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When Izuku accepted One for All just a year ago, he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the thrum of electricity beneath his skin. And when he first connected to the vestiges during the sports festival, and they left a lasting presence in his head, he never thought it would ever become something of a comfort. But now, as the presence in his head began fading, and the steady beat of the quirk in his pulse began to soften, it felt fundamentally wrong to be without it.
From the moment he watched Shigaraki die, disintegrated under the force of his own punch, he could feel it. The way One for All was slowly leaving him.
As the slow loss of the quirk settled in, so did a strange sense of guilt and grief. Somehow, in a cycle of overthinking that was uniquely Izuku, he had managed to convince himself that, on some level, he had failed Shigaraki and the world.
Izuku knew that killing Shigaraki by pushing One for All into him was the only way to defeat him. He also knew that it was a mercy, because if Shigaraki had survived, he would have just been put in prison to rot for the remainder of what would likely have been a very short and painful life.
Those facts were indisputable, no matter how Izuku sliced it. But it didn’t stop the waves of grief that washed over him every time he thought about the small boy trapped inside Shigaraki.
It also didn’t do anything to calm the swirling guilt he felt when he thought about how, if he had just been stronger, faster, smarter, he could have saved so many lives.
How many neighborhoods now live without protection because he couldn’t defeat Shigaraki before hundreds of heroes died in the line of duty? How many communities were destroyed by the inevitable power vacuums left behind by missing criminals?
How much of this was avoidable? And how much of it was Izuku’s fault?
Because as much as All Might and Aizawa-sensei and his classmates all told him otherwise, that was the crux of the issue. Because Izuku knew it was his fault. That the blame for so many lives lost was on his shoulders.
And maybe he would not have been able to save all of them, but maybe he could have. Maybe if he had been a better Hero, like All Might had been before he gave up One For All, he could have stopped Shigaraki before he ever came close to the amalgamation he became at the end. Maybe.
The possibilities, and the nagging fear that he did not do enough, that he was not enough in the end, keep him up at night. Tossing and turning as he considers the possibilities, the what if scenarios.
Hound Dog tells him that allowing himself to spiral into these unknown possibilities is unhelpful, that all it does is lead to further thought spirals. But it is like he cannot help himself either. His brain will catch on a possibility and then it is off to the races.
All Might has tried to talk to him about it too, and while Izuku appreciates it, their conversations are stiff and awkward. Because Izuku cannot help but wonder each time All Might approaches him, if All Might could have done it, if All Might could have saved everyone if he still had One For All.
Which is not All Might’s fault, but it still makes it difficult to share his thoughts.
It gets to the point where Izuku half dreads going to sleep because he knows that as soon as he lays down, his brain will start walking the same well worn path. So instead he takes to wandering, walking the same paths instead.
At least that way he can do something rather than stare up at his ceiling and wait for the thoughts to finish rushing. And then, at the end of his pacing, when his body is about ready to collapse underneath him and he simply cannot keep going anymore, he can fall into a dreamless slumber.
He knows it is not exactly healthy, has heard it often enough that he could probably give himself the lecture at least three or four different ways. Izuku knows that it is maladaptive. But it works. That is the important thing.
Until it does not.
Izuku’s head hits the pillow one night, and he does not open his eyes to his room with some indeterminate amount of time having passed. Instead he opens his eyes to a dark space that seems to stretch on forever and ever, and yet feels intimate all at once. The One For All void.
“Oh kid, what are you doing to yourself?” Nana says from somewhere behind him.
He turns to face her, and he finds that she’s not alone, but rather, joined by the six other previous holders who have passed.
Overwhelmed at the thought of the hardships each of them have also been through, the cycle of loss and grief that has cut short the lives of every single one of them in turn, the sacrifices that they made so he could stand here today, Izuku bows his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Empty, meaningless words from an inadequate holder who failed to live up to their expectations and has fallen massively short.
“Don’t be,” Banjo tells him. “You’ve made it far beyond what any of us managed to do.”
“There wasn’t much more you could have done,” En agrees.
Izuku feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. “But… but what if there was? If I had been faster, stronger, smarter, if I had gained control of the quirk sooner, maybe I could’ve prevented some of this.” He casts a hand behind him, gesturing to the darkness where if he listens hard enough he can still hear frightened cries for help.
