Work Text:
izuku midoriya is... a dancer.
yes, he guesses that’s the word. it makes sense, for when he moves on stage in those shiny outfits his feet slide as his arms move. he’s a liquid in the yellow spotlight, a swan prince in his own right.
but, when he was younger, he always guessed the dancers would be happy. that as they moved across the stage, the light following their elegance, that they felt joy. that in their focused faces was a feeling of euphoria, a bright big flame of cheer, masked by their hours of work out finally into this one performance.
izuku isn’t happy. he always wanted to be a dancer as a second choice, and he got there when heroism failed him as expected. it was hard, an uphill climb made of jutted spikes and hefty hurricanes. a path destined to fail him, but, then again, as a quirkless person in society, every path is meant to fail him.
it’s no wonder.
but, he’d managed. crawled up with blood-painted nails, hands blistered and beaten. heaving for breath, he’d pushed himself up to... this. alone, without a hand to hold or a place to call his own. still, he’d crawled and pushed and fought. a wild beast, though he doesn’t enjoy to think of himself as one.
maybe it’d be better if he was such a beast. people love animals. people don’t love him.
they never have, and they never will. the discrimination he faced as a child has never lessened overtime. people have never learned that it’s okay to be quirkless. people have never learned that he’s just another person.
why should they? the quirkless population dwindles with every passing day. the percentages go down, down, down, and the quirkless suicide rates go up, up, up.
still, he got there and he keeps going. he hopes that maybe, he can inspire some quirkless kid just like him. that he can play all might for a kid living a copy life, maybe worse, maybe better.
ballet wasn’t his first option, as a child in this society. heroism was, as every child’s is.
as one could tell, it didn’t work out. still, he persisted. even after his mother died, he went on. there wasn’t much in her will, but he did his best. in the silence, his thoughts buzz like the songs he’s told to swing to.
arm up, leg side, one behind, drop. pirouette.
maybe the dancers felt like this, when he watched them as a child? empty in their chest, just the flickers of joy. a whisper, a ghost, a hopeful delusion. a hallucination of a feeling never felt. the stuffed realization that you only stay because the repetitive up, down, side, style keeps your head away from the dark. that every move of muscle following that train of thought you've copied and pasted, copied and pasted, copied and pasted, until it’s perfection for a crowd of those blind before you.
he isn’t famous. when you search up ballet dancers he is far from what pops up. still, he hopes. he’d searched up quirkless ballet dancers once, just to see. he’d shown up, article on him backhanded and sneering, but he’s numb to it by now. a toxic display of kindness he’s come fo recognize over the years, because once he’s outed as quirkless it’s the only kind of kindness he gets.
still, he dances. an empty chest, void of the joy he so craves. he watches kacchan live his first dream from afar, fine to simply view. he’s always been fine to observe. there isn’t much else someone like him can do. it becomes a talent, a skill, a blade at the back of your hand. stare and pick apart, is it threatening? if it wanted, how could it attack you? if it were to attack you, how could you defend yourself? the government will not come to the rescue of a quirkless person, but it will come to persecute. everything will.
it’s just how he lives.
there are rumours, around the studio, for a time, that somebody famous wants to watch the show. izuku wishes he could ask, but people don’t exactly like him at the studio. people don’t like him anywhere, really. some stores don’t even serve him.
as he said; people have never loved him, and they never will.
so, he eavesdrops in the whispers as much as he can without actively getting caught. people are willing to ‘catch’ him for the slightest reasons, so to be honest he’s in and out. he clocks in, he clocks out. he doesn’t linger, because there isn’t a reason for him too.
unless he’s specifically called to work overtime, there’s no reason for him to stay overtime. would just complicate things more.
so, he works. the rumouring whispers of somebody famous die out overtime, as do all rumours. or, maybe they just stopped whispering around him. that’s fine. it’s happened before. plus, he doesn’t really mind who comes, he’ll do his job as he always does. there’s no reason for him to push for extra effort when the person in question will never hand him a second glance at best.
he cheers and cries as kacchan rises to number five hero in just a few years. powerful as ever, strong and intelligent.
he’s amazing, izuku knows. he’s always been amazing, and he’ll stay amazing for the rest of time.
still, he knows he’ll never see him, at least, not now. not in the near future.
that’s what he thought, at least.
he struggles with his suit alone in the dressing room. it’s dark, the door outside casting it in vague blueish light, like a dream, faint and quiet. a flower with fragile petals. there’s music outside as the other dancers play their part. he’s up soon, only in about a few minutes.
there’s footsteps outside his door. heavy, loud. he pictures the person walking in his mind, so that he can prepare. he... recognizes them, vaguely.
their footsteps get louder, but he continues to struggle with his suit. did the others play a trick on him again? he thought they wouldn’t this time, seeing as how focused they were on this famous person coming to visit.
the footsteps stop outside the door, and he hears the breaths of the person in the silence as they shuffle about outside it. it’s unlocked, seeing as it is his dressing room. nobody comes in anyways. it’s locked when he’s in the midst of changing, but by now he’s just working out the petty parts of his complicated costume.
the person seems powerful, in his mind. like a bear, personified in human. he can picture sharp features, hard eyes. a glowering presence, an old king risen modern.
his door begins to open.
