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Izuku’s hands shake as he reaches out, unbelieving.
What?
Why did this happen?
His hands had started to tremble lately, when it was about to rain, when it was too cold, when he was stressed.
He wishes they didn’t.
It made it so much harder to hold a pencil, hold chopsticks, hold his schoolwork.
Izuku always dealt with the pain, though. It was fine, it was the price of being a hero. He’s lucky nothing worse happened.
Still, the tremors made it hard.
His knees hurt.
He had dropped like a sack of potatoes, collapsed far away in the corner. It was a pathetic fall, an ungraceful flop from such a strong figure.
It was Izuku's fault, too.
Black whip wasn’t cooperating. Izuku tried so hard to get it to work, and he did!
Until the time it mattered most.
His costume was wet.
Shoot style was useless, too.
He was useless, he was, god, useless useless useless
The villains were dodging, slipping around his peers as they tried to fight the League, the members flowing like venom because they couldn’t be water.
They didn’t heal.
He needs to use his arms- they’re harder to dodge.
He can’t use his arms.
Shaky hands, shaky hands, shaky hands.
A reminder of his limitations.
A hand comes down on his back.
Izuku jerks desperately, throwing his arms over to cover him up.
No, no, no, please no.
White, black.
Red.
Aizawa-sensei.
He’s different, he’s safe, he’s here.
He’s one of my heroes.
Black sleeves, rolled up (there’s the scar, the nomu scar) reach for him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. Warmth surrounds him, wrapping around him protectively.
Aizawa’s hands are shaking.
Tears come to Izuku’s eyes as the man crouches down near him.
He’s cold now. Get warmer.
Please .
Surrounded and hidden from the world by Aizawa-sensei.
Where is the rest of his class?
“I’m sorry, Midoriya. I’m so sorry.”
He is rocked back and forth, a comforting movement.
Izuku learned the movement from him.
They always felt better with another person.
Stop shaking, hands. There’s nothing here that would make you shake. There’s no reason to be shaky. All the reasons aren’t here.
He isn’t here.
Izuku’s crying.
Aizawa tries to gather him up in his arms, to move him into a better resting position, but Izuku’s not leaving him. He can’t.
Izuku will never see him again if he does.
There are only fourteen people from the class standing over there beyond the safety of the comforting arms around him.
Twelve standing there, two are on the ground.
There are medical bots rushing towards them, away from the school.
Izuku can’t leave him.
Aizawa takes his arms back, removes the warm shelter, to walk to the other students, and picks up the two on the ground. Kirishima, Jiro. Sensei lays them on the stretchers (there are six stretchers, twelve robots).
Izuku distantly hopes they are ok.
Izuku hopes more that if he squeezes tightly enough- god, stop shaking hands, stop freezing up. - he won’t have to face the reality that he knows is inevitable.
He can’t change the past.
He can’t squeeze warmth back into the palm he’s clutching.
Izuku is sitting there, the sun is in a different position. Time is passing, time is standing still.
Hands are grabbing at his arms, his body.
He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
Friend or foe, it doesn’t matter to Izuku. He has to stay.
He can’t face reality right now.
He has to stay.
His hands are ripped from his, and Izuku claws desperately to get back. To take cold hands into his own shaky palms, to keep this moment from leaving.
To keep him from leaving.
Eyes are closed, shadowed in life but pitch black in death, mouth slack.
Izuku can’t leave.
His body is picked up, long and gangly, feet dragging on the floor. All Might, small in death, is carried off to his resting area.
Izuku’s hands shake as he cries for his mentor.