And I wish you the best, but that's not what I am

The war is over. Japan has been putting itself together, bit by crumbling bit. So has Izuku's classmates, and his mom, and the construction workers putting his mom's home back together. A fresh start, a new world, a new beginning. Everyone's moving on.

Everyone except Izuku.

He can see it. The world is moving on and getting better but Izuku is still stuck. The world still feels wrong, too-heavy and ready to break, and Izuku still feels it's fragile weight in his hands. He learned, later, how much of the battle was filmed. He's been avoiding the footage like a plague. He doesn't want to see himself through those eyes, see his failures put out on display to be picked apart and examined. He doesn't want to see the monster he became when he lost all sense of self and sanity, or see what a pitiful sight he made collapsed on the ground with both arms crumbled into dust. (Sometimes he still feels like they're not there, he wakes up and he swears he can still feel the agony of his atoms disintegrating.) The weight he'd been carrying for so long should feel lighter now, but instead it just feels so much heavier, and he feels so much more alone in carrying it.

People talk to him, sometimes. Frequently. Thanking him for what he did. They recognize him now, there's no escaping it. They all know everything and the exposure feels awful. Part of him, a small part, the tiny part the war didn't quite clear off, feels warm knowing that no matter what, he's still a hero in the end. He managed to reach that dream. But the rest of him just hears the thanks and thinks of everyone who died and suffered and everyone he failed, and feels like every one of his numerous flaws have been dragged out on stage to be picked over and examined. He avoids the news. He doesn't want to see what everyone has to say about him, about any of it.

His classmates have all come home from the hospital by now. They're able to smile and laugh. Even Shoto, though Izuku can tell his brother weighs heavily on his mind. Ochako too seems to have shed what happened, moving forward. Izuku should be moving with them into a bright future, but he just... he just feels stuck. Trapped in the past, facing an uncertain future, unable to muster much of anything most days. He tries. He doesn't want anyone to worry about him, he's had more than enough of that to last him a lifetime, so he tries.

He musters up smiles and focuses on class and training; he spends time with Kacchan, he enjoys having Shinshou in class now (and tries not to think too hard about Aoyama's absence), he occupies his free time with helping the still-sheltering population at UA or volunteering around the city, he goes to the doctor again and again whenever he's told, he tries not to meet his own eyes in the mirror because the physical signs of all the changes he's undergone overwhelm him, he tries to let routine comfort him-- he tries.

But reality is, as always, impossible to ignore. Every time he charges up One for All in class, he can feel it, the way it's getting weaker and weaker. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he can almost see the percentage of power ticking down. From Full Cowling at 100%, to 99%, to 98%.... day by day, week by week, those embers flicker out one by one. When he thought about it too long, it made his throat close up, so he tried not to think about it too long.

This dream was never Izuku's to keep, and he knows he's selfish, greedy. Clinging to it even as he feels it slipping away, desperate for just one more moment standing in this light.

His head is too quiet now. Too empty, too full. Lonely. Unspeakably lonely. The weight of One for All that had filled the cavity of longing in Izuku's chest, that had settled into his bones and gave him purpose and drive and life; the wiser voices in his head, the hands at his back pushing him forward. Even before he knew them by name and by face, he felt them, the past users of One for All. A sensation only noticeable by it's absence. Every use of "his" quirk wasn't just dwindling in it's power, it felt hollow. He doesn't know if he really succeeded in making the quirk his own before he chose to surrender it. Now he never would.

He meant what he told Katsuki. He'd do it again. He'd give his One for All away a thousand times over if it meant reaching Tenko, if it meant ending the war. He doesn't regret it. But he can't help but grieve it all the same. Grieve the absence of people he grew to care for long after their deaths, grieve the slow, writing death of the dream he wanted for so long, grieve the death of who he used to be. This dream was never his to keep, not really, but Izuku's never been very good at accepting the things he can't have. That's how he ended up here in the first place, after all.

And, everyone is moving on and healing, but Izuku still feels stuck in fight-or-flight. He feels jumpy, paranoid, and on-edge. It's hard to sleep. He can't stop having nightmares. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't shake it. The crushing certainty that he failed. The war was won in the end, but he couldn't save Tenko. He wasn't even there for half of the battle. And by the time he got back--

Every time he thought about that his hands start to shake so badly he has to stop whatever he's doing and take several deep breaths and force himself to clear his mind. Because it won't get out of his head. The sight of Katsuki's body, bloody, broken, dead on the ground. Heart blasted out of his chest, skin marred and disfigured, eyes blank. Did you like the present I got you? His fault. All his fault. They were supposed to fight together, but Izuku wasn't there, and so many more people were hurt because of it. Katsuki's arm will never be the same, and he's lucky to have gotten away with only that, as if that's not already something that makes Izuku's stomach turn. Honestly, he has no idea how anyone, least of all Katsuki, can stand to look at him.

And then there was Tenko. The rest of the One For All users may be gone, and Izuku knew Tenko was too, but he still was in Izuku's head, like a vestige. Louder than all the rest, consuming all of his thoughts. He was in his head, his memories, saw so much, grew to understand Tenko in those moments in a way he's never really understood anyone, not even himself. When he closes his eyes, he sees every variation of Tenko he'd come to know; white-haired, dressed in a suit and overflowing with quirks; blue-haired, draped in a hoodie too big for him and scratching his neck anxiously even as he held Izuku's by his; and black-haired, small, and vulnerable. Big eyes staring up at Izuku entreatingly. Fearful and lonely. Izuku still hates and fears him in so many ways, especially in all the ways he crosses over with All for One, both metaphorically and in the end physically, but he also feels so... in a messed up way, he almost misses him. It makes no sense, Izuku makes no sense, and it's driving him crazy.

