Thank you to Mal for editing!
There is a warning for graphic medical content. I mean, not graphic, but it's a bit more descriptive than normal. I've placed warnings where needed, and you can skip what's inside and still get the story. Be safe.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be working hard to become Heroes. Studying together, learning together, laughing together, fighting together.
Not… Not this… Not fighting alone. Not terrified. Not… just not like this.
Izuku Midoriya held her like he'd been taught to. His hands made a fist under her ribs; he forced One For All away so he could perform the maneuver without breaking her. He jerkily pressed beneath her diaphragm, and she retched flowers. Yellow and blue came spiraling out of her mouth, and he saw…
Oh… Oh no…
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Uraraka-san." He didn't know if she could hear him. He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what else to do. There were yellow flowers and blue flowers. There were strong and unyielding green sprigs and leaves. Sturdy and terrible. He'd thought that was the worst of it…
But then… then he'd noticed something more.
"Uraraka-san!" He couldn't keep the horror from his voice when he saw it. The red. The blood. Specks of it littered atop the flowers and greenery. The color of it burned against his eyes. Her throat had to be raw. Everything that was coming up… It had to hurt so much… She had to be in so much pain…
He tried to focus on his hands. Tried to focus on getting her air.
But could he? After wasting so much time, could he do enough to save her?
He had to.
He had to.
He pushed.
She gasped in his grasp. Coughed. Spluttered. Breathed. He'd bought her time, but how much? How much air could she get? How could he help her? He needed to know what to do. Whatever it was, he would do it! Please! He just needed to know what to do to help her!
"Deku-kun," Uraraka gasped. Izuku kept his attention focused on her. He needed to know what to do! Anything! "I lo—"
She was cut off. The flowers did it. The terrible, horrible, evil flowers that he didn't know how to make go away. He was just as lost as before—just as confused and terrified—and Uraraka was convulsing in pain. Tears streamed down her face. She couldn't wail for the flowers in her throat. Every choked sob wrecked him, and he felt so useless to her. All he wanted was to make it go away. Make it stop. He didn't do enough before, and now…
Now… now, Uraraka was choking, and he didn't know how to save her. All he could think to do was just try to force the flowers out alongside her. All he could think to do was add his strength to hers and just keep trying.
"I'm sorry." The words came as blubbering sobs of his own. But he wouldn't stop. Couldn't. He had to keep trying. He pushed, and more flowers came out, and he cried for the agony she had to be going through. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
Uraraka was able to gasp precious little air this time, but the flowers returned, their vengeance stronger than before. Izuku couldn't help but sob alongside her. All he could do was hold her and try desperately to get her to breathe. It was all he could think to do.
She had to keep breathing. She had to!
"What do I do?" he asked. Uraraka could not answer him. Terror clawed within him, and he could barely restrain it. He couldn't think. Uraraka was… She… He didn't know how to save her! He didn't know… He didn't know what to do! "Uraraka-san, please, how can I help?"
The flowers didn't stop. They were cruel, and Izuku hated them. He hated what they were doing to her. She'd inspired him, pushed him, saved him more times than he could count. A million times in a million ways. But now that she needed help, he couldn't… couldn't… He hated that there was no way for him to stop them.
How could he, after all? The only way to stop this was for Uraraka to know that the person she loved—he choked back another sob—loved her back. It was a mind-boggling notion—that romantic love could cure her—and he was still coming to terms with it. He had to push past the unsaid rejection of his own unrequited feelings and do what he could to save her life. After all, if she'd fallen for him, he would have noticed, right? Either one of them could have said something by now. This wouldn't have even happened, right?
Right? He would have known, right?
The question unlocked something. Where panic had forced his brain to stop, this question now kicked the vital organ into high gear. The cogs in his mind began to spin at top speed.
Who was it, then? She hadn't even come close to making a romantic confession to anyone who'd gotten a disk. She'd made disks for everyone in their class, all of her mentors, her parents… She'd made disks for everyone that they both knew, several names he recognized but hadn't met in person, and a few names he'd never heard of before. Names, he'd assumed, from her hometown back in Mie. If any one of them were the person she loved, she would have confessed in the recording, right? Or she would have wanted to talk to them in person, so they wouldn't have needed a recording in the first place…
His mind worked at a frantic pace, making up for precious lost time. He did his best to keep his arms from trembling. He needed to figure out who the person was and bring her to them, and explain to them what was going on… She would probably hate him, but she'd be alive to do that, at least—
Izuku felt something. Uraraka's hands were suddenly on his arms, and he lost his footing.
