Chapter Text
It’s fair to say that sculpting saved Izuku’s life.
Well, sculpting and falling in love.
But, of the two, learning how to sculpt had never been something Izuku had given any real thought to before.
Then, one day, he’d looked up and realized it had somehow become the thing that was keeping him alive.
Izuku had been fourteen when it started, his heart broken, dreams shattered, and his body reduced down to little more than a tattered, barely functioning wreck.
He’d spent his days lying forgotten in a hospital bed, barely moving and barely eating. He’d had no one to talk to, nothing to do, and no real interest in attempting to change any of that.
For the first time in his life, Izuku had been well and truly … done.
Had been unable to think of any one reason not to be.
Izuku had never had any friends, not really, a fact that he’d finally been forced to truly confront and accept.
His father, always doting but still distant, had been permanently out of the country for work since Izuku was seven or eight years old.
And as for his mom …
Inko loved him, Izuku had known that for a fact even in his lowest moments.
But …
Loving someone doesn’t always equate to understanding them.
To being able to connect with them.
When Izuku was younger, she was his entire world. With the way his father had flitted in and out of both of their lives, never staying for longer than a few weeks at a time even back then, Inko had raised him day-to-day basically on her own.
While Izuku had always missed his dad intensely in the weeks immediately after he’d inevitably left again, it had been the kind of ache that he’d grown used to.
He’d had toys and puzzles galore to keep him occupied. As an early reader, much to his father’s beaming pride, Izuku had had books on any and every subject that caught his eye lining the shelves in his room.
While Izuku had longed for the kids his age to treat him better, he’d still had his mom at his side every single day as a dedicated listener and playmate.
Plus, whenever his father was actually around, there was always some new game or exercise that the two of them would do together. Some new father-son adventure to be found where Izuku would inevitably learn a new and valuable lesson about life, the world, and all of the people in it.
His love of quirks and analysis, which had always been a part of Izuku for as long as he could remember, had truly been sharpened and honed in those moments. Settled on his father’s wide shoulders, hands gripping at his white hair, or tucked against the man’s side, safe in the long shadow his father always cast, Izuku had learned how to observe and how to analyze.
Hisashi had been the one to encourage Izuku to start his first analysis notebook, a massive hand ruffling Izuku’s curls as a wide, proud grin had cut across his face.
But even with how those outings with his father had always left Izuku practically glowing, it was Inko who was always there for him, who was his beacon of normalcy and stability. Even at a young age, Izuku adored her for it.
So, overall, Izuku had wanted for nothing that truly mattered when it came to his home life.
For a year or two after he’d been diagnosed as quirkless, things at home hadn’t changed much.
Sure, Inko had been a bit more protective, a bit less indulgent with Izuku’s adoration of heroes or talks of quirks. She’d become quick to push him toward a different game or topic when before she had always been happy to play along. And maybe the kids at school got meaner, and the teachers had stopped telling Izuku he did a good job when he finished his work first.
But Izuku had still been happy.
True change had come when Hisashi had been reassigned at work, making even his sporadic visits abruptly no longer possible with how he’d been transferred to a new branch somewhere on the American East Coast.
With Izuku in school full-time and Hisashi no longer prone to arriving home unannounced to stay for weeks at a time, little time had passed before Inko had found a job to keep her occupied.
At first, it had hardly impacted Izuku. Inko was always home when he arrived back from school, there to greet him with a smile and a snack and to listen to him ramble about his day. They’d spent time together like they always had, playing games or watching movies, or with Inko laughing as she danced around the kitchen while Izuku perched on his step stool and insisted she teach him how to cook so he could help her with dinner.
But slowly, as the months wore on, she’d been gone more and more, taking on more hours and bigger projects, things that kept her moving and busy and out of the house. She’d had less time for Izuku’s whims, for his rambles. Less time for him in general. For the hero and quirk-obsessed son she’d struggled to connect with like she once had.
Izuku’s contact with Hisashi was also reduced to long rambling emails on both sides, their time zones never seeming to line up well enough for phone calls anymore, and the bulging care packages that the man sent Izuku like clockwork once a month.
Eventually, coming home to an empty apartment day after day had meant that, for the first time in his life, Izuku had been truly lonely.
