Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I confused a sense of purpose

With grabbing the future by the throat

While the museum of my memories

Was just some blurry photographs

When I was younger I was serious

Now everything’s a joke

But my friends detect a sadness

At the end of every laugh

Which has left me with a tricky sense of humor

And I keep getting further led astray

Every punchline takes on another dimension

When you realize that the time flies either way

— T.Z. Goldsmith —

If you were to ask Izuku Midoriya's classmates or teachers to describe him in a word, there would be little debate among them.

Disruptive would come from a few teachers, without a doubt. You'd probably get a dozen answers minimum of annoying or a synonym thereof. Maybe troublesome or incessant or chatterbox or loser or useless or even villain, and another that he doesn't even like to think about. Above each and every one of those voices, however, there would come a single, gruff answer: Deku, a childhood nickname from when his best friend misread Izuku. It sounded so much like Dekiru, though, with its 'you can do it!' attitude, that it stuck. Nowadays, the connotation is far different. 

If, on the other hand, you asked Izuku Midoriya to describe himself in a word, he'd likely say "pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis," a word he learned to pronounce a while back as a joke, on the slim chance an opportunity to use it were to arise. After all, planning for every outcome is a hero's duty, and he has to fill his free time somehow. When he isn't filling his Pro Hero journals, that is.

If forced to answer truthfully, he would have to go with: "Funny." Nobody makes Izuku laugh like Izuku can, which is pretty damn lucky, considering he's his own best friend. Not that anyone else has offered. 

On the bright side, it means less crowd work.

Perhaps the greatest lesson he's ever learned from his best friend is that if you already spend your days as everyone's punchline, just think of a different one so you can laugh too! Because if there's one thing in the world Izuku Midoriya knows how to do, it's that.

When he laughs, loudly and often, his grin pulls back even more than it does up, flashing almost every tooth, and his eyes squint so tight you might think they're closed, like there's always a joke nobody else seems to get. Even his resting face wears a wry little smile that makes most people question if he's ever really serious, or knows what the word means, for that matter.

It's not like he tries to be disruptive or irritating. Well, that second one isn't entirely accurate, but that's under extenuating circumstances, and directed toward those who drew first blood, so to speak.

When class is in session, he's focused on learning. That's what school is for, right? Even if it wasn't, it's not like he'd ever do anything to damage his academic reputation―not intentionally anyways―because U.A. only accepts the very best students, and that's where he's headed; he promised himself as much a long time ago. Some of the world's greatest heroes graduate from U.A. More importantly, All Might graduated from U.A.

Izuku has always operated under the belief that learning is meant to be fun, but apparently it's supposed to be unbelievably dull, so says every school he's been in since the third grade.

It's maddening. 

The material itself is interesting! He knows it is, because it's been his regular schedule for years to read a few chapters more than he has to, to always keep well ahead of the syllabus, to do his boring teachers' jobs for them, in case he happens to zone out, which, if he's being honest, is an inevitability.

Not that he isn't trying like all hell to stay focused on whatever mundane assignment this lumpy-haired goober is droning on about. At this point the school board should call it quits and replace the faculty with cats― no, kittens. They could wear those adorable little shoes that make them walk all weird too. Yeah, at least then homeroom wouldn't feel like such a waste of time, and they'd probably explain the material better too.

"Something funny back there, Midoriya?"

Aw crap. And things had been going so well. Over a whole month without making so much as a single chuckle during class, the longest he's ever lasted, down the drain. Done in by a tiny snicker. What's he supposed to do? Sprint out of the room every time he makes a peep so no one has to suffer through the horror of hearing him breathe? Because that wouldn't be disruptive at all, Izuku muses bitterly. The system is rigged. Other students frequently wiggle in their chairs, crack their knuckles, squeak their shoes along the floor, sniff, cough, clear their throats, and make a plethora of other noises, as living human beings tend to do, so what's the big deal?

"That's different. They aren't doing those things on purpose," Ms. Gizen had once explained to him, to which he'd almost burst a blood vessel. How she'd been able to hear him snort over the sound of a band saw whirring is a mystery he's no longer willing to expend his finite mental vitality trying to solve.

"S-sorry, Mr. Taikutsuna," Izuku mumbles as he shrinks in on himself, peering out from under his messy head of curls, their color as light as sea foam. What parts rest in shade abruptly darken into black under their own shadow.

The raucous laughter that surrounds him post-scolding only serves to twist the knife as Mr. Taikutsuna does nothing but playfully ask them to settle down. Try as he might to think of something funny in the hopes of getting to participate, or to at least strip his classmates of any possible emotional ammo, the embarrassment overwhelms Izuku.

He's usually so much better at this! And he hates the way his brain seizes up when Kacchan is around. Too much combustible conditioning, he supposes. Pavlov's bombs.

Chuckling at the thought, it adequately serves to divert his attention, until he sees Kacchan in the next row of seats, fists starting to tremble. Any hope Izuku had of salvaging the day dies.

"Well, now that everyone's had their fun, we can get back to work. Oh, and Midoriya, can I trust this won't happen again?" Mr. Taikutsuna asks accusingly, looking wholly unimpressed at the so-called 'troublemaker'. He shuffles papers around without much thought, and Izuku nods quickly, his head still tucked firmly between his shoulders.

"Uh-huh." Mr. Taikutsuna sounds anything but convinced, and Izuku, brow furrowed, has to wonder why a question with no right answer had been asked. Clearing his throat, the teacher continues.

"Now, class, someday soon― sooner than you think― as you move forward on your academic journey, your time here at Aldera will come to an end. Yes, yes, I know, we'll miss you too," says Mr. Taikutsuna. "Most of you..." he quietly tags on as an afterthought, loud enough for Izuku to hear.

"I'm supposed to pass out these career aptitude tests to help you better prepare for your future. It's important to give yourself options. You never know what's out there, and," he pauses with a smile and a shrug, letting the papers slip through his fingers as he leans his weight against the worn desk. "who am I kidding― you all want to be heroes, don't you?"

The classroom erupts into cheers, shockingly louder than the previous roaring at Izuku's expense. Each and every student, save Kacchan and Izuku, proudly show off their impressive quirks. Fire, Stone, Spikes, Telekinesis, Wind, Smoke, so many awesome abilities in their dinky, forgettable middle school class alone. Sure, a couple are lackluster on the surface, such as Finger Lengthening or an Eyeball Extender, but he genuinely believes they could be used effectively for hero work given enough training and the right strategy.

Izuku, meanwhile, can show nothing. Not without incurring the wrath of his classmates, his teacher, and worst of all: Kacchan, who it seems he's already on thin ice with today. For what reason, Izuku hasn't the vaguest idea.

The guy just acts so explosive to him. Wording 100% intended.

Kacchan stays quiet for the complete opposite reason to Izuku. Being decisively the top student, he simply has nothing to prove (although Izuku would secretly argue he's only stuck in second place behind Kacchan because of how hard he sucks at PE. Boy, does he suck at PE.) 

Both try to ignore their class's thunderous yells and cheers, to varying success. It's not as though Izuku is ashamed of his heroic dreams. He's happy to tell anyone who'll listen, but that demographic is very close to zero. No, Izuku is silent because it's crucial he avoid any unnecessary attention in the middle of what has already become a painfully stressful day, but with the help of Midoriya Luck (™), it, of course, blows up in his face in a spectacular fashion.

"Shut your mouths, you buncha extras! Your dumb asses would end up as sidekicks! Hell, you probably won't make it into any hero schools to begin with!" Kacchan leans back to rest a leg against his desk, voice stentorian and soaked in well-earned arrogance.

So much for keeping quiet. 

"Me? I'm going straight to the top! U. Fuckin' A. you shitbag D-listers! I'll rise above All Might himself and be the most powerful hero anybody's ever seen!" he clicks his tongue, "But at least you fuckers know not to even fucking ATTEMPT the U.A. exam. You'd be a waste of their damn time, an insult to the motherfuckin' institution."

The teacher makes a noise for him to tone it down, but Izuku can tell he barely cares about Kacchan's attitude and language, as he instead focuses on studying a student application. Wait. Oh please no. Okay, it'll be fine. There's plenty of students in this class. It could be anyone.

"Midoriya, you're trying for U.A. too, aren't you?"

If Kacchan was tense before, now he's livid. He bolts up so quickly, his chair makes a horrible scraping sound against the floor as it shoots back into the desk of some poor, uninvolved student sitting behind him. Turning slowly, the frozen look on his face starkly contrasts how his hands twitch with rage, low and predatory, as though they can't decide whether to close into fists or open for explosions. The indecision has his knuckles popping and fingers contorting. 

This would no doubt be inaudible over the whooping and hollering from before, but Izuku's classroom has turned unnervingly silent, and it's as if the open air sucks any moisture from his mouth and throat, leaving him unable to talk properly. Not to say he'd have the courage to speak up regardless. Not to Kacchan, never to Kacchan. 

With other bullies, getting a beating after a good laugh was still worth the trade, since it's bound to happen sooner or later anyhow, but with Kacchan, what could very charitably be referred to as "fights" were especially harsh by comparison, both physically and emotionally. After all the years they've known each other, it's more than clear to Kacchan what buttons to push. 

If there were ever a contest for the single most depressing social realization of his life, Izuku would handedly choose the fact that, despite years and years of escalating violence, Kacchan is still the closest and only "friend" he's got― aside from himself. (Duh). Sure, Kacchan can be a jerk, but at least he talks to him. He isn't afraid.

The room swallows up the teenage racket so thoroughly, Izuku wouldn't be remiss to think he'd gone deaf, were it not for the whispers surrounding him. Last time, there was laughter. Had it been mortifying? Obviously. But now, the best comments are dismissive, almost offended.

"My older brother told me about U.A.'s entrance exam when he tried to get in. Does Midoriya really think he stands a chance?"

"This would be funny if it weren't so sad."

"Who does this idiot think he is? He'll never be a hero, not in a million years."

The worst comments, though? The ones that twist Izuku's stomach and numb his extremities, like his blood has been sucked out through a straw? The ones he's spent the better part of a decade trying to convince himself don't hurt? They take a far more frightening― no, frightened turn.

"Shush! What if he can take your quirk away for good?"

"I wanna laugh, but I don't wanna piss off a future villain."

"Loser kid with evil quirk fails to get into U.A.? That's a villain origin story if I've ever heard one."

"You ever see that look in his eyes when he laughs? I seriously think this dude might be a psychopath!"

Izuku lacks the wherewithal to think of a comeback, or rather comebacks, because his childhood friend is staring him down with what must be the most hateful look imaginable. It corrodes through every layer of desperately forced levity and denial of hurt he has, and without any defensive tools, Izuku crumbles under his gaze until his spirit is left naked for Kacchan to twist and bend as he sees fit. 

The one saving grace for Izuku is the peace of knowing he's never been broken. He can't allow himself to be if he truly cares about his dream. And he does, more than anything. Nevertheless, his will cracking and splintering can be excruciating.

When Kacchan stomps toward his desk, parting the sea of uneasy murmurs, it's not to tell Izuku how worthless he is using every derogatory term in the dictionary, nor is it the kind of vicious beat down he's grown accustomed to. It's a single word, stuffed to the gills with loathing.

"No." 

Then it's over. Kacchan steps away, class shortly concludes, and Izuku is left stitching his threadbare heart back together with the same frayed string he's used for years. It seems like everyone's already left, or is filtering out, and the worst might be over, until his notebook is snatched away and thrown out the window before he can get a single pleading word in.

As much as it digs at Izuku, with Kacchan, this sort of behavior is par for the course. Funny as it is, he's startled more by the casual littering than the blatant cruelty. Doesn't his "friend" want to get into U.A.? You never know what might end up on your permanent record!

"Wouldn't want someone like you spying on heroes, now would we? Just doing my part as the future number one," Kacchan says with a twisted smile.

His hand clamps around Izuku's neck with a few errant, explosive pops, and slams the back of his head against the classroom wall. Kacchan's other hand lets off larger sparks as he dangles a finger dangerously close to Izuku's face, tickling his chin.

"I'm sure you understand. Right, Deku?"

Izuku wants to nod so badly, wants to breath normally and be left alone, but there are some fights he can't run from. The only move he has left is to close his eyes and try to tune out what's happening.

"Right, Deku?!" Kacchan asks again and tightens his grip, managing to lift Izuku a couple inches off the ground before letting him drop, whose stonewalled look naturally reverts back into a nervous, shaky disaster.

It's only when Izuku opens his eyes again that Kacchan throws a fist right at his face, knocking him back against the wall until all he can see is a nonsensical spread of colors and his own blurry hands trying to keep him steady on a blurry floor. For all the crunchy noises he can hear when he scrunches his face, and throbbing pains surrounding his eye, the swelling knot on the back of his head is easiest to focus on.

"Y'know, if you really wanna be a hero, how about you go ahead and kill yourself now? It'll save me the hassle of having to arrest your dumb ass later."

Izuku could only wait for his eyes to refocus and repeat a personal mantra.

I'm not a villain. I'm going to be a hero.

I'm not a villain. I'm going to be a hero.

I'm not a villain. I'm going to be a hero.

... Right?

[15 Years Ago]

To say Shouta is anxious would be as if to say boiling magma from the earth's core is a little bit hot. A blunt man by nature, these things should be no trouble, and they aren't, except now, because Emi makes everything so complicated, but so simple.

Ugh. He's a mess.

Easy though it might be to tell himself it's completely normal to hide on the roof of his girlfriend's apartment complex and roleplay the same uncomfortable conversation with one of the local cats over and over, and definitely isn't him avoiding the reality of having to have said conversation, that simply isn't the case.

He's being a coward. This is not how sidekicks should behave, much less fully-fledged Pro Heroes. How will he ever be able to call himself one if he can't end a single, stupid relationship?

Because it doesn't feel stupid, even if it sounds stupid, he grumbles into his capture weapon. Shouta steps away from the scraggly, patient cat that’s spent the last twenty minutes as an uncharacteristically quiet Ms. Joke, and hops his way down the fire escape to meet his doom.

Steeling himself into keeping a neutral expression, he wraps his knuckles three times against the cheap wood of her door. There are several silent seconds before he hears a muffled "come in!" from the far end of the apartment. On any normal night, this would be the part where Emi bursts out and pulls the wiry young man off the ground into a bone-crushing hug with a surprising show of strength. Surprising for people who don't know her, that is.

Tonight, he turns the knob and steps past the threshold of her doorway without incident, which might as well be a massive neon sign that says SOMETHING IS WRONG coming from Emi Fukukado, but Shouta has more than enough on his plate to note it as anything more than a passing curiosity.

"Well look what the cat dragged in," she says weakly, giving it her best thin-lipped smile.

Emi is a natural beauty, Shouta thinks; while she certainly puts more thought into her appearance than he does―which is to say more than literally none at all―she is equally unconcerned with how that appearance comes across to anyone else. She wears what she wants, when she wants, where she wants, and that's one of the reasons they get along. Two people being who they are unapologetically.

So, walking in and immediately seeing her look as frazzled and self-conscious as she does now, curled up on the couch like a duck's egg, feels like a cold glass of water spilling down Shouta's back.

If only it were a normal cup of water, then he could at least blame one of Emi's dumb pranks and not his own trepidation.

Then it hits him.

She knows.

How? How does she know? Shouta shuts his eyes, frantically searching his memories for a clue as to how Emi could've found out. He can come up with just three possibilities.

His now-former boss letting it slip was exceedingly unlikely, as they understood the importance of an underground hero keeping their cards close to the vest.

One of his friends might have told her. That's a two person list, outside of work acquaintances. Not exactly rocket science to figure out the culprit. Hizashi couldn't keep his mouth shut if he had a lifetime supply of duct tape and super glue. Though, Shouta cannot recall ever bringing up his relationship status to either Hizashi or Kayama. He is not a phone person, unless out of necessity. Or a sharer in general, for that matter. Especially not about something like this.

The last and most probable option is that Shouta remains far more transparent with his intentions than he'd like to believe; at least to a keen eye like Emi's, sharpened over time he is uncomfortable with reflecting upon, given how it might interfere with the logical choice ahead.

He can't start second-guessing himself. Not Now. Meaning all he has accomplished trying to solve the 'how's and 'why's has amounted to him standing in the doorway, feeling utterly foolish.

"We need to talk," they both say, bringing Shouta back from the land of the outwardly incompetent. He gives a resigned sigh and moves to sit in the chair opposite Emi, but thinks better of it and leans against the wall.

"Do you wanna go first or...? Because if you're not..." Emi trails off. She realizes Shouta wouldn't be answering her half-question anytime soon and holds out a fist to compromise. "Rock, Paper, Scissors for it?"

He can tell she's trying. She always tries. He just wishes that she could― how does she put it? "Read the room"? For once in her life. 

"We're breaking up," Shouta says curtly, biting the bullet.

The quicker this is finished, the quicker they can move on with their lives. She has the audacity to look shocked at hearing the news.

Shouta is all for a good ruse if the situation calls for it. It's another one of the reasons they fit. But at a time like this, it feels disrespectful. First she knows, then she suddenly doesn't? Yeah, right. The whole situation becomes an even bigger pill for Shouta to swallow now that she’s doing one of those jokes.

Emi should know by now when to quit pushing his buttons, lest Shouta's defense system initiate the final protocol in its database. Locking up and disengaging.

"Rude," Emi says, releasing a held breath and brushing off his comment like it was a joke.

Her false-shock fades into a groan. She sounds strikingly worn out. "Whatever it is that's got you worked up, save it. I don't know what sorta boyfriend-imposter you are, taking your day out on me like that, but I'm really not in the mood. So, if you could please just return my Shouta to me, I'd appreciate it, because the last thing I need right now is a low-key heart attack."

"Emi," Shouta interjects before she can start mumbling, and he speaks in as decisive a tone as he can. "It's over."

She blinks, scans his features, takes in his worryingly-sincere gaze.

"Hold on. You don't mean... seriously? I haven't― you're serious? Shouta, this isn't funny. Are you actually being serious?" Each repetition of her 'serious' question is answered by his expression alone, and each time she looks all the more distressed. "C-Come on, babe, I thought I was supposed to be the kidder. We're gonna discuss this first, right?"

Shouta has trouble meeting her wobbly smile. "There's nothing to discuss. I'm..."

"I swear, if you say 'I'm sorry', I don't think―" her voice cracks, but she coughs through it. "So, what? You're― you're just tired of me? That's it? Adiós, sayonara, see ya’ later?"

When Emi scoffs in a room so often bursting with her laughter, it suddenly feels both too big and too small. One hand poorly massages her temples in disbelief. The other tenses around a knee, bunching up the baggy fabric of her sweatpants.

"Look, we have to be realistic about this..." Shouta says regretfully.

"Don't you dare give me that, Shouta Aizawa," she fires back in defiance. "I may be a fool, but I'm no fool."

Shouta knows that better than anyone. He wants nothing more than to voice it, however, he must maintain composure. He can't fall prey to her goading.

“I’m moving back to Shizuoka Prefecture. I've already accepted a Sidekick position in Kashiyaku with Dream Catcher. I've learned a lot from Mudform, and I'm grateful for her guidance, but even she agrees I can do the most good down south.”

Her face twists with emotion and Shouta feels his body turn to lead at the sight. Emi's smile isn't meant to waver like that. He has seen it before, but this time it's his fault, and it kills him.

A dull frustration radiates in his chest, though. Shouta leaving is in her best interest. Why can't she understand that? He unconsciously mirrors the hurt look on her face. Emi gives a sardonic huff.

"Uh-huh. Your career. That's definitely what this is about. What a joke," she says with a mirthless chuckle and a shake of the head. "This'll sound crazy, but I actually believed you were better than this. Weird, right?"

Keep calm. Don't get emotional. She's trying to get a rise out of you, Shouta reminds himself. The more she denies truth, like he's somehow lying, the harder it is to stay quiet, but he manages.

It is a given that aspiring Pro Heroes are married to their career. Hoping to maintain a relationship is illogical, doubly so if the other person is in the same boat. Besides, with how long humanity has existed, relatively-speaking he and Emi haven't known each other very long anyway. They're a fling that would have burnt out eventually.

Silence dominates, aside from the creaking of Emi’s couch when she shifts to hold her head in her hands, a palm for each eye. He knew from the start this wasn't going to go well, but had never imagined it getting out of hand so quickly, couldn't have expected the numb feeling he walked in with would flare up so viscerally.

Muffled noises escape from her throat as her shoulders start to bounce. Shouta has to stop himself from reaching out.

"We both know this never would've worked anyway" Shouta struggles to reassure her. "It was stupid to think otherwise. We're just too different. Lesson learned."

“Lesson— what!? ‘Lesson learned’?! Are you KIDDING me!?” Emi's head snaps up, revealing a manic amusement.

What sounded like weeping were merely suppressed giggles. Giggles that soon break out into cackling.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Am I kidding you? Emi, I've never been anything but honest with you,” he ducks into his scarf, conscious of his volume. "You'll look back on this someday and realize I made the right call."

"No! You do not get to decide what's best for me, you selfish BASTARD!" she spits.

Bastard. The word repeats in his head as belly laughter fills the apartment, like dipping his heart in acid. After everything Shouta had shared, he'd never expected to hear that used against him. Not from her.

Emi Fukukado, surprising to the bitter end, it seems. Shouta tunes out her desperate attempts at backtracking the insult. She already made it abundantly clear how she feels.

Hands digging into her scalp, green hair fans out between Emi's slender fingers. Her red-rimmed eyes keep squeezing shut as she quite literally cries from laughing so hard, before they snap open again. She looks hysterical.

“Shouta," she barely gets out with what little unused breath she can salvage, "I’m pregnant.”

Shouta is stunned. 

Unable to reconcile the knowledge that their entire relationship had been a joke to Emi—so flippantly chuckled away—Shouta clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, it did mean something to her, and that this is simply her shot at being vindictive.

He can accept that. If he must. It is a pitiful consolation, but it'll have to do. Shouta laments how his (very recent) ex could be so manipulative. If she’s willing to lie about something like this, maybe she isn't so ‘unapologetically herself’ after all. Maybe he’s never even met the real Emi.

The longer he stands there, silent, the further she descends into bouts of laughter, tears streaming down her face. In the back of his mind, it almost sounds like the sobbing he first mistook it to be, but Shouta is strong enough to refuse his subconscious's bait.

Hidden behind a head of messy hair, his eyes sting. And if his scarf at all dampens, no one has to know. With a click of his tongue and a twist of the door knob, Shouta Aizawa's exit is swift and uneventful. Counter to everything he felt about their relationship.

“Goodbye, Ms. Joke.“

“Get the hell out of my house, Eraserhead,” Emi says, voice wet with sniffles as her outburst winds down into snickers and muted convulsions.

He does as she asks, wrapped in chaotic emotion, thoroughly unaware of the choice Emi Fukukado found herself facing, uneasy and alone.

There are some things high school heroics don’t train you for. 

Relationships rank at the top of the list, second only to parenthood.

It's fine. Everything's fine. Kacchan had the good grace to hit him squarely, not too much swing, so with any luck the bruise will blend in with the bags under his restless eyes.

Sleep and Izuku have a love/hate relationship. That is to say, Izuku tries to bring sleep flowers and chocolates and sing it sweet serenades, and sleep tells him to shut up and that it thinks they should take a break and see other people. Sleep got the car in the divorce. The real tragedy is he can't even sleep around as payback.

Izuku has lots of time to think of silly analogies when he's stuck staring at the ceiling.      

The discussions he and Kacchan share are a common enough occurrence that Izuku by no means has tears left to shed. Not anymore. Still, that doesn't make them any less exhausting than they've ever been. 

He found this park bench a little over a week ago, tucked under just the right amount of shade, ideal for times such as these, when he can't muster the energy to go home to Mom and pretend everything is a-okay. It's his new Fortress of Not-Solitude, seeing as it's at the edge of a moderately popular but peaceful park. Having people nearby makes for a less lonesome time moping around than if he went and barricaded his bedroom door like in the not-so-good ol' days. Then again, if your problem is not having anyone close, having to see a bunch of people relatively far away only serves to taunt the heart.

A cough comes from off to the side. Izuku kicks his knees away from his chest and plants his feet back on the ground, ready to bolt in case Kacchan or his cronies came back for more. Frankly, the fact that he's been so zoned out as not to notice someone walk right up to him is— well it doesn't improve his self-image.

To his left stands a boy wearing a middle school uniform Izuku doesn't recognize, hair flared back, shoulders drooping like wax, with an unimpressed look on his face. He is notably taller than Izuku, but equally thin, and for all the night troubles Izuku experiences, this stranger looks like he hasn't slept in... Ever. It is, however, difficult to tell if he'd win the nonexistent blue ribbon for "best insomniac" outright, or if the dark rings beneath his striking indigo eyes are only accentuated because he doesn't have a tousled mop of minty curls to shadow them.

He's also standing very close. Almost uncomfortably so.

"You're in my brooding chair."

It takes Izuku a few awkward seconds to realize the boy is talking to him. No one else is around. Ouch. Left fumbling five words into the conversation. Smooth, Izuku. Real smooth.

“O-oh, sorry..!” he says quickly, throwing himself from the seat.

The other boy holds up a hand for him to stop, with a look on his face as dull as childproofed rubber despite Izuku's squirming. 

“I didn't say you have to leave," he cuts in, falling onto the opposite end of the bench with the weight of someone who has just come from running a marathon, hard, before staring vacantly into the distance as he slides off his small backpack.

It impacts the ground with a startling amount of mass.

"Oh! Thanks!" Izuku brightens up after momentarily flinching at the drop of the other boy's weirdly dense bag.

"I guess there's enough melancholy to go around, huh?"

It gets a laugh from himself, but not from the other boy, so he counts it as a half-win.

Izuku sets his own—perfectly average—backpack on the ground and cautiously sits back down, eyes on the other boy, who continues to appear unfazed by all the staring. The silence is soon filled by a question Izuku opens his mouth to ask a number of times before he finds the words.

"Uh, what’s- what’s in the bag?" 

The boy does not hesitate.

“Toffee, mostly. Why, d’you want some?”

Izuku sputters at this for two reasons.

[1] The boy is still looking at nothing.

[2] He is utterly unclear on which half of that answer he should to respond to. In the end, he doesn't get to pick either, as the other boy keeps talking. 

“So who’s keeping you up?”

Huh? Oh, the eye. It must pass as close enough for normal tiredness in the shade. Good, good. The fewer visible injuries the better. It's a lot easier to hide bruises and burns from Mom than it is to think of an excuse. Maybe he can wear sunglasses once it starts to yellow. 

The boy leans to fiddle around in his pack without bothering to look and— yep, that’s toffee. He throws the piece into his mouth as if getting his hands all the way to his face would be more effort than the world’s weight in toffee is worth.

“I- my friend, Kacchan, he— sorry, why do you have a big, heavy bag of toffee?”

The boy pauses, slowly swivels his head to look at his backpack, grunts noncommittally, and turns to look at Izuku for the first time since sitting down. With half-lidded eyes and a long-suffering sigh, his low voice manages to grate out a sentence.

“It’s more like a small, heavy bag, but I guess I see your point.”

It's said so deadpan, Izuku can't help but giggle, clamping a hand over his mouth a second too late. Strangely, the boy doesn't look angry, just confused. Both of them remain quiet, aside from the clinking of the boy's caramel drop against his teeth.

There is a limit on how long Izuku can stay silent once something has caught his interest, and it's not an especially generous limit, at that.

"I really like your hair," he says unconsciously, wanting to stick his hand in the lavender locks. Izuku imagines they're really, really soft.

The boy almost chokes on his toffee at hearing the offhanded remark. His eyes widen in a single blink, expression frozen, except for a rising blush that finds its way across his cheeks. In spite of, or perhaps because of the juxtaposition between his overall demeanor and his sudden inability to take such an ingenuous compliment, the boy ends up revealing an underlying thread of disproportionate innocence that Izuku can only describe as:

Cute.

"I. Uh. Thanks?"

Izuku's sly grin begins to return from its hiatus upon seeing those small hints of bashfulness on the boy's otherwise stoic face. Interesting. He's never gotten quite that kind of reaction from anyone before, and he hadn't even been trying to say something funny! 

"You should get some ice for that," squeaks the boy as he points at Izuku's eye, desperate to change topics. Izuku balks. Evidently Kacchan's handiwork isn't as well disguised as he thought. The boy was being polite by ignoring it earlier, he supposes.

"Oh, don't worry, that's just- I- it's from a friend of mine. It's fine," Izuku curses himself for how jammed up his mind gets when forced to think about Kacchan. Add to that actually having to talk and you've got yourself a recipe for an overwrought Izuku Midoriya.

“Your friend did that?” the boy asks with a quirk of his brow, head tilted to inspect either damage or honesty. It comes across based more in curiosity than comfort when he’s rubbing at his own tired eyes and combing his (ostensibly soft) hair back with his off hand. Izuku is quick to answer with another tumbleweed of words.

“Y-yeah. Sometimes he’s, uh- Kacchan can be a bit, um, much? B-but it’s fine! I mean, it’s- I start a lot of 'em too, y’know? Fights, I mean. ‘Cus I’ll— I’ll butt in, if there’s somebody else he’s...” Izuku seems to have trouble finding another word for ‘bullying,’ but eventually regains his admittedly tilted footing. “—messing around with. O-or, I know h-how much he hates when I, uh, talk to myself, but sometimes I can’t help it, so, um. We both have things to work on. I-it’s a two way street."

The way his eyes dart in every direction, surveying for the fastest escape route, just in case, only to settle in his lap the moment he doesn't have to talk about this 'Kacchan' anymore speaks volumes to the other boy.

“What about you?” Izuku asks guilelessly, shifting to sit cross-legged facing this mystery boy, who's caught off guard by the question.

“What about me?” He replies with a grimace, as though the question itself came prepackaged in a blender with spoiled egg salad and cough syrup.

“Well, why’re you here?” Izuku clarifies, undeterred and patting the weathered wood of their shared Melancholy Bench.

“I’m not about to tell you that," the boy says, making a face.

“I told you that,” Izuku replies, like fairness alone automatically amounts to a good enough reason for the other boy. To Izuku, fair’s fair is a good enough reason, even if that’s not how other people play most of the time.

“Right. That was very stupid of you. Don't go talking the strangers,” the other boy responds flatly with a lethargic wag of the finger.

Izuku huffs at this. He gathers his gusto, picking up every piece life tore to shreds earlier in the day. Finally, he takes a deep breath and sticks his hand straight out.

"Then let's not be strangers! Izuku Midoriya!" he announces, voice a smidge too loud.

The other boy gives him a hesitant look, unsure of Izuku's sincerity and wary of his spirited attitude. Eventually, for however brief a time, he's able to squelch those anxieties, and moves to shake Izuku's hand. The attempt is intercepted when Izuku meets the stranger's palm not with a mirrored greeting, but a closed fist, thumb extended.

"Hey. Hey look," Izuku says, doing a poor job at keeping himself composed as he points to their impromptu, two-person hand puppet. "It's a turkey!" He laughs. 

Really, truly laughs for the first time all day, and at an impossibly childish gesture to boot. Izuku Midoriya is many things; indolent he is not— but the cherry atop this unexpectedly fulfilling day? He makes someone laugh. Someone that isn't him. 

... Okay, technically the boy gives a minute, nonplussed smile, alongside a shake of his head, but still! That pretty much counts! Booyah! Chalk another one up on the board for Izuku! He's already up to one and a half! That's more than he's gotten since, gosh, what feels like forever! 

He's still laughing, but goes in for a real handshake this time, feeling oddly dwarfed in the loose grip of the stranger's palm.

There is a light in the boy's eyes, and although it's a change imperceptible to most, the weary fog clouding them lifts, if only a little.

He knocks Izuku on the shoulder, not unkindly.

"Hitoshi Shinsou. Pleasure."

Chapter Text

For how smooth the conversation is going, Izuku will take no credit. His cheeks are stuffed so full of toffee he can barely speak, like a greedy chipmunk. Instead, he has to rely on nodding and the occasional short sentence, but he doesn't mind. Shinsou is plenty entertaining just to listen to.

"—and, anyway, apparently even caramels go bad eventually, so the nurses throw them out after a few months, " Shinsou says, unwrapping himself another candy. "If they're getting tossed anyhow, my dad figures waste not, want not. I'm pretty sure the only reason they keep them around in the first place is to shut up people getting shots or distract sick kids."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," mumbles Izuku, the epiphany that eating a pound of toffee was probably excessive hitting him at about the same time said toffee hits his stomach. Holding on for the right moment when Shinsou isn't looking, he spits anything left in his mouth out into the bushes.

"That's cool of your dad, if you like toffee so much," he says, wiping his bottom lip. Suddenly even the word toffee makes him queasy, and he makes a mental note not to say it for the rest of his life. Or at least a day.

"Eh. It's okay. I honestly just keep them for the sugar rush, since I'm not allowed to have coffee." Izuku has to wonder if that's legal to do to a guy that already looks so tired, or if it's considered child abuse. He's almost not sure how to respond to that, but luckily, Shinsou keeps going.

"Do you like cat cafés?" Whether by how Shinsou slings his backpack over his shoulder, or by his raised eyebrow, the question carries with it the implication of an invitation.

"Yeah, I love 'em!" Izuku answers hastily, immediately cringing at his own reaction. "No, I don't, I've never even been to one, I don't know why I said that," he admits, face flushed. “It sounds neat. I dunno.”

Shinsou simply nods and starts walking, thereby maintaining his gracious streak and overlooking what a tremendous dummy Izuku feels he’s made himself out to be. Then again, maybe Shinsou doesn't expect him to follow, or want him to follow. What if he's been misreading this entire situation? Well, he does have about 2500 yen in his wallet, so it might be best if he cut his loses. Move to China. Create a new identity. Become a hermit. Live off the land.

"Yo. Are you coming?" Shinsou asks with a pronounced slouch at having to stop his plodding to wait.

Oh thank goodness.

Izuku is relieved.

Hitoshi is panicking.

He's been sitting around talking with this Midoriya guy, and he's done so willingly. As in, not at gunpoint. He's having fun, to the point that he's completely lost track of time, but can't even be bothered by it. It’s something Hitoshi desperately needs in his life, and that's concerning on a deeper level than he's willing to admit. Opening up to Midoriya has been weirdly effortless. Nailing down the Why is proving to be a surprisingly complicated endeavor.

This won't last, Hitoshi reminds himself. It never does. Enjoy this before it's gone, because the outcome is practically predetermined, invariably ending the same exact way.

The other students at Nabu don’t mean to hurt him— well, okay, there's no denying that some do, but certainly not all of them. Nobody beats the daylights out of him after school. It’s all so innocuous, and somehow that makes it worse than if they had the guts to be outright cruel, like they are to Midoriya. Maybe then he could fight back. He'd like to think he would, but that's easy to say from the sidelines. The grass is always greener.

Midoriya's experiences set an example of what one might consider bad people. At least, that's as much as Hitoshi can devine between his new friend's(? Don't get your hopes up, not a friend, just somebody he met on a bench) consistent attempts at downplaying or waving off the bullying.

Hitoshi's own experiences, on the other hand, have been filled with friendly people— ignorant, small-minded people. People who sugarcoat their insults or are too stupid, too lacking in empathy to know what they're saying are insults to begin with.

Wow, Shinsou, what a cool quirk! You could cheat on any test just by talking to the teacher!

Yeah, or rob a bank!

It's the perfect villain quirk! You could make everyone your slaves if you wanted to!

How about you help me spy on the girl's locker room?

To have some goofball tearing down his walls brick by brick is worrisome to say the least. What will he do once the inevitable comes and Midoriya starts talking the way everyone else does? 

In the short time they've known each other, neither have brought up their quirks, something for which Hitoshi is infinitely grateful. Why this is the case remains a mystery, but he's not about to ruin a good thing by asking. He already finds it strange— Really strange that Midoriya hasn't mentioned it.

It's practically a requirement when you introduce yourself. 

Hi, how are you, my name is blahblahblah, what's your quirk?

That isn't even the weird part. The weird part is how Midoriya can't keep his mouth shut for two seconds about everyone else's quirks. He's got notebooks full of heroes and their quirks. He showed off his thirteenth one. It's possible the guy just never thought to ask about Hitoshi's, but unlikely, and he doesn't like where this train of thought leads.

"I could try... I could try to help with this Kacchan guy, if you wanted? I’m bigger than you." 

Two sentences that 100% ignore not only the fact that Hitoshi hasn’t been in a fight since he was six years old, but that ‘bigger’ in this case means ‘taller’, not more muscular. 

Worth a shot.

”Oh, how chivalrous of you,” Midoriya tries to tease, that ironic twinkle in his eyes, but it falls flat against the preoccupied Hitoshi. 

With a shake of the head, he releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, having subconsciously anticipated his new friend's(...? Damn it, Hitoshi, you know better than to jump to conclusions like that) attempt to egg him on. Enough of these avoidance tactics.

”Damn it, Midoriya.”

”I- I’m sorry, you've just been so easy, I didn't know I was bothering you,” Midoriya meekly brings his shoulders up, a nervous tick, habitually ingrained. 

Crap. Now he's beginning to feel like a huge whiner; his bullying hasn't ever really reached a point of physical violence. Guilt bubbles in his gut, but he presses those cramps down. Midoriya's experiences don't invalidate or lessen his own— it's not a contest. Besides, his half-baked attempts at playing hero are only making the other boy uneasy.

"You're not bothering me," he sighs.

“Oh! Oh, good! A-anyway, don’t worry about it. Really! Kacchan’s not a bad guy. He’s prickly, sure, but he’s mostly... Well, I was gonna say ‘nice’, but let’s go with ‘adequate’ to other people. I'm the one that sets him off.”

And again with the excuses for someone else’s behavior.

"But you should'a seen it! The other day, Kacchan had gone home, and there was this bigger guy, and he was ready to go at it, but I was like 'hey, let me show you a magic trick,' and I did all these crazy hand motions," he tumbles his hands together to demonstrate, "and when he leaned in to see what I was doing, I socked him right in the face!"

If he is to trust Midoriya's bubbly reaction, this story is meant to be hilarious. Hitoshi doesn't think so.

"Ahh, turns out he hits way harder than I do, though, which makes sense, 'cus," he levels his hand and stands on the tips of his toes to demonstrate the bully's height, "but I still got a good one in!"

This retelling has clearly done its job to cheer Midoriya up after mentioning Kacchan, but Hitoshi is left massaging his brow and makes a last ditch effort at addressing this Kacchan situation before he'll call it quits. He already feels like an idiot for trying to get involved in the first place.

“Can I at least talk to this guy?”

Even Hitoshi isn't sure if he means talk, or talk. If it’s the latter, that counts as heroic, right? Or is it villainy because he lacks a license? These inner-questions, and the necessary education in quirk laws and morality to handle them are beyond him. Midoriya probably has a half-dozen books on the subject. 

"I dunno, can you?" Midoriya's grin stretches from under that tumbleweed he calls hair, like the napkin on a drippy mint-chocolate chip ice cream cone, shoulders bouncing with each barely contained snicker. It's the little things. This guy could probably write the bible on self-amusement. Aside from the hiccupy noises, silence lingers until Hitoshi can determine a path back to what they were talking about.

”So is that a yes?"

Midoriya tries to pout, but yelps at the sound of a catchy ringtone coming from his pocket.

"To be continued," he promises with the world's least threatening glare, before flicking his finger across the phone screen to answer.

"Hello? Hi Mom! I- just hanging out with a.. friend?" Midoriya pauses, the tiny, garbled voice talking. 

"Mom, I don't think he-" In a snap the voice becomes practically ear-splitting, so much so even Hitoshi can hear, while Midoriya is forced to pull the phone away from his face for the sake of his ear drums. 

"Is that auntie?" he says loudly so his voice will reach the far away phone. There's the telltale crackle of a phone being grabbed.

"Is my brat there with you?"

"Oh- hi, auntie! Um, no, I haven't seen him since school let out."

"FUCK! Little asshole's probably in some parking lot, blowing shit up again. I tell him, this is why we pay for that damn Quirk Gym membership! If he wants to train, he can go train! Is that so fucking hard to understand!? DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO PAY FOR THAT SHIT EVERY MONTH?!"

"N-no?" the crackle comes back and ranting can be heard in the background. "Yeah, hi again, Mom. Is she— I will... Hold on, wait— seriously, he's not gonna-" he hangs his head and cups a hand over the phone.

"Do you want to come to dinner?" ... Huh? Hitoshi blinks at that and waits so long out of sheer bafflement that Midoriya moves to answer his Mom, taking the pause as a 'no'.

"Yeah," he's finally able to press out lamely, at which Midoriya looks more than a bit surprised.

"He said yes!.. Right. close-ish..? I got kinda sidetracked. Okay, love you too. Bye." he turns to Hitoshi. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. You can say no if you want to."

Of course. Midoriya wouldn't actually want him there, he was just answering his mother. Should've guessed as much.

"That'd probably be for the best," he nods solemnly. "I don't want to trouble your parents."

"It's no trouble, really! A-and it's just me and my mom anyway, so, some company would be nice." Midoriya can't find a place to look, twiddling his thumbs nervously. "Again, o-only if you want to!" Hitoshi would be lying if he said the offer wasn't a shock to hear.

"Mm. Sure. As long as I'm back before my dad gets home, I should be good." he bashfully rubs at his neck,  "I... may or may not have avoided doing a few chores. I didn't think I'd be out this long." 

His admission makes Midoriya giggle, and while that's fairly frequent already, being the direct cause of it feels nice.

"I won't tell if you won't." 

He nods back, which seems to satisfy his shorter.. friend...?

"You should still try and check out that café when you get the chance, though."

Hitoshi follows his lead, etching the route to their new destination in his memory. It's not like this will last, especially once Midoriya finds out his quirk, but just in case.

"M-maybe you could show me sometime?"

Just in case.

[14 Years Ago]

Emi would define her Thursday as "lacking." 

Lacking in virtually everything she had hoped it to be. Crystalline skies and a short, pleasant, quiet excursion down to the supermarket using her precious free time. That'd have been nice. Instead, those modest dreams have been replaced by a surprise bank heist that has devastated the entire block. 

Apparently Japan's villain population wasn't forwarded the information packet Emi's agency sent her regarding the necessity that she "take it slow" and keep the shift back into her regular hours "gradual, Ms. Joke, I won't tell you twice," not to mention those hours being solely desk work until further notice, for better and worse.

Better for her body (as it repeats thankyouthankyouthankyou oh it's a miracle I get to sit down I'm so happy I think I might cry every workday), but worse for her passion. Though, for as much as Emi wants to thwack some villains and save innocents, her energy and protective instincts are already running at a deficit, so despite her gritching it's all for the best.

Smoke veils a majority of the scene from where Emi's standing, reds and blues spotlighting the haze with splashes of color in rotation. Where her limited vantage point fails, the sounds are sufficient at filling in the blanks until she can close the distance. 

Crumbling marble. A bestial roar. Metallic crunches that snuff out a police siren, and a beat cop fruitlessly bargaining through a megaphone. Pictures and strategies based off this limited information start to take shape, forming in the back of her mind, while her conscious self is just hoping other heroes have it taken care of before she gets there. She'd have an easier time hearing, and thus helping, if the crowd—a veritable wave of perfectly safe civilians, far from the real chaos—would just shut up.

They don't, of course, much to her chagrin. She will, however, fully acknowledge the possibility that the issue is less about the crowd, and more about her own newly-developed hair-trigger response to shrieking noises. A trigger that blows back in her face if said shrieking is from anyone who didn't literally come out of her body. It's a revulsion Emi hadn't thought she could hold until recently.

It isn't that she can't empathize with normal, innocent people as she clumsily swerves her way around barriers and carefully sidles past the civvies. They're scared and ill-equipped for the circumstances. Doesn't make them any less of a hindrance to her job, ears, and sanity though. 

Most importantly, she shares no blood with any of these people.

At face value, that comes across as a grossly unfair thing to say (and it is), but it's also true. Defending others, both their bodies and spirits, is her purpose, her life's work, and that fire will never fade. It just happens to be a tad more focused lately, and reasonably so. Until further notice, the moods of random people in zero danger (while those close to the attack are undoubtedly in very real danger) are so far down her priority list they're barely worth mentioning.

Emi wouldn't jump up at hearing their slightest gurgle to make sure they're snug and don't need to burp, nor would she spend immeasurable lengths of time supplying their brains with stimuli during their many, many, many waking hours, and she definitely wouldn't let any of them suckle on—

... Anyway.

As she gets nearer to the bank itself, it becomes clear to Emi that these villains are proficient. Nothing like the common crooks littering about so often. They must've prepared their heist meticulously, as it has thus far been executed with crackerjack timing and remorseless destruction.

Scanning the area, Emi can see the sole line of defense is a handful of police officers, unsuited for the job and desperately hoping to keep back the fervent looters until the pros arrive. The everyday outfit she has on is understandably worse than her sidekick gear in the buttkicking department, equipped with neither tools or protective padding. Not that her regular costume is a suit of armor or anything, but plainly preferable to fighting in a sundress.

Dang it! It's a nice sundress too! She preemptively mourns its loss. Emi's best solution for comforting herself is to rationalize that she probably wouldn't fit into her Ms. Joke outfit right now, so what difference does it make. It isn't as if she's in combat-ready shape at the moment either way. 

Emi has two simultaneous realizations: the first being that her 'best solutions' apparently suck, and the second is that she should really buy a book on self-love to read until her life feels slightly less like a fever dream.

All she can hope for now is that a single sidekick will be enough to stall the villains and that it won't take long.

One of these hopes comes true and the city is better for it.

Emi's day is not.

A number of hours, four villains, two stacks of paperwork and one breakdown when the on-site medics wouldn't let her leave without a gratuitous check up later, she's home. The sky is an inky black, and she has to strain her eyes under the dim, florescent lights to see if she's fiddling with the right key or if she's been messing with the one to her work locker, or laundry room, or mailbox, or when did she get so many keys?! 

Deep breaths.

