Chapter Text
Izuku remembers the way the crisp air scrunched up his nose, the sharp crunch of leaves against his red boots, remembers the large trees with their scattered vibrant leaves fluttering in the chill wind.
His mother had laughed, hunched over in the pile of oranges, yellows, and reds when she broke the news to him that the vibrant leaves cascading around them signified death. Those giant trees, those impossible forces shed their leaves as a source of protection from the frigid winter climate. Or even that the change of colors in the leaves was a result of chlorophyll dying off leaving other chemicals to color a vibrant green into a crimson that matched Izuku chunky shoes.
“They reveal their true colors I suppose.” She’d laughed as he looked forlornly at a leaf with an ugly brown shade. She motioned for him to sit, and he had no choice but to comply, he remembers the warmth of his mother’s hand brushing his viridian curls away from his forehead.
“You know Izuku, it’s why I love fall.” She had said, the warmth had comforted the child he used to be, it was the kind of warmth that chased the cold away no matter how bitter. He relished it, even now it filled him with warmth.
“Because of the pretty leaves?” He’d asked and she simply smiled.
“Yes, but mainly because it’s so much like life.” She said cryptically as she fell into the pile of leaves behind her closing her eyes she continued, “Things change so quickly, and sometimes it’s not always positive changes, sometimes it’s painful.” Her hand had stilled on his cheek, and he remembers the naive curiosity he felt, it was the kind of curiosity from youth that did not understand change, who hadn’t been diagnosed quirkless yet, who didn’t understand the true weight of change and how it’s unforgiving clutches could wrangle everything from you. And when his mother opened her eyes, his matching green shade crinkled with mirth back at him, completely aware of his ignorance and loving him despite it.
“We go through similar changes in life, unexpected changes in courses that aren’t always fun, just like those trees. We are big and strong, but sometimes we must sacrifice things we love, things that are part of ourselves, to change.” Her finger had swept under his eye back then, eyes looking into his with the whole weight of unconditional love he couldn’t hope to understand.
“But Mama, that doesn’t sound good, why do you love fall when you lose something you love?” His mother smiled, gaze shifting towards the large oak tree they were lying under. “Because despite the bitter cold of winter, there's always spring with its warmth that melts the frigid snow and daisies bloom across the fields. The birds chirp and families are playing in parks, because despite how hard the change is, we are always ourselves at the end of it.”
He hadn’t understood at the time, he hadn’t experienced any change, any hardship at that point. He was too young to understand.
The leaves were falling again, a decade later, fluttering through the frigid air that nipped at Izuku’s ears and nose. His hands were pressed into his pockets as a shiver ran down his spine. He watched the leaves beneath his red shoes, no more vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows; they looked muted in comparison to his memory. It was chillier than his memory, it lacked vividity, life.
‘Change huh…’
He remembers when he was a decade younger, never understanding change enough to prepare, was never able to fathom the idea of dull autumns.
He’d have to ask his mom about this change, about why the air felt like icicles against his cheeks, or why everything was suddenly so dull, why he was so dull in his dark clothes with his vibrant sneakers. About why all these people around him were wearing dark clothes too. He’d have to ask her why they were speaking in hushed tones, internally struggling with reaching out to him or running from him.
His cheeks were wet, and it was a shock to his system. He’d suspected the tears to freeze their descent down his reddened cheeks, but when he scrubbed them away, he was surprised they hadn’t.
A warm, firm hand clamped his shoulder, shocking his system, he flinched from the touch as he spun to face his assailant, only to meet the down-turned eyes of Masaru Bakugo. His eyebrows scrunched together causing the wrinkle between his brows to be more pronounced, his hand suspended in the air uselessly before dropping back to his side. He coughed “It’s time son, are you ready?” Izuku blinked at him dumbly before looking over the man’s shoulder at Mitsuki with her reassuring smile and Kacchan who refused to meet his eyes.
Izuku swallowed thickly, providing a weak smile as reassurance before nodding, not trusting his voice to not break.
Masaru gave him a wobbly smile before walking, leading Izuku towards his wife with a shaky hand hovering above his shoulder.
Izuku glanced up, the large temple made him feel like an ant in the face of a giant, it was daunting with its sharp edges and dark tones. He gulped; eyes fixed to his feet as he shuffled forward behind the Bakugos.
There was a sudden low rumble behind him that shocked Izuku from his stupor. Mitsuki gasped and a quick look in her direction told Izuku she wasn’t pleased with what she saw. Her lips clamped together in an open snarl, arms folding in front of her chest as she glared at whatever had disturbed her.
Izuku’s head swiveled, only to be met with the sleek exterior of a black BMW pulling up to the curb and stopping in front of the temple. Izuku blinked dumbly, gaze darting to Mr. Bakugou who had grown a little pale and was slowly inching towards his wife. While Mitsuki had progressively gotten redder in the face since he'd last looked at her.
He looked at the sleek, expensive car, brain scrambling for anyone his mother had mentioned who’d made that much money. The only rich people they knew were the Bakugos, everyone else was middle-class at best, none were willing to throw that much money away.