In response, Izuku had thrown himself into his analysis, into his dream of becoming a hero, into any and every topic that caught his attention for even a split second.
Anything to distract himself from the quiet that had pressed in around him from all sides.
~~~
When he was eleven or so Izuku had gotten curious as to what, exactly, it was his dad did for work, the answer of “acquisitions” no longer enough to satisfy his curiosity.
So Izuku had gone digging.
Only what he’d found, the tangled web that Izuku had uncovered, had been … odd.
Mugen Corp, the name Izuku remembered being on Hisashi’s business cards when he was small, ended up being little more than a shell company that led Izuku to another shell company. It had taken Izuku days to trace the lines back from company to bank to non-profit to hotel to a different company, and so on and so forth.
When he had finally exhausted his still-developing computer skills, Izuku had been left with nothing but more questions than he’d started with.
So he’d done the only thing he could think to do.
Izuku had compiled everything he had found into one massive, sprawling document, attached it to an email whose subject line read only ??? and sent it to Hisashi.
Ten minutes later his phone had rung, screen lighting up with a number that hadn’t called him in literal years.
“You are too clever by half, little prince,” Hisashi had rasped down the line, voice ragged and rough in a way so different from the deep smoothness Izuku had just barely remembered. “As expected.”
He’d dismissed Izuku’s concerns about how bad he’d sounded as being fresh off battling a terrible cold.
Or, in Hisashi’s characteristically dramatic words, “I was bitten by a rather nasty American-brand bug determined to bring me low. And yet I prevail, healing and ultimately undeterred by the parasite."
Izuku might have inherited his tear ducts from Inko, but as his mother had always liked to remind him, Hisashi had always been the theatrical one in the family.
“You remind me so much of your uncle,” Hisashi had eventually said. The abrupt mention of the long-dead younger brother Hisashi never talked about had startled Izuku. “I would rather not make the same mistakes with you as I did with him. Perhaps when you are older, I will explain it all to you in full, little prince. For now, let it be.”
Izuku had understood an order when he had heard one, so he had forced himself to let the subject go.
At least openly.
Privately, Izuku had been sure that the job of “acquisitions” and the string of shell companies were likely double-speak and evasive actions set in place to hide Hisashi’s involvement in some kind of secret government work.
The alternative, the darker, much more unsettling option, didn’t bear thinking of.
Especially with the way that email and all the information Izuku had painstakingly compiled had disappeared from his account and computer, as if none of it had ever existed.
But Hisashi had also doubled Izuku’s allowance and started sending him even more advanced books and projects in his care packages after that call.
So, in the end, Izuku had ended up with plenty of other ways to keep himself entertained beyond his father’s shady employment.
~~~
Time had passed.
Izuku, long used to being lonely by that point, had kept moving forward as best he could.
He’d gone to school, done his homework, chased hero fights and kept the apartment clean. Between cooking his own meals and learning how to patch his own clothes and his own wounds, Izuku had found a certain sort of peace with the emptiness he’d found himself living in the middle of.
Had learned to focus on the joy he felt on the rare occasions his and Inko’s paths crossed, choosing to place her in the same category as his father.
Someone he loved and who loved him, but who could not, would not, stay.
Izuku had learned to be content.
But then …
The underpass.
The smothering slide of slime down Izuku’s throat and around his body, a wave of muck stealing the light and the air from him like the rising of a vicious tide.
And then…
All Might.
Afterward, once his the hero had said his piece and left Izuku standing alone on that rooftop, tattered around the edges and fracturing deep inside, Izuku had felt a certain sort of steadiness blossom to life inside of him.
Walking off the edge of that building had seemed like the only logical next step.
Good advice finally followed.
~~~
And yet…
As in many other areas of Izuku’s life, what he had wanted wasn’t what was meant to be.
~~~
Izuku had stepped off that rooftop intending to write his own ending, to remove himself from the board, to finally greet that long goodnight with open arms.
But …
He was caught long before he would have hit the ground.
Not by All Might, who had a sudden change of heart and returned in the nick of time, or by some valiant hero who just so happened to be passing by.
No.
Instead, Izuku's unexpected savior was a window washer’s platform a few stories down.
The wrong kind of sudden end to the leap of broken faith that Izuku had taken.
