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Izuku feels nothing.
His fingers are steadily turning numb from the cold, and his body is shaking violently as the wind rushes past him. But he doesn’t feel it—at least he doesn’t think so. But he really couldn’t care less.
His mouth is warm, eyes watching in interest as the scene before him blurs. He ignores the way his lungs scream in protest every time he inhales more smoke into his lungs.
He sits comfortably on top of the building, legs dangling freely over the edge as he supports the majority of his weight with the palm of his hand. He blinks tiredly, observing the new cloud of smoke as it fades away.
Izuku wonders if he could be like smoke, if it was possible for him to dissolve and fade away without a trace. He wonders what it would be like to stop existing, to leave everything behind without saying goodbye.
His mother will miss him the most, crushed beyond repair, unable to even understand why or how it’s possible for Izuku to not be here anymore. Izuku can picture her sitting in front of his grave with fresh flowers that’ll rot too quickly because it’ll be the cheap kind that only lasts a couple of days. Izuku smiles at the thought, anyway.
She’ll tell him about her day at work and scold him for not being there in person, trying to keep up the facade of a powerful mother. But Izuku knows her so well, knows how much the news will break her. She’ll lose her spark, just like Izuku did.
Izuku doesn’t know what to think of that.
But he does know that Katsuki will have mixed feelings when he’s gone.
He will be absolutely furious, screaming and yelling, ordering Izuku to wake the fuck up. He will yell even louder just because he can and tell him that this joke isn’t funny.
Katsuki will continue like that for a long time until his throat is sore and his words are raw with emotions he can’t bring himself to feel. He will whisper that he can’t bear to look at Auntie because she reminds him too much of Izuku.
Katsuki will mourn him silently, guilt messing with his head because a part of him will always feel responsible. He’ll visit Izuku’s grave whenever he can—being number one is a tough position to uphold, even if the competition is gone.
He won’t bring any flowers with him because flowers are stupid, and they rot within the blink of an eye. Katsuki sure as hell won’t spend his money on shit like that. But he will show up, pay his respects, apologise over and over and cry silently on his knees.
Izuku dismisses the thought and lights another cigarette.
He thinks of Shoto—beautiful, majestic, socially awkward Todoroki Shoto.
Shoto, who has been through so much at such a young age, but still has the willpower to wake up and smile at Izuku every day. Shoto, who will make sure Izuku gets up in time for class, and make him pancakes with berries on the side every morning. Shoto, who has never been affectionate but will pull Izuku close and press a kiss to his lips every chance he gets. Shoto, who has the sweetest laugh Izuku has ever heard.
Izuku loves him, but he isn’t strong.
Shoto is strong—he’s stronger than anyone else. He’ll get through the feeling of a hole in his heart, the continuous emptiness in his chest and the constant feeling of something being wrong in his life. Izuku believes in him more than he believes in himself.
Shoto can power through anything. He can power through the pain, and find something else to fill the space, to take away his many thoughts of green, to make his life so much brighter.
Izuku knows him, loves him, believes in him—Shoto will heal, move on and find happiness again.
(He won’t think about how Shoto will break when he hears the news.)
His vision is blurry again, eyes stinging painfully, no trace of smoke to be seen with the naked eye.
Izuku leaves the rooftop, cigarette abandoned, fingers numb and heart empty.
Izuku showers whenever he can. His hair smells all the time, and he always has a horrible taste in his mouth. His clothes reek, and no matter how many times he tries to get the stench out of them, nothing changes.
At first, he panics. Then, he starts not to care.
As long as he isn’t wearing those clothes around his classmates, he’s fine.
As long as he brushes his teeth before Shoto kisses him, he’s fine.
As long as he showers twice a day, he’s fine
As long as he hides all the evidence, he’s fine.
Everything is fine. Izuku is fine.
He’s also fine when they start showering together.
Shoto joins him now and then, but he doesn’t comment on anything. He doesn’t give Izuku any weird looks, or hesitate to pull him close under the warm spray of water. He kisses his lips with ease, still smiling against his mouth like nothing is going on.
Until Izuku is quiet. Too quiet for Shoto’s liking.
“You’re quiet again,” he comments one day.
Izuku relaxes under the water, acknowledging the words with a simple hum.
Shoto sighs into his neck, small and unsure. “You’re never quiet, Izuku.”
“I can be,” he eventually says, leaning into his boyfriend’s chest.
“Not like this.”
Izuku should say something. But he doesn’t. He keeps quiet.
Shoto sighs heavily again. He doesn’t say anything—neither of them do.
