Nonchalant

Chapter 35

Izuku's heart jumps at the eye contact. The calm look on Kacchan's face is immediately replaced with shock. His eyes are as red as he remembers, full of that rage and fury he's familiar with. But beneath that Izuku can see something else, an unbelievable concept to him: pain and sorrow, hiding behind his usual mask of angry threats and cocky insults. 

I've missed those eyes, he thinks humorlessly and half-jokingly. He doesn't know if he actually does or if his mind is just being sarcastic. Izuku thinks it might be a little bit of both.

Kacchan's eyes widen. He blinks a couple of times, as if to make sure he's not hallucinating, then rubs at his eyes. They're bloodshot and rimmed with faint, almost unnoticeable eyebags.

He looks ready to stalk over and interrogate him. Izuku can't handle that, can't risk a breakdown in front of Aizawa or in the middle of a crowded area. Breaking off the eye contact, he tugs his hoodie tighter around his head and walks faster, bags flying against his knees and calves. Aizawa notices and keeps up with his pace, the bags in his hands thrown over his shoulder with one hand. He knows the hero thinks he may be trying to escape so he doesn't start running, no matter how much he wants to. They make their way to the parking lot in less than five minutes, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Izuku doesn't breathe until he's in the car, slouched in the seat so no one can see him.

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Katsuki is seeing things. He blinks hard, so hard he sees sparks. Maybe it was due to his quirk that he rarely uses nowadays, unless he's training for UA. He wonders if it was real. If, when he grabbed the sleeve he would be met with freckled cheeks, pale skin, scar-riddled wrists and arms and green eyes, once teary but crushed into a blank gaze, hollow and dull. Because of him. He crumples at the thought and hastily gets rid of it.

His right arm extends forward but his feet stay stuck to the floor. Katsuki doesn't notice his hands are empty until a plastic-covered loaf of bread rolls to a stop at his foot and his phone is perched atop his shoe. He curses quietly as he picks them up hastily and dumps them back into the bag.

By the time he lodges the paper bag under his arm and shoves his phone in his pocket, Deku is gone.

Katsuki wants to believe, but at the same time he doesn't, because if it's real then he'd break down sobbing as his heart pounds in despair while those eyes stare down at him, staring through him and at his soul, reminding him of all the things he said and did as if he doesn't think about them everyday. But if it isn't real...

He sees Deku, bloodied and burned and lifeless eyes as empty as ever and parted lips coated in a thick layer of blood with a steady trail of the dark liquid that leaks from the corner of his mouth, teeth coated in the same substance. His own hands are sticky with sweat and blood. He isn't sure whose, and he doesn't want to know. Just another of Katsuki's horrifyingly vivid nightmares that he wakes up to. He's seen it once, twice, too many times to count.

He pushes the image of blood, soot, and soulless eyes from his mind and steadies himself. Katsuki's wobbling hard and dangerously close to faceplanting on the cold, dirty tiles.

 It's just an illusion, he thinks, the thought almost begging him to believe and be done with it. He does. Katsuki takes a deep breath, then exhales as he calms down. He has to get home or else the old hag would scream at him. 

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Aizawa notices Midoriya's quickened pace and hastily wonders if he's trying to make a break for it. But Midoriya seems less calculative and more...panicked, so to speak. His eyes don't show anything, but his tense posture tells him otherwise. When they make it out the entrance, Midoriya slows down, but is visibly still cautious. His grip tightens around the paper and plastic bag handles as he gazes warily behind him, as if waiting for someone to come out and start attacking him. He's holding his breath and, Aizawa assumes, his heartbeat is much faster now.

Aizawa looks back to see what could have scared the kid, but he sees nothing unusual. Then he wonders if Midoriya had seen someone he knew. Perhaps an old classmate or a relative? It was understandable that the kid was trying to get away. After all, he'd been presumed legally dead for-what, four years?

He glances at the slumped figure through the rearview mirror. Midoriya is staring out the window silently, looking but not looking, bags piled next to him. He seems to be thinking deeply about something unpleasant or unnerving, seeing that his hands have started gripping painfully tight at each other. Aizawa wants to pry his hands apart gently, so that he doesn't hurt himself. His thumbs rub against old scars and scabs, his nails scratch lightly against his knuckles.

As the car stops at a red light, the bags jostle. A thick winter scarf flies out and entangles itself in Midoriya's hair. He flinches at the sudden presence of cloth and pulls it off himself quickly, staring at the article of clothing bundled up in his arms as if thinking about what to do next.

Aizawa is reminded of his own scarf, his capture weapon, which he had used on the kid many times. When he looks behind through the mirror again, he sees Midoriya carefully folding the thick material into a neat square and gently putting it back in its bag before staring out the window again. This time, his hands rest on his lap.

The drive back home is silent and heavy.