Izuku is itching. Unsettled. There's something- he can't- everything here is wrong and he hates it. The buildings around him are unfamiliar, although the people seem like ones he should know, and somehow none of it is right. There's a girl approaching him, all bobbed brown hair and a concerned frown and placating hands, except those hands have odd little pads on them, ones that surely indicate a Quirk (weightless and drifting, laughter loud and bright in a blue sky), and what if she hurts him-
The greenette stumbles a few paces back, supernova energy crackling through him, ready to lash out or run away. It's in that moment that another person steps slightly closer to him. Their hair is odd, half-and-half toned, and there's a burn scar on their face. Izuku knows those eyes, knows that there is warmth behind them, but warmth can so easily turn to heat, and heat hurts, so surely this person can't be safe either-
"Mid-ya, it's-" There are words then, syllables, but they sway and fracture, static-cold, and hiss like lies in his ears. So Izuku backs further away, until his back hits what must be a building, cool and solid, catching slightly on his hair and clothing and there's something primal, instinct and beyond emotion or logic, screaming that he needs to do something, needs to get safe, protect himself. Something. Anything.
Not only that, but the people aren't leaving. Even when he sinks into a fighting stance, muscles tense and iron-rusted bile at the back of his throat, bleary eyes narrowing, they barely react at all. No, they shift back to stand together, and there's more of them now, one with bright red hair and a scar who looks like they could break Izuku over their leg if they tried, and a fourth who is lithe and quick with long, pointed earlobes that look like they could pinpoint his weakest spots, and all of the people are looking at each other and talking and Izuku can't parse the words nor the expressions. He doesn't know what they want. He doesn't- He just doesn't know anything but the deep layers of suspicion and fear searing through his marrow, and how his Quirk is rearing up in response, sparking and crashing through him. He- He's going to hurt someone. He can tell he is, because his Quirk is buzzing like bees through his blood, acidic and stinging and writhing to be free, except he doesn't want to hurt anybody, he just wants to feel safe-
Then suddenly there's a louder noise from down the street, and the four people are backing up a bit, looking away from Izuku, just enough to have a margin of the wrongnogetawayleave itchiness to leave him alone. But then there's another person, a dark figure that comes racing into the wide
space of dark ground between Izuku and the dangers. The figure is putting himself between them, but whether that makes him a protector or a stronger threat Izuku doesn't know.
Instead of panicking more, because trying to escape before he has an idea of what he's facing doesn't sound very sensible at all, Izuku tries to force his leaping thoughts to obey at least enough to analyse the person in front of him. Their boots are heavy, black and shiny with something that is neither water, wax nor oil (his sensei had kicked one of the villains away from Izuku, had cracked a nose to the side with a blow, with protecting him-) and their movements are lithe, easy. Practiced. That fact definitely makes the person more dangerous, and not only is their body a weapon, the reams upon reams of fabric-alloy around their neck surely is as well. It looks like a weapon anyway. Or at least a sort of support gear that could make them faster or better at restraining, or that protects vital spots or the like; no matter which of those things it might be, or even if it's all of them, it makes the man even more of a threat. On top of all of that, is their expression. Or their eyes, because the support gear thing covers the lower half of their face: they're set upon dark eyebags, bloodshot, and are a dark tone themselves, caught between charcoal and amber, hints of warmth yet deadened. It- it's a curious thing to notice.
Then Izuku registers that the man is talking to him. The support gear is tugged down in a too-quick movement that has the teen flinching impossibly further back against the wall, but now he can see all of their face, stubble and dry lips and all. There's a miniscule scar at the corner of their jaw, Izuku knows, even though he can't see it from here (he knows it because it's a result of debris from the League's most recent attempt on their lives, when Izuku had kicked a massive boulder to crush the small, speedy Nomu that had been trying to strangle his sensei, and shards of the rock had caught the man and scarred, to Izuku's absolute desolation but the teacher's fond dismissal-) and before he can ponder that knowledge, a puzzle piece clicks in his mind. He knows that support gear, and that jumpsuit, with bright yellow goggles shoved back on the man's head.
"...Eraserhead?" He wants to say this man is familiar, that Izuku knows him beyond a few grainy phone-filmed videos, but how could he know an underground hero? Even if Quirk-flaring red eyes feel safe, warm like blankets, and that's so different from everything else right now that Izuku latches onto it with a visceral relief.
"You- you're a hero."
"I am." Even better, the man is keeping his distance. He doesn't loom or leer or do anything remotely threatening, simply keeping his hands loose at his sides, capture weapon low around his shoulders so that Izuku can see every hair of his stubble and every possible twitch of his lips and eyes. It- it helps. Not much, because the wind feels like ants over his skin, and having a wall to his back makes Izuku agitated, like he needs to move to a place with more manoeuvrability, but it's fine. He's with a hero. A true, good hero that won't attract dangerous attention to them.
"And you- you're safe."
"I try to be. I definitely wouldn't hurt you, or allow you to get hurt." Izuku doesn't reply, throat tight and fists clenching, and apparently it prompts the man to talk again only a few too-fast breaths later,
"Is there anything I can do, right now, to make you feel more safe?" Admitting weaknesses sounds
like a very, very bad idea, like the sort of thing that might get him killed, but Izuku doesn't know quite what else to do. Because Eraserhead is safe, so surely he will be able to help in a way or form? Even if it's something tiny, if it can get rid of some of this awful paranoia lining Izuku's bones, then it must be worth it.
"Alone." The single word feels like an admission too many though, like he's exposing himself with raw-nerve recklessness, and he sinks further into himself when the feeling intensifies, eyes flickering around them.
The street is mostly empty now. Half of the tarmac road and cement pavement is rucked up in roiling waves of fractures and bulges - not deep enough to hide in, but enough to slow opponents with standard or limited mobility - and the people that had been surrounding him before have all backed away, clumping together well beyond reach, perhaps even beyond the immediate range of most Quirks, and it helps to acknowledge that. Although Izuku can still feel their eyes. The gazes are heavy, branding-hot things, and entirely unwelcome. it just- Nothing is right. Izuku knows that being watched is a bad thing, that attention gets you hurt, that people hurt you, and yet he isn't being hurt. Not right now at least. And what if-
"I can't leave you alone." Eraserhead's gruff words are gentled to a degree from what Izuku was expecting for some reason, and he latches onto that difference rather than giving into the mindless panic of hearing that he won't be allowed to get away, to be alone in the only way that's safe, trying to watch the man's breathing to settle his own, because running away has always been difficult during a panic attack.
