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“You don’t owe him anything.”
“You owe him nothing, Izuku. You owe Katsuki nothing, love.”
“You don’t have to put up with this!”
Izuku heard these words throughout his childhood, every time he went home with a too-well-patched burn, and a tremulous smile, saying that “Kacchan will be a hero! I can’t ruin this! Mom, don’t ruin this,” and Inko Midoriya cried. Izuku felt her helplessness, heard her crying as she called herself a failure. Izuku stopped telling her about the burns, but Inko told him those words anyway.
“Izuku, you owe him nothing,” she whispered, and he would pretend that he understood. She was wrong, anyways. She had to be wrong. He was quirkless, he was Deku. Useless. It was all his fault, not Kacchan’s. Kacchan was going to be a hero, so he couldn’t be wrong. He couldn’t be wrong. It had to be Izuku’s fault—it had to be Izuku’s fault that he had those burns on his shoulders, that his money was spent on new scorched uniforms and he pretended that he was saving up for a fancy All Might figurine so Mom wouldn’t cry.
Then, he got One for All, and people were nice to him. The only difference was that Izuku had a quirk, had something to put in on par with everyone else. This did not fit with the world, this was not right, this was all wrong, Kacchan was justified because Izuku was Izuku. All the while, Mom’s voice would be playing in the back of his mind.
“Izuku, you owe him nothing.”
Then he went outside with Kacchan. After Kamino Ward, after All Might fell, and Kacchan wanted to fight. Izuku saw him and nearly agreed. He owed it to Kacchan, he had to help him. Izuku had to do it, as a hero. As a hero, he had to help others, that was his job, his calling, the reason he got One for All, the reason he was where he was, the reason he became All Might’s successor. But then Kacchan punched him hard.
“Izuku, you owe him nothing, why can’t you see that?” Inko often sobbed, hugging him tightly.
You owe him nothing.
Nothing.
Midoriya Izuku did not have to do anything for Kacchan.
Izuku snapped.
He did not have to be a punching bag, he did not have to fight against his wish, he did not have to go out after curfew to get harmed like it was Aldera all over again, because Izuku would not aim to harm, merely incapacitate.
Kacchan would not.
Something sunk in, after years of being beaten down, told he was worthless, then the implication that he was only useful as a punching bag.
“I owe you nothing,” came out of his mouth, cold. Izuku dodged.
“I owe him nothing,” he whispered to himself, sinking to the ground.
“I owe you nothing,” he told Kacch– Bakugou, watching as Ka– Bakugou paused, then started back up. Izuku gripped the fence tightly, One for All coursing through his veins like one of Mom’s hugs after patching him up, back when Izuku was four, then six, then eight, then a liar. He threw the fence at him.
“I owe you nothing. Nothing! I do not have to be your punching bag, I do not have to do this if I don’t want to. I do not want to do this, and you will not force me! I want to go back, have a good night’s sleep, and earn Aizawa-sensei’s trust back! I will not do this, I do not have to do this, I owe you nothing at all, Bakugou, not after you kept hurting me! I cannot do this! There are professionals, whose job it is to do this! I cannot, I do not have the experience, I do not have to be your punching bag!” Izuku shouted, and it felt like an end to the worst part of his life. Bakugou paused, and Izuku turned his back on him.
“I owe him nothing,” he whispered and laughed. He was free.
Bakugou stayed, stunned silent, behind him.