Work Text:
"Head low, blend in."
These words stay with Izuku, haunt him. He remembers the day, the day all his dreams were taken away from him, mercilessly ripped apart piece by piece till only ashes of the once elaborate plans lay by his feet. Countless times he was told now, told how his dreams are out of his reach, unrealistic, mere wishful thinking.
He remembers, he knows and those words come back to him each night. The day he was declared quirkless. The day his life changed. The day the rose-tinted glasses of ignorance he wore came crashing down, leaving him exposed to the treatment of the world, the treatment people like him received.
It was cruel really, how having an extra joint made him different. Not good different. But bad, awful different. The one where people gave him the wide berth yet spoke behind his back. The one where pity and disgust filled whispers echoed off walls of corridors he walked through.
It was cruel really, how leaving him alone was too easy a reprieve for him so life deemed it fit to paint a target on his back. His quirkless, weak, defenceless back.
Slow breaths, hear your heartbeat, he repeats over and over and over again. Each time, calming himself from an oncoming panic attack whenever his peers decide to lock him up in a closet or a locker or a classroom. Usually, the classroom is a small act of kindness, atleast he can move around. So what if he got cold or didn't have food to eat? It was all okay the next morning, when his faceless tormentors came and were happy to see him miserable. Atleast, atleast he had use then. He provided them with entertainment.
"Head low, blend in."
The doctor, the bearer of bad news had advised him so, familiar with how people like Izuku led their lives. It was good advice, wise words coating the brutality of those who dish it upon the ones considered weak.
Inch by inch, year by year, Izuku's head lowered and lowered. His shoulders hunched, his feet trembled, his self-esteem became a thread in a hay pile of doubts.
Because if you're told, again and again, that you're nothing but a waste of space, a weakling- never to be acknowledged, never to be respected-, a quirkless, useless person then maybe, just maybe, you really are.
Sometimes, when Izuku lies on his bed, awake and alert because sleep is a luxury that doesn't visit him often, he hears voices in his head. Thoughts that tell him how worthless his life really is. He knows those thoughts aren't his own but yet they grow louder and louder, no resistance he offers them. And so, when those thoughts are the only ones that remain in his head, all positivity taken in by the black hole of self-depracation, he believes it. Believes that yes, he really is worthless.
There's a ray of hope though. Just a sliver of shine. A spark of something not quite fire but it's enough. It keeps him alive. It keeps him going. It's his own drive to achieve his goals, even though no one, absolutely no one believes he can.
He has no support, no one to tell him how he's precious, he's valuable, that he's so, so much more than his quirklessness, and yet he moves ahead.
He forges his path with his own blood, marking his way as he goes. He stumbles and he falls. And there are no hands to steady him or to pick him up. He does it all by himself. He scrapes his knees, he breaks his bones, he sheds his skin, he tears himself apart. He rips his heart out just so he can stop hurting, stop feeling. Just for a second. He needs a minute, an hour, a year more but all he gets is a second. And then, he rebuilds himself anew. He stays the same but with raw skin to once again take the brunt of relentless attacks.
He's in pain. Emotionally and physically but it's been long since he stopped voicing it.
"Head low, blend in."
He repeats it like mantra. Like a tuneless jumble, the words screech in his mind, imprint in his very being. He mellows his shine, he stays hidden.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Most call him names, unaware of how words are weapons. Each mockery a stab on his already injured mind.
Some hit him, beat him up. It's fun for them, to force their dominance on someone who they think should cower before them. He stays quiet, he cries inside. He lets them get away with it because speaking up never helped.
He knows this because he's already tried.
He thinks his willpower will go out one day. He'll be left a hollow husk, a broken shell of his previous personality. That he'll lose himself to the shoves and kicks and the snarls and sneers.
But with each time he suffers, each time he's an undeserving subject of torment, he only grows. The simmers of hope, the wisp of fire catch on a log. Hugging it, embracing it, engulfing it. The fire just beneath his bones illuminates his waning will to live, to see another day, to chase his dreams.
And so he steps on, climbing one measly level at a time. His peers don't wait for him, the world doesn't wait for him. No one cares for the fate of the one who is collectively shunned and said to be a hopeless case.
But he doesn't care. He doesn't want them to show him any consideration, they never have.
