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There’s a buzzing, in his ears.
Izuku stares. His mind feels fuzzy, almost. Disoriented. Like. Like he’s been thrown off his feet, head cracking against the floor, leaving him squinting, stars dancing in his vision. But he’s upright– he knows he is because Yagi’s large, spindly hand grasps at his shoulder, squeezing it.
“Midoriya?”
He blinks. There’s tears in his eyes. They burn, blurring the vet lab into a coalesce of grays and whites and blues. Izuku grits his teeth and blinks harshly, willing them away because dammit, he can’t cry. Not here. Not now. But when he looks at the prone form sprawled onto the examination table, the tears well up all over again, that awful pain twisting in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Shuzenji murmurs. There’s a sorrow shadowed across her face. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear…I wish I had answers. But considering how quickly she’s deteriorated…”
His chest squeezes tighter. Izuku reaches for her on reflex, his hand shaking as he strokes rough, crusty feathers. He can feel her breath stutter, her wheezing audible in the small space. She looks so frail, laying here like this. A hollow shell of the bird she once was. Was it really only a week ago that she was nipping at his rubber boots? Izuku bites his lip, his heart fracturing, splintering with every passing beat.
There’s talking. Words are exchanged, but Izuku can’t hear them over the buzzing in his own ears. He watches, as though in a trance, as Shuzenji shuffles about the space, collecting the things she needs.
It doesn’t take long.
Yagi’s hand stays fixed on his shoulder, a comforting weight against the swell of agony that’s rising within him as he watches their vet slide the needle into Princess. She doesn’t even flinch. Her eyelids droop, her eyes glassy and unfocused and faded. She’s so, so weak. Izuku strokes her with his thumb, gentle, despite the way his body shakes. He blinks, vision blurring. Something hot and wet drips down his cheeks.
A wheeze.
And another.
Her breathing grows ragged, weaker. And then.
It stops.
Izuku stills. He stares down at Princess’s frail little body, half expecting her to shift, to move, to wheeze again. But she doesn’t. She stays painfully still, her little webbed feet tucked beneath her. His splintered heart bursts into pieces, and he chokes down a gasp, free hand darting up to fist the material of his t-shirt. It…it shouldn’t be like this. This shouldn’t be happening, it shouldn’t. Izuku wavers, eyes burning. They…they could have stopped this. They could have tried harder, done something, anything–
Yagi’s hand slides along Izuku’s shoulder and tugs. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet when he’s turned around. His gaze finds Yagi’s weathered and sad one, an ocean of understanding shimmering in those sunken eyes, and he breaks. Izuku sobs. His eyes screw shut and his shoulders shake and he drowns, melting into the sorrow and anguish and anger and frustration that batters at every corner of his mind. He’s pulled into a hug and he clings to Yagi, gripping at the oversized tee like a lifeline. His mentor doesn’t say anything. Just. Lets him cry.
“I’ll give you some time,” Shuzenji says, voice gentle. “We can perform the necropsy this afternoon. Midoriya, you’re welcome to come if you’d like, but it’s not necessary.”
Izuku pulls back, blinking. Necropsy. He wipes at his eyes, hasty, gaze falling to Princess. A towel is draped over her now. All that’s visible is the tip of her black beak, the edge of her flipper. He bites his lip and nods, jerky, tears pricking at his eyes all over again.
There’s another squeeze on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go ahead and take an early lunch,” Yagi says. “I can hose down the house quick. Take the time you need, my boy.” His smile is sad. Knowing. It kills the argument before it even forms, and Izuku dips his head in a nod.
“Okay.”
Still, he lingers. His gaze traces over the lump under the towel, Princess’s sharp, grating call like an echo in his head playing over and over and over again. He doesn’t want to leave. Leaving feels wrong. Like it’s admitting defeat. But the battle’s already lost before it’s even really begun and there’s nothing else Izuku can do. All he’s left with is a thunderstorm brewing overhead and a stream of what ifs ricocheting through his mind, leaving him feeling unsteady on his feet. He casts one last glance at Princess beneath that towel before taking a shaky breath and forcing himself to turn. To shuffle out. To let go.
The door clicks shut behind him with an echo of finality. His back thumps against it, legs quaking beneath him. He’s crying, still. Tears drip down his face like an unending stream, and Izuku can’t make them stop. His breath hiccups in his throat, and he leans his head back, eyes squeezing shut. Gods, this hurts. He feels…broken, on the inside. Like someone’s taken a sledge hammer to his heart and now all the pieces are spilling out with every breath he takes. This shouldn’t hurt so much. It shouldn’t. Right? This should just…be another day on the job. It is another day on the job. This is part of it. It’s expected.
Except it isn’t.
Two weeks ago, Princess was healthy. Seven days ago, she was alive and fighting.
Today, she’s gone.
Just.
Gone.
Her death comes like a cyclone, tearing up the foundations of everything Izuku’s known in its wake. And now he’s left here reeling, trying to figure out how to put the pieces together enough to function. Part of him feels stupid for it. Because he’s seen death before. Working at an aquarium with animals means death is all around. Animals live, animals die. The circle of life is a constant and Izuku’s been part of it for well over a year now. He’s participated in necropsies. He’s learned how to put fish down. He’s witnessed chicks not make it. And still, his chest aches. The tears flow. The hurt lingers.
