Chapter Text
Izuku hated the way his hands trembled when he gripped the door’s handle- the sweat of his palms mingling with the already biting cold of the metal as he stood frozen with indecision. He’d remained attached to the door for nearly a minute, now, but had done little more than allow his eyes to repeatedly trace over the pattern of refracted light that shone between his fingers.
He felt like he would be making a mistake if he chose to enter that room. Out here the chill of the hospital air was numbing and the buzz of the artificial fluorescents above nearly deafening, but they weren’t unknown variables.
Nothing past that door was guaranteed.
“…Izuku?”
He blinked at being addressed, the collar of his shirt scratching uncomfortably against his neck as he turned to look at his mother. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the slight shaking of her hand as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, before beginning to pat away imagined dust from her skirt as she bent ever so slightly to center herself in his vision- her tight smile encouraging him to let go of the door.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to tell him for you?”
He blinks at her, slowly, processing the offer as he turns his back to her once more. He chooses to readjust his hold on the handle again, rather than respond to her, before making his decision.
If he’s going to get another apology, he doesn’t want to force himself to suffer through his mother’s tearful platitudes again.
He studies his reflection on the white tiles, warped by the imperfections in the flooring, before making eye contact with his mother’s, her pity visible even through the distortion. Then, he closes his eyes, takes a wobbly inhale, and enters the hospital room.
He’s careful to close the door behind him with a soft click , attempting to gather the courage to release his hold on the handle in the few seconds he has before facing the man behind him, but his father calls out to him immediately.
“Izuku. How are you, young man?”
His shoulders hike up to his ears to hide how they burned red at the term of endearment. Ever since his fourth birthday, his father had insisted on calling him that, and despite being five, he still couldn’t help the prideful flush that washed over him as a result.
“I… I want to tell you something.”
His father hummed pensively at Izuku’s non sequitur, a smoky scent mingling with the air as he rolled it over in his mind before replying.
“Is that why Inko has decided not to join us?”
His curls bobbed as he nodded, hoping the movement was readable despite having his back to the man.
“I can see that you’re unsure. Don’t feel the need to tell me anything you’re not prepared to, young man. We can always talk about something else.”
His movement stuttered before he released his white-knuckled grip on the handle to face his father, studying the man with the same intensity that the man was studying him.
His father sat with perfect posture before him, despite the recline of his hospital bed, large calloused hands folded in his lap, and body framed by a single, thick braid that curled from the crown of his head to the edge of the bed. Each rise of his chest was emphasized by fractals of fire that burned brightly along the veins of his throat, before dimming as they were exhaled in puffs of smoke, dispersed by the light breeze that blew in from the open window that had most likely been opened for the express purpose of diluting his father’s emissions.
The curtains billowed with a particularly harsh wind, causing the light of the late morning to warm already warm brown skin, the freckles dotting his face standing out even starker under the natural light as he fully met Izuku’s stare with eyes of jade and amber framed by crow’s feet.
“Come, sit.”
His father brought a hand to pat the space next to him in the bed, and Izuku scrambled up to join him, taking the proffered hand so that he could make it over the edge, careful not to sit on the rope of his father’s hair.
After a few seconds, his father began speaking; his voice a deep rasp that occasionally snapped and fell silent, before his father would deeply exhale the excess smog in his throat and attempt to speak again. Usually, his father would sign along to make up for the occasional pauses, but Izuku had yet to return the man’s hand, studying the wrinkles and methodically folding and unfolding each finger.
It blew his mind, at times, how strong his father appeared. Stable and present, but almost unreal, like a dragon or a phoenix for all his fire-breathing quirk encouraged the comparison to be drawn.
He almost couldn’t believe that same quirk was killing him- slowly choking him out and burning him alive from the inside.
The idea that his father being alive, filling the silence with the low thrum of his voice, was a miracle? That his continued survival was against all odds? It felt like a lie.
But, at the same time, he understood it. From the moment he realized the increasing rarity of his hospital visits in comparison to his mother’s, to the way the bags under his father’s eyes always seemed to deepen the moment his father thought he wasn’t looking, to the way his mother had cried with him when she realized he would never see the man outside of a hospital room alive.
The precipice between life and death in which his father stood, between frailty and stability, being estranged and familiar all at once; it had always made him nervous.