The door creaks like a witch boiling in oil, but the complex isn't charitable enough to justify replacing it based on sound alone, or for any reason less permanent than problems described in the tenant agreement as “life or death,” which this is, as far as Emi is concerned. 

Emi feels like she's going absolutely insane—what else is new—standing outside her own apartment like this, weighing options. Is it better to open it slowly, one click of the hinge at a time, or do it in a single swift motion, like ripping off a bandage? Anything between those extreme ends of the spectrum is sure to result in the most horrific of consequences.

Cursing her indecision, she turns the knob before any of her neighbors wonder what’s up, or why they have to have a lunatic living next door. It’s deathly silent inside, a (lack of) sound so beautiful she wants to cry, but is far too exhausted to do even that. Sliding down the door's backside, closing it with a click, she huffs a sigh of relief into her hand to keep quiet and ignores the salty taste she gets from her palm. Liquid evidence of a hard day's work.

A child cries. Its mother heaves herself up, slapping a smile back on for her little Izuku. 

"Don't worry! Mama's coming!"

She loves him more than life itself, but this kid just won't go the hell to sleep, which means she doesn't get to either. Honestly, with that man's insomnia and her own (pre-baby) hyperactivity, she feels so, so naive for not expecting this.

But then, as if having descended from the heavens above, her upstairs neighbor and babysitting extraordinaire is already on the case.

Any regular person tasked with watching a child tends to bolt the moment a parent comes home, especially if they come home substantially later than expected; a reality that's further exacerbated when said person finds a way to avoid Emi's payment whenever possible because they're too pure for this world. The fact that on top of all this she has her own demanding job to manage and still finds time to watch Izuku when Emi's gone makes it a feat bordering on the superhuman.

Yet here stands a woman cooing at an infant that isn't even hers with a smile so much softer than Emi's own toothy grin.

Inko Midoriya is a special woman. Seeing Izuku in such safe hands, literal and metaphorical, lets the Smile Hero finally relax her face for the first time all day.

"It's okay, sweet pea. It's okay. Your Mama's here now," the older woman whispers tenderly, pointing toward Emi, and turns to give a sympathetic look over the disheveled state of her everything. "Don't worry, it's not your fault," she says, sensing Emi's worries. "I think he's just hungry."

"Oof," she grunts. "Might have to stick with formula tonight— Mama got punched in the tit."

Inko makes a vaguely disapproving noise, but Emi is too tired for interpreting intuition and furrows her brow, not from exasperation, but sincere ignorance.

"What? What're you supposed to call them in front of a baby? Boobs?" Inko slowly breathes out with a delicate composure, suppressing any reaction to the girl's peculiar line of questioning, and uses her quirk to pull open the refrigerator for a bottle.

"Inko, I'm serious," she whines. "You're so much better at this stuff, it's ridiculous."

Inko's blush is understated, her attempts to brush off the compliment less so. Izuku, by the grace of all that's good, appears significantly calmer now that he's having a meal. Because of course Inko was right, Emi thinks. Unsure if she's thankful or resentful of that fact, she chooses both, but leans slightly more toward thankful.

"You're just saying that because you don't feel well right now. Try and relax," Inko says, as if it's that simple.

"If you can at least promise me you'll go take a bath instead of getting Izuku all dirty, I'm happy to keep him company until you're out."

Thankful. Definitely going with thankful.

"You're an Angel, Inko," Emi's voice hitches with relief as she stumbles into the bathroom, too tired to even bother closing the door. Whoever said a small gesture can't make a big difference was never a single mother.

For once, Inko doesn't refuse or downplay the compliment, which is strange enough to have Emi's brain short circuit and her body spin around to check if the other woman had been replaced while her back was turned. Inko simply uses her quirk to swing the door shut on Izuku's battle-damaged mother with a giggle.

"And you're a hero!"

Izuku expected enthusiasm.

"OOooohh he's cute! Why didn't you tell me he was cute? It's been so long since Izuku brought a friend home!"

But after his mom is close to tears in the first ten seconds they're back, he's starting to reconsider this whole dinner plan. 

She leads Shinsou by the hands to give him the 'grand tour' of their small apartment and an overly-detailed history of any item that catches her eye along with it.

"— and that's Izuku when he was four," his mom wells up at one of the photographs on their wall.  "You should've seen him when he was a baby," she wiggles and hums, as if to say 'I could just eat you up!~' to her memory of the child.

"Mom."

"Don't worry, sweet pea," she waves him off. "You're still adorable."

"Mom please."

"I-in a handsome young man-ish way!" she tries again to fix her compliment, like that was the issue. Izuku resolves to neither see, speak, nor hear evil, and quickly rushes to fling his bag into his room. 'Evil' in this instance being Inko Midoriya's wholesomely mortifying behavior.

"and those are some of his drawings from when he was a little boy," he overhears her reminisce in front of the refrigerator, and spins on a dime to do damage control. "That's what he wanted his costume to look like, and that's his old bedroom before we moved, and that's one of him jumping up with All Might—"

Izuku skids back into the room, ready to plead for a reprieve, but is cut off by Shinsou.

"Mrs. Midoriya, correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like your son wants to be a hero," and the traitor looks pleased with himself, like the nonstop babbling about heroes and quirks wasn't a giveaway.

"Oh, hush!" Izuku's mom slaps him lightly on the shoulder, knowing full well her son's tunnel vision toward heroism. There's a look Shinsou has at hearing that, but he blinks it back from his eyes.

By the time they're eating, Izuku finds the conversation has shifted from nauseating to pleasant. Staying upset is hard when you're busy scarfing down katsudon. That, and he can't exactly blame his mom for not reacting perfectly to her son bringing home a new friend. It's been over a decade since she's dealt with anything remotely like this. They forget to exchange names until he's halfway through his bowl, for crying out loud.

"—Right off Kessuru avenue, if you know where that is," Shinsou speaks softly between bites. "Makes getting to school easy."

It also doesn't hurt that she's changed tactics from gushing out the century's most awkward retelling of Izuku's life story to asking questions.

"And what high schools will you be applying to?"

The youngest Midoriya stops slurping, and Shinsou stares into his bowl. The weight of the question hangs heavy, but when his eyes flick up, they're filled with determination.

"I'm going to U.A."

The stars in Izuku's eyes shine so brightly he has to hide behind his bowl as not to blind anyone.

"The hero course?!"

"That's the idea." 

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at Shinsou's flummoxed expression, almost as though the boy had been prepared for any possible reaction to this declaration of his other than a mother's tiny hands clapping.

"I think that's wonderful! Izuku's talked about going there for years. I used to ask 'does it have to be U.A.?' There are lots of fine hero courses out there. Ketsubutsu for example-" Izuku grunts through a mouthful of noodles, signaling the topic as a longtime stalemate that need not be retreaded. "-but that's Izuku for you. Once his mind is made up, there's no stopping him!" she beams.

"It's gotta be U.A., mom! I want to be the kind of hero who doesn't just smile when the going gets tough, but can bring smiles to those in danger as well, and remind them that things won't always look so bleak. Maybe it sounds silly, but that's the hero I'll be." He sits up proudly, the hope-filled speech lessened, if only slightly, by the obnoxious chewing noises of pork in his mouth. "I have to."

"That reminds me," she taps on her chin, tilting her head toward Shinsou, "you haven't told me your quirk."

Both boys choke on their food. Unable to construct an articulate sentence together through all the wheezing, Izuku's every effort at signaling his mother is in vain. If Shinsou started talking about his quirk—probably a super cool one—then the ball would be in Izuku's court. Say goodbye to any potential friendship at that point. He knew he'd been surviving on borrowed time, it shouldn't be such a shock. It was fun while it lasted.

"Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Midoriya." Shinsou is well-mannered but abrupt, his bow deep enough to be polite without wasting time better spent grabbing his bag and speedwalking out the door.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, but I should head home before it gets dark."

"Oh? Um, come back soon," she stands up quickly, looking dumbfounded with mild concern at her son tumbling over his own feet trying to chase after the strange boy.

Stupidstupidstupid! 

"Shinsou! Wait!"

Turning the corner out their door and seeing the lavender haired boy still standing there, albeit anxiously leaning side to side, white knuckling his backpack strap, Izuku has never been so glad to live in a complex with such a finicky elevator.

Now or never, Izuku.

.

.

.

Katsuki has had enough bullshit for one day.

As days ago, it started alright, but went downhill fast once Deku pulled some serious bullshit in class. Always looking to piss somebody off, trying to make enemies out of everyone, talking about going to U.A. like that isn't the definition of a pipe dream, or a pipe nightmare for the rest of humanity. 

That was a hassle. But when is it not with that little fucker? Deku is exactly the brand of cruel, spiteful little shit that would try for U.A. just so he can ruin it for Katsuki. Why else would that villain want to go to a hero school, much less U.A. specifically? It doesn't matter, because he'll fail no matter what.

Things will be better once Katsuki's at U.A. 

Maybe there he can catch his breath.

"—Not to mention I have about a billion missed calls from your Aunt! You're lucky her heart didn't fucking explode like one of those tiny deer. And do you have any clue how scared WE were? Don't you ever pull shit like that again."

Then came this other villain who thought he was tough shit. Evidently, that turned out to be the case, judging by the heart rate monitor giving his mother a tempo to sync her lecturing with. Go figure. It's difficult to focus on her bullshit with his hospital bed at such an insufferable angle, too low to sit up, too high to lie down, and every time he tries to mess with it, the damn thing rattles like it's about to fall apart.

His hands are bone dry from all the power he's been putting into his explosions, but everything else is so wet, muck forcing itself inside him. He has to think of a plan, because Katsuki's the top of the class, he's going to be the next #1 hero, he's better than some fucking lowlife, he should be able to think of a way to beat this guy, but he can't concentrate over the sound of his heart beating and the villain's muffled cackling and sludge pouring through his ears. The force of his blasts is the only reason he's been able to last so long without suffocating, but he's running out of steam and keeps wasting those increasingly brief seconds of fresh air by vomiting instead of gasping, he can't fucking breathe—

Yeah. Stupid bed.

"Pull what shit!? Getting attacked by a villain?!"

"Damn it Katsuki you know what I mean!"

A trifecta of bullshit, with the hag's screeching as the coup de grâce, somehow made worse by her unwillingness to headlock him and try to nab a victory by submission, like he's fragile. Katsuki Bakugo, the porcelain doll.

"Mom! Chill the fuck out! I'M FINE!" 

"IF YOU WERE FINE, YOU WOULDN'T BE IN A FUCKING HOSPITAL, WOULD YOU?!"

Katsuki turns to the coherent parent in the room, his father, Masaru Bakugo, who is busying himself with tending to his tea. Rationing every last sip from the tiny paper cup, his attention wanders, as these arguments rarely (read: never) involve him. That is, until they wind down to a point where he can play mediator. There are times Katsuki feels like the relationship between him and his mother is just a game of telephone through his father.

"DAD! WOULD YOU GET HER TO LAY OFF?"

"TELL YOUR SON HE'S BEING A BRAT!"

His dad blinks, looking both surprised and perplexed as to why he's drawn in mid-discussion, but seems to consider his response thoroughly.

No force on the planet can consistently make the two feistier Bakugos actually put an argument on hold except a potential endorsement from Masaru, the killing blow to any position the opposing party may have.

"I think you're both feeling like the other person isn't truly listening to the core of what you're trying to say, and that's hurtful. Maybe we could start by having you both ask one another if you're each feeling heard."

"Don't worry, the whole ward can hear her."

"WOW! MAYBE IF YOU—"

They devolve back into bickering, and while Katsuki can recognize movement in his peripheral vision, he pays it no mind. What he can't ignore is a repeated 'Excuse me?' coming from the same direction, worming its way into their shouting match. There are only so many times he can hear it before snapping, and his mom agrees.

"WHAT?!" they both yell. A sudden calm rushes over him, which is, oxymoronically, distressing. 

A Doctor with wispy, ash brown hair stands near the closing doorway, clipboard tucked under an arm. He doesn't jump to introduce himself, so presumably he and Katsuki's parents met at some point while he was unconscious. Narrowed, almond eyes with pinprick pupils scan the Bakugos one by one, and although there is a frazzled look about him after a hectic day, he wears it well.

"I hope you two don't mind, I used my quirk Soothing Word on you. Don't worry, it's nothing more than a relaxant. It should wear off in a couple minutes, or with a good whack," he mimics a karate chop with a closed smile, "but I'd prefer you listen first, as I'm sure we'd all like to go home, which conveniently brings me to my point," the Doctor flips through a chart. 

"Although I'm happy to work late if it means giving you the best possible care, you don't really need help at this point." 

Damn right, motherfucker.

"Not to understate the severity of the situation," the Doctor adds before any celebrations begin, turning to Katsuki's dad and occasionally glancing towards his strangely-relaxed mom. "If All Might hadn't gotten him here so fast, we may not have had the chance to flush out the remaining fluid in your son's body."

"Had the trip taken any longer," there's a pause as Doctor Who Gives a Shit carefully chooses his words and steels himself to say them. "Best case scenario: he'd have drowned." 

Katsuki can simply gulp involuntarily, saliva running down his throat, so much like the sludge from a few hours prior. His mother takes a sharp breath inward, and his father is the only Bakugo with the guts to ask what they're all thinking.

"And the worst case scenario?"

Doctor Person works through a crick in his neck, but is composed in his words.

"Well, the villain in question lacks a core form. That is to say, sludge ball (A) is no more his 'main body' than sludge ball (B). Distance is irrelevant to controlling his 'limbs', but consciousness, in this case, is dependent on context. To put it simply: given enough time, he could've moved his 'self'," Doctor Guy imitates quotation marks with his fingers, "into the only parts that weren't in police custody. Meaning—"

"Meaning Katsuki would've become that thing," his dad echoes quietly, expression twisting.

Doctor Whoever nods, lips thin, face stern, practiced over too many of these situations going sideways.

"I don't say this to be frightening. I'd rather spare you the mental images, but it would be equally wrong of me to let you walk out without understanding the kind of danger your son was in, both in and out of surgery."

Katsuki can't help but scoff at the former.

"Listen, Doc, I'm not the kinda person who dies in surgery." No doubt about that. Katsuki's death will happen atop a mountain of cash. A mountain of defeated villains would also work. Or maybe he'll figure out a way to live forever. But he sure as fuck wouldn't die on an operating table.

"You very well might have," the Doctor says matter-of-factly, clearcut and sobering. Katsuki seizes, muscles clenching, red hot at the very suggestion. Fists and feet balled up tight, Soothing Word is the only thing stopping him from cracking a tooth or tearing into his own hands. He fights against the quirk. Fights with every fiber of his being, like it's a second shot at beating the sludge villain. A round 2 he won't ever get.

The Doctor's smile, having long since fallen off, finds its way back home to cull the negativity.

"His charts are all clear now, though. Like it never even happened, save for one liiiitle niggle."

"Oh for fucks sake- this ought'a be good,"  Katsuki can hear his mom mumble to her husband. Three x-rays are pulled from the bottom of his bundle of papers and clip neatly in row onto a board for the Bakugos to view. Head, chest, and gut.

"In this first slide, his nose, throat- basically any passage that had bits of the villain left inside were thoroughly washed out, and the sludge extracted, so, complete success there. Same with the stomach, mostly. Might have indigestion for a few days. Nothing to worry about."

Katsuki's eyes can't help but drift toward the steady tapping sound of his mother's shoe against the linoleum flooring. "Why do I feel a 'but' coming on?"

"But," Doc replies, fulfilling the prophecy. Yeah. A real fucking miracle worker, this guy. "if you look here," he squiggles small erasable circles along the last x-ray. "There are these tiny fragments in the lungs. Do you see them?"

A chorus of nods spurs him to continue.

"Good. Now, Katsuki— can I call you Katsuki?"

"Fuck off."

"Don't curse in front of the fucking Doctor, brat."

"Because the lungs were the last to be dealt with," he moves on at a volume that succeeds in shutting down the bickering of both mother and son, "we had the least amount of time available before the villain’s ‘limb’ would've developed into their ‘self.’ Prying it out that quickly became untenable without the risk of ripping through vital tissue. A decision had to be made and these fragments are a result of it,” he clears his throat. 

“One of our residents here has a solidifying quirk she can use with pinpoint accuracy, which did the trick, but due to the volatility of this particular villain’s amorphous structure, it ended up shattering in your right lung.” Like a fucking shrapnel grenade.

“Can’t you pull the pieces out?” his dad asks, ever the voice of reason.

"Theoretically. Not here though. We’re not specialized enough for that sort of treatment," he sighs. "Either way, an operation like that would be hollow at best. I know it looks bad, but we've already repaired any significant tissue damage that could've lingered, and with the way these fragments have lodged themselves in there, he'll carry them for the rest of his life. But unless you're concerned about the cosmetics of an internal organ, there isn't any harm in leaving them in. Small price to pay for your life.”

"Think of it like a battle scar, if that helps." Doctor What's His Name suggests, before he shifts himself back toward the elder Bakugos.

"We'll still keep him overnight as a precaution, but after that, my only 'prescription' is to keep hydrated," he places a hand on Katsuki's shoulder. "You were very brave. Not many would last so long."

"The fuck are you talking about? I was just trying to blast that gooey piece of shit," it comes out far calmer than intended due to the Doctor's Soothing Word. In return, Doctor Whatever gives Katsuki a nod and a slip of paper on his way out.

"In any case, you're a real hero in my book. If something changes, my name and number are on the card.”

The room is too still after Doctor Who Fucking Cares leaves, and as much as Katsuki would like to blame his quirk, he can feel its effects having lifted. Katsuki's dad looks like he has a million things to say but doesn't want to ratchet up the family tension any higher, and his mom looks... worn.  

"I'm gonna go sign some shit," she mutters in almost a whisper, her eyes glassy and unfocused, and slips out before the door closes. Fuck. Now he's trapped into having an actual conversation. His father moves to sit closer to the bed, and is sincere and gentle in all the ways Katsuki isn't.

"Katsuki. I know your mother isn't always the most eloquent speaker," understatement of the fucking century, dad. "Especially when she's worried. But she was sobbing before you woke up, Katsuki. Practically catatonic on the drive to the hospital. She never meant to blame you. We just both love you so much, that if anything happened to you—..."

"You're strong, Katsuki. You're the strongest person I know, right next to your mother, but I need you to hear me. You aren't even fifteen yet. Whatever you do as a hero, those are your choices, but right now... Telling you to be careful would fall on deaf ears," he speaks softly, with phrasing Katsuki doesn't have the strength to get defensive about, "so just.. don't die, okay?"

"... yeah." 

He doesn't know what else to say, what else he would want to say, but can feel his jaw tighten with the single word response, like he's admitting to the crime of mortality. From the look of relief on his father's face, he's satisfied with Katsuki's answer. That makes one of them.

"Good. I'll go check on your mother."

It’s not right. None of this is right. Sheets itchy and paper-thin, air sanitary to a disgusting degree, like being fumigated by bleach, and that damn beeping to his side, accompanied by the machine’s constant low hum in the background. They aren't right. He can feel the shards in his chest— yes, he’s smart enough to know the scratchy, prickling pain is psychosomatic, but he can feel them all the same.

He shouldn't be here. 

Whoever has the rest of his shit must have his phone too, so he's stuck with the dinky, silent television hanging in the corner for entertainment. Cheap bastards didn't even leave him a remote.

Only after Katsuki's begun to zone out to the mind-numbing "news" from their local station does it flip from some useless report about guarding your home from potential rabbit infestations over to the one semi-interesting thing they've shown yet: hero news.

Katsuki sits up automatically, taking in the gist of the reporter's rundown on the day's events. A couple robberies. Apparently a new Pro Hero made her debut. It's all a bit mundane until the subtitles mention All Might, which jolts his heart with excitement for the split second it takes before they cut to footage of the attack in question.

It's him. Of course it's fucking him. 

There's this look on his face. This weak fucking look. Like he's afraid. Him! Katsuki Bakugo! He wants to laugh, but his eyes are locked with the TV's version of him, and he can't even feel himself in bed anymore. He's there, watching himself, breath caught in his chest. It doesn't take long for All Might to swoop in and save the day, but that look is burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

His shoulders shake, but damn if he'll wipe at his eyes to confirm his own cowardice. To hell with that.

It's pathetic. It's so fucking pathetic.

He shouldn't have to look like that. 

No one should.

Chapter Text

Steady breaths. In. Out.

Those forgettable hanger-ons jump to his side before he can even get to their classroom. Katsuki doesn't listen to a word they're saying, because it's gonna be bullshit no matter what.

What useful thing could they possibly be spouting? Fuckin' nothing. Trying to make yesterday's shit about them, he'd bet. Fine then. Who cares. That slime villain was a blip on the radar. No one will remember him.

They better not.

In.

"Shut your mouths. Get the hell away from me before I do something you'll regret."

Out.

The classroom door slides open with a surprising degree of force for such a light frame. Aldera won't like him damaging their property, but they aren't going to touch their crap school's only (soon to be) U.A. student, so whatever, fuck them.

A hush blankets the mob of students when he stomps in. Some had been chatting amongst themselves, some chomping at the bit to ask him questions, some doodling or dozing off, but all of them stop what they were doing and turn toward Katsuki.

"You got a problem?" he asks the room as one, staring them each down until enough of his classmates have goosebumps that they backtrack to what they'd been doing.

They do a poor job at pretending they aren't terrified. Good. They know The Katsuki Bakugo is still dangerous. He isn't damaged. He knows he isn't.

In.

Katsuki's seat is in sight. As long as he can get there, sit down, keep quiet, and scowl harder than anyone has ever scowled before, all these extras will know to fuck off and stay fucked off. If he hears so much as a whisper about yesterday, there will be hell to pay.

Ou—

DEKU. That distinctly sadistic smile is plastered across the psycho's impeccably punchable face, up until he spots Katsuki, where upon he masks it with a look of false concern.

Where's his quirk? What the fuck happened to his quirk!? He's putting everything he has into it, but not even a spark will come out. Why is he quirkless, shitshitshit where did it go—

Katsuki's skin is clammy, and his breath won't come out; all of his straining produces a pitiful whimper, covered up by the pop of a few explosions to remind himself that he's still here, and now.

Out, damn it. He said out.

"K-kacchan! Oh my gosh, I was so w-worried! Mom and I k-kept calling and calling and c-calling and we– uh– we were a-a-about to take the train, b-but Auntie called back and said y-you were okay and that visiting hours were o-over anyway. I'm so happy! N-not that you were a-attacked, j-just that you're alive and— er, you aren't s-still hurt, right? Either way, that m-must've been super— super scary!"

"I barely could— I couldn't— I could hardly sleep last night! Y'know, i-in a different way than usual. You fought that guy back like it was n-nothing! I would've been a goner for sure, since my d-dad's quirk can't cancel out mutant-types and I don't h-have anything else to use," Deku laughs nervously, "but I'm sure you, um, already know that, I've talked about this a thousand times— oh man, am I rambling again?! I'm so sorry!"

Deku is 'sorry'? He was 'worried'? Says Katsuki fought the villain 'like it was nothing'?! That fucking liar.

Katsuki is strong as hell, but he ain't stupid. He knows exactly how he looked, trapped in a load of muck like some villain's plaything. Kicking and yelling and vomiting. His brain has been playing it on loop.

That look.

He's got this awesome power at his disposable, an ability he trains every single day to master, the ideal quirk for a hero, and it meant nothing. Didn't do a damn thing but prove he wasn't completely helpless, just mostly.

In.

So that's how it is, huh?

Deku learned to keep out of his business, but now he coincidentally comes back right after Katsuki's villain incident to start throwing insults, to feed him lies, trying to convince him that he's worthless, and that it's okay to be worthless? How convenient for the little villain.

He must have been waiting for an opportunity like this for years. Probably spent the night jumping for joy, giddy at the thought of making a fool out of Katsuki Bakugo.

Laughing at him, always fucking laughing at him, wanting to make him look weak, wanting him quirkless, thinking he's so much better that he'll gloat about it and rub it in with that fucking laugh, like it's all a big joke—

"You're dead, Deku," he says softly, but with a strangling heat to his voice, a heaving mass of magma made for melting into the most vulnerable parts of Deku's heart. "Not another word, or I won't wait for class to let out. I'll rip out your damn esophagus right here."

Out.

He curls his fingers and keeps crackling tiny blasts, letting himself know his quirk is still there. He's still whole.

Deku gives that 'oh so innocent' expression and raises his palms up, either to pacify or defend. At least he isn't laughing. Deku learned that one years ago, but you can never be too sure with villains.

Clearly the attack has lead to him gaining some amount of boldness back, so for all Katsuki knows, today could be the day he tries it again.

In.

"K-kacchan, wait a second, whatever it is I did, I-I'm really sorry, I was just trying to help! A-and, if– um, if you ever want someone to talk to, I know I'm not your first choice, b-but I'm a good listener. Or, if you want something to, uh, take your mind off of it? I know a bunch of really f-funny podcasts, and, um, I really didn't mean to upset you, I was sorta freaking out when Mom got off the phone and said your lungs ha-"

The pain in his knuckles is well worth shutting Deku up, and the way his own hand shakes is easy to use as fuel for the fire. Watching him crumple like a marionette with its strings cut is more than cathartic. It feels like justice.

Out.

"Kacchan, I swear," Deku cackles, "I'm not doing it on purpose!" 

The same tired lines, over and over. He 'doesn't mean it', it's 'an accident', yet it just so happens to be directed at Katsuki, time and again.

It's easy to see he enjoys watching Katsuki's chest seize. Katsuki does a terrific job of hiding it, but there's no doubt that piece of shit can tell, because it's what he relishes. He'd try to suffocate him if he could get away with it, the bastard. " I'm just laughing like normal," he says in between chuckles, his words riding a bumpy road. " I'm not trying to- I didn't know- I would never-" LIAR!

"After class. None of those other losers. Just you and me, Deku. I'm gonna melt your fucking face off. Hope you're looking forward to it."

Katsuki certainly is.

In.

Once he steadies himself against his desk and Deku scurries back to his own, Katsuki has time to ponder. Specifically about Deku's source.

Katsuki, unsurprisingly, has known his mother since he was born, so it's impressive that she's able to surprise him even after fourteen years. That hag seriously ran her mouth about his affairs. Not that what is or isn't in his chest is a big deal in the first place, but she should learn to mind her own damn business.

Unbelievable. Blabbing to Deku's mother of all people.

Her best friend.

Without knowing what a menace that friend's son is.

Fuck.

Realizing he has no ground to stand on makes Katsuki even angrier than he already was with his mom. No reason to dwell on it now, though, because what's the alternative? Go tattle about what a scheming little shit Deku is? Not a chance in hell.

He doesn't need someone fighting his battles for him, especially not his fucking mom, even more so when it's against a person as insignificant as Deku. It wouldn't hurt if she'd avoid actively tripping him up, though, but that's a lost cause. The problem he can solve is right behind him, squirming anxiously in a cheap seat of metal and plastic.

He cracks his knuckles, a grin splitting his features with an intense bloodlust. Class can't end soon enough.

This piece of trash won’t be able to make anyone wear that look. 

Not while Katsuki Bakugo’s still breathing.

Out.

Kacchan is great at hitting him where it hurts, which makes sense. Kacchan is great at everything. 

He was particularly thorough today, Izuku muses as he rests on the curb, reviewing the varied, lingering aches he'd received earlier in the day.

His bruises pulse, tender to the touch. Old hat. No biggie. Piece of cake. Coincidentally, that very thought reminds Izuku of a pretty good yarn about how to have your cake and eat it too.

All you have to do is make sure no one comes to your party! Ha! That must make Izuku quite the lucky guy!

Where he's been scraped are worse, red hot and damp at once, like he'd been a bit too careless with sandpaper again. Small patches of his skin trickle sporadic dots of red, uppermost layer curling at the edges. Irregular and enthusiastically delivered, sure, but feeling a little raw is nothing new. A passé performance.

It’s a good thing Kacchan wasn't on stage, because he bombed! Ha!

His sprained elbow is easy to justify as a positive. Athletes hyperextend muscles sometimes, right? And since Pro Heroes are athletic, he should get used to it!

The contorted ankle and wicked migraine speak for themselves, as does the off-kilter ache in his knee. There’s an arrant pinching pain that shoots up Izuku’s thigh, like someone has jammed tweezers under his knee cap and clamps them whenever he dares to put weight on his right leg.

If his luck keeps up, this year’s hottest new look will be 'pathetic junior high school student'! Ha!

The burns are the worst, though. Much harder to laugh at, too. Not that it’s anything so dramatic most of the time! Comparatively speaking, Kacchan uses his quirk more for frightening him and blasting him around—things that singe, or that sear his clothes a bit—than he uses it for direct burns, per se.

Kacchan is nothing if not aware of his own strength. He wouldn't go around charing somebody to kingdom come when he’s trying to get into U.A.

A student coming to school looking like beef jerky would be hard to ignore, even when their relationships with others tend to hover somewhere between being ignored and being outright loathed. No, the real reason Izuku thinks burns are the worst is hilariously simple! Really!

He doesn't like them. That’s all. They’re easily his least favorite option on the list of the different types of pains, and when sleep is often already a struggle, tossing and turning with a few burns, however small, can be galling. As if his mind isn't already occupied fighting itself, the inability to comfortably lie down tends to nuke the entire battle.

Even something as simple as washing up is harder. Showers take longer when you’re dealing with sensitive, difficult places to scrub. Not to mention how gross they look.

Izuku isn't sure which he likes less; a recent burn or the scar of one. He has had his fair share of both.

On an average day, Izuku would choose recent ones without a doubt, but there are some days, despite how plain he looks and broken he has always been, standing in front of the mirror grates him more than it should, makes him feel uglier than he already is, connecting dots of scar tissue like tiny stars on his chest, abdomen and forearms. He doesn't like to think about his back.

Everyone has a thing, though, so it isn't a big deal. Some people are afraid of spiders, some people hate celery— Izuku is allowed to not enjoy parts of himself being taken away by heat and pain. That’s not too unreasonable of a phobia, (though it's not like he was ever a work of art to begin with).

Heck, sometimes he zones out altogether!

Silly, right? He sure can be scatterbrained sometimes! If Kacchan is boring enough to lose his audience like that, he really needs to write some new material! Ha! Kacchan would pitch a fit if he knew all the insults he wasted!... ha...

Izuku knows Kacchan's quirk is incredible. Truly, it is. He has watched his childhood friend hone it over the years to both his great pleasure and pain.

Not many have the opportunity to watch a future hero diligently refine their abilities from such a young age, so, in a way, it's a privilege!

During Izuku's weakest times however, when he is given the chance to stop and think, and he’s hoarse from telling himself how great of a hero Kacchan will be someday, and how only a villain would want to stop him, Izuku can't help but hold a smidgen of resentment and shame at his own inability to fight back.

A charitably brief rage, given not the time to learn how hate truly feels before being gnashed and swallowed into nothingness by its older sister: the encumbering hollowness in his chest, filled with echoes and boarded up with cardboard. Its border is a cliff off which he unwittingly steps, time and again, foolishly expecting to hit the wall he’d come to think of as impenetrable, only to find it shredded.

There's a disturbing nugget of relief in rediscovering one's own naivety. A nagging tick at last silenced.

See, Izuku is really good at pretending. So good, in fact, sometimes he convinces himself! Those are his favorite times, when the laughter comes at its easiest. However, whether it takes a few days, a week, or even a couple months, something happens to jog his memory and remind him what the world thinks of him.

What he is worth, or isn't.

That he is worth leaving, or at the very least isn't worth staying for.

It is a sequestered, self-destructive piece of himself, made all the more efficient from practice. An inseparable companion to despondency— intrinsic, even. One that arrives only when riding depression's coattails, as if to say "Ah-ha! Just as I suspected: I was never meant to be happy."

It is a perverse feeling, one serving no other purpose than as an excuse to pity and self-flagellate; a fact of which Izuku is well aware, further compounding that same guilt on itself.

Yet, being right about just that one thing when everything else feels so wrong is a strange comfort. It's all he's got when the kind words and 'can do!' attitude wear so thin his bones ache, emotional cartilage ground to dust.

That is when he begins to worry that it’s not something that goes away, or worse yet, that he just hasn't tried hard enough, too useless and weak and lazy to make a difference within himself, much less for anyone else, and he’s readily giving up a chance to end the cycle for the sake of a paltry consolation that only rears its head once he's already restarted the downward spiral.

Kacchan has been the impetus for his fair share of such clarity-rich moments, but there's no sense in killing the messenger. He was quiet today, so any vitriol he may have spouted must be simulated in Izuku's head. So, like lots of stuff, it is still Izuku's fault.

Only when he is halfway home does Izuku find himself cracking up. Over what, he does not know, but inspecting his thoroughly-disheveled state brings it out. From the throbbing in his skull, to the weakness of his ankle and twisting sensation behind his knee, what else is he meant to do but laugh his way through it?

The stiffness of his elbow, however, accompanied by a popping noise with every bend it makes more than a few inches, is disquieting. Izuku stops limping to fix the unfamiliar issue (best he can) by repeatedly bending his spasming arm to work out the kinks. It does nothing but leave him gritting his teeth and feeling like a dummy.

Izuku can handle it, though. He always does.

Positive thoughts. He has to think positive thoughts and trick himself into happiness.

Shinsou! Yes! Shinsou said he wanted to be friends, albeit in fewer words. Izuku has a friend now. A friend training to become a hero, just like him! Well, “training” is jumping the gun a tad. “Wants to train” is closer to reality.

If his legs didn't feel like they were about to turn into dust, the very thought would put a skip in his step.

Izuku will be a hero and Shinsou will definitely be a hero and they’ll watch each other’s backs! Soon he’ll be hanging out with Shinsou, grinning like a madman, and this will all be a distant memory.

It might take a little while, considering he’s been walking toward home on autopilot this whole time, not toward the park, but a friend is more than worth a little walking!

All he has to do is be happy by the time he gets there.

Now where the heck did he put his phone?

When Midoriya doesn't show up, Hitoshi can’t bring himself to move from their— his ‘melancholy bench’.

It feels like such a dumb name now that he’s alone again. A part of him wants to think something serious happened, just to spare himself the hurt that comes with abandonment, but he soon chastises himself for having such a selfish thought, and for how willfully ignorant he'd allowed himself to be yesterday.

He checks his phone clock again, torturing himself with a hard number that shows how little value Midoriya places on him as a person.

When Hitoshi unlocks his phone to get rid of that vile screen and distract himself with cat videos, his texting app comes up, dead blank, save for his mom’s and dad’s cells, a wrong number, and the depressingly long string of “your order is about to arrive” messages from the one pizza place that stays open until 3:00 AM.

That last one is somehow still easier to justify than walking all the way to the 24/7 crab shack that he continues to be shocked hasn't gone out of business by now. If he plugs his ears, a vegetable pizza counts as “healthy”.

Finding himself still staring at the utter void of conversation, Hitoshi clamps his eyes shut and sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly remembering how he’d set his contact name on Midoriya’s phone as Hitoshi instead of Shinsou, after knowing him for a day. No wonder he got scared off.

Hitoshi groans at the memory, as if hoping to shout it away.

He’d actually felt pretty cool at the time for having the guts to do something so bold, giving him further to fall in embarrassment. Having found that shutting his eyes hasn't been able to stop him from seeing the cringe-inducing nightmare, Hitoshi claps his hands over his face for good measure.

“Awesome. Fantastic. Nice going, Hitoshi. You really nailed it. Grade-A friend material. Keep up the good work.”

Dragging his fingers down his face, pulling on his features lethargically, he submits to what is sure to be another sleepless night. It’s a good thing there was no one around to see him babbling.

As though it were on cue, a figure hobbles into view.

Izuku Midoriya, his right arm using a shirt button as a sling, legs like jelly, and wearing a smile on his face. From what Hitoshi can see of the white shirt beneath his open uniform, a few dots run up his side, an errant cluster of small, black specks showing skin.

Running over to meet his friend— and wow does that word taste funny—Hitoshi has half a mind to ask Midoriya if he fell into one of those heavy duty car washes.

”Sorry I’m late,” Midoriya says guiltily, a little splotch of red in the corner of his mouth from where he bit his lip.

”What? Don’t apologize,” Hitoshi admonishes him, grabbing the shorter boy by the shoulders, only to have him flinch away on reflex. “What the hell happened to you?”

"The paparazzi, obviously," Midoriya puffs his chest out with deliberately false machismo. "My adoring fans can't get enough of me."

”... Y'know what? Forget I asked. Let's just fix you up before your face swells like a balloon.”

”We can’t all have such manly jawlines, you handsome devil,” Midoriya swings and misses, another attempt at changing the subject.

Through a shy smile, as if to accentuate the earlier compliment, he pokes Hitoshi in the cheek, who in turn refuses to react with anything but a grumble at the finger still pressed firmly against his face.

He swipes at the finger and starts to drag Midoriya behind him, which finally nets an answer to his earlier question. A terrible one, stuttered out by Midoriya while he’s distractedly kicking the grass.

"Ah, you see, it r-really isn't that bad— Kacchan's week has b-been awful a-and I-" Kacchan this, Kacchan that, it's okay if he beats me bloody, La La La~

Hitoshi lets the smaller boy babble excuses as he focuses on the task at hand and drags him toward their shady bench where he plops him down assertively. Thrown carelessly at the base of the adjacent tree, Hitoshi rummages through his backpack for the mandatory hunk of weight sitting at the bottom.

Eventually, he shakes out the other contents of his bag into a pile to clean up later and pulls out the compact first aid kit, before resting himself next to Midoriya, who seems happy as a clam despite physically looking like he’s been given that clam’s treatment at a seafood restaurant, snapped and tenderized.

Putting aside that Midoriya is, by very definition and an absence of competition, his (newer than new) best friend, Hitoshi has seen enough of this bully’s handiwork to hate him regardless.

If he ever gets a chance to meet ‘Kacchan’, no lack of athleticism will be able to stop him from decking the guy without hesitation. Hard.

“—eally worried all night, and I didn't want to text you in a bad mood and screw things up, and I swear I was going to right after class—but Kacchan needed to vent b-because I guess I screwed something up, I think, and now I can’t find my phone or I would've texted you about getting here so late, I promise. You believe me, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Hitoshi replies slowly, hoping he gave the right answer, having lost the thread of their conversation while he busied himself with picking through the kit. Midoriya visibly releases a mountain of worry from hearing his reply.

“Wow! I didn't know you had a first aid kit!”

“What? Oh. It’s not mine. Last night, my dad was talking about hospital junk at dinner, as usual, and my mom had her biannual safety freak out, so now I have to lug this thing around until further notice,” Hitoshi says, flipping through instructions, the serendipity of the matter not lost on him, but not spoken either. “You should take your shirt off for this.”

“No thanks, I’m pretty sweaty,” Midoriya rushes out through a snicker.

Considering how close together on the bench they are, that’s not exactly a surprise to Hitoshi or his nose, but it’s funny that that’s Midoriya’s concern. Spending time with someone who seems to take everything in stride feels empowering.

“Will you at least unbutton it for me,” he asks a boy whose grin widens at his choice of words, “or take your arms out?”

After much deliberation and plenty of hemming and hawing, they compromise with an unbuttoned shirt and one sleeve rolled up to the elbow to check its bend.

It’s the best he was going to get, as there was only so long he could spend checking and re-checking the more pressing sprains like Midoriya’s elbow or knee before his patience ran thinner than the stupid, cheap bandages he’s been fighting on and off for the last fifteen minutes following their unconventional agreement.

"Ow!" Midoriya whines, disinfectant merging with what little blood dribbles down his collarbone from where his skin ran too raw.

"Listen, do you want to do this?"

It isn't said as an actual offer, but as a way to shush complaint #235 about his friend's treatment.

Despite how he looked initially, walking around like a zombie wearing a shrub on its head, Midoriya seems mostly okay after having time to cool down.

According to Hitoshi—whose medical knowledge starts with ‘don’t get hurt’ and ends at what the various little packets and the internet are telling him—the incorrigible goofball’s aches and pains aren't too bad, there just happen to be a lot of them.

Besides all the bruises and scratches and cuts and worn skin, Midoriya claims to be ‘peachy keen’. By the looks of him, the only injuries he's even noticing are the five burns at his ribs from ‘Kacchan's vice-like grip, flinching any time Hitoshi gets remotely near one.

“Kacchan d-did a number on my shirt, didn't he,” Midoriya laughs boisterously, which shakes Hitoshi’s hands and work, “b-but now I can go as a ghost with lots of eyes for Halloween!”

"Stop that," Hitoshi grips Midoriya’s shoulder, hoping to salvage the last of his already lackluster efforts. Midoriya blinks at him, but nods, curiously watching those steady eyes come off not as tired, but focused.

"How come you're not using those?" Midoriya asks innocently as a bandage is applied to a cut running over his forearm, and points to the small suture case inside the first aid kit.

The vacant glare Hitoshi gives off is a hair's breadth from his base-level blank one, but he prays that Midoriya will understand how nonsensical that question is.

But he didn't. And he doesn't. Why would he? Nonsensical could describe him to a tee. He waits for an explanation, which only deepens Hitoshi’s stare, willing his friend to think it through. At this point it may as well be emotional Chicken, and Hitoshi won't be the one who caves first.

Nope. He won't be. He definitely, really won't be.

Hitoshi grumbles. Midoriya wins.

"Are you seriously suggesting I stab you?"

"It's okay, I trust you."

"Midoriya..." Hitoshi sighs, "you do know a medical degree isn't passed down like a quirk, right?"

If blood violently shot out of Midoriya’s eyes from how quickly it all went to his head, Hitoshi wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

"I know that!" Midoriya says, so worked up that he doesn't even notice the oddly-cold sensation of burn ointment under his ribs.

"I just assumed you knew more than the basics! Sorry for believing in you," he pouts, every word of the last sentence dripping with sarcasm. His mouth squirms from the horrible aftertaste, made all the worse by the gutted look Hitoshi can assume he is wearing. By his standards, anyway.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I really appreciate your help!" Midoriya quickly backtracks, giving his own sigh of relief after hearing one from Hitoshi.

The pause has the taller boy scratching at his neck and the shorter boy buttoning up his damaged shirt. Hitoshi’s preoccupation with repacking the kit gives Midoriya time to formulate a strategy for excusing all the bumps and cuts to his mom when he eventually goes home that night.

Or he could be planning a murder, Hitoshi hasn't known him long enough to know for sure.

"Not to rub it in," Hitoshi says, causing Midoriya to flick his head up, and despite saying otherwise, Hitoshi can hear a hint of satisfaction in his own voice, a small smile revealing an understated smugness that drapes over his face, "but I don't know how to do any of that other stuff either. I've just been watching a YesTube tutorial on my phone."

Midoriya cocks his head down to see the phone balancing on Hitoshi’s knee, a paused video about minor burns taking up the screen.

The laughter that follows begins as one long breath, exhaling to the point Midoriya’s face is back to its previous redness—thankfully not blood this time—like he’s been punched in the stomach—well, punched again—before he finally sucks in enough air to fuel a fit of cackling Hitoshi had expected never to hear again, and considering its volume and his proximity, maybe he won’t.

“That’s all I can do,” Hitoshi thinks he says, ears ringing while he repacks his bag. Midoriya gives a few exuberant ‘thank you’s, and Hitoshi dismisses them with a wave.

“Now we can start training!”

“Midoriya, I really don't think you should work when you're all banged up like that. You’ll make them worse.”

Assuming the internet properly diagnosed him.

“Whaaaaaat? No I won’t!” Midoriya hides in the shade of his hair, bruise and fair features lost in sea foam.

“Yes, you will. Don’t fight me on this— I’ll lay on top of you if I have to,” Hitoshi threatens, teeth snapping shut right as the words leave his mouth. For most people, his frozen expression would spotlight their embarrassment, but it’s so normal for Hitoshi that the faint blush is all that gives him away.

Midoriya’s unbalanced giggle makes it a little better, feeling he’s being laughed with, not at.

“Unless you want to get a doctors opinion?” he adds, shaking the redness away.

Although watching Midoriya deflate is the last thing he wants, if the guy is determined to keep his mom in the dark, they don’t really have other options.

“Anyway, according to WebPhysician, which everyone knows is one hundred percent trustworthy,” Hitoshi says dryly, “it should only be a couple weeks. That’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! We have 302 days left!” Midoriya blanches, “If we waste two weeks, that’s almost five percent of our time, gone!”

“You’re pretty militant about this, aren't you?”

“You can practice without me, if you want,” Midoriya needlessly assures him, trying his best to hide the disappointment.

“No, I’m not gonna do that. I’ll be honest, without someone to suffer with me,” Midoriya laughs at that, “I… probably wouldn't even be doing this. Preparing. Beyond talking about it.”

Attempting to give Hitoshi a high five in the name of fellowship, he can see the moment Midoriya’s arm sags, flinching with discomfort. He flails back, minty hair looking strangely dark from the right angle as it bounces around.

Hitoshi balances him before he falls off the bench entirely with a hand clenching the front of his newly redressed uniform.

Midoriya gives him a sideways smile and a thumbs up— with his good arm this time.

“A couple weeks of being a teenager for once doesn't sound so bad to me,” Hitoshi concludes, shrugging.

“Yeah, you’re right! It’ll give us time to research and write out a training regime, line up our schedules for the rest of the semester and during the summer, work on putting together a system of extra studying—how good are you in school? I do alright, but U.A.’s written exam is ridiculously tough, from what I've heard, so making sure we focus on learning the right subjects couldn't hurt—"

Hitoshi has to wonder: he doesn't stop, does he?

"—and I know there are those tutors that specialize in helping students cram for U.A. but there’s no way my mom could afford that—what about your parents? Oh my gosh, that’s so rude to ask—I was just thinking that if you were to go and write everything down we could toss ideas back and forth and—”

For all his goofiness, Midoriya doesn't seem to know how to goof off, or perhaps he’s just being realistic. U.A. is the very best for a reason.

Still, he’s taking him to that cat café if it’s the last thing he does. An arcade could also be fun. The beach too.