Izuku had lain there for what had felt like a burning eternity, limbs a twisted tangle and bright sunbursts of agony lighting up every part of him. Blood was thick and heavy in his mouth, and the sky above him was so blue but growing dark around the edges.
The poor worker whose day he had ruined had screamed and cried and frantically called for help even as she had rushed the damaged platform to the ground.
The last thing Izuku had remembered was the pinging ring that had echoed in his ears, like a chisel striking stone.
~~~
Izuku had woken up days later to agony and an empty hospital room.
With broken ribs, a punctured lung, fractures through both legs, his collarbone, and his pelvis, as well as a fractured cheek, various burns, and the beginning stages of an aggressive infection, Izuku had been a patchwork creature of pain.
According to the stern-faced doctor who’d eventually arrived in his room, Izuku’s heart had stopped beating twice before they’d managed to stabilize him.
Izuku had been, according to all metrics except his own, extremely lucky to be alive.
He had spent a long time slipping in and out of consciousness, drifting up and down on the waves of the medication he was given and the sheer exhaustion that came hand in hand with being so injured.
Izuku had a few hazy memories of Inko coming and going, but his hospital room was always empty whenever he was lucid for any real length of time.
But what had struck him the most had been the way that, even once he was awake and aware enough, no one had asked him any questions about what happened.
The implications of that, the horrible things it said about so many things, had just made Izuku all the more uninterested in engaging with anything or anyone again.
Why bother?
~~~
It was only a month or so into Izuku’s new life of blank walls and a quiet mind, that anything had changed.
Inko had unexpectedly bustled into his room one afternoon, arms full of a massive box.
“Oh baby,” Inko had cooed, placing the box down on one of the chairs with a huff before bustling to Izuku’s bedside. She’d run her hand gently through his hair and bussed a quick kiss against his uninjured cheek. “It’s so good to see you awake.”
Izuku had just blinked up at her silently.
“Your father’s package arrived this morning, so I figured I’d bring it by,” Inko had continued on, turning to rearrange his bedside table before she’d picked up the box and relocated it there. “Well, half of it, he sent so much this month that the other box is still at home. This one was almost too big to bring at all! But I know how much you love the things Hisashi sends you, so maybe this will be just the pick-me-up you need to get back on your feet.”
Inko had pried the tape off the box with a clever application of her quirk and then set to unpacking it.
There had been books of course, everything from textbooks to the mystery novels they both liked to read just to guess the end of, and a fresh stack of leatherbound journals with removable pages for Izuku’s completed analysis. An indulgence Hisashi insisted he pour his completed profiles into, unlike the cheap notebooks Izuku took his field notes in. There were a few bags of various American candies that Izuku and Hisashi both enjoyed, and a few they’d talked about wanting to try together.
There was even a stack of the mislabeled t-shirts they’d both discovered when Izuku was little carefully folded inside.
Inko had despaired of them for it, but Izuku had fallen in love with the shirts at first sight. In an act of solidarity, Hisashi always wore one as well on the rare occasions Izuku remembered seeing him out of a suit. They used to try to match with shirts labeled as complementary objects whenever possible, a small thing that had always made all three of them smile.
“Oh,” Inko had sounded less than enthused about the next item in the box. “M-Maybe not this one.”
That alone had been enough to catch Izuku’s actual attention.
It was a build-your-own-hero kit, one of the large, more complex ones, complete with multiple colored bricks of modeling clay. An unusual choice overall because, as Hisashi well knew, Izuku’s artistic interests had always leaned more toward figure sketches and technical diagrams related to his analysis.
Inko had stared down at the kit for a moment before she had placed it gently on the bed at Izuku’s hip.
“I didn’t tell him about your … accident,” Inko had confessed in a low murmur. “You know how he worries, how … intense Hisashi can get so I just … told him you were sick. I-It seemed like the best way to handle things. You understand, don’t you, baby?”
Izuku hadn’t answered her.
There hadn’t really been anything to say.
She hadn’t stayed long after that, bustling back out of his room with the promise to come back as soon as she could.
But, with some small spark of interest sputtering to life inside of him, Izuku had used his good hand to pry the kit open after she’d left.
He had spent the rest of the afternoon smushing the yellow brick of clay into various shapes between his shaking fingers.