He didn’t want his father’s last memory of him to be one of disappointment, but his father had only ever expressed pride in him, and the thought of lying to him - even if only by omission - left him feeling sick.
His grip suddenly tightened on his father’s hand, and the man fell silent, the smell of smoke immediately subsiding.
“Yes, Izuku?”
“…Would-” He choked on the sentence, falling still for a second before rapidly blinking away the tears gathering in his eyes. “Would you still love me, if I was… wrong?”
A pause.
“Wrong?”
Izuku kneads a thumb into his dad’s palm.
“ …Broken ?” Izuku tries.
The hand between his own twitches.
“Broken?” His father repeated, incredulity tinged with fear sparking in his voice as the veins along his neck shone orange, embers escaping past parted lips along with nearly black clouds of smog.
Izuku didn’t respond, allowing his head to drop and hiding his pinched expression behind his hair, the small sparks of flame he’d seen leaving faint impressions on the back of his eyelids.
The silence stretched on before his father spoke again, voice softer than he’d ever heard it.
“Izuku, what do you mean by broken?”
There’s another pregnant pause before Izuku inhaled deeply, matching his breath to the growing light beside him, then releasing it in a shaky breath that shuddered from the cavity of his chest, all the way to his fingertips.
“Mama took me to the quirk doctor yesterday.”
The ever-shifting cycle of light beside him freezes, and he looks to see his father’s breath lodged in his throat, the way the light blazed where it burned beneath his Adam's apple only emphasizing the pallor of his face at Izuku’s admittance.
Part of himself didn’t want to continue. To admit to his diagnosis. To finally face Hisashi and see his face turned down in distaste or pity as he confessed to being less than; an imperfect child that lacked the one thing he’d needed to be considered “human.”
But a small part of him- the part of him that hadn’t wanted to cry when his mom apologized- the part of him that had instead, wanted to scream and throw a tantrum and ask why ? What difference did it make that he was quirkless? Why was that all it took to give up on him? Why was there anything to apologize for? That small part of him that refused to feel shame over nothing suddenly boils over, and he finds himself spitting the words all at once- heedless of the consequences.
“I’m quirkless.”
Izuku saw the exact moment the words registered in his father’s mind; his breath rushing out in a cloud of gray and his free hand sliding down his face, before cupping the back of Izuku’s head and bringing it to his chest.
“Thank god .”
And that single, emphatic statement has Izuku loosely gripping the back of his father’s hospital garb and hiccuping into soft cloth, sobs rippling through his small frame as he returns his father’s hug because that wasn’t pity .
That was better than he would have ever dared to hope for.
His father eventually cupped his face with both hands, coaxing Izuku to sit back and look him in the eyes as he ran a thumb across the tears that still ran down his face.
“I’m sorry.”
Izuku blinked in confusion, before immediately opening his mouth to protest, only to shut it just as quickly when his father gave him a look that told him he was not seeking comfort, nor was he asking that his wrongs be justified- all that he asked was for Izuku to listen .
“I am not a good man, Izuku, nor am I a good father. This is something I implore you to understand. I’d never meant to have a son, and as much as I’ve come to love you, my biggest fear was that you’d inherit my quirk, this quirk, or even something more powerful, and that it would kill you.
“That fear was probably the only thing keeping me alive.
“My acceptance of your quirklessness is not spawned of me being the man you’ve idolized as your father, or because I am inherently good , but because if I had to choose between you inheriting a powerful quirk that killed you young, or condemning you to a life of suffering as a quirkless individual in a hero-worshipping society, I would choose the option that most would consider selfish every time .
“ Don’t put me on a pedestal. ”
His voice had remained steady and low as he spoke, but the smoke that he’d been expelling with each purposeful exhale had begun to build into small flames that curled along the edges of his lips like tusks, flickering blue with his final statement.
Izuku wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t intimidated; he wouldn't say that his father was wrong, or that it didn’t hurt to have the illusion of acceptance immediately splintered, but at the same time he refused to accept an apology he didn’t believe was needed.
He clapped his hands over where his father’s rested against his face with a muted pap .
“Well, I still think you’re a good dad, so I won’t accept your apology, because I don’t think it’s selfish that you want me to live.”
His father’s expression looked pained, then, when Izuku said that.
“In that case, may I make a selfish request ?”
Izuku nodded seriously.
