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Izuku is twenty-six.
Twenty-six and scarred.
Twenty-six and war-torn and bloody-handed.
Twenty-six and thriving.
Izuku is twenty-six and covered in dust and grime, skin sweat-slick, costume just a bit tattered, and hair a tangled mess.
But he’s smiling.
He’s smiling as he helps pull civilians from the rubble, as he comforts the hurt or the crying, as he braces buildings and lifts away cars.
He’s still smiling as he’s swarmed by reporters once the last victims are finally being pulled to safety and he’s able to answer questions about the recovery effort.
Izuku is twenty-six, a hero, the Number One Hero as a matter of fact, when he feels something deep inside of him abruptly tug.
He’s mid-sentence with Maesaka-san from NHK when he breaks off, head snapping east. His attention abruptly narrows in on the thread he’s been aware of since he was sixteen and finally able to focus on something other than not shattering himself every time he used his quirk.
It’s there, just outside of his actual sight, something felt more than seen, but still golden and glowing all the same.
But now …
Now it’s humming.
Now it’s fraying.
“-eku? Deku?” Maesaka-san calls for his attention again, microphone gripped firmly in their hand. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh,” Izuku can’t stop the achy sort of sigh that escapes him any more than he can stop the reflexive swell of tears that follows it. “All Might.”
All around him the reporters start to whisper even as their cameras flash, questions bubbling up from the crowd as microphones are shoved even closer to him than before.
But Izuku barely even notices.
“I-I’m sorry everyone,” Izuku manages to force himself to say, attention still firmly towards the east even as the stutter he’d finally mostly mastered years ago makes a rare reappearance. “I … I have to go.”
Izuku doesn’t wait for their reply.
He takes a few steps back and away from the boundary line, crouches just a bit, and then takes to the sky.
The others will finish up on the scene he knows.
Izuku is needed elsewhere.
~~~
Izuku’s already halfway to UA when his phone begins to ring.
He brings a hand up to tap at his earpiece.
“Izuku-kun,” Nedzu’s voice, far more solemn than usual, echoes in his ear.
“I’m halfway there,” Izuku interrupts, far more rudely than he’d normally ever be to most people but especially to Nedzu.
The time they’d spent together both during and after the war and all of the rebuilding that had followed it had bonded the two of them closer than anyone likely would have ever expected.
Had bonded Izuku closer to not only his own class but a number of the older generations as well in ways he’d never dared to dream of.
Even now, years out from everything that had happened, there are still precious few individuals in the world that Izuku respects more than his former principal.
“He’s asking for you,” Nedzu answers, seemingly willing to brush right past the fact that Izuku’s already on the way.
Knowing Nedzu he’s likely already figured everything out anyways.
“I know,” Izuku tells him.
Because he does.
Because he’d felt it.
Feels it still.
“Tell him I’m coming,” Izuku manages to choke out. “Tell him … tell him to wait for me.”
There’s a moment's pause.
“Of course, Izuku-kun,” Nedzu says softly. “You know he never could deny you anything. I doubt he’ll start here and now.”
The call disconnects, neither of them bothering to say goodbye.
Izuku pushes himself to go faster.
~~~
He’s twenty-six.
It feels far too young.
~~~
But then, Izuku knows, it was always going to feel this way no matter what.
~~~
Shōta is waiting for Izuku at the gate when he touches down so he can get through the barrier.
Even though they’d seen each other only a day or so ago, they take a moment to just stare at each other anyways.
Izuku in his torn-up costume, wind-swept hair, and already teary eyes.
Shōta looks the same as always, a dark wraith of a man with that single loc of silver hair he’d earned during the war falling down over his eyepatch. He’s still as deadly and competent now as he’d been when Izuku was fifteen and breaking himself to achieve even a fraction of his dream.
For a moment there’s silence.
Then Shōta opens his arms.
Izuku barrels into him a heartbeat later, hands latching onto that familiar and comforting black jumpsuit as he buries his face in coils of surprisingly soft capture scarf.
Shōta holds him for a breath of a moment, for just a few precious and grounding seconds.
“Come on,” he finally sighs against Izuku’s temple. “He’s waiting.”
