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The walk down the hallway feels like a dream, like a nightmare. Izuku can hear too much, feel too little. His breath is harsh and loud in his throat as he turns to the stairs, taking them two at a time in the hopes of feeling a burn in his muscles, but even that isn’t enough. He feels like he’s suffocating on the inside, but he can’t even make his face twitch as he stops in front of the door to the roof, reaching out to test the handle. This building is tall enough, certainly, and Izuku doesn’t really want to see anyone right now, not with the way Kaminari had looked at him. Betrayed. Hurt. Is that how they’d feel if they knew the truth for real? If I told them what I’d done?
Izuku opens the door, the wind rushing in from the roof and hiding the soft click that he knows would normally be there as he shuts the door behind him. The roof is lonely, quiet except for the wind. Izuku steps up to the edge. He can hear his heartbeat in his throat, a hammering beat that presses against his skin. He glances down. Headfirst is best, probably. At this height though, does it matter?
Izuku takes a step, lifts his foot from the roof ledge and steps forward, shutting his eyes. He expects the wind in his hair, expects the uptick of his heartbeat against his skin, but he doesn’t expect the sensation of stiff fabric, unyielding and tight against his skin. Izuku opens his eyes, blinking as he’s yanked back away from the ledge, tugged away from his death.
“Problem child,” Aizawa growls as Izuku lands on his ass on the concrete. “Don’t move.” Izuku blinks again, his head spinning, and he tips his head back to see his teacher, face dark and eyes narrowed, his brows low on his face.
“S-Sensei?” Izuku mumbles, his voice quiet and faint. He feels like he’s floating out of his body, almost, like this isn’t real and it takes some of the anxiety but not all of it. He feels his breathing come quicker, harder.
“If you’d planned to kill yourself,” Aizawa mutters, stepping closer to Izuku and crouching down in front of him, his red-rimmed eyes staring into Izuku’s own, “It probably would have been smarter to not tell Nezu you wanted to die.” Izuku blinks, his mouth opening slightly, but the only thing he can say is,
“Oh,” his voice flat and dull. Aizawa sighs, his lips pressing together.
“Midoriya,” he starts, his voice serious. “You need to be honest with me, right now. Are you being manipulated by someone?”
Izuku blinks. “W-What?” He feels stupid, like he’s missing the point. Aizawa’s eyes narrow the slightest bit more.
“Are you under the effects of a quirk?” Aizawa asks, then, and Izuku bites at his lower lip.
“N-No,” he says, fidgeting against the pressure of the capture weapon where it’s wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his sides. “W-What did Nezu tell you?” He has to know, because if Aizawa doesn’t know he has a quirk, there’s probably a way out of this, a way to convince him that it’s not what it looks like. Izuku isn’t sure, but he thinks he knows, thinks he can get out of this if he tries hard enough.
“That you have some undetermined quirk and that the second Nezu implied you might be some sort of spy or villain you asked him to kill you,” Aizawa says, voice flat. “Why would that be your response, exactly?”
Izuku swallows, shaking his head. “I-It’s not what it sounds like,” he says, trying to stretch his way out of the capture weapon, the thick fabric suddenly too tight and too warm on him all at once.
“Then explain,” Aizawa says, sighing. “I don’t believe for a second that you’re a villain of any kind, certainly not willingly , problem child. But I need you to tell me what’s going on in order to help you.” His voice softens slightly at the end, and for just a moment, just a heartbeat, it makes Izuku relax, just slightly. The fact that he tenses up again almost immediately hurts worse than it would have if he hadn’t trusted Aizawa for that second, he thinks.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Izuku says, his voice sounding too flat and too shaky even to his own ears. “I have a quirk. I lied to all of you. I should be punished,” he says. “I won’t kill myself, if you let me go. I won’t, Aizawa-sensei.” He hates the way his voice picks up in pitch at the end, like he’s begging. Because I am .
“Sure,” Aizawa drawls, arching one eyebrow. “Tell me what your quirk is.” Izuku swallows, shrugs.
“D-Don’t you already know?” he asks, and it’s a gamble but it’s occurred to him that Aizawa has to be putting the pieces together, that it’s so obvious if Izuku says he has a foresight quirk. He doesn’t want the man to figure it out if he hasn’t already.
“I have a theory,” Aizawa says. “Are you familiar with a vigilante named Ace? He’s about your age, about your height, and about your build.” Aizawa narrows his eyes meaningfully. “He’s got a foresight quirk, which seems to be what Nezu is under the impression you have, too. Strange coincidence.” Izuku swallows.
