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A bell chimed, its oscillations shooting straight through to his bones and its resonance harsh and brittle. He flinched slightly, causing the railing to clatter loudly, further fragmenting the tender silence he’d been nursing.
With a sigh, the world eased itself back into equilibrium. The soft murmuring of life far below him picked up again, like the tide, pulling in and back out. From his spot on the roof, he forced himself to soften, leaning back against the metal once more.
“It’s more windy than usual,” Izuku muttered to himself absentmindedly. Almost in reply, a biting breeze brushed past, tousling his hair in all sorts of directions; he was honestly underdressed for the temperature Musutafu found itself in this time of year.
He didn’t have any intentions of leaving yet though. The frigid weather and huffing winds were just cold and loud enough to dampen his thoughts- plus, even when they didn’t do the trick, being so high up usually did the rest. The oh-so-familiar smell of rust, the way the gravel dug into his limbs, the slowly darkening sky; this was a place Izuku found himself truly alone, a little pocket of mercy (there were always too many eyes around him, watching, sneering. These days, he was always lonely but never alone). The school day had ended hours ago. He’s been up here since, simply existing- a dreadful kind of tranquility that always left him feeling more hollow than ever. Izuku supposed it was better to be hollow than overflowing though; better to collapse in parched ashes than drown with clawing hands- right, he was supposed to be up here to not think, but here he was, rambling about his sorrows again.
Izuku found himself fighting off tears that unwillingly sprung from his eyes, the burn of it almost mocking. Again. Like usual.
“So pathetic,” he murmured, rubbing at his worn eyes, “What am I crying about now?”
Nothing. Everything? His tears flowed easier when the words couldn’t. It was a feeling impossible to materialise, one that seemed to encapsulate his lungs, strip him bare of his senses, every time he found himself back up here again. The rooftop was a place reserved for when Izuku wanted to breathe (escape everything, escape himself, break the shackles of delusional dreams and thready aspirations). The chill of the roof was grounding, bringing him back to reality (the reality was something he wished he could escape). A wave of frustration rose and fell in his chest within a breath, as a sob threatened to spill out his lips; he grasped onto the railing harshly, trembling, swallowing back his cries, and ripped his eyes away from the amber skies down to his feet instead.
Everyone had left by now. Honestly, what was he even doing up here? He willed for his tears to pause in their descent. He still had his integral worksheet, and his English vocabulary test, and-
It would be so easy to let go.
He startled, taking a small step back from the railing but still clinging on. I mean…what was he thinking about? (He knew what he was doing up here. He only came up here on occasion, and it was only ever for one thing. An innocent daydream in concept, a half-baked strategy in reality). Izuku knew who he was going to be- knew what he had to be; he couldn’t waste time up here, wallowing in his own self-pity...all because of stupid taunts? He chided himself- he thought he was better than that, too old to let those kinds of jokes get to him.
The bruises on his ribs seemed to ache anew, sharp and bright, knocking the air right out of his lungs. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself, as if it would somehow lessen the pain of the injury, or the burden of keeping it quiet. Now that he’d started staring down at the ground, Izuku couldn’t look anywhere else. From up here, everything was so small, so meaningless, like the place that trapped him everyday really was nothing but concrete and wood.
What would it feel like to just…slip out of his shoes? Feel the asphalt on his feet digging into his soles (and then nothing beneath him at all?). What would it feel like to climb to the other side, and drink in the unobstructed view of the sunset (it could be his last).
“Stop it.” he murmured, slapping his face slightly. It was so stupid- who was he to be thinking such things? Was he really going to mope forever?
Yet, the desire clung to him like a flame to wax. It was an urge that bordered unshakeable, a type of craving that would ravish at his flesh and spit out his barren bones if left unsatisfied. The air seemed to thin as if he was on Mount Fuji instead of Aldera’s rooftop, his chest threatening to cave in on himself. It would be so insanely easy. The air filled with distant cheers of post-work dinners, and the sweet, melodic croaks of cicadas; it was almost enticing, encouraging for Izuku to reach his end.
