Chapter Text
A month at the Hideout had a strange way of rewriting what "normal" meant.
The first week, Izuku’s world had been measured in the sharp, stinging throbs of his healing shoulder and ribs. But Kurogiri was meticulous.
Every few days, the misty bartender would silently place a fresh roll of bandages, a tube of burn ointment, and a bottle of antiseptic on the bar counter.
There were no pitying sighs, no heavy lectures—just the quiet understanding that a tool needed to be kept in working order. By week three, the angry, blackened skin on Izuku’s ribs had faded to a dull, peeling pink, and the deep ache in his shoulder only flared when the basement air got exceptionally cold. His body was healing, and for the first time, he wasn't spending every day bracing for the next impact.
With the physical pain fading, the quiet, analytical distance Izuku used to shield himself began to melt away, replaced by a chaotic, comfortable routine.
"Izuku-kun! You're letting your guard down again!"
Before Izuku could even look up from the couch, a beige blur descended upon him. Toga crashed straight into his side, laughing hysterically as she wielded a brightly colored plastic water gun. She pulled the trigger, catching him right in the jaw with a stream of lukewarm water.
"Ah! Toga-san, wait!"
Izuku yipped, scrambling backward over the armrest of the worn-out sofa. He wiped his face, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbling out of his chest.
"That's cheating, I didn't even have my shoes on!"
"Villains don't wait for shoes!"
Toga cheered, hopping onto the cushions and pointing the plastic weapon at him like a seasoned assassin.
"Dabi-kun said your reaction times are getting faster, but I think you're still too soft. You have to be ready to jump!"
From the bar, Dabi let out a lazy, gravelly chuckle, tossing a crumpled up gauze wrapper into the trash.
"Don't bring me into your playground squabbles, crazy. But the kid's right, your aim is garbage today. You missed his eyes completely."
"It's a tactical warning shot!" Toga argued, puffing out her cheeks.
Izuku sat up, adjusting his oversized black t-shirt—one of Dabi's old ones that still smelled faintly of smoke—and smiled.
They spent hours sitting on the floor of the back room, Toga braiding his unruly green hair into ridiculous, uneven knots while rambling about the cute stray cats she’d seen down the street, or dragging him into intense, high-stakes games of Mario Kart on Shigaraki's console.
Speaking of the console, the blue-haired leader was currently aggressive-tapping his controller, glaring at the television screen.
"Hey, brat,"
Shigaraki grumbled, his voice rough but lacking any real venom.
"Grab the second controller. This co-op campaign is trash, and Kurogiri keeps dropping inputs because he's too busy cleaning glasses."
"Oh! Um, yes, Shigaraki-san!"
Izuku scrambled over the back of the couch, carefully navigating around Toga, who tried to trip him with her foot just for the fun of it.
He slid onto the stool next to Shigaraki, picking up the plastic controller. Over the past month, Izuku had stopped looking at Shigaraki as a ticking time bomb. Instead, he’d found a strange, unspoken camaraderie in the digital battlegrounds.
They didn't talk about society, or heroes, or the blood stained into the floorboards of Aldera Junior High. They talked about aggro ranges, boss mechanics, and weapon scaling.
When Izuku accidentally pulled a mob of enemies they weren't ready for, Shigaraki didn't threaten to decay him—he just aggressively scratched his neck, muttered about "filthy casuals," and went out of his way to revive Izuku’s digital avatar.
"Keep your distance on the next phase,"
Shigaraki muttered, his pinky finger rigidly extended off the controller grip as he navigated his character forward.
"If you die again, I'm locking you out of the server."
"I've got it this time, I promise," Izuku smiled, his fingers moving fluidly across the buttons.
Dabi wandered over, leaning over the back of Izuku’s stool to watch the screen.
The intense, suffocating heat that usually radiated off the scarred villain felt grounded now, like a heavy blanket in the chilly basement. He reached down, his rough, stapled fingers lightly ruffling Izuku’s messy curls, completely destroying whatever braid Toga had managed to finish earlier.
"Don't let him boss you around, kid. If he loses, it's because his build is garbage," Dabi drawled.
"Shut up, Dabi, or I'll disintegrate your save data," Shigaraki snapped back.
Toga slid onto the counter beside them, leaning her chin in her hands as she watched the colorful lights of the television reflect in Izuku's eyes. The room was loud, messy, and filled with the scent of cheap takeout and stale smoke.
Izuku took a breath, his fingers tapping the controller as he successfully blocked an incoming boss attack, earning a small, approving grunt from Shigaraki.
For the first time in a month, Izuku didn't feel the phantom weight of a plastic binder in his hands. He didn't feel the crushing dread of a world that didn't want him.
He was just a kid playing video games with people who actually looked at him when he spoke.
And as the rain began to patter gently against the high, dirty basement windows, Izuku realized he hadn't thought about being "normal" in weeks. He liked it right here, at the very bottom of the world.