Chapter Text
From tomorrow onward, he's supposed to be dead.
It’s a strange thing, he thinks, to turn your own life into a countdown—should he call himself an executioner? It's not like Izuku decided this with hatred in his heart, it just seemed like the right thing to do.
Some people might call suicide a heinous act, committed by those only in the deepest pits of despair, but they've never been more wrong—because Izuku has never quite felt so… settled as he has knowing there's a 24-hour timer placed on his life.
It's not really a random date either, he made sure to plan accordingly so as to not ruin any upcoming events for the people he cares about—birthdays, holidays, and the like were crossed off from the start. He doesn't really know whether he will be missed for long or not, but he hopes it won't be an extended amount of time; he's already ruined quite a few memories, and it won't be good to sour any more of them. There's one thing to remember—sooner or later, memory of him will fade from this world.
The gym smells faintly of sweat as he stretches his legs, an old song and dance at this point ever since he perfected his routine several months ago, thought up in a stroke of genius to support his in all the right ways in order to use One For All with the highest efficiency available.
There's one of his classmates' murmurs breaking through the fuzz in his brain, providing comfortable background noise as he focuses on the exercise, it's always more easy to commit to the bit once there's somebody's voice in his ears—a sentiment not shared by many, maybe, but for Izuku, it's the golden rule for a successful workout.
He can see Ashido encouraging Kaminari to try one of her dance moves as a way to train his flexibility, but the boy seems to inch further away with each enthusiastic word spoken in his direction. Kacchan is yelling at Kirishima because of something, he's not quite sure of what, actually, they're too far away for him to make out the proper words. The loud yelling—as incomprehensible as it it, doesn't even make him nervous anymore, because Kacchan's voice isn't filled with sharp barbs meant to deliver as much damage as possible—instead taking on a more exasperated note—sharp like the smell of petrichor the night after a storm hits.
If there's one thing he's glad he's over, it's the fact that Katsuki has grown out of his bouts of uncontrollable anger and hate; he still gets irritated far too easily, but it's the small steps that count, and Rome wasn't built in a day. He, unfortunately, couldn't get the habit of flinching uncontrollably every time that unexpected loud noise reaches his ears, or when the heat of an explosion singes near his skin—it's far too ingrained into him to just disappear completely, even though Kacchan and he have long since made up. Sometimes, though, some things become stitched into you so tightly that they survive every attempt to pull them free.
And, maybe, to fight against his earlier point, he's made that impact on other people, too. More positive than Kacchan had on him, though, he wishes. Maybe his name became muscle memory by now, and his friends' tongues will remember the shape that it formed as it was spoken for far longer than they will remember the shape of his eyes or the bridge of his nose.
Maybe it's just wishful thinking in the end, but perhaps just as he had long ago memorized the smell of Uraraka's perfume—peach blossom with vanilla, or Iida's choppy hand gestures every time he lectured someone, or even the way Todoroki tilted his head every time a new conspiracy theory formed in his mind, a part of him had been memorized and categorized as something that's simply Izuku.
Perhaps he'll be remembered by the shirt that Uraraka had once borrowed from him and never quite managed to give back, the one that he'd worn during a particularly cold winter night because he wanted to have a few extra layers to his clothing so as to not freeze, but given to her once he realized that she forgot to dress for the weather and had been shivering for the past several minutes. Or by his spare notebook that he handed Todoroki when he realized that he had forgotten to get extra from his house and complained about how he had to write on the edges of his filled-in notebook due to lack of space. Or— a lot of things, actually.
That is to say, he can't help wishing to be remembered, even if he also wishes to be forgotten.
Maybe it's just the wistfulness speaking.
There's just so much to live for, so much to see and to feel and to taste. But the problem is, there's so much for everybody else—and there's nothing for Izuku.
There's nothing for him.
And so, with every beat of his heart, the clock ticks closer.
He's going to die on a Sunday afternoon—or, his existence will end, or his spark will be snuffed out, or whatever you want to call it.
The thing is, Midoriya Izuku will cease to exist today. It's a calm day, people are fully relaxing due to this being a rest day, Izuku partly feels compelled to relax as well, but alas, he has an objective in mind that has to be finished by the end of today. Even if the objective is his own death.
He wants to say that there's something heavy that's settled on his shoulders—something to mark the significance of such a date, but truth is, it doesn't feel any different from any other day. In fact, he might as well feel a bit of relief coursing in his mind. Can't forget the happiness either, he's been really happy lately.
He wakes up just as he always has—already tired, with no way to fix it because sleep doesn't help at all and he's long since given up on trying to lift the weight from behind his eyes.
He smiles at the mirror even if there is no apparent reason why, he just decides to.
He's at lunch when he laughs at something that Kaminari says.
It's not even like he managed to hear it properly. He catches the end of the sentence, it's something absurd judging by the appearance of his other friends' faces, he mirrors the expression, because their joy is quite infectious today.