"But I can make it so that you're alone in a safe place with me, if that would work as a compromise." That- that doesn't sound terrible. Don't get him wrong, Izuku still doesn't like it, but Eraserhead is the only anchor point he has yet to find in this mess of a place and mindset. He knows he's still not safe, logically and emotionally and instinctually, because that danger is found in the leaden weight searing a place amongst his guts, in the spider-shivers down his spine, circling through his hair like eddies of the grating breeze, but dammit Izuku needs something. And if that something is actually someone, then so be it. Anything not to spiral into a nightmare reality entirely.
"Fine. Only you." The words are clipped short, rolling woodenly across an overgrown-moss tongue and from between chill-chapped lips, but they broach the silence anyway, and Izuku is rewarded by Eraserhead's eyes softening even further, despite how the hero's expression stills, drawn in harsher lines than before. It's an odd dichotomy, yet a reassuring one. Real people, honest people, are complicated and messy and conflicted, just like this in front of him. It's another reason to try and half-way trust the hero.
He nearly curses himself for that trust half a second later, when one of that group starts to move closer, a loud voice carrying through the street and echoing like sirens through Izuku's mind, and he immediately shoves himself back against the building that he had unconsciously started to shift away from in the tiniest of increments, towards the possibly-safe man.
Now though, his Quirk is bursting back into visceral life, burning through him like a falling star, and Izuku vaguely registers that an ugly, rumbling noise is making itself known from the back of his throat, grating and guttural. A warning of his own.
"It's fine, we're safe, they're not coming closer anymore, are they?" The final words are far more of a threat than a true question, and Izuku registers that with a shudder, growl swelling further in his throat, except half a second later he also registers that the redhead boy has stopped moving. Almost as though- almost as though the warning had been for the group, not for Izuku. As though he was the one being protected. Which doesn't sound right (their sensei of only a few days jumping in to fight dozens of villains for them, dark hair flying and capture weapon writhing to life-) because he's in danger. He needs to protect himself, not-
"Kid, if I erase your Quirk, would that make you feel better or worse?" Izuku falters at that, genuinely thinking it through at a racing speed, because his Quirk is a well of heat within him, a summer storm with torrential rains drenching him right through, lightning haloing his heart and fists, and that sheer strength allows him to be the tiniest bit safer. But he doesn't want to hurt anyone. He knows that his muscles are taut and well-exercised, that he could break bones without actually having to use his Quirk, yet there's something about having such power coursing through him that is different. More. Because his Quirk helps him protect himself, but what if he just makes things worse with it?
Yet he can't really bear the thought of being Quirkless, no matter how temporarily so. For him, it's synonymous with pain and danger and uselessness, and right now, when nothing is quite familiar enough to be safe, that just sounds like an absolute hell.
"Hey, kid, keep on breathing for me," Eraserhead intones, voice level and deep, calm without squeezing around Izuku like walls, and the greenette presses a hand to his own chest, fingers rhythmically rapping a steady beat against his own collarbones. It doesn't work like it usually does, doesn't have weight slipping off of his shoulders nor his lungs loosening up, that abrupt dizziness that overtakes him lingering viciously, and this overwhelming panic only makes him feel more unsafe. Like he's about to be attacked, hurt-
"Kid." There's a demand to the word this time, soft yet commanding, constrictive but like a hug rather than shackles, and it jolts Izuku halfway out of his too-rushed headspace, blinking up at the man.
"'Raser?" There's a croak to his voice, a creaking grasp, and he's glad for it when the hero keeps on talking, even offering up a crooked half-smile,
"That's my name, don't wear it out." Somehow the near-joke registers as wrong (it should be a logical ruse or teasing or a prank, not a joke, Aizawa-sensei never jokes-) but that doesn't really matter enough for Izuku to be bothered by it. Not when he's busy catching his breath, steadying himself. He knows that he needs to breathe to be able to protect himself, even when the tap-tap- tapping of his fingers isn't as helpful as usual.
"I'm going to take that as a no to using my Quirk. Would you be willing to come to UA with me,
kid? There's few places safer in Japan," he adds on, blatantly picking up on the aching paranoia stinging along Izuku's skin.
"How far's it?" His voice is still raspier than he'd like, shuddering under the weight of his teeth and tongue and fear, but it's clear enough. It helps that Eraserhead's expression has stayed fairly safe.
"About a twenty minute walk. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes by the roofs, if you'd prefer." "Does Hawks patrol in this area? Or other aerial-based heroes?"
"Not according to the hero patrol routes, no. It'd just be you and me up there. My students - that's those hellspawn behind me, and the other teenagers further down the street that I can see so you probably can as well - will be following with Present Mic and Midnight accompanying them, but they'll be travelling on foot, which is how we all got here." There's something odd about that 'we' that registers in the back of Izuku's mind (laughing and bouncing on his toes, spinning around to gesture animatedly at Hitoshi and Tsuyu, Ochako giggling as she slings an arm around his waist to keep him walking in the right direction, passing by Izuku's favourite hero merch store that they can't stop at because they need to get to the bowling centre for their reservation before their shopping trip-) but he pushes it aside, focusing on scanning their surroundings again.
The kids, or rather the so-called hellspawn, have all backed off further, and are looking over to another clump of teenagers a fair ways down the road, purple hair and several blonds and brunettes, so many people that are watching him, planning to attack, to hurt him- except, no. These are Eraserhead's students so surely they shouldn't be about to hurt him? (His friends leap in front of him, protective, shouting, Quirks active, and Izuku starts to stagger to his feet again-)
"...Okay."
"Thank you. You can lead the way up to the roofs, and we'll travel side by side?" It's an offer rather than a declaration, no doubt a compromise of a sort in the man's mind, and Izuku takes it for what it is, nodding hesitantly. And even though Eraserhead should be safe, feels safe, the greenette still doesn't want to turn his back to the man, so instead he simply gathers his Quirk, letting it pool acidic electricity through his body, followed by him taking a half-step forwards, knees flexing. Then he pushes up, muscles straining, and he shoots up into the air, green-red light haloing in flickers and sparks around him, almost a forcefield of reassurance because he's safe right now, alone so high up in the air with his Quirk shuddering through him, and he tucks into a neat little flip at the apex of his jump. There's a half-breath where he's suspended in mid-air, able to survey the ruined street beneath him, little blobs of moving colour making up the different people, and none of them are approaching Eraserhead. Good.
