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They’re seventeen going on thirty, fifty, when the battle ends. Third-years, blood fresh on their hands, and Izuku closes his eyes and screams at the sky in the aftermath.
Gravel crunches beneath his knees. The buildings around him are in states of either complete rubble or giant slabs of stone. His classmates are on the ground. Someone’s crying—or, a lot of people are crying, and Izuku opens his mouth and lets it pour out until his throat’s raw.
The ambulances arrive half an hour later.
Paparazzi ambushes him the moment he steps out of the hospital, a month later.
“God, they’ve got no respect,” Todoroki says under his breath, pushing a camera out of their faces. He’d been the one chosen to escort Izuku out to the car Yuuei’d provided, and Izuku nods vaguely, blinks against the brightness of the sun.
A microphone inserts itself directly in front of his face. “Midoriya Izuku,” the reporter says, breathless. “How do you feel, now that you’re finally out of the hospital?”
There are a million ways to answer this question: tired, angry, sad. Like there’s a gaping chasm in his mind, a mini-black hole settled in the forefront of his brain, all for him, no one else’s. Izuku’s ready to go home and feel alive again.
Reporters don’t want the truth.
“Happy,” he murmurs, and shoves past them. The lies swells on his tongue. Cameras flash as he hobbles slowly to the car on his crutches, and Todoroki’s the one to close the door after him.
He folds in on himself in the backseat, thinks, This isn’t what I wanted.
Everything changes. Nothing changes. It’s like they’re all stuck in one big time machine, except the time machine is less like a time machine and more like a washing machine, in the sense that it shakes them around and then spits them back out and generally makes a mess everywhere.
He tells the metaphor to Ochako, when it’s all done and over with. She tells him that he needs a better washing machine.
Izuku just wants to take a nap.
Izuku wakes up in his bed at home for what feels like the first time in forever. He goes downstairs and sees his face on the newspaper. He turns on the TV and sees his face on the news.
They’re making national headlines. He watches it a little distantly, and his favorite cereal crunches in his mouth.
“You’ve got fan mail, you know,” his mom says.
Izuku eyes the pile of envelopes on the table curiously, reaches out to turn one over. To Hero Deku, it says. His throat goes dry. “I get fan mail?”
“You do.” She beams. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
The thought’s hard to wrap his mind around on. He gets fan mail now. Huh. What an idea.
It makes sense, though, sort of. There he is, right there, on the TV. It’s playing footage from their last battle—the one that destroyed nearly half of the buildings in the city—and then comparing the pictures from then and now. Almost everything’s been completely rebuilt.
To him, his figure on the screen is a reminder of the ache of broken ribs, and the sounds of his friends crying out beside him. The steady burn in his lungs; the taste of metal in his mouth.
The bodies beneath the rubble.
“Izuku—Izuku, are you—are you alright?”
He’d snapped his spoon in half. “Yeah,” he says shakily, and stands up to get a new one. “I’m fine.”
The fact is—
They all have scars. Izuku’s own have spread past just his hands, and now they criss-cross over his arms and legs, over his back. Kyouka has a fresh one along the curve of her jaw, and Katsuki’s got twin ones on the backs of his hands. He’s sure even Tooru has a few, even if they can’t exactly see it.
And then there’s this: waking up in the middle of the night to stare at the darkness in his room, chest heaving as he gasps for breath; the smell of the hospital in his nightmares; the urge to wash his hands until he’s sure they’re clean of the blood he’s spilled.
All Might had told him, once, to always wear a smile that says he’s fine.
“But it’s hard,” he says to his bathroom mirror. His voice is shaking. “It’s hard.”
Izuku has only been to prison twice in his life, ever. Once on a class field trip back in elementary school, to explore possible careers in the police force, and a second time when he had to identify a criminal.
“Well, well, well,” Dabi drawls. With his piercings out and his hair cut short, he hardly looks like himself, but the skin’s hard to mistake. His hands are bound beneath the table, and he slouches in his chair. “What’s the great Deku here for?”
“Don’t call me that,” Izuku says, frowning.
Dabi snorts. “Answer the question, then.”
Izuku’s fingers do a nervous tap-tap on the table. “I’m not sure,” he says. It’s the truth. He’d gotten in his car with no particular destination in mind, and had ended up here.
“Really.”
Tap-tap. “Really.”
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t.” Izuku frowns harder, then sighs. “You know, this is—I hate you, I really do, but I’ve also been wanting to see how you were doing.”
Dabi sneers. “Appreciating your handiwork, is that it? Look all you want. I’m in here for life, Deku. ”
Izuku looks down at his hands, at the scars.“Not Deku,” he mumbles, and sighs again. “Just—I’m Midoriya Izuku, not the hero. And this isn’t what I wanted.”
