Work Text:
1.)
The first thing he registers when he wakes up is the soft beeping of a vitals monitor beside him. It alerts him of his current predicament. Hizashi will probably have his head for this. He doesn’t know what he did, but it was probably reckless enough considering the pressure of bandages that hold his eyes shut despite his consciousness.
“Shou… are you awake?” A voice says— no, not a stray voice. Hizashi. His boyfriend. Before he decides to respond, he dissects the man’s tone. It’s soft and lacking the accusatory nature that it normally harbors when he fucks up. Wait, so then something must have happened. Something that made Hizashi overlook his usual disappointment.
“Yeah, I’m up. What— what happened?” He hears Hizashi suck in a stuttering breath. Damn these bandages. If only he could see his boyfriend’s expression, then maybe he might know what’s going on.
“You mean… You don’t remember?” The blonde asks slowly.
“No. Not really, but you need to tell me. I need to know. What happened? I think— I think it was bad but I don’t know.” He’s damn near babbling at this point, but the fear— the monumental fear that comes with his boyfriend’s strange tone—is going to overwhelm him if Hizashi doesn’t tell him what happened.
The blonde takes a deep breath and moves over to what Shouta assumes is his left bedside. He feels a hand in his hair, just like when he did after Oboro, and that’s how he knows he’s lost someone. Tears begin to fall before Hizashi can get a word in. The saline drips out and mixes with the caked-up blood underneath his bandages. He sobs, broken and muffled as Hizashi whispers soft English words of encouragement.
“Oh, Shouta. Do you remember? It’s okay if you don’t. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” He murmurs into his tangled hair.
“I don’t r’member…” He whines, shaking as his partner holds him tight.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, love. It’s gonna be okay.” Is it? Is it going to be okay? What happened?
Hizashi, in quiet whispers, tells the story of blood and heroic sacrifice. He speaks of his kids—yes, his kids— and their tenacity. Then, how All Might defeated the Nomu at the USJ. He speaks of Aizawa’s own injuries and how, yes, he did protect his students and successfully. By the end, Hizashi is damn near hyperventilating and it hurts . Because Shouta doesn’t remember it yet. He doesn’t remember and Hizashi does. Hizashi knows something he doesn’t.
“The— the reason your injuries weren’t worse is because there was another Pro there. Maybe not in the name of the law, but there was someone else there.”
Shouta asks him who.
“It was… it was Galaxy, Shouta. Izuku was there.”
He hears Hizashi. He hears the words, and it’s in this stupid, suffocating prison of bandages that the sound echoes. It bounces across the bars of gauze and Shouta can’t breathe. The words surround him and pull the strips taut, choking him as the fear creeps back in. Galaxy. Izuku. What happened? Where is he? Where’s my kid?
“Shouta! Shouta, don’t pull at the bandages, you need to keep them on!” He needs to get out. He needs to find Izuku.
“What— what happened?”
“Shou, breathe!” Fuck, Hizashi answer the question!
“What happened? Where’s my kid? Where is he?”
“Shouta! You’re going to suffocate if you don’t calm down!” Shut up, shut up, shut up and tell me where he is—
“Where is he? HIZASHI!”
“Damn it, Shouta! Focus on me— Nemuri! Get in here!” No, please just tell him Izuku’s alright please…
“Where is Izuku? What happened? Fuck! Where is he?”
“Shh… focus on my voice…” No. No.
“I don’t give a damn about— HIZASHI!”
“Shouta, I need you to—”
And that’s the last he hears before fizzling black dots cloud his mind and unconsciousness overtakes him.
#
Shouta has never really had dreams. Even before he was thoroughly traumatized by hero work, he never remembered anything from when he slept. He’d go to sleep and wake up with no memory of anything that occurred in between. Nightmares were frequent, but what was worse were memories. Memories are worse than nightmares, because at least nightmares aren’t real. The only consolation for memories is that they’ve already occurred, and what consolation is that?
There is no consolation, because Shouta Aizawa remembers where his kid is. He remembers blood and dust. He remembers it all.
“Hey…this— this is the first t-time… I didn’t stain the tile– the t–tile myself…” Galaxy, no, Izuku says. Shouta cringes at the morbid words, shaking his head at the admission.
“It’s okay…” He reassures, his tears falling into the—too big, it’s too big for a kid this small—pool of blood beneath his kid.
