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Just when you believe that this year wouldn’t get any worse, life throws it in your face and gives you a new chaos to deal with.
As if the U.S.J. attack, Stain and the confrontation at the mall weren’t enough, now they’re being attacked in what was supposed to be a secluded and secret training location. It only strengthens Izuku’s belief that there might be the slightest chance of a traitor, an inside man if you will. There’s no other possible theory Izuku can conjure up to back up how the League of Villains discovered such a sacred place so quickly, their attacks practiced as if they were lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
A thin veil of violet gas roams the forest, slithering around the trees and crawling through the foliage. It circles you like a snake does its prey, predatory in its nature, consuming you until all you know is darkness and the irresistible pull of sleep.
Villains haunt the caliginous spaces, lurking in the shadows and preying on those vulnerable and afraid. They feed off their fear and stab them in the backs when they least expect it. Some might call it betrayal, however to Izuku, they only got lucky.
It’s how Izuku finds himself running, bruises dominating his skin and blooming on every joint, into the dark forest with no back-up beside his own teacher.
Aizawa is by far one of the most interesting teachers Izuku’s ever had, and one of the best at the same time. They’d started off rough on the first day, Aizawa’s words from that day still pushing to the forefront of his mind sometimes, but months have passed by and Izuku finds himself looking up to his teacher more than ever.
There are many things he admires about Aizawa. His techniques and how he wields his capture weapon so effortlessly, making it seem natural (which Izuku learnt wasn’t when he tried to teach himself the technique and ended up needing Aizawa to cut him out of the binding cloth when he’d managed to get twisted up in all the wrong angles), the way he can slip into a ghost-like persona, his footfalls silent to the enemy’s ears.
Then, there’s the fighting styles alone. Izuku has entire sections of his notebook dedicated to figuring out how exactly he fights so he can learn himself. If one day One For All runs out, or a villain rids him of his quirk, he wants to be prepared. It could easily happen, and Izuku’s been quirkless before. For sixteen years of his life, actually. The difference between then and now is that before, he was a defenseless teenage boy, ready for the world to let him down once more. Now, he’s hopeful, learning strategies and techniques like it’s the alphabet.
It’s why it catches him so off-guard when Aizawa gets hit.
A wall of fire, wild and unhinged in its dance, lashes out at Aizawa’s side. The blue flames retreat shortly after, the odor of burnt flesh lingering, mixing with the dense smoke polluting the night sky and the sweet-smelling violet gas.
Izuku abruptly stops, reaching out to grab Aizawa’s wrist. “Are you okay?” he asks, keen eyes analysing the wound. His dark jumpsuit is singed, fabric burnt where the fire attacked with its fierce tongue. His skin, usually pale from his lack of sun exposure, is now a worrying shade of red.
Aizawa nods, placing a gentle hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “I am fine. This is nothing but a scratch.” he denies, glancing at the wound before meeting his student’s eye. “We need to continue running. The building should be just beyond this stretch of trees.”
Izuku stammers, glancing at the line of trees. “Are you sure you can run? It looks painful and—”
“I’m fine, Midoriya.” he cuts him off, brushing off his concerns.
Aizawa takes off, but something’s wrong. Deeply, truly wrong. He’s moving slower, as if every move drains his energy piece by piece, yet small enough that it isn’t noticeable until he crashes. His expression, usually blank and refusing to show any sign of weakness, is almost twisted up in agony, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks flushed. Subtly, he’s biting his lip, as if the pressure will take his mind away from the burning pain blooming in his side.
Something’s wrong.
Izuku’s seen enough in his first year of U.A. to know when something isn’t right. When someone can’t fight anymore, or who needs to see Recovery Girl immediately. The Sports Festival alone taught him that much.
But it’s also the practical experiences. The numerous villain attacks have taught him a lot, despite how unexpected they were, and how much Izuku wishes they’d never happened in the first place. He’d discovered his classmates weaknesses without warning, such as how Tsuyu hibernates whenever it’s the tiniest bit cold (afterwards, he’d recommended she ask the support course for a costume with insulation, something that keeps her warm if she ever went on cold missions) or how Kaminari has issues aiming his electricity at a target. He guesses that’s why Katsuki’s been spending more time after the school day has ended in the gym, somewhat guiding Kaminari on how to correctly aim at a target.
The point is the attacks have taught him a lot. And all it’s telling Izuku right now is that he needs to get his teacher to that safezone, the building where review lessons are being held, and hopefully get medical attention to him immediately.
Aizawa stumbles over a tree root, arm shooting out to grab hold of a scorched tree trunk. He grips the bark tightly, knuckles turning white with the force. Each exhale is a short, shallow breath, as if his lungs are constricted, a vice squeezing all the precious air he’s attempting to maintain back out.
Taking quick strides, Izuku’s wide worried eyes scan the wound. “You’re not okay.” he concludes, staring at how pale and short-of-breath his teacher has become in a matter of moments.
Aizawa nods, panting. “You’re right.” he admits, gripping the trunk so hard Izuku worried it’d snap. “Midoriya, I need you to treat this. It’s not a complicated procedure, just a bit of simple first-aid.” He tilts his head up, meeting Izuku’s eye. His student is scared. He can see it in the way his hands tremble and he gnaws on his lip. Carefully, he reaches his other arm up, clasping Izuku’s shoulder firmly. “If we don’t deal with it now, I won’t be able to fight.”
“I don’t want to do this,” he whispers.
“I know.” Aizawa replies calmly with quiet certainty. “But you have to.”
