Chapter Text
Halley’s Comet.
It passes by the earth every seventy-five years. Tonight, it will pass again. Everyone will look to the sky — breath held, eyes wide — as they wait for it to fly overhead. Such a rare opportunity, once in a lifetime for most people.
The event itself isn’t all that insignificant in the grand scheme of things, though it’s been marked on Izuku’s calendar ever since he found out it was coming. He heard about it in passing about three months ago, and he had latched onto the distraction. There are other things he could’ve chosen to busy himself with, ones that aren’t so fleeting, so temporary, but Izuku chose this.
As it drew closer over the past week, it’s become a prominent point of conversation. Well, sort of, just not with any of the people that Izuku himself talks to. But it’s been in the news a lot, mentioned occasionally by people walking past him in the streets, an easy topic for small talk. It’s surprising to Izuku that things like this still amuse people, in a world where there’s probably a quirk that could create an illusion of a similar comet passing through the sky. Though maybe the authenticity of it, the knowledge that it’s real, is what excites people.
Izuku hasn’t seen a comet before. Even though he isn’t overly fascinated by space, it’s still very exciting for him. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He wants to see it, has to be awake as it passes, needs to watch the entire time as it travels through the sky. He has to be there for it. He can’t possibly miss it, no, it’s too important.
So, he has to stay long enough, at least until the comet passes. After it’s gone, though… maybe he’ll find something else to look forward to.
Today, however, he isn’t looking forward to.
Tonight will be a moment to remember fondly, something beautiful he can look back on, but today is something to be dreaded.
Izuku drags himself out of bed, All Might blanket falling to the carpeted floor in a heap. His body aches from a poor night’s sleep. He’d spent most of it tossing and turning, unconsciousness eluding him, his mind circling the same three stubborn thoughts over and over again.
He wants nothing more than a cup of coffee right now, something to fight against the exhaustion embedded in bones. It probably isn't all that healthy for him, a fourteen-year-old, to already be addicted to coffee. But Izuku’s health is the least of his problems at the moment.
Stumbling into the kitchen, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, he finds the space empty. Well, empty in the sense that it lacks another, familiar human presence.
Izuku has learnt not to expect to see his mother in the mornings. She’s been picking up more shifts at the hospital in recent months. They need the money, she’d said one night during dinner two months ago. She hadn’t looked Izuku in the eyes when she said it, and it gave Izuku the impression that it was his fault. The idea was only cemented in his mind when, just a couple weeks later, their routine, awkward dinners together soon tapered off into non-existence.
Shoving that particular thought out of his mind, he rummages through the cabinets, a small frown tugging at his mouth when he doesn’t find the coffee packets in their usual spot. They have been running low, he recalls. Maybe his mother hasn’t bought any more yet.
Directing his attention to the fridge instead, he finds it mostly empty. A couple eggs, two apples, a head of lettuce. The pantry is in a similar state. Nothing that he can really use to pack a proper lunch. He supposes Inko just forgot to go shopping. Again. She doesn’t really eat at home much anymore, after all, so he supposes he can’t fault her. It must be difficult to work so hard all day, and then also have to think about Izuku’s needs as well.
Izuku just decides to forego breakfast entirely. Heading back to his room, he grabs his uniform and pulls it on, ignoring the burn marks and small holes that litter the clothing. His poor attempts at stitching it together again stand out, only highlighting his failure to properly do so. The thread doesn’t even match the uniform itself; he couldn’t find any black or even grey and didn’t want to bother his mother by asking her. He had settled for red. At least it matches his shoes?
Once ready, he heads to the front door and slips out quietly. He walks to school alone, like always, avoiding the more dangerous alleys and crime ridden areas. Though he still has to go through the underpass, always littered with trash and the occasional mysterious pool of blood. Not ominous at all.
He finally reaches the rusting gates of Aldera Middle School, the cool spring air brushing against his face. The calm weather does nothing to sooth his nerves as he looks beyond the gate and to the students roaming inside.