“You al— you always said I’d die on the streets…” You’re not dying. Not today. You can’t die before me, kid. “I said I’d d-die wh-whenever I set foot into a-a hero school. Guess I w-was right, huh?” No, you aren’t right. You’re too damn smart, but this time you’re wrong. You have to be wrong. You’re wrong, Izuku. You’re gonna save more people. You saved me and you’re not dying.
“No, I’m right. You won’t die here, Izuku.” He sobs, with more conviction than he thought possible.
“D-don’t lie…Shou…ta…” I’m not lying, not now.
(Covered in blood and skin cells, he’s still sure the boy will pull through. He’s sure because he can’t afford to be unsure. He can’t afford to lose this kid.)
“Please don’t— don’t leave, kid.” Not again. Not again. He can’t stand to do this again.
“S-sorry… S- Shouta…” The kid goes limp in his arms, and he buries his hands in the kid’s chest and cries. His chest wracks with sobs and even as the rest of the Pros filter in, and even as Hizashi kneels at his feet and tells him that Izuku is gone, he can’t stop crying. He can’t stop thinking that maybe the kid can bounce back. Maybe he’ll be alright. Maybe Shouta can save him.
(It’s not rational, but there’s nothing rational about what happened here.)
Goddamn it, his kid is gone.
Izuku Midoriya—Galaxy—is dead.
And when Shouta wakes up, Hizashi takes one look at him and knows he remembers.
The words come easy for the blonde:
“I’m so sorry, Shouta.”
2.)
Shouta listened patiently to Recovery Girl’s analysis of his condition. He sipped the soup his boyfriend made him with a sickening amount of domesticity. He did everything the doctors asked. They all should have known, like he did from the start, that there was no goddamn way he was going to let anyone teach his Hell class for him. Not now, and hopefully not ever.
Hizashi will forgive him eventually.
He takes a deep breath before sliding the door open to 1-A. He immediately wishes he hadn't when he sees the smattering of chrysanthemums on his podium. His legs stop in motion, and before he even manages to approach the feeling of pure gratitude rising within him, he’s hit with a sick sense of deja vu. When’s the last time he saw a sight like this in a Yuuei classroom. Hell, when was the last time anyone mentioned flowers crowded on a desk? The two people that he so desperately doesn’t want to think about burrow into his mind for completely different reasons, despite sharing a fate. Oboro Shirakumo, because the flowers were placed neatly and strategically on Hizashi, Nemuri, and, of course, his desk after the news of the blue-haired boy’s death struck the school. Izuku Midoriya, because his classmates crowded his desk with notes asking him to die , like he’d ever been anything but kind. Anger bubbles up, and gratitude takes a backseat as he registers his hair floating up to the sky. A red tint clouds his vision. The flowers stay untouched, and for once, his class is silent. He blinks. His anger persists. He knows better to take it out on his - wonderful, kind, smart, and fucking caring - kids students, because what would that achieve?
(He pushes down the thought that Izuku and Oboro also wouldn’t appreciate it very much.)
Bile pools in his mouth instead of the memories, and he turns for the trash can as his students murmur behind him.
“Aizawa-sensei! Are you—” Iida begins, only to be cut off by Shouta slamming a bandaged fist on the wall. Shut up. Just shut up. Please, shut up. He takes a second for the acid to finally let up, and the suddenness of everything makes him dizzy enough. Still, he stands. He sucks in a shaky, chilling breath as saliva rushes to make up for his unfortunate loss of control. Come on, Shouta. He grips the wall as a brace and hobbles over to the podium, refusing to look his class in the eye. Instead, his vision is filled with fucking flowers.
“Aizawa-sensei… you don’t need to be here if it’s too much.” Tsu says, and damn it Shouta knows that. He knows all too well that he could walk out that door and recover. But recovery has never been an option. Not for him, especially with this class. The world doesn’t stop spinning when someone dies. Galaxy—a kid named Izuku Midoriya does not stop the world with his death, despite the fact that it should. The loss of a star like him should put the world on halt. But it won’t and it doesn’t . Everything else around him is moving in technicolor, and even with a kid being violently plucked out out of life’s fucked-up orbit, he must continue. He must continue because of the obligations he has to attend to. His soul is elsewhere but his body is here, so he’ll keep going. Despite the fact that Izuku Midoriya’s heart stopped beating. Despite the blood that drips from his hands onto these disgustingly white flowers his students bought for him. Despite the fact that Shouta can’t tolerate anything. He is suspended in a purgatory of his own creation - torn between his authority as a Pro and an educator and his binding devotion to his humanity. He will stretch himself thin between the sick game of tug o’ war, because he has a responsibility to the dead to keep some semblance of himself and a greater, more pressing responsibility to his students to be there and fucking teach.