This is what normal looks like, he thinks distantly. This is what normal feels like.
The food tastes a bit bland, but it's alright, his friends are sat surrounding him, and the smiles on their faces make him so happy, even though they don't manage to restore the flavor of the sandwich he's taken a bite of.
No one notices, but he's so happy today, so what even is there to notice? Him being Mister Joyful?
What even is there to notice?
During the long-awaited afternoon, the smile on his face finally fades. Don't get him wrong, his heart is still filled with the joy he's been feeling the whole day. The imprint of his friends' happiness is still there in the back of his mind.
But he doesn't have to perform in the privacy of his dorm—there's no one to complain about the way he chooses to express his joy—with a blank face and a handful of his prescribed painkillers in his hand.
The sound of his breathing sounds unbelievably loud in the silence surrounding him, the disturbance urges him to slow down the motion.
On his desk sits a half-filled bottle of pills that he's supposed to take to aid the process. They sit heavily in his palm. He's had it all thought out—he knows his own limitations, knows his own fears and nerves won't let him press down hard enough to cause any significant damage, and that is why he's got a special concoction that should efficiently eliminate any doubt in his mind.
The painkillers were described for his aching joints at the end of his first year, and he hadn't stopped taking them since. They're prescription only—and saving enough of these had become impossible simply because some days he needed them to function lest the pain become too much, and so he opted on regularly consuming them instead of risking a painful flare-up. This was part of the reason he opted out on overdosing—he knew that if he just had enough self-control, he'd be able to guarantee it, he checked the composition of his meds, and that stuff was enough to kill him, but only if he got another bottle to go with it, and surviving the consumption of just one was a high enough risk already—permanent liver damage was not something he wanted to be stuck with for the rest of his life if he managed to survive.
The painkillers would help with the paint of the initial cut, and along with it he gathered something to lower his inhibitions. An upperclassmen from the general course was quite infamous for smuggling in alcohol for the underage students, and so he'd taken advantage of his status as a dealer and managed to get a hold of the highest percentage stuff that he could without invoking the guy's suspicion. There probably was already word going around about Izuku's dealings, but if the guy knew what was good for him, he would keep quiet until at least the next day.
…He wasn't quite sure how the painkillers would mix with the alcohol, but all that would stop being a problem soon enough, so don't blame him for not checking.
The third part to his master plan was the fresh set of razor blades that he'd purchased two days prior—he had to make sure that the blade wasn't too dull to cut to such a depth, after all.
And so, the plan came together.
There's a realization in his mind even before he begins the ritual-like motions—he's going to die a Deku.
He's going to die that useless, defenseless little boy that he'd been from the start.
From today onward, he's going to be a dead man.
The burn of the liquid is fierce as it travels down his throat. He's never gotten drunk before, but he knows that if he was to ever become a drinker, he would favor the flavored stuff, for he barely bites back the noise of disgust that bubbles up in his throat as the burn irritates the delicate muscle. The pills had gone down smoothly—but the alcohol makes him want to swallow down another set of pills if only to slightly mask the heinous (chemical?) taste of the liquid. Is it too late to wish that he'd picked something with a bit more flavor?
Luckily, it gets easier to get down his esophagus once his throat had adjusted to the ever-present burn, but it isn't enjoyable in the slightest.
Sooner rather than later, he sits with the barely finished bottle thrown somewhere to the corner of his room—there's an All Might themed carpet there that had muffled the noise, and maybe Izuku had never quite felt as relieved to have so much of the man's merch in his room.
There's a couple of minutes that he has left to reflect on his life—he can stop any time he wants to, there will a hellish hangover to survive tomorrow day, and he'll have to survive an entire month more without his prescribed medicine, because it has a strict policy of if lost or finished before next refilling period, replenishment is not offered, but in the end, he'll be alive or whatever.
The idea sounds almost as unappealing as the taste of the alcohol was as it settled deep in his gut—there will be no tomorrow, not if he has any say in it, for sure.
Izuku Midoriya is supposed to die today.
And with that decisive thought in his mind, he sits until he can feel the corners of his vision getting blurry. The back of his neck feels almost as hot as the inside of his belly and he can feel sweat start coating it as a flush rushes to his cheeks. With strangely weightless limbs he grasps at the blade, careful to not hold it tightly as to not injure his palm, but the wish is unfulfilled as he feels warm blood coat his skin mere moments later.
He's been planning this for a long time already, and yet the blade feels heavy in his hand—the complete opposite compared to the rest of his limbs.
He places it against his wrist, feeling the cold metal bite at the barely visible veins underneath his skin.
In just a few moments, it'll be over.
In just a few moments and onward, Izuku will be dead.
For all that he has planned this down to the very last second, Izuku hadn't expected the bite of the blade to be quite this painless.