“I mean- I don’t even- it’s not like I even have a note or anything though, it’s not like I’ve ever actually planned something like...like this out.” Izuku rambled to the wind, his grip tightening on the rail once more, almost as if he was desperately trying to seek some sort of stability, “I mean, I’m perfectly fine!”
(A part of him vehemently cried that a perfectly fine person wouldn’t be concerned over the logistics of throwing himself off a fucking roof on a Tuesday evening.)
Izuku was fine. He had to be fine, because if he couldn’t be fine enough to be a hero then what had all these years been for? Why did he keep fighting? He was fine, even when the tears finally broke through the damsand slipped across his face, the droplets scattered past the railings and down below, a shower of broken glass. He barely registered them at this point. It felt like he had never stopped crying from the day he came back from that damned doctor’s office. He was fine, even when he finally dared to slip out of his red sneakers that revealed to the whole world his Quirklessness. One foot at a time, Izuku shrugged them off, shivering as his socked feet settled on asphalt.
It was as if his shoes weighed the world, with how free he felt after taking them off. In a sense, maybe they did; without them marking him as an anomaly, Izuku could close his eyes and pretend, for just a second, that nobody knew he was Quirkless. He could just be an average teenager, slinking through the crowd without a care in the world. He could be as is, free to walk on ground not constructed on egg shells and shattered porcelain.
The wind that had been gentle and melodic turned sharp and grating, almost desperate in its force. The warm colours of the sunset grew harsh, as if the sun itself was bleeding, tainting the sky darker in one splatter of colour. The world itself reached a screeching halt, watching, waiting for Izuku to finally do it- take that last leap. Izuku had thought it would be therapeutic, but as he bore down at the ground, he felt a sense of panic, paralysed with the daunting dread of actually jumping
God, he was pathetic.
If he could just take a step, let the wind pillow him, feel those wretched amber rays on his skin, finally stop the dreadful voice in his head, all around him, taunting him relentlessly and god could they just shut up-
“Isn’t it a bit too cold to be out right now?”
Aizawa Shota hated January with a passion.
The dreaded month where everyone was fueled by their New Years’ Resolutions for all of two weeks; god, he hated the annual declarations of “this is going to be my year!”, as if people didn’t say the same damn thing every single year to no result. What was worst of all though, was the biting chill that seemed to sink deep into his bones, sucking away every ounce of will left in his body. This was made worse by the fact that his chronic injuries seemed to rear their ugly heads in this frigid cold, flaring up like they were inflicted on him yesterday.
And of course, out of all the days of the year, he just had to go patrol. Was it too late to quit his job? Was employment really worth having to go out in this weather?
(It was the weather, sure, but it was never just about the weather. January brought back blood on rubble, and a funeral for a friend far too young. January brought back a version of himself he had never really outgrown, and a dream he still thought of in the dead of night when he’s by himself. A quiet laughter, and an unrestricted kindness that helped the kittens Aizawa didn’t want to commit to. But of course, that was years ago. Shota’s moved on since then. )
So yes, Aizawa Shota hated January. But he also did kind of need to work, so nevertheless, here he was, going along his usual route. He was about to turn left to go towards the more discrete alleyways, when something caught his eye- or rather, someone.
A figure stood stark against the evening sky, standing on a rooftop. His breath caught slightly, as it always did when he encountered one of these cases- they never did get easier to deal with, no matter how many years had passed. Aizawa pressed twice on his com, already changing direction towards the building. While from observation alone, it didn’t seem like the person was in a hurry to take the leap, attempts were always unpredictable; the small lump of panic in his chest urged him to go faster, barely held back by rationale.
“Eraserhead, calling in. I’m gonna need to take a small detour, potential code 10-65a.”
“Affirmative, Eraserhead. Good luck.”
