Chapter Text
Izuku is a master at hiding. Just as he is a master at running.
It used to be a game between him and his father; a simple hide-n-seek, if you will. Though it never felt very fun to Izuku.
No. It never felt fun at all.
The thing about regular hide-n-seek is that once the hider is found, the game is over. The participants switch roles and the game is restarted. It’s an endless cycle of mystery and fun, and in all senses Izuku should have enjoyed it.
But it’s hard to enjoy a game when you get punished for losing. Izuku was always the hider when they played, and he really, really didn’t want to be found by the seeker.
Well, at least it was good training, no matter how scared it made him feel.
That’s just how it was then. That was All for One’s definition of fun.
Izuku learned very quickly on how to not get found. And he also learned how to run when he did.
Which leads him to now.
There are moments of impossibility in this world, moments that once made will echo for all of eternity even if no one is there to witness them.
Every moment in history is but a cascading chain of coincidences that, when looked back upon with the perspective of time, would make sense.
Izuku read that in a library book once maybe a year or so ago, and he’s reminded of it once again as he stands in front of his crumbling home. Well, what was his home.
Small flecks of ash flutter from the upper levels and settle on his skin, some of them landing on his head and some by his feet. It’s almost funny, he thinks, how it would all almost look like snow from a distance—just a peaceful, cascading snowfall to passersby who wouldn’t know any better. Except whereas snow is cold and a promise of something new, these ashes are warm and a symbol of Izuku’s loss.
He can still smell the burning wood and smoke. He can still feel the stifling heat and air so thick that for a single moment he wonders if he could cut right through it.
And then he’s somewhere else, drenched and shivering from the pouring rain of a storm as lightning shakes the earth. Transported to a different time, if only in his mind, Izuku stands in front of his father’s first facility and watches through younger eyes as flames scour his old home.
The sky turns a bloody red, waging a war against itself and clouds of inky black. It reminds Izuku of the copper that now sits permanently at the back of his throat.
And this was the first fire Izuku ever started. It’s only fitting that All for One finally got him back in the best way. That’s the one thing Izuku will admit he got from his father: his pettiness.
Everything feels like it’s been turned upside-down, but in that it also feels like everything’s been flipped in reverse.
He blinks back into the present, the phantom pain of his previous injuries coming back to him in a dull burn. He stares up at his not-home, teeth biting at the insides of his cheeks. While his building was never something pretty to look at, it never looked like this.
With scorched walls and remnants of black smoke permanently stained near the areas closest to the blown-out windows, his place looks destroyed.
It looks like someone painted their anger out onto his canvas of a building, and the result of it is nothing short of a fiery hell.
Déjà vu has a whole different meaning now.
This has to be his father’s work. No one else cares about him this much to rig his entire house. No one else could’ve gotten past his security measures so easily. No one except the very man who taught him how to go unfound.
Izuku gets the sudden urge to scream, the realization like a slap to a fresh sunburn.
He’s so fucking dumb. How could he have been so stupid to think he could actually get something he doesn’t deserve? He’s been living off borrowed time his whole life, but what does he have to show for it? Nothing.
Just a ripped costume and bloody teeth.
It’s the sound that terrifies him now, or the lack thereof. True silence is impossible—the beating of the heart, the rustle of clothing, and the silent whisper of breath will always make themselves present in silence.
But now it’s deathly quiet. Like the millisecond before the next intake of air. It makes Izuku stumble closer, a shaky hand coming up to touch the broken back entrance he always used when coming home.
This silence wouldn’t be so bad if not for the memories it’s ripping from Izuku’s mind.
He walks forward, tripping a little. His legs are almost fully numb. Stumbling blindly through the city wasn’t a very good idea, it turns out, especially since he’s only wearing his hospital gown, All Might’s large (and way too comforting) sweater, some compression socks a nurse gave him before he fell asleep, and a cat beanie he snagged from one of the vendors on the streets.
His hair probably looks terrible, as he hasn’t taken a shower since before the Festival. It’s best to cover it since he doesn’t want attention. Not that it would make much of a difference. He already looks like he just escaped from an insane asylum with his gown on; he can’t really hide much else.
Izuku can still feel the soot on his cheeks where the bandages don’t cover, and his legs are still shaking even when being wrapped up.
He walks into what used to be the lobby, heading slowly for the stairs. He glances at himself in a passing window and immediately turns away. He looks rough, and he wishes more than anything that he could just forget about the scars littering his skin and mind, but nothing ever works his way, right? The haunted look in his eye stays with him as he works his way up the many flights of stairs, and he can't help but feel like he failed. Like he did something wrong.
What hasn't he done wrong?
It’s chilly all of a sudden. It’s almost like the world is mocking him, as just a few hours ago he was splintering and burning and too hot, please, I’m choking, I’m dying, but now he’s shivering and chattering and thankful he ended up taking his mentor’s sweater after all.
If Izuku makes it, All Might won’t be getting it back.
