Chapter Text
The world had not been kind to Izuku. This was fact, and it was lined in every scar crawling up his arms and every star that had painted itself into his back.
Izuku doesn’t have a lot to love.
They would be an average lower middle class family, except it’s a single parent household in which the mother is both overworked and neglectful. Before, just one day ago, he would’ve said he loved his All Might merch. He loved heroes. He loved Kacchan. He loved Mom. Maybe if he lied long enough, he could even say he loved his absent father.
Today, his list has dwindled down to just his mom. He doesn’t hate anything else on that list. He just doesn’t think he can bear to love them anymore either.
It’s weird, waking up in a world that moves around you, unchanged and unaffected. An event that for all intents and purposes is your crisis of faith has no bearing on them. No ripple effect. The world keeps moving, and the river diverges around you, so cold, so blue, where your faith has been shaken.
For Izuku, it’s momentous. He can no longer deny that there is no lost love between him and Kacchan. Kacchan, no, Katsuki, told him to jump off a roof. Just because he’s quirkless. And the idea that the boy who dared to wish death on another person is going to be a hero? It makes Izuku want to run. Far, far away, where Katsuki can be a watered down, faded memory. Then the sludge villain-- and it’s strange now, that Izuku understands how it feels to drown. The way he clawed for air and for just a little moment, decided to give up on that too. Until All Might arrived, and hope came with him, and just as swiftly it exited. Izuku had dared to ask if a quirkless person could become a hero, and All Might had said no.
Dreaming is hard these days. Izuku doesn’t have much to dream about. Doesn’t have much to hold onto. The sky is so blue, and some would say it's peaceful, but Izuku just wonders if the space around them has been mourning for longer than they could ever dare to understand.
The first time he sits on a rooftop, it’s left behind by All Might who had crushed his dreams so gently in his hands.
The sky is wide and beckoning and Izuku wonders at the price of these things. Of yeses and nos and the ground below.
About how he only has his mom to love, though even she doesn't have the time to love him back. She’s still the closest thing to love he knows. He stares and stares and stares until the sky is swallowed black and the stars peer out of that darkness, age old and infinite. Izuku wonders how wide infinity is. He wonders if infinity could be enough to fix this too.
He goes home. His mom doesn’t even notice he arrives way, way after dinner. Way after he should be asleep.
It’s not surprising then, that rooftops become a regular thing.
( The sky is a veneer for humanity. What a beautiful, beautiful nightmare).
Blue is the color of distance , he thinks as he stares at the sky. It is the distance between him and the stars that hold him hostage, laying claim to him on his back, starburst scars scattered down his spine, laying waste to all his dreams in a pooling fabric of eternity.
This rooftop is tall and there are scarcely any buildings tall enough to interrupt his view of the endless, endless blue above him.
The night sky has been described as black before to him, but he’s always thought blue was a far more accurate choice. Different shades of blue, but still inevitably just that, blue. The color of the faraway. The deep, dark blue that housed the stars, a shackling constellation wrapped around his ankle. Stars must be possessive things. Hungry at the core.
Blue is the color of distance, he thinks as he stares at the ocean and all its depths. It is the distance between him and the dark below, between him and the surface. He stares at the water, reflecting clusters of light back into his eyes from his perch on top of a roof. He remembers what it feels like to drown, all encompassing and choking, choking, choking .
The beach is dirty but the water is still blue, no matter how muddied that blue is. The ocean must hunger too, the way the stars do. How many secrets must be housed deep below, how many bodies. The reflections that glance off the water certainly wink at him like starlight, a mocking reminder that he will never escape the stars.
He will never escape Kacchan’s shadow, with all his too-bright and flashing light. He will never escape his pain, this blindingly breaking heat. Always hurting. Kacchan had always been fated to be a star, ambitious and reaching, with a gravitational pull to draw in the people around him. His light is bright enough to make the shadows that follow him all the more darker and denser. More real. Izuku just always seems to get too close, and he always, always gets burned. Every time he tries to leave, he is dragged back into orbit, kicking and screaming, solar flares climbing up his shoulder. Helpless to that gravity. Useless. Weak.
Staring off the rooftop, he thinks that leaving has never been a choice for him. It’s always been a matter of survival.
He wonders if death can be that, can be a necessary tool to save whatever parts of him are left. Whatever hasn’t been eaten by the stars, by Kacchan, by heroes. It makes him ask if dying can be a matter of survival before an issue of inevitability before a debate of choice.
(There’s a boy in a hoodie staring at him across the roof. Izuku does nothing, says nothing. Suspicion is beyond him these days, maybe because if he spent his time paranoid about who might hurt him he would go insane. It’s everyone. Everyone might hurt him, as soon as they hear he’s quirkless).
At the core of things, Izuku has always been ionic. A solid held together by the forces of attraction, a carefully built arrangement that means that all of the raging turmoil and all of his dreams can never touch. A crystal lattice, an unexplainable dichotomy of bareboned and heavy with all the words he carries, all the times he’s been told no, and his capacity to dream, to be something more than their denial. He is unbent and unbowed but so fragile. So brittle. Deceptive in his strength, in how much he can take before he simply breaks. Enough push and his carefully erected walls shift and repulsion forces all his layers apart.
