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Izuku knew he was in some deep shit when this all started.
He knew his life was flipped upside down the moment his mother said those words to him.
“Get out. And don’t you dare come back.”
Said. Not yelled.
Sometimes Izuku wished she would have yelled that. He thinks the blank tone hurt more, the lifeless stare digging shards of glass into his skin and tearing away at him for the days, weeks, months to come.
She told him that, and he left, with nothing but his phone and the clothes on his back.
His vigilante clothes on his back.
It’s funny, Izuku can’t help but muse to himself.
She stuck with him throughout his quirkless diagnoses, throughout Hisashi leaving them, throughout the years of bullying for things he couldn’t fucking control, throughout everything .
But then, when he sneaks back into his room through his window just a few weeks shy of his twelfth birthday, donning his vigilante gear and a few blood splatters, that’s when she finally had enough.
As if finding out her son fights crime in the middle of the night physically causes her pain.
As if she’s the one patching up scrapes and stabs and bruises.
If he’s honest, he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand his mother.
But oh well, that’s not what he’s talking about.
He was talking about being in deep shit, right.
Well, he left with nothing accompanying him but his dear old vigilante costume and phone. He hadn't thought about needing anything for the future - well, not that he didn't think of it, more that he wasn't allowed to get anything else.
And now, two months after that night, Izuku’s gritting his teeth, arms clenched in an almost painful grip around his lower abdomen, tears in his eyes as he curses his entire existence.
Because, apparently, his uterus fucking hates him for taking puberty blockers ever since he got his first period.
He grits his teeth around a sob as a new, fresh wave of cramps hits him, curling up into a tighter ball and feeling blood roll out of himself and drip onto the old, dirty cloth he currently has pressed against his crotch.
Because who the fuck, when they’re legally (yes, legally, but not technically with the way he’s been squatting in this old abandoned house since he was kicked out) homeless, thinks about spending valuable cash on fucking pads when they haven’t had a period since they were eleven?!
Not Izuku, that’s for fucking sure.
He had started taking puberty blockers as soon as he could, but now that he’s on his own, he hasn’t been able to get his hands on testosterone or hygienic products and boy is he paying for it.
It’s at times like these he really wishes he hadn’t been found out by his mom.
He wanted a hug, even though the thought of any physical touch made Izuku want to puke. He wanted someone to just sit near him and tell him that he’d be okay and that the waves of pain wouldn’t last forever.
A vague flash of a comforting, reliable, exhausted voice flashes through Izuku’s mind and he feels his lower lip wobble with a small smile.
“Kid.” Izuku turns towards the voice, pretending he doesn’t see the concerned glint in the man’s eye. “If you ever need anything, you know where to contact me. Really, anything, and I’m here.”
Sniffling pitifully, Izuku sits up, grimacing painfully at the pain stabbing into his everything, and grabs his phone with shaky hands.
~~~~~
An hour later, Izuku finds himself sitting hunched over in an almost painful way, legs dangling over the edge of the roof he was sitting on.
He’s still clenching that cloth in place between his thighs, trying to make sure he doesn’t stain his vigilante clothes his
only
clothes- and probably failing.
A slight scuff of a boot a few yards away causes Izuku to turn and meet eyes with the person he wanted to see right now.
“Hey, kid,” Eraserhead started, moving forward to take a seat beside Izuku. “Tonight’s usually your night off from patrolling.”
Izuku can hear the silent question mingling through the spaces of the hero’s statement, and squirms uncomfortably.
“It usually is, yeah…” Izuku trails off with a pained huff, moving a hand to press firmly on where he thinks his uterus is supposed to be, trying and failing to relieve the incessant cramps.
Failing, failing, always fucking
failing-
Eraserhead doesn’t miss the sound nor the movement, and sends Izuku a glance.
“You hurt, problem child?”
“N-Not, uh, exactly…?” Izuku swallows and shakes his head slightly, ducking his head.
The hero hums, but doesn’t press, merely moving most of his attention to the sky, watching a random red dot glide through it.
“Uhm.” Izuku picks at his cuticle as he looks down at the street, wincing at a particularly sharp pain. “Y-You know how my parents don’t exactly provide stuff for me?”
“I do.” Eraserhead hums, a hint of anger in his tone, and watches Izuku through the corner of his eye. “You hungry?”
“Ah, no…” Izuku blushes, gritting his teeth and shifting in place, then quickly moving back to his original position as that cloth almost dislodges. “But, uhm. So…”
He really has no idea how to approach this problem, because one, Eraserhead probably doesn’t want to hear Izuku’s pity story about not having fucking hygiene products, and two, he’s not even out to the hero yet.