He steps into his home with the acrid tang of burnt wood filling his nose. If he’s being honest, he shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have come back in any other circumstance, but now everything feels different.
Everything has taken such a drastic turn in just the past twenty hours. This is not what he meant when he said he needed change.
He walks carefully, each step more unsteady than the last. His socks catch on the cracks in the wood, and he stumbles every few feet. The air seems to have settled in here, making the silence stretch on.
The heroes have left everything untouched. Not a thing is out of place since the explosions occurred, and there’s no other footprints he can see imprinted in the layer of dust and ash on the floor. Did they not care enough? Did they not care about what could be in here?
Typical for adults, he thinks. No one even knew a kid was in the burning building. Izuku still doesn’t know how exactly Aizawa found him, or if that story is even completely right at all.
And that thought has Izuku wincing. He doesn’t mean to be so distrustful. He doesn’t mean to be like this, but it’s—it’s hard.
He doesn’t know anything anymore.
Izuku’s couch is destroyed and barely recognizable. It’s flung against the wall with half of the cushions missing, and the rest of the room doesn’t look much better. The gaping hole in the middle of the floor makes something heavy drop into his stomach, and it takes all of Izuku’s remaining strength to stop his knees from buckling.
He is so, so tired.
The first thing he did after escaping was find Missy. Aizawa didn’t tell him where she was located for good reason, but Izuku knows this area like the back of his own hand. He knows there’s only four vet clinics around here, and he got it right on the second try. He’d walked in, asked if a tuxedo cat by the name of Missy was recently brought in, and then left after confirming her health. He wouldn’t have been able to steal her back even if he’d wanted to, so he didn’t attempt it.
The nurse at the front desk most definitely called the cops on him after he ran, as he does look pretty interesting right now. He probably shouldn’t have done something so risky right after escaping a hospital, but whatever.
It’s done now.
Izuku kicks at the piles of debris on the floor, searching. He needs to salvage whatever he can. His weapons, his bombs, his everything—it’s in here. And most of it is probably destroyed.
Not to mention his phone. His AI quickly became his new method of communication after he made her, but that doesn’t mean he stopped using his old one. There’s still a lot of important information on there, information about his clients and jobs, and he knows for a fact he had it on him when the explosions went off, so he should’ve still had it when he was brought to the hospital. Aizawa never mentioned it, though, which is weird. Maybe it fell out and is still in here.
Izuku could be wrong. But speaking of which—
“AINA?” He calls out, voice scratchy. She’s damaged beyond repair on his portable device, but a part of her still lives inside these walls. He might be able to take some pieces of her and add onto it later, and maybe he can eventually revive her. The device he deems her heart was taped to the wall in his kitchen before this, and it connected to speakers and sensors throughout the house, but he doesn’t see it anywhere now. It must’ve been blown up.
He prays otherwise, but even as he coughs out her name two more times, the air stays still, and no reply comes back to him. Izuku feels that last bit of hope dwindle inside him.
Fuck. And to think he designed her to always be there for him no matter what.
He picks up a few knives on the ground, holding them tightly in his grip. These will be worth something on the market, he knows that for sure. If he can sell a few of them he should be able to gain back some money. Maybe enough to get him out of this country. His emergency money and passports were in a bag near his desk, so they’re all gone now, too; burnt to a crisp.
The only reason the bag wasn’t in its designated hiding spot in his bedroom is because he took it out the night before for his, ahem, trip.
A mistake that’s dearly hurting him.
All of that money? Gone. Just like that. He was saving up little by little with each job he completed, just in case of an emergency, and now it’s all fucking turned to ash. That cash was his life savings, goddammit.
He’s angry. Angrier than he has any right to be, probably. He doesn’t even have enough energy to properly think about why he’s angry, but all he knows is that he’s pissed in a way that makes his throat tighten up and his eyes burn despite there not being any tears in his system or smoke left in the building.
I should’ve never stayed for this long. I should’ve left the country when he first offered it to me. I should’ve listened.
It only makes it worse when he takes another few steps, heading for his bedroom, only to trip on another piece of concrete on the scorched wood.
He hits the ground hard, the knives in his grip clattering to the floor, and the cry that tears out of his throat is of the raw sort. It scrapes against his insides, and he finds himself gritting his teeth and pressing his forehead on the dirty floor to just ground himself from everything.
But then Izuku’s hand meets fabric, and his eyes fly back open. It’s dark in here, but he can still kind of see it. He’d know what it is even without sight anyway.
He made it, after all.
Izuku’s Rabbit costume doesn’t even look like his anymore. Most of it has been shredded and burned away, and the dark green fabric is black now with the soot all over it. He sits back on his legs and holds up the tattered remains to the faint sunlight filtering in through the cracked windows.
His hoodie stares back at him, only one ear recognizable with how destroyed the other one is. The red and black of his mask is still vibrant, though, and he’s glad. He paid a lot of money for the thick latex material.