The driver’s side door opened to a man in a bespoke, black suit, earpiece visible in his ear as he stepped out of the car and moved towards the back doors. The man opened the gleaming doors as another man stepped out, he doubled the man in height, with broader shoulders and a finer, more expensive suit. His black curly hair retracted against the dull afternoon light. His face was pressed into a scowl, hands pressing the wrinkles from his suit.
Any earlier confusion Izuku experienced only doubled, this man was not only rich enough for a brand-new BMW but also important enough for a bodyguard/chauffeur. His mother hadn’t mentioned any rich men she apparently knew.
The man bent slightly to whisper orders to his chauffeur and with a wave of his hand the driver had hopped back into the driver’s seat and sped off.
“You!” Mrs. Bakugou barked from behind Izuku, causing him to jump. His gaze darted back to the seething woman behind him, watching numbly as Mr. Bakugou was trying to calm his enraged wife. His gaze swiveled back to the stranger on the sidewalk, who looked like he had just noticed them.
The man looked bored as he met eyes with the Bakugo’s, watching as if they were mere ants in his presence, disgust underlying indifference in his eyes.
His crimson eyes darted to Izuku’s, and the boy hunched his shoulders in response. The early boredom vanished from his gaze betraying recognition before they crinkled with a small smile.
The stranger’s smile broadened, his mouth opening to say something before a shout from behind Izuku interrupted him.
“Now you’re finally back!” screamed Mitsuki, “She’s been dead for weeks, and you come back now!”
Mr. Bakugou was speaking, his lips moving rapidly, face contorted in distress and Izuku’s fingers twitched as he tugged at his shirt. He couldn’t hear a word out of his mouth, just a garbled mess of syllables and stressed notes. Izuku dropped his head to stare at his blinding shoes.
The same crimson… The only bright color stark against the dull landscape.
He breathed, shaky and disoriented.
“She’s dead!” Someone shouted, Mrs. Bakugou.
Izuku flinched, breath catching, his grip on his shirt turning white knuckled.
A knock on the door, a gleaming silver badge that caught the light.
Blank face.
Blank eyes.
Blank voice.
“She’s dead.”
And Izuku remembered he should’ve gone to the store with his mother that evening.
Why couldn’t he have just gone…
1… He counted, breathe widening his chest
2… He exhaled and repeated until his fingers relaxed slightly, and the world stilled from its spiral.
A firm, way too warm hand landed on his shoulder, tipping Izuku over the edge.
He jumped and spun to face the black-haired man, suddenly standing right beside Izuku. His crimson gaze carving a line straight through him, analyzing him, plucking him apart. And Izuku fought the urge to shrink into the cement beneath his feet.
As if finding whatever he saw satisfactory he turned his cold gaze towards the Bakugos.
“You claim to have loved Inko… Yet here you are, causing a mockery of her rest day and in front of her grieving husband and child no less. You should feel ashamed for how you’ve embarrassed her.” He stated simply, as if it was nothing more than a conversation about the weather. As if he wasn’t talking about a dead woman. Mrs. Bakugou’s mouth clamped shut, eyes comically wide to match Mr. Bakugou’s. Her red face paled slightly before a deep scowl turned her face into something scathing, something Izuku had never witnessed before. Mr. Bakugou turned to fully face his wife, wrapping a desperate arm around her shoulder in something he hoped was calming, he interrupted before she could speak.
“Honey, please let’s just go inside. Look at Izuku, he’s been through enough. He can’t handle this either.” He whispered; she looked as if ready to argue but glanced at Izuku. Something in her eyes broke, crumbling like a tin can and softening around the edges in something Izuku always loathed.
Pity…
Izuku diverted his gaze to his sneakers again. He can’t look at that stare, not now, not ever.
The grip on his shoulder tightened and he tried to shy away from the foreign grip, uncomfortable with this man’s strange familiarity.
He… Hisashi…
Izuku blanked, blinking away his sudden dizziness, Mrs. Bakugou had called this man Hisashi, Inko’s husband… Izuku’s father Hisashi.
The distant figure looming over him throughout his childhood, the figure that didn’t have a voice, a face, or a distinct personality.
There was no warmth, no fond memories from the man beside him, even though there should have been.
Up close Izuku saw the light smattering of freckles across his cheekbones and the slight curl to his short hair, but that was where the similarities between them ended. The man’s skin was fairer, so fair it didn't betray a flush from the chill breeze, the man was colorless, a white and black figure save for his crimson gaze. It was different from Izuku’s flushed cheeks, and dark green curls. He truly did take after his mother much more than he thought.
He squinted at the man, his mother had talked about him, mentioned the stories of when they were dating with distant fondness. He remembers the ache in her voice when she recalled them, "your father was funny, it’s why I fell for him,” and laughed when Izuku buried his face under the blankets, embarrassed.
He glanced at the straight line of his father's mouth and wondered what his mother thought was ‘funny’ about this stern stranger.
He shook the hand from his shoulder, this time being successful.
