Chapter Text
***
Izuku feels like he loses a piece of himself on nights like these.
The pieces are small and it’s more of a chip. But chips turn into cracks and then the cracks lead to shatters, and then he feels like by the end of it, he’s a million broken pieces left on the floor. Waits for someone to sweep him up and glue him together, hold him there with pressure, keep him steady with delicate fingers until it’s time for him to break again. (There are ways to live without being whole. Dad told him that, once. Izuku doesn’t doubt it, but if it’s anything like the way Dad lives, then he doesn’t want it.)
He is shaking on the couch in his living room.
His dad’s laughs are loud and it lets him ease the pressure he has on his legs, lets him pull his nails away from his skin because if Dad’s having a good time, it means the money is good, and Izuku doesn’t have to make up for what was lost. It smells of smoke and something sour-sweet.
Izuku looks over his shoulder for the tenth time and when his eyes meet ones that don’t belong to his dad—his stomach sinks and he turns back to the T.V.
He isn’t watching it—he doesn’t even know what’s showing. But his stomach twists in knots and his nails dig into his thighs when he hears the scraping of chair legs against the kitchen floor.
The feet are heavy, movements slow, maybe to give Izuku the delusion of comfort. He isn’t sure, but whatever it is—he wishes they wouldn’t do it. He doesn’t want them to be gentle before everything. It’s fake and makes Izuku feel sour in his stomach.
There is something bitter filling his nose—something stale, something that smells similar to his dad. Izuku lifts his chin and tries to hide behind his unruly curls. But his dad’s friend sees him. His eyes are blue—maybe the prettiest blue Izuku has ever seen. They’re pale and flat and hold nothing behind them and despite how pretty the color is, Izuku’s grown to hate it.
His dad’s friend holds out a hand for Izuku and his smile is soft, gentle. It’s a lie. Izuku throws a look over his shoulder. His dad isn’t looking at him. He’s scratching his hair, rubbing his chin. He must have lost the round. Izuku turns back around and he tries to avoid the blue as he takes his dad’s friend's hand. It’s rough. It’s large. It’s warm in the most suffocating sense.
His dad’s friend’s grip is soft and he talks to Izuku quietly, slowly, as he takes him to the guest bedroom. The door shuts, it locks, and he stops being gentle.
(Izuku breaks over and over again that night.)
***
When he’s 7, Izuku brings it up to Kacchan.
He and Kacchan are in this—strange stage of friendship, Izuku thinks. Kacchan keeps leaving him behind, keeps teasing him, throwing balls at him, running away when Izuku gets too close. These are one of the days when it’s only them, though. Kacchan doesn’t have anyone to run away to, he can’t leave Izuku behind.
He seems angry about it, and Izuku is trying his best to keep his lips shut, to not be annoying to Kacchan and ruin everything. He misses when he didn’t have to be so careful. When his questions and the things he did didn’t annoy Kacchan so much and make him push him around for being so stupid and annoying all of the time.
Izuku doesn’t want to be annoying—but he really can’t help it sometimes. A lot of the time actually because more than just Kacchan finds it annoying when he starts sniffling and shaking.
Dad’s friends hate it.
But right now, there’s no reason for it. Izuku is drawing All Might in the sand with a stick and he doesn’t want to be annoying, he doesn’t want to be annoying, there’s no reason for him to be that right now, but—
“Oh, my god,” Kacchan groans. “Are you kidding me? You really can’t go a day without crying, stupid Deku? I haven’t even done anything! Why are you crying? You’re so stupid.”
Izuku pulls his quivering bottom lip into his mouth and tastes the salt of his tears as he drops his stick in the sand. His tears roll down his chin, tap against his half-finished All Might drawing and he shrugs his shaking shoulders. He doesn’t want to finish drawing All Might anymore. By the time he finishes everything, it’ll be time to go home, and …
“I don’t know,” Izuku says. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean you ‘don't know’?” Kacchan rolls his eyes again. He sets down his ball and stomps his way over to Izuku, folding his arms over his chest. He kisses his teeth and groans again, and then he flicks Izuku’s forehead. “You’re lying! I hate liars, Deku! You’re obviously crying for a reason, so tell me why or I’ll hit you!”
Izuku furiously shakes his head and quickly backs away from Kacchan. “I’m—I’m not lying, Kacchan!”
“Yes, you are!”
“I’m not - not! I don’t know why—don’t know why, why I’m cryi—crying! I just feel sad! I don’t know why!” He cries, rubbing his wet cheeks.