What if he’s uncomfortable with it?
Izuku frowns at the idea, eyes watering again.
He went through that kind of hurt with Kacchan, he doesn’t think he could go through it again with Eraserhead.
“So…?” The hero prompts, turning to the vigilante with a raised brow. “I meant what I said, kid. If you need anything … I’m not here to judge.”
“Right, uh…” Izuku swallows and threads his fingers together, feeling like his heart is about to pound out of his chest. “Well, uhm. I-I’m kinda transgender? And I don’t have any p-pads or anything and I really don’t want to steal any, and I was kindawonderingifyoucouldmaybegetmesomeIknowit’sembarrassingandI’msorryifitmakesyouuncomfortableandreallyyoudon’thavetobotherwithitIcanfindawaytogetsomeprobably-”
“Kid, you’re fine.” Eraser huffs amusedly, giving Izuku a small… proud (?) smile. The man stands up and gives Izuku a pat on his dirty, tangled curls. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes max, okay? Wait here for me.”
Izuku swallows and nods, eyes following Eraserhead as the man quickly hops off the roof and soon leaves his eyesight.
He focuses on trying to breathe through the rough, painful cramps that rack his body every few seconds, focuses on not crying when his back gives a painful twinge for some reason (isn’t the uterus in the front of the body, why the fuck is his back hurting from this, what the fuck?).
He must zone out at some point though, as it seems like he blinks and Eraserhead is sitting back down next to him, a few grocery bags in his loose grip.
“Here,” The hero says softly, dropping the bags in Izuku’s lap. “I got you some pads as well as some tampons, since my friend, Nem, I’ve mentioned her before, always says those are easier to patrol in, usually.”
Izuku blinks and furrows his eyebrows down at his lap, which felt too heavy to just have some pads and, apparently, tampons.
Curious, Izuku sits forward, biting back a pathetic whimper at the twinge it sends through his abdomen, and peeks into one of the bags.
As the hero said, there’s a box of twenty-four extra absorbent pads, along with a box of twelve ‘regular’ sized tampons (whatever the fuck regular means), and some weird bottle that looks suspiciously like it holds pills.
Fishing that bottle out, Izuku furrows his eyebrows as he doesn’t recognize whatever it is, and sends Eraserhead an inquisitive glance.
“Midol.” The hero says, as if that explains anything. At Izuku’s blank gaze, Eraserhead sighs and points to the bottle as he explains. “It’s supposed to help with headaches, cramps, and general pain that comes with periods.”
Izuku blinks and immediately turns the bottle in his hands to find the dosage amount.
“Nem says that it’s the saving grace of anyone who has to deal with the ‘devil’s personal vacation to earth’.” Eraser continues, reaching into his own belt to pull out an unopened bottle of water when Izuku shakes two pills into his palm.
“Devil’s personal vacation,” Izuku mumbles, downing the(… what was it? Midol?) the midol with a swig of water. “I don’t care if this shit was assigned by Kami themself, I’m going to fucking throw hands.”
“There’s more stuff in there to help with the pain and what not.” Eraser huffed, nodding to the other bag. “Heating pads, some snacks Nem likes, and, uhm. I’m not sure if it’s over stepping, but Nemuri always says that being comfortable is a big factor in feeling better and whatnot, so there’s some soft pajama pants in there, too. And some shirts Hizashi was going to throw away, but they’re comfortable, so.”
Izuku found everything that the hero was describing and felt himself tear up at one of the old, worn, well-loved tees sitting gently near the bottom.
It’s a Put Your Hands Up! radio merch shirt, one exactly like the one sitting on his desk chair at his mom’s apartment because it was Izuku’s absolute favourite dysphoria shirt.
He’s been trying to just avoid looking or touching or thinking about his chest area, but it’s difficult when he looks down and ‘Oh, fuck, I have tits.’ .
He thought he had forever lost any sort of comfort when it came to dealing with his body, but now he has something almost better, because this one doesn’t stink of cigarettes and cheap perfume that the one he used to have did.
This one smells like refreshing laundry detergent and coffee and damnit , that’s a tear that fell onto his hand.
“Shit, kid, you don’t have to keep that stuff if you don’t want to-”
“No, no, it’s…” Izuku sniffles, using the shirt to cover his face since his stupid fucking emotions won’t chill out. “Thank you. A lot. I really appreciate this.”
Eraserhead huffs and untenses next to the vigilante, patting him on the back lightly.
“Of course, kiddo. Like I said, anything and I’ll be here with it, okay?”
Izuku nods, leaning into the hero when he gently puts his arm around his shoulders in a small side hug.
And this small hug surprisingly doesn't make him want to puke.