The twist of Izuku's little flip changes his trajectory just like he needs, and he is able to roll to a comfortable stop on the top of the building that he had his back pressed to only a few breaths ago. And it only takes a couple more moments of waiting, watching, before Eraserhead swings his way up onto the roof as well, although he hangs back towards the ledge, giving Izuku a decent berth.
"Still alright, kid?" The question is a little challenging as much as anything, and Izuku revels in the familiar tone of voice. (Are you going to do better today, hellspawn? Try not to break any bones today, Problem Child - yours or anyone else's - because Recovery Girl is getting fed up with us all, understood? If you manage not to burn the kitchen down, hellions, I'll eat the spiciest thing you make.)
"Mmhm."
"Good-" Here the man's grin isn't crooked or slightly fond, it's shit-eating in all of its Cheshire glory,
"-then let's get a move on to get you safe." Without another thought, they both start moving. Izuku doesn't register it, but he doesn't need to a single hint about which direction UA is in, doesn't need guidance or instruction to take a running leap to get up to a slightly higher roof to the north-east of their current one, and then they're moving, and Izuku can breathe again.
It's an odd feeling, to feel safest so high up in the air. A single bad fall would kill him, undeniably, but he has no intention of falling, no reason to even slip or tumble. (If he fell, he would be caught, unfailingly, by soft-rough-worn capture weapon that smells of coffee and cats and Aizawa-sensei wrapping around him in the most careful of holds.) His Quirk lets him leap high and far, bounding upon legs that spark and glow, swinging his arms for momentum and twisting direction, something akin to a grin slipping across his face unbidden. From beside him, Eraserhead also travels quickly and surely, albeit he is sometimes slightly ahead, sometimes slightly behind, until their jumps and rolls and runs begin to synchronise, to slip into familiar-but-not patterns that Izuku could swear he doesn't know, because why would he be used to parkouring with a person as barely safe as an underground hero that he has admired since he was six years old?
Regardless though, Izuku finds himself feeling more safe than he can remember ever being (his recent memory blurs into realistic existence only ten minutes ago, a haze of panic and paranoia and lingering pains-) and he takes advantage of that to recuperate a little. The teenagers, Eraserhead's students or not, weren't safe people, so leaving them behind is a relief, and there's no more unknown entities to be found up here, where they're beyond the reach of even many Quirks. Either way, most people forget to look up. If Izuku is going to be anything even approaching safe beyond the walls of UA (except they haven't always been safe there either, despite their teachers' best efforts, have they?) then up here, where he can see for miles and he has all of the manoeuvrability he could want, is the closest thing to it. And he can tell that in how the itching, pervading sense of unease that has been plaguing him, the hypervigilance that had his shoulders steel-straight and tense, his eyes straining to make out every detail for potential threats, and his Quirk blaring through him like alarm bells, carrying and deep-set... all of it has begun to seep away, in breath-in-out increments. His eyes stream with the force of the wind, yet he can see clearly. Rushing blood and air and the thud-crunch-thwap of their shoes and shoulders and capture weapon hitting various materials as they move - all of it is a background cadence to balance his breathing against, and Izuku can begin to relax.
But it cannot last forever. No, soon enough they start to crest a hill, and atop it, surrounded by gleaming walls and swathes of trees, are several massive buildings, the largest one that distinctive 'H' shape of UA's main campus building. In the shadow of it, separated by more trees and what must be some open space (big green fields for sparring and reading and messing around together
under sunlight), there are newer buildings, far smaller and-
"Kid, you good with going to my flat in the teachers' building of the dorms? All the entrances lock, windows and vents included, and I can give you a key if you really want, so that you can get out if there's any emergency." Izuku takes all of that in, mentally settles a bit once more, and glances over again, although first he needs to clarify,
"Who else has a key?" Eraserhead doesn't even blink,
"Me, Present Mic, and then Nedzu has special sensors that will allow a person of his exact dimensions that knows the right passcode to enter any and all spaces upon UA's campus. It's incredibly high security, but not quite illogically so." Already, the thought of being trapped inside, in unfamiliar rooms of an unfamiliar building of an unfamiliar campus, well, it has Izuku's anxieties flaring up, molten lead ricocheting through his chest, tightening the iron bands of his ribs.
He forces himself to take a deep breath though, tucking further into his next roll than strictly necessary because the second of increased pressure crinkles his being back into a kind of coherent shape, and he's able to nod slightly upon standing straight again to run for his next jump,
"Alright."
"Thank you." The gratitude, as far as the teen can tell, is sincere, because a sideways glimpse at Eraserhead's face reveals his eyes to be warm, mouth sinking downwards in a soft slope. He's not angry, not defensive, not desperate. No, he's relatively calm, and that's more than reassuring to be able to affirm, because then surely that means that he shouldn't be planning anything malicious, or taking Izuku into a trap. Izuku can't exactly expect much more assurance either way. Not yet at least.
They pause again just at the edge of the built-up area that now ends before the wide road that surrounds UA's high walls. They're several stories up, and Izuku can just see a little over the walls from here, the higher floors of the larger buildings and the tops of the trees still just about visible. The tucked-away nature of so much of it, the way it's so defensible, keeps that loosened knot in Izuku's chest loose, spools of something golden looping gently around his heart rather than constricting like they had earlier.
"We're going to have to go through the front gate, because of the security system. If you come in with me, the gates won't take issue with you. You alright to go now, or want to wait a minute? Give it, let's see, probably not quite ten minutes, and we can watch my class go through first if that helps."
"...Yes." The agreement clearly doesn't surprise Eraserhead, and he simply slumps to sit on the edge of the roof, legs swinging over the edge, capture weapon still rather loose around his neck and shoulders so that Izuku can see his full face. It keeps part of that pervading itch of paranoia at bay.
With the reduced urgency, Izuku allows himself to gingerly settle down as well, right on the ledge where he could jump down it he wanted - there's also a fire escape further to the right, so even if his Quirk gets erased, he'll still have a fair chance of landing safely. And because they're almost on
opposite corners of the roof, at least ten metres apart, the teen is fairly confident that should he need to get away quickly without Eraserhead, then he should be just at long enough of a range for the hero to have to try and catch up with him.