And it’s the truth. Izuku doesn’t know why he’s crying and he is sad. He doesn’t know why, hasn’t been able to figure it out recently. He just gets annoying for no reason sometimes. The feeling is intense and overwhelming sometimes. Large waves of hopelessness and sadness are thrown over him and drowning him and holding him down and he just cries and cries and cries and he can never stop it.
Izuku pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms. He gives Kacchan the only reason he might have and says, “I don’t wanna go home.”
“Huh? Why? And don’t tell me it’s because you wanna stay with me! I’m not inviting you over for another stupid sleepover. We stopped doing those a long time ago, I don’t wanna have one with you.”
“No, it’s just … it’s Friday,” Izuku says.
“So, what?”
Izuku lifts his head, his cheeks are still wet, his tears won’t stop.
He looks at Kacchan and he—he isn’t sure if he should say it. Every time Izuku goes into the guest bedroom—no matter who he goes in there with—they always say the same exact five words before they start touching him. Only five words, but it makes Izuku cold, makes him shiver, makes him feel empty.
Don’t tell anyone about this.
And then afterwards—when Dad comes in to sweep up the broken pieces of Izuku—he tells Izuku the same thing. Tells him that no one will believe him—that they’ll lock him away in a cold, dark, dirty room if Izuku tells anyone.
But … Kacchan’s always been super good at keeping secrets. Kacchan’s Izuku’s best friend. Kacchan is super smart—he’ll know not to tell anyone if Izuku seriously means it. He’s reliable like that.
“Kacchan,” Izuku says. He looks at his All Might drawing in the sand again, wiping at his eyes. “Do your parents play games with their friends?”
“What? Yeah. ‘Course they do, Deku. Are you stupid? My parents have lives. What do you think they’re doing while I’m stuck having to play with you?”
Izuku thinks the words should make him upset, but they don’t. He’s too busy digging his nails into his legs, thinking about the room, to be upset about anything Kacchan is saying.
“At the end of the game, do … Do you ever go into a room with them? With your parents’ friends and ... do stuff?”
When he turns around, Kacchan is staring at him with a twisted expression.
“What are you talking about?”
Kacchan keeps staring at him and Izuku’s lips are quivering.
He takes a deep breath and tries to continue, but Kacchan says, “You sound more stupid than usual, Deku. Shut up.”
“Oh,” Izuku sniffles and buries his face in his arms again. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
It’s quiet.
And then Kacchan sits next to him.
“You really are stupid,” Kacchan says. “I don’t actually mean to shut up. Finish what you were saying. What do you mean go into a room with your parents’ friends and doing things? What things.”
Izuku lifts his head a little, tucks a green curl behind his flushed ear.
“That’s what happens on Fridays,” Izuku says. “I go into a room—with one of my dad’s friends after they finish their game. And they … they,” his mouth is suddenly numb and he keeps swallowing, squeezing his fingers at his side. He doesn’t know how to say it without feeling dirty. The words always sound so gross when his dad’s friends tell him to say them. Ask him to say certain things. “Um. I … They—”
“Just spit it out.”
“I—I don’t—don’t know,” Izuku is crying too hard again. He shakes his head. “It hurts, hurts and it makes me feel gross. They … I don’t know, Kacchan!”
“Yes, you do!” Kacchan pushes Izuku’s shoulders again and again and he’s shouting in Izuku’s face, “Tell me! Say it already! Stop being annoying!”
“They—they do—they do stuff here!” Izuku cries and points between his legs. Kacchan stops yelling and pushing him and Izuku can’t breathe, but he tries to get the words out anyway. He’s blubbering and shaking through his words. “Sometimes they make me do other things with my - with my mouth, sometimes—sometimes they make me touch them, sometimes it hurts really bad and they don’t care and … and …”
Izuku stops talking because Kacchan isn’t next to him anymore. He’s standing up, in front of Izuku, who has to tilt his head back to look up at him. Kacchan steps back, eyes wide, his fists shaking at his side and he looks—scared. Which is weird because—because Kacchan is never scared.
Izuku’s eyes also go wide. “W-what? Kacchan, what’s—what’s wrong?” The tears are still falling and Izuku doesn’t even bother wiping them away. “What did I do? I’m sorry—”
“My parents said nobody’s supposed to touch me there,” Kacchan says.
Izuku blinks. “What?”