“I know,” Izuku says again as he pulls back and away.
Because, for some reason, that feels like all he knows how to say at the moment.
“Head up,” Shōta tells him, one hand coming up to tap gently at Izuku’s chin.
“Spine straight,” Izuku replies as he always does, the call and response a long-familiar refrain between the two of them these days.
Together they turn to go.
~~~
It’s a Sunday so classes are not currently in session but even still the grounds are almost hauntingly empty.
The work, no doubt, of a certain principal.
Nedzu, a cigarette in one paw and his remaining ear twitching in one of his few emotional tells, is settled outside of the small house that Izuku generally spends more time in than his own apartment these days.
Which, given the fact that Izuku’s one of the ones who never moved out of Ultra City after graduation and had instead stayed in the small, self-sustaining city that had once been Training Ground Theta back before the war, is really saying something.
“Sorahiko’s inside,” Nedzu tells him. “I’ve put out the call to the others but they won’t make it in time. You’ll be the first and the last, Izuku-kun. As you should be. As is your right.”
It’s a blunt and borderline brutal assessment of the situation.
As brutal as Nedzu had proven himself to be the day that one of Shigaraki’s new stealth Hunter-Seeker class nomu had managed to breach the barrier and come after Eri during her lesson time.
Nedzu had taken it down with an animalistic sort of ferocity and only lost an ear in the process.
Izuku appreciates it now just as he’d appreciated it then.
“Thank you,” Izuku whispers, finally stepping away from Shōta’s side so he can move towards the cheery yellow door. It’s still covered in the chaotic mess of flowers and animal shapes Mina and Denki had pressed the class into drawing on it the last time they’d all managed to come by to visit on one of Toshinori’s increasingly rare good days.
Toshinori had just laughed, one hand clutching at yet another one of the handkerchiefs Momo had given him, and declared it a much-needed upgrade.
That really was an excellent day.
Izuku sucks in a shuddering breath.
Squares his shoulders.
Steps inside.
~~~
Gran looks … old.
Old in a way that he never really has to Izuku despite him being literally decades older than almost anyone else Izuku knows.
He really is the last of the old guard in so many ways.
Gran doesn’t say anything, just pushes himself to his feet, fingers white-knuckled around the head of his cane.
He pats Izuku’s hand softly before he moves to head out of the room, steps shuffling and achingly slow.
Izuku is struck then with the sudden knowledge that this is going to be the end of more than one era.
Because, Izuku knows with an aching sort of melancholy, Gran will be going soon too.
He’s watched over Toshinori for decades now, has stood in front of and beside and behind the man in Nana’s name for all of these long years.
And now his watch has come to a close, his duty is finally fulfilled.
Izuku pushes the thought away, unwilling and unable to add premature mourning to the sorrow that’s already threatening to eat him alive.
Instead, Izuku moves to take Gran’s place by the bed.
“My boy,” Toshinori rasps, eyes half-lidded and hazy but still so warm as he looks up at Izuku.
One of his hands trembles as it tries to lift itself up off the bedspread, what little strength he has left obviously failing him after only a few seconds.
Izuku catches it in his own before it can drop all the way back down, their palms pressing together as Izuku folds his other hand gently over the top, careful of the iv.
“Hey,” Izuku practically whispers. “I am here.”
Toshinori cracks a small smile behind the oxygen mask.
“You are,” he breathes out raggedly, something like joy washing over the harsh lines of his face. “Knew you’d come.”
“Felt you,” Izuku confesses, softly. “Came as soon as I could.”
“Hate to leave you,” Toshinori tells him, lovingly tactless even now. Maybe especially now.
“So don’t,” Izuku replies, tears finally spilling over. “I’ve only had you for a decade. That’s not nearly long enough. You should stay a while longer. Teach me some more.”
“Crybaby,” Toshinori accuses quietly, fondly. “We both … know I can’t.”
The hand in his twitches so Izuku brings it up to press against his cheek.
“Yeah,” Izuku admits, heart aching and breath ragged. “I know.”
Because again, he does.
If there was any hope of Toshinori pulling through this then the connection between them wouldn’t be unraveling the way it is now, a golden thread splitting apart from the inside and then weaving back into Izuku like a stitch.
