Archive of Our Own

Izuku had slept in one of Hawks’s spare rooms during his time away from UA. The space had been so neat that it had felt impersonal, as if it had never really been lived in. The bed was made too perfectly with fitted sheets over a matching bed spread. The shelves were bare. The walls didn’t carry voices or laughter or the weight of people moving through them. At night, the quiet pressed in until his skin felt too tight, until even the sound of his own breathing felt intrusive.

And, every night, he told himself he would rest. But he mostly just ended up clawing his way out of another nightmare. 

They were always clear enough that he knew what they were about, usually catching only caught fragments before they dragged him under. Faces blurred by smoke. Hands reaching for him, slipping away the moment he closed his fingers. Voices calling his name, breaking apart before he could answer. Sometimes it was screaming. Sometimes it was silence so deep it hurt his ears and he woke up panicking because he couldn't feel anything.

But more often than not, he saw death. He felt the presence of the reaper over his shoulder, and each time he saw someone dead. Often being Katsuki, impaled by rivet stab, sometimes Aizawa, and other times just chaos.

The ground never let him run.

He would try regardless. His legs moved but didn’t go anywhere, like the world had decided he wasn’t allowed to follow. The air grew heavy in his lungs. The pressure built until it felt like his chest might crack open.

Sometimes One For All reacted before he did.

In the dreams, it twisted through his body like it was trying to protect him. Black whip snapped out blindly, lashing at shadows that never stayed solid. Often, it wrapped around him instead, tightening before he could stop it. He always woke up—gasping, heart racing, hands fumbling as he realized what was happening.

More than once, he woke up with the whip coiled too close to his throat.

It never hurt him. Not usually. But the shock of it, of realizing how easily it could, left him shaking every time. He dissolved it as fast as he could, sitting there in the dark with his hands pressed to his neck, waiting for his breathing to steady.

Other nights, it wasn’t his quirk that woke him.

It was the sting in his palms and the wetness on his arms.

He must have pressed his nails into them again while fighting whatever his mind had created. Crescent marks bloomed red against his skin. Sometimes he noticed faint breaks where he had scratched too hard. He never looked for long. He didn’t want to know how much force he’d used just to stay anchored to himself.

He told himself it was fine.

Heroes had worse nightmares. Heroes woke up injured and went back out anyway. Heroes didn’t need someone to sit with them in the dark or check if they were still breathing right. Heroes handled it.

And he was supposed to be a hero.

The pros moved through the halls outside his room every day. Their voices were brisk, always on the next report, the next plan, the next problem that needed solving… which jailbreaker to drag back to makeshift prisons or theories about where All For One was recuperating. No one stopped to ask if he had slept. No one knocked on his door at night. And Izuku told himself he didn’t mind.

Most of the time, he believed it.

But sometimes, when the room felt especially empty, he caught himself wishing someone would pause. Just for a second. Just long enough to ask a simple question like, 'Are you alright?'

The thought always came with guilt close behind.

He didn’t deserve that kind of attention. Not when the city was still burning in places. Not when people were displaced and hurt and afraid. Wanting comfort felt selfish. Wanting anything felt like he was taking up space he hadn’t earned.

He remembered the last time someone had tried.

All Might had stood close, hand resting on Izuku’s shoulder, his voice careful as he asked how Izuku was coping. Izuku hadn’t meant to pull away. He hadn’t meant for his answers to come out sharp and clipped. After weeks on his own, he didn’t know how to accept someone reaching out.

But the look on All Might’s face, concern, something quietly wounded, stayed with him longer and plagued his mind whenever anyone else came close to asking him.

Other days, with the curtains barely stirring in the night air, Izuku sat awake more often than he slept. He stared at the ceiling until dawn, listening to his own breathing, counting it, controlling it. It felt like the only thing left that he could manage on his own.

Sometimes he whispered to himself that tomorrow would be better.

He missed his friends more than he let himself admit. He missed the noise, the way they talked to him without weighing every word, the way they filled silence without meaning to. He missed knowing he wasn’t something fragile tucked away in a spare corner, waiting for the right moment to be useful again.

He didn’t let himself think about that for long.

Wanting made the nights harder. Wanting made the dreams worse as the scale tipped with more stake. 

Still, when exhaustion finally dragged him under, the nightmares came back like they always did. And he woke the same way every time—half tangled in his own power, breath uneven, chest tight, the room too quiet to feel real.

And in the moments before morning, when the sky was still dark and empty, Izuku wondered how long he could keep telling himself this was fine before it stopped being true.

Izuku didn’t remember when he moved to the common room after 1A had dragged him back to UA. One moment he was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at the bed like it was something dangerous, and the next he was curled on the couch with a few pillows pulled tight to his chest. He only knew he couldn’t stay in there. The walls had felt too close, the dark too heavy, pressing in on him until his skin crawled.

He tried to sleep regardless given that he was exhausted, and had been catching little naps whenever he could. And the moment he felt his body submerge underneath the guise of sleep, a dream dragged him under almost immediately.

Voices overlapped in a rush, too many to separate. Hands closed around his arms and shoulders, pinning him in place. Black whip flared out of his wrists, snapping through empty air because he couldn’t tell what was real. Someone was shouting his name. Someone else was laughing.

Then Shigaraki was there, just like before.

He stood far too close, pale fingers brushing Izuku’s cheek with a familiarity that made his stomach twist. You can’t save everyone, his voice crooned, echoing from the USJ, from the dark corridor when they'd tried to infiltrate the hospital, from every place Izuku had ever felt too small. Izuku tried to move. He couldn’t. His body locked up, heavy and useless, just like it had that first time, watching his classmates scattered and bleeding while he froze.

“All Might isn’t coming. You killed him, remember?” Shigaraki whispered.

Izuku woke with a sound caught in his throat, half-sob, half-scream. His heart slammed against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and for a moment he couldn’t tell where he was. He dragged in a breath that burned on the way down and pulled his knees to his chest, curling in on himself like that might keep him together.

The room spun slowly back into place. The green couch. The dim light from the hallway. The quiet hum of the dorms at rest. His palms ached where his nails had dug in, but he didn’t dare look at them. If he did, it would make everything real again.

Soft footsteps reached him. He peeked up and saw as Tsuyu appeared at the edge of the room, her eyes softening as she took him in. “Izuku-chan,” she said, voice low.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically. His voice cracked a bit. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Sorry if I woke you.”

Tsuyu came to sit beside him. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she held out her hand. “You can hold my hand and sleep, Izuku-chan.”

His face grew warm. He quickly fumbled his hand as he tried to decline. “I mean, I don’t— it’s not— I can sleep, really—”

She looked at him with a flat expression that made his words fall apart.

He sighed, tired all the way through. He placed his right hand in her left and leaned back onto the pillows. Her hand was warm. Her heartbeat was steady and close enough for him to feel through her wrist. It pushed the leftover fear out of his chest in slow waves. 

His eyes drifted shut. At some point his head rested on her shoulder, and she didn’t move away. He felt safe enough to let sleep take him.

When he woke, sunlight touched the floor in thin lines where the curtains gave away. Someone had put a blanket over him. He pushed himself up, blinking as his thoughts lined up linearly. In the kitchen, Tsuyu and Tokoyami were looking through the cupboards.

Izuku stumbled towards them whilst rubbing at his eyes. Tokoyami glanced back. Dark Shadow rose beside him with a small sigh. “Midoriya, we are often awake at night trying to enhance ourselves. If you need company, we are here.”

Izuku bowed his head a little. “Thank you, Tokoyami-kun. And you too, Dark Shadow.”

Tokoyami waved a hand. “I came to check on you, but Tsuyu-kun was already there.”

Tsuyu looked between them. “He is lying. He slept on your other side.”

“Hey!” Tokoyami said, feathers bristling.