( Oh how many ways there are to fall apart).
Blue is the color of distance, he thinks, staring down the alleyway at the blue dumpster, barely visible.
(The boy found him again.)
He’s on a rooftop again, and it’s that same boy for the third time in a row.
Izuku stares searchingly at him, at the pale blue hair peeking out the hood of the sweatshirt. Blue is the color of distance, he muses quietly.
He meets red, red eyes and asks, “What’s your name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“What else do I have to ask?” He motions between them.
“...Shigaraki. Shigaraki Tomura.”
“I’m Midoriya Izuku.”
“Why do I keep finding you sitting at the edge of roofs?”
“Why do you keep seeking me out?”
“I’m…curious. I don’t get it. What you’re doing. So why do I keep finding you on rooftops?”
“Have you ever thought of what it’s like to fall?”
Shigaraki snorts, “I imagine you fell a lot as a kid.”
Izuku shakes his head. “No, I mean that kind of falling that is flying first, and then the pull of gravity.” He sweeps his arm out gesturing to the horizon.
Shigaraki falls silent, watching him closely before exiting the roof.
Izuku should really, really stop meeting Tomura on rooftops. It’s not a good look for him, but the allure of an edge is a double edged sword.
“What are you looking at? It’s all the same. Always dirty alleyways however many stories under you,” Tomura mutters, scratching at his neck as if he can’t decide if he’s discontent because he doesn’t understand Izuku or because Izuku hasn’t just jumped already.
“I’m not looking at anything. I’m looking for something.” Izuku says, not even turning around to look at Tomura. He simply can’t bring himself to care.
“For what?” Tomura asks, almost annoyed by Izuku's casual disregard.
“Clarity. Hope. Peace. Something other than this,” Izuku says softly, finally turning slowly around to meet Tomura’s eyes.
The green of Izuku’s eyes are dull and empty in a way Tomura has never seen before, and he’s seen a lot. He’s seen anger, rage, and bloodlust. He’s seen people trapped in the throes of a revenge-fueled rampage, he’s seen begging and despair. He’s seen broken people too-- Izuku looks like one of them except his eyes are so empty. So heavy. It’s like there’s not even enough of him left in there to be anything but sad anymore. Anything but grieving.
What Tomura feels then is not pity, nor a need to protect or save Izuku. But part of him sees a little bit of 7 year-old Tenko in there, desolate and too old. Even then though, Izuku feels different. Like the cold arctic tundra and the peaks of Mount Everest, piled high with frozen bodies, always freezing, always unchanged. Unbothered by the world. Little Tenko was lonely and angry and abandoned. Izuku is just... gone. Left with this mourning part of him.
Tomura reaches out a hand. “Come with me.”
“Why?” Izuku asks, tilting his head.
“You got anything else better to do?”
Izuku casts a short look over the edge before shrugging and following him, carefully grabbing onto 3 of the fingers offered to him.
Tomura watches him carefully and nods to himself. Izuku isn’t broken— he just isn’t whole anymore. Not all there. If he was broken there would be pieces. Not this empty space.
“Izuku, do you want to die?”
In reply, he only shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t stop you if you tried to kill me. I wouldn’t be mad if I did die, if that helps.”
Tomura only snorts, suggestively tacking on “Well…I’m a villain.” He wants to see Izuku’s reactions.
To his glee and unending curiosity, Izuku’s posture stays pliant. For everything that’s been done to him, Izuku is still soft in a way Tomura has not been since he was four. “That’s okay.”
“No reaction?”
“No, I knew.”
“Oh, how then?”
“The way you talk. The way you hold yourself. The way you don’t really care about me. You’re not a full on sociopath though, you’ve just got really, really low levels of empathy.” Izuku does not say it, but quietly, he thinks that Tomura has been hurt terribly by someone in his past.
Tomura reaches over and fluffs Izuku’s head of hair, “You’re so interesting. It would be a shame if you just died.”
“Yeah, well, you pick up a lot of things about reading people when you’re quirkless. Survival relies on it really. Did you know I used to be a hero fanboy? Analyzed them too. I think I got pretty good.” Izuku’s eyes drift off as if he’s unable to keep them focused for long, just on the edge of rambling.
“Oh, were you now? How intriguing it is that you’re waltzing off with a villain.” Tomura is almost shaking with unhinged glee.
“Well, what are you going to do to me? Kill me? So what? Torture me? I’ll just kill myself first. I’m quirkless, what else can you get from me? Plus, I don’t mind. Villain or not, the world isn’t black and white.”
“I’m going to ask Sensei if I can keep you.”
The first days go by in a haze, and Izuku does not do much. He isn’t restrained but it’s not like he can get far with Kurogiri around.
He’s not sure how to react. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Izuku doesn’t know how to do anything except hurt. He's been hurting so long he’s not sure he remembers how it feels to go without pain.