He doesn't expect them to have any humanity.
He doubts it even exists anymore.
"Head low, blend i."
The words remain, he dare not look up, he dare not stand out. Not when he's already seen as abnormal, something to make fun of but stay away from.
Some say he has a disease, some say he's disabled. Their ignorance frustrates him, it fills him with a fury on which he knows he'll never act.
People like him never get away without consequences.
"Head low, blend."
He meets someone. He inspires someone. He impresses someone.
It's a novelty, a rarity above all else. It's never happened before and it'll never happen again. But when the person admits it, admits that Izuku is capable, he's worthy, tears flow unbidden and for the first time, they're not tears of pain.
When he smiles, it's not forced or faked, he actually feels it. He'd forgotten what happiness felt like.
But he doesn't get too attached to the feeling. His insecurities are too huge and too many to let him find comfort in this person and the validation they provide for him.
So he swallows the little confidence he feels and keeps his shoulders hunched and fear with himself.
Fear grounds him, keeps him safe, keeps him alert for the shadows that lurk just behind him, waiting for one misstep to pounce on him.
Fear is a blessing and a curse.
He thinks, fear makes him human. It's better than the numbness that threatens to break in, to eat him whole.
So he keeps fear close to his heart, never letting it go.
"Head low, blen."
He gets an opportunity. He takes it with shaking hands and hesitant smiles. He doesn't believe it, not until he sees the changes. Sees how he's evolved, sees how people don't look down on him.
It's small, and it's subtle, but he sees how he's not at the bottom of the pyramid anymore, not being crushed by stone and debris.
He's rising, he's hovering, he's going forward. And for once, for once, there's someone else who believes in him.
And so, a little of the self esteem returns back to him, he pulls on his and tugs it close. It keeps him warm and even though he's fearful of it, he enjoys and savours the small delight of victory.
"Head low, ble."
He pushes himself, until he's coughing and huffing and sweating and just on the edge of the cliff. A foot keeping him from falling and he pushes himself even further.
He doesn't cry or scream when he falls but breaks himself in silence. Then he picks himself up, stronger then before and does it again.
It hurts and under hot showers and warm blankets, he finds the soothe that calms his ache and he perseveres because that's all he knows.
"Head low, bl."
He thinks he's in a different world now, different people surround him. They're not hostile or derisive towards him.
They're accepting, they're caring. They want him there with them, talking and laughing and whooping with joy.
They find worth in him.
"Head low, b."
Rarely, he sits under the skies and the voices that aren't his own come back. They tell him that these new people only care for him because he's different now. He has something he previously didn't. And if they'd met him before, when he'd been timid and pathetic and a mess, they'd have left him.
But Izuku keeps those thoughts to himself, and he observes. He sees the good in those around him and believes in that goodness.
Somehow, after many many months, he finally convinces himself that now or before, these people would always be his friends. That they see him as a person and not a container of a quirk.
"Head low."
His friends find him an inspiration, a mild sun whom they cling to for warmth and light. And he gladly passes on his positivity to them, always too giving, too kind, too helpful.
The fire doesn't waver inside him now, it's steady and it picks up with the wind, never to be extinguished as long as this boy tries his best. Like he always has.
He helps people, he always does, because nobody ever helped him.
He's a gentle soul who has been taken granted of more times than he can count but he makes that his strength now, not weakness and it helps him pursue his ambition.
"Head low up."
People tell him, they fill him with something he can't put a name to. They give him confidence in return for his kindness.
His mere existence seems like a gift to these new people. They cherish him and he cherishes them back.
He ignores red, angry eyes though. He always will. They remind him too much, they see too much, they hurt too much.
So he looks away and instead finds solace in the cheer of pink cheeks and the rectangular glasses. They lean on him and he leans back.
He's their support now, someone they rely on.
No one can tell, that this boy, this wonderful, amazing, awe-inspiring boy was once someone utterly put down by everyone he met.
He hides it all so, oh so well.
"Head up."
He repeats now, like a continuous chant and rids himself of all the doubts he feels.
He's better now, though he'd always been good. So very good.
And he wants to be a hero. A great one.
But.
But, he already is one.
"Head up."
He keeps walking.
A hero through and through.