So, he wipes his mouth, sighs, and begins explaining Yuuei’s notorious Sport’s Festival.
3.)
“...I think a memorial might be a bit excessive. I don’t mean to be crude, but think of the politics. If Yuuei holds a funeral for a vigilante we’ll be crucified. I realize he was a student, but I don’t think it’ll bode well for us.” Yagi says softly, fucking sensitively as if he’s expecting to be flamed. Shouta buries his head deeper into his scarf, if only to prevent himself from killing the Symbol of Peace.
It’s only a slip of his iron-grip on his self control that has him talking.
“A memorial is excessive? For a quirkless hero without anyone left to honor him? Really, Yagi?” He snaps, letting out a sigh that’s as vicious as breathing fire. The room’s attention snaps to him, and it’s then that he remembers he’s not even supposed to be here. They specifically barred his entry. They told Hizashi to keep it a secret. But Shouta knows better. That’s why he has no shame when he tactlessly pushes open the door he had cracked open in order to eavesdrop.
“Uh— Shouta! I wasn’t aware—” Yagi starts, but he’s having none of it.
“Izuku Midoriya was a hero. He was a hero to everyone in Mustafu that he saved. He was a hero to the fucked-up and broken down parts you put no effort into patrolling. He was a hero to the starving children he gave his food to. He was a hero to the elderly he helped walk the street. He was a hero to everyone, and god dammit he was a hero to me.” He rants, slamming his hand on the table with the last word. Yagi looks shell-shocked, but he’s still unrelenting with his words.
“I realize that you and him were close, but—“
“No, no! You— you don’t get to fucking pull that shit! Ask anyone! Anyone he saved or didn’t save! Ask anyone in the parts of this city you left to rot!” His eyes light up, and he grabs his hair to pull it down from where it’s floating.
“…He was quirkless, Shouta. Think about how that’d make us look; how it’d make the police look. They couldn’t catch a quirkless vigilante. Neither could you.”
I never wanted to catch him, he wants to scream , all I ever wanted was to see him safe and happy.
Instead, he says: ” I don’t give a damn about my reputation. And yours is already tarnished in my mind, so what fucking difference does it make whether or not we have a memorial for a dead child?” He pleads, half-screaming at Yagi and half-begging for help from Nedzu. Nedzu, the smart animal he is, gets the hint.
“Yagi. Shouta. Please, calm down. I realize our grief,” Our grief? “Is still fresh in everyone’s minds. I believe a memorial for our student, Izuku Midoriya, is in order. However, we must condemn his vigilante actions—“
“What the hell, he saved my kids—” Shouta starts, voice rising.
“Shouta! You aren’t even supposed to be in here. Your grief makes you unable to look at this situation rationally.”
“And you can?” Hizashi cuts in, breaking his unhelpful silence. Thank god. “Let’s not forget, all of us were late to the party, and at that point a student who saved everyone else there was dying in my boyfriend’s arms. You’re telling me you don’t feel guilty? You don’t feel grief?”
“We must condemn his vigilantism or the media will crucify us. ” Nedzu emphasizes. He can’t help but laugh. The media. The Commission. That’s what’s stopping Izuku from rememberance. Not his own faults, but society’s. He was so afraid of being useless, and he never let himself be less than amazing. A star, only dimmed by Death and now he can’t have a memorial? Oh, it’s so sick it’s funny. Kid, you deserve so much better, but these assholes are going to make me commit homicide before I can get the chance to honor you.
His laughter comes out in gasps, twisting with every missed breath as his partner teeters between helping and letting him work it out.
“Mustafu citizens will burn you alive if you do that, and I'd defend them.” He spits, his laughter curling with a bitter smile.
“Leave, Shouta. Now. If you want to keep your position.” His breathing stutters as he brings a straight hand up to his head in a mock, angry salute.
“Yes, sir.” He says, shaking with an emotion he recognizes as rage as he stumbles to the door. As he twists the handle, his body drains of all feelings except exhaustion.
4.)