But his voice changer? He doesn’t even have to check the inside of his mask to know that it’s completely destroyed.
Double fuck. He remembers saving up for months to buy the parts for that, and he remembers spending even longer trying to perfect it and tweak it to his liking.
God. He really is screwed.
Izuku is taking too long. His body aches in a way that it never has before, and it’s not just because of his healing wounds and exhaustion. He’s floating now, the faint pain echoing through his bones the only anchor he has to this world.
He should be out of here by now. He should take whatever he can salvage and escape. He knows All Might would take care of Missy for him, and since Izuku knows his mentor’s number by heart he could just call him and set up a place to give One for All back after everything dies down.
Is that even possible? He thinks so. He hopes so.
It’s not that he wants to give up the quirk, no. He has to. That’s how it has to be. He’s too much of a liability, and he doesn’t want to keep lying to the man. If he disappears, he won’t have to lie. He’ll just be gone.
Maybe he should move to Mexico. He could sell chicken or baked goods on the side of the road or something and make a living out of that. Mexico has some of the greatest heroes, and everyone knows they’re pretty lax about vigilantes there, so he should be fine. He could go in and make a new start. A new beginning.
But the more he thinks about it, the tighter he clutches his hoodie and mask and the whiter his knuckles get from gripping the fabric too hard.
He can’t find the will to move just yet, so he sits there. And waits. After what feels like hours but what could’ve only been five minutes, he feels a familiar loud hero taking the stairs three at a time from the bottom of the building, and he finds that he’s not surprised at all when he hears the scuffling of feet behind him, obviously on purpose, and then the creaking of wood.
Eraserhead always makes sure to let him know of his presence when sneaking up on him.
Izuku can feel his quirk now that he’s located him, and it’s easier now to sense the burning gaze on his back. So much for running.
The man steps inside the room, and the quiet echo of his boots on the uneven floor sounds like a judge tapping their gavel on a desk. Izuku must have a life sentence impending at this point, he knows.
He’s known that from the very beginning.
“Your door is broken,” Aizawa says from behind, voice as monotone as always. He sounds... resigned. As if expecting this exact conversation.
Did he let me escape?
Izuku covers his face with the mask, hiding and deflecting simultaneously whilst also showing more of himself than he ever has before. “Oh. I didn’t notice.”
A beat of silence. Izuku knows Aizawa must be thinking back to a few hours prior, when the heroes only had the fire somewhat contained and he had to bust in here and save the boy himself. He hopes Aizawa’s not looking at this place now and judging. It was prettier than this, he wants to say. Just like I told you. It was nice.
He keeps quiet, though, running a crooked thumb over the seam on the remaining bunny ear.
Aizawa moves closer, his warm presence a stark contrast to the ice settling over Izuku’s skin. “You know, if you had just asked me I would’ve taken you back here eventually. You didn’t need to orchestrate a jailbreak.”
Izuku stands on shaky legs, still holding his belongings, and skillfully ignores the way his vision sways. He decides not to tell his teacher that he didn’t plan on getting caught this quickly, if at all.
“So you admit the hospital is a jail?”
His jab earns him a raise of the brow, making Izuku frown to himself. Damn, he really doesn’t like how this medicine is turning him into Kacchan; he doesn’t have a good filter right now. At least not one that is of any use to him.
Izuku shouldn’t be talking this freely. It’s weird now, he thinks, how he doesn’t know how to act around his teacher. If he’s not Rabbit, should he be his normal timid self? Or is that too fake, seeing as the hero’s already seen that abrasive other side of him.
Aizawa’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder, and Izuku doesn’t fight it when the man nudges him away from the gaping hole in the ground and towards the safer areas by the wall. Huh. Izuku almost forgot it was there entirely. He could’ve fallen straight through.
He doesn’t miss how his teacher places himself between him and the cave-in. The thought makes Izuku want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“What’s got you desperate enough to scale down ten stories and run all the way here?” Aizawa asks, voice not rising above his normal tone. It’s not that Izuku expected him to yell, it’s that he just didn’t quite expect this.
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know,” he says softly, and it’s not a lie. He holds up his Rabbit costume, as if to prove his point. “I wanted to see if I could salvage anything, but...” Izuku trails off and wipes at his nose, sighing once he sees the dirt now smeared on All Might’s sweater.
“You have important things here?”
Had would be more appropriate, but Izuku nods anyway. He’s still staring at the remains of his costume, clutching it tightly between his fingers. He bends down to pick up another piece of it, but when he straightens up the fabric turns to ash in his hand and flutters down the hole a few feet away.
Oh. Figures.
There’s a faint spike in his mind, and he turns to see Present Mic standing hesitantly at the doorway now, having finally climbed those awful stairs. Izuku watches the way his eyes take in the destroyed apartment before him, an unidentifiable emotion flitting across his features. But when the voice hero’s gaze lands on him, Izuku is met with a warm smile. He’s in civilian clothes just like Aizawa is, and golden light shines on his face as he enters. His prominent eye bags make Izuku wonder yet again if either of the men have gotten any sleep lately.