“Come on, let's take a seat guys, the service is about to start.” Mr. Bakugou said, trying to lead his wife and son towards the grand temple doors. Mrs. Bakugou jumped from her husband's grasp, darting to Izuku, and taking him by the arm, peeling him away from his father’s grasp.
“Come with us, Izuku. You can sit with us, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.” Mr. Bakugou spluttered behind her.
Izuku took a sparring glance at Kacchan whose mouth was open with shock, only to shift to a scowl. Izuku shuttered and cleared his throat awkwardly. “A-actually, t-that’s really nice of you Mrs. Bakugou, but I don’t mind sitting with Hi-my dad.” He rushed, hands waving in the air frantically.
“Are you sure, honey?” Her grip loosened, and Izuku frantically nodded his head.
Mr. Bakugou pushed open the heavy mahogany doors leading to the Temple’s main hall. Izuku looked around, noticing the few guests that chose to attend.
The temple's ceremony hall was all white walls and gold accents. At the center of the room stood a closed black casket, framed with an arch of lilies. At the centerpiece stood a large picture of… Izuku felt nausea grip his stomach, tears pricking his eyes as he gazed upon the smiling portrait of his mother.
It wasn’t accurate, a picture of her from his childhood, but a betrayal of the women resting in that coffin. An encompassing hand landed on Izuku’s hair, pushing it back like… like mom used t-
“Izuku, are you alright?” His apparent father spoke, hushed.
Izuku hung his head before pushing the hand away from him and forcing a stiff foot in front of the other. He all but fell into his seat, limbs feeling sluggish despite lack of use. He could only assume everyone made it to their seats with the way the door clinked closed. He gulped, taking a shaky breath as if it were his last and keeping his eyes forward. He stared at the lilies even as he felt a presence from beside him, even when the Buddhist priest began the ceremony. He watched the lilies, in their stock-still life, he heard the dull voice chant sutras.
The ceremony had passed in a blur, bland colors and flowers being offered, incense was lit, he remembers the dull feeling of a pat on the back. The final prayers were uttered, apologies were shared. But Izuku didn’t stand, he didn’t remember crying but when he wiped his hand across a wet cheek he was surprised. He stared down at his wet palm. A gentle hand pressed against his shoulder.
Mrs. Bakugou stood blurry in his vision, her eyes were wet, mascara smeared around the edges. There were voices speaking, she was speaking, but Izuku couldn’t fathom what they could have been saying. He felt like he was watching his own world from outside his body, experiencing everything from a third-person perspective. He watched blankly as she reached to wrap her arms around him, only to stop and glare at the other voice. He blinked, Mrs. Bakugou sighed, thumb wiping under his eye before she left his field of vision.
Suddenly, the black-haired man, his father sat beside him, hand clasping his closed fist in gentle reassurance. He spoke too, mouth moving but only garbled noise exited. He was blurry too, but Izuku could make out that he smiled before clasping Izuku’s other hand in his.
How did he know…
Mom used to do this… When his hands were small enough to fit in one of hers, she’d rock with him, hum nursery rhymes under her breath.
His father said something else, before rising to his feet, dragging Izuku along with him. His hands shifted to a steadying palm to Izuku’s back.
Something like “wait here” left his father's lips before he turned away from Izuku, descending towards his mother’s casket.
Izuku watched numbly as his father set down something on the closed casket before kneeling and lighting incense. He watched as this cold man placed a kiss upon the dark mahogany, before rising, He straightened his suit jacket, acting as if he hadn’t presented any vulnerability just then, as if he had been the only person in this ceremony hall. Izuku blinked and his father strutted towards him, gently taking his hand as if he were a child and leading him through the crowd of departing faces.
Izuku stole one last glance at his mother’s casket, looked at her picture one more time and noticed the bouquet of black Dahlias that splayed across her casket.
Izuku was swept outside and watched as his father called his driver. The world was static, fuzzy across the edges, his head tipped towards the sun. Mrs. Bakugou tried to speak with him only for his father to brush past her towards his expensive car. He heard her voice pitched in fury at his father, but he seemed to just brush past her. He pushed Izuku into the car, following right afterwards and closing the door in her exasperated face.
They were off, he felt the feeling of a cold hand running through his curls while he dumbly looked out the window.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A warm bowl of katsudon was pushed towards Izuku on the kitchen table. He blinked, glassy eyed as steam curled up from the dish. His throat felt dry as he looked around the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t remember getting here.
Hisashi stood in the small kitchen of Izuku’s childhood apartment, as if he had always been there. He opened the cabinets grabbing a mug from the cupboard, bending down to grab glass tupperware from the cabinet. It was like he had lived here this whole time, as if he never left, as if Izuku was crazy for not remembering his face. He blinked owlishly at him, watching him, transfixed.
“H-how do you know where mom keeps the snacks?” Izuku’s voice was scratchy, sounding more like nails on a chalkboard than a teenage boy.
Hisashi looked at him surprised, then smiled “I live here Izuku.” As if the question was simple.
“But you d-don’t.”
