Work Text:
The food smells good. Really good. It's the first time he's made it since... Well, since he was still staying at home with his Mum, and that was technically only a few months ago now, or even longer considering the dorms, but it's been a very long few months either way.
He didn't even start dragging himself out of bed voluntarily until maybe three weeks ago.
Sometimes thinking about that is a bit embarrassing, because it feels like he was just being pathetic for a very long time, certainly nothing like the hero he is meant to be (the one who took down Shigaraki, who grinned with bloody teeth and did what had to be done-), like he let himself be weak by not being- just not being better. But he knows, has been taught it in kind words and soft gazes and careful, firm hugs that seem to pull every piece of his shattered being together, that he was not being weak, or pathetic, or useless. No, depression was a logical result of everything that had happened. Or, well, the increased symptoms of it were. (Izuku wouldn't deny that Shouta was probably right in saying that he likely had some level of undiagnosed something-similar beforehand, but none of them dwell on that now. Not when the immediate term is what's important.)
Izuku grabs the furikake pot to shake it out over the plates with a slight flourish, and lets himself smile without even really thinking about it.
It's a little, savoury-smelling piece of his old home in his new home, and he never realised how much he needed that.
"Looks good, kiddo." The words don't make him jump, not quite. No, Izuku just turns halfway around, stepping close enough that they almost bump shoulders.
"Thank you," he murmurs, and finds that he means it.
He's still smiling, and even a little more strongly now, when Hizashi is already picking up two of the plates to deposit on the dining table, and Shouta is looping an arm around Izuku's shoulders to lead him the same way.
"And thank you for cooking for us, lil' one."
"I hope you both enjoy it." Izuku is flushing a little already, a sunset beneath his freckles, and Shouta squeezes him gently.
"We will, Problem Child, no doubt about it."
He really is beginning to find more and more things to smile about again (to live for), and it's thanks to them.
"I- I don't think I want to- to die or anything. Not actively at least."
"You're just not sure why you're bothering? What the point is?"
"I mean, yeah. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, kid. Never be sorry. Your feelings are just that, your feelings, and no amount of logic or trying will change how you feel, nor do they need to. It's just how you act on those feelings."
"I won't kill myself."
"You won't look after yourself either, though."
"Will you move in with us, Izuku?"
"I... Only if you're sure."
"You're my Problem Child, Izuku, of course I'm sure."
"Then- Thank you."
"Always, kiddo, always. You're worth it."
He spent four days in a haze. Well, he had to wake up first, because he had been given no choice but to kill, and then to stagger away from that and he had thrown himself into helping his allies out of the blood and rubble, into getting medical aid to villains and heroes alike, because he had not wanted to think about what he has done for the sake of their society, for his friends-family-everyone, and then someone who was surely not a stranger but who he cannot for the life of him remember now, came up to him, looking so panicked and sad and awful, and Izuku does remember catching them around the arms, hands solid and warm against their torn top, and the words they had said.
"There was a stampede and I'm really, really sorry, Deku-san, but your mother, she- She was killed-"
He was lost to darkness, then, be it through blood loss or exhaustion or sheer heartbreak.
And he woke up, but he was not present, not truly. There were moments of clarity, glimpses of warm eyes or doctors' coats or a hand upon his, but he was too far gone for those to matter, to be able to help. So he drowns and floats and sinks in time and grey and nothing, only to resurface a time later, what is apparently entire days later, to Aizawa dozing on a chair beside his bed, sleeping bag draped around him, and Mic-sensei walking into the room, two takeaway coffees in hand and an oddly sombre expression on his face, out of place for how bright his smiles usually are, except Izuku remembers the brief times he saw the hero recently and even when he smiled his eyes had been shadowed.
Inexplicably, they brighten when they meet Izuku's.
