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Izuku wakes up to soft smiles and gentle cheers of, “Happy birthday!”
Eri hugs him tight and shows him the drawing she made, childish scribbles infused with adoration, and Izuku tells her how much he loves it. What else could he even possibly say? He does love it, because he loves his sister, and something inside him is so warm.
Shouta ruffles his hair and makes him blueberry pancakes. It’s a little act of service–a love language he has long since grown used to, but never sick of. Fondness creeps in and engulfs him whole; a soft smile tugging at the edge of his lips.
Everything is so right in the world, and a quiet voice in the edge of his mind whispers, this is it. You’ve found your place. This is where you belong.
And Izuku believes it.
How could he not? He has long since grown accustomed to the familial warmth that floods him with every soft morning. It’s a regular day, and that makes it so much better because it means that he can expect to have many more.
It’s something he never allowed himself to hope for, before. That happiness was something continuous; something he could revel in on quiet mornings and quiet days.
(Some days, the fondness and light igniting in his chest is almost enough to drown it out–that aching and tender loneliness that had once been his life. Even though all those gaping parts are still open and bare for the world to witness, he feels it healing. Day by day. Every simple day with Shouta and Eri mends something that, once upon a time, he hadn’t even known needed mending).
And isn’t that just wonderful? That it isn’t fleeting and fake and tenuous? Izuku can have this, and it will always be his to have.
The lightness dissipates a bit when Shouta leaves to work on a case. “It’s time sensitive,” he explains as he pulls on his heavy duty boots. “I would stay if I could, kid. We’ll go and get whatever you want tomorrow. Promise.”
“Don’t forget the cake!” Eri calls after him, mind already hyper focused on the future prospect of having more sugar for her insatiable sweet tooth.
And Izuku nods, chuckling lightly, because it really is fine. He honestly doesn’t mind because he knows what the life of a pro hero looks like, and he knows that, sometimes, a hero’s personal life has to slip through the cracks for the greater good.
“Be safe,” he says in lieu of a goodbye, as has become tradition.
“I will be,” Shouta says back.
A moment later, the door clicks shut.
Izuku shuts himself in his room for the rest of the day. Not because anything is wrong, but because it’s spring break, and he feels entitled to a day of laziness. He scrolls through his phone and texts his friends and revels in blissful nothing.
He leaves his room around noon to make lunch for Eri, and then he rolls back over in bed and reads a book.
It’s been a while since Izuku has been able to neglect his responsibilities for a day of selfishness, and it feels so good. And for once in his life, he doesn’t feel guilty about it, either.
Shouta doesn’t get home until seven. They sit to eat a simple dinner, and Shouta is so clearly exhausted that Izuku smothers the urge to ask about the lack of cake, even as something quietly disappointed curdles in his stomach.
Eri, on the other hand, has no such inhibitions. “Shouta, where’s Izu’s cake?”
Izuku doesn’t dare look up, making himself look as disinterested and unbothered as possible, even as dread fills his chest. He knows what’s coming, and it shouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does.
“Ah,” Shouta sighs in realization, eyes fixed on Izuku. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get your cake, kid.”
“It’s fine,” Izuku says carefully, even as pitiful tears flood his vision.
He keeps his eyes carefully trained on his plate and keeps it to himself. After dinner, he retreats to his room again, and this time, he can barely keep silent tears from rolling down his cheeks. And then his sadness just makes him frustrated because it’s so stupid.
What right does he have to be upset? It’s not even a big deal. It’s just a cake–and Izuku doesn’t even like cake all that much.
He wipes the tears away, and distracts himself on his phone. It’s only a matter of minutes before his mind draws it back and his vision blurs up again like he’s wearing contacts with the wrong prescription.
Something bitter rises in him like a helium balloon, making his breath hitch with barely suppressed sobs. Izuku just feels so pathetic, because no one is to blame, really, and his birthday is only special to him. So why does it feel so much like betrayal to be forgotten even though he knows that bigger things matter?
He imagines, bitterly, selfishly, what it would be like to go out to the living room and say, how could you forget? I was looking forward to it so much, and I can’t even ask you to go get one because how could I even imagine being so selfish?
It isn’t fair to think. He knows that. But something aches fiercely in his chest, and it hurts because this is just cementing the fact that nothing out of the ordinary has happened to mark this day as important. And god does it make Izuku feel insignificant.
And he knows that, if he asked, Shouta would get up and buy a cake now, but he can’t do that because the guilt would eat him alive, and he doesn’t know if he can handle feeling any more pathetic today.
He knows that Shouta would even do the whole cake and candles thing tomorrow, but the thought of doing it on any other day fills Izuku with something sour and aching and deep. It hurts in some inexplicable way that he could never even begin to describe.
It’s not even the actual cake, really. It’s more because of that specific atmosphere that comes when you’re standing around a cake with lit candles while your family sings to you. It’s just…not a replaceable feeling. And he knows that if it doesn’t happen today, it just won’t be right, so it might as well not happen at all.
It’s like–what if a candle had been lit and burned all the way down, until no more wick or wax remained? You wouldn’t try to light it anymore, would you? You wouldn’t try to drag on something that has already ended, because things end and sometimes that’s it. The crux of it all is that things end and begin and end again, and sometimes, once they finish, you can’t relight the candle.
Everything comes to an end. This is a very old story. There is no other version of it.
It isn’t a nice thought to have, so he rolls over in bed and tries to smother himself in his pillow. His room feels stuffy, but he can’t bring himself to kick the blanket off. He hears Shouta and Eri talking in the living room, and he knows how nice he would feel if he joined them and shoved down that bitter yearning in his chest, but he won’t do that, either.
Maybe it’s self-destructive and petty, but his birthday feels a little bit ruined, and he doesn’t really want to end it any other way, anymore.
The part he was looking forward to is never going to come, and if it does, it won’t feel right anyway. Even if he tries to look on the bright side, he knows it would nag at him until he loses his mind or gives in.
Why bother trying?
It doesn’t sound very nice, but Izuku has already made his peace with a bitter day ending without the only thing he wanted.
He clicks off his phone and rolls over.
When he wakes up, the sun of a new day has risen above the horizon.