Chapter Text
If Izuku was four when the reality of the equality and fairness of the world became clear, then he was twelve when he came face to face with his own mortality.
It had been dark, but only because Izuku’s eyes were screwed closed. He was thrashing, desperate to escape the airless limbo he had been forced into. The only things that tethered him to reality were the cold of his hands and knees on stone and the burning hot hand clamped to the back of his neck. Izuku’s chin scraped what was probably the edge of the pool as he was abruptly lifted. He gasped for air, water tracing into his mouth in rivets. Precious, precious oxygen filled his lungs for mere seconds before he was sent back in. A silent scream ripped from his lips unbidden, making bubbles that trickled violently past his jaw to the surface.
There was no real rhythm to when he went under and when he came up. The only consistency was that he was given bare moments to breath before his head was dunked back into the lukewarm, dirty water that filled the stone koi pond. Occasionally, laughter would reach Izuku’s ears, and when he heard it he would push his hands fiercely against the edge of the pond, desperate to escape. It proved fruitless every time.
It was hard to stay awake, but Izuku feared being unconscious around these people. Izuku had never been driven to passing out, and he was more afraid of that than he was of drowning. The boys who had cornered him were upperclassmen, people who Izuku had never met. He had no precedent for how they would treat his body, and Izuku was fighting for every scrap of consciousness he had.
Izuku shouldn’t have screamed. He should have saved his oxygen down to the last drop, should have held it deep deep within until the final second. Water gushed into his mouth after he had instinctually inhaled, making his body seize and try to cough it out even still submerged. Willing strength to his arms, Izuku began his thrashing once again, panicked.
The hand on his neck tightened, forcing him in deeper. Izuku’s arms buckled and failed, his shoulders careening forward to drench themselves. Izuku began to kick his feet, frantic. If he did not get air soon, he would find out what his upperclassmen did with unconscious quirkless bodies.
Forget unconscious, Izuku is going to drown at this point. His mind had started being hazy minutes ago; only sheer stubbornness kept his mind functioning.
I’m going to die. The simple clarity and certainty of the thought made Izuku still for a moment. They're going to kill me. I’m going to die .
It felt frighteningly true at that moment. It would be terribly easy for Izuku to let his mind go, for Izuku’s body to submit. Izuku was going to die without having done anything. Izuku was going to die as just another quirkless youth statistic, and no one but his mother will mourn him. Izuku was going to die as another number in the percentage of quirkless adolescents who never reached adulthood.
Izuku could have thoughts of anything else at that point. He could have thought about his life, of All Might and Kacchan and his mother all rolled up into one mediocre hand of cards. Izuku could have thought about the errand his mother had asked him to run on his way back from school. Izuku even could have thought about being a hero and persevering.
I don’t want to die, is what came instead. The words cycled viciously and starkly. I don’t want to die . I don’t want to die.
Sliding upward to clench cruelly around strands of his hair, the hand holding him under yanked him upward. Izuku spluttered and hacked once he surfaced, torso curling as his body expelled water.
Words were spoken, but the world was syrupy around Izuku as he captured breath after breath, trying to clear his head.
I don’t want to die.
Izuku let out an aborted sob, heaving around his tears. He shook his head vigorously, pushing away from the koi pond with all his strength and clawing at the hand that held him.
I don’t want to die.
A fist wrapped in blue crashed into the concrete near Izuku’s head, forcing the word into bleak clarity. The other boy that had been contentedly watching from the side smiled sadistically down at him. Spiderweb cracks fissured almost delicately down the stone side of the pond wall, a large chunk of the stone falling out of the wall after it. Water gushed out from the gap and cracks, making the person holding Izuku let out a disgusted sigh.
“Damn it, Kiba. Now the water’s too low.”
Izuku was hurled to the floor. Kiba snickered, unrepentant.
“My bad, Hebi.”
Hebi idly kicked Izuku in the gut, not taking his eyes off his friend. Izuku sobs again.
I don’t want to die.