“That’s not even a little bit close to what I said, but okay. We’ll see.”

“Hey, we should get a secret handshake or something! Like an exclusive workout club!”

“There are only two of us,” he notes with an emotionless disbelief as they don their packs.

“Yeah, but what if we run into a villain with a shapeshifting quirk?”

“I think a villain with that rare of a quirk would have better things to do than infiltrate a public park.”

“… Can I feel your hair now?”

“Knock yourself out.”

[14 Years Ago]

"SHOUTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Hizashi bellows into the twenty-four-hour diner, searching for the one person who doesn't bother to turn their head or cover their ears, and whose 'casual clothes' may as well be identical to what they wear for hero work.

It’s a dim place, not seedy so much as it is cheap, plain and simple. Stuffing puffs out in spongy pockets where patrons have picked and twisted at the vinyl seat covers, and the floor has been caked with an enduring layer of stickiness.

You get what you pay for, and busy, up-and-coming heroes can’t pay for much of anything. Unpalatable though the food might be, there is something to be said for having a place that knows your order.

Ironically, Hizashi’s best buddy tends to stick out like a sore thumb amongst your average hero crowd. Where brightly dressed and boastfully spoken are the norm, brooding and disinterested are an uncommon breed.

In here however, the wallflower gets his wish, leaving Hizashi squinting with his head on a swivel.

“Here,” Shouta replies quietly, but not deliberately so. He blends into the far booth, nursing a water. With springy steps, Hizashi jogs over to throw an arm around his best friend, hopping to the empty spot beside him.

"YO! Never thought you'd actually join us!" he yells, happily patting Shouta on the back, sloshing the man's drink. "Nemuri here yet?"

Shouta lazily turns his gaze to the empty seat opposite them, then turns back and gives an irked glare. Hizashi has become fluent in his friend's many different types of glares— they're practically their own language. This one means: "If you have a question, think about it for more than zero seconds before asking."

"How's your water?“ he says lamely in an attempt to push past the mopey look he's getting from Shouta, who seems to inspect his drink with a calculating eye. Hizashi swaps out to sit across from Shouta rather than next to him.

"Revolting," Shouta decides on, having never been one much for beverages that come with a five percent chance to have a rubber band in them. Fine dining.

Hizashi shifts in his seat, remembering the weight in his pocket.

"Yo! I almost forgot! I tried calling you, but you left your phone under the couch,“ he shouts, pulling it out and wiggling the blocky device in front of Shouta.

From the corner of his vision, he takes note of the bright red number on-screen and refocuses to tap away at the compact number-pad.

”Looks like you have a bunch of messages, buddy. Seriously, how long has it been since you've checked this thing?" Hizashi asks as he scrolls the phone through its missed call list, eyeing the odd contact name.

You have: eleven (!) new voice messages

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 8:04 A.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 8:05 A.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 8:07 A.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 8:12 A.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 9:46 A.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 1:24 P.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 2:35 P.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 2:36 P.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff ! ;P — [on 7/15 at 2:37 P.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 4:56 P.M. (!)]

Hot Stuff! ;P — [on 7/15 at 9:22 P.M. (!)]

Hizashi — [on 7/18 at 7:41 P.M.]

"OooOo~ I never knew you were so passionate, Shouta!" Hizashi teases eagerly.

"A coworker set the name as a joke. Not me," Shouta justifies, making a concerted effort not to look at the cellphone. It’s an odd thing to see on him. Shy has never been a word Hizashi would associate with his BFF.

On one hand, he’s so logical and focused that leaving such a ridiculous name on his contacts list is more than likely him simply not bothering to change or acknowledge it. Peculiar though it may be to hear that a coworker had access to his personal cellphone, as opposed to his work phone, Shouta never lets himself stop working, so it might be that he just takes it everywhere for convenience.

This theory is further cemented by Shouta still using the same black brick of a phone he’s had since they've known each other.

Not a similar phone, the exact same phone. Hizashi can tell, because it’s still got the same big scratch on its back from freshmen year when he fumbled and dropped it during their winter break, and the same itty-bitty black cat charm dangling from its corner that he’d once thought was a spider, thus setting the stage for the earlier-mentioned scratch.

That’s the rational answer, and any further speculation would be nothing but an indulgence on Hizashi’s part.

As if that’s ever stopped him before.

So, on the other hand, Shouta has a grand total of five contacts, two of which are Nemuri and himself, while the other two are the agency he works at and emergency services. ‘Hot Stuff’ is the only mystery caller.

Who the heck is able to sneak up on Shouta to take any phone of his, work or private? The guy has the ears of a cat and the eyes of a hawk, even dry as they are. Although stealth is far from Hizashi’s expertise (the complete opposite, as it happens), he has tried to catch Shouta by surprise since the moment he transferred into their freshman class and has not succeeded a single time!

More to the point, what kind of coworker can steal something from Eraserhead himself and live to tell the tale? And if he takes his phone everywhere, then why was it under their sofa with a dozen missed calls, days old?

Something doesn't add up.

"Just delete the messages and be done with it."

"Whaaaat?! Aw come on, Shouta! That’s cold!" Hizashi whines, offhandedly signaling the waitress for his usual, dirt cheap, greasy order of choice.

For once, Shouta seems genuinely guarded, far more than just his generally blunt nature, as he shies away from his own cell, like it'll burn him if he gets too close.

Hizashi wouldn't be a proper best friend if he couldn't read Shouta like nobody else, but for as much as he'd prefer to be gentle about it and let Shouta work through it—whatever “it” is—on his own, that simply isn't how he operates. Letting it be would only serve to congeal the dilemma in his stomach.

No, Hizashi must put on his empathetic boots and wade through his best friend's stagnant river of emotions to chip through whatever new dam Shouta's built for himself. Hizashi steels his nerves, because he can't allow this nebulous depression to take hold of his friend.

Shouta stares him down to give up.

Hizashi clicks the first message.

"Alright, fine, but I’m listening to them before they're deleted— common courtesy, my man,“ he advises, leaning back with the phone to play Shouta’s messages as nonchalantly as possible.

"Damn it, Hizashi! Don't give her the satisfaction!" Shouta exhales, rubbing at his temple. He gives his water glass a suspect glance, as if the two sips he took were poisoned. Kind of presumptuous of him to consider himself poison-worthy already, Hizashi decides.

"Don't give who the satisfaction?" he raises a brow, looking out from under his glasses.

"Just a girl. It doesn't matter now."

"Aww, don't be like that. You got me hooked! No way you’re gonna leave me hanging with 'just a girl'!"

"What do you want me to say? I met a girl. We worked together. She asked me out, and we dated for a while—" he continues, ignoring Hizashi's smirk, because of course she would have to be the one to make the first move.

There’s a real sense of camaraderie he feels with this unseen stranger. Confessing to Shouta Aizawa is bone-rattlingly terrifying, so Hizashi and this unknown girl are likely the only two people on the planet who could commiserate about it. However, it seems he’s still alone in the category of actually being turned down by him.

That took some time— trying to resuscitate his poor, gay heart. From the outside, it must look like Hizashi is the one that has kept their little group together, but he credits the survival of their friendship to Shouta, who always made a point of including Hizashi, particularly when he was sulking or trying to avoid him, of actively dragging him around for as long as it took him to get over his crush.

"—but broke up the day before I left the prefecture."

It’s also a strong reason, apart from being his best friend, that Hizashi feels he’s earned some amount of carte blanche to butt into Shouta’s thought-to-be-nonexistent relationship status. As Hizashi has long since moved on from thinking of Shouta that way, he can reflect objectively on what had attracted him in the first place.

That is to say, if somebody is willing to toss his best buddy aside because they can’t appreciate all his great qualities then they don’t deserve him.

"Geez— I'm really sorry," Hizashi speaks softly, and with a pained look, “I guess I got excited and wasn't thinking it through. I didn't know you got dumped."

"It was mutual."

Shouta pauses, and in an astounding moment of tactfulness, Hizashi doesn't start talking immediately to fill any possible dead air. Instead, he stews in his surprise, swapping the phone from hand to hand beneath his chin without much thought.

There is a fly buzzing that Hizashi has yet to actually spot, but is doing its darnedest to break his concentration in the quietest of ways.

“It’s irritating to have her try to— I don’t know what she’s doing.”

‘Irritating’ can mean many things in Shouta-speak, but in this context Hizashi know it’s ‘deeply upsetting’.

Hizashi’s having a difficult time wrapping his head around the idea that Shouta finally, finally found someone to be with and stay with, and then ‘mutual dumped’ them. Hizashi would like to believe him, but all signs still point to Shouta being the dumpee.

Hizashi can’t see him entering into any relationship without thoroughly vetting a potential partner.

When he stops his phone shuffling to find and smack that stupid fly, the fly stops too.

Hizashi feels decently foolish at realizing the buzzing noise is a teeny-tiny voice yelling from the phone on low volume. The voicemail’s still running. While he highly doubts Shouta has heard it, as Hizashi himself can barely hear it literally right under his nose, he hits the mute button all the same and smothers it in his lap for good measure.

"But we haven't talked since October, and now she's calling me again? I'm not falling for that," Shouta grunts, running a hand through his remarkably messy locks.

“Wait, sorry, back up a second,” Hizashi requests, with an exaggerated gesture to match. “How long did you say you knew her for?”

“Apparently never,” Shouta speaks through a clenched jaw, turning his head as if to spit the words out onto the floor.

“Shouta, come on. You know what I mean,” Hizashi says with a click of his tongue, trying to think of a way to rephrase his question, because it’s sounding an awful lot like a fling, but that doesn't compute in Hizashi’s brain; quick, in-and-out relationships and Shouta don’t mix.

“How long before she popped the question and asked you out?” is how he ultimately decides to phrase it.

“Not long, Hizashi,” Shouta replies, massaging his brow to mitigate the bombardment of questions threatening to give him another headache.

“Could you be a little more specif—”

“Not long! Alright? Do you want me to get you a calendar and a stopwatch!?” Shouta barks piercingly in a harsh tone filled with more vigor than the rest of their conversation combined.

Hizashi jumps up at the surprising volume and slouches despondently. With any luck, the puppy face he’s giving Shouta can smooth things over. Hizashi would never have pressed the subject if he thought it would take this turn.

His attempt to seem as nonthreatening as possible rapidly shifts into befuddlement at hearing Shouta’s reply.

“Sorry. You’re not the one I’m mad at,” he whispers, while Hizashi readjusts his glasses from the unbelievably crooked position they’d found themselves in. “If you want to listen to my messages, fine, but I don’t want to hear about them, got it?”

Hizashi nods and is mirrored by Shouta, who stands up with purpose.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab a snack from the corner store,” Shouta raises a finger before Hizashi can point out the obvious. “This place should be condemned.”

“It grows on you!”

“I can see that,” Shouta notes as he checks the bottom of his shoe for any fungus or microscopic manifestation of this so-called diner.

“If you keep coming, one day you’ll wake up and see the appeal!” Hizashi assures him as an unenthused waitress sets down his meal, somehow undercooked and burnt simultaneously, blocking his view of an equally unenthused Shouta.

“Then maybe they should rename this place The Hizashi,” he hears Shouta murmur the backwards compliment. “After you've satisfied your curiosity and deleted my messages, block her number for me, would you?”

Hizashi gives him a thumbs up as the soft door chime signals his temporary exit.

There’s a ten second grace period Hizashi is willing to wait before bringing the phone back to his ear and cranking the sound up, only to hear the unintelligible last two seconds of a message. Disappointing, but at least he can restart and go over the ones he missed.

“END OF MESSAGE SEVEN,” chirps a computerized woman’s voice.

“TO SAVE THIS MESSAGE: PRESS FOUR. TO ERASE THIS MESSAGE: PRESS NINE, OR WAIT FOR THE TONE.”

Hizashi takes a moment to rewind his mind and work through the overly-fast instructions. By the time he realizes what’s at stake, juggling the phone like car keys in a horror movie, he hears the beep and laments the messages he’ll never hear. Who could tolerate such a crappy cellular contract?! Shouta Aizawa, evidently. Pragmatic to the end.

Hanging his head in shame, Hizashi slowly but surely picks at his food with disinterest as each subsequent voice message plays.

“EIGHTH MESSAGE,” announces the synthesized voice.

“Sho— Eraserhead!” a decidedly not-computer woman grunts, her voice getting gradually louder and more strained.

“I’m being pretty damn charitable here, so you’d better get over here before I change my mind,” she screams away from the phone, “because if you don’t, I swear I’ll find you and rip off your—”

Hizashi frantically taps the volume down before the entire diner hears Shouta’s private, explicit messages.

The woman, presumably ‘Hot Stuff’, screams intermittently with what he can only surmise to be an unadulterated rage. A repeating pattern of howling insults followed by wailing cries, spliced with directionless, guttural shouting throughout.

“This is half your fault, Shouta— Damn it!— Eraserhead!” she makes a short, out of place blubbering noise, “You call me back right now and grovel, or so help me, I will strangle you with that scarf before I shove those goggles so far up y—!” a harsh click.

“END OF MESSAGE EIGHT. TO SAVE THIS—”

Hizashi hits nine, deleting the message as per his friend’s request, frowning at the audacity of an ex that throws psycho temper tantrums at Shouta and leaves them as recorded messages. Eleven times.

“NINTH MESSAGE,” the recording starts.

“H-hello? Is this Shouta Aizawa? Your answering machine didn't give me a name, but the contact is listed as, um, well, it’s close to Shouta Aizawa, but it’s swear words, so, I think I dialed it right, ” a meeker voice speaks. The echoes of pained grunts and whines linger quietly in the background, and he can hear her cup the phone tighter.

Hizashi has to stuff some eggs in his mouth to avoid giggling at the thought of someone naming Shouta’s contact... that. He’s a better friend than that, and this is serious business.

“This is Inko Midoriya. We've met a number of times, though I’m not sure you remember me. I know I’m a bit plain looking, probably hard to recall,” she releases a light, self-effacing laugh in spite of herself, “but I see you in the halls all the time—  er- saw you, that is,” she clears her throat awkwardly.

“You always seemed like a good, young man to me,” Midoriya admits, voice sounding so much younger than her demeanor or words themselves. Even Hizashi can tell she’s an old soul, that shy tone hiding real strength. Like she had to grow up fast. Whether that’s for the better, he isn't quite sure.

“— And although I can’t condone the way you acted,” she says fiercely, leaving the sentence to hang in the dead air, a noose beginning to tighten, “… She was happier with you around. Y-you really hurt her, and I— I just think some kind of closure—whatever that means to you both—would do wonders."

"If you’re listening to your messages, I know that you've heard a lot of... Unkind things said about you already, and while two wrongs don’t make a right, of course, can you really blame her?” Midoriya asks.

“She may not know it herself, but she does miss you, you know. Still, I don’t think there’s any chance in the world of truly mending things back to the way they were,” she huffs, exhausted by the ordeal, “especially if you don’t plan on being involved. O-Or if you even deserve to be, though I know it’s not my place to say. However, I do have one request;” her voice hushes lower.

“Please talk to her, even if it’s just once. If you’re sorry—and you should be—” she nearly snarls, “then tell her. Let her move on in peace. Would you, please? I don’t beg for much. I try not to bother anybody, to make it on my own— but I’m begging for this. Please.”

There is a moment of silence that has Hizashi wondering if the message ended. Perhaps if it had, the tears he can feel coming on would've spilled, but Midoriya starts up again.

“Personally, I would also send money, as it’s the least you could do, but knowing her, she’d just rip up your checks anyway,” she chuckles darkly.

Screeching soon drowns out her words and yells of ‘Inko’ punctuate the message. He almost can’t believe a woman who sounded so sweet would end things by trying to extort his friend. Inko Midoriya is lucky he was never there to give her a piece of his mind, Hizashi thinks.

“END OF MESSAGE NINE. TO SA—” he presses four.

“TENTH MESSAGE.”

“Aizawa? This is Inko Midoriya again.”

It’s spoken so faintly that Hizashi has to click Shouta’s phone back up to max volume just to make out her words.

With any other noises altogether absent, the coldness in her tone takes up the entirety of the phone’s sound-scape, sending a shiver up Hizashi’s spine.

“I’m only calling out of courtesy to tell you that everything went well,” Midoriya talks like a flat-line, any hope for resolution she’d once had similarly dead, “not that you care, clearly.”

“Happy and healthy, without you. It floors me that she was willing to give you another chance to make things right. That takes true selflessness. I… I don’t know if I could've done the same. I wanted so badly for you to be the kind of guy she used to brag about, but you acted exactly like I thought you would, and I hate that I was right,” she sighs, a quiver breaking through her voice. “I’m sure you’ll be a terrific hero, but you’re a heartless person.”

Hizashi clutches his utensil even tighter.

“From here on out, I suggest you don’t contact her, because—" she scoffs, her tone scolding, "...I suppose she’s already got a man in her life now, doesn't she?” she almost laughs. “If you try, you’ll have to go through me. That goes for him too. So, for your own sake, stay away.”

Hizashi nearly vomits at the crudeness and audacity of these women, to call when ‘Hot Stuff’ has already got a boyfriend, meaning to cheat on the poor guy with Shouta, then make him the bad guy.

“That should be simple enough for you, Aizawa. I’d imagine taking care of your loved ones must be easy when you only love yourself.”

“END OF MESSAGE TEN. T-”

Hizashi is speechless.

The Voice Hero can’t think of a single thing to think, much less say about what he’s heard.

With a hiccup in his throat and a sickening wave spreading over him, neither from the food, he’s not sure he has the stomach to listen to any more of this.

“ELEVENTH MESSAGE,” the computer repeats the almost-identical line yet again.

“Eras-… Shouta.  I’m not sure why I’m calling, honestly,” says ‘Hot Stuff’.

“Neither am I,” Hizashi mutters at the inanimate object. A chime rings, and he turns to see both Shouta and Nemuri wandering inside, a fuzzy cap flattening Shouta’s hair down, no doubt Nemuri’s—complete with brightly-colored puff balls hanging over the sides—meant to protect from the cool night air, and a juice box dangling from his lips, as his arms are locked to his sides by Nemuri latching onto him.

It is a sight both adorable and amusing, but Hizashi is so caught up in a tale of irrelevant drama from some person neither he nor Shouta will ever have to think of or hear from again that he almost forgets to greet them.

He decides against, as Shouta put it, giving her the satisfaction, and pulls the phone down from his ear. With it left on the table, he hops up toward the door to pull his two best friends in the whole world into a massive bear hug.

Hizashi wears messy tears, sniffling them away best he can. He just loves his friends so much and can’t stand the thought of a couple crazy ladies harassing either of them!

Shouta looks comforted, in his own way, a small tint of red to his face and a loosening of his features.

Nemuri is confused. Confused, but ready to participate.

On a laminate table patterned like cracked ice in a dirty diner, a message goes unheard.

“I guess— I had to try, y’know? For him. All these hacky parenting books I've been reading talk about ‘positive male role models’ and I just thought… Look, I’m trying to learn from Inko here and ‘walk the higher road’. I’ll probably regret this later, but it felt wrong not to tell you his name. It-.. It’s Izuku. Izuku Fukukado. Handsome, right? Speaking of which, you’ll be glad to know he’s got my looks,” ‘Hot stuff’s laugh is heard by no one.

“Wouldn't want to tarnish that stellar reputation of yours,” she says, the laughter dying down to a melancholy sigh. “Well, now you know.”

.

.

.

“MESSAGE ERASED.”

Chapter Text

[13 Years Ago]

“Okay! We made it! We’re home!”

Using every ounce of care and motherly vigilance she can muster, Emi sets her son down with a feather-light touch, as though a half dozen bags of varying sizes aren't hanging off her frame. Thin straps dangle at the last curl of her fingers and dig into her shoulder blade. Only when he shuffles away toward a colorfully-cluttered corner of the room does she feel safe to unload.

Condensed and sorted into carriables, the day collapses in a heap with her. Groceries, laundry, mail, more groceries, an emergency gift for a rainy day, and some buckle-riddled carrier meant to comfortably hold a child. Meant to. A job not so easily accomplished when said child insists on getting a good look at everything and everyone.

How this frequent attitude of wonder toward life looks on his face is priceless. Still, considering Emi’s job, the irony of walking around looking like a woman wearing a busted straight jacket is not lost on her.

Sliding a heavy delivery box out from the doorway, it finally shuts with a whiny creak and a vibrating kick for good measure. There’s no damage she could do now that hasn't already been done by a previous tenant, and she’d be lying if she said it doesn't make her feel better.

“You wanna help me put it together, gag?” She asks rhetorically with a cocked brow. Izuku busies himself with a scruffy, stuffed bunny, one of a scant few holdovers kept from Emi’s own childhood, complete with a library of mouth sound effects inherited through her puppet shows.

If she’s a good joke, that makes him her lovable little gag.

“Yeah, me neither,” Emi shakes her head, sizing up the Fukukado family’s first ever new piece of furniture—or at least the box it ostensibly sits within—bought to replace the busted recliner that used to mirror her couch. Similar in style to an Adirondack chair but with a distressingly long list of parts; likely packed with hieroglyphics for instructions and the solar system’s most obscure type of screws. Perish the thought of using a normal crosshead. That would be much too convenient.

She sets it aside for now.

Things seem to glide by as she takes a peculiar enjoyment from the mundane sorting process. For once, Emi actually has enough time to get everything done, and that includes sleep, so long as her body keeps pace as the mind wanders.

Sometimes that wandering has her bushwhack through a disquieting jungle of thought and leaves her reflecting on whether she’d somehow hopscotched her way through a few big milestones in life to end up where she is, but the little boy that has her turning to check on him every eleven seconds is worth way more than whatever choices polite society deems important.

They've been wrong about plenty before, and misplaced priorities are a breed of mistake Ms. gosh darn Joke refuses to make.

Muttering her way into a tired genre of argument customarily reserved for showers and long train rides, its re-ignition makes swift work of their homecoming chores, but playing both sides leaves her dissatisfied. There’s no winning without also losing.

Those drawbacks of her vivid imagination are repelled by measured breaths. Emi’s had plenty of practice taking care of herself, now she just happens to have a +1! It’s like the world’s longest party! And while a few neighbors were initially put off by her—for lack of a better term—silliness, she’s proven capable of not burning the place down.

So the Fukukados have already exceeded those insultingly-low expectations.

Plus, having Inko close by does them all good. Ever since they met, she has been the definition of welcoming and kind, even when Emi’s reception to her niceties was briefly, decidedly less so; the associated memories of which require an audible groan for Emi to drown out whenever they come up.

The younger woman’s been wound up on more than one occasion at how a person as emotionally-intelligent as Inko can be oblivious to what Emi would describe as some pretty darn transparent cues. It continues to boggle her mind that Inko could get this far in life and still react with genuine shock when she’s told that a person lied.

Everyone’s blind to something, she supposes.

Bookended with Inko’s helpful attitude and sage advice, the idea that Emi’s major complaint is that she’s too trusting feels downright silly. Not the good kind of silly, the I’d die before ever saying this out loud kind.

With everything put away through varying levels of effort—fruit and yogurt in neat rows next to a mountain of sugary crud she shouldn't have bought but wouldn't be returning, clothes tossed haphazardly in the vague direction of her closet—Big Fukukado finds a comfortable spot on the floor next to Little Fukukado, who offers up his All Might plush with such unstintingly large eyes that she can’t help but accept it and the proposal of play it brings.

“Why, is that Izuku?” Emi asks with a hand over her mouth, using the deepest voice she can as ‘All Might’ flies toward Izuku. “I am here!... To get your autograph!” She gasps, and Izuku giggles, “Do I see a rabbit in need of rescue?!” She points the plush’s stuffy arm toward a fabric picture book covering another toy. Tragically—for the hapless bunny, anyway—that’s as far as the story gets before their doorbell rings.

“Emi?”

Oh no. Had she gotten the dates wrong? Was that today?

“Are you home?” asks a distinctly sweet voice, and is met with silence. Emi’s head hangs low as she processes the situation.

“Do you think we should wait inside,” the kind voice considers quietly with a jingle of keys, “or would that be creepy? Let’s go back to my place. A little stairs never hurt anybody,” but she gasps. “They probably have though, haven’t they? Okay, from now on try and be extra careful on stairs.”

“For fucks sake, she gave you a key, didn't she?” complains a rougher voice, surprisingly without a hint of detectable malice behind her grouching. “It’s too damn hot out for this shit. Just open the door before we both boil alive or that jackass comes back and gives you rabies.”

Jackass? Rabies? Oh.

“Don’t be mean. Lily never hurt anybody.”

That confirms it. The black cat, Lily—formerly Lil’ E.—formerly-formerly Lil’ Eraserhead—is harmless, but Emi can’t begrudge the stranger for her trepidation. Lily has never had the friendliest resting face.

“I will punch a cat if I have to, Inko. I’ll do it, no problem. But if you would pretty please turn the fucking key, I won’t have to.”

A high-pitched squeak and frantic key-turning has Emi looking up at Inko and an exceedingly attractive blond. Skin silky smooth, practically glistening, high cheek bones and a killer sense of style. How a parent stays looking like that is confounding. Given the choice, Emi would stick with her scars, but hot damn.

Really, the woman’s only visible imperfection is a pair of red irises, but at least they aren't too bright.

The smirk on her face contrasts Inko’s look of sheer horror at the mortifying possibility that her best friend’s foul language had been heard by Izuku’s young ears. She can’t seem to get her mouth working properly to squeeze an apology out.

“Um. Hi?” Emi gives a small wave, now singularly tuned in to the disorder of her apartment and the poor time management skills that lead to its current state.

In all fairness, her plate is fuller than full. It’s only natural for some things to spill over the sides. There are worse things to fail at than organization. But she doesn't feel like being fair.

“Fukukado, I presume?”

Pulling a face, she gives a weak wave in return. Izuku garbles with interest, slowly tumbling over his mother’s leg.

“That’s us,” Emi nods, sizing the stranger up from the floor while her son keeps wobbling his way forward, ever curious, “which makes you Bakugo, right? I've heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I assume.”

“Your ears would burn,” Emi snickers. Standing back up, she does her best not to grimace at the sorry state of her home in front of a guest, or, more accurately, this guest in particular. A "normal guest" can buzz off, but if there’s any first meeting worth the extra effort, it’s with Inko’s best friend.

She owes her as much. Trying to keep favors evenly matched with that woman is like playing tag with a train.

Scanning the room for something to say, Emi realizes she’s still holding Izuku’s plush All Might, one of many toys and blankets and books and learning tapes that have transformed what had once been mistaken for a small apartment into its true form as a large playroom.

“So. This is... Everything. Make yourself at home. The bathroom is that’a way,” Emi jabs a thumb at the only two doors, “It’s the one that looks like a bathroom, so, if you walk in and see a bed, you've gone the wrong way. Uh. Also, there’s a slim chance that I maybe, possibly, conceivably don’t have enough seats?”

The unassembled chair’s box continues to irk Emi.

“Oh gosh, bless your heart, Emi, you could've called if you’re too busy. We’re happy to reschedule!” Inko pleads, voice returning at last, her hands wringing like the poor woman’s trying to start a fire. Accommodating could be her middle name. As much as Emi wanted to make things flawless, at this point she’d settle for just getting Inko to relax.

“It’s finer than fine, I was just caught a little off gua–”

“Really, though!”

“I don–”

“It’s no trouble!”

“Bakugo,” Emi gives up the direct strategy of putting her friend at ease, “from one mom to another, help me explain to her that it would end up looking like this either way,” and even as the words leave her lips, she wants to rewind them.

Bakugo nods with a noise of definitive agreement and gives her a pat on the shoulder, but winces almost immediately thereafter, having fallen into the same verbal pitfall as Emi had seconds prior.

They say it’s the thought that counts, but never how much.

If Emi’s own guilt and Bakugo’s tightening expression don’t make her feel like enough of a terrible friend, watching Inko unconsciously coil her fidgeting hands over her lower gut does.

Their conversation’s hero makes himself known by the shivery jolt that shoots through Bakugo’s features until she’s stiff straight, shoulders snapping up to her ears.

Never one to leave a question unanswered, he has locked his mouth around her unblemished calf.

“Izuku!” Inko snatches him up, a giggle sneaking its way past her red cheeks. Wiping the boy’s face proves to be a war of attrition when he insists on hugging himself into her collarbone with a slurred “Inky!”

His mama on the other hand, tosses out any pretense of formality or good manners by breaking out into a side-splitting laugh. Contrary to her knee-jerk reaction, Bakugo joins in as well once she sees that Inko is also chuckling despite herself, though neither can match the volume of the Fukukados.

“Glycerin sweat,” Bakugo squeezes out an explanation between short breaths, pointing to her outstretched arm, which Izuku then tries to latch onto; this time he’s intercepted by Emi. As funny as that was, she’s got a pretty strict policy of not feeding her child other people's bodily fluids.

“Inko, why didn't you tell me this kid is cute as fu–” “FUN!” Inko cheeps over her best friend in the name of censorship. She shoots an apologetic look toward Emi, who snorts in response.

“You’re not wrong,” Emi shrugs, laughter dying down.

“I see we have an All Might fan,” Mitsuki gives an exaggerated gasp at the sight of Izuku’s itty-bitty shoes covered in cartoonish Pro Heroes and the All Might cuddly Emi hands back to him.

“I guess?” Emi raises a brow and plops both Izuku and herself down onto the as of yet unopened chair box, having wrangled him from getting more sweat and saliva on Inko, “but what kid isn't?”

Having acclimatized to all things hero-ing, it could be she can’t see the forest for the trees, but calling a kid who can’t put together an entire sentence an outright fan of anything seems generous.

“Stupid ones,” Mitsuki wipes a sleeve over her leg from her place on the couch. “My little guy is already obsessed.”

Emi hums in understanding, keeping her doubt unspoken.

She chalks it up to the big smile and colorful costume. Plenty of young kids have their ‘it’, and everything being equal, All Might isn't the worst to be infatuated with. His image is so pervasive it dominates much of the children’s hand-me-down store nearby, more so than even dinosaurs or trains, and if that isn't a testament to his ubiquity, Emi doesn't know what is.

The only way he could be more popular is if he had his own line of dinosaur-themed trains. As this is the man with his own brand of sock garters, it wouldn't surprise Emi if he does.

“I think it’s scary,” says Inko, doing her best to clean up the aftermath of a hyperactive child hurricane despite Emi's protests.

“Eh, Katsuki can handle it,” Mitsuki waves away her friend’s concern.

“And Izuku’s bound to learn more eventually,” Emi replies with a voice both apprehensive and resigned. Two discordant halves of parenting meet inside her and respectfully shake hands before beating the daylights out of one another.

Breaking news: the world is a scary place. Delaying it is one thing, but there’s no way to hide that fact forever. Every step forward adds another thousand contradictory questions, leaving Emi feeling almost as if she knows less than her boy.

Given that she literally has a jar of honey in the cupboard older than he is, it’s safe to say that particular worry is less than rational.

So long as she can walk the tightrope of defining “age appropriate”, that would be enough. For now it is just stuffed heroes and music blocks and other colorful, professedly constructive toys. It’s not as if she’d go turn on disaster footage for a kid who can barely talk.

“That’s exactly what I think,” Mitsuki agrees firmly, “If he wants to sit with Masaru while he watches the news, who the hell cares? It’s what he likes! And he ain't cryin’ about it, so it’s fine.”

… What.

A knock at the door takes Emi away from what might have ranked in her top ten strangest discussions if she’d only had the chance to play it out.

“Excuse me,” a young, heavily accented voice on the other side of her door speaks tentatively. “I saw.. beautiful woman earlier, who– she had the.. Um. A face that causes a scare? Yes? And I am.. of the wondering if you need help? Please tell this answer to me so that I will do many– er, much protection for you from the dangerous woman.”

Good, this conversation again. After letting Izuku cling to Inko like a koala and dragging her feet toward the muffled voice, Emi has to remind herself: happy face. Or closest as can be.

“For the thousandth time,” Emi’s tone as she cracks the door open is to the point and professional. An on-work spiel that shouldn't need repeating.

At her doorstep stands a lanky young foreigner wearing ill-fitting clothes, apprehension, and good intentions.

“I. Am. A. Hero. I do not need you to defend me. Please stop. Pretty please. It’s getting old. Also, the word you’re looking for in Japanese is frightening. Please stop. Are we clear?”

“R-right. Yes, we’re clear. Sorry, Emi,” he speaks sloppily, giving her an awkward bow.

“Fukukado,” Emi corrects him with a voice like a flat-line, irritation slipping further through the cracks.

“Sorry, Emi Fukukado.”

“That’s not–” Emi smacks her forehead and presses the cracked door shut with her weight, “Goodbye!” she says to the door, hoping it’s the last interruption.

“Sorry about that. He’s just a foreign student renting a few doors down. The guy means well.”

“I never knew you spoke English so fluently!” Inko practically glows.

Emi shrugs, because why would she know? Where would that have possibly come up?

“It’s not that big’a deal. I grew up around it. Sure, it comes in handy to give tourists directions,” she stretches in her seat awkwardly, “but other than that, it’s only useful when Izuku and I are alone. I just try to pepper it in and hope that big noggin of his is absorbing a word or two.”

“My English might be rusty, but,” Mitsuki interjects, “did you say you’re a hero?”

“You didn't tell her?”

“No, I– I just said you were in civil services,” Inko rocks on the balls of her feet when she has to set the restless Izuku down, “I don’t know all the ins and outs of your work, s-so I didn't want to overstep my bounds.”

“I wouldn't have minded," it almost comes out as mound, "but as always, you are so sweet it puts pastries to shame.” Emi throws her a cheesy wink, giving rise to a prominent blush on Inko’s face, half-blocked by her hands. “But yes, it’s true. I’m a hero. Well. Technically I’m a sidekick. But mark my words; I’ll be a Pro faster than you can say ‘stage presence’.”

“That explains the...” Mitsuki gestures loosely over Emi’s body, much to her confusion, before Emi realizes she was talking about the bruises stippled on her thigh, and the larger one that has blossomed around her bicep. Nothing more than a little mishap at work, fading fast over the prior week. Not even worth bothering a support hero about at the time. 

“Oh. Yeah.”

To her, they don’t even register as unusual. Emi is a sidekick. Before long she’ll be a full-blown Pro Hero. She’s spent her whole life becoming conditioned to ignore pain.

“So are you going to be the next All Might, or what? Will I hear people shouting your name from the rooftops?” Bakugo asks, flashing teeth.

“I’d prefer to hear laughter, actually,” Emi shakes her head. “I just want to be the best Ms. Joke I can be. All Might is number one for a reason, it’s just that—how should I put this…”

There’s a considered pause that the others are respectful enough to wait through.

“If a hero like All Might is the answer to how you’ll get through the bad times, I want to also help be a reminder why,” is what she decides on.

“Wow, a hero and a poet. You picked a good one,” Bakugo grins at a prideful Inko. “I’ll bet he loves to watch you work, huh?” she asks Emi, tussling Izuku’s hair. Predictably, he giggles.

It takes a moment for Emi to realize she isn't kidding.

“… Uh. I’m not gonna have my kid come watch me get kicked in the ribs,” Emi responds with a furrowed brow, coughing nonchalantly to try and change the subject, “but enough about me! What about you? Inko gushes about your fashion work.”

“Yeah, I’m fu—udging amazing at what I do,” Bakugo has another close call. The redaction is presumably her equivalent to being humble. “That’s actually where I met Masaru, my husband.”

They work together. How sweet.

“She introduced Hisashi and I to him on a double date,” Inko chimes in.

The ease with which Inko can tell stories that involve the fabled Hisashi Midoriya is nothing if not commendable. Keeping an ex-husband’s last name always sounded a little odd, but Emi knows she herself can’t exactly be seen as the paragon of healthy rebounding when a good day means wanting to break Shouta’s face and a bad day involves wanting to forgive the bastard.

She recalls once asking Inko, “How can you not hate his guts?”

“Why would I do that?” Inko responded with a sad smile, “We both wanted the same thing, so how can I blame him? No matter how many times we tried, it just wasn't working. It wasn't going to work.”

“But he left you for something you couldn't change.”

“We left each other,” Inko corrected, “and he is not responsible for my body. Hisashi owed it to himself to find someone who makes him happy. I hope he has.”

“Inko, you are a more forgiving woman than I could ever be,” Emi complimented with a shake of her head.

“I’m… Not sure that’s true,” Inko said quietly. “Even if you’d like it to be.”

They hugged. Emi didn't bother asking Inko what she’d meant. She doubted the answer would satisfy.

“The poor man looked terrified,” Inko says, “It wasn't until the day after that Mitsuki told me it had been their first date!”

“Shit, I wasn't gonna keep him if he couldn't get along with my best friend.”

“Anyone could get along with her,” Emi notes, lifting Izuku into her lap at his repeated request of “Mama, hol’!” and occupying him with the ever-popular bouncing leg.

“Exactly. It made her a good litmus test to see if I was smitten for a psycho.”

“He still had his briefcase! She dragged him straight from work!” Inko says from the tiny kitchen, empathetic and teasing at once.

“Aw hell, Inko! He was taking too long to ask me out.”

“How long is too long?” Emi cuts in.

“Hmm... Lets seeeee…” Bakugo cracks her knuckles mindlessly; even when in deep rumination she finds a way to seem threatening. “He was eye candy for about a month since he was in a different division. Once we finally got to talking, I gave him another few weeks to make a move before I just got tired of it.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Bakugo asks, ready to dissect whatever answer Emi can cobble together.

“Nothing, I was just—” What’s she supposed to say? What can she say that won’t come off snide and judgmental, as if she’s the arbiter of good choices? Emi can’t help but see herself courting similarly and the memories being pleasant makes them unpleasant.

If nothing else, she’s retrospectively thankful for Shouta and his tendency to take things at an agonizingly slow pace. Saved them a lot of trouble in the end. Having seen behind the curtain of ‘love at first sight’, she hopes it works out differently for Bakugo and her husband.

“–surprised that worked on the first try. I’m not exactly the best flirter,” she forces a laugh, “I probably came across like a total stalker. Come across,” Emi corrects herself, not that she’s had to do any flirting in years, “Either way, your husband sounds like a lucky man.”

“Damn right he is,” Bakugo boasts like it’s going out of style, “but I’m lucky, too. Passion begets art, and Masaru’s great at both.”

Inko, having sat back down with a drink in hand, immediately chokes on it, sputtering along with the friendly palm patting her on the back.

“I don’t suppose you two could make me a new costume sometime? Mama is in dire need of an upgrade,” Emi flashes a thousand-watt smile she already knows won’t work.

It’s not urgent, but the budget they’re given at her agency is for replacing equipment—not entire redesigns—and hers has begun to feel too kiddy. A weird complaint for Ms. Joke of all people to have, but she needs a suit easier on the eyes, something slightly less garish for her eventual debut. Preferably one that doesn't require she do her hair up and mess with that stupid bow knot and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Unfortunately, we don’t do hero-wear, and my boss is a dick. Also, I have a baby and a mortgage, so no freebies,” Bakugo lists an unnecessary series of reasons. Emi had been expecting a “no”, as she was mostly kidding to begin with, but it’s nice of Bakugo to care. Or pretend to. It's difficult to tell.

“Speaking of which— you and this handsome guy should come over and meet my handsome guys sometime. I know it’d be good for Katsuki,” Bakugo leans to boop Izuku on the nose.

Rough as her personality showed when they’d first spoken, Emi saw more tenderness in her than she’s given credit for.

“Little twerp won’t sit still.”

… Maybe.

“We’ll have to see who drops first then!” Emi says with the kind of smile she wears while sidekick-ing; wide, bright, and followed shortly by her distinct laugh. “My kid’s no slouch!” she says with a vigorous nod.

Izuku imitates her motion with an intense, discerning look about him as he tries to put the pieces of his current, unspecified puzzle together; a comical sight on his chubby face.

“What about you? Think you can make it?” Emi offers to a startled Inko, crossing her fingers in her son’s hair. “I’m sure Izuku would love to bring ‘Inky’ along.”

Wiping her eyes before anyone might see a single tear ready to fall, Inko nods with a wobbly smile. She tries to give a thank you, but has to clear her throat instead.

“You hear that, Izuku? You’re gonna get a new friend!” Emi tickles his sides.

“J-just so you know, he tends to play rough,” Inko warns.

“Ehhhhh, he’s not that bad,” Bakugo counters, but one look at Inko says that yes, he is that bad.

“Have no fear!” Emi bellows in a low impression of the number one hero and holds up a giggling izuku, “Izuku is tougher than he looks! Aren’t ‘cha, gag?”

“You okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look.”

Izuku might throw up. But in a good way! But in a bad way… In a good way!

“Did I go any faster that time?” he asks, doubled over and conscious again.

Being brainwashed feels almost like teleportation (or what Izuku assumes teleportation feels like) with an added dose of wooziness. One moment you’re where you are and the next moment you aren't. Simple and jarring and fascinating.

Brainwash is right, with the cycle set on ‘heavy’— honestly, it makes him ready to vomit. Not that he’s going to tell Shinsou about choking down bile and hurt his feelings.

Other than a spot of nausea, it’s a bit like sleep, if sleep involved ending up on the other side of a trashy clearing with sore fingers from carrying a misshapen hunk of metal on the way there.

Quite literally disorienting, to the definition.

Shinsou clicks the stopwatch function on his phone, running a hand through his hair and fighting his way off of an old couch that has absorbed him between scratchy fabric and sand.

“No,” he concludes bluntly.

Coming to the beach hadn't been Izuku’s idea, but boy is he glad they came. Their previous destinations often left something to be desired. Specifically something related to preparing for U.A.

The café was nice, but its pricey beverages meant the only thing he drank up was the atmosphere. The arcade had been colorful, but he stunk at every game, and the lighting made it difficult to go over his notes.

It’s easy to have a good time with a friend around, but each day’s end left him increasingly antsy when they came and went with negligible progress.

That changed once Shinsou asked to read one of his journals. As any totally-normal person would, Izuku proceeded to vomit words until he felt lightheaded and insisted they postpone their afternoon plans, swing by the Midoriya apartment and cram every volume he still had into Shinsou’s backpack. Shinsou bargained his way into only taking #12, and if he wanted more later, so be it.

Things quickly spiraled out from there. Once they got to talking shop, Shinsou had some surprisingly insightful observations about a few of his entries. He may not have the disposition of a fanboy, ready to fervently catalog hero after hero, but his comments and suggestions have been a joy to receive.

They've spent less and less time relaxing, which ironically eases Izuku’s mind more and more. It stopped mattering where they go when their noses are in books anyway, or Shinsou’s busy researching nutrition while Izuku fiddles with whatever bandage he’d been stuck with that afternoon.

Naturally, with this building momentum, the prospect of skidding to a halt and spending a half-day at the beach had Izuku pacing in deep deliberation, but Shinsou insisted, citing many fond childhood memories as proof of its worth.

Lo and behold, its glittering sands and crystalline waters have since been reduced to a giant trash heap, and Izuku couldn't be happier about their new blessing in disgu(st)ise.

Imagine how surprised he was to find out that Shinsou had baited him into coming. He knew the area was trashed and he knew Izuku couldn't resist a big pile of garbage, the sneaky devil! A clever one, too: Dagobah Beach has everything they need and more!

It’s somewhere to exercise for free, it’s a way to give back to the community, it'll rectify what fly-tippers have done to Shinsou’s nostalgia, and if, hypothetically, they wanted to practice using quirks in “public”, what better or more solitary place to do it than an illegal garbage dump?

Physically, ever since he got the tentative O.K. from Shinsou—a clean bill of health, if you will—he’s been careful not to invite injury back into his life.

… Which amounts to trying to avoid Kacchan more than usual and listening to Shinsou when he says things like, “Please don’t try lifting that one yet, Midoriya.”

Neither goal is coming along particularly well, but a silver lining never wilts. Case in point: Shinsou is definitely improving his ability to deal with Izuku’s aches and pains.

He stitched Izuku’s collarbone the other day, and he did a heck of a job! Super neat!

Waiting for Izuku to heal before they began in earnest had been a valiant effort, but there's only so long one can stand idle because of new injuries that replace the old. Much as it makes Shinsou squirm, but they haven’t got a choice.

Nothing’s perfect. Air conditioning would be nice. Sand can be a pain. The walk from Aldera is longer than he’d like. But it isn't right to look a gift trash pile in the mouth. Adversity is opportunity!

Eventually, Izuku would like to see where Shinsou lives, but meeting his parents is too risky until they’re training at a dojo, onto which the excuse for injuries can be easily attached. The way Shinsou tells it, they would be less than thrilled to meet a caricature of cuts and bruises. It’s hard not to wonder, though: do they have hair as soft as Shinsou?

“Maybe you aren't being specific enough. Kinda like the quirk version of a monkey’s paw,” Izuku posits weakly, wiggling his hand. “So, instead of saying ‘lift that and go over there’, you could say ‘lift it and go over there at a specific pace’. Or you could use different adjectives.”

Shinsou maintains eye contact, but Izuku can tell he’s inspecting the now-yellowing bruise from the day they met. Were it another subject, a pirate joke would likely be in order.

“’Kacchan’ give you any more souvenirs today?”

“No!” Izuku straightens his stance, deflecting the question as though it is utterly absurd, despite being anything but.

“Good, ‘cus the kit is out of salve to put on any burns that some abusive jerk gives you with his flame quirk or whatever, and we have our hands full as it is.”

Although Izuku opens his mouth to defend Kacchan, sensing an oppressive air, he keeps his comments to himself. Kacchan has never been the best conversation piece between Shinsou and himself. Literally the opposite, in fact, as calling them ‘conversations’ would hang in the balance between charitable and obtuse.

Izuku has quickly learned how intense of a reaction Shinsou has to the topic. It probably comes from a good place, but it’s easy to feel unheard when the guy refuses to listen the millisecond Izuku tries bringing up anything close to positive about Kacchan. Generously, Izuku estimates he’s gotten maybe two dozen words out about Kacchan before being promptly shut down.