Shota took a breath as he approached the building- Aldera Junior High. He needed to be logical; going in too fast would do nothing but scare the person- a short kid, he could tell now. Procedures ran through his head, ones that he had ingrained in his head long ago, but his heart still slammed in his ribcage erratically; what was wrong with him, he was usually more composed than this! Shota needed to concentrate- this was someone’s life at stake here.
(He knows why. Today of all days, he should’ve requested time off and he always does this, every year, and Hizashi had looked at him with those bittersweet eyes this morning, the way he always did when they were both thinking about him, and-)
He landed on the rooftop with an intended clack, quiet but not silent. The middle schooler- and he could observe closer now, see his short stature and green curls, the way his body language screamed tense, desperate- didn’t show any sign of noticing him. Well, that wasn’t great.
The boy bore down into the ground below him, almost lost in it; he held an iron grip to the railing, like he was almost afraid to let go, but his sneakers were settled next to him, albeit haphazardly.
Aizawa risked taking two steps closer, his steps not exactly silent but not very loud either- seemed like the kid still gave no reaction. From here though, he could see how the boy trembled and shivered, but stayed persistently in the same spot, refusing to break eye contact with the ground, clearly debating his actions.
Having made up his mind, Aizawa relaxed his posture, and in a forced-calm, broke the silence:
“Isn’t it a bit too cold to be out right now?”
The boy in front of him flinched, swivelling towards him at neck-breaking speeds, his green curls bobbing from the force of it.
“U-um!” he began to speak, turning fully towards Aizawa now; he was the image of panic itself, twitching and fidgeting. He had his head bowed, glancing up at the man occasionally through his bangs.
“Calm down. Listen, I don’t want to be overstepping but…do you need someone to talk to, kid?” Aizawa asked, voice gruff and neutral as ever. The man debated his approach, but ultimately chose not to reveal himself as a hero- it was unlikely to be necessary. For a seemingly sporadic attempt, Shota surmised that having someone to talk to may be enough, without an authority figure in the equation.
“T-talk to?” the boy’s voice was quiet, tinged with confusion, as his eyes flitted nervously at the man who had suddenly appeared on the roof. “Why would I need someone to talk to?” he mumbled, probably not expecting Aizawa to be able to decipher what he was saying. Within a second, the boy’s viridian eyes lit up in realisation with a quiet ‘oh’, immediately replaced by a renewed panic.
“O-oh! Wait, no! Um…I wasn’t trying to um- do that.” he stammered nervously, hands gesturing wildly as he seemed to blush from embarrassment. “I-I would never!” he began to ramble, filling the air with justifications and reasons.
But it was impossible to hide: the shoes still left vacant beside him; the air of exhaustion that lined every vertex of his body; a certain shadow that seemed to cloud his eyes. It was the air of somebody who had nothing to lose, who was groveling through a decades-old battle, who couldn’t see a single spark in the rain.
Aizawa saw all the same things in himself.
“...and yeah. I- I wasn’t going to um…do anything.”
The man’s onyx eyes seemed to grow softer and darker, as the hard lines on his face settled into a more solemn expression.
“...but that’s not quite true, is it?” he almost whispered.
Izuku’s tears began to accumulate again, begging to be let out. God, he hated it, he hated this. He loathed this all-encompasing feeling of being powerless, hated how he craved for his vulnerability to be cared for by somebody, anybody. Oh, how Izuku longs to be able to shatter and have the pieces be picked up.
“It is true.” the younger boy insisted, clenching his fists by his side, “I…I wasn’t going to…”
But for a moment, he had genuinely contemplated it; had thought out what it would be like to have the wind streak past him, encapsulate him in the freedom of it all. What would it be like to just let go of all the burdens that he had been bridled with for years? What would it be like to fall back and watch how the sunlight kissed his skin, as the swirls of colours above painted an ethereal sight.
Yet, he had also found himself terrified, clinging onto the rail with desperate, sweat-slick hands. The winds had felt too biting, the threat of his solitary mother and empty funeral too powerful.
So what could he do from here? Too scared to die but more scared to live.