It’s odd, he thinks. They’ve given him his own room, but he just drifts listlessly around. No purpose, no point. It must be the third day of nothing when he slips down the stairs in the early morning. No one’s in the kitchen yet because it isn’t a reasonable hour but Izuku finds that that’s perfect. When he opens the fridge, he’s pleased to see it's fully stocked.
This. This I can do.
He gets started on breakfast. It’s mostly eggs with furikake or rice mixed in with some other things. He takes his time and it’s comfortable, easier. The world feels more manageable in the kitchen, with a quiet rhythm as he works. By the end of the two hours, he finds he’s made plenty for everyone residing at the bar.
He’s not happy, no.
But he’s more settled. More content. There’s no expectations here.
He eats quietly and when Kurogiri arrives he points at the food, then Tomura, then Dabi, then Toga, who is followed by Twice.
When everyone gets their food and sits to eat, Toga compliments Izuku, “Wow, Zuzu! Did you make this all for us? It’s so good!”
Izuku nods shyly, looking at his plate. Tomura leans over to ruffle his hair, “You can use the kitchen whenever you want, kid.”
For the first time in so long, Izuku smiles.
Later on, Spinner, Mr. Compress, and Magne join them.
Izuku does not mind. It’s just more people to cook for.
He sees them ask, once or twice, about his presence. Their protests quickly die off when they eat his food. For all of them, it has been so long since they have had true home cooked food. Izuku thinks that these people are so hurt that it will never be a burden to give this to them. To return this piece of happiness to them.
He knows he’s too soft, not cut out for handling the jagged edges of these people around him. But Izuku has never minded getting hurt. He is patient, even when they lash out. Gentle when they are angry. Soft when their words are sharp. He lets himself bleed for them, and watches as they soften in turn.
He lets himself be soft and gentle and finds that it is rewarding in quiet ways. In ways that trying to be strong and full of fight never was.
Like how Tomura wears the artist’s gloves he suggests, and Dabi lets Izuku smear burn cream on his back, and Toga lets Izuku sharpen her knives, and Twice believes Izuku when he holds him together and says, “You are who you think,” with that steady, unfailing conviction.
They aren’t perfect but they are his. He would not trade them for the world.
Izuku knows distantly that USJ happened. He has a phone, courtesy of Kurogiri. He finds he mostly uses it for new recipes or watching TV shows, but that doesn’t mean the news never pops up. They don’t try to restrict his internet access and Izuku never betrays their trust.
He doesn’t like watching the news, or shows involving heroes and villains. It makes that aching, scarred part of him pull.
More intimately, he knows USJ happened because the base was quiet, silent and alone. Later that day, they had poured back in through Kurogiri’s portal, but Izuku hadn’t asked questions. He’d wrapped their wounds and given them food. He gave them peace and rest and home.
The League— he does not love that new name— tries to keep him shielded from their plans. He had requested it because he was done with it. Heroes and villains and the world outside— he didn’t need any of it. They like that he gets to stay protected, away from the fighting, from the people. They prefer keeping him in the dark, and Izuku prefers the bubble he’s created here. Safe from the world and all its groaning, whining, screaming pain.
Izuku is their anchor. They know at the end of the day, they can go home, and Izuku will look at them, with his kind, kind eyes and patient hands, and press a meal into their hands. He will ask questions when the time is right but never about the blood on their hands.
He is safety. Safe haven. They would do anything to keep him safe. Anything.
And when Izuku smiles, it’s like the world is brighter for just a moment.
There are days that Izuku wanders around aimlessly, eyes too knowing, the same keen gaze that tells him so much about the world around him. It takes in too much most of the time. And Izuku looks so tired on those days. Quietly, the League rages.
These kinds of days are a constant reminder of how hurt Izuku is. They rage at the world for what it has done to him. They marvel at the kindness still softens his edges. And selfishly, they are thankful that Izuku found them. That his hurt brought him to them.
It is one of those days that Tomura makes Izuku a promise.
“I promise you that if there’s ever a day that it’s truly too much, and you need out, I will kill you, okay? I promise I’ll kill you if that day comes,” Tomura is steady when he says that, looking into Izuku’s eyes.
Izuku looks back, searching for something in there. “You promise?”
Tomura buried his face in Izuku’s curls, murmuring, “Promise,” into them.
Izuku leans back into Tomura and breathes a little easier.
It is another one of those days that Izuku seems to leave his own body. Eyes trapped somewhere else, where they cannot reach him. Where Izuku’s pain is not easily soothed, where there is no one they can kill to bring Izuku back to them.
(They hate like no other on these types of days.)
Dabi pets Izuku’s hair, rocking them back and forth as if to soothe Izuku. Izuku lies limp in his arms, eyes wide and empty. Glazed over.
“You poor kid. What’d they do to you? What’d they do?”
Izuku does not want to admit it, but all those nights on rooftops, he had wanted to be saved. He had wanted so desperately for someone to pretend, for once, that they cared.