Izuku smiled before he could stop himself. He stepped close and gave Tokoyami a light side hug, then Tsuyu as well. “Really. Thank you, both of you.”

Tokoyami looked away with a small cough. “Whatever.”

Tsuyu touched her cheek with one finger. “Izuku-chan should come to any of us when he needs to. We care about him.”

Izuku felt something ease in his chest at her words. He smiled again, softer this time.

Present Mic led them to the training grounds. He said that some of them needed a slow return to movement after the discharge, and the class should be nearby in case he needed support. Most of them stayed for a while, but people split off one by one until only Eijiro, Katsuki, and Izuku remained.

Izuku had sparred with Katsuki for a long time. His body ached, not painfully, just enough to tell him he had pushed too hard. Katsuki finally clicked his tongue and threw a glance at Eijiro.

“Oi, I’m done with De—Izuku. Spar with me.”

Eijiro laughed a little and jogged over. “Sure thing, bro.”

Izuku nodded, out of breath, and walked to one of the benches on the side. He sat first, then let his back touch the seat, and then he lay down across it. He didn’t know why. Maybe he wanted to see the ceiling. Maybe he wanted to hear their voices from a different angle.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but for some weird reason, their banter was easing. 

He felt fine, floating, until the ground beneath him opened when the background sound died down. 

Aizawa stood in front of him, close enough that Izuku could see the tired lines under his eye—the other bleeding profusely that Izuku had to close his eyes to avoid tearing up, the way his shoulders slumped like he was already bracing for impact. The air felt wrong, thick, like a storm trapped in his lungs. Somewhere behind him, something shuffled.

Hands grabbed Izuku’s arms. They started with two, then slowly became multiple. 

They locked him in place, fingers digging into muscle and bone. He tried to jerk free and felt them tighten in response, invisible pressure warning him that any resistance would make it worse. Shigaraki’s voice drifted around him, circling, layered over itself, words slipping through Izuku’s head without meaning but full of intent.

Aizawa coughed and blood stained his scarf.

“No,” Izuku tried to say. The sound stayed trapped in his throat. His chest burned, breath shallow and panicked. If he moved, Aizawa would fall. If he fought back, it would only speed things up. He knew this. Dreams were cruel like that, forcing him to choose even when there was no choice at all.

Manual lay crumpled near Aizawa’s feet.

Izuku didn’t remember seeing him fall, only the certainty that he was gone. That knowledge pressed down on him, heavy. He tried to look away and couldn’t. His eyes were fixed forward, forced to watch.

Aizawa’s gaze flicked to him.

For a moment, Izuku thought he might be angry. Instead, Aizawa looked tired. So tired. His mouth moved, like he was saying something, but Izuku couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart. “Run, Problem Child. Get safe.”

The hands on Izuku’s arms tightened.

Shigaraki laughed softly, close to his ear. Izuku could feel the breath, cold and damp. He tried to summon One For All. He felt it spark and stutter, trapped under the weight of the dream, useless. “If you move,” the voice murmured, “he's gone.”

Izuku froze.

Aizawa’s knees buckled. He caught himself on his scarf, shaking, eyes never leaving Izuku’s face. There was no blame there. Only resignation. Like he had already accepted the outcome.

Izuku’s vision blurred.

“I’m sorry,” he thought desperately, the words screaming inside his head. He wanted to tell him he’d get stronger. That he’d be faster next time. That he wouldn’t hesitate again.

Then suddenly the hands were gone. 

Decay spread across the ground in slow, deliberate cracks. It crept toward Aizawa’s boots, inch by inch, as if savoring the moment. Izuku strained against the force holding him, muscles screaming, but the dream refused to let him move.

Aizawa sagged completely.

His scarf slipped from the ashening body.

Izuku’s breath came in sharp, broken pulls. He stared at the place where Aizawa had laid, now just dust, mind screaming for his body to do something, anything.

When his eyes flew open, he wasn’t on the bench the way he remembered slumping down.

He was sitting upright, spine locked straight, fingers clawed into his own palms hard enough to hurt. One For All sparked through him in thin, uneven lines of green, crawling up his arms like static he couldn’t shake. He didn’t remember activating it. He only knew the panic hadn’t fully let go, and his body had decided to fight despite it.

“Midoriya!”

Eijiro’s voice cut through the noise. Hands grabbed his shoulders, solid and warm, keeping him from pitching forward. “Hey—hey, look at me. You’re here. You’re okay.”

Izuku blinked hard, vision swimming. The training grounds swam back into place piece by piece. The cracked concrete caused by years of enduring quirks. The bench. The pale afternoon sky. Eijiro’s face was right there, too close to ignore, worry written all over it in a way that made Izuku’s chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku said immediately, words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean to. I must’ve fallen asleep. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to activate anything, I didn’t want to scare you, I swear—”

“Midoriya, stop.” Eijiro’s grip tightened just a little. His voice stayed soft, but firm. “You were having a nightmare, right?”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to his lap. His hands curled in on themselves like he could hide them there. “I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t important.”

Eijiro didn’t buy it. He shifted closer, knees brushing Izuku’s. “You were crying in your sleep,” he said quietly. “And you weren’t breathing right. You worried me.”

Izuku’s breath hitched painfully at that. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. His face felt hot, tight, and he wiped at his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, fast and clumsy, like he could erase the evidence if he moved quickly enough.

“I just don’t want anyone to worry,” he said, voice starting to fray. “Please don’t tell Kacchan. He already has so much to think about, and he’d get loud and it’d turn into a whole thing and he doesn’t need that and I’m handling it and I’m fine, I promise, I’m fine.”

The words came out in a rush, breathless and desperate.

Eijiro shook his head slowly. “You’re not fine right now.”

Something in Izuku cracked at that.

He tried to pull back, tried to stand, tried to put space between himself and the way Eijiro was looking at him. The pressure behind his eyes burned, and his chest felt too tight, like it couldn’t expand properly. He hated this. Hated how often it happened now. Hated how easily he unraveled.

“Please,” he whispered, the word barely making it out. “Please don’t tell him.”

Black whip lashed out without warning.

It snapped from his arm in a sharp arc, slamming into the ground beside the bench and splitting the concrete with a harsh crack. Izuku gasped, eyes wide as he stared at his own hand, horror flooding through him.

“I—I didn’t mean to—!”

Eijiro reacted instantly. His quirk hardened his skin in a flash, rough texture spreading over his arms as he stepped closer instead of away. Another strand of black whip twitched toward him, shaking like it didn’t know where to go.

“It’s okay,” Eijiro said quickly, reaching out anyway. His hardened hand closed around Izuku’s forearm, firm but careful. “You’re not hurting me. I’ve got you.”

Izuku shook his head, breath breaking. “I can’t control it sometimes,” he said, voice small and shaking. “It just happens when I panic or when I sleep and I wake up like this and I don’t even realize until it’s already—already—”

The black whip tightened briefly around his wrist.

Eijiro didn’t let go. He stepped in and pulled Izuku against his chest, hardened skin taking the brunt of the quirk as he wrapped both arms around him. “Midoriya,” he said, low and steady, “you’re safe. You’re not alone.”

That was it.

Izuku’s body finally gave up the fight. His shoulders caved in, breath breaking into quiet, ugly sobs he couldn’t stop. He clutched at Eijiro’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I can’t sleep,” Izuku admitted, words muffled against Eijiro’s shoulder. “Every time I do, it’s like I’m back there. Everyone’s dying and I can’t move and I wake up already using my quirk or choking or screaming and I don’t want to bother anyone and I don’t want to need help all the time but I don’t know how to make it stop.”

His voice cracked hard. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Eijiro held him tighter. “You won’t,” he said immediately. “And if it happens again, we’ll deal with it together. That’s what friends are for.”

