To Love, To Lose, To Leave

Chapter Eight

Izuku loves his mom.

Really, he does. His dad was never around, so she was the sole present parent at home, taking care of Izuku and making sure he was well fed and taken care of, as well as indulging him in playing hero games as a kid and sternly telling him to be home before sundown when he'd go out to play with Kacchan and the other kids in the neighborhood.

She isn't perfect, but then again, no parent is perfect. She did her best, and Izuku appreciated it more than anything else.

It's why he was always sure to try not to make her worry growing up. The way that he went about it did the complete opposite, though. After having a couple of family therapy sessions, the both of them have gotten much better about being honest about how they're really doing.

As he's running for dear life to the kitchen with an armful of dishes and utensils, face a bright, hot red, he pointedly reminds himself that part of the whole bonding with your mom thing also involves her teasing you about your love life.

"I swear, she's gonna be the end of me one day," he murmurs, gently setting down the dinnerware into the sink, careful as they clink and clatter against each other.

Izuku turns on the sink water before grabbing the sponge from its little platter on the counter, squirting a couple pumps of dish soap into it. He spreads the soap across the yellow rectangle with his finger, then picks up the closest plate to him and starts to scrub, softly humming a slow tune.

Though some people tend to dislike menial chores like these, Izuku finds solace in them; a stable, peaceful comfort. It's something he's seen countless times before, and that he'll see countless times again. Nothing changes in the steps taken, and the end result is always the same.

Scrub, wash, rinse, place on rack, rinse and repeat.

Izuku has full and complete control over the task, and he likes it that way. It's great for when Izuku needs to ground his thoughts. No need to think too hard—just scrub and rinse and put on the drying rack.

I wonder where we should go on our next date, Izuku muses, wrapping the sponge around a pair of the chopsticks and scrubbing it in an upwards motion. Maybe we could go to the one restaurant from our fourth date, the one by the river with the renovated outdoor deck. It's technically Kacchan's turn to set up the date, so maybe he's got another place in mind—

Pink.

Izuku blinks twice.

Huh?

The water coming out of the faucet spout seems to be...stained, a faint pink? Izuku blinks twice again, and the pink seems to only darken, going from pale and faint to a dark, vibrant red.

"What the—"

A sharp, stabbing pain sinks into Izuku's skin, like a thousand little needles, all searing hot and seeming to split every one of his nerves into two. He opens his mouth, and the pain only grows hotter, like boiling lava hissing against his skin, eating straight through it, down to the muscle, it—his skin is melting, Izuku is sure of it, he's melting, melting, melting—

It hurts. It hurts. Oh my God, it hurts so fucking bad.

Izuku hears a thump sound, suddenly staring up at the ceiling, eyes filling with a wet, blobby crimson.

It burns it burns it burns, make it stop, please, someone, anyone, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—

"Izuku!"

That voice...I know that voice.

There's a sensation of a pressing force around him, shifting him—it both soothes the pain and makes Izuku even more aware of it.