Who are you?

The question bounces around Izuku's mind as he dashes through the crowd of suits, his inner desire to learn of the Stranger's identity consuming his every thought. His stomach twists and unravels as his thoughts multiply, his inner urge driving him unlike anything he's felt before.

Izuku knows who he is, he's sure of it.

Somehow...

And to let him leave? To slip out of Izuku's grasp so quickly? Even the concept is devastating.

Izuku needs to know, even if he isn't sure as to why. He just can't let this chance pass by him.

His nice pair of shined, leather shoes have lost their shimmer, his feet having continuously planted themselves firmly in the wet dirt. Grass tears up with each step, mud staining against the blacken leather.

Stomping his way after the Stranger, Izuku's behavior is far from suitable for a funeral - one for his friend nonetheless - but Izuku is far from caring about etiquette.

At this point, the Strangers identity is all that matters.

And Izuku is grasping for reasons why.

Something inside him, something obscured and hidden, tells him so.

An inner determination rarely seen.

I have to find him.

Leaving Uravity, his mother, and the duo of vibrant haired teenagers far behind him, Izuku searches for his White Whale: the tall, pale man.

The pardon me's and excuse us's from earlier are now non existent, lost to the pursuit.

All that matters now is the chase.

Slipping his way past the remnant gatherings of mourners, Izuku's stomping dash draws the attention of all he passes. Looks of scorn and disgust turn towards him, both from average citizens and pro-heroes alike.

How dare he desecrate such an event.

Izuku is unfazed.

He's lived his whole life accustomed to such reactions. Why would they stop him now?

Carving a path towards the outer reaches of the cemetery, Izuku escapes the glares of most of the funeral goers.

Keeping his eyes locked on the Stranger, Izuku meets his final roadblock: An especially dense crowd of suits and ties, all exiting from the plaza.

Dashing forward and squirming underneath and between the elbows, shoulder-pads, and knee's of the crowd, Izuku blasts through the congregate as if a drill.

Pushing his way through the final crowd, Izuku finds his awaited answer: The opening archway to the cemetery.

Stumbling to a sudden standstill, Izuku hops on one foot as his balance recoups, the toe of his raised leg skipping against the muddy terrain in an attempt to handbrake himself. Stopping just before the archway, Izuku can make out the bare silhouette of the man just behind the ornate masonry

He's found him.

Confidently goose-stepping past the archway, Izuku awkwardly approaches the Stranger.

Now all I need to do is...

The thoughts fly into one ear and promptly out of the other.

Wait.

What do I have to do?

Why did I do this?

Leaning against the ornate stone, the Stranger stands alone, puffing a thin cigarette. His wrinkled shirt presses against his wet skin, the coat across his back heavy with the rain.

Drizzling rain continues to pitter against the slick, concrete asphalt.

Despite the torrent of water, his cigarette remains lit, closely guarded by the Strangers bony knobs he calls fingers.

Both Izuku and the Stranger's hair lay flat against their clammy foreheads, soaked by the unrelenting rain. Izuku is frozen in place upon seeing the man up close. His burning urge to chase after the Stranger leaves him in an instant.

Now, it just seems far too overwhelming.

To just head back and face the wrath of his mother and the scorn of the student heroes seems far more preferable.

As Izuku considers his options, the Stranger speaks, the same course, raspy voice choking its way into Izuku's ears, with his back turned towards Izuku, "I know you're there. You're not exactly stealthy, trudging your way through a public funeral like that."

The man turns to address Izuku, sliding the cigarette in-between his index and middle finger. Smoke sizzles from his nostrils, his face slightly obscured by whatever inky hair isn't pulled back into the dripping ponytail.

Peaking out from the shadowy blots of his hair, the man's crimson gaze shakes Izuku to his core.

"I-I-I..." Izuku attempts to stutter out an explanation for his unruly behavior.

"Don't apologize to me, apologize to the dead," the man continues cynically. He takes another puff from the cigarette, blowing smoke up into the air.

The rain splits and tears the grey smoketrail.

Watching the smoke tear and part from the drizzle, the man turns his eyeline back towards the overwhelmed teenager before him.

"All we can do at this rate," he croaks out.

Izuku is stunned.

The man's presence carries the same level of pleasantness as a skinned cat.

Without even a movement of the eyes, Izuku can feel the Stranger's gaze tearing through every shred of dignity inside the teenager. Searching, analyzing, spotting each of his insecurities.