“Izuku-”
“You don’t, Hisashi.” Izuku gritted, surprised by his sudden courage. He spent his whole life biting his tongue for others, why did he stop now? Or why did he begin in the first place?
“You haven’t ‘lived here’ since before I was born, I didn’t even recognize you. But you claim to belong here, you even know where everything is without having to ask.” Izuku took a breath and kept going.
“W-where were y-you?”
He thought of his mother sitting on the floor, phone clasped in her white-knuckled fist as tears cascaded down her cheeks.
“You know I was working overseas, Izuku.” He stated, voice monotone with a blank stare. He looked like a criminal on those dateline television shows his mother loved.
He sat on that kitchen floor with her, he watched those cheesy dateline television shows. He sat in purgatory with her, waiting for a letter, a phone call from an invisible man. Now here he finally was, watching impassively as if Izuku was a small misbehaving child, instead of the soul waiting for the salvation of his deadbeat presence.
…His mom can’t bite her tongue anymore, so why should Izuku…
“And you chose not to call, not to write a letter, to the woman you were supposed to love?”
Izuku thought back to the casket, a small voice trying to reason that this man wasn’t terrible. That he was grieving, that he loved his wife enough to get her special flowers and kiss her casket. That Izuku was harsh, that he was being cruel. He shook his head, a cold rage shimmering in his veins, he held strong.
“I will not talk to you about this Izuku, eat your dinner and go to bed. You’re clearly tired.” He stated simply, waving a hand, he turned his back, focusing his attention on putting the mug back and the snacks in their cupboard.
“I’m not hungry.” Izuku pushed his bowl away. “You could’ve sent her a letter. No one could be that busy. You could’ve called, God-forbid you kiss her while she’s a-” Izuku cut himself off, fingers gripping the wooden table with bone knuckles. “-live” He finished, with stinging eyes and wet cheeks.
Hisashi stopped his ministrations, silence laid like molasses between them. After a mini millennium, he turned to face his son at the table. His vacant, red gaze sent a chill down Izuku’s spine before he gave him a condescending smile. “You must not have taken a nap today. Let’s get you to bed, today was clearly too much for you.”
Izuku gaped at him, Hisashi took the Katsudon from him and dropped the whole dish into the sink releasing a loud clang. He hoisted Izuku up with his arm and robotically forced Izuku into his bedroom. Izuku stumbled onto the soft carpet, quickly turning around, and backing away from the infuriated man standing in the doorway.
The man gave him a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “get ready for bed Izuku or do I need to help you with that too today?”
The child shook his head, feeling the fight leave his body in the face of this terrifying man. The man bent down to Izuku’s level, crimson eyes meeting viridian and Izuku curled his fists.
Hisashi reached a hand towards Izuku before stopping just short, he sighed and rose back to his full height. He turned, about to close Izuku’s bedroom door before stopping himself.
His eyes met Izuku’s one more time before saying “You’re going to have to let go of the past at some point Izuku. She is dead, gone, we can’t spend our whole lives trying to make amends to the deceased.” And with that, the door closed with a click.
Izuku stared at that door for what felt like half an hour, eyes wide, angry tears streaming down his red face. Blind fury spiked through his veins, nails nearly tearing into skin, breaths ragged. But he couldn’t scream, couldn’t yank that door open and berate his deadbeat father’s face.
And in the most important moment of the night, he sat there in his bedroom crying into his palms, instead of defending his mother. Instead of defending her name, all the tears she cried, after all the stress and pain she had been through. All he could do was cry, tears silently falling down his cheeks leaving wet spots on the carpet. He scrubbed his face, taking in a ragged breath but they didn’t let up.
He stood in his dark room for a moment before stumbling to his bed. He curled into himself, wrapping his comforter around his shoulders, and melted into the mattress, staring into the eggshell walls.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He’d been taken out of school, Hisashi told him one morning, Izuku sat there, pushing his cold eggs around on his plate. He nodded and hoped the conversation would end, but Hisashi kept talking.
Waving his encompassing hands energetically, he explained how grief can impact a developing mind and how stressors in the classroom would only hinder his success. He tuned him out, and the mindless chatter died down, his father, noticing the uncooperative mood of his son, let him be.
Lack of in-class instruction just meant pamphlets sent from his teachers, per his father’s request, and Izuku allowed some relief in knowing he didn’t have to walk through those halls. Watch as his normally loud classmates, kept quiet as he walked by, still like statues as they watched him with pity. He wasn’t even sure if Bakugou’s aggression would change, would it mellow out into something completely unlike him, or stay the same. And Izuku was thankful he would never receive the answer to that question.
The silence felt like an ocean between them, despite the small apartment they kept to themselves mostly. Izuku was in his room with the homework his school provided during his ‘sick period,’ while Hisashi sat in his office on his computer working.
