Chapter Text
When it was all over and the cold linoleum pressed into Izuku’s bruised face, blessed cold relief against his skin, he liked to pretend that this time, maybe just this once, someone would come and save him. It felt silly. It felt childish and weak and broken, the idea so bright and lovely and laughable that some giddy, distant part of him would giggle, the sound more akin to a strained wheeze of breath than an expression of humor. “I am here,” he would murmur to no one in particular, then he would push himself up off the ground, wipe the blood from his face, and haltingly make his way to the kitchen in search of ice.
This time, however, he was having a bit of trouble with the standing part. He could feel his eyes drifting closed, every slow, unfocused blink leaving his vision blurrier, heavier, shrouded by unfathomable, but familiar gray. It wouldn’t be the first time Hisashi had gone too far. It wouldn’t be the last, though a small, desperate part of him dared to hope—perhaps out of optimism—or, on days where the muddled gray leaned a bit more towards black—pessimism.
Or maybe it was the opposite. Wouldn’t letting the shroud swallow him mean an end, at least? Wouldn’t an end to the beatings, the torment, mean that he was capable of reason? Wouldn’t any potential remorse on his part render years of pain inert? Would forgiveness make scars intangible?
Wouldn’t his indifference be even worse?
Indifference is what landed him here in the first place, he reasoned, trying to get his fingers to move—a hesitant, shivering twitch all he could manage. The emotional indifference of his father upon realizing his child was useless. The indifference of his mother, quiet and resigned as his father tried day after day to force a quirk where none existed—doing her best just to stay out of his way where once she might have protested or even fought. The indifference of his teachers when he started showing up to school with more bruises than he left with—despite his peer’s best attempts otherwise. Most of all, the indifference of his best friend—of Kacchan; the lack of fury even, the hollow, deafening absence of familiar anger. Quiet, brooding acceptance, a scoff perhaps if Izuku looked particularly worse for the wear. Silence instead of screams—clenched fists instead of crackling palms.
He would’ve welcomed hatred. Would’ve welcomed shouting. Anything but the dull ringing stillness left in its wake.
“Baby?” he heard his mother murmur softly from the doorway, a tentatively, painful question. He knew what it meant, her distance, hesitance. She wanted to know he was breathing. She was scared, but familiar with the fear. Assurance. He could manage that much. She deserved that much.
A small huff of breath escaped Izuku’s cracked lips and he forced himself to roll onto his side, reflexively curling in on himself as the breath caught in his lungs and sputtered into a damp cough. He winced, disgusted at the sound—the acknowledgment of his own pathetic fragility. She deserved better. And he could do better, he reasoned with himself as he struggled to pull himself upright. Next time—next time he could do better. Next time he would show her—show him that he could be better. That he was better. His mother had wasted so much time already, trying to help him, trying to save him—
—trying to save herself—
A hiss escaped Izuku’s teeth, the coppery taste of blood bitter on his tongue as he hauled himself up against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut as he was struck with dizzying inertia. His mother didn’t move to help him, only stood in the shadow of the door to his room, hands nervously twisting at the band of her wedding ring as she eyed him, gauging the damage his father had inflicted on him with a practiced gaze. She knew better than to help him outright, and he knew better than to let her if she tried, as much as he wished she would… He caught that thought and suffocated it, furious tears stinging the corners of his eyes. If he had the energy, he might’ve laughed at his own weakness. Kami, they were right about him. They all were. He wished they could just forget about him and move on, forget the disappointment, the pain of having to care for him, or in the very least having to pretend. He wished they could start over without him. Before him. Wish they could know happiness—because surely they must have, once. Surely they could again, if he was gone. If he had never existed in the first place.
And that was it really. An all-consuming wonder that crept in slowly and ate away at his thoughts as he offered his mother a weak smile, nodding his head at her, to which she pursed her lips and turned away, disappearing down the hall on silent feet. He staggered to the bathroom, splashing too-cold water across too-hot skin, soothing aches and bruises and washing away red. Porcelain tainted pink, fading back into white, leaving only a blank echo of the thought behind.