"Hey, lil' one, rockin' to see you with us." His voice is oh-so soft, seemingly both in deference to Aizawa sleeping and to Izuku himself, and it's kind. Warm. It helps Izuku slide that little bit further back into his body, into reality, enough so that he almost smiles, a twitch of the lips that seems to take far too much energy, for all that he still forces himself to croak out an approximation of a 'hi'. It has the hero rushing around, although his movements are still very much careful, grabbing a glass of water for Izuku and helping him to sip it slowly.
Izuku is about ready to sleep again, honestly, but he would feel bad leaving Mic-sensei essentially alone, so he lets his gaze drift instead, taking in the room. It... It's a hospital room, judging by the pale colours and blind-covered window, and in a Hero Ward, judging by the thickness of said window and the just-open door. And the fact that the blinds look like they're metal beneath the fabric.
Sometimes Izuku wonders when he starting noticing that sort of detail. (Was it during the war, when he was alone and terrified but trying his best; pushing away everything he knew to be safe because being safe meant being vulnerable, meant putting those he loved at risk, and instead he had been wide-eyed at the world, full of terror and dread because he knew society was far from perfect, had born the raw heart and bloody wounds of it, but to see it so literally falling apart had been a horror all of its own. So, no, Izuku wasn't safe, and he had to be vigilante because of that.
But it had started before then, surely. Because Izuku was wary-weary and falling apart in little fractures every day, losing splinters of himself. He had watched for hands reaching for him, for doors opening or feet running. He had learned to notice when his locker door been opened since he was last there, or when his chair had just been pulled back or the scent of char-bitter caramel was getting stronger.)
"How are you feeling, kiddo?" There are many answers to that, although the strongest one is that he isn't really feeling much at all, but somehow Izuku doesn't think that's the right answer, so he pulls together just about enough coherence to let a single word tumble across his tongue,
"Alright."
"Mm?" There's no pressure to it, no need for more or questioning lilt. No, he simply lets Izuku be, for all that he also moves his chair very carefully to be close to Izuku's bed, able to lean his elbows on the edge of the mattress as he sips at his coffee. His eyes, after a few seconds of lingering on Izuku, seeming to assess if he's comfortable with the hero being so close, fall back away, focusing on nothing much at all.
He does pick up a quiet hum, however, a steady, soft little tune that is meaningless to Izuku and yet rather precious all the same. It's soothing.
Izuku begins to zone out again then, he thinks. Not as much as before, because there's warmth and quiet noise and an almost-pressure from the presence beside his hip, enough that it keeps him mostly here, mostly in his stone-limbed body and half-thumping heart. He isn't really processing anything much. (He doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to think about it, because he can't even begin to fathom the blood upon his hands and the blood that he can barely even acknowledge has been spilt because his Mum-)
"Izuku, kid?" He doesn't quite startle, not quite, but he hadn't even realised that Aizawa had woken up, and now the man is sitting forwards, all dark eyes and dark hair and warmth. He looks worried. Izuku thinks if he had more energy, he might just feel awful for it, because he hates worrying people, particularly ones as tired and worn as his homeroom teacher, those who care so very much. Izuku doesn't want to give him more stress. He doesn't want a lot of things, honestly. He doesn't- He doesn't want-
"Kid?" Izuku is abruptly rather aware, with frost crackling down his spine, that he hasn't answered them yet,
"M- mh." It's a shuddering attempt at a hum, a match to the way that he shivers with his heart-bound chill, but it earns him a soft not-scowl from the hero, forlorn-eyed though it is.
"Do you want anything?" There are far too many answers to that (energy, his Mum, a hug, to be gone-nothing-void, to be back in a home he has long-since lost-), but none of them are enough. He doesn't have the heart for them, nor the voice.
He rolls over instead, although even that seems to sap far too much energy from him, curling on his side where he can press his hands to his own chest like the sound of his own stupid, awful, pointless heartbeat might help. It doesn't.
But curling up at least makes it easier to breathe, maybe, and also far easier to drift back away before he even knows it.
He hopes his teachers will forgive him. (Forgive him for everything, from the blood on his hands to the way he abandoned them all to try and fight his own battle, to the way that he has turned his back to them once more now, too lost in his own miasma to give them the reassurance they surely need.) He's not sure what he would do if they didn't.