Occasionally they bicker, and Izuku tries desperately to see whatever ‘kindness’ his mother finds in him but is met with cold indifference. Until they don’t talk, Izuku sits in his room, Hisashi in his office working. And Izuku wonders if he could’ve just done this the whole time. That this one event, Hisashi staying, would’ve been the butterfly effect his mother needed to…
And with that last thought he rose from his bed like a zombie and cleaned his already clean room. With a suggestion from the internet, he plugged his phone in and played some relaxing music, ‘helps with grief’ a hero influencer had announced to her fans. He vigorously scrubbed the dresser, the walls, each of his All Might figures, made his bed, did his laundry, and vacuumed his floor, and after it was all done, Izuku watched the sunset from his window, watched the trees in their autumn shades and was met with dull satisfaction.
His stomach growled, loud and angry as he intertwined his fingers against it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, yesterday maybe, but more likely three days ago. It had been hard.
Hisashi cooked his mother's food. It looked the same, it had smelt the same, and each time it had him dash into the kitchen, expecting to see her viridian hair and warm features only to be greeted with the smile of his deadbeat father. The man’s features always softened when he looked at Izuku, as if this wasn’t the life he had taken a rain check in. And he’d lose his appetite, tastebuds going dull. It was always the same, Izuku wouldn’t eat, and Hisashi would put his hands on his hips as if scolding a toddler, he’d wave a finger, claiming the importance of nutrients to growing bodies. And Izuku would brush him off.
It was different yesterday though, Hisashi stopped Izuku from leaving, threatening to spoon feed him and Izuku snapped.
“I’d never eat a thing you made for me; I was told not to take food from strangers.” He’d spat, brushing past the quiet man and slammed his door.
Now here they were, in a worse place than they were before. Hisashi didn’t try to speak up like before, opting instead for the cold shoulder. He didn’t make any food for him, didn’t call him, knock on his door. And Izuku was fine with that, fine with ignoring the small guilty voice in the back of his head.
Izuku sluggishly rose to his feet, feeling lightheaded he hobbled from his room to the kitchen, looking for snacks or dinner or something to ease the heartbeat in his head.
He opted for cereal that he was sure was stale by now. He stuffed a spoonful into his mouth. He shrugged his shoulders, finding it edible before noticing something from the corner of his eye. The shiny, white cardstock reflecting the yellowing kitchen lights, Izuku blinked bending down to inspect it.
A “Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa” was printed in neat Kanji. Izuku quickly fished the business card from the trash can. The man’s work phone number and email were listed as well as his place of employment, Musutafu Police Station.
This had to be the detective working on his mother’s case.
He stuffed another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, mulling over this new information, unsure how to proceed.
His fingers itched for his phone, yearning for answers he knew wouldn’t be available to him. He sighed, looking at the trashcan again then at the business card then back again.
He knew he’d never get the answers he desired, and he knew that there was nothing he could do to help the situation. He was a quirkless teenager, they had no reason to listen to him, no reason to respect him.
“Useless, Deku”
He’d only be in the way, he let the card slip between his fingers, putting his dishes into the dishwasher he climbed back into his bed. Izuku’s eyelids drooped, letting the heaviness around his shoulders crush him to his bed, like a cockroach against the heel of a shoe. He allowed the vague comfort and pain it brought as he closed his eyes.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“How could you!?”
Izuku sat up as if electrified, eyes darting around his dark room as his heart pounded in his chest. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, checking his All Might digital clock, 8:30 PM.
“She waited for you! She waited for a decade, and you couldn’t even visit! Couldn’t even give your wife a phone call!” The shrill voice continued to scream, there were other voices now, one quieter but quicker, Izuku couldn’t make out the words. His head hurt too much, but he knew they sounded panicked. And the other was completely dull, devoid of any emotion as if talking about the weather, that set the angry voice off more.
“You jackass, do you even care that- that she’s -de.” The voice cracked, crumbling into itself like a stack of cards. Izuku jumped from his bed, ignoring the pounding in his skull to open his bedroom door and peek out into the battlefield that was his living room.
Izuku’s eyes widened at the sight of Mitsuki Bakugou, fists clenched with shaky shoulders and stubborn tears rolling down her pinched face as her husband tried to comfort her.
His father stood in the center of the living room impassively, as if this conversation was nothing but a flash in the pan for him. As if they didn’t just accuse him of not caring for his wife’s premature death. As if this conversation was a minor inconvenience. Izuku’s grip tightened against the door, wanting to throw the door open and scream too, to shout his frustrations for all inhabitants to hear. To rip this boulder off his shoulders and chuck it at his father’s head, pray it lands, pray it hurts.
But his feet rooted themselves in his room, staring onward like a trembling coward, he bit his lip, and willed the moisture away from his eyes.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave if you can’t act like an adult, Mitsuki.” His father stated, blandly, cruelly.
Mitsuki’s and Masaru’s eyes widened, Mrs. Bakugou recovered quicker fists clenching again into white knuckles, like she wanted nothing more than to punch his father’s face in but holding back by a thread. She opened her mouth, about to start screaming again.
Hisashi raised a large hand, stopping her scream before it could escape her mouth. “Quiet down, you’ll wake my son. He hasn’t been taking the loss of his mother well. Show some empathy for his sake.” Mitsuki’s mouth snapped shut, fiery gaze momentarily softening before hardening again, she spun on her heel snatching something from the kitchen counter before shoving it into Hisashi's arms.
