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He's standing in front of the door. It's closed, but in theory, it will open for him.
Footsteps slow when they pass him in the hall. He hears many whispers. Some praise, some accusations. He ignores them all.
His hand hovers over the handle.
Inside is his old life.
Can he open the door?
It's a different day, standing in front of a different door. He swipes his card and the light blinks green. He pushes the door open, prays the room isn't empty.
It's a mess.
His belongings are out of place, as though they've been searched through over and over. There's papers covering his bed, and everything is covered in a thick sheen of dust.
He reads the notes left on his bed. Some are angry. Others are sad, confused.
(He sees one, in handwriting he's known all his life, tell him to hurry the fuck up and come home.)
He scoops them all into a desk drawer and burrows under his comforter.
He's waking up in the hospital.
He knows this because he is all too familiar with the itchy sheets, the uncomfortable feeling of an IV in his hand, and the beeping of a heart monitor.
His eyes are crusted shut, and it takes several bleary blinks to open them and see.
(A part of him says to keep them closed, to go back to sleep and dream of a better world. He remembers that dream: where he is a hero, and he is loved, and he is missed.)
Surrounding his bed is a mix of flowers, cards, chocolates. He stares at the spread.
It must be from… from somebody. A lot of somebodies.
(But which side, which dream? Is it a trick, or genuine care? Who is it that cares for him?)
There's a glass of water on the bedside table. Suddenly he is aware of how his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, how his lips are dried shut.
He reaches for the glass with wobbly arms, and from his other side, a hand reaches out.
"Relax, kid. Let me help."
He blinks and he's being held on that field, a crowd of villains (or, heroes?) watching him cry and scream and fight.
He remembers those hands wrapping around him, pulling him close and rubbing his back.
There's a noise, a voice, pulling at him, and he is forced to choose.
(He chooses the hospital. He doesn't ever want to go back to that field.)
"-can you take a deep breath for me? In, hold, out… that's good, Midoriya, and again…"
A little choked whine makes its way from his lips and he realizes he is crying again. He grabs at the hand, and the hand grabs back, and he is being held again.
And he feels safe.
There's a water glass being pressed against his parched lips, and he opens his mouth, gulping down the cool liquid. He feels it travel down into his gut, and he shivers at the trail it leaves.
"Sensei," the word tears itself from his lungs, dry and desperate. "Sensei," he repeats.
A moment of hesitation, and then fingers carding through his hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. The fingers stop, then start again, and he leans towards it. The touch is focused on his scalp, not the gross red hair that falls down his shoulders and screams villain, villain, villain.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Aizawa-sensei says.
(The name hits him like a bullet, and he is aware that the dream was not a dream. It was reality once, before he made that choice.)
"But I was…"
He can't bring himself to say it. The word dances on his lips and accuses him, hisses accusations.
"You are a hero," sensei's voice is firm, but not angry.
"I can still be a hero…?"
Thin fingers wipe tears off of his cheeks.
"Yes, Izuku. You always have been."
There's a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't have to turn to identify its owner.
He turns the handle, and opens the door, and a rush of emotion greets him.
The room is everything it always had been, and filled with his classmates. They're none of them at their desks, all up and talking, hushed excited whispers that reflect the looks on each of their faces.
He takes a small step inside, clutching his backpack straps with sweaty hands.
The whispers quiet, and he sees nineteen pairs of eyes turn to meet his.
"D-Deku-kun…!"
It's Ochako's voice that breaks the silence, and in a moment, the class is alive with chatter.
"Midoriya! I'm so glad you're okay!"
"Welcome back, kero."
"Midoriya! It's so cool to see you again, bro!"
"You did so good, Izuku-kun! We're all so proud of you!"
The praise continues for only a few short seconds, as Aizawa comes to his rescue with a redundant activation of his quirk.
His friends settle down at the sight, and he quietly takes his seat.
(He still remembers exactly where it is. He's the first one seated that morning, and he does it all on his own.)