"You feeling hungry, kiddo?"
"Izuku?"
"Not really."
"That's alright. Think you could stomach something though, even just some miso and rice?"
"...Okay."
"Thank you, kid."
"Oh, and fair warning, Zashi's very excited to have a third place to lay at the table, you know? He'll chatter the whole night away."
"I don't mind."
"Neither, but don't tell him I said that. He already knows how I like his nattering about any and everything; he doesn't need to get a big head over it."
"Surely Mic-sensei wouldn't."
"Feel free to call him Hizashi, kiddo. He'll probably cry with happiness if you do, honestly. And no, not really, for all that he's confident, he's certainly not arrogant, but it's less fun that way."
He comes home except it isn't home. It's his teachers' home, and they're lovely, so very kind and patient with him, all kind hands that move slowly and voices that stay soft, but it isn't his Mum, and Izuku... he doesn't feel like Izuku. He's caught somewhere between Deku and nothing, a freak and a hero and a bundle of bad things.
He feels like he should loathe it, yet somehow he can't quite bring himself to. That would take far too much energy.
Instead of bothering with such things, Izuku lets himself be led. He gets shown around the flat, gets to be greeted by all the cats, a fact that manages to pull the barest edges of a smile from him, and guided to the room that has been offered up as his. And... it's nice, he guesses. There are lots of blankets on the bed, and a moon-shaped lamp on the bedside table, and even a soft toy tucked at the foot of the bed, a rather floppy little tiger, the fluffy ruff around its face a little worn.
When he reaches out to touch it, the fluff is just the slightest bit rough, almost catching against his calluses, and oddly that makes Izuku like it even more. It seems more... homely. Loved.
"I thought you might like it, Problem Child, but you don't have to keep it on your bed or anything if you don't want. I won't be offended," Aizawa rumbles, shrugging a tiny bit. Izuku manages to grab ahold of it and pull it to his chest, cradling the floppy little bean-filled body, enjoying the soft shift of it in his hold. It's almost weighted, but in the best way.
"I like it."
"Good, kiddo, I'm glad." The man sounds genuine in that fact, and it gives Izuku a little bit more energy once more, when he had been about ready to curl straight into the soft-looking bed, a call for rest-sleep-nothingness.
But they've all been so nice, and Izuku isn't entirely exhausted (not beyond the way that his heart is oh-so slow, and his arms feel heavy, head almost woozy with the way his thoughts drag and his eyelids slump, vision greyed over-), not yet, not really, so he trails after his teachers as they head back into the living area, settling on the sofa when he gets gestured in that general direction.
He doesn't so much as zone out then as smooth out. Izuku takes in the things around him, nods along where he needs to, and takes a barely-there contentment from the way that there's a cat purring against his feet (was this one called... Ember, maybe, or even Praline? Emmeline?). It's calm, and it's not quite right but it's enough. He stays present. Stays steady-grounded-there, and lets the warmth of his teachers and their flat keep him tethered even when he doesn't necessarily want to be.
It's worth it, he distantly decides, for the smile and soft not-scowl he's offered in return.
"Your friends would like to see you some time soon, kiddo. There's no rush for it, alright? Just know that they care."
"That- that's nice."
"It is, kiddo. You matter to them a lot."
"They matter to me too."
"No wonder Shou is so soft on you lot."
"Hush, Zashi."
"Never, Mister Caterpillar. You wuuuv them."
"Sure."
"...Hey, Sensei?"
"Yeh, kid?"
"Are we- Do you find the class is, uhm, a motivator for you?"
"Ah, lil' one."
"Yes, I do."
"Is there- Is there more? How do you find that?"
"Find purpose?"
"Yeh."
"I just... What's my purpose, now? What am I even meant to be living for? Shigaraki's- I- He's gone, but so is my Mum, and I-"
"Yourself, kiddo."
"Shou's right, lil' one. You deserve to live for yourself, you know?"
"But how?"