Izuku was out of the water, he was out. But he could still die. The back of his head was bleeding sluggishly, and his lungs were burning. They could smash his head into the pavement— especially with Kiba’s quirk. Izuku’s skull would fold like tissue paper under one of those bubble wrapped punches.
I don’t want to die.
Hebi looked to have a mutant type quirk, most likely that of a snake. Maybe he had venom brimming in those sharp incisors in his mouth. Maybe all it would take was one bite for Izuku to be no more.
I don’t want to die.
“Well the water thing is a bust. We could just kick the shit out of—”
Izuku’s brain cut out the conversation. The world was spinning— from lack of oxygen or pure panic, Izuku couldn’t tell— and the only thing in focus was the chunk of stone Kiba had knocked free. It was easily bigger than one of Izuku’s fists, but no bigger than his skull. It was nowhere near round, with one side being flat and the other a vague point. Weakly, Izuku pushed up onto one elbow. A foot slammed onto his shoulder, knocking him back to the ground with a yelp. Either boy might have said more words, but Izuku still couldn’t hear.
I don’t want to die.
Izuku lay prone on his side, focused sharpening solely on the stone. Carefully, slowly, his fingers arched out for it. Predictably, a heel came down on his fingers, grinding down in circular motions. Izuku didn’t think, just pushed.
Hebi’s foot flew up, if only for the shock factor of Izuku’s sudden force. Izuku didn’t scramble back as Kiba was waiting behind him, but instead flew forward, his rock clenched tightly in hand, to sprawl out over Hebi.
Hebi was even more wiry than Izuku, and his quirk gave his limbs extra strength, most likely due to an endorphin rush. Izuku planted himself on Hebi’s chest, knees firmly planted on the ground.
I don’t want to die.
Heaving the rock over his right shoulder, Izuku cracks it down on Hebi’s chin. The rock hits and scraps Izuku’s own knuckles while it clobbers the bottom portion of Hebi’s entire face. It’s unwieldy, hefty, and it knocks Hebi straight unconscious.
Hands clamped down on his shoulders, and Izuku is thrown into the concrete wall of the koi pond. He lets out a startled cry, his head ricocheting off and his teeth clattering.
Izuku’s mind felt fuzzy. Nothing was really clear around him, but that could have been the product of the blood streaking into his eyes. Kiba was yelling, standing over Izuku and shaking him by his damp gakuran collar. Kiba’s form was blurry and his words were incomprehensible, but Izuku saw the blue flash right before a hammer pounded into his gut.
Spit globbed out of Izuku’s mouth, then another fist drove bile from his stomach.
I don’t want to die.
Izuku kicked out his legs, hooking a foot around the stone, only to gag as Kiba hit his throat next. Blood spewed from his mouth at the next hit, and Izuku could feel his ribs cracking. His hand scrabbled to get a good hold on the stone, before he violently swept it upward to collide directly with Kiba’s temple. Izuku hit him three more times in quick succession, forcing Kiba to stumble away from him.
Izuku leaned his knees on each other, dazed and desperate, and wobbled up. Kiba was growling something, but Izuku hurled the stone at his face. Izuku spat out blood before pushing forward to collapse onto Kiba the same way he had done Hebi.
I don’t want to die.
Izuku had never punched a person in his life. Sure, he had made fists at Kacchan here and there, but that had never escalated to anything other than Izuku himself getting hit. If it weren’t for All Might, Izuku wouldn’t even know how to make a fist. It was with an image of All Might’s victory pose frozen in his mind that Izuku tucked his thumb in careful, perpendicular alignment with his fingers and pulled it upward. Izuku’s fist looked pathetically small, terribly weak, but it cracked down on Kiba’s nose with all the force it possessed.
It hurt. Izuku’s knuckles throbbed and skin split to allow blood to seep through the cracks. It burned in a terrible way, and it was almost worse than getting punched because Izuku had done that to himself . Izuku had caused himself that pain. Then Kiba’s nose crumpled beneath his knuckles and suddenly Izuku could somewhat understand why people hit others.
