Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku had cut before - had the scars along his left forearm to prove. A meek row of faint, raised scars that told a silent story of suffering through his middle school years, the chapter of his life he dared not look back on yet haunted his every waking hour, threatening to spontaneously ruin a perfectly normal day.

So yeah, he’d cut before. It hadn’t been very deep, only to draw a small amount of blood (to prove he wasn’t overreacting, to prove that he’d been through things, for attention ) yet it was self-harm. ‘Proper’ self-harm, though hardly comparable to the various ways in which he’d hurt himself before.

He stood, now, shaking in all his immeasurable anger, fists blooming with purple bruises and swollen from beating a wall until his own blood stained it.

Ironic, considering punching is a violent act intended to hurt another, yet now, with his own blood streaming down his trembling fists, the only one hurt was himself.

Ironic, considering purple and blue are cool colours, opposite to the raging reds and oranges across the spectrum, yet the purples and blues which spread over his calloused knuckles begged to differ, breeding crimson in their own.

Izuku shook out his bleeding hands with a sick satisfaction. The pain of being unable to fully open his hands due to the extent of their swelling made him grotesquely pleased. It wasn’t real self-harm, but it hurt a great deal more than the meagre cuts he’d made for attention .

It had started after a session of quirkless sparring. He’d been sick with some brand of respiratory illness, coughing up phlegm and wheezing from mere acts of standing and walking. He did a great job at hiding it, though, so no one noticed, to his detriment.

His sickness weighed down on his capabilities, making his fighting sloppy and leaving him gasping for breath, unable to do anything besides let Kirishima pummel is unguarded stomach with hardened fists and feet. Izuku’s fault, entirely.

He fell wheezing to the floor, clutching his abused stomach and blinking frustrated tears out of his eyes.

“Yo, Midobro, are you okay? You seem a little subdued today.” Kirishima asked, smiling worriedly.

“Yeah, I’m alright!” Izuku beamed back, “Just a little tired is all.”

“I get it. Take care of yourself, dude!”

“Will do!”

Izuku gratefully accepted Kirishima’s offered hand, albeit shamefully. He was supposed to be All Might’s successor, for Kami’s sake! Yet he couldn’t seem to even be able to hold his own against his classmates.

“Midoriya, keep your hands up and stay light on your feet; don’t be so careless.” Called Aizawa lazily as Izuku stood up. He hung his head, tears stinging at his eyes and cheeks burning.

“Time! Swap partners!” Aizawa barked, attention directed back to the rest of the class as they’d hit the 2 minute mark.

Izuku glanced around and found Uraraka bounding over to him.

“Hey Deku! Partners?” She questioned excitedly. Far too excited after 2 hours of gruelling training.

“Of course!”

They both slid into their fighting stances, smiling at each other fiercely. Izuku felt wheezes stuttering in his chest and fought the urge to just sit down on the floor and die.

“Start!”

Uraraka charged at Izuku, throwing a punch towards his face, to which he dodged by a hair’s breadth. Izuku kicked at her legs before realising it was pointless, her legs encased by thick boots.

Huffing in annoyance, he dodged another couple punches and punched Uraraka’s arm, tugging it close to him and wrapping his other arm around her waist. He pivoted in quick succession, pulling her body over his back and hip-throwing her onto the training mat with a loud slam.

She was up in a split-second. She feigned a punch to his head, Izuku narrowly suppressing a flinch, distracting him long enough to punch him in the stomach.

Izuku responded by punching and locking his arms around his opponent’s neck, pulling her in and kneeing her stomach harshly. She stumbled back.

Izuku took the moment to gasp for air, coughing a bit into his elbow before Uraraka charged at his legs and wrapped them to her chest in a tight embrace. They both toppled to the ground.

Uraraka’s legs quickly moved to a position splayed across his chest and face, blocking his wheezy breaths. She utilised his defenceless form and pulled his arm into a tight bar.

Izuku struggled hopelessly before giving up, tapping the ground angrily. Uraraka sprung up, smiling down at his breathless form in a way Izuku thought was rather cruel. She offered him a hand while he regained his breath.

“Good fight, Deku! That was so fun! I haven’t been able to try out that move before, so thanks!”

Izuku smiled weakly and nodded, his face burning with shame as he pulled himself up.