But no one came. No one, not until Tomura. Izuku had spent so long waiting to be saved that now, here he was, saved by the people who were supposed to be evil, he could not bring himself to be angry. Only quietly grateful that it was them.
He just lets his weight rest more heavily against Dabi, trusting that his hands could be gentle, could be kind just as much as they could burn.
Izuku threads his hands through Tomura’s hair as Tomura’s head lays in his lap. He wonders if Tomura knows about that hungry thing in him, the one with a tar slick mouth and dripping black eyes. Always hungry, that feral something lining his eyes and his mouth with other . Izuku cannot find it in him to be scared or repulsed because that thing is hungry, but it is still Tomura . Tomura, who picked him up off a roof and brought him home.
He cannot feel repulsed, when all he feels is a soft understanding. Children are not born monsters, they are made into them. Izuku is good at loving the things that can hurt him, so it’s not so far off that he would love Tomura and all his sharpened teeth.
He wonders if the monster in Tomura sees a kindred spirit in him, if he can see the way starlight spills out his eyes and threatens to drown him in the faraway blue. For now, he is content addressing Tomura’s skin hunger, carefully brushing through strands of pale blue hair. He likes this too, and it calms the itching, craving hunger underneath his own skin. It has been so long since touch has not burnt him, has not made him bleed. He lets the meditative lull of running his fingers through Tomura’s hair take over while Tomura keeps on facing the TV screen, head turned sideways, playing a video game. Izuku likes watching-- he thinks that if he could spend the rest of his life curled up on this couch with Tomura keeping him safe, it would not be so bad.
He could be happy with this. Of course, sometimes Tomura slips up. When he gets angry, forgets his gloves, sometimes, he will unthinkingly grab Izuku's arms. Izuku usually lets his mind drift off when this happens, distantly watching his skin flake away. It hurts, but it is nothing that Izuku is not used to and Tomura always pulls away as soon as he notices. Izuku never makes a sound when it happens, and Tomura does not apologize, but he always personally dresses those wounds for Izuku, hands achingly, achingly careful. Holding his wrists like they are precious and checking his wounds every day until they are closed, and the blood is nothing but a memory. Izuku does not mind the hurt so much when Tomura is so heartbreakingly gentle with him, handling him with that fragile, fragile care. These scars are not so bad. True accidents. They don’t burn between his shoulder blades.
He loves Tomura a little more for it.
The League likes Izuku. He’s warm and gentle, kind in a way that should feel out of place in their home. He isn’t though, because he’s been hurt the same way as the rest of them, left to fend for himself.
He’s observant, and knows when best to push and when best to let things lie as they are. He takes care of them, and is always, always patient, even when they hurt him accidentally. They love him for it, though most days they wish they could tear apart the world for making Izuku so used to being hurt.
Izuku notices their needs, sometimes before they themselves can recognize them. He keeps them sane. He keeps them together . Everything about Izuku is sweet and soft and shattered. He does not mind their jagged edges and they do not mind picking up the pieces of him and slowly, ever so slowly, putting him back together, day by day.
It makes them protective, and they all get antsy when Izuku leaves the base for whatever reason, especially Tomura. Izuku does not mind it though, he likes staying inside. It’s safe in a way the outside world has never been for him. All he knows of the outside is painpainpain. Plus, it’s nice to be wanted, to know they care. Some people might feel stifled, and claim it's a cage, but it has never been that way to Izuku. It has only ever been a sanctuary. It has only ever been home, a little worn down, a little imperfect, but theirs.
The year comes and goes. Izuku is peripherally aware that things are going on in the background, but he doesn’t bother digging into it. Tomura’s Sensei and Izuku have a sort of no-contact deal and he never bothers Izuku because Izuku has never tried to leave. Plus Izuku is quirkless, so he’s not really viewed as a threat. As long as he doesn’t try to get involved, Izuku is nothing more than an ant underneath his boot. He likes it that way. He doesn’t need anyone besides the family living in their home.
(He doesn’t know, but All for One also keeps him around because he’s a stabilizing presence. A unifying one.)
Soon, summer swings around. There’s a big mission happening, but Izuku just plans a big baking project in the kitchen, trying to occupy the silence, but also to give them something to come home to.
He hears a portal whooshing open and his eyes brighten as he slips out the kitchen to greet the people he expects to tumble out the portal. Tomura and Kurogiri are first since they seem to have been less personally involved, and largely observers. It is Dabi that follows, then Mr.Compress, followed by everyone else. Izuku is thankful that only a select few— his family— are allowed at this particular base. The rest of them are sent somewhere else unknown by Kurogiri. Tomura is much more careful these days about who is allowed to know that Izuku exists, let alone meet him.
They look especially smug today, though Izuku does not ask why. It’s nice to see that none of them are hurt seriously, and Izuku is gentle as he treats their wounds and nudges the massive plate of cookies forward. It’s peaceful, with only the rustling of cloth and faint sounds of eating.
Mr. Compress stands up first. “I’m going to drop…him…off in the holding room.”