Izuku tries not to think about it, tries to keep calm and look unbothered. Though it’s hard to deny how his hands shake as he enters school grounds, how he begins to sweat a noticeable amount as he enters the classroom. He finds his seat easily and sits down, pulling out a well-used and half complete notebook. He hasn’t finished his notes from the hero fight he saw yesterday afternoon, so he begins to fill the pages, pen gliding across the paper.
He remains mostly undisturbed for the morning, his other classmates choosing to arrive seconds before the bell. When they do enter, he chooses to ignore the insults causally thrown his way. It’s become somewhat of a routine over the years, and it doesn’t bother him as much as it used to.
Most of the words they use have lost their impact. Having heard them so many times, he’s grown to expect it. He’s come to accept the words as truth, so really, they aren’t insults anymore. They are names, labels, definitions of what he is.
He understands he is useless; he lives everyday as a worthless human being. His body is weak, his mind is fragile, his muttering is creepy. He is annoying, he is stupid, he is quirkless.
Some days he wishes he could hear someone tell him otherwise. Thinking that maybe he deserves to be seen, to be cared for and loved. Other days he knows it’s too much to ask; Izuku doesn’t get the same privileges as other people. He doesn’t get to speak without being yelled at, doesn’t get to experience kindness or make friends, doesn’t get to live without being punished. He doesn’t get to choose how he wants to live, who he will be, because he will always be nothing more than quirkless.
Quirkless is the extent of his personality. It is the only thing seen on his student ID, the only word heard in a conversation, the only part of him that matters. Quirkless is what he is, who he is. Izuku and quirkless are one in the same. They cannot be viewed as two different concepts; the ideas cannot be separated. Any introduction of himself to another person must always include his title. His quirklessness is a chain that he must carry with him every day, a weight that cannot be dropped or lessened.
They blame him as if it was his choice, as if this was the life he sought. He wishes they knew. His classmates, teachers, Kacchan, his mother. He wishes they all knew how much he didn’t want this. If there was anything he could do, anything at all that could give him a quirk, he would do it. Believe him, he’s tried. He’s spent hours buried deep in quirk forums, trying all sorts of inane ideas to hopefully uncover a hidden quirk factor.
Living like this, with this disease, the days pass by in an unremarkable blur.
He doesn’t bother paying attention in classes since he already knows the material. Izuku has learnt to deal with the fact that his teachers won’t actually teach him, but they will call on him and expect him to know the answers. In the past when he hadn’t known the answers — when he still believed they might help him, walking him through it — he’d get punished for ‘not paying attention’.
So, he’s begun teaching himself. It’s surprisingly effective, actually. He’s found that he learns much better in certain environments, with visual materials that the teachers rarely provide during class. He isn’t too far ahead in the curriculum, but he knows enough to partially zone out for the day.
Which is exactly what he does. His bullies, and Kacchan, seem especially quiet today, going so far as to leave him almost entirely alone throughout class and at lunch. Only the occasional insult is thrown his way, a harsh laugh as someone trips him on his way to his desk. Even when the worst happens, and the teacher calls him out on his application for U.A., he doesn’t get much more than a couple insults and a charred desk.
Soon, the end of day bell rings, and Izuku thinks today might be his lucky day. He’s managed to avoid the worst of it, and maybe Halley’s Comet is to thank for that.
That particular thought is very quickly suffocated a few short moments later. Kacchan and his lackies easily corner him in the classroom.
Izuku should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should’ve never written down U.A. for his desired school. He should’ve accepted the fact he could never be a hero. He should’ve listened to them a long time ago. After all, if it isn’t true, then why is everyone saying the same thing?
His uniform gains another hole, and his shoulder a new burn.
“What makes you think you can compete with me, Deku? You're useless, just give it up already!” Kacchan snarls, pushing Izuku to the ground.