“Good job, problem children. Good takedowns and submissons. Uraraka, work on combos. Don’t just punch once, follow it up with something else and use your kicks more. Midoriya, again, light on your feet, and work on your reaction time.”

They both nodded, Uraraka happily and Izuku solemnly. He would usually ace quirkless sparring, but he was so sick he could barely breathe!

“Time! Get in position for round 2.”

Izuku dragged himself up and across from Uraraka, who seemed totally unphased after that fight, much to Izuku’s jealousy.

He pulled himself into a fighting stance. Uraraka mirrored him.

He needed to step up his game. He couldn’t keep losing!

Uraraka’s fighting style was largely based off Gunhead Martial Arts, which Izuku knew from nights of meticulously watching hero footage and researching was a martial art focused on grappling and submissions, similar to BJJ, in order to subdue and capture an opponent.

If Izuku could just avoid being caught in her range of punching and grappling, he could stand a chance.

“Start!”

As Uraraka closed the distance between them, no doubt to allow herself the proximity needed for her to fight, Izuku kicked her right in the stomach, forcing her back. He quickly followed it up with a spinning heel kick. His foot connected with mere air as she dodged, his momentary lack of balance allowing her to sweep his legs from underneath him.

She hastily followed him to the ground, moving to get a submission on him. They wrestled, Izuku having his size and muscle in his favour while Uraraka had her experience and…health.

It would be a deadlock, Izuku realised. In light of this, he shoved Uraraka away with as much force as possible and kicked her again before quickly standing up.

They circled each other like predator and prey (though who was who, Izuku didn’t know). It seemed Uraraka switched tactics, because she came forward with her own kick to his stomach followed with three punches and another kick. They were thrown with such force that Izuku felt like vomiting, hand moving to protect his stomach instinctually and tears stinging at his eyes.

Kami, he was so pathetic.

Uraraka didn’t stop, punching him until he was actually crying, a pitiful sob escaping his lips. Her eyes softened immediately and she lowered her hands.

“Oh my god are you alright, Deku?”

“Sorry…I just-“ His voice seemed to fail him, cracking painfully. This was so embarrassing. He didn’t mean to cry - to be such a baby - but he couldn’t stop.

“Midoriya, are you alright?” Aizawa walked over, eyes subtly shining with worry.

He couldn’t respond, mind stuck in the humiliation of this situation. This was so. Freaking. Embarrassing. He was a hero-in-training, not a stupid baby! Not only that, but he was training to be the next Symbol of Peace.

“Midoriya?” Aizawa tried again. He turned to Uraraka. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know! We were sparring and I was kicking and punching him in the stomach; I think I hit him too hard.”

“I see. Go sit down, I’ll handle this.”

“Okay…I’m sorry Deku!” She sniffed before walking away, glancing over her shoulder at the two of them.

“Midoriya, do you feel nauseous?”

Izuku nodded silently, still mortified at the situation.

“Okay. Do you want to go to Recovery Girl, or do you just want a moment to sit out?”

“Can- can I just sit out?”

“Sure. Let me know if you need anything.”

Izuku nodded and stumbled over to the benches, collapsing and coughing violently. Uraraka came over to him.

“Deku, what happened?” She asked, looking at him as if he were a kicked puppy to be pitied. Oh, how Izuku despised that look. He wasn’t weak.

“Nothing…I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be. We all have times like that, you don’t need to be sorry! I know how it feels.” She mumbled, looking at Izuku with worry. “Just…know that you’re not helpless or worthless. Sometimes I feel that way, and it feels terrible. You’re not helpless, you’re not Deku, you’re Dekiru - the hero who can do it!”

Izuku smiled weakly, simultaneously flattered by her attempt to cheer him up while also humiliated that he had to be given a pep talk like this. He wasn’t weak.

“Thanks, Uraraka.” He croaked.

“Of course!”

“Time - all groups!” Aizawa yelled. Sometime admist Izuku’s patheticness the class had undergone a third round of fighting which they’d missed. Izuku suddenly felt extremely guilty for holding back Uraraka from training.

He stiffly walked back to where the rest of his class was gathering.

How could somebody like him, somebody the world would depend on, get sick? And much less let it affect his performance like it did.

He was a terrible successor, a blemish to the name of One For All.

Aizawa’s typical drawl on what they needed to improve on and general praises flew over his head as he contemplated the worth of his own existence.