The rest of the group snickers as he fingers a marble. Izuku doesn’t look up from where he’s wiping the blood off Toga’s face, eyes soft and crinkling just a little at the sounds of their laughs.
It’s two or three days later when Izuku collects his laundry and brings it down. He knocks on everyone’s door asking if they have any as well. After making his rounds, he drags the baskets of clothing downstairs. Not paying attention, he opens the first door on the left in the lower levels. Suddenly, sound filters in. There’s screaming. Izuku realizes he’s accidentally opened the soundproof holding room instead of the laundry room.
“—YOU FUCKERS. I’M GOING TO BLOW YOU TO FUCKING PIECES—“
Izuku’s breath comes faster. He realizes who exactly they have captured. He also realizes, with gravity, that none of them know the history Katsuki and him have. His vision tunnels and clothing falls from his hands. It makes a thump in the open doorway, and Katsuki turns his head to face who it is.
“WAIT UNTIL I FUCKING KILL YO— Deku?”
Izuku shakes his head, moving backwards slowly.
“Wait a fucking minute, what the fuck? How do you know Deku? Are you wearing his face?”
He breathes out a panicked Kacchan? Unable to comprehend that after over a year of peace, he’s confronted by his worst tormentor.
“WHAT THE FUCK? DEKU? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE? DOING THE LEAGUE’S FUCKING LAUNDRY?”
Izuku slides down the wall, eyes still focused on the angry slant of Katsuki’s eyes. Unable to move, he lets out a strangled whimper. Katsuki continues to struggle in his cuffs, behind bars. Before he can start screaming, Izuku lets out his own scream before it cuts off, choked up and suffocating. Tomura runs down, meeting the sight of Izuku clawing at his shoulder, staring sightlessly at a now silent Katsuki.
“What the fuck did you do to him?” Tomura snarls at Katsuki.
“I didn’t do shit. More like what you fuckin’ did.” Katsuki replies, much more subdued compared to his earlier screaming.
Tomura pays no mind, kneeling down to pull Izuku into his arms. He pulls Izuku’s hands away from the bloody lines on his shoulder and they move on their own to clamp over his ears instead. Tomura allows it to happen, burying his face in Izuku’s hair and rocking them back and forth, trying to soothe him. He glared into the room, shutting the door before stooping down to pick Izuku up. Sighing, he looks at the clothing baskets sitting on the floor, hauling Izuku onto his back and picking up the baskets. He moves into the laundry room next door, letting Izuku cling to him.
After dropping off the laundry, he carries Izuku back to their living room. Everyone there is concerned at the sight of Izuku and his bloody shoulder. Tomura gently pries him off his back and onto the couch. He lifts up Izuku’s shirt and realizes all the scratching had been over a starburst scar on his shoulder.
The pieces click together in his head.
“Izuku, do you know Bakugou?” he asks.
Izuku’s eyes meet his, so terribly tired and says, “He hasn’t changed at all.”
They don’t have more time to talk. There’s a knock outside, calling for a pizza delivery order of all things. Then it clicks, because none of them would order pizza when they have Izuku. It’s the heroes. This thought process happens over the course of maybe 10 seconds, but the door is already busting open. Tomura meets Izuku’s eyes before tossing him to Kurogiri, who sends him through a portal to the laundry room. They don’t have any other safe places they trust with Izuku, so they can only pray that one of them is able to get Izuku later.
The heroes burst through and there are so many of them. The League knows that the only way to survive is out. In a panic, they blindly fight their way out the building, but quickly realize they have been distracted by their own fights. No one is watching the prisoner, and most importantly, no one is watching Izuku.
Suddenly, they hear: “GRAB THAT KID!”
“Who is he? Why is he here?”
A louder, explosive voice— Bakugou— “I DON’T KNOW WHY HE’S FUCKING HERE BUT THAT’S MIDORIYA IZUKU. I THOUGHT HE WAS FUCKING DEAD—“
And they realize with plummeting stomachs that the heroes have Izuku.
It enrages them. They fight harder and all of them make it— at a price. All for One falls to All Might that day, though All Might falls that day as well.
It feels like an empty victory because Izuku is not there with them.
Tsukauchi thinks this could not be a more complicated case. Midoriya Izuku had been missing for over a year, and declared dead little more than six months into a fraud of an investigation. A double dose of quirk discrimination from investigating officers and neglect from his single parent. Then he shows up, alive, and for all intents, well, with the most notorious villain group in recent times.
Even more so, he wants to go back to said villain group. Every time Tsukauchi attempts to convince him otherwise, it goes something like this:
“By the time they found me, I’d forgotten how to do anything except hurt. So they took me away and I went willingly and it stopped hurting. It was safe and they were kind. I would like to go back. Can you let me go?”
Tsucakuchi tries to emphasize, “They aren’t good people, Izuku. They’ve killed others.”
Izuku replies, “Good people don’t always do good things. And bad people are still people.”
“Why’d they keep you around?” Tsukauchi asks, wondering what they could want with a quirkless teengaer.
“Because I treated them like people, when no one else did. Because I was kind and didn’t want anything more than that kindness in return.” Izuku’s words are quiet but confident.