“Nobody is supposed to touch you there,” Kacchan repeats. “For any reason. My parents said no teachers, no friends, no family members. Not even mom and dad are allowed to unless I need help cleaning—which I don’t anymore—so there’s no excuse. My parents said if anyone touches me there, they’re trying to hurt me. It’ll really hurt.”
Izuku pulls his lips. “That’s … That’s what your parents said?”
He can’t remember his dad ever saying anything like that. His dad says ‘this is what you have to do tonight’ and ‘tell them it’s this much if they want to go all the way’ and ‘don’t tell anyone about this.’
His dad never says people aren’t allowed to touch him there. He says they have to. Says it’ll be over quickly. It’s okay. But Kacchan's parents are right. His dad's friends are hurting him. It really, really hurts.
“Yeah, that’s what they said. Nobody’s allowed to touch there because it’s sick and bad and it’s wrong, and if anyone tries to do it—they’re a villain.” Kacchan’s eyes go wide. “That means your dad’s a villain!”
“No!! No, my dad’s not a villain!” Izuku shakes his head. “Only my dad’s friends! My dad doesn’t touch me. He buys me All Might toys and, and snacks, he never—”
“But he lets his friends touch you?” Kacchan hisses. “That’s gross, Deku. He’s a villain. He’s supposed to protect you from that, and he isn’t, so he’s a villain.”
Izuku swallows.
Gross. That’s gross, Deku.
Izuku knows. He knows it’s gross, he knows he’s disgusting, he knows he’s dirty, everyone always tells him that—all of Dad's friends tell him that. Dirty bitch. A slut. A boy whore—Izuku doesn't even know what the words mean, but they feel gross when they're hissed against his ear.
Izuku looks down at himself and closes his legs tighter together. He doesn’t want to be annoying but—the tears—and he doesn’t want to annoy Kacchan but—it hurts. Even though he isn’t there right now, and it isn’t time for him to break yet, he feels like he’s shattering, and he doesn’t want to be annoying, but he can’t stop crying.
“I know it’s gross,” Izuku cries. “I’m disgusting, I’m—I’m dirty. I'm so dirty.”
Kacchan gets really close to Izuku and—wraps his arms around him. Kacchan hasn't hugged him in a while, so Izuku wants to appreciate it, but it doesn't feel nice. It feels tight and suffocating.
“You’re not gross, stupid Deku ...” Kacchan says, quietly. “I meant the people who touch you are gross. Your dad’s disgusting and dirty. Not you. You're not dirty.”
Kacchan squeezes him really tight and then he pulls away and tugs on the cuff of Izuku’s sleeve.
“We … We have to tell my mom, Deku,” Kacchan says. “Because—she said … She said if anything like that ever happens—or even if I know that something like that is happening to someone, then I have to tell her. That’s what she said, so we gotta tell her, and then she’ll know what to do.”
Izuku shakes his head, “No, I’m … I’m not supposed to tell anyone, Kacchan.”
“Yes, you are. My parents said you’re supposed to tell, even if the villain tells you not to—”
“No,” Izuku yanks his arm away from Kacchan and shakes his head. “We—you can’t tell anyone! I’m not allowed to—”
“Shut up,” Kacchan stands up and stomps, squeezing his fists. “They’re not allowed to do that, stupid Deku! Are you dumb?! They’re villains! They’re not supposed to touch you there! They’re hurting you! It’s sick and wrong—that’s what my mom said, and I believe her! My dad said it, too! They’re right! I’m right! You’re wrong, as always!"
"Kacchan, stop. It's not—I'm just not allowed to."
"But you're supposed to, idiot. If you’re too much of a baby to do it, then I’ll tell my mom myself—”
“No, no—Kacchan, stop! Stop it!!” Izuku screams.
“I don't care! I'm telling!”
“Kacchan, please!” Izuku gets to his feet, and curls his fingers into his fist as he sobs, “Stop it, stop it, just stop! You can’t tell anyone!! You can’t! Please don’t tell anyone—I’m trusting you, I’m trust—trusting you with this, Kacchan. Please keep it a secret. I need it to be a secret—a super - a super duper secret!”
Kacchan frowns at him. “Just let me tell my mom. She can fix it—she knows how to fix everything, Deku.”
“No...”
“Then, you need to tell someone,” Kacchan says, pointing at Izuku. “You need to tell an adult.”
“No, I don’t, please,” Izuku wipes his face and tries to keep in his tears. “I can handle it, Kacchan. I can handle it, it’s okay.”