"Uraraka-san, don't—!" His warning was too late. Her Quirk was active. It would only make her more nauseous, he knew, and he wasn't sure if her throat could handle any more abuse. She was already bleeding, already throwing up way too much. Any more, and…
He held onto her, trying to figure out a way to get her the air she needed and get her to release her Quirk at the same time.
And… she held onto him. Izuku felt her hands pass over the dulled skin of his scars until they reached the fingers he'd interwoven over her sternum. Once there, she gripped his hands. Tightly. Her pinky wasn't extended. She wasn't showing any restraint. She was just holding on.
Holding on to hands that couldn't save her.
Mangled hands that, at this point, might as well have been clasped in prayer.
She held onto them, trusting him. Like he was a lifeline or…
Or her last chance…
But… last chance for what?
"I need to confess, but I want to say goodbye first."
She'd gone through so many disks… why was his the last?
"There are two parts to yours…I have a lot to say, and some of it is really, really important. I think it might get a bit too personal, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable…"
His eyes widened. No way. She couldn't have meant— But who else… But if it had been… But—
No. They were out of time. He couldn't doubt or argue with himself. She couldn't tell him anything now, and she was fading fast. Her body's reactions were getting weaker, and the maneuver wasn't working anymore. The flowers kept coming, demanding her life. There wasn't any time left. Not for doubt, not for shame, not for anything else.
Only one desperate, truthful confession.
"I love you!"
Silence followed Izuku's cry. No words, no retching, no breathing. All was silent for one single, impossible moment.
Then, the moment passed.
The two of them crashed to the ground. Izuku pulled her backwards so he would cushion her fall. They landed with a harsh thud on the floor, and Izuku only had a moment to assure himself she hadn't hit her head. More flowers fell out of her mouth, dull and slick with saliva and blood. There was a gurgling noise in the back of her throat—a sickening sound that moved Izuku into action.
Black tendrils shot out from him, powerful and insistent, shoving aside anything that was too close. He needed to clear a space for Uraraka. He ignored the clattering of equipment and laid her out straight, stripped his jacket off, and crafted a crude pillow for her head and neck.
He remembered something. A lesson in their second year. Choking persons. Recovery Girl had taught it. Kaminari had fallen asleep, and he didn't think a lot of people had taken it seriously. He was glad he had.
First step: remove any obstructions from the mouth and throat.
Izuku moved to Uraraka's head and opened her mouth as wide as it could go. There were too many flowers. Far, far too many. He reached in and pulled them out, doing his best not to wince at how much blood covered the debris. Yellow Verbascum. Blue flowers. Stems. Leaves. He pulled three handfuls out, using his fingers to make sure nothing remained. He didn't care where the flowers ended up when he tossed them aside; they just needed to be out.
He hadn't done enough before. He hadn't known, but…
He could do something now. And he would. He would.
Second step: listen for breathing.
Izuku leaned in close, holding his breath. Time was precious, and he wanted nothing more than to just get her to breathe. But if he didn't do this right, he would have to do it over. He would lose more time. He could lose her forever.
He would not lose her.
One second… two seconds… three seconds… four seconds… five seconds.
Nothing.
Third step: begin rescue breathing.
"Please forgive me," he murmured to her motionless form. She laid there, still and unresponsive. It was wrong. So wrong.
He plugged her nose, took a deep breath, and then sealed her mouth with his own. He exhaled, pushing the air into her. He rose, took another breath, and gave that to her, too.
Take it, he silently begged, turning his attention to her chest. Nothing. It hadn't risen. He took two more breaths and gave them both to her. He'd give her anything to just live. To work and learn and laugh and fight. He would do now what he so stupidly hadn't done then. Please… please take it.
He looked.
Nothing. Still and ashen and…
No. This wasn't done. He wasn't done!
Fourth step: begin compressions.
Izuku hustled to Uraraka's chest. He placed his hands where they needed to be.
He hadn't done enough for her.
"One, two, three…"
Not on her birthday.
"…four, five, six, seven…"
Not when they talked after class two weeks after.
"…eight, nine, ten…"
Not when he checked on her after she and Jirou had sparred with Tokoyami and Kacchan.