That night, Izuku had tapped out a reply to his father’s latest email with the new phone he’d found waiting for him on his bedside table.
~~~
Recovery had been slow.
Izuku, still drifting, had done his physical therapy like it was a chore instead of a chance to get back up on his feet
But, roughly three months in, thanks to the convenient application of a few quirks on staff that he’d been surprised had been wasted on him at all, Izuku had been ready to go home.
Not completely healed, his limp was determined to stick around for a few months more at least, but well enough to no longer need dedicated care.
Inko had kept close for a little while, had hovered over him like she used to when he was younger, but it hadn’t lasted all that long.
Two weeks in and with Izuku’s new online schooling secured, she’d been back to working the hours she’d kept for years now, filling her days with projects and people Izuku didn’t know.
Izuku, left alone once again, had just … existed.
His analysis went untouched, hero news unwatched, and his research textbooks unread. An entire corner of his bedroom was taken over by unopened care packages.
None of it had moved him, called to him, been able to break through the fog of ennui that had eaten him alive the moment he’d failed to die.
The only thing he had done was strip his room of any All Might-related merch, relocating the boxes to the back of his closet. Out of sight, even if that day was never really out of his mind.
Izuku had thought briefly, at odd hours during extra empty moments, about trying again.
Had absently daydreamed about picking a different method or finding a higher building whose windows were already clean.
But …
Somehow, actively trying again had seemed like too much work when he’d already failed so spectacularly once.
Instead, Izuku had done his school work out of duty and he had answered Hisashi’s emails out of habit and the foggy memory of the joy and comfort they had once given him.
All the while, Izuku had fiddled with those various bricks of clay that he’d hung onto after his physical therapist had made a passing remark about it being a good tool for recovering range of motion in his hand.
Then one day, the brick of white clay in hand, Izuku had found himself wandering into the kitchen in search of a cooking skewer. The detailing he had wanted to do had required a finer point than he could achieve by hand.
It wasn’t until Izuku had found himself staring down at a little clay model of what was obviously supposed to be the Intelli Hero: Nedzu, that he had realized what he’d done.
Realized that his aimless fidgeting had, for some reason, taken an actual form.
It wasn’t until later, the Nedzu figure complete and sporting its own little vest out of black clay, that Izuku had made the connection.
UA’s entrance exams had happened that day, and even if Izuku had been drifting for months now, a part of him had never actually stopped tracking the time.
A part of him, buried deep beneath the fog and the pain, had still held out the smallest bit of, if not hope, then yearning for what could have been.
If the world had been kinder.
If Izuku had been better.
If, if, if …
For a brief moment, Izuku had considered smashing the little figure. Had thought about opening his bedroom window and hurling it out into the night so it could fall and smash against the ground like he’d once tried to do.
Instead, he’d ended up researching how to harden modeling clay.
By the next morning his little clay Nedzu had been granted pride of place on the shelf where Izuku’s All Might figurines used to sit.
~~~
Things had snowballed from there.
Because the thing was, the Nedzu figure just … wasn’t right.
It had been off somehow in a way that had itched painfully at Izuku’s brain.
So he had tried again.
And then again.
White clay, black clay, orange clay.
A tail, rounded ears, a smart black vest, and orange high-top shoes.
Izuku had kept trying, had kept adding details until he’d had a small army of little Nedzu figures that were all just … wrong.
Eventually, he had run out of the correctly colored clays.
But that itch …
That itch had stayed.
For the first time since that day on that rooftop, Izuku was hit with the urge to know.
To look at the puzzle before him and figure his way around it.
So that’s exactly what he had done.
~~~
Researching, deep diving into a subject with a single-minded kind of attention and determination, had felt a lot like coming home.
Izuku had started with techniques.
Logic had told him that he needed to know more about the how of what he was attempting to do before he could move on to the actual act of creation.
Carving, casting, modeling, and assembling.
Izuku had spent days reading up and researching, watching videos and reading books and articles. He’d dived deeper and deeper into subsections and specialized techniques.
Then it was the materials and tools.
Wood and clay, paper and metal, scalpels and spatulas, wheels and loops, sponges and wire.
On and on he had looked and researched, learning about the different types, the brands, the sizes, the advantages and disadvantages of each.
