside him, and 'wanting not to cry' is always one of those feelings, so there's no way out.
Izuku supposes he must have thrown tantrums when he was little. Thrown his toys around, fallen on the floor, screamed. He can't remember doing any of that.
He's never felt whatever Kacchan is feeling when he pushes Izuku into the dirt. He tries to imagine it, a feeling bubbling over into bright, harsh action, like Kacchan's explosions. He can almost get there, but after comes a sweep of shame that pulls him back into himself. Izuku Midoriya, quirkless and strange, who causes enough problems without pushing other children over. Izuku, who can feel the aftermath so much more distinctly than that initial explosion of anger. He can't think about explosions without thinking about wreckage.
“Don’t you ever get mad?” Matsuda asks.
Izuku had been on his way to take shelter in the school library over lunch. He’d been distracted, as he walked, wondering if the doors would be open today - the library is sparse and neglected enough when it’s open, but the school’s staffing levels are such that he frequently turns up at the doors to find the whole place shut up and locked, leaving him to try and think of another place where he might be able to spend the next 45 minutes safe and left alone - so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Matsuda until they almost collided in the hallway.
He was lucky, really, that it was just Matsuda, not one of Kacchan’s true entourage, but a hanger-on who rarely missed an opportunity to take Izuku down a peg. In a class without Izuku there, it wouldn’t be that hard to see Matsuda in Izuku’s place.
But something about Izuku’s distracted expression during his taunts seems to have triggered something else, a kind of disbelieving disgust. “Like, ever?” he asks. “Don’t you ever get tired of like ‘thanks, excuse me, sorry for existing and all, good luck with the test tomorrow guys!’” He says this last past in a high-pitched imitation of Izuku’s voice, and Izuku thinks maybe they’ve returned to familiar ground, but Matsuda is still staring intently at him, seemingly waiting for an answer.
He doesn’t have one to give. Half his mind is still on those library doors, and whether they’ll be open when he gets there. The rest is fuzzed over with panic, leaving him with nothing but his polite, stammering default - which never makes it better, but silence never does either.
“Whatever,” Matsuda says, suddenly growing tired of him and starting off in the other direction. “It’s like you like it this way.”
Izuku takes a shuddering breath and turns the corner. The library doors are closed.
Izuku tries, later that day, once he’s safe at home, to get angry on purpose. He sits on his bed and tries to summon it up, like the opposite of meditating, reaching for fury instead of calm. For a few minutes nothing happens at all, except that he gets distracted thinking about other things and has to drag himself back.
He thinks about Kacchan pushing him down, and him never finding out why. He thinks about the look on his mother’s face when she came back from meetings during the dissolution of her marriage, meetings Izuku was kept well away from; he thinks about how hard she tried to be normal, but how her knuckles were white where she gripped her water glass.
Eventually, there’s a kind of hot, prickling feeling over his skin. He feels briefly untethered, out of his own body, and wonders if he really did end up meditating after all. Then comes a wave of nausea, so physical that he feels a prickling in the back of his throat. He remembers having the flu last semester, and the nausea that had flooded through him when he’d tried to walk just to get a glass of water - nausea that felt like a warning, like a plea; stop, whatever you’re doing, stop.
He opens his eyes to find he’s gripping his notebook in his hands, so tight he’s bent the spine, leaving little wrinkles of damage spreading out from where he’d held on. He releases his grip and tries to smooth it over, bend it back into shape, but it only looks sadder for his efforts, care shown far too late to help anything.
Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. Izuku grips his highlighter pen, unsure. He doesn’t think this passage has much to do with the essay question he’s been assigned, but something about it peaks his interest anyway.
A person enraged is a person committed to affecting change in the world around them. If we all gave in to those desires at every opportunity, we would have a world of tyranny and chaos. However, the alternative extreme is no better - a world of stasis and apathy, drifting, stagnating. When we tell our children to banish their anger, we tell them to cut away a significant part of their own agency. When we tell this to some children and never to others, we invite a different, more incisive kind of tyranny.
Izuku is torn between a desire to slam the book shut, and the urge to try and pivot his essay in a direction that will let him analyse this. He highlights the words in yellow, realising that when he thinks of change, he doesn’t think of anger. He thinks of All Might, defeating impossible odds, saving dozens of terrified people, and doing it all with a smile on his face. What is that if not agency? Can you really not have one without the other?
He supposes what he’s doing is building a case, the way he always does. Trying to capture the sum of his understanding of something, so that when he needs the knowledge it will be there. The crucial, long, stuttering thinking will already be done, and in the heat of the moment he can just act.
That’s Hero Analysis For the Future , and he thinks that’s why he’s holding onto these memories too. Almost every aspect of a hero’s life affects their career in some ways; if anger does too, it makes sense that Izuku needs to work out what he thinks. Don’t you ever get angry, Izuku? Don’t you ever get mad? Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. It’s like you like it this way.
Izuku wishes, for a moment, that feelings were as real and tangible as organs. He wishes he could go for a scan and have someone tell him yep, anger’s right there. It isn’t enlarged or shrivelled. It isn’t inflamed or sickening. It isn’t poisoning everything around it.
He asks his friends, now that he has friends, specifically targeting those who are more on an even keel - he already knows he can’t relate to big, obvious anger.
“Sure, Deku,” Uraraka answers. “Everyone gets angry.”
“What does it feel like, when you are?”
“Are you gonna take notes?” she teases, but then she’s concentrating, tapping her fingers together, trying to figure out how best to describe it. Izuku still isn’t used to this; if you’d asked him to predict what Uraraka would give him, even though he thinks the world of her, he assumed he’d get a quick, uninterested comment at most. Either his UA friends are so much better than most people, or his calibrations for what friendship is are all off; Izuku suspects it’s a little of both.