He wonders just how much of that insomnia is because of him.
“Heya, kiddo,” Yamada greets, easily stepping over the larger piles of ash and debris to get over to him. He doesn’t even blink at the large missing spot in the floor, seemingly unfazed. “You gave us quite the scare there back at the hospital!”
Why are you here? Izuku wants to ask abruptly. He’d expected the man to somehow make an appearance alongside Aizawa, of course, so that part isn’t what’s surprising him. It’s rather the fact that he looks so worried that has Izuku reeling.
Because Yamada doesn’t have to care.
He doesn’t have any obligations toward Izuku. Sure, he may be his English teacher, but that doesn’t mean he’s responsible for him. He’s not involved with Rabbit either. So for him to be here right now with such a comforting smile and warm tone? It doesn’t make sense, and Izuku doesn’t think he’ll ever truly figure out why either of the men care so much.
He’s never liked not knowing things.
Aizawa reaches for his shoulder again, but this time Izuku does lash out, panic hitting him like a sucker punch right in the gut. A shaking, bandaged hand tries to swat away the contact, but the movement only has Izuku’s brain swimming and the world swaying beneath his feet. He realizes belatedly that Aizawa must’ve been talking to him before, and he sees the man going to steady him when he stumbles.
He swipes at him again, weaker this time, and the hero easily catches his wrist midair and holds it there, grip just tight enough so Izuku can’t pull free. When Aizawa speaks, his voice is firm, but there’s a gentle undertone to it that Izuku doesn’t catch at first. “We need to get you back to the hospital, Midoriya. You’re still not fully healed.”
Izuku frowns and casts a look at the short hallway leading to his bedroom. “No. No, I need to get something.” He tugs at the hold, shaking his head even as his vision swims. “Sensei, I need to leave.”
“You don’t.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Like it should be obvious, and maybe it is, but damn it all Izuku isn’t in the mood for this. He’s getting drowsier with each passing second. He shouldn’t have waited so long to leave, but this would all admittedly be so much easier if Aizawa would just stop caring.
Izuku reaches up with his other hand, dropping the bunny ear to the floor, and tries to weakly pry off the fingers holding his wrist in place. Sometimes he forgets how strong his teacher is. “I need to. You don’t understand why—”
“This isn’t debatable,” Aizawa says, grip tightening as he simply pushes away Izuku’s attempts at dislodging him. “You shouldn’t have been able to wake up so quickly from a dose like that anyway, but we can address that later. For now, what you need to do is stop struggling before you hurt yourself.”
He can’t stop. That’s the thing. Even if Izuku’s already come to terms with the fact that he won’t be able to evade two pro heroes in the state he’s in right now, he still needs his things. Like his notebook. The leather-bound, fire-proof one.
The one with all his notes on All for One and the League. The one that he keeps hidden in his bedroom despite not ever going in that room. It’s that important.
And the guns under the floorboard. He isn’t sure if they got damaged, but it’s better to make sure. Some of them he doesn’t even own; a few of them are ones he’s borrowing from some acquaintances at the Club.
But how is he going to tell that to Aizawa, who’s already trying to carefully tug him out of the room? This is probably the weakest Izuku has been in his life. He’s already used up his remaining strength by going down the side of the hospital and then running all the way here, so he can’t fight him. Those flights of stairs took a toll on his legs, so he can’t run either.
Yamada holds up his hands, making Aizawa pause in his tracks but still keep his hold on Izuku’s wrist. “Your health and well-being is our first priority, kiddo. We just want you to be safe. Would it make you feel better if I stayed behind and gathered up anything that didn’t get destroyed for you?”
The suddenness of the question has Izuku’s head snapping up, emerald eyes meeting kind green ones. Now that he’s actually looking at the voice hero, Izuku notices that there are faint red hues outlining the swirls that are Yamada’s pupils. It’s interesting, as the boy never noticed that before. Perhaps it only happens when Yamada is feeling upset, or maybe it has something to do with how often he uses his quirk.
He shakes himself, as there’s a more pressing conversation going on at the moment. “Why would you—?”
“You said you have important stuff here, yeah?” Yamada asks somewhat cheerfully. “Maybe I can find what’s left while Sho takes you back to the hospital, how does that sound?”
Sho. Izuku doesn’t miss the deliberate use of Aizawa’s first name. Or, well, a shortened version of it. I am now certain my theory is correct.
And that—that would be good. Not the hospital bit, of course, but Yamada is bound to find the stuff Izuku missed or didn’t have a chance to look for. The important stuff, like his notebook that he just can’t leave behind; the files he’s gathered over the years; his expanse of weapons; and even more stuff.
Yamada must see the hopeful look on his face because he smiles again, eyes crinkling. “I’ll make sure to bring everything back to you, ‘kay?”