He shut off the faucet. Studied his hand as it trembled, fascinated by the memory of pain, of fear that lingered in his body even as he drifted outside of it. Wondered what it would take to erase that memory—that pain—and cease trembling. Slowly, he raised his head, hollow gaze meeting his own striking eyes in the reflection of the mirror. He was surprised by their brightness, the way exhaustion hadn’t yet dulled them as it had his senses. He couldn’t laugh like he normally did, could barely breathe, but he could manage a smile, he realized, if he focused, so he did. It was weak, the barest twitch of lips, so he forced it further.
“I am here,” he whispered to himself, letting the memory of another face flood his own. “I am here,” he repeated, smiling wider. “I am here!” he said, flinching at the volume of his own voice, glancing over his shoulder and listening intently, praying his mother hadn’t heard—or worse, his father. Breathless seconds passed before he worked up the courage to look back to the mirror, the smile having slipped from his face, blood running fresh as the warping of his expression tugged at the corners of his split lip.
“I am here,” he repeated, his voice falling flat. He shuffled away from the sink, crossing the hall to his room and hesitating outside the door.
He could hear his mother crying. Broken, stifled sobs that sent a horrible, wrenching pang of guilt through him. They were muffled behind the wall of his parent’s room, which meant she must be alone—safe, for now. Leaning against the wall, he focused on taking one step at a time, counting his breaths in an effort to keep them steady, just like his mom had shown him when he was younger and spent more time crying than he’d like to admit. He’d almost made it to the kitchen when he heard his father’s voice, a warm, even hum, too calm and careful to be anything but a facade. It came from the closed door of his parent’s room, casting his mother’s tears in a whole new light. He froze, trying to listen despite the ringing in his ears. His mother never cried in front of his father, not anymore. It was a lesson they’d both learned relatively quickly when he had returned from his work overseas, expecting a child with a powerful quirk and finding Izuku instead.
Something was wrong.
He turned on his heel, his legs shaking as he tried to move quietly.
“—try again,” came his father’s voice, gentle, thick with false understanding. “It’s not too late for either of us. We’re still young, it isn’t out of the question.”
“I-I can’t,” Inko replied, voice shaking. “We can’t Hisashi. I won't, I don't—I don’t want to. Please.”
“I’m sure Izuku would be thrilled,” Hisashi coaxed. “Can you imagine what a great big brother he’d be?”
Izuku froze, every inch of him suddenly blazing with dizzying panic as his father continued.
“You always wanted a big family. I remember how excited you were when we—“
“Hisashi,” Inko said, cutting him off, her voice shaking. “Please. Y-you know that’s not what this is about.”
There was a pause. “I don’t know what you mean,” his father said softly, and Izuku shivered at the familiar tone.
His mother only cried harder, not responding for several moments. He heard movement, muffled, then his mother’s voice, barely a whisper.
A murmured response, unintelligible, then the sound of a fist striking flesh, a cry, the sound of something falling.
Izuku was moving before he could even think, shoving his entire weight against the closed door, forcing his way inside.
All the while that thought echoed, that little reflection of wonder, of what could’ve been without him.
Something better, he thought, as he placed himself bodily between his father and his mother, pushing his father away from her with all his strength, standing protectively over her as she choked, blood pouring from her nose.
“Izuku!” she cried her voice distant in his ears, the world blurring as his father’s eyes locked with his.
He knew then, it was over. Knew before he felt the first punch, before he felt himself crumple, before he heard his mother’s screams, before he felt the first kick to already tender ribs, before he heard the crack and felt it reverberate within his chest as something gave within him.
He knew—before he knew what it was like to choke on his own blood while his mother screamed and cried above him—and felt only relief.