Kacchan’s eyes are red. Other than his irises—his eyes are red. And he’s scrubbing at them quickly before he sniffles and crosses his arms over his chest.
Kacchan stares at Izuku and Izuku’s vision is too blurry and messed up to look at him back. He stares at his tears, wetting the sand beneath them.
“It’s not okay,” Kacchan says. “They’re not supposed to touch you there, Deku. They’re not allowed to.”
“I know,” Izuku cries. He squeezes his hands. “But I’m not supposed to tell. So you can’t.”
Kacchan glares at him. “Stupid. You’re so stupid, Deku. I hate you.” He turns on his heel and starts walking away.
“Kacchan,” Izuku says and rushes to catch up, “Kacchan, you can’t tell. Please don’t tell, it’s fine! I’m fine, I’m fine, Kacchan, you can’t—!”
“Shut up!” Kacchan turns back around and pushes Izuku hard enough that he lands on the ground. Kacchan stomps. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Izuku’s elbows hurt from how he landed. His back hurts. His head hurts. His stomach is twisting. And he’s being annoying again. “I’m … I’m sorry, Kacchan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I don’t want you to be—be upset because of me, I …”
It’s quiet.
And then—
“If you really don’t want me to tell, then I won’t,” Kacchan whispers.
When Izuku lifts his head to look at him—he’s already walking away.
They never talk about it again, but Izuku never stops thinking about this particular Friday.
***
It never really stops.
There are days in between it, small periods of time where Izuku’s dad isn’t home and he is making money efficiently without Izuku’s help.
It’s typically Mondays and Fridays. Izuku returns home from school and sees an older woman on the couch, an older man. Or both. Or maybe three. Or maybe his dad has a list of places they have to stop by for the afternoon and he promises to buy Izuku that new All Might figurine that just came out (limited edition).
It weighs Izuku down a lot. Distracts him. Makes him feel spacey a lot of the time. Makes him grateful that the extent of Kacchan’s hits are over clothing and to his stomach instead of between his thighs. Makes him less wary of the threats upperclassmen try to scare him with. (“Should we fuck him? Make him cry? Bleed?” “Maybe we can find a way for a Deku like you to be useful. Lips around me, make you choke 'til you're crying?”)
(If they wanted to, they would. Anyone who wants something from Izuku can take it—they have the power to take it and he doesn’t have the power to stop it. Everyone just takes what they want from him, so if they wanted to touch him, to use him, to feel good from him—then they could do it. They could take it. But they don’t. Because he’s disgusting. Just like all of those older men and women say, just like all of Dad’s friends say. He’s dirty and disgusting and ruined for anyone else. Ruined for everyone.)
(So no, he isn’t scared when they play with his waistband and whistle and laugh. They’re hesitant, too gentle. They don’t hold him down strong enough, they aren’t breathing hard enough, they don’t actually want it—Izuku can see it in their eyes. The lack of desire and want. The lack of need to destroy and break him. In a strange sense, it’s comforting. They aren’t that evil.)
(When it’s Kacchan’s friends reaching for Izuku’s waistband, tugging at his pants—Kacchan takes it upon himself to stomp on their fingers and kick them to the side. “You pull that shit again and I’ll knock your fucking teeth in,” is what he hisses under his breath. He doesn’t look at Izuku, doesn’t acknowledge him. But it’s enough to let Izuku know that Kacchan hasn’t stopped thinking about that particular Friday, when they were 7 and playing in the sandboxes, either. 7 years later and Kacchan hasn’t said a word, as promised. Izuku isn’t sure if he hates or loves the reliability of Kacchan by that point.)
The spaces between it happening get larger. But again—it never really stops. It’s become more of a burden than fear when he starts training with All Might.
(Izuku still breaks, still shatters. But he finds the shattering inside of him easier to handle with every shattered bone. An arm, a leg, both arms, both legs, all limbs—everything feels lighter, somehow, and he sometimes wants to use his new Quirk for the sake of breaking a bone. If he gets home and Dad is there with another stranger—Izuku wants to train immediately after. And he does. He uses One For All and he shatters his bone and has to face Recovery Girl’s wrath the next day. It’s worth it, he doesn’t mind.)
