'This age is not one of peace, but through the sacrifices of our predecessors, it is one of stability. Yet, we can never forget heroics is oftentimes violent and destructive. Regular laws sometimes cannot cover the bounds of heroics. It is why the sealed orders were created, as a method to both protect and regulate heroes. They allow crimes to be pardoned but in turn pose harsh restrictions, whose consequences very often exceed the possible punishment of the original crime. They are as follows: red to violent acts; yellow to property damage…'
—Excerpt from 'Questioning the Modern Age of Heroics' by Andile Sithole.
Pain rouses him from his slumber. It starts deep in his bones and works its way through his system, lighting up every nerve on the right side of his body. His spine tingles, the base worst of all, before a sharp spike seems to drive its way through his head.
His eyes open wide. The world is blurry, hazy, and only his memory of the shadows in his room stop him from panicking completely. Everything hurts, and it triggers memories of fire—the bright light before the heat and pain and the pressure wave moves too slowly and too fast—and the absolute terror he's felt more than once—why, why, why are you so angry Kaachan? don't hurt me, please, I'm sorry, it's my fault.
Blindly, he reaches for his nightstand. He knocks something over in his haste and fumbles with the cylinder there. Hands trembling. He jabs it in the side of his neck not covered in bandages and depresses the contents. Icy cold trendily seems to surge through his body, and the pain subsides slowly.
He slumps over and that triggers another flare-up of pain. Izuku groans, and rolls onto his back, wiping away the tears. He focuses on breathing: in, hold it for ten seconds, ignore the way the pain flares up; out, hold for two seconds; don't think on how painful it will be. He does this until he has some semblance of calm.
When he is ready, Izuku pushes himself upright, avoiding putting undue pressure on his right side. He looks down at the thick bandages around his torso. Finds a growing red spot. Curses because now his sheets are bloody.
His cane is on the ground and he takes it, grateful to have it as he shambles to the bathroom. The medical supplies are in the cabinet under the sink, stocked well enough that a doctor would be proud. At some point or another in the last six months, he's had to use most of the things in there. Snipping off the bloody bandages is easy. The wound is three lacerations, all partly healed thanks to Recovery Girl's quirk, but the largest cut's stitches have popped. The numbing spray stings for a moment. It doesn't completely ease the pain as he redoes the stitches and bandages up his side again.
There is blood on the floor and sink and tub, bandages and plastic on the ground. It is a mess, one he is very disinclined to bother with right now because that would mean bending and struggling to get up. And both of those would hurt.
He does it anyway, not wanting his mother to find the mess.
The mirror shows someone strange. There is a freckled boy with green eyes and green hair, like his. But half his face is bandaged heavily, and a streak of white hair stands out starkly at his temple. His features are pallid and pinched, perspiration dripping from his forehead down his chin. His eyes are dark and behind them, there is fire and pain and just a hint of madness lurking in the back.
The boy is not him and is him at the same time.
"Boo," the reflection says. Izuku stares at it, watching it crack its neck. "You fucked up."
"This isn't real."
The reflection laughs, high and bright and so so terribly mad. "Of course, it is. I'm as real as you are."
"Go away."
"Name me."
"Fuck off already."
The reflection tilts its head and it changes, morphs into something that terrifies him completely. It is Izuku as he once envisioned himself, warm and awesome in his green costume, a hero to the people, revered and worshipped in equal measure.
"I keep the secrets," the reflection, the hero he once imagined, says. "I am the unmarked grave of your failings."
The glass shatters. Izuku looks at his fist in shock, not knowing how it has embedded itself in the mirror. He pulls his hand back, wincing for the glass scratches him further. He shakes his hand gingerly, watching sharp shards of bloody glass fall to the sink.
The door opens. His mother enters, worry writ plain on her features.
"Izuku," she says and takes in the scene. "What did you do?"
"I punched the mirror." He smiles, undoubtedly a rictus of pain. "My reflection wasn't being polite."
She takes a step forward. Reaches out tentatively. Cups his cheek.
"Izuku, honey, reflections don't talk."
"Mine do." He chuckles. "Mine do. Of course, mine does. Why wouldn't it?"