He was so upset with himself; now Aizawa was probably disappointed in him for fighting so weakly and losing all of his matches so pathetically! He couldn’t believe he’d burst into tears like a baby just because he was hit in the stomach.

He made his way back to the dorms feeling ashamed and humiliated.

Hopping into the shower, he curled up on the ground like the baby he was and sobbed quietly. All he would ever be was pathetic.

When he was quirkless, he’d always been treated as if he were glass, as if he were helpless. But now, crying into his hands in a steaming hot shower, he realised that they’d been right. He was helpless. Quirk or not, it seemed to be a fault of his own character.

“Midoriya! What do you think you’re doing? You’re not strong enough to play dodge ball - sit out or you’ll be hit and killed by a ball.”

“Sensei, we don’t want Deku on our team! He’ll just be a burden. He’s too weak and fragile to do anything.”

“I’m so sorry, Izuku!” (Sorry for birthing such a hideous creature, sorry that he’s so useless, sorry that no matter what he does, he’ll always be Deku.)

Izuku angrily punched the wall, imagining it to be his bullies’ faces, his old teachers’ faces, Kacchan’s face. Sickly, he imagined it to be his own mother’s face, to be Kirishima’s face, to be Uraraka’s face, to be Aizawa’s face. Gosh, Izuku was so disgusting.

Why would he want to punch his own mother?

“Go to your room, Izuku! You’re so spoilt and ungrateful. You’re so selfish, just like your dad!”

His own mother, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

“Fine! Get out of my apartment. Don’t come back. Get. Out.”

His own mother, shoving him outside of their her home.

“I’m sorry, Izuku, I was just upset yesterday! I didn’t mean to yell! I’m so sorry! I love you so much, Izuku!”

His own mother, crawling back to him every time after yelling and apologising as if it’d fix everything.

“I can see why people call you Deku, Izuku. You’re just so…”

His own mother, agreeing with the sentiments of his own bullies, saying he was useless.

His own mother, screaming at him and holding a slipper over his head, threatening to beat him.

His own mother, crying and threatening to overdose because the two of them had gotten into an argument. She was going to kill herself in front of him because Izuku had yelled back, because he was such a terrible son.

His own mother, crying and breaking down to her own son about her life after screaming at him.

His own mother.

Izuku’s mother wasn’t abusive. She was angry a lot, sure, but not abusive. She always said she loved him, she would hug him, apologise after yelling, and she was kind and forgiving!

Izuku should not want to punch his mother. Izuku was a terrible son. Izuku was a monster.

Izuku was a terrible friend, too, because why would he want to punch his friends, and his teacher?

Maybe it was because they made him feel angry, pitying him and giving him pep talks he didn’t need. He was meant to be strong.

They made him feel like he was weak.

They were always spilling bullshit about how strong and amazing he was, but the more they said it, the more he felt as if they were making fun of him.

He was weak.

Izuku didn’t want to be weak. Izuku needed to be the strongest.

Contrary to popular belief, him and Kacchan were similar in many ways. In fact, they were much the same person, just in different fonts.

Izuku always had a need to be the best. A need to be good at everything and an ego so high it entered the stratosphere.

Every time he was offered praise, he felt as if he were the smartest, strongest, greatest person, and it made him feel so incredibly good. Though it pained him to admit, he had a huge ego, perhaps even bigger than his childhood friend’s.

Izuku was not weak.

He was not weak.

Izuku was not weak, and his mother was not abusive, because if she was, that would make Izuku weak.

Izuku was not weak.

Staring down at his slightly bruised knuckles, he felt a flare of anger rip through his chest. He needed more. He was not weak, and he wasn’t going to let himself be weak.

So he punched the wall. Again. And again. And again.

Even as he exited the shower and painfully dressed, he continued to punch the wall beside his bed. Again. And again. And again. Harder, he willed himself each time. Until his fist was mottled with bruises and bleeding fresh.

He stands, now, shaking in all his immeasurable anger, fists blooming with purple bruises and swollen from beating a wall until his own blood stained it.

Izuku is disgusting.

Chapter Text

Izuku’s skin has always been kissed lovingly by amethysts and sapphires. Jewels pressing against his skin, radiating a cold that penetrates his bones and dyes them the same colours the rest of his body wears. Izuku lives off these gems, devours them with the fervour of a starved child who has never known anything else. They paint his insides blue and illuminate his blood with a chill so profound his blood, too, runs blue.