Changing the subject is just easier for everyone, so Izuku lets his mind wander for insight and hand wander for his pen and notebook.

“Do you feel different levels of resistance in what tasks you give the v–” victim, he almost says, to his shame, “recipient?”

He taps the pen to his bottom lip and waits until Shinsou finds a spot to set down the broken microwave weighing him down. Things could be going so much smoother had they the practice--- physical and quirk-wise.

“Like I said, I just tell them what to do and they do it,” Shinsou says through a novice attempt at cracking his back. “Why do you ask? Is that how your quirk works?

“A laugh is a laugh,” Izuku shrugged nervously. As long as his father's quirk was active, what more could he do? “It’s like… It’s like a tiny raincloud I put over the person. Once they’re soaking wet, they can’t exactly get wetter.”

“That analogy is so plain,” Shinsou can’t help but chuckle, wiping sweat from his brow as he prepares to move a large box of cans. A question loads itself to be asked, but it never comes. That's fine. Izuku wouldn't have a proper response anyhow.

Izuku almost snips at him for delaying what will be an empty conversation regardless, but that’d make him an even worse friend than he already is.

Of course his analogy is plain. It’s not as though he’s had many chances to practice. It’s not like he’s got his Mom’s quirk, where at least she could explain the ins and outs of it. It’s not like he's worth sticking around for.

“—doriya, can you give me a hand? Not that I don’t appreciate your faith in me, but I think my arms would snap trying to lift this alone,” Shinsou’s hands remain clenched around half the box, ready for a partner. With rapid blinks and a nod, Izuku moves to grab the other end. He slips on a pleasant smile, because he doesn't think he’s capable of a bright one at the moment.

“Don’t do that,” he says with a grunt, heaving his end up. His taller friend follows suit.

“Do what?” Shinsou replies, hoping not to trip and break their toes. With gritted teeth, Izuku has to wait until they set it down to respond.

“Downplay yourself like that,” he whines, pulling a long splinter from his palm. “I won’t stand here while you insult a friend of mine.”

“What’re you gonna do, beat me up?” Shinsou’s flat look pulls up at one side.

“If I have to,” Izuku playfully threatens and raises his voice as if to recite a quote, “’words can last a lot longer than the argument, so make sure they’re positive ones… But if you have to, just clonk ‘em on the noggin.’”

Izuku gives Shinsou the lightest ‘clonk’ imaginable, squishing purple hair down over his face; it springs back up only after Izuku pulls his fist away, granting Shinsou his vision back, expression unchanged.

“Easy there, All Might Jr.” he pushes Izuku with a finger to the forehead. “Save it for tomorrow.”

As it turns out, when you’re totally inexperienced, it isn't easy to find somewhere you can learn to fight that won’t hold your hand at a snail’s pace. It’s not snobbery or inflated self-worth that keeps them from signing up to take ‘beginner-friendly group classes for all ages’ advertised on telephone polls. They just don’t have the luxury of time. Worst comes to worst, we can take lessons from Professor Internet.

“Um. I don’t think we’ll be actually fighting tomorrow…?”

Realistically, Izuku doubts they’ll get five words in before they’re laughed out, much less put right into a fight. That seems to be the running trend so far, and they're just about out of options before needing to resort to taking lessons from Professor The Internet. Never know until you try though.

“It was a joke. Aren't you supposed to be the expert of those?” Shinsou intercepts a second ‘clonk’ing. “Just don’t be late, okay?”

“Aww! Don’t jinx me!”

Shinsou rolls his eyes and gives the wooden box three solid knocks to deter the superstition. Izuku adds one more.

“For luck!”

Do it again.

Get your ass up and do it again.

Katsuki punches at the floor before its thick padding can pool any more of his sweat. He forces himself up onto shaky legs and stumbles back toward a self-appointed starting position. An edge to the blast zone. Something to remind other members and supposed-trainers of the danger they’re in if they try and fuck with his regimen.

Pouring down his arms onto smoky hands, the sweat turns a dull gray from the dust. An oddly entrancing sight for someone whose hands are everything, but as Katsuki’s targets reset in his peripheral, he recognizes the momentary fascination as little more than an excuse to catch a breather.

He’ll have to go even harder this time. Heroes don’t get breathers.

“LET’S GO, ASSHOLE!”

His occasional shouting may have once startled a few of the staff, but they have long since become accustomed to the enthusiastic attitude that regularly livens up their workplace. Or they all dropped dead; Katsuki neither knows nor cares. They leave him alone. That’s what matters.

It’s always been a big place. With a Quirk Gym this pricey? Size is a given. Big-big. Getting loud is part of the process, even key to some people’s quirks, and that requires plenty of room if you want to keep customers happy. And safe. Katsuki takes pride in being an impetus for the gym having recently retrofitted their equipment and flooring with additional, quirk-applied absorbents.

… He assumes. They haven’t confronted him about it—nor should they for what Katsuki’s parents shell out monthly—but it makes sense. Nobody wants to go workout and be subjected to the sounds of, and shock from constant, powerful explosions if they don't have to.

Fine, then. If they want to cry a river, they can build themselves a bridge and get the fuck over it, because he isn't breaking any rules.

The dense foam figure taunts him with its stillness. As the last rubbery chunk puffs back out to complete its statuesque form, Katsuki moves before his aching muscles can bemoan him into stopping.

A leap forward and two pointed shots beneath him launch Katsuki high into the air. He shifts. A blast at the side sends him twirling. Another, and his speed increases. The target is in sight. He reaches from the ends of his toes to the tips of his fingers, but the ground is coming faster and faster and the desperate explosion he sends toward the dummy before impact does little to slow his graceless tumbling.

Flopping along padded floors means the only bruise he gets is to his ego.

Shaking off the disorienting roll that has lead him to the target’s feet, Katsuki stares upside down to see it almost entirely intact. His insignificant scorch mark on the faceless dummy fades in seconds. Rubbery foam, unblemished and deep blue, it mocks him.

Even with all his power, he couldn't do a damn thing.

Again.

His performance was even worse than his earlier attempts, and knowing where he’d gone wrong is a poor consolation. He knows, without intent or conscious dissection; just another reason he’s the best. He ain't some fucking meat-head. When you’re number one, you know shit— you don’t have to analyze everything like the fucking Villain Jr.

Instinctively, Katsuki understands he’d angled himself poorly from the start. Way too steep. His spiral was uneven and his accelerating shots mistimed, hurdling him closer to the floor. Flailing arms and legs killed whatever momentum was left.

He needed to tuck in more next time, too—he isn't supposed to be a fucking bird trying to flap its wings, so what the hell was he doing up there? If it had any chance of working, Katsuki would have to let his shoulders take the brunt of the wind so his hands can catch the draft, otherwise they’ll just dry out. Like how they just did.

The innate, unconscious analysis he would sum up as “do it fucking right next time” plays like a movie in the background as he laments his failure.

What a shitshow.

A quavering moan comes from his left. Far, but loud enough for him to hear over his own breathing and the quiet, inoffensive pop music playing from the high ceiling. It’s that stupid kid again.

She has been terrorizing Katsuki’s gym experience recently, and while tuning out her whining is good practice for keeping focused, watching her crumple to her knees in defeat snaps Katsuki’s last thread of patience harder than his teeth do when he stands up.

This girl better not be crying. Katsuki seethes, heading right for her back facing him. It’s impossible to see anything distinct besides the singular tone of her body; short, sandy hair on her head endlessly crumbling to the floor, pebble by pebble. The girl really couldn't be much younger than he is—if at all—so what the hell is she doing sitting there all defeated like a damn child?!

“HEY! Get up or die,” he stomps beside her, receiving a ridged hop in return.

“Ah- My bad!” says the startled girl, spinning to look up at him and kicking herself away to get slightly more personal space than the domineering, sweaty Katsuki is giving her. It does not work— something she learns as the snarling blond continues to close the distance.

“Did you need to use this equipment?” she asks innocently, pale eyes dripping sand, not unlike the rest of her.

“No. You’re just pissing me off,” Katsuki crosses his arms, wearing an askance look. Clacking noises slow with each cycle; they signal the winding down phase of the light, doughy ball launchers she’d been practicing with.

“W-what did I do?”

Katsuki’s seen her before. She comes across as a normal enough gym member, but he has a keen eye for quitters. Not that that’s saying much, as most people are do-nothing losers— this nobody just has the audacity to exercise in his general vicinity. It’s fucking maddening. People half-assing through life even more so. Winners like Katsuki don’t need that kind of shitty attitude near them.

“You suck.”

“Oh, um. Sorry? I guess I do,” she fails at laughing, picking herself up nervously. “I was actually thinking the same thing. I should just pack it in...”

Presaging the inevitable, her words spill out as if she had been looking for an excuse to give up. What a fucking coward.

If Katsuki’s vague knowledge of her quirk learned through glances toward her overly dramatic sighs is to be believed, then she’s an even bigger chicken-shit than the usual, run-of-the-mill layabouts. It seems the girl’s quirk comes from the grains of sand flaking off her monochrome body’s exposed skin or hair. He’s seen her trying to form shields out of the excess; they look plenty complex, but collapse at a single impact.

There are tons of ways to use a quirk like that and this girl is content to be shot at with soft, almost marshmallow-like orbs. Katsuki doesn't bother with this machine, but if he did, he wouldn't let those stupid balls get close.

She could be here for hero training, or self-defense, or who fucking knows, or it’s supposed to help her in ballet or some shit. Potential— no, life is all or nothing, and this girl is wasting it.

‘It’ being HIS damn time by distracting him.

“Then do it, Pebbleface!” Katsuki says coldly, excoriating a complete stranger. “Seriously. It’s a great fucking plan. You’ll definitely get a lot better that way.“

His whole body clenches at her listless demeanor. Why is it so hard for people to understand basic common sense? Get the fuck out or stop being so damn pathetic! He already has to deal with the nobodies at school, but at least they don’t try in the first place. Pebbleface though, has invaded his sanctuary with her unmotivated, lackadaisical efforts, and that shit is too fucking intrusive to deal with any longer.

”I don’t have time for this shit,“ he turns, hoping she got the picture.

“Do you think you could give me a few tips sometime?”

Well, she got a picture. It just happens to be an entirely different picture, taken by an entirely different person, who loves being annoyed.

“Hell no! I’m not your babysitter,” Katsuki recoils with anger and disgust, moving back to collect his things at the station he’d been using. This time she’s the one following him.

“You seem like you’re pretty tough,” she mumbles fast, shambolic sentences. “I-I've seen you doing your, um, bomb practice before? And it’s really impressive. I was thinking, since you’re here so often, it’d be cool if I could have, like, five minutes of your time. See, I’m tr—”

“DROP FUCKING DEAD!”

A second. Two, tops. That’s how long pebble girl startles until she spins on her heels and squeezes her resent into each step away from him, trying not to well up.

“Fuck,” he claps a hand over his eyes, releasing a shaky breath. Blocking a sense helps him to focus on the infuriating situation.

“How about don’t make a literal shield, moron,” Katsuki growls, dragging the hand down his face. He can hear her stop moving. “You aren't cosplaying a fucking knight. Form a wall that does its damn job and worry about moving it later. You shouldn't be working on your speed yet if you're too weak to handle a marshmallow.” he runs through it quickly with his lids shut before stomping off to grab his gear where he won’t have to disgrace his eyeballs with someone else’s bullshit problems longer than necessary. “Now go die or I’ll kill you," he tacks on with little passion.

Yeah, that should make sure she won’t bother him again. She probably would have come back even more irritating if Katsuki had left it with only threats.  Not that he had much behind them today. Training must have wore him out more than he thought.

(Thankfully, over the following weeks, he would soon notice by the lack of brain-piercing whines that the sandy girl started working out in a different section of the gym and learned to shut the hell up.)

(He didn't see much more of her after that, outside of occasional trips to grab equipment from that area. More importantly, he didn't have to hear her either, aside from a handful of apologies one time after she erected a too-wide sand wall ahead of him by mistake.)

(Which means Katsuki’s kickass solution worked, as expected. No more having to deal with some extra.)

Clammy clothes test the limits of his duffel bag zipper and it’s difficult to take any satisfaction from his daily efforts. Having your last attempt of the day suck so badly puts a damper on the whole affair. If it were up to him, he’d stay all night, but the hag has rules, and those rules say to get the hell home in time for supper.

Even that leash has shortened as of late.

Katsuki knocks his way outside and into the amber tinted dusk, a lambent sky strikingly different from indoors, where the lights are bright, white, and the only hour they look like is ‘timeless’. Out here, though, is another story; naturalistic and melancholy.

One day more.

“Don’t kick the door, Katsuki. You’ll bust the glass,” his mom casually chides him from her spot against a lamppost, preoccupied with roughly sketching on a notepad she keeps in her purse. He can hear himself retort, but doesn't bother doing so consciously, leaving a smudge on his immediate memory of the conversation.

It’s all thoughtless until she’s willing to acknowledge he doesn't need protecting twenty-four-seven, or ever. The trains run as well as they always have, yet she insists on driving him to the gym and waiting outside with levels of patience bordering on Auntie’s.

She does have the decency to stay out of his training, for the most part, which isn't a new dynamic by any means, but this recent, hovering presence has Katsuki appreciating his independence wherever he can get it.

A waiting game. That’s what this is. All he has to do is bide time until she stops acting so damn anal retentive.

And since that’ll apparently never happen, it looks like he’s in for another roaring round of trying to communicate with his father silently over the dinner table, urging him to stop indulging her overreactions.

Katsuki has yet to receive a response on this particular issue, and the ride home is spent looping his dilemma. By the time he realizes the car isn't moving anymore, they've long since parked.

“Fuck’re you looking at?” Katsuki asks after an unnerving silence and stare from his mother, as though he hadn't been caught unaware.

“Just a brat,” she replies through a sigh, unlocking the car doors. Shaking her head at something she does nothing to explain to Katsuki, her hand reaches into his spiky hair before he can escape and smushes him down into the seat with a touch that non-Bakugos may call ‘harsh’.

“Let’s head inside,” his mom shifts out of her door, “and don’t forget to grab your gym bag. I can’t be lugging your crap around forever.”

She says it quickly, marked by a clearing of her throat that shakes him from his frozen posture.

“Took you long enough,” he replies dismissively, refusing to buy such a change of heart so easily after weeks of enduring her bullshit.

 . . .

Katsuki learns his suspicion was ultimately misplaced when his mom doesn't show up after school the following day.

I guess even the hag has a surprise or two in her old age, he snorts at the thought, giving his surroundings a once-over, as though she’s going to spring from the bushes outside Aldera.

Those cronies practically do just that, before Katsuki has the time to even think about walking to the train station.

“Bakugo, check this out,” Weird-fingers waves a rectangle in front of him, sandwiching Katsuki with the help of Slug-eyes.

“We think it’s Midoriya’s phone!”

Katsuki snatches it from that nobody’s hand and clicks its home button, revealing a stupidly-bright, overly-saturated picture of All Might. The mental image of a small boy with bedraggled, light green locks and a cruel smile slots truly over the screen in front of him.

Leave it to the universe to go out of its way to remind Katsuki of that blight while he was celebrating.

“No shit,” he grunts.

The damn thing is password locked, but it can’t be that hard to guess. Katsuki’s been forced to deal with that bastard for a long-ass time. Longer than any of these others losers by a damn mile. A damn marathon. It’s no wonder they couldn't guess four fucking numbers correctly.

With how dumb his classmates are, they've surely jammed in a few incorrect sequences already----1234, that sorta crap—so he’s sure to be on a strict, nebulous limit.

5455? No, KILL is too on the nose. 8456? Nah. Deku wouldn't use VILN.

0715? 3358? 4376?

All of them fail. Hero. His Birthday. Katsuki even tried Deku in case that freak had a sicker sense of humor than he thought. Katsuki’s hands tingle with each vibration signaling another wrong password and Deku’s phone gives a warning for its last attempt.

Katsuki waves away those nobodies looking over his shoulder with a snarl and a small blast so he can focus.

What’s the first password he ever saw of Deku’s? He must have used one to take that bastard’s bike. Or did he just blow the chain up? Damn, does it feel like a lifetime ago. But before that there was.. A toybox? Or something?

Mhmm, I know the numbers, Kacchan, b-but, I, um—

Spit it out, Deku!

I’m only s’pose to open it if there’s an emergency!

This is an emergency! Your best friend wants to see inside the stupid thingy! Stop acting dumb! Heroes aren't scared!

I-I’m not scared!

Then open it already!

The image begins to defog in Katsuki’s mind. That’s it!

That footlocker with nothing but shitty doodads in it. What a rip-off that was. A busted slinky, a handful of jacks, one of those stupid novelty guns that says ‘BANG!’— just a bunch of crap. Certainly nothing worth the chewing out he shared for Deku having a big mouth. Fucker couldn't even do that right.

Well, it’s his only option left. Even if the code doesn't end up working, there’s a bone-deep relief in knowing that at least someone had truly been able to see what a psycho Deku is. Not an annoyance or a weirdo, but a villain in the making. Even if Deku is heartless enough not to care, it still helps vindicate what Katsuki has always known to be true.

He taps in 5653, an all too obvious JOKE in retrospect.

The phone unlocks with a simulated click.

It’s utterly devoid of anything worth a damn. The pictures are low quality photos Deku has taken of heroes in action—probably to come up with plans against them—and fan art of his favorites. Deku’s browser is nothing but hero news, history, old comic scans and stand up specials.

Katsuki is close to calling it quits and scorching the phone to kingdom come when he spots the native text messaging app thrown in a folder. Out of sight, out of mind. It makes sense; even a villain doesn't want to be reminded of how alone they are.

Unsurprisingly, Deku has unread messages from Auntie, however, another contact sits below hers without a single text between them.

The name reads: Hitoshi

It could be that Deku found himself another villain to scheme with.

Or he suckered someone into his web.

That thought pulls at Katsuki’s chest. He forces the sensation down when it demands to come up, until it settles on constricting his worn out muscles.

Katsuki fucking Bakugo is going to put a stop to all this shit. Enough is enough. End of story. No more 'next time's. It’s gone too far. He’s going to be a hero, damn it. The best in the world.

It’s time he started acting like it.

Chapter Text

It was sprinkling when he got up. A drop here or there, fog sticking to the corners of the window, but the forecast called for sunshine.

Sleep came as an even greater struggle than usual, impossible as it sounds. Nerves, he supposed.

Today was meant to be another milestone on their road to U.A., and what time more sensible to fidget the night away than when your dream is on the chopping block? Difficult to rest and let the mind make up new ones when his room was spinning for most of the night, like he’d just stepped off that carnival ride with the most substantial ratio of fun now, regret later.

Once Izuku felt his body agreeable to sleep, his alarm had gone off.

The sky darkened, uncaring of the weatherman’s assurances. By the time he got out the door and ran to school, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was a pattern that continued on for the rest of the day as he watched the sprinkling turn to rain and the rain turn into a storm, trees shaking like they owed the air a heavy debt.

Fitting. Whatever his own debt was, though, he'd prefer to pay it swiftly.

With any luck the trains were still running on time. With how much closer Nabu was to their destination, Shinsou could end up soaking wet from waiting. The thought made Izuku’s stomach drop— disappointing his only friend.

That wasn’t the only reason to rush. Kacchan had been strangely intense all day, and although Izuku hadn’t seen that kind of look on his face before, he had a solid inkling that it wasn’t because they were going to have a heartfelt exchange of their differences.

Okay, then. Come up with a plan, like a real Pro Hero would. He could do that. Slip out before Kacchan could see which way he went. Push through the crowd. Loop around back and make a break for it over the fence.

He ran through it a hundred times instead of listening to the monotonous lecture given by a lethargic teacher.

The moment class let out, Izuku skidded past his classmates in a mad dash to beat the darkest patch of clouds that had inched their way closer with each passing hour. As the bell rang, Izuku was already up, and he heard Kacchan’s chair screech painfully as he ran by, but he dared not look back, thankful for the simple fact that he hadn’t been grabbed.

Size was on his side for once; his shorter, thiner frame squeezing through the outflow of other classrooms while Kacchan was stuck shoving fellow students. After so many turns, he was alone at the back exit, emergency sign flickering above him. Just another problem the faculty were happy to ignore.

With the Kacchan-less opportunity to prepare for a full-on sprint, Izuku paused to properly pack everything away— his notebook didn’t need more water damage. Between Izuku and freedom stood a door, a courtyard, a small gravel path, and a fence. It was doable.

Until it wasn’t.

Left hand having hardly left its grip on the door, shoes two steps into a wetness they hadn’t been stuck in since that morning, Izuku lacked the presence of mind to expect or avoid the arm that thrust out in front of his neck.

Ah. Clotheslining. Points to Kacchan for originality.

Execution left something to be desired, however, as the school grounds had largely softened into a thick muck. Izuku didn’t have much of a headache to nurse.

For now, Izuku thought. Pinpointing discomfort can be an uncooperative affair when it’s drowned out by a greater pain. Coming to grips with the sudden strike under his chin took precedent.

Bright side. There’s got to be a bright side somewhere.

Izuku’s hair would need a rigorous washing after this, but nature would let him shower on his way to the train station, free of charge! Ha! How convenient!

That reminded him: He had to tell Shinsou that one comic’s bit about the man in the shower later. So relatable.

Man takes a shower. Has time to think. Remembers an uncomfortable memory— something embarrassing from years ago.

Man shouts it away, cringing heavily at the very thought.

“Is everything okay in there?” his wife asks with concern over his untimely yell.

“Uh, y-yeah, I’m good, I just turned the hot water on too fast,” he catches an excuse.

His wife pauses.

“… Every day?”

Ha! Gosh, if only everyone could appreciate a good joke.

Despite his position, Izuku had a single Ha! at the twisted direction his brain took to escape the increasingly agitated Kacchan above him, whose grip tightened around a rectangle with a barely contained fury.

“Alright. I’m not gonna ask you twice: who the fuck is this?” Kacchan asked, words seething through his teeth as he took a knee atop Izuku, because of course he’d instantly know how to interrogate someone without getting his uniform muddy. He was Kacchan.

It was almost casual, the way his knee dug into his once-friend’s stomach. Aside from the temper with which he made every motion, that is.

Held in front of Izuku’s face was… his phone? My phone! In the sparking hand of Kacchan, and having gotten itself a host of new, large cracks and chips since the last time he saw it. Give and take.

“That’s one mystery solved…” Izuku mumbled to himself. At least it wasn’t stolen or washed down the gutter. His muttering caused the knee atop him to press down harder.

“Speak up, stupid Deku,” Kacchan said, accentuating each word as he throttled his anger.

“I-I-I don’t understand the q-question, Kacchan,” Izuku responded with a squeak.

“The screen, dumbass! Look at the screen!”

A new name sat between Auntie and Mom that read:

“…Hitoshi?” he answered warily, recalling the contact just as it fell from his lips.

“Who fucking else!?”

“H-he’s just— just a friend of mine,” Izuku tucked in on himself, trying to be as small as possible, only to roll farther into the mud.

“Is that a joke?” Kacchan scoffed, “Villains don’t have fucking ‘friends’, you manipulative little shit. They’ve got other villains, and people they lie to. So which. fucking. is it?”

“Neither,” Izuku answered with a short-lived defiance, eyes shut in anticipation of a blow.

And it came. He felt Kacchan grab his open hand and set off his quirk. The skin of his palm and finger pads dried and rose like bubbles. They tore away at the seam like parchment, leaving his inner hand entirely raw, at which point it was promptly shoved back into the muck.

Kacchan glanced to each side, scanning for onlookers before he leaned in close.

Hot breath hit Izuku’s face. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn it burned like the rest of Kacchan’s arsenal. 

“You’re so fuckin’ lucky I’m too nice to rat out a hero, othě̦r͍̅w͚ì̮̻̏s͈̐e͙̠̤͘͘̚ ẗ̩hi̍͊͘ś̮̼ w̳͓͖̳̌͊̍̉ḧ̡͇̮̳͓́́̅̓̄̉ͅo̖̜͛l̗͚͚̩͎͋̉̃̉̂̔̈́͢͜ę̺̖̠̍̃̊̊̚͜ ḑ̭̳̹̩̬̗̑̉̒̇͌̑̚ä̛͓͕̭̤́͊̚m̨̡͉̫̱̯͔̫͒̈́̌̏̄͑͠͡n̯̺͖̱̗̟̗̬̹̊̿̓͊̇̇̃̅͆̾͟ s͙͔̙̠̙̺͕̦͑̐̈́̎̓̇̋̕c̨̛̟̥̞̲̟̣͔̖͇̄̌̋̅̆͟͞͞͞͞͞ͅh̛̘̗͎̠̹̱̺̯̠̯̆͌͂̃̎͊̒̎̚͜͢͠͠ǫ͚̺̪͉͖̥̘͈͔̰̍̓̏͒̓̉̋̈̑̊̂͑ͅo̧̭̘̱̬̿̑̿̏̔̚ͅl̢̳͙̤͔̖̯͖͇̬̠͓̹͛̽̈͋̀̈́͑̐̓̈́͘͝ w̨̢͙̣͍̭̪̣̰̲̠̰̜͍̿̃͊͒̓̆̓̇͑̓̏͘͝ö͇̲̫͚̥̱͇̲͇̞͓̜̹̭̣́̆̈̓̑̆͑̍͑̒̈̇̕͘͟͢͠u̩̘͋́͂̀̋̈̐̀̕͝l̯̦̟͋͋͞d͙̂ k̢̢̞̳̹͍͇̭̠̠͔͚̟͔̻͉͊͂͗̇͋̿̋̒͐̽̆͊̀͆͒̆̇̅͌͟͟ͅͅn̢̢̛͇̹̻͙͈̖̩̤̱̥̠̻̬̯̝̗͐̀̾͗̿̆͂̓͂̅͋̒͐̈́̑͘͘͜͡ͅơ̡̢̖̖͓̗̞͈̞̳̯͚̦̖̙̲̪̹̠̥̋̃̒̐͗̊͌̍̃͆͒̍͑̇̆́͞͝͠ẘ̨̨̨̫̥̠̪̩͚̩̙̮̣̯̞̖͉̫̜̓͒͒̋͌͐́̇̋̒́̌͊͐̑̆͌̕͢.t̴̙͎̺̠̥̖̥̦̎̀͋̂̒̏̑ͅh̢̢̗͔̺̀͗̃͊͋a̷̢̛̫̱̙͍͈̋͊̆̕͜t̴̢̢͙̖̩͓̖̽͆͒͐̏̓̈́͛͡͡ͅ e̎̊͋̃̎̏̽́̋͘͝͝v̢̨͍̪̣̦͉͈̟̬͉̤͍̰̓̽͗͂͒̓̄̈̈͗̀̂͗̕͢e̢̮͚̠̪̠̼̯͓̞͚̤̋̽̔͑̆̅̃̑̉̉̋͘͘͟͜͝͡ͅn̢̡̨̡̛͚͚͕̪̞͕̞͇̗̥̊̒͛̄̆͌̍̌̈͑͛̒̕̚ͅ y̢̛̟͔̥̠̦̩͉̬̼̺̙͈̗̲͂͗̒͌̔̈́̓͐̂̈͐̏͊ơ̡̨̡̧̝̣̙̞̯͎̯̻̥̾̂̈̊̉̎̒̍͂͊͒̚͘͟͝ͅu̧͍̟̜͕̘̖̹̞̼͚̰͚͖͛̿̏̈́̊̍͋̅̓̈́̉̾͜͠͞ŗ̢̢̛̻̩̬͕̰̪̺̖̟̣̤̂̿̐̒̀̈́̄̊̉̎̏̕̕͢͠ m̢̧̛͍̼͓̹͔͈̣̰͎̥̅̄̇̇̄̅̄͒̊͐͂̎͜͟͞͡ͅą̢̻͔̥̺̯̦͙̪̦̺̰̪̌̂̃̋̀̎̊͗̇̋̍̚͞ͅm͉̥̫̪͎͕̭͚̟̻̪̯̩̱̥̔͊̅́̌͋̈́̀̂̔̈́̉̚͞͝a̢̡̙͕̦͚͓͚̥̜̜̩̩͍̫͗͗́̈́̔̀̍̿̊̈̔̔̀̆͝ d̺͉̮͔͓̳̰̗̜̻̲̬̪̈́̓̔̓͋̀̾̊̎̓͐͋̕͜͠͡ͅỉ̧̛̞̥̞͓̘̖̮̟͈͙̞͍̬̓̽̓̐̽̿̅̓̾̿̕͟͡͡d̢̛̛̠͙̣̪͙̩̣̬̙͔̞͙͚̉̓̆͌̔̀̔͐̇̃̀̚͢͠n̢̛̘̯̣̺̫̭̤̗̫̻͉̩̭̙̐̃̈̑̽̀̎͑̈͂͑̚̕͝'̨̙͔̺̙̯̘̖͎͚̘̱̗̓̑̀̾́̈̇͒̏͆̀̈̈͟͜͞t̢͔͔̝̫̞̣͎̩̩̺̫̳͈͑̈́́͌̑̌̅̒̄̅͌̚͢͠ w̨͓̣̰̰̻̙̰̹̩̝͙̜̤̋͐̀̊̑̄͆̆̃͌͆́̚͜͡͠ă̢͔̺̝̥͙̺̗͙̩̮̳̭͎̍͐͑̒̏͂̉͐̑́͊̍͠͞ͅn͚͙̲̯̠͔̤̝͖̫͚͗̄̌̄͋̅͛̐̄̂͑̎͘̕͜͟͟͠ͅţ̨̛̪̮̠̖͎̜͙͓͖̹͈̊̎̽̂̆̑͛͗̉͟͟͞͡͡͠ ý̨̛̛̙̰̙͓̹̳̟̩̹̤͚̪͊̔͊̏̈̂̅̏̎͊̚͟ͅo̧̡̙͍͎͙̳̘̱̭̯̭͉͂̔̊͊̉̐͋͊̔̎̇̃͘͢͞͝ͅǔ͈̲͇͖͉̳͖̻̗͉̖̭̺͋̅͆͊̿͒̈́̄̒̍̃͗̈́͡ͅͅ.̨̨̛͎̙͈͎̬̯͇͓͍͕̼̔͌̐̐̅͂̉̐̉͂̋̏͘͟͠ͅ"̧͙̪̣̜͕͖͓̬̗͇̪̣̟͙̍̂̈̏̈́̓̇̒͂̀̓̋͘̚͝

Kacchan stood, tugging the smaller, lighter boy up with him. With burning hands that made Izuku’s collar a darker, flakier black, Kacchan forced him against a large tree, stepping over the rocky path that connected the main building to the equipment shed.

Aaaand there’s the headache. Darn thing sure took its time from the initial blow, granting a sensation decidedly less of a headache and more of a patent nausea, although the distinction meant little as he was further debilitated either way. Not to mention pinned to a tree, with his pack as the only thing softening the blow.

Never let it be said Kacchan doesn’t know variety, but whatever he can throw at me, I can take it, Izuku told himself. 'What doesn’t kill you…' right?

Then he’d run, and they’d soon start the process all over again, like the antics in an old cartoon, just real and hurtful.

"—so are you gonna tell me what the hell you're planning or not?"

Izuku couldn’t answer, too busy managing where he'd gotten lost in the conversation with the roars of thunder overhead, his nausea, and trying to muffle Shinsou's commentary that spoke right over all his own excuses for Kacchan’s behavior.

His friend was waiting. His friend was waiting. Izuku needed to get away from Kacchan and hope he could catch Shinsou and explain everything before it got too late.

“Figures. ‘Course I wouldn’t get a straight answer outta some bastard.”

There it was. The pièce de résistance of insults.

It truly was a special occasion of a sort for Kacchan to pull out the big guns. He was an expert at tearing Izuku down, knowing certain pains would dull with repeated use; a mistake he made sure not to make.

It was all too much at once, and Izuku could not bottle it any longer.

“Y-you— you shut up!” he yelled. A distant flash of lightning was the exclamation point.

Kacchan faltered for but a brief moment, incredulous that Izuku said anything, much less demand he shut up.

“I get it, okay?! I’m worthless, I’m weak,” Izuku forced the words out, “and you’ll be a strong hero. Everyone knows that! S-so why do you… why are you wasting your time with me?”

“Because you’re a damn v—”

“Villain! I know! Y-y-you k-keep telling me that!”

“Because now you found yourself another villain to pal around with!”

If Kacchan wanted to put him down, so be it, but Shinsou did not deserve that. He was good and kind and Izuku couldn't sit by while his only friend was torn to shreds in front of him.

There was no thought to his response. His body moved on its own.

“I said shut up!”

The shove wasn’t hard, but it was everything Izuku’s scrawny, achey arms could muster. A branch behind Kacchan's ankle did the rest.

When Kacchan slammed into the gravel, Izuku could practically see the wind knock from his lungs. He quickly flipped onto his elbows, shifting away from Izuku for a strange amount of time. Regaining his breath looked downright spasmodic, no doubt from a boiling rage.

Kacchan's free hand swam through the pebbles beneath him unconsciously, feeling his place on the ground. Izuku thought his phone may break from the force with which Kacchan’s other hand seized around it.

Izuku was already statue-still over what he’d just done, doing everything not to let his knees buckle.

Shinsou > not getting killed > AAAAAHHHHHH > cellphone

“He’s not a villain! Don’t you ever call him that! He's- he's- he's going to be a hero, a-and he'll be ten times the hero you'll be!"

Kacchan spun in a flash, chucking the phone at Izuku's face, instantly undoing all the recovering his eye had managed.

Izuku yelped and clutched the right side of his face where the sharp edge of his shattered phone screen made a slanted gash through his eyebrow. Short, but painfully deep. Rain dripped from his sodden, messy locks and over the cut, creating a flow of diluted crimson greater than the small wound deserved.

"Did I strike a nerve, bastard? Don't want to blow your villain buddy's cover, is that it?" Kacchan said with a wheeze that made Izuku wince.

"Why can’t you just move on?!” Izuku screamed over the thunder. “I’m t-taking up all this s-space in your head an— and you don’t even charge me rent!” his teeth fought against their chattering and ground together. Even a good zinger wasn’t worth the laugh.

“Bakugo!”

Mr. Taikutsuna arrived just in time to see the bloodbath, face a mixture of worry and wrath. For the first time in years, Izuku was glad to see a teacher. No longer alone in the fight, he let his shoulders slump, like the rain itself was beating them down.

The relief was almost euphoric. A smile soon followed across Izuku’s face, though he didn’t imagine it to be a pretty sight, as the taste of iron prickled his tongue and clung to his teeth.

Books and covers and judges and so forth.

Izuku dabbed it with his sleeve and made a mental note to have Shinsou ask his dad how much blood is in a person’s forehead, because wow.

I bet I look rabid.

Their teacher rushed toward them, eyed furiously by Kacchan who soon kicked himself back up and away, fists raised.

Usually, even when things went right for Izuku, he’d find a way to sour it with feelings of remorse over the smallest morsels of fairness. There’s nothing heroic about seeing someone punished and enjoying it. Yet, standing there in the rain, he could not churn up a drop of guilt.

Funny, the way spite works.

Pulling on a disheveled, unsteady and unwilling Kacchan, Mr. Taikutsuna refused to let go of the boy’s wrinkled shirt despite petulant protests. He clamped his free hand behind Izuku’s neck to keep him still and supported.

Nothing about it felt supportive.

“I am so disappointed in you, Bakugo,” Mr. Taikutsuna shook his head, face inches from Kacchan’s. “Aldera has always made its stance on bullying abundantly clear, but looking at you now, I can see we’ve failed.”

Kacchan’s hands started to steam. The few bits of gravel that still stuck to his hand snapped off like popcorn.

“Both of you, come along, now. We’re going back inside. Let’s hope Principal Nayotsu hasn’t left yet or this is going to be a long night for all of us.”

That didn’t sound so good. Izuku was already late to meet Shinsou. Sitting down for some bullying seminar with Kacchan wasn’t an option, no matter how satisfying it'd be to see him reprimanded.

“I-it’s fine, sir. I really need to get goi—”

“You shut your damn mouth,” Mr. Taikutsuna squeezed the back of his neck firmly, dragging Izuku to walk side-by-side with them back to the main building.

“Bakugo, I am so fed up with your behavior today. You’re our school’s brightest star, and yet you’ve completely ignored how we’ve taught our students to respond to bullies: don’t go face them head on. You can come to any of your teachers and we’ll sort it out for you.”

Izuku watched Kacchan’s face rapidly flip through a half-dozen, increasingly explosive emotions. He knew in equal measure that he’d locked into his own look of disbelief.

A disbelief that flowered into detached amusement. He couldn’t be angry, he wasn’t allowed to be angry.

Izuku knew he was a mess. When lightning flashed from just the right angle, spotlighting Izuku’s face and letting his hair take the bulk of the shade, he imagined he looked like a veritable horror movie villain. Hair matted and dark, face cut, soaking wet, caked in mud, found standing over another student with a rage he had nowhere to put.

He couldn’t remember the last time his anger had overtaken his fright.

The funniest part was the assertion that Kacchan was being bullied. Kacchan! As if he were afraid of anything on Earth. They didn’t know Kacchan well at all. Kacchan hadn’t been scared in fourteen years.

That Izuku of all people had been his secret tormentor was the ludicrous cherry on top. The mental gymnastics needed to come to such a baffling conclusion were nothing if not fascinating.

Thanks, public school system.

Perhaps it was inevitable. The cumulative downpour of their relationship.

Everyone has a breaking point, and what better example of inequity than this? What better example to act as the impetus for Izuku to allow himself to acknowledge a glimpse of reality?

Or maybe it was the time he’d spent with Shinsou. Time that could have very well been the catalyst of such a heated encounter. The end of Izuku’s thought-to-be boundless tolerance for Kacchan’s abuse. A strength after having touched upon genuine friendship.

“Are you kidding me?” Izuku gave a strained chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kacchan’s mirrored outrage was booming, even for Kacchan. “You think I need help with this piece of shit!?”

He kept ranting and struggling the whole way there. If it weren’t a teacher, Kacchan would’ve started blowing things up. Perhaps he still would, insofar as Izuku knew.

Izuku attempted to cover up an uncontrollable snickering. It did nothing to help his case. He’d be in the wrong no matter what.

His life was worth a bevy of laughs, his dreams treated with derision and cackles.

It was all one big joke, and everyone was in on it.

He was just the punchline.

Despite his relaxed appearance, Hitoshi carried a building anxiety the entire day. One he expected to release after he and Midoriya could present their plea for—as his friend had once put it—butt-kicking guidance. He didn’t anticipate having a back-and-forth volley of calls that did anything but calm him down.

“Hi mom. Don’t worry, I took an umbrella,” he said, answering his phone in a single ring as he plodded into the classroom, “and a jacket.”

Hitoshi glanced down at his bag. Within it was a large 'purr-ple' hoodie, topped with small cat ears. It was a little childish, but he liked it. It’s barely meant to rain anyway.

“I’m not your mom, moron. Learn to answer your phone. Do you have any idea how many times I called you last night?” said a decidedly-male voice.

“Pretty aggressive sales tactic you have there. Not to blow your mind, but there’s this thing called sleep. ”

Resisting the temptation to lean over and turn his phone on to fiddle with it in bed all night was excruciating, but he had to, if nothing else, try to get as much rest as he could. The day ahead was too important.

“Gimme your damn name.”

“My name?” Hitoshi’s brow furrowed.

“Good, you can fucking listen. I wanna look you up, Hitoshi.”

He had no reason to bother with much social media, but that was irrelevant.

“Obviously you already have it,” Hitoshi grumbled, voice even-keeled but his tolerance for distractions wafer-thin until he passed or failed later. “In fact, why don’t you give me your name?”

“Go to hell!”

“Wha—? You go to hell.”

“No, you go to hell!”

Forget it. Not worth the attention.

Click!

That should have been it, but his phone rang again at lunch while he listened to a recording of Present Mic’s radio show from that morning. Hitoshi wasn't fond of the hero's habit of constant yelling, but he’d started listening recently on Midoriya’s recommendation and found it surprisingly informative; though it did make him feel a little stupid with how many heroes—even high ranking ones—he didn’t recognize.

But then came the aforementioned phone call. He flicked it on.

“What.”

“Cut the shit. How do you know Deku?” said the mystery caller, skipping the pleasantries.

“I don’t know any Deku,” Hitoshi sighed, massaging his temples.

“Yes, you do, asshole!”

“I think I’d know who I know,” he could practically feel his heart rate go up with irritation, “and I don’t know you.”

Click!

I can’t let some wacko screw this day up for Midoriya and I. With anxious sleep, psycho telemarketers and the downpour rolling in, the day had done an incredible job at solidifying the unease breathing in his ear.

No! He refused to be the weak link that lost them an important opportunity, and made sure to turn his ringer off before heading back to class.

There. Problem solved.

Between fixing that mess and being let out early (albeit with extra homework), as their last teacher wanted to give everyone time get home before the storm hit them in full, things were almost looking up.

…But because the universe is uncaring, his phone would apparently still vibrate on Silent. A fact he learned on the wind-chilling walk to meet Midoriya.

When the call came, Hitoshi was busy struggling to perform a one-handed retrieval of the hoodie from the bottom of his bag without pulling all his school supplies out along with it or letting go of his mom’s umbrella. While walking.

Stopping his efforts in a fuss, he tugged his bag shut and answered. Hanging up would have been the smart choice, but having someone to unload onto sounded more appealing.

“Stop calling me! I have a lot going on right now,” Hitoshi’s frustration wasn’t loud, generally, but he had to be heard over the rain, “and you’re really psyching me out, alright? Quit it!"

For a few seconds the caller didn’t say anything. Hitoshi nearly thought he had hung up.

“One of those days?” asked his father.

Oh, no. Please.

“Aw man,” Hitoshi whispered to the universe.

“Dad, wait, I did not mean to say that to you. I thought you were this guy I’ve been getting calls from,” he explained as a salve to the situation.

“You’re getting calls from a guy?”

“Not like that, Dad,” he defended against embarrassment, happy no one was around to see his face.

“Sure.”

“I am being serious.”

“Hold on a second,” his father briefly pulled the phone away. “Your mother wants me to remind you that you can have your friend over anytime.”

“Why were you calling, Dad?” Hitoshi huffed, desperate to change the subject.

“To offer a ride after you pass your test-thing, if you end up wanting one. Yes, if he wants one. Babe, it’s water.”

Hitoshi was fairly certain that last part wasn’t directed at him. He also wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘test’, but semantics aside, a ride would be nice.

If he’d gotten the address correct, then the right building was in sight. Without hesitation, after they exchanged the ‘love you’s and ‘thank you’s and ‘bye’s, his phone vibrated in his hand. I wonder what he forgot to tell me.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Fuck is your line busy for?!”

I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I just block the stupid number the first time, Hitoshi wondered.

He slapped his head with the rod of the umbrella in penance before stopping at the entrance to wait for Midoriya, and resolving to do what he’d failed to do up ‘til now.

But first he was going to vent.

“That is it! Whatever scam it is you’re trying to pull off, the answer is no!” Hitoshi barked, “Or if it’s for kicks and you’re just some psycho you better—”

“I’m not trying to sell you anything! I’m trying to save your stupid ass,” the voice said, his yelling overblown by the raging storm, “unless you don’t need saving ‘cus you’re a fuckin’ villain! One or the other, asshole!”

A villain, huh? Well, that explains that. It was someone from his school. How uncharacteristically bold of them.

Hitoshi hung up, powered down his phone, and picked the optimal spot under an awning to wait for Midoriya.

Midoriya never did come, though.

Hitoshi was forced to go in alone, holding in all his anger and worry and nervousness and goosebumps...

... and it worked.

It worked.

It had hurt in more ways than one, but his plea had been a success. Technically. ish.

They were a brother and sister. He and Midoriya’s potential teachers, that is.

Contrary to any of his expectations, they asked him to spar.

It didn’t take very long for them to pop the question either. All it took was them telling him to leave, that they don’t have room for any new students, that they don’t take beginners in the first place, that he was getting water on their floor, and him ignoring all of it in favor of pleading profusely.

“Pick one of us to spar with,” the brother told him at last, his frame tall and broad, but lacking distinctive features besides his orange, gently pulsing forearms and eyes.

The sister knocked Hitoshi onto his back with a sudden strike before he could answer. Blue mist—the same color as her entire body—drifted from her back before fading with a short delay, almost ghost-like. Her ponytail lifting and swaying as though it were underwater completed the look.

“Too slow,” she said, but he asked for a rematch. She, again, shoved his chest, pushing him back down as soon as he’d been able to stand.

So Hitoshi asked for another rematch. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another.

He wanted to block her just one time, despite knowing that prospect became more and more unlikely with each bout.

The brother’s already stern face became more so each time, but the sister seemed content with repeatedly thrusting her palm at Hitoshi’s sternum despite his horrendous attempts at dodging or deflecting.

“That’s a good look for you, kid,” she taunted, watching him get up onto shaky hands and knees, “How about you clean our floors?”

“What?” Hitoshi grunted, the question distracting him from trying to stand.

“Floors. Clean ‘em.”

After his mind took its time catching up, he started to lower himself back down. Aren’t there supposed to be mats, anyway?

“Not now,” she chided, yanking him up. “In the mornings. Our first students arrive at five o’ clock, so make sure you’re done with the entire place and out of here before then. If you ever miss a day or a spot, do not come back. And don’t clean them the wrong way.”

Hitoshi nodded resolutely, not trusting himself to ask what ‘the wrong way’ was without it coming out like the gasping of a life-long smoker.

“A shame,” the brother frowned. “I could’ve used a new dummy to throw around.”

Hitoshi’s head jerked up from its place staring at the scuffed, wooden floors to interject as quickly as he could, sounding even more winded than he imagined.

“I can get you one! He’s durable, too, I promise.”

The brother made a noise and shared a look with his sister. They both started to walk away, but when Hitoshi opened his mouth—

He groaned from his oh-so-familiar position on the floor.

“I hope you and the dummy can handle early mornings. Most people need more sleep,” he heard her say.