"…eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…"
Not when he'd learned that she was throwing up flowers.
"…fifteen, sixteen…"
Not even today!
"…seventeen, eighteen…"
He'd been chasing so many red herrings. He hadn't known…
"…nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…"
He hadn't seen…
"…twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…"
But that wouldn't stop him from doing everything in his power…
"…twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…"
…to bring her back!
"…twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!"
Izuku took his hands away, and he looked at Uraraka's face. More flowers were around her mouth. He didn't waste any time taking them out.
Last step: repeat until help arrives or the person starts breathing again.
Izuku kept working, focusing his mind and energy on the task at hand, yet his mind, traitorous as it was, had other plans. It replayed for him the opportunities he'd had to help her. Opportunities that he'd missed. That he'd been blinded to. That he just hadn't taken.
He could have said something the night before her birthday. When she'd inspired him with her progress and challenged him with her presence to be better every day. He could have said something when he saw the moonlight in her hair and the confidence in her stride. He could have said something when he met her eyes and was struck dumb for a moment before remembering his question. He could have told her how much he admired her and respected her.
He hadn't.
He could have said something on her birthday. When he'd seen her and the others in the early hours of the morning. He could have ignored the warning glances from Yaoyoruzu and Tsu and gone up to them, offering his strength and support and telling her that he was always there for her. He could have done so much more than just send a text and fret all day and pass along one message that hadn't been meant for him. He could have asked her more questions about what was going on instead of just… letting it go. He could have done more than just smile at her like an idiot.
He hadn't.
He could have said something when he noticed her pulling away from everybody. Pulling away from him. He'd said… something. Not nearly enough. He'd thought she was going through internship-related troubles. He'd said as much as he'd dared, and then he'd said no more. He should have said something more. He should have done something more.
He—
"Uraraka-kun! Midoriya-kun!"
Izuku didn't look away from what he was doing. He was back on compressions again. He couldn't lose count. He couldn't!
"Midoriya-kun! Ochako-chan! Mi—Oh my god! Iida-kun! They're in here!"
Izuku heard the frenzied footsteps a moment before a crash. "Twenty-nine, thirty!"
Izuku didn't spare a glance to his two friends as he returned to Uraraka's head. There were more flowers, and there was even more debris. He started removing it all immediately. There was a lot, though. There was too much.
He couldn't stop taking it out, though. He couldn't.
"What on—" Iida's exclamation was loud and immediate. Still, Izuku didn't look away. Uraraka was the priority. He needed to do this. "I'll go to get Recovery Girl!"
"Get Sensei, too!" Ashido shouted. Izuku didn't know if Iida had heard her. He was gone, and Ashido was next to him, eyes focused and alert. Her movements were quick and efficient as she placed both hands over the center of Uraraka's chest. "I'm starting the compressions now."
It was only then that Izuku looked over, and only for the barest of seconds. Ashido's face already had a light sheen of sweat, and she kept her eyes on Uraraka with a determination that could only just cover her fear. She couldn't have known how long he'd been at this, but her focus and haste told him that she didn't need to know. She was willing to help him keep fighting.
For Uraraka. All for Uraraka's sake.
Izuku nodded, turning his attention back to their friend. With Ashido on compressions, he could focus on removing the obstructions as they came out, and he could give her the breaths every thirty counts. He pulled the final flower—blue with terrible red streaks—out of her mouth and leaned in close.
Izuku breathed in deeply, sealed Uraraka's mouth and pressed her nose shut, and breathed air into her with as much force as he could. He did it again, silently begging her to just take what he could give her now.
I didn't give you what you needed sooner. Izuku watched her chest as Ashido's hands kept working diligently on the compressions, desperate for her to breathe on her own. Please… just take what you need now!
Nothing. Ashido's voice wasn't at all steady as she counted the consistent compressions she gave Uraraka, but the numbers were clear enough for him to understand. Izuku hadn't known that she'd paid attention to Recovery Girl's lecture, but he was grateful for it.
Izuku turned his attention to Uraraka's face. Lax in the worst possible way. He used his hands to keep her jaw open as wide as possible, and… and…
How much pain had she been in all this time? The flowers had caused significant damage. They were still slick with blood, and it was getting worse. He reached in and pulled the new carnage out, but the worst were the stems. He reached in quickly to stop one from stabbing Uraraka in the roof of the mouth, but the attempt forced him to see. To notice. It hadn't been the first stem to make it that far. There was already damage lining the top of her mouth. Damage he hadn't seen before.
