The creator of the "Number One Hero: All Might" comic franchise is struggling, almost dying, of stomach loss from a dreadful accident, and is slowly giving up on his series ...

Izuku is a huge fan of the All Might franchise and is an aspiring artist with a natural talent for bringing characters to life. Although his near-constantly angry boyfriend doesn't appreciate the talent and is determined to snuff it out to teach him his place, Izuku can't help but pick up a pencil when he thinks of the joy and strength that All Might gave to him in his dark hours, inspired to do the same.

Through his art, Izuku's future may yet be bright.

Among other things, this fic has mentions of abusive relationship, no 'immediate' bad guy (cause this is real life, yo. Look at all this grey!) and a shameless lack of knowledge about the publishing and media distribution industry ... it's a fic okay, so don't take everything literally. (But seriously, if you have any knowledge of how 'real publishing' and 'real editing in a stinkin' office' actually works then drop a comment immediately before I write a chapter that's incorrect!)

Also on Ao3 for those who prefer it there.

A small pencil hit the desk as the image lay finished, pencil shavings, smudges of graphite and the little tufts of abused rubber littered the area around the paper like piles of discarded rubble and weapons from a battle. Calloused and small hands picked up the piece of paper with the owner's lips exhaling a satisfied sigh before a smile.

Glancing at the time, nearly nine in the evening, the young artist pulled out a small, low-tech camera and painstakingly carefully took several focused pictures of the art. He indulged himself for a moment, admiring the finished work through the lens long before he took the shots he needed.

Low tech camera, old-fashioned art style, traditional comic strips scattered through a central image of his most recent art creation, and yet he was overly familiar and pleased by his routine. It was comforting.

The action scene, the hero, reaching the crime scene in the aftermath, the chaos and the hurt he must face; the resolve to become stronger in his next few pages. The artist buzzed at the chance to develop this small-time character. This internet-comic-nobody, and yet, despite his low ranking fame and attention, these short stories made him smile, gave him strength and drew him towards his creative utensils like a moth to a flame.

He checked the time again, five past nine. He blinked, blinked again. And fought the urge to panic before rushing to his computer. This had to be finished before company arrived!

Trying to move at the human limit, he logged in and began to upload the best quality images to his little blog and breath of fresh air. It was such low quality compared to the pristine and utterly gorgeous illustrations of other artists, of the dramatic, messy and yet wholly captivating comic strips that he admired and dreamed of. But, despite the gap in skill and tech, he loved it so and couldn't hold back the urge to draw and share as his idols did.

Though it often got him into so much trouble.

Biting his lip and glancing at both internet clock and the clock on his wall multiple times a second, he willed the upload bar to move faster, his fingers flying across the keys of the slow, old netbook to add his habitual short description and small plot-step to the drawing.

His house was silent, but he still looked over his shoulder with increasing panic as he rapidly pressed the upload button, willing it to hurry up. The green inched, pixel by pixel, the estimated time climbing like the dread in his throat as the seconds ticked by. Oh why, oh why had he rushed this now?

He would get caught!

He trembled at the panic inducing thought. He'd get into trouble again, he'd have to wear the white fabrics again, make up bad excuses, he'd-

At last, the bar was full, and his blog successfully pinged his email with a small notification: Your blog has been updated, congratulations on your latest post!

The artist sighed, pulling his hands close to his chest as he shut off the computer. "Thank goodness," he murmured, the relief bringing a tear to his eyes. No white in store for him today, no white to cover the purples or reds because he wasn't going to get caught. He wasn't going to get into trouble again.

The light in the room dimming now only the bent and twisted lamp illuminated the room. Closet actually. Hidden, private space was crammed with desk and chair, a door that barely opened against the crowded inside, it was always too warm with the clothes washer beside the door and the dryer pressing up against the back of a chair. The desk was nothing but a utility surface with a tall chair comfortable enough to support those frantic hours of creativity that made the small, secret space worth it. The same creativity that was worth risking capture and punishment for.

The artist pulled himself to his feet and shuffled out of the little utility closet to the modest kitchen. By comparison, the apartment room was airy and spacious, and the artist stretched out into the newfound elbow room until he felt his shoulders pop.

Ten past nine …

"Kacchan's late," he mumbled aloud, nervously pulling at the sleeves of his oversized sweater as he reached the kitchen counters and fussed over how to prepare a light dinner. It was Tuesday, Kacchan always came back from work smelling of curry on Tuesdays so he would not be hungry for a large meal.

His stomach protested at the small spoonful's of rice he tipped into a pan, not enough, it seemed to whine. The artist patted his stomach with a wince, he always got so caught up in his hobby and so nervous in the evenings that eating enough for himself during the day often slipped his stressed mind.

He didn't have time to consider cooking anything else, once their little appetiser had been prepared the door was unlocked and kicked open.

The artist jumped at the noise and drew in on himself, anxiously on his toes and tongue-tripping in his dry mouth as he stuttered "W-welcome home, Kacchan."