“You forget to acknowledge that things also could have been so much worse than they are right now,” Kudou chides gently. “You beat yourself up over your presumed failures, but in the end it is undeniable that at least you succeeded. All For One is no more, and that is thanks to your valiant efforts and your unshakeable determination.”
“I knew what would happen if I didn’t win that fight,” Izuku answers, nodding, his voice wavering slightly. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t let your sacrifices and the sacrifices made by all the countless other heroes and civilians and first responders who died—”
His throat closes up on him. He swallows back the choked sob that threatens to burst out into the space between them.
A harsh, uncharacteristic, ugly laugh escapes him. “If it was all in vain, if it had all been for nothing, I don’t think I could’ve lived with myself. Though I really wouldn’t have lived much longer, anyways.”
Nana steps forward and slowly, gently, wraps him up in a hug. Despite the shadowy appearance of her vestige form, her embrace is warm and comforting, tight enough that Izuku feels protected but not so much that it becomes suffocating.
“For what it’s worth, we’re sorry too,” she murmurs in his ear. “Sorry that it had to be you. The world should have protected you, but instead you have been asked to protect it.”
“What an honor; and yet, what an injustice,” Hikage intones solemnly.
After holding him for a moment longer, Nana squeezes his shoulders and lets go. “Give Toshinori my regards, will you? And try opening up to him. Knowing that boy, he’s likely beating himself up the same as you are.”
“Thank you for all your help,” Izuku responds, his voice thick with emotion and unshed tears. Those simple six words are insufficient to encompass the gratitude and other emotions he feels, yet he knows they understand his meaning.
Yoichi fixes Izuku with a sorrowful gaze. “Thank you for bearing our burden as well as you did. Now, go and rest—we’ll do our best to take care of your dreams.”
Izuku's eyes slowly open. He feels like he has both slept for years and not at all. He slowly rolls over in his bed, staring blankly at the wall his bed was pushed up against. It takes a few moments for Izuku to decipher what was really One for All and what was his mind simply trying to silence his fears.
Nana’s words ring in his head. Is it really possible that All Might felt just as guilty about this as he did? Is it truly possible that the mentor he looked up to for years, someone that could do no wrong as far as he was concerned, was fighting his own battle against the impossible decisions he was forced to make in his youth, and even now?
Izuku didn’t get much time to follow that train of thought, a sharp knock on his dorm door pulling him out of his head.
Izuku pushes himself up to sitting, attempting to run a hand through his curly hair to tame his bedhead, but stopping almost immediately when the amount of mats and oil he came into contact with physically makes his skin crawl.
The person knocks again a second later, the sound a little louder this time.
“Yeah?” Izuku calls as he crosses his legs under the covers.
As the door slowly pushes open, Izuku catches a glimpse of straight white hair. “Izuku? Will you be down for breakfast? The others have already finished eating and…” The words died in his throat as his eyes locked onto Izuku, “Izuku?” Shouto questioned softly, soft threads of concern and care wrapped around the name.
“Yeah?” Izuku speaks again, this time the word coming out with a heavy sigh.
Shouto slowly shuts the door behind him, cautiously approaching Izuku's bed, “Are you alright?”
Izuku rubs his fingers over his eyes before dropping his hands back down to his lap and staring at them. He wants to deny, deny, deny, act as though everything is alright, and put on the facade that he has everything under control and his self-made guilt isn't eating him alive. But there's also a nagging feeling at the back of his head, undoubtedly something created by the past users trapped within his subconscious, pushing him to let everything spill to someone.
Izuku lets out a low, dry laugh, “Not in the slightest.”
Shouto sits next to Izuku, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Izuku looks up from his hands, the eye contact he makes with Shouto physically hurting him. He could feel how much Shouto cared, and he could feel how much Shouto wanted to help, but Izuku wasn't sure that it was fair to Shouto to dump months of buried regrets and guilt onto him.
Izuku sighs, the sound long and heavy, “Not you, not now.”
Shouto nods in understanding, “That's alright,” he whispers, a cold hand reaching out to cover both of Izuku’s. “Do you have anyone else you might want to talk to?”
Izuku shifted his hand under Shoto's, slowly linking their hands together and tightening his grip. Shouto squeezes back tightly, “All Might maybe?”
“Yeah,” Izuku nods softly, “He's okay.”
