Work Text:
“There you are! I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎, baby, I’ve been looking for you everything!”
(One)
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ startles, head jerking up to find his mother’s face staring up at him worriedly. She’s annoyed, too, her hands on her hips, and I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ shrinks down.
“I’m sorry, mama,” he mumbles, looking at the ground. “I was just looking at the flowers and I forgot.”
“It’s okay. Just stick to where I can see you, alright?” His mother’s face eases as he nods, and she kneels down to his level. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ nods, fingers gently caressing white petal. “Yeah. Do you think we can pick them?”
“Mmh… They would look good on our dinner table,” she agrees, sharing a conspiratorial grin with I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎. She squats down closer, and grabs his hands into hers.
They’re soft, those hands.
(Two)
“Come on!” She laughs. “You can help me Pull on them!”
She says pull with the intonation that means she’s using her quirk, and I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ shakes with excitement. He always loves it when Mom uses her quirk, but here, now, with her hands wrapped around his gently, it can almost be like I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎’s using her quirk for himself.
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ closes his eyes for a moment, imagining he can feel the tingle Mom says her quirk feels like spread to his own hands. When he opens them, he grins to see a white flower being pulled toward them. Its roots are still attached, scattering bits of earth before they can hold it.
“Gently, I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎,” Mom says as she closes their fingers around the stem. “We don’t want to squash it.”
“Huh-uh.” I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ nods, twisting his head to stare back at his mother. “Can we do another?”
She blinks back at him, green eyes endlessly deep, and smiles. “Of course! It wouldn’t be much of a bouquet if we only had one flower.”
“Yes!” I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ jumps up in excitement, but falls back sheepishly when he forgets he’s still holding Mom’s hand and overbalances, sending himself crashing back onto the grass.
“Ouch,” he says, pouting as he rubs his head. His palms sting too, and he pouts at them.
“Oh, dear,” Mom says, pulling his hands close. “Are you okay?”
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎’s vision blurs as he nods. “It hurts,” he whines.
(Three)
Mom nods sympathetically, already digging through her bag to find her water bottle. It makes the pain worse when she pours it over his hands, and I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ sniffles.
“I know, baby, but we don’t want it to get infected, okay?”
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ pulls a face. “What infacted mean?”
“Infected,” Mom corrects, gently wiping his palms dry. She grins mischievously. “And now, for the magic part…”
I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ gasps. “The magic kiss!”
“... the magic kiss!” Mom reveals dramatically, bowing and pressing one soft kiss on each palm. “How’s that feel?”
“Better,” I͆z̈́̇u̺ͣk̠̭̈̚u͙̫̇̎ replies, nodding. He looks up, then down at the ground again. The flowers sway in the breeze. “Can we pick more flowers now?”
Mom laughs, but shifts to sit behind him again. “Sure, baby. We can pick more flowers.”
“Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ, baby, what are you still doing here? You’re going to be late for school!”
“What?” Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ half chokes on his rice, spitting out grains everywhere as he hurriedly looks up at the wall to check the time.
It’s…
Still early.
He turns back to his mother with a frown, coughing up the last grains of rice as he wills his heart to stop racing. “Mom, no, did you forget that I start an hour later this week because Takeda-sensei’s sick? Her replacement can’t get there as early.”
Mom’s face goes blank with horror, and then guilt. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, you’re right, I completely forgot!” She runs a hand through his hair to smooth it down — it’s hopeless, actually, but Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ likes it so he doesn’t tell her that. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she repeats.
Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ washes down his rice with some water. “It’s okay, Mom. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Still, I’m sorry.” She shovels more rice into his bowl. “Here, have some more, I’ll clean this up.”
Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ laughs. “It’s really fine, Mom. And I can clean up, I was the one who spat it everywhere.”
But Mom’s already got the sponge in hand. “No, no, I insist. You just stay there and finished your breakfast, young man.”
Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ knows better than to object when his mother uses that tone, so he doesn’t — even if he does his best to push all the grain of rice he’d spat out in the same place.
He finishes his breakfast too, and in what seems like no time at all, he has to be off to school. Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ glares at the clock, willing it to run backward, but no matter how hard he glares, it still tells him he has to go.
He does, however, have to blink back the odd image of the clock dripping off the wall out of his sight when he waves at his mother as he passes the kitchen.
I’m never glaring at a clock that long again, he promises to himself, half-running to the door.