After a small lapse in silence, Shouta plopped himself down on the asphalt, much to Izuku’s surprise. The older male seemed to relax, stretching as he looked out towards the horizon, now entering the first hours of night, evidenced by the final rays of sunlight fading away for budding moonlight. He cocked his head slightly, an obvious invitation; with some hesitation, Izuku joined him on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees.
“...I really…wasn’t going to.” the boy mumbled dejectedly, lazily looking into the distance with those tired, jaded eyes.
But if you weren’t going to, Aizawa thought to himself, then why are you so afraid to call it what it is? Why won’t you say that you weren’t going to kill yourself?
In the absence of words, with no pressure on him to explain himself, Izuku couldn’t help but unleash his tears. Even if he never saw this man again, even if he didn’t know who he was..the fact that somebody was beside him seemed to calm the ever-growing noise inside his head seemed to be enough. Sobs spilled out, fragmented and bleeding of despair, and yet he couldn’t help it- for once, he decided to not fight back the tide, and let it carry him, sobbing his heart out.
There was once a time where Izuku didn’t feel the need to hide away his tears.
Despite himself, Aizawa placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder as he continued to sob, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The hero couldn’t help but feel as if his own eyes seemed to burn a bit, even though it had been years since he had last cried. Maybe it was because it was this week of all weeks. Maybe it was because the boy’s green eyes seemed to catch blue in a certain light. Maybe it was because this was the one time of the year where Aizawa couldn’t push away the thought of his best friend.
It took a while, but eventually, Izuku’s tears finally resided.
A while more, Izuku slipped his shoes back on.
The night had now blossomed in full; Aizawa brushed himself off, and got up with a small huff- Aizawa extended out a hand. The boy ogled at it, curious eyes wide and rimmed with red; Shota hid his smirk at the sight in his scarf- he seemed even younger than he was with such an expression. After a moment of hesitation, Izuku took it, and allowed himself to be hauled up.
“Let’s go back, kid.”
And so Izuku followed.
It was way past curfew, and Izuku should really be in bed- of course, he was well aware of this. While he wasn’t exactly trying to get himself in detention, Izuku needed to be away. Just for a bit. Just for a second, to breathe.
Izuku looked out across the horizon; on the Heights Alliance rooftop, he could see an expansive view of Musutafu in all its glory. This late, the darkness covered everything, including all the reconstruction that he knew was happening- a small lump of guilt thrashed in his gut at the thought. After all, thousands had been displaced during the war even at the heroes’ best attempts, and here he was, privileged enough to refuse to be inside.
He was the reason so many people had died- thousands of them, dusted by Shigaraki, crushed by rubble, mutilated in the battles. Thousands more were still suffering the backlash of the battle, with their friends and family dead and injured, homes lost, lives scarred forever- and it was all because of him.
He flinched, wrapping his flimsy blanket around his shoulders tighter. Breathe.
That’s right. Izuku came up to the roof to escape his thoughts, not wallow in them more, so why couldn’this brain just shut the fuck up? He grit his teeth, as a cold breeze billowed, sending shivers through him.
What kind of hero was he? Too weak to even handle the cold? People died because of him, and now that he had lost his quirk (his dream, his life, the one thing that had ever given him hope-) he was also less helpful in reconstruction; he needed to get better, re-collect the scraps of his potential, and do something, anything to help.
That was the least he could do.
Yeah, alright, it was pretty illogical of him to chide himself for shivering, but it seemed like nothing he did these days could ever be enough to fill the void left behind by the war. There was an emptiness in Izuku’s chest that tore him up from the inside, tearing through flesh and bone, like a parasite that was breaking apart his wretched existence day by day.
Spinner’s cold, angry eyes seemed to bear at him again. Those eyes, shattered in thousands of ways and reeking of anguish, spoke of tremendous loss- oh, that pain of finally belonging somewhere, finally finding a dream, and having it ripped straight out from your hands.