“I guess I have two types of anger?” Uraraka muses. “Like, there’s...determined anger? Like at the sports festival, I just got really fired up and wanted to win so bad!” She makes a fist, as if to demonstrate, and man, Izuku likes her so much.
She lets her hands drop. “Then there’s the kind that’s less fun. Like...when your heater is broken and you’re mad that it’s broken, and that you’re cold and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Your heater isn’t really broken, right?” Izuku asks. “It’s been getting really cold out!”
Uraraka gives him a warm smile. “No, Deku. It’s fine.” He stares at her smile for a second too long, trying to grasp the idea of Uraraka being really, truly angry. He thinks it’s like how no one can really know that they’re seeing the same colours everyone else sees. For all he knows, they’re feeling totally different things and giving them the same name; he can’t imagine Uraraka feeling anything in the disjointed, sickly way that rage finds him.
Mina is his next target, and she laughs before realising he’s serious. “Anger feels like anger, you know?” she says idly. “Like…” She holds up her hands in a claw-like gesture, and makes a kind of ‘rrargh’ noise.
Izuku must look slightly disappointed, because Mina sighs and throws up her hands. “I don’t know, man! I don’t like to think about it. Everything is stupid when you’re angry, and I’m always there, so it’s like I’m stupid. The stupidest thing in all the stupid.”
She looks down at her shoes as she talks, and it’s so unlike the Mina he knows that Izuku wants to apologise for having asked. Before he can, she lightly punches his shoulder, giving him a smaller, more subdued version of her usual bright smile. “You don’t always gotta dwell on stuff, you know?” she says. “No one’s gonna give you points for it. Chin up! Plus ultra!”
She skips away, and Izuku feels like he understands her both more and less than he did five minutes ago.
He doesn’t actually plan to ask Todoroki, but he’s in Todoroki’s room taking back his notes for English class when he finds himself doing it anyway.
“You...get angry sometimes, right?”
Todoroki blinks at him. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his left hand, cupped in a way that makes Izuku anticipate flame, makes him aware of the ghost of it among his fingers.
“Yes,” Todoroki says simply.
“Yeah,” Izuku says, wanting to smile to soften things but not wanting Todoroki to think he’d been making fun of him. “I’ve been asking a lot of people. People in our class, I mean.” He fidgets with his hands for a second. “I think I’m doing it wrong? I don’t know if I have too much anger or too little, but...I don’t know. I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Todoroki waits patiently while he speaks, all his attention fixed on Izuku. Izuku thinks that’s one of the reasons he likes Todoroki; even for all of his ambition, he gives off this impression of patience that makes it feel okay to talk, to talk imperfectly and at length, now that he’s past Todoroki’s initial barriers. The other ambitious people Izuku knows, himself included, aren’t like that - he’s dogged, determined, but not patient. It comes from starting so far behind everyone else, making it feel as though no movement is ever really fast enough.
Todoroki thinks for a long moment before replying. “It can’t be worse than what’s wrong with me.”
Izuku gives him a small smile. Kind things hover in the back of his mind, wanting to offer reassurance, but he knows from experience that when you offer some glimpse of how you feel about yourself, sometimes the best thing to receive back is just space and acknowledgement, instead of attempts to convince you otherwise that mostly just make you regret speaking up in the first place.
Izuku knows he’s so behind with this, too; having friends, talking to people, trying to give them reasons to be glad that they talked to him. But maybe Todoroki would understand that, out of all of his friends - maybe they can muddle through together.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” Todoroki offers, and Izuku thinks maybe he made the right choice after all. “I used to want to never be angry, so that I’d never act like my father. Now I think if I don’t get used to it, get control of it, I’m more likely to make the same mistakes he did.”
Todoroki flexes his left hand, frowning.
“You’ve come so far, you know?” Izuku says, before he can stop himself.
Todoroki meets his eyes. He’s familiar and strange all at once. Even now that they’ve spent more time together, Izuku can so rarely predict what Todoroki will say or do, just that he likes him, likes the strange angles of him, likes that for some reason he chose Izuku as the subject of his honesty.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” Todoroki says, but there’s a softness there, like gratitude.
“I don’t know if it ever does,” Izuku answers, thinking of all the times this year he’s been told that he’s making progress, and how sometimes he’s still convinced that he’s exactly the same on the inside; the same friendless nothing who spent his lunch breaks cowering in the library. “I just feel so guilty for being mad,” he says. “Even if I just sit with it and don’t do anything, it feels so...dangerous.”
The notes in his hands bring him back to that day in his room, trying to be angry on purpose. “One time I messed up one of my notebooks when I was angry, and even though it’s just paper, I felt so bad...I can’t think about anger without thinking about damage, you know?”
He looks up from the notes, from his own scarred hands, to find Todoroki watching him with a new intensity in his eyes. Immediately he wishes he hadn’t spoken, because of course Todoroki knows more about damage than he ever will. “I’m sorry-” he starts, but Todoroki shakes his head.
“I didn’t know anyone else thought about this the way I do. Especially you.”
Their eyes meet again and Izuku finds himself smiling, just from having spoken and been understood - it was still wonderful and new, every time, each moment where he realises he really does have friends. “Maybe there’s a class we can take?” he jokes.
“I think that’s just therapy,” Todoroki says, sounding thoughtful and disappointed in equal measure. “Tell me why you think you’re doing it wrong?”
Izuku gently sets the notes back on Todoroki’s desk, realising with another little leap of joy that he won’t be leaving for a while yet. He takes a seat and starts to talk about being five years old, about the time Kacchan pushed him over and the only explanation anyone could offer was anger.