“Izuku…we can’t, in good conscience, send you back to them.” Tsukauchi sighs, exhausted beyond belief.
“So what? You’ll ‘rehabilitate’ me, and send me into foster care or witness protection, and I’ll still get hurt because I’m quirkless. And I’ll run, and I’ll be back with them anyways. Nothing changes.”
“We’ll make sure you’re with a good family.”
“They won’t understand. They’ll still treat me differently. You don’t know what it’s like to be quirkless. And even if it IS a good family— what happens when I go outside?”
Continuing, Izuku finishes, “You know, Tomura told me I could’ve been a great hero. He says I’m the nicest person he’s ever met, the most forgiving, but I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I just want to go home.”
Tsukauchi can tell. Maybe, once upon a time, Izuku could have been the best of them. The change that was needed. But those days are long gone.
Unluckily for the heroes, they hadn’t checked Izuku for trackers besides his clothing. He had one stuck to the roof of his mouth, right behind the front teeth, undetectable while talking or eating.
Because Izuku was quirkless, they hadn’t expected needing more than handcuffing him to the chair for the interrogation. The detective leaves, and Izuku wonders if there are still people watching from the other side of the one-way glass.
He sits, numb and quiet, tired and desperate to go home. It is hours— probably a few, but time passes strangely for Izuku— later when the swirling purple portal expands on the wall and Izuku finally breathes again. He’d never been happier that Kurogiri didn’t need more than coordinates for his quirk to work. Toga, Tomura, and Dabi step through, walking quickly over to him. He smiles softly, sweetly as Tomura reaches over to disintegrate the handcuffs.
His eyes are bright and affectionate when he says, “I knew you would come for me.”
Tomura’ s lips quirk ever so slightly in reply and he runs a rough hand through Izuku’s hair, leaning down to whisper, “We’ve got you, Izuku. You don’t need to worry anymore.” Izuku leans into the hand, eyes fluttering close, trusting and vulnerable. He sags into it, letting Tomura carry his weight. Later, the heroes will watch this footage, baffled and uncomprehending at their relationship. Unable to understand that the one-dimensional version of Shigaraki they would like to imagine exists only in their imagination.
Suddenly, the door slams open, and they can hear the noise that had been blocked off by the soundproof walls. There’s the crackling of announcements over barking orders and loud footsteps. Tomura stands quickly, facing the door as a voice through the intercom commands, “Stand down, Shigaraki.”
All Might comes through the door, but before he can even move, another portal appears, dropping a child in a heap on the floor, and Toga lunges over, holding a knife to her throat. The girl looks to be around 10, and dirty, with matted hair and very skinny. She’s scared and whimpering, but Toga only looks at All Might, who’s frozen.
“You move anymore and I slit her throat! Don’t need a quirk to do that!” She winks at the one-way glass, knowing that Eraserhead is likely waiting on the other side.
While this occurs, Dabi reaches over to pull Izuku out of the chair, slipping an arm under his knees and one under his back to brace him as he lifts him up to carry. Izuku doesn’t protest, despite being able to walk, because he feels safesafesafe in Dabi’s arms. He wraps his arms around Dabi’s neck and curls closer to his chest, turning his face to bury it in Dabi’s shoulder. He does his best to tune out the commotion.
All Might looks on seriously, booming, “You stoop to threatening innocent and harmless children now?”
Toga sneers, “You stoop to kidnapping innocent and harmless children now?”
All Might appears confused before it clicks and he says, “Well, he’s hardly innocent now, having lived with you.” He shakes his head, as if despairing and disappointed for Izuku.
Toga only seethes, echoed by both Dabi and Tomura, who still stands in front of All Might. Tomura reaches to scratch his neck, rasping out, “You don’t deserve Izuku. You’ll never deserve him. None of you.”
“And you do?”
Dabi hisses out, “No. But at least we don’t hurt him. Not the way you have. We keep him safe. You’ve only proved that it’s been necessary.” He looks down at the fragile, trembling body in his arms, squeezing him tighter as Izuku relaxes further into him. Dabi turns his head to brush his chin over green curls.
He starts making his way to the portal on the side of the wall, and before All Might makes an aborted move, Toga raises her voice, “We’ll do anything to see Izuku safe,” emphasizing it by putting more pressure on the knife, causing the little girl to whimper.
All Might asks, “What use do you have for a quirkless teenager?”
Tomura snorts out bitterly, “Maybe he doesn’t need to have a use? We like him. He likes us. He hasn’t been involved in a single one of our plans. He doesn’t get involved at all. The only thing he knows about our missions is how hurt we are when we get back. I’m sure you won’t believe that, but that’s not really our problem.”
Toga drags the girl backwards towards the portal, and All Might clenches his teeth, knowing that however fast he is, he cannot risk trying to snatch the girl while a knife is still at her throat. Dabi looks over his shoulder as he leaves, eyes piercing through the one way glass before walking through. Tomura follows similarly, scratching the back of his neck as he mutters, “Fucking heroes. Hypocrites, every last fucking one of you. Izuku is too good for you.”