Their silence is covered up by the continuous spray of water.
Shoto starts acting differently, Izuku realises one morning.
He still greets Izuku with a tired smile and kisses the top of his head. He still offers to make a portion of pancakes with fresh berries, and he still wants to watch the same movies, even though they’ve seen them so many times already.
But something is wrong about it all, something Izuku can’t put his finger on. It makes a feeling of apprehension settle deep within his stomach.
They’re sitting together, eating breakfast like any other morning. But something is different.
“I’ve been thinking,” Shoto announces softly—so softly that Izuku almost doesn’t hear him.
Izuku stares down at his untouched plate, and picks at the blueberries with his fork mindlessly.
“You’ve been thinking,” he repeats, looking up. “About what?”
Shoto smiles and his eyes twinkle. “Life, I guess.”
“Life,” Izuku echoes back at him dully, suddenly tired.
“With you,” he says with a shrug.
Izuku stares at him, mind blank. “With me.”
Shoto nods, still smiling at him.
Izuku looks at his boyfriend, looks at the way he smiles so openly, without a care in the world.
And he feels nothing.
Shoto looks down at his empty plate, cheek pink—it’s subtle, but it’s there. “After graduation, you know—I’ve been thinking about it.”
Izuku smiles at him, but it crumbles around the edges. “Tell me about it, my love.”
An expression passes over his face before Shoto tells him everything on his mind. He sounds happy, excited even. He talks about their future as heroes, their life together in their own little space they get to call home.
Izuku stops listening halfway through. His mind is blank, like a constant static feeling has taken over his brain.
Living and remaining in the present requires energy he doesn’t have anymore.
He’s so tired.
(Later that day, realisation hits Izuku like a truck.
Shoto has never been this cautious around him. He has never spoken to Izuku so carefully, or watched him so closely.
But Izuku is so tired, and he can’t bring himself to care.)
Izuku is on the rooftop again. His legs dangle over the edge as the pack of cigarettes calls his name. It coaxes him to light another one, to let a flame flicker to life, to fill up his lungs with death.
Izuku does because he isn’t strong.
He can feel the effects instantly—his anxiety lessens, his shoulders relax and the stress in his body disappears.
Cigarettes are a blessing and a curse. They take off the edge, but also bring him one step closer to his inevitable death.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Despite everything he has been through, Izuku has never given much thought to how he would die. He has always known it wouldn’t be of natural causes—he would die fighting or by his own hand. Simple as that.
But these days, he thinks about it a lot.
As a child, Izuku had the idea he would die as a retired hero, praised by the public for his many years of hard work, but then everyone told him differently. They told him he was a dumb child with a dumb dream. Over and over, like a sickened mantra, making sure Izuku got the message and gave up.
It didn’t hurt much back then. His old teachers and classmates could say whatever they wanted, but he wouldn’t give up. Izuku would ignore them and continue with his notebooks and strategies for the future. He didn’t care about any of them, nor what they were saying.
But then his mother tried to reason with him, told him she was worried about him, that maybe it was better to find a new hobby because Izuku could never become a hero. He physically couldn’t.
For a while after that, Izuku gave up, and that’s where the other thoughts came in.
If he couldn’t die a hero, he could die by his own hand, and no one could ever take that choice away from him.
Izuku would die the way he wanted to, when he wanted to, and where he wanted to.
Izuku thinks everyone has realised this too. He’s always the one to get the biggest hugs after each mission. He’s always the one people watch out for the most. They all tell him to be careful and come back in one piece.
Izuku knows what they think of him, what they say behind his back.
Too reckless, too self-sacrificing, too obsessed with saving others, too careless about himself, too suicidal.
The smoke makes his eyes sting. The smoke makes his lungs scream. The smoke makes him want to die.
Izuku brings the cigarette to his lips repeatedly.
Shoto comes to his room like any other night, but Izuku is on his way to the rooftop when he knocks.
He closes his eyes painfully and climbs down from the railing onto his balcony. His hands are shaking but his lungs are screaming silently, heart crying louder and louder in desperation to be heard.
Izuku breathes shakily, clenching his fists firmly.
He’s been on edge all day, fighting the urge to run and hide. He wants to be alone, wants to indulge in his habits without being judged. But the knocking echoes again, like Shoto knows what he’s up to. Izuku hopes he doesn’t.
Izuku lets him in and accepts a kiss on the lips, and his heart doesn’t flutter like it used to.
“Hi,” Shoto breathes against his mouth.
“Hi,” Izuku whispers back.
