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The battle sputters out. It doesn’t go out with a bang, it ends quietly, in dying embers and smothered fire. Fitting, almost, that this snuffing out is the end of a legacy spanning nine generations. Izuku refuses to give up, and every single spark of his determination is reflected in Tomura’s eyes. They go at each other, again and again. Power clashing, neither making it out unscathed. Both so goddamn tired. Both waiting for it to just be over.
After the dust settles, there is silence. Neither of them believe they will be getting out alive. One for All and All for One will die today. A legacy over 200 years old, extinguished between one day and next. A legacy large enough to forget that its vessels were kids first and kids who got old enough to forget they were people too, for a moment. And they both lay dying, not defeated, but relieved. Because it was over. And they were done. Tapped out. Spent. Tired.
“Are you tired, Tenko?” Izuku asks as he stumbles to the nearest piece of rubble, collapsing as his legs give out to lean back against it.
Tomura immediately gets angry, “What? Don’t call me tha—“
“We’re both dying, Tenko. It doesn’t matter what I call you, or how much I hate you, or how much you hate me.”
Tomura huffs out a laugh before his legs fold in on him, leaving him on the ground across from Izuku, debris at his back, “Fine.”
There is a brief lull, a moment of silence before Izuku comments, eyes a million miles away, “People like us, we’ve been hurting for as long as we can remember.”
Tomura spits bitterly, “Speak for yourself, you don’t know me.”
“Don’t I?” Izuku asks wryly, “Tenko, tell me, do you know what it’s like to grow up quirkless?”
Tomura snorts, “I killed my family with my quirk, what do you think?”
Izuku begins to outline his life, over a decade of abuse from every corner of his life. From his peers, from his teachers, from other adults. Neglect from his mom, from his teachers, from society. A system which has done nothing except tear him to pieces, has wished for nothing except for him to die already. A life where he was stupid enough to keep dreaming and refuse.
“So Tenko, our lives run parallel. Both of us were puppets with dreams too big for our bodies, molded like soft clay into child soldiers and we fought, just like we were taught,” Izuku states it matter of factly, like he’s already accepted it. (And he has. He's always known. He was just too far into denial to accept it).
“So— weak—“ Tomura agrees, laughing along weakly.
“I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been fight my whole life just to live and now I’ve fought a war too,” Izuku whispers, almost like a secret.
Tomura closes his eyes, “I’m so tired,” he says in agreement. And Izuku gets it, that bone deep tiredness that is almost warm. Burrows itself and makes its way into every corner of your existence until nothing explains what life you are living anymore except no life at all and I’m tired.
“Tenko, can we be done now?” Izuku asks, looking at him, eyes intense even as his voice begins to fail.
Tomura opens his eyes to stare back before letting his head fall backwards, “Yeah. Yeah, we can be done now, Izuku.”
The conversation pauses again before Tomura speaks, voice quieter, “I don’t get it Izuku,” he trails off, “The pain— the hurt, the loneliness— it made me angry, Izuku. It made you kind.”
Izuku glances back at him before returning to his million mile stare, “You wanted the world to hurt with you. I wanted to make sure no one else had to feel what I did.”
He continues: “Even so, we're still two sides of the same coin. In the end, we’re just kids, fighting battles for the ones who were supposed to keep us safe.”
In response, Tomura repeats, “I’m so tired.”
Izuku gets up, laboriously dragging himself over to the spot next to Tomura before dropping down next to him, leaning into him because it’s hard to keep his head up now. Everything is so heavy, so far away. Tomura must be feeling the same, because he barely reacts.
Izuku twists around, arm shaking as he places a hand on Tomura’s face. His touch is gentle, like Tomura is something fragile and breaking and Tomura meets Izuku’s eyes and thinks he’s probably right.
Izuku leans his forehead against Tenko’s and Tenko watches as tears slip out his eyes, “I’m sorry, Tenko. I’m so sorry.”
Tenko rasps out, “Not your fault.”
“No, Tenko. It isn’t. But you deserve to hear sorry for everyone who has failed you up until now. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to grow up like this and I’m so sorry you got so goddamn hurt that violence was the only way you could explain it. I’m sorry no one was there when you needed them and I’m sorry that you are so tired right now. I’m sorry it ended up this way. They should have done better, Tomura. You are worth better,” Izuku’s hand slips off his face, and his chest heaves from the exertion. Their foreheads are still pressed together but neither of them go to move.
Tenko sighs, leaning into Izuku. His next statement is quiet: “You did good, Izuku. You did good.”
Izuku cracks a barely there smile, whispering, “We could’ve been the best of friends in another world, you know.”
“Yeah—“ Tomura exhaled harshly, leaning back letting his head fall back against the concrete behind him, “Yeah, I think so.”
Izuku falls back to his side, eyes half-lidded and so tired, whispering, “I forgive you.”
“I don’t deserve it,” Tenko answers, just as quiet, eyes just as heavy.
“No, you don’t, not right now. But it's not about what you deserve.”
(and maybe, one can earn forgiveness after death too. )
And time slips away from them as their eyes drifting shut. They are left leaning against each other, as if sharing a secret.
“It is kinder to let me slip away,” Izuku had said.
“Let me sleep a little longer,” Tenko had echoed.
“You can rest now.” Death had answered.
And they let go, quiet and easy. Death came soft and gentle in a way the world had never been with them. It cradled them in its palms and whispered that they had given enough. The world could move on without them and they could finally, finally be kids again.