"Hey, kid, do you have a name I could call you?" For some reason that question feels inexplicably wrong, and Eraserhead seems to think so too somehow, but Izuku answers anyway,
"Uhm, Deku, I guess." There's an odd expression to the man's face then, something twisting but not necessarily negative, and the hero shrugs casually, leaning back onto the palms of his hands, staring up into the sky with a slackness, a melancholy to the lines around his eyes,
"If you're sure."
They fall into silence then, not uncomfortable but certainly not easy either. It doesn't really help that Izuku is still tense overall. He has this need to keep moving, to fight and run and hide and deflect, because there's just this awful feeling knocking at the back of his head, reverberating down his spine in aching echoes, and it has him twisting his fingers together, letting tiny bursts of his Quirk emanate through them so that it feels like he's playing with the gentle heat of sparks, and he narrows himself down as much as he can to that tiny little bit of movement, hunching over himself and trying to centre his wavering mindset around it. He half-ignores Eraserhead, puts aside the steady passing of various cars and vans and lorries from the street beneath their perch, the occasional pedestrian or two as well, and tries to listen to his own logic and emotions: everything within him is screaming. It's as simple as that. Vague impressions of thoughts and feelings contradict against every instinct, because he's so sure that he isn't safe, but the world around him is half-familiar and slipping out of his reach. It's just wrong.
"Kid, my class are arriving." The near-bland words jolt Izuku out of his reverie, breaths suddenly a little erratic, but he digs his still-sparking fingers into his knees, knuckles going paler than his scars, and manages to drag his coherency back together enough to watch as nearly twenty kids and two adults (they've become a family, bonded by trauma and exams and movie nights, and every one of them is a safe place) begin to pile up at the gates, cards getting pulled out as the two adults usher them through ahead of themselves, and it's a protective gesture. Kind. (Their teachers have done nothing but try to look out for them at UA; it's so different from everything that Izuku is used to, and that only adds to how amazing it always is. They're a very lucky class, villain attacks or no.)
It's another three minutes on, once the students, Midnight and Present Mic have collectively headed through the gates, and Izuku has a certainty that they'll be halfway to their dorms (it's a six to eight minute walk, depending on how much they mess around, and they count every minute because they have strict curfews and visitation times-) that he pushes back to his feet, stepping slightly back from the ledge just in case Eraserhead gets any ideas, or something sudden attacks him, and waits for the hero to lever up himself, the man glancing over to Izuku with a single raised eyebrow.
"...Together?"
"Okay." Neither of them hesitate then, both throwing themselves forwards. Izuku reinforces
himself with his Quirk and plummets straight down, catching himself with an air-flick at the last second; from beside him, with a distinctly more controlled momentum, Eraserhead half-rappels, half-swings down, capture weapon coiling around fixtures of the building to support him. It's super cool to see such casual use of a well-designed piece of support gear from up close - it's the sort of thing that Izuku may never get to do again (he's been helping Hitoshi spar with his capture weapon under Aizawa-sensei's watchful eyes, and has even picked up a few basic tricks to use with his own Quirk-) and focusing on it, analysing the trajectories and minute movements and tensile strengths, allows Izuku to put the ants under his skin aside, the lava-searing feeling of everything being wrongwrongdangerous getting buried under a wave of awe and fascination.
"Nedzu will undoubtedly be expecting you to arrive with me, so don't worry about the gate, we'll be able to just walk right through, got that kid?" It's a bit weird that, despite only having asked for a name to call Izuku not even quarter of an hour ago, the hero is still calling him kid, but it's hardly the end of the world. Or it doesn't louden the alarm bells echoing through his hollow guts at least.
So he simply nods, and dogs Eraserhead's footsteps exactly, standing just behind the man's shoulder, where he isn't in immediate reach but he can see the man's movements, can watch for any surprise attacks, but is also privy to the hero's protection should an outside force try to get to him- They're not inside UA yet, and even once within the massive, sleek walls there will be unknown factors, people that could want to take his Quirk, target him, try to exploit him or hurt him or kill him-
"You still good there?" The words aren't quite startling, because Izuku had noticed how Eraserhead turned ever so slightly, jaw tensing for half a breath, undoubtedly reading the rising fears from how Izuku is pulling his Quirk around him in a shield of aurora lightning once more, protective and sure. But the hero doesn't sound judgemental, his tone instead landing somewhere in between a neutral drawl and vague concern, so Izuku simply shrugs. Luckily, that seems to be an acceptable answer, because Eraserhead only offers him one last glance over his shoulder before halting just before the gates.
"Like I said, we'll need to go through together." The greenette doesn't reply at all this time. No, he's too busy biting his lip as he steps up beside the man, eyes scanning what can be seen of the UA grounds to assess for any hiding spots and pathways and bottlenecks, places he could be ambushed from or that would be easily defensible. He can't make out anyone hiding in wait, which is a good start, but the cameras that are blatantly up everywhere have his hackles rising, Quirk flaring that tiniest bit brighter around him. And the voices- the voices in his head are screaming for him to run. They absolutely holler and howl, such a sense of not here, not now, he won't be safe, but what else can he do?
So, despite all of that, Izuku steps forward in tandem with Eraserhead. The gates don't snap shut around him, no capture weapon binds his limbs tight to his body, and nobody jumps out to attack him. He- he's not safe but maybe he's getting closer to it, and it's with that beating a new war drum tattoo atop the fears that still run wild through his mind, their staccato footsteps shuddering down his spine, that Izuku allows himself to keep equal pace with the man, staying by his side. Admittedly, he's not quite within normal reach, but it's a start. A change. Perhaps, judging by the appraising and then approving look he gets from the hero, it's even a good change.
They don't see many people as they walk through the campus, following one of the side paths. Through lines of trees and across grassy fields there are shouts and laughter, friends draped all over each other or tussling on the grass, some eating or reading or studying in lieu of that, and it puts Izuku further on edge even as the fam- unfamiliar sight has something deep in his chest soothed and soft, ruffled feathers sinking flat.
Then the pair approach one large building in particular, one with sliding glass doors for an entrance, and lots of white-painted cement pillars, and they step off of the path, to a more secluded patch of grass beneath a large sakura tree, giving them just that little bit more privacy. Safety.