“Young man, no matter what happens, I want you to live. Or, at the very least, to survive. If not for yourself, and if not for me, then for Inko. I know you’d do anything for her, so I need you to stay and take care of her when I’m gone, understand?”
He didn’t understand why he’d ever need to promise to do something like that, to live, but he agreed.
“I promise.”
His father smiled at him, then, bittersweet and barely an uptick of the lips as he huffed out a heavy breath that caused smog to wisp out between them, Izuku playfully scrunching up his nose just to watch his father suppress a laugh.
His father had let him go, then, content to let Izuku continue marveling at the calluses on his hands and pridefully displaying his own- a writer’s callus beneath the ring finger of each hand from writing too forcefully - and mirth danced in his father’s eyes as he watched Izuku preen under his faux awe.
But, eventually, Izuku feels as though he’s overstayed his welcome. The sun is beginning its descent, and he’s never spent this much time alone with his dad, so it would only be fair if his mom got to spend the rest of visitor’s hours with her husband.
He lets his legs sway over the floor before hopping over the edge of the bed, immediately sprinting for the door with all the energy of a five year old that had remained seated for over an hour, but his hands jump away from the handle as his father calls out to him once more.
“Thank you, Izuku.”
The air stills.
Something about the way that statement hangs in the air… those words… cause tears to spill from his eyes, leaving trails of magma burning against skin already chilled in the moments he’d walked away from his father.
And he couldn’t understand why .
When he’d cried into his father’s embrace, he’d understood what was happening, but in this moment, his heart sank and every cell in his body demanded that he look - that he face his father- and when he turned to face him, he looked…
Normal.
Not powerful, or undefeatable, or immortal or invincible or perfect.
Normal .
And for the first time, he saw his dad.
He saw the raised, darkened scar tissue that stood starkly on his throat each time he exhaled, the beguiling light no longer hiding its branding. He saw the way that his body slumped against the pillows- no longer held taut and perfect for an audience Izuku could not see. And he saw the resigned joy in his father's eyes when he looked at Izuku- an echo of his pride twisted into something bittersweet.
And, right then, he knew his father wanted to hug him; wanted to run up to him and pull him up by the arms and spin him around like he’d see the dads at the parks do with their own children. Like he’d used to see Uncle Masaru do with Kacchan.
But he physically couldn’t . And that … that wasn’t fair - so Izuku decided to spite whatever god made the decision that Hisashi couldn’t leave his bed and couldn’t hug his son and couldn't be the father he’d wanted to be and ran back to his bedside and hugged him as tight as he could manage - like if he hugged tight enough he would understand exactly what his dad felt - and his father hugged him back just as fiercely, warm hands desperately carding through wild curls and chin digging into the crown of his head.
“ Thank you for being a part of my life. ” His father chokes out the words with enough ferocity that a flame escapes to singe a strand of Izuku’s hair.
“ Thank you .”
And when their hug nearly tightened to the point of bruising, it felt as if they would remain frozen in time. Perfect and eternal with the flowering buds of a true, filial bond.
But Hisashi had to let go, eventually, and Izuku wiped away his tears and snotty nose with his sleeve before running out to get his mom, calling out an “I love you!” over his shoulder and letting the door fall closed.
And the sound echoed of finality- like something coming to an end. Despite it being barely past noon, and the cicadas’ song still echoing with awe as the summer begins once more, it feels as though everything has shifted to the left; like something has been irreparably changed, but…
Something else is over. And he doesn’t know if it’s something he’d ever give up for whatever he’s gained.
-
“Inko, my dove?”
Hisashi looked ephemeral, in the reddish glow of golden hour, staining his skin a burnt umber that left him looking picturesque- a two-dimensional image superimposed over a backdrop of sterile white.
“Are… Are you sure this is it, Hisashi?”
Hisashi turns away from the window to face her with a smile dipped in melancholy, hands raised to sign along with his words.
“Yes,” He confirms, “I think… No… I know the only reason that I lived this long was because I needed to know that our son would be okay. And now I know.”
Inko’s lips pull into a thin line at the assertion, born of confidence she couldn’t even begin to understand.
“How can you be so sure ? Even if his quirklessness didn’t already put him at a huge disadvantage physically, we both know that everyone outside of our-” Her words get caught as she realizes that Hisashi would no longer be part of that, of our , but pushes on. “ Everyone outside of our household has become a potential threat against him, too, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to support him through that, all of that, all by myself -”
Her voice cracked at its edges, and she took the hand Hisashi offered as she sat beside him, squeezing it appreciatively as tears ran freely down her face.
