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There's blood slipping down his arm, Izuku can feel, but he ignores it. He doesn't have all that much choice in that fact, really, given that he's still fighting, throwing himself to the side to dodge the hand coming for his face, flames half-blinding him, catching on his hoodie and hair with an acrid stench.
He slaps a hand up to his forehead, crushing any burgeoning flames, and sweeps a foot out at the same time, catching at whatever he can.
Being a vigilante is worth it, but sometimes it's fucking shit.
See, a senior high school education isn't mandatory. And even if he got into a good school, the chances of getting a correspondingly good job afterwards are... slim at best. Particularly against Quirked, favoured candidates who have to work far less hard to get twice as far.
And so Izuku got a dead-end job, working in a local shop, the one that never put their prices up for he or his Mum just because of his Quirk status, helping his Mum to cover their bills and saving a little alongside. He volunteers, on his free days, at the local soup kitchen and the library, helping little kids learn to read or teaching students and seniors how to use the printers or to find the books they're looking for.
It helps to ease some of the ache of not being a hero. But what helps most of all is how he goes out, in late nights and early mornings, to be a vigilante. He's not amazing at it, particularly at first, getting injured as much as really helping anyone, but he at least manages to interfere with the muggings and assaults long enough for victims to get away.
He gets better, to his own credit. He starts learning self-defence from actual practice rather than just videos on the internet, and his parkour steadily improves, week by week and with every night he spends working on his stamina and flexibility and strength. He learns, half by watching others, the beginnings of how to fight with a knife, although he doesn't have one himself yet, and isn't sure if he wants one at all.
(He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to worry his Mum or to no longer be able to help people, but he also would rather that if someone had to die it was him rather than some random person who, chances are, probably have a lot more to live for. A lot more they can do.)
As Izuku has spent more time out at night, has become better at stopping these low-level crimes, and ringing in the police for the bigger things that he knows he would only make worse, he has begun to be known. He isn't really named, certainly isn't infamous, but a few of the local officers and underground heroes will recognise his hair or voice or phone number now.
And that's fine, somewhere between gratifying and terrifying, but it's genuinely kind of exciting that Eraserhead is one of those heroes. Because if there is one single hero that Izuku has always looked up to, related to in some measure, it's Eraserhead.
Not to mention that, despite the fact that he could try to arrest Izuku on suspicion of vigilantism with a Quirk, or on suspicion of aggravated assault or, really, on the basis of potentially breaking three or four other laws (something that Izuku had researched thoroughly because he might be sixteen now and throwing himself into fights between Quirked adults, but he isn't entirely stupid; he at least doesn't want to cost his Mum a bunch of legal fees and stress-), he has only ever taken a rather unimpressed look at him, and thrown a nutrient pouch or bandages or the like at him.
Until recently. It's Izuku's own fault really. He knew, the minute that he smelt smoke tonight, and after he came across Kacchan earlier that evening, in his UA uniform and a foul expression on his face, clearly pissed off, in the streets, now with several burns to show for the interaction, that he was... not in the best frame of mind to interfere when someone had a fire-based Quirk. But, equally, the victim was crying out, and the police were at least five minutes out still, and Izuku is weak.
He had jumped in only a minute later, once he had assessed some more about the Quirk (it was an emitter, seemingly some form of sustained, close-range fireball, from the shaking of their hand and lack of contact it's possible that the criminal had a more limited heat resistance, maybe they couldn't touch their own fire-) and the police were closer.
And Izuku was fine, he managed fairly well, just some singes and a few light burns to his hands and wrists.
But by the time two minutes has passed, the criminal half-unconscious on the ground, and Eraserhead is arriving, Izuku can feel his heartrate picking up. He can feel his lungs going tight with less oxygen and more barbed wire, catching bloody on his throat as he tries to breathe. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get at least half-safe. (Something, just- He needs something to ground him but nothing will, he knows, not when even the physical pain he's in isn't enough to force him to stay calm. He needs more, but in lieu of that he's going to try to make sure he's alone and can fall apart without the risk of getting hurt even more-)
Izuku is clambering his way up to the roof before he can even try to process his surroundings, hands trembling terribly enough that he almost falls more than once, fingers slipping, grip giving way. But he doesn't, clinging on even tighter, fingertips scraped to hell but he hasn't broken any bones, which is good enough for him.
Particularly as he's now rather busy curling up on the cold, hard roof, letting his lungs spasm and fill with thorns because he's been pushing this back in fits and starts all day, but it's too late. It's too much. He hurts, deep and shuddering and irreperably.
Fuck, he's such a mess.
But his burns are sticking to his bandages, to his fingers, to his scorched sleeves, aching with every remembered blow that he has suffered through the years, every scar warping agony through him all over again. If- if he hadn't had so many panic attacks before he would think he was dying right now, burning alive on a pyre of his own past. Of his own making, damnation.