The absurdity of his life hits him right then. His chuckle devolves into choked sobs. Instantly, he is in his mother's strong and warm embrace, staining her clothes wet with his tears. Her hand is in his hair, stroking it, and it might be childish, but he wants nothing more than to hug his mother forever.
When he falls silent she pulls back to look at him and wipes away the tear tracks with a gentle thumb. She traces the edge of the bandages where it meets flesh. It tingles and Izuku knows it would be infinitely worse if he hadn't used the anaesthetic earlier. A part of him hopes it doesn't interfere with Recovery Girl's painkiller. The rest of him knows he can die quick enough if they mix badly.
"You alright now?"
No. "I'll be fine."
"We've talked about honesty before."
"What do you want me to say? You know I'm a nervous wreck and probably crazy."
"You're not crazy."
He wants to roll his eyes but refrains. Barely. "Then everything that's been happening is a result of my quirk and I might as well be crazy. There isn't much of a difference."
"I've seen you at your worst. Traumatised, yes, but not crazy."
"Speaking alien languages is most definitely a sign of sanity. Right up there with coming back from the dead."
She sighs. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you." He flushes. "But I'm glad you're feeling… better. And I'm happy you're going to see a counsellor."
He sticks his tongue out. "You're glad? After you threatened to sue the school how many times?"
"Don't be petulant. One day you'll get older and understand that you need to use whatever weapons you have to protect yourself."
"No one was trying to hurt us."
"Are you certain of that? You have no idea what your teacher said to me."
"It couldn't have been bad." Her face darkens. "He's a hero, kaa-san. They don't do bad things."
She ruffles his hair though her expression is still closed off. "Don't lose that naivety, honey. Get dressed, we're going to see that nurse of yours."
He does so with a bit of assistance. Wearing a shirt is much too difficult but letting his jacket hang open is more than doable. Especially after the pain medication he takes kicks in. It leaves him drowsy and he doses off.
Recovery Girl looks him over and immediately finds the stitches. "How did the stitches break?" she asks, looking to his mother.
"I didn't even know they were broken." His mother frowns, and though she is behind him, her gaze feels like a hot poker on the back of his neck. He swallows.
"And the cuts on his hand?"
Blood rushes to his face. "I-I punched a mirror," he offers, weakly.
Recovery Girl hums, not believing it for a second. "I see." He flushes further.
She bandages the cuts, her pace even and measured. "You've had experience with stitches." It is more statement than a question as she checks the stitches once more. "You've done them often?"
"A few times." He looks over his shoulder to his mother. Her face is blank as though giving him the choice to explain. "I'm pretty c-clumsy."
A lie that bad is only a truth, the voice says.
She sprays the right side of his face with something. It seeps through the gauze and bandages. He sees more than feels the bandages disintegrate and fall off. The cold air stings and pain flares up in long and sharp streaks like a whip on a cattle's flank. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth because the pain only worsens.
Recover Girl sprays something on the wound again. Blessed numbness seeps through his skin. He almost cries at the relief. She applies a thin layer of a salve before reapplying the bandages and gauze.
At the very end, her lips extend, and she gives him a kiss on the forehead. Instantly, he feels exhaustion take over and only his mother's strong hand keeps him from falling back.
"You're going to be tired most of the next week," she explains. "I can't heal you too much without risking you running out of energy. Which could put your body in shock and in the worst case, total organ collapse. The most activity you're allowed to do is walk."
He nods weakly. "Thank you."
"Go get some sleep."
Izuku leans on his mother and partly on the cane as they head back to the car. He forces himself awake until they're home. The couch is comfortable and close enough to the kitchen that Izuku can get there is he absolutely needs to. It also has the benefit of being near the TV.
He wakes again in a few hours. His throat is parched, a headache brewing and a dull sort of pain reverberates through his bones. A bottle of water and two pills rest on the table. He swallows the pills and drinks greedily. A flashing light draws his attention. His phone, which he has forgotten about, is only a stretch away.
He expects maybe a message or two at best. He doesn't expect his phone to be visibly slowed as it processes every single message. He reads through them slowly: Kirishima who is awkward and apparently terrified of his mother; Iida whose first message is stilted and formal, but the later have more empathy, and he even has the audacity to give him a link to a folder which he promises will have notes and homework for the next week; Uraraka who seems to write using more emojis than words; Asui who sends pictures of her and Ashido doing random things and a promise for ice-cream and maybe, just maybe a threat to braid his hair; Ojiro who is so profusely apologetic that Izuku's heart breaks and he wants to force himself up and out the house to find him because no one should feel that guilty over Izuku; and Shinsou is displeased.