--
It was this same feeling of relief he clung to as he passed death by, drifting into something beyond. It was that same relief, and that same, distant wonder, that swirled within him, a gentle tide pool of blessed calm, as his eyes fluttered open at last to the pastel glow of a slow rising dawn above endless water, his ears registering the holiness of the silence that pressed upon him—cold sand resting beneath his cheek, soft and damp, the lull of quiet waves echoing in his ears.
A quiet that was quickly broken by someone clearing their throat, followed by the sensation of someone tapping his cheek.
“Young man?” a voice inquired hesitantly, a hand falling upon his unguarded shoulder.
Izuku flinched violently, shooting upright and scooting rapidly away, gasping and spitting sand as the world snapped into bright, textured focus; an overwhelming cacophony of sensations, the waves crashing and roaring, the scent of ocean, pungent and sharp and mingling with something more foul, the sand rough and clinging beneath him, his heart pounding wildly in his chest and most of all the sudden, almost alarming absence of pain, his body alive and awake and free of even the distant, dull ache of fading bruises he’d grown so accustomed to.
“Steady there,” the voice chuckled, but there was a touch of concern buried beneath the tone. “I am here, no reason to panic.”
Izuku panicked.
Crouched before him on the sand was a tall, skeletal man looking as though he were trying very hard to make himself look very small and unassuming and failing spectacularly. His eyes were dark pits slitted by electric blue, deep set within his gaunt face. He held out his hands in a placating gesture, but Izuku edged further away nonetheless, eyes darting about wildly, taking in his surroundings (familiar, yet foreign… had he been to this beach before.? There was so much trash…) before settling back once more on the man and jumping to the first logical conclusion that entered his head.
“Am I dead?” he blurted.
The man looked taken aback at this. “No?” he said, speaking the word as though it were a question before seeming to shake himself. “Though staying out all night on the beach in this cold weather is a sure way to get there. Do your parents know you’re out this early? Alone, I might add?”
Izuku stared at the man as though he’d grown a second head. Cold weather?
“It’s July,” he said bluntly, as if that were the most important thing to address. The man blinked at him, absently scratching his head.
“Er, no, it’s-it’s February, actually. Are you quite alright? Did you hit your head maybe?” The man moved towards Izuku, hand outstretched as if to examine him for wounds then and there.
Izuku barked out a laugh, stopping the man in his tracks.
“What, you can’t tell just by looking at me?” he asked, not meaning the words to come out as sharply as they did. The man looked puzzled, drawing back slightly, a certain wariness about him.
“No,” he said, then repeated a bit more carefully, “did you?”
Izuku opened his mouth to respond when thought occurred to him, the resurging realization that talking didn’t tug at the cut on his lip—that moving wasn’t painful and breathing felt easy—suddenly dawning on him. He raised a hand to his face, feeling at where the cut ought to be, hand roaming over his cheek, pressing and checking for bruises he knew had been there not five minutes ago.
Nothing.
“Healing quirk?” he murmured, then remembered the man was still there and startled. “N-no sir!” he said, straightening abruptly, waving his hands apologetically. “I’m fine, I’m-I’m great actually I—“ his eyes widened. Mom—she was crying, the door was closed, something was wrong—“I need to get home,” he said sharply, jumping to his feet, stumbling slightly as the world spun on it’s axis. Kami, why was he so dizzy?
He felt a hand steady him and flinched away instinctively before realizing it was just the man.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” the man said, worry creased across his thin face.
Izuku nodded rapidly, then paused, taking in the sight of the man and his skeletal structure, eying something that looked suspiciously like flecks of blood on his lips.
“Are you alright?” he echoed, equally concerned and unnerved. The man opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and merely nodded wordlessly instead.
“Okay,” Izuku replied, unconvinced and edging away slightly, looking for a speedy exit amongst the heaps of garbage. His brow furrowed in confusion when one didn’t immediately stand out to him. “Where are we?” he asked, trying to remember how he had got to the beach of all places. He hadn’t been in years, not since before his father had returned, that was for sure.