Just how much pain had she gone through without him seeing? How many times did he have to find her only after the damage had been done? How many times would he try to be there for her, only to be too late? The day she'd sparred with Tokoyami and not said something about her throat. The flowers in the bathroom. Throwing up in their glen. Just barely catching her during the raid… Seeing her unconscious on the asphalt… so still and so pale…
But this was worse. Much, much worse.
Earlier, in her paleness, at least she'd been breathing.
She wasn't breathing now.
"Thirty!"
Izuku took out the newly ejected flowers and sealed her lips with his. He gave her air. And again. And he stood watch. He cleared new debris. More flowers. More stems. More, more, more…
"I've brought Recovery Girl!"
Izuku didn't look to see the woman or what she had brought. He only knew that she was there to help Uraraka.
And he was willing to do anything at this point.
"Don't stop what you're doing," instructed the Pro-Hero as she quickly made her way to where they sat. He sensed more than saw when she knelt on the opposite side of Uraraka. "How long has she been unconscious?"
"Um, about three and a half minutes," said Izuku, glancing up to make sure she needed the answer in time and not in number of compression cycles. The second version was on the tip of his tongue, but Recovery Girl nodded and immediately drew a vial out of her coat. She opened it, revealing a scalpel, and reached within her coat again. She took out another container. She opened it and a smell of sanitation hit Izuku's nose.
"When Ashido-chan gets to thirty, I need the both of you to back away immediately," said the Pro. Her voice was somber. Izuku understood. He didn't know why, but he knew that whatever she was going to do, it would be the best chance of saving Uraraka's life.
Izuku managed to extract five more flowers and two more sprigs before Ashido's cry of "thirty!"
-warning, warning-
The two students immediately backed up, and Izuku was horrified to watch as Recovery Girl deftly used the scalpel on Uraraka's throat. An incision, precise and painful-looking, in the middle of her throat. A protest rose on his lips as Uraraka didn't even respond to the pain of being cut open.
"Uraraka-san!"
Izuku could only watch as his horror was ignored. He forced himself to remain still. Recovery Girl had to be helping her. She had to.
The Pro-Hero took a small instrument that she'd withdrawn from the sanitized container and peeled a portion of his friend's skin backwards. Thick layers of skin and who-knows-what-else moved easily. She removed the scalpel expertly and exchanged it with the instrument. It looked bulky on one end with a curved tube at the other. With practiced expertise, she maneuvered the tube into the newly made hole in Uraraka's throat. As soon as it was in place, a whistling of air sounded throughout the room, and Izuku cried as Uraraka's chest rose on its own.
-warning, warning—
She was breathing!
"Midoriya-kun, Ashido-chan, we have to move quickly," said Recovery Girl, standing from her handiwork and examining the two students before her. "What I've done is only temporary, especially for Uraraka-chan's condition. If the flowers are still growing, we have even less time than I'd like."
A weight dropped in Izuku's stomach, taking with it whatever relief he might have felt at seeing Uraraka's chest rise and fall of its own accord.
"Still grow—"
"Iida-kun has gone for the stretcher," continued Recovery Girl urgently, "but we'll need to move her onto it and get her to my office as carefully and as quickly as possible. I have to perform surgery, and my tools are there."
Izuku's head whirled with information. The flowers were still growing. The flowers were still growing!
Had he failed her again? Wasted the precious little time she had with a stupid, stupid—
"Here's the stretcher, Recovery Girl!" Iida's entrance was abrupt, and Izuku shoved his thoughts to the side. He could panic later. For now… for now he would actually do something useful. He wouldn't waste any more time.
"Good. Midoriya-kun, Ashido-chan. Move Uraraka-chan to the stretcher without jostling her neck. Time is of the essence; let's move!"
Izuku didn't need to be told twice. Neither did Ashido. Together, they lifted their friend and placed her on the stretcher. Izuku fought a shudder as he was face to face with what Recovery Girl had done to keep Uraraka alive. He had to keep her stable.
He couldn't… He…
"Let's get her to my office!" commanded Recovery Girl. "Iida-kun, I need you to take me there so I can prepare. Midoriya-kun, Ashido-chan, don't jostle Uraraka-chan, but move as quickly as you can."