[Friday; 1521] Shinsou: Staying late?
[Friday; 1530] Shinsou: Replying isn't that hard.
[Friday; 1540] Shinsou: Rumour is someone in our year got hurt. Know who?
[Friday; 1603] Shinsou: Okay, whatever. You can talk to me when you're ready.
[Friday; 2003] Shinsou: Why the hell are you so angry at me?
[Saturday; 1000]: Shinsou: I know for a fact you're up. I found out from Jin who's bloody murderous by the way.
[Saturday; 1214] Shinsou: Stop ignoring everyone.
It is the last message from Shinsou that worries him the most. It is less a message and more an order to meet him at the café tomorrow morning. And something about the lack of warmth or dry humour worries him, makes him think Shinsou is angry at him personally, and not just worried.
[Saturday; 1500] Shinsou: Anteiku. Tomorrow. 1100. Delete my number if you don't show up.
The next morning after he sees Recovery Girl, his next destination is the café. Anteiku is as pristine and welcoming as ever from the outside.
"I'll be fine, kaa-san," he says, hobbling out of the car. He still needs the cane, less because of his injuries and more because of how exhausting each healing session leaves him.
She smiles, ruffling his hair. "I'll be right here if you need help."
"You can do other things. I'm pretty sure there's a lot of things more important than waiting in a parking lot."
"You're my son," she says as though that answers everything.
"Okay?"
He walks in and is greeted by a purple-haired girl, both eyes red on black. It should look creepy but for her smile which is what he imagines angels look like when they smile. And when he describes Shinsou, she nods and leads him to his friend.
Shinsou looks more tired than usual. His eyes are completely bloodshot, hair a mess and he seems twitchy from too much caffeine. He navigates his way through the cats, avoiding jabbing one with his cane.
"Hey," Izuku says.
Shinsou looks up and sees him. His eyes widen as he stares at Izuku, not saying a word.
"C-can I sit?" he asks, shaking the cane just a tad.
"It's not like I can stop you."
Izuku sits. He's not sure what to say, not when Shinsou looks angry because strong emotions rarely ever grace the boy, and he's never seen any but joy.
"I'm sorry," he offers because that's as good a place to start as any.
"You should be. I had to find out second hand from Jin what happened. And even then I barely know because no one's saying anything to me."
He looks down. "I'm sorry."
"I thought we were friends."
"We are."
"Then why on earth would you not respond?"
He sinks lower in his sit. "Because I forgot about my phone and that's not an excuse but right now I'm in pain and about to pass out and I'm sorry and—"
"Izuku," Shinsou interrupts sharply. He looks up and sees Shinsou ready to cry. "Do you understand how worried I was? You can't just get hurt like that."
Izuku tilts his head. "You're not… angry?"
"Of course, I am," Shinsou snaps, "but I'm more worried."
And that is when a cat jumps on his head. They all freeze. And then Shinsou burst out laughing. Izuku joins in with a chuckle when the black cat leans over and stares him upside down. It licks him with its rough tongue on the nose.
He hears a snap and startles, the cat leaping off and landing on his lap. Shinsou has his phone out.
"I'm sending that to Uraraka."
His eyes widen. "What, no. Don't you dare."
Shinsou laughs again. "Too late."
His phone vibrates. And then vibrates again. He pulls it out and has to put it on silent before he worries it might die. He knows that picture is going to haunt him the rest of his life, but he can't find the energy to care, at least not when Shinsou smile is brighter than the sunlight on seawater and softer than moonlight on snow.
"Since when are you friends with Uraraka?"
"You're the one who wants everyone to be friends with everyone."
"I don't see what's wrong with that."
Shinsou shakes his head. "I hope you never do."
-TDB-
Monday is when he understands exactly how profound boredom can be. Yes, seeing Recovery Girl takes up part of the morning. Yes, reading Iida's impeccable notes and doing homework takes up time. Yes, there is a backlog of books and documentaries waiting for him. But all of that doesn't take up more time than usual. And without the time spent in class or exercising or just generally being stressed, he has little to truly occupy his time.