“Dagobah beach,” the man supplied helpfully, which didn’t really help at all actually, because the beach Izuku currently found himself on looked absolutely nothing like the one he remembered from his younger years.
He nodded nonetheless, stepping past the man and noticing for the first time how cold he was as a breeze cut through the air, chilling him through his thin t-shirt and sweats and carrying with it the pervading stench of garbage. He wrinkled his nose, glancing back at the man.
“February?” he asked, confused. The man looked equally confused.
“Fourth, yes. Do you need me to call someone for you, young man?”
Izuku shook his head slowly. “I’m okay,” he said, racking his brain for answers as he turned away. “Thank you!” he called to the man, and, seeing no other route away, began scaling a formidable pile of garbage.
“You’re welcome…?”
—
His first warning should’ve been the changes in his neighborhood. Small things; a shop with a different name, a missing corner store, a once pristine building now damaged and boarded up. There were cracks in the pavement he couldn’t recall counting as he hopped over them day after day, potholes littering the once smooth streets, trash piling in alleys and on street corners. It wasn’t an overwhelming difference, but it was an unnerving one considering none had been present 24 hours ago. But he must have hit his head, he reminded himself, just like the man had said. Hit his head (been hit in the head?) or else struck by some kind of quirk, because how else could he have ended up on that beach?
It should’ve been obvious, in retrospect. Too many oddities, inconsistencies in place, overlapping like waves upon a once clear beach.
When he arrived at his apartment complex, the building looked far more tired than he remembered. His family’s name was still present on the buzzer, albeit faded and overlaid with new text that already appeared to be peeling. He hesitated a moment at the sight, trying to remember why the name looked familiar (did he know an Akatani?) before shrugging it off and buzzing himself in, ducking past the gate and down the walkway. The elevator appeared to be out of order, which was a bit surprising but didn’t deter him as he opted for the stairs, leaning against the railing for support out of habit before remembering he didn’t need to and taking the steps two at a time.
The door to his apartment was unchanged, something his subconscious absorbed with no small amount of relief. He fished his keys out of his pocket, muttering under his breath then pausing to listen, wondering if his father was still in, if the door was shut and he could hear her crying, whisper-soft murmurs like poisoned honey coating the air with amber warnings danger dangerdangerdangerdanger—
The key fit the lock and turned with expected ease. He hadn’t woken up with shoes (much to his displeasure—the walk had not been a short one and the beach and streets weren’t particularly sanitary) so paused at the genkan only briefly before stepping past it. He heard faint movement from the kitchen, hesitated, unsure if it was his father, before deciding to chance calling out.
“Mom?”
There was a harsh clatter that had him startling, flinching back and angling himself towards the door, even as a part of him screamed to move, in case it was his mother and she had dropped something or injured himself. Something told him to wait, however, a tendril of unease in his gut he couldn’t quite put a name to.
And then he heard a baby begin to cry.
He froze, unsure at first if he was hearing correctly, mind whirling as he tried to justify the sound, pick apart every possible scenario that might explain it, yet none came to mind. The sound of movement arose again, fainter this time, almost deliberate—unobtrusive in a way he was well-versed in moving himself after years of practice. There was a soft vocal murmur, almost imperceptible, then a voice.
“Who’s there?”
Relief flooded him at the sound of his mother speaking, relief he couldn’t explain, seeing as he wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was he’d been afraid of. A smile cracked across his features as he continued down the hall, turning the corner to the kitchen.
“It’s just me mom!” he called reassuringly. “Sorry if I worried you, I really don’t know what happened. It was so crazy, you’ll never believe me,” he chuckled, embarrassed and slightly worried she’d be upset with him having been out so long without checking in. “I think I got hit by some kind of quirk? I swear I don’t remember leaving the house but I must’ve because I—“
He rounded the corner, stilling at the sight before him. His mother stood with her back to the stove, eyes wide with fear, a knife gripped tightly in the trembling grip of one hand, her other arm curled around an infant.