It made him smile.

“I think we’ll be fine.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Thunder roared, muting the clock’s voice. It hung silently above the bench outside their principal’s office.

None of it made a difference. Izuku was having to imagine the noise as a reminder to sedate the heart beating in his ears. No decent school hall clock would clack like a haunted house, not even at their dinky Junior High.

High on the wall, its steadily spinning face was scarcely visible when Izuku was busy meeting his bully’s unwavering glare. He adjusted his seat against the row of lockers opposite Kacchan. Maintaining a safe distance from him was more than worth having to take a spot on the floor.

Mr. Taikutsuna had left immediately after dumping the kids into Principal Nayotsu's lap, so that was one less adult to worry about. His teacher's negligence had finally paid off.

Clammy, even with towels, both boys refused to acknowledge any discomfort. I feel bad for whoever has to clean this mud up, though. Probably me. Ha.

Shallow thoughts of clocks and eyes and mud kept his head from drifting to the clouds he was so often accused of living in. Clouds that had since turned black.

Anything to keep from checking the time. As long as Izuku didn’t acknowledge the eternity for which he felt like they’d been stuck sitting there, it meant he technically wasn’t late to meet Shinsou yet.

Schrödinger’s terrible friend.

It sure would be nice if his phone weren’t stuck in the muck outside, probably ruined, if not buried.

The cut through his brow had stopped bleeding so much, thank goodness. An earlier trip to the restroom gave Izuku a good look at his new, angled gash. Paired with the smaller slice underneath, they almost looked like an opening quotation mark.

He frowned, leaning away from the lockers. It didn't feel very funny. It didn't feel that way a lot of the time.

Thunder seemingly roared once more, until it continued on longer than could possibly be natural.

Oh. It’s just Auntie raising her voice again.

Izuku was used to her cursing, but she'd officially hit a new peak of profanity, both in volume and in quantity, greater than he'd heard in living memory. As much as he wanted to know what was happening, his ear drums were thankful to have a storm and thick walls to drown the yelling out.

“…been through enough!…–ucking disgrace….wouldn’t…no, YOU listen!…how often?…WHAT?!…motherFUCKER!…–ink to contact us?!….lying son of….–omplete shit at your job…”

Izuku tried to piece it all together, but it proved to be in vain. Anything but Auntie's loudest swears was already blurred by the other two, quieter voices. The mess was too difficult to pick through from the outside.

Lightning brightened the hall, causing Kacchan to squint. Flicking his eyes up, Izuku seized the chance to catch the time.

Yep. Later than late. I guessed correctly. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. He wasn't laughing.

Kacchan grew bored of their insignificant battle for dominance and leaned back to nab himself some shuteye.

Izuku, on the other hand, sat and thought. 

And when thinking turned dreary, it wasn't foreign or disturbing, it was safe. A territory of the brain Izuku had grown used to being lured into. It was easy. Navigating it, less so, as he knew his mind would never willingly release a depressive idea once it smelled blood in the water.

There was an alluring quality to it, but he didn't feel like... He didn't want to feel like not existing would be for the best, for everyone.

It wasn't an uncommon fantasy for Izuku. He wasn't suicidal. He didn't want to die, but if something out of his control did it for him... that would be alright. He could live with that. With not having to.

So he diverted.

The rain was relaxing, Izuku told himself. A natural lullaby to their new bedroom, of a sort. All of the problems that surrounded him were bubbled behind ‘all I want is to be able to sit here in the present and let that be okay, even if it’s just for ten minutes.’

Well, he got nine and a half. The screaming had quieted down a few minutes prior, so it was startling to watch the principal rush out of his own office and swing the door hastily shut. Mostly shut.

“Holy fucking shit, Inko. That was brutal,” Auntie said, flabbergasted, before the door finished swinging back, “I’ve never heard anything like that in my life. What the fuck.”

The principal ran with the frantic movements of someone in a horror film trying to unlock their car door. Only, it wasn’t a car door, it was the very act of running itself; something he obviously had a shaky understanding of, judging from his tilted performance down the hallway.

“mmmfuckoff….deku…” Kacchan slurred, having moved to lay entirely across the bench. He could insult Izuku even while asleep. What an impressive guy. Still, a sleeping Kacchan was significantly better for Izuku’s health than an awake one.

Sure, Izuku was tired, too, but falling asleep? It just wasn’t in the cards.

For once: thank you, genetics.

Izuku creeped his way over to the crack in the doorway and peered inside.

His mom held her head in her hands and sobbed, swallowing as much sound as she could. In the chair beside her’s, Auntie had a comforting arm thrown around her childhood friend, head resting on her shoulder.

He readied himself to duck at the slightest chance either could spot him, just in case, and did his best to pick out what he was hearing.

“—warned me, but I didn’t listen…” she sniffed, “…always said kids could be cruel over quirks. ‘'L͕̩̀̇i̮͡k̼͗e̙ f̍å̦t͉̖̂̈ḩ̜̓̆ę͙͐̓r͕̅ l̙̑ik̠͝e̹̿ s̜͡on’̠́̚ͅ'.̗ But I never thought…” Mom took a moment to stop herself from blubbering. “I don’t know…. Maybe if I’d paid more attention…..”

".͍̄.͔̀.͚͊D͕̹̞̘̲̬͆̋̾̾̌͊o͚͇̤̞̝̤͋͊̾̒͘͘ y̢̯̱̝͇͇̪͛̎̂̓͋͟͝ŏ̰͎̹͕̪͇̲̫̎̆̂̌̽͒̕u͍̤̤̞̼͓͉̯͂̆̀̈́̄͠͡ b̳̰̦̤̞̯̈̏̾͆̂͂̽͟ͅl̖̤̪͙̥͖͈͊̔̑̑̿̉̚͟a̬̝̫͚̮̦͋͛̍͋͋̿͢ͅm̜̺̲̲͈̭̖̍̊͌͆̕͜͡ë͖̞̗̙̲͖̗̾̏̎͊͛͋͜͞ E̢̨̛͍̹͓̘̳͂̐͐̅̿͌͢m͔̲̼̗̖͉͚̖̿͛̒̿̋̚͞i̢̭̱̠̟͗́̀͛̋̈͜͜͝͞ͅ fo̩̩̗͈̳̒̄͆͒͌̌͜͠ͅř͇̘̫͇͒̽̎́͜͜͜͠͝ I̢͍̬̥͚̲̼̿́̕͠͡z̧̙̤͙̹̱̃̆̊̈̍̐͢ų̛̪̱̜̘̜͊͒͛́̕̕͟k̠͚̫͈̥̬̝͆̅̉̀̒͘͞ǘ̡͔̣̙̮̣͍̆͋͘͞͝͡'͖̯͇͎͙̮͙͗̓̓̎̊́̈s̭͓̬͇̝͌̃͒͟͢͝͠͞͝ c̨̛̼̠̞̞̜̥̿̑̒͘͡ô͓͍͔͖̦̤̯͛̇̏͛̀̌n̛͉̺͈̦̳̺͖̆̄̀̅̉̌d͐͌͘i͖̟͎̰͍̫͔̍̌̒̆̍̄͝ť́͒͑͆͋͠í͖̼̲̗̣̫̊̌͟͡͡͡o̩̣̖̭̭̥͆͌̒̂́͂͟͡n̢̝̖̠̤̋̾͆̆̿̇͘͢͢?͍͖̝̬͚̀̐͑̽̆͘͘͜ͅ"̡̞̭̞͓͕̼̊̓̽͛̇͒̅Auntie asked, straight-faced.

“Of course not!” said Mom, looking horrified at the very thought of it.

“Why?”

“͌͟I̩̐ṫ͎ w̗͒a̪̎s̗̓n̦͝’͚͞t̤̀ h̏ͅe̠͋r͔̕ ḟ̻ă̳ų̓l̰̋t͕̎!̭̓"̞̅

“And if you’d been in her shoes, would you say the same thing?”

Mom had no answer to that.

“What about Katsuki and that slimeball?” Auntie continued, “Hell— Katsuki and this whole mess. Take you fuckin’ pick. Do you blame me? Because I do.”

“Mitsuki, that’s n—”

“It is the same! The only difference is that between the three of us, you’re the only one w͇̐h̳̒o̧͓͐̕’͚̞͋̏ŝ̢̬̏ n̖̗͑̈ẻ̻̳͑v͉̖͋̏ë͎̻̎r̝͙͛̎ ẉ͍̓͆a̢̹͌̐t̘̤̓̈c͉̯͒̋h͎̟̐̕e̬͕͗̀d̫̩̈́ t̡͉̐͞h̥͕̚͝e̥͈͗͠i̎͛ṙ̥̭͠ k̡͕͛͐ī̧̢͝ḑ̀̇͜ g̲̩̃̊ẻ̗̤̌t͕͒̆ s̛̟̞̒ț͕̌r̨̙̔͆a͚̹̋p̪̺͂̋p̧͙̿̅e̜̙͘͞d̝͆͜͝ t̡̛̼́ợ̧ a̦͚͗̆ f͆͘u̹̖͊c̢̢̍k͙̗̆̿i͔̋̾n̲̙̚̕g̪̯̐̂ ǧ̰͖̈u̘̒ř̟̝̓n̠̺͛͗ė͙̪̕y̮̙̔͞ å̻͎̔ṇ̩̉̾d̛̟̩ t̫̜͆̋h̨̰̚͘ọ͖̍̇ȕ̘̚͢g̢͈̑͡h̜̞́̀t̨̫͛̚ ‘̢̗̓̄t̮̝̂̅h̼̽͢ị̹̇̎s̢͈̆̓ ǐ͠ṡ̬̻͌ m̫̀͡ͅy͈̪͌͘ f͈̹͗̈a̟̪̅͝ŭ̡̖́l͉͎̔̇t͎̤͝͡’̛̯͍͠!̜͒͊͟ So, fine! You wanna hate yourself over a shitty school? Go ahead, but you’ll have to hate us, too.”

Wrapping her in a hug, Mom’s cries was muffled by Auntie’s shirt as they ebbed away. Neither woman moved until she was quiet enough for them to separate, with the only evidence of their embrace being the fluids on Auntie’s shoulder.

“You got a good kid. Bright kid. He shouldn’t have to put up with this shit, even if he is a little, y’know–” Auntie gestured in a vague shrug that Mom did nothing to respond to beyond a stare. “Don’t look at me like that. All I’m saying is that he’s authentic, and most kids can’t handle anyone who doesn’t march like everybody else.”

The elaboration seemed to go down easier for Mom, her posture releasing some of its tension.

“…Expulsion, my ass,” Auntie clicked her tongue.

That sounds about right. Izuku was naive for not assuming it.

They hadn’t been talking about anything important, but then they suddenly were, and he didn’t want to stay, and he felt nauseous, and the day had all been just too much andandandandandandandand—

and so he ran. 

[11 Years Ago]

The one and only Ms. Joke had at last made her official debut as a Pro Hero.

It had gone up quite a storm, by her estimation, and not in a ‘look at that lady fall on her face’ kind of way. In a good way!

She was gosh darn proud with how smoothly it had all gone. That feeling further intensified from her having inadvertently chosen an irresponsibly sizable bundle of baddies to show off her skills against.

There’s no such thing as second first impressions, after all. Go big or go home with blunt force trauma, as the saying goes.

“Bundle” had to be taken literally in this case, as the largest—she thought—member of the villain’s group possessed a Gigantification quirk—she thought—but was actually just a bunch of siblings all molded together.

I guess no one told them I can do crowd control, she smirked at the memory. Tough luck for them.

The whole fight had garnered a host of cheers and laughs from the crowd of pedestrians, which was already a win in her book, and in her bank account, if she kept it up.

They paled in comparison, however, to hearing Izuku gush non-stop over Inko’s speakerphone in that breathless, winding way only little kids can.

“Sososocoool and it– I– you were all bam an’ pow an’ you got the metal lady so fast, Mama, it was like– like– like— yeah! um, yeah. And when you– it’s— all those lil' guys were in the big guy an' they went BOOOSH! That was awesome! Kacchan thinks so, too—! He said so! But then— but then he said All Might would win— would win if, um, if you fought, but I'dun think so, 'n you wouldn't fight each of'ver. Mmmmwhat is— if— can I— what did you? Does it…? Um. Please,” he’d asked earnestly and nigh-incomprehensibly the night of her debut, tongue bunching up around every other word like it was either too big for his mouth or never meant to be there in the first place.

Adults, as a rule, have not the patience nor the purpose to stop and listen to a boy repeat the same sentence eight times before he makes any sense. In Emi's experience, their parent—or guardian, as the case may be—tended to be the only native interpreters of their child's slurring accent. That meant her.

Inko did an admirable job, but it was a matter of time spent, and nobody had more opportunity to get an ear for the language than his own mother. Any hope of that sprawling gap closing evaporated once Inko stopped living ninety seconds away.

All to say, it wasn’t difficult for Emi to hold the conversation until Izuku mercifully tuckered out.

Emi’s personal highlights from that first fight included knocking the villain’s marksman over with a single flick after leaving the woman in side-splitting hysterics for most of the battle, and watching the aforementioned, colossal half-shark man spilling apart into a dozen perfectly-average-sized half-shark men, like rascals in an overcoat trying to get an interview with Midnight.

I wonder what she’s up to lately, Emi ruminated, flexing her fingers. Besides being two strips of cloth away from flashing the whole nation.

Now that’s how you make a splash.

Speaking of fingers: hers needed an ice bath and some downtime after the long weekend that kicked off with her debut. Alas, her true dream of becoming a hand model would tragically never come to pass. Ha!

Inko, expectedly, didn’t accept any payment but thanks, happy to have another visit.

The area that the Fukukados called home was… not great, so it gave Emi added peace of mind to know that Izuku would be playing in the nicer, albeit stuffy neighborhood where the Bakugo’s lived, nearby the complex his aunt-by-choice had moved to.

And goodness gracious did Izuku cry buckets when "Inky" moved. He and Inko were like two fountains. Big emotions, she supposed. Were Emi’s list of prior partners not as short as is physically possible for a person who has a biological child, she'd have half a mind to think she had a sleepwalking threesome with Water Hose. 

Usually the train ride back home had her gag absolutely busting to tell Emi everything his vocabulary would allow.

From the pensive vibe he was giving off, Izuku was plainly not in the mood for the usual.

“Did you have fun at Inky’s?” she asked sweetly, spurring him toward his typically impassioned rambling.

“Mhmm,” he replied, listless, if not melancholy. Izuku’s wiggling had all but drained, legs being the last to swing at the air, substituting his own inscrutable emotions.

“Did you and Katsuki have a playdate?”

“Mhmm.”

“And did you remember to give Mrs. Bakugo the ‘Thank You’ card for drawing Mama her nice, new costume?”

“Mhmm.”

“Did you know only the most super duper mega cute kids say ‘mhmm’?”

“Mhmm.”

Pretending to let the topic lie, she nonchalantly turned her head away. Another handful of passengers boarded from the lonely station to replace those on their way out.

Then she poked him in the ribs. Then again, and again. He tried to wiggle away, determined to stay in his poor mood, but it was an uphill battle.

Only when he gave into her escalating tickle session did she look back to him feigning surprise— as if she hadn't been involved, like an errant tickling fairy swooped in whenever she wasn't paying attention.

“There he is!” Emi said brightly, resting his head below hers.

The toned arms that held her giggly gag in place at the cost of dirtying his clothes contrasted a boy otherwise small and unblemished.

“Are you sad?” she asked slowly into his ear after giving him time to calm down.

He nodded, remembering fragments of his sullen mood.

“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she assured him.

“Mhmm,” he nodded again, tugging the hem of his shirt.

“I– um– the–” Izuku stumbled, searching for a whole sentence, and slowing down to take a breathe “he called Inky your mom…”

The section of Emi’s brain labeled ’Mama’ took full control to translate.

‘He’? Izuku was with Inko, so, that’d be Katsuki.

‘Your mom’? Rude! I would be way more well-adjusted if I’d had a mom like Inko! But what he actually meant was…

“Kacchan called Inky your mom?” she asked carefully, setting him far enough away to meet him eye-to-eye.

That checked out.

Whenever Izuku visited Inko and the Bakugos, it was a sad reality that Emi was often too swamped to do more than drop him off. She wanted to do more, but time has followed the rules of ‘want’ for precisely no one in history. That’s especially true when you have zero clout to consistently fix your schedule in a business with intrinsically irregular work schedules.

She hoped to be more present now that she'd become a Pro and earned herself the air of legitimacy that came with the title. Time would tell.

Regardless, Emi would not dare deprive her son of time with his Inky or that little spitfire of a best friend of his, Katsuki, just because she couldn’t be there every single time. So, Izuku's predicament only made sense. Kids stink at listening and Katsuki was as stubborn as the day is long.

“Mhmm…” Izuku hummed with a guilty look.

“… Is that all?” Emi asked, an eyebrow raised.

It puzzled her, because it didn’t sound like a comment worth getting upset over. Although, Emi did reach the same initial conclusion when Izuku learned his lellow shirt was yellow, so she was used to not getting problems right off the bat.

Inko's always so intuitive with this stuff, Emi often felt, wishing she could absorb that wisdom, and she knows not to half-ass emotions.

Emi liked to think she understood the latter, but that just wasn't true. Crying never came easy. Even when she felt like it, the tears refused to come up and spill. It was just one of the ways she'd been broken, but if Emi did her job right, Izuku would have a happier childhood.

He squirmed, working up the courage to tell the rest of the tale.

“Wuh–um. Inky– she- I.. umm…think she cried,” he started, looking pained, and shoved his face into Emi’s dress to hide from his unwarranted shame, “but I liked it!”

She had to stop and think for a beat.

“You liked her crying, or you liked when Kacchan called Inky your mom?”

Izuku shook his head against her: no and yes.

“What’s so bad about that?” Emi asked, trying to tilt his face up.

“You’re Mama!” he insisted, burying himself farther.

“Oh, Izuku…” the anguish he felt over wanting everyone to be happy at all times was heartbreaking, but she gave an encouraging smile anyway, even if he couldn’t see it. “You’re allowed to have two moms if you want.”

“… S’okay?”

“Of course that’s okay,” Emi hugged him close, his thoughtfulness hurting her chest, “just because you want to call her Mom doesn’t mean I’m not still your Mama, Izuku. I’ll always be your Mama. No matter what,” she promised, holding him tight.

“And Inky—” don’t try to explain happy-crying, quit while you’re ahead, “—we’ll and go talk to her together soon and I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Nothing to worry about!”

Izuku finally let her tilt his head up, having been given reason not to hide as the depressing air dispersed. She brushed any hair from his face to get a good look at his vivid eyes, making sure her gag knew things really were okay.

He took hold of some semblance of his usual demeanor and further untucked himself from her grip to sit normally— meaning a heck of a lot of wiggling while her mind wandered.

Time really does fly, doesn’t it, Emi? Why, yes, yes it does! Thank you for asking, Emi. And how would you describe that feeling? Absolutely terrifying! Great question, and I appreciate being reminded of that. Ugh. Think of something positive, ‘Joke. Positive. Positive.

Izuku! What's more positive than that? Tomorrow I'll turn around and he'll be eighteen. Agh! Different thought!

A lightbulb practically popped over her head.

I wonder which quirk he’ll get. Unless… what if he’s quirkless? Please, please no.

She was no geneticist, and she knew it was unlikely, but could it skip a generation? Does that increase the odds? The thought made her shiver.

If this hero stuff isn’t a phase, though, then Shouta’s would be useful to inherit. But just for Izuku’s sake, is it too egotistical to hope he gets mine?

“Please, stop mumbling,” said a man standing to her left.

Her brain came to a halt and she peaked down at Izuku, frantic she’d spoken clearly enough for him to start downloading all her weird habits.

Fortunately, he was preoccupied with mumbling to himself.

She blew a sigh of relief, made a zipper motion across her lips and threw away the key. The man didn't smile, but the older woman across from them did. Professionally dressed and with book in hand, her thin reading glasses slid down her nose at the slightest movement.

“Lost your ring?” 

Emi squinted in confusion, like the answer was on the woman's book in really, really small print.

"Your ring," the woman repeated, pointing to her finger. "This is my stop, but if you lost it, I'll help you look."

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Emi to put two and two together, with how she'd been mumbling and unconsciously massaging her hand.

"Ohhhh! That's sweet, but no, it's just sore from fighting," she explained like it was a normal answer.

"Y-you had to fight him?" the woman whispered, horrified. Him..? Wait, does she think-?

"That dumbass?! I wish!" Emi swore in English at the thought and howled with laughter. The hand she threw over her mouth did a poor job at silencing it. By the time she was done, and it took a while, the train was moving again and the woman had gone.

“Wha’was– wha’d the lady want?” Izuku asked, evidently having paid a cursory degree of attention.

“She was being nice and I'm weird,” Emi summed the conversation up simply.

“Nuh-uh!” Izuku piped up defensively with the patented Fukukado enthusiasm.

“Yuh-uh. But I’m okay with being weird! Wouldn’t change it for the world,” she tussled her gag’s hair, unrulier by the day. “‘Normal’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Trust me on that,” Emi finished up the last of her laugh, shortly clearing her throat as not to further neglect the train car’s quiet atmosphere.

Content, Emi leaned back with a sigh, tired fingers running through Izuku’s messy locks in search of knots as the city passed by. Her attention occasionally flicked at a whispering young couple, deciphering why they were trying—and failing—to stealthily glance in her direction.

"...told you it was her...!"

Once he started to rummage through his bag and dragged his more reluctant boyfriend toward the Fukukados, Emi sat up straight and discreetly shielded Izuku, instincts kicking in.

Two strangers staring at a completely random young woman and her kid on a quiet train car at dusk while they pull something from their bag? Emi’s villain radar blared without even having to take into account her mother-bear-like protectiveness or the exhaustion that came from working her butt off the past few days.

Until he pulled out a pen and a school notebook.

“Sorry to bother you,” the boy spoke softly, while his boyfriend nervously looked any direction that wasn’t toward the Pro Hero, “but could we get your autograph?”

Well that didn’t make sense. Why would someone want a sidekick’s aut-OH. Right! Pro Hero!

“We watched your fight against that chick made of mouths this morning. So. Cool.” he pushed the pen and paper into her hands. While Emi had yet to entirely shake off her dumbfounded expression, the boy’s smile was wide. “I couldn’t pass up a golden opportunity to get your signature before you make it big.”

“Always happy to help out a forger,” Emi said with a grin, scribbling ‘Stay true to yourself! –Ms. Joke’ into his notebook and handing it back, “Just don’t expect to find much in my bank account.”

“See? Told you she was funny,” the boy laughed and slapped his boyfriend’s arm, jabbing a thumb at Emi. They both gave a quick bow and jittered their way to the next train car.

Huh. Weird. Awesome, but weird. Thought it’d take longer to be recognized. Especially out of costume.

“Um. A-also, I like your bandanna,” the taller boy turned around to give a timid compliment before power-walking away.

Bandanna? Emi patted at her head, tugging off the forgotten piece of cloth. In its stead she wore a blush.

Guess I wasn’t totally out of costume after all.

Making the official transition had been such an overload, there wasn’t time to do more than throw on normal clothes and cover up in a copious amount of deodorant before she left to pick Izuku up.

She felt a small hand pull on her dress.

"Mama, what’s a ‘dumbass’?”

In a very short-sighted way, it was impressive how quickly Emi was able to boomerang a mistake back at herself.

“Have you ever heard Mrs. Bakugo use it?” Emi asked guiltily, hoping to pawn off her diet-swearing, but (correctly) assuming the answer was no, a verdict confirmed when Izuku shook his head.

That made sense. Mitsuki kept her expletives in Japanese by virtue of her fluency in both it and profanity.

“It’s sort of like those ‘off-limits’ words she uses. Does that make sense?”

Izuku nodded slowly, staring up at the rueful Pro Hero with big eyes and chubby cheeks.

“And what do we do with those?”

“Don’t use ‘em,” they both said in sync.

“That’s right. I made a mistake by saying it at all,” Emi admitted. Chewing the matter over, she reflexively smoothed the creases of her dress. “How about you get a freebie? You get to say one off-limits word to make us even.”

Fair’s fair. Either lead by example or die by it.

Izuku thought long and hard about the devilishly difficult choice. Although his Mama’s vocabulary was, with very few exceptions, squeaky clean, Mrs. Bakugo had so many options to choose from.

He mindlessly knocked together the pair of sneakers Emi had let him pick out for himself. That trip only took about infinity years. Bright red, shockingly devoid of All Might’s face, and decidedly not pre-owned for once. They were, however, only his second choice. Emi had to nix his first choice of shoes so big he could sit in them.

Whoever invented velcro, she’d kiss them, were they not six feet under.

Ha! Feet.

They both sat silently for another two stops before Izuku made a decision.

“What’s a ‘motherfucker’?”

Emi winced as heads turned at his unnecessarily loud question, including two little girls whose parents covered their ears, faces bricked with disapproval. Okay, can’t even blame Mitsuki for that one. It was doubtful they found Izuku’s erring innocence quite as endearing as Emi did.

She bit her lip, trying to come up with an explanation both truthful and age-appropriate.

Don’t be snarky and say ‘literally Shouta’. Have some willpower and say literally anything else, Emi.

“Is it something bad?” he asked again, this time under his breath, the beginnings of worry on his face.

Rooftops passed in a blur, doubled by her unfocused eyes—an amused thousand yard stare—and backlit by a moon too eager to wait for the sun to set. She suppressed any unbidden giggling and linked hands with her gag.

“… It means we can go get ice cream while I think of an answer.”

Izuku hadn’t realized how much he’d dried off until he was already soaked again.

Easy come, easy go. He needed to be anywhere but there.

Usually, knowing his mom would worry was enough to stop him from doing something stupid, but now she was already worried, and you can’t put the lid back on pandora’s box, so what difference would one small rebellion make?

There’s no plan, no bag, no ideas, aside from picking up his ruined phone from the courtyard. He just runs and runs until he sees familiar scenery through the limited visibility of the storm, and then keeps running.

By the time he is present enough to start reading signs as to avoid pneumonia, Izuku doesn’t bother looking for any streets that would lead him home. He doesn’t want to go home right now. That’s where all of his problems are. Instead, he follows half-remembered directions.

Kessuru avenue, Kessuru avenue, Kessuru avenue, Kessuru avenue, Kessuru avenue— Bingo!

Wow! That is a lot longer than I expected!

Izuku considered a joke, but thought better of it, finding it hackneyed. It was beneath him. Not unlike the street.

Well, there was definitely no shortage of streets that shot off of Kessuru avenue. It'd be like looking for a very apathetic needle in a rainstack.

Time to start knocking!

Inko dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, diligently listening to her friend.

“…Expulsion, my ass,” Mitsuki clicked her tongue.

“Voluntary withdrawal,” Inko reminded her, to which Mitsuki grumbled an affirmative. “Don’t go around saying my boy got expelled or people will get the wrong idea. He doesn’t need that for U.A.”

A precarious distinction under the circumstances. As though she weren’t already livid, what maddened Inko further was how pathetically he'd clung to the threat of Izuku’s expulsion once they started poking holes in his shoddy bed of lies, upon which he had stupidly sat his full weight.

Inko surmised that it must have been all too easy for him to become complacent in his authority, only ever having it challenged by children he could talk over or send away. You would have to be a special kind of fool to expect either result from Mitsuki or herself.

That was more-or-less how they found themselves functionally blackmailing a Junior High principal against the use of expulsion and slander with the culpability of his own inaction and, more crucially, the threat of withdrawing his best (and favorite) student.

A balance of mutually assured academic destruction reliant on her calm disposition to not start blowing whistles. As long as nobody hit their big red button before high school, everyone could go on their merry way.

Concerning her enemies, Merry did not sit well with her, but if that’s what was necessary to move on, then she would stomach it for Izuku's sake.

“You didn’t believe any of that, did you?” she asked Mitsuki, blowing her nose as softly as she could.

“Other than that a bunch of spineless bast– er, assholes have apparently been looking the other way while our sons fight, not one damn word of it,” Mitsuki spit on the floor.

Inko clarified, words dampening.

“N-no, I m-meant ab-abou— about h-how–”

She knew her Izuku was a good boy. Fighting the big accusations was nothing. It was the small ones, the not-so-unreasonable ones that made Inko’s chest feel empty, feeding her self-doubt.

“—he’s a known troublemaker–”

“—might as well be the poster boy for the negative effects of growing up in a broken home–”

“—I’d heard how often he used that quirk of his in Elementary school–”

“—it’s not uncommon for boys around your son’s age to act out if they lack a paternal figure who can set an appropriate example of certain behaviors—”

When her eyes started to water all over again, Mitsuki shook Inko by her shoulders.

“Hey. I know that look. Quit it.”

“B-b-b-but M-mitsuki–” Inko stammered, palming at tears that refused to obey.

“Does it seem like junior high has been pretty shit for him? Yeah. But life’s more than bad teachers and immature classmates. This doesn’t invalidate everything you’ve done, or your happy memories, so don’t start rethinking every decision you’ve made. You’re amazing... Besides, most of junior high is pretty shit anyway,” Mitsuki tagged on at the end, earning a playful slap to the arm. “Sorry, that was me channeling my inner Fukukado.”

Inko gave a weak smile and started to riffle through her purse while Mitsuki spoke.

“When Izuku stopped coming over, I figured he and Katsuki were just going through a rough patch. Growing pains and all that shit. Takes a while for kids to mature sometimes. Now? I got no clue what the hell my kid is up to anymore. Why the fuck would those two be fighting?” she questioned, stepping away and almost knocking Inko’s cell out of her delicate hands. "I don't know for sure, but whatever it is, it has to stop, even if I’m forced to resort to... that.”

Mitsuki gulped.

"Masaru’s most diabolical plan ever. Devised only for the worst possible contingencies,” she whispered, without color.

Inko gave her a look of concern, her other ear occupied by a dialtone.

“Therapy,” Mitsuki said as if speaking of the boogeyman. “Whether that's for the brat or for me,” she could only shrug. "Masaru probably knows,” she grumbled, kicking the hall door open.

The way it slammed against the wall timed perfectly to the sound of the voicemail.

“Yo! I’ll be in the States for the next week or so on business—unless you’re listening to this midway through the week, in which case, do the math. If you’re a student with a question about the material, check the syllabus or ask your sub. The guy’s like a teddy bear, he’ll help, I promise. For anyone else, text me or leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. BEEP!… Ha! Just messin’ with you… But seriously, do leave a message after the beep this time.”

BEEP!

“I-it’s Inko. I hope your trip is going well, and I–…” she swallowed, saliva thick, “I really screwed up, and I thought you should know, and I’m so sorry, and I could really use your advice. Mitsuki says hi. Um. O-okay. That’s all. Lots of love. Talk to you later, Emi.”

“FUCK!” Mitsuki cursed from the hallway, followed by a startled, lower pitched “shit!” and a thud, like a body rolling onto the floor.

“Mom, what the hell,” moaned a very groggy Katsuki.

Inko flicked the phone shut, dried her eyes and straightened her shoulders. She stood, moving toward the commotion, only to have her friend lean back through the doorframe wearing a haggard expression.

“Guess which one is missing?”

Hitoshi had to sprint for the door at the first audible knock.

They weren't expecting visitors. Not to his knowledge, anyhow.

It wasn’t as though his homework was so important as to be uninterruptible, but his parents had just passed out on top of each other on the couch, and he wasn’t in the mood to disrupt that delicate balance.

His feet were silent along the carpeting and the well-oiled door opened without a sound, despite how hard he yanked it back to avoid even one more knock.

In front of him stood a drenched, shaking Midoriya, eyes downcast as he wrung out his sleeves. Dirt stuck to his uniform and the remnants of soggy tissue paper clung for dear life above his right eye, soaked with red. He was halfway into a spiel Hitoshi had to play catchup to understand.

“—and I d-d-didn’t mean to bother you, but if you happen to know where the Shinsous live, that would be great. P-p-purplish hair, they have a son, about my height, handsome, his face kinda looks like this,” Midoriya stuttered, looking up with a disturbing impression of Hitoshi.

Disturbing not because of its spot-on accuracy, but because of how weird it looked on Midoriya’s face.

“Midoriya, what the heck are you doing here?” Hitoshi whispered, the concern he’d unplugged over the past few hours jolting back through his body.

Midoriya jerked back in surprise, presumably from finding the right house.

How many doors did he knock on? Hitoshi wondered. How many did he give that same terrible description?

Terrible description, undeniably. Fantastic parody, though.

“Get out of that wet shirt before you catch a cold,” Hitoshi insisted, tearing off his jacket to hand over and receiving a vehement shake of the head from Midoriya.

“You don’t have a plastic bag and some rice I could borrow, do you?” his friend mumbled, holding up a dead phone. Hitoshi responded by shoving the hoodie into his arms.

“At least put this on over it and get in here,” he pleaded. Not the time to be modest, Midoriya.

“I d-don’t want to impose on your parents—”

“Put it on,” Hitoshi’s quirk commanded, and the boy obeyed.

It felt awful to use his quirk on Midoriya without his permission, but they’d be out in the freezing weather for another half-hour if he didn’t. Hitoshi gave him a thorough shake; no sense in leaving him brainwashed longer than necessary. He must have shaken him too roughly though, because Midoriya started to tip right over— would have, too, if Hitoshi hadn’t caught him.

“I’m sorry I did that. Are you alright?”

“Cold,” he said shortly, accepting what became a tight hug. “I have good news and bad news.”

“That makes both of us,” Hitoshi whispered, thinking of how he’d earned them “training”.

The shorter boy sneezed, hair bouncing around and tickling Hitoshi’s face. It felt like peaking out over a jungle.

“… Thanks for letting me wear your hoodie. It’s comfy.”

It was, and it drowned Midoriya.

“Keep it. Consider it a U.A. acceptance present in advance,” Hitoshi answered after a pause. “… Also, 'about your height'?”

“That’s– you–” Midoriya squirmed, “What I meant was I haven’t stopped growing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I could sprout like bamboo, you don’t know!”

“Midoriya, I’ve met your mother.”

“Yeah, but what if my dad is real tall?”

Jeez. What a time to introduce the ‘Dad Conversation’, Midoriya.

“Are you saying that because you believe it or because you want him to be All Might?”

“… Do you have any tea,” Midoriya sneezed again, “or a phone? I should probably call my mom.”

“Your mom doesn’t know you’re here?” Hitoshi asked warily and held Midoriya at arms length to get a read on his expression.

Outlook: not good.

“Tell me your good news, quick. This is going downhill fast.”

“I got expelled.”

He looked at Midoriya. Nothing more. No pointed glare, no threat or annoyance. He just looked at him with his half-lidded resting face.

“Midoriya, once you warm up, we need to have a heart-to-heart about what constitutes good news.”

Thankfully, Midoriya hadn't required brainwashing to go take a shower or drink hot cocoa. Like the hoodie, he also wore the spare PJs he'd been given far better than their owner, who was unsure of how to feel about it.

True to his temperament, Hitoshi kept a cool head all throughout the discussion their shared, capricious torrent of news.

At least until he and Midoriya deduced that 'Kacchan' had been the one calling him. Meaning he'd missed his chance to throw hands in an ill-conceived fight.

Hitoshi stepped back outside at the realization. With measured steps, he strolled down to the street corner, as if there were no storm, and screamed the single loudest swear he could muster, letting the rain and thunder mute him. His return was equally nonchalant. Midoriya added some indispensable levity with a good shower joke before Hitoshi left to take his.

They ended up slapping a crudely-made sign onto the front door—

[DEAR MRS. MIDORIYA, DOOR = UNLOCKED, PARENTS = ASLEEP, YOU = NOT ANGRY(?). Please. - H. Shinsou]

—and with the couch already spoken for by his parents, he and Midoriya huddled together on a fluffy chair and talked.

For how long, he wasn't sure, only that they whispered about nicer things until both boys felt they'd said anything in need of saying. So they sat, the day decompressed, content and sipping the last of their cocoa.

Hitoshi even got to fill Midoriya in on who Present Mic's guest was, and what they talked about. Or yelled about in PM's case. It may have been mundane, or dorky, but it was a good test of retention, and his friend enjoyed it. Moreover, he said he preferred it to the actual show. Hitoshi had shaded a deep red at that.

Mrs. Midoriya spotted him when she first came in.

Midoriya had the right idea, pretending to be asleep whenever he thought he saw the door jiggle, needing to be 'woken up' after any false alarms. It seemed so silly, but after having that look in her eyes pointed his direction for what must've been two seconds, Hitoshi felt certain that anything over five would melt a man's face off like the Ark of the Covenant.

He was left wondering where she learned how to do that.

In a span of a blink, Mrs. Midoriya went back to looking like, well, Mrs. Midoriya. The Ark disappeared as quick as it came when once she registered the sight in front of her.

Two boys, hair still damp from their respective showers, wrapped beside one another in a thick quilt, having settled into a seat their combined size should have, by all rights, made cumbersome, a mug in each pair of hands.

She shut the door and used her quirk to carefully lift both of their empty drinks toward her; watching the ceramic mug slide from Midoriya's loose grip, a realization struck.

... He's actually asleep, isn't he?

Mrs. Midoriya gave a weak, but gentle smile, as if reading his thoughts.

Glancing at the unconscious Midoriya to his left (who, incidentally, had monopolized their joint chair space in his hibernation), he expected a drooling mess, but the gremlin had the nerve to look picture perfect peaceful.

When Hitoshi closed his eyes, missing a fight seemed a small price to pay. 

Then a stray elbow sent him tumbling over the arm of the chair.

... Still worth it.

Chapter Text

Going to Nabu was much nicer than Aldera.

Izuku tried to keep that quiet, though. Shinsou never had the most fulfilling school experiences either, from the tidbits he shared, so waltzing in and complimenting everything would be tantamount to telling him all his troubles were insignificant, and Izuku was too aware of how that felt to subject anyone else to it, least of all his best friend.

“Nicer” primarily meant “away from Kacchan” and to a lesser extent “away from all the teachers who were predisposed to detest me”. So there wouldn’t be a point of comparison to understand. They always did (de)test my patience. Ha!

Students at Nabu weren’t a bother so far. They were ignorant more than vicious, and any theoretical gossip had yet to reach his ears. Feeling generous, he could posit that as a side effect of everyone skittishly preparing for their various looming entrance exams. Training had him plenty distracted at least.

Teachers… were another story. There was no reason to expect anything but the worst from them. Nothing had been done to him, no injustices, but they still kept a respectable distance as if anticipating Izuku to start causing trouble. Avoiding them whenever possible was in both parties' best interests. Teachers are a wanton and prejudiced lot, he knew. They were keeping quiet, though. Fine by him. Luck has been on my side recently. Here’s hoping I figure out how to wear it on my front!

The buildings do seem a little nicer… Izuku thought, looking for actual positives that weren't just double-negatives. Maybe they get donations or something?

He pondered it, despite knowing that for its many benefits, budget alone cannot also make sleeping easier and colors more vivid and his body be in less unscheduled harm, so his general mood was a likely factor.

Nabu might not be able to make food taste sweeter, but it sure tastes richer! HA!

Although... With the right quirks they could conceivably, possibly, maaaaaybe do all those things, but those would be valuable quirks to have, so it’d cost a lot to employ them and, wait, that leads back to money again, it’s just a normal public school and you enjoy not having new burns, you dork.

It took him a second to shrug off the tangent, and he pulled his fist back for an enthusiastic knock, just to hit the air as the door was pulled open.

“Midoriya, what a surprise,” said a man with wispy, ash brown hair, giving the same facetious greeting that he gave every morning.

“Hello, Mr. Shinsou!” Izuku bowed, smiling brightly.

“I’ll be damned. You said Mr. Shinsou like I asked this time. Less formal. Let’s keep it that way unless you decide to show up on my doorstep looking like that guy who got off with landscaping equipment.”

Above anyone else he knew, Mr. Shinsou had the ultimate parental Get Out of Jail Free card, as no matter what it was, he’d met someone who hurt themselves doing it.

“I’d offer you some fresh coffee as a reward, but frankly I think someone would go insane. Not quite sure who,” he looked into his cup as if to say ‘and I’d rather not find out.’

“Is–?”

“My son still lives here, yes,” the man said with a long slurp his coffee, opening the door to reveal Shinsou tying his shoes and watching his father—more specifically his father’s beverage—with a furrowed brow.

“Hypocrite.”

Mr. Shinsou downed the rest of his cup in slow gulps in response to Shinsou’s sass. Izuku had a hearty laugh at the exchange but stopped himself suddenly with a guilty look.

“I’m so sorry, do you think I–?”

“No, you did not wake her up.”

Izuku’s must have kept the same worried look on his face, because he watched Mr. Shinsou sigh heavily, his whole body slouching at hearing Izuku express the same, exact concern, again. With a slow breath, he yelled back into the house.

“HONEY, ARE YOU UP?”

They waited wordlessly for a reply as Shinsou passed through the door.

One. Two. Three.

“See? Unless you plan on renting a jackhammer, don’t bother wondering. I will pay you literal real-world money in literal real life to not ask me that tomorrow.”

“Okay, then t–”

“Yes, I will tell her ‘hi’ when she gets up in,” Mr. Shinsou looked at his bare wrist where a watch would be, “five hours.”

“Five hours?!” he gasped on instinct, Shinsou tugging on his long sleeve to get going. Gosh, I knew Shinsou’s mom was on a different schedule, but getting up so insanely late seems… insane!

“Well, it is four in the morning,” said Mr. Shinsou in response to Izuku’s unintentional mumbling, eyes peering up at a black sky.

“Oh. Right,” Izuku blushed, following his friend’s retreat. “H-have a nice day, Mr. Shinsou!” and Shinsou added his own ‘love you, dad.’

A coffee cup was raised in a “likewise” gesture as the two boys started to jog away.

“Love you, too, Hitoshi. Have fun, uh. Cleaning?”

Izuku was sure they totally would!

… not! It was never fun. Like, at all. But that was the point, right? Izuku didn’t even get to clean! At least that would be an actual activity, where he'd be actively doing something other than standing around waiting to be beaten.

“You getting any good info out of watching this?” Izuku asked, picking himself up off the smooth, wood floors and trying not to step on any parts of it that Shinsou had already cleaned.

Shinsou shook his head, wincing as the wind was once again knocked out of Izuku. His breakfast wanted to come with it, but he was able to roll over and choke it down. Continuing to lay there seemed so very inviting, and it would have been so very easy, but the man who had knocked him down with one hit, again, stomped right next to his head. It was a wonder the wide, callused foot didn’t break the wood for how hard it came down, spurring Izuku to stand, panicky.

Sweat rolled into his eyes and he hadn’t even done anything— just had things done to him, and with the sweat came damp locks. When another fist sent him floor-bound, he reflected on his life choices and the necessity of a headband or a haircut, because golly gee willikers, if he didn’t get either of those he’d have to settle on a cane for the blind.

“Do you think I—” Izuku began asking, to distract himself from the pain that wrapped him like a blanket.

A sweep sent his legs in the air and the rest of him to the ground.

Foul! Shinsou is supposed to be the one sweeping! Ha!

“—need a haircut?” he finished saying from his new, seemingly-permanent residence on the floor.

It was a booming region and a valued part of the Pain-Afflicted Izuku Nation. Otherwise known as just PAIN. What does it take to get your own zip code? I’d settle for a subdivision. You probably have to own land, though, right? A lot, I’ll bet. Crud.

As his eyes closed, the congress of PAIN passed a unanimous vote on swapping Nation for Napping. Then a foot shocks him up again and he looks up to see a stern face directly overhead before it walks away entirely. The “why” couldn’t matter less to Izuku when he was still having difficulty standing up.

“A trim couldn’t hurt,” Shinsou answered offhandedly, looking over all the space still in need of cleaning that he was already familiar enough with to be annoyed by it, “I don’t know what this is. They haven’t given me any instructions or told me if I’m doing anything wrong.”

“Maybe it’s some kinda ‘wax on, wax off’ subliminal teaching style where you train without knowing it?” Izuku wanted to shrug, but he wanted to conserve the precious energy it would take even more.

“I already tried that answer,” Shinsou complained.

Every several days they would be asked what they think the reason is. The reason they kept cleaning and getting whacked. They invariably got it wrong.

“Even if it was meant to be ‘Subliminal’, that’d be a crazy stretch, because it’s going right over my head,” Shinsou grunted as he went back to hard scrubbing with a black and brown rag that had been white when he started. Izuku hummed at that.

“If it makes you feel better, getting beaten up and kicked around hasn’t made any more sense than it did with Kacchan.”

Their trainers’ quirks were incredibly fascinating, especially the one that made him getting pummeled each morning possible without brain damage or worse: a lawsuit. It was such a shame that he lacked the coordination to write about it and get beaten up at the same time.

The unpleasantly-brief explanation he’d been given on their first day consisted of the names of their quirks alone. Simple observation and analysis accounted for the rest.

Sensei Nagurareta’s quirk was Short-term Possession, which wasn’t hard to figure out the gist of, though she hadn't shown it off. Getting a thorough look at it would be an absolute blast!

Sensei Nagurareta’s, on the other hand, was harder to pin down.

Yeah. Working under two siblings who share a surname (duh) was just as confusing as he imagined it’d be.

The good news was that he got kicked for calling either of them Sensei, as they insisted the boys were not their students, so, no matter what, it was a lose-lose situation. Unless you stand on your head. Then it's a win-win! Both he and Shinsou took to calling them Mister and Miss.

Mister’s quirk was called Bonsai. According to the best of Izuku’s analytical ability, it was a location-based healing quirk. That’s the only answer that made sense! The man took more supplements than either boy had ever seen any single person take in their lives, so that was another possible factor, but Izuku wasn’t allowed to ask.

He always felt a slight tingling whenever they passed a threshold a few hundred meters from where they "trained". Like getting very light goosebumps or that prickly feeling when a limb falls asleep, but for barely a full second. Insignificant unless you care to seek it out.