Izuku can only nod, surprised at his own eagerness and willingness to trust the hero with that. Well, maybe trust is a strong word. Izuku is kind of desperate to get his things back, even if he probably won’t be allowed to have any of it for long. There’s no telling if his other two safe houses have been raided too, so this might be the only place to gather up the rest of his belongings.
He opens him mouth to thank his teacher and tell him where to check in his bedroom, only to break out in a fit of coughs. Fuck, he can barely breathe. The heavy air is starting to clog his lungs.
Aizawa says something quickly to his coworker (or maybe partner?) and promptly steers Izuku out of the room despite the boy’s muffled protest, leading him down the scorched hallway. The stairs laugh at the boy as they near it, and Izuku can already feel the dread coil inside him.
It’s just going down ten flights of stairs, right? It can’t be that much more difficult than going up.
“Do you need me to carry you?” Aizawa asks, and Izuku blinks.
At first he thinks the hero is teasing him, but then he glances up to find him looking as serious as ever, not a hint of amusement on his face.
Uh, yeah, no thanks.
Izuku would rather die than be carried down by his teacher. That is mortifying. He’s fine. He can handle some stairs. It can’t be that bad—
His knee buckles the moment he goes down the first step, and he would’ve tumbled hard had Aizawa not grabbed his upper arm and jerked him back at the last moment.
Turns out that going downstairs is actually harder than going upstairs.
Izuku refrains from looking at the underground hero at all as they slowly make their way down. Aizawa is holding onto his arm tightly, which is basically the only thing keeping Izuku upright, though he’ll never admit it. This is beyond embarrassing. He feels like an elderly grandma.
They’re halfway down when Aizawa side-eyes him. “What’s with the cat beanie?”
Yeah, okay. Now he’s definitely teasing him. Izuku would like to politely ask his teacher to let go of his arm so he can just fall the rest of the way down. There’s only like a sixty percent chance he’ll die.
I didn’t steal it from a street vendor if that’s what you’re asking.
It’s just their luck when, on the second to last flight, the wood gives way beneath them and almost sends them both falling straight through. Oh, yeah. Izuku forgot just how unstable the building was even before the fire.
Aizawa grumbles something about vigilantes and picking the most hazardous places of living in the entire country of Japan, but the boy doesn’t pay him any mind.
He’s suddenly self-conscious when they make it outside. The air is getting colder, and his clothes aren’t doing much for him. He’s in equal parts curious and relieved when Aizawa opens up the passenger door of a car parked on the side of the road.
He wasn’t aware the man even had such a nice vehicle. It looks sleek, almost government-issued, and Izuku thinks to himself briefly that he’s too poor to even breathe the same air that this car drives in.
Aizawa climbs into the driver’s side and stares at him. “C’mon, you’re going to freeze half to death.” He narrows his eyes when Izuku doesn’t move. “Or you can stand there all day and let people stare at you. Your choice.”
The boy flushes, hesitantly sliding inside with a slight wince, shutting the door gently. He wouldn’t want to break anything of the hero’s. He’d never be able to forgive himself.
“It smells like,” his voice dies out, and Izuku clears his throat to try again. “It smells like cherries in here.”
Yeah, that’s not weird at all. This is just Izuku trying to start conversation.
Aizawa turns on the heater and gives him a sidelong glance. “Okay.”
Nailed it.
He studies the inside of the car, still trembling. He still can’t fully process what’s happening. He’s in his teacher’s car. He’s heading back to a hospital almost willingly just over an hour or so after escaping from it. That part is a change in itself. He’d never do something like this willingly. His identity is revealed now, and so is his homelessness. Which means there’s not many options awaiting Izuku once they both get back. He wonders what’ll happen.
“Put on your seatbelt,” Aizawa chides suddenly, pulling out into the street. “I’m not the best at driving.”
Izuku honestly didn’t think he even knew how to drive. He just doesn’t seem like the type to want to, nor does he seem like the type to put cherry air fresheners in his car to keep it nice. That must be Yamada’s doing.
It’s awkward the whole ride there, at least to Izuku. The hospital isn’t that far away, but traffic is busy this morning.
He can usually take silence, since it’s not usually as suffocating as the one he felt at his old home, but luck just doesn’t seem to be on his side today. He doesn’t like this emptiness one bit. Not even the radio is on to fill the void.
Which leaves Izuku talking to himself. In his mind.
What if I open the door right now and roll out onto the sidewalk. What’s the chance of me actually being able to get up in time to escape?
But just as he’s thinking he should try it, just to see, there’s a click as all the doors lock around the car.
Fucking witchcraft. Aizawa must be a mindreader, or he’s just known Izuku long enough to predict his upcoming rash ideas and stunts. That can’t be entirely true, though, as the hero did leave him alone for an undetermined amount of time in that hospital room. If he knows him so well, he should’ve expected Izuku to blast out of there the moment he got a chance.