An infant with white curly hair streaked with green and bright, familiar red eyes.
“—woke up on the beach,” he finished, staring at the child; a perfect, unmistakable blend of both his parent’s features.
“Mom?” he whispered, unable to look away.
“H-how’d you get in here?” his mother asked, her voice shaking. “Who are you?”
His gaze snapped back to her, his brow wrinkling in confusion as he stepped towards her.
“I used my key,” he said slowly, taking another step forward. “Mom what’s—“
“Don’t come any closer!” she snapped, voice pitched high with fear, and he froze in his steps, for the first time taking in the sight of her. She looked…different. Her face a bit softer, lines of worry, age, and laughter a bit more predominant than normal. The shadows that plagued her eyes with bruises were nearly faded. She looked… less fragile. Healthy even.
Yet terrified.
“Okay,” he said softly, holding his hands placatingly. “I won’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She nodded, lowering her knife slightly as she took in the sight of him, a furrow growing deeper between her brow. The child on her hip continued to cry, and she rocked them absently, eyes fixed on his.
“How’d you get in?” she asked again, her voice a bit more firm.
Izuku gave her a confused look.
“W-with my key?” he repeated, not understanding. A frown tugged at her lips, something unnameable shining in her eyes.
“Did Hisashi send you?”
Izuku blinked at her, then shook his head slowly.
“No, I—it’s me, mom.”
Her expression didn’t change, but the knife did lower a bit. What caused Izuku’s heart to skip, however, was the flicker behind her eyes, guarded and sharp.
“Izuku?” he offered.
She didn’t react to the name at all, shifting her grip on the child.
She didn’t recognize him.
Another wave of that previous dizziness washed over him—a feeling of wrongness, of unfamiliarity yet at the same time powerful deja vu sweeping through his body and leaving him reeling.
He sat down hard on the ground, his legs suddenly feeling too weak to support him. He could feel his breath as it quickened, panic taking over as his mind went into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. A quirk, it had to be a quirk, think think, what was the last thing he could remember?
Red eyes locking with his. A fist crashing into his sternum. The ground tipping beneath him. A sharp pain in his chest. Again. Again. Again. Again until something gave—
something gave and he couldn’t breathe—
couldn’t breathe—
Can’t breathe—
“—breathe sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
A hand on his shoulder, small and soft and familiar, a comforting touch he had felt in a long time, not since before his father had returned. He gasped for air, body trying to reorient itself as he opened his eyes, not sure when he had closed them. His mother knelt in front of him, knife gone from her hand, though she still clutched the child close to her chest. His breath stuttered further at the sight of the infant, his father’s words to his mother before Izuku had burst in ringing in his ears.
“..try again…”
“can you imagine what a great big brother he’d be?”
“you always wanted a big family.”
His mother’s hand was wrapped around his bicep now, guiding him gently up and to his feet, supporting him when he stumbled as she led him to the kitchen table, helping him into a chair before pulling away, wringing her free hand nervously.
“I’m gonna call someone for you, okay? Stay right here, I’ll be right back, it’s gonna be okay.”
Izuku felt himself nod, barely registering it when she disappeared from his side. He slumped forward, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging absently squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out the memory, force it aside and remember what had happened after, because there had to be something. Something he was missing—a concussion? Did he have a concussion? Had his father accidentally hit him so hard he’d damaged Izuku’s skull? His brain? Was he even awake right now? What if he was unconscious? What if this was a dream? Was he in a coma? Was he dying in a hospital somewhere, tubes and wires snaking out of his body, keeping him breathing? And if they were, why were they doing such a bad job of it? Why couldn’t he breathe? Why couldn’t he—
Just focus and breathe.
Izuku sucked in a sharp breath of air, the growing tightness coiled around his chest giving way suddenly as he gasped, lungs spasming, gulping in greedy mouthfuls of oxygen as his head spun. Slowly, the world came back into focus. He was hunched over the table, knees curled protectively towards his chest, hands fisted painfully in his hair. Grimacing, he released his grip, scrubbing his hands over his face, drying involuntary tears before his father could see them.