“I love you,” Izuku tells him because it has to be said now before it’s too late.
“Oh,” Toshinori’s eyes gloss over with tears of his own. “I love you too … Izuku. And I am … so proud of you. ”
“I’m going to miss you,” Izuku chokes out past the sob that seems to be stuck in his throat. “So much.”
“My … little prince … of hope,” Toshinori breathes out as his eyes slip closed. There’s a small smile etched across his mouth. “For you ... I’ll always … be here.”
~~~
Izuku stays there, sitting at that bedside with that huge, bird-boned hand clutched in his own, for the longest time.
Sits there in silence with the only father he’s ever known.
~~~
The Vestiges have always felt different to Izuku ever since he was first able to establish contact with them, each of them coming with their own sort of sense memories and imprints.
Nana has always been a cool summer breeze and the breathless, heady feel of flight.
En feels like sleepy, foggy mornings and the comfortable safety of going unseen.
Banjo is a harsh bark of laughter and the deep bass of a song Izuku can almost remember.
Hikage brings to mind deep still forests and a sense of awareness that goes soul deep.
Bruce feels like a building storm, the urge to move and grow and never ever stop.
Kudo is all precision and a cunning sort of focus.
Yoichi will forever be the sense memory of pages turning in a well-loved book and the scent of mint. A foundation built on love and sadness and the hope for a better tomorrow.
But Eight?
All Might?
Toshinori?
Toshinori feels like warm summer sunshine and the knowledge that, no matter what, everything will be okay.
~~~
The headlines read:
World In Mourning: All Might, The Symbol Of Peace, To Be Laid To Rest.
~~~
Pristine white cloak fluttering in the breeze behind him, Izuku steps up to the lectern.
A sea of faces both familiar and not stare back up at him from the pitch in front of the stage.
The UA Stadium was the only place available and big enough to fit the expected crowd. With mourners still lining the roads and with more pouring into the country every hour, the entire prefecture is practically overrun.
The number of flowers lining the walls of UA’s barrier alone is absolutely staggering without counting what’s been left on the steps of Might Tower and the Kamino monument.
Izuku does his best to ignore the feel of cameras focused on him or the way he knows the giant screens around the stadium are all showing him as well.
Tries to ignore just how much of the entire world is watching him at this moment.
He feels like a first year all over again.
Feels young and shaky and sick to his stomach, so desperate to prove himself to the one man who’d given him a chance.
The only difference is that, way back then, he’d been trying to find the right way to announce himself to the world.
To say ‘I am here’.
And now …
Now Izuku’s trying to figure out how to say … so much more than that.
Head bowed and hands clutching the sides of the lectern, Izuku takes a deep breath.
He feels the phantom press of eight sets of hands settle comfortingly on his back and shoulders.
He tilts his head back up.
Straightens his spine.
“All Might,” Izuku says to the suddenly silent sea that surrounds him, “was a hero the likes of which the world had never seen before. The likes of which I hope we’ll never need again. A Symbol of Peace for a world in desperate need. We all know the stories and the legacy he left behind, we all know the world he helped to build for us, both the good and the bad. But that’s not what I want to talk about. Not here. Not today.”
Izuku pauses.
Breathes.
Closes his eyes and turns his face towards the warm summer sun.
“Instead of All Might, instead of the Symbol of Peace, the icon and the titan of heroism, I want to talk to you about someone else. I want to talk to you about a boy who used to fist-fight trees and a man who never really figured out how to work the tv remote. I want to talk to you about someone who liked cheap beer and expensive ice cream. Who could only cook three different meals but only one of them ever turned out right. Someone who talked about getting a dog but never actually got around to it and who cried over romance novels. I want to talk to you about the greatest hero I ever met.”
Izuku opens his eyes.
Smiles.
“Today I want to talk to you about Yagi Toshinori.”
~~~
The headlines read:
Deku, The Symbol Of Hope, Speaks Out About Love, Loss, And The Nature Of Heroes.
~~~
Izuku is twenty-six and mourning.
Twenty-seven and smiling.
Twenty-eight and thriving.
And so it goes.