It’s sloppy, he thinks, shaking his head within his scarf. If he had to think of one word to describe how these kids fight, it’s sloppy. They leave their vitals wide open when they move in to strike another’s. Their feet are rooted to the ground, and a properly placed strike could knock them over. Granted, some of their form is better than others. Take the Shouto, for example. He protects his vitals, and he has a quick reaction time, but he struggles without his quirk. And that damn left side situation… Bakugou seems to have a similar situation, and he fights like he’s protecting his wrists which is a dead giveaway.
He watches intently as the boy parries, dodging and dragging his wrists behind him in… fear? Well, that has to be corrected. He’ll get seriously injured if he doesn’t fix that habit.
Fixing bad habits isn’t a guarantee you won’t get killed, what happened to Izuku? He pushes the thought out of his mind, the grief morphing into a simmering anger.
“Bakugou! Come here!” He barks, curling a finger towards himself as a sort of silent command. The boy sneers, dropping his form and sauntering over to him. Could he do it without the attitude?
“Yeah, teach?” The ash blonde asks, looking vaguely annoyed.
“Your form, it’s bad. Your wrists—”
“I have them guarded!” This kid.
“Hey! Listen to me. Your wrists are your weak point, yes? Well, the way you’re guarding them, anyone within a hundred-mile radius would be able to tell and strike you there. Your vitals are wide open—”
“No they’re not—” Could he try not to interrupt?
“I’m speaking! Your vitals are wide open. You know how to fight, so try fighting without guarding your wrists at all.”
“I guard just fucking fine!”
“Don’t swear at me—“
“It’s not my problem you have a Deku-shaped stick up your ass!” What. The. Fuck?
“…I am the definition of thrown away. Kids at school called me Deku, worthless, useless, Deku. I was thrown away and I was useless until I became Galaxy.”
Deku… as in Izuku? Izuku Midoriya? The kid who sacrificed his life to save this class and Shouta himself? Did Bakugou know Izuku? Did he know Izuku and still disrespect his dead image by implying— What the fuck? What the fuck?
“Excuse me?” He manages as his eyes light up with his quirk and unbridled rage. Bakugou better hope and pray to the gods and repent right now, otherwise he’s going to have a hard time holding himself back.
“You heard me. There’s no fucking reason you’re so prickly other than your grief over stupid Deku! He was a suicidal little freak, he was gonna die anyway—” Faster than Shouta realizes, he’s gripping the boy by his shirt and holding him up as rage lines his shaking body.
“His name is Izuku Midoriya, and I have no goddamn clue where you get off calling him useless. He saved your ass—hell, all of our asses at the USJ and sacrificed his life to do so! You piece of shit, he was more of a hero than you’ll ever be—”
“He was a quirkless runt!”
“And you’re a hothead who no longer has a place in the Hero Course! You want to disrespect the dead? You can do it in some other shitty hero school and become a sub-100 sidekick washout! ” It’s a miracle, an honest-to-god miracle that he doesn’t pummel this kid into the ground. If that miracle comes in the form of a rogue Cementoss, well that’s his business only.
“Shouta, stop! Come on—” Cementoss wrangles the boy’s shirt out of his grip and shoves him away, using a cement wall to close the distance.
“Take a walk, Shouta!” The man yells sternly. Shouta does no such thing. Angry, frustrated tears prick his eyes as his rage bubbles up inside him, capped by a rational force. The unfairness of it all, the fact that that fucking dead-disrespecting brat gets to be protected by Cementoss and not Izuku. The fact that he can’t smack the shit out of this child for parroting society’s ideals about the Quirkless and Izuku. The fact that Bakugou needs help, and not a swift fist enrages him. All people like Izuku got were beatings from people like Bakugou.
It’s not fair.
He clutches at his chest as a familiar constricting feeling surrounds his chest. He sinks to his knees, heaving out angry sobs as all the fair and unfair spirals in his mind.
On the concrete floor of the gym, surrounded by traumatized children, Shouta Aizawa is unraveling.
5.)
“Get up, Shouta.” His boyfriend says sternly, hovering over his ‘sleeping’ form. He makes no such effort to do that energy-consuming task, electing to stay exactly where he is.
“Get up, Shouta!” He barks, attempting to make him a bit more motivated. He does no such thing.
“Shou, please.” Why should he? Nedzu, the rat he is, sent Aizawa home after his outburst.