“i’m not done yet, and you’ve come to the wrong door” he says, a voice line rehearsed over years of who are you.
“you shouldn’t come into the dressing rooms anyways, you know” he says, but he doesn’t turn around just yet. he knows he holds no power over this person he pictures, he holds no power over anyone. it’s a laugh, to believe he does.
he turns around slowly as he speaks, hands still fixated on the shawl he’s supposed to wear. or maybe it’s more of a cape? a cardigan? he doesn’t know. it looks pretty, though.
a petty lie about the truths of how he feels.
when he turns around though, catching sight of the door, he freezes.
emerald eyes wide, he lays eyes on someone he never thought he’d see again.
he doesn’t speak his name as he stares into those crimson eyes. he doesn’t cry as he takes in the glory of what his childhood friend to bully has become. for a moment, all he does is stand there, frozen as he looks on.
he doesn’t know how long he stands there, how long they both stand there, taking each other in, but soon he snaps himself out of it, clearing his throat. he can’t tell if it startles kacchan as well.
there’s scars on the blonde man’s skin. he wishes to trace them, to ask who did this to you. to hold him, hear the woes. help him.
but he knows. he knows they haven’t seen each other in years. decades, even. he doesn’t like counting the days, makes it seem even more meaningless.
they are not friends, and maybe they never were. maybe it was all pretend, one big game of illusion. one big prank on useless, defenceless, worthless deku.
it wouldn’t be the first time.
so, instead of speaking the emotions inside him, instead of saying his name like a prayer or going forwards to even see if he’s real, he only says one thing;
“you’re in the wrong room.”
his heart aches to say more, to believe that this was the right room, that kacchan wanted... him. oh, what a dream. how he longs, a fantasy such as that. a tale so preposterous of being... wanted.
kacchan stands there for an extra moment, surveying him, before he steps inside. he isn’t in his hero costume, stuck in a more... fancy suit that to izuku looks... wrong. too tight and small over his muscled body, too suited for somebody stoic and cold, without emotion or love. thin and frail.
kacchan is... none of those things. he’s a beauty, an angel in human flesh. in the blue light of the corridor spilling into the dark room he almost looks it too. it outlines him, vague and pretty. like a painting.
kacchan is an art of his own, he supposes. believes. knows.
kacchan’s calloused hands brush over his shoulders, and he flinches back, blinking into reality again.
“do you want help?” kacchan’s voice is rough and deep, mature. it’s powerful, yet, in his tone, is quiet, hesitant.
afraid.
of what? he wonders. there’s not a thing kacchan can’t conquer. in all of his love knowing kacchan he’s never heard him... afraid.
“uh” he hesitates, testing his words on his tongue, “sure.”
he doesn’t know kacchan’s intentions. when his hands reach around again, he flinches, jumpy, trembling. scared.
he’s always been scared. his head twitches minutely as his ears make up the sound of popping explosions, the hissing heat on his arms. but, there’s nothing there. kacchan’s hands are silent, though rung in scars.
he hates those scars already. what villain would have the gull to attack kacchan? he’s powerful, fierce. a lion, a bear, a wolf, and a hound.
kacchan’s hands run and pick at his shawl, gentler than he’s ever seen them be. for a while, it’s just them, in the silence. muffled music rings in from the outside, a quiet sorrowful song, piano sharp notes.
“am i doing this right?” kacchan asks, voice hesitant, and izuku feels bewildered.
“of course you’re doing it right” he says, “you always do it right.”
the blonde haired man doesn’t say anything else, and it continues to just be them, in the silence. blue light coming from outside, a dark room. two warm bodies.
kacchan’s hands move back, shaky.
izuku looks over his costume. it’s a little messed up here and there, but he won’t comment. he can fix those mistakes with ease.
“thank you” he says, “you’re the best.”
kacchan breathes shakily, like he wants to say something else, a sharp inhale.
izuku waits.
the words never come.
kacchan turns and leaves in silence, closing the door behind him.
izuku tunes up his costume.
and waits to go onstage.