The three students didn't hesitate before leaping into action. Recovery Girl had barely grabbed onto Iida before she was whisked away. He and Ashido, with Uraraka's stretcher between them, were close behind. Izuku's gaze shifted rapidly between Ashido's back as she led the charge and Ochako's pale face. It was lax. And pale. And still.
Izuku knew that she was getting air, but her face was so still. There wasn't any sign of life.
There wasn't any fight showing in her.
It was terrifying.
The three of them turned with as much haste as they could into Recovery Girl's office. Uraraka was moved from the gurney onto a table. The instant her weight had begun to settle, he felt himself being pressed against his two friends. They were all being shoved to the door.
Away from Uraraka.
Who was on the table.
And too still.
"Wait—!"
"No time!" Recovery Girl's voice brokered no argument. Even if it had, Izuku wasn't sure of what he would say. "I have to perform surgery. Wait in the hall."
"But—"
Ashido's protest was met with a glare. "Out!"
With a mighty shove, all three students were cast into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind them. Izuku could hear Recovery Girl moving quickly, doing her job. Saving Uraraka.
Saving her like he couldn't.
In a way he hadn't.
He hadn't done…
Here, on the other side of the door, with Uraraka in the hands of someone more capable, his legs trembled and shook. The day's events finally caught up with him.
The raid. The explanations at long last. The confrontation. The tension of watching over her as she broke down. Breaking into the recording room. The disks. The last disk. The… the…
Everything made sense and didn't all at once. Pieces were falling together faster than he could comprehend the entire picture.
The whole affair was stitching itself together abruptly and painfully in his mind. The number of times he could have ended it…
There had been so many chances, and still…
Still…
Still…
He'd been…
"Midoriya-kun?"
"Hey, are you okay?"
Useless.
His knees buckled, and the world disappeared.
…/…/…/
The world came back to him slowly, like a terrible dawn with its first slivers of ice-cold daylight.
Memories trickled in painfully, each one crafting an overall picture he was finally able to understand.
Uraraka had been dealt a terrible blow by fate. She'd been punished over and over and over again, and he'd stood idly by. He hadn't seen her suffering—hers! She who he thought was so near to him, and she who he thought he knew like the back of his own hand. Even more horrible, he'd probably made things even worse! If not by ignorance, then by sheer audacity.
Who was he to waste her last moments of consciousness with a worthless confession? He should have put more effort into figuring out who she actually loved.
Her needs should have come first.
He shouldn't have panicked.
He shouldn't have failed her.
He—
"Hey, are you awake?"
—wasn't alone.
Izuku's eyes shot open, and he tried to sit up. The quick motion made him dizzy, and he was forced to stop. Colors swam in front of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut yet again. A large hand held him firmly in place.
"Easy, easy…"
The voice wasn't familiar.
Who…?
Izuku tried opening his eyes again, this time more slowly.
A man knelt in front of him, his arm reached forward to keep Izuku steady. It was clear from the callouses on his fingertips that the man did hard work, and the muscles he had were a result of repetitive manual labor. The physique was different from a Pro-Hero's form, but no less earned. However, what captured Izuku's attention was the man's face. Sandy-brown hair was peppered with shades of grey, and the wrinkles in his face—both of well-worn laugh lines and creases in his brow—were deep set. It was a face that had carried booming happiness and joy the last time he had seen it. Now, those eyes were worn, and the tear tracks down the man's face were the most prominent signs of emotion he could find.
Despite everything the man had to be going through himself, he looked at him with a concerned compassion.
"Don't try to go too fast now, kiddo," said Uraraka's father, his brows knit together. "Aizawa-sensei and your friends went to the cafeteria to grab some food for us all. He said it would be good for them to walk around."
A lump formed in Izuku's throat, and he nodded. Instinctively, he looked around. Someone had moved him from in front of Recovery Girl's office door to a set of nearby chairs. He could see the bubbly lettering of her sign from where he sat. In front of him knelt Uraraka's father, who was still staring at him. Behind the man, now that Izuku was looking, sat Uraraka's mother in another chair. Her eyes were red and puffy, and they were closed.
Izuku knew that she wasn't sleeping, though. She was only resting. She was too tense to truly be asleep. He could see that much from where he laid awkwardly.
He sat up, slowly this time, with the help of Uraraka's father. Once up, he turned his attention back to the bubbly letters that spelled out "Recovery Girl." A pit formed in his stomach when he finally realized he could see.