“What, no goodbye kiss?” Mom calls out amusedly.
Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ's cheeks flare red but he turns on his heels. Mom offers her cheek and Iẕ̸̻̃͑u͇̞ͩ̇k̼̎u̴͓ͮ presses the fastest kiss he can to it before taking off again.
“Bye, Mom, love you!”
“Love you too, baby!”
“... and that’s how All Might beat the villains!”
I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ yawns, blinking up at Mom who closes the book with a gentle snap. All Might’s grinning cartoonish face stares back at him from the cover, and I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ grins at him.
“That’s silly, though,” he says, slapping his hands on his bed and biting back another yawn. “All M-Might could totally have beated them off way before then! With like, a Texas Smash and then, bam, a Delaware Smash!” He illustrates so Mom can fully gets it, and pouts when all she does is laugh.
“I’m sure he could have, baby, but this is just a story.”
I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕’s pout deepens. “He would have, because he’s the bestest hero ever, and when I get my quirk I’m gonna be just like him!”
He half-jumps up in his bed, but Mom pulls it back down with another chuckle. “I’m sure you are, baby, but if you wanna be a great hero —”
“Like All Might?”
“— like All Might, yes,” she confirms with a smile, “you need to get to bed now.” She bops his nose and I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ squints down at it.
“Wait, where’d my nose go?” he asks, bewildered as he squints down at his more.
Mom laughs and bops it again. “It’s right there, silly.” She pulls the covers up around him and tucks him in. “Now, off to bed with you. Great heroes need a lot of sleep.”
I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ pouts. “But I’m not tired,” he yawns. “Can’t I get another story?”
Mom arches back a pointed eyebrow. “You’re not tired, huh?”
“Nuh-uh.” I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ shakes his head, but as if on cue, he yawns again.
Mom chuckles and smoothes down the sheets. “You know,” she says, green eyes sparkling mischievously, “I bet All Might went to bed when his mother told him to, and that he went to bed early because he knew that’s how you get big and strong like he is.” She strikes a pose, flexing her arm muscles, and I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ giggles even as he shifts deeper into his pillows.
“That’s not fair,” he whines back, pouting.
“Nothing’s fair in love and war, baby.” Mom winks, and bends down to press a kiss to his forehead.
I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ closes his eyes so he doesn’t yawn again, and fails.
“Are you sure I can’t get another story?” he asks when she leans away.
Mom shakes her head, her lips still played into a soft smile. “I’m afraid not.”
“Tomorrow, though, right?”
She laughs again. “Of course.”
That reassures him, and he nods back. “Okay. You can go now.”
Mom fakes a gasp, putting a hand over her chest. “I see how it is, now. My son doesn’t need me anymore, he wants to get —”
“Mom~” I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ whines, rolling away to hide his burning cheeks into his pillow. “Stop, please.”
She pats him on the back, but he can hear her laugh. “Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll stop. Sleep tight, baby. Have nice dreams.”
And I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ is about to say that he will, but…
But…
He sits up, blinking. His throat feels tight.
“Mom?” He hears himself ask. “How did I get here?”
Mom turns back toward him, staring at him in concern. “What do you mean?”
I̷̧҉z̴̢͠ư̢͟k̡͟u̕ licks his lips, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “I mean… We were in the garden, and I was little, but then I was in the kitchen and I was bigger, but now we’re in my bedroom and I’m small again.”
He pulls his hands on his lap and tries to count his fingers, the way Mom had taught him years ago when he’d had another nightmare.
One, he counts, two, three, four, fi—
He blinks and starts again.
He counts six this time, and laughs. It sounds wet.
“Mom?” he asks, but this time when he looks up, there isn’t anyone there.
“Oh,” he says, “I really am dreaming.”
And then he isn’t.
‘Tap, tap.’
“There you are. So perfect — I can’t believe those fools almost let you go to waste like that! But lucky for us, I knew better!’
The voice tuts, and the glass clicks again.
“Did you know,” the voice says an indeterminate amount of time later, “that quirkless people are actually perfect for what I need? Children are better, of course — more malleable — but quirks adhere to someone quirkless so much better! There’s more room for it, I’d wager — and you, you... “ A laugh. “A quirkless child? I almost couldn’t believe my luck.”
You try to say something, but there is something in your throat, choking you, and you cannot move.
“The things we will do together… Oh, the things we will do...”