He could hear his mother’s voice faintly in the other room, her tone hushed and anxious.
“—just appeared,” a pause, ”no, I don’t know. He said he had a key. I might’ve, maybe I left the door unlocked? But-but he seems very confused a-and scared.” Pause. “I don’t know… No, I haven't seen him around before.” A longer pause. “No! Nothing like that, I don’t think… he-he seems sweet. I think—scared? I don’t think he knows where he is.” Silence, the sound of a child crying, quickly hushed— “No. No, I don't think he’s injured. Well, that I can tell he—he really seems confused can you please—no I don’t know what to do. Can you send someone?”
Izuku’s eye’s drifted vacantly around the room, taking in all the subtle changes, appliances moved, some gone, others replaced with ones he no longer recognized. Then his eyes landed on the calendar, and his breath once again caught in his throat.
February, just like the man had said. But—but it was July. He knew it was July, because his birthday was in a few weeks and he’d been dreading it, not knowing what was going to happen, wishing and hoping that something and nothing would simultaneously. So then—had he been hit by a quirk? A quirk that somehow made him lose his memories? Or sent him back in time? That had to be it, at least, it would explain why his mother didn’t remember him, why everything looked so different. But when? How? Why? And why couldn’t he remember? How long ago had he been sent back? The child his mother was holding couldn’t be him, could it? It didn’t look like him, but maybe he looked different when he was really little? Or maybe he had a secret older sibling his mother had kept hidden from him? But why? And how? How old would he be if it was him? And how old would this sibling be now if it wasn’t? Who would use such a powerful time travel quirk so recklessly? And why on him of all people? It had to be an accident, a mistake. But if this was real—and was it real? Or was he dreaming? Was he dead? The man from the beach had said he wasn’t dead, but he could’ve been lying. Maybe he hadn’t even been real. Maybe Izuku had made him up. Maybe all of this was made up. But if it wasn’t made up—if it wasn’t and he was back in time—how would he convince anyone of who he was? How would he go home? Could he go home?
Did he even want to?
Then he noticed the year listed on the calendar, and his mind screeched to a halt.
Not the past.
The future.
Three years in the future, to be precise.
Footsteps approached hesitantly from the living room. His eyes didn’t move from the calendar. In the corner of his vision, he saw his mother staring at him, biting her lip nervously, before pulling out a chair and sitting across from him, still holding the infant in her arms, though they had quieted.
“I called the po—someone who is going to send help for you, okay?” she said. Izuku didn’t respond. Minutes ticked by in silence, blurred with the waves of anxious tension Inko was giving off as he continued to stare seemingly into space. Finally, he swallowed, his throat feeling impossibly dry, voice hoarse.
“Is that the correct date?” he whispered, eyes flicking to his mother’s face. She startled at the sound of his voice, then turned her head sharply to look at the calendar, before looking back at him and nodding worriedly.
“Yes sweetheart, February 17th.”
Izuku nodded slowly. “And the year?”
She wrinkled her brow, nodding. “2148,” she confirmed.
48, not 45. He wasn’t imagining it.
Izuku’s gaze dropped to the table.
“You said a name earlier—H-Hisashi. That’s—is that your husband?”
Inko didn’t respond at first, Izuku too afraid to look at her and see what kind of face she might be making.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “He—he was.”
Izuku’s head snapped up at this, something a little painful and a little hopeful stirring up within him, even as the hope was bitter.
“You’re not together? Or—or, he’s dead?”
His mother flinched at the last question, but shook her head. “No he’s—he's been missing. For almost two years now.”
Izuku stared at her, digesting that information, not quite sure if he felt relieved or uneasy or upset or something else entirely. His eyes dropped to the child. His mother followed his gaze, a faint smile twitching at her lips.