"You can start by living for other people, if that's what you need. For us and your class and your mother too; it's alright if it takes time to be for yourself."
"I... I think I could do that. Try it."
"We know you could. No doubt about it, Problem Child."
"You've got this lil' listener, and we've got you."
"I- Thank you."
"Always, kiddo. Always."
The room ends up messy. Izuku isn't really sure how, because he barely leaves the bed, frankly, only getting out of bed when Shouta and Hizashi coax him out, asking him to eat meals with them or come and watch a film. They don't press him when he can't swallow a full portion down most of the time, or when he sinks into a daze rather than truly watching whatever they've put on, no matter how much it might be something he once would have loved to watch.
So, no, Izuku doesn't do much. He stays in bed, barely mustering the energy to try and make them happy sometimes or to go to the bathroom, and yet his clothing and notebooks seem to end up everywhere, pooling out of the duffel bag that it had apparently been packed into from his flat (he wants to ask about his home, about his mother's things, but he doesn't know how to say the words that weigh so heavily upon him, so he doesn't say anything at all-), and the bed never gets made and cups are piling up on nightstand to match the few snack wrappers and packaging from the things that Aizawa and Hizashi had bought new for him that are in and around the bin under the desk. It's just... it looks like he doesn't care. And he wants to care, because this room was for him, and they didn't have to do it, do any of this, but still he lets it get so messy. Izuku just doesn't know what to do about it. Where to find the energy to even start on it.
(There is so much fog creeping through his very bones, a winter chill that isn't clear like frost but rather pervades through him, a ferrous marr upon his being that sinks and seeps, far too inconsistent, too [], to be grasped and dealt with. It saps his coherence. It makes it beyond hard to even tell what he wants or needs, what might make his problems better. It's difficult to even think of them as problems, really.
Everything has felt difficult, for far too long)
Then, as it turns out, he doesn't have to. Not always, at least. Because one day, what he thinks might still be morning because the light through the still-drawn curtains is so bright, Hizashi comes in, knocking and smiling softly, coming to perch on the edge of Izuku's bed.
"Hi there lil' one. How you feeling today?" It takes a few too many seconds to be able to reply, but Izuku takes in one, two, breaths,
"Mm, 'right."
"That's good, Izuku. I'm glad," the hero murmurs, reaching out oh-so slowly, giving Izuku lots of time to shy away or tell him not to, but Izuku knows that his hands are kind, so he does neither of those things. No, he lets the affection wash over him, the careful brush of fingers that tuck his too-long-now curls back away from his eyes.
"You can tell me no, lil' one, but I wanted to offer to tidy up in here a little for you? I don't mind what you keep your room like as long as you can still get out if there's a fire or something, but I kinda got the feeling you might not necessarily want it like this. It can hard to pick a place to start, yeh?" Oh. Izuku- Izuku didn't even realise that the heroes might have picked up on that, honestly, because he barely even registers it himself most of the time.
But Hizashi only waits, endlessly patient, until Izuku manages to nod, murmuring what is meant to be a thank you. It's apparently enough to warrant another brush of those delicate fingertips, such gentle warmth.
Hizashi hums, soft, and gets up after another moment, starting to putter around, quietly narrating what he's doing as he gathers up the things around the bin, and piles up notebooks, and eventually pauses, pulling his phone out,
"Think you'd enjoy a little bit of music, kiddo? Nothing too busy, just background noise." It takes a long moment of consideration first, of trying to process, before he manages a little bit of a shrug,
"Sounds nice," he manages. Izuku almost surprises himself to find that he mostly means it.
He even finds that he likes having the music on. It's pretty and soft and not too much, it just fills in the gaps around where Hizashi isn't talking about how much he likes this hoodie of Izuku's or that Izuku can reorganise his clothing later if he wants but Hizashi always does his by colour so hopefully that's alright for now, hm?
Izuku doesn't reply, but he does smile when the man looks over at him, very genuinely so. This has actually been lovely. He feels... not good, per se, but better.
