"That's your problem, Bakugou," he says softly. "You always think everything is about you."
He regrets that in the next second, when Bakugou's hand closes around his shoulder.
There are a number of ways that Izuku can react to this. It is a small number, and does not include things like yelling for help, fighting back, or trying to apologize. The reason for this is that what Izuku does first, automatically, is panic.
To be specific, the number is two. One option is to fold like wet paper, break down crying, and let "flight" take over since "fight" isn't happening anytime soon. This option presents itself for a split second in Izuku's mind, and what little remains of the rational part of his brain promptly vetoes it. And so, instead, Izuku lets himself freeze.
A moment after Bakugou grabs him, Izuku goes dead-still. His limbs lock in place, his hands sit as motionless fists in his lap, and he stares blankly up at Bakugou's angry face.
(One of the fluorescent light panels in the ceiling goes out, and that's all anyone would be able to see of what Izuku's friend is up to right now. He can see the rest of it, and it's still less frightening than the flesh-and-blood teenager who won't let go of his shoulder.)
There's nothing he can do to stop Bakugou from squeezing his shoulder and shouting at him, so he does nothing. He simply sits and stares and keeps his mouth tightly shut and his fists in his lap and tells himself again and again, that squeezing and shouting is all that Bakugou is going to do. He tells himself, it won't happen again.
It won't.
The anger will pass. All Izuku has to do is wait.
He doesn't even have to wait long. Bakugou finishes saying his piece, and the ice in Izuku's blood vanishes the moment Bakugou's hand leaves his shoulder. Rei is still trying to hurt him. He wishes she wouldn't.
Still, Izuku is glad she's there, because when Bakugou hurls his notebook out the window, she dives after it. There's no fixing the scorch marks from Bakugou's quirk, but when Izuku finally makes his way on wobbly legs to the courtyard below, he finds her standing by the koi pond with his notebook on the ground by her bare feet, perfectly dry.
He's also appreciative later.
It's all in vain, but Izuku still appreciates it. They're walking together beneath an overpass, or at least he's walking and she's drifting beside him with her feet floating above the ground. Izuku steps over a manhole and walks on, unaware of his surroundings as he wrestles with his thoughts and fears and hopes. He's not paying attention until she appears before him.
Her face twists and contorts into a sickening mask. She hovers before him, her features dripping and melting in a snarl, her hair twisting and writhing around her like snakes. But she's not staring at him – she's staring past him.
Following her gaze, Izuku turns just as the slime emerges from the sewer. He has time to run, but it's not enough, and the slime is upon him before he even makes it out into the open. It covers him, sticky and clinging, oozing over his mouth and nose until darkness creeps around the edges of his vision. He sees her blinking in and out of view, and his ears ring and throb with her shrieking until his skull feels as if it could split in half, but it's not enough. The thing can't see her, and she can't touch it; her clawing fingers do even less harm than Izuku's.
His quirk really is useless in a fight, some small, barely-rational part of him realizes. He helps people no one else can see, solves problems that no one else knows need fixing, but here he is, suffocating under a criminal with a fancy quirk, and there's nothing he or any of his friends can do about it.
At times like this, like second grade, like all his middle school years spent getting beat up and shoved into lockers, he's as good as quirkless.
The panic that clouds his thoughts is purely instinctual, born of raw survival instinct. But as Izuku suffocates slowly, his last thought as his vision goes black is that he's going to join her soon, and maybe that means he might finally learn his best friend's real name.