Izuku’s hands trembled where they gripped Eijiro’s shirt. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this,” he whispered. “I keep telling everyone I can handle it. But I don’t think I can. Not like this.”

“That doesn’t make you weak,” Eijiro said. “It means you’ve been carrying too much by yourself.”

The black whip finally dissolved, fading away like it had never been there. Izuku sagged fully into Eijiro’s hold, exhausted in a way that felt deeper than just his body.

They stayed there for a long moment, the training grounds quiet around them. Izuku’s breathing slowly evened out, the shaking easing one breath at a time.

For the first time that day, he didn’t feel like he had to hold everything together by himself.

Tenya had not meant to be out so late.

He preferred discipline. But the meeting with the support course had run long, full of measurements and adjustments and ideas he wanted to refine before presenting them to 1-A. He told himself it was necessary. That speaking to them personally mattered. That the ache in his chest whenever he thought of Izuku returning thin and hollow-eyed to the dorms was not the reason his steps quickened as he entered the building.

By the time he reached the boys’ floor, the lights were dimmed and the hallways were quiet. Too quiet. Tenya slowed, straightening his posture out of habit, and began his usual check. It was something he had started doing without realizing it, ever since he had caught Sero asleep at his desk and Kaminari shaking from exhaustion, both of them convinced they had no right to rest after failing Katsuki when LOV had kidnapped him. Tenya had scolded them then. Firmly. He had told them rest was a responsibility. He repeated that to himself now as he passed Aoyama’s door, then Izuku’s, then Shinsou’s.

He was just about to leave the floor when a crash shattered the silence. Wood splintered. Something hit the floor hard enough to rattle the walls.

Tenya’s engines moved him before his thoughts caught up. He was at Izuku’s door in a breath, hand slamming against the wood, heart pounding so hard it made his ears ring.

“Midoriya, are you okay?” he demanded.

There was no answer. Just breathing. Ragged and uneven. 

Tenya pressed his palm flat against the door, forcing himself not to break it down. He counted under his breath. One. Two. Three. His reflection in the polished surface of the door looked pale, eyes wide behind his glasses. He hated that feeling. Hated waiting. Hated imagining every possible outcome and being unable to stop any of them.

After what felt like far too long, the lock clicked.

The door opened only a fraction. Izuku stood there, hair damp with sweat, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched as if bracing for impact.

“Sorry, Iida-kun,” he said, voice small. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

Tenya exhaled sharply, relief and fear tangling in his chest. He leaned closer, peering past Izuku despite himself. He saw the broken chair first, wood snapped clean through, then the scattered figures on the floor. All Might stared up at the ceiling, arm bent at an angle it should not have been.

“Izuku,” Tenya said, and he hated how soft his voice sounded.

Izuku bit his lower lip. He would not meet Tenya’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he whispered.

Tenya gently pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Izuku flinched, and Tenya noticed it. Noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands curled in on themselves. That alone made something ache in Tenya’s chest. He turned away before Izuku could protest and knelt to gather the mess. He moved without much notion, needing to do something, anything, that was not standing still and watching Izuku shake.

As he picked up the broken pieces of the chair, his gaze caught on Izuku’s arms.

There were marks. Thin, red raised on his forearms of which some had welled a little with blood. Half-moons pressed into skin that looked stretched too tight over bone.

Tenya froze.

“Izuku,” he said again, this time sharper. “Your arms.”

Izuku stiffened. “It’s nothing.”

Tenya stood in a rush, hands hovering uselessly before settling gently around Izuku’s wrists. He did not squeeze. He barely touched. Still, Izuku sucked in a breath like it hurt.

“You did this in your sleep?” Tenya asked, voice low.

Izuku looked away. His shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to.”

Tenya’s chest ached further. He released Izuku’s wrists only to reach for a cloth, dampening it with water from Midoriya’s bottle and pressing it carefully against the marks. He fussed without thinking, scolding himself internally for not noticing sooner, for not insisting on checking on Izuku more often, for letting him disappear and come back like this.

“You are not allowed to dismiss injuries as nothing,” Tenya said.

Izuku did not respond. He just stood there, letting Tenya tend to him, eyes fixed on the floor.

When Tenya finished cleaning up, he set the chair aside and lined the figures up carefully. He turned back with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Izuku stared at him.

Then the door closed behind them, and suddenly Izuku was there, arms locked around Tenya’s torso, grip desperate and tight. It knocked the breath from his lungs.

Tenya startled, then relaxed. He wrapped his arms around Izuku in return. The weight of Izuku against him was grounding, and it felt weirdly welcome. It pulled an old memory from him, of his own smaller hands clutching a uniform, of his brother’s voice murmuring reassurances in the dark as Tenya had hugged him after a nightmare.

“It’s okay,” Tenya said quietly. “I have you.”

They sat down together, Izuku clinging to him like he might disappear if he let go. Izuku ended up half in Tenya’s lap, awkward and unbalanced, but Tenya did not correct him.

“Izuku,” Tenya said after a moment. “You know we would do anything for you, correct?”

Izuku nodded against his chest. “I know, Iida-kun,” he whispered. “I just can’t stop the nightmares.”

Tenya swallowed. “Tokoyami and Asui informed me you slept more peacefully when someone stayed with you.”

Izuku’s face flushed. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

Tenya took Izuku’s hand, holding it firmly. “You can,” he said. “You would do it for us.”

Izuku ducked his head. “But…”

Tenya hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in his chest since Izuku returned. “What happened to you during the days you left us,?”

Izuku went rigid and Tenya felt the shorter boy's grip tightened. “Nothing.”

The word felt like a lie carved into stone.Tenya closed his eyes briefly. “You are allowed to speak,” he said, softer now. “You do not have to carry it alone.”

Izuku said nothing.

Tenya sighed and yawned, exhaustion finally catching up to him. “Very well,” he said. “I will pester you relentlessly tomorrow.”

Izuku shifted, starting to pull away. 

“What are you doing?” Tenya caught his wrist. 

“You said you needed sleep.”

“Yes. Which is why I am sleeping here. I refuse to wake up to you punching a hole through Aoyama’s wall and traumatizing him.”

He ruffled Izuku’s hair, awkward but gentle, and lay back.

Izuku hesitated, then lay down beside him.

“Thank you, Iida-kun,” Izuku whispered.

Tenya patted his head. “You are my best friend,” he said. “I would do this without you asking.”

He felt Izuku press closer, heard a quiet sniffle, and tightened his arm around him.

Tenya stayed awake long after Izuku’s breathing evened out, staring at the ceiling, silently vowing that whatever had happened during those lost days would never be faced alone again.

Izuku woke slowly, consciousness drifting back in pieces.

Something warm was pressed against his chest. Something heavier lay across his legs. There was a sound in his ear, soft and rhythmic and very much not his own breathing. He frowned, eyes fluttering open, and the first thing he registered was Kaminari’s hair in his face and his weight pinning him down, one arm slung over Izuku’s ribs while he snored directly into Izuku’s ear.

Izuku froze.

He did not dare move at first. His heart thudded once, hard, then settled when he realized nothing hurt. Nothing seemed to hurt. 

There was someone else. He could feel it. Another presence close enough that the mattress dipped.

Something hopped near his face.

Izuku blinked and focused just in time to see a small white blur land beside his pillow. A bunny twitched its nose at him, whiskers brushing his cheek.

Oh.

Koda.

Izuku shifted carefully, groggy and slow, until he could see past Tenya’s shoulder and Kaminari’s mess of hair. His breath caught.

Shoji was on the floor beside the bed, sitting upright but asleep, head tilted forward. One of his arms was stretched up, braced against the mattress, steadying Tenya where he had started to slide. Another arm rested loosely over his own knee. He looked like he had simply sat down for a moment and forgotten to leave.

