Chapter Text
There are many, many things that Izuku has been told to be his entire life: useless and worthless filled up most of them, said by teachers and classmates; fragile and such a poor thing by the old ladies next door; a stalker, a creep, a stain on society, someone better off dead.
A friend had told him to kill himself.
A hero had called him a liability.
A villain had called him a hero.
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.
.
He doubts the last one to be true, not when the teachers are right here, right in front of him, for who knows how many hours had passed, looking at him with nasty glares like he’d been a pesky little dirt in their shoe. And maybe he is. Maybe that’s why Aizawa-sensei’s eyes have never left him, quirk red and alive, erasing One for All within him. Maybe that’s why Vlad-sensei looks at him with disdain, rage shaping his features and the tenseness of his jaw. Maybe that’s why Yamada-sensei is outside the interrogation room and despite the thick walls, he can hear him screaming. Maybe that’s why Midnight-sensei stares at him with a quiet look of sadness, of pity, disgust, one he hasn’t seen since that last day in middle school. Maybe that’s why they’re not listening to a word he says.
Maybe that’s why there’s an officer just across the table, anger palpable and hostility suffocating, and all Izuku wants to do is to go back home and maybe take a nap.
He sees his previously missing Notebook 17 wrinkled at the officer’s heavy grip, the one he made to keep 1-A safe, the one where he wrote all known weaknesses that he can see and calculate, and he forces his heart to not break. He sees that one notebook where he wrote how to counter every risk and keep his friends alive and safe and he forces himself not to cry.
He looks at that one notebook that represents everything within him that wanted to help and he feels like he’s four again.
The hand that smacks the table makes him flinch.
Izuku has been called many things – and right now he’s being called a traitor, a spy, a villain.
Only now did it feel like he wanted to take a swan dive off the roof.
.
.
.
And Izuku imagines it.
In between the shouting and the hands slamming against the table and the cold metal of the cuffs on his wrist, Izuku imagines falling. He imagines standing at the ledge and letting go. He imagines what the wind will feel like and if it will feel safe like One for All does. He imagines if falling will be like flying. He imagines if falling will feel like freedom.
Every word coming out of the officer’s mouth, every traitor, every spy, every villain … falling can’t be worse than this. Falling can’t be worse than being called out for his fear, for his desperate attempt to keep the people he loves safe. Falling can’t be worse than being accused of the very things he isn’t just because he is afraid. Falling can’t be worse than staring at his teacher’s face and knowing that he is not welcomed here.
Falling can’t be worse than going back from where he started.
Falling can’t be worse than when Izuku was ten and afraid and locked in a janitor’s closet.
Falling can’t be worse than when Izuku was seven and limping with a broken foot when the teacher made him stand outside the classroom because he was an attention seeker.
Falling can’t be worse than when Izuku was four and told that he will never amount to anything.
Failing can’t be worse than having that proven true.
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.
.
And when Tsukauchi-san steps in, that’s all that Izuku can think about. The doctor was right. The teachers were right. His classmates were right. Kacchan was right.
He is never going to be anything else but a useless, worthless Deku. But maybe, maybe… maybe if he gives them what they want, he’ll be worth something, right? Because he must be doing something wrong if they’re going to such great lengths just to tell him he is wrong, right? So when Tsukauchi-san asks his questions, Izuku decided that maybe they were right. And he just has to listen. To follow. To obey. Because quirkless little Deku was still that same kid – quirkless little Deku was still not enough, even with One for All, and quirkless little Deku should just know his place.
So Izuku answers yes for every single line. Izuku tells them what they want to hear.
“Are you a villain?”
“Yes.”
“Are you working with the League of Villains?”
“Yes.”
“Are you selling information about your classmates?”
“Yes.”
And Izuku… doesn’t remember the questions. He doesn’t remember answering them. He does remember hearing something and having heard the questions again and again and again for the past four hours (as he later learned when he stepped out of the interrogation room), the answer comes out of him reflexively – because the answer is just a simple yes.
And maybe that’s why he misses the flinch Tsukauchi-san had given each time a lie would ring out. Maybe that’s why he misses the gasps and and the hisses and the tears. Because Izuku is just tired.
He wants to go home.
He wants to lie down and have a nap.
He wants his friends.
He wants Uraraka-san and Iida-kun and Todoroki-kun and Shinsou-kun.
He wants to go home.
Izuku ignores the pit in his stomach that says he never had a home in the first place, not in them.
Hizashi is angry.
He is angry and he is raging and he wants nothing more than tear down the fucking world. Because Hizashi knows Midoriya. And Hizashi knows that Midoriya can’t be the traitor and it isn’t out of misplaced favoritism that Hizashi says this. It isn’t because Midoriya is one of his favorite little listeners. It’s because Midoriya is a good kid. It’s because Midoriya has his heart on his sleeve and he loves and he shines like there is no darkness in the world even when Hizashi catches glimpses of those darkness beneath green orbs and haunched figures. It’s because Midoriya is a kind soul that exudes warmth and safety and peace. It’s because Midoriya doesn’t give a damn about all his broken bones if it means saving a friend.