His head was stuffed with cotton, blood was trickling from his mouth, head, nostrils, and hands, his stomach was bruised to hell and back, and Izuku still couldn’t inhale enough air through his tears. But he was alive. Izuku hadn’t perished in a dinky koi pond, and that was what his mind was fixated on. So he brought down his left fist, then his right, and on and on and on.
Kiba shouted and bucked under him, but Izuku held fast and hit harder. Once the ache in his knuckles was too much to ignore, he clasped his hands together and slammed them onto Kiba’s face. Izuku didn’t know how long he spent atop him, but he did know that he didn’t stop even when Kiba ceased to struggle.
(For the briefest, smallest of moments, Izuku’s eyes had met Kiba’s. They were wide and a little teary, but they were looking at him . At Izuku. Not at the blackboard over his shoulder, not at the person just to the right of him, he was looking at Izuku. And he was afraid. Afraid of Izuku. )
Izuku stopped when his body gave out and tipped to the side, jarring his bruised torso. Gasping and heaving, Izuku rolled to his knees and stumbled to his feet. Hebi’s body was gone, but Izuku was too tired to worry about it. His feet were heavy, dragging along the ground as though there were weights attached to them.
The trek home was a black spot in Izuku’s memory, but the few snatches he could remember were of his mother and his bed and the final, beautiful realization that he was alive.
Izuku didn’t go to school the next day. He laid stationary in bed for hours, bandages he doesn’t remember applying coating his body. His mother was home at first, having left for her job at noon. Izuku stared at his ceiling as the sun passed overhead, numb and shaking.
It was sickening, the almost joy Izuku had taken in beating those two upperclassmen, but Izuku couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions. If anything, he felt guilty about not being guilty.
Vaguely, Izuku understood that his actions were not that of a hero. All Might would never beat an opponent who was already down. All Might would never beat another person with a rock.
Except… All Might was a hero. Maybe he wasn’t always, but All Might was the epitome of strength in today’s society. All Might wouldn’t have two middle schoolers drowning him in a school pond for being quirkless.
And… if Izuku had stayed righteous… had stayed heroic… would he be alive right now? If he had given in, had refused to reach for that stone, would Izuku be breathing clean, beautiful air through his mouth? Would Izuku’s nose be crooked and ribs bruised, but the pain dulled because he had won?
Izuku’s fist clench. He had won. Defenseless Izuku, Useless Deku, had won . Maybe not against anyone with substantial social standing or great strength, but Izuku had beaten not one but two people at their own sick game.
Dazedly, Izuku couldn’t help but understand Kacchan more. If victory felt this wonderful, even with his body aching , Izuku never wanted to stop winning. He wondered if Kacchan had ever felt what Izuku had, that tiny, fleeting moment where his death crystallized in his brain and everything was just survive, survive, survive, survive. Where everything around you trickled like molasses and all you can see is the way out. The way to live another day, take another breath.
Or not. Aware or not, Kacchan is an apex predator in his own right. Even if anyone was brave enough to put him in the same kind of situation Izuku had been in, Kacchan would likely be unfazed and come out laughing.
Forehead wrinkling, Izuku opened his mouth, inhaling deeply. He was going to attempt a laugh, make his voice booming and loud the way Kacchan or All Might did, but all that came out was a series of throat burning coughs.
Leaning over to curl into himself after he finally finished, Izuku let out a long sigh.
Maybe next time Izuku would laugh.
No. No , Izuku told himself. There won’t be a next time.
Rolling over to nap once more, Izuku tried not to think about how hollow that promise sounded.
No one said anything when Izuku came back to school, which was the status quo. Izuku doubts Hebi or Kiba told the truth about what happened. It would be embarrassing at best to lose to him, social suicide at worst.
Nothing changes. Head down, shoulders up, voice silent. With the rush of victory draining from his veins, Izuku is once again reminded of what it is like to be a fly on the wall. Something so small and insignificant that no one would hear him even if he screamed.
