Izukus Dream

Izuku never talks about his father.

For as long as he could remember, neither did his mom.

Hisashi Midoriya is a man shrouded, not in mystery, but in unfamiliarity. He can remember him, of course, in tiny pieces of fading memories and unframed pictures hidden in the cupboard. He knows the man can breathe fire, he knows they share the same freckles, that he has the reddest eyes, the whitest hair, a heavy laugh that seems to be filled with power, and a smile that holds so many secrets you'd be lost in them if you tried to figure out even just one.

He knows him by the way his steady and sturdy arms would wrap around his little torso as a kid, how he would be lifted high, higher than his mom can ever take him, and he would soar and fly because his dad is the tallest man that he has ever known. He knows him by the way he cooks, the way he breathes his fire into the katsudon, the way he controls his flames to make the texture just right, crispy on the outside, juicy and soft on the inside, with a smell of smoke that makes his favorite food all the more appetizing.

He knows him by the way he chuckles, in the ways he answers his questions, in the hand that would brush his head and in the voice that would tell him how smart of a kid he was, how society wouldn't know what hit it when he became famous, that he was a force to be reckoned with.

He knows him by the way he loves his mom – bright-eyed and joyful, like she's the best thing that has ever happened to him. The way he makes her smile and laugh, that his mom just feels so happy with him around, the way she can just blossom when he's there.

Izuku knows his father.

Until he didn't.

Until the familiar became unfamiliar.

Until he stopped coming home.

Until the leaky faucet became the landlord's job.

Until the picture frames were taken down.

Until Izuku soared just a little bit lower.

Until Katsudon was never the same ever again.

He didn't know the when nor the why.

He didn't know if he wanted to.

Was it because he was quirkless?

That he was different?

But it never mattered to his father, those things – because his father would always tell him that he was loved, even before the doctor's diagnosis; that he was loved even as they played pretend; that he was loved just for who he is, even when he admired All Might and his father seemed to hate the man.

He used to ask questions, "Where's Papa?" he would say, "Will he come visit today? Will he play heroes with me?" And it would show the slightest hint of a sad expression on his mom's face and Izuku learned not to ask. There were other questions, too, but he knew not to ask them, either. "Did he leave because of me? Does he hate me? Is it because I'm useless?"

So he didn't.

And his papa stopped coming home.
And little Izuku's heart tried to figure it out, tried to understand why Papa never came home one day, why the visits stopped, why there were no calls.

And he tried to curb his obsession with All Might, because maybe Papa grew tired of the man, but one month of his attempt made Mama sad, and he would rather Mama be happy so she wouldn't leave him too.

And Izuku learned. He learned to do the things that Papa used to do.

He learned to fix the leaky faucet.

He learned how to unclog the toilet.

He learned how to cook, never the same way Papa did because his damn quirk never came in, but it brought a smile to Mom's face and that was enough.