Not only that, but Hizashi is beaming so softly at him, still chattering along happily,
"-that I think you'll enjoy. And, hey, hopefully, when you start feeling a bit better, this will be something we can do together." Izuku... Izuku likes the sound of that. Genuinely so. It feels like such a small thing, but that just makes it achievable. He feels like he could actually do that, on a good day. And it's nice to know that Hizashi would like to do that, that he's happy to try and help Izuku, that he would go so far as picking up his dirty clothing off of the floor for him when he's barely gotten out of bed for, well, over a week realistically but particularly the last four days.
He likes his room being clean and clear, doubly so when seeing his things settling into the room that's been given to him.
It isn't all that changes, or all that they do for him. No, because there are so many little things. Shouta will bring him socks when he forgets to put his on and his feet get cold and covered in cat hair; Hizashi will brush his curls and, as they get longer and longer, pin or even twist little braids into them to keep them back; together, they will wrap him up in blankets until he can barely move and all the cats will pile on top of him and he can just be for a while, grounded but thoughtless on the living area floor.
It's all small things that don't matter, honestly. They technically mean nothing. But they're everything. They bring Izuku together again, or let him stay steady in the nebulous parts in between where he's more fog than person. It isn't always enough, he still spends far too many days without being able to pull himself out of bed, that he loses time and thoughts and feelings to, but it's enough that he begins to feel more like a person again, a bit less empty and a bit more everything.
Sure, some days he can't bear to open his curtains, but every day Hizashi and Shouta bring their own light into his life regardless, and Izuku keeps on waking up.
"Is it my fault?"
"I doubt it, but is what your fault, lil' one?"
"My Mum. I wasn't there, and she needed me, but I wasn't there, and-"
"Kid, you can only be in so many places at once; you saved hundreds and thousands of lives that afternoon; your Mum's death was awful, and undeserved, and frankly it was fucking shit luck, and it shouldn't have happened but that's what accidents are about. So no, it wasn't your fault."
"Oh. Okay."
"You don't have to believe us yet, Izuku. Just, if you find yourself thinking about it again, remind yourself of what we've said, and it that isn't working then come and find one of us, understood? We're here for you."
"But what if you're-"
"No, kiddo. We're heroes, and teachers, and your guardians; all of those roles give us duty of care for you and, above all of that, the most important part of all of it, is that we love you, kid. We're proud of you, and want you to be alright. So, no matter what, no matter when, you can come to us. Understood?"
"Understood."
Izuku settles in, quite simply. Sinks into this new home like he always had a place there, regardless of the fact that he spends a lot of time not feeling like himself at all, because with every day and night he has in this little flat and its cats and blankets and warmth, the more he begins to feel like he has regained little shards of himself once more, shrapnel that both cuts and soothes. The jagged little pieces of him don't seem to fit back quite right, the puzzle pieces of his fractured heart and mind warped with too much stress, too much strain-grief-fear, enough that they haven't slotted neatly back together; no, they're still slightly out of place, fighting to sit flat.
Through that, with that, he begins to interact more with Shouta and Hizashi. He will stumble out of his room at random times of the day or night, whenever he gathers enough energy for it, and will curl up around one of the cats' beds, or slump at the dining table, or ends up taking up a little sliver of the sofa, folded into himself as small as he can for a long time. After a while, he lets himself take up just a little more space.
Sometimes, Shouta will be cooking, or, less often, Hizashi. Izuku watches them, the first few times, and murmurs little replies to how spicy he likes things or what his favourite vegetable is. And, one day, maybe the fourth or so time he watches one of them cook, he speaks up first, offering up something that neither of them were expecting,
"Would you mind if I maybe helped?"
"What, with cooking? Sure, kiddo." It's an easy agreement, perfectly casual to cover up the slight shock at him volunteering to do something, not to mention the slight relief alongside it.
Izuku gets a chopping board complete with carrots, peppers, courgette and a knife slid in front of him, and it's easy enough to just settle into a familiar rhythm of chopping the vegetables up like he would have at home (but now he gets to do it in his new home, for better or worse-), and he finds words upon his tongue, surprisingly light for how heavy he has felt of late.