For days, Izuku is astounded by the draw of his breath. With every contraction of his lungs, his heart would beat. Every rise and fall of his chest thumped in staccato with his brain. Ignoring the agony, Izuku had once run just to start breathing faster. He ran and ran and ran until he collapsed, then placed a hand over his chest as he panted, listening to the pound of his heart.
Alive. It whispered. Alive. Alive, alive, alive, alive.
Izuku had known that he lived, but it was hard to transfer the concept of his own existence into clear fact when only two people out of the hundreds he sees in a day consistently acknowledge him. One being his mother and the other so convoluted a thought that Izuku bungled all of it together, shoved it in a drawer, and called it Kacchan.
Like all good things though, this one faded, leaving Izuku twitchy and itching. Longing. As for what he was longing for, Izuku had not the slightest clue.
(Lie. Izuku had an inkling, and trace of what he wanted. It haunted his sleep, paused his hand over his notes, turned the food in his mouth to ash. Izuku could know what he yearned for, but stopped himself, too afraid of the answer.)
That didn’t stop Izuku from searching for it. Subconsciously, Izuku knew that staying in one place for too long made him an easy target. Making a habit of any sequence of actions other than leaving immediately made him easy to find if anyone came looking. That did not stop him from doing both of those things.
The thing about people hating you was that you could always tell the difference between passive antipathy and burning loathing. You get into the habit of categorizing people, putting them in little lists based on how likely they are to lunge for you. At least, that’s how it is for Izuku.
Coincidentally, two of the handful of people who would have next to zero moral qualms about murdering Izuku where he stood were friends with each other. Both were people with useful to moderately powerful quirks and parents with better paying jobs.
Because water had apparently entered his skull and sloshed around his brain, Izuku made it a habit to walk by their lunch table and the place in the commons that they hung out. It made his heart lodge in his throat and his hands shake.
Alive, alive, alive, alive, Izuku’s heart pounded.
They did not notice him at first; Izuku was good at hiding in plain sight that way. Eventually, one jutted her chin to point him out to the other.
They were unlikely to attack during school. Even Aldera could not spin Izuku getting beaten to a pulp by two people in broad daylight in a way that would leave their records spotless. Izuku watched them with ferocity; watched their dynamic, obsessed over their personalities and quirks. He wrote pages and pages of notes on them every night.
Did Izuku know what he was doing? No. He was too far gone in it to let himself realize. He was too busy rationalizing every word he jolted down in his notebook about them. He was too busy watching hero fight after hero fight, memorizing the moves instead of the strategies. He was way, way too busy to puzzle over his own intentions.
Tanaka Akari, second year. Her quirk was summoning a ball of light in her palm. Easily a way to blind someone, but not very useful for anything else. Very few words came from her mouth, but her eyes spoke of a placid kind of contempt for others who were not Nakamura.
Nakamura Daichi, second year. His quirk was called Hypnosis. Once skin on skin contact is initiated, Nakumura can make a person lose all their senses and muscular strength. He seemed to have a time and usage limit, and both looked easy to bypass. He was a bootleg Kacchan in Izuku’s opinion. All the arrogance and ego, nothing to back it up.
Both of them hated Izuku. It made his blood pump in a frenzied rhythm.
They did corner him eventually, not quite two weeks later. Drug him back behind the school to do whatever it is that they felt was appropriate. But Izuku was ready.
He used Nakumura’s quirk against Tanaka, using up his power for the next couple minutes, then dashed his skull against the wall.
The thrill, the clarity had come within a second of being snatched from his normal route home. Izuku felt almost godly . It had been a physical effort, but it had been more than worth it. Giggling, Izuku stumbled backward to slide his back down the wall.
He had won again. Two normal people, two worthwhile humans, and Izuku had decimated them. Giggles morphed to raucous laughter.
His heart beat a symphony along with his lungs.
Alive.
Izuku was alive.
And he’d do anything to continue feeling that way.