“Make sure Izuku gets this you bastard.” She gritted out, Masaru stayed silent beside her, mimicking a deer in headlights with his wide eyes.
“Will do.” Hisashi snapped back, taking the parcel into his arms.
Masaru leaned towards Mitsuki, whispering something into her ear, she nodded, stockily turning, and leaving the apartment, leaving Masaru to clasp his hands in front of him awkwardly.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he muttered stockily, more out of polite obligation than care, “We’ll leave you two be now, have a goodnight, Hisashi.” His father hummed, nodding as the man followed his furious wife out the door. The following slam echoed throughout the apartment, causing Izuku to jump.
He watched on silently, heart in his throat unable to talk or move. Hisashi’s shoulders relaxed slightly when they left, scrunching in on themselves as he stared down at the neatly wrapped bento. A sickening crack came from the box and Izuku froze. The man dumped the whole parcel into the trash can and the boy gasped in response, knocked out of his stupor he threw his bedroom door open. Hisashi locked his wide gaze onto Izuku as he dashed to the trash can, earlier hesitation stomped out by betrayal.
The bento was a cherry red neatly tied into a knot on the top, it was pristine aside from the large wet spot at the bottom, where Hisashi had broken it. Hisashi had cracked it, broken something Mrs. Bakugou put effort in, a home cooked meal that didn’t trigger Izuku’s upchuck reflex. He turned his watery eyes to the stoic face of his father, Stony, calculating, the gaze of a man that only knew how to pick apart and ridicule, they didn’t look like the kindness his mother loved. He was overwhelmed with relief that he only had the man's curly hair, Izuku clenched his fists. He was his mother’s son, her gentle gaze and warm skin, woman full of color like a green valley, a blissful paradise. Thankful, for his mother's features instead of his icy, colorless father.
Beyond grateful that he only ever reminded people of Inko, instead of Hisashi.
“How could you?” he uttered, surprised by the choked rasp of his voice.
Hisashi tilted his head, opening his mouth only to be interrupted by Izuku.
“She’s grieving the loss of her best friend, Hisashi.” Izuku snapped, the other man stiffened, lips downturned in irritation before straightening back to stoicism.
“Izuku, you know that her food is much too spicy for you, especially with your refusal to eat actually nutritious food.” He shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter.” Izuku gritted, “She put effort into that, she made that out of love.”
Hisashi sighed, shoulders sagging and hand rubbing his forehead, as if the world was against him, as if Izuku was the ridiculous one.
“Izuku, please. I’m not in the mood to fight right now.” He raised his head, hand dragging down his face, fatigue wearing on his brow.
The boy pursed his lips, bowing his head, hands tightening into white-knuckled fists. He knew he should keep quiet; he knew that arguing wouldn’t change his father. He understood, it was hopeless, this wasn’t the man his mother described as his father, the funny and sweet man who adored them. The man who was supposed to give them the world, but only offering radio silence for over a decade. A man Izuku didn’t even recognize at his mother's funeral. It was pointless even so-
“You don’t really care if she's gone, do you?” His eyes widened before dropping his gaze to the floor, guilt striking through his chest like an arrow, yet he couldn’t even utter an apology. He couldn’t say anything, static buzzed in his ears as he stared at his closed hands, white-knuckled and sweaty.
Even so, he found he wanted, needed, the answer to this question. And despite the sudden guilt at his potential insensitivity, the man didn’t grieve. Hisashi worked, typing on his laptop and on the rare occasions he wasn’t working he was badgering Izuku. He didn’t cry, change, mourn or scream, no guilt resided behind his eyes. It was as if she had never died, as if nothing profoundly changed, like he was there all along.
The silence was thick, it ran in Izuku’s veins drilling him with anxiety as he picked at his cuticles.
“So that's what you think.” Hisashi finally uttered, voice uncharacteristically hushed. Izuku’s gaze darted to Hisashi’s. The large man leaned against the wooden front door, messy curls reaching past the door frame, sticking up around his head. His hands covered his eyes, brushing away to reveal the man’s unforgiving gaze, he met Izuku’s eyes, searching for something.
He sighed, sounding as if the weight of the world was crushing his shoulders.
“She was my wife, Izuku.” His hands dropped to his sides and Izuku opened his mouth to refute only to be interrupted.
“Has she ever told you how we met?” He asked, Izuku stared wide-eyed. He blinked, not expecting Hisashi to ask that. He shook his head.
“Sit.” Hisashi gestured over to the couch. Izuku shook his head again in disbelief, “you can’t just change the subject whenever it benefits you.” He squared his shoulders.
Hisashi gave him a small smile, “humor your papa, Izuku. Let me tell you about your mother.”
Izuku looked at his father then at the couch, relenting soundlessly. Hisashi’s smile grew, “I’ll make us some green tea with honey. I know it’s your favorite.” He sauntered over to the kitchen as Izuku looked at him with his mouth agape.
