hero's shadow // mha

85) ready

Izuku holds a heavy journal with shaking hands.

It is rough around the edges: torn, cracked, and reeking of smoke. It has served him well for most of his life, but it is not his anymore.

A day ago, maybe, he would've considered it as one of the few things he truly owned. But he can't say that now. How can it be his when all of his bleeding words have been accessed by someone else and spilled to anyone who cared to listen?

He has been sliced open and gutted, and his insides have yet to be returned. Maybe they never will.

Izuku can't even claim to have a story that belongs solely to him. Everyone else knows it, so everything Izuku has ever experienced is a shared reality.

He can no longer pretend that it was something other than it was. He can no longer hide the memories at the back of his mind and kick them away when the days grow too long to bear.

Izuku is in the corner of a cold room in the nurse's wing, hidden away from anyone who walks in. With his back against the side of the bed and his face nearly pressed against the wall in front of him, he is taking up as little space as possible.

Aizawa must have carried him here, as Izuku doesn't remember this place.

His grip tightens on the journal. His body is screaming at him, as whatever medicine he was put on before has long since worn off, especially since he ripped out his IV accidentally when he woke in a panic.

He trembles, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He was changed into a thick hospital gown sometime during his bed rest, and normally Izuku would be a little upset by that, but now he doesn't give it any more than a second of thought.

The storm has ceased, and Izuku wonders when exactly it happened, for he can still feel the harsh winds howling in his bones.

He woke up just a few minutes ago, and he's alone. But he knows he won't be for long.

The journal burns a hole in his chest where he clutches it. He grits his teeth and opens it then, scanning the tainted pages. He sees sketches and ink blotches and scribbles and white fur and terror -filled paragraphs, and bitterness wells up within him.

He grabs a page and tears it. He lets it go and goes for another one, this time grabbing a handful. The terrible ripping noises continue to fill the air, and Izuku focuses on them as he continues to crumple and tear and throw. The pages flutter down like slow snow, littering the small area around him.

As he tears apart his beloved journal, he can see the remnants of hundreds of sketches from months ago. He spots a scribbled-out drawing of his mother, and he only tears with more vigor.

His breathing picks up, and his eyes burn. Izuku feels maimed from all these years of playing too hard at becoming something he is not. He just wants to be his mother's child, and no one else's. But All for One's lingering presence reminds him, again and again and again, why he will never be that. Why he never was.

Izuku clambers into bed and watches the door, counting the seconds until she comes home. He listens for her soft footsteps, muffled by thick socks and a fluffy carpet, and waits for an even softer smile.

She opens the door to his room, and Izuku lies as still as possible, pretending to be asleep. He does this every night without fail, and every time, his mother plays along.

Settling on the edge of the bed right beside him, she wipes away a speck of dirt and thumbs his cheek with a light touch. She whispers his name lovingly, and Izuku doesn't answer because he is supposed to be sleeping. It's how the game works.