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As he forces his feet to move towards the mass of hands, pale and gaunt, writhing on the ground and through the air, there’s a color in his head as he moves, darting through the air as though he was never there at all.
He holds the color close as he feels the sparks bursting from him encompass his body, and the pain, though fatal he knows by now, fades to a distant murmur as he lets the color spread through his mind, his being, the face of that color clear and bright. He keeps it in his mind, holds it as he feels himself fading away.
He dreams awake as he flys through the air. He dreams of tan skin.
He dreams of eyes, bright and wide as they gazed at the world with wonder, no quirk or ability ever unworthy of their awe.
He dreams of constellations scattered across soft cheeks as they’re lifted with a smile, all consumingly bright.
He dreams of curls, shiny and soft, dancing freely with a head so full of a splendor.
He dreams of thoughts. He almost smiles as he remembers how they would race out of that mouth, knowing that they would be recorded, that no observation was below remembrance.
He dreams of notebooks. All the same cheap editions from a convenience store. How each was filled with such meticulousness, such detail and care. Though admittedly poor drawings.
He dreams of how HE is in those notebooks. Of how there is every detail about him captured by those scarred hands. He wishes he’d gotten to read the ones the nerd never showed him. He hopes that maybe later, much later, he will hear what was in those pages hidden from his view.
He dreams of strong hands, rough with callouses, scars running down the skin, stark against its color.
He dreams of how those scars were gained. Of the insanity written in his bones, the craziness of his actions. Of the determination in his eyes as flames rose around him.
He dreams of that crazed determination. The nerd’s incessant, unstoppable NEED to continue pushing forward.
He dreams of how it used to piss him off. Of how stupid he was in those days. The years he wasted.
He dreams of what he could’ve done, what he should’ve done.
He should’ve ran his hands over that face, those cheeks.
He should’ve cradled it, should’ve basked in its beauty.
He should’ve pressed his lips in worship to each star in that beautiful constellation.
He should’ve listened to every word that came from that exceptional mind, should’ve drowned in the detail and passion.
He should’ve loved him earlier. Should’ve embraced, should’ve relished the chance to love him. He shouldn’t have waited to realize the depth of his own stupidly enormous feelings.
He should’ve said something before now.
Should’ve shouted it from the sky. Should’ve held him so close that there wouldn’t have been a doubt in anyone’s mind about just who was allowed to worship, to love that beautiful boy.
He could fill worlds, every space in time, every piece of paper with the things he should’ve done. Things he wished he’d done. What he cursed himself for not doing.
And as he felts his heart rupture, his bones shatter, as every part of him was filled with such incomprehensible pain, he held the image, the feeling of the boy with the deep viridian curls in his head.
The image of the child, forever by his side.
The image of the middle schooler, who had so desperately wanted a love he had simply been too jagged to give.
The image of a high schooler, rising to his level, his adoration still bright in those emerald eyes.
The image of the boy yelling his name as he was pulled through a purple portal.
The image of the boy yelling of how All Might may have been his hero, but how he, him, had been the one actually in the boys life.
The image of the boy, broken, vulnerable, yet still so painfully beautiful, crying in his arms.
The image of the boys wide eyes as he came to save him from the crowd.
The image of the reason why he had even gotten back up at all.
And so he felt his chest burst.
And was dead before he hit the ground.
And the last thing he saw…
The last thing he thought…
Was Izuku.