It echoes in the tiny room. Dabi straightens in his chair. “I see what you’re doing,” he murmurs. “Does it bother you that you’ve killed people, is that it? What did you think, that we’d just roll over and play games with you?” He pauses, leans forward. Their eyes lock together. “You’re not a hero, no matter what the public thinks. You’re just a coward.”
The door opens, and Izuku stands up quickly. No, he wants to say. No, that’s not what I thought, but I didn’t want this, I didn’t want the nightmares and the murder and the—
“Time’s up,” comes the guard’s voice.
Dabi’s face is blank as Izuku walks out of the room.
“So,” Eijirou says, awkward. It’s punctuated by silence, and the rest of the class looks at him pointedly. Izuku makes his rounds, pouring glasses of water for everyone, and it feels a little surreal to see them all at once again. He’d barely caught glimpses of their faces on TV, but here they are now, gathered in Izuku’s house, piled up in his living room while his mom’s out; Eijirou’s sitting on the table, drawing everyone’s attention.
(“Why my house?” Izuku had asked incredulously, when he’d first gotten the call.
“What do you mean, why your house?” Eijirou had shot back, equally incredulous. “Where else would it be?” )
Someone sighs. Ojiro crosses his arms, says, “Why’d you call us here, Kirishima-kun?” He sounds tired, like he’s been through hell and back, which. That’s not too far from the truth, Izuku thinks, and stops in his tracks.
Eijirou lets out a weak laugh. “I’m not too sure, actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “I just didn’t wanna stay holed up in my house, y’know?”
Katsuki snorts. “So what, you’re gonna hole yourself up in Deku’s house instead, is that it?” He’s sneering, but the jab’s half-assed at best, lacking any real venom. There are circles under his eyes. There are circles under everyone’s eyes. It’s like they’re sharing something special, in a way.
“Maybe,” Eijirou says amicably, at the same time Denki mumbles, “I kinda get it.”
They turn to look at him. “I mean,” he starts, then pauses, clears his throat. His lips twist up into a sort-of smile, and it sits on his face like a bruise. “We’re the kids that saved the world, aren’t we? Why’re we sitting around hiding in our houses after all of that? It feels like…” He trails off, ducking his head.
“Like we’re running away,” Momo finishes quietly. “Like we’re stuck in time.” Her hands are folded together in her lap, and her hair’s loose over her shoulders. She bites her lip. Mina rubs soothing circles into her back.
Denki glances back up. “Something like that, yeah.”
There’s silence. The words hover on the edges of their comprehension, and it replays in Izuku’s head. Stuck in time, because the world’s been moving past the fighting and the battles and starting to rebuild again, but here they are, still frozen in high alert, still plagued by nightmares.
The kids that saved the world, stagnating.
Kids.
“Maybe we’re stuck,” Ochako begins tentatively, “because this isn’t the point we’re supposed to be progressing from.”
Sero makes a noise, near the back. “What do you mean?”
Ochako shrugs and gives them a wobbly smile. “I’m not entirely sure,” she confesses. “All I know is that I want to be—well, I want to feel like I’m actually seventeen.”
More quiet. The things Izuku wants to say pile in his mouth, in the back of his throat, a mix of, That’s right, we’re seventeen, aren’t we? and, It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.
His hands are shaking. He puts down his makeshift tray and clears his throat, feels the weight of their eyes on him settle on his shoulders, almost comforting in its familiarity.
“Let’s do karaoke,” Izuku says abruptly.
It’s both his best and worst idea.
Karaoke, he thinks to himself, on the train there. He drags his hand down his face. Karaoke, really? What were you thinking?
The train shakes. Izuku jolts forward as someone bumps into him, and his sunglasses slide down his nose, onto the floor.
“Oh, sorry,” the stranger says quickly, bending to pick them up. Izuku murmurs his own apology, and she turns them over in her hands, looks up at him and says, “Wait, hey, aren’t you Deku?”
This is the part where Izuku’s supposed to say, Yes, hello, that’s me. Instead, he shoves his sunglasses back on and bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood.
Nerves swirl in his stomach. “I—” he stammers, pulling his cap further down. “I—I’m not—I’m someone else. Not Deku.”
Her brows knit together. Thoughts of his conversation with Dabi resurface, and he shoves it down. “Okay,” she says. “Sorry again, then.” She shuffles backwards, deeper into the train.
Izuku watches her leave. His hand does a little spasm around the handle he’s holding onto, and he ends up getting off at the next station, five stops too early.
The karaoke machine’s too loud. Half the class is plastered, and the other half is barely hanging on by the time Izuku walks into the room, two hours late. Denki’s the first to greet him, draping himself over Izuku’s shoulders.