“I should sue this man! He lost his temper on a child; on one of his students!” Bakugou Mitsuki cries, slamming a hand on Nedzu’s desk.
“Ma’am, while you are correct that Aizawa shouldn’t have grabbed your son by the shirt, he did and still does have grounds to expel your child. And I’m rather inclined to approve it.” The rat explains, not batting an eye.
“My son is one of the best in that class! He deserves to stay!” She screams, tossing her hands up.
“His words and rhetoric say otherwise. Quirkless discrimination? Borderline harassment towards a teacher? Disrespecting the dead? Past suicide-baiting—“
“What—“
“…Are all grounds for immediate suspension.” Nedzu finishes, crossing his arms and staring at Mitsuki with a ‘what now’ look.
She sighs, sitting in the chair beside her.
“My son… has problems, yes. But please don’t expel him. He’s worked so hard for this dream even if his attitude is shit.”
“You do know what he said, right?” Nedzu asks, leveling with the woman.
“No, I’m not aware. What did he say?”
“This is verbatim from the security footage. It’s not my problem you have a Deku-shaped stick up your ass! You heard me. There’s no fucking reason you’re so prickly other than your grief over stupid Deku! He was a suicidal little freak, he was gonna die anyway. He was a quirkless runt!”
Mitsuki buries her head in her hands, in intense shock.
“I never thought… Who is this kid he was talking about?” She asks softly, her voice having lost all edge.
“Izuku. Izuku Midoriya,” Shouta adds, speaking for the first time in the meeting.
“Izuku Midoriya? Inko’s son? I thought he was in the system. He’s here? He’s here right now?” For once, He’s interested in what this woman has to say. Who’s Inko?
His mother? The one that threw him away?
“He passed away at the USJ saving everyone, including Shouta Aizawa and your son.” Nedzu says, his tone mirroring a grief Shouta didn’t know could come from an animal.
“Oh.” Mitsuki says brokenly, then after a lengthy pause adds: “I guess, he doesn’t deserve the hero course, does he?”
Shouta wants to scream an emphatic yes. He wants to scream that Bakugou Katsuki has never deserved anything he’s got, and that for the pain he put Izuku through he should be thoroughly expelled and blacklisted. But he can’t. And in the few years he’s known Izuku, he knows the boy wouldn’t want him to either. He was bitter but he was never cruel.
“No, he doesn’t—“
“Don’t expel him, Nedzu. Don’t— just— just move him to Gen Ed.”
“What?” Mitsuki interjects, looking up from where she was staring a hole into the floor.
“You’re the last person I’d expect to be vying for the boy. Why?”
“He’s a victim of the system that put him here. Quirkism is a very real thing and with a quirk like his, there’s no doubt in my mind his teachers filled his head with that bullshit. So give him a chance to clean up his act. If he redeems himself, put him into Vlad’s class.” He explains, choking back his anger as rationality permeates his thinking.
Mitsuki sniffles in the background as Nedzu sips his tea. Her voice comes out small and shaky. “This is because of Izuku, isn’t it? That boy was so kind as a little boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. This is because of him, right?”
“He’s dead.” Shouta says, turning away from the woman.
Nedzu shakes his head, sighing. “Bakugou-san. I’ve decided to go forward with Aizawa-san’s suggested course of action. Sign these forms, and we’ll inform your son at a later time. If you wish to object to these—“
“I don’t—“
“…terms, I will remove your son from this school entirely. Aizawa-san will be facing disciplinary action for his misconduct as well. Hearing no objection, I think this meeting is over. You’re free to go, Bakugou-san.” Nedzu finishes, gesturing for the door. She takes the hint, but not before turning and asking him a question: “This is because of Izuku, right?”
With his back to the woman, he grimaces. A shady chill descends over him and he shivers.
“Izuku is dead.”
“Shouta! Shouta, please . Please, get up!” It should hurt him to hear Hizashi like this. Instead, there’s nothing where that stinging squeeze of his heart should be. Would Hizashi be doing this to Izuku if Shouta were gone?
He closes his eyes, fluttering his eyelashes as he tries to mirror the pain Izuku must’ve felt in death. A crumbling stomach, filled with skin-cell dust and rushing blood. How would it have felt if it were Shouta in Izuku’s arms? Would it have been better? Probably. If it were him, Izuku would be here.