But then again he found him pretty quickly. He knew exactly where Izuku would go. So something’s not right here. There’s something he’s missing, and it’s making him irritated because he just can’t figure it out. He’s usually better than this. He can usually pick out small details and put them together. But at the moment he can barely figure out what two plus two is.
Which brings back up Izuku’s other question. Did he let me leave, or am I just that hopeful? Am I looking into things that aren’t there?
He risks a small look at his teacher, eyes going first to his face and his clenched jaw, the way his eyebrows are furrowed slightly, as if deep in thought. And then he looks at the way his hands are holding the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles white.
Aizawa looks... perturbed? No, annoyed would be a better word. He looks upset, and the way he’s staring out at the road with a controlled kind of determination makes something heavy drop into Izuku’s stomach.
Is he angry? At him? But why would he be? Well, besides the whole running away thing. Izuku doesn’t know what else he could’ve done to piss him off, and he finds himself racking his brain for an answer.
He wants to ask if he’s mad, but Izuku loses the nerve to do it the moment he opens his mouth. Asking never went well with his father. Perhaps he should redirect instead. That always had a good chance at working back then.
Izuku shifts in his seat, looking back out the window. His heart is pounding in his ears. “What’s going to happen next?”
For a few moments there’s nothing, and Izuku fiddles with the sleeves of All Might’s sweater to stop himself from rambling to fill the silence.
But then a finger reaches over to press one of the buttons below the dashboard, and the car starts to move by itself.
And what the hell? It’s a self-driving car? How did Aizawa afford this? Why would Aizawa want to even afford this?
The man takes his hands off the steering wheel, folding his arms across his chest as he turns to look at him fully. Izuku resolutely does not meet his gaze, afraid of what he might find there.
“You didn’t believe a word I said to you at the hospital, did you?”
Izuku winces. “That’s not—”
“You ran because you felt you had no choice. You wouldn’t have done that if you trusted my word.” He tips his head in consideration. “But seriously, kid, the window? They had an elevator, you know. Would’ve saved yourself some effort.”
His words are slightly annoyed, but they make Izuku smile nonetheless, as hesitant as it is. He stares at the glove compartment and has to physically stop himself from opening it and rummaging around inside. Normally he’d be all for looting, but this is Aizawa’s stuff. He might need whatever’s inside for hero business later.
Izuku rubs his arms to soothe himself, staring at the small scuff marks on the dashboard. It looks like someone constantly puts their feet up here. “Where did you get the car?” He asks, just wanting him to keep talking. He can ignore the previous question for now.
If he keeps talking he might not stay mad, and Izuku can finally allow himself to relax just a little. Because the thing is, Aizawa usually lectures him when he does stupid shit like this. He’s done it before multiple time as both Aizawa Shouta and Eraserhead, so there’s no reason why he wouldn’t now. But the hero doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t let any anger bleed into his voice, which can either mean he’s really not angry, or that he’s just a master at hiding it.
“Principal Nezu gave it to me as a gift,” Aizawa explains, leaning back in his seat. “He said our old car wasn’t suitable for staff at UA.”
Our. He isn’t hiding it anymore.
They stop talking after that, having pulled up to the hospital. There’s still no lecture, though Izuku can feel one brewing. It’s only a matter of time. The other shoe has to drop, for everything is just too easy.
After Aizawa checks him in at the front desk, they take the elevator this time, a fact that his teacher smugly points out as they go up to his floor.
He’s given a different room this time, and Aizawa sticks right beside him the whole way there, as if afraid he’ll book it again. Which, honestly, isn’t too far from the truth. He probably would’ve tried to run into the crowds and disappear before even getting into Aizawa’s damn car, but his leg is being a bitch. He can barely walk correctly.
The doctors are quick to share their disapproval at his disappearance, scolding him for potentially making his healing injuries worse, and it’s only after Izuku has apologized to five different people (with Aizawa watching like a hawk by the entrance to the room) that they leave. Recovery Girl will apparently be in again in just half an hour to see him.
He shudders at the thought. No one is safe from the old lady’s sharp tongue.
Izuku is a flight-risk now, unfortunately, which means he can’t be left alone at all until that’s lifted. Aizawa has offered to be the guard, something that both confuses and relieves Izuku.
Confuses because honestly, Aizawa shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t have to be here. It’s his day off, Izuku knows, and he’s wasting it on him. Relieves because that means no one else will be watching over him. He doesn’t trust anyone else in this hospital, no matter how quiet or unassuming they act.
When Izuku asks about All Might and his whereabouts, as surely his mentor isn’t planning on just leaving his sweater here forever, Aizawa just says he had to attend some meetings and won’t be back for awhile.
Izuku doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. He should be relieved he doesn’t have to face him so soon.
One more day. One more day at the hospital, and then he should be cleared to leave.
Leave where, Aizawa won’t tell him. He says Yamada should be here when he tells him, which only makes the pit of dread inside Izuku grow. If it’s not prison or an orphanage, what is it?