“It is, isn’t it?” he asks, voice too high and too loud. “D-Did you know? Before this?”
“No,” Aizawa says, sighing. “Frankly, I should have.” He meets Izuku’s gaze, eyes steady. “I think you know perfectly well that I can’t release you, not under these circumstances.”
Izuku blinks as the words process, then shakes his head quickly, violently. He can feel it clearly, now that the last dregs of that strange fog has left the edge of his mind. His brain hums with anxiety, his heartbeat picking up to a fast, heavy beat as he starts to struggle against the capture weapon with new strength, hissing through his clenched teeth and he rips his arms free from the canvas. It takes him just one second to flick his wrist, pulling out one of the knives from the arm guards, and just one more second to slash at the capture weapon, cutting through the material and sending pieces of the scarf fluttering to the concrete uselessly.
“Fuck, Midoriya, stop--” Aizawa says, reaching for him, but Izuku hops back, slashing desperately at the air around him. Izuku can see the exact moment that Aizawa’s quirk activates, that the dark brown-blakc of his irises lights from the inside, shining ruby red that glows even in the bright sunlight on the roof. Izuku freezes, knife help in front of him and a cold sweat beading up on his back, under his costume. He tries to swallow, but his throat feels too full, and he shakes his head, terror rising in him like a wave.
“N-No,” he says, taking another step back. “Y-You can't do this to me. Let me go, p-please,” he babbles, the words coming out of his mouth without his permission, without him willing them to. “A-Aizawa-sensei, please just let me go , I-I’ll come back I swear I just n-need--” he cuts himself off with a sob that chokes him from the inside, turning the end of his pleading into a pitiful whimper. Izuku shakes his head again, seeing the way Aizawa’s brows crease, the pain on his teacher’s face. His hair is floating now, too, and his eyes are still a shining red. Izuku’s heels are at the edge of the ledge, the corner of the concrete pressing into the back end the soles of his shoes.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa says, voice soothing and low like it has no right to be in this situation. “You’re okay. I need you to take a step forward, okay? Just one step.”His hands are raised, like he’s showing Izuku that he’s unarmed, that he’s not reaching for anything. Izuku hates it. It’s his eyes that are the real threat, that are scaring Izuku, making his heart shudder in his ribcage and beat against his lungs. Izuku thinks he’s going to throw up.
“I-I’ll step forward if you turn your quirk off,” Izuku says, voice shaky, and Aizawa’s eyes narrow without closing.
“No,” he replies. “Step forward first. And drop the knife,” he says, reminding Izuku of the blade in his hand. Izuku blinks, then raises the knife to his own throat, pressing the cool edge of the blade into the space between the hard cartilage of his windpipe and the thin muscle on the side of his neck. He feels the blade prick the surface of the skin, feels a drop of blood bead up and roll down the skin.
“T-Turn off your quirk,” Izuku says. “Or I’ll kill myself.” His hands shake, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t care about accidentally making a wound, not when he’s about to die anyway. Aizawa doesn’t blink, but his brows furrow.
“I don’t think you will,” Aizawa says, his voice almost hesitant. “Why do you need your quirk to kill yourself? What am I missing?” Izuku knows the last question is directed back at Aizawa himself, but Izuku can’t help but feel bitter at it. ‘ What are you missing’ indeed, he thinks, a hysterical laugh rising in his throat. What aren’t you missing, Aizawa-sensei?
“Just let me die,” Izuku says instead, clenching his teeth together. “Just let me!” he shouts, his voice raw. “Why won’t you let me? It’s better for everyone, this way!”
Aizawa hisses at that, rushing forward in a sharp movement, grabbing at the arm that Izuku isn’t holding to his throat. Izuku can’t help the tiny yelp that comes out of him as Aizawa’s hand wraps around his wrist, throwing him away from the ledge and into Aizawa’s body. He feels another hand yank at his other hand, forcing his blade away from his throat, cutting a thin line into the skin as it does. Izuku sees the exact moment Aizawa blinks, but even though he thrashes in his teacher’s grip, he can’t do anything, can’t get free, can’t get a knife to his throat. Not that that would work anyway, he realizes. It takes longer than a second to bleed out. I’d have to jump, no other way would work quickly enough .
“Midoriya,” Aizawa says, his voice cracking slightly, his arms tightening on Izuku. “Please, talk to me. Whatever is going on, I can help. I don’t care what I have to do, and I don’t care who did this to you, but I need you to let me help you.” His fingers dig into Izuku’s biceps where he’s holding them. “Please.”
