Archive of Our Own ^beta

The world, for Izuku Midoriya, had always been a vibrant tapestry woven with Quirks, heroic battles, and the growing excitement of cheering crowds. At thirty-two, he stood as the first quirkless hero—a beacon of inspiration in an often tumultuous world. But now, the silence in his empty apartment felt deafening, an aching reminder of a profound loss that threatened to engulf him.

It had been a week. Seven long days since he received that heart-wrenching phone call, hastily traveling to the hospital, and hearing the devastating words: “she coded…cardiac arrest…they are still working on her.” And then, when he was only 10 minutes away the last call: “They called it. I’m sorry for your loss Mr. Midoriya.”

Fifty-nine. Just fifty-nine. Inko Midoriya, the woman who had nurtured him, celebrated every small triumph, and held him close during his struggles, was no longer with him. He didn't even know there was something wrong with her.

Sitting on the edge of his meticulously made bed, he felt out of place amid the chaos of his hero and teaching life. Sleep had evaded him since that day, and an unbearable weight pressed on his chest. Tears were trapped inside, refusing to flow, while his mind felt numb and heavy. As Deku, he had always been the hero who saved others, as Mr. Midoriya, he was the one with all the answers. Yet now, he felt powerless—not only to save her but also to escape this enveloping emptiness.

His gaze fell upon a treasured photo on his nightstand: a younger Inko, her cheeks rosy and her smile radiant, cradling a tiny, beaming Izuku. The green in her eyes glimmered with an almost overwhelming love, a love he cherished deeply. He could still feel her gentle touch, remember how her hand would instinctively flutter to her mouth when he was hurt, and hear her comforting voice that could always soothe his anxious heart.

“Izuku, are you sure you ate enough?” “Please, be careful.” “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Those memories felt like beautiful, painful shards of glass, sharp yet shimmering with the light of her love. He had tried to return to work, but the bustle of the agency, the laughter of his friends, and the never-ending cycle of public appearances felt distant—like a performance he could no longer muster the energy to give. When standing in front of his class he felt like he was just going through the motions on autopilot.

When his students asked if he was okay, he just nodded any turned away. Once he had even snapped at Kirishima when asked if he needed help with any of the arrangements, canceled a press conference, and retreated into solitude, leaving his friends and colleagues to pick up the pieces. They tried to understand, and he could see their concern in their sympathetic glances and whispered conversations. But how could they truly grasp this profound, visceral pain? Most of them still had their parents, and he felt utterly alone in his grief.

He stood in his kitchen, aimlessly wandering through a haze of grief. The comforting aroma of miso soup, so familiar from visits to her apartment, was absent, replaced by the sterile scent of cleaning products and the stale remnants of his own coffee. Food had lost its flavor; each bite tasted like ash on his tongue.

His eyes fell upon a small hand-knitted scarf draped over a chair—a simple, forest green gift from her last birthday. He lifted it, pressing it to his face, and the faint scent of her detergent enveloped him. In that moment, the floodgates began to open, emotions long held at bay surging to the surface.

A choked sound escaped him, raw and hoarse, not quite a sob but reminiscent of a wounded animal’s cry. He sank to the floor, clutching the scarf tightly as he replayed their last phone call from just two days before her passing. She had been worried, urging him to rest, expressing concern over a new villain he’d faced. He had brushed her off, promising to call back when he had the chance. He hadn’t.

Guilt weighed heavily on him. Here was Deku, the hero who listened to others and saved countless lives, unable to pick up the phone for his own mother. Had she felt alone in her final moments? Had he been on her mind? The thought pierced him, sending icy tendrils through his heart and shattering the numbness that had wrapped around him.

His breath caught in his throat as tears began to spill, hot and stinging. These weren’t the quiet tears he was used to shedding—those reserved for the victims and sacrifices he honored. No, these were guttural, desperate sobs that shook him to his very core. He buried his face in the scarf, hoping to catch a whisper of her presence, if only for a fleeting moment.

As a hero and teacher, he had always appeared unbreakable, yet in this silence, he felt completely shattered. There was no quirk powerful enough to mend a heart so deeply wounded. His mother, his unwavering anchor and greatest supporter, was gone. In the vast emptiness of his apartment, Izuku—once the invincible hero-in-training that saved the world—allowed himself to crumble under the weight of sorrow. The world outside could wait, for now, it was just him and the pain, the profound void left in the absence of his mother.

He lost track of time as he curled up on the cold kitchen tiles, feeling the weight of sorrow pressing down on him like an avalanche. Minutes bled into hours, and he barely noticed as the world around him faded away. His throat burned, his eyes felt swollen and gritty from crying. Eventually, the sobs quieted, leaving behind a hollow ache that resonated deep within him, a dull throb that refused to fade. When he finally mustered the strength to push himself up, his limbs protested, stiff and resistant. The apartment, once filled with the echoes of his grief, now stood in a heavy, oppressive silence that felt almost suffocating.