Shoto brings their mouths together again, kicking the door shut behind him.
Izuku tries to find the spark—the fireworks, the explosions, the passion.
He misses it. He misses the passion, the excitement, the feeling of his heart fluttering. He misses wanting, needing, desiring.
Izuku misses feeling.
His lips tingle, but he feels numb, feels static and grey around the edges of his soul.
Izuku wants it to stop.
“Shoto,” he breathes, "kiss me.”
One kiss turns into ten. Ten kisses turn into fifty. Fifty kisses turn into a hundred.
But Izuku feels nothing.
He whimpers, fisting the fabric of Shoto’s shirt harshly as his back hits the bed.
He’s tired. He’s tired of feeling like this. He wants it to stop.
Shoto pulls away, but Izuku pulls him closer, clinging to him like a lifeline. He kisses him again, desperate and frustrated all at once.
“Bunny,” Shoto says breathlessly, “stop for a second.”
Izuku breaks.
He feels dead—he shouldn’t feel dead. Shoto calls him bunny, and he feels dead.
He feels the waves of unwanted tears welling up in his eyes. His breath hitches in his throat and he chokes on a suppressed sob. He tries to hide by covering his face with his broken hands, but Shoto snatches his wrists, brows furrowed with concern.
“Hey,” he whispers, worried. “Hey, it’s okay, bunny. What happened?”
Izuku gives up.
He finally sobs. He finally cries, and he doesn’t know how to stop.
Shoto hugs him closer, threading his fingers through his thick curls, a string of reassuring whispers falling from his lips. He tells Izuku everything will be okay. He tells Izuku he’ll be there to support him through thick and thin.
He tells Izuku that he loves him.
“I don’t—I can’t—” he hiccups through his cries, forcing himself to try again. “I can’t feel anything—at all.”
“What are you talking about, bunny?”
His voice cracks. “When you—when we kiss—I feel nothing—I can’t—”
The hand in his hair pauses. It’s painful.
“You don’t—” Shoto stops. “Oh.”
Izuku sniffles, rapidly shaking his head, sitting up. “Shoto. Shoto—”
“Izuku.” He sounds far away, toneless. “It’s fine.”
“No!” Izuku cries as tears run down his cheeks. “I can’t feel anything. All the time. I feel—I feel nothing, and I—I think I’m sick. I don’t know—I don’t know!”
There’s a pair of hands cupping his face with a careful touch, a soft voice bringing him back to the present. “Breathe, Izuku. In and out.”
He breathes through his cries painfully, struggling to get fresh air to his lungs, but Shoto breathes with him, still whispering words of reassurance, still holding his face with the most delicate touch Izuku has ever experienced from another person.
They stay like that for a long time, breathing together slowly until Izuku’s cries quiet down and his breath evens out.
“Talk to me,” Shoto whispers. “You’re worrying me, Izuku.”
He sniffles again. He can’t bring himself to speak. He pulls away and wipes at his eyes.
Shoto doesn’t reach for him. He tilts his head to the side. “What happened?”
Izuku can feel the tremors in his fingers, the guilt eating him alive from the inside out.
Quiet and ashamed, he says, “I think something is wrong with me.”
He sounds pathetic, small and frail, unable to stand up for himself. It sounds like an admission of defeat, like he is done fighting, like he has actually given up.
Shoto watches him silently, waiting for him to explain.
“I don’t feel anything at all,” he mumbles, raw and throaty. “I can’t feel anything—it’s like my brain shut down, and—and my body kept going. Everything feels grey and—and static in my head.”
Shoto hums, gazing unwaveringly at the floor. He doesn’t react at all like Izuku expected him to, but he doesn’t know what to make of that.
So he dares to continue. “I started… smoking a while ago.”
Shoto looks at him calmly, but not surprised. “I know.”
Izuku’s heart drops. “You—”
“Yes.”
Izuku gulps down the lump in his throat. His eyelashes are wet. “I’m sorry.”
Shoto leans in and wipes his tears away. “You shouldn’t apologise for struggling, Izuku. I’m just happy you finally told me.”
He sniffles. “I feel so guilty about everything. I never meant for this to happen. I just—I just wanted everything to stop for a while.”
Shoto caresses his cheeks before kissing his forehead.
Izuku collapses against him. “I’m tired.”
Shoto touches his hair comfortingly. “I know.”
“I’m so tired,” he repeats, no fight left in him.
“I know, bunny. I know…”
Izuku is ashamed of himself for being on the rooftop again.