Izuku hated seeing those same eyes in his reflection.
The thing that Izuku couldn’t admit to anyone though, was that Spinner was right. He was a murderer. At the end of the day, the life of Tenko Shimura was entrusted to him, like a rampant fire he tried to grasp with his bare hands- a dangerous and beautiful life that he promised to protect. And now, Izuku found himself freezing up here. He almost wished the blood on his hands was literal; that he could deal with. He knew how to compartmentalise broken bones and bleeding wounds to be dealt with later, could always shove them away and get the job done first. He almost wished he was breaking on the outside instead of the inside.
A dry chuckle escaped his lips, huffing out a small white puff of air.
“I wonder how Spinner thought I could forget him,” Izuku murmured into the silence, “When he haunts me everyday.” Even right now, from the corner of his vision, he could almost make out Shigaraki’s translucent figure. Would he be disappointed to see him like this? He felt like a different person to the one that had once stood against Tenko and declared that he was going to save him no matter what.
In the dead of night, Izuku often found himself staring up at the ceiling. There, it was like he saw his future; a truck waiting to collide with another. A tightrope waiting to snap from its tearing threads. A train waiting to swing from its rails. Everything he had worked so hard for was slowly but surely slipping out of his fingers; had he been selfish for thinking that being a hero was really going to be plausible for him? On those nights especially, one like tonight, Izuku found himself wondering what he had done to deserve this. Was it really so sinful of him to have dreamed, just once?
It was unfair. It was so unfair. The tears flooded across his face, and he didn’t even have the energy to wipe them away. Izuku didn’t often let himself feel such bitterness, but no one was watching right now- he wasn’t burdening anyone with his pain. On this rooftop, with no one he had to stay strong for, Izuku let himself break, just a bit. Because it wasn’t fair, it had never been.
One for All, he thought, All Might-sensei. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to be able to defeat All for One without losing the One for All legacy.
And it was illogical, he knew it was illogical; if he could go back to that blazing battlefield, he would’ve made the same decision a thousand times over. He would have done it every single time, if only so that he could end All for One once and for all.
You gave up All Might’s gift to save Tenko, but even after everything, he still died, his brain supplied. It cost you everything, and yet you still failed.
He wouldn’t change a thing, but god, did it hurt. It hurt so much. The embers of One for All inside him grew increasingly weak everyday, and with it, his life-long dream of becoming a hero withered away. When he fell asleep, he wished he was back in the realm with the past vestiges, but instead, he found himself face to face with his younger self night after night. That young boy with those wide, innocent eyes and desperately persistent smile.
“I actually get a quirk?! I can actually become a hero?” his younger self would ask him, face glowing with overwhelming joy, hopeful tears budding at his bright, bright eyes. And in this dream, Izuku, with his scarred face and warped hands, would rip the hope from him. Even as the child sobbed and cried, begging for him to stop, Izuku found himself continuing to destroy it, punching and punching and punching until it all faded away. After everything he had endured, all the tears, all the progress, Izuku found himself back to pointless square 1, staring at the little heartbroken boy with watery, crestfallen eyes. Then, Izuku destroyed him too- it did nothing to soothe his new reality.
Izuku doesn’t sleep much these days.
At least, when Izuku’s up here on this roof, it feels like the world is just a little bit smaller. Here, he’s not Deku, the hero that saved Japan; there’s no one expecting him to shoot a smile, as he should as a hero, even though there’s very little to smile about. There’s no one expecting him to lead reconstruction, to be a symbol of better times that are soon to come, even though he himself has lost all his hope. Here, there’s just no one. He is just no one.
Under the hero, Midoriya Izuku wore his hopelessness like a second skin.
The funny thing is this: despite all of his optimism and persistence to find the best in everyone and everything, Izuku had been a realist all along. A decade of being slammed into locker doors and bruised by peers, fed by morsels of hope will do that to you; it’s because of that decade that Izuku chased after optimism at full throttle. It is also because of that decade that Izuku knows what his future is here; his job is done.