Where is he going? And why has Aizawa just... taken on this role of watching over him? Why hasn’t he left by now?
Asking won’t get him anywhere, so Izuku just stares at his bedsheets and plays with the ring on his finger until Recovery Girl arrives. She starts to shoo Aizawa out, but the man doesn’t budge out of his seat.
“I’m on watch, Chiyo. He’s a flight—”
“I may be old,” the healer snaps, pointing her cane at him threateningly, “but I can still take care of my patients! Now go! He won’t run again, will you, young man?”
She turns her fiery gaze upon him, and Izuku straightens up immediately. “No, ma’am!”
Not from you, he thinks. She might just clock him in the shins with her cane if he moves wrong, and he’s not willing to go that far.
Aizawa snorts at Izuku’s quick answer and gets up, leaving the two of them alone.
Which is scary. Recovery Girl has this knowing look in her eye, and it sets off warning bells in Izuku’s head.
She starts off by checking over Izuku’s body for new injuries despite the previous doctors having already done so. She plants a kiss on his forehead to kickstart the rest of the healing, and Izuku falls back into the bed, sighing as he watches the green glow fade away.
“I’m not finished with you yet, Midoriya. Normally I wouldn’t discuss this in such detail with my patient when they’re still recovering, but it’s imperative we get this out of the way now.”
Fuck. Izuku chuckles nervously, the brief thought of I’m in danger flashing across his mind. He brings his knees up to his chest and watches with wide eyes as she rolls the stool to the edge of the bed. There’s a stack of papers in her hand, and he takes them with trembling fingers, suddenly glad that she made Aizawa leave.
This isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.
“I know you’re already aware of most of your injuries and shortcomings, so I won’t waste my breath. That,” she points at the papers that are now sitting in Izuku’s arms, “is what I really want to talk with you about.”
Izuku swallows. “My blood results?”
She nods, not looking pleased in the slightest. “Now, I don’t expect you to be able to read those charts or be able to fully understand what’s all on there, but I can tell just by the look on your face that you know the gist of what I’m about to tell you.”
Izuku was wrong. Things can, in fact, get worse. The healer knows something is wrong. She knows.
“Your blood is, for lack of better terminology, damaged, dearie,” Recovery Girl begins, sounding solemn. “It looks almost as if it’s been tampered with, and one doesn’t need a biology degree to understand why that’s so alarming.”
She fucking knows. The one thing Izuku didn’t want to happen, and here he is. Maybe he should’ve just said fuck it and jumped out of Aizawa’s car when he had the chance after all. He’d prefer that over this conversation any day.
“It’s like there’s multiple different kinds of blood inside you, all mutated together to bind to your own. Your files stated you have type O blood, which means you’re compatible with all other types. Even still, it’s almost as if there’s something else there that’s not combining correctly. In all senses, Midoriya, you shouldn’t even be alive. It’s unnatural for sure. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years.” She takes one of the papers off the bottom of the stack and shows the diagram to him. “Your DNA looks to have been torn apart and stitched back together multiple times, and by its own volition, too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d even say it was integrating new pieces of information into your genetic code and rebuilding around it.”
It’s almost scary how accurate that is, and that’s just her guess. Izuku never really thought of it that way before, but now that she’s said it he can picture it all too clearly.
Every new quirk he got, the more his blood had to adapt. The more of himself he had to destroy in order to change.
She’s watching him quietly, and Izuku realizes that she must be waiting for an answer. He stares at a point on the wall just past her head when he replies. “It’s, um, been like that for awhile? I’ve lived like this for a long time, so I think it’s fine? I can—I can survive it. My doctor said it was okay. When I was younger, I mean.”
He can survive with fucked up DNA. It’s not hurting him. Technically it’s the sickness that stems from the quirk that’s causing all of what’s hurting him. His body was made to withstand this kind of change with his blood.
That doesn’t make it any less disturbing to others, however.
“I understand this may be normal for you, Midoriya, but that doesn’t change why it’s like that to begin with. And that also doesn’t change the fact that I cannot even contact the singular doctor that was listed on your profile.” She rubs her temple, sighing deeply. “But there’s something else that I cannot pinpoint. I haven’t shared this with anyone except Aizawa, but your quirk is severely imbalanced. It is the root of most of your bodily issues, though I doubt everything is solely the fault of your original quirk.”
That’s not untrue.
Recovery Girl’s face morphs into one of faint suspicion. “You’d tell us if there were any developments with One for All, wouldn’t you? Information regarding that quirk is very important, Midoriya. You mustn’t hide anything from All Might or myself. You will end up back in the hospital that way.”
Does she know about my multiple quirks? Does she know about how One for All is kickstarting my death and sending poison through my veins, even right now as we’re talking?
“Of course I would,” he says, frowning. The lie tastes about as promising as the copper between his teeth. He’s been chewing too much on his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t keep it from you.”