(He knows it, okay? He knows that his problems are his own fault, for who he is and what he is and how he is. Izuku isn't entirely stupid. After so many years, he has learnt what seemingly every single person has tried to teach him: he is a burden. A weak, useless freak. And maybe logic would say that society at large, how it has taught his peers and elders, are at fault for the direction his life has taken, but Izuku is aware that he has never been enough to break that stigma.
No, he's just proven them all right. A Deku indeed.)
Falling apart takes a while, Izuku distantly knows, but all he can feel is how too-hot, too-cold he is, trembling fit to fall apart from the burns, remembered and new.
"Kid?" Izuku doesn't respond, only leaning away from the noise, trying to stay safe (he doesn't mean to, isn't even aware of it, but he keens, long and low and awful-), to make the person leave him alone. He isn't safe, he knows. He just can't make himself breathe for long enough to try and force that to happen.
"Hey, oi, kid, it's just Eraserhead. You're safe, everyone's safe, you just need to breathe for me." The words halfway register, little edges of understanding and reassurance, yet it's not enough for him to even begin to breathe oxygen in properly. Particularly not when there is someone here, and he's too vulnerable, too weak, for this right now.
"Kid. You're safe, I'm not going to hurt you, I just need you to breathe." A hand stretches towards him, slow and palm-up, yet Izuku can't help but flinch away regardless. It pauses, draws back far enough that he can't feel the heat of it any more.
"Oi, hey, I'm sorry. I can wait. Just try to breathe, kid. I'm going to count, try to follow me; breathe in, two, three, four; out, two, three-"
After a while, the numbers begin to take up more space in his mind than his own panicked thoughts. It takes even longer, but he doesn't draw away, consciously or not, when that same hand comes to rest delicately against his knee, one finger tapping to match the numbers. The assurance of someone being here, the quiet affection, helps in its own way.
"'m not a kid," Izuku finally gasps, which is mostly true. Or true enough, really. And it's a lot easier to think about than anything else right now.
And a lot less embarrassing than acknowledging the absolute meltdown he just had.
"Sure, okay. My mistake, you're a Problem Child," the man returns, immaculately deadpan. Izuku snorts, except it only resolves into hacking, chest not really settled enough for that sudden of a breath, air catching in his throat again.
Eraserhead waits out the coughing fit, ridiculously patient, hand staying steady on Izuku's knee throughout it all, a grounding point. It... It is kind. Completely unnecessary (he could have just walked away, when he first realised Izuku was spiralling or once he had helped Izuku down from the worst of it; he could have even cursed Izuku out, or hit him whilst he was vulnerable, or even worse-) and even more generous for it. Izuku truly, deeply appreciates it.
Neither of them speak, once Izuku has his breath mostly back. The hero's gaze skims from his head to his toes, watching how Izuku's pulled-up knees fall looser, legs slipping down a little, and how the tension in his shoulders is beginning to seep away.
There's a pause, then, where Eraserhead leans in closer, only just within reach.
Izuku doesn't flinch, doesn't draw away, just waits, breathing carefully slow. He lets himself trust.
For that trust, he's granted Eraserhead shuffling even closer, strong, gentle arms coming up until Izuku- until Izuku is being hugged, pulled close, hands nigh-on delicate despite how broad and warm they are, the scent, all cats and coffee with a faint edge of iron, almost overwhelming to match the sheer amount of physical contact he is experiencing right now.
But it doesn't overwhelm him. No, second by second, Izuku can't help but slump further into the hero, into the hug, the solidity and the warmth and the living, breathing body that is holding him as though he deserves such raw kindness. It almost hurts, in a way, to have this sort of affection, but above all else Izuku just finds himself utterly content.
Eraserhead doesn't draw away, not for a long while, not until Izuku starts trembling with having to sit forwards enough to lean properly into the hero. Even whilst the man sits back again, he lets his hands stay steady against Izuku, keeping him grounded and upright until he offers the hero a nod.
Izuku is blinking, a little distant-limbed, at the man, taking in the soft not-scowl and the shadowed wrinkles in the forehead, lingering worry,
"You don't have to trust me enough to give me your name or whatever, Problem Child. Just trust me enough to help you."
Oh, somehow Izuku hadn't expected that, or anything like it, to be what the hero first says. He... He doesn't entirely know how to respond. What to say to such a considerate question that somehow manages to feel almost like a threat, if only because of how real it is, too good to be true.
Perhaps that's why Izuku doesn't entirely intend the words that spill over his lips then, leaving behind the faint tang of blood,
"Even if there are things wrong with me?" Eraserhead only blinks, once, before shrugging slightly,
"I reckon so, yes." That... That might be reassuring (deeply, physically so, a relieved ache settling around his heart-), but Izuku knows that people view being Quirkless as being truly sub-human far too often, and whilst heroes shouldn't share that view, so many of them do, even the ones who seem kind and honest in their interviews and demeanour. He thinks Eraserhead is genuinely both of those things, but the chances of it not extending to Quirkless people feels entirely too possible-
He's asking the question before he can think twice about it, not giving himself the chance to regret it,
"Even if I'm Quirkless?" That final word, the truest condemnation, is heavy on his tongue, lingering, and the moment he feels it he is leaning back, instinctual in how he draws away from his own words and the danger that they have surely put him in-
"Kid, I couldn't care less about your Quirk or Quirklessness, beyond how it affects you and your life directly." Izuku freezes in place, held by the fierce light of that dark, steady gaze, a night sky looming over him, blinking, familiar,
"Your Quirk status doesn't matter to me."
