Chapter Text
Yellow roses, one of Izuku’s favorite flowers. Simply their color was enough to make him gush over the specific breed of plant, but really, it was what they signified that had solidified the way those flowers wrapped their thorny vines around his scarred finger. Yellow roses for platonic love, for friendship, for the kind of relationship he could only hope and dream with all his might to manifest within his own life. And on a slightly, more angsty note (presumably originating from his junior high self, the only time period in his life where he was able to really just comprehend how fucked up it all was), yellow roses for jealousy, envy.
Izuku could argue that maybe it was the polar-opposite spectrum that the flowers seemed to rest comfortably on either end of that seemed to nab his attention better than any other kind had, the way he himself felt a startling, almost suffocating kind of envy when he saw how the people around him would interact with one another. There was mindless teasing, hushed giggling and reverent touches, something so gentle and pure he was scared that he might shatter it upon a small tap should he ever come into contact with the delicacy. It all felt kind of humiliating, really. How much he craved to be loved in this way, the simplicity and warmth of it all made him giddy every time he’d imagine himself in their shoes: the shoes of people who were rich enough in life to have friends.
From passionate scribbles of a bright yellow crayon as a toddler, to the much more focused, attentive strokes of a warmer, golden-hued colored-pencil, he’d never ceased to be enamored by the color. Yellows so vibrant he was sure their cores could rival the shine of the sun’s, and yellows so rich in depth any ordinary person could’ve mistaken it for orange instead, Izuku’s heart held a special place for any and every shade of yellow his eyes could perceive.
Sometimes he thought it was a bit silly, how attached he’d become to something as fickle as a specific color of flower, but even as the sleeve of his paint-stained hoodie slipped to reveal the kanji for keshi, poppy flowers, resting dark against his skin, he couldn’t help but feel more appreciation to nature’s symbolic catastrophe on mankind. Every person was born with small writing, typically appearing anywhere from a person’s finger to their wrist, naming a flower or any botanic of that sort, and bonding their soul with another’s. These bonds all started off as platonic, should these circumstances change upon the two bonded souls meeting, well, the universe could only do so much, but many did remain that way. Though, unlike in the plots of some of the novels Izuku has read, ‘soulmates’ do not have matching symbols of any kind. You could, theoretically, meet someone with similar, and/or, identical markings as yours, but that doesn’t automatically regard you both as each other’s soul-ties. All your marking describes is the kind of person your soulmate is, what flower represents their soul. Grimly, Izuku will admit he’s thought that the universe may be playing some cruel joke on him, that his soul-tie had died before, or at least would die before he would meet them, as poppies were known to be natural narcotic, tied to the gods of sleep and death. He could only spend his life devotedly hoping that whoever his soulmate was, merely appreciated the essence of a blissful nap, and not that he was one of the marginalized individuals destined to never experience the instinctual love that was a soul-bond.
No matter what the destiny the universe had planted amongst the stars for him, he’d still tag every mural of his with Yasumu, a silent tribute to the soul tied to his own, rest, both a reminder and in possible remembrance.
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The locals had long heard of the golden-eyed devil said to peruse their streets. An angel in disguise, the bright glow of their ‘halo’ was merely a trap, should you follow it, your life would meet its end. Its ‘feathers’ would extend like bondage from their wings, pining your limbs to your sides, capturing its next prey. Their eyes would glow a bright yellow, and had you taken a hefty blow to the head on your way down, your delusions would convince you that the heavens above had sent an angel to retrieve your soul. But the figure would creep closer, your eyes would regain focus, meeting a frightening glare, feathers blinking away into tight binds, and maybe you’d be coherent enough to attempt to use your quirk as means of escape, but all your efforts would be in vain. Don’t make your presence known, they’d whisper, For his eyes will erase your power, his hands will keep your limbs out of your use, and his knife would take your life before you’d even register the glint of the blade.
Servant for the underworld,
Ghost of the Reaper,
Son of Hypnos,
These were all common names for the man who’d rampaged this town for years now, who’d spilt the blood of many along the walls of alleyways, though a much more form-fitting one seemed to stick the best amongst them all, citizens and gang members alike:
Eraserhead.