“This is Mikumo. We were—we were going to start a family, before—before he disappeared. They never met, though.” She offered him a weak, sad sort of laugh. “They sure do look alike, though. I imagine their quirks will be similar too.”
Something flared painfully in Izuku’s chest at the words, something sharp that quickly dulled to an ache and lingered, leaving him feeling hollow and nauseous.
“Oh,” he said.
Something better, a dull part of him realized. The perfect child with the perfect mother and the perfect quirk ahead of him and no father to destroy that perfection, though his mother’s wistful expression said she might wish it were otherwise. The unspoken longing for a man that had beat her, a man that had destroyed her left a sick feeling in Izuku’s stomach. Especially coupled with her lack of recognition of Izuku, the child she had claimed to love and yet did nothing did everything to protect.
And then Izuku remembered his wish. The little voice in him that had wondered how things might’ve been if only he had never existed. And he realized.
A better son. A better family. A better life.
Without him.
“Can I use the bathroom?” he asked weakly.
His mother seemed startled at the sudden request, but nodded, moving to stand.
“I can show you whe—“
“It’s okay,” he said, waving her off with a slight smile. “It’s okay, I remember.” He moved before she could protest, walking the familiar route in a brief blur before all at once the bathroom door was closing behind him and his back was up against it as he slid unceremoniously to the floor, sobs shaking his entire body as he laid down and cried, pressing his cheek against the familiar cold linoleum and squeezing his eyes shut, wishing, praying that he would go back, that he would wake up and his mother would be in the doorway, checking on him, making sure he was still breathing. Never mind his father, never mind his quirklessness and careless teachers and cruel peers and even crueler friends, ‘anything, just let me go back…’
He opened his eyes, gasping, trying desperately to focus, to think. He couldn’t just lay here. He had to do something, had to prove to his mother that he had existed that she—
—wasn’t better off without him.
And wasn’t she?
Wouldn’t she be happier, without having to pretend anymore? Without having the burden of raising two children, one whom she didn’t even remember, all on her own? Without the burden of raising a quirkless son?
Izuku’s eye’s widened and he sat up faster than he could think, another wave of dizziness flaring with the sudden movement.
Quirkless.
He wasn’t quirkless.
Was he?
What exactly happened, when he lost consciousness? Had he been sent to the future? But why so far? If he had somehow only rewritten the world without him in it, then why wouldn’t he wake up in the exact moment he’d vanished from? Why three years later? And if he had never existed in this altered world, then why did he still have the keys to his apartment? It didn’t line up.
Unless he had existed, and somehow, his quirk had made everyone forget, though that still didn’t explain the time jump.
But there was a way to prove he had been real at one point.
Maybe.
If it was still there.
Izuku rose shakily to his feet, carefully easing the bathroom door open a crack and peering out. He didn’t see his mother in the immediate vicinity, so with practiced quiet, he slipped through the gap and closed the door gently behind him. Silently, he crept his way down the hall, halting in front of the door that led to what had been his room. He paused, listened, exhaled, then opened the door and squeezed inside, closing it quickly without so much as a click.
The space was not at all as he remembered it, which didn’t bode well for his current working theory—they could’ve changed it easily enough. Though how they might’ve explained a room full of things belonging to a child and no child to go with them, he didn’t know. It appeared to be a nursery now, his desk and bed cleared and replaced by a dresser and crib. The walls were their same pale blue, however, and had he not been searching with baited breath for any hint of familiarity, he might have missed it: the sun-faded shapes against the now empty wallpaper, arranged just as his old posters had been. He went to the closet, sliding open the wood panel and kneeling near the ground, searching for the childish scrawl he’d left in colorful marker there years ago—
I AM HERE! The familiar words combined with a poorly drawn rendition of his favorite hero.
Heart pounding, he stood and closed the door, rising to his feet and turning, searching for the grate of the air vent—the final and more definitive test. It was covered by the dresser, just as Izuku had once covered it with his desk. He crossed the room and, as quietly as he could, moved the dresser out of the way. Unfortunately, this act wasn’t quite as silent as he would’ve hoped. He froze, listening, panic lancing through him when he heard the sound of footsteps, only for the steps to be interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing.
