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Izuku and his mother’s relationship went on and off.
One day, they could be laughing as they threw clean laundry at each other, just to fold it up peacefully afterward.
And on some days, they wouldn’t speak. The only sounds that echoed throughout their small home were the beeps of the washing machine, left deserted, and the buzzing of the air conditioning.
Izuku was okay with it. He really was.
Once his dad left when he was young, Izuku clutched onto the only person he had left—his mother. They grew closer and closer every passing day, but you can only enjoy the same company for so long.
Inko grew lonely. She began dating a man not long after Midoriya’s father took his leave, and they had been going strong ever since. Every other week, Inko would leave to see her partner for days at a time. She used to tell Izuku days in advance about her plans, but now it was rare. Sometimes, Izuku would leave his home only to come back to an empty one with no warning. He didn’t mind. He knew his mother had gone through her own struggles after her husband disappeared. He wanted her to be happy.
He liked being alone all day. He did.
But once the bullying began in middle school, Midoriya grew lonely too. Having no friends is harder than it sounds. Just talk to people! He had tried that at the start, but it was quickly discovered that his classmates would rather eat a bowl of their own hair than be caught hanging around a pathetic loser like him.
In his second year, Midoriya was prescribed antidepressants. His doctor was hesitant, seeing as he was so young - but supposedly Izuku was a special case.
His days felt numb. He didn’t know if he was happy or sad—he was just alive. He thought he was breathing, but you can never be so sure. He wasn’t positive that other people felt the same deep ache in their chests every time they woke up as he did, the same longing for something they didn’t understand, something they had never had. He hoped they did. He wanted to be like everyone else. He didn’t want to have to swallow the same methodical pill every morning and night just to act ordinary. Why did he even take them? It wasn’t like he was achieving anything of value. He only felt bad that his mum was wasting her hard-earned money on an average kid.
Sleep was nice. It made Izuku feel normal. He fit in when it came to sleep, at least. He could hope that he’d dream of his mother’s warm embrace, of not having to eat the same convenience store pot noodle every night, of waking up and having a group of friends circle him. Yet, most of his dreams consisted of his daily life—almost as if it were a recurring nightmare. But nothing in his dreams differed from his real life. It was all the same.
He had a rare dream a few weeks ago where he had a friend—someone he could talk to in the halls or hang out with at parks. Someone to look after him, to keep him safe. It was a boy, at least Izuku presumed it was. The dream boy grabbed Midoriya out of his bed—out of his misery—and took him to see fireworks. They popped in and out of the night sky with vibrant colors. Izuku had seen fireworks before. When he was younger, his parents would take him to the yearly New Year festivals and treat him to a traditional candied apple. The hardened sugar would get stuck in his dark curls, and his mother would have to wash his hair that night to get rid of the residue.
There were no apples in the dream, but Izuku could taste the sourness of one on his tongue.
The dream boy was pretty—Midoriya couldn’t recall exactly what he looked like—but he knew he was attractive. Maybe that was just his mind transfiguring his desires into his sleep, or maybe he’d seen the boy before. Izuku smiled at the thought that he could still have desires. That was a normal thing normal people had. He was normal.
Inko would occasionally cook and store Izuku’s dinners in the freezer with a sentimental note plastered on top of them to eat later. He always appreciated this. It reminded him that his mother was, in fact, his mother, and that she did care for him—not just tolerate him because they shared the same blood, the same last name. It did feel like that some days, when Izuku would leave a void of a house and come back to that same void. The empty pit inside his stomach would grow larger, slowly feeding on every one of his senses, his emotions. Not that he had very many to begin with.
The only feature Midoriya could recollect about the mysterious boy was his eyes. They were sharp, red, narrow, and always on Izuku’s. There wasn’t a single point in the small boy’s fantasy where his eyes weren’t being followed by stabbing rubies. He enjoyed the attention. He figured that was another one of his consciousness’s desires—to be watched, no matter the way or the eyes. He just wanted attention.
Apple-flavored antidepressants were left on the counter next to Izuku Midoriya’s bed.
Where he was found, glossy-eyed and with no pulse.
His mother reported that her son hadn’t shown any disconcerting symptoms in the past few days. In fact, she disclosed that he had seemed happier than he had been in years—pointing out every red-coloured thing he spotted, nonstop talking about his new passion for fireworks, and saying that he was going to see a new friend of his very soon.
His funeral was attended by his mum, his grandma, and a peculiar blonde boy.
Izuku could finally rest, just like everybody else had and would. Death is what makes you human—what makes you normal.
And that’s all that Izuku ever longed for.