Because Princess? She wasn’t a fish. Or a chick, or an animal he’s seen in passing. She was vibrant. An old lady with spice, who called every morning when he came in, her voice so big and powerful despite her little body. Who loved herring but only when offered left eye up. God forbid offering her the wrong way, or she’d fling that fish into the pool and waddle off, spending the rest of the feed sulking in the corner. She was the bird that would nip at his boots when he stood too close, who wasn’t afraid of the Kings, despite how much bigger they are. She’s a matriarch, a mother, a grandmother. She was a survivor, having survived impaction, eye surgery, sickness. She was invincible.
Until she wasn’t.
He drifts through the back of house areas like a ghost. Voices echo alongside laughter, mingling with the familiar hum and thrum of skimmers and pumps and other equipment keeping the tanks flowing and thriving. People pass by– he’s sure he’s getting looks. But Izuku can’t seem to focus on anything aside from the blurry outlines of his rubber boots.
“Deku?”
Familiar pink sneakers enter his line of sight, and Izuku blinks. Uraraka stands in front of him, head tilted and worry brimming in her ochre eyes. She knows– of course she knows, he’s told her everything so far and she’s always been able to read him so easily.
“Hey…are you okay?” she asks, voice soft and low and sweet. Something in him aches– he hates being the reason she’s worried. Hell, she shouldn’t be worried about him because there shouldn’t be anything to worry about! He’s fine! He should be fine. His lips twitch with the effort to try and smile, to brush it off. Say he’s okay, that everything’s fine and he’s just being dramatic. But then his mind trips over Princess laying prone in his arms as he carried her up the stairs just hours ago, her keel digging into the palm of his hands, so prominent, and he feels himself crumpling again.
Uraraka catches him in a hug, there, in the middle of the walkway. It’s in the safety of her arms that he breaks. Tears flow freely all over again, and Izuku cries and cries and cries.
“I’m so sorry,” Uraraka murmurs. Izuku lets out a shaky breath.
“It’s okay. She…she was just too sick.”
Uraraka hums. She pulls back, teeth digging into her lip and gaze darting over his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go somewhere quiet.” Her hand slides into his, and Uraraka tugs him along without even giving him a chance to question it. He’s grateful for that. There’s already too many thoughts in his head as it is. Thinking about anything more than putting one foot in front of another has Izuku feeling almost dizzy. So he doesn’t. He lets Uraraka lead him to a quiet corner behind the employee lockers, where they can sit away from prying eyes.
“Do you guys know what was wrong?”
Izuku shakes his head. “No. They’re gonna do her necropsy this afternoon.” He bites his lip. “I…don’t know if I’ll go.”
Another hum. “That’s understandable. You worked so closely with her. I can’t imagine seeing her like that…” She trails off, and Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. Necropsies aren’t pretty. It’s a lot of blood and organs and it’s all so painfully clinical. But it’s the best way to get a clue as to what happened. It’s their best shot at getting answers.
“I should go,” he says, voice hoarse. “I want to. I just…” He sucks in a breath, and another. “I’m a mess. What if I can’t keep it together?”
“That’s okay, I think.” Uraraka’s shoulder brushes against his, a soft comfort. “I don’t think anyone could blame you for that. Not at a time like this.”
“But…but how can I be a keeper if I’m falling apart like this?” Izuku stares at the dust bunnies in the shadows of the lockers, lip wobbling. “This…this is part of the job. If I can’t hold myself together, can I really call myself a keeper?”
“I think so.”
Izuku blinks, gaze jumping to one burning with compassion, understanding, ferocity. Uraraka’s hand slides back into his, squeezing. “Loving what you do…loving the animals you care for…that’s what makes you a keeper, and a damn good one, too. Death might be a part of the job, but that doesn’t make it easy, and it’s okay if it hits you harder sometimes over others.” She smiles, then, sad and soft. “Besides, you did everything you could. You can’t blame yourself for this. You know that, right?”
He looks away. Logically, Izuku knows she’s right. That’s the thing about penguins– they don’t tell you when they’re sick. Hiding illness is a means of staying alive in the wild. It’s survival. It’s how they’ve evolved over the centuries, because if predators can’t tell they’re sick, they’re less likely to pick them off.
But that also means that they usually don’t show signs of being sick until it’s too late.
Still. It’s hard. Because those what ifs don’t wanna leave his head. What if he’d tried harder? Paid closer attention? What if they’d started off with a different medication, what if they’d started force-feeding sooner?
What if, what if, what if.
Izuku lets out a sigh and leans into Uraraka. She lets him rest his head on her shoulder, and god, he’s so grateful for her.
“Thanks,” he says. “For being here.”
She squeezes his hand tighter. “Of course.”
The gesture is small. Simple, even. But in the wake of the grief shredding through his heart, it’s a reprieve. It’s a reminder that he’s not alone.
And Izuku clings to it.