His open bag and the books inside scatter across the floor. Before he can grab any of them, Kacchan has already picked up his beloved notebook. Just like with his uniform, a single, controlled explosion from the angry boy’s palm is enough to destroy at least the cover. Izuku’s almost too scared to look inside. And, as if that isn’t bad enough, his lifelong bully throws it out an open window. He doesn’t know where it’s going to land at first, but a distant splash gives it away.
He thinks it’s over, as Kacchan and his laughing lackies walk towards the door, but the blonde turns back just before he walks out of sight.
He smirks as he says, “You wanna be a hero so bad?” Izuku’s body tenses at the at the cruel mocking in Kacchan’s tone. “I've got a time-saving idea for you. If you think you’ll have a quirk in your next life… go take a swan dive off the roof!” Their laughs echo as they walk down the hall. Izuku feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head.
This isn’t the first time he’s been told him to kill himself. Other classmates have before. Even some adults have, though usually in more subtle ways.
This, though, was the first time Kacchan had ever said those words himself.
Kacchan was the first to hit him. The first to insult. The one who gave him his name, Deku. Kacchan was always the first one to find new ways to ruin his life. But this… this was one line he hadn’t crossed. Until now. Izuku doesn’t know what was stopping him before, or what had changed for him to have finally said it, but it is an unpleasant development.
He doesn’t really know how to process his childhood friend telling him to kill himself, so he doesn’t. He shoves any and all thoughts from his head and leaves the classroom. Now in a daze, mind drifting, he finds his notebook and pulls it from the water, holding it close to his chest as he walks home. He steps through the familiar underpass, noticing a dead rat that hadn’t been there this morning.
What he fails to notice, though, is the villain climbing up through the sewer grate behind him. By the time the sludge has wrapped around his body and begins to enter his mouth, he’s too late to fight back. Not that he ever could have, right? Quirkless, useless Deku fighting off a villain? He never stood a chance.
He thinks, for a moment, that this is it. The sludge glides down his throat, fills his nose and hugs his limbs. Even with his struggles, he gets nowhere. He thinks, for only a second, that he should stop struggling. The lack of oxygen is starting to make him dizzy, and his vision is growing dark. He thinks, or rather hopes, that he might not make it out alive, might not make it home to a quiet mother and a silent house and a cold room. He thinks about not having to live another day of his depressing life, one that will lead to nowhere.
So, when he closes his eyes, he wishes he won’t have to open them again. His last thoughts before he succumbs to the darkness is that maybe Kacchan will be right, maybe he will be luckier in his next life.
Before he can really enjoy the feeling of nothing, though, he’s coughing up slime and blinking away the spots in vision. Wishing, with no small amount of discomfort in his throat and ache in his limbs, that he hadn’t woken up at all.
But then he sees it’s All Might’s hand that’s shaking him awake, realises it’s the Number One hero who has saved him, and sees no reason why he shouldn’t live a couple moments more. Immediately, his fanboy side takes over, his hands scrambling to find his notebook to get it signed, only to find as he opens its pages that it already has been.
A genuine, blinding, rare smile paints his face, and he beams up at his idol. This is his chance, he realises, his last saving grace.
“A-All Might!” he calls out; too loud, too excited, but he can’t help it. “I was– I was wondering if you could answer this one question I ha– I have?! You see it’s really important, an-and I admire your opinion above anyone else’s!” He curses himself for his stuttering but decides that’s not important right now.
All Might’s signature smile doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry, my boy! But I really must be going, this villain won’t take itself to jail you know! I'm sure you understand, the life of a hero is very busy.” The words are a clear, casual dismissal that Izuku ignores.
“But it-it’ll only take a moment, really!” He pleads, eyes glimmering with hope. He just needs a few seconds, a single question answered. He isn't asking for too much, is he?
“Another time, perhaps,” All Might says in that same booming voice. “Now goodbye and stay safe!”