Strong arms slide under his arms and tug him close, pressing warm abs to his bony back. They hold him in place, and he faintly realizes his shaking has stopped.
“Shouta, it’s going to be alright. You can grieve; you can feel it.” The blond coaxes, bringing a weathered hand up to wipe a stray tear.
“All I do is feel it,” He sobs, his words coming out shaky and childlike.
“I know, baby. I—” The blonde cuts himself off, not wanting to continue.
“What?” Shouta questions, sniffling and letting out a broken laugh.
“I found the papers.” The papers. The adoption papers.
The papers he signed with a desperation never seen before after Endeavor nearly killed the boy. The papers he wanted to present Izuku with after the USJ. The papers that would save the boy from his horrific life as a foster kid. The papers that would’ve made Shouta a father and Izuku his son.
“Oh, god.” He sobs, sucking in gasping breaths as it hits him. His son. His son. His son. His son is gone.
“He’s gone.” He cries, taking short, gurgling breaths as everything he’s lost comes crashing down on top of him.
“Hizashi, my son is gone. He was supposed to be our son. He’s gone, why is he gone? Why is he dead? Oh, fuck my son is dead.” He babbles, shaking back and forth in Hizashi’s arms.
“I don’t know, Shouta. I don’t know why they had to take him.”
“My son is dead. Izuku is dead, ” His breaths slow as the realization sinks deeper into his soul. As it does, his spirit dulls. The loss of a star—it’s too dark, now.
+1
Shouta is almost breaking Hizashi’s hand with how tight he’s holding it. But staring up at the decrepit structure that is Izuku’s home, it’s justified. It’s an old, abandoned convenience store, and despite this, it’s full of life.
“We don’t have to do this, Shouta. We can always get someone else to get his stuff for the— the will and the funeral.” Hizashi says, attempting to reassure his boyfriend. Shouta shakes his head and brings their conjoined hands up, kissing the blonde’s knuckles.
“No. It has to be me. Right now.” He blinks, letting go of the other man’s hand.
“Okay,” Hizashi says, trailing behind him as he marches into the store.
The store is colorful. Vivid strings of paper decorate the ceiling, and Christmas lights line the doors and exit signs. The floors are pristine and everything left in the store has its own separate aisle. Then he sees it—a sign labeled for Shouta with an arrow pointing to stacks upon stacks of canned coffee. It’s stupid. It’s so Izuku. He takes a weary step towards the stack of coffee and drags a hand down the cans. This whole place is full of his spirit, and in a way it’s sickening. A green-haired boy’s life bouncing off the walls of a shack like this. He made it his own. Holding back a sniffle, he grabs a can off of the top of the stack and puts it in his bag. Thanks, kid.
He turns, taking in the rest of the shop. First-aid, bottled water, granola bars, and bandages— was he— of course he was. Of course he would invite people into his home to help them. He meets Hizashi’s eyes, and he can see deep understanding. Does he understand it now? What Izuku’s death means?
With the blonde’s nod, Shouta knows he does.
#
He wishes he’d never set a foot up those rickety stairs. Because if he thought downstairs was Izuku, upstairs is so much worse. He sees it all—the plethora of good emanating from the boy and all of the dark depression he left for himself. It just hurts to remember that while he was a martyr and a hero, he was suicidal. Everything up here is messy, just as a child’s room would be, but the box labeled for the people I left behind is anything but. He knew, more than anyone, that he’d die an early death. No matter how hard Shouta tried to prevent it. Tears bloom in his eyes, and he looks away quickly, catching an eyeful of that blood-stained tile Izuku’s told him about.
Fuck, it doesn’t feel right without him.
He picks up the box, placing the dusty thing on top of the nearest table. For the people I left behind.
He takes off the lid—which is decorated with stars and flowers, a strange combination that feels like the boy—only to be met with labeled letters. There’s less than he thought there’d be. One for Tsukauchi. One for Recovery Girl. One for Hizashi. One for Mei Hatsume. One for Shinsou Hitoshi. One for him. One for him.
He should’ve expected this. He’s known— he knew Izuku for over three years, he’s seen the boy grow up from a scrawny eleven-year-old to an older, wiser fifteen-year-old. He should’ve expected his letter. A stray tear streaks down his face regardless.
“Are you— are you gonna read it now, Shou?” Hizashi asks, staring down in disbelief at his letter. Knowing him, he probably didn’t think he’d receive one either.