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Low-lidded, dark eyes peered over the ledge of the rooftop Shouta had perched himself on, scanning the ground below, revelling in the nighttime silence. The quiet shuffle of shoes on pavement made his gaze sharpen immediately, eyes flickering for a moment until they locked in on the figure who’d caused the noise. A noticeably scrawny body (something he’d only presumed by the way the sleeve of their loose jacket revealed the true nature of their arm with a small slip), concealed in discrete clothing, holding tin cans of spray paint and swirling the colors around to their heart’s content. Typically, vandalism wasn’t something Shouta paid much mind to, it was just stupid teenagers doing stupid shit that cost them fines and legal trouble. If you were going to get in trouble with the law, it might as well be doing something worth the hassle. But then again, usually said vandalism consisted of meaningless tags or other random, tacky text, yet this kid seemed to have a purpose with each stroke of paint. There was a composition, there was a message, there was a reason to pay attention.
He must have sat there for a few hours at least, before the kid was done with their work, pausing to view it in its entirety before snagging their bag of supplies and quietly fleeing the scene. Still, Shouta did not move, he barely even twitched as his eyes took in the piece of art the child had left behind.
The mural was etched onto the grimy brick walls of the alleyway, but the paint may as well have been bioluminescent with the way it just glowed starkly against the atmosphere where it had been created. Poppy flowers, a deep red that faded into equally rich orange shades, some bundled together as if in a bouquet, others left stranded and floating off to their own destinations along the edges of the wall. Flourish and swirls of a similar hue accentuated the community of it all, adding a more abstract theme to the inconspicuous flowers. Everything seemed to sway with a breeze unfelt by the living creatures of this world, gently ruffling the petals into fluffy, sprouted beacons of color. It was peaceful by all means considered, but at the same time, the way the artist had incorporated deep brown and blues so muted they were practically grey into the shadows and backdrop framing the poppies suggested an underlying message. Hidden in the petals of one of the flowers read ‘Yasumu,’ the kanji colored an orange slightly brighter than its surroundings, subtle enough to only be noticed by an audience observant enough to look.
Something about the whole composition made Shouta’s insides want to purr in satisfaction, though the motive could be one completely unrelated to Shouta’s reputation, the man couldn’t help but to look beyond the surface, and delve deep into the symbolism left behind. Those flowers in particular were said to cover the lands of the underground, a sign of eternal rest. Coincidentally enough, the signature meant the same thing, rest. Eraserhead’s entire prestige had practically been built on these same tales, even if not meant to be seen by him specifically, this art, this artist, was his. His hands itched to paint the edges of the mural in blood, to leave something, anything, that would show anyone who happened to see that all of this was Shouta’s eyes, and not anyone else's.
The selfish piece of his heart screamed at him to douse the entire thing in a heavy downpour of blood, to shield it from the eyes of the undeserving, to keep it all for himself. He swiftly clamped down on the thought, a much larger part of him preening at the idea that someone would stumble upon it, and undoubtedly recognize it as Shouta’s. They’d see every streak of color and their minds would clamber together and shout his name until prying eyes finally turned away. He ached to have those skilled hands be tied to him, to have that brilliantly creative mind create these beautiful pieces with only Shouta in their head as inspiration, as their muse.
Eraserhead wasn’t known as a powerhouse for nothing, he’d track down the kid and keep them safe, away from the critical eyes of the law, away from anyone who’d ever think that anything about them was something to hate—
A soft, almost pulsing pain managed to tear Shouta away from his train of thought, eyes darting down towards the underside of his wrist, where he could’ve sworn the writing of shūmeigiku had flickered against his roughened skin. Shūmeigiku, the flowers also known as anemone, a sign of forsakenness, anticipation, a delicate balance of perseverance and loss. Shouta assumed that maybe the universe was a bit too accurate with its destinies, for his own soul had soured over immense grief, and anyone he deemed important to him were now laid out in the palms of his hands, his to protect, his to cherish. Whoever his soulbond was, wouldn’t know what hit them until they were practically chained to his bedframe. For only a short duration, of course, just long enough to realize they were his, his forever.