Izuku watches as the man prepares to jump, as his only hope begins to leave. So, moving instinctively, he does the only thing he can. The only logical option in that moment.
“My boy! I insist you let go this instant!” All Might demands with no small amount of surprise on his face. That smile falters for a second, a flash of worry or fear taking its place.
“If I do that now I’ll fa-fall!” Izuku shouts over the rushing wind pulling on his cheeks.
The hero blinks, as if that thought hadn’t previously occurred to him. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you would.” All Might lands on a rooftop amongst a sea of buildings, and Izuku’s body shakes as he finds solid ground again. “That was extremely reckless of you, young man, and I really must me going!” He makes to jump again, to leave the boy alone and his questions unanswered.
“Please, All Might! It’ll only– o-only take a moment,” Izuku pleads, and the hero, for just a second, seems to hesitate.
That short moment is all that is needed for a cloud of smoke to erupt, entirely engulfing All Might, and Izuku tries his best to hold in a frightened squeal. He fails to hold it back a sound time, though, when instead of the tall and muscled form of his idol appearing from behind the clouds, a frail and almost skeletal looking man takes his place.
The stranger starts coughing, the sound wet and unsettling, blood seeping out from his lips and pooling in his hand. Izuku almost rushes over to help him, before he remembers that he has no idea who this man is, and All Might is nowhere to be found.
“Damn– times up,” is all the man manages to mumble, before he’s collapsing against the railing to the roof and sliding to the ground.
“What happened to All Might?!” Izuku shrieks, voice high and uncertain.
The man looks exhausted as he raises his gaze to stare into Izuku’s eyes, his small smile almost apologetic as he says, “He got into a bad fight some years ago, and now he looks like this when the public eye isn’t looking.” He looks down at himself, criticizing his own form.
It takes a second for the concept to really settle into place, for the reality of the situation to become fully known in Izuku’s mind. Just the idea that All Might looks this weak, this injured, let alone having another form entirely is baffling. Honestly, it’s almost too difficult for him to believe.
But then Izuku takes into account the declining rates of arrest, the lack interviews as of late and fewer sightings by other fans such as himself. How the news tells of newer and bigger criminals popping up around Japan, better and stronger than before. Stories of the Number One hero himself failing to show up when it really mattered, though the suggestion sounded unbelievable to Izuku at the time. The revelation that the pro hero has been sick or injured all this time fits the missing pieces, and all of a sudden it makes too much sense.
Then the hero lifts his loosely hanging shirt, and Izuku realises it is so much worse than he thought.
A wound unlike he’s ever seen before, blue and purple and is that even healed?! It looks fresh and new, like it had happened only days, hours ago. A single hit to that weak point — because that is what it is, the best hero there’s ever been has such a big weakness — would have to be lethal. Izuku likes to think the hero could withstand even something like that, but he wouldn’t dare test the theory.
“Five years ago, this happened. I lost my stomach, and my respiratory system has seen better days.” Well, that explains the blood… did he say he lost his stomach?! Who could’ve done something like that to All Might, to the Number One hero? “I can only maintain my hero form for a few hours a day, before I'm forced into this form.”
And isn’t that terrifying? Their saving grace, the one person Japan should be able to count on in a time of need, might not be there for them. Not if he’s already used his time throughout the day, unaware of how much he might need it later.
Izuku stands there, speechless. He doesn’t say a word, too stunned to make a sound. Learning this doesn’t really change anything for him personally; All Might will forever be his idol, and his injury now doesn’t erase the selfless acts he’s performed for years. But for the villains, those who would use this against him and would have a frighteningly realistic chance at killing the symbol of peace, this changes everything. All Might — too trustful, too relaxed — just told a stranger and a possible threat everything. Izuku blinks dazedly at the absurdity of it all.