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she concedes with a nod anyway. “I do not think One for All itself is causing all of your issues, but it’s still a plausible theory. I expect you to tell All Might about this possibility, understand? If One for All is causing you harm, we need to know. I’ll give you a few weeks, and if you haven’t done it by then, I will.”
Is it causing him harm? Indirectly, yes. But who’s fault is that, really? Izuku has no one to blame but himself.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Recovery Girl leaves fifteen minutes later after talking more about his blood and the potential link it has to One for All, there’s something new weighing him down by the stomach.
She disappears from the room, and Izuku thinks absentmindedly that more than one door has just closed on him.
His student’s home is ugly.
Hizashi won’t beat around the bush. It truly is.
He knows, of course, that the building did just go through multiple bombings and an inferno raging through its insides, but still.
He stands off to the side of Midoriya’s apartment, scanning the piles of debris for anything he can take back to the kid. He’s honestly surprised his student is even letting him do this in the first place. He’d expected a hard no, or at the very least some hesitance, but that wasn’t the case.
The kid must really be out of it.
Hizashi walks into the kitchen and peeks inside the overturned fridge, lips pressing into a thin line once he finds nothing but wet cat food and expired skim milk.
He doesn’t bother carrying those items, instead turning around to check the cabinets and floor.
Nothing so far. Well, except for a few weapons taped under blackened counters and near-unrecognizable notebooks thrown to the floor near what looks like Midoriya’s old desk.
The kid probably won’t find anything of use in the notebooks, saying as most of the pages have been turned to ash, but Hizashi sets them into his bag anyway.
Unfortunately, the weapons won’t be able to be permanently given back to him, but it’s good to pick them up anyway so no villains can get their hands on them.
He makes sure to pick up whatever remnants he can find of his Rabbit costume. He knows Midoriya might want to keep whatever’s left of it.
The next thing he finds is a manila envelope tucked inside a narrow crack in the wall. Hizashi probably wouldn’t have noticed it if not for its attention-grabbing color. He forces himself not to look too much, even as he starts to crave some drama. There’s a few pictures inside, and he puts it in the bag before he can snoop.
Hizashi isn’t about to breach the kid’s privacy. And besides, he needs to hurry it along. The floor is unsteady here, and he’s not planning on falling through anytime soon.
Everything is fine until he gets to the last room—Midoriya’s bedroom.
It’s obvious he very rarely comes in here, and when he does he makes sure not to move much. There’s just a few more guns and ammo (and even a flamethrower!), but that’s not what has him upset. It’s the dresser that makes him tip his head, because oh.
Suddenly it makes sense in the worst way.
The listener’s hidden a bottle of vodka in his dresser. It’s a big thing, takes two hands to hold it properly. It’s next to another one of Midoriya’s journals, this one looking a lot more sturdy and unharmed than the others, and is surrounded by patterned socks. There’s soft pink ones that are slightly charred on the tips, and there’s ones with stars on them.
Hizashi would almost coo if it were any other time.
But that traitorous bottle is demanding of his attention, and the more he looks at it, the more he’s taken back.
This alcohol right here? It almost ended his career when he first became a hero. It almost killed him.
He remembers, abruptly, how his own bottle would begin to rattle in his dresser sometimes on those sleepless nights. He remembers how it would sound, more specifically, and he shudders at the reminder.
He remembers it sounding like his bones. He remembers it sounding like his death.
Life was tough for Hizashi after his second year of high school. After everything that happened, he had very little to hold onto. His third year passed by too slow yet too fast all at the same time, and after graduation, alcohol became his anchor. It helped him ground himself. It helped him stay rooted to this cruel earth.
But the thing about being your own anchor is that first you have to drown.
Shouta was his saving grace back then. He helped him out of that hole as best he could, and Hizashi will always owe him for that. They were both dealing with their own personal issues, and yet their struggles were the same.
So to see another person, another teenager going down the same road Hizashi took? It’s like a hammer to his ribcage, because no. Midoriya doesn’t deserve this.
No one deserves the kind of pain that makes them believe they have to do something harmful to themself in order to just stay afloat. It is a fate worse than death.
He grits his teeth and stuffs the thick, leather-bound journal in his bag, along with the fluffy socks. He grabs the vodka with slightly shaky hands and pours it out into the drain in the bathroom. It was more than half empty, and the sales sticker on the side says it was bought just over a week or so ago.
That’s not good. Not good at all. He drank that much in so little time? That’s beyond dangerous.
He decides to keep the empty bottle. Just in case. He doesn’t think it’s his place to talk to the kid about this, so maybe he can ask Shouta to do it since he knows him better.
Either way, he knows confronting him won’t be pleasant. The listener will instantly be on the defensive, and he doesn’t want to do that to him. That’s the very last thing he wants, actually.
But that’s a matter for a different time. No use stressing about it yet. He’s supposed to be happy that the kid is finally out of this place.
For now, Hizashi just leaves the home with a heavy heart and a mind full of hopeful dreams.