(The people lessen over the course of the months. The faces become more memorable. Certain faces are frequent. But Izuku has seen the change around the prettiest blue eyes the most. The same blue eyes that belong to a man with large hands, hands that are warm in the worst way. Hands that are no longer gentle even when tugging Izuku into the guest bedroom. Izuku still breaks, he still shatters. His dad doesn’t come around to sweep the pieces up anymore, he thinks leaving a new piece of All Might merch on his bed is enough. Izuku thinks it is, too. He doesn’t want to see his dad, anyway. And he’s starting to learn that living without being whole isn’t so bad.)
***
It’s never been Dad.
In the 11 years Izuku’s been touched by large hands, soft and callous, and pulled against large bodies, smooth and rough, heavy and slim—it’s never been Dad. But Izuku can’t describe the strange feeling of distrust when he steps into his home one particular Friday after school.
None of Dad’s friends are around. Dad is in the kitchen, cooking dinner.
“Hey, Izuku!” He has a hand on his hip, over his apron, messing with the food cooking on the stove in front of him. This is the first time Izuku has seen him in a few days. He looks well, doesn't look tired—he looks very clean. And his voice is cheery and bright, grin broad when he looks back at Izuku. "Good day at school?"
Izuku swallows and he nods. He didn't have a good day—he never has good days. Those don't exist. But it’s Friday, which means school was automatically better than home. Or, it's supposed to be. But nobody else is home apart from Dad, and Dad doesn’t look like he’s getting ready to run stops with Izuku. So Izuku carefully kicks off his shoes and lowers his bag as he practically tiptoes into his home.
“Um,” he says. “Is there … Do I have any appointments today?”
Dad throws a smile at him over his shoulder. “Hm? Oh, nah. We’re not doin’ that anymore. Found a steady long-term job. Besides, I don’t want anyone touching you like that anymore or anything. It's been pissin' me off real bad lately. They don’t deserve to, you know? They shouldn't get to have you.”
No, Izuku doesn’t know. Dad has never had a problem with people touching him like that. Nothing should have changed. But Izuku—nods anyway. He tells Izuku to wait and join him for dinner and it’s—weird. The way Dad is looking at him. Izuku somehow feels like he’s somehow walking on eggshells. He feels like he has to be very careful, like he's being extensively watched.
“You’ve grown up quite a bit, Izuku,” Dad says through a mouthful of food. “Like it’s happening before my eyes. You’re gaining muscles, working hard. Reckon it has something to do with that new Quirk of yours, yeah?”
Izuku doesn’t feel like eating. He isn’t hungry, but Dad is watching him. Closely. He pokes at his food with his chopsticks and nods, hums. “Yeah. We do combat training every day, so…”
“And you do personal work too, yeah? Laps and weights. I’ve seen the gear in your room. You want me to buy you more?”
“Oh. Um,” Izuku sets down his chopsticks. “No. The stuff I have now is fine.” He mumbles, “Thank you, though…”
The conversation is stiff throughout the entire meal. Izuku is almost too excited to help with putting away the dishes behind his dad. But—Dad stops him, grips his sleeve. He looks at Izuku and grins, almost bashfully. It's so unsettling.
“Lift your shirt for me?”
Izuku scrunches his face.
He wants to ask questions, wants to say no, that’s weird, wants to tell Dad that he doesn’t like being grabbed—but he learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut under Dad’s hard gaze. So he doesn’t say anything as his shaking hands squeeze the hem of his shirt to carefully lift it. Dad’s eyes immediately fall to his stomach, his—
“Abs!” Dad lightly smacks at them and smiles, “Atta boy! That’s what I’m talking about, son, there we go!” And Dad pulls away with a hearty laugh as he shakes his head. It’s—it’s a normal dad-thing to do, Izuku thinks. Dad goes back to washing the dishes as he talks, “I remember when you’d come home all bruised up from the kids at school. Just for being Quirkless. Seems like times like those were just yesterday. But you’re really showing those kid bullies, aren’t you, Izuku?”
Despite himself, Izuku smiles. Because this - this is normal. Exceptionally normal. Izuku lets go of his shirt, lips curling up at the corners. “Uhm … Well—yeah. I guess … I guess I am?
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad says. He finishes up the dishes and turns to Izuku, sets a hand on his shoulder, and gives him a firm squeeze. “You never let anyone or anything get you down. Just keep heading for your dreams at full speed, huh? Circumstances be damned!”
Izuku smiles. “I guess…”
“Inko would be proud. You know that?”
Izuku presses his lips, nods without a word. He can’t think of Mom without tearing up a lot of the time. After she died is when—things went wrong in Izuku’s life. And he wonders … He wonders if things would be different were she still here.