He knows what it looks like. It looks like he doesn’t care about himself. It looks like he said fuck everything and has given up on getting better.
But getting better is so hard, and Izuku has no idea where to start this time.
So he finds himself on the rooftop, in his own little world, almost freezing to death with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He looks down and feels sick to his stomach because the sudden realisation hits him directly in the face.
He has an addiction.
He’s addicted.
It takes all his remaining willpower not to throw up.
Sometimes, he wonders what his mother would think of him if she saw what he had become. She would probably force Izuku to come back home and live with her for the rest of his life. It wouldn’t change a thing, he thinks. He could find a way out if he really wanted, he could indulge in his habits if he was desperate enough. Maybe he is.
Maybe he’s in too deep. Maybe he doesn’t have a way out of this. Maybe he doesn’t have another way to cope besides slowly killing himself.
But he can’t continue on like this. He really, seriously can’t. Izuku knows. He knows he’s taking his life for granted, and he wants to stop. So fucking much.
But his fingers are shaking again, heartbeat fast in his ears, breath stuck in his throat like he can’t breathe. He fights the urge to light another one, he really fucking does. But he picks up a cigarette, holds it between his fingers, brings it to his eyes first and—
Snaps it in two.
Oh.
He broke it. Snapped it in two. Just like that.
Izuku looks and looks and looks, like the concept of breaking something is completely foreign to him. But his breath finds him again, and he picks up another one… and snaps it in two.
Quick. Easy. Painless.
It’s progress, one step in the right direction, and Izuku suddenly finds himself repeating the process over and over without thinking twice.
But then the unthinkable happens
A pair of heavy, calculated footsteps catches his attention. He can hear the sound grower closer from behind, a sudden movement visible from the corner of his eye before he has time to react.
He pushes himself away from the edge as a mixture of shame and panic forms in his stomach. He’s on his knees, trying to clean up the mess, gasping all over again, and each inhale feels like a punishment.
He doesn’t dare to look up. Izuku recognises the silhouette immediately, and he would rather step over the edge than see the disappointed look on Aizawa’s face. He would rather disappear like the smoke from his lips than face the reality he so desperately tries to avoid.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa says, the tone of his voice impossible to decipher.
Izuku shakes his head in protest. He can’t bear to have this conversation. Not now.
“Are you hurt?”
The words make Izuku stop and look at his teacher in disbelief. “What?”
Aizawa crouches down gently, regarding him with a quick look. “I asked you if you’re hurt.”
Izuku stares, eyes wide. “No, I’m fine—I’m good—”
“Good,” Aizawa cuts him off. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?”
Izuku’s breath hitches in his throat and he looks away.
The silence before he speaks is excruciating.
“Am I in trouble, Sensei?”
“That depends, kid,” he says, firm but not unkind. “Are you able to tell me what’s been going on with you, and why you’re breaking important school rules?”
Izuku’s head snaps upwards, fear making his blood freeze to ice. “I didn’t mean to, Sensei. I really didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do anything like this ever again—”
“Midoriya.” Aizawa places a hand on his shoulder. “As long as you aren’t hurt, there’s no need to panic like this. But I do want to know what’s caused this new interest of yours, and why you’ve kept quiet about it.”
Izuku remains silent for a very long time before he dares to open his mouth.
“I didn’t think anyone would care,” he eventually whispers. “I knew training to become a hero wouldn’t be easy, but I just didn’t expect… all of this. Asking for help made it seem like I had admitted defeat before even getting started, and I didn’t want to be weak.”
Aizawa sighs and squeezes his shoulder, voice quiet. “Asking for help when you think you might need it isn’t a sign of weakness. It shows how strong you are because you know you aren’t okay.”
Izuku’s vision blurs. “I’m sorry, Sensei.”
Aizawa watches him for a moment before looking at the cigarettes. “How long have you been doing this?”
Izuku flinches, wiping his eyes hurriedly. “A—a while. I never wanted this—I—my mother would probably hate me. Please, don’t call her.”
“You’re an adult, Midoriya,” Aizawa says, looking tired but worried, “which means I don’t have the authority to call your mother unless it’s a matter of a life-threatening emergency, and this is not an emergency, is it?”
Izuku looks at his hands. “I don’t think so, Sensei,” he whispers.
“Good,” his teacher replies. “But I do think you need to talk to someone before this escalates into something far worse than smoking. Though I’m not sure if those cigarettes are worth using anymore.”
