Chapter Text
Izuku's feet dragged as he continued on his way home, breathing labored as he trudged forward.
If he wasn't mistaken, his ankle was fractured. He'd been having a relatively good day at school, nearing the end of the day, when he'd been pushed down the stairs. His ankle had landed horribly, taking the brunt force of the fall. At least it wasn't a full break, or there's no way he would’ve made his way home. Even so, a fractured bone was going to be hard to hide from his mom and treat on his own.
Izuku straightened up when he entered his apartment complex, knowing the worker at the front desk would report any visible injuries or fatigue to his mom. It wasn't that he feared her, but he hated to worry her. She worked so much, doing her absolute best to support them, and the added fees of a hospital visit wouldn't help.
His apartment was rapidly approaching, so he took a deep breath and opened the door. There was a chance his mom would be at work right now, but her hours as a nurse were so weird it was hard to tell. Considering he didn't hear the standard, “hey Zuzu! How was your day?” it was safe to say she wasn't home.
He felt a strange mixture of longing and relief, slumping over and allowing his eyes to fill with tears. His ankle was killing him, and his shoes weren't doing him any favors. He sank to the floor with a hard thump, gritting his teeth as he yanked his tennis shoes off.
Now that he was sitting, he most definitely didn't want to get up. Biting his cheek to hold in his cry of pain, he gripped the wall to hoist himself up. He wasn't entirely sure how to treat a fracture, so he figured he'd get an ice pack to use while he researched.
He stumbled into the kitchen, only to collapse on the cold tile. His mother, his mother that worked so hard for him, passed out on the floor with a half empty bottle of pills spilled on the floor next to her.
He screamed, clutching her already cold hand.
He didn't remember calling the police, but the call log was on his phone.
He didn't remember being moved, but he was sitting in his hallway while the police took photos.
He didn't remember crying, but there were fresh tear tracks on his face.
He knew his mother took some medications for chronic pain and depression. He remembered being six years old, his mother explaining that the pill helped her with joint pain and seeing the world clearer, in brighter colors. ‘Like glasses for my mind,’ she'd explained cheerily.
Izuku was on the same antidepressant that had killed his mother.
He could hear the police talking, their voices somewhat jumbled by the walls but still able to be heard. He did his best to tune them out, not wanting to hear the details.
He was too busy worrying about his future.
His deadbeat dad, a lousy excuse for a father figure, had up and left as soon as Izuku’s foot had been X-rayed at age four. A short while later, he was killed in a drug deal gone south. Not that Izuku really cared.
He didn't have any family or friends to go to, meaning he'd be put in foster care. He'd heard enough horror stories from quirkless orphans on online forums to know that it wasn't a good thing. He'd be chewed up and eaten alive, beaten and bruised just how he was at school. (He didn't want to think about the other possibilities, being kicked out or murdered.)
Izuku was moving before he even knew why, ducking under police tape and avoiding prying neighbors. It was all too easy, being short and lean for his age. He was almost invisible, and he'd never been more grateful for it than now.
The red shoes sat next to him, lined up perfectly from heel to toe, the shoelaces still neatly tied. He had tucked the ends inside, along with them was a note to the authorities or whoever had the misfortune of finding him. Simple, direct, to the point. It wasn’t emotional by any means—just carefully printed kanji intended to inform the police of his name and reason for death. It would be easier that way.
Really, everything would be easier with what he was setting out to do.
Izuku couldn’t think of one good reason not to take one more step, moving away from the ledge and onto air. His mom and biological father were both dead, he had no friends, and no hope for his future. He was orphaned, alone, and quirkless. He had one of the most unfortunate lives he'd ever come across.
In fact, even if his mother hadn’t overdosed, Izuku might have still jumped. He’d probably still jump if his mother was perfect, home all the time, an active participant in his life. Really, the deciding factor was his lack of quirk. With the way he was talked to on a daily basis, who wouldn’t at least feel tempted to release themselves of such a world? And now, with the prospect of a foster home?
So Izuku stepped forward. Again, again, and again. The roof was wet, his socks becoming damp and dirty while he stood in one spot. His moment of stillness wasn’t hesitation. He was savoring it. This moment. When he would finally be free from everything that held him back.
He let one foot hover over the edge, breathing in his last breath of stale city air. The smell of burning nicotine, car exhaust, and the wet smell of mold. He was so close to the edge.
He shifted his weight forward, and down he went.
All his life, Izuku had heard this particular kind of killing yourself being referred to as ‘jumping,’ but that was hardly it. What Izuku was doing—it was falling.
Jumping was a physical activity. It made your heart pound, your muscles scream in protest as you leaped for the skies. It was adrenaline, an almost caffeinated spike.
Falling was peaceful. Izuku felt the wholest he’d ever been, falling through the air at indeterminable speeds. He couldn't hear anything at all and he could hardly feel anything. It was just the wind in his hair and his soon to be stopped heart. The ground would be approaching soon. Just a few more seconds and—there it was. A satisfying crunch that sent his eyes fluttering closed before he could even register the pain.