He failed. In so many ways. He failed everyone counting on him, he failed everyone that died or was hurt, he failed All Might, he failed Tenko, and he failed Kacchan.

And still, he lingers. Selfish. Greedy. He knows what'll happen inevitably, he knows he'll have to go. He started quirkless, and he'll return to it, and then there won't be any use for him anymore. He doesn't know what he'll do when that happens. He's tried to think about it. He's considered seeing if he could try the Support Course, but then he thought about if he could do even half the things Hatsume did, and knew there was no place for him there either. General studies was an option too, and probably had an opening with Shinshou in 2-A now, but, really, the thought of staying at UA but not staying with his class, always on campus with his former life so tantalizingly in reach but kept behind a glass he couldn't break-- no, it was just too painful.

He decided that he'd probably leave at the end of his second year. Make things simple. Even if those embers are still there by then, he doesn't really want to stay long enough to watch them burn out completely. And by then they'll be far away enough from the war that everything will be more or less back to normal. It won't feel like abandoning his responsibilities or running away (again), his friends will be feeling better, they won't need him anymore. It won't hurt, or at least that's what he tells himself. He hasn't told anyone yet. He doesn't want to make things harder for anyone right now, and he can't bring himself to say it out loud.

Well, he has told one person. His mom, when he went to visit her in the shelters recently. He told her that it was fine, he was okay, it wasn't a big deal. He was happy, he was satisfied. He could tell she was relieved. She tried not to be, he knows. But she had been so worried about him. He'd put her through so much (selfish) so... he was happy she was happy. Really, he was. He didn't know what his future held, but... he could figure it out. It was about time he accepted reality.

There was, however, one other matter still. Katsuki.

The thing is, whenever Izuku doesn't have Kacchan in his sights, he feels anxious. He starts feeling shaky and off kilter. It's stupid, but he still feels like if Kacchan isn't in his sight, he isn't safe. (Like Izuku has ever done a good job at keeping Katsuki safe. Right.) So he's clingy. He lingers. He does most things with Kacchan, he stays by his side, and thankfully, Kacchan tolerates it. Even seems to return it. He's softer, quieter. He has been for a while, but especially now. He's still Kacchan, still cocky and harsh and rough around the edges, and Izuku loves that about him, but he's gentler, too. Not just with Izuku either. It's nice, to see Kacchan opening up more, accepting affection from his friends and smiling more openly. It's good for him, and Izuku's proud of him.

But he's been acting off around Izuku the last couple of weeks. Izuku isn't sure if he's imagining it or not, but at the same time he's so attuned to everything going on with Kacchan right now it feels like he can't be overreacting either. It reminded him a little of the aftermath of Kamino. All the quiet, contemplative staring when Kacchan thinks Izuku isn't looking. And now it seems that whatever's been on Katsuki's mind, he wants to talk about it.

Izuku scratches the shaved side of his head just beneath his scar. It itches constantly. It feels weird, to have that side of his head so bare. It's starting to grow over, bit by bit, so when he runs his bitten-down nails over the area, they catch on short, coarse hair. He watches Katsuki's back, watches him walk, his gait familiar, the hunch of his shoulders and the nape of his neck a sight Izuku's long since memorized. But different now, too. He's gotten taller. Broader, too. Izuku looked at their first class photo the other day and was taken off guard by how small Katsuki used to be. There are scars, too. So many scars. The one Izuku's eyes always catch on is the star burned into Katsuki's shoulder, visible now beneath his tank top, from Jaku. Every time Izuku looks at it, he flashes back to the moment of watching Katsuki get skewered mid-air seconds after ramming his body into Izuku's, watching the blood spray into the air.

Katsuki is where Izuku gets to be his greediest. Greedy for every scrap of attention, greedy for every moment they share, greedy for every brush of skin and whiff of burnt caramel nitroglycerin. Izuku's used to wanting, he's used to wanting Katsuki, it's sensations he's grown so used to it hurts and he tucks them deep inside himself, lets them stew in his shame. His greed has nearly killed Katsuki, over and over again. He wishes he could make it stop, tuck it away and press it down where it belongs.

Their footsteps echo on the pavement. Ground Beta is finally empty again, as slowly UA's campus empties out of evacuees and refugees, leaving just a small collection on the north side of campus. It's growing quieter, which is nice, in a way. Walking up to it like this, late at night, the crickets chirping nearby, the only sound passing between them their footsteps, it's familar. And just like last time, Izuku has no idea why they're here. He watches Katsuki's spiky blode hair brush against the nape of his neck like it'll provide him answers, and he swallows hard.

They stand still, and Izuku watches Kacchan for a moment. Finally, he can't take the quiet any longer. He moves and leans against the guard railing on either side of the street, wrapping his hands around the pipes, and studying Kacchan's face now that he can see it again, tracing his eyes over the scars and then his arm and then over his chest before he meets burning red once more. He swallows around a dry mouth and says, "I think if we get into a fight here, Mr. Aizawa's going to do worse than house arrest this time." He points out softly, offering a tiny half smile, an attempt at humor.

After a beat of further quiet, Izuku's hands tighten on the pipes and he looks away. He thinks back to the morning he woke up at the hospital, to seeing Katsuki's expression crumble, open, vulnerable, and soaked with tears. For the rest of our lives. Izuku wanted that too. In a life full of endless wanting, he thinks that perhaps that's what he wanted most of all. Still does. He doesn't know what to do with the fact that Katsuki wanted it too. He licks his lips, takes a deep breathm and looks up once more. Finally, softly, "What's going on, Kacchan?"