Izuku watched the man prepared the tea, with two overflowing tablespoons of honey just the way he liked it, just the way that made his mother warn him about cavities. When the mug was pressed into his palms, he stared into the murky liquid but didn’t take a sip. He felt the shift of weight beside him but still didn’t glance up at his father. He heard the man sip from his own mug and sigh, chuckling a little under his breath.
“You like your tea the same way as me.” He stated after a moment of silence, “with more honey than tea. It would drive Inko crazy, you know your mother she never liked sweet things, only savory.” Izuku glanced up at Hisashi, who took another sip, a small smile on his lips when he noticed Izuku’s sudden attention.
Izuku looked down again, not wanting to give into this man, but still unable to rise to his feet. He should, he shouldn’t listen to this heartless man any longer. But he needed to know, he wanted to hear one person talk about his mom, tell him why his father fell for her, why she fell for him.
“I saved her.” He said, Izuku tensed, glancing at the man again before fixing his gaze back to his cup defiantly.
“She was walking home after her internship back in college, and a couple thugs cornered her in a back alley.” He chuckled fondly, “And I came running over, my size intimidated them but when I breathed fire they ran. You would’ve been proud; it was quite heroic.” The last half took a mocking tone, but Izuku’s head perked up a little. He made eye contact with the man again. There was an odd glint to the man’s eye, a smile curling his lips.
“She was beautiful, full of hidden strength. And I had to ask her out on the spot…”
“And did she say no?” Izuku uttered before slamming his mouth shut, cursing his curiosity.
Hisashi gasped, hand poised to his chest like an offended damsel. “Why would she say no! I saved her life.” Voice thick with faux hurt.
“I-I” Izuku steeled himself, “I didn’t really mean it like that, she just met you. Why would she agree to go out with someone she didn’t know, despite them saving her?”
“Because I’m very charming Izuku. That's why.” He stated confidently, flashing Izuku a proud smile.
The boy seriously doubted that, with how he’s been handling the Bakugos, it wasn’t convincing. But he just shrunk back into himself, choosing to keep that to himself.
Hisashi sighed again, “I offered her 5-star restaurants, gourmet cuisine, but the only thing your mother wanted was coffee at this family-owned establishment. It was perfect.” He uttered; the man’s eyes crinkled with warmth.
Izuku fidgeted in his seat, “why’d you marry mom?” he muttered.
There was a pause, the silence companionable instead of suffocating like usual. Izuku glanced up again, thinking the man may not have heard him. Hisashi wore a dull stare, the odd light was snuffed out, he looked like a porcelain doll in the yellowed lamplight. And Izuku wondered if he stepped on a nerve, his fingers twitched, heart aching in his chest and he gulped. Hand wishing to reach out but keep his sweaty grip on his mug.
“Her heart.” He met his son’s gaze, offering a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hand swept through Izuku’s wild curls, and he barely suppressed his jump at the contact, his father didn’t seem fazed.
“Inko had a warm and loyal heart, the kind that never faltered from its place, the kind that never abandoned…” He trailed off, eyes growing sad. He turned his gaze forward again, shoulders sagging slightly. Slight minuscule differences, droopy eyebrows, pursed lips, downturned gaze, the boy noticed them all.
Izuku’s mouth opened but no sound came out. The sudden onslaught of emotion slammed into his chest like a freight train. And tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision of the man before him. The grieving husband of a dead wife. For the first time since meeting his father, he slowly understood. He darted his gaze back onto the cold mug of tea, staring at his reflection in the mug.
Silence stretched between them, and it felt like they were closer but millions of miles away. He had felt like that for weeks now, that they stood on opposite sides, that his father was the villain. Like this man was responsible for his mother’s death, that he was at fault for every hardship they ever faced. And it was easy, remarkably simple to put the blame on this cold, apathetic man who treated people like insects. But as Izuku spared one final glance at the man, his father, a widowed husband, he wasn’t so sure of his deduction anymore.
He sloshed his leftover tea in his cup mindlessly, his black lashes contrasting with the darkness under his eyes. There was a tiredness about the man sitting beside him, an exhaustion that reflected in Izuku’s own chest.
“So, to answer your earlier question… She was my wife, Izuku.” He added gruffly. The boy blinked in response.
“Wha-”
“You asked if I cared if she was gone.” He remembered, meeting Izuku’s gaze head-on, a small smile curling his lips.
“She was my wife.” He finished off the last drop of his tea, a serene smile plastered on his lips as he shifted his gaze forward.
Izuku pursed his lips, chest aching at the underlying meaning behind the man’s confession, he scrubbed the tears from his eyes as he returned his watery gaze to his cold tea. The green tea with two heaping spoonfuls of honey, just how Izuku liked it. His hands shook and reluctantly brought the cup to his lips. It was lukewarm but blissfully sweet, acting like a soothing balm as it traveled down his throat.
He set the cup back on his lap, looking over to see Hisashi smiling. He peeled his gaze away with a small smile of his own.