Bothering his mother is out of the question after the one time he did it in the morning. He finds her in her room, hunched over a folder.
"Kaa-san," he ventures.
She startles, frantically hiding the folder from view. "Izuku, are you alright?"
"I should ask you that." Her eyes are red from crying.
She smiles gently. "I was just looking at some baby photos."
"S-sorry."
His mother wipes away her tears. "It's not your fault," she reassures though it only makes him feel guilty.
He sits on the couch and plays with strings of shadowstuff, twisting it this way and that with nothing more than will. And when it eventually disintegrates in the light, he observes the time. It has been consistent throughout the day, as has been the time it took to make the shadows.
It takes him little effort to reach into his shadow and retrieve a notebook. He shakes off the errant globules of darkness and flips to the page with his costume. He'll have to redesign and modify it. Thankfully, he won't pay a single cent. UA, as an apology—or as hush money according to his mother—will be paying for his next costume and the copy he would keep personally, as well as all of his costumes whilst he is at school.
"Metal conducts heat," he says out loud. "Gotta change that. Ceramic plates instead as a backing. Thicker material on the vest. Don't want to get stabbed by my own armour again. Oh yeah, find out what Aizawa uses for his ropes and maybe add a non-conductive surface to it. Maybe?"
Shut up already, the voice says quietly. You'll wake them up.
"Wake what up?"
No, no, no, you fucking bastard. Don't ever ask that. He hears the crackling of flames and something so high pitched that he winces. Fuck. Now the ghosts are looking for me.
The voice goes away, and with it the static that he only now notices. Izuku shrugs. This is in no way, shape or form the worst thing that he has experienced.
He chooses to stretch as Recovery Girl ordered to pass the time. They aren't particularly strenuous, but with his injuries, it feels like trying to carry the weight of the world. His legs quiver and a thick layer of sweat covers his body. All he wishes it to pass out. Unfortunately, he has standards. The shower afterwards helps ease some of the pain.
The next two days pass in much the same way. Do homework. Investigate the more benign parts of his quirk. Make designs. Do some card tricks. Reply to the trickle of messages he gets throughout the day. Fail to do some basic stretches. Repeat.
Wednesday is when he makes new discoveries of his quirk. He sits on the front stairs, in the shade cast by the balcony. Everything hurts and all he wants to do is pass out on the couch, but the very thought of walking that distance makes his injuries hurt in anticipation. So, when he falls through his shadow, Izuku is more annoyed at the pain that comes from landing on the floor than he is intrigued by the discovery. When he exits the distorted reflection of his room, he winds up on the lounge, walking out the shadows falling on a darkened corner. He blinks at this then falls asleep on the couch.
On Thursday the isolation hits him. Early in the morning, the voice hurls curses and damnation at him. By midmorning the shadows take a life of their own, rising and undulating and living in some perverted way. His lower back hurts more, throbbing in time with each shadow rising. Even turning on the lights does little to banish the sense that creatures vaster than mountains and older than life are observing, judging, and perhaps even stalking him.
And when the sensations get worse and worse and worse, and he's left panicked and a second away from calling his mother, he decides to skip that. Why should she waste time? There are knives in the kitchen, all of them sharp and he picks up the sharpest one he can find.
The pain of the knife slicing through flesh is nothing compared to the pain he is already in. But it is something to latch on to for pain brings clarity and with it comes focus. It is only halfway through the first cut does he realise maybe there is a reason everyone wants him to go for counselling. The pain, though, grounds him as does the smell of blood. He pauses, bloody knife in hand and runs his tongue over his teeth. His sharp tooth cuts through his tongue and he yelps, dropping the knife.
He swallows the blood, not willing to risk it becoming sentient and leading a rebellion against him. At least, not in the home he shares with his mother.
He looks at the scene and knows that if anyone sees this there will be a trip to the mental asylum. And he's read how little those actually do to help—more often they are dumping grounds for people whose quirks affect them mentally, and the people there are left to rot and, in the very worst, they are forced to survive against each other.
Cleaning up the mess is second nature as is bandaging the cut on his thigh.
The small space of the apartment is too claustrophobic for him to handle. It may be stupid, and his mother might chew him out—no worse than if she were to see the latest wounds—is she discovers it, but he can't stay here. It isn't safe, not with voices baying with madness and shadows rising of their own command.