“I’m certainly proud,” Dad says. The hand on his shoulder moves to Izuku’s face, the back of his dad's knuckles brushing against his freckled cheeks before his dad raises them to curl his large fingers in Izuku’s hair. He tugs and Izuku clenches his jaw. “I’m really proud of you, ‘Zuku … Yeah? You know that, don’t you?”
It’s never been Dad. It’s never been Dad. It’s never been Dad. It won’t be him. It won’t. Izuku repeats this as Dad grips his arms and squeezes his waist and runs his hands under his shirt, up the sides of his body. “You’ve really grown up, huh? Strong and sturdy build. Good boy.”
Izuku trembles, his fists are shaking at his side and he can feel the tears building up, getting ready to spill over because it’s never been Dad, his dad isn’t a villain. His dad doesn’t touch him.
Dad pulls away completely. And he pats Izuku’s head with a grin. “Well, then. Thanks for eating with me, kiddo! Make sure you get some homework done if you have any,” he curls his fingers in Izuku’s hair a final time. “I’ve gotta get some work done.”
Izuku ends up crying when Dad shuts the door to his office. He hugs his arrms tight around himself and locks himself in his room and texts his friends like everything is fine to distract himself. Dad didn’t even do anything—but the fact that Izuku was scared that he might’ve is enough to leave him blubbering into his blankets.
Izuku stays there for the rest of the night. He doesn’t shower, doesn’t change his clothes—he just settles under his blankets, texting the group chat he has with both class 1-A and his smaller group of friends separately to put himself at ease. Izuku still isn’t ready to go to sleep when he puts his phone down. His head is pounding from staring at his screen for so long and his stomach is still all over the place.
He’s awake, he stays awake—almost like he’s waiting for something, out of habit. And he finds out, ten minutes later, that he is waiting for something. He knew it because it's Friday, he should wait for something because there is always, always something.
Izuku squeezes his blankets when his bedroom door creaks open.
He wonders if one of Dad’s friends is over—wonders if he’s invited someone last minute. But the hand on his shoulder - when it turns him around—Izuku is looking at—
“Dad?” Izuku asks. His throat is tight, voice thick. He thinks he already knows. He knows he already knows, but he’s denying it in every sense. “Is … Is—everything—is everything okay?”
Dad presses his lips, thinly. “Everything’s fine, Izuku.”
He rubs Izuku’s shoulder, trails his palm down his arm, pulls back his blanket and Izuku can already feel the stinging in his eyes when Dad says those terrifying five words Izuku’s been hearing since he was 5, in the dark of a room and over the sound of his own erratic heart.
(Izuku doesn’t break that night, he doesn’t shatter. He ruptures. He feels like he is brutally torn apart, the pieces of himself are being ripped and shredded and stretched and pulled away from each other to snap over and over and over again. Izuku sobs so hard his ribs ache, he heaves, he can’t breathe through any of it and he wishes the eyes he looked into that night were that pretty blue color instead of emerald green. He has to close his own to get himself through it.)
(It wasn’t supposed to be Dad. It’s never Dad. Dad doesn’t touch him, he never—)
(Kacchan was right. Izuku’s dad is a villain.)
***
It takes Izuku a bit to realize that it’s always been Dad.
(“But he lets his friends touch you?” Kacchan had said. “That’s gross, Deku. He’s still a villain. He’s supposed to protect you from that, and he isn’t, so he’s a villain.” And he is. He is supposed to protect Izuku from it. But he doesn’t, he never has.)
(Dad doesn’t let his friends touch Izuku anymore. Dad doesn’t want his friends touching what is now his. He wants to touch Izuku—it’s him now—it’s always been him.)
The world feels heavier than ever and when All Might points his finger directly at Izuku and says, “Now, it’s your turn,” Izuku feels himself shattering from ten different parts of himself because the world has gotten that much heavier. He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s dying.
And that night, when he cries into the chest of the man he finds himself constantly wishing was his dad instead of the one he has, he feels everything come up and it all sits at the tip of his tongue, waiting—fighting to be released. His cheek stings with the slap from All Might, and his fingers are hot and itchy from how hard he’s squeezing the fabric of his white shirt and he wants to say it all, he wants to tell All Might that he isn’t strong enough, that he can’t do it, that he wants to give up.
He doesn’t.