Then he’d put his unspent allowances to use.
Box after box had arrived for him day after day.
Everything from crates of clay to sharp-tipped needle tools and gleaming-edged scalpels that he had found himself staring at and spinning between his fingers for far too long.
But Izuku had shaken those thoughts off, had tucked them away with the reassurance he could revisit them later, because in that moment he’d had something much more important to do.
Instead, Izuku had opened up his new sketchbook, picked up one of his new Mono 100 pencils, and set about attempting to put his vision to paper.
But, no matter how many pages Izuku used, no matter what pose he attempted, it still wasn’t right.
His sketches of Nedzu were all too flat.
Technically correct but lifeless somehow in a way that made Izuku sure they were unworthy of even attempting to give form.
Looking at those sketches, Izuku had simply known that if he had tried, if he had put hands and blade to clay based on what he had drawn, then the end product would have been … painful.
And for all that high ledges and bright edges had still held so much appeal for Izuku, pain had never been one of his goals. Not really.
So, stuck, Izuku had done something that he hadn’t wanted or needed to do for almost a year by that point.
He’d made his way toward his crowded bookshelf and pulled down one of his thick, leather-bound analysis books.
A few moments spent paging through number nine had netted him what he’d been looking for.
The chapter he’d written on Nedzu.
Beyond a detailing of his public history and a rundown of his quirk, the chapter had contained Izuku’s standard finalized profile for a hero he’d written about. Which, of course, covered everything from Nedzu’s known and discovered affiliates to his preferred hero gear/costume and Izuku’s personal conclusions as to Nedzu’s origins.
Holding that journal in his hands, staring down at the breakdown he’d written of the hero, Izuku had known, with a solid sort of certainty, that he was on the right track.
Close but not quite there yet.
So Izuku had made his way back to his desk, journal in hand, pulled his Nedzu sketchbook closer, and set about finding the rest.
Nedzu’s public appearances were almost always chaotic in some fashion. From his various court cases and lawsuits against the government to the few public villain captures he’d openly taken part in.
But Izuku had rewatched them all.
He had wanted, needed, to get a better, fresher vision for how Nedzu moved. How he existed in the space around him, how he forced the world to interact with him in turn.
Days and multiple viewings later, half the sketchbook littered with detailed sketches of paws, suits, the way Nedzu’s muzzle curled up just so on the right side when faced with a particularly foolish question by a reporter, Izuku had felt ready.
He had turned to a fresh page in the sketchbook, put pencil to paper, and began again.
Hours later, Izuku had sat back, shoulders aching and hands covered in smudges, and had known that he had finally gotten it right.
~~~
With his fleshed-out, detailed vision of Nedzu settled in his heart and on the page, it had been almost startling how quickly, how easily, Izuku’s hands had taken to the clay.
It had been almost as if, once Nedzu truly lived and breathed in Izuku’s mind, his hands could not wait to give him an actual form.
Nedzu had taken form beneath Izuku’s hands and blades as if the clay itself had known what shape it had been meant to take.
Who it had always been meant to be.
Entire mind and body locked in, Izuku had worked until his hands had cramped and his eyes had ached, determined to get every detail just right.
He had not stopped, had not been willing or really able to stop, until it was completed.
Then he had simply dropped his tools, staggered to his bed, and passed out.
~~~
The next afternoon, Izuku had finally woken up, body aching, and been lucid enough to truly take in what he had created.
For a split second, his breath had caught in his chest and his heart had skipped a beat.
Because sitting on Izuku’s desk, looking like he might blink at any second, had been Nedzu in miniature.
Even without the proper paints applied, even with days left to go on the drying process, the sculpture had looked so alive.
Standing at a meticulously measured 1/4th scale, Izuku had sculpted Nedzu as he’d lived in his heart and mind.
As Izuku had somehow known he should be seen.
~~~
Three days later, once he was completely sure it was dry, Izuku had boxed his creation up with careful, steady hands, and set out.
An hour and two separate bus changes later, Izuku had arrived.
Kitagawa Pottery rented kiln space and Izuku had paid double to secure a rush slot.