"These are the-"
"The teachers' dorms," Izuku finishes, quite without meaning to, and he misses the semi-surprised look the hero levels him with, too busy assessing the building before him. It's just as big as the Class 1-A dorms (he already knew that, knows that Present Mic has the flat across from Aizawa- sensei's and he regularly drops in, screams and sake and cakes in tow, even if Aizawa-sensei had prewarned the man that Eri was visiting or that he was conducting analysis lessons) and is pristine, to no shock. UA has always been known for being squeaky-clean in every aspect. (Oh, how the media has tried to tear their precious school down, to drag it through the mud just because some of them got a bit bloody in circumstances beyond anyone's control.)
"If you want, I can send a text for Midnight to make sure the common area of the dorms are cleared for the next five minutes or so? You can read the text as I send it." They stand still for a long few moments then, breathing and blinking but nothing else, and Izuku wishes that he could curl his toes into the grass and soil even through his iron-soled shoes.
"Okay." The teen shuffles slightly closer then, just enough to be able to squint and see the screen but still more or less out of arm's reach, and watches on as the underground hero scrolls to his- his third most recent contact, opening up their message log, and types out a terse request for the common living areas and corridors to be cleared, just as stated. And Izuku thinks then. He contemplates as many possible code words or initial combinations or even syllable counts that he can, trying to find anything that could parse out another message, a more dangerous one, but he comes up with nothing, or gibberish. It- It should be fine. And, well, he's followed Eraserhead this far, if there's an ambush waiting in the building itself, then all Izuku can do is be prepared and react accordingly. It'll be fine. It has to be.
Except everything itches, and everything feels wrong, because the cement-set stone path beneath his feet seems to rumble and flex with every step he takes, the air in his throat chokes with rusted pollen, clogging and cloying, and he's so on-edge, so uneasy, it's ridiculous. There has to be a reason for it. Logically (always try to think logically, hellspawn, because emotions can be a blessing or a curse, and it often won't show which way until you're stood in the aftermath - there had been so much aching knowledge to those words, loss and grief and regret tied up in assurance- ) he cannot see or hear or feel anything that should technically be wrong, yet still there's something. A reason for the spiders upon needle-stilts that are waltzing their ways down his spine, over his joints and toying with his knuckles and lips and hairline. The shadows, cast by sunlight alone, seem to thicken and darken, warping ever so slightly into familiar figures (crimson eyes,
pale hands reaching, one stark-bright with explosions, the other flaking-dry with the faintest of finger pads-) and half-lost shapes, all harsh angles and insidious curves. This place- it's dangerous. It has to be.
"Kid?" But Eraserhead is here. Eraserhead, the underground hero that works for UA and fights with Quirkless prowess, who is logical and analytical and above-all kind, is right here, with Izuku, and waiting at the bottom of a wide set of stairs for him.
"I figured you'd prefer the stairs to the lift, but it's your choice. I'm only on the second floor, so two flights up, or four half-flights really." (Really, Problem Child, you're taking the stairs? Can't skip leg day, Sensei.)
"I- You-" Izuku huffs to himself, fisted hands with bloodless knuckles tapping one, two, three against the side of his thighs before he makes do with nodding and begins to move forwards once again. He keeps his head ducked low, eyes high and shifting, shoulders raised in the most paltry yet well-practiced of defences. He doesn't know why this place grates at him so, safe but unsafe, familiar yet wrong, but he isn't honestly sure that he needs or wants to find out. Just getting somewhere that he might finally feel safe sounds like a good enough deal right now.
The stairs aren't narrow nor low-ceilinged, but they still don't boast quite the amount of space
Izuku would like so as to be able to maximise his mobility, albeit they're also big and bright enough to not completely make the greenette claustrophobic, which is... good. Helpful. Falling into a panic attack now would only make him less safe, more vulnerable, and this area is too exposed for that, even indoors.
Fortunately, they get up the stairs unaccosted and untroubled, beyond Izuku's unease refusing to abate, and Eraserhead leads the way to an unmarked door, pulling out a key.
"I'll go in first if you want, and I can leave the door wide open against the wall so that you can see inside?" The questioning lilt to the otherwise deadpan tone makes it an offer rather than an instruction, and Izuku is idly grateful for the fact even as he tries to settle his racing mind into something a little more coherent again.
"Thanks." He gets an almost-smile for the politeness, a light of sorts in the hero's eyes (it's fondness, like when he sees the class curled up together, or playing with Eri, or any number of small, childhood-sweet things, not all of them even chaotic, that his kids get up to-) even whilst he turns fully back to the door, slotting his key into place and pushing it wide open, just as promised. And it reveals a big, rather bare space. There's a comfortable looking sofa, in dark grey, an absolute tonne of blankets and what looks like a bright yellow sleeping bag all pooled and piled at one end, spilling onto the floor nearest the matching armchair. A coffee table is covered in semi-organised stacks of papers and documents and folders, a few differently coloured pens and coffee mugs scattered throughout. It's clearly the space of a workaholic.
But then, in a soft sort of contrast and agreement, there is a massive bookshelf spanning most of one wall, and in several places the rows of volumes are interrupted by photographs. The teen can't entirely tell the subjects, not given the low reflective nature of the afternoon sunlight leaking through the half-drawn curtains, but one of them looks like four teenagers, two sets of dark hair
and two pale; another a pair of middle-aged people who bear too many resemblances to Aizawa to be anything but his parents; one of a little girl with pale hair (dear, sweet little darling that Eri had been that day - enjoying a hot apple strudel after an afternoon learning how to ice skate, with her Ai-tou and Deku-nii to help), and then another photo of what must be his class, judging by the twenty or so teenagers with, from where Izuku is currently standing, a mess of colourful blobs for hair and what must be Quirk-based features. (The grounds had been drowning in falling sakura, and they'd all set to sweeping up great piles of the things before diving into them headfirst. There had been lots of bumps and bruises, of course, but even more grins and petals caught in hair, and it had been Midnight-sensei and Aizawa-sensei walking past them that had prompted the woman to request a spontaneous class photo. The class had immediately dragged their homeroom teacher into the centre of their fray, beaming, all covered in sakura and dirt and so much joy it had felt more warm on their skin than the sunlight itself. And none of them had missed, upon sharing and downloading and printing the resultant photo, that their Sensei had been smiling a tiny bit as well.)
There's another great shudder down Izuku's back, uneasiness swamping through him, and it has him looking throughout the rest of the space, looking for escape routes and hiding places and potential weapons, both things he could use himself or that could be used against him.