Day had broken. Shafts of cold sunlight lit the space of the hallway.
"H—how long…" Izuku started. He wanted to face Uraraka's father, but… but Uraraka was still in there. He knew it. Just as surely as he knew he could have done something sooner, he knew she was still behind those doors. "How long has she been in there?"
Uraraka's father exhaled, and he sounded like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Looking at him, knowing how important Uraraka was to her parents above all else, Izuku could believe that idea. "Three hours."
Izuku startled, turning to the elder man. Three hours. Uraraka had been in there for three hours?
The elder man stood fast under Izuku's look, and the younger man felt a hollow pit in his chest crumble. He turned away, facing the sign again. Uraraka was in there, fighting, and had been for three hours.
For three…
Izuku kept looking at the sign. Never before had the pink lettering seemed so imposing. Not when he broke his arms nor when he came here in a full body splint. Not even when he passed by the room for months after learning that Recovery Girl wouldn't heal his arms anymore.
No. Now he had to sit. And wait.
Because he hadn't done enough.
And the color of the sign somehow burned that reminder into his brain.
He forced himself to swallow past the lump that formed in his throat, and more tears spilled onto his cheeks. After all that had happened, he wasn't sure he could restrain them if he'd tried.
He knew he didn't want to.
"Recovery Girl's not," he started, his voice warbling, "giving Uraraka the surgery, right? The one that takes away all of her emotions?"
He was met with silence, and his heartrate quickened.
"Uraraka-san… Uraraka-san didn't want the surgery. She wanted to do her best and confess, but she wanted to say goodbye to everyone first. That's what we were doing last night, making recordings of her saying… She made one for you two; she loves you both so much. I always knew that, but she wanted you to have a recording in case… But she planned to confess when she was done. But before she could, she… the flowers, they…"
The bright pink, bubbly letters of Recovery Girl burned against him, mocking him. He hadn't done enough. Soon, he couldn't see past his own watery haze. He looked down to the hands that hadn't been strong enough to save her. Hands that were attached to a wannabe Hero who couldn't even save his best friend. He couldn't even see such failures for hands.
"She was trying so hard," he said, voice thick. "She was trying so hard, and she was so close. She was almost there, and I couldn't… I tried, but I…"
Overwhelming waves of failure crashed against Izuku, and he lost himself to it. Repeated whispers of 'useless' rang in his ear, and the opportunities he'd missed to make a difference for her mocked him. He didn't have the strength to resist, and he sobbed. Sobbed because his friend had been in agony. Sobbed because he hadn't helped her when she'd needed it most. Sobbed because of his own broken heart. Sobbed because of her broken heart.
The grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment before he was pulled away from the chair. Shock dulled Izuku's already blunted senses, and it took him a moment to realize that the older man had pulled him into a hug. It was warm and solid. Izuku's arms reacted quickly then, wrapping around the older man.
Was it selfish to be comforted by someone who was hurting just as much as he was? Someone who, realistically, probably hurt more?
"No," Uraraka's father said, his own voice warbling. "No. We already knew how Ochako felt 'bout that surgery, so we asked if there was another way. Anything, really, to give her a fightin' chance." The man chuckled, and Izuku could hear the tears in his tone. "Recovery Girl said we're as bad as our daughter."
Izuku might have chuckled along at that in any other circumstance. From what he knew, Uraraka respected and adored her parents almost on the level he admired All Might. He wouldn't be surprised if the traits she were proudest of—compassion, practicality, cheerfulness, bluntness, honesty—were ones that she'd inherited from her parents. It made sense that she'd gotten her stubbornness from them, too.
But this wasn't any circumstance. This was Uraraka's life. Tension riddled his entire body. He needed to know. "So… Recovery Girl is trying something else?"
Uraraka's father withdrew, and Izuku could see the man's face—now filled with fresh tears—as he nodded. There was a shaking smile that was so clearly meant to reassure alongside worried brows that were so honest that it hurt.
Uraraka was like that. Honest and bright and wonderful and…
And…
Izuku gulped. She was too important to let go without a fight.
"She is," said Uraraka's father. "We arrived only a little bit after Ochako went in; Recovery Girl told us a lot of medical stuff, but it all boiled down to the basic idea that the flowers aren't growing as fast in Ochako's system as they were supposed to be growing at this stage."