“ Trust him, Inko. It’s going to be difficult - I won’t lie and tell you otherwise - but everything will find its place with time .”
Hisashi pressed a kiss to the juncture of her jaw and she leaned into the touch, releasing a labored breath as she laments.
“What are we going to do without you, Hisashi…? You’re the one who’s always understood why he is the way that he is, and I just-”
She groans in frustration.
“I know you want me to trust him, to let him do things his way and to let him make mistakes, but there’s so little leeway for him to truly fail as a quirkless child, and you know that. And I know I shouldn’t treat him the way I do- like he’s some… fragile thing- but I can’t help it when I know the world wants to see him shatter. And I already know that this… this way of thinking- this spiraling - is going to break his trust in me when stability is the thing he needs most right now.”
Hisashi squeezes her hand, brows furrowed as he catches her flittering gaze.
“Inko , you need to have more faith in yourself as well.”
She hugs herself, nearly folding inward as she leans against the heat of his body, face hidden in his shoulder.
“It’s just so hard, Hisashi.”
Hisashi opens his mouth to say something, to offer some form of platitude, but his words are choked out by smoke, and leave fire burning against his teeth. Inko watches as he takes a moment to collect himself, a bitter smile settling on his face as he brings the stuttering fingers of his free hand up to his forehead, the thumb and index pinched together as the remaining digits splay until his hand opens fully to carve carefully through the air, briefly pausing until he allows it to fall tense in his lap.
Sorry, he'd signed, apologizing, because there was nothing else he could do- nothing that would make up for the fact that he would die.
And God- he was dying, and yet Inko was the one spending their final hours together inconsolable.
She shakes her head fervently to refuse his apology, abruptly standing to grab her bag and sniffling as she wipes away her tears with the heel of her palm. When she returns to his bedside, she pats the space before him and encourages him to shift forward on the bed.
“Why don’t you just let me redo your braid, okay? We can pretend we're third years again- back when we’d planned out our future together. It… It’ll be nice to… to act as if we still have tomorrow, if only for a little while.”
He smiles indulgently and lets her take the space behind him, immediately stretching into her hands when she takes the chance to run her fingers across his face before running them through the tight, kinky curls that hang from his hairline.
His hair has only grown thinner, in this hospital, from stress and lack of care, and as she unbraids she can see white growing at his roots- so much earlier than it should.
He hums, coating the air with ash as she carefully detangles his hair, working from the dead ends up to roots indirectly damaged by his own heat, and listens as the melody begins to slur as he grows drowsier, his body practically falling into her hands as she redoes the braid with a soft hand, leaving it loose and fuzzy and theirs.
He’s relaxed against her completely by the time she’s finished, the setting sun leaves the room dim as the air fills with smog from Hisashi's languid breaths. She presses their foreheads together before leaning back to kiss him, his lips tasting of soot, and nearly crying at his dazed, lovesick expression.
“I love you, Inko, my dove. I love you, so much .”
“I love you too, Hisashi.”
He blearily raises a hand to cup her cheek, caressing a thumb across her cheekbone.
“You two… take care of each other, alright?”
She holds her hand against his and nods tearily, choking on a laugh that’s more of a sob.
But he’s already asleep, his hand fully relaxing in her hold with the rest of his body as his chest rises and falls softly where he’s curled against her breast.
Shifting out of the bed, she lays him fully against the pillow, and she’s tempted- In that moment she’s so, so tempted, to call out to the hospital staff and demand they do everything within their power to keep her husband alive, but- she knows Hisashi is suffering silently for Izuku’s sake, and he’s been resigned to his fate for years now, and he’s pushed himself to the point of continuous exhaustion just to live this long.
So, instead, she presses a kiss into his palm and asks that he rests well, before folding it over his chest.
Only then does she leave, closing the door on one of the most heart-wrenching, yet, happiest, chapters of her life, and goes to find her son sitting patiently in the waiting room, sleeping curled over a notebook that hangs over his lap and a pencil rolled several meters away from the hand that lays relaxed at his side.
“It’s time to go home now, baby.”
“Mm-hm,” He agrees, sleepily, taking her hand and allowing himself to be led out of the hospital.
After tonight, there probably wouldn’t be a reason to go back in.