"Shut up you fucking nerd."

After they had eaten, Kacchan muttered a few comments about his day. The supervising officer had overlooked him again, and he was angry, likely his partner had talked too much, and judging by the way his hands twitched he had been doing paperwork for hours. All deduced from: "Glad that fucking week is over. You better be fucking grateful I gotta put up with this shitty job and the shitty AC, Deku. I need a beer."

'Deku', known as Midoriya Izuku in his IDs and the rare contact listing, recognised the order and at once jumped to his feet to fetch a beer can from the fridge.

Icy cold, just how it had always been ever since the past mistake years ago of serving his boyfriend a room temperature beer. Izuku's fingers nearly lost their grip as he remembered the negative reinforcement that came with that lesson. Beers were now permanently in the fridge, even when there was little room, even when the cupboards had the better access …

When presented, as demanded, it was snatched out of Izuku's hands with barely an acknowledgement.

Kacchan, AKA Bakugou Katsuki rookie police officer, slouched on the sofa in the other half of the kitchen that served as a living room and flicked through the television channels aggressively.

Izuku perched on the edge of the couch, avoiding physical contact and unable to relax with Bakugou in such a bad mood. He weakly tried to start a conversation, "Chiyo-san s-said today that she was seeing f-family this weekend."

"So?"

Izuku ducked his head when Bakugou's response was less than friendly, "I-I just thought i-it was nice …"

Intense red eyes glared through blond bangs at the sharp turn of the head, "If I cared about that stupid old woman I would have asked. Just shut up Deku."

Izuku inched away slightly and lowered his head, hands tightly fisted on his knees. "That's not n-nice Kacchan," he murmured. Chiyo Shuuzenji was a kind old woman, she was responsible for the sweets in their cupboards half the time, they had a lot to be thankful for because of her.

"Eh?"

Izuku gulped. Was that said out loud? A fearful glance towards the unstable blond gave him his answer. He was furious.

"Ka-"

His speech turned into a yelp of pain, he rubbed at his side, shuffling backwards on the carpet wary of the blond's next moves. Eyes breaking down the stance, the resolve in his eyes, the tension in his muscles-

Bakugou lowered his leg back to the sofa with a scoff of irritation, "Whatever. Go get the mail."

"Y-yes," squeaking voice, scrambling hands, and Izuku was out of the door with an unsteady breather.

His feet were cold … looking down he realised he had forgotten his slippers … he looked behind him at the closed door with an anxious rub at his sore ribs and his stinging hip. Lucky. He might have to wear the white under his clothes, but he wouldn't have any bad questions asked about Kacchan this time since the bandages would be under his outfit.

But he might need his shoes now, the communal stairs weren't always as clean as their apartment floor. He almost opened the door again, but Bakugou's yell at the television scared him a few steps backwards.

Really bad day … Mail it was.

He went down the communal stairs to the multiple mailboxes and unlocked their little box, box 3. It was like the others, but with many, many dents in it and squealing hinges. Izuku was glad it was his job to get the mail now, the box wasn't going to be destroyed anymore, and their landlord wouldn't have to replace it again. He closed the tiny door with difficulty and made his way back up the stairs to the second floor, looking at the envelopes all addressed to Bakugou.

"Kacchan will only want these ones today," Izuku put the bills under the one personal letter, it looked like it was from work. The notices would make him angrier, they'd wait on the kitchen table for tomorrow when he had finished relaxing on his day off and when he was calmer …

Hopefully, Izuku trembled, he wouldn't need to use sex as an outlet for his frustration this week … he hesitated outside his door and took a steeling breath, fighting back his weaknesses and trying to hide the 'Deku' that Bakugou always seemed to see no matter what he did.

Izuku slipped back into the apartment on light feet, making sure to brush his socks against the welcome mat thoroughly as he gave his slippers a rueful look. Well, at least there wasn't any stones.

"Oi, Deku!"

Izuku dropped the letters when Bakugou shouted at him from the end of the hallway, standing at in the doorway that led to the utility closet … Oh no.

The blond held up a familiar sketchbook and Izuku's heart dropped. "What." Looking like he was about to explode, Bakugou approached with heavy steps as waved the book as if strangling a living thing while Izuku shrank against the locked front door.

"What. Is. This?"

The hero appeared at the site, the smoke, the fire the dust of the explosions chocking lungs as well as hope. The sparks in the air ignite despair as he throws himself into work, to save as many as possible, all the while seeing each suffering face and acknowledging that this was his fault. He put his happiness before his duty, before his people, and now he was paying the price for selfish indulgence. Seeing the betrayal in each suffering face, it was his fault, all his fault, where was he when he could have been preventing their pain? The hero knows, believes he must sacrifice his happiness to earn back the respect, to atone for those he was too late to save. Because a hero is all he is, and he serves the people, a hero who cannot serve is worthless.

Randomly updated, also on Ao3!

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