The man let out a sigh, and Izuku felt his large, warm palm running through his hair. “It reminds me of when you were born.” He uttered, thoughtfully, warm voice with affection. “Your mother had stopped me from naming you Hisashi JR.”
And Izuku sputtered in his tea, gawking at the disappointed downturn of the man’s mouth.
“Good!” He shouted a little too loudly. “That would have been a horrible choice.”
And Hisashi let out a low chuckle. “It would have been a great name for you.” His encompassing hand traveled from Izuku’s hair to his jaw, fingers like iron bars, Hisashi grinned wide as he continued, “You are my son after all.”
Izuku just frowned in his father's grip, lips like a pufferfish he blinked owlishly before trying to shake his father’s grip off his face. Thankful that he was released from the iron grip. He took another sip of tea relaxing into the plush sofa behind him, enjoying the silence that followed between them
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He stumbled into his dark bedroom, using his phone flashlight to guide him to bed. Throwing himself onto his mattress, his phone, unplugging the charger, he scrolled to his favorite hero news site.
He scrolled past the mindless gossip, searching for any new up-and-coming heroes he could add to his brand-new notebook.
Izuku paused when he made eye contact with her smiling green eyes, his mother’s face greeted him. It was a picture from the beginning of that school year, right outside the school, Izuku was cut out of the picture leaving a portrait of his mother’s watery smile. He studied the faint lines around her mouth, the crow's feet around her eyes, she looked happy, proud of her son. And Izuku felt his bottom lip tremble, eyes watering at the sight as his thumb hovered over the article.
Izuku averted his gaze to the headline, ‘Inko, stay at home mother, murdered from mugging in the heart of Musutafu.’
He scrubbed his hand across his eyes, taking in a shaky breath he quickly swept away from the app. He jerkily rose from his bed dragging his laptop and notebook into bed with him, he flipped the lid open and turned on his browser protection he got onto the dark web. Surfing through the hero forums always gave him in-depth information about hero debuts and hero fights that were kept from the public eye.
He remembers a kidnapping from a couple weeks ago that got little coverage. Was it ever solved? He really couldn’t remember. He searched for fights in Musutafu, scrolling past some of the most recent muggings and fights. He stopped, ‘Mugging at Musutafu, will it ever be solved?’ The title read, dated from a few days ago.
He found himself clicking, static in his ears at the hundreds of notes attached to this forum. The base information of his mother’s case, information that had been in his head for weeks now.
“I’m sorry son, your mother got involved in an altercation with a villain and she didn’t make it.” The police officer stated, pale faced.
“Inko Midoriya, stay at home mother of Izuku Midoriya was found mutilated in an alleyway leading back to her home. It is suspected to be one of the common string of muggings happening in the heart of Musutafu. Be careful on your way home tonight.” The young newscaster said, red painted lips drawn in a sympathetic frown.
“It was a lowly criminal, just a bunch of muggers, looking to make some quick cash. Those are always the hardest to find.” A detective stated, tactlessly.
Izuku scrolled down the forum, tangling his fingers together as he read the lackluster comments.
The excuses were the same he’d always heard.
No clues, no leads, only motive. All they had was a motive, a common, disgusting motive, money. A small fortune in exchange for a human life.
Until he came across a linked document, he hesitated, hand stilling on the curser. He hesitates, knowing the consequences of opening anything from a site like this. But he found himself clicking anyway, wanting, needing to know what those documents could be. What greeted him was a photocopy of a document from Musutafu Police Station, simple observations, notes of the victim, time, and location where the crime took place.
Nothing was mentioned of the obvious motive, until. Izuku paused on the next line, feeling like the breath was ripped from his chest. He thought back to the black exterior of his mom’s coffin, closed out from the world, keeping his mother hidden. He’d been thankful not to have to see her face, her pale, lifeless complexion.
He pressed a palm to his mouth, feeling something wet roll down his cheeks.
It was a mugging, someone robbed his small, defenseless mother for a profit. It was supposed to be a mugging, it’s what everyone told him, it’s what it should’ve been anyway. A list of belongings collected by the extraction team detailed a wallet, with loose money ranging from 20-50 dollars and a debit card. Her necklace was still clasped around her neck, and a bracelet was left thrown on her chest half-hazard.
The only missing possession was her wedding ring, the same cheap wedding ring she had bought as a replacement for the original she had lost. He remembers going with her to pick it out, it was something no more than 100 dollars. Something cheap and small, but enough to let any pervy suitors know she was a married woman. Something no thug worth their salt would kill for, not when she had a debit card, a wallet full of cash, and a nice silver necklace.
The second thing missing had been the hand the ring was resting on. The whole hand had been chopped off. That and a few cuts and bruising along his mom’s arms, face and back had been the only injuries.
The newscaster's words ring back into his head, “mutilated.”
A severed hand and a cheap ring…
She wasn’t mugged, she wasn’t murdered because she resisted. It was all a lie, an excuse given to a grieving child and the press.
“But why?” He choked out, feeling bile slowly creep up his throat, it was getting hard to breathe. “If not for money, why would someone, what motive?” His breathing became erratic, head pounding. He threw his laptop to the side.