He can’t and he doesn’t even know why. Izuku’s muscles are too heavy and he falls against All Might entirely. It’s the end of All Might, Izuku knows this, he’s known since his real form was revealed to the world. Izuku feels more torn than he ever has. The ground is falling beneath his feet, the sky is tearing open and there is no hope because All Might is no longer.
Izuku wants to say please, please stay—please keep fighting. Show me hope. Be the symbol for me to keep going.
But that’d be unfair. Because he knows All Might would. He knows All Might would grin with bloody teeth to feign the strong symbol of his shattered prime. He’d tear his heart open to fight if Izuku asked him to. But Izuku doesn’t want him to. Not really. He wants his hero to rest. So he holds onto All Might, and he allows his own heaves to keep his breath as bony fingers run through his curls to tell him that it is the end of All Might.
“It’s alright, my boy,” All Might says as he holds him. “You’re okay.”
“I—I don’t feel okay,” Izuku cries. “I don’t know how to do this, I don’t—All Might, I need help. I need help.”
“That’s why I’m here, Young Midoriya. To help,” All Might’s smile is cheerful as he lifts Izuku’s face in his large hands. He grins, bright. “I am here. It’s alright.”
Izuku sobs and he curls his arms around All Might tighter, “Please stay.”
“Always.”
***
Izuku isn’t a stranger to slumps.
It happens after he’s gotten the chance to rest from the pressure of all the weight that’s been piling on top of him after a while. His mentality buckles and he goes with it, as a result. They never last long—Izuku finds it hard to stay depressed when he’s surrounded by so many bright people, by so many beacons of light who teach him the many meanings behind the word hope.
But this particular slump feels—heavier than the others. Izuku knows it has everything to do with the change of—events with Dad. It’s heavy. It’s so heavy. He’s been in a pit of despair for the past two weeks and Izuku—he can’t pull himself out of it. It’s getting harder to hide it.
Izuku can’t focus at the moment. He can’t stop crying, either.
He’s supposed to be packing his bag for the long weekend home visit that’s happening, but he—he can’t. The corner of his eyes are raw from his knuckles and his nose burns, it’s sensitive because of the rubbing against the fabric of his shirt, the sniffling.
The walls of his room feel like they’re getting closer to where he sits in the middle of his dorm floor with two sets of underwear and his small home bag.
Izuku’s underwear. He’ll need, like, at least three more pairs. They’re always dirty. They’re always dirty. He’s always dirty.
He can’t breathe. Izuku feels like he can never breathe—he constantly feels like he’s drowning, suffocating, like anything and everything that can steal the ease the air is supposed to give him is targeting him, and taking it all away. He doesn’t want to go home, he doesn’t want to be packing to go home—he doesn’t.
Izuku is out of his room before he even processes himself leaving. He’s making his way to the communal bathrooms, he needs to splash his face with water or get a change of scenery to calm himself down or something—something.
Izuku frantically pushes the door open and he stutters in his tracks when he meets red eyes.
Kacchan is there. He stares at Izuku as he rubs his hands together under the running faucet. He can clearly see Izuku’s swollen and flushed, teary face. Izuku doesn’t even try to hide it. There isn’t any point. He wouldn’t be able to, anyway. Neither of them says anything when Izuku goes over to a separate sink.
He splashes warm water on his face and breathes in, breathes out. Deeply. Slowly.
Izuku just needs to—get over himself. It’s strange how much this is affecting him when he’s been dealing with this for years—worse, for years. It’s not like it physically hurts when his dad steps into his room for the night. Not like it did when it was Dad’s friends instead. Dad is surprisingly gentle, he—it doesn’t hurt. But Izuku still feels like … It’s somehow worse than the times it did hurt. He almost wants it to hurt again.
One day … one day all of this will be over. One day, everything will be okay. This won’t be happening anymore sometime in the future. Izuku just—he needs to hang on. He can’t break now.
“Why the hell’re you crying?”
Izuku pulls himself out of his thoughts and turns to look at Kacchan, who asked the question. His hands are still wet, and his arms are simply by his side. He looks—eerily calm. He isn’t wearing an expression, there aren’t any twists and lines on his face—no clenched fists and gritted teeth. He’s just looking at Izuku.
“Um,” Izuku mumbles, wiping his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized he was crying again. He can never stop it. “I … I don’t know.”
“…Liar,” Kacchan says. Izuku swallows and he turns off the faucet of the sink he’s at and Kacchan continues, “You’re crying for a reason. You always have a fucking reason. What is it?”