There’s nothing else for him to do. Nothing else he can feasibly protect.
He stares out at the horizon, this time with newfound concentration. The view really is beautiful from up here, even for how the world is wrapped in darkness at this hour. He can still see sparkles of light from the central parts of Musutafu, where people must still be out and about, trying to find joy in the wake of disaster. Still bars and parties, celebrations and gatherings. Izuku had helped protect that- but that was done now.
Maybe…it would be nice to let go here.
Izuku’s surprised by the thought for a second at best, before he sighs quietly. Even though it hadn’t materialised as a proper thought until now, the boy had done nothing but think about disappearing for the past weeks; what would it be like to finally let go? What would it be like to let somebody else be a symbol? What would it be like to escape this life, where he can slowly see himself fade away into nobody, his dreams ashen, his friends moving on?
Such thoughts had never been so intense before, but now, the sorrow felt more familiar than anything else. It was kind of funny, how hope felt so foreign to him now, as if he really had become a different person.
A small part of him still cried out; wait, this isn’t really you, is it? Would you really go through with something so drastic? What happened to the Deku who could do it? He vehemently ignored that voice inside of him- after all, Deku was no more. Even if he hadn’t quite lost everything yet, it was only a matter of time.
Everyday, Izuku saw glimpses of the heroes his classmates were going to become; reliable Ingenium, determined Uravity, kind Shoto, Kacchan- they were destined to become the best.
And Izuku?
What could he feasibly become now?
Not for the first time, Izuku found himself reeling at how easy it would be to just let himself go. From this high up, he wouldn’t even feel it.
(Normal people don’t think like this. They don’t walk past buildings and calculate if it’s high enough to kill on impact. They don’t have half-baked day dreams of what it would be like to disappear and never come back. But, Izuku had embraced his abnormality by now.)
Izuku slipped out of his shoes, his socked feet like ice immediately after feeling the cold gravel. Without even needing his quirk, he hauled himself over to the other side of the railing with barely any effort and plopped himself down to the ground. Like this, Izuku could swing his legs in the unobstructed wind; if he just slipped forward a little bit, just a bit, the darkness would be able to take him, swallow him in its jaws of shadows, bury him somewhere quiet and lifeless.
When he used to find himself on the roof, he’d still be tainted by the bitter taste of fear.
Now, he felt nothing but peace.
As a night’s breeze wrapped around his legs, almost playfully tugging him down, Izuku was overtaken by a feeling of freedom, one that he used to feel when he was swinging through the city with blackwhip, or when he soared towards the sky with float.
Oh. He really was grounded now. He wouldn’t ever be able to reach for the stars again- he was back to only dreaming. And Izuku….he wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to exist in a world where he was bound again.
“Yeah.” he whispered, still drinking Musutafu’s horizon, “I think- I think I can go. I deserve this, don’t I? Don’t I deserve something too?”
After everything. He could have this to himself, couldn’t he? Even if it was selfish- hasn’t he been selfless enough?
He hears a slight scuffle, before a familiar voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Problem Child.” Aizawa called, his voice seemingly calm. But Izuku had known him long enough to hear the slight warble; he didn’t need to turn around to know that his teacher was probably scared- he felt almost bad. Izuku felt like he should probably be scared too. Surely he should be terrified by the fact he’s dangling his life across the school rooftop- but he wasn’t. Maybe he was starting to forget who he was, before everything went to hell. What had it been like to be a hero hopeful, throwing himself into class exercises and algebra tests again? When his life had seemed so much simpler?
“Hi Aizawa-sensei,” Izuku responded politely. He still sounded the same though, didn’t he? He hadn’t completely lost himself, right? “What are you- um, what are you doing up here?”
He could hear another slight shuffle, as Aizawa sensei moved closer to the fence. They’d been taught the protocol months ago; he just never thought Sensei would end up using the same protocol back on him. He could already tell the tenseness from his teacher, could imagine how the older man was forcibly stopping himself from wrapping his capture weapon around him.