"Kid, do you want me to keep my cat in the bathroom, or leave him free to roam? Neither is a problem, but he can be a bit of a chaotic bastard half the time." There's something in the sharing of that simple, personal detail that simultaneously relaxes Izuku and has his paranoia curling closer to his bones, icy chills digging their claws in, but he manages to shrug.
"Sugar's fine." (Oh, kid, I've got a cat called Sugar. You're not allergic or anything, right? No Sensei! I love cats. What're they like? He's a fluffy bastard.)
"Good," the hero nods, already heading over to one of the cupboards to pull out a bag of cat food, and somehow Izuku isn't surprised to see that it's a more expensive brand,
"And did you want my spare key? You can test it yourself if you want." The teen hesitates then, attention fracturing as he tries to parse out all of the pros and cons at once, before he manages a jerky nod. Better to have more possible escape routes than less, even if Eraserhead might not feel as trusted or valued as he otherwise would have. Izuku can only rely on himself after all. (There are two dozen people, more, that he can fall back on, that he can ask for help or advice or a quiet place, who he can fight side by side and back to back with, taking blows for each other and watching out for the rest of their friends. Their family.)
"It's in the honey-labelled jar in the mug cupboard, up there," the man offers, gesturing at a cupboard on the opposite side of the little open plan kitchen than himself, and it's enough distance that Izuku doesn't hesitate to kneel up on the counters to grab down the jar, popping the lid off to reveal a key much like the one that Eraserhead had used to unlock the front door a minute or two ago, and he tips it out into his hand, quick to tuck it away into a pocket - one that the hero can't see, just in case - before replacing first the lid then the jar itself, sliding off of the counter with a heady rush of panic, four of the next six breaths catching but he counts every one, back pressed to the edge of the counter and eyes flicking over his surroundings once more - Eraserhead feeding a pudgy brown cat, sunlight streaming through the half-curtained windows, that same pile of blankets hasn't moved, none of the shadows are moving or darkening or twisting, so he has to be fine, he has to be - before he reaches up to tap-tap-tap at his collarbone again. Again, it doesn't
work like it usually would. No, all Izuku can think about is that like this, one hand occupied, he can't defend himself as easily, but he also needs to breathe, but if the tapping isn't working then there's no point to it, but also-
He lowers the hand and shifts ever-so slightly into a fighting stance. It doesn't even out his breathing, however it does ease some of the heart-pounding, finger-trembling fear that had made itself known through his body. It's marrow-deep, intrinsic. And that makes it all the more pervading, reverberating through him with every heartbeat and juddering breath as he struggles to control himself.
It barely takes him a second to realise that Eraserhead is watching him. The man is still leaning down beside the two cat bowls, in the process of picking up the near-empty water one, but he has tilted his head to be able to scrutinise Izuku with those dark eyes, not glaring, not really; it's more along the lines of something that could be concern but surely can't be, it must be more like curiosity or judgement or analysis... Izuku can't tell. He doesn't know, but he feels like he should and that fact burns. He kind of wants to cry. Except he can't do that either, because crying would only blur his vision and make his breathing worse and there's no reason for it anyway, dammit, he just needs to pull himself together and get safe-
Izuku abruptly moves. He pushes up and away from having the counter-top at his back and, not even waiting for permission, starts to loop around the flat. Heedless of what or who a room is for, he checks every single window or vent opening. Everything he can think of. Latches are on, locks are engaged, and his key works with all of them, as promised. Paying minute attention to every room, ignoring the specifics of that little grey bed covered in unicorn sheets, or the spare bright yellow sleeping bag rolled at the bottom of the adult's bed in the bigger bedroom, Izuku finally manages to steady himself inside-out. Nobody can get in. Not without making at least some noise. And he now knows all the ways to get out. (Within three visits to Aizawa-sensei's flat Izuku had clocked every entrance and exit, knowing that whilst the windows may be UA-grade glass, they would still eventually break after several Quirk-powered punches of his own, and he had known every way to keep himself and his loved ones safe should anyone ever attack them here.)
Coming back into the main living area, he finds Eraserhead standing still in the kitchen, elbows against the island countertop as he stares over his own living area, blatantly waiting for Izuku.
"Alright?"
"Mmhm." He can't bring himself to apologise for being so invasive, not when he finally feels a bit calmer, for all that the paranoia has yet to leave him. Although the hero doesn't truly seem to mind either way.
"Sit yourself down somewhere if you want. If you need to move the furniture a bit then I won't be bothered." Eraserhead's words seem to be genuine, so after a few moments' thought, Izuku takes full advantage. The armchair gets pulled into the far corner of the room - no vents above him, no windows behind him, but there's a window just out of reach and within his sightline that he could
flee out of should someone come in from any other entrance - and he sits on it, bypassing any of the blankets (his favourite is the thick yellow one that reminds him of Toshinori's hair and Aizawa- sensei's goggles, safe and bold and warm). But simply sitting there instantly feels too vulnerable, so after a half-second of thought, he brings his feet up so that he can crouch on the armchair, a pillow beneath his feet because he still has his shoes on - it would be too dangerous not to, to make his kicks weaker and to not protect his feet and ankles - except he also doesn't want to dirty up a hero's furniture. At least a cushion case can be washed easily. And here, tucked safely in a corner, he can feel a tiny bit safer. (Normally he sprawls over the main sofa in the centre of the room, with Hitoshi or Eri or both, stealing their teacher's blankets whilst he huffs at them despite being halfway through making them all hot chocolate.)
From there, he watches on as the man bustles around the kitchen a bit. Sugar comes trotting out of one of the rooms further in the flat, mrowing noisily and stretching before gobbling up the food that had been put down for him. The cat startles Izuku a little bit, and he watches them just in case it's really a person with a Quirk, but all of the mannerisms and kibble eating strongly suggest that it really is a normal cat.
By the time that Izuku has ascertained this for himself, Eraserhead has finished putting away the cat food bag and has filled himself a glass of water straight from the tap, chugging it and then refilling it.
"You want anything?" There's a slight bloated heat to Izuku's tongue, throat irritated and tight, eyes gritty, but he very much does not want to drink anything, even tap water, so he shakes his head, despite how it makes the hero frown slightly.