Everything a child is given during raw, intimate beginnings is shoved out of trembling hands. Instead, Izuku has been dealt a hand of sharp crystals which slit his fingers and palms and leave them bleeding azure blood, streaming in thick rivulets which trail down his body and leave a puddle lapping at his feet much like the gentle waves of the sea. His feet are stained blue evermore.

Blue is the colour of his blood like the waves which kiss the shore gently with salt and roil with disgusting intensity. As Izuku stands, feet immersed in the sapphire clutches of roaring oblivion, he realises.

People lie.

It’s a fundamental truth. Humans lie.

They say blue is the colour of peace and melancholy. Of calmness and stability. Of harmony.

But all Izuku feels, water rising to his knees, is anger.

The wet anger of retaliation and helpless, subdued righteousness.

Anger wet with tears and his own blood as the water rises past his knees and up his legs.

Izuku’s anger is pathetic, drenched and drowned and wrung out to dry in the rain.

Izuku has never been dealt a good hand in life. Never been dealt any cards at all, only a growing collection of blood-stained crystals and his own tears which join the ocean of blood beneath him.

The water stops just below his knuckles. It always does.

Because no matter how revoltingly blue Izuku is, his fists always remain unblemished, always remain oblivious to the swollen, bruised fate that the rest of his body meets.

His skin is kissed with amethysts and sapphires, courtesy of the fists of his peers, but Izuku is not allowed to fight back.

The water rises, if only an inch. Because, today, Izuku drowns.

Fists pounding the plaster of his walls, Izuku drowns.

The water rapidly engulfs his hands, his arms, until he is standing neck-deep, a millimetre away from filling his lungs with the same melancholy blue which colours every other part of his body.

And as the water fills his mouth, he thinks it tastes a lot like retribution.

Izuku smiles.

Contrary to popular belief (his own belief), Shouta is not a heartless man. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like a lot of his colleagues seem to do, but his heart still has its place behind his ribs just like everyone else’s. His heart still pumps, still pounds, still flutters, still feels. He’s human, just shows his emotions differently than most.

He likes the believe that he doesn’t show his emotions at all – he likes to keep them private – but his friends all read him almost as easily as they would any other. They say it’s his eyes. His ebony eyes that he hardens to a glare to make it seem like he doesn’t care, but his eyes always have a glint to them that tells people how he’s feeling. In all honesty, he doesn’t mind. If people know him so well that they can read him by his eyes, that’s enough to warm his heart.

As Shouta watches Midoriya come into class after crying during sparring yesterday, Shouta notices the way his grin is widened a tick and how he looks like he’d just won a lottery. Immediately, it sets of Shouta’s internal alarm bells, because people with depression smiling more is a common indication that they might commit suicide soon.

Quickly, Shouta brushes his worries aside. Midoriya is the least likely person Shouta knows to have depression. His mind flits back to beaming grins and twinkling eyes and the determined, bright aspirations of his student. The way he blushes profusely and giggles awkwardly and laughs so heartily. Just because he had cried yesterday doesn’t mean much at all, and Shouta knows through observation that the boy had been sick as of late.

With that sorted, Shouta scans the rest of the boy’s body, eyes widening slightly as they find the mottled sight of his student’s hands. They look beaten to hell and back, but bruises on the knuckles like that suggest that his knuckles were the ones beating others to hell and back, not the other way around.

But Midoriya is unlikely to be beating anybody. He would have been on UA grounds last night, as none of Shouta’s students had signed to leave last night, and no one Shouta has seen so far today looks like they’ve taken the brunt of Midoriya’s vicious fists.

Shouta resolves to talk to the boy after class, and the day goes on.

Midoriya seems largely normal, keenly taking notes as he usually does and smiling and laughing. Shouta does see him cough here and there, but he’s been seeing that for a few days now. He’s still exasperated as to how Midoriya can take so little care of himself.

Fast-forward to the end of the school day, Shouta tells Midoriya to stay behind. The boy freezes up as he usually does when called upon by his teacher, another behaviour which is concerning but understandable. Shouta is, well, Shouta, after all, so he can see why Midoriya is tense when it comes to him.

The boy’s friends tease him on their way out and say their goodbyes. Shouta pulls up a chair beside Midoriya, keeping an eye trained on his student, who remains silent.