The outside world is bright, blindingly so. It banishes the shadows that cling to him and his cane. And so long as he walks, he can ignore his memories of the darkness hiding half a step out of sync with the real world. He walks long past the point his legs just want to give out because stopping means dealing with the possibility of going home. And his mother isn't there to ground him, and he doesn't care how childish it is to want his mother so badly.
"Boy!"
He turns, startled, and sees a man with cross-shaped pupils. "Jin-sensei?"
The man tilts his head. "You're standing outside my dojo."
And he is. He can see the sign and wonders how the hell he got there. Because he couldn't have walked that far, not in his current state.
His legs give out. Jin catches him. "Look like shit." But he helps Izuku into his dojo and onto a bench. The place is quiet, but it is midweek and too early for school to have ended. Only a few adults work in the back with a man that looks like he could be Ojiro's dad, but they are too busy to care for them.
"It's not so bad."
"Can you walk across room?" Izuku's face pinches in frustration. "No. Have you spoken to Shinsou?"
"Yeah. He was a bit upset with me."
"Not as angry as Ojiro. Had to send him home. Boy looked ready to murder someone. Like the one who hurt you."
Izuku sighs, tired of explaining this over and over again. "It was an accident."
"An accident includes death threats? How things change."
"He's always like that."
Something dark peaks through Jin's eyes. "Always? A violent child like that is not fit to be hero."
"So, what, he should be a villain? Everyone makes mistakes. We just have to know when to forgive them."
"You, I think, would forgive your murderer. Another conversation that is." His features soften ever so slightly. "Why do you come here? Not to train."
Izuku looks away. "I just couldn't be at home."
"Why? What battle do you flee from?"
"I'm not fighting anything."
"No, you are losing fight. But sometimes retreat is a better option." The man stands. "Stay here as long as you like. None will harm you. And call your mother. She will worry."
He stays there, watching people train and fight, for another hour before letting his mother know. She's very much ready to leave work, and only the best reassurances—a lie is a lie is a lie—that he just needed to stretch his legs stop that. When he is ready to leave, just before school ends and he must deal with more people coming in, Jin practically throws him into a taxi.
He cooks to take his mind off everything. It helps a little to hold the voices at bay, and if he focuses completely on the task at hand then he can almost ignore the eyes watching him from dark nooks and crannies. Only for a minute or so does he contemplate using the knife for something other than cutting vegetables.
When dinner is ready, and his mother still is not home, Izuku starts worrying. He paces back and forth, regardless of how much strain it puts on his body. Before his legs give out again, he steps outside and sits on the steps in the warm light of the setting sun. The shadows are long, but he can feel people walking, can hear them talking, and can imagine them simply being alive in a way that is tangible. They aren't the dead that live or gods dreaming of their final cataclysmic battle that reshaped worlds.
No, they're human in their simplicity.
He feels his mother well before he sees her. She walks with someone else. When they turn the corner, he sees Kacchan's mother talking to his, both looking awkward and upset.
"Izuku," his mother says when she finally sees him. "What are you doing out here?"
He smiles. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. "It's warm out here. Hi, auntie," he greets the blonde woman who hasn't aged a day. Beside his mother, she looks young enough to be her daughter.
"Hello, Izuku," Kacchan's mum says. "We haven't spoken in a while."
His mother coughs. "Mitsuki wanted to talk to you about… Katsuki."
"Okay?"
A pained look crosses his mother's features. "If you need me I'll be a shout away."
"Sure, kaa-san. Oh, dinner's ready."
His mother sighs. "Of course, it is." She walks up the stairs and into their home. She leaves the door slightly open but Izuku feels her walk out of earshot.
"Do you think I could sit down," Kacchan's mother asks, pointing at the step.
"You'll get your skirt dirty."
She smiles, eyes crinkling. "I think I'll survive." She sits elegantly though it makes Izuku wince because white is a nightmare to clean.
They sit in the sunlight, silent but for the screech of tires. It is calming to hear another human breathe and simply be, without anything otherworldly about them.
"You wanted to talk to me about Kaachan."
"Yes… Katsuki." She hesitates. "Why did you argue for the asshole?"