“What the fuck?” Izuku sat up, looking around him for any indication of where he was.
He didn’t see an abundant amount of fire anywhere. He didn’t really believe in the afterlife, but if anything, he had expected to see red men with horns and tails. Just to be sure, he looked around for anyone with white wings and glowing halos—but there wasn’t anything. No sign of anyone but himself, and nothing was out of the ordinary.
As far as he could tell, he was just sitting on a street in Mustafu. Maybe he was saved by a pro-hero? If so, why did they leave him in a pile of blood? Holy fuck, what? Izuku stood up, examining himself. He brushed the back of his head, which while sore and soaked in blood, was not broken or open in any way. Looking down at the blood, he could see pieces of brain floating in the dark red, along with small pieces of bone. Was he missing parts of his brain now?
He heaved, his throat rising with the taste of vomit. Nothing came up, but his stomach continued for several more minutes.
Izuku was regaining some of his situational awareness now, enough to see and feel the blood soaking through his clothes. Distantly, he also recognized that his fractured ankle wasn't hurting him anymore. He could now register that he was violently shaking, and his eyes were able to focus on anything for that matter. The world was blurry, unable to be deciphered, but Izuku still came to one important conclusion.
He was still alive. And he would have to try again. His shoes, note and all, were forgotten about.
Izuku found himself in a convenience store bathroom, a boxcutter clutched like a lifeline as he sank the blade into his wrist. The stinging was sharp, but it felt oh so sweet. He applied more pressure, smiling when his eyes closed again.
When he woke up, he had a bathroom to clean and two obvious scars on his wrists.
He'd hung himself, jumped in a river with rocks tied to his feet, shot himself in the head, then through the heart, poisoned himself—even overdosed like his mother. Nothing was working.
Hell, he’d accidentally choked on a grape while he was on break.
The only conclusion he came to was that each attempt left ugly scars in their wake. His wrists now bore two incredibly noticeable scars, so that anyone who saw them would know what it meant. His neck had a rather distinguishable rope burn, the side of his forehead a bullet shaped hole, and a matching scar right over his heart. He had noticed thin, spiderweb like scars all over his back from when he’d jumped the first time. (And more, since he’d jumped a consequent total of thirteen times afterwards.)
Luckily, all of his scars thus far could be hidden with long sleeves, high collars, and his bangs.
The only logical conclusion Izuku had was that it was the work of a quirk. His own.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw himself off the nearest building. A part of him wanted very desperately to get ahold of a notebook, to run tests and document this new development. A part of him was already theorizing over the many ways he could apply his newfound quirk to hero work. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if his quirk was a muscled up healing quirk, and if he could use it on others.
Another part of him felt bitter about his new quirk. Sure, it was cool and useful, but it meant everything he endured was for nothing. His father had left him, for nothing. He'd been bullied his whole life, for nothing. He'd given up his dream, for nothing. His decades worth of self hatred, being shoved to the side, all the bullying, all for nothing.
Yet another part of him just wanted it all to go quiet. For his brain to stop moving so fast, for the constant cycle of self hatred to quit, to finally reach the level of peace his quirk had denied him.
Of course the quirk he'd wanted for so long would keep him from achieving the thing he wanted so badly.
Now, after an exhausting day, Izuku was stretched out on the ledge of a building, letting the wind determine if he would fall or not.
“Shit,” Izuku said, and with that, he rolled off the building and waited for another satisfying crunch. Izuku had managed to clean himself up in a public bathroom, knowing that no one on this side of town would care about a stray fourteen year old soaked in blood. It was practically the norm. He didn’t have any actual clothes not covered in blood, but he had an All Might hoodie he hadn’t ruined. Izuku just hoped that his dark colored pants would be enough to hide the dark red stains.
He pulled up his hood, curving his posture and ducking his head. It was already dusk, and he was in the most crime ridden neighborhood in Musutafu. He hoped to at least be on the fringes before nightfall.
While hes walking, he passes a rundown store selling old fashioned TV’s from the pre-quirk era, all showing the same news anchor. Izuku stops, recognizing his own face plastered on the screens. He takes a few cautious steps forward, llistening to the broadcast.
“In other news, a fourteen year old boy has been declared dead after a pro-hero found his shoes and suicide note on a rooftop. As of now, there is no body to speak of, but the pro-heor and police have concluded that they are safe in signing his certificate of death. The fourteen year old, who is remaining anonymous for privacy reasons, has no known living family to speak of, and it's theorized that he was driven to death after the passing of his mother. The police have commented—”
Izuku sucked in a harsh breath. He was legally dead. He couldn’t live in society as a dead man. He couldn't visit a doctor, buy a house, or apply for a job. It’s not like he could go and fix it either. If he showed up at the police or a quirk agency, he’d be turned away for the ‘deceased’ and ‘quirkless’ on his file. If he did try to explain his quirk, things would only turn out worse. He wasn’t quirkless anymore, sure, but having a ‘villainous quirk’ was hardly any better.
He’d be sent off to a mental hospital anyway, for trying to kill himself. Izuku had gone and eliminated every option he’d ever had.