The man who greeted him when he walked in, arms splattered with clay and paint, his fox ears perked up and his tail swaying behind him, had been nice enough. Friendly but absent-minded as he’d wandered to and from a pottery wheel, chattering at Izuku the entire time as they’d set things up.
“It’ll take at least an hour for your first round,” Kitagawa had said, barely looking up from his own wheel once Izuku had settled his creation inside the kiln.
“I-I thought it took longer than that?” Izuku had asked. He’d been reluctantly prepared to leave his creation behind, resigned to waiting days for it to be properly fired before he could paint it, glaze it, and then fire it again.
“Normally,” Kitagawa had agreed, one hand coming up to show off the flare of ghostly blue flame that had settled in his palm. “Quirk helps though. Feel free to linger in the studio or, if you’d rather leave, there’s a nice little cafe a few doors down.”
Izuku, torn between wanting to stay and guard the kiln and the anxiety that came with being alone with a stranger, had fled the studio and quickly found himself settled in the cafe, staring at the time on his phone.
Time had crawled by and Izuku had ended up back at the studio, lingering by the door and ignoring Kitagawa’s curious glances, when there were still roughly fifteen minutes left of his wait.
But seeing his creation being pulled from the kiln?
Made it all worthwhile.
Kitagawa had taken one real look at the sculpture and turned to Izuku, an awakened sort of interest in his eyes.
“How long have you been sculpting?” He had asked.
“I-I made a few things with modeling clay first,” Izuku had answered, trying not to think of the army of mini-Nedzu that haunted his shelf. “This is my first real p-piece?”
Kitagawa had stared longer, harder.
“You intend to add color?” He’d asked abruptly, turning toward one of the tables in the studio that was covered in a mess of mugs and newspapers.
“Y-Yes,” Izuku had admitted. He’d regretted not having his paints on him right then and there, having left them behind under the assumption it would be days before he needed them.
“You paid extra,” Kitagawa had continued as he worked to clear the table. “I’d be happy to provide you with whatever you need to finish that piece as long as you’d be willing to do it here. And if you allow me to observe.”
“Y-You want to watch?” Izuku hadn’t been sure how to take that.
“This is an art studio,” Kitagawa had waved a paint-water-filled cup in his direction as he’d moved towards the sink in the back to deposit his armload. “Is it really so strange that I would be interested in watching a young new artist at his craft?”
“I’m not an artist though?” Izuku had felt the need to point out the obvious.
Because he wasn’t.
That sculpture wasn’t made out of some sort of-of artistic urge for Izuku.
That was just an unexpected, and likely momentary, distraction from the emptiness of his life.
He wasn’t going to end up with like a-a ponytail or piercings or something and spend his days standing barefoot in some clay and paint-splattered studio creating things under some mysterious pseudonym, or however it was that actual artists like Kitagawa lived and worked.
All of it, the sudden obsession, the frantic buying of clay and tools, the research and the desperate itching drive to get it perfect?
That wasn’t art.
That was just the way Izuku had always been.
Investing in things too much, too hard, too quickly. Latching on to anything that sparks interest and running full tilt toward it.
Things like quirks and puzzles, like analysis and heroes and Ka- people who do not and will never like him back.
That wasn’t art.
That was just … Izuku.
A special sort of tunnel vision running at Mach 10.
“Sure, kid,” Kitagawa had just snorted. “Either way, the offer still stands.”
For all of Izuku’s mistrust and misgivings, he’d forced himself to stop and really consider Kitagawa’s offer.
Yes, it had meant spending time with a stranger, but … it had also meant getting his creation finished quicker and likely better.
Besides, it wasn’t like Kitagawa had been a threat to Izuku.
Or, to be more accurate, it wasn’t like Izuku had actually cared if he was.
“Deal,” Izuku had found himself agreeing.
~~~
At first, working with Kitagawa watching his every move had been difficult for Izuku.
Focused attention from anyone besides his parents had never meant anything good for Izuku in the past. Despite his new ambivalence toward himself, shying away from that kind of attention had been a hard habit to break.
But, after a while, Izuku had relaxed into the situation, attention eaten up by far more important things.
Mixing paints to get the exact shade he needed.
Sorting through brushes to find the right size.
Meticulously gliding color and life across and into the clay, one brushstroke at a time.