"Fair enough. Let me know if you do though, or grab something yourself." Izuku nods once, jerky, even as his gaze roves over the room for the dozenth time, unable to settle. He tracks the man as he brings his water glass over to the coffee table, eyes catching on the cat-patterned socks with a twisting gut, even whilst Eraserhead settles on the main sofa, sitting straight on top of the blanket mass and tucking his feet up underneath him. It looks strangely domestic. And Izuku is very aware that sitting with his feet like that means that the man will take half a second longer to get up and react to something, including if he had any ideas about attacking the greenette. It's not quite reassuring, but it eases a slight knot in his chest anyway.
That, of course, is the moment when Izuku's stomach chooses to rumble rather loudly.
"You hungry, kid?" That's more of a loaded question than Eraserhead realises, because there's the beginning of a pit in Izuku's stomach, that slight shakiness to his fingertips that tells him that he really needs to get more fuel for the absolute furnace that his Quirked body has become, but
also. How can he trust food prepared or cooked by another person?
"If you want, you can just have one or two of my nutrient packs. I've even got kiwi flavour." Izuku- Kiwi is Izuku's favourite fruit, but he isn't sure how Eraserhead would know that, logically he shouldn't be able to know (You better get some food in you, kid, this training session is going to run
long - you got a favourite flavour? Oh, uhm, do you maybe have kiwi? Sure do, Problem Child.)
so maybe it's just coincidence? It could even be the hero's own favourite flavour! Surely it's not because the hero's somehow looked into him, trying to find weaknesses or a way to hurt or exploit-
"Kid, breathe. You don't have to eat them, I just figured you sounded hungry, and a Quirk like yours u- probably uses up a lot of energy. You can choose something else, or one of us can try and cook, I simply thought that you'd be able to tell that pre-packaged stuff should be safe." That knowledge appeals to the greenette, undeniably so, and he nods, barely dipping his head so that he can keep his eyes raised, once more tracking the hero as he rounds first the sofa then the island, reaching up into one of the higher cupboards to pull out a completely new box of a dozen nutrient packs, bringing the whole lot over to be placed beside the hero's glass of water, then nudged slightly closer to Izuku's side of the coffee table.
"Help yourself. To as many as you want, at that." "...Thanks."
"Whatever. Not gonna let a kid go hungry." The gruff words have something warm underlying them, and Izuku cradles that within his chest as a comfort, another balm to his racing thoughts as he gets up and steps the two paces forward to be able to pick up and then open the cardboard box, promptly tearing the plastic wrapping that keeps the snacks in two rows of six. All of it is correctly branded and packaged, nothing looks disturbed or incorrect or marked differently as far as he can tell, so he slides out one of the kiwi-flavoured packs and then a strawberry (do you have a favourite flavour, Sensei? Not really, but I guess the strawberry ones always go first-), before tucking them in close against his chest and leaning forwards as little as possible to put the rest of the box back down, followed by poking them to slide further along the table, back towards the hero.
Then he watches on, not yet eating, as Eraserhead pauses for a moment, assessing which Izuku chose, and then selects the other kiwi and strawberry packs for himself. The man doesn't hesitate again before sucking the kiwi up in about ten seconds, followed immediately by the strawberry, although he takes it at a slightly slower rate of maybe thirty seconds. It's enough to encourage Izuku to start partaking in his own.
The burst of fruity flavours is nice for half a mouthful. Wonderful, even. Until something primal kicks in (snatching a juice pouch or nutrient pack off of his Sensei on a hot day - class bets on who can drink them the quickest - having one gently knocked against his forehead in admonishment for nearly passing out overworking himself on a Sunday morning-) and his stomach lurches, whole body heaving and contracting and tightening because he's not safe-
He drops the nutrient pack he had begun drinking, not even registering that it lands on the floor and some starts to spill out onto the hardwood, too caught up in all of his body telling him that things are wrong and dangerous and he needs to get out, get moving, get gone, but instead he's hunching into himself, trying to protect his weak spots, vital points, because he can't even fathom moving right now, not when the light is too bright and the faint currents of the air feel like hurricanes blasting at him, and he can hear Eraserhead's breathing, the man's faint grunt of surprise (and worry, concern, fear for his kids-) as he gets to his feet but stays still, stays back, which is good
because Izuku is so overwhelmed and overstimulated and overexposed that he thinks he might just die if he doesn't get on his feet right now.
So he does. It's hard, so hard, and his muscles ache from being so tense, his lungs cry in a way that he can't right now, but he rocks forwards, nearly face-planting, before getting one of his feet beneath him, then the other, and he just trod on something but it wasn't sharp and it didn't hurt or stick him in place so it doesn't matter, he just needs to move-
Something shudders through him, frost melting away from his heart and mind, and he blinks, once, twice, a sensation like a veil lifting away from his awareness. And Izuku- Izuku sways in place with it, everything rushing through him with the ice-sharp clarity of a white water river. He nearly collapses to his knees with it in fact, a heady awareness carving itself back into place, and it's a mess of information and emotion and realisation-
"Sensei." His voice is wrecked with relief and panic and understanding. Imploring. But his teacher is already there, crouching in front of him with dark, warm eyes,
"Oh, thank fu- I'm here, Problem Child. You're safe. You're at UA, in my flat, you're safe, and so is everyone else." Those final words are more reassuring than anything else, but Izuku still needs to double-check,
"E-everyone?"
"Yes, everyone," Erase- Aizawa-sensei reaffirms, fond exasperation underlying the gravitas of the two simple words, and that's the moment Izuku bursts out into sobs.
Arms instantly wrap around him, drawing him in close then scooping him up, heedless of his messy sobs or still-on shoes, and his hero is keeping him safe, letting Izuku hide his face and tears in the familiar capture weapon, the cats-coffee-Sensei scent of the fabric-alloy reminding him to breathe. There's a large, warm, callused hand tracing broad circles over his back, pressing against his ribs and the knobs of his spine, and it follows the same pattern as the hero's breathing, and Izuku is surrounded by the steady rhythm. It forces him to breathe more steadily as well, even as he cries.