The old-fashioned, single-story building stood in the cramped space between two highrises on a busy street, and Izuku questioned how many office workers noticed the effect. It was technically being used within the siblings’ property, so if anyone somehow did notice or care, they’d have to take it up with Mister and Miss. Izuku did not see that going well.

He was also no stranger to being abused, so it was easy to tell when a hit stopped hurting too soon.

No pain inflicted after they passed into the Tingly Zone survived when they passed it again on their way out. To prove his theory, Izuku slammed his hand in a cupboard when Mister and Miss weren’t in the room, much to Shinsou’s agitation. Just as Izuku Midoriya, master of the scientific method had suspected, it healed completely when they left. Boo-yah!

When he accidentally dropped a rusty ironing board on his toe during beach cleanup, however, passing into Bonsai’s area of effect didn’t help at all. No-yah! Realizing it must only work on damage taken within its radius was a depressing moment for Izuku. A relieving one for Shinsou, however, who cited not wanting to give him “free rein to break his neck.”

A beacon that gave off advanced healing but only for injuries taken inside its range? What an interesting tradeoff! Quirks are so neat!

“It makes me feel worse, but thanks,” Shinsou grumbled after polishing up another spot. “Did you hear her calling me mop now? I’ve officially been downgraded from kid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. I started with dummy,” Izuku gave him his brightest smile, ready to fall on his humor’s sword, “Buck up, Shinsou! Don’t throw in the towel yet!”

A towel hit him in the face.

“Fuck you, too, ya’ old geezer!” Mitsuki screamed from her place in the waiting room before a door slammed in her face. “Come on, Katsuki, let’s get out of here.”

The sounds of muffled sparks went off and she could see thin lines of smoke coming from his pockets as her son tried not to explode in an office with so many glass surfaces. Didn’t they see? He really could be considerate if he tried hard enough. Or maybe her standards weren’t high enough.

He didn’t bother speaking until they were about to step into the car.

“Mom, this is dumb.”

Mitsuki stopped herself, not even looking his way. There was too much anger to process moving and responding at the same time.

“Listen, brat. I can’t get a damn word out of you. Izuku won’t spill the beans to your aunt. What the hell else am I supposed to do?” she asked earnestly, flopping her arms at her side. “Either you talk to me, or you talk to your father, or you at least act like you give a shit about your problems.”

“I don’t have any fucking problems!” he roared, stiffening.

“Then congratulations, Katsuki! You’re the only person in the whole world who doesn’t! I knew you were talented, but to think you solved the meaning of life in just fifteen years— you’ve exceeded all expectations! Maybe you should become a sage and go sit on a fucking mountain! How’s that sound? Stupid? Stupider than therapy? Huh!?”

He didn’t make a sound, glaring off in the distance.

“Then get. in the fucking. car.”

This son of a bitch doesn’t listen to a word I’m saying, Mitsuki sighed to herself over the sound of the engine starting. The irony of that did not slip by her.

That was it, then. The last name on Inko’s suggestion list. Which meant they were, what, fucked now? Unfortunately (or fortunately), Katsuki's problems, whatever they may be, were a different matter entirely from what she knew of poor Izuku's. Otherwise, they could’ve had a list long enough to roll out like the red carpet. That gives me an idea…

“You still have that card the doc gave you? The one that didn’t kick us out,” Mitsuki clarified as she stepped on the gas, thinking back on all the doors that had been metaphorically and literally shut in their face recently.

“I don’t know. Probably not,” her son looked out the window, arms crossed.

“Then you’d better wish upon a fucking star because the alternative is sitting down with your parents after school every single day until you break.”

The alternative was actually that she’d just have to drive down to the hospital and ask the guy herself, but fear was a good motivator. Katsuki’s following outburst proved that point to be sound.

“Fucking fine! It’s in your purse!” he yelled at the roof of the car and slouched low enough to start slipping from his seatbelt.

“It’s in my… It’s in my purse? Since fucking when?!”

“Since I was hospitalized, hag!”

Her purse was a disaster, she could admit that. Thus, it should not have shocked the woman as much as it did that a small paper rectangle had been able to hide for that long.

“Since you were— why the hell did you put it in there!?” Mitsuki screeched, sifting through all her junk.

“I didn’t have any FUCKING PANTS, DID I!?”

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” she screamed, honking at every other driver. Serves ‘em right. Those assholes need to get off the street so I can go faster.

“IT’S YOUR OWN DAMN PURSE, IT AIN’T MY FAULT YOU CAN’T FIND SHIT IN THAT FU— MOM! THE ROAD!”

Mitsuki grunted to acknowledge her son’s concerns, but they didn’t stop her from rummaging forcefully for her phone and that stupid card. Eventually, when some moron stopped at an empty red light that he could have easily rolled through, she struck gold and nearly tore the paper in half from how far it bent in her grip.

Fuckin’ asshole’s handwriting is shit, she thought, dialing what she could only guess was the right number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri–click.

“Hello?” answered a voice, low in pitch, but far too young to be the man who’d given Katsuki the card.

“Yeah, hi, this is Mitsuki Bakugo, I’m looking for, uh,” Mitsuki failed to read what was presumably a name written in the doctor’s stereotypically awful handwriting.

“Dr. Shinsou?” the voice asked in a bored tone.

“Yeah,” Mitsuki said, breathlessly thankful.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Hah?” she barked at her phone, “Pretty average build, early-forties, beady eyes, brown—”

“Dad! Phone! Lady named Bakagu!”

“Bakugo.”

“Bakugo!”

The handwritten number already gave her the clue that it wasn’t handed out willy-nilly, but hearing some kid answer the phone almost made her feel a little guilty. She didn’t know it was a home number.

Almost.

“Dr. Reisei Shinsou, to whom am I speaking?” answered a deeper, masculine voice.

“Mitsuki Bakugo," said Mitsuki, a little annoyed at having to repeat herself again.

“Bakugo? Oh! Yes, Mrs. Bakugo. I hope Katsuki is well,” he said, subtly stretching the name to give her a chance to correct him in case he got it wrong. “Not to dismiss your call, but I must say, hearing from you so long after your son was discharged is a surprise. He really shouldn’t be having any complications this long after the procedure. Unless that isn’t what this is about…?”

“I’ll make this quick,” Mitsuki spoke curtly, “Do you know any therapists or psychiatrists or psychologists or some shit? I asked a friend but most of the ones she suggested were way up north, or were too busy, or kicked us out. You didn’t seem like a moron, so I figured I’d ask you before I resorted to the phonebook.”

“Thank you?” his voice raised at the bizarre compliment. He softly hemmed and hawed, thinking over her question.

“There are a few I’d recommend, but I’ll try for the very best first. Give me a moment,” the man stepped away from the phone, his hand covering the transmitter. Mitsuki just had to sit and listen to uncomfortable phone crackling and distant, muffled noises. The things I do for love.

“…I do think you're good people, and thankfully my wife trusts my judgment. Your son can get a free session," Dr. Shinsou almost sounded glad for her as he broke through the cluttered cellular noises, “but if she doesn’t want to schedule a followup, it’s out of my hands.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Mitsuki breathed a sigh of relief... Did he say his wife? Fuck it. She didn’t have many options at that point.

“Not to boast,” he prefaced, “but this is in large part why I gave your son our number in the first place. Though, I did assume that if you were going to call, you’d have done so much sooner. The sort of experience he went through can be very traumatic, and I got the impression that he’s the strong, silent type. Proud kid, if memory serves.”

Riiiiight. The slimefucker. Yeah, totally. That’s the sole reason she was calling. Not a nebulous but longstanding pattern of behavior about which she'd been comfortably ignorant.

Whether or not the doctor’s use of ‘silent’ was meant as a joke, Mitsuki could not say. The brat knew how to bottle shit up though. Of that she was certain.

“Let me know when you’re ready for her office’s contact info. And if you could also…” Dr. Shinsou trailed off.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I won’t call again, it’s a private number, one time only thing, all that shit,” she hand-waved the whole situation, searching for a pen and paper.

Katsuki bolted upright when another car pulled out ahead, as if ready to brace for impact, his gestures wide and full of petulance.

“Mom! Eyes on the fucking road!” He snipped, kicking the dashboard in spite of her paying little attention to his driving advice. “Ugh! If we crash, it ain’t my fault.”

Nothing ever is, her teeth ground together. Nothing ever is.

 [10 Years Ago]

It was meant to be a happy day. Her son’s quirk had come in.

What should’ve been a relieving day was anything but. It came in so late, Emi had started to fret that he wouldn’t get one at all.

Yet, knowing he was better off having a quirk wouldn't make it any easier to have the one he did. Every inner attempt at comfort was worthless. “It could be worse,” was no consolation. Nor was “don’t worry about it,” or “once he grows up no one will care.”

Guess what? she asked her imaginary, inconsiderate opponent. I am worried. I am pretty damn worried. Is this all I’ve got? “Just wait a decade and some change”? Am I that useless to my beautiful boy when the going gets rough? Is that the kind of mother I am? The kind of hero?

Worse still, Izuku tried to protect her.

Nonononononono that is not happening. He does not get to do that. So help me— we are  not going to have that family.

When she picked him up after work, none of his little friends were there to wave bye-bye, and the teacher wore a suppressed frown.

He sounded fine. Rambled up a storm on what he’d learned. Walked energetically. Normal Izuku.

No. No, it wasn’t. Emi’s instincts said something was off, and her largest hint was how he hadn’t mention heroes even once the whole way home. The closer they got, the more worried she became, the more even minor things grated her. The wind started to itch Emi’s neck, each strand of hair becoming bothersome. Her mouth felt dry but her body cold and wet.

Her eyes, however, couldn’t help but focus on Izuku’s smile. On how close it was to being convincing— for a kid his age, anyway. With practice, he’d only improve. Someone else might have been fooled. Emi knew better, that he had a lot to learn about the subject, and that she’d stop him from doing so at whatever cost until he can understand when not to do it and why.

The second their door clicked shut, she sat down on the floor, hoping to level with the boy. He was resolute in walking away.

“Izuku,” she called for him so softly it was barely above a whisper, “what’s wrong?”

His head hung, but he didn’t turn around.

"You can talk to me, if you want. I—… no pressure, okay? I’ll be sitting right here, and I love you so much, a-and whatever it is,” Emi had sucked in her emotions, increasingly certain of what it was, “I will always be there for you no matter what. Not in a creepy way though,” she gave a pitiful chuckle.

How he turned to her broke Emi’s heart. False smile still on his face, it crumbled in seconds, leaving him weeping by the time he fell into her arms.

As he explained how his quirk seemed to work she had but one thought:

It was perfect. In all the right ways and all the wrong.

What quirk could suit her little gag better? She found it superb. Its utility could help him excel, and in no one’s hands would it be more effective than Izuku’s. His entire wonderful personality complemented it perfectly!

But…

What quirk could give his peers more reason to distrust him? For all they knew, every laugh was another chance to trick them. Izuku didn’t mention anything about floating hair either. At least Shouta’s quirk had a telltale sign he was using it, but her boy’s telltale sign was a noise he made constantly.

He’d used it three times. That’s all! Twice by accident and once on purpose to make sure it was what everyone suspected by that point. That’s all it took for his those little friends of his to back away. Maybe if I talked to the parents…? She doubted it’d do much.

“Mama,” Izuku began, sobs interrupting him every few words, “D-do you think I could… I could still be a hero?”

“Izuku,” Emi’s voice cracked, her eyes welled up.

Though she held him close, the tightness was around her heart.

“Yes. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” Emi rubbed the tears away before she could handle him looking at her. “You can be anything you want to be. You’re still the same unstoppable boy you were yesterday. The only difference is now you’ve got a cool quirk.”

“C—c–c-cool…?” Izuku asked, drier breaths coming out staccato.

“Mhmm,” she nodded. “There’s even a fairytale about a quirk just like yours.”

“R-really?” he perked up, both his voice and his posture. His expression took another minute to catch up, like he was expecting another horrible disappointment.

“Do you wanna hear it?”

Izuku nodded so forcefully he was practically headbanging.

As joyful as it was to see him slightly less emotionally crushed, she had to make him wait a few minutes before he’d calmed enough to sit somewhere in the vicinity of stillness, and so she could rush through making sure he was clean-ish and in pajamas. Emi was darn proud of his patience.

“You ready?” Emi asked, helping him to comfortably slip into the big bed. She leaned in front of him, over the covers. The classic storytelling position. He gave her an affirmative noise and got a big Ms. Joke smile in return.

“Once upon a time, there was an orphan boy who—”

“What did he look like?” Izuku interrupted.

“I was getting to that. He was skinny and pale, with hair like a bird’s nest that was somehow really cute anyway,” she added, mind wandering, and she cleared her throat, getting back into the character of the narrator.

“Once up—”

“Wha’s the name of the story?” Izuku again cut her off.

“The name? Um. How about ‘The Orphan Knights’!”

“There’s more than one?” Izuku questioned, but Emi shook her head.

“Yes and no, but you don’t want spoilers, do you?”

He gasped and pulled the covers up to his eyes, nodding. It made Emi giggle.

“Okay. Once upon a time, there was an orphan boy with dark eyes and hair as black as night…”

Once Upon a Time

…He had no money, no home, no family, and no friends. No butt either!

“You’re makin’ that up!” The audience said with a tiny giggle, kicking his feet.

Alright, fine, he had a butt. A nice one, actually. Yeeeeep… ah! Butt anyway, although he lived in an orphanage with plenty of other kids, no one believed in him. ‘Believed in him to do what?’ I hear you ask.

Well, the truth is, more than anything in the whooooole world, he wanted to become a Knight! Strong and brave, and always there to do the right thing!

“Like a hero!”

You got it, pal. Like a hero.

The orphan boy was weak and gloomy and quiet and most of all… he had a quirk that everyone said was meant for a villain.

The audience’s eyes widened, paying even closer attention than before.

But no matter how much they prodded him, he ignored their insults and kept himself focused on his goal! Because nobody is allowed to train a knight but other knights, so you had to win a, eh, a sorta competition to become their pupil.

“Pupil..?”

Like a student.

The audience settled back down with a look of understanding.

When the day of the test— er, competition came, he gave it his all, but it wasn’t enough. The orphan boy had failed.

Looking about ready to cry more, tears hung at the very edge of the audience’s eyelids.

Ahhh! Wait! Wait! Izuku, that’s not the end of the story!

“i-it’s not?”

No way it’d end like that! So… Is it alright for me to keep going? You okay?

The audience thought about it, sniffling, until he, at last, gave the narrator a nod to continue.

Thank you, sweetie. Now, where was I…

“H-he f-failed the th-th-the Knight test.”

Ah, right.

Before long, there was a, um, jousting tournament!

“W-what’s jousting?” the audience sniffed.

Uh. Basically, two people run at each other with big sticks to see who falls over.

“Oh. Okay.”

…

“…”

… Izuku, please don’t try to joust with Katsuki.

“I wasn’t gonna!”

Yeah, right, ‘course not. But still don’t, ‘kay? You need to be on horses to do it right.

The audience made a whiny noise of resignation and the narrator sighed with relief.

As I was saying: the orphan boy had never jousted in his life, but his opponents were all taught how to joust, ‘cus they were being trained by Knights, and—

“They were trained?”

Yeah, they’d already won the competition before that.

“Why?”

Do you mean ‘why did they win the competition’ or ‘why were they in the jousting tournament?’

The audience unhelpfully nodded, and the narrator chuckled.

Well, my little gag, they won because their quirks were better for what that specific competition needed, and they were jousting for glory. Glory is a word for trying to look cool.

“T-that’s not fair!”

No, it’s not, but everyone has a different struggle, so we shouldn’t judge them. Maybe they just loved to joust and— have you ever said a word so much it stopped sounding like a word? It’s happening to me. Joust, joust, joustjoustjoust. Jousted jousty joust joust. Jooouuuuust.

The audience had himself a long laugh and the narrator cleared her throat to get herself back on track.

Not only were they better jousters, but their quirks were as impressive as can be! Strength enhancers, spikes, magnetism! There was even one that could lengthen stuff to make their lance twice as long! I think? That’s the big stick. Anyway, the orphan was up against some pretty dangerous Knights-in-training.

Their mistake, however, was in underestimating him.

The orphan boy survived the first round of jouuuuusting. Then the second, and after that, the third. He was winning, and the crowd had seen hide nor hair of his quirk, as far as they knew.

The next joust was the finale. The last match of the tournament. All he had to do was defeat one more person, and he could be allowed to train to be a Knight. That ‘one more person’ was much bigger and stronger, though, so it would be difficult.

Not only that, but the bigger boy’s quirk was… Rubber-fication! He could make himself rubbery and things would bounce right off of him! Oh no! That meant he could show off and didn’t even need a shield.

The audience squeezed the thick covers in his small hands tightly, concentrating, as if to will the story toward a happy ending.

The more exciting the scene got, the more extravagant the narrator’s gestures and vocal accompaniments became.

Staring down the enemy, the orphan’s hands shook with worry, but he saddled up anyway, even though he was worn out from quirk use. He’d come too far to give up! They rode toward each other faster and faster, until the other boy’s lance struck the orphan’s shield right as he tried to use his quirk, hitting him square in the chest. Pow! It sent him tumbling off his horse, rolling ‘til he was dizzy.

He knew he’d lost. He was just sure of it, and yet, when he rose from the dirt and pulled off his helmet, all he heard was the sound of cheering.

The narrator hopped off the bed to imitate a crowd hooting and hollering.

The orphan got up on shaky legs while the referee came to lift his hand high in the air and announce him as the winner of the tournament! What the orphan had been too dazed to see at the time was that he’d hit the other boy in the same place, at the same time.

The audience’s face asked a question without speaking.

The opponent was rubber, yes, but the orphan was able to use his quirk just in the nick of time to still beat him! Y’know what his quirk was?

The audience shook his head, and the narrator leaned in close and checked her sides like she was about to share a big secret.

He could make a person’s quirk disappear! Just like that!

The narrator snapped her fingers to demonstrate the speed of the orphan’s quirk. She happily watched the audience’s eyes go wide with surprise and awe, only for them to fill and then spill with tears again. A different kind, thankfully.

“i-i-is that a true story?” he slurred. The narrator hugged him close.

UUhmmmmmore or less? Kind of. That’s the spirit of it, anyway. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says. Being anything but genuine is a disservice to yourself. All that matters is what’s in your heart. Follow it and it’ll take you where you need to go.

“A-a-a-an’ then wh-what happened?”

What do you mean?

“T-to the other orph’n.”

Other orphan? RIGHT. The other orphan. That might have to be another time. It’s getting late. You won’t feel good tomorrow if you stay up too long.

“B-buh–buh–but Mama,” the audience’s voice sounded particularly wet as it came with another burst of tears.

It’s just—

“Why noooooot—”

It gets pretty sad in the middle, and I don’t know if you’re up for it right now. It’s got a moral, and morals are always—

“Pleeeeeease—”

I mean, it’s not—

The narrator sighed at the audience’s insistence and crawled up into bed next to him, leaning on her side.

Alright, alright already, but we’re gonna turn the light out right afterward, okay? she said, and the audience agreed with a nod.

Once upon a time, there was also a young princess who—

“What did she look like?” the audience softly interrupted.

What? I, uh— sheeeee was, ah— how about—

“S-she can look like you if you want.”

Like me?

“Mhmm. If she’s s’posed to be pretty. Princesses us’ally are.”

The narrator giggled, nodding. She’d been hoping to avoid that direct of a comparison, but if that’s what he wanted, then it couldn’t be helped.

Alright, she can look like me, but only because you’re such a flatterer!

Once—

“Wait, I thought… I thought it was about ano’der orphan?” the audience questioned, wiping his stuffed nose on the sleeves of his adorably-sized shirt that the narrator would now have to change him out of, lest tear-snot wipe around the bed. The narrator shook her head to answer his question and to put the thought aside.

The second one is metaphorical, but hold your horses for now, we’ll get there. She cleared her throat, getting back into character.

Once upon a time, there was also a beautiful, young princess, who was really, really pretty. Ridiculously good-looking. Easily one of the most gorgeous human beings to ever grace the earth.

“Mamaaaa!” the audience whined in between short hiccups, laughs still wet from lingering tears.

Alright, alright, she wasn’t that pretty, but she did wear flawless, sparkling dresses that wonderfully hugged her figure. As a member of the royal family, she was safe, she had more friends than you can shake a stick at, and her parents made sure to always teach her what was right and what was wrong.

But she wished things were different.

“S-she didn't wanna be a princess?”

No, Izuku, she didn’t, for the regal life did not suit her.

She may have been safe, superficially—eh, that means ‘it seems like it but not really’—but the stones were stacked so high that they blocked any view of the countryside or townsfolk unless you went up to the tallest towers, and they did nothing to protect from the dangers on the inside of the wall.

The audience started to ask a question, but the narrator gave a gentle ‘shhh’ gesture.

She may have been desirable to some, but no one she cared about, and the royal makeup was chalky and the corset felt like a full-body noose for hours on end.

She may have had friends abound, but they were just friends of the family. Not hers, and not the kind you get to have any fun with. They were guests to have over for boring stuff, like dinner parties. I know both of those words are awesome by themselves, but when you put ‘em together, they stink, and the more important the guest, the more nauseous with worry she felt for whole days beforehand.

She may have indeed been taught right from wrong, but it was not in the way you know. For the royal family, all that meant was when to say “Yes, Ma’am” and “No, Sir”, which spoon was right for soup, which knife couldn’t be used to cut letters, that sort of thing. The fancy life wasn't all it cracked up to be, so thought the little princess.

What she really wanted was…

“To be a Knight!”

Exactly, Izuku! You could get a second job as a detective!

She wanted to be a Knight, but princesses were told not to want such things.

…However, as the youngest royal sibling and the only girl, she was seen as less important than her two older brothers.

The big prince could be arrogant like the king and the two of them fought constantly, but he also followed in the king’s footsteps perfectly to one day take the throne, which made the king and queen very happy.

The little prince, on the other hand, enjoyed things princes weren’t allowed to enjoy, was things princes weren't allowed to be, and their father, in all his irascibility, made him pay for it dearly and constantly, assuming the prince would change. But changing was not his choice.

Irascible means— eh, y’know what? I’ll explain some other time. The king got mad easily and could be super mean. That’s the point. Moving on.

The audience nodded, ready to hear more.

She saw what it meant to be under the constant eye of the king and queen, so being paid less attention wasn’t that bad after all, and although she hated every minute of it, she was the very definition of a ‘perfect’ daughter. Perfect by their meanie definition. She did everything required of her without complaint. The little prince despised her for this.

Why did the big prince get such admiration? How come the princess got moments to be herself while the king and queen looked elsewhere? No matter how much she tried to defend him against their father, in spite of her many attempts to make peace amongst their family, the little prince’s hate for them— for her, only grew. Sometimes, the arrogant, big prince would defend the princess, but it only made things worse.

“This story got sad an’ weird,” the audience complained, “an’ confusing.”

I agree! But don’t worry, it’ll get simple and happy, I promise. Be patient.

The castle was nothing but chaos, and the queen would just hide herself away and cry. She didn’t try to fix things. She’d run up the stairs of the castle and slam shut the door of a bedroom, or a bathroom, or even a closet, and she’d close her eyes and cover her ears and wait around while the house tore itself apart.

The princess would always be the one to chase after her. The one to hold her hand and wipe her tears, and to let her know that things would be okay. To one to try and help.

“Like Mama does!”

The narrator gave a sad smile.

That's right… but that isn’t the way it’s meant to go. No princess should ever, ever have to protect their queen like that. No son should ever have to protect their Mama like that. Does that make sense?

She spoke slowly and locked gentle eyes with him. A piece of him understood what she was getting at.

“I can be b-brave!”

Izuku, I’m not saying you’re not brave— and I’m not mad, at all, but I do need you to reeeeally listen to me for a second, okay?

It’s just different. It probably feels like I’m being unfair, and I’m so sorry for that, but no matter how big of a hero you become, even if you’re the number one in the world, I’m still your Mama.

She looked into the audience’s dampening eyes that he had tried so very hard to cheer up, until the dam broke and he collapsed into the narrator’s arms once again, tears returning in even greater numbers and soaking into her shirt.

Izuku, you are no less a hero for being honest with me. It makes you an even bigger hero, the narrator whispered.

Once the sobs became less and less frequent, and he ran dry of tears, the narrator sighed and began speeding through the remainder of the story just to get the audience she had held against her heart to sleep, even if it meant skipping the most interesting, heroic parts she could tell.

The narrator hadn’t considered thinking ahead to make an exit strategy to use after getting to the moral of the story.

Why didn’t you tell the uplifting bit about Shouta’s quirk after the honesty moral, dumb-dumb?

Anyway, yada yada, a bunch of stuff happened, she started training to be a Knight, some more stuff happened, she made friends with other Knights-in-training and had lots of fun, it was all very exciting, she was extremely cool and admirable and take-charge and blah blah blah, then one day she and the orphan met, and it was love at first sight.

On second thought, let’s go with ‘like-like’ at first sight just to be safe. Love took longer to understand, much less admit.

After "first sight", it took a little convincing before he was willing to believe the princess like-liked him, but somewhere between those two points in time, he realized that he like-liked her, too. He could be terribly romantic, and, oh my gosh, it was adorable. Like the orphan hadn’t the first clue, so he went to the library or something and read Romeo and Juliet as dating advice… That’s actually not that unlikely, knowing him.

The narrator mumbled and laughed, thinking of the kind of thing he’d probably have said to excuse such saccharine behavior.

“A hero doesn’t do things halfheartedly. You start a mission, you do it right,” the narrator spoke to herself in a grumbly voice, her face slack, but yanked the emergency brake on any more laughs, trying to quiet down.

There was this one time that I swear was like a reverse Rapunzel, it was hilarious—but, ah, that’s another story.

Her brain kept the tale going as hopped up to wiggled him out of his shirt and into a big spare of hers.

The princess and the orphan couldn’t see each other in person most of the time and didn’t always feel like sharing, but the two always kept in touch and brought out the best in one another. Then they became terrific Knights and made out a lot.

Speaking fast on a roll, the narrator blurted out the end and turned a deep shade of red, coughing into her fist awkwardly.

Having finally settled back into bed, she could feel the hitching in her audience’s breath lessen from his place on her chest.

“…and they lived happily ever after?”

There was no answer.

“Mama?”

Yeah, of course they did. They lived happily ever after.

The narrator clicked off the light and bit down on her cheek, trying to make her hand stop shaking before she’d be willing to set it back on the audience. The room was black, but all she saw was a little boy. A little boy who had experienced the first of what was sure to be many hurtful moments growing up with the ‘wrong’ quirk, and who had still tried to hide it for someone else’s sake. Worst of all, for hers.

She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time they’d have either of the night’s conversations…

It had always been a possibility, but nothing the narrator expected.

She’d have to think of a better fairytale next time. The Orphan Knights" was simply too much for them both.

Although, as her boy lie peacefully, perhaps that part was just her, the narrator considered. She could excuse any silent sobs as snickering.

The sunken heart that the night had given her did not agree with the smallest of melancholy smiles she wore when thinking back over the happy parts of the story.

But the narrator could not make it go away.

The End.

Katsuki was getting fucked over twice now by that same damn slime villain. Son of a bitch really did get the last laugh.

If he’d known it would lead to this, he would have ripped up that stupid card and thrown it back in Doctor Shitzone’s face.

Biased asshole.

This lady, Dr. Shinsou—no, his wife—wouldn’t fucking quit. He tried not to give her any ammo but then she’d still be pleasant and the hag still liked her, so he was stuck. At least their first session his mom had been there to scream at, but she’d since bailed to give them each one-on-one time with Dr. Shinsou, thus fucking him over in the process.

Traitor.

They'd already sat there for for-fucking-ever and although Katsuki didn't want to bother speaking, if he didn't do at least a little talking then the hag would blame him for the bullshit not working.

“I’m fine,” he resolutely said as fact without having been asked, watching her from under his eyebrows.

She gave him no response to play off of, and it pissed him off. Instead, she studied him from behind her spectacles, relaxed posture in direct opposition to Katsuki’s tactic of tensing every muscle possible. After a good, long look at him, she brushed a few strands of sky blue hair behind her ears and flipped through her clipboard to start writing something.

Katsuki wasn’t interested, but he took the bait out of boredom.

“The hell are you writing?” he demanded.

Doc S. flipped her clipboard around to show Katsuki a few large boxes drawn over what would normally be an extra sheet of patient information.

“Tic-Tac-Toe?” he grimaced, incredulous that she was wasting his time like this when she could easily inform the hag that he was fine and let him leave.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until the red light blinks,” she spoke with the utmost composure, handing the clipboard and pencil his way. “If you don’t want to talk, we might as well play a game.”

Fucking great. More games. I didn’t get enough of those with Deku.

“What’s that look?”

“What look?” Katsuki pulled back, grimacing. The pencil carved into the paper from how hard he pressed in creating his 'X', and he handed the tools back to the doctor.

“That one,” she pointed right at him, drawing an 'O' while barely looking.

“I don’t have any fuckin’ look! And I don’t need some TV Doctor talking to me for a paycheck!”

He felt like standing up, but she hovered between concerned and amused by his outburst and that was almost worse. The clipboard in his hands wanted to take his attention away from his thick river of rage, but he paid it little mind as a piece snapped off the pencil from drawing another intense 'X'. 

“If I were in want of money alone, there are more lucrative options out there for a very real Doctor,” she pointed to a diploma on the wall, name boldly written so there was no dispute, Dr. Shinrai Shinsou was the real deal. It was the only impressive thing in the room. Maybe in the entire office.

“Why the hell are you here? Doing this?”

It wasn’t a shithole or anything, but it was... fine. Normal. Meh. Nothing special. Beige.

“After a while, you get tired of helping just the people who can afford your help,” she practically whispered, calm to her core.

“Living on your husband’s dime, then? How old fashioned of you,” he said. It was becoming difficult to find reasons to hate her.

The building spelled "average". The furniture screamed "Modest". It was inoffensive and unobtrusive at best. For fuck’s sake, she was wearing one of his parents' blouses. He could already hear his dad saying something about glass houses.

“If you’re looking to get a rise out of me, it’s not going to work,” Dr. Shinsou had kind eyes, he thought, but he hated having to look at them. “Imagine if heroes asked to see your insurance before saving you from a villain.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Saving me?” he lashed out, like punching in the dark while she circled in an 'O'.

“Giving you the tools to save yourself, if you’ll let me.”

Katsuki’s body felt cold. He wanted heat again but fuck he wasn’t allowed to blow up. Even his anger had been stuffed in his chest (or as much as it could be) and it hurt.

“Nice try, Doc, but I see what you’re doing,” he didn’t even need to look at her, choosing to instead scan over the unimpressive space around him. "You're trying to get in my head.”

“'Trying to get in your head'? You make it sound so sinister,” the doctor responded thoughtfully, not sounding offended.

“That’s your gimmick. Makin’ people think they got problems so they’ll tell you shit.”

“‘Making them’. Interesting phrasing,” she hummed, switching gears and handing him the clipboard. “So, you’ve been fighting with a friend of yours?”

Damn hag. That ain't anybody's busy but mine.

“Stupid Deku ain’t my friend!”

“Hm. Your mother seemed to think he is,” she subtly adjusted her glasses and interlocked her fingers.

“She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. We haven’t been friends for years.”

Her face asked why and he boiled under the look until he could stand it any longer.

“Because his damn birth mom’s a hero and I was stupid enough to believe she couldn’t pop out a villain! But then he moves close by and starts fucking with me all the time! He was like that all along and I never noticed ‘cus I didn’t have to go to school with the bastard!”

Katsuki ground his teeth and jabbed the paper with the pencil as a psycho stabs with a giant knife, making a nigh-unrecognizable 'X' before forcefully throwing it back into the Doc's lap.

“A… villain? A bully isn’t always a villain.”

“He ain’t a bully! He’s a fucking villain! He’s got a villain’s quirk to prove it!”

“I doubt that," she rubbed her eyes.

“Are you defending fucking Deku?!”

“No. I don’t know Deku or what he’s done, only that it must’ve been very hurtful, and for that I’m sorry. All that I am saying is that his quirk is innocent. It isn’t a ‘villain’s quirk’ because there is no such thing, nor is it the cause of any grief he’s given you.”

“I don’t have any grief!”

“Be that as it may. Did your mother tell you about my quirk?” she asked, but his look told her no. “It’s called Truth. It can make anyone tell the truth, even if they don’t want to. Under a certain light, it sounds like it could be villainous, doesn’t it? But it isn’t, because it’s not the quirk. It’s how you use it.”

“I never use mine unless a patient specifically requests it and if I feel absolutely certain they can handle anything they might say. It also glosses over my eyes quite a bit, so you’d know if I activated it,” Dr. Shinsou spoke quietly, hoping to alleviate his concerns, while she wrote something on her clipboard, “I’m telling you this because I think you can handle it. You aren’t going to run out of the room, are you?”

Katsuki scowled, refusing to move or even blink. He ain’t a fucking coward.

“Good. If you don’t feel comfortable coming next week over this, that’s quite alright. We can cancel and I’ll make sure your mother understands why I won’t be able to take you back on. But, if you're up for it, I'm sure you can beat me next time,” she smiled softly without the slightest hint of smugness and flipped the paper around to show a diagonal line of three circles.

“You think I can’t fuckin’ take a little— huh?”

A flash of red in the corner of his vision distracted him.

Dr. Shinsou pointed and Katsuki's head swiveled up to see the light on her wall.

“Times up.”

I wonder if it’s legal to hit a child repeatedly without their parents’ explicit permission as long as they heal right afterward…?

On second thought, that’s not a question to explore.

Izuku couldn’t say much while he was busy getting punched in the gut anyway, so he was more than happy to listen to Shinsou’s recap of Present Mic’s last show. Getting to hear him talk at length without Izuku’s interjections—and about heroes of all things—was worth missing the episodes themselves.

It also helped because he was honestly too tired at the end of the day to add something else on top of it, even if that something was a show he enjoyed. He was too tired to do lots of stuff. Waking up at four would be one thing, but getting up even earlier to have time to eat, dress, make sure his face didn’t look like it belonged to a murderer or a murderer’s victim, and run to Shinsou’s by four? It was wearing on him.

Human beings evidently do need some sleep, a fact he’d recently learned from exercising and cleaning trash and scarfing down as much healthy, protein-rich food as he could stomach.

Up until that point, he would’ve been ecstatic to have “fighting to stay awake” as a frequent problem, but when you’re trying to do sit-ups and study with your friend over a Skope call late at night, it’s considered rude to pass out mid-rep. He wasn’t stupidly self-destructive enough to attempt to ask the teachers at Nabu if they’d allow him to cozy up with some earplugs and a sleeping bag in the middle of class either.

And the murder-face? He never even knew he could look like that! Not before greeting Shinsou at his door one day, only to have him recoil with unease and immediately warn Izuku not to go to school like that unless he wanted a repeat of his time at Aldera. Hearing helpful honesty like that was yet another reason he was thankful to have a best friend.

Shinsou seemed to be faring better, whether that be because he had a stronger constitution for it or simply the right disposition to hide it.

He took another hit to the chest and listened to Shinsou as best he could.

“—Glass Step was cool. Not very talkative, though, so the interview was meh. I was a little more interested in the next segment since they set it up earlier like ██████ would come on to promote why he’s been doing work in the nearby districts lately ever since All Might showed up around Musutafu. Turns out it was just a spokeswoman who came in.”

“Sorry— who are we talking about?” Izuku asked, teetering side to side before getting flipped onto his back. Shinsou quirked a brow toward him.

“██████.”

“Who?”

“██████? The ██ Hero?” Shinsou repeated.

Izuku waved his friend along since he wasn’t talking about anything important. "Right, yeah, continue, sorry for interrupting."

"Nah, it's cool. It wasn't even that I was interested from a heroic perspective. It was more like..." Shinsou's eyes focused as he tried and failed to come up with a metaphor, "... a morbid curiosity of something possibly going wrong, like, if he blurted out an insensitive comment and Present Mic called him out on it, or something along those lines. Does that make any sense?"

"Like going to the circus just in case one of those tigers finally gnaws the trainer-guy's hand off," Izuku offered.

Shinsou let out an honest chuckle, eyes drifting from his opponent. "That is actually a perfect analogy, Mido—" and he had the wind kicked right out of him. 

Izuku shortly followed suit, but getting that reaction from his friend gave him plenty of energy.

Hitoshi knew Midoriya to be plenty expressive, however, the subtleties were more noticeable now that Mrs. Midoriya had snipped her son’s hair back to its normal, messy-but-manageable length. The floofiness of his waves and curls were unstoppable no matter how long, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help keep it from blocking his face.

It wasn’t an issue Hitoshi had to deal with, personally, so it was a wonder both mother and son kept bringing him into the conversation while she trimmed it a few days prior, as if he’d have anything useful to say. Although he had the tact not to mention it, it didn’t seem like an issue the straight-haired Mrs. Midoriya had either.

Spending a half-hour staring at both Midoriyas in the mirror gave Hitoshi sufficient time to reflect on their differences.

Hair gets darker with age, right? So hers probably looked lighter like his when she was a teenager. Yeah, that makes sense. And then it became way straighter and lost its weird, angled black tint.

The answer made less sense as it went along, but it was going to have to do, as he wouldn’t dare badger Midoriya’s mom about her… ex-husband…? Ex-boyfriend? Whatever.

In any event, he’d had to get used to seeing Midoriya’s big eyes without his minty locks getting in the way all the time, and they gave a dear amount of clarity to his smiles.

Barring a morning or two that had him looking dead, ready to die, and ready to stab someone all at once, they otherwise held a ‘Hello, world! Prepare to be saved!’ vibe to them mixed with the glint of cheekiness that had always been able to shine through. The red lines that split his right eyebrow, though, made Hitoshi feel only guilt for not being there.

Gulping down his shame, Hitoshi picked up his pace just in time to hear another pair of footsteps coming around the corner.

Here she comes again. Ready to ask the same question.

One he was sick and tired of hearing.

No answer was good enough, and no instructions were ever given, either for their work or for the question itself. No indication that they were on the right path or had done everything wrong from the second they walked in on their first day.

“Alright, dummy,” Miss asked, and Mister paused his assault on Midoriya, “why do you think we have you doing this?”

Midoriya took his time to stand straight, and for that moment, he radiated a rare flavor of confidence, distinct from his quiet determination. His face spelled a complete certainty of faith in his conclusion.

“A wise man once said life is like a rollercoaster,” Midoriya spoke definitively, voice steady, “It goes up and down, and around and around. It has thrills and chills, and it’s very brightly colored, and it’s very loud. Some people have been on the ride a really, really long time, and they forget what it is.

“Heroes are here to remember, and to tell us all, ‘Hey! You don’t have to worry or be afraid, ever. It’s a ride.' And then, some of those confused people, they say ‘Shut them up! We have a lot invested in this ride! Grrr! Look at my furrows of worry, look at my big bank account and my unhappy family. This has to be real!’” his expressions and voice and demeanor all changed to reflect the caricature.

“They’re all over the place, and it doesn’t matter if you’re a hero, or a villain, or whether or not you know how to punch me in the stomach every morning, it’s up to all of us to take action, whenever we can, to remind people what's right, by doing what's right. To remember that no matter how frustrating things may be, it’ll be okay. It’s just a ride.”

The room was silent. Hitoshi was ready to give him a standing ovation right from his place on the floor, but Miss started talking before he had the chance.

“Poetic,” she paced back and forth, almost sounding impressed, “but no. How about you, mop? Do you have any new insight?”

What strength Hitoshi had lacked then returned as righteous indignation, and he stood up, throwing his soapy bucket away from him as hard as he could.

“To jerk us around, apparently!” Shinsou snapped at them, “You don’t care about having your stuff cleaned spotless or you would’ve hired someone to do it! You don’t need a guy to hit, there are a dozen training dummies in the other room! I would know, because I’ve been dusting them every single day at ten-past-four in the morning!”

“S-shinsou, hold on—” Midoriya took a step forward, arms up in defense and reassurance.

“They’re screwing with us, Midoriya! I’ll take some of the blame for being dumb enough to get us tricked into this, but that doesn’t make it better that all they’re doing is wasting our time and trying to drive me insane!”

A clap came from Mister. Then from Miss, too. Slow, but deafening, and he was left standing there breathing hard with frustration he no longer had a place to channel, because why were they clapping?!

“You finally got it,” Miss smirked.

. . . what?

“waitthatwasit.” Midoriya made an impossibly perplexed face, like he needed a reboot.

“Fighting requires two things.”

“Patience,” Mister chimed in, “and passion,” Miss finished. “You’d already shown plenty of the former, and now you’ve shown the latter.”

Hitoshi made a series of grunts as his emotions shot out, directionless.

“Why didn’t you just tell us!?!” he asked, arms open.

“We had to know your passion was real.”

“That’s–! But that’s so stupid! We have plenty to be passionate about!”

“Let’s hope so,” she brushed off his shoulder, and Mister straightened Midoriya’s long-sleeved shirt. “Come back sometime tomorrow. Whenever’s good.”

“Don’t you have other students?” Midoriya asked, the look on his face not having changed one bit.

“A few, but they show up on weekdays around noon to three, so I doubt you’ll run into them. We lied about students coming at five every day to make you mad and see if you would keep coming.”

Then they just… walked away.

Miss left the building altogether and Mister walked back to his bedroom despite Hitoshi’s open jaw and useless attempts toward starting a sentence to try to rationalize what had just happened.

Hitoshi stayed like that before politely laying himself on the floor and closing his eyes, hoping it might give him the strength to not lose his mind. He could still hear soft footsteps tentatively approach him.

“W-when you think about it, it’s actually kinda fu—”

“Midoriya.” Hitoshi opened his eyes, shaking a threatening finger toward his friend, “No.”

Midoriya sighed and sat down next to him, quiet.

The silence lingered for a while.

“Pretty weird rollercoaster, huh?”

“The weirdest.”

Hitoshi had no clue why he started laughing. Perhaps from relief, or the rapid fluctuation between emotions, or something else entirely. Regardless, Midoriya didn't take long to join in and flop on top of him, turning Hitoshi's chuckling into a full-on belly laugh. It hurt his sides and he welcomed it anyway. Midoriya rolled face-down, so Hitoshi couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but he liked to think it was something fond.

"Me too, man. Me too."

Chapter Text

[10 Years Ago]

Izuku stood with bated breath, watching his bestestestestest friend’s mouth hanging open, an incredulous look on his face. Following his mumbled, aimless apology-in-advance, Mom had him helped demonstrate the quirk he’d gotten in action to show Kacchan.

It had been nearly two weeks since Heckle manifested, but his classmates still eyed Izuku warily. He’d never ever ever ever ever think to use it on anyone without asking, unless they were a villain, and in spite of his frequent laughter, he hadn’t activated it on accident even once—well, not since the day it manifested. He was so careful.

They saw something funny about him. Not Haha-funny. Funny like there was something wrong with him. Like he couldn’t handle the quirk. It was all so unfair, and their cautious eyes kept him from telling Kacchan.

What if he hated Izuku? What if he didn’t trust him, like his classmates? It’d too much to bear.

“There’s a bit of our quirk in all of our personalities,” Ms. Setsumei had explained after most of his class had developed their quirks. “Taberu here, has a bottomless stomach, so it only makes sense that he loves to eat,” she gestured an open hand toward a small boy chewing a pencil. He begrudgingly set the uneaten half in her palm. “If you offer to share a cookie with him, don’t be surprised if he takes a big bite. That’s who he is, so instead, why not split the cookie in half first?”

The class seemed to consider this, a room of nodding little heads.

“Mizu doesn’t enjoy playing in the sun when it’s really, really hot out,” her hand turned to point at a girl made of a dense water-like substance, (though she felt more like purin, Izuku had discovered during a game of tag). “If you ask her to, and she says no, then you shouldn’t try and make her. Say ‘okay, how about tomorrow, when it’s raining?’ We have to accept that that’s her quirk, that’s who she is. We can make adjusts and compromises, but trying to change someone’s quirk is like trying to fight All Might.”

It hadn’t bothered Izuku at the time. If anything, it was a comfort. Mama was really funny, so obviously she could make people laugh. Mom always makes people feel welcome, so naturally, she could bring stuff toward her. Kacchan was Kacchan, so of course, he could make explosions.

Izuku would have Mama’s quirk, it was a foregone conclusion.

Until it wasn’t. He’d gotten someone else’s. Izuku was stuck with a quirk that made people afraid and he was loath to think of what that said about him. The possibility of being evil and not even knowing it hadn’t had a sentence in his book of fears, but now it had its own chapter.

At night, Izuku would wonder whether it was his classmates or himself that misunderstood their teacher’s lesson, or if she’d just been wrong. Everybody’s wrong sometimes.

Mama taught him lying is wrong, but she also said he was great at playing pretend (and he was). All he had to do was pretend none of it bothered him until he forgot he was pretending. It can’t be a lie if I believe it, right?

The toy Mom had been levitating toward her had unceremoniously fallen to the floor with the help of Izuku’s pointed laughter. A second time, she tried to pull the toy with her quirk and dropped it when he giggled again. Izuku was almost impressed with himself for being able to laugh when he was so unbelievably nervous.

The room was left silently waiting for Kacchan’s stunned response.

The boy’s face at last unstuck.

“What the hell, Izuku?! Your quirk is gonna be totally awesome for hero stuff! It still ain’t as cool as mine but— stop lookin’ at me like that! You can make bad guys extra-useless while I blast ‘em in the face!”

Kacchan continued describing a scene from their future hero lives with his typical boisterous attitude, unphased by what made Izuku’s other friends look at him like… well, like a villain. If could he still call them friends.

Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, relief flooded his system. Kacchan handed him a small pillow; whether it was to wipe his tears or to muffle his blubbering so Kacchan could finish his story, Izuku wasn’t sure, but the possibilities made him giggle. Mama sighed like a staircase.

Mom cried, too, but was led to another room by Mama before she and Izuku had the chance to multiply each other’s emotions exponentially, lest they drown the building.