He speaks, in fits and starts with a voice rough from both disuse and thick emotion, of being raised by a single mother, and having grown up learning to cook as a result, of standing on his tiptoes on a pulled-over dining table chair and watching his mother marinate tofu or fry vegetables or shred ham into an omelette. Of how he liked to cook with her best of all, making katsudon or shabu-shabu or curries together. It was always wonderful.
For Izuku to share that with them is absolutely a blessing to both Shouta and Hizashi.
They get other little bits and pieces, over a fair while. Little idle comments about his childhood, his mother, his friends. Some of it is frankly upsetting, without-thought information about scrawls left on desks like was in the film, and some of it is oh-so sweet, asides about coming home to his mother's hugs or about how one of his friends sent him a cat meme that reminds them of him. It's good to hear, frankly. To get a feeling for little bits of his personality and charisma and sheer light again.
"Kid, you didn't have to wait up for me."
"I wasn't sleepy anyway. And I- I wanted to know you were alright."
"I'm good, Izuku. I do have a few scrapes, but that may or may not be because I slipped in a puddle."
"Can- Would- Ugh, don't worry."
"Would you like to help me patch up?"
"Please."
"Not a problem at all, kid. Grab the first aid kit for me?"
"Sure."
"And then we're watching a film together on the sofa, if you still can't sleep."
"You don't have to-"
"But I want to. There's a cat-themed thing I wanted to watch anyway, so I'm dragging you into it too, so that I can pretend to Hizashi that it wasn't my choice, if you're willing to be my excuse."
"I don't mind."
"Then it's a plan, kiddo."
The meal is good. It's katsudon, because it wasn't only Izuku's favourite but hers as well, and the pork is juicy in the crisp panko coating, and the sauce is savoury, all rich and deep and not-sweet not-spicy but mild and wonderful, and the rice is fluffy, the sauce seeping through it perfectly. The pak choi and spinach and broccoli that he fried quickly in the wok are perfect for mopping up what's left of the rice; it's all just... it's just nice. Tasty, satisfying, nostalgic.
Izuku doesn't quite cry whilst eating it, because he genuinely enjoys the meal, and he isn't that overwhelmed yet, actually.
The tears come almost an hour later. All of the crockery has been washed and put away, the leftovers packaged into the fridge, and the three of them are on the sofa once more. Izuku is quite happily tucked into Shouta's side. Then it's still happily, or contentedly at least, but with his shoulders hitching and hands trembling and eyes burning.
"Oh, kiddo." The arms around him are shifting, pulling Izuku further in, enveloping him in warmth and weight and the scent of cats-coffee-citrus, the smell of his home as it is now, a hand smoothing circles across his back, pressing over the knobs of his spine that have grown too prominent over the last six months or so. But that doesn't matter, not right now, because he's finally letting some of the grief burn through him and it hurts but hurt is so much better than the grey that had seeped throughout him.
He loved his Mum, always will, and he- he deserved his innocence, but now he mourns both, and sobbing into Shouta's chest won't fix a single thing, won't take it away, yet it helps. He needed it.
Izuku cries himself to sleep, or he thinks he must do, because he has nothing except brief glimpses of the world after that, of Shouta looking down at him, of Hizashi tucking him in, of the little tiger being pressed into his hold, then of nothing at all.
This little flat, with its cats and pale grey walls and oh-so many blankets, is home, now. His teachers-heroes-Dads are here for Izuku, no matter what, and it's alright if he goes blank and empty, if he doesn't know how to live for himself yet; it's equally alright if he needs to cry, or to have a good day even though he's maybe supposed to only be grieving (logically he knows that he doesn't have to mourn her every moment of every day, that his Mama would want him to be happy and that Shouta would call it illogical because it's his life to live-). Izuku is home, and he is safe, and he is learning to live again.
The world can wait for him to be ready to save it once more.