Slumping against the tree trunk, Aizawa slides down until he sits comfortably against the rough wood. His side is exposed, the fabric peeled away to reveal the burn wound. The skin is painted red, like the background of a painting, the mark itself hardly bleeding. Instead, angry blisters sprout like weeds, growing agonizingly slow in the garden of red.
Midoriya crouches down in front of him, hands shaking like a leaf that’s being taunted by the wind. Shouta reaches out, gripping his hands firmly, grounding him despite the chaos of their current predicament. Wide eyes find his calm browns, and God, he looks so scared. Even more terrified than before, because now it’s real.
“What if I mess up?” Izuku mutters, staring at the wound.
“You won’t.” Aizawa says simply. “I’ll be your guide.”
Izuku takes a deep breath, in and out, heavy with the reality setting in. “What do I do?”
“There’s a small pocket knife in the side of my boot. Take it out and carefully cut away burnt fabric around the wound so nothing’s pulling at the skin itself. Make sure you never touch the skin with the blade.” His teacher guides, pointing at his left boot.
Fiddling with the strap of Aizawa’s boot, Izuku retrieves the blade. Its shiny, silver surface reflects his paling, terrified face back at him. The handle is carved from african blackwood, little initials carved into the tip. A. S. Y.
He didn’t ask. Thoughts were whizzing through his mind too quickly, years of analysis and bored research rabbit holes rushing to the forefront of his mind. Things that could easily go wrong, even with such easy instructions to follow. Mistakes that could be made.
His hands tremble as he cuts around the wound, weaning burnt fabric away from the skin. Aizawa reaches out once more, grabbing his wrist gently and steadying it.
“You’re doing okay.” he assures, soft and unlike any tone Izuku’s ever heard his teacher use. “Stop letting your fear control you. I trust you.”
With the fabric cleared and out of the way, Izuku can get a better, cleaner look at the wound. It’s red and blistered and ugly, but it’s not gushing blood. Not even a trickle. That’s a positive.
Izuku meets Aizawa’s eye. “It’s really bad, Sensei.”
“I’ve had worse.” he manages, strained with the agony he’s enduring. “Focus.” Sitting up a little easier, Aizawa taps a section of his utility belt. “In here, I should still have some gauze and sterilised cloths. Lightly apply pressure with the cloth and leave it over the wound. It protects it from air and friction.”
Izuku scrambles to unlock the storage pouch hanging limp on his utility belt. There’s a small white cotton cloth and a roll of gauze, hardly used. Following Aizawa’s instructions, and accepting the steady hand on his wrist, he lays the cloth over the wound gently, pressing it down slightly before leaving it alone.
He looks up expectantly, waiting for further guidance.
He tilts his head toward the roll of gauze. “Now, you need to wrap that around the wound.” Izuku grabs the gauze, unwrapping it gingerly. “Start above the burn then cross over it gently. After, anchor below it. Make sure it’s not so tight it cuts off the circulation, but enough to keep the cloth and the gauze itself in place.”
Izuku begins to wrap the gauze. As he does so, Aizawa flinches subtly at the tightness and the constant pressure on his burn. Izuku can’t help but mutter minor apologies as he continues to wrap the gauze.
“You’re doing fine, just keep going.” Aizawa says after Izuku apologises again.
With precision and steady hands, Izuku ties off the gauze. Aizawa heaves a sigh of relief, hand instinctively reaching down to feel the wound. He observes the work, and nods once, non-verbal praise of some sort. Izuku, satisfied, stands and brushes dust off his knees before lending a hand.
Aizawa accepts his hand and stands, using both Izuku and the tree trunk for support. Reluctantly, he leans against Izuku once he’s fully on both feet again, the kid looping an easy arm around his back.
“I…I really didn’t want to do that.” Izuku whispers, quiet and shaken, shoulders bearing the weight of everything he’d just had to do.
“I know.” Aizawa replies, squeezing his shoulder once. “That’s why I trusted you with it.”
Taking uneasy, short steps forward, they slowly make their way through the scorched line of trees. Aizawa breathes shallowly, leaning on Izuku more and more as they make their way forward, as if walking itself is a Herculean task. Every tree root they step over, every trunk they pass, Izuku reminds himself as the hope dims and the courageous flame inside threatens to blow out.
Then, there’s light.
It spills through the trees, rolling through the foliage like waves. And it’s bright and yellow and white all at once. The dark sky above cowers at its power, the shadows retreating into the caliginous sections of the forest. It's scared, hiding away from the force that can diminish it.
All Izuku feels from seeing though isn’t fear; it’s relief.
Relief floods his veins like a drug, its euphoria addictive as he nearly rushes forward, desperate to get Aizawa to the safe-zone. The building with the pro-heroes and heroes-in-training. The building that could get him some actual, real medical attention.
Half-holding his teacher up, Izuku takes longer strides and quickens his pace, practically reaching for the light.
The building comes into view. Its white walls are a contrast to the dark night sky and all its stars, standing out among the forest. Izuku almost cries in relief, grip tightening on Aizawa, terrified he might fall and irritate the wound more.
Someone gasps.
He shoots a glance back at the doors. Vlad King stands at the entrance, holding open the sanctuary’s doors. Hurriedly, he gestures for them to go inside.
With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Izuku rushes forward with Aizawa, despite how easy his legs yearn to collapse and rest and his hands tremble with the weight of the last hour. He knows, deep down, how bad this must all look. He knows how terrible both he and Aizawa must look alike, with tousled curls that refuse to be tamed and bodies battered by the villains’ attacks.
Vlad King quickly takes over, bringing Aizawa inside what he assumes is a classroom. And all Izuku does is stand in the entrance, hands shaking once more, before he sinks to the floor.