All Might shifts where he’s sat, grunting softly as he pulls himself to his feet with the aid of the railing. With the slightest limp that the hero hides well, he starts heading for the door on the roof. Suddenly, Izuku is too distracted with his own burning question to worry about what this might mean for Japan’s future, and he blurts out his question before he can think better of it.
“A-All Might!” Izuku calls, voice edging into something resembling desperation, almost breathless with it. Said man turns slightly, glancing back. “Even without a quirk, can I become a hero?”
His heart fills with hope; baseless, unjustified hope that has been supported by no other. Yet he still hopes, because if there is one person who would say yes, who would give Izuku that push, that desperate permission he needs to become a hero, it would be him, All Might. His eyes are wide and pleading, his hands clutching unyieldingly at his notebook, his breath held in anticipation.
All Might’s lip’s part, and he breathes in as he begins to form his answer in his mind. It takes the man too long to say a simple yes, and Izuku grows impatient in the half-second it takes the hero to answer.
“No.”
Izuku’s face falls. The world feels like it’s stopped spinning. That last shred of hope, naïve and brittle, gets carried away with the gentle spring breeze.
Isn’t it fitting, that a single word would be the end of him? Just as fragile as they have claimed he is, that he should shatter into irreparable pieces just from a simple denial. Confirming every claim his bullies have made, with the way his deepest, lifelong desire is finally buried by a single man. And, just as the pro hero goes on to explain, being a hero would be too dangerous for him. Izuku isn’t being realistic, his dream isn’t achievable. He should seek another, safer profession. No, he cannot be a hero. No.
Then the man leaves, through the door to his right, abandoning the boy who needs him more than any other citizen the hero has rescued that day. Izuku shuts the world out as reality becomes a far too much to handle. He doesn’t want to hear his own cries, doesn’t want to see his failures come to fruition. He doesn’t want to taste the disgust, in himself and everything that he tried to achieve. He doesn’t want to feel, not right now, not when the pain is unbearable and the self-loathing is agonizing.
Time passes him by unacknowledged as he remains lost in his own head. He does not hear the distant sound of explosions, the sirens, the cold laugh of a villain.
Unable to stand any longer, Izuku shakily lowers himself onto the cold concrete of the roof, lying back and staring up at the darkening sky. The sun is stunning as it starts to set, the orange, pink, purple of the sky a beauty he could never hope to match.
In his haze, his attempt to forget everything that has transpired today, he remembers what is supposed to be happening tonight. So, he waits. For hours, staring up into space as the stars slowly emerge for the night. He is silent as he brings his attention to the blinking lights, as he ponders and thinks about anything other than himself.
Stars don’t fall, he thinks distantly. They are hung in the sky, and they shine bright every night despite what they have witnessed. They might move, might shoot across the sky and fly through space, but they have never fallen. Despite the tragedies they have seen, the lives that have come and gone since the time they were created, the stars do not dim. They watch silently, forgotten during the day and admired at night.
A comet, made of rocks, ice, has no place in the sky. It falls, unlike the stars. Though it’s more beautiful than any of them, more prominent and eye catching. It falls, and yet its beauty captivates all, its failure to stay fixed in place is what makes it so interesting, so unique.
Halley’s Comet, what he has stayed for hours on this roof to see, glides slowly across the inky black sky. It’s everything Izuku imagined it would be and more, and he’s glad he could see it. Now that he has, he stands and makes his way across the roof. He does not walk to the door, the one that sits waiting to be used, but to the railing. He doesn’t take his eyes off the comet as he removes his shoes, only glancing away for a second to write a quick ‘Goodbye’ in his notebook.
After placing them to the side he climbs over the metal railing, relishing in the cool night air as it shifts his hair from his face. Halley’s Comet — so beautiful, so wonderful, so alone — falls. Izuku does too.
He thinks, as he descends to his death, that he will never be the centre of attention, will never be seen for his successes or achievements. He knows he will never be the star he always hoped he could be, because stars don’t fall. And falling is all he’s ever done.