Toga is the last to go through, stepping one foot backwards, and then without hesitation, dropping the knife and launching herself backwards. The portal snaps shut immediately, even as people rush in the room and All Might runs towards it. He changes priorities and focuses on the little girl, comforting her as she cries.
Later, they will find out she is a human trafficking victim, pulled out by Kurogiri’s portal. The rest of the victims who were taken with her are shortly dropped into the interrogation room via portal. Things have never been less black and white.
Over the next two or three years, between battles and skirmishes, Izuku watches from afar, tucked away, as Kacchan becomes a hero. He is everything he used to say he would become, powerful and so close to being the best. Maybe in another world, he would feel resentful. In this one, he still flinches at the sounds of explosions, but mostly he is focused on staying far, far away. After all, Kacchan is still a star, burning and turning himself inside out. Iron at the core, thumping along to the booming war drums of the universe.
Izuku is serene as he stays in the base, time occupied largely by cooking, hanging out with everyone, or just existing. Here, he doesn’t need to be anyone.
The world outside has done nothing but hurt him. He’s happier inside, away from the too bright, too loud, too much of the world around him. Here, the world can be lesser. His world can be lesser. Smaller. Safer.
The League of Villains are still villains, for however peaceful their bubble is at home, but they never try to force Izuku to participate and he never offers. He is happier where he is, and they feel better when he is safe at home. He has no illusions that these are good people, but so rarely have good people done good things for him. As such, he does not stop their activities, nor does he ask questions when they come back injured and bleeding, he just takes care of them, touch gentle and meticulous. Bandaging their wounds and chiding them to take better care of themselves. They would all be lying if they said they did not love him just a little more for this.
“Am I a good kid?” Izuku looks up at Dabi, tucked into his side.
“Yeah, yeah you are.” Dabi squeezes him a little closer.
“Re—really?” Izuku’s eyes are wide and disbelieving. He looks around and meets the eyes of everyone else, who all nod in agreement.
“Then—then why did they hurt me? Why did it always hurt?” He bursts into tears.
“They don’t deserve you. They still don’t.” Dabi’s voice is harsh and unforgiving when he says this, lined with steel and hate.
These days all they seem to do is hatehatehate the whole world— all its people and especially the heroes— for failing Izuku.
They keep Izuku inside to keep him protected but also because the world does not get to have him anymore. If the world took his kindness for granted then they will make sure everyone misses it. That everyone understands what they lost, what they tossed aside.
Izuku does not mind. They keep him safe where no one else would bother. It’s comforting to know they care so intensely. Maybe it’s unhealthy, but it works for him. It’s what he’s always, always wanted since he was small. To be wanted . Maybe he’s a little broken, a little empty. But that’s okay these days. The League doesn’t care. They get it.
The outside world is no place for him anymore. He doesn’t want it to be either.
The League is preparing for battle. Izuku’s instinct is warning him that as much as they are trying to shield him from this, it will not work out.
Izuku has already made peace with this. He does not think he was made to live long. He’s always just been a footnote in their story.
When Tomura starts to claw at his neck and Dabi pulls at his staples, Izuku reaches out a steady hand to each of them and pulls their hands away. His eyes are unwavering, “I will be alright.”
He knows they’ve received news that the heroes are closing in. There’s no safe place to move Izuku to. It makes them panic, and Izuku is soft when he remembers how much they care. He squeezes the hands in his grasp on each side. They relax, just a touch. Izuku does not tell them that “alright” and that foreboding feeling from his instincts do not bode well for him.
He just sinks into the feeling of family and hopes it will be the last one he feels.
When they arrive, the heroes reach out. They promise that they won’t hurt him. That it will be better when he is free, and that they will take care of him. The League snarls at them, telling them to take their eyes off Izuku. His eyes flash with fondness when he sees how overprotective they are. He keeps himself hidden away behind the backs of the broader members and avoids eye contact, even when the heroes reach out beseeching hands.
They are lying.
Izuku flinches and turns away, curling into Toga’s side. She smiles a bloodthirsty grin at the heroes, over his shoulder.
The heroes have done nothing but hurt him— especially now that Kacch— Katsuki is among their ranks.
Her grin widens as she goads, “ Kacchhhaann! Don’t you miss Izuku?”
Izuku coils tighter, body tense as Toga supports their weight.
“DEKU—“
Izuku pushes himself closer to her, trying to draw comfort and suppress the runrunrun instinct at Katsuki’s voice. Toga’s grin fades into something softer, more concerned as she brushes her cheek with his before gently prodding him into Dabi’s waiting arms instead.
The exchange is quick and the heroes can only blink twice in confusion before Toga is interrupting Bakugou,
“ You must miss your punching bag, right? All the scars you left on him? That’s okay, though, because we picked him up! You didn’t want him but we did! We saved him because you never cared. He’s such a sweet kid, you know?”
“DEKU— THOSE ARE VILLAINS! THEY KILL PEOPLE. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH THEM?”