Mama came back after a minute or two and gave him a thumbs-up, subtle, so she wouldn’t interrupt his friend, as if to say ‘like I said: nothin’ to worry about!’. She also looked vaguely post-fight—frazzled, face a little red and puffy—but her smile was as bright as ever and she made them crackers, so he chalked it up to the water lingering in his eyes.

The two boys played for hours, and when Izuku woke up in a tangle of sheets and a face-full of spikey hair, he knew things would be okay.

THINGS ARE NOT OKAY.

That’s what Izuku’s sore body prodded him over during training. It went ignored. The darn thing was lazier and whinier than a jaguar who moonlighted as a rug on the weekends.

… He wasn’t sure if any jaguars did that. It just sounded like an enigmatic southern colloquialism the Pro Hero Snipe might say.

… He also wasn’t sure if Snipe said stuff like that. But that wasn’t the point!

Note to self: look up Snipe interviews.

Time moved slower and faster than it ever had. The days flew by and the minutes seemed to last forever.

“Loosen up, you’re not a statue,” instructed Miss, her voice echoey. She demonstrated with short hops to each side as he planned the afternoon ahead.

There was a little less trash on the beach each day. It was daunting, but Shinsou broke it into distinct sections to make it more manageable.

“Clean up the massive, beach-wide pile of garbage” sounded overwhelming. “Clean up the junk between the busted, kitsch wardrobe and that dirty mattress” was easier to comprehend, even if it didn’t help with the lifting.

The pencil diagram his friend had mapped out for himself was on sketching paper, Izuku noticed one morning, but he had more tact than to pry.

“When I ask you to kick, that doesn’t mean drop your arms,” Shinsou was admonished by Mister at the other end of the room.

Ever since Mister and Miss agreed to train them—unironically this time—things fell into a smoother routine. While Izuku, possessing a refined comedy palette, could appreciate the humor in their prior deception on an objective level, that hadn’t made it any less stressful at the time.

Stress was already an underlying constant, so the excess went… unappreciated.

“—and don’t clench your jaw so much. You’ll only impede your quirk use, or snap a tooth,” Miss grabbed his face, squishing it around like putty until he released his tension. “In fact, don’t lose any fingers either. It’s a bad habit outside of Bonsai’s range. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t feel the need to bring that up.”

Her eyes fell on the cringing tumbleweed.

Izuku had been on a fast track to burning out without more rest, and getting to sleep in until 4:00 made all the difference.

Well, most of the difference. There was still the occasional handful of days in a row where he’d forget to rest until shadows danced at the corner of his vision as a reminder. He didn’t have to fight to stay awake, but he did start writing treaties. That’s terrible metaphor-ese for “it turns out naps are pretty cool.”

He couldn’t allow it to cut into their training, but if Shinsou kept watch over him during a lunchtime power-nap, it was a boost for the rest of the day! Though not yet a skill he’d mastered, with time, Izuku felt he could finesse it.

Maybe I could get Shinsou to stopwatch me to see how fast I fall asleep now that I don’t look like the grim reaper…

Or maybe I could cut out some studying, go to bed earlier, and aim to sleep a reasonable amount of time like a normal person…

HA!

Miss twisted him onto the ground, forearm digging into Izuku’s neck. He made a noise that pleaded for them to install mats, but it went unheard and/or ignored.

“You see what I did there? You backed up again, and I took advantage of your lack of reach,” she explained, releasing her hold. “Outmanuevering your opponent means moving in just as much as it does stepping away. You’re small. Use that. When you know what you’re doing, the only advantage greater than knowing how to move your body is knowing how to move your opponent’s. The larger they are, the more ammo you have against them.”

She called over Shinsou to take her place. Mister had been teaching him different techniques, so his imitation of Miss’s choke was sloppy. Izuku nonetheless failed in countering it a number of times before Miss possessed him to demonstrate the movement herself.

Being taken over and bent in ways his body was thoroughly averse to was always a painful reminder to stretch more. There was no doubting her quirk’s effectiveness as a teaching tool.

The first time Miss used Short-term Possession on him, she clearly expected a reaction afterward that Izuku failed to give. Losing control of his own body would’ve been more frightening were he not already friends with a brainwasher. Seeing as her quirk didn’t end by giving him a frustrating headache, using it to train remained leagues more comfortable than when Shinsou practiced his quirk on him.

When Izuku finally performed the right sequence of motions to grapple his opponent, the victory was sweet but short-lived, as they were soon tasked with a real match against one another.

The boys traded rounds during their official bouts, which Mister and Miss commanded to be done without quirks. Unofficially though, when they fought without supervision, Shinsou took the lead, in part due to Izuku falling for his quirk. It had happened more often than he cared to admit and embarrassment flooded him every time.

Putting aside how ill-matched Brainwash was for testing Heckle’s applications, learning to employ the latter during a fight was a catch-22. A logical irrationality.

Coincidentally, ‘Logical Irrationality’ was the name of Izuku Midoriya’s autobiography. HA!

Using Heckle meant thinking of something funny, thus distracting him from the fight, ultimately ending with Izuku getting kicked in the shins or chest, or shoulder, so on and so forth. Alternatively, he analyzed the fight, leaving little room for laughter. His father's quirk was not always the easiest to use effectively. Not an impossible hurdle, but one that proved itself difficult to overcome.

I’ll get the hang of it! Eventually! That way I won’t… what’s the phrase…? Oh, yeah: totally suck!

Unlike the wounds against his pride whenever he fell for Shinsou’s quirk (remedied by a combination of telling himself ‘I’ll do better next time!’ and ‘LALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU, BRAIN!’), its physical after-effects were dogged.

Getting brainwashed once would leave Izuku a bit woozy. With repeated application, however, it could build up until he was retching, alongside the headache to match.

One boy harbored heavy guilt about the side effects of brainwashing. The other boy felt that it was a great opportunity and could help against villains. Take a wild guess which boy is which.

Izuku landed a blow to Shinsou’s ribs, earning a heel to his knee and a punch to his bicep in the process.

According to Mister, the best approach was to: “Watch out for that.” which Izuku found very helpful and not at all patronizing even a little bit.

Bravissimo, Mister! Take a gold star while I get knocked onto my butt!

“Hit me again,” said Izuku with a ‘come here’ gesture, shaking off a previous strike to the jaw two rounds prior that had him bite down on his cheek. He spat red.

“Tired, Midoriya?” Shinsou roused him. “Are you sure you don’t need to take a break?”

“I said hit me!” Izuku demanded, painfully twisting Shinsou’s arm to flip him and getting elbowed in the collarbone as payment, followed by two swings at his face. Izuku swept his legs in a poor imitation of a move he’d seen Shinsou use. Shinsou stepped over the heavily telegraphed strike and sent a knee straight to Izuku’s gut, only to have an arm hook behind the offending leg.

“Ah.” was all Shinsou had time to say in response to Izuku’s mischevious grin before they both met the ground.

And the round goes to the twerp in green!

Winded, they stumbled in opposite directions to pick themselves back up. A chance to recuperate.

“How was that?” Shinsou asked their instructors, hair slicked back with sweat.

“Horrible,” the siblings agreed. “You looked like two dying fish who’ve seen too many flashy Pro Hero movies.”

“Yeah but tell us what you really think,” Izuku said facetiously. Busy rubbing the salty sweat from his eyes, he was surprised to hear a hum of mild amusement from Miss.

“Mop, most of your kicks were technically correct. They were also jerky and robotic. Put more you into them. Dummy, you’ve got good follow-through, but here’s got a pop quiz: was taking a half-dozen blows just to get a grab at his leg your plan?”

“That sounds about right,” he heard Shinsou quietly mumble into a water bottle. Izuku turned red.

“I-I didn’t want to get hit, but it worked, didn’t it?” Izuku answered, guilt tugging at the corner of his lips.

“We aren’t denying your strategy,” Mister groaned, “we’re critiquing a failure to include your own endurance as part of winning.”

“This is not a Hero School. This is the School of Shut Up and Listen. When you come here, you do precisely what we say, when we say it, for as long as we say to do it. If you can manage that, we’ll make proper students of you yet. Hell, if you bothered to limber up at home, we might even get you ready in time for your little exams,” Miss huffed at their reactions whilst Mister paced toward them looking offended.

“Are we idiots?” Mister’s brow lowered with a fury untested in the boys’ presence, and they both frantically shook their heads. Izuku felt his bones rattle when the man stomped, and his fright appeased Mister.

“Don’t have a heart attack, Dummy, you’re not getting ‘expelled’,” Miss waved away his primary concern. “I haven’t got a clue why you never brought it up— like we give a damn about what you do outside these walls. Unless you screw up what we’ve taught you and make fools of us,” she mentioned offhandedly, but the tone read as ‘there would be severe consequences’.

“Um,” Izuku, doing his best to step past the threat, hesitantly raised his hand, “H-how should we be l-limbering up?”

“Get on a computer and Glooble the word yoga,” Mister answered sardonically, and his sister picked up the slack. “Now, get back to your stances. Repeat until somebody can’t stand up. I want to see one of you having to drag the other to Bonsai’s wall on your way out.”

Her fingers rapped the counter, one after the other. Discontent fueled each tap like a perpetual chain of dominoes. Restlessness given rhythm.

While the shorter woman meekly sat at her table, blowing on a small cup of tea, Emi could not keep still. Not from exuberance, but cold jitters.

Awkward did not do the atmosphere justice. Their number of one-on-one conversations since she got back from her work trip could be counted on two hands. Conversations that didn’t end with Inko welling up and/or Emi on the verge of blowing a fuse could be counted on none. Their latest was still up in the air.

Trying to rectify the terrible decisions, or lack thereof, that lead to Izuku’s academic-social circumstances took up a bulk of the women’s recent discussions. They’d yet to sit down like two normal people.

But they were trying.

“…Is he doing well at Nabu?”

“Izuku could do well anywhere.”

Emi huffed. As much as she believed that—believed in him—she hadn’t been thrilled to bet on those beliefs during the transfer process. The twinge of shame that tagged along with that thought did little to weaken the hero’s resolve.

As a teacher, she saw no reason for Nabu to turn him away, the excellent student that he is. As a mother, however, she was working with a deficit of faith.

Unfortunately, no amount of worrying gave her substantial ways to help throughout the process, although she had briefly contemplated using her impeccable impression of U.A.’s resident rat-dog-bear-principal-person to call Nabu and tell them Izuku’s a future recommendation student. Alas, facing litigations wasn’t in her To-Do list. The stomach ache lying like that would’ve given her had been mercifully avoided.

Shame. I haven’t had a reason to use that voice since the last time he and I watched the Sports Festival. She wistfully pictured simpler days.

Interpersonal tension aside, kudos were in order for Inko’s willingness to do… whatever it is she did.

Having been around the block, Emi’s guess was ‘threatening a lawsuit’, no harm no foul. Being a Pro Hero though, she felt it best not to ask, in case there was actual blackmail going on. The way her soul sister froze when the subject came up spoke volumes about how uncomfortable it made the mousey woman.

Either way, Izuku’s transfer flowed smoothly, and by all accounts, trouble hadn’t cropped up since. Despite how useless she’d felt over those days, half her mind said: “it’s good news that Inko was able to handle it.” The other half said, “it wouldn’t have needed handling if she hadn’t bungled things so badly.”

Maybe I could’ve called as a representative of Ketsubutsu and given him some academic credibility. It’s not U.A. or Shiketsu, but still… Emi sighed, busying herself by coming up with solutions they no longer needed in order to avoid having to have a genuine conversation.

“That reminds me—”

Oh, good, I said that out loud.

“—I was thinking about high school applications the other day. I know he’s set on going to U.A., and I try not to nag, but it’s never bad to have options. He’ll say ‘no’, of course, but if you know of any other schools with excellent hero courses that I could add to my list of suggestions for him? I already have Shiketsu and Ketsubutsu written down, and wh—”

“Hold on,” Emi raised a palm. “Ketsubutsu? Why would you write down Ketsubutsu?”

“B-because its a worthwhile choice for his c-continuing education?” Inko gave a forced smile to go with her terrible lie.

“Really? That’s the reason you’re going with? I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation again,” Emi gawked at her with disbelief, voice louder and more intense with each sentence. “Fine. Let’s say he applies, and let’s say he gets in, which he could. He’d have a decent shot at ending up in my class. You don’t think having me as his homeroom teacher might be a teensy problem? That maybe a student failing to retain information would send up giant red flags for his future at that school?“

“I-I just thought– it’s b-been a long time a-and m-m-maybe seeing you would… m-maybe something’s changed! I-I-It’s worth trying,” Inko stuttered, shrinking in on herself.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Emi stepped toward the table, looming over Inko. “You’ve never had him look at you like—” she choked, “like he doesn’t even recognize you. You’ve never been a stranger in your own home. You’ve never woken up in the middle of the night to see him terrified because for some reason Mom isn’t there, and you can’t even comfort your child because you’re nobody to him.”

“I n-never meant to— I j-j-just h-had a f-feeling that—”

“A feeling? You had a feeling?” Emi scoffed, hands slamming the table. “Ohhh, then forget I said anything, because you’ve been paying such close attention!”

Silence hung and, lacking another reply to occupy her emotions with tearing it to shreds, her rational mind clawed its way back in. Inko had flinched backward from the ferocity of Emi’s words. The sight was like liquid nitrogen to the fire that flared in Emi. Her face faltered. She collapsed in the chair beside Inko’s with a bemoaning whimper and let her face hit the table.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. That was wrong of me,” Emi apologized, lifting her head. “You were willing to take my boy in as your own, and I can never repay you for that. You wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for my screwup. Your mistakes are mine alone.”

“No, Emi, you warned me—” Inko waved away the apology, only to have her wrists grabbed, drawing her attention back to pleading eyes.

“And now I’m forgiving you. Or– I’m trying to. It was stupid of me to think someone could have a kid dropped in their lap and magically be able to handle every aspect and nuance of parenting when they hadn’t done it the first decade,” Emi said, before wincing at how backhanded it sounded. She dropped Inko’s wrists and recoiled. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Inko gave a sad smile and shook her head to dispell Emi’s concerns. “I… I was a good helper now and again. Izuku was a joy to have over, a-and I cherished that you let him call me Mom, but I-I’m not deluded enough to think that made me his parent. Before things went wrong, I mean.”

Midoriya Modesty was a characteristic that Emi had wrestled with on countless occasions in the name of raising her friend’s confidence, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny Inko’s words when she agreed with her assessment.

“For what it’s worth, you’ve always been wise,” Emi said in earnest, choosing another trait to bolster.

“I-It’s easy to give advice when you’re not the one who has to follow it,” she looked away, wearing the smallest of blushes on her full cheeks.

“Exactly.” Emi passionately declared as if to leech the guilt from Inko’s system. An emotional bloodletting. Setting a hand on each of the woman’s shoulders, Emi was aware that the depressing topic would return eventually but wished it to be later than sooner.

The smile shared by them both was just the answer she needed to continue.

“How about we wrap up this episode of Japan’s Next Top Martyr and talk about something… fun. Like, what’re you planning to do for Izuku’s dirthbay?”

Dirthbays—the act of celebrating a birthday anytime except for the day of birth—were easily one of Emi’s best ideas, by her estimation.

They’re flawless! What’s not to love? Surprise parties that are actually surprising! Opening presents immediately! Even grumpy people like them! Instant gratification!

Inko giggled at the joke and Emi studied her face with vacant interest.

Stress eating had sure reshaped Inko’s figure over the past few years. Another consequence of selflessly hopping into the deep end and being told, “Learn how to swim right now… alsohere’sakidsofigureoutparentingokaybye.”

It was not a new observation. She didn’t suddenly look different than normal, but sitting so close was a strong reminder.

Yet, in a way, it suited Inko and her unstoppably welcoming and compassionate nature. There was an easement in knowing her ‘sister from another mister’ felt comfortable in her skin, stress be damned. And if she ever doesn’t, she knows who to call!

“Izuku’s been so busy that I haven’t thought of much. As long as we can keep him occupied out of the apartment to put up decorations, then that at least covers the basics.”

“We?” Emi questioned.

“I-I mean his friend, that Shinsou boy.”

Emi perked up. She’d heard a bit about him from Inko the last couple chances they had to talk. Before the whole situation with Aldera.

Although it ached to hear about Izuku’s life without her, chatting with Inko over the phone, or a cup of unreasonably priced coffee, or some other arbitrary excuse to talk with her self-selected big sister was one of Emi’s simple pleasures.

Keyword: was. She hoped it would be again, but considering how normal Inko had always made her life with Izuku sound, compared to the apparent reality, it was difficult trying to trust her not to be oblivious to with regards to extremely important information.

Chill out, Emi. Just chill out. Think of a joke.

How do you know a snail is lying? If they say they aren’t home. Ha!

“The one with the brainwashing quirk,” Inko further clarified, in case Emi mixed him up with Izuku’s zero other friends.

She hummed in acknowledgment. Emi hadn’t forgotten Shinsou himself, merely that he didn’t go to Izuku’s old school and was thus not secretly a bully by default.

Ah. Right. That makes sense. The ‘villains’ hanging around one another. How could I forget.

“They’re as thick as thieves,” said Inko, though Emi would’ve preferred she use a less caustic phrasing.

“It’s nice to see Izuku getting outside to do, um, whatever it is those boys do. A week hasn’t gone by where he doesn’t have Shinsou come over at least once. I hear them talk about heroes a lot. More so Izuku, but Shinsou seems like a good listener. He’s sweet.”

Emi relaxed into a position best suited for being on the receiving end of story time.

“They study together, you’ll be glad to know. But between you and me–” Inko whispered as if a hoard of eavesdroppers were hanging on her every word, “–I’d say Izuku’s naturally a better student, but I think having someone level-headed that can reel him in from wasting time going over the same pages again and again is a big help.”

Normally Emi would have taken that kind of praise with a grain of salt. Inko being his mom made her slightly biased—but it made sense. Izuku had always had a studious mind, provided he was given the chance to learn with his own methodology.

His low tolerance for boring teachers went undisputed among the two women, whether it was caused by nature or nurture.

If that’s my fault for making learning fun when he was little, then WOW, that would be quite the terrific irony. In fact, that’d be so funny it would loop back around to not being funny anymore. Yeesh.

“It’s adorable. Those two study so hard I’ve found Izuku passed out on a textbook Shinsou was in the middle of reading, but he didn’t stop, so Izuku’s face was covered in a chapter of paper,” she giggled. “They wrestle, too, I think? I came home after running a few errands the other day, and Izuku had Shinsou pinned to the couch. D-don’t worry, it didn’t seem dangerous, and I asked them to please keep it that way.”

Emi gave her a long look that came off half-joking.

“He knows to wear a rubber, right?”

Better safe than sorry.

“P-pardon?” Inko turned red, nearly spilling her tea. “It– it’s not like that! E-even if it were, i-it wouldn’t matter, since they’re only teenagers.”

“…and…?” Emi opened her arms, as if a punchline to Inko’s naivety would fall from the sky, before gently cupping her friend’s cheeks. “Inko, you beautiful cinnamon roll angel woman. I’m not trying to backseat-mother here, but speaking as a former teenager, my twentieth birthday didn’t endow me with some magnificent power to understand the gist of hanky panky.”

“Hanky… panky?”

“Physical intimacy, Inko. It isn’t an equation that stumps most young adults, conceptually. Granted, I remember those conversations being ninety-five percent people lying about doing it, four percent people lying about who they did it with, and one percent people lying about how well they did it, so don’t feel too bad.”

Inko’s face transitioned from a light blush to tomato red.

“E-e-e-e-emi! I’m serious! They r-r-really are just f-f-friends! T-trust me, I’m– I’m not that dense!” she squeaks and flails, hiding behind her hands as Emi laughs boldly, slapping her knee.

“Alright, alright, I believe you, they're friends, I was just messing around,” Emi chuckled, letting Inko’s heartbeat settle only briefly. “Keep an eye out in a few years though, ‘cause someone'll want a piece of him, even if it's not this Shinsou kid. As much as I hate to admit it, DNA-wise he’s fifty-percent Shouta, and that guy learned how to pull off some pretty spectacular moves—”

She bit her lip, hoping to have some remote semblance of a straight face as Inko went red again.

“Emi!”

“What? That doesn’t make him an awesome person, I’m just saying, he knew how to handle a kitten—”

“EMI!”

“Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter. Don’t make this weird, Inko,” she furrowed her brow.

“I’M NOT!”

“Calm down, he doesn’t get all the credit. Not bragging, but eventually, I got pretty darn excellent at…” Emi put a hand to her chin in thought.

“DON’T.”

“Peeling a banana,” she decided on, only to see Inko start to sway. “—OkaywaitIswearthat’sthelastone please don’t faint.”

The smaller woman peeked out from behind her hands, becoming perfectly still while they waited for the blood to return to all the parts of the body that weren’t solely her face. Emi did plenty of moving for the both of them as she bellowed with laughter, kicked her feet and slapped the table.

“That might have been a little too raunchy,” said Emi by way of apology. “In my defense, I spend an inordinate amount of time around high school students.”

Occasionally she would mix up the Normal Funny Stuff folder in her brain with the Stuff to Make The Whole Class Cringe folder.

It was like walking down a staircase in the dark after you’ve miscounted the steps, and you earn yourself about 0.8 seconds of I Cannot Believe I’m About to Die Because of Stairs and 0.2 seconds of Why Didn’t I At Least Wear A Shirt to Bed For The Sake of Whoever Finds My Corpse.

Either way, you end up on solid ground. The only real difference is how you look to everyone else.

She found Inko’s eyes, having drifted to the small present Emi had set on the couch. The question was written on her face.

“A new phone,” Emi preemptively explained. “I should’ve checked to make sure you weren’t already getting him one, but…” she shrugged, and Inko made a high humming noise Emi knew to meant ‘oh, you shouldn’t have,’ or ‘this is too much’ or ‘you didn’t need to go to all this trouble’ or some variation thereof.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she wrung her hands, receiving an eye-roll in return. “This is too much. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

“Have you seen my ranking? I can afford it just fine, thank you very much,” Emi did her darnedest to sound insulted. Whatever it takes to get Inko to accept the dang thing.

Although she once felt achievement and validation in climbing the biannual Hero Billboard Chart, those feelings had since become mere echoes, souring quickly when her eyes wandered up near the top of the list. Emi would sooner cross a burning bridge than put any real stock into that rat race.

“B-but you have medical bills to pay, and…”

“That’s not bad luck, that’s called me being a stubborn fool. Inko, just let me pay for the stupid phone and be thankful I don’t bother you about helping more often.”

Maybe if she ever told me things they needed… Latent disgust with herself soon made Emi’s teeth grind. The mental image of a smarmy Izuku living in a mansion had her wishing for a pillow to scream into and a villain to smack around.

Reconciling when ‘enough’ became ‘too much’ should never have been a problem, were it not for him. By herself, the line was simple. She knew the poisons of wealth too intimately to slip. Easy.

The desire to give Izuku everything he wanted, however, came alongside his birth. Ironically, having so little when he came into the world showed her Izuku could live well and live happily without those crutches.

Being apart from him, old wounds festered and reminded her of that desire. Where she once had the tangible presence not to replace love with money, when she couldn’t ‘exist’ to him, money had become one of the few things left she could give.

It took willpower to keep away from the subject and no answer felt right. So, in a way, Emi was grateful for the hassle it took to make Inko accept the gift, which she eventually did and stepped away to hide it in her bedroom. When she returned, it was with something clutched to her chest.

“I wish I had thought to wrap it,” Inko apologized, sliding a thin object across the table, into Emi’s hands.

Her thumb ran over the smooth, glossy surface of the photo. The younger version of herself was doubling over in laughter, a hand ruffling the ever-messy hair of a snickering Izuku. By the look of them, it couldn’t have been taken long before…

“Where did you find this?” she asked slowly.

“In an old book of mine. It’s a trick to keep photos from bending ‘til you can buy a frame. At least, that’s the idea. Doesn’t do much good when you completely forget about it,” said Inko, embarrassed. “I don’t think you two even knew I was taking your picture.”

“The weight you must feel around Izuku’s birthday…” Inko’s soft eyes fell, “I can’t even imagine. And with everything that’s happened recently on top of that, finding it almost seemed like fate, don’t you think? If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“I try not to,” Emi’s face hardened, though it couldn’t stay that way for long with Inko’s gift in her hands, and her eyes coming to stare straight at the other woman.

“Thank you. T-Thank you so much,” she whispered so her voice wouldn’t wobble, hoping the depth of her gratitude, for a great many things, could be translated into six words.

After another minute, Emi sniffled, composing herself to cut through the drama. She could cry on her own time. The last thing Inko needed was someone else to take care of.

“Damn, am I attractive or what,” she stared at the picture with false vanity. “… Oh, look, Izuku’s here, too.”

A high-pitched laugh responded. More than she needed to pull herself together.

In the end, as she was leaving, Emi joined in the decorating by sneakily slapping a small smiley face sticker onto a lamp; just like what she handed out to small kids in need of a pick-me-up.

An infinitesimal inclusion to the festivities, she knew. It was for her satisfaction alone, Izuku could never notice it anyway. Still, it made her feel better, and she deserved that every once in awhile, didn’t she?

Emi’s answer depended on the day. For the time being, ‘yes’ sounded just fine.

She planned to frame Inko’s gift, but after a few days just didn’t want to let go.

Emi could practically hear his laugh echo in the empty classroom when she pulled it from her satchel.

Despite having no clue what either Fukukado had been laughing at, the photograph may as well have been a video for its vividness. Emi almost felt herself joining along.

Having lost so many of their original, physical pictures, she was thrilled to have another with them both together.

Inko always gives such thoughtful gifts… I would have preferred it if she’d have actually listened to the advice I gave her and saved him a butt-load of anguish. But yeah, a photo is also nice, Emi mused. It was to be expected when the brain forgives and the heart remembers.

“Joke, the bus is ready. The kids, too, for now.” Arrowhead, Pro Hero and studious math teacher, leaned through the doorway to remind her.

“I’ll be right there. Could you just give me a minute,” Emi spoke softly, though it wasn’t a request. She did her best to wipe the melancholy from her face, for her students’ sake. Staring at a young Izuku did her no favors to that end.

“Something on your mind?” Arrowhead asked with a raised brow, unable to see what she was looking at from his angle. “No, wait, let me guess: ‘it’s nothing’.”

Emi cringed inwardly. She was more often than not happy to blab about whatever silly idea popped into her head or trinket that found its way onto her desk. When she was distracted thinking of Izuku, however, her brain failed to give many convincing excuses.

It wasn’t easy to talk about. So, she didn’t. Not since her attempts way back when Izuku had first moved out, where it felt like she was speaking about him as if he were dead. Emi kept quiet after that.

Arrowhead was simply one of the unlucky many who hadn’t had the chance to know her boy. The few faculty that did were respectful enough to keep their mouths shut when someone spoke obliviously. If somebody truly needed to be told off, Emi could do it herself. She was just glad to have an occasional hand on her shoulder or gentle question behind closed doors.

Something as simple as “do you know which high schools he’s applying to?” did plenty to dissuade her from feeling like she was pretending he never existed.

Besides, spreading a rumor that she not only (A) had a kid, but that she also (B) fundamentally failed to protect them, was not useful or inspiring information to hear about anyone, least of all a teacher and hero whose entire persona was predicated on her being jocular and fun.

“Close!” Emi laughed, giving the picture one last look before sliding it back into her satchel. “Everything,” she answered without explanation, a bright, toothy smile on her face. “Come on, let’s not keep those rascals waiting!”

There, the photo found itself a quiet, if temporary home, beneath a few toys made to fumble with in thoughtful moments and a bundle of assignments in need of grading. For all the complicated emotions it drew up, Emi felt extremely fortunate to have such a silly, little picture.

She failed Izuku, but that didn’t mean he would fail himself, and hearing about his dreams from a distance could impart upon her some splintered version of that happiness.

That would have to be enough.

[10 Years Ago]

It was difficult to concentrate over the loud chatter of patrons around him. Daytime ops weren’t Shouta’s specialty, but a friend asked for his help and he didn’t have enough of those to risk ignoring. Just the way he likes it.

Why Hizashi would let his radio show take priority over his hero work was beyond comprehension. What possible reason a man whose entire hero persona involved being loud had been chosen to do reconnaissance seemed an even greater mystery.

Literally ripped from his bed, Shouta had yet to fully recover his wits. All he’d been told before Hizashi sprinted off with a hundred ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s was to meet with a dark-haired woman at a nearby bistro and make casual chit-chat. Two villains were apparently using that location as a drop point. Shouta felt confident in his ability to dispatch them if they showed themselves, but his friend failed to give him any descriptors for their appearances.

Very thorough intel, Hizashi, he grumbled into a boring sweatshirt, feeling vulnerable without his hero gear.

Shouta scanned the room from behind dark sunglasses in between unwanted bites of an equally unwanted sandwich he’d ordered out of obligation. His seat by the window worked best for coverage in case the villains met outside for a smoke, but the autumn sunlight left the scruffy man longing for winter each year, just as the winter had him yearning for spring.

A dark-haired woman entered. Spotting Shouta with secondhand recognition, her feet dragged from legs filled with anxiety. Probably a rookie, he figured, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. Either that or Hizashi severely downplayed the danger of this mission.

“I thought for sure I’d be here first,” the rookie tried for a smile, though her face didn’t move much. “You must be Aizawa.”

Shouta shot her a glare, darting his eyes over the multitude of suspects to spot any turning heads.

The coast was clear. The rookie didn’t even have the decency to look horrified at her slip-up. She just sat there with that uncomfortable expression, like someone cut a few of the tendons in her face. How can a person look so bored and so anxious at the same time?

“And you are?” he responded, hoping potential eavesdroppers wouldn’t pick up on how forced it sounded.

“Farucia,” she extended a hand to shake, sounding hurt that he didn’t know. Shouta did not return the gesture.

Watching the rookie’s hand awkwardly slink back to her side of the table was a sight he found both depressing and satisfying. Shouta refused to conjure up any remorse over it, not when her blatant faux pas went by without an apology. Would the villains recognize his name? No, obviously not, but that becomes a slippery slope if the cat were to get out of the bag. Villains talk. Politely asking them not to share crucial info with fellow villains would, at best, be utterly illogical.

“How do you know Yamada?”

And there she goes again with the real names.

Farucia continued her failure at the whole “act casual” thing. Shouta, meanwhile, surveyed the faces around them— making sure not to turn his head much. Unprofessional as the rookie was, Shouta still had to work with what little conversational rope he’d been given.

“Met him at a bar,” he lied.

“That’s cool. I- I work in the same radio building he does his show. so. yeah.”

A bad lie. It was another possible connection to a Pro Hero. At least it was a step down from almost blowing their cover. She fidgeted in her chair when Shouta peered over his shades to analyze her more thoroughly.

Her clothes were modest, but impractical if a fight broke out. They were supposed to blend in, so at least she knew how to do that part.

Her hands, however, looked especially pristine for a Pro Hero. Unusual, but not unheard of. There weren’t many heroes whose hands Shouta had ever bothered to lie down and stare at, after all. The rookie’s hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail that reminded Shouta of his own when he was obligated to attend important meetings, or festivals back in his school days, or sometimes when he and Emi would go out on a—

—date.

Shouta’s eyes narrowed.

Hizashi.

“What is this?” he leaned in, throwing caution to the wind on the gust of his new assumption.

“H-huh?”

“Why do you think we’re here?” Shouta asked more directly, enunciating each word and removing his sunglasses to inspect her for any hint of dishonesty.

“W-we’re getting to know each other…?”

She wasn’t lying. There was no possible way the supposed-rookie could become such an incredibly convincing actor in the span of five seconds. She was telling the truth.

“So you’re not a hero,” Shouta slumped back. It wasn’t a question.

“What? No, I just told you, I work in—”

He slapped more than enough cash for his meal on the table and slipped out of his chair. No point in listening to her. They would not see each other again.

“Sorry to waste your time.”

Of course it was a setup. That guy can’t leave well enough alone, can he? Shouta was meant to be the sneaky one, but if that trite excuse for subterfuge was his friend hoping to dethrone him from that position, he’d have to make a hell of a lot better effort.

Hizashi’s hearing must be in an even worse state than I thought, because apparently ‘no, I don’t want to meet someone,’ goes in one ear and right out the other.

Shouta had gone on dates before, after Emi. Some of those were attempts to even out his performance at work when it got lower than usual. A stagnant few weeks that happened now and again. Once, maybe twice a year.

There was a study Shouta had read purporting that a “more fulfilling personal life” could lead to “increased motivation and stability in one’s career”. Having given it a handful of shots the last time he was in a ‘funk’, to zero results, the study proved itself utterly inane. Not to mention overindulgent for people who want an excuse to slack off.

After more research, Shouta eventually concluded his periods of fluctuation were the result of allergies. That was the running theory, anyway. Molds and pollens swept in like annual clockwork, so there was logic to it. Physically, he didn’t feel like they were a big deal, but it was the most probable explanation. Data doesn’t lie, as it were.

Every other annoying date was solely to appease his friends’ hounding. Not many, but enough to consistently get them to leave it alone. Shouta thought he’d made his position clear the last time they required placating. The last time was supposed to be just that: the last time, not the previous time. As in ‘I’m done with these, no more, thanks but no thanks, get off my back about it’.

Tricking him into one was a new low, though. The aggravating persistence clicked his jaw and sent heat to his face despite the wind. He began methodically plodding his way back home, but stopped, realizing what his ever-predicable friend would do in the case of conning someone into a date.

“Hizashi! Get out here,” Shouta called out, not knowing where his friend was hiding, but he definitely was. “We can settle this now or we can settle this after I have my capture tape. What’s it gonna be?”

A blonde man in a thick coat and a baseball cap stepped out from behind a garbage can. Are you kidding me. Shouta looks straight through him, trying to figure out the best way to phrase ‘I am so done with your shit right now.’

“I take it the mission didn’t go well,” Hizashi chuckled nervously, removing the cap and meekly playing with it in his hands.

“You were watching me?”

“It’s not like I could see anything anyway, ‘cept a blur talking to another blur,” the DJ defended, taking his prescription glasses out from his pocket.

Shouta shook his head and resumed walking. He tugged Hizashi by the shoulder until the man could keep pace with him down the sidewalk.

“Don’t do that again. It’s a waste of my time and it was unfair to...” he scratched his temple in thought, the name nowhere to be found.

“Farucia,” Hizashi corrected him at last after giving Shouta a few seconds to remember her name, (and thus far too much credit). “Dude, you just met her.”

“Right. It was unfair to Farucia.”

“If you’d have just talked to her— she’s totally your type, man,” Hizashi gestures emphatically, like a child begging for a toy, much to Shouta’s exasperation. He rolls his eyes.

“And what do you know about ‘my type’? I don’t have a type,” Shouta scoffs, unable to help the mildly disgusted look on his face at the implication. There was no ‘type’ like Emi. Just Emi.

“I’d know a lot more if you ever talked to me about this stuff, but let’s see… Introverted, pragmatic, kinda lanky, low tolerance for new experiences,” he counted off his fingers, “You guys could brood together! She’s perfect for you!”

Unable to choose between smiling or grimacing at the irony, Shouta hit Hizashi with a classic, mint condition, unimpressed, withering gaze and was happy to see it working again after its failure to intimidate back at the bistro.

Hizashi huffed, answering to the pressure of Shouta’s glare. “If you didn’t have a type, you wouldn’t have—”

“Wouldn’t have what?” Shouta stopped in his tracks and spun to face him.

“You wouldn’t have an ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, dude! It’s been forever!” Hizashi yelled, expression genuinely hurt on Shouta’s behalf. With deep breaths, Shouta set a hand on each of his friend’s shoulders.

“Hizashi. Thank you, but no more. I’ve had patience, but whatever it is you think you’re seeing, whatever is making you think I’m still ‘hung up’ on somebody, if lying to get me on a blind date is your idea of a solution, then let it go.”

Looking utterly defeated, his incessant BFF nodded and was brought into a short hug.

Shouta kept an arm over his shoulder for most of their return trip, knowing how big Hizashi was on physical contact. Having given it concerted thought some years back, Shouta concluded it to be Hizashi’s ‘love language’.

That in and of itself was a concept Shouta remained largely ignorant to, despite it being explained to him on a number of occasions through calm discussion, some not-so-calm arguments, and once from a book given as a sarcastic valentine’s day gift.

After the first few chapters, he approached the giver with a dog-eared book full of sticky notes and a head full of questions in need of clarification. Her smile was appreciative and her laugh soft as cashmere, and somehow the way she cupped his cheek didn’t annoy him at all like it would with anyone else.

He wasn’t mocked for having missed the joke, he was kissed. She told him not to worry so much, that she understood his, even when he wasn’t always fluent in hers. That time spent well was an irreplaceable teacher, not some silly book.

He still read it. Just in case.

His mind left behind most of the lessons alongside the book. Those that stuck around in the corners of Shouta’s head helped him know his friends slightly better, he could admit.

Beyond that, it would’ve been illogical to waste more time on the subject. Handling his friends’ tenacity was a nonstarter, fixated as they could sometimes be in their misguided attempts to remedy a nonexistent problem. Best to move on.

At home, snug in his sleeping bag, a few juice packets placed within reach, Shouta closed his eyes and ignored the television. Instead, he listened to Hizashi and Nemuri playfully argue over their favorite films.

Nemuri questioned if Hizashi was still allowed to say he watched a horror movie in spite of looking away from every gorey kill. In return, Hizashi teased her for her secret guilty pleasure, romcoms. Shouta loved them and hoped they knew it through whatever his ‘language’ was.

… He still didn’t have a type, though.

“—and then when I got home, my mom started asking me all these questions about, like, sex stuff,” Izuku said, his voice growing as quiet as the grave, “about whether or not I needed protection.”

Shinsou stumbled over his own feet.

“What set that off?” he asked, features dusted with red.

“It came outta nowhere! I hadn’t even taken my shoes off yet!” Izuku threw his hands in the air, a universal sign of exasperation. "It's not like I'm even, y'know, looking for that!"

“There's no point in speculation without context," Shinsou hummed. "Life's too busy to play by embarrassing stereotypes."

“That’s EXACTLY what I said, but I used the word ‘awkward’!”

Izuku only got louder the more vindicated his stance became.

“Embarrassing, awkward, same thing,” Shinsou bobbed his head in agreement. “Parents are weird.”

“Hear, hear.”

Chapter Text

[9 Years Ago]

Mama held his hand gently as they walked. Her glove made his hand sweaty and he wondered how hot the inside must be. A squeeze reminded Izuku to pay attention as she led him back through the unfamiliar streets to where they’d moved.

Their new home was nice, he supposed.

It was bigger, though nowhere near as large as Kacchan’s house. Still, it was big enough to feel bare, even after they’d unpacked everything from their old place. What they didn’t give away, at least. Clothes they weren’t wearing anymore, toys he hadn’t played with for a long time, stuff like that. ‘Do unto others’ was the golden rule.

Getting rid of it all led to a whole lot of empty space and a melancholy in Izuku’s gut. He’d shed plenty of tears the first night, as was his nature, and plenty more since then. He was trying to be strong. It just didn’t always work out.

Izuku missed home. He couldn’t help it. He missed knowing which floorboards squeaked, which to avoid when he couldn’t fall asleep. Such nights happened less and less as he grew, until Heckle manifested and no one wanted to play with him anymore. Ever since, there had been a comfort in knowing he wasn’t trapped in bed if such restlessness occurred.

He missed Lily and how playful the cat had become in his presence. He missed his friends— or those who’d once been his friends.

But you can find good in almost anything if you try hard enough.

There’s always a silver lining, Mama told him. This too shall pass, Mom would often say when he cried. He needed to focus on the lining and then things would be good again.

They got a nicer computer. The neighbors were kind and the walls were thick, so he didn’t get shushed as often. There was less trash when they went on walks, so they had pretty streets.

Mama said home was wherever your family is, but Izuku wasn’t so sure, ‘cus Mom and Kacchan and Auntie and Mr. Bakugo didn’t live with them, and they’re kind of like family, right? It didn’t make any sense. Dads are meant to be family and they didn’t live with one either.

Floors and a bed and a cat were comparatively forgettable. There was a far more important weight that held Izuku down. A lingering sadness. A nervousness that didn’t seem to make sense. Was something wrong or was he acting like a crybaby over nothing? Kacchan would surely give him a friendly ribbing if he found out Izuku was being such a knot of nerves.

“Did you have fun at school today?” Mama nonchalantly asked, swinging their joined arms.

No, he thought. Nonono. Uh-uh. No.

There was nothing fun about his hopes being dashed yet again by a load of classmates who, as it turned out, also didn’t want to be his friend. Just like last time. Some kids talked to him, but he felt less like a person and more like a science experiment behind glass for them to study and prod with increasingly upsetting questions.

Izuku nodded to Mama’s question, though he did not know why. It seemed the right thing to do. Her expression told Izuku he hadn’t succeeded. She was wearing that ‘we’re about to have a talk’ face.

“Did you want to ask me something?” she quirked her head and spoke softly.

Yes. Yes, he did, a number of times, but he was too big of a scaredy-cat to ever make the words come out. Maybe now would be that time.

“Where’s dad?”

Having clearly not expected the question, her shoulders rose with tension and Izuku’s blood went cold. This is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to ask!

“I– I mean— how come I don’t, um… have one,” he stumbled over his words.

“What brought this on?”

Her pace slowed until she found someone’s steps to sit on, where they came to a stop.

“I’unno” he mumbled, not wanting to meet her gaze, however caring it may have been. The concern it held wasn’t what he wanted right now. “I was just thinkin’ and stuff,” Izuku left the sentence to hang and shrugged, scraping the bottom of his bright red shoes on the concrete.

“Well,” Mama gave a grand sigh, preparing herself for the answer, “not everyone does. Not all families are alike. Remember Satoshi? The boy at your old school with all those eyeballs? His mom passed away a long time ago. That’s why only his dad ever picked him up. That doesn’t mean they aren’t a family, though. They’re just… smaller. See what I mean?”

Izuku played with the strap of his backpack, deep in thought.

“So… Dad’s dead?” he asked with an indecipherable worry about something he'd never even had.

“Er– well, no,” Mama said, relieving a bit of the stress. “The thing of it is, some people have a mom and a dad, and some people don’t. There are people without a dad and people without a mom. Some people have two moms, and others have two dads. It all depends on who loves who, and we don’t get to choose who we love.”

That made a lot more sense. You don’t leave a person you love.

“Does Mom love dad?”

“No, she does not,” Mama answered with a snort.

“Okay,” Izuku’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Um… d’you?“

“I—” she bit her lip and looked at nothing for a split second, her face whipping through a blender of emotions. “I did, at one point, but no,” replied Mama, seeming to reach the end of her catalog of memories.

On rare occasions, Mama was really, really bad at playing pretend. Izuku didn’t like it, though he would not mention it. She was the best Mama ever, and he’d feel awful saying something like that.

She was already going to work to be a hero all the time. The last thing Izuku wanted to do was screw up what time they got to spend together. Not over some stupid feelings of his. Laughing and smiling was way more fun, so he could just do that until everything was good again!

Izuku wasn’t big, but he knew he could be strong, even if it just meant keeping his opinions in the vault. The realization he was coming to made his tummy hurt and everything inside him hoped it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t think of a more reasonable explanation.

“Then, um... Then why’d he go away?” he questioned, investigating his hypothesis further, just in case there was a better answer.

“Sometimes people don’t make sense,” Mama sighed. “He was busy with other things.”

“When’s he gonna come back?” Izuku asked with all the innocence exclusive to his demographic.

“That’s not in the cards,” her frown deepened, and without another question at hand, Izuku had nowhere to look but his shoes. Just as his subconscious began to swallow him, Mama started up again.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He nodded. Silent tears fell, nothing like the waterworks he was known for. She held onto his shoulders and made sure he was making eye contact with her.

“I know where your head is probably at right now, but it has nothing to do with you. Okay? I can’t imagine a single reason in the whole wide world anyone wouldn’t want my lil’ gag,” Mama kissed his forehead. “He went away because of him.”

Of course she couldn’t imagine it. Mama already loved him. That didn’t make her right. The opposite, actually: love can keep people from doin’ stuff that makes sense. Like when Auntie got yucky pistachio ice cream just because her husband likes it.

The puzzle began to click in his head. He continued to cry, not from relief, but from knowing she was wrong.

“Do you understand, Izuku?” she placed a hand on his cheek, thumb running under his eye.

“Mhmm,” Izuku hummed. Mama wrapped her arms tight around him and he accepted her embrace, doing his best to seem assured and to match the look she gave him.

He understood just fine, even if she didn’t, and he was determined to do it with a smile on his face.

Midoriya’s smile seemed content, flicking away only when he stopped whatever he was doing to scribble into his notebook, face warped in a lip-biting concentration.

All things being equal, the plan went off without a hitch. Granted, Hitoshi’s involvement started and ended at distract Midoriya, so it wasn’t a difficult part to play. Training, cleanup, a sly turn of the street to lead him toward the cat cafe while he was distracted by their conversation. Midoriya would refuse a lunch on Hitoshi’s dime, but a (fake) coupon was another matter entirely.

By the time they returned to the Midoriya apartment, Mrs. Midoriya had finished decorations, and the festivities commenced. It wasn’t a large affair, what with their only being three people. Hitoshi eyed his gift as Midoriya worked through the others.

Weights from his mother, a card from her childhood friend he chose to open later, and a new phone from a family friend.

He hadn’t even been there to see Midoriya’s break, yet Hitoshi couldn’t keep his eyes on the new one either. His vision drifted to the raised, red, and recent scar tissue his friend would be stuck with, in perpetuity.

“A hero getting their first real scars is like a rite of passage! Probably.” Izuku presented, arguing the situation as a net positive. “One prerequisite down, lots to go!”

Yikes.

Finally, Hitoshi grabbed his own offering to present, nerves like firecrackers.