His phone buzzed on the counter, an insistent reminder of the outside world. Names scrolled across the screen—Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, even Aizawa—all of his dearest friends, the heroes who had stood beside him through thick and thin. He knew they reached out with love and care, but the thought of speaking, of putting on a brave face or explaining how utterly shattered he felt, felt overwhelming. With a heavy heart, he muted the phone, letting their messages fade into silence. Their well-meaning concern felt like a spotlight on his raw wound, something he could barely face, even within himself.

A few days later, their attempts to reach him grew more persistent. There was a soft, gentle knock on his door that sent a jolt through him. “Midoriya-kun?” Uraraka’s voice, filled with worry and warmth, filtered through the thick wood. “It’s Uraraka and Iida. We brought some food for you.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he ate, and the idea of food made his stomach churn in protest. He went to thy dot any passed his forehead against the wood, locking the door. “I’m… I’m fine,” he responded softly, his throat betraying the lie. “I just… need some time alone.”

There was a quiet pause, followed by a conversation he couldn’t hear clearly. Then, Iida’s formal yet compassionate voice broke through, “Midoriya, we understand that you are grieving. But we are genuinely concerned for you. We want to help in any way we can.”

“I know,” Izuku murmured to the stillness of his apartment, feeling the ache of their concern wash over him. “But there’s nothing anyone can do.” How could they possibly help? They couldn’t bring her back or erase the guilt that weighed heavily on his heart. Their words, no matter how kind, felt utterly inadequate, like trying to patch an immense canyon with a single band-aid. He caught the sound of a bag rustling, followed by the inviting scent of something warm and savory—perhaps Uraraka’s comforting cooking or Iida’s carefully prepared meal. “We’ll leave it here,” Uraraka said gently, infused with resignation. “Please, Deku, just try to eat something.”

He waited until he heard their footsteps fade away before he unlocked and opened the door. A thermal bag rested on the doormat, radiating warmth and kindness. He stared at it, then back at the empty hallway, feeling a painful mix of shame and fatigue. He was aware that he was pushing them away, that their concern was unwavering. Yet it was this persistent kindness that only made the loss feel sharper, reminding him of her nurturing spirit—how he had failed to appreciate each moment in her final days.

In the end, he didn’t touch the food. It sat there, day after day, until it was ultimately thrown out. The cycle continued. Kirishima left protein bars and energy drinks, a silent acknowledgement of Izuku’s dedication to his hero responsibilities. Todoroki sent a thoughtful message, offering his presence—no questions asked—if Izuku ever felt ready to talk. Even Bakugo, in his uniquely gruff way, had reportedly confronted the agency’s higher-ups and U.A. faculty to spare Izuku from further disturbances, a heartwarming gesture of concern that spoke volumes.

They were all there, a remarkable network of love and support, prepared to catch him. Yet, Izuku felt as though he was falling through a net they couldn’t perceive, a net woven from his own deep despair. They brought him strategies, empathy, practical help, and distraction, but none possessed the quirk to undo death, to dissolve the suffocating guilt, or to fill the profound void left by his mother’s absence.

Sometimes, he caught weary glimpses of himself in the mirror—a gaunt reflection with haunted eyes, the once bright green now dimmed by an unbearable ache. At thirty-two, he was revered and respected, but alone in his apartment, he was just Izuku, a son grieving for his mother, feeling utterly adrift. The hero that the world celebrated felt like a fractured statue, crumbling from within, longing for a single, final embrace that was now forever out of reach.

Although his friends’ persistent attempts to reach him began to wane, they never fully stopped. The occasional gentle knock, the soft murmured voices, and the silent gestures of comfort and food left at his door became a constant reminder of their unwavering kindness, a kindness he felt he didn’t deserve—a kindness that only intensified the edges of his heartache.

Then, a month after Izuku had locked himself inside his apartment, came a different kind of knock. It was not tentative or apologetic but firm and resolute, almost commanding. Izuku, who sat slumped on the living room floor amid a sea of old, untouched photo albums, barely registered it. His ears felt muffled, distant.

Moments later, he heard a key turning in the lock. Alarm surged through him, primal and instinctual. Who had a key? Only—

The door swung open, revealing not Uraraka or Iida, but Mitsuki Bakugo, her silver-streaked blonde hair neatly pulled back, her sharp gaze scanning the dim apartment with an intensity that made Izuku flinch. Behind her stood Masaru, a large bag in his hand, and Katsuki, arms crossed with his usual scowl, but his eyes… his eyes looked different. They were softer, filled with concern.

“Izuku, dear, what in the world are you doing to yourself?” Mitsuki’s voice, usually booming with authority, was unexpectedly gentle, yet underscored with genuine worry. She stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind her. Suddenly, the vast emptiness of the apartment felt crowded with warmth.