"I... think... I-I," Izuku attempts once again.

"Think you know me?" The Stranger connects the pieces of Izuku's broken puzzle. Another puff. The rain continues to shred through the smoketrail.

"Get that a lot. I'm not one for public appearances," the Stranger looks to his side, "I imagine you saw how that last one went", he bitterly estimates. His demeanor and character reflect that of an old, grizzled man.

Cynicism personified.

Izuku inspects his face closer. A thick scar under his right eye... The cogs begin to work, the machine is back in order.

Izuku realizes who he's talking to.

Hates public appearances, scar under right eye, professional hero.

"E-Eraserhead. You're Erase-E-Eraserhead," Izuku stumbles out. Of all pro-heroes to meet, Izuku never imagined it would be the Eraserhead.

Puffing a long drag of his cigarette, Eraserhead turns towards Izuku, exhaling through his nose. His crimson gaze unenthusiastically peers at Izuku with half-opened eyes, and yet, the boy still feels his glance could curdle milk.

"Looks like you've figured out my big secret. Want an autograph?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, I wouldn't be opposed, but... but no."

Smooth, Izuku, smooth.

"Look, kid, I didn't come here to be Eraserhead, I came here to..." he stumbles in his sentence, ceasing in his tracks.

Visibly distressed, he paces three steps to his right before puffing from his cigarette again. At this point, he's just smoking the ashes of the butt.

"I came here to... remember..." he stops in his tracks.

He looks at Izuku, and for a brief moment, the teenager witnesses a chink in the hero's armor.

A moment of vulnerability.

With a somber expression on his face, Eraserhead glares over Izuku's shoulder. To the crowd of funeral goers, to Uravity and her family, to the students, to the grave of Katsuki. And here he is, outside, smoking a cigarette and talking to some kid.

He looks back down and takes another puff of ashes.

The smoke has long left the cigarette. Put out by the rain while he was distracted.

He drops it and looks back at Izuku.

"So, what do you want?"

Izuku stands awkwardly.

"F-Frankly sir, I didn't think... I didn't think I'd get this far," the teenager admits. The hero groans under his breath and places a palm on his forehead, pinching the brow between his exhausted eyes.

"Well, in that case, I have somewhere to be," the hero groans out in exasperation. Turning his back to the teenager, he starts to walk away.

Watching Eraserhead walk away from him awakens something fierce in Izuku, as if there was a reason for him to be here.

There is something to be done. He knows it. He chased after Eraserhead for too long, dragged his mother through the mud, and drew the ire of a crowd of people, but deep down, he knew he had to be here.

As the jaded hero leaves Izuku's presence, his stomach stirs into knots. Tears welt up in his emerald eyes.

Do not waste this moment, not like everything else.

A final thought stirs in Izuku's mind.

What would Kacchan have done?

Sending Izuku into overdrive, he mindlessly belts out a question for the hero, his voice cracking between words.

"Could someone quirkless like me be a hero? All my life I've wanted to be a hero. To save people. Can someone like me be looked up to? Like people do to you?"

Eraserhead stops upon hearing the question.

Rain drizzles against the ground, providing the only semblance of sound. Water drips down his face, trailing like tears to the ground.

Izuku stands in shock.

Did I really just ask that? That stupid question? What will he say?

Am I an idiot?

Eraserhead slowly turns, a seemingly herculean task.

His pace quickens with each step as he approaches the teen.

Eraserhead's wet hair slowly slips out of its ponytail with each dramatic step.

Inches away from the teenager, he pushes his index finger against Izuku's shoulder, a crazed look in his eyes.

"No," he cruelly hisses out.

Izuku is taken back by his response, the shock trailing through his body, as if struck by lightning. And then, the gravity of Eraserhead's response hits him.

With his index finger still firmly planted against the teen's shoulder, Eraserhead looks down at his hand and then at Izuku's reaction.

Witnessing the pain in the boy's eyes, Eraserhead pulls his hand back. Mouth slightly agape, he twists his head as he looks from his hand to Izuku's eyes.

His bony hand begins to shake. Raindrops drip from his pale hands.

Throwing his hands into his pockets, Eraserhead suddenly and quickly walks away from Izuku.

His footsteps are loud against the wet pavement.

With tears in his eyes and shocked from the "hero"s ferocity, Izuku can only stand and watch Eraserhead leave.

Like every day of his life, he is powerless to act.

The drizzling rain drowns the final sparks of the abandoned cigarette butt.