His heart is racing fast enough to make him nauseous, and Izuku knows that he should just accept those words, that impossible kindness, oh he knows it, but he can't just accept it either, can't just assume that because someone kind is saying such a thing that they really, truly understand their own promise:
"Are you sure? Because sometimes people think that, but then they actually try, and it's too-"
"Kid, I'm sure. You're you, above all else."
Izuku stares up at the hero then, heartrate starting to slow slightly once more, enough so that he feels like he can breathe fully without risking gagging. Very, very few people have ever expressed a sentiment even close to that before. (His Mum promised to love him no matter what, but that didn't mean that she was confident in his ability to overcome society's expectations and bigotry; Mitsuki and Masaru never treated him any differently, still kind and loud and offering him snacks, but equally Izuku could never feel safe in their home again after things between he and Katsuki went so sour, so scarring, when even now that they don't see each other every day Izuku still has fresh burns on his skin-)
Maybe it's because of how utterly exhausted he is, but Izuku finds himself speaking once again before he can even think much about it, because Eraserhead asked Izuku to let him help, to trust him even a little, and that feels possible, now. He wants to try, at least.
"I have burns," he finally confides. It feels like a safe, or safe-ish, start. (He doesn't entirely know what is going to happen if he tries to trust Eraserhead, but he thinks that he can maybe try to without risking everything. Izuku thinks... Izuku thinks that Eraserhead really is a good hero. A good person. One that's good enough to look past even Izuku's Quirklessness.)
"New or old?" Izuku's shoulders sag without his intention then, relieved at the response,
"Both?"
"Okay, that's fine. Are you willing to go somewhere inside with me, a cafe or precinct or something, so we can have better lighting and cleaner surfaces?" Eraserhead's expression is slightly less neutral than usual, a gleam of earnestness to his eyes, a soft set to his jaw. It is kind, open.
Izuku knows that he could say no, in this moment, and Eraserhead would try no less hard to help him.
"If, uhm, Tsukauchi and Sansa or Harada and Rijou are on shift then I wouldn't mind the precinct." It's true, technically. He likes those members of the local precinct, would put enough faith in them to not try and arrest him or even worse, particularly when Eraserhead is with him.
"I can double-check if they still are, but Detective Harada was when I dropped over there earlier."
"Please, if that's okay?"
"Not a problem, Problem Child." Izuku can't help how he snorts at that, content to watch for now, to let himself just breathe for a few minutes, as the hero pulls out his phone and starts texting someone, presumably Harada. It's okay, he thinks.
He's trusting Eraserhead with this much, it's not worth letting every little thing panic him. Not after the last while, at least. No, Izuku just stares up at the sky instead, the faint blur of would-be stars hidden by the city smog, revelling in the clear air in his lungs regardless of how his hands and wrists throb, still, with pain.
Izuku isn't sure how the rest of the night will go, if Eraserhead will break Izuku's tentative trust so soon, or if maybe the hero will do exactly what he has promised, if he will dress Izuku's burns with the same strong, callused, gentle hands as he hugged him with, offering only steady kindness, unflinching and unfailing.
It gives Izuku a lot of hope for the future, he finds. Perhaps too much so, because he has only ever known hope to be dangerous, but still.
(That hope lingers, remains, curling around his bones like a friendly cat around ankles. Eraserhead helps to make sure that Izuku doesn't fall entirely when they climb down from the roofs, once they're near the precinct, finding a usable fire escape for them to use and descending first so that if Izuku stumbles or trips he won't go falling entirely down the stairs.
And when he actually treats Izuku's hands, tucked away in Detective Harada's office, he is gentle. Careful. He holds Izuku's trembling hands as though they are more precious than gems, dabs on burn cream, wraps them in bandages, checking that they're not too tight more than once. He rolls Izuku's sleeves up carefully, keeping them away from the skin and slowly peeling them away when they're stuck in places, pausing if Izuku cringes or hisses too much.
He is kind, throughout it all, leaving Izuku with a phone number and bandaged injuries and the offer of a walk home, or at least to his neighbourhood, if he wanted it.
Izuku doesn't take him up on that, not right then. But he thinks that, in the future, maybe he could begin to trust Eraserhead with more and more, perhaps with spending more time with the hero, snacking or sparring or just watching the streets below them, with letting the hero teach him more self-defence. Eventually he might even begin to trust Eraserhead with more, sharing names and homes and letting the hero mentor him.
That is yet to be seen either way, of course. Izuku probably can't even predict that, not yet, not with how hard he is already working to trust Eraserhead, but for the time being he has hope, and that's enough for him.)