And when Midoriya steps out from where they kept him, Hizashi is also hurt.
And Hizashi feels betrayed.
Because there are tear-streaks down Midoriya’s face and his eyes are blank and clouded and when he reaches out to him there is the barest flinch. And Midoriya doesn’t know he’s there. Midoriya doesn’t know that he’s a friend. Midoriya doesn’t even notice him and still see him as a threat.
And Hizashi feels downright murderous.
But he swallows it all down and he waits.
For however long it will take.
Because Midoriya needs him.
Midoriya needs to know that Hizashi is not an enemy.
Nemuri is devastated. She is afraid and she is terrified and she is devastated. Because this? What they did? It was a mistake. They made a mistake, she made a mistake. And she has no excuse for it, no word for it, nothing to give because she should’ve known better.
A persona is Nemuri’s specialty – it is everything Midnight represents. A body, a persona, a disguise called to allure and misdirect. Midnight knows what it means to hide behind a mask – and she’s learned to read every twitch of an eyebrow, every click of the tongue, every change in a tone of voice. She knows when to be alert and when to be prepared. She knows what danger looks like, what fear smells like, and she is trained to de-escalate before shit hits the fan and yet failed to see the genuineness in all of Midoriya’s tells. His stutter isn’t to hide a lie. His trembling isn’t out of fear of being discovered. His tears aren’t a ploy. Midoriya is just a kid. A scared kid, a traumatized kid, a kid who saw things he never should have at his age. And each question Tsukauchi asks, each shake of Tsukauchi’s head, the tighter his grips goes, and darker his eyes get, Nemuri knows that she screwed up.
Shouta should have expected this – the tense shoulders, the shaking hands, the rushing and the hiding and the fleeing. He should’ve expected this because it was the only logical conclusion to an equally stupid decision. Shouta made a mistake and Midoriya is paying the price and the aftermath of it all is as messy as it was when the All Might wrecked the interrogation room without his quirk.
Shouta watches Midoriya retreat back into the shell he once was.
He stops responding in class; he stops participating; he doesn’t look at him, or any teacher for that matter, in the eye; he doesn’t even stop to say hi. He catches him sometimes in quiet whispers with All Might and soft conversation with Hizashi but whenever Midoriya sees that there is someone else watching him, he grows quiet, pensive, and he retreats.
Midoriya makes himself small. He pulls his shoulders in, he grips his hand tight, and he doesn’t speak. And there are times that Shouta is afraid he doesn’t breathe.
And Shouta just wants to make it right. He wants to turn back time and scream at himself to stop this disaster before it can even begin. He wishes he didn’t see red when he saw Midoriya’s notebook lying on the floor of the classroom. He wishes he didn’t it pick up and allowed fear to rule his heart and force logic out of his mind. He wishes he wasn’t so afraid of repeating another villain attack on his watch that he grabbed every little bit of evidence he can find, no matter how small and forced it may be, because he had forgotten that no matter how much fear can keep him safe and his kids safe, fear can also drive one to madness. Accusing Midoriya was only a logical move. It’s a lie he doesn’t believe in. It’s a lie, he knows, since the thought first came to him. And two hours later, Shouta can’t help but twist and turn and read Midoriya’s notebook line per line, word per word, and force himself to see what he saw in the first place. Instead he sees scratchy chicken lines, tiny paragraphs, post-it notes, little drawings, and the hope of a scared little boy that this will be enough to keep his friends safe, to keep his teachers safe, to keep UA safe. And he has crushed that hope.
And Shouta wants to apologize, wants to say he’s sorry, but he knows an apology isn’t enough. It’s all he has to offer.
Shouta wants to reach out. He lost every right to.
He wants to make it right. He can’t.
Instead, all Shouta has is regrets.
And if he calls out to Midoriya, calls his name and asks him to stay, with a desperate desire to make things right, he doesn’t let the hurt get to him. This is all his fault.
And if Midoriya can’t look him in the eye, can’t even lift his face, he accepts it.
And if Todoroki stands in front of Midoriya, out of his direct line of sight, he accepts it.
And If Iida stands with him, looking at Shouta with eyes of contempt and disappointment, he accepts it.
And if Uraraka holds her pencil case tightly, all five fingers wrapping around it as if it’s a weapon she can hurl at him, he accepts it.
And if Shinsou stands behind Midoriya protectively, providing easy access to the exit while covering his bases, he accepts it.
Because Shouta made a mistake.
And all he is left with is the aftermath of a storm.