Shouto tightened his grip on Izuku one more time before letting go of Izuku’s hand and pushing himself off the bed, “I’ll go grab him.”
Izuku watched quietly as Shouto left the room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
A few minutes passed, and the door opened again, this time, a frail man stepping through the doorway.
Izuku looks up at All Might. He can tell All Might is waiting for him to say something, to start the conversation.
Izuku says the only thing he can think of: “Nana sends her regards.”
He watches as something breaks a little in All Might’s expression at his words, something fragile. But there is also a part of All Might that seems at peace with the message Izuku has conveyed.
“You spoke with her,” he says, that same strange mix of emotions weighing down his words.
“When I was sleeping,” Izuku says, breaking eye contact, because he cannot bear to continue watching All Might mourn his mentor when there is a part of him whispering that if he had been better, if he had made a connection faster with One For All, that he would have been able to prolong All Might’s time with the woman who had meant just as much to him as All Might meant to Izuku. Of course there is a larger part of him that is telling him that One For All seemed to have a mind of its own at times, and that there is every possibility that he would have had the exact same amount of time with the vestiges as he did before, but now that he knows that the vestiges have at least a bit of a tenuous connection to him still, it is not like he can trust that part of himself. Not when he knows that the vestiges could be nudging him slightly.
“Thank you for passing along that message, my boy,” All Might says softly. Then he clears his throat and says in a much more confident and self assured voice, “Young Todoroki said that you wished to speak to me?”
Izuku nods his head, still not able to quite look at All Might, then shakes his head when he realizes that having a conversation with All Might will probably require him to look at him, that it would be rude not to. Especially considering that All Might gave up everything for Izuku, to give Izuku a chance.
“Which is it, my boy? Yes or no?” All Might asks, on half a laugh.
“I don’t know,” Izuku says, his voice breaking halfway through the word as tears that have been building up since he woke up in the vestiges’ void, since he heard Nana’s voice in his ear when he thought he had heard it for the last time and was surprised to be granted the opportunity to hear it one last time.
Although if he is being honest with himself, he knows that the tears have been building for quite a bit longer than that, and it is only here, faced with his mentor’s concerned and teasing tone, that they manage to break past the dam he has built inside him to flow.
“Young Izuku,” All Might says, alarmed, “Are you alright? Do you need to see Recovery Girl?”
“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Izuku says, waving his hands in front of him to try and dispel that thought.
“Then, what’s wrong?” All Might asks, clearly confused and trying to help. It only makes Izuku’s tears flow more freely. Because he does not deserve it, he does not deserve All Might caring about him like this, not really. He might have been the person who put an end to Shigaraki, but by that same measure, he is also the person who allowed Shigaraki’s rampage to continue on for as long as it did.
So Izuku knows that he does not deserve All Might’s care and concern.
But he wants it.
Izuku wants it so badly. Which is why he tells All Might, “I’m so, sorry!”
All Might shakes his head instantly. “My boy, you have nothing to be sorry for,” he insists earnestly and far more kindly than Izuku deserves. “Whatever it is… I know that you have done your very best.”
Izuku scrunches up his eyes, partially to stop the tears from coming and partially because he can’t bear to look his mentor in the face.
“Is this about Shigaraki?” All Might questions gently. Izuku forgets to inhale his next breath. All Might prods on like one would with a wounded animal. “Did Nana tell you it’s not your fault, and you should forgive yourself?”
Izuku manages a nod.
“I as well,” All Might tells him. “When she first passed me our quirk, when I first took on part of the burden that you now bear, she told me the history and she said those same things to me. This is something that many of us before you had tried and failed to overcome, myself included, and she said that no one person could take full accountability for an endeavour that so many others have a part in.”
Izuku draws in a single shaky breath as he continues to listen.
“I cannot take away the weight of your guilt and your burden,” All Might murmurs. “And for that, it is I who is sorry, for nobody should have to go through this. It crushes you; I know from experience. I can’t take away the pain, but please know, my boy, that I am here for you if and when you need me. I can listen and I can try to understand in my own way. Please allow me to at least do that much for you.”
And Izuku can hear the undertones of guilt in the man’s voice as well, and he realizes—
Maybe he is not so alone in this after all.
“Thank you, All Might,” he whispers, accepting the hug his mentor offers to him. He is not okay, and he does not know if he will ever be able to recover from this, but…
There is hope.
And that is all he can ask for.