~~~
“Not an artist my ass, kid,” Kitagawa had murmured once they’d pulled Izuku’s creation from the kiln for the final time.
Izuku still hadn’t agreed, but standing there staring at the completed version of what he’d made, Izuku had almost been able to see where Kitagawa was coming from.
Black suit crisp, orange sneakered feet seemingly caught in mid-swing, and his paws cupped around the curves of the chair’s arms with his claws clearly visible, Nedzu sat perched upon his own violet and gold Chrysanthemum Throne.
Ears pricked up, face angled just a bit so that his scar was on display, Nedzu stared forward with an unrelenting, unforgiving sort of directness.
A mastermind settled comfortably, unashamedly, smugly upon the seat of power for the kingdom he had built himself.
A self-made emperor upon his claw-carved throne.
Just like that, Izuku had known exactly what he would call it.
What it wanted to be named.
“Sovereign,” Izuku had murmured to himself, to the world, to the Nedzu who stared back at him.
Izuku had felt abruptly exhausted after that, wrung out, shoulders slumping, hands and eyes aching from the time he’d spent so focused.
But also satisfied somehow, almost peaceful even.
“You look dead on your feet, kid,” Kitagawa had murmured, moving to pack the sculpture up with careful hands. “Go home, get some rest.”
Dazed, Izuku had accepted the crate from Kitagawa, given the man a shallow nodding bow, and stumbled toward the studio door.
“Come back when you’re ready to admit you’re an artist,” Kitagawa had called after him.
Izuku had made his way out of the studio with no real intention of ever returning.
He’d completed what he’d set out to make, there was no reason for him to come back.
Izuku was not, after all, actually an artist.
No matter what Kitagawa said or thought.
~~~
And yet …
~~~
Izuku had ridden the high of completing Sovereign for almost two entire weeks.
Two weeks of living without the dull, foggy listlessness that had haunted him for months on end.
He had finally gotten around to opening the care packages that were taking over the corner of his bedroom and the emails he’d exchanged with Hisashi had been livelier than they had been in months. He had even gotten the chance to cook dinner for him and Inko and actually eat it with her for once.
Izuku had gotten two weeks of feeling almost … normal.
Which was why, when the crash finally came, it had hit Izuku with the force of a speeding train.
The thick grey fog of it all had dragged Izuku back down and under so deep and fast that not even staring at Sovereign could erase its hold on him.
Unmoored once more, Izuku had spent days just drifting.
~~~
Izuku had caught himself staring at sharp edges and long falls again.
Had somehow managed to catch the wistful tint to his own thoughts whenever his hands traced over the handles of his sculpting tools.
The way he hadn’t been able to help but admire the gleam of the kitchen knives whenever he bothered to cook.
~~~
Izuku had known then that he had a choice.
That he had, once more, reached a crossroads in his life.
In one direction stood a tall building and a long fall.
But down the other …
~~~
Mirko’s musculature truly was fascinating.
The way she’d turned the advantages her quirk had gifted, which most assumed was a simple rabbit mutation but Izuku knew was much more hare, into a style that floated between breathtaking grace and biting brutality was glorious.
Pencil in hand and journal number eleven at his side, Izuku had immediately decided that an action pose of some sort was the only way to truly do her justice.
~~~
“Knew you’d be back,” Kitagawa had grinned when Izuku had slinked into the studio a month later, an even larger crate than before cradled carefully in his arms.
“Still not an artist,” Izuku had huffed back, too tired to care about being polite.
“So you keep lying,” Kitagawa had grinned as he’d cheerfully waved him toward the kiln.
~~~
That had officially been the beginning of Izuku’s new life.
He would spend days and weeks researching a subject, sketching things out, and then sculpting his pieces, both big and small, before he would head to Kitagawa’s.
Then, once each piece was finished, he’d spend weeks riding the high before he’d inevitably crash.
Then the process would start all over again.
But when Izuku was buried in his research or was wrist deep in clay, life felt less heavy and tall buildings looked less inviting.
And that change, that relief, had been worth more to Izuku than he had ever thought it could.
~~~
Kitagawa had remained kind throughout it all. He had never once asked Izuku about his quirk or his friends and family. Instead, he had just … welcomed Izuku into his studio and his life, offering Izuku everything from kiln space to work space for reduced prices, the more and more Izuku came by.