“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t talk to Izuku. You don’t deserve that chance. Plus, all Izuku knows is that the heroes hurt him. I mean, look at yourself. You’re a hero and you’re responsible for at least 70% of the scar tissue on him. On the other hand, we’ve never intentionally hurt him. We keep him safe, and protected, away from people like you. Why would he want to leave?”
Izuku trembles, folding deeper into Dabi’s arms, which tighten around him as Dabi drops a kiss into his hair. “You’re doing good, Izuku. Hold on a little longer.”
They are stuck at a stalemate. The heroes keep trying to beckon him over. At one point, a struggle ensues and he’s pulled over into the throng of heroes. He immediately starts to squirm, struggling to get back to Tomura, to his family, to home.
He struggles twice as hard, vision unfocusing as he realizes it’s Katsuki who is reaching for him as the hero holding him attempts to pass him off.
“STOP FUCKING STRUGGLING, DEKU. WE’RE TRYING TO SAVE YOU—“ Katsuki screams.
Tomura grits back, voice low and angry, “You know, Kacchan, he’s not yours anymore. We’re the ones who picked up his pieces, who put him back together when no one else would.”
Izuku reaches for Tomura, and Tomura reaches back. Izuku does not want to be with the “heroes.” He likes the home he has carved out for himself back at the base. Its comfort, its safety.
Between this moment and the next, a killing blow is dealt. Izuku’s not sure who fires it or where it comes from but it’s accidental, intended to incapacitate Tomura as he reaches for Izuku but Izuku can tell that the power behind that strike is fatal. It’s easy for him to slip into its path, and the impact punches the breath from his lungs and sends him straight into Tomura’s arms. He feels his blood leaking from between Tomura’s fingers, life leaking out with it, and does not regret his action, though feels a little sorry that it had to end this way. It had been good though, while it lasted.
“No, no, no, Izuku, you can’t--”
Izuku leans a little heavier and buries his head against Tomura’s shoulder, feeling blood well out the corner of his mouth. “Love you, Tomura,” he chokes out, hand reaching up one last time to feel for those strands of blue hair, “You take care of yourself, okay?”
Tomura raises his head, eyes so, so angry, screaming, “LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID. IZUKU HAS DONE NOTHING, NOTHING AT ALL. WHY’D YOU HURT HIM? WHY ARE YOU KILLING HIM?”
Izuku ignores those words, hand weakly falling from Tomura’s hair, slipping down his face. “Take your time before you come see me,” he says, even though he knows that those chances are slim. People like Tomura and Izuku are never meant to live long, they are supernovas at heart. Nuclear somethings, bright and fast and too much. Always too much, sometimes never enough.
The battlefield is silent, the kind of quiet that echoes in the vacuum of space. Deafening but emptying as people stare on, watching Tomura cradle the body of a broken boy to his chest. He shushes Izuku, telling him to save his energy even though he knows it's futile. Body too limp, too young. The rest of the League can only watch on, numb in horror and sinking, sinking dread that it is Izuku of all people that will not be making it out of here.
The heroes, wide-eyed, shocked that these monsters can be so human. Can grieve over someone like this.
Tomura cards a few fingers through Izuku’s matted curls, whispering out a fragile, shaking, “Love you too, ‘Zuku.” His eyes say a million things to Izuku, but above all,
Izuku sees that quiet fondness, careful affection, and attentive need to keep him safe. Izuku’s eyes shift to stare blearily up at the sunny, blue sky above them, thinking, blue is the color of distance. The space that will be between me and you, where I will be waiting.
“Was I good, Tomura?” Izuku gasps out with the last of his breath.
“Yeah. Yeah, you were amazing,” Tomura whispers it like a prayer, forehead lowering to meet Izuku’s.
At last, Izuku lets out a sigh, eyes fluttering shut, content as his chest falls slowly still. Tucked into Tomura’s chest, he gives out one more exhale as time unravels behind his eyes and he lets go. He lets go quietly, in the dead silence of a battlefield, nothing more than collateral damage. Izuku had been nothing in the war-- had played no part, faced no battles, but he had also been everything-- the League’s pillar of support, an unknown face of unwavering kindness, and another boy who had been hurt by the people who were supposed to keep him safe.
What made him different was that after all of that, it was still so easy for him to love . He had still been good, even after all the world had done to make him angry and vengeful.
No, maybe Izuku had not been a star, but the universe was more than stars and empty space. It was time and rebirth and dying, infinity running circles around itself. Izuku was every place in between, where people believed there was nothing at all. Where even the dying could find a home. The blink between the beating heart of eternity. Every blue space between shifting lights because blue is the color of distance. Of every line you crossed to break me into these pieces. Of every dead space I carved out to make those pieces fit again.
Tomura lets out an anguished cry, quirk lashing out wildly, disintegrating the rubble and debris in his close proximity and rapidly spreading outwards. Decay occurring at an uncontrollable rate, but somehow leaving the body in his arms untouched. Pretending that the boy in his arms is still whole, is more than an empty body.
This love is breaking. (So blue.)