“I’m done with them. I—I want to get better, I really do.” Izuku says earnestly, only to pause in a whisper. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”
“Kid,” Aizawa begins with a small sigh. “I’m worried about you, not mad—anger won’t solve anything, nor will coping mechanisms like these, okay?”
Izuku fiddles with his hands, nodding. “I thought I was about to be suspended for the rest of the week,” he says, trying to laugh it off, but it sounds forced and strained.
“You won’t be suspended for struggling with your mental health,” Aizawa clarifies, his hand on Izuku’s shoulder gliding away.
Izuku gets up with aching limbs and ignores his teacher’s eyes on him as he cleans up the mess.
“I promise to get rid of it,” he mumbles as he stuffs the items into his pockets.
Aizawa observes him with narrowed eyes. “That was the right thing to do, but addictions are not to be taken lightly, Midoriya. I expect you to work on it—preferably with a professional.” He pauses and looks at Izuku, almost whispering now. “I don’t want another great hero to leave us too early.”
“Yes, Sensei.”
Silence filters through the air between them as they make their way down the stairs. Izuku tries to keep as quiet as he possibly can, hoping Aizawa will forget that he’s even there. But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Aizawa walks him back to his room, not once saying a word, but making it clear he won’t leave until Izuku’s safely inside his room.
“Sensei,” he calls, waiting for his teacher to acknowledge him. “How did you know where I was?”
Aizawa looks at him from over his shoulder. “I patrol the area every other night. I’m actually surprised that you didn’t trigger the security alarm.” He turns around fully. “I’m disappointed you didn’t come to me, Midoriya. I would’ve helped you with this. I hope you realise that.”
Izuku looks at the floor. “I’m sorry, Sensei.”
Aizawa shakes his head dismissively. “Enough with the apologies. Just consider talking to a professional instead of bottling everything up inside. We have people available here, and I trust you to come to me when you’ve thought about it and spoken to your mother.”
Izuku nods. “Thank you for understanding, Sensei.”
“We’ve all been there, kid,” his teacher says lightly, expression showing an uncharacteristic softness that has Izuku taken aback. “Now, get to bed. You need your energy for tomorrow, and stay away from the rooftop from now on.”
“I will,” he replies with a tiny smile.
Izuku sits alone, scribbling back and forth in the pages of his journal.
The wind is chilly, but he finds comfort in the silence that surrounds him as he writes down thought after thought on the neatly lined paper.
His fingers ache quickly, but he pushes through it just for the sake of emptying his mind as fast as humanly possible. Journaling is more effective than Izuku thought it would be, but it helps him a lot and things are better than they used to be, so he really can’t complain.
They’re not perfect, but Izuku knows nothing can ever be perfect, and he’s okay with that.
He opened up to a professional and talked to them, carefully choosing his words, but he remained honest all the way through.
He told them about the static feeling in his head, how he felt grey and weak around the edges. He told them about his emptiness and how he couldn’t feel anything for days at a time.
He told them he wanted it to stop and how tired he was.
He mentioned the smoking—the many cigarettes he lit and guilt eating him alive every minute of every day.
They told him it was normal for someone who dealt with high levels of stress and depression, with a lot of pressure from the many expectations he had to live up to.
Izuku cried in relief because he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t abnormal, and he was going to be just fine.
He stops writing for a moment, looks over the many words that take up the entire page, and closes the journal without another thought in his head.
He feels nice, at peace even. It’s a feeling Izuku hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s actually making good progress, or so his therapist keeps telling him, but he can feel the change in him so he believes them.
Healing isn’t a linear process, but Izuku is ready to give whatever it takes.
He snaps out of his daze at the sound of footsteps nearing from afar. He looks up and smiles widely, welcoming the company immediately.
Shoto sits down next to him on the bench. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
Izuku shakes his head. “Nope, don’t worry. I just finished.”
Shoto relaxes beside him, shifting closer so their thighs touch. “You’ve been out here for a while.”
“I had a lot on my mind today,” he says, happily accepting a kiss on his forehead.
Shoto wraps an arm around him, humming.
Izuku leans into his side with ease, blushing as his heart flutters violently in his chest.
They sit in silence, watching the sky as orange hues fade into various shades of blue. The tension leaves their bodies, and Izuku lets his eyes flutter to a close, nuzzling the side of Shoto’s neck.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the night.
“For what?”
Izuku looks up at Shoto with a smile. “For staying and not giving up on me.”
“You never gave up on me either,” his boyfriend reminds him quietly.
Izuku hums before pulling Shoto down for a kiss—heart fluttering, cheeks reddening, passion burning brightly.
Izuku feels everything.