One last glance at the mural and Shouta was gone, slithering around in the darkness, awaiting for the day that bunny would trot right into his ready anaconda trap.
This really had been a blissfully pleasant night, if he might add.
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The cold water against his skin almost felt more scalding than the burn had been, stinging painfully and singeing the ends of his nerves. A low whine rumbled deep in Izuku’s throat, threatening escape as he continued to hold the damp cloth to his burnt forearm, skin reddened and peeling with irritation. If he had even the slightest bit of self-respect, he’d take the night off, just drown himself in a bottle of pain killers, and hope for a very drowsy night. But did he? No, no he did not. So with a small hiss as he finished wrapping his wounds in gauze, he slipped on his baggy hoodie, tucked any loose curls away into the hood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and waltzed out of his heavily water-damaged apartment with a slight slouch in his walk.
Izuku had already been running low on some of the colors for his paintings, but unsurprisingly (seeing as he buys the color in bulk), yellow was the one he had almost a full can of left. Call it cliche, but he could practically hear those familiar roses singing his name. The thought sent a wave of ease through him, the color was just so warm, no matter the eyesore it could be at times. So sue him for not even hesitating before covering the expanse of the brick wall in bright petals, shining like the moon had embodied its own light and made everything below glitter in its reflection.
When he’d first begun these late-night excursions, the sliminess and murk of the alleyways he liked to paint in had almost been enough of a reason to get him to quit (Because funnily enough, it wasn’t the mere fact that vandalism was illegal that shied him away, apparently.). But as time went on, he learned to ignore these unfortunately inevitable standards of cleanliness in favor of the arts. Izuku wasn’t even completely sure who his target audience was, not that he really expected to have one at all, most people didn’t particularly care for graffiti, if not to bash the producer, that is. His lines went from uneven in distribution to as blended or opaque as he so desired, swirls less of a focal point and more of a charming accent in the foreground of each mural. In short, he’d improved throughout the months of sleepless nights spent inhaling enough paint fumes that he realized maybe he should’ve bought a respirator of some sort. He wore medical facemasks, though they did little to filter out the chemicals, they most just protected his identity. Izuku had made it a habit to take every single one of his easily identifiable features and brush them under the rug, the more unassuming and common he appeared, the less likely he’d ever be recognized or caught.
People often described him as plain-looking, and though he did agree to some extent, his coloring wasn’t ordinary in the slightest. Not many people shared his unique dark hair that shone a deep verdant green, even less had their eyes match this same hue. Well, his mother and possibly his dead relatives excused. Izuku concealed his hair by pinning back his fluffy bangs, and trapping the rest of his tangled mess underneath a plain beanie, which was then additionally hidden by the hood of his jacket, pinned into place to avoid the wind blowing it off. His height was another indicator, if you knew the general height of the suspect, you’d be able to rule out (or in) the person(s) in question. He couldn’t exactly get any shorter, not that shortening his stature had been the obvious first choice, instead he slipped in some height-increasing padding into the soles of his shoes, effectively making him about 4-5 inches taller than he’d previously been. A pair of simple black contacts and non-prescription frames falsified more nonexistent traits, and spraypainting his comically red shoes black had been a laughably easy task. Plain, loose clothing were not only comfortable for him to work in, but weren’t easily distinguishable amongst the population, especially when accounting for the muted color scheme he had going on. His freckle-dilemma was fixed by purchasing a small tube of drugstore concealer, and a small smudge of eyeliner created the illusion of a more feminine face, establishing the idea that their perpetrator may not be the gender they’d originally assumed.
With his disguise out of the way, the night seemed a lot less threatening. He didn’t have to be Izuku, he acted and looked like someone else entirely. He didn’t need to be the useless null people couldn’t help but to aggravate on the daily. Here in the shadows, he was nameless, only leaving a trail of colorful petals in his wake.