"Don't let me go."
"Don't worry, I won't ever let you go. I promise."
Ikari's scar is the first thing that people notice. And it drives them away, since it is the symbol of her father, one of the most feared villains of all time... before he died.
...
"You've-- you've always proved them wrong, haven't you?"-- Todoroki Shoto
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*warning: mention of death
Waiting
POV— Todoroki Shoto
Don't let me go.
There is a point
in the dark.
A tiny pinprick of light,
so small you can barely see it,
shimmering in the distance.
Don't let me go.
I shift uncomfortably in the hospital seat. Cheap plastic pokes into my skin. My jacket serves a makeshift blanket as I watch Ikari sleep.
She hasn't stirred since I arrived a few hours ago. Ahead of me, dim moonlight pours through the windows, casting the hospital room in an eerie glow. The smell of hand sanitizer tickles my nose. I check the time: ten o'clock in the evening.
I already told Fuyumi that I wouldn't be home until tomorrow— I even told her to expect me the day after. If I had the choice, I'd stay by Ikari forever, but I know that isn't how things work. UA only gave us five days off after All Might's victory against the masked man(which, I've learned, was named All For One), which means I only have a few days left with Ikari until I need to go back to normal life.
Normal.
What an alien word.
A gut feeling tells me that I can't return to normal— not without Ikari.
Two echoing pairs of footsteps reach my ears. They bounce down the hallway, unnaturally loud for the silence I am bathed in. I quiet my breathing, assuming that it must be some nurses, until they pause right outside the hospital door. The sliding door opens with a swish, and two voices— one male, one female, begins to speak.
"The poor kid," the male one begins, stepping into the room, "he's been here since yesterday."
A tutting sound comes from the man's right.
I consider sitting up and telling them that I'm still awake, but sleep pulls at my eyelids. Instead, I stay still, ensuring that my breathing is even.
"My heart breaks for him. The patient was barely alive when she was transported here." The woman's voice is warm and smooth— but now, it is tinged with a hint of sadness.
"The kid doesn't know that, Mari."
"No. He knows that, doctor."
And it's my fault she's like this.
"What the child doesn't know is that she'll die soon. He's holding onto false hope. I've seen him looking at the patient when I changed her IV bags."