Izuku didn’t want to be a victim. He didn’t want his teacher to be strategising on how to get him off the roof safely- but he was just so tired. It was a type of exhaustion that sunk deep into his bones and heart, sucking everything out of him like an air vacuum; he just wanted to be carried away for good. Maybe he was just so sick of playing the hero.
That was why, knowing the protocol, Izuku was completely surprised when Aizawa finally spoke again: “Kid, you couldn’t have picked a warmer night to do this?”
Laughter bubbled out of his lips, as a smile ticked his mouth upwards, “Sensei! I don’t think that’s what the protocol tells you to say..”
“Yeah, but the protocol kind of loses most of its effect if you know all about it, don’t you think?” Aizawa retorted, and Izuku could sense the male sitting down himself, his back to the railing so that they were facing in opposite directions. Despite everything, Izuku still felt a little star struck; after all, while the words were Aizawa-sensei’s, the actions screamed Eraserhead. Izuku knew his teacher wanted to do nothing but yank Izuku off the rooftop, but instead, he pulled his gaze away from him. Sensei was trusting Izuku, not just treating him as a victim…despite everything, Aizawa-sensei still believed in him.
How could he do that? Where does he find his faith for Izuku, when Izuku himself can’t find it?
There’s a lull of silence for a moment, before Aizawa speaks again.
“I know I’ve told you this before. I’ll tell it to you again- there’s nothing crueler than letting a dream end half way.” Shouta continued, “So kid. Why are you letting it?”
Izuku hummed in an affirmative tone. Then, in a voice that made him unintentionally seem as young as he really was, Izuku whispered, “Sensei. I think…I think it’s too late for that.” The young man looked down at his hands, scarred and mottled with warped tissue. His hands that once held tremendous power that now grasped nothing. “My dreams have already ended.”
Oh, and how Shouta hurt for him. His student, the world’s best hero, who had been robbed of the only dream he’s ever had. For fuck’s sake, he was just a child, just a child who dreamed so fervently, who raced towards his aspirations with a fever-like energy, who inspired everyone to do their best.
Who saves the heroes when they need saving?
Many times since the war had ended, Aizawa had found himself in a training room by himself. Of course, he was far weaker than what he once was, but he was lucky to even be alive at this point- either way, that wasn't the reason he went to train. On many of these occasions, Shouta found himself setting up a mannequin, and beating the living fuck out of it, tears streaming down his face. He punched and beat at them, sobbing and cursing at Oboro for his kind heart, as he chose to die a second time for protecting the kid he had helped raise; at All for One, for killing one of his kids, and scarring all of them; at everybody who had ever failed his students, had made them feel less than they were; and finally, at the injustice that was thrust upon them all.
Aizawa didn’t have a mannequin with him. Even if he did, Midoriya Izuku had never been the type to punch out his frustrations anyways.
So Aizawa did what he always did best.
“Problem Child,” he said, pushing as much emphasis as he could on these next words, because the kid needed this, “tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong, Sensei.” Izuku replied on instinct, even though they both knew it was a lie. “I wasn’t going to…”
But if you weren’t going to…then why are you so afraid to call it what it is?
They both knew the truth. Shota had seen it, looking back; how Midoriya’s eyes, which used to be so bright, slowly turned dark and murky. How there seemed to be a greater weight on his shoulders these days, that even him- with all the strength of the world- couldn’t quite lift.
“Izuku,” Aizawa cut in, before softening. “Hey kid. It’s okay. There’s no one you need to pretend for here.”
Izuku knew these tricks. He knew this was protocol, was exactly what you were supposed to do when someone was about to jump. He didn’t need to go through the arduous process…in fact, sensei should just go back to his room, pretend he never saw him up here- it was so easy, hadn’t he said? But when it was Aizawa-sensei of all people speaking, his voice emanating with such sincerity, the child in Izuku couldn’t help but feel like he was being saved by a hero.