"Because he's a good person at heart."
"You have every reason to hate him. Inko told me you'd scar because of what the fucker did."
"Scars fade. Being a hero is dangerous. What's the point of being a hero if we can't forgive each other."
"That's not the point. Heroes are supposed to protect people." She sighs, and Izuku thinks she might be ready to cry. "The little fuck got his anger from me. I was too lenient and now it's only because you're too kind for this earth that my kid's not in prison."
"I wasn't going to let that happen. I don't want to see him become a villain."
"He doesn't have a choice but to be a hero." He looks to her, confused. "He has a sealed red order now."
Izuku quirks a brow. "I've heard of them."
"If he ever commits a violent crime he'll be tried as an adult," she explains. "And if he does so after being an adult, he'll be charged for what he did to you regardless. Eight years in a maximum security prison no matter what."
"That seems unfair."
"No, it's too fair. He can choose to be good and just, and nothing will ever come from what he did to you. Or he can be a little shit and go to prison." She ruffles his hair. "I'm happy I still have my son. But I'm not happy with the son I have."
Izuku flinches, pulling back. "What, no. You can't treat him like that. He deserves better than that."
She stares at him for a long moment. "I think you deserve better than you believe you do. I'll make sure my son doesn't hurt anyone again." She smiles and it's the sun reflected off broken glass. "But thank you."
She stands. Izuku tries to join her but loses his footing halfway there. She catches him.
He looks away. "Sorry."
She ruffles his hair one last time. "I think you're a better hero than most."
-TDB-
Sunday comes faster than he's prepared for. He's come to school alone, finally strong enough to walk without the cane. Recovery Girl checks him over, fussing over the very minor cuts and scrapes he's received from trying to train before his body was ready.
The wounds on his torso have healed well. He will always have three short scars from the ceramic lacerating him, but shirts will cover that up.
She lingers on the long cut down his left forearm. He's long given up on caring since she's seen it many times.
"Izuku, I won't pry," she says, "but I will ask that you be sincere with your counsellor."
"Do I have a choice? I have to go, or I get kicked out."
She wraps a thin bandage around his face. "It was not meant as a threat. We want you to be safe and healthy. Not insisting you speak with a trained counsellor would be abdicating our responsibility to you. Did you not chastise us for doing the same with Bakugou? And no, it isn't any different because it's you we're talking about now."
"So, I don't have to go?"
"You can technically not go but we'll have to call your mother. And if she cares about you, then she'll also insist you go."
"That's not much of a choice."
"I suppose it isn't, but it is your choice to behave belligerently. But you can also choose to be honest and sincere. And maybe get some help. We can do what we can, but we need your help to help you." She finishes tying the bandages. "It'll scar badly. But you can choose to get skin grafts when you're older."
"Why not now?"
"The surgery is complex and the healing process even more so to perfectly restore your face. It would leave you in the hospital for months." Her eyes dart to the side only briefly. "And it would require your mother's consent."
He swallows. "I see."
That is all they say about it. He spends the rest of the day cleaning and packing meticulously, nervous in a way he hasn't been in a while. Thanks to Iida, he won't be behind the class. But tomorrow he can finally take off the bandages and see how bad it truly is.
Monday morning comes too quickly. He stands in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the new mirror. The bandages are the only shield he has.
"You can't hide forever," his reflection says snidely. "I've suffered far worse because of you. This is only fitting."
His hands tremble as he raises them to the clip tying the bandages together. "Will this make you feel better?"
The reflection cocks its head. "No."
It disappears and for a moment there is mist. It clears up and his true reflection returns. It moves in time with him and offers no snide comments.
He takes a deep breath. "This can't be harder than dying."
It is.
The bandages fall away. It starts at his chin, very light pink. The scarring deepens as it progresses along the right side of his jaw, thicker where the plates had burnt straight through his skin and thinner where they were connected by the elastic material; the scarring lessening as it winds its way up his cheek and even is lower ear is affected. His neck is a starburst of deep red.
And somehow, he knows that no matter how bad it looks, it is magnitudes better than it would be without Recovery Girl. The scarring will clear up in some places with time but knowing that doesn't stop him from crying.
"I guess you look like a monster now."
He isn't sure who says that, maybe him and maybe the voice. In the end, it will never matter.