Work Text:
Midoriya doesn’t have many fond memories of middle school.
At Aldera Junior high, there were no afternoon hangouts. There were no Arcade meetups with friends. No club meetings.
There were instead bathroom stakeouts; waiting for Katsuki and his lackeys to get bored of looking for him. There was, instead, rushing to write down homework and pack up books. An urgency to be at the front of door before the bell could ring, so that Bakugou could not find him.
So that a teacher could still be in sight if he needed to scream.
On bad days there were beatdowns behind the school, the smell of nitroglycerin, dirt and a bit of blood depending on the day and the level anger. There were sunsets that he couldn’t quite see, blocked by the school building he was left behind. There were echoes of laughter drifting out of distance, birds above chirping like audience in approval. There was waiting until complete quiet before feeling safe enough to even stand up, and dust himself off.
Midoriya doesn’t have many fond memories of middle school.
However, there were still some good days.
On good days there was a news report about Mount Lady, or a new All might interview released the night before. There were texts from his mother on the old phone she gave him (for emergency purposes).
“I bought some new pens and highlighters for you!”
There was the smell of ink, the running of it against poorly textured paper, from the cheapest books his mother could afford. The sound of pages being filled with information that the logical part of him knows he will never use. But the part of him that loves to dream, that large part of him, knows that it will come in handy to know exactly when Edgeshot’s birthday is or how many support items he used the year before.
Izuku never thinks he will share this with anybody. He has no friends, doesn’t even think that is a word he will ever use. So, in his own intricate way, his journalling is for himself. It is that personal and coded.
As a result, it doesn’t come as a surprise that he easily has the worst handwriting in class 1A.
If pressed, he would bet that he has the worst handwriting in the entire school. He doesn’t mind though. Yeah, sure his classmates, will stumble upon his study notes by nature, but that’s just how he writes. It’s how he’s been writing for years, and they will have to live with it.
-
Otheon changes many things.
Everything happens so fast that it doesn’t feel like it has been a month.
Midoriya becomes a fugitive, but leaves dignified and respected, in a place that once rejected the philosophies of heroism.
He also meets someone along the way, someone special. A boy two inches over him, with rust colored hair and a killer smirk. This boy that has incredible parkour skills, that could even rival some of the heroes in training at UA, swag that could help him talk his way out of any situation.
A teen who is somehow just as nerdy as he is, but only when it comes to aerodynamics and aircraft mechanics. A boy with a purpose and people to protect. Someone who knows what it is to feel shame at their talents or lack thereof. A child outcast by society, one who has to work doubly hard to earn their spot, even if it is at the bottom of the food chain. A person who knows of the reality of loneliness, but still has dreams of friendship.
(And boy does Midoriya know a thing or two about dreams as well.)
Someone that makes it his priority to ensure that Midoriya leaves Otheon with a proper goodbye.
At the Airport, he writes the name Rody Soul onto a napkin, pulled from a pieced together jacket, and gives it to Midoriya with a wink and that smirk.
Midoriya hasn’t felt this warm on the inside in ages. He recalls being 4 years old on a playground, with a blonde boy with red eyes, two popsicles and an all might sticker. He didn’t even think it was possible to feel this way again.
Their hug feels natural, two groves fitting into place, and it is difficult to unfit.
-
Class 1A is like a busy city mall two nights after they all return from their internships, with everyone coming back together after what could have been a large-scale disaster. Mineta suggests a party night, Iida (for once) agrees, and by 8:30pm there is popcorn in between cushions, several TV and video game stations, and the sweet aroma of desserts in the oven courtesy of Sato. Everyone is in the common room getting busy with something or someone, except Izuku, who is nowhere to be found in all the happy wholesome chaos.
Instead, he is upstairs in his room, doing his favorite thing.
When Izuku writes this time, he is careful and conscious of how his letters form on the page. He is careful not to smudge the ink or overburden the paper. As he writes, he recalls memories, and these memories bring back scents, sounds, sights, and feelings.
Rust and oil on a dirt road. A busted muffler, loud and busy. Wet clothes and even soggier, smelly, red sneakers. Rainfall on fresh soil, the smell of a deserted Klayd. Pieces of rubber banded together precariously, to form gloves and shoes.
The smell of residue liquor from odd job exchanges in a rundown bar. Mud and sweat in soft, thick brown locks.
Gentle hands against the bandages and scars on his back. Laughter so spontaneous it had to be instinctive. Silence so comfortable it couldn’t be interrupted.
Shiny metallic of a suitcase that neither one wanted to have, yet hesitant to let go of, knowing it would be goodbye.
Pink fur, chirps of approval.
Secrets, trust, and the kindness of a stranger.
He can feel the tears pooling under his eyes, but he forces them down, not wanting to wet the written ink.
They are all good memories.
He can’t stop writing, running out of letter paper, and tearing another one from his book, and then another.
As the night grows older rest of 1A is dispersed from the common room. Voices of everyone above and around him playing video games upstairs, gathering in the hallways, God-awful Karaoke in some bedrooms. The whole building bursting with life and community.
But here, alone in his dimly lit dorm, he writes a letter to Rody Soul.
In Izuku’s hands are a letter to a friend in Otheon, 6 thousand miles away.
It is the closest he has ever felt to anyone in his life.