Koda sat on the bed near Izuku’s legs, back against the wall, fast asleep. The bunny had curled closer to Izuku, clearly deciding this was where it belonged.

Izuku stared.

His chest felt as though it was growing tighter all while his vision blurred.

They were all here.

He did not remember inviting them. He did not remember asking. They had just come. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to crowd into his room and make sure he did not wake up alone.

Izuku slowly brought one hand up and curled it around Kaminari’s fingers, holding them close to his chest. Kaminari did not wake. He just shifted, grip tightening slightly as if even asleep he knew where Izuku was.

With his other hand, Izuku reached out to the bunny. He brushed his fingers along its back, gentle. It nibbled at his fingertips once, then settled down, pressing closer.

Izuku swallowed hard.

He did not have words for what he felt. Gratitude was too small. Relief did not reach deep enough. All he knew was that the ache that lived under his ribs had eased, just a little.

He lay there, surrounded and held and guarded, and wondered if there was a world where he could stay like this forever.

Practice had been rough.

Izuku barely remembered most of it, only the burn in his muscles and the way Katsuki had snarled at him when they both bolted for the showers. Somehow Izuku had won. That alone had been enough to set Katsuki off, explosions popping down the hallway as he shouted promises of revenge. Izuku had laughed, breathless, and scrubbed himself clean faster than he ever had before.

When he returned to the common room, he was alone.

The lights were dim, only one lamp left on near the couches. The room felt small in a good way, quiet and warm after the noise of training. Izuku flopped down onto the nearest couch, stretching out on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The fabric smelled faintly like detergent and something sweet he could not place.

He stared at the empty couches around him. Most of the others were still showering or rummaging through the kitchen. Izuku did not feel hungry. His body felt heavy, like it wanted rest more than anything else.

He closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

He was still on the couch, but suddenly he was not. Tomura’s hand was at his throat again, fingers digging in, forcing his head back. He could not look away. Dabi stood in front of him, blue flames roaring, manic laughter echoing as the fire swallowed everything. The dorms. The streets. His classmates.

They were reaching for him.

He tried to reach back.

But the flames surged higher.

Izuku choked. His chest seized. He could not breathe, could not think. Something tight and cruel wrapped around his throat, squeezing harder and harder until panic drowned out everything else.

“Midoriya!?”

The voice cut through the terror like a rope thrown into deep water.

Izuku made a small sound, barely more than a breath of acknowledgement, and suddenly the pressure loosened. His lungs dragged in air, uneven and sharp, his body moving as if someone else was guiding it. In and out. The panic retreated inch by inch until his heart stopped trying to tear its way out of his chest and up his esophagus.

And just as soon as it came, the control vanished.

Izuku blinked blearily.

Hitoshi stood over him, hands hovering near Izuku’s shoulders, eyes wide and frightened. Ojiro rushed in from the side, gripping Izuku gently but firmly, then froze as his gaze dropped to Izuku’s neck.

“Shinsou?” Ojiro asked. “What happened?”

“He triggered his quirk,” Hitoshi said. His voice was tight. “Black whip. I don’t know how, but it wrapped around his throat. He was choking himself in his sleep.”

Sato hurried down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

Ojiro did not answer. He just pointed.

Sero followed Sato, already pulling out his phone. Izuku swallowed and looked down at his hands. Shame crept up his spine, hot and familiar.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, standing up, ready to either run this feeling out in the gym or lock himself up in his room. “Thank you, Shinsou-kun. I should go.”

“Midoriya,” Hitoshi said.

Izuku’s body locked in place.

“Sit down.”

Sato winced. “Shinsou, isn’t that a little unorthodox?”

“If he doesn’t,” Sero said quietly, “Midoriya’s going to run away and pretend this never happened.”

Sero held the phone out. Izuku hesitated, then looked.

Red welts circled his neck, uneven and angry. The marks made his stomach drop.

Ojiro crouched in front of him, tail still. “Please tell us what’s going on with you, Izuku-kun,” he said softly. “Tenya-kun told us about that night. If you’re struggling with control, you can stay with Shinsou. He can help stop your quirk.”

Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands trembled in his lap, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants like he could anchor himself there. “That’s not the problem,” he said. “I mean, it is, but… it’s not just that.”

Sero and Sato sat down on either side of him, close enough that their knees brushed his. Neither of them commented on how rigid his posture was. Sato simply set Izuku’s towel on the table, folded neatly, like this was a normal evening and not the aftermath of something that could have gone much worse.

“We’re here,” Sato said. His voice was calm, but firm in a way that did not allow argument. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Izuku stared at the floor. The carpet blurred. He swallowed once, twice. “When I was with the pros,” he said slowly, each word dragged out like it hurt to let go of, “no one really checked in on me. Not like this.” He let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “They asked if I was okay, but it felt like something they had to say. Like they already knew the answer they wanted.”

Hitoshi’s grip tightened just enough for Izuku to notice.

“If I said I was fine,” Izuku continued, “they nodded and moved on. If I hesitated, they waited for me to fix it.” His shoulders hunched in on themselves. “I learned pretty fast which answer was easier.”

“I was alone a lot,” Izuku admitted when he didn’t read judgment in their eyes. “Even when people were around, but there was hardly much difference,” he chuckled softly but his voice had wavered, and he hated that it did. “I slept badly. I kept seeing things. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought if I stopped moving for too long, something awful would happen to all of you. Like it would be my fault for resting.”

Ojiro’s tail went still as he sat down cross legged and moved to make room for Hitoshi. 

Sero nodded slowly. “I had nightmares after the first war,” he said. “Woke up with tape all over the room. I thought I was losing it.” He glanced at Izuku. “Difference is, I had people around me when it happened.”

Izuku flinched. “I didn’t,” he said quietly. “And I think I got used to that.” His fingers curled tighter. “So when this happens, when I lose control, it feels like I deserve it. Like it’s just… consequences.”

“No,” Hitoshi said immediately, albeit his voice was soft, but there was no hesitation in it. “That’s not how that works.”

Izuku looked up, eyes wet and startled.

“You are a teen,” Ojiro continued. “You were carrying more than any of us should have. That’s not consequences. That’s survival.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. “Still,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Hitoshi stepped closer and knelt in front of him, bringing their hands together with a gentle and steady grip.“I don’t mind doing this again,” Hitoshi said. “If I have to stop you like that, I will. But you have to be honest with us.” His eyes searched Izuku’s face. “You don’t get to decide you’re not worth helping.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to rest without feeling like I’m abandoning everyone.”

Sato nodded, expression gentle. “Then we’ll stay. If you ever feel like it’s getting bad, you can come to me, there’s a chance I’ll be baking something past midnight ‘cuz I feel like it,” he said. “However long it takes.” He lightly petted Oijiro’s swaying tail. “Anytime.”

The assurance made Izuku’s stomach flutter with warmth. He felt his cheeks heat up and glanced at his lap.

Anytime.

Not if. Not when. Anytime.

Izuku nodded, breath shaky, and for the first time since he had come back, he did not feel like he was bracing for the floor to disappear beneath him.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Kaminari and Eijiro bounced in, still damp from their showers, energy filling the room immediately.

“Yo,” Kaminari said. “Why does it look like a dramatic intervention here?”

Eijiro squinted at Izuku’s neck. His grin faded. “Dude. That’s not manly at all. We’re doing sleepovers.”

“Daily,” Kaminari added. “Non negotiable.”

Izuku flushed hard. “I really appreciate it,” he said quickly. “Thank you. I’m sorry for causing trouble.”

Both of them began swatting him at the same time.

“Stop apologizing,” Eijiro said.

“And stop thanking us like we’re strangers,” Kaminari added. “We’ve got you.”

Izuku nodded, throat tight, and for once, he believed them.

Izuku felt like he was drowning.

That was the only way he could describe it when Hagakure's voice had come that night, sharp and frantic, calling his name and telling him he needed to come with her right now because Aoyama was in the woods. His body had moved before his thoughts caught up. His legs carrying him forward while his mind lagged behind, stuck somewhere between disbelief and a sickening sense of inevitability.

The forest smelled like damp earth and fear when he had let Hagakure lead him through it. And his heart had crumbled further when he had noticed Aoyama midst confession with his parents. 

He did not remember everything clearly after that. Only fragments. Aoyama attacking him, Hagakure shielding him, giving Izuku enough time to activate Black Whip and immobilize all of them before he told Hagakure to call any teacher for help.

Then it was Nezu’s calm voice in the conference room. The pros standing too still. Aoyama in cuffs, shaking so badly his teeth clicked together. The way he cried, words tumbling over each other as he apologized over and over again. The way his eyes had locked onto Izuku like he was the last solid thing left in the world.

Izuku had wanted to tell him it would be okay, that they didn’t blame him. The urge had been overwhelming, reflexive, even when he knew it was a lie. So he had done what he’d learnt from All Might, savor the fear down and speak what the others needed to hear. “You can still be hero,” he’d said, unable to stop the words. 

Post that, they were dismissed eventually. Izuku barely registered the words. He left the room first and stumbled away and emptied his stomach behind the bushes where Hagakure had first found him, bile burning his throat as his hands shook against the bark of a tree. He hated himself then. For not noticing sooner. For brushing off Aoyama’s self-deprecating jokes. He had been so busy saving the world that he had missed someone right beside him asking for help in the only way he could.

By the time Izuku returned to the dorms, he felt hollowed out. Like something vital had been scooped from his chest and left behind an echo.

Katsuki was gone. Probably back at the training grounds, burning through his anger the only way he knew how. Eijiro and a few others had followed him. Izuku did not blame them. He did not think he could stand the sound of explosions right now anyway.

The common room lights were low. Ochaco sat on the couch, knees pulled to her chest. Mina lounged nearby, legs draped over the armrest. They both looked up when Izuku entered.

“There you are,” Mina said gently. “We were starting to worry.”

Izuku forced a tight-lipped smile. “I’m… I think I’m just going to head to bed.”

Ochaco tilted her head, eyes searching his face. “Are you sure, Izuku-kun?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, the lie coming too easily. “Just tired.”

They exchanged a glance.

“You don’t have to talk,” Mina said fast. “You can just sit. Or sleep. We just want company.”

Izuku hesitated, then nodded. He let himself sink onto the couch, exhaustion crashing over him all at once. His eyes slipped shut before he could stop them.

Sometimes he wondered if it was a curse that he felt asleep easily, because the moment he closed his eyes, the ground underneath his feet gave away, and he felt himself jolt as he fell.

When he reached flat ground and finally opened his eyes, Aoyama knelt in front of him, sobbing, body shaking as All For One’s presence loomed behind him. Izuku could not see his face clearly, only the way Aoyama screamed as something unseen tore into him, punishment slow and deliberate. Firelight flickered. Blood stained the ground.

Aoyama turned to him and smiled, small and sad.

“It’s a good death for a terrible villain, isn’t it?”

Izuku reached out. His fingers closed in the air.

Rivet stab fell from nowhere, sharp and final. He felt himself scream Aoyama’s name, felt the sound tear from his chest, but it did nothing. Nothing ever changed.

Hands grabbed him.

Izuku woke with a gasp and recoiled hard enough to tumble off the couch, black whip snapping into existence around him in a reflexive arc of defense. He tried to move mostly disorriented and ended up toppling off wherever he’d been lying.

“Midoriya, stop!”

“Izuku, it’s us!”

The quirk faded as quickly as it had come. Izuku found himself staring up at Ochaco, Mina, and Kyoka, all wide-eyed but more awake. Ochaco crouched and offered her hand, the same way she had years ago, back when everything had been simpler, using her quirk to bring Izuku back to his feet.

“This,” she said quietly as she helped him up, “is why we wanted you to stay out here.”

Kyoka crossed her arms. “Most of the guys are outside. And from what we’ve heard, you’re a terrible liar.”

From the kitchen, Momo’s voice drifted in. “The tea will be ready soon.”

Izuku sat heavily on the couch, hands shaking. He stayed quiet for a long enough time. “Did I make a mistake?” he asked suddenly. “Reporting Aoyama like that, so publicly. He was just trying to survive.”

Kyoka tilted her head. “If you hadn’t,” she asked, “what would have happened instead?”

Izuku opened his mouth. No words came.

Mina hopped up onto the coffee table, expression serious. “It would have been worse, Izuku-chan. At least now, there’s a chance for something better. For him.”

Hagakure slipped into the room and sat on Mina’s lap. “He was going to wipe out UA if he leaked any more information,” she said quietly. “Civilians too. I get why he was scared. But that All For One bastard doesn’t keep promises. There’s no guarantee his parents would’ve been safe either in the fucked up New World, so his betrayal would have probably lead him to his own death.”

Izuku stared at his feet.

Ochaco sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay to feel messed up about it,” she whispered. “There’s no clean answer here. Survival isn’t one-sided.”

Kyoka leaned forward and gently poked Izuku’s head with one of her jacks. “You’re an idiot, Midoriya. Thinking you can do this alone like you’re All Might.”

“And All Might had people,” Mina added quickly. “Tsukauchi. Nighteye. Others.” She paused, then sighed. “Okay, not the best argument, but you get the point.”

Momo returned with a tray of cups and a teapot, shooing Mina and Hagakure off the table. She poured carefully and handed everyone a cup. “Honey helps,” she said softly.

Izuku accepted the tea, fingers warming around the ceramic. “Thank you,” he said, voice small but sincere.

“Also, you didn’t have to run ahead of me, if my body hadn’t been reflective, you wouldn’t have survived that laser blast,” Hagakure said, hands gesturing wildly. 

Mina gasped dramatically, jostling Hagakure. “He saw you before we did?!”

“It was live or die situation,” Izuku said, raising one hand to placate them. “Also, thank you Yaomomo.”

Momo raised her teacup. “It’s lavender, it helps with relaxation.”

Izuku smiled sheepishly, and felt something enter his ear. Kyoka mumbled. “You’re not alone, idiot, stop acting like you have to protect us against the fucking world.”

A small laugh slipped out of Izuku before he could stop it. Ochaco squeezed his hand.

“We’ll be fine,” she said. “We’ve gotten stronger too.”

Izuku squeezed back. “I know,” he said. “Thank you for being here.”

Mina made an exaggerated cooing sound, and they immediately pulled apart, but the warmth stayed.

For the first time since the woods, Izuku felt like he could breathe.

It had been a rough night, though Izuku could not pinpoint when it had started going wrong.

Maybe it was the vestiges speaking over one another, opinions overlapping until his head felt too full to sort through any of them. Maybe it was the way his body still refused to relax after everything that had happened. Whatever it was, it left him restless and wired as he trained with Shoto and Katsuki in one of the outdoor grounds, the air still carrying leftover heat from the day.

Most of the session revolved around Shoto since he was supposed to go against Dabi. It was predominantly also because he was the only Ice user on their side. Which meant while the others at least had a chance to rely on someone else, he couldn’t be sure.

“Hold it,” Izuku said, stepping between them when Katsuki’s blasts started coming too close. “Don’t rush it. You’re not stabilizing the temperature yet.”

“I am stabilizing it,” Shoto replied, breath fogging faintly even as fire licked along his other side. “It just… slips.”

“Because you’re overcorrecting,” Katsuki snapped. “Stop thinking so hard and just do it.”

“That’s not helpful,” Izuku muttered.

Katsuki shot him a glare. “Neither is you playing referee every damn second.”

Still, they listened. Eventually. Shoto tried again, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed in focus as the blue-white flame formed and held. It burned cold, wrong in a way Izuku could not look away from. The colors were too bright and beautiful, like something that should not exist.

He stared.

That was his mistake.

The blast clipped him before he could react. Danger Sense flared too late, useless in its reassurance, and somewhere in the back of his mind Hikage laughed softly, telling him no one here meant him harm, that the signal was quiet because there was only trust.

“Idiot!” Katsuki grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. “You spacing out now?”

“I’m fine,” Izuku said automatically.

“Watch the damn fight,” Katsuki snarled, already turning back to Shoto. “Again. From the top.”

They looked right together when they moved, Izuku thought. Not synchronized, exactly, but balanced. Like opposing forces that had learned how not to collapse each other. It made sense and it did not, and Izuku found himself sitting down on the edge of the field, watching without meaning to.

That earned him attention fast.

Ice crept toward him across the ground. Explosions tore through it a second later.

“Hey!” Izuku yelped, scrambling back. Purple fog burst out around him as he kicked off the ground with Fa Jin, clearing the spread before it reached his legs. He lashed out with black whip on instinct, snapping it around Shoto’s wrist, then Katsuki’s ankle.

“Tch,” Katsuki detonated the ground and cleared the fog in one blast. “Don’t drag us into your mood swings!”

“Then stop aiming at me,” Izuku shot back.

They went at it again, faster now, until the ground cracked and a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“That’s enough.”

Cementos stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed. “Curfew still exists, boys.”

Katsuki threw his head back. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Out,” Cementoss said flatly.

Katsuki grumbled the entire walk back. “This is bullshit. We were just getting somewhere.”

“You nearly collapsed the field,” Izuku pointed out.

“Worth it.”

They ended up in the baths, sinking into the hot tub with sore limbs and quiet tension. Katsuki immediately scowled.

“Who the hell dumped detergent in here?”

“No one did,” Shoto said.

“It smells like it did.”

“That’s just you,” Izuku said, laughing before he could stop himself.

Katsuki splashed water at him. “Say that again, De- Izuku.”

Shoto watched them for a moment, then spoke like it was an afterthought. “Toya used to hate baths.”

Both of them stilled.

“In rare conversations he said it made him feel exposed,” Shoto continued, eyes fixed on the water. “Like he couldn’t escape his own skin.”

Katsuki stared at him, then reached over and shoved his head under the water. “You don’t get to say shit like that without warning.”

Shoto came back up sputtering. Then he smiled, small and crooked.

“You’ll deal with him,” Katsuki said, face reddening as he stared at the steaming water. “And make him listen if he’s not being his bastard self.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. It reminded him that he wasn’t the only one who had changed. Katsuki had grown soft around the edges too, but he somehow remained resilient all the same. 

They talked after that. Small things. Training schedules. Food. Complaints about curfew. At some point Shoto shifted closer, knee brushing Izuku’s, fingers lifting without thinking to trace the marks at his throat left by black whip.

Izuku flinched.

“Those weren’t there before,” Shoto said.

Izuku looked away. “It's nothing.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue. “It's not.”

Silence settled heavy between them.

When they finally headed back, Izuku slowed outside his room. He almost asked them to stay. The words sat at the back of his throat, caught on the knowledge that Shinsou was gone to see  Aizawa, his floor too quiet again with Aoyama still in custody.

He did not ask.

He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, forcing his eyes open even as his body begged for rest. If he stayed awake, the dreams could not take him. If he stayed awake, no one would have to pull him back.

When his alarm went off the next morning, it felt like he had blinked. His head throbbed, limbs heavy, exhaustion pressing in deep.

Izuku sat up slowly and wondered how long he could keep doing this.

The next two days blurred together in a way that frightened Izuku more than the nightmares ever had.

He did not sleep. Not really. He lay down sometimes, eyes open, counting breaths and listening to the quiet of the dorms until morning crept in. He told himself it was temporary. That once things settled, once everyone stopped watching him so closely, he could rest. For now, staying awake felt easier than explaining why he woke up shaking or why black whip curled around his wrists when he dreamed.

No one noticed at first. He trained hard. He fought clean. His control was sharp enough to hide the cracks. When Katsuki dragged him out to spar or Shoto asked him to help with temperature control drills, Izuku showed up and did the work. That mattered more than sleep.

At night, he noticed things he had not before. Hitoshi leaving quietly after dinner, heading down the hall with tired eyes and slumped shoulders. The way he always came back at dawn, smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee when he thought no one was watching. Izuku never said anything. He understood the need to stay awake beside someone who scared you since losing them seemed as good as death. He understood too well.

By the following days, his thoughts began to skip. He would lose track of time mid-conversation, forget what he was doing until someone spoke his name. His hands shook when he stood still. He kept moving to avoid noticing. 

Training went well, at least on the surface. Shoto held his ice longer. Katsuki adjusted his blasts with more control. Izuku slipped between them, redirecting, correcting, and absorbing the edges of their mistakes. His body ached in a dull way that never quite faded, but pain was familiar. Manageable.

By the fifth session, overseen by Present Mic, All Might, and Cementoss, Izuku felt sick in a way he could not explain. His limbs felt heavy, as if his joints had been filled with sand. Nana’s voice surfaced in his mind. You are being reckless, child, she said. This self sabotage is not resilience.

Izuku swallowed and pushed the thought aside. Bruce laughed, rough and loud, telling him that Fa Jin only worked if the body was rested, that storing power in a frame already failing was a stupid gamble.

Izuku ignored them.

And paid the price just as fast. 

Katsuki fired a series of blasts meant to shatter Shoto’s heavenly ice wall. Izuku misjudged the timing, he was supposed to use full cowling to help Katsuki break it, instead he stepped into the path before he realized what he had done, and the force caught him full on, throwing him across the field like he weighed nothing at all.

He hit the ground hard and rolled. His ears rang. The sky tilted. He pushed himself upright, swaying as his vision narrowed at the edges.

“I’m fine,” he whispered when he heard his name, the words barely leaving his mouth.

He charged again because stopping felt worse.

The task was Shoto. It had always been Shoto. Training him to stand alone against Dabi, to hold his ground when everything burned. Izuku and Katsuki moved together like they’d practiced. Their combined attacks slammed into another wall of ice, heat and cold colliding so sharply Izuku’s head reeled.

He tried to counter. Tried to move. His body lagged behind his thoughts, each command delayed. Yoichi’s voice reached him faintly, telling him to stop, to rest, to step back.

Izuku forced Fa Jin anyway when Shoto built another wall so he could rebuild Coldflame. The training hall had some extra explosives too, to replicate battle experience, and they’d go off every now and then.

Izuku used Float to lift him and let black whip lash out with Full Cowling at force. He broke through half the barrier before nausea hit him hard enough to steal his breath. The other quirks vanished mid-motion, leaving only raw power and poor footing. He managed one punch before Shoto reacted, coldflame sweeping him aside.

It did not burn, not neceassirly, but it did remind him of how it felt to fall in cold springs on hot summer days.

It sent him flying and then tumbling against the debris stricken ground.

Izuku hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping as the world shrank to noise and light. Before he could even register the pain, hands were on him, rough and frantic.

“Damn it, Izuku, what the fuck is wrong with you!?” Katsuki snapped, hauling him upright with more force than care.

Izuku’s vision swam. The sky lurched sideways. He tried to nod, to say something reassuring, but his legs gave out the instant Katsuki loosened his grip. He crumpled to his knees, palms slapping uselessly against the ground as his breath came in short, panicked bursts.

“I’m fine,” he insisted hoarsely. “I just— give me a second—”

Shoto skidded to a stop nearby, ice rising instinctively to block falling debris from one of the simulation explosives before it could reach them. He dropped down in front of Izuku, eyes wide and searching.

“Midoriya?” he asked, voice tight. “Are you okay?”

Izuku tried to focus on him. The edges of Shoto’s face blurred, doubled. “Yeah,” Izuku said, nodding too fast. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just got dizzy. It’s nothing.”

Katsuki’s hands hovered, shaking as he checked Izuku’s arms, shoulders, ribs. “He’s injured,” Katsuki growled, jaw clenched. “But not enough for this. This isn’t just getting hit.”

Izuku swatted weakly at his hands. “Stop it,” he muttered. “I said I’m fine. I can still— I can still fight.”

He tried to stand.

The world tilted violently, like the ground had dropped out from under him. His limbs refused to listen, strength draining away in a sickening rush. He collapsed back into Katsuki’s grip, head lolling forward as nausea surged.

Explosions went off around them as Katsuki shielded him on instinct, the shockwaves rattling straight through Izuku’s bones. He clamped his hands over his ears, a broken sound tearing out of his throat as his body locked up, dry heaving with nothing left to give.

“Stop,” Katsuki barked, throwing an arm up. “Cut it out!”

Shoto obeyed instantly, using his ice to jam the explosive’s engineering. “Midoriya,” he said again, more urgently as he crouched next to Izuku. “Look at me. Please.”

Izuku tried. He really did. “I’m fine,” he slurred, the words tripping over themselves. “I just need to— just need to keep going— can’t stop—”

“Young Midoriya!”

All Might’s voice echoed in the enclosed room, full with alarm. Heavy footsteps followed as he rushed toward them, his expression already strained with worry the moment he took in the scene.

Izuku felt hands gripping him more carefully now, voices overlapping, too loud and too far away all at once. He opened his mouth to answer them, to explain, to apologize, but the ground surged up toward him again.

The last thing he registered was Katsuki swearing his name like a curse and Shoto’s hand tightening around his sleeve.

Then everything went dark.

The sky was just as dark.

Rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, soaking through Izuku’s clothes as he pushed rubble aside and forced himself upright. His body screamed in protest, every movement heavy and wrong, but he ignored it and took in the world around him.

There was nothing left.

The land had been flattened, broken down to ash and debris as far as he could see. It looked like Tomura’s decay had spread unchecked, swallowing everything whole. Buildings lay in ruin. The air smelled like smoke and rot and blood.

Izuku staggered to his feet and ran.

He did not know where he was going. Only that he had to move.

In the distance, All For One loomed large, fighting Endeavor with brutal ease. Endeavor carried Hawks in one arm, the other raised in defiance, flames flickering weakly. Farther off, Mt. Lady lay collapsed, unmoving, while Gigantomachia tore through what remained of the city, fleeing or rampaging, Izuku could not tell.

He broke into a clearing and saw him.

“Shoto!” Izuku screamed.

Tomura stood there, fingers curled around Shoto’s throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing at all. Shoto’s eyes widened when he saw Izuku, lips parting as if to say something.

“No,” Izuku yelled, voice tearing out of him as he lunged forward. Black whip snapped toward Tomura on instinct, desperate and wild.

It passed straight through.

Tomura’s fingers fully clasped around Shoto’s neck before they let go, allowing Shoto to crumble to the floor.

Izuku rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside what was left, hands shaking as he tried to gather pieces that would not stay together. Shoto’s face lingered for a moment longer than the rest, eyes soft, fingers lifting weakly to cup Izuku’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” Shoto whispered.

Then even that was gone.

Izuku sobbed, hot tears blurring his vision as the world tilted further out of control. Around him, the truth settled piece by piece. Tenya’s engines lay shattered nearby, metal twisted and lifeless. Others were scattered across the field, bodies reduced to fragments, decay frozen mid-spread.

He looked up just in time to see Ochaco fall.

All For One’s attack pierced her midair, her body going limp as she dropped out of the sky. Izuku screamed her name until his throat burned.

“Izuku.”

The voice was faint, tangible just for Izuku's ears. 

He turned.

Katsuki lay against a slab of concrete, unmoving except for the shallow rise of his chest. Dark tendrils pierced through him, through his heart, pinning him in place. His eyes found Izuku’s, fierce even now. “Run,” Katsuki said. “Run, damn it.”

Izuku stumbled toward him, hands outstretched to trigger his quirk, but nothing worked.

Then Yoichi’s voice reached him, distant and tired. “The others sacrificed themselves to save you,” he said. “The vestiges are gone. I hope you’re glad.”

Izuku shook his head, breath hitching. “No. Please. I didn’t want this.”

A shadow fell over him.

All For One’s face filled his vision, twisted and grinning. A hand closed around Izuku’s throat, crushing, stealing his breath. He clawed uselessly at it, lungs burning as darkness crept in.

He was going to die like this.

“Izuku!"

“Wake up!”

Hands grabbed him. But they didn’t feel like All For One’s. They were warm, a little wet, and much, much more visceral. 

Izuku’s eyes flew open as air tore back into his lungs. His body was rigid, hands frozen with ice midair as black whip tightened around his own throat.

“Breathe,” Shoto said, voice low and steady, one hand braced against Izuku’s shoulder. “We’re right here. We aren’t gone.”

Katsuki’s hands burned where they held the black whip back, teeth clenched as he forced it to dissolve. “Damn it, nerd, listen to him.”

The quirk vanished all at once. Shoto melted the ice coating his hands, evaporating it before it could soak through anything.

Izuku scrambled backward, heart hammering, breath uneven as he tried to understand where he was. The dorm room came into focus slowly—his own room, the broken chair he hadn’t bothered to fix since what was he going to do… study? 

The All Might altar, the scent of his own soap, the same walls, the balcony from where moonlight poured into a room lit only by his desk lamp.

“Jesus, Izuku,” Katsuki muttered, already on his feet. He bolted out of the room and returned moments later with a first aid kit clutched in his hands.

Shoto guided Izuku back down carefully. “Lie still.”

“Should I cool it?” Shoto asked quietly. “It might slow the bleeding.”

“Wash it first,” Katsuki said, voice uncharacteristically soft. “There’s blood.”

Izuku tried to lift a hand. “What—”

“Shut up,” Katsuki snapped, though his hands shook as he opened the kit.

Izuku obeyed.

Shoto dampened a cotton roll and cleaned Izuku’s neck with careful precision, fingers lingering longer than necessary as he wiped away what appeared to be blood. When the cold came, Izuku shuddered, relief washing over him in a way that made his chest ache.

He hadn’t known he needed it but he didn’t think he was capable of making himself bleed as of such either.

Katsuki applied gauze next, movements rough but precise, jaw tight. Izuku watched him, and only then noticed the tremor in Katsuki’s hands.

Neither of them spoke.

Shoto finished taping the gauze in place where Katsuki couldn’t reach blindly and withdrew his hands slowly, like he was afraid Izuku might shatter if he moved too fast. Katsuki capped the antiseptic with a sharp click and set the kit aside, then stayed crouched in front of Izuku instead of standing back up.

Katsuki exhaled through his nose. “You fainted,” he said finally. “Collapsed mid-training. Lack of sleep, dehydration and malnutrition. Quirk backlash. You wanna guess what all of that has in common?”

Izuku stared at the floor. The wood grain swam if he focused on it too long. “I—I just overdid it,” he said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not an answer,” Shoto said. He had shifted closer at some point, shoulder pressed lightly against Izuku’s. “How long has it been since you slept?”

Izuku’s fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. “I sleep,” he said, a little too fast. “I mean. Sometimes. I guess.”

Katsuki scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Izuku flinched. Katsuki noticed immediately, jaw tightening. “I’m not yelling,” he said, forcing the words out slower. “I’m asking. And you’re lying.”

Silence stretched between them. The rain tapped faintly against the window, distant and steady.

Shoto spoke again, quieter. “We heard you screaming,” he said. “You were fighting something that wasn’t here. Black whip was wrapped around your throat, Midoriya. That doesn’t happen from ‘overdoing it.’”

Izuku swallowed. His chest felt tight, like the air wouldn’t quite go all the way in. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I didn’t even know I was dreaming.”

“Then tell us,” Katsuki said. “What you saw.”

Izuku shook his head immediately. “It’s stupid. It was just—just my brain messing with me. You don’t need to hear it.”

“We do,” Shoto said, firmer now. “Because it’s hurting you.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. I’m fine now.”

Katsuki leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “No, you’re not,” he said flatly. “You’re running on fumes, your quirks are glitching, and you look like you’re about to fall apart sitting still. Stop deciding what we can ‘handle.’”

Izuku’s breath hitched. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

The worry slipped out before he could stop them.

Shoto went very still. “You’re not.”

“You don’t get it,” Izuku said, voice starting to shake. “Everyone’s already dealing with so much. If I start—if I need things, if I can’t keep it together—then I’m just… adding to it. I’m supposed to be better than this.”

Katsuki’s teeth clicked together. “Says who.”

Izuku paused, and then laughed weakly when he couldn’t procure an answer. Because who was saying so other than himself? “Me. I don’t know. I just—when I sleep, it’s like this every time. I see you—” His voice cracked, and he pressed his sleeve to his eyes hard. “I see you dead. Or hurt. Or gone because I wasn’t fast enough or smart enough or strong enough. And when I wake up, it doesn’t feel fake. It feels like a warning.”

Shoto’s hand hovered, then settled carefully against Izuku’s back.

Izuku kept going, words spilling faster now, messy and unchecked. “So I stay awake. Because if I’m awake, I can think. I can plan. I can train. If I stop moving, everything catches up and I can’t—I can’t breathe. I don’t feel good enough half the time. I feel like I’m pretending and one day it’s all going to fall apart and everyone will see it.”

His shoulders started to shake. “I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. “I’ll do better. I’ll be better. I promise. Just—please don’t be mad.”

Shoto wrapped an arm around him fully then, pulling him in from the side, forehead resting briefly against Izuku’s hair. “You don’t need to earn rest,” he said softly. “Or care.”

Katsuki hesitated only a second longer before shifting closer on the other side, one arm coming around Izuku’s shoulders, awkward and tense but solid. “Idiot,” he muttered, voice rough. “You think carrying this alone makes you strong?”

Izuku broke. He curled forward, clutching at their shirts as sobs tore out of him, apologies tumbling over each other. Katsuki held on tighter, grip firm like an anchor. Shoto stayed pressed against him, steady and warm.

“You’re not a burden,” Shoto said again.

“And you don’t get to decide you’re disposable,” Katsuki added. 

Izuku cried until his chest ached and his throat burned, until the words ran out and all that was left was shaking breaths and their hands holding him in place.

Katsuki huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He leaned back just enough to look at Izuku properly, eyes sharp but no longer angry. “Y’know,” he said, glancing sideways at Shoto, “this isn’t even new.”

Izuku sniffled. “What?”

“This,” Katsuki waved a hand vaguely at him—tear-streaked, shaking, clinging. “You being stupidly stubborn about getting hurt.”

Shoto tilted his head. “He does have a pattern.”

Katsuki snorted. “When we were kids,” he went on, tone rough but lighter now, “we went beetle hunting. Summer break. I was blowing shit up in the woods like an idiot, trying to scare them out.”

Izuku let out a weak, embarrassed noise. “Kacchan—”

“And this idiot,” Katsuki continued, ignoring him, “decides explosions aren’t efficient enough. So what does he do? Catches them with his bare hands. Just—yoink. No fear. No brain.”

Shoto’s lips twitched. “That sounds… interesting.”

“It gets better,” Katsuki said. He reached up and smacked the back of Izuku’s head, not hard. “I haven’t caught any, just so you know. And he tells me, ‘I’m going home, Kacchan,’ so I think, fine, finally I don’t have to worry about not competing about beetle catch numbers since I can just make shit up. Next day? He shows up half-dead with a fever, holding a cage.”

Izuku laughed through his tears, shoulders shaking. “They were really big ones…”

“Four of them,” Katsuki said, shaking his head. “Bigger than any I had ever caught. He stayed out there through the cold after I left. Didn’t tell anyone. Just wanted to catch them for me so I could brag about them in school since he knew I had a competition going on with some shitty extras.”

Shoto exhaled slowly and nudged Izuku gently. “Frankly,” he said, “I have many moments with you two that stand out. But the one I remember most clearly is you standing up to my father.”

Izuku froze slightly.

“You didn’t have to,” Shoto continued. “You had every reason not to. But you did anyway. And honestly?” He looked down at his hands. “You’re probably the reason he finally started to change and got his shit together.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue and lightly popped Izuku’s arm with a small explosion. “See? You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

Izuku’s breathing evened out, tears slowing as he nodded weakly. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

“Good,” Katsuki said decisively. “Starting with sleep.”

Before Izuku could react, Katsuki was on his feet, flicking the light off and diving back under the covers, yanking the blanket wide enough to trap all three of them beneath it.

Shoto stiffened. “…I’m not used to beds.”

“I—I’m sorry!” Izuku squeaked, immediately trying to scoot away. “You don’t have to—”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Shoto said calmly.

Izuku blinked. “Right.”

Katsuki laughed under his breath, then crossed his arms, settling in. “Seriously, Izuku. We’re getting this checked out. Your own quirk shouldn’t be strangling you in your sleep.”

Izuku nodded into the pillow. “I know.”

“And,” Katsuki added, quieter now, “you don’t get to disappear on us again. Not by pretending you’re fine.”

Shoto’s chin rested lightly against Izuku’s shoulder. “We’ll stay,” he said. “If you wake up.”

Izuku closed his eyes, chest still aching but warmer now. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Izuku did not sleep right away.

He lay there between them, eyes open, staring at the ceiling he could barely see in the dark. His thoughts kept trying to drag him back under, toward the dream, toward decay and hands at his throat. He focused on breathing instead. In. Out. Slow. Careful.

It was then that he noticed it.

Shoto ran cold.

Not uncomfortably so, not exactly like ice, but a steady coolness that soaked through Izuku’s sleeve where Shoto’s arm rested against his side. Katsuki, on the other hand, was warm in the way only he could be, heat radiating through the blankets, solid and grounding. Izuku was sandwiched between the two extremes, and somehow the balance worked. The warmth eased the tension in his shoulders. The coolness soothed the burn in his neck.

His breathing slowed before he realized it had.

He tried to fight it, the way he always did, but this time his body refused to listen. The fear dulled. The ache in his limbs softened. The noise in his head faded to a distant hum.

Izuku fell asleep without meaning to.

When he woke, it was to a familiar, gentle presence and the soft creak of his door opening. He grumbled and shifted.

Izuku blinked blearily, throat dry. “All Might?” he croaked.

All Might froze mid-step before he visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping as he took in the scene, Katsuki sprawled on one side, arms crossed even in sleep but face locked in Izuku’s neck, Shoto on the other, holding Izuku close without realizing it.

“Ah,” All Might said quietly. “Young Midoriya. I see my worries have been… quelled.”

Izuku smiled, sleep-heavy and unguarded. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For overworking.”

All Might crossed the room and gently rested a hand on Izuku’s head, careful not to disturb the other two. “Sleep, young man,” he said softly. “We will talk later.”

He glanced at Katsuki, still dead to the world. “I have no desire to discover what Young Bakugo would do if I woke him at twilight.”

Izuku let out a small, tired laugh. His eyes slid shut again as Shoto shifted, instinctively pulling him closer.

This time, he did not wake afraid.