“Yeah. I just… It’s a lot.” The blonde nods in understanding, and Shouta stumbles towards a seat at the table covered in Izuku’s vigilante plans.
He carefully pries open the letter’s seal, and pulls out his thick stack of papers. The handwriting is careful, unlike what the boy’s handwriting usually looks like. He wrote slowly and carefully.
Finally, he starts reading.
Dear, Shouta. I’m sorry.
#
The funeral is jam-packed with people. A notably absent person, however, is his mother. Well, fuck her. Who he does see is hundreds from Izuku’s part of the city. He also sees Pros that loved that damn boy, such as Ingenium, Gran Torino, Ms. Joke, Hawks, and so many others. Endeavor is absent, but only because some of the people Izuku saved kicked him out for ‘treating a funeral like a goddamn PR stunt.’ He’s not complaining. He would’ve strangled the fiery man if those others didn’t get to him first. He also sees Hatsume and Shinsou, and finds courage in himself to hand them their letters.
I’m sorry that I left you behind. When I realized I’d have to write these letters, I was most nervous to write yours. I’m mostly scared of misrepresenting how I feel, and in Death, wishing I said something different. So I’ll say everything.
“Eraser,” A voice behind him sounds. Tsukauchi.
“Tsukauchi. I was going to come find you. How are you holding up?” He asks, voice strained.
“How am I holding up? Poorly. But fuck that, how are you? You and Galaxy were closer than anyone else.” Shouta wavers, the letter in his back pocket burning a hole through his heart.
“I’m— I’ll be honest. I was doing horrible. But I think visiting his house helped.” He sighs, a little relieved to say it aloud.
“That’s good. Did you find anything—”
“I’m not helping you with anything the cops are putting you up to. Not about Galaxy. Not about Izuku.” He snaps, probably a little too aggressively for a funeral.
“Okay. I know.”
“I found something… for you.” Shouta pulls the letter out of his pocket, and Tsukauchi freezes.
“Is that— Is that a—” The man starts, his face going pale.
“It’s not that type of note. But he— he knew he’d die young. So he wrote these.” Shouta explains, bringing a little more color back to the detective’s face.
“So… he wrote one for… me?” Tsukauchi asks, hesitant and confused. Honestly, it makes sense the detective would be confused.
“Yes, he wrote it and addressed it to you.”
“Me? The detective who sent heroes after him to arrest him?” Tsukauchi asks, incredulous.
“You wouldn’t have been able to catch him anyways.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. He liked you, Tsukauchi. He liked you enough to leave you a letter. And… honestly? I think you should read it. It helped me. It might help you.”
The first day I met you, I liked you, but I was scared you’d be upset because I electrocuted you. Then, all that fear fell away when you accepted my canned coffee. I guess everything started to work out. Me being Galaxy. You barely trying to catch me. It was great, and I felt like I was yours. Like a kid you’d adopted or something, even though you hadn’t. Even though I was still pretty useless. I loved it, and then you called me Problem Child for the first time. I was so scared of you, even though I knew you were good. You are, or I guess were the best thing in my life. I ran faster than I’d ever run in my life. Then, of course, I got burned. I was mad at you and so bitter when you apologized. Honestly, that’s one of my biggest regrets. Being so angry when I shouldn’t have been. You never deserved it. Then everything got so much better. I got into Yuuei. You invited me to your training facility (which, honestly I’m a little nervous about) to teach hero students. I guess you don’t need a life recap, but I can say this: Thank you, Shouta.
It takes a while for everyone to be ushered into their seats, and people stand, lining the back walls and trailing out the door. All for Izuku. All for Galaxy. He sits in the front row, letting his hair down as he sits. He catches an eyeful of the closed casket and grimaces. He listens as the preacher begins.
“Izuku Midoriya was an anomaly, truly. He was a pure soul, one that emerged from the darkest of places and illuminated everything. Izuku Midoriya made it his business to save everyone, and died doing so…”
The preacher trails on, and it’s painful for Shouta to listen to. He’s quickly reminded that like Oboro’s funeral, Izuku’s funeral is for the living. He squeezes Hizashi’s hand, and tries to ignore the tears flowing down the man’s face. It’s all too much.
“…And I’d like to call up the person he was closest to. Eraserhead?”
Thank you for showing me love. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for helping me. I can’t say thank you enough. I don’t know how to express my gratitude. And thank you for reading this letter. I just wish you didn’t have to.