The steps halted, seeming to hesitate, before starting up again, fading this time as they went back the way they had come.
He breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to the vent. There wasn’t much time, but he only needed a few seconds. With practiced ease, he slid a nail beneath the edge of the vent and tugged, loosening it, before drawing it forward.
And there, resting just where he’d left it, hidden from his father’s wrath, was his journal: Hero Analysis For the Future, volume 12.
He snatched the composition book up, cradling it to his chest, forcing back tears of relief at the concrete confirmation of his own existence.
The sound of unfamiliar voices drifting down the hall snapped him out of his revere. His eyes darted to the door, a part of him hesitating, realizing now that he had proof. Not much, but enough to make people at least consider taking him seriously. If the notebook still existed, if the drawing did and the posters once had, then chances were somewhere out there there were records of his life filed away as well. If he could just get someone to look, they would realize he was telling the truth, even if they didn’t remember him.
He glanced down at the notebook in his hand, traced his fingers over the warped and burned edges—over the damage that Kacchan had done to it, that his peers had done, that his father had done before he had hidden it away.
A different sort of wonder crept up on him then, accompanied by the one that had got him into this mess in the first place.
Wouldn’t they be better off, without him?
Wouldn’t he be better off, without them?
—
By the time Inko had finished explaining the situation to the officer the police had sent over—a nice man named Sansa—and walked him to where the boy had presumably gone, the child had managed to vanish. She knocked hesitantly on the bathroom door she had seen him enter, throwing an apologetic smile over her shoulder as Mikumo began to cry at the loud sound, then knocked again when the boy didn’t answer. Sansa moved past her, gesturing for her to move back, before opening the door, shielding her from view. She tried to peer over his shoulder, but from what little she could see of the room, there was no sign of the green haired boy anywhere.
Then she heard a scraping sound coming from the direction of Mikumo’s room, loud and unexpected, causing her to jump and Mikumo to wail even louder. Sansa turned on his heel, eyes darting around the hall.
“Is anyone else home, ma’am?”
Inko shook her head, worriedly chewing her lip as she tried to calm Mikumo’s cries. Sansa noddedly wordlessly, then approached the closed door from which the sound had come, opening it slowly.
He stood in the door frame a moment, staring into the room, then turned back to face her.
“Window’s open,” he explained, entering the room cautiously. Inko followed several paces behind, worry increasing tenfold. The boy had seemed so lost, so frightened and upset. She hated to think he was alone and maybe injured—if the dazed look in his eyes was anything to go off of—almost as much as she hated the idea of a strange person showing up in her home unannounced, child or not. Especially with how run down the neighborhood had become in the last few years. Inko came to stand in the doorway, watching as Sansa leaned out the open window, searching for any signs of the intruder, before frowning and easing the glass pane shut, making sure to latch it.
“I don’t see any sign of him, but I think it’s safe to assume he’s no longer in your residence. Just in case, I’ll look around a bit more, make sure he isn’t hiding anywhere.”
She offered the man a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said softly, glancing about the room and noting the dresser was slightly out of place, but apart from that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “That’d definitely make me feel better at least,” she added, brushing Mikumo’s hair out of the way and planting a relieved kiss on his head. “It was just so startling to see him standing there all of a sudden, I mean I heard him first but the way he was acting, like he knew me like he knew this place, it-it was weird. A little scary.” She laughed humorlessly. “A lot scary. But… I felt bad for him. I-I hope he’s okay.”
Sansa smiled at her, his expression soft and reassuring. “If I don’t find him here, I’ll see if I can get officers in the area to keep a lookout for him. In the meantime you said he told you he used a key to get in?”
Inko nodded. Sansa nodded back thoughtfully before turning to search the rest of the room.
“You should change your locks.”