He- he'd been so scared, and he hadn't recognised his own family, and he must have worried them all so much and, oh Kami, what if he had hurt one of them? Or worse? He hadn't let Aizawa-sensei erase his Quirk and how selfish that had been because he could've killed them if he'd panicked even a tiny bit more, if they had been a little less careful than they had the good sense to be and what- what if- how could he have lived with himself if-
"Hey, hey, Problem Child-" Oh, how much better it feels to be called Problem Child with that worried, warm tone again, to feel like he belongs again, and it helps to slow his cutting thoughts down,
"-Everyone's alright, nobody got hurt and yes, everyone was worried about you, but you know that's what we all do for each other, so that's okay. It wasn't your fault, kiddo. You were very brave, Problem Child. And you were even logical enough to try and trust a hero you recognised. You did
a good job, Izuku, Problem Child, understood?" The words help. They really, genuinely help, seeping gentle heat right down to Izuku's bones, and he shudders, wet breaths catching in his throat and eyes aching, even as he clings to his mentor.
The hero, endlessly patient keeps talking to him, reassurances and simple truths that help to ground him, the rumble of Aizawa-sensei's voice reverberating straight through him with an achingly sweet familiarity, and Izuku lets all of the built up emotions drain out of him tear after tear, fingers twisting in the back of the man's jumpsuit, legs latched around his waist, and there are those strong arms around him in turn. His hero doesn't falter or hesitate or wince away from any of the onslaught. No, he's a stable rock in a storm, and Izuku holds onto him with the same sort of desperation as a shipwrecked person just might, swamped by wave after wave of residual panic and worry and mortification.
Through it all, Aizawa-sensei holds him, and it lets Izuku finally feel safe.
Eventually the tears run dry, and the teen begins to realise that he's hungry, thirsty and very tired. It makes sense, given that he'd managed not even a full mouthful of nutrient pouch across the last several hours, because the last thing he consumed was half a water bottle before the class even left the dorms for their trip and oh he'd interrupted the trip, everyone must be so disappointe-
"Kid, you didn't choose for villains to attack. We've had this discussion as a class before, and it holds true now. You dealt with the villain reasonably well, and whilst it would have been preferable that you didn't get hit by their Quirk at all, in this case it was unavoidable. You were cornered and you kept your head as well as you could. No part of it was your fault, and the class will not be upset with you. The shopping centre is open every weekend, and reservations can always be re-booked." In tandem with his own words, the hero has brought up one hand to gather his capture weapon, bunching all of the coils in one grip, and before Izuku can enquire or protest or even truly think about it much, Aizawa-sensei is shoving his capture weapon up and over his own head, then looping it around the greenette's shoulders instead, keeping it tucked low by both of their chins throughout the movement.
"Look after that for me." The demand is soft around the edges, giving and swaying, and Izuku is too caught up in the grounding weight of the fabric-alloy piled on him to possibly question it.
However he whimpers a few breaths later when the hero begins to shift them both. Izuku is slid off of his lap, tucked into his side instead, one of those arms still around his shoulders, all strong solidity and body heat, and he settles after a moment, albeit feeling a little pouty and off-kilter.
"Oi, Sugar, c'mere." The words are sudden, and the teen startles at them, only to get a hand in his curls as silent apology, even as Aizawa-sensei coaxes his cat over, then pats Izuku's knees in blatant invitation.
"C'mon, you little bastard, Problem Child needs you." Something in that apparently does the trick, because within another breath Izuku has a heavy, purring lump of fluff on his lap, a soft head and
ticklish whiskers pressing against the hand that he had, in lieu of its previous place on the back of the hero's jumpsuit, tangled amongst the hem of his top.
Almost giggling, he devotes most of his attention to petting Sugar, going for just under the chin like he knows the cat likes, and is rewarded by the purring doubling in volume. It seems to shake him marrow-deep, and it helps to replace some of the lingering paranoia-chill.
But then his hero starts to shift as though to get up, and Izuku's drifting eyelids snap open again, his single grip on the man tightening desperately, a wordless cry cracking between his lips. Aizawa- sensei instantly stills, already moving to reassure him,
"Hey, Problem Child, I was just going to go to the kitchen quickly. You'll be able to hear me the whole time, and you've got my cat and capture weapon, so you know I'll be coming straight back, alright?"
"Bu'..." He trails off, biting on his lip for a second before trying again, "Why?"
"Because you need something to eat and drink, and there's a small mess I want to clean up. It would help me stop worrying if you would be willing to let me get you some water and a snack to eat, Izuku." The teen recognises that phrasing, because it's something his family always turn on him if he isn't looking after himself because they know he only wants to help them, to make them feel safe and happy, and it's sort of a guilt trip but his self-care has actually been improving, so he doesn't honestly want to argue against it. Particularly not when he gets so many smiles, from sunshine-beaming to tiny soft things, when they see him being good to his own body and mind for once.
So, reluctantly, he nods, and unlatches his white-knuckled grip from the hero. It helps a little when he gets one more hair ruffle before the man moves away, and then Izuku spends the next few minutes counting every step the hero takes, trying to track where exactly in the kitchen he must be as a new glass of water gets brought over, left in the greenette's hand to drink, and then the man goes back to the kitchen to grab more things. Like this, Aizawa-sensei spends the next five minutes coaxing two glasses of water and some crackers into him, enough to abate the worst of his body's demands, whilst the man wipes up the worst of the spilled nutrient pouch on the floor over near the corner. By the end of his snack, Izuku is about ready to collapse, Sugar still purring steadily in his lap, and he nearly misses the fond look he gets from his mentor when he cracks a massive yawn, eyes tearing up with it.
"Sleep, Problem Child. I'll keep you safe."
And, as he finally gives into his exhaustion, eyelids heavy and limbs sluggish, Izuku vaguely registers his shoes being carefully tugged off, a hand brushing his fringe back so that someone can kiss his forehead, stubble a comforting rasp against his freckled brow, and then he's gone, lost to dreamless rest.
(In the morning he will wake up groggy and still tired, tucked under no less than three blankets, his favourite yellow one on the top of the stack, not to mention the soft-rough-worn texture of a familiar capture weapon pillowing his head, and he's slightly overheated, but he only curls up tighter, revelling in the feeling of being safe. It's a Sunday, and in an hour or two, once both he and Aizawa-sensei are fully awake and have eaten something - even if that something is only some kiwi and strawberry nutrient packs, their respective favourites - the hero will usher Izuku downstairs and then over to the 1-A dorms. The class will, after a few moments of making sure he's himself again, albeit tired, make an absolute mess of glomping him and talking to him, all a blur of chatter and laughter and reassurance, and a class film day will ensue, Aizawa-sensei and Izuku caught right in the middle of the main cuddle pile. There's no better way to recover, truly. He's home after all. And there's no safer place to be.)