Not Even The Rain

my dear, you are iridescent. i can't look away.

All For One destroys all the fighter jets in one brutal move, and all Izuku can do is watch as fire rains down—not even the rain can stop the raging inferno.

"Star is absent, you know," All For One cooes, a wickedly sadistic grin on his face.

Izuku can't breathe, and it's not just from the Second's Quirk. His heart pounds a painful beat against his ribs—it feels like they've snapped in two, shattered into gritty crumbs and dug into his lungs, pressing into them and piercing them with large, gaping holes.

All For One holds All Might up in the air, and Izuku heaves.

All Might, no, no—

He can't die. All Might can't die. Not now, not like this, he—he can't.

He can't lose him, too.

He can't lose him, like Kacchan—he can't, he can't—

Izuku gasps, but nothing comes out.

This can't be it, he needs to—

He chokes on another breathless sob, his ears full of ringing noise.

It can't be. It can't be. It can't—it can't be—

Izuku's vision blurs once more, leaving him blinded by his own salty grief—it burns, his own raging fire, searingly hot against the back of his eyes, filling his nostrils and mouth, killing the oxygen in them as the tears keep filling his eyes—they're dark, murky things, stained with dirt, blood, and a thousand agonized sorrows all in one.

(Agony and sorrow lie side by side, hands clasped as the world ends.

Grief is always the survivor—he's always left behind.)

Please, please, it can't be, this can't be it, I need to save him, we have to save him, please, please—

Anyone, please, it can't be—

Someone—

A tug.

It's gentle at first, like all good things usually are. It pulls at Izuku's chest, seeping under his skin and filling his bones with a soothing warmth—like a warm hand had gently cradled his anguished heart, never minding the sticky red, and slowly pulling, like it's puppeting Izuku's body from the inside, his head turning to look up at UA—

Izuku's eyes widen—his vision is no longer stained with clouded tears; it's as if everything has suddenly become crystal clear—undeniable to any and all.

Standing at the edge, figure tall and face bloodied—his hair is stained with his own blood, yet Izuku can't tear his eyes away, a desperation filling him.

He needs to see his eyes—Izuku doesn't know why the urge rises within him with such raging violence, but he's too weak to fight it; he's always been a little weak, when it came to his urges involving him—but now he needs it, he needs this like he needs air. His lungs burn at the reminder, but Izuku can't bring himself to hurt because he turns his head and—

Glowing, almost sparkling, flickering and wholly, undoubtedly alive, flecks of vibrant orange and irises filled with that oh-so-familiar red—

Their eyes meet, and Izuku's mouth opens once more, unable to utter a single sound.

Kacchan.

Izuku's heart is yanked at the sight, and for a single, deliriously fleeting moment, he could almost swear that Kacchan feels it, too, with the way he's staring back at him.

The tug pulls at Izuku once again, and it's like he suddenly can speak again, mouth opening wide.

"Kacchan."

It's a strangled, choked-out sob of a thing, but Izuku couldn't care less because everything is righted again—all the broken shards of the world that have been digging into Izuku's skin dissipate, leaving behind nothing except small holes all over his skin, numbed out from any sort of sensation of pain.

Kacchan is here—he's here, and he's staring back at Izuku like he too can feel the tug in his chest, pushing out beyond his skin and bones, reaching—

Not even the rain could stop it.