weary travelers.

FINGERTIPS TURNING BLUE WHENEVER THEY TOUCH YOU

Blank.

The page is white with light grey (or is it gray? He can't remember) lines racing along the sides, it is a vast canvas of nothing to draw on with bubbles of ink and trembling fingertips. Flitting graphite lines and asymmetrical shapes running along the page to tell a story, they were happy ones, back when he was a child-but-not; when Mom was teaching him how to write properly. Words and numbers, a statistic, just like him. He's always been good at predictions, just like his father before him. Unlike his father, though, (and unlike his mother) he is a crisp paper; new and unused and empty. He is a never-ending abyss. The extra joint in his toe creates a void. 

He studied quirks to make up for the fact he didn't have one. Learning to spot how it's used, what it does, the effects, weaknesses, and room for improvement. 

He stares at the paper as it slits the skin on his finger. Red bleeds over the cut, he watches as a patchwork of crimson dribbles past his thumb. He can't feel it, his hands are wrong. (He's wrong, wrong, wrong.)

His eyes are as blank as the sheet. The clock ticks mindlessly, a dull thrum. A daze falls over him, Izuku sets out a daydream, his fingers writing the notes without him understanding the teacher. Words don't reach him.

(Staring over the edge, the railing behind him, his shoes over a crumpled note―)

Fingers curling around himself, he stares out the window (w̶a̶t̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶b̶o̶d̶y̶ ̶f̶a̶l̶l̶s̶ )watching as the birds flock away for migration. There is a chill in the air, he sinks into his uniform. The teacher assigns homework for the next week. School is out. Izuku tumbles out of the classroom last; he's always been small for his age (he suspects it's because there's never enough food, but he won't say anything).

The bell rings. He thinks about going to the roof but decides against it. It would be too tempting and Izuku is weak.

(―the sickening crunch of his body snapping on the pavement, his bones split open his scarred skin with a sharp, foul motion. He can't feel it, his mind is numb enough that all he can think about is how Kacchan was right―)

He waves a scarred hands at Natsuo when he leaves the warmth of this school behind. Winter break starts now, starts today. He plans to finish his homework before it gets cold enough for his hands to hurt and shake uncontrollably.

(―and how Mom is finally free of the hefty burden that is her son. Stupid Deku.)

The haze clears when he finishes his homework, two days later.

_

It's cold today, he thinks.

Frost gnaws at his fingertips and he knows his lips have become some distorted version of blue or purple, but he does not care. He has wrapped himself in blankets on top of blankets, to keep the heat in and the cold out. There is no heat to keep in and the ice breaks through his weak defense of thin wool and deflated pillows. He does not turn the heat on, they cannot afford extra expenses. No matter if his lips are blue and his eyes can't stay open in the frost. Izuku hates winter break, but it's too cold and too sad to fantasize about the sun. Some childish part of him thinks the heroes are coming to save him. His door stays shut and his face pales to a color white as a paper, but the world is not merciful to Izuku Midoriya.

A shiver tears him hands awayfrom the rest of him, they freeze to hoarfrost. His fingers numb against the icy air around them. 

(Fate is too cruel, it hurts and it hurts with hands built to heal. Like Kacchan.)

He knows he will survive. He has dealt with far worse things, with much less armor to protect him. He's lived through the disappointment of not having something that everyone else did. Surviving (because he forgot how to live) the slow loss of his only friend, who was blessed with the power of explosions falling at his will. He's lived through watching everything he ever loved turn to ashes, slipping through his fingers as he stands incapable of doing anything. he's loved through being told the world would be better off without him; he's lived through fa―

His lungs are poisoned with fear, it smells like gasoline and cigarettes. Something (tears, maybe) blur his eyes, his lips tremble. A cross between a whimper and a yelp strangles from his throat. Distortion fills him and he coughs something like syrup (except its bitter and salty and and he smells copper). His ears haze over, ringing in one and a low rumble in the other. A car engine, maybe.

He doesn't hear the door open, maybe Kacchan did more damage that Izuku would like to admit. He doesn't hear the gasp of a surprise either (or maybe it was two?), things get a little fuzzy when your lips are blue and your eyes are sewn shut. He'll live (will he? It's so cold).

But he sees red, and for a second he thinks that Kacchan has finally come to finish the job. Maybe then everything would just stop hurting and he could sleep. Then the cold wouldn't be a problem. 

His teeth chatter and he gives a weary smile, wary eyes trailing up the lanky blur that steps into his moms apartment. Something about them is strikingly familiar (in a way that doesn't send him panicking), but Izuku can't let his eyes focus enough to see it. The maybe-Kacchan has a watered down voice, and Izuku feels like his head is stuffed with cotton, the maybe-Kacchan seems to notice and comes rushing to Izuku's side. He's so warm, his hand on Izuku's freezing forehead, he leans in. Chasing the heat (but he's so, so tired), Izuku falls to the ground.

"H-hi, Kac- Kaccha- Kacchan." He's not sure if the maybe-Kacchan heard him or not, his tongue is numb in his mouth. Izuku chokes on the ice that has burrowed into his lungs.