Izuku’s tears slide down his cheeks and they drip into the already wet sink. He’s so tired of crying. He wishes he wouldn’t anymore, but he’s always crying. His cheeks are always wet, eyes are always ready with tears to pour over. He hates it—he hates himself for being like this.
“Deku—”
“I don’t want to go home,” Izuku says and it’s so hard to speak.
He can’t help the way his voice breaks when he says it—even though he’s supposed to be holding on, even though it won’t be like this forever and he can’t break now, he presses his hand to his mouth, his other grips at his curls and he’s choking into his palm. He feels like he is physically trying to hold back the dam that is about to break with his scarred palm, but it’s impossible. Everything's coming up, everything is spilling out, everything is boiling over and getting ready to explode.
“I don’t want to go home,” Izuku repeats into his hand. “I don’t want to go home—I don’t - I don’t want to do this anymore, Kacchan—I can’t, I…”
Izuku knows Kacchan hasn’t stopped thinking about that particular Friday when they were 7. He knows Kacchan knows exactly what he’s talking about—he doesn’t have to elaborate for him to know what’s going on, to know why Izuku doesn’t want to go home, to know what it is that he doesn’t want to do.
“It’s still fucking happening, then,” Kacchan says. He stomps forward, teeth grit, “What the fuck. Deku, why haven’t you told anyone? You seriously didn’t do it. Why didn’t you tell anyone back when—”
“Why didn’t you?” Izuku shoots it back around with a growl. He pulls his hands away from himself and clenches his fist before he can stop his actions.
And he knows it’s completely unfair of him—he begged Kacchan not to say a word as much as Kacchan had begged Izuku to let him tell someone.
He put Kacchan in such a difficult situation—it’s unfair. Izuku doesn’t know why this is so complicated and hard for himself, why he doesn’t know what to do about any of this. Because telling someone is the clear answer, but it’s just—it’s hard. It’s so hard.
“Hah?! Why didn’t I tell? What are you—you’re the one who told me not to, what the fuck!” Kacchan looks conflicted. Guilty. He shouldn’t be, it isn’t his fault. It really isn’t. “I - fuck, I just … It’s not my shit to tell, Deku. You - you told me not to tell, and I told you I wouldn’t, so I didn’t.”
Thank you, Izuku wants to say.
But half of him feels entirely betrayed because since when does Kacchan ever listen to him? He wants to be grateful, he is grateful, because Kacchan’s right—it isn’t his shit to tell—but he also wants to squeeze Kacchan by his arms and knock him into the ground and ask why. Why didn’t he just break his promise and tell?
It’s unfair—it’s completely unfair and doesn’t make sense to Izuku himself, but he can’t help it.
Izuku shakes his head, “No—no you’re right, I’m so sorry,” he tugs at the cuffs of his sleeve and pulls his snot back into his nose. “That’s not fair of me at all, Kacchan. Sorry. Thank you ... for not telling anyone.”
“… Deku. If you don’t want to go home, then don’t. It’s not a fucking obligation, you know that, right?” Kacchan folds his arms. “The halfie stays. His stupid dad can’t do shit about it, probably. At least they haven’t. Same with bird head. I’m staying this weekend.”
Izuku looks up, pulls his brows. “Why?”
Kacchan shrugs. “S’nothing. Just to get on the hag’s nerves. There’s this petty fucking thing between us. But again: she can’t fucking do anything about it. So just stop going home. You don’t have to see—your dad’s - fucking—‘friends’ and shit.”
Izuku almost laughs. If it were still his dad’s friends, he probably could have held out for longer.
Izuku shakes his head, “I don’t see my dad’s friends anymore.” His cheeks are wet again and his eyes are so swollen, that Izuku doesn’t even bother wiping them. “My dad is a pretty nasty villain himself, I guess.”
Kacchan breathes in, Izuku can hear it. He exhales a curse and Izuku can hear that, too.
Kacchan makes his way over, hands still at his side, face so blank it’s starting to scare Izuku.
Kacchan stands directly in front of him and says, “I think you should tell someone.” Izuku immediately looks away and Kacchan doesn’t try to chase his gaze. “Don’t go home, either, Deku. Just don’t.”
Izuku squeezes his arms around himself, tight. And he’s crying again. He’s always, always crying. He squeezes himself tighter as he shakes his head, “I don’t want to go home,” Izuku chokes, fingers digging into his sides, “I don’t want to go home.”
“Then you won’t,” Kacchan says, firmly. “You'll stay here.”