Izuku stopped, his eyes wide. He tried to piece the information together. His brain, as tired and exhausted as it was, had a hard time keeping up.
He did his best anyway. "So," he said, "the flowers… stopped?"
Uraraka's father gave Izuku a smile that the young man was sure Uraraka had seen many times in the past. Beyond the assurance, he could see the fear. And, somehow, the hope. "We don't know if they've stopped yet, but they've slowed down. What Recovery Girl is doing is going into her lungs to remove them herself. If the flowers have slowed down, then that means she gets another chance.
"And if we're wrong…" Uraraka's father didn't stop the tears from going down his cheeks. His large shoulders trembled, and Izuku didn't hesitate to return the favor he'd been granted a few moments ago. He didn't need her father to finish the thought.
He got the picture this time. And it was horrible.
The two of them sat like that in mutual comfort for a time. A father terrified about the very large chance of losing his only daughter, and a friend in despair over the real possibility that he could lose one of the most important people in his life. Time became neither a comfort nor a burden; it was but an existence where they individually confront such fears together.
It wasn't the best scenario. Not by a long shot. But Izuku was glad that he wasn't alone. He hoped Uraraka's father felt the same.
Soon after, the man withdrew with a nod of thanks, and Izuku returned it. Both were worn. Both were barely hanging on by a thread. But, for some reason, crying with someone who understood had helped to alleviate some of the tension that fear had brought to them both.
Uraraka's father returned to his wife's side, and she immediately placed her head on his shoulder. He returned the gesture by threading his fingers through hers. It was clear that they were both gathering strength from one another, and Izuku could see how their bond had inspired such a brave and compassionate daughter.
He turned back to the pink, bubbly letters of Recovery Girl's office, his mind and heart recovered enough to hold onto that double-edged sword called hope.
Uraraka was strong. In his heart, he knew that for a fact. She'd gone through so much just to make it to their third year. Even more since the beginning the year. And, honestly, too much in the past two months. To have made it through everything she'd gone through, that person would have to be strong in body, in mind, and in spirit.
And, to him, Uraraka was strong.
If anyone could make it, it was her. He had to hold onto that hope with everything he had. And when she made it through—not if, but when—he would help her find that person. He'd help her explain the situation if she wanted him to. Everything would be fine, and she would live.
She had to.
She had to.
Everything would be okay again, and he wouldn't make her carry the burden alone anymore. He'd confront her and help her, leaving nothing unsaid and doing his best to help her live. He'd go Plus Ultra.
"You know, in our business, referrals are our lifeblood."
Izuku startled out of his thoughts, the comment throwing him for a loop. He turned back to the Urarakas, and he was met with brown eyes that seemed to pierce directly into his soul. Yet Uraraka's mother wasn't accusatory at all. Her face was lined with worry for her daughter, but alongside the set wrinkles seemed a sense of… Izuku wasn't sure exactly what. Contemplation? Knowledge?
Hope? But… hope for what?
Heedless of his confusion, Urarka's mother continued. "We work very hard to give people comfortable and sturdy buildings to live and work in. If the buildings don't break, we've done our job well, but that means we have to find new customers. Usually, we have to do this ourselves with a bunch of advertising."
Her eyes were tired and worn, but Izuku could feel as though they saw through him. A few seconds of this burned through his brain, and he suddenly felt as though he were being evaluated. Scrutinized. He brought up a hand to rub at the back of his neck.
"Th-that makes sense," said Izuku, trying not to let his voice crack. A thoughtful hum came from the adult, and he knew that she knew something.
What it was, he didn't know. But she knew something.
"Yes," she said. "Sometimes, though, we get referrals. That takes the advertising pressure off of us for a while, so referrals are very helpful. So whenever that happens, it's only polite to send out some kind of thank-you. Some businesses like sending out emails, but we've always liked making and sending out handmade cards. It's simple and straight from the heart."
Here, for the first time since he saw her today, Uraraka's mother smiled. It was tired and worn, and yet Izuku couldn't help but feel as though that smile had him cornered. It was the sort of smile that all mothers had that made you know that they knew something.
What, though, he still wasn't sure.
"I'm sure you can imagine how nervous I got when I realized I had to send a thank-you note to Pro-Hero Gang Orca." The woman chuckled. "Poor Chaba thought something was wrong for a while, there; my hand couldn't stop shakin'."