Eventually, once Izuku’s shelves at home were full, Kitagawa had huffed, tossed Izuku a key to the studio, and told him to move some of his older pieces to some of the shelves in the back.
In his softer, quieter moments, Izuku hadn’t been able to help thinking that Kitagawa might be what having an older brother felt like.
~~~
Then, a few days before Izuku’s seventeenth birthday, Kitagawa had pulled the rug out from beneath him.
“Hey kid,” Kitagawa had reached out to tug playfully at the end of Izuku’s stubby ponytail, “we need to have a talk.”
Izuku, halfway through unpacking his newest piece, a dynamic Selkie figure that had driven him into taking an actual in-person trip to the aquarium to complete, had frozen.
“Don’t look so terrified,” Kitagawa had huffed. “It’s nothing bad.”
Izuku had forced himself to take a deep breath, to finish unboxing his piece and take it to the kiln, before he’d settled in his chair and given Kitagawa his full attention.
“I know you’re still on that whole 'I’m not a real artist' kick of yours for some reason,” Kitagawa had started. “But about half of my studio shelving space is your work these days, kid, and people are asking questions. Have been for a long time, to be honest. But I’m getting tired of having to say the same thing over and over again when asked about it.”
“I could rent a storage unit?” Izuku had offered, mind automatically riffling through the streets between the studio and his apartment to see what might be available. Hisashi had only gotten more extravagant with Izuku’s allowance over the years, and Izuku only really ever spent it on food, art supplies, and research materials at this point, so a modest storage unit was more than doable.
“Or!” Kitagawa had tossed a ball of wadded-up newspaper at him, “you can finally take me up on that offer to set up a site for you.”
Izuku had frozen.
“Look, Izuku,” Kitagawa had been so serious all of a sudden, leaning forward in his chair toward Izuku. “You were in a bad way when you first came here. I never asked, and I never will unless you want me to, but it was obvious. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t fight you all that hard about you being an artist. But you’re doing better now, kid, a lot better. Less like you’re gonna shake apart at the seams. So I think it’s time for you to take the next step.”
“I-” Izuku had tried to speak up, but Kitagawa had steamrolled over him.
“We’ve already got a photo catalog of all your pieces, so that’s not an issue. I’ll help you with the pricing because I don’t trust you to charge what you’re worth.” Kitagawa had said. “And I’ve been backlogging paperwork for copyrights and licenses since the moment I let you have shelf space here. All you have to do is give me a name, and I’ve got a friend who can have the paperwork fast-tracked and a fully functional site up for you with related social media accounts in forty-eight hours. Hell, I’ve talked about you enough that she probably has one already half finished as is.”
“How do you even know anyone is going to want my stuff?” Izuku had been compelled to ask.
“Please,” Kitagawa had huffed exasperatedly. “Every single time someone comes into the studio I have to tell them that your stuff isn’t for sale. Yes, even the non-hero-related things. Hell, I’ve had one guy in here every week for the past six months drooling over that collection of pieces you did on street food. So trust me, buyers are not going to be a problem for you.”
Izuku had been torn.
“Kid,” Kitagawa had reached out and laid a careful, paint-stained hand on Izuku’s forearm. “You are an artist. Trust me on this. It’s time you let me help you get the recognition you deserve.”
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Izuku had nodded.
~~~
Dekiru Art and all of its associated social media accounts had gone live two days before Izuku’s seventeenth birthday.
In an almost poetic twist of fate, within half an hour of the site going live for buyers, Izuku’s very first piece had sold despite the absolutely eye-watering price tag Kitagawa had attached to it.
Kitagawa had crowed in triumph and then helped a dazed Izuku carefully package Sovereign for shipping.
~~~
Just like that, Izuku had been forced to admit that somehow, some way, he really was an artist.
He’d even had the beginnings of the ponytail to prove it.
~~~
Izuku had thought that would be the only massive, unexpected change in his life.
Had thought that people liking his work and being willing to pay exorbitant prices for something Izuku had started as a shaky sort of accidental self-preservation was as surprising as it all could possibly get by that point.
He had been wrong.
Because at eighteen, Izuku had stumbled upon Eraserhead.
And he had fallen deeply, madly, in love.