Izuku scrambled back, pressing himself against the sofa. “Auntie Mitsuki? Kacchan? Uncle Masaru?” His voice trembled, a whisper strained with confusion. It felt like an intrusion, a disruption of the fragile, miserable peace he had constructed. “How… how did you…?”

Mitsuki moved closer, her unwavering gaze never leaving his. “Inko gave me a spare key years ago, asking me to use it if she ever got locked out or if you were being a menace,” she explained, voice trembling slightly at the mention of his mother. “It turns out, it’s for when you’re in pain like this.” She knelt beside him, her expression softening as Izuku caught sight of the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “Izuku, you can’t do this. You can’t shut yourself away from everyone.”

“I’m fine,” he murmured, retreating further into himself. The lie felt fragile and hollow.

“Fine?” Mitsuki scoffed, the sound more laced with sorrow than anger. She reached out, her hand gently cradling his gaunt cheek, a warm connection that felt real. “Look at you, boy. You’re hurting, and that’s okay. You have every right to feel this way. But Inko… she wouldn’t want this for you. She’d be so upset to see you like this.”

Masaru stepped forward, placing the bag on the coffee table. A familiar aroma of katsudon wafted from it, grounding in that moment of heartache. “We… we miss her too, Izuku,” he said softly, his voice thick with unspoken grief. He didn’t reach out to touch him, but his presence stood as a quiet, stable anchor amidst the turmoil.

Katsuki lingered by the door, observing them with a stillness Izuku rarely witnessed. Slowly, he pushed off the frame, drawing closer. Instead of the usual heated reprimand, Katsuki reached out, his hand surprisingly gentle as it landed on Izuku’s shoulder.

“Izuku…” Katsuki’s voice, rough yet lacking its familiar edge, was tender. “You’re not alone in this, damn it.”

That was the moment everything changed. The weight of grief swept over Izuku like a tidal wave, as the familiar faces around him came together in shared sorrow for Inko. Their kindness, so palpable and genuine, felt like a warm embrace, reminding him that he was not alone. Mitsuki’s tears streamed down her face, Masaru sat quietly with his heart heavy, and Katsuki, usually so fierce, showed an unexpected gentleness that touched Izuku deeply. It was all too much to bear.

A choked sob escaped Izuku’s throat, raw and ragged, echoing the pain he had kept bottled inside. He gasped for air, feeling as if his lungs had betrayed him. The room spun around him, and he shut his eyes tight, shaking his head in disbelief. “I… I should have been there,” he cried, the words spilling out in a rush, filled with guilt and anguish. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t… I wasn’t enough. I promised to protect her, and I…” His voice faltered, the weight of remorse pressing down on him.

In that moment, Mitsuki wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a close embrace that radiated warmth and reassurance. As she held him tightly, he could feel her own body shaking with emotion. “Please, don’t ever say that, Izuku!” she urged, her voice filled with deep care as she rested his head against her shoulder. “You were her entire world! She was so proud of you, always! What happened isn’t your fault; it’s a heartbreaking tragedy—one that is beyond understanding.”

Masaru knelt beside them, gently running his fingers through Izuku’s hair, a comforting gesture that evoked cherished memories from their childhood. Katsuki stayed close, his hand firmly on Izuku’s shoulder, providing a steady presence amid the overwhelming emotions. Izuku could feel Katsuki’s warmth, acting as a solid anchor, and he reached up to clasp the other boy’s hand. Then he heard Katsuki clear his throat, the sound surprisingly tender, as if he was searching for the right words to say in this moment of sorrow.

“Stupid Izuku,” Katsuki murmured, but there was no anger in his tone—only an undercurrent of care. “She wouldn’t want to see you like this. She’d want you to remember all the good moments. Don't become a Deku. ”

Those simple words cut through the suffocating fog of Izuku’s self-blame, beginning to soften the sharp edges of his pain. Though he continued to cry, the isolation of his grief began to ease, replaced by the understanding shared among them. He was no longer alone; he was cradled against Mitsuki’s chest, with Masaru’s gentle hand in his hair and Katsuki’s unwavering support at his side.

He cried until he felt utterly spent, until all that remained was a dull ache and the evidence of his sorrow on his cheeks. But when he finally drew back, his eyes still red and swollen, he began to really see the love surrounding him. Mitsuki’s tear-streaked face held a fierce determination, Masaru’s warm eyes brimmed with kindness, and Katsuki’s rare expression of concern felt like a lifeline, grounding him amidst the chaos.

“Come on, Izuku,” Mitsuki said softly, her voice steady despite her own emotions, as she patted his back affectionately. “Let’s get you something to eat. And then we’re going to share all the good, wonderful memories of Inko. We’ll do this together, okay?”

Though he didn’t have the strength to argue, for the first time in days, the thought of food brought a flicker of hope instead of nausea. The apartment held a heavy silence, but it was different now—no longer empty, but filled with the profound understanding of their shared grief and the comforting presence of family. He was still shattered inside, but he felt a few pieces gently being picked up, held with care.