“I’m lucky to have met you. To be able to call you my friend,” Hitoshi said as if they weren’t the world’s most obvious facts, feeling all the more uncomfortable with Mrs. Midoriya there to witness the syrupy nonsense he was spouting. His fingers danced around the edges of his gift until he dropped it into Midoriya’s hands, unable to stand overthinking any longer.

“I know it’s not much, but you’re a hard guy to buy for.”

Midoriya popped the top off and gasped. Inside was a thin stack of paper, each one home to a sketch of a different Pro Hero, far more detailed than the charming but childish drawings he could produce. There weren’t many, and a fanboy like Midoriya could probably pick out inaccuracies in Hitoshi’s work that he’d have never noticed, but he’d worked through the night to get them as close as possible.

“Those are just some heroes that you seemed have the most notes on, at least from what I’ve seen. If you don’t like them, it’s no big deal, say the word and I’ll—” Hitoshi was picked up in an ardor-fueled hug, arms pinned to his sides while the shorter boy tilted until his choices were either to fall or release.

Back on solid ground, Hitoshi readjusted his clothes to regain some semblance of composure. Midoriya threw himself down to look over the papers spread out on the coffee table. One page was blank aside from a smudgy, indistinct action pose sketched from pausing a low-quality video of even lower quality security footage.

“Consider that one an IOU,“  Hitoshi noted, pointing to the featureless piece, ”until I meet him someday as an underground pro.“

Assuming Eraserhead doesn’t move to another country or retire or die by the time I graduate, Hitoshi couldn’t help but think. His resting face, however, hid his skepticism.

What followed was a lot of gushing from his friend, a moderate amount of blushing from himself, and surprisingly no shushing from Mrs. Midoriya. He supposed she must be used it.

Hitoshi’s mother, however, had recently seemed apprehensive about the smiley boy. Uncharacteristic, as she otherwise remained the least aloof member of their family. An empathetic soul.

The peculiar behavior came to a head that morning when she’d asked him: “Hitoshi, when you're with Midoriya, would you please keep your emotional antenna up? I get the feeling that boy is dealing with a lot and doesn't know what to do with it."

It was said as kindly as she could make it, yet without explanation, and from the mouth of a woman looking unsure as to whether or not she should’ve said it at all.

Hitoshi was, in a word, livid. That was not what he needed to hear, especially coming from his mother, after an all-nighter, because it sounded like a big replace to the word villain from someone who didn’t want to technically say it. He could’ve at least appreciated the openness if she had. Moreover, it was her complete lack of reasoning that made him flip out.

And he did. Flip out, that is. Or at least as ‘flipped out’ as someone from the Shinsous can get.

In retrospect, after having time to cool down, Hitoshi realized, with no small amount of horror, how much emotion he’d inserted into what his mom had said. She was just concerned for Midoriya, but the skin-crawling similarity that ‘he might not know what to do with it’ had to things he'd been told about his quirk was enough to blind his normal brain functions.

What she actually meant befuddled him. A later-received text from his father made more sense despite being typed in dadcode.

[Father Figure] Say hi to the Midoriyas for us

[You] Yes I'm going to apologize to Mom

[Father Figure] Good talk

He could practically see the crinkles in his dad's forehead, eyebrows raised in curiosity as to how his son had mistaken a fish for a bird.

In any case, he didn’t hold out hope for a detailed explanation from his mom, nor did he look forward to the walk home where he'd have to think of a proper apology for losing his cool.

It was just that saying Midoriya didn’t know what to do with ‘it’ sounded so stupid to Hitoshi. Stress bounced off Midoriya like fists against All Might. His tolerance for the worst was off the charts, yet he never seemed to expect the worst, and when it inevitably came, he’d laugh it off. ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ taken to the next level.

Nothing ever got him down. Even back when he thought he’d been expelled, he was still riffing jokes. And it was natural, it all came so effortlessly to him. Hitoshi would be slowly killing himself from all the energy it would take to live in Midoriya’s bright red shoes.

Case in point, as they waited for Midoriya’s mom to be finished making Katsudon, the two boys invented a little game for themselves: reliably hold a conversation while attempting to use their quirk on the other person.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute and a half of throwing his brainwashing lures out with each sentence and Hitoshi had already burnt out on the idea. It was a little exhausting to sit across from someone having to laugh through their replies in order to—dang, what was that plain-sounding analogy Midoriya used for his quirk…? Ah!—in order to keep the tiny raincloud over Hitoshi’s head.

A flash of light snapped in their direction, quickly grabbing their full attention. Midoriya and his laughs turned first, followed shortly by the stoic Hitoshi.

“That means game over, huh?” Hitoshi threw out one last fruitless attempt, just in case.

Mrs. Midoriya stood with a small camera in hand and a large wooden spoon in the air slowly coming toward her from the counter. She made a tiny, surprised noise and froze for half a moment when the boys turned to her so suddenly.

“Guess so!” Midoriya snickered, blocking Hitoshi’s final lure.

The camera was clutched tighter in her fingers and the wooden spoon had dropped to the floor.

“S-sorry, I wasn’t trying to interrupt,” Mrs. Midoriya blushed, fumbling to pick up the utensil her quirk had dropped, “you two just looked adorable.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Hitoshi responded with a straight face, fighting the tint of red in his cheeks, “If you want the flash turned off I’m sure I can find the setting.”

His offer to solve her middle-aged technological woes was denied, as expected. She shook her head, forever modest.

It had felt more like frittering time away than an actual game, so neither boy had their heart crushed about it ending.

“We were wrapping up, anyway,” Hitoshi said, stretching out and pushing past some balloons to stand over Midoriya, whose laughs had yet to fully dissipate. “I declare thee the winner of whatever that was, on the grounds that I don’t really care.”

He tapped a hand to each of Midoriya’s shoulders like he was knighting someone, before moving to tussle his hair. Hitoshi received a tiny jolt of static in return for the gesture and flinched, pulling his hand away until he and his body could both agree it was no more painful than a pinprick. It was just a bit startling.

Har-har, Midoriya. Very funny.

Let’s commence the search for the shocking weapon! said the voice of Midoriya in Hitoshi’s head, to which he groaned. Midoriya would be so insulted by the number of puns my mental image of him is willing to make.

In their time clearing the beach, Hitoshi had listened to more than one rant about an over-reliance on puns in modern comedy. The good friend that he is, he’d nod along like it was a subject he cared more about than not at all. They spend hours moving garbage around all the time, what the heck else is there to talk about?

What electrifying evidence can we find… Socks on carpet? No, Midoriya doesn’t have any on. Rubbing a balloon in his hair? He’d have to be the world’s greatest expert in sleight of hand to pull that off, seeing as I’ve been sitting right in front of him. Maybe he uses some kinda prank hair gel? Like a hand buzzer for your head?

Wow. That might be the most useless thought I’ve ever had. Congratulations, me.

“The katsudon is ready!”

Shaking away his investigation, Hitoshi followed at a slow pace behind Midoriya, who practically skidded toward the table. Thankfully, no tire marks were left behind to scuff up the apartment.

With time, the sun soon dipped.

And the sky grew darker.

“You bought the tickets, right?” Midoriya asked him cryptically once they’d finished cleaning up the decorations after dinner. He set his weights down in his room with a careful touch.

From a spot leaning against the doorway, Hitoshi wracked his brain for an answer. Was there some event? Was that supposed to be his gift? After a pair of breaths, he relinquished any guise of knowing what the other boy meant.

“Tickets to what?” asked Hitoshi, and Midoriya’s smile grew into a Cheshire grin, like the cat that caught the mouse. When he lifted his arms to pose, sleeved though they were, the trap had been unveiled and there was little time to act.

“To the gun sho—OOF!”

Hitoshi tackled him.

Izuku hit the floor with a thud beneath Shinsou.

“Boys!” he heard from the other room, a voice both gravitating between ‘are you okay?’ and ‘I distinctly remember saying to please not disturb the neighbors at night.’

“Sorry.” “Sorry!” they said at once.

It had not been an especially pleasant fall, as he banged into his desk and landed on what he was moderately sure—please, please, please—was a pencil case and not his phone, before finally bonking heads with Shinsou, then with the floor.

“Yeah, that’s the last time I do that,” Shinsou decided without a second thought, groaning as he stood. “Midoriya, from this moment onward, you hold exclusive rights to the whole ‘penchant for blatantly disregarding your own wellbeing for comparatively unimportant reasons’ thing.”

“Can I get that on a card?”

“Maybe for Christmas,” Shinsou retorted with a wry smile, halfway out the door, while trying to work out a crick in his neck. “Here’s to you not having died yet. Make it another year for me, alright?”

Izuku smiled, nodding to his friend. The door clicked shut and the smile was allowed to fall. Finally.

He hated his birthday. He truly did.

There exists no day with a stricter requirement to be happy. If the person isn’t happy, everybody starts blaming themselves. Having them waste their time and energy on making it special for him of all people only exacerbated the stress. Sooner or later he’d fail to give the right reaction and it’d end in disaster.

Mom stressed about it, that much was plain to see, but telling her not to bother would make him look ungrateful and she’d stress all the more. It wasn’t as though she had a husband to help lighten the load.

Izuku was a prisoner of his own black comedy. The whole ‘dad’ thing was treated like a joke, and it was no one’s fault but his own. Nothing was off-limits because Izuku couldn’t afford it to be. Everything would need to be fine if he wanted Shinsou to stick around otherwise he'd get bored of Izuku.

It was fine. He could grit his teeth and be as self-deprecating as it took.

HA! How funny! Who could ever want Izuku? What a great bit! Izuku, the reliable friend! Izuku, the Grade-A student! Izuku, the ray of sunshine! Izuku, the bastard! Izuku, the villain! Izuku, the weird kid! Nothing much. Just the way things had always been.

It’s better than whining about it! Izuku reminded himself. A hero smiles!

What’s the difference between my dad and a boomerang? the tired joke rang in his head.

[A] A boomerang comes back.

[B] I know what a boomerang looks like.

[C] Mom would probably be willing to have a genuine conversation about boomerangs.

[D] All of the above.

After picking [D], Izuku flopped down at his desk, spirit heavy. Auntie’s letter sat in front of him. His entire lifetime told him to read it, but his recent experiences and what he’s been through demanded that it remain unopened.

It’s not Auntie’s fault, but… Izuku frowned. He already knew what the letter would say and he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate more thoughts of Kacchan. Excuses for what he said about Shinsou.

He slid it away and leaned back, All Might staring at him from every direction.

It was a rare day that even All Might could make him feel worse, reminding him of his stupid childhood fantasies about being the man’s son. He still thought about it sometimes, but it was treated as a joke—Haha, so funny—like he wasn’t fully aware of how callow he must look.

As if reality needed more evidence for it being impossible, Izuku’s blood type was B. Mom’s was A and so was All Might’s. It doesn’t take a geneticist to know that combination doesn’t make a lick of sense. Even Izuku, the schmuck with his head in the clouds, knew it was entirely irrational to consider.

All Might would never be his dad, and he’d never be quite like All Might. Izuku scoffed. The only way All Might could be my dad is if Mom wasn’t my mom, he shot out a dismissive breath.

What a joke.

Phone in hand, Izuku tapped his way to a URL by heart. The classic newsreel clip of All Might that he’d viewed on loop since practically forever. It never failed to inspire him.

And yet did fail, serving no purpose but to pull his heart further down.

A few more lethargic taps and it was replaced. His features tightened as he watched the grainy footage of Eraserhead for the umpteenth time. More a slideshow than a video, in truth.

Did he have to be underground? Was that the fate of someone with a ‘villainous’ quirk? Mom said it’d get easier as he got older, that his peers would mature and people wouldn’t be so quick to judge for something like that. He hoped she was right.

What Izuku would give to have even five minutes to ask him questions. As a fanboy, meeting All Might would be the greatest experience possible, however, the odds were that he could learn significantly more from someone like Eraserhead. Not that he’d ever get the chance.

I’ll be a hero. I have to be, Izuku repeated a mantra. I don’t need help. I’ve got as good a chance as anyone else. They don’t have a Pro Hero giving them tips and tricks either. We’re even. I can do this.

He thought of Shinsou and felt sorrow, for he knew it would not last. Still, the illusion that they were of similar worth was an addicting one. A wisp he’d latch onto for as long as he possibly could.

Despite the heartache in Izuku’s chest and the headaches that plagued him, he could not cry. He hadn't for several years, through no choice of his own. Although a salty discharge might leak out as he slept, it was nothing Izuku would call crying.

Just another part of him that was broken.

Lady luck let him sleep that night, but he dreamt of heat.

 [9 Years Ago]

Shouta’s feet dangled from the rooftop, wind swaying them alongside loose clothing. Streets filled with flashing neon shone like dreary rainbows in the distance, and the moon loomed high, casting him in its spotlight.

A cold sixpack had become a lukewarm four. He never enjoyed the taste of beer anyway, so it was of little consequence. With a pop, his scarf yanked off a bottle cap and he downed another tolerable swig.

The clicking of boot heels behind him loudly announced a woman’s arrival with deliberate steps. Purposeful, as not to be mistaken for a threat, for in his unfocused state most noises fell under that definition.

"Heya, lightweight."

Shouta raised a hand, not bothering to turn around.

“The world must’ve really gone to hell if it’s got you drinking,” Kayama sat down next to him and took his bottle. “Yuck. If you wanted to get drunk we could’ve shared a case of wine. Where’s your sense of romance?”

“Dead,” he slurred, histrionic and knowing it.

Kayama shivered from the breeze and adjusted her civilian glasses to give him a keener glare. What is it with me that I feel the need to surround myself with eye problems and people with eye problems?

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Kayama’s face twisted at his attitude, loose hair intermittently flapping across her face with the wind. “There’s somebody for everybody, Aizawa.”

“Not me,” Shouta grabbed his bottle back, though he didn’t feel like drinking. He just wanted to get back to finishing up his crappy week uninterrupted so the rest of the year could get back on track.

“I’m sorry to say, but you are part of ‘everybody’.”

“Yeah, well, so are you, and where exactly is your Prince Charming?”

“I said there’s somebody for everybody. I find some body to bring over at least once a week,” she winked, rebounding his unwarranted snark.

“Gross.”

“Beats pining,” Kayama shrugged.

“I’m not pining.”

“I never said that you were.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Shouta began massaging his temples, tired of their conversation running around in circles, “say what you’re gonna say.”

“Pass,” she smirked, standing to leave. “We both know you don’t want to hear it. You’re too good at buying into your own bullshit. No offense.”

None taken, Shouta grumbled to himself, not in the mood for an argument.

“I was just confirming you aren’t dead. Now I have, so, good luck with the middling booze. I’ll see you in a week or two once you’ve cocooned back to your usual, grumpy self,” she opened the door back inside, though she paused for a long moment once Shouta loudly scoffed at her non-answer.

“If you must know, I was going to ask: what is it you’re so scared of?”

Shouta did not bother replying. What would be the point? Knowing he wouldn’t answer her pointless, nonsensical question, she’d already gone down the stairwell. Everyone leaves, one way or another, he thought, though not of Kayama.

Emi would’ve left anyway. Eventually. She proved it in the vindictive words of their last conversation.

They both needed to improve as heroes and a relationship would’ve slowed that down. So, in a way, it was for her benefit.

He tried to rub the blur from his eyes, angry at himself for his lacking discipline over the past few hours. Drowning out memories takes a surprising amount of tenacity. Shouta laid his back to the concrete, relinquishing himself to remembrance.

She... was kind. She didn't shirk the small stuff... She was bright, too. Always one step ahead of the punchline. Honest, even when lying would have made her life easier. Unless it was for a good joke. She was somebody who knew the difference between having confidence and putting on airs, and when to admit she was clueless.

He thought back to a homeless man that sold flower cuttings, and how she'd buy one every single day, even on the days when they looked twisted and gross. A few times she bought his whole stock and gave them to random pedestrians.

Shouta couldn't remember a single thing about the man, but he could still smell the bundle of honeysuckles cuttings that sat in her dorky vase on the windowsill.

He could still recall the feeling of panic barreling down on him like a train when he accidentally yanked that vase right off its ledge. Having to confront her the next night, he would’ve almost preferred it to have landed on his skull. There was no shortage of vases available in the building, but that one had been hers.

He remembered how expressive her eyes had been, brows scrunching together when he was about to do something misguided, full lashes brushing against his cheek the first time she ever granted him a kiss.

He remembered the way she mumbled when she was lost in thought, the dazed blush that struck her features when somebody snapped her out of it. He never wanted to interrupt, if it could be helped.

He remembered being motivated by her strength, both her bravery and how much could bench for someone her size. Her favorite unit of measurement for lifting was ‘one whole Eraserhead’. As in, “I swear I won’t drop you,” or “That didn’t count, I forgot to figure in the weight of our clothes, which is why this time we’re gonna get— aw come on don’t leave—”

He remembered how loud she was, how her shoulders shook when she laughed, and how some jokes made her eyes snap shut like her body was struck with a bout of hysterics so physically taxing she was forced to divert power from one of her five human senses to avoid passing out.

He remembered being called Aizonkers for a whole week and having to hide a smirk at her irritation for him not acknowledging it.

He remembered Hizashi and Kayama teasing him for having what seemed like random days where he’d walk around with an unintentional, stupid-looking smile. Softer than his usual, creepy one. He couldn’t explain why to them. Any small change in his balance of relationships could end them all, and he’d have no one again.

He remembered using her shoulder to cry on, a time or two.

He remembered how she would treat her jokes as if they’d all received thunderous applause, even if the room was as quiet as a crypt.

He remembered that self-satisfied grin she put on when she won some kind of trivial challenge between them. Oh, how she loved to gloat.

It was funny. She’d been so damn vexing when they met. A real bother…

A Long Time Ago

Shouta leaned against the wall, away from the students from other schools that had passed the first round. Away from his classmates as well. Working through strategies for whatever was to be thrown at them next, he untangled his capture weapon without much thought.

He was a U.A. student. His entire class had made it this far in the Provisional License Exam without excessive trouble. Logically, with the average passing percentage, there was little chance of failure, but pro should never let their guard down.

If a student can’t take it seriously, they should quit before they get someone killed someday.

Closer and closer came an impressively obnoxious whistling noise. Only once it was right next to him did he finally turn to glare at whoever it was being such an irritant.

Spinning on his heels, Shouta came face-to-face with the stranger, who stared him down with excited eyes and a million-watt smile and was thankfully no longer whistling.

She wore an explosion of color.

The girl had a small red spot on each cheek, with sparkles flecked under her eyes. Straight, light green hair pulled into a bun, with some left loose to frame her face. Leggings, striped black and white. The flowy skirt she wore was turquoise like the ocean.

Her cream-colored blouse was sheltered by an orange denim jacket that had been cropped at her ribs. A scattering of buttons and pins littered the front, mostly over the breast pocket, and when she turned, he saw a giant smiley face stitched onto the back.

Shouta found the outfit to be utterly garish, distracting from what seemed to be attractive features underneath. Purely in an objective sense. High cheekbones, clear skin, so forth. It was frankly a terrible decision on her part to cover it up, assuming she was the type of hero that desired the limelight.

Granted, he had a very low view of the media and zero fashion sense, so his opinion was of little value. She stood out—presumably her intent—but it could’ve been accomplished more effectively.

What a waste, Shouta shook his head, Not that it matters. You need more than a pretty face to be a Pro anyway.

The most reasonable part of her absurd costume was the short, practical pair of boots she had on, but it was also self-evident that the costume as a whole had been tinkered with to some extent.

Indecisive. If she wanted it changed she should’ve just contacted the support company.

It was not the girl's outfit that had him lean away from her, however, but the way she leaned into his personal space, as if to inspect him. Shouta’s eyes narrowed further, and within a mere handful of moments, she stepped back and nodded.

“Knock, knock,” she tapped her knuckles against a nonexistent doorway. Shouta kept staring, waiting for her to become uncomfortable enough to leave.

She did not.

“Ding-dong,” the girl tried once more, pressing the invisible doorbell, and again the door stayed shut.

“Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding—”

“Fine!” Shouta finally said to make her stop. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry, what?” she spoke even louder, cupping her ear. “I can’t hear you from behind the door!”

Shouta, to his immediate bafflement after the fact, for some reason turned the imaginary doorknob to pull it open. Although it put an end to that particular annoyance at the cost of his pride, it did little to deter the rest of her idiosyncrasies. She stuck her hand out to shake.

“I’m Ms. Joke! What’s up? You’re interesting. What’s your name?”

“… Eraserhead,” he answered with no lack of conviction in his voice, but confusion in his gaze.

Shouta noted a novelty buzzer in her palm as she reached to give him a handshake. Undeterred, he took her hand like a dead fish and let it go after the socially required length of time. Despite Ms. Joke’s vigorous movement, nothing happened but a thorough greeting.

“Dang, you took that like a champ! My buzzer usually gets ‘em every time!” the girl complimented him strangely, sounding both impressed and disappointed as she flicked her little device to make sure it was still working. 

How can something ‘usually’ get them ‘every time’?

“It’s a harmless toy, there’s nothing to take,” Shouta scoffed. “Don’t feel too bad though, my quirk gives off a weak static. It helps lift my capture weapon—"

"-and your hair!" she enthusiastically interrupted, connecting the dots of what she'd seen.

"Yes, and my hair," he echoed dryly. "It makes me immune to insignificant shocks like the one you tried to give me. Also, what imbecile would fall for a buzzer? Anybody who’s seen a cartoon already knows what it is.”

“Cartoons? I love cartoons! Which one’s your favorite? Do you still watch ‘em?”

“I meant as a little kid.”

“Oh,” she deflated.

He’d been told he was out of touch, but this was a new tier on the ladder of being unbothered by expectation.

What the hell is she trying here? Scouting out the competition? Shouta grunted at her mind games, worn from years of handling fakers and stupid, cruel tricks back at the group home, and the orphanage before that.

Maybe she has a mental disorder, he considered. How sound of mind must a person be before it is acceptable to tell them to shut up?

“You go to U.A., right? That’s cool. I wish I’d been accepted, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes, y’know? I wanted to go for the General Studies route as a backup, but that would’ve been ‘too risky’,” the girl spoke with a lower, intentionally-idiotic voice and made quotation marks with her fingers. “What’s your quirk? All I saw was you wrappin’ dudes up with your scarf-thingy.”

Her eyes turned to his side when a lanky arm was thrown around him. In another direction, a deep voice was calling for someone, but Shouta was too distracted by the exceedingly loud one right next to his ear to focus on it.

“Hey, hey, hey, my main man, Aizawa! What’re you two talking about?” Yamada slid into the conversation with an enthusiastic, but bizarrely nervous energy, and put some distance between Shouta and the strange girl.

“He was gonna take me out on a date!” Ms. Joke immediately interrupted. Yamada looked horrified for some reason.

“No, I wasn’t,” he was quick to correct.

Yamada, at last, released his anxious breath, barely audible over Ms. Joke's intense laughter. Relief seemed to wash over his classmate, and Shouta could half make out him mumble something along the lines of “Whew. She was only joking.”

Suddenly, a beefy figure stood tall over Ms. Joke. He looked to be decidedly put out by the giggly girl, who remained oblivious to his presence until he tapped her shoulder

“Kyoei! I’ve been calling your name for five minutes. It’d be nice of you to at least pretend like you’re listening. We’re having a class discussion over here while you gab to the enemy. Care to join us?” The large boy impatiently stood in a wide stance, tentacles raised on his shoulders, chin up as if the world owed him something.

His voice wasn’t loud like ‘Kyoei’s, though it caused her to flinch all the same. Shouta hated the boy’s entitlement but appreciated his logic. There was no point in her being there, trying to psych him out.

“Ah! R-right! Just a sec, I’ll be right there,” Kyoei said the quietest few words he’d heard yet and matched it with a blush.

The larger boy rolled his eyes, plodding off. Her smile didn’t come as easy after that.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s just stressed.”

As nice as another ally—a friend, even—might be, Shouta had fallen for enough tricks in his younger years to know an insult when he saw one, and she was good at it. Damn good.

“Fascinating,” he said, words dripping with sarcasm. “As Educational as this was, we still have the latter half of an exam to prepare for, and your classmates need you. Let’s go, Yamada.”

“Lemme say one more thing, then I’m gone, I swear,” Kyoei took a clump of the loose fabric at his wrist and kept him in place.

Shouta groaned and looked between the two people tugging him in different directions.

“Whatever. Yamada, find a place at the front of the pack and I’ll catch up,” he suggested, and the blond boy gave him a thumbs up before running off.

Begrudgingly, Shouta nodded for her to continue. She did, eventually, after testing the limits of his patience with the fumbling and mumbling it took for her to finally find the right words. Only after witnessing such a sight did Shouta realize how much more he preferred the loud version of her.

Go figure. The world’s a crazy place.

“I– I saw you at the Sports Festival, and I just wanted you to know you inspired the heck outta me,” she beamed. “Guess I got sidetracked on my way to sayin’ that.”

“You were at the Sports Festival?” Shouta asked with genuine surprise.

The rest of her spiel was most likely lies, but that one sounded too specific to be worth faking, seeing as the first year games weren’t televised. When they’re scheduled at the same times as the second and third years, who in their right mind would want to see kids with only a couple months training?

As it turns out: lots of people, since Shouta had heard over the past few years they were thinking of changing things to get the newbies on TV as well. But tomorrow isn’t today, as the saying goes, and U.A. had yet to get around to it. Perhaps next year.

His brow dropped down in an instant when a far more pressing question came to mind.

“Hold on. If you already knew who I was, why did you bother asking my name, or my quirk?” he questioned in a dull tone.

Ms. Joke clicked her tongue, hands falling to her hips. The attitude from before had made its triumphant return.

“It’d be super duper ridiculously creepy if I just started using your name without asking for it first, Aizawa!”

She’s not wrong. That’s a start. The answer would be perfectly logical, had she not started fiddling with the end of his capture weapon again at an uncomfortably close range.

“Then I guess that makes us even, Kyoei,” he sighed, sliding it from her hands, and she cringed.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Shouta blinked.

“Ms. Joke it is, then.” He didn’t question her reasoning. If anything, it made more sense than the rest of what she’d said so far.

“Cool! You're a swell guy, Eraser!”

Shouta almost corrected her but thought better of it. That was in all likelihood the best compromise he was to going to get, even if it wasn’t his actual, full hero name.

“Ah, crud,” Kyoei started to pat at her pockets uselessly. “I forgot my number. Can I have yours?”

She wiggled an eyebrow up.

Likewise, both of his eyebrows raised slowly in astonishment at how cheesy her line had been.

“Wow. That was—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, ninety seconds,” an announcer read through the speakers.

Right. The test.

“I better go find my class,” Ms. Joke shrugged, jabbing a thumb behind her and turning away.

She only went a few feet before he spoke again.

“Deepshadow Strikes. The original one, not the reboot,” Shouta admitted in spite of himself, answering her question.

It was a comfort to see a rerun late at night while the other kids slept. He was too old for it nowadays, so it wasn't something he bothered with, but it had been there when he needed it.

Her smile was bright enough he had to squint. She held a hand to the side of her head as a pretend-telephone, mouthing ‘I’ll call you’, despite not even getting a number. She turned and the crowd swallowed her.

What a weirdo.

[8 Years Ago]

“You think All Might’ll show?” she asked the fellow heroes closest to her.

The invite hadn’t given much information— not that it’d need to for any Pro Hero with a brain to accept. For crying out loud, who in their right mind would turn down a meeting with the number one’s agency?!

“Could be,” Twister, The Spinning Hero, replied unhelpfully. Quantinette, who’d been on the job over a decade longer than Ms. Joke, shrugged.

“I wanna get an autograph for my son,” Emi bounced in her seat. “He’s like, the biggest hero fanboy of all time. And also the smallest, I guess,” she giggled to herself.

“Wait. Was that what that paper was for?”

Emi snickered, remembering the “sign-in sheet” she’d coincidentally set on the table to gather signatures before slyly pocketing it and crossing her fingers that it doesn’t get crumbled.

“I didn’t know you had a kid.”

“Yeah! He’s at a friend’s, probably playing heroes as we speak. Hold on, I have a picture in my wallet,” Emi said brightly, knowing full-well how cliche she was acting, and that nobody cared, but she was too proud of a mother not to show them anyway. As sappy as it sounded, actual photographs had always felt more personal to Emi.

It was a recent picture. Even with the chubby cheeks that come with childhood fat, she could already see Shouta in Izuku’s face. Not like when he’d been born. A glint in his eyes when his face rested, a jawline she could tell would one day cut as his father’s did. If Emi closed her eyes and ran a hand through his hair, she could feel Shouta after a shower. Bits and pieces were undeniably present.

Before she could finish shifting in her seat and rummaging for her wallet, a tall, well-dressed man in a suit entered, who they all knew to be Sir Nighteye. He stood at the end of the table with a look that would demand silence from the first word out of his mouth. 

Dang! He's Tall-tall. He makes Shouta look downright short!

“If All Might’s agency is planning to do work up here, you know what that means,” a pro to her side whispered from the corner of his lips as their host set up his laptop.

Emi hummed in understanding. The answer was obvious. Number #2 hero, Endeavor, always trailing around All Might. He’d have boots on the ground within a month, without question. Not his boots, but boots nonetheless.

“Nab the villains while you can, folks. It’s about to get crowded,” Quantinette leaned back, exhausted at the thought.

“Figures,” Twister scoffed.

“Shouldn’t we be happy about cleaning crime up faster?” Emi cocked her head, wearing a mild frown. “Besides, competition is healthy!”

“It’s bogus. We’ve got a handle on it just fine—“

“Correction:” their slender host interjected, adjusting his glasses, “you had a handle on it. And I find your attitude unbecoming of a hero. But if you’re not satisfied, there are plenty of other Pro Heroes we could have contacted.”

Twister puffed up, but lacked a retort, ultimately slumping in his chair as the well-dressed man gave every hero a once-over. Everyone had suddenly shut up under his gaze. Just as suddenly, the questions came pouring out.

“Is this a test? For a job position?” one hero asked.

“No. If I had any inkling of hiring someone, which I do not, I would not be playing games about it.”

“Wait, does this mean All Might is moving his agency out of Roppongi? Is he working here now?” another pro questioned.

“No, and no. Although I’m sure you can imagine how few villains there are around Might Tower,” Nighteye slid thin binders across the table as he spoke.

“Naturally, All Might’s work requires he travel out of Minato Ward. Quite a bit. Likewise, you will find neither me nor my team twiddling our thumbs while he fights threats the rest of us lack the abilities to handle. Think of this as an outpost, for the foreseeable future. Until we determine the cause, or causes, of the recent troubles in your respective points of interest.”

“For example:” Sir Nighteye continued and tapped at his computer, shooting an image up behind him on the wall.

“This past Tuesday, at six o’ four in the evening, two men entered a nearby Geonoth’s Corner Shop and robbed it in just under six minutes before leaving without opposition. This happened again on Wednesday around five at a gas station a mere two blocks east. They were apprehended only after attempting a third robbery on Thursday.”

Nighteye clicked his trackpad again, displaying mugshots of the unimpressive pair alongside their equally unimpressive quirks.

“Long Legs” and “Minor Strength Augmentation”? Seriously?

The two geniuses seemed to have used a hollowed-out washing machine carried on the larger one’s back to hold the pitiful amount of cash.

“Does that count as money laundering?” Emi snickered, the words spilling from her mouth, garnering a few chuckles. “Someone should tell them they’ve moved up to white-collar crime.”

She swallowed any addendums or excuses, as they usually just made it more difficult to explain why she blabbed something. Sir Nighteye’s lip twitched in a minute way that could only be a sign of rage held back by ice. He looked at her from over his spectacles with a piercing, critical gaze that made Emi awkwardly shrink into her seat.

“Yeah, what do you want us to do? Start staking out every convenience store?” another hero, Carnivortex, joked, shifting Nighteye’s attention.

“What I want you to do is conduct yourself like an adult and listen,” Nighteye spoke cooly. “My sidekicks were tasked with finding me a small batch of the most suitable heroes in the area worth establishing a formal contact with for the sake of sharing intel, but so far I am not impressed. Luckily for the public, your statistics appear to compensate for what deficiencies of personality you may possess.”

Carnivortex looked ready to interrupt but didn’t get the chance.

“No, I do not find these petty thugs or their equally petty theft uniquely concerning. What I do find concerning is the location of their crimes, less than a mile from the nearest hero agency. They completed two robberies in as many days without a chase.”

“Good thing they went for a hat trick,” Emi mused, realizing too late she’d drawn a crowd of eyes. “…What, have you people ever tried juggling hats? It’s hard! I was just agreeing with Nighteye!”

Sir Nighteye cleared his throat, catching the room’s attention once again.

“This is not for lack of ability on your part. I have no doubt you were each resolving matters of equivalent or greater worth at the time of these incidents. Some of you patrol half of an hour away. It is a matter of manpower and focus. Now, if you’ll open your packets…”

The remainder of the meeting was pretty boring, much as she regretted to admit it. Not exactly the giant villain bust one would hope for. Just a bunch of looking at heat-maps, discussing possible connections between larger villain incidents, logistics of contact.

Stuff that held the vibe of “I have the feeling we’re gonna get called back like three months from now just to end up having this same series of conversations, but it was cool meeting All Might's sidekick and the chairs were comfortable, so whatever”.

After the rest of the heroes had left, Emi approached Sir Nighteye as he busied himself with packing his things away.

"Did you have a question about the binder?" he asked, monotone.

“What? Oh, no. I was just gonna say that I appreciate being called upon, and I'm sorry about earlier,” she shrugged, though he did not look up from closing down his laptop and giving his materials a final once-over.

“What is it that you are apologizing for, Ms. Joke? My comment was directed at Carnivortex.”

…Huh? She made an unclear noise and blinked away her building confusion.

“I— okay, what gives? I started joking first,” Emi questioned, digging herself deeper.

It was a question too perplexing not to ask! At this rate, my big mouth will be able to chew through dirt so fast I’ll have to send Inko a postcard from Argentina to make sure Izuku doesn’t let Katsuki shoot stuff off his head again.

Emi couldn't help it. It wasn't her fault that it didn’t make any sense. She and Carnivortex had both cracked jokes, the only difference being—

“Yours was funny,” Sir Nighteye put simply, tidying his papers and slipping past her with long strides. “Good day.”

“Uh. Yeah. Be seeing you,” Emi said, stunned. Her voice was soft, barely drifting on the air. She gave a small wave in spite of Sir Nighteye no longer facing her.

“I should hope so, Ms. Joke. I should hope so.”

Chapter Text

Wider. Wider. No, no, it's about the eyes. Just smile, stupid. It's not hard.

He needed to be able to smile or nobody would want him. What else did he have worth sticking around for?

Kick higher. Higher. Shinsou was already a better fighter. Izuku knew that. It was without question. Yeah, Izuku “wins” a whole lot, but that was just Shinsou humoring him. If he can’t pose a significant challenge soon, that's it. No more friend.

The cool air of Dagobah beach lacked that satisfying 'thwack' he got from hitting a target or an opponent, leaving each kick and jab filled with unease of a different sort.

He periodically kneaded the sand with his toes, reaffirming that he hadn't drifted off into the clouds his head was so often accused of being in.

Dark clouds, figuratively and literally, mused the boy. Izuku hadn’t checked the time when he snuck out, so it was difficult to say whether it counted as him being up early or up late.

He was just thankful for the generous moonlight, and for the rare day off from their ‘official’ training. Apparently Miss had somewhere she had to be. Shinsou could get some extra shuteye and Izuku would be able to practice solo for a couple more hours. Win-win.

Kick, roll, kick, jump and— Izuku landed on his butt. That’s what he gets for imitating the blurry moves of some Pro Hero nobody’s heard of. It was pretty darn difficult, but luckily he had the convenient excuse of getting to blame the extra inches he’d put on over the last few trimesters for throwing off his balance.

For someone entering a hero school who, as one would expect, needed every athletic advantage possible, finally edging up and out of being embarrassingly short during his childhood years was a relief. Although Izuku highly doubted anyone outside of his mother and his best friend (and maaaybe his best friend's parents) really cared.

Still, Shinsou let him have his fun by not bringing that up (nor the undeniable height he still had over him), for which Izuku was grateful. In truth, he knew his failures were his own fault, stupidly trying to replicate half-seen pro moves.

I’ll get it eventually, Izuku told himself, despite his brain saying otherwise. To his great frustration, his smile seemed to keep sagging.

Taking a short breather was worth it just to admire their handiwork and compare the stretches of spotless sands to what remained of the once insurmountable layers of trash. Although garbage was here and there, soon he and Shinsou would complete another milestone on their way to becoming Heroes. The end was in sight. Heck, Izuku could almost touch it.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

With a friend by his side to take on half the workload and serve as a mutual motivator, they were finishing their cleanup faster than either boy had anticipated.

What then? All this time it had acted as the perfect distraction from the looming threat of U.A.’s entrance exam. A productive time-sink with a clear goal. Nothing on the horizon but judgment day.

Their training was great, but it was indefinite. No activity to stop him from daydreaming the worst possible outcomes of the exam. Maybe it wouldn’t worry him so much the nearer they got to the momentous date?

…Yeah, right, Izuku scoffed to no one.

He could only hope his overwhelming anxiety didn’t show too heavily. Shinsou knew how to handle such things, always knew what to say, how to remain calm.

Maybe he could use that new chunk of free time to catch up on sleep? No, no, then he’d fall behind.

It had been so exciting when he and sleep had finally started to build a proper, stable (albeit unconventional) relationship, and yet Izuku was now the one pushing it away.

HA! How ironic! Who’d have thought sleep deprivation could be so funny?

Each night, sleep stood before him with open arms, ready to accept him into its embrace. Spitting in the face of such easy rest felt like blasphemy.

Out of necessity, his body had a habit of passing out when he refused to sleep, because he wasn’t dead and that’s how this whole “life” thing tends to work, so it was not uncommon for Izuku to find himself waking up in whatever clothes he’d come into his room wearing.

A miserable way to rest, but worth it for the nights he succeeded in staying awake.

Sleeping long enough to start dreaming was like a horror show.

The headaches that had been steadily growing throbbed on and off throughout his days. Graciously, they averaged only a few seconds, or minutes, apiece, but when they happened and how many in a day, if any, seemed completely random.

One second Izuku would be browsing the internet, then the next he was queasy and leaning over the toilet. One minute he’d be having a conversation with Shinsou, then the next he was nodding and smiling, trying not to appear too pained.

Worse still, he felt it in his dreams, even more severely. Splitting migraines paired with indiscernible scenes made up of raw motion more than any clear images that left him burning up, sweat soaking his clothes and bed.

Terror, worse than he thought possible. A voice splintering in every direction of his mind, crackling with unbridled malice and the immense joy it took from the results. Tears running down his face, he forgot what that felt like. No, he needed to laugh. Then everything would be fine. If he could just be brave and stop whimpering then he could make it go away. No. That’s— he wasn’t, he didn’t want to hear that, he couldn’t do like he was asked. Oh, no, it’s his fault, isn’t it? Maybe he could still do one thing right. Fingers tearing at invisible roots. Was he dying? Why did his head hurt so much? He should’ve laughed like he was asked. Fire, hotter than he’s ever felt. Screaming, but it wasn’t him. Charred black, he wasn’t meant to see. Shattering. Was he a hero? Was everybody else okay? Hello?

It wasn’t until the dreams had gotten worse and worse that Izuku had truly started to appreciate the universal blessing that dreams tend to fade once you wake up, so he didn’t have to think about them for very long. Just how frightened he was to have them again.

Sometimes, on really good nights, his dreams were innocuous, but still, nothing was ever right in them. It was all smudgy. Their apartment didn’t look like he remembered it, but he still knew it was their apartment; it was as if someone cut the world into slices and flipped them around in the wrong order. A trick he couldn’t make heads or tails of, all he could do was peak through the fingers on the hand covering his face.

It didn’t matter if it was the places they went or people they saw or even something as simple as the kinds of flowers he gave on Mother’s Day— why would he get her honeysuckle? She didn't even like honeysuckle! Izuku knew that’s just how dreams are, they aren’t supposed to make sense, they’re all nonsense, but why did the happy ones have to hurt his head too?

It felt like he was trying to play with a deck of thirty-nine cards. Being a Pro Hero’s going to be a serious challenge if he was already losing his suits.

HA! Suits!

It was actually a pretty yucky, embarrassingly-bad joke, but he needed the pick-me-up. Not everyone hits home runs all the time!

Izuku sighed.

Stress for the inevitable entrance exam. That's all it was. So, he wasn’t going to bother anybody about it, especially not when everyone’s so busy, himself included. If things didn’t improve once the school year began, then he’d just have to remember to go discuss it with his mother.

The good news was that not only was the whole experience helping him gain another layer of pain tolerance, but it also gave him a new appreciation for the similarly-uncomfortable aftereffects of Shinsou’s quirk. He was super proud of his friend for working so hard to make Brainwash so much stronger than when they met!

Izuku made sure not to mention the headache involved, as not to inadvertently stop Shinsou from improving. He hadn’t intended to mention the queasiness either, but that became impossible when, immediately after being released from Brainwash, he vomited all over his friend’s leg.

Twice.

HA!

That put an end to their fights with quirks. Shinsou felt too guilty despite Izuku’s protests.

Despite its flaws, the beach was still, by his estimation, the very best place to come when he couldn’t sleep— wouldn’t sleep.

Without another soul in sight, he could yell or mumble as much as he wanted. He was free to take his shirt off, too.

Not to mention he could also practice grinding away at any areas in his fighting technique that couldn’t rightly be asked of Mister and Miss to teach him. Specifically, repetitions of how to correctly perform the moves used by his most-watched underground Hero. His best guess of how, anyway.

Moves he could modify to be useful for a cheerful, open, and distinctly not-underground Hero!

Maybe. No sense not hoping for the best though, right?

Plus, it gave him the opportunity to trudge into the ocean and let it wash over his clammy skin, bringing a bit of life back to him. Refreshing to start with, and as a bonus, it helped guarantee Izuku didn’t look feverish by the time he had to interact with other humans. Usually Mr. Shinsou, with his discerning, doctor-y gaze.

Stepping into the salty waters, he would only wade up to his waist before dunking himself, anxious to get the discomfort over with. He almost wanted to stay beneath the water, as even the slightest breeze was like a winter storm condensed into two seconds against dripping wet skin. Determined not to let the elements beat him, he silently, and stupidly, vowed to stand there in the moonlight until he stopped shivering. Heroes need to be able to brave all types of weather!

No sooner did he finally stop feeling quite so cold than when a low voice spoke, its approach masked by rolling waves and chirping cicadas.

“What the hell.”

Izuku spun around, clutching himself as though it would somehow hide the side of his body he’d already turned away from the voice.

Oh no. It was Shinsou, and he looked horrified, with disgust no doubt.

“What?” Izuku asked, hoping to blow it off.

Why did it have to be Shinsou? Anyone in the world could’ve shown up, but it just had to be Shinsou. He knew it was gross and weird, but now his friend had seen the rest of him and Izuku had no say in the matter.

“What? What do you mean ‘what'?! It's— Midoriya, your back! Are you okay—” Shinsou stopped, consumed by a thought as he stepped deeper into the water toward Izuku, who in turn shuffled back. “Did ‘Kacchan’ do this to you?”

“No! No, no, of course not! This happened before I even moved near Kacchan. I-It was a long time ago, It’s no big deal—” Izuku tried to assure him. It really wasn’t worth worrying about, he didn’t even remember it, he just went off of what his mom told him. Sometimes it never even came to mind. That was enough, he didn’t want to feel it more than he had to.

“That sounds like a big deal," Shinsou disagreed, stunned.

“—seriously, it’s just from—” a small grease fire, he wanted to say, but no, that wasn’t right, was it… “—some... fire in… our old apartment that might’ve… burned it down?” Izuku massaged his temple, giving a false chuckle to accompany the unsure answer.

“Your apartment burned down?” his friend's voice leaped, very much unlike his usual, monotonal tendencies.

“Look, can we not talk about this?” Izuku asked far more fiercely than he intended, trying to resist the urge to itch his back. He liked it better when he didn’t feel it. He didn’t want to feel anything. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to force every thought to go back inside their box and lock it up tight.

“Sure thing, man. I didn't mean to upset you. Sorry,” Shinsou retreated, eyes a bit wider from having Izuku snap at him. “Just so you know, if you ever need to talk, I'll listen. Though, I know that it isn't any of my business. Not that I don't want it to be— you know what I’m saying,” his friend groaned.

“You promise not to… not to bother my mom about this? She doesn’t like… doesn’t like talking about it,” Izuku asked, too busy managing his headache to pay much attention to Shinsou’s apology. Seeing the stoic boy hesitantly nod was a good enough answer to satisfy.

They stood in an uncomfortable silence that Shinsou charitably used to go grab Izuku his towel and shirt.

“What are you doing awake, anyway?" Shinsou shifted gears, looking away as Izuku squirmed into a black shirt that said PANTS on the front. "It’s our only free weekend for—"

"An eternity and a half. Yeah, I know."

"Right. I thought we weren't supposed to meet up until eight,” Shinsou asked as Izuku fiddled with his long sleeves, feeling like he couldn't pull them far enough, even if they could stretch well over his knuckles.

It wasn’t like his chest or head or face or forearms or legs were anything Shinsou hadn’t seen—and patched up— for him before, but it was not a particularly proud moment.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Izuku retorted with the last of his bitterness as the headache faded.

“Figured I’d get a headstart on this trash to make sure that when you got here, if we pulled an all-nighter, then there’d be enough time to finish before we have to train with the siblings from hell tomorrow morning. Y’know, get it done in one last hurray,” Shinsou seemed to scan Izuku’s condition with a frown, “At least, that was the plan.”

Was?

“‘Siblings from hell’, huh?”

Both of them froze. Goosebumps ran up Izuku’s arms.

On the concrete wall that overlooked Dagobah Municipal Park Beach, one of their two teachers sat with an energy drink, her wispy hair blowing in the wind.

“M-Miