Hikishi Kenji, otherwise known as the villain Magne, hurries through the dark subway tunnels in search of her old comrades.
The tunnels are dark. When Overhaul's lackey took control of them, he knocked out a lot of the lighting on top of screwing with the layout. The dark doesn't matter to her as much as it did when she was alive, but she's still flying blind.
That's fine, though. As long as she keeps going up, she'll find them. She can dodge heroes easily enough, and she knows where the League's rendezvous point is. Her time is running short, with the hero brat's weird power on its way out, but she can make it. She can tell them this wonderful, vital bit of information about the kid Shigaraki was fixated on. They took him once and they can take him again. Take the kid, take the girl, and they'll be back in business.
They'll have to strike fast, while the Midoriya kid is still soft and tender and limping. No matter how many friends he has, those other dead idiots can't stop living villains from taking him back. And Magne's smarter than that Chuuza bitch. She can make sure there's no funny bullshit going on among the dead.
The rendezvous point is close, tucked away in some side tunnels that the heroes aren't using. Magne puts on an extra burst of speed, reveling in the buzz of power. This is the closest to alive she's felt since Overhaul killed her. And just think—once they have the kid and apply a little pressure in the right place, she'll be doing this all the time. It'll be like she never died at all.
She hears Shigaraki's voice in the distance, echoing in the tunnels as he bitches about something. Business as usual—and once Magne's done her thing, he'll be happy as a kid on New Years.
She opens her mouth to call out to him. Hopefully this won't spook him too bad. And if it does, hopefully the news she's about to deliver will make up for it.
Before she can speak, hands close around her throat, mercilessly tight.
Magne doesn't need to breathe, but the sensation is still a shock. The grip around her neck squeezes with what would be bruising force if she had any flesh to bruise. She's yanked back off her feet, away from where she knows Shigaraki is. When she fights back, more pairs of hands latch on until she can't move. One clamps over her mouth, gagging her more effectively than the grip on her throat. They drag her, struggling and twisting like a snake, until she's too far away to call out. Her form scrambles with panic, but somehow, impossibly, they hold her.
And then she's on the ground.
And she is no longer alone.
There are people around her—ghosts like her, but not like her, because she can feel the rage and misery rolling off of them in waves. She stares up at them, first in fear and then in confusion, because she doesn't know them, at first. Their faces are unfamiliar, at first. They don't look like anyone she knew when she was alive. They barely even look like any other ghosts she's ever seen. Some of them stand under their own power. Others fuse and meld with the ones closest to them, flickering between one being and several. The only thing they have in common is their eyes: black, not white.
It's not until the smallest one steps forward that she realizes who— what —she's looking at.
Ragged leathery wings drag and hang uselessly from the boy's shoulders. His eyes weep with black ooze. When he opens his mouth, his voice rattles her to her core.
"You were gonna snitch on Deku, weren't you? "
She doesn't need to breathe. But she wants to, just so she can hyperventilate.
"I-I-I didn't do anything to you," she stammers out. "You were all—you were already like this, before I ever came, and I didn't even know— " The boy steps closer, with all the others hovering close around them. Magne presses herself back as far as she can.
"He helped me ," the boy says. "He helped all of us."
"All of us, " a black-eyed woman echoes, her voice whispery and far away.
"I did… bad things," the boy says, hoarse and mournful. "I hurt him, and he still helped. I didn't even remember my name, 'til he called me." The rattle in his voice contorts into something that shakes the very particles of thought and memory that make her up. "He helped you. And you were gonna rat him out."
"I wasn't!" Magne lies, and flinches when the sound of rattling spreads to the other black-eyed ghosts. The rest of her borrowed power trickles out, leaving her an empty ghost once more. "I-I won't. I can't. See? Power's gone. Can't tell them anything."
"Good." The boy with wings steps closer again. "And you're not gonna try again. Right? " The streaks of black drip down to his chin. "You know what's gonna happen if you do. Right? "
"Yes! Fuck! I get it, just—I get it." Magne nods. "Fine. Won't tell 'em. Won't try. Just—don't touch me."
"Wasn't gonna touch you." The boy smirks like a bully. "But we're watching you."
"Watching you."
"Don't forget."
"He helped us."
In the blink of an eye, the tunnel is empty. The ghosts and their black, staring eyes are gone. She's alone.
Magne lets herself fall apart, just for a little bit.
When Nighteye was still a rookie hero, young and raw with the ink still wet on his diploma, he once delivered an injured and delirious civilian to the paramedics. She was older than him back then, but now impossibly young in his memory, barely thirty and already shattered at the spine and bleeding to death.
The last he remembers of her is how she looked him in the eye as the medics lifted her into the waiting ambulance and said, in the calmest voice he ever heard, "If they put me under, I'm not gonna wake up."
And she was right; she died in the hospital twenty minutes later. Morbid curiosity and persistent nightmares led him to check the quirk registry for her name. She had heat-resistant skin, nothing to do with any sort of clairvoyance. That was intuition alone, and nothing to do with quirks.
Now, as he lies in a hospital bed, stares at the ceiling, and tries not to look at or think about the tubes and wires protruding from the hole in his numbed midsection, he understands. Sometimes, the body just knows.
There's no pain, at least. A ventilator is keeping him breathing, and he feels nothing below the sternum, but he doesn't hurt. If he keeps staring at the blurry fluorescent lights above him, he can pretend that's because there's nothing wrong. He feels no worse than he ever has at his most overworked, half-giddy with exhaustion and fighting to keep his eyelids from slipping shut.
God, he's tired. They wouldn't even have to put him under, not when it feels as if he hasn't slept easy since…
Since…
Nighteye gives up forcing his mind to finish the sentence, and continues the laborious task of lifting his eyelids every time they close to blink. When he hears quick footsteps through the door to his room, he doesn't even bother turning his head. The nurses can do as they like to keep an eye on him and keep him comfortable. No one has said a thing to him, but he knows.
He cannot use his quirk on himself, but he knows .
The footsteps pause at the doorway, then enter at a slower pace. Nighteye allows himself another risky blink, wondering why this particular nurse is being so hesitant. Maybe they're new, and they haven't seen anything this bad yet.
He doesn't expect the touch to his hand, but he doesn't even have the energy to jump. It's enough of a struggle just to turn his head and squint, until the blur above him settles into something more recognizable.
A quiet sigh reaches his ears, deep and heavy with sorrow. "Oh, Mirai."
His next blink is a little less work. "That you, Toshi?" He barely recognizes his own voice.
"I'm here," Toshinori says.
"Ah, good," he says. "I wasn't sure. Can't see a thing."
Toshinori gives a raspy chuckle. "Sorry about that," he replies. "I'll ask after your glasses, if you want."
"Mm. Later." His hand twitches, fingers uncurling and reaching. "I don't mind." His knuckle brushes the other hand, and after a moment's hesitation, it settles on top of his.
"How—how are you feeling?" Toshinori asks.
He takes another breath through the oxygen mask. "Tired."
"Ah." Toshinori's hand starts to slip away. "I can come back, if you want to rest—"
He's not sure where the strength comes from, but he catches hold of Toshinori's hand before it leaves, holding as tight as his limp fingers will allow. "Don't."
Toshinori's shape goes still. "Mirai?"
"I'm not done," Nighteye says. "Not yet. If I fall asleep, I won't wake up."
He hears the sharp intake of breath, even though Toshinori tries to muffle it. His old friend is still as a statue above him, a blur of bright yellow in the hospital lights.
"You can't know that," Toshinori tells him quietly.
"Can. I can see the future." Truly, a pathetic attempt at a joke. Barely even a quip. But it's the best he can do at the moment.
"Not your own," Toshinori says.
Nighteye smiles, or tries at least. He wonders what it must look like. "Tables have turned, hm?" he says. "Now… I'm ready, and you're the one who isn't."
His friend is silent for a moment, and it occurs to him that his words were a little crueler than he meant them to be. He takes a breath to speak again, but Toshinori beats him to it.
"Are you?" he asks softly. "Are you really all right with this?"
He thinks of the work he still has left to do. He thinks of the sidekicks under him, the mess he'll leave behind for them to clean up. He thinks of Mirio, who's come so far since they met and still has so much further to grow. He thinks of Midoriya, still young and raw and exploding with potential. He thinks of Toshinori, and the past six years gone to waste.
A lump forms in his throat, making it hard to breathe even with the mask. "No," he admits.
Toshinori squeezes his hand. His breathing sounds funny. "You know—for what it's worth, I wasn't either," he says. "I wasn't—I was frustrated. And afraid. Because I lost so much, and I gave up so much, and I always thought I'd have to give up everything in the end, and finding out that I was right… it just seemed unfair."
"Of course it was unfair," Nighteye starts.
"But I wouldn't—I didn't want to feel that way, so I told myself I didn't, and I told you I didn't, and I—" His voice breaks. "I pushed you away, on purpose, because you were one of the things reminding me why I didn't want to die. I shut you out because when you weren't there, when you weren't close to me, I could pretend I was all right, and I could pretend I had nothing to lose, nothing to leave behind, and I'm sorry , Mirai."
His eyes burn. The blur of light and color swims until he blinks, and the tears spill down to his temples.
Toshinori's breath rasps horribly. " I'm so sorry. "
He doesn't have much in the way of grip strength, but he squeezes Toshinori's hand with all he has left. "I gave up," he says, wishing he could see properly. "As soon as things stopped going the way I wanted—I said everything wrong, and when you fought me on it, I gave up. Didn't even try to stay."
Another quavering breath leaves his friend, and the hand holding him shakes. "Damn," Toshinori breathes out. "We wasted so much time."
Nighteye blinks away the wetness in his eyes. "How's your boy?"
"Izuku's all right," Toshinori says. "He's not hurt, just… hasn't woken up yet. He's exhausted."
In spite of himself, Nighteye smiles. "Not surprised."
Toshinori's thumb swipes over his knuckles. "How'd he do?"
"I was wrong, Toshi," Nighteye admits. "You do know how to pick them." Toshinori laughs softly. "And everyone else? Was anyone else injured? Or…?"
"A few injuries," is the reply. "But no fatalities. Snatch—you know, the Sand Hero? He had a close call, but he's fine. Rock Lock is recovering in the hospital. All other injuries are minor, including young Togata's. Nothing a few healing quirks and bed rest won't fix."
"Hm." Another slow blink. They're getting slower. "One."
"What?"
"One fatality," he says. "Could have been worse."
Toshinori's hand shakes. "Mirai. Please. Giving up on me is one thing. Please don't give up on yourself, not after all this."
Before Nighteye can answer, there's a commotion out in the hallway. Voices he doesn't recognize call out for someone to slow down, stop running. An apology is shouted back in a voice that he does. Running footsteps skid to a halt outside the door, and Nighteye suppresses a sigh.
Deep, deep down, he was hoping to be gone before Mirio had to see him like this.
"Sir!" Mirio stops short at the door. Nighteye can hear him breathing hard, as if he just sprinted through the hospital—that's not good, he was injured and should be resting, healing quirk or no healing quirk—
"It's not true, is it?" Mirio's voice cracks. "Eraserhead told me—he told me you were—" He enters slowly, with hesitant steps. "Please tell me he was wrong."
Toshinori takes a breath. "Well—we can't know whether—"
"Don't," Nighteye rasps. He squeezes Toshi's hand for all he's worth, a silent plea for silence.
"Mirai," Toshi says in a plea of his own.
"Now's not the time," Nighteye murmurs. "Don't be cruel." Toshi's hand shudders in his grip.
A second patch of gold joins the first, to his dismay. The last thing he wants is for Mirio to watch him die, but he can't find the words to tell him to leave. He doubts the boy would listen anyway.
"Sir…" He can barely see how Mirio stands with his hands braced on the railing, leaning toward him as if he wants to reach out but can't. "Sir, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
What an odd thing to say. From what little Nighteye has been told—and what little he can remember—it was Mirio who brought down Chisaki in the end, though one of Ryukyu's interns dealt the final blow. "Whatever for?"
"I—" Mirio's voice breaks. "I should've been there, I should've been fighting with you. I should've been there to help, and I wasn't, I was so slow— "
"Odd," Nighteye murmurs. "I seem to remember you arriving right when you were needed."
"I didn't! I-I wasn't there until the end, when—it was already too late, and if I'd just been faster, if I'd been there, then Midoriya wouldn't be hurt and you wouldn't—you wouldn't be…"
"Mirio…"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough."
"You fought so well, Mirio. I couldn't be prouder." Mirio sobs, a broken, pitiful sound that sends cracks into Nighteye's heart. "I'm sorry, too. I wanted… to see what you would become. With my own eyes." Living eyes, he thinks. He will see it happen either way, but it isn't the same if it isn't a future that he can reach out and touch.
"I—I don't know if I can. Not without you."
It's getting harder to breathe, he realizes. Not that the mask has stopped working. But breathing takes energy, and his is slowly running out. "Now… what did I tell you… about selling yourself short?"
With the last of his fading strength he lifts his free hand, and feels his way to Mirio's face. His protege starts at the touch, before leaning into it as he tries and fails to swallow another sob.
Nighteye feels Mirio's tear-streaked face in one hand, and Toshinori's hand in the other. He has two choices before him; something tells him he only has time for one.
He makes his choice, and the future stretches before him, moment by moment.
It is bright.
It is beautiful.
And then it is gone.
It hits him all at once—that is to say, nothing. It's a strange thing, to feel nothing. Or perhaps it isn't strange, because it isn't anything at all. That's sort of the point.
And then, a split second before he's almost gotten used to nothing, everything returns to him, blinding and raw and all-consuming.
Frustration. Sorrow. He doesn't want to die here, not when there's still more he wants to do. He's only just reunited and reconciled with Toshinori, only to die and leave him again. There's still more he wants to teach Mirio.
For once in his life, he wants to see the future play out.
As if in answer, his vision returns, only it's not what it was before. The blurry haze is gone, and the world unfolds before him in impossibly sharp focus. He's not lying down and looking up anymore. He's standing up on his own two feet, looking at Toshinori's hunched back as his friend leans over his hospital bed. Across from him, Mirio crumples like a puppet with its strings cut, sobbing.
Pain spreads through him the way the heart beats blood through the veins. This is wrong, he thinks. They aren't supposed to look like this, small and helpless in the face of loss. He knows them both, he knows how strong they are, and the world goes hazy as the ragged shreds of his mind scream in protest. Then it settles in sharp, unforgiving clarity, and he knows, he understands—
This is his fault, they're in pain because of him , because he wasn't strong enough, because he couldn't do something so simple as live for their sakes, and he should fix this—
He should comfort them—
If he could just,
reach forward—
If he could tell them that it's all right, that he's here, he hasn't gone anywhere, then maybe—
Maybe the world won't fall to pieces right when he's just gotten it back —
He reaches out to them desperately, knowing in the midst of wild, mad hope that no matter how hard he tries, he won't be able to touch them.
A pair of hands catch hold of him, holding him back.
The anguish that makes him up churns violently, anger and frustration leaking in—how dare anyone stop him, how dare anyone try to hold him back—
"Not yet," comes the whisper, and the grip on his wrist gentles but does not vanish altogether. He rounds on the voice, and his eyes fall upon Midoriya Izuku's face.
"Not yet, " Midoriya repeats, eyes blank-white and unblinking. "Let them be. Let them cry. "
Confusion feels sharper now than it ever has before, and it bleeds into panic far too easily. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "Why—you can't be dead. You're not supposed to be—"
It seems as if he blinks, and the room with his friend, his protege, and his empty body are gone. They're standing in a different room now, quieter than before, and Nighteye looks to the bed and finds a small, plump woman curled over a hospital bed, holding a still, silent Midoriya Izuku's hand.
As he watches, the blanket slowly rises and falls.
"I'm not dead," The Midoriya still holding his wrist says. His voice is odd, strangely soft and indistinct, as if he's not completely there. "This part woke up before the rest of me did."
"Oh," Nighteye says softly.
"I'll be all right," Midoriya tells him. "Just worry about yourself."
The boy vanishes from his side, but before Nighteye can panic at the sudden solitude, an arm settles over his shoulder, more heavy and solid than he currently feels.
"C'mon," an unfamiliar voice says brusquely, and he glances over to find the ghost of a sturdy dark-haired woman quirking a sad smile at him. "Might as well say hello to the others."
Shouta is long accustomed to hospital rooms.
He's been injured before. He's been helpless before. He's even been captured before, on more than one occasion. Every time he suffers and survives, he is reminded of how many heroes have died in those situations, and how lucky he supposedly is not to be one of them.
He never feels lucky. He only ever feels tired, and resigned.
When he walks into Midoriya's room and finds the boy's mother holding his hand, whispering to him without any hope for a response, there is nothing he wouldn't give for the power to turn back time so he can give the past few days another try. It's not the first time he's felt that way, it's not the first time he's had to be the bearer of terrible news, and it won't be the last.
"The doctors say he's as healthy as can be." Midoriya Inko's voice pulls Shouta out of his troubled thoughts. She keeps her eyes on her son as she speaks to him. "A few bumps and scrapes, but no injuries besides that. He's not even unconscious, just asleep. They were wondering if he was under some kind of quirk, that's how deep it is."
Shouta nods, then bows to her. "I'm sorry that I did so poorly in protecting him."
"You don't need to apologize," she replies, her tone deceptively light. "I've been scared out of my mind since I heard about this mission of his. He's come out of it with scratches, and not a single broken bone. He'll wake up soon. He'll be alright." She heaves a sigh. "The worst thing that's going to hurt him from this, is that someone else died. And that's not something you could ever have protected him from."
Shouta disagrees, but says nothing.
When she finally looks over her shoulder at him, her face is heavy with exhaustion. "I'll tell him you came by, when he wakes up."
Shouta inclines his head to her, and leaves the room in search of his other students.
He finds them all in one place: someone must have set aside a quiet spot for the student heroes, or they were simply lucky enough to find the little waiting room, out of the way and empty. Kirishima and Asui sit on either side of Uraraka, who stares down in silence at her own hands. Kirishima's arm is around her, and Asui's hand rests palm-up in Uraraka's lap, a silent offer of comfort.
For his part, Shouta is not ignorant to Uraraka's humble ambitions. She has no grand dreams of glory, only the simple desire to support herself and give her family comfort and stability. There are very few bad reasons to save lives, and in Shouta's eyes, that is not one of them. He has never subscribed to the opinions of Stain and his ilk, that heroes should somehow rise above their physical needs. Saving lives has been a career since long before quirks evolved. Take that away, and you'd have to toss out the entire medical field along with it.
But there comes a point when a career path becomes more than just a paycheck, and Shouta can tell by looking at the three faces before him that they are coming to truly understand just how high the stakes are for heroes.
But now isn't the time to talk about that.
Kirishima is the first to speak. "Is Midoriya okay?'
"He's fine," Shouta replies, and sees the tension leave the trio all at once. "Exhausted, but uninjured."
"But Sir Nighteye isn't," Uraraka murmurs. She hasn't taken her eyes off her hands. They're clean of blood now, but Shouta knows from experience that she'll be seeing the stains for a while.
"No," Shouta says quietly. "The doctors did what they could, but he succumbed to his injuries." Uraraka doesn't answer, and he kneels down to her eye level. "That's not on you. You know that, right?"
Her mouth tightens into a stubborn line.
"In missions like this, you can't bear the weight of every mistake," he goes on, looking at all three of them in turn. "And sometimes, there are no mistakes. Every hero can do everything right, and things can still go wrong. That's not a burden for any one hero to carry."
Tears trickle down Uraraka's face, and she quickly wipes them away.
"That's one of the hardest lessons a hero must learn," Shouta says. "You can't save everyone."
"I want to," Uraraka says. "I want to save people, I want to save as many as I can—"
"And you will. You have." Shouta focuses on the girls for a moment. "Don't forget, you saved at least one life today." He's not just saying it to make them feel better; if the girls hadn't intervened when they did, then he would probably be dead.
"And Eri, too," Kirishima adds.
"Eri, too."
"I'm going to do better next time," Uraraka says. She doesn't speak it like a vow, or a hope. She states it like a fact.
"I know," Shouta says. "I believe you, Uraraka."
Throughout it all, Asui says nothing. She's barely taken her eyes off of him since he walked in. There are questions burning in her unblinking stare, a reminder of what she's seen.
Shouta lifts an eyebrow at her, and she lowers her eyes. She can wait for explanations, it seems.
An hour later finds him in a hospital restroom, trying not to zone out as he washes his hands. He stares at his own reflection and marvels at the lack of new scars. He hasn't gained any since the USJ; all of his injuries since then have been minor. He does look tired, but there are no new marks to grimly admire in his reflection.
Without warning, the temperature drops, and Shouta's breath leaves a patch as it ghosts over the mirror. Before Shouta can wonder what happened, an invisible finger traces letters on the fogged glass.
He's awake.
Suppressing a shudder, Shouta leaves the restroom behind and hurries back to Midoriya's room.
Sure enough, he walks in to find Midoriya half hidden in his mother's embrace, eyes open and looking around the room. They fall upon Shouta, and the boy freezes. His mother pulls back to follow his gaze.
In the doorway, Shouta balks for a moment. Nighteye's death sits in the back of his throat, heavy and inevitable. Before him, Midoriya still looks exhausted, eyes unfocused behind drooping lids. It's only by virtue of the angle of the pillows behind him that he's sitting half-upright at all.
It's okay, Midoriya tells him in sluggish sign. I already know.
Relief mingles with dismay. He doesn't have to be the bearer of bad news, but only because Midoriya is already carrying it.
Words escape him. He's comforted people about death before, civilians and fellow heroes alike, but never anyone like Midoriya. With Midoriya, there's a possibility that Nighteye is still here, and Shouta doesn't even know how to ask.
His student's eyes stay on him for a while, and Shouta can see the gears grinding through the heavy exhaustion. After a moment, Midoriya shifts over and taps his mother's arm. His next signs are quicker, indistinct, more garbled for lack of a better word, and Shouta only picks out enough to know that Midoriya wants to say something to Shouta, but not her.
A quick discussion follows, half in whispers and half in sign, before she finally kisses her son on the forehead and gets up from the chair. "I'll be out in the hallway," she tells Shouta, and leaves the room.
"I'm not going to interrogate you right now," Shouta tells him. "There's time for that later. It can wait until you're ready."
Midoriya shakes his head. He reaches for the table beside his bed, where a notepad and pen have been left for him. His mother must have requested them, just in case; she knows her son well.
His handwriting is just as wobbly as Shouta would expect. The conversation progresses slowly, but he is patient.
I don't want my mom to know this yet.
This, of course, raises a few alarms. "I won't keep secrets from your mother where your safety is concerned," he says bluntly.
Midoriya shakes his head again. I know. I'll tell her myself. But not yet.
"Tell her what?" Shouta asks, and no amount of bracing can prepare him for what Midoriya writes next.
I died. Eri brought me back.
The shock doesn't wear off. It can't wear off, not for something like that. All Shouta can do is adjust to it.
"When you say 'died'—"
The pen in Midoriya's hand digs into the paper, scratching through a few pages. The knuckles gripping it are white.
I was dead. Chisaki killed me. Eri used her quirk.
Shouta feels panic growing in the distance, alongside many other things: terror, anger, overprotective fury. He wants to take the boy by his shoulders and shake him, to demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing, getting killed on what should have been Shouta's watch. He wants to be angry with him for being reckless enough to be in that position in the first place.
He takes a deep breath, and pushes all of that away. At best, doing any of those things will make him look irrational. At worst, they will teach Midoriya to stay silent the next time something terrible happens to him. Looking at the boy now, with his head hanging so that his hair hides his eyes from view, Shouta can see that there is nothing he can scold him with that Midoriya doesn't already know.
"I'm glad you're telling me," he says after a moment.
It's a gross understatement. There were three people down in that cavern with Midoriya when most of this went down. One is dead, one is a small child, and one is a semi-comatose villain set to be carted off to Tartarus. Midoriya could have kept something like this to himself and no one would have been the wiser.
Eri's quirk was not a sure thing. It could have failed outright, or it could have worked far too well.
Shouta could have hobbled into that cavern and found his student gone, one way or another.
His hand settles on Midoriya's shoulder. It's just as much for his own comfort as it is for Midoriya's, a reminder that he is still alive and solid and real. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there to help you."
The shoulder spasms beneath his hand. Midoriya tucks his chin in. There are no tears.
It's Kirishima who sends out the first text, announcing both the end of their mission and the fact that all four of them emerged nearly unscathed. Word reaches the Class 1-A dormitory and sweeps through the crowded common room like a sigh of relief. Tenya doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until the news reaches his ears and he lets it out at last.
Then come whispers of a fatality, not one of their classmates but one of the supervising heroes, and Tenya finds himself catching Todoroki's eye from across the room.
Not a single member of the class is upstairs. No one has left the common room since news first reached them. Kouda is passing his rabbit around, keeping nerves settled.
Asui sends out the next text, letting them know that all four of them will be arriving soon, and the nervous atmosphere turns to relief and excitement. After spending all day sitting in radio silence, everyone is eager for news.
"Remember, everyone!" Tenya calls out. "Don't crowd them when they arrive! Give them space, and if they don't wish to talk, then don't press them!"
By the time the front door opens, Mika is in Tenya's lap. In spite of his own reminder, he can't help scooping her up and rushing to his feet. The rest of the class almost crowd them anyway, but Yaoyorozu plants herself at a distance and gives stern sidelong glances to anyone who looks ready to rush them. It works, and there's a healthy distance when the four of them walk in.
For a moment, the entrance hall is silent. Tenya looks over his classmates, takes in a few bandages and minor scratches and bruises. True to Kirishima's word, they all seem to have come out of it more or less unscathed.
And then Tenya looks at their faces, and knows that isn't the case.
For his part, Kirishima simply looks lost. He's smiling as he lifts his hand and calls out a greeting, but it's shaky and uncertain, especially when he glances back at the others.
Uraraka's eyes are red and puffy but dry, and her mouth is perfectly straight and tight on her face until she forces it into a smile.
Asui's face is carefully blank. Tenya hasn't seen this look on her since after the Kamino incident, when she was trying to pretend everything was all right.
And Midoriya…
Midoriya pauses in the entranceway, takes in the barely held-back crowd, and immediately backs away until the other three are in front of him. They let him without much fuss, with Uraraka shooting him a worried look over her shoulder. There's some milling around before Ashido breaks through and throws her arms around Kirishima.
"Hey guys!" she says. "I'm glad you all made it back okay!"
"It's good to be back!" Kirishima answers, and the tension breaks. Everyone converges on each other, cautiously at first, before caution is thrown aside in favor of camaraderie.
Except Tenya notes Midoriya edging around the outskirts, unnoticed. If Tenya hadn't been looking for him specifically, he might have missed him as well. Apparently he isn't the only one, because Todoroki catches up to him first.
"Midoriya?" Tenya keeps his voice down as he approaches. It's clear Midoriya doesn't want that much attention.
His friend looks tired. That's all Tenya can think of to describe it. He looks more tired than he's ever looked before in his life. He signs, and Tenya is still learning but he can recognize I want to be alone right now.
Without another word, Tenya holds out his cat. Midoriya purses his lips—it's not a smile, it's barely even an attempt—and takes her.
Todoroki doesn't say anything, just presses his shoulder briefly before letting him slip away.
"Might be best to leave him alone for now," Tenya murmurs. Todoroki nods once, then slips back to the others.
By the time Midoriya creeps back down and takes a place on one of the dorm couches, they've been told enough to know not to inundate him with questions. Within minutes, there's a cup of tea in his hands, Kirishima is leaning comfortably against him, and all topics of conversation are strictly school- and pop-culture-related. Midoriya relaxes, and that's all anyone can ask of him.
Late at night, Shouto sits up and reads by phone light. He's resigned to being awake, resigned to the noise in his head that won't let up. Remedial training. Lessons to learn. His friends and classmates doing real hero work while he's still chasing, lagging, catching up, all while Endeavor looks on from the top and threatens to oversee his training in person. As if he doesn't have enough to keep him up at night.
And now his best friend, his closest friend, his whatever-they're-supposed-to-be-called is… what, troubled? Devastated? It's impossible to say, thanks in no small part to the fact that Shouto can't share in it, because he's still so, so far behind.
So now he's awake, mostly because he can't sleep, but also because he's fully ready for a knock at his door.
A few minutes before midnight, it comes. Shouto sets aside his book and his phone and goes to let Midoriya in.
"Can't sleep either?" he asks, once they're settled on his futon—sitting on it, not lying down to sleep. Midoriya releases Mika and lets her wander.
I want to be alone right now, he says. But I don't think I should be alone.
That's a feeling he can definitely understand. "You don't have to say anything about it," he says. "The others filled us in on what happened. Uraraka filled us in on… the other stuff."
Midoriya nods. I just don't know what everyone will say about it, he says.
Anyone who knows anything about heroics will understand, Shouto answers.
You don't know that.
Shouto hesitates. I know that heroes make hard choices every day, he says. And I also know you tend to make the right ones.
He doesn't know if that's comforting or not. It gets a thoughtful frown and not much else.
"Hey, Midoriya," he says.
I thought I said you could call me Izuku.
He rolls his eyes. "It's not like you ever call me Shouto."
Midoriya—Izuku—stares at him, surprised. Then, he spells out Shouto's name, one character at a time.
"Glad we're in agreement," Shouto says, and Izuku sort of smiles. It's not quite a smile. But he'll take it.
And next time he's going to be there, so no matter what happens, he will understand.
"So anyway," Ochako finishes. "Ghosts."
"Ghosts," Tsuyu agrees, sitting back. Her head tilts back until she's looking at the ceiling. "This is a lot."
Ochako remembers how her revelation treated her—easily, since she just recounted it to Tsuyu, along with the rest of what she knows. She and Iida have Deku's blessing to explain things to Tsuyu, but it still feels strange and wrong to discuss his quirk without him.
"If you need time to process all of this new information, please let us know," Iida says. "And please don't feel bad for doing so. I know from experience, just how… overwhelming it can be."
"Of course," Tsuyu says with a soft croak. "But… I think I'm all right. You're right, it is overwhelming, but… it explains some things that I've always wondered about. That helps."
"And we do apologize for keeping secrets from you," Iida says.
"No we don't," Ochako cuts him off, and ignores the sharp look he sends her. "This is Deku's quirk and Deku's secret, and I'm not sorry that I didn't blab about it to anyone. Even you, Tsuyu."
"No, you're right," Tsuyu assures her. "I understand that more than anything else. I understand a lot of things." She taps her fingertip against her mouth thoughtfully. "The only question I have left is his second quirk."
"Second quirk?" Iida echoes.
"His strength, of course," Tsuyu says, ribbiting again. "The green lightning? Where did that come from?"
Ochako shrugs. "I just assumed he was channeling the power of the dead or something. The ghosts we saw in the tunnels had green sparks too, remember?"
"Mm, maybe." Tsuyu frowns. "I suppose that's as good an explanation as any, since none of us know much about ghosts beyond what Midoriya has told you."
"I trust him," Iida says firmly. "If there's something that we need to know, then I trust that he'll tell us. If he doesn't, then I don't believe there's anything to be gained by prying."
"Weren't you just trying to apologize for helping him keep a secret?" Ochako points out.
Her friend splutters for a moment. "Midoriya's discretion concerning secrets is not the same as mine," he says. "While I am not personally comfortable with withholding information, I can understand that his situation is different from anything that I have personally experienced."
"You're a good friend, Iida," Tsuyu assures him, and Iida splutters again, suitably pleased.
"I do my best," he says. "Especially in times as trying as these."
Ochako hums in agreement. It's been the better part of a week since their internships ended, and they're all finally settling down. Deku still isn't speaking, and everyone's been trying to be helpful, whether it's by keeping him company or keeping him occupied. Even Bakugou, in his own way, is trying to be helpful, if only by staying away from him. He's been spending most of his time with Kirishima, which Ochako is glad of. Kirishima's the only one who didn't make it to the deepest chamber of the base. She's pretty sure he's been feeling left out, even if it means he missed out on something unpleasant.
She can understand that feeling, too.
Tsuyu goes back to staring up at the ceiling. "Still… it's hard to imagine. That much power, in one person."
"He's always been strong," Iida points out.
"Not just that," Tsuyu says. "I mean, just think. He has his strength, but he also has this… this invisible army that no one can see but him. They can be anywhere, and most people don't even know they're there. It's the perfect quirk for surveillance, and in a pinch he can make them a physical threat as well. He's not just powerful, he's powerful in two different ways."
"Yeah," Ochako says softly.
"All of that," Tsuyu goes on, "and it still wasn't enough to beat Overhaul on his own."
"Hey," Ochako says.
"That's hardly fair," says Iida. "We're all first years, and this was his first internship. No matter how powerful he may be—"
"You remember what Aizawa-sensei told us," Ochako adds. "It's impossible for a hero to save everyone, especially by themselves."
"I know!" Tsuyu blurts out, sitting up to shake her head furiously. "Sorry. That came out wrong. Of course it was his first— our first. That's what I mean. It's just… we've been thrown into the deep end since we started. First the USJ, then the summer camp, and now this… Even Todoroki and Bakugou, two of the strongest people in class, didn't get their licenses. Even Midoriya, who's even stronger… even he was overwhelmed." She sighs. "Sometimes it still feels like we've barely even started."
It's a heavy bundle of thoughts to consider all at once. They're all so busy considering it that none of them notice the object of conversation listening at the doorway before silently backing away.
On the outside, the kid's doing a little better. Beyond that, it's anyone's guess.
If Izuku's talking to anyone, Nana isn't one of them. But that's… okay. She can understand that, because this might be the first time someone that he knows has died. She remembers watching Toshi spiral in grief after she died. Toshi's only doing a little better than he was back then, and Izuku… well. She thinks, she hopes, that he's doing okay. He's not isolating himself in his grief. He's not falling into any harmful coping mechanisms.
Quite the opposite, really.
"Where is he going now?"
Ah, that brings her to the main project on her hands. At the moment they're on a train, heading into town. Izuku's in a different car, bent over a piece of paper while a ghostly old woman dictates a note for him. Nana doesn't need to watch over him personally, not when he's accompanied by two of his living friends plus Eraserhead.
"Don't know," Nana replies, and can't help grinning at the mystified look on Nighteye's face. "The where's not really important. You'll see what I mean."
They get off near a residential area. Nana follows at a distance, smiling to herself. The kiddo's hemmed in with Uraraka on one side and Todoroki on the other, and Rei orbiting them all like a moon. Eraserhead follows at a closer distance, keeping a watchful eye on his kids as the old woman's ghost leads them through the neighborhood.
Maybe he's feeling better, maybe he isn't. If not, at least he's in a place where he can , eventually. He's surrounded by people who will help him every step of the way.
"I still don't quite understand," Nighteye says, as the little group enters a cul de sac.
"Bean sprout's taking a self-care day," Nana explains, and Nighteye looks no less befuddled.
The old woman leads them to a house. As they watch, Izuku darts up the steps, slips the note under the door, and comes back. It's over in a matter of seconds. Nana is too far away to hear anything, but she can see the woman weep as she bows repeatedly in gratitude, and then vanishes into thin air. Izuku stays still for a moment more, then moves on.
"On to the next one," Nana says cheerily.
"The next what."
"I dunno," she says. "Favor, I guess. Actually no, favor's the wrong word. Favor implies he's expecting it to be repaid. It's more like… a good turn? Community service?" For the dead community, she thinks. Incredible.
Sure enough, they chase the kids back and forth across Musutafu. Another note to deliver. A front door left unlocked. Food bowls to set out for a colony of stray cats. Little things that add up to a full day. It's only when they all swing in the direction of a junkyard that Izuku's pace slows.
"It's fine, Deku," Uraraka insists. "You already warned us about this kind of stuff before we left, and we don't mind."
"I already helped you pull a very dirty dog out from under a house," Todoroki adds. "This is nothing."
Izuku still hesitates, only for Eraserhead to step in. "This'll be the last one for the day anyway," he says. "Any more and you three will miss curfew."
With a nod, Izuku leads them into the junkyard.
Nana drifts over to the fretful ghost who sent them on this errand in the first place. "Hey, uh, what are you looking for again?"
The ghost startles at her sudden appearance. "My daughter's toy. It's an orange cat with stripes. She left it in the car, after the crash, and now she can't sleep without it."
"Understood." To Nighteye she says, "You heard her. C'mon, it'll go by faster if we help."
She lets Nighteye go his own way, noting how he keeps his distance from Izuku. As far as she knows, he hasn't approached the kid since he first died, much less talked to him. She's trying not to be impatient about it; after all, these things take time.
"Does he do this sort of thing often?" Nighteye asks, as they drift through the junked cars.
"Sort of," Nana replies. "Not often, exactly. But everyone copes in different ways. He says he's been doing it since he was small. It helps him to be helpful. And I can understand that. When things go wrong, it's comforting to remind yourself that you can still do good."
Nighteye makes a thoughtful noise.
"One of the reasons I found what you said so frustrating," she adds, keeping her tone light.
It still lands harshly. "I didn't know the truth," he says, half to himself.
"You didn't ask." Nana sweeps past him to glance over a pile of rubbish. "You drew your own conclusions and ran with them. Like I said, frustrating."
"I know," he says, frustrated—with himself, not her. "It's one thing to be told. It's another to see it for myself."
She grins at him. "He's got a lot of love to give. He's like Toshi that way. Love and sunshine for everyone he meets. His is just a little spookier, that's all."
It takes a little while for Nighteye to answer. "Not… everyone," he murmurs, and perhaps if Nana were listening with living ears, she wouldn't have heard it. Not me, he doesn't say.
She sends him a sad smile. "Oh, but he could have," she says. "You were just prickly about letting him." He winces. "You were . Past tense. You can fix that now. People like us, with nothing left to do but wait for the ones we love… all we have now is time. And when Izuku's around, that's all we need. He'll do the rest. You just have to ask."
"I found it," Nighteye says, instead of answering. He's standing by another car, a gray minivan with a shattered windshield and mangled front. The back is mostly intact, aside from cracked windows, through which Nana can see the orange stuffed cat lying between the seats.
"Good," Nana says. "You should tell him."
He gives her a pained look, and she laughs, and he sighs before following her advice. Nana wishes, more than anything, that it could be enough to fix the hurt she knows Izuku is feeling. But she knows it can never be that easy.
She hasn't even seen him cry.
For once, Shouto doesn't jerk awake in sudden alarm. He isn't startled or shaken awake; it happens quite naturally, as far as he can tell. One moment he's asleep, and the next he's opening his eyes, drowsy but calm. His room comes into focus around him, dark enough that he probably won't have to get up for hours yet. Izuku isn't moving or making any noise beside him, which begs the question as to what woke him up.
Shouto shifts carefully, not wanting to disturb him, but it proves pointless when he reaches an angle that he can comfortably look over at Izuku, and finds him awake and staring up at the ceiling.
His first thought is that a nightmare woke Izuku, who made just enough noise or movement to wake Shouto. But that can't be it, because he's seen Izuku tense and shaken from a recent nightmare, and right now he's neither of those things.
Right now, Izuku just looks tired.
"I just realized something," he says out loud with his voice.
Shouto would be more excited about that if only he were more awake. At the moment, it's taking all his sluggish brainpower just to follow along.
"Aizawa took a hit for me, you know," Izuku goes on. "That's how he got captured. That's why he wasn't there when Overhaul came."
Almost immediately, Shouto is awake. Even in the mire of sleep, it isn't hard to see where Izuku's thoughts are headed.
"Uraraka said you and Togata stopped him," he says.
"Mm." Izuku won't look at him. "Togata. He wasn't there 'til the end." Before Shouto can answer, he says, "I heard from a ghost that Overhaul was far away, in another part of the tunnels. I told him that, and he went."
Shouto says nothing. This is the first he's heard of this part.
"If Aizawa hadn't taken that hit for me, he and Togata would've both been there. Two perfect counters to Overhaul." For a moment Shouto thinks he's about to cry, but Izuku's eyes stay dry, open, and fixed on the ceiling. "But that's not what happened. There was just me."
"And you still took him down," Shouto points out, quietly. "You did what was needed."
Izuku doesn't answer at first, as Shouto presses closer in a helpless attempt at being comforting. At some point it will sink in, just how close his friend came to not coming back. It's not the first time Izuku has almost gotten killed when Shouto wasn't there. If they become the heroes they hope to be, then it won't be the last.
"I didn't take him down," Izuku whispers, as Shouto starts to drift off again. "I couldn't even do that."
"You're not invincible," Shouto murmurs back. "Can't keep blaming yourself every time something goes wrong." He swallows a yawn. "You're enough."
"I don't feel like enough."
"Okay. I'll just keep saying it 'til you do."
If Izuku says anything after that, Shouto doesn't remember.
Objectively, today is a good day.
It's overcast, of course. It's well into fall, with winter just around the corner. The air is crisp and fresh from recent rain, and the sky is pale silver instead of the heavy dark gray of rainclouds. It's cold out, but not too cold that going out is too much work. Perfect sweater weather.
Less objectively, today could be a lot better. It could be a lot worse, but there's room for improvement. Of course, there's always room for improvement! But in this case, there's… a lot of room. Way too much.
More than Mirio knows what to do with.
It's barely noon and he's already tired, having cleaned his dorm room twice, scrubbed his bathroom, and neatened up the common room while his classmates were out. He would love nothing more than to be with them, but his homeroom teacher took one look at him this morning and sent him straight back to the dorms, no matter how desperately Mirio claimed to be fine.
He thinks about Sir in the middle of cleaning his bathroom, accidentally scores the scrub brush over his hand, and tells himself that the tears are a pain reflex.
Technically he is fine. He's not injured, he's not sick, he's not anything , he's just sad . Who takes sick days for being sad?
After he can't find anything more to do around the dormitories, he goes for a run to prove it to himself. At some point he has a plan for how many laps to run, but then he thinks about Sir again and loses count. By the time he wobbles back to his dorm room on legs that feel like clay, it's barely lunchtime.
He's beginning to regret urging Tamaki to go to class instead of keeping him company. He underestimated just how long the day would be without classes to fill it.
When he passes through the common area to the kitchen, he's struck by a frustrating combination of hunger and nausea. His stomach is empty, but he's pretty sure he'll be sick if he tries to eat.
(Maybe Sensei was right to make him sit out of classes today.)
He hops in the shower and has a good cry under the spray, and—yeah, Sensei was probably right. Still, crying is soothing, and so are showers, and by the time he gets dry and dressed, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could manage eating something.
Mirio spends an inordinate amount of time staring into the fridge, taking in containers and bags of his classmates' leftovers, plus the pot of soup Tamaki made yesterday. He can handle soup, can't he? Tamaki won't mind. In fact, Mirio's pretty sure Tamaki made the soup for him anyway.
He realizes with a jolt that he's left the fridge open too long, and steps back to close it and gather his thoughts.
The door swings shut, and Midoriya Izuku stares at him in its place.
Mirio actually jumps, because he's a human being and human beings jump when they're startled. There are a lot of things that don't make sense about Midoriya, and his total lack of presence is one of them. It's so consistent that it has to be quirk-related, and how can something like that coexist with strength that turns concrete into gravel?
"I need to talk to you," Midoriya tells him, while Mirio is in the middle of getting his breath back.
"How did you get in here?" Mirio asks. "The front door is ID card-locked."
"Borrowed Hadou's," Midoriya says. "Can we talk? It's important."
"I… sure." Food can wait. Midoriya's talking again, and he's here instead of in class or in his own dormitory, and if he says it's important then it must be important. "C'mon, my room's on the third floor."
It's also immaculate from this morning's half-desperate cleaning. It looks like a picture in a catalog, only with more posters and personal effects. Midoriya's eyes rake over it, blinking little. He looks like he hasn't slept much.
Mirio hooks his foot around his desk chair to pull it out, then sits on his bed. "So what did you want to talk about?" He purses his lips, unsure of what face he should make. He has a very uncomfortable feeling that Midoriya's about to do something silly like try to apologize for what happened, as if any of it was his fault, and Mirio wants to nip that in the bud as soon as possible if it's the case. But Midoriya has spent the last few weeks silent, so the last thing Mirio wants to do is interrupt.
Midoriya ignores the chair and stands in the middle of the room, putting a bit of distance between them. On the outside he looks relaxed, impassive, but who knows what's going on inside his head.
"I trust you," Midoriya says bluntly. "You're honest, and you act loud and over the top all the time but you have more common sense than most of the people I've met in my entire life."
"Er," says Mirio. "Thanks?"
"So I know when I ask you to keep this a secret, you will," Midoriya goes on. "Especially after you hear what it is."
"Of course," Mirio says automatically.
Midoriya falls silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts, until finally—"Do you know what my quirk is?"
"What?"
"My quirk," Midoriya repeats. "I can't remember if I ever told you what it was."
"Strength enhancement," Mirio says hesitantly. "I think. And… possibly sense enhancement? There seems to be a lot more to it."
Midoriya nods. "You said you saw the Sports Festival, right? You saw me. What I did to myself."
Mirio nods, still uncertain. "It… looked pretty bad. You have better control now than you did back then."
"That's because I've had it nine months instead of three," Midoriya says.
"You—what?" Mirio does a few mental calculations. "Your quirk came in last February?" A connection is made. "Wait, that's entrance exam season."
Midoriya nods. "I got it the morning of. If you thought the festival was bad, you should've seen what I did to myself then."
Mirio stares, speechless.
"I could lie and tell you that I was just a late bloomer with a freak mutation." Midoriya won't meet Mirio's eyes anymore. "But I'm not. It was given to me. It has two parts: power stockpiling, and passing on at will. It's strong because it's passed through enough hands to make it that strong. It's called One For All." His eyes flicker to Mirio's, only briefly. "...Are you with me so far?"
"Yes," Mirio says, otherwise dumbstruck. Holy shit. Holy shit .
"Ten months before I got it, I met All-Might, and I guess I made a good impression," Midoriya says. "Because he decided he wanted me to have his quirk."
Holy fucking shit.
"Why—" Mirio pauses to swallow with his dry throat. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because Nighteye wanted it to be you."
Hearing Sir's name, after spending the past few hours trying not to let himself think it, is like having his head forced underwater. "...What?"
"He wanted you to take One For All," Midoriya says. "He thought you were perfect. You have a good quirk, you're strong, you're determined, and you're just—you're good. You're a good person and you'd do great things with it. The only reason why you don't have it is that All-Might ran into me before he had the chance to meet you."
"I…" Mirio chokes out. He's been fighting against his own head all day, forcing down the memories just so they won't drown out everything else in the silence, running himself ragged just to try to stay ahead of them. And now…
He isn't lying. Midoriya wouldn't just lie about something like this. He's not that kind of person, and even if he were, there's nothing to be gained from making up something like this. It's the truth. That's the only way any of this makes sense.
But it doesn't make sense, because—
Sir never told him, he never even—
He never—
"Why are you telling me this?" he asks again.
"Because after everything that's happened, I can see where Nighteye was coming from," Midoriya says. "It was supposed to be yours. So now I'm asking you if you want it."
"What? "
"I mean, I think it's safe to say you'd be better at it than I am," Midoriya says with a shrug. It's almost convincing, almost enough to hide the trembling, wire-taut tension in his voice. "N-not that it's hard. I've set the bar pretty low. I'm just sorry it took—It took so much for me to realize that. It shouldn't have. I should've figured it out back at Kamino."
The words pull Mirio back up, out from under the icy depths of whatever drowning pit his grief keeps dragging him into. He can breathe again. It shouldn't be this way, it shouldn't take somebody else's pain to clear his head, but sometimes it's easier to help someone else than it is to help himself.
And there's just so much wrong with what he just heard that he can't let it go uncorrected.
"This is what you and Sir were arguing about before, wasn't it?" he says once he finds his voice.
Midoriya nods.
"I could tell there was something about you he didn't approve of, and you were challenging him on it," Mirio says. "I just didn't know what it was." At least that much makes sense now; he could never figure out what Sir had against Midoriya, but this… this makes sense, as much as he hates to admit it. Sir was stubborn, even rigid. Maybe that was what happened when you were used to knowing the future; you got used to staying on one path.
He shakes his head. "You never seemed to care about what he thought of you," he says. "I liked that about you. He's—he was intimidating, but you didn't let it shake you." He can almost feel the compliment slide off of Midoriya, never catching. "What changed?"
Midoriya stares at him like it's the dumbest question he ever heard. "I got him killed, Mirio."
Mirio isn't sure what surprises him more, the use of his first name or the cracks spreading through Midoriya's cold shell of nonchalance.
"I walked him into a trap, and I slowed down everyone who could have helped," Midoriya continues, almost viciously. "Even Eri. She could have saved him, but she didn't because she had to save me instead." His voice breaks, but he doesn't stop. "And it made me realize that maybe I'm not the right person after all. Maybe All-Might was wrong about me. Maybe Nighteye was right the first time, and I was just too stubborn and arrogant to admit it."
He stops to flinch, as if someone's shouting in his ear.
"I just—" He stops again, and doesn't continue until his voice is just a little bit steadier. "I just had this moment of clarity—"
"No you didn't," Mirio says.
Midoriya stares at him, startled into momentary silence, and Mirio happily presses into it. He's heard enough.
"You've been confident in your own abilities this entire time." Mirio ignores the way Midoriya's hands curl into fists. "And you should be. You've been getting things done with or without that quirk, wherever it came from. You saved Eri the day you met her. You protected her when the League tried to take her back."
"You did," Midoriya says, quiet and tense. "If it had just been me, they would've taken her."
"And if you hadn't been there to slow them down, it wouldn't have mattered if I got there or not."
"Anyone can slow a villain down—"
"Maybe so," Mirio says. "Maybe others could do the things you've done, maybe they couldn't. That doesn't matter. You were the one who was there. You were the one who did them." Midoriya opens his mouth to argue, but falters when Mirio stands up. "So not everything went the way you wanted this time. You made mistakes and there were consequences. And now you think the rest of it doesn't matter anymore?"
Midoriya flinches again.
"That's not clarity," Mirio says. "That's doubt . Don't get them confused."
He knows it's coming. He sees it in the sheen in Midoriya's eyes, hears it in the hitching breath that breaks the silence that follows. In a matter of seconds, whatever dam Midoriya built up against it breaks down, and his watery eyes and uneven breathing turn into soft crying.
In two steps he closes the distance between them and pulls Midoriya into a hug. The kid stiffens up for a split second, then rocks into him with a hoarse, muffled wail.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have anything to be sorry for."
Midoriya shakes his head furiously.
"If anything, I should be the sorry one," Mirio says, and his voice wobbles when his throat almost squeezes itself shut. "I should've been there to help you. You should never have had to face that alone."
"I wasn't," Midoriya sobs. "I wasn't alone, but it didn't even matter. I tried. I tried so hard, but I couldn't—"
"Of course you did. I know that." Mirio gives him a pat. "I haven't said thank you yet, so I'm saying it now. Thank you, Deku."
"It wasn't enough. I wasn't enough."
"Hey." Mirio forces himself to let go, pushes Midoriya gently back so they're looking each other in the eye. "Don't forget—Sir was there with you. And he wasn't enough, either. He wasn't—he wasn't strong enough to save himself, either. All the other pro heroes in this mission weren't even strong enough to be there to help. And I wasn't fast enough to reach you until it was too late to save him." He squeezes Midoriya's shoulders, forcing him to look at him instead of the floor. "This is not all on you. Do you understand? And you're doing no one any favors by trying to give up now." He levels a steady glare through his own tears. "I won't let you give up on yourself."
Midoriya holds his gaze for a few moments before shutting his eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath. When he's sure the kid isn't about to keel over, Mirio lets go. Midoriya takes a few more breaths, and the tears finally subside.
"Feels a little better, doesn't it?" Mirio says, wiping his own eyes.
"A little," Midoriya admits. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry. In fact, new rule: you're not allowed to apologize for anything for the rest of the day. I mean it," he adds, when he sees Midoriya wince. "I don't blame you for what happened. It never even crossed my mind to blame you. And I know that—" His voice catches. "I know he'd feel the same. I know you didn't get along, but he wouldn't blame you for this, either."
"I know," Midoriya says, with a raspy cough that almost sounds like a wretched laugh. "I… I know that." He swipes his hand over his eyes. "It's just… it's hard to…"
His voice trails off. Tired, reddened eyes meet Mirio's again, wary and considering. Mirio feels like he's being sized up for something, and his smile fades with confusion and worry..
At last, Midoriya seems to come to a silent decision, and his eyes flicker away again.
"It's hard to believe that sometimes," he says. "Even when he says it to my face."
Not for the first time, Mirio's mind goes momentarily blank. He hears the words, even understands them individually. Taken together, they stop making sense.
"What?"
Midoriya's eyes slide shut. "It's been hard, just trying to look him in the eye. He's been patient, though. When they ask him to give me space, he listens. I appreciate that."
"Midoriya, what are you talking about?" Mirio can't describe how those words make him feel, only that it's some flavor of uncomfortable.
Green eyes open again. "Do you remember when you sparred with my class, and you asked me afterward how I predicted you?"
"Yes…?"
"I didn't predict shit." Midoriya braces himself. "I've only had One For All since last February, but I've been talking to the dead since I was little."
For some reason, Mirio's first instinct is to laugh. Not his usual full-throated belly laugh, but one of those thin, warbly noises he only makes when he's nervous or desperate to fill the silence. He just manages to cut it off before it leaves his throat, and what emerges instead is, "You. What?"
Midoriya gives him another one of his strange, piercing looks, as if he's weighing Mirio against something else. "I can leave now, if you want," he says. "Let it sink in, what that all means. If you need. If you don't believe me yet. It's a lot, I know. Or…"
"Or?" Mirio squeaks out.
"He wants to talk to you," Izuku says. "There are things he didn't get to say before. Only if you're ready. He can wait, if you're not."
For once in his life, Mirio genuinely doesn't know what to say. He can only stare at him, pleadingly—for what? What does he want? He doesn't even know what he wants, just that he does.
Midoriya tilts his head to the side, as if he can read Mirio's thoughts better at a different angle. "For the record," he says, "even if you said yes to me before, I would've done this before I gave it to you." He activates his quirk—One For All—and reaches out to grasp something that Mirio can't see. There's a surge of green lightning, and then—
As shocked as Mirio is to see him, Sir looks even more surprised to be seen. He blinks—only his eyes aren't there anymore, they're white and empty but other than that—
"This'll last about twenty minutes," Midoriya says. "If you need more time than that, come get me." With that, he leaves. Mirio barely notices.
It's not like it was before—Sir isn't like he was before. His eyes are gone, and he's pale and tired-looking. He looks like a man who's just died but is still somehow awake.
"I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you," Sir Nighteye says, awkward and unsure in a way that Mirio has never seen him before. "They said it was better to give you some time. And I'll admit, this has taken some getting used to for me, as well."
Mirio stares.
"Too much?" Nighteye asks. "I did say I wanted to see what you would become with my own eyes. I meant it."
Mirio chokes out something that is either a laugh or a sob or both, as he launches himself forward and confirms that his mentor really is solid and real and here.