Shouta reaches into his pocket and takes out a bottle of over-the-counter cough drops (which Shouta totally didn’t buy just for Midoriya), sliding it across the boy’s desk and causing him to startle considerably. He eyes the bottle with suspicion and surprise.

“Take care of yourself, kid. You shouldn’t push yourself too hard while sick.” Shouta grunts, nodding towards the small bottle.

Midoriya’s jaw drops an inch, looking at Shouta with the most awe the man has ever seen directed at him. It makes his cold heart feel fuzzy, just a little.

“How…how did you know?”

“Teacher’s intuition.” Shouta shrugs, smirking. “But seriously. You should know better than to be harsh on yourself. I’m here to teach you those kinds of things.”

“I…thank you. I’m okay, though.”

Shouta quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. Midoriya has always had this self-destructive tendency to blurt out frustrating nonsense about being fine, and Shouta won’t take any of that shit today.

“Are you really? Because it seemed to me yesterday that it was affecting your training.”

Midoriya pales, making Shouta sigh. It hadn’t been his intention to make his student feel guilty.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so pathetic…I promise I won’t slack during training ever again! I swear!”

“That’s not why I said that, kid. Everyone is sick at some point. I don’t care whether it affects your training, just whether you tell someone. You kept quiet about it and ended up hurt. You’ve got to learn that staying silent and pushing through things alone won’t last you forever.”

“I don’t understand, Aizawa-sensei…”

“That’s alright. I’m here to help my students understand, whether it be schoolwork or otherwise, you problem children are my responsibility. If you continue the way you are now, you’ll end up hurting yourself far worse than what happened yesterday. It’s difficult to be a good hero if you hold yourself back like that.”

“I’m sorry! I can be a good hero! I-“

“That’s…not what I meant.” Shouta sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that in order to be the best you can be, you have to look after yourself. You will always come before others, and I’m not saying that being selfish is good, but a degree of selfishness is always required. You can’t help others without helping yourself first. That would be illogical.”

“Oh…I think I get it.” Midoriya mumbles, looking slightly conflicted. “Thank you, sensei.”

“Of course. I have one more question, though.”

“Mm?”

“What happened to your knuckles?”

This time, Midoriya turns paper-white, and his breath quickens. His green eyes gain a distant, faraway look that Shouta is familiar with – knows as his own, because it happens to him a lot, too. Happens to those who have faced trauma at some point in their lives. The worry in Shouta’s gut builds up a bit, forming a deeper, tighter clutch on the walls of his stomach.

“Hey, kid, it’s alright.” He coaxes softly, his voice taking on a gentleness he uses very rarely. “Here, could you follow my breathing?”

Shouta exaggerates his breath and taps the rhythm of his chest rising and falling into the desk. They sit there for a few minutes, Midoriya’s eyes slowly focusing on Shouta’s tapping fingers rather than whatever he had been thinking about previously.

“That’s it. You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry…I got caught up in my head! It’s uh…nothing, sensei. I got into a…fight yesterday?”

“A fight?”

“Yeah…after school.”

“On school grounds?”

“Ah…I forgot about that.” Midoriya mumbles under his breath. Shouta doesn’t fail to catch it, though. “I tripped. And fell on my hands.”

“If you’re going to lie, at least make it less obvious, problem child.”

“Sorry…”

“Look. If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it. Could you at least go see Recovery Girl? And know that if you ever want to talk, Hound Dog’s doors are open and so are mine. It doesn’t matter how big or small the issue is, or if there’s an issue at all, you can always talk to me or Hound Dog about it.”

Standing abruptly, Shouta walks silently to his desk and grabs a small notebook to scribble something down. He hands it to his student. Midoriya’s eyes widen as his eyes flit between his teacher and the paper clasped between his fingers.

“My number. If you ever need it. Don’t hesitate to call or text, just make sure not to abuse it.”

“Thank you…”

“’Course, problem child.” Shouta smiles his close-lipped, subtle smile, then ruffles Midoriya’s curls. The boy startles slightly before leaning into the touch, his cheeks tinted slightly pink. Shouta smiles wider. “Do you want me to walk you to Recovery Girl?”

“I...okay.”

(Earlier, perspective shift to Izuku)

Izuku goes to class that day with burning lungs and a wide smile. His friends ask what the good news is, and Izuku shrugs, smiling some more and laughter spilling out his throat. His lungs burn more with the action, and his eyes itch.