"Class," Aizawa says, "Midoriya has gone through a lot in these past few months. He's requested to rejoin classes, as he is caught up with his schoolwork, but he is still recovering and asks that you not overwhelm him."
He feels awful that he can't stand up and give the short announcement himself, but his classmates don't seem to care.
Nineteen heads turn, and each bears a smile, soft and reassuring.
He clenches his pencil and sniffles. He shoots a wobbly smile back around the room, eyes wetting as he sets his gaze upon his classmates again.
And when they sit with him at lunch, quiet but not silent, attentive but not staring, he feels loved again.
They're letting him walk around the hospital now. He has to have a nurse or a guardian with him, and he can't take out his IV, but he can walk around.
(He refuses to for the first few days, and when asked why, he cites his hair. It's wrong. It's not his. It's not inherently villainous, but on him, it's wrong.
He wakes up the next day to a head of obviously dyed green hair. It's still long, but it's better. He agrees to take the walks.)
Today he's walking with Aizawa-sensei, a frequent visitor. He can only remember two instances in the past few weeks where the man's been absent from his bedside.
"So," he says. "How's Hawks doing?"
"Better than you," Aizawa says bluntly. "Seriously, kid. He didn't need a month-long stay in the hospital due to malnourishment and mental instability."
"Not my fault," he says lightly.
(There's a tiny, petty part of him that takes great pleasure in the way his teacher's face darkens, the way his eyes glue to the floor.)
"I'm sorry, problem child."
And that name feels like home. He hated it once, but after months void of any real friendship, that nickname is his home.
"It wasn't really your fault," he offers. "You could have lost your job if you didn't side with them."
Aizawa is silent for a moment, and Izuku stops walking when he realizes his teacher has stalled several paces behind him.
"And because of what I did, I could have lost you."
That doesn't make sense.
"I'm still here," he says. "And what's one kid compared to ending the League of Villains?"
Months of facing Shigaraki's terrifying gaze is enough to steel him against his teacher's, but it's a near thing. His expression is less angry, more haunted.
(Like he's seeing a ghost, someone gone, dead, buried, come to life in front of him.)
"Kid," his voice is watery, and for once the liquid in his eyes isn't from eye drops. "Kid, you can't say that."
And suddenly he want to yell, and scream, and shout "Why not? That's basically what the Hero Public Safety Commission said when they dressed me up as a villain and sent me to the front lines."
But he doesn't say that.
He says: "It's true. I'm not that much in the grand scheme of things."
(And he ignores how One for All tingles under his skin, like a slap on the wrist for saying such things.
But it's true, isn't it? All for One is defeated, and Shigaraki is defeated, and he's not as useful as he once was.)
"That's not true at all," Aizawa says. He crouches down, meeting Izuku face to face in the middle of the hallway.
"Sensei-"
"Stop it," Aizawa commands. "Just, just listen for a minute, problem child."
Izuku nods. He nods and he waits, waits to be lectured, chastised, torn apart.
"You're worth so much more than you could ever know," his teacher whispers. "And it was wrong of us to put you up to that. It hurt you, being there and doing the things you did."
"I never hurt anyone," he argues. "And I didn't get tortured, or anything like that."
Aizawa looks so tired, but there's a distinct lack of anger in his expression.
"You were still hurt, kid."
(He remembers being held, shaking and sobbing on that awful field, a hundred heroes in reach and not but one to help him.)
"Okay," he says numbly.
"Okay?"
"You're right. I mean, you're right that you were wrong. And I forgive you."
"I don't accept that," Aizawa says quickly. "I can't accept that, problem child. I appreciate it, but I need to earn it."
He scoffs. "How?"
"Someone needs to prove to you that you're loved, and safe. As your teacher, it's my job to be there for you."
He stands, and squeezes Izuku's hand.
(Should he say it?)
"Prove it, then," he says, swallowing a thick lump in his throat.
He's wrapped in a hug, and it feels more like home than anything else he's experienced in his life.
"I will. I'm not losing you, kid."
"Good," Izuku whispers, and he knows Aizawa-sensei is listening, "because I never want to feel lost again."