Izuku shakes his head, tears welling up in his eyes. “I-I fucked it up, sensei,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut so that he doesn’t have to see the pain on Aizawa’s face. “I r-ruined it. I just need to die already, just n-need to go back.” He knows he’s saying too much, but he also knows it doesn’t matter. Aizawa can’t hold him forever. Aizawa can’t watch him forever. Izuku will kill himself.
“What did you ruin, Midoriya?” Aizawa asks, voice gentle, pleading. “Tell me what it is. We can fix it.”
Izuku whines, deep in his throat like an animal , and he smashes his head forward, the top of his forehead smashing into his teacher’s nose. He feels the spray of blood before he sees it, and he’s throwing himself back and away from his teacher even before the grip on his arms loosens. It hurts, stings his muscles where he pulls himself back, but it doesn’t hurt as much as seeing the look on Aizawa’s eyes, the pure terror as Izuku steps back again, moving to the ledge.
“Don’t!” Aizawa shouts, lunging forward at him, but Izuku’s launching himself over the edge without looking back again. He feels the jerk against his arm as an afterthought, almost, paling in comparison to the relief he feels at having finally, finally made it off the edge. Izuku blinks, stunned in midair when he realizes that he’s not falling. He glances up, to where there’s pressure on his wrist and pain in his shoulder, and he sees Aizawa, stretched out at the edge of the roof with his head over the edge, one hand outstretched and gripped tightly, so tightly, to Izuku’s wrist. Izuku blinks.
“Let me go !” he screams, thrashing and throwing himself against the side of the building. “Please, sensei, let me die ,” he begs, throwing his head back to bang it against the side of the building. Maybe I can bash my own skull in , he thinks, distantly, the panic in his veins dulling his grip on his own thoughts. He wriggles, writhes, and Aizawa’s grip only gets stronger.
“I’m not going to let you die, Midoriya,” Aizawa growls. “In ten years, you’re going to be glad you lived. You’re going to be a hero and you’ll have a long, long list of lives you saved,” his words are quick, loud. “You’re going to be amazing, problem child. Please don’t give up here.” his voice cracks, painful and clear. The world is quiet for a second, except for the wind that buffets the building. Izuku stares up at his teacher.
“Let me go,” he whispers, barely more than a breath. “Sensei, I’ll come back. But you have to trust me. You have to let me go, and you can’t watch. Don’t watch.” Aizawa starts to shake his head, opens his mouth, but Izuku interrupts him. “You can’t watch, sensei. Promise me you won’t watch.”
“What are you saying , Midoriya? Are you listening to yourself, what do you mean, you’ll--” Aizawa blinks, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Oh. Your quirk,” he whispers, eyes wide.
“My quirk,” Izuku agrees, looking up at him. “You have to let me. If you cancel it, I’m dead for real.” Aizawa’s brows furrow, his head shakes. He stares at Izuku, eyes wide and dark.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, voice shaky. “You’re suicidal. You’re begging me to let you die.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them. “You can’t kill yourself. Not like this.”
Izuku swallows, flicks his wrist. The second knife from his arm guard slides into his grip. He knows Aizawa sees it, can tell from the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, the way his lips start to part like he’s going to shout, like he’s going to plead with Izuku to stop. Izuku grips the hilt of the knife tight in his hand, the material warm from being close to his body, tucked into his costume.
“I’m sorry, sensei,” Izuku whispers, stretching his arm up to press the blade against his other arm. He can’t reach to where Aizawa’s holding him, but he hopes it’ll be enough, because Aizawa’s grip on his wrist is over the sleeve there, the long sleeves that Izuku’d been sure his costume had. Izuku cuts away at the fabric, and with each messy, uneven slice, he gets some skin, too. The blood starts to run down his arm, down his shoulder and onto his back, but Izuku doesn’t stop. With each cut, he drops a little lower, his sleeve stretching and ripping where it’s cut.
“I’ll see you again,” Izuku says, quietly. Aizawa shaking his head, tears beading up in his eyes and running down his cheeks. “Goodbye,” Izuku mouths, too choked up to speak. The last threads of his sleeve rip, and for a terrible second, Izuku thinks Aizawa will keep his grip on Izuku even with the fabric cut. In the next heartbeat, though, Izuku drops, suddenly and quietly.
As he falls, he watches Aizawa’s face, watches his teacher’s eyes squeeze shut and watches the pain that spreads over his face. Izuku can only find it in himself to be thankful that he’s not going to be dead for real.