“What?” He breathes, looking around startled. What is he supposed to say?
“Could you come up to the stage and say a few words?” The preacher urges. Shouta reluctantly and almost involuntarily nods. He stands up, nearly crumbling under the pressure of everyone else in the room. He looks back at Hizashi as fear rushes up his throat. The man’s face shifts into worry, and he goes to stand up, only for Shouta to shake his head. He has to do this.
The steps up to the podium feel mountainous, and he grabs the railing to pull himself up. The preacher sees his solemn expression, and his face crumbles too.
“Oh. Are you sure—” The man stumbles. Shouta’s having none of it.
“Give me the microphone.” He snatches it from the preacher’s hand and leans against the podium.
“Izuku Midoriya was eleven years old when I met him. I met him as Galaxy the first time when he electrocuted me to get away.” Amused and equally horrified murmurs erupt around the room.
“And do you know what he did to apologize? He brought me canned coffee. For starters, I’ve never seen someone apologize for electrocuting someone. And two, I’d never had a vigilante come back in my vicinity, knowing damn well they could get arrested just to apologize. So, after that, I made it my mission to help this kid. He was scrawny. Lined with scars from before the age of ten. His hair was always messy. But even though I didn’t know it, I’d basically adopted a— a son.” He stumbles over his words, grief gripping his vocal chords in vengeance. He looks out into the crowd and feels that he needs to, that he has to keep going.
“Izuku Midoriya was a fucking star. And I’m not just talking about his personality. I don’t think he knew it, but his presence was a deterrent to crime for three years. He single-handedly dropped crime rates, and no one would be seen fucking him over because everybody loved him . …Fuck, I loved that kid. He had his faults—that I know. He was quirkless—” More murmurs of disbelief sound, and he shakes his head. “I know. But the quirkless are powerful. They aren’t fucking useless. They aren’t weak. But Izuku was depressed. He was suicidal. But he was so good. Every night he got up and saved people. Every night he got up and saved me. Izuku Midoriya saved me. I was broken. I was jaded. He showed me light—I’m not being dramatic, he did. ” Shouta looks down, tears dripping off of his cheeks.
“Izuku Midoriya, better known as Galaxy, was a beautiful person. He was a kid that died too soon, and we all feel the weight of that. The feeling that we could’ve done more. We should have done more. And we can do more. I think— I think he’d just want us to help people. To help ourselves. To be kind to people,” He sobs as his voice picks up in volume, “So get off your goddamn high horses and do something. Help people. Because if Izuku were here, he’d do it. But he’s dead, so we do it. If not for yourself, do it for him.” He screams, the weight of his grief bearing down on his chest. Sweat and tears bead down his face, and he’s barely able to stand as he looks out at the crowd. The crowd full of Izuku’s legacy.
I wish I could be there with you, Shouta. But I’m not. And I hope it’s okay. I want you to be happy, so don’t ever give up. And don’t stop saving people, or doing and loving the things you love.
Your favorite vigilante,
Izuku Midoriya
Shouta can only crack a wobbly grin as he huffs a shaky, messy laugh. Oh, Izuku. You are here, aren’t you?
#
The wet ground squelches as Shouta’s boots bear down on it. Despite the feeling, he trudges forward, knowing the exact spot he needs to head towards. It’s rather secluded, but the candles and flowers that people leave in gratitude are always a nice sign. He doesn’t really need it. He’s here often.
He sighs as he approaches the grave, and he feels too tall to keep standing. He kneels, a wave of sadness washing over his body as he stares at the stone.
Here lay the kid who took the slums and hung the stars:
Izuku Midoriya
A galaxy is composed of gas and dust and stars—billions upon billions of stars. Every star may be a sun to someone - Carl Sagan
July 15 - August 16
He solemnly smiles, unzipping his bag to pull out two canned coffees. He places a coffee on the headstone, in a jumbled mix with all the other gratitudes. He’ll never see the world as bright as when his Sun was here. He’ll never forget the world before it was dimmed, and he’ll never forget the blood on his hands. But his Sun asked him to heal. His Sun asked for his joy. So, he’ll promise it. And he’ll keep it, too.
I want you to be happy, so don’t ever give up. And don’t stop saving people, or doing and loving the things you love.
“I’d like to keep my promise. Take the coffee, kid.”