Izuku dimly realized she was talking about Uraraka's father when the man in question seemed to squeeze her hand lightly. An abashed smile was on his face, sure, but Izuku was more concerned with the fact that Uraraka's mother hadn't turned her eyes away from him once. Suddenly, he knew exactly where she was going with this.
"Thought that might be the end of it, honestly," she continued. "Pro-Heroes, 'specially ones as high ranking as Gang Orca, must get thousands of thank-you notes every day. Lots of fan mail and 'thank-you's from people he's saved and even people askin' for favors."
The glint in her eye told Izuku that it was not, in fact, the end of it.
"So I come into the office one day and find a fancy letter waiting at our desk. All typed-up and fancy, with a signature at the very bottom. It says that the referral was his pleasure and that we did good work. He'd done some work in the area with an intern of his, and that his intern had recognized a sturdy building when he saw it, and that that intern had been able to use the building to his advantage in coming up with a strategy to rescue several hostages, defeat a Villain, and keep damages to a minimum."
By now, Izuku knew the look he was receiving. He got it from his own mom a lot. Usually after he did something nice for her when he thought he was being sneaky about it. A clean kitchen after a long shift. Brand new fabrics for sewing being shipped to the apartment as a surprise after he'd saved up some extra money from his internship. He'd get home or see her later and she'd have that look. It was a look that said, "I know what you did." He flushed and turned away, his hand still on the back of his neck.
"I didn't mean to make ya self-conscious," said Uraraka's mother, a small bout of laughter on her voice. It didn't help Izuku's nerves. He'd been caught. His face burned. "It was just a very sweet thing you did, asking Gang Orca to make a referral for us hard-workin' folks."
Izuku withdrew his hand so as better to bury his face into both, embarrassment painted on his cheeks for the world to see. Or, if he were being less dramatic, for Uraraka's parents to see, which was only a slight improvement over the entire world.
No. It wasn't much of an improvement at all.
"And I'm sure that if Ochako knew about it," continued Uraraka's mother, a soft firmness in her tone that brokered no argument and no sidetracking, despite the pang that her name sent through his very heart. Izuku risked a look back at Uraraka's mother, and he found that her smile had the same quality his own mother's took when she was telling him something important. Something steely, strong, and secretive. "Then she would have thanked you for it."
Izuku returned to the safety of his palms. If she knew about it? If she knew? But…
"Hitasu's right," said Uraraka's father. Izuku looked up again, unable to stop himself. "Our daughter's bright, but she's never been one to look for what she doesn't know is there. She's not one for puttin' words in someone else's mouth, but that means she won't always catch hints you may be leavin' out."
Uraraka's father was smiling at him, the expression worn and yet… and yet… The two of them looked… happy, Izuku supposed. No, not happy. They were still sad, but there was a definite upbeat in their expressions.
Hopeful, his mind supplied belatedly. They look hopeful.
"But," he said, too tired to even try keeping his thoughts to himself, "Uraraka-san probably doesn't feel the same way I do. A-and I'll be okay with that a-as long as I can help her; she deserves happiness, but I already told her th-aaaaat…"
Izuku's brash, insensitive, and definitely inappropriate confession came back to him, and he another wave of hot, embarrassed shame washed over him. He turned away from her parents, not really sure why he'd almost told them that he'd confessed to their daughter and had nearly killed her in the process with it. He could have helped her instead of wasted her time!
He hurried to correct his mistake.
"B-but I'll help her get to whoever it is! S-she wanted t-to c-confess anyways…" This was not the time for his voice to crack! He cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing. "…s-so I'll definitely help her get to whoever it is! I promise!"
Izuku didn't look back at Uraraka's parents, and they thankfully didn't push him any further on the issue of his own terrible confession. Instead, he kept his gaze trained ahead of him, watching the pink, bubbly letters with interest.
Uraraka was there, fighting for her life.
When the time came, he would help her. Not 'if', when. He'd help her and then beg her forgiveness and then deal with his own broken heart.
But until she was safe, until she was happy and fully alive, he wouldn't let the rejection stop him. Before everything else, before crushes or rivalries or competition, she was his best friend first. He'd always put such friendship above anything else, and he would help her in whatever way he could.
He wouldn't be useless to her anymore.
Chaba—tea leaf
Hitasu—steeping
Ochako—child of tea ceremony