“Heeeeeeey, Midoriya,” he croons into his ear. Izuku can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he pushes Denki’s face further away, laughs a little at the greeting.
“Aren’t we supposed to be setting a good example, as heroes?”
Denki snorts. “Live a little, yeah?” he says with a grin. His words slur together, and a can of beer dangles loosely from his fingertips. “We’re not—hic —here to be—to be heroes again, I thought. I’m sick of it, y’know? I’m sick of—sick of being famous, I hate it. Those reporters, they’re nosy as hell, and it's—hic—it’s ruining my life.”
Now he’s just rambling. Izuku hums low in his throat and sets Denki down on the nearest couch, where he devotes himself to finding the next song to play. What does it say about himself, then, Izuku wonders idly, if he can agree with Denki’s rambling?
Sero sidles up next to him next, a can held up in offering. Izuku shakes his head, and Sero shrugs, says, “It isn’t even that strong, seriously, but—” He jabs a thumb in Denki’s direction, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “—some people can’t handle even a little, I guess.”
“It’s funny to see,” Izuku admits. Sero just grins.
There’s a small crowd by the TV. At the center of it is Tenya, who’s sobbing uncontrollably into the spare remote controller; next to him are Todoroki and Ochako, and they both look so frantic trying to calm him down that Izuku stifles his laugh and walks over to help.
Todoroki glances at him. “Midoriya,” he greets, clearly relieved. “He accidentally took a few sips of the beer, and it—I don’t know how to explain it, but—”
“He’s a crying drunk,” Ochako says hastily, cutting him off. She looks on the verge of bursting out into laughter, lips shaking with the effort of holding it in. “He’s been like this for thirty minutes, Izuku-kun. Thirty minutes.”
Tenya lets out a sniffle. “My orange juice!” he wails loudly, and Ochako pats his back.
“We’ll get you your orange juice, Tenya-kun, don’t worry,” she says reassuringly, and looks at them pointedly. The effect is ruined by the flush on her cheeks, and then the small giggles escaping her.
It’s all easy, in the end. Izuku pours a glass of orange juice and lets a smile curl his lips, and just like that, he can pretend he’s got nothing else in the world to worry about. No interviews, no nosy reporters, no anything.
Tooru and Mina sing loudly into the mic, and Izuku forgets everything else, for a moment. One, two, three.
It’s like magic.
(“Thank you, Izuku-kun,” Mina will say later, genuinely. The karaoke machine will finally be off and done with. Eijirou will be hobbling towards the door with Denki’s arm slung over his shoulder; Katsuki, who actually showed up—a miracle, Izuku will think, or a testimony to Eijirou’s convincing skills—will honk his horn loudly, yelling at them to hurry the fuck up, dammit, I don’t have all the time in the world here!
And Izuku will tilt a smile up at her, as if to say, “No, thank you.”)
Todoroki appears on his TV in the morning. As does Momo, which is just as weird, because neither of them are the type to accept interviews in the first place.
“So what’s it like, then, being known as the class that saved the nation?” the interviewer’s asking. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his table, an encouraging grin on his face. It’s supposed to be friendly; Momo just looks uncomfortable.
“It wasn’t just us,” Todoroki says sharply. His brows knit. “All of Yuuei was there to help us, and then the pro-heroes. Class 3-B provided a lot of backup—”
The interviewer shakes his head, cutting him off. “Yes, but we’re here with you two today, not with the rest of them.”
Izuku’s grip tightens on the remote control. Momo leans forward, murmurs, “Regardless, they were very important. We shouldn’t ignore their contributions.”
Ah, Izuku thinks, and tries to suppress a smile. That’s our vice-president.
There’s a layer of sweat on the interviewer’s forehead, now. He dabs at it and leans back, away from Todoroki, away from Momo. He says, “Well, certainly not! Nobody’s ignoring them at all, but how do you feel, being at the center of all of this?”
Todoroki looks straight into the camera. His eyes are set. “Fame isn’t everything,” he says slowly, roughly. He’s got makeup on for the show, but Izuku can still see the dark circles. “We’re young. We’re tired. We just want—” He sighs. “We just want peace and quiet, for once.”
Izuku boards a train to nowhere on a Sunday morning. Somebody looks at him in shock, says, “Hey, aren’t you—”
“No,” he says abruptly, and flashes them a tired smile. He closes his eyes, shoves his hands in his pockets. Here, with his cap and sunglasses on, he’s just another passenger. Peace and quiet, Todoroki had said. That’s all Izuku wants, just for now.
The train starts up. He leans his head against the window and lets himself just breathe.
Time moves on.