Aizawa eyes him from his spot in his sleeping bag on the floor.

Izuku smiles wider, breathes sharper, turns away.

Izuku’s lungs burn.

With his back turned, he doesn’t notice the lingering gaze on his hands, nor the worried glint that encompasses his teacher’s eyes.

He makes his way through the school day relatively unbothered, spare for a few coughs he couldn’t keep in, mindlessly taking notes for his classes and smiling at his friends. Distantly, he longs for somebody to notice his injured hand, to notice his pain and comfort him, but he hides his hand and masks his winces nonetheless. Izuku is not weak.

Izuku zones out entirely during English class. He is fluent in the language - accredited to the fact that the US contains the highest quirkless to quirk ratio in the world, so he’d dedicated time to learning the language in case he ever moved there. He’d spent a large amount of his childhood learning and perfecting random skills like that.

Present Mic knows of Izuku’s fluency in English and thus consistently leaves the boy to his own devices, much to Izuku’s gratitude.

The burning in his lungs grows more prominent as the day progresses. He finds himself coughing more, and his smile grows more strained.

Izuku is drowning, and he knows it.

He can feel the water in his lungs, can feel the looming threat of death upon him at all times. He wishes it would be quicker. Wishes the torment away and instead yearns for a quick death.

Aizawa pulls him aside after school has ended, much to his mortification. He can still hear the man’s strict scoldings from yesterday, the way disappointment dripped from his stern voice. Aizawa hates him.

Izuku knows it by the sharp glares on his back and the sighs of annoyance he makes and the frustration that the man persistently radiates. All his teachers have always despised Izuku. But in the past, it had been for his lack of quirk. Now, it’s just him.

In a way, Izuku hates the man, too. Hates the way the man singles him out, glares at him more, calls him ‘problem child’. Hates the way he had confronted him on the first day during the quirk apprehension test. Hates the way that no matter what Izuku seems to do, the man believes him to be weak.

If Izuku is anything, it is everything but weak.

He knows this.

It’s why he fights with his teeth bared and his nails muddied and nauseatingly sharp. It’s why he fights with the appalling aggression of a feral animal backed into a corner. He has fought with everything he has, with his hand of sapphires and amethysts, with all the nothings he has been given.

Izuku fights like he has nothing and everything to lose at the same time.

If Izuku is weak, Izuku is nothing.

Water filling his lungs, Izuku has always been nothing, and he knows this.

But, for a moment, Izuku breathes.

Because instead of anger, Aizawa hands him a bottle.

Izuku has been given bottles before. Has been given things of all shapes. They’re never good.

But this bottle is medicine.

Izuku does not understand.

Aizawa tells him to take care of himself, and Izuku does not understand.

Izuku has never understood. All he has known is blood and crystals and tears and hatred and a wet, pitiful anger.

In his confusion, he utters pathetically, “How…how did you know?”

Izuku is drowning.

Aizawa reaches a hand, extends it into the water compiled of his wretched, disgusting tears birthed from bruises and burns and words that cut sharper than crystals.

He’s told to be selfish. Izuku doesn’t understand. Selfishness has always been bad.

He’s asked about his knuckles.

His ugly, twisted knuckles.

He’s reminded of the burning in his lungs and the chill that runs through his blood.

At his core, Izuku is a grotesque amalgamation of bloody-edged crystals.

He only sinks deeper, weighed down by bruises and broken bones.

Aizawa’s hand reaches deeper and grabs Izuku’s tightly.

He gives him his phone number on a piece of a paper.

No one has ever done that for Izuku. Never invited him to talk about his feelings.

Izuku’s cold, crystalised heart cracks.

Izuku thinks, briefly, that maybe he won’t drown.

He smiles, the burning in his lungs relinquishing its grip as the water eases and falls enough to allow him to breathe.

The water might rise again, but Izuku knows that he has Aizawa a phone call away to save him.

As Recovery Girl kisses his hands, a strange contrast to the cold crystals he’s used to, he thinks he’ll be okay.

Aizawa smiles, ruffling his hair.

Izuku knows that he’ll never be alone with the biting cold of crystals again.

With that thought, he smiles, leaning into Aizawa’s side, and closes his eyes.

For the first time, he doesn’t see melancholy blue behind his eyelids, and instead all he sees is warmth.