“Being a hero is pretty shitty, huh?” Aizawa started, but Izuku shook his head vehemently.
“That’s not it.” he retorted, leaning against the railing. “Being a hero is…it’s everything. It’s all that I’ve ever wanted, and I thought- I thought that what I had was okay- I mean, I saved the world, and gave up my quirk as the last sacrifice. I should be happy right? That’s…Sensei, I know every hero’s career ends one day. That’s inevitable. I know that. And every hero wants their career to end for a great, noble cause, and that’s what happened for me so-” Izuku’s voice broke, his body overcome with tremors derived from sheer emotion. He didn’t- couldn’t- look at Aizawa-sensei, couldn’t face his expression as Izuku admitted just how…”But…but sensei. I wanted my quirk longer. Just a bit more…just another year at least, I wanted to at least officially debut as a hero.”...immature he really was. Sue him, he was a coward.
Aizawa hummed, confirming he was listening; and oh, now that Izuku started, he couldn’t stop.
“I don’t know if I want to die, Sensei.” he croaked, and didn't that just tear Shota’s heart to shreds and then some more, “But I…I want my quirk back. I want my dream.” the boy began to yell to the horizon, sobs breaking out full-throttle now, “I want my time back. I want to go back. I want to go forward. I want to live in a world where I’m heroes with my friends, without being left behind. I-” his voice cracked, his vision swarmed by tears, “Why’d I even try at all to begin with?”
“Because heroism is in your blood.” his teacher answered without hesitation, “because when the world needed you, you stepped up, and that counts for something, Izuku. You’re a hero, quirk be damned, and nothing could change that.” Shota knew this wasn’t curable with a few words. But he would be damned if he didn’t try, and didn't express just how much Midoriya Izuku meant to all of them, not just as a hero but as his student, as his kid.
Izuku flinched from the power in his teacher’s voice. The strength of it, the utter faith in him, it was like something had cut right through all his layers of numbness and despair.
“Midoriya. You’re crying.”
Well, that wasn’t really such a surprise, was it? Izuku was confused why his sensei had brought it up…he was always crying, after all.
But your tears used to come from having a heart that had so much to give, his brain supplied, tell me if you jumped right now that you would be smiling.
His chest heaved, as Izuku realised something in that moment; if he really had wanted to jump, he would’ve done it already. But he held on. He held on, knowing Aizawa was always awake at this time, knowing he would surely be alerted by the security system. He held on, knowing his teacher would come- waiting for a hero. He’s still holding on.
Even though his teacher’s words did virtually nothing to soothe his words. Even though Izuku had already gone through all the logic and justification in letting go; his heart still refused to. Something in him still clung onto a better future. Something in him, the little boy who used to defend his classmates in playgrounds, the middle schooler who jumped into the fray to save Kacchan, the one who drove to be worthy of the title of All Might’s successor; he still wanted to live.
“Izuku,” his teacher called, “let’s go back.”
That primal instinct in him that prayed for Aizawa to be there, that clings on- even now- to hope, reared its head with renewed force. He didn’t know anything anymore, nothing made sense but- Izuku finally dared to let himself turn around, and face Aizawa’s expression. He didn't know what he was expecting. Disgust? Anger? Sadness? Could his teacher even believe such a weak person could possibly be a UA student?
When Izuku turned around to meet his teacher’s eyes, all he saw was faith.
Faith in a future for the boy, one so bright he wasn’t quite sure he could see it for himself. Bright, like the budding kaleidoscope of colour used to be, when One for All nested in his palm. Bright, like…like maybe a dream he had been chasing his whole life.
“You can still be a hero, Deku.”
Could he? Could Izuku really allow the safety of his logic and calculations fade away, in the name of trusting his teacher? Izuku saw the outreached hand, warm and rough from decades of work and a war that would never quite leave them; there was one difference that he seemed to have forgotten, something that distinguished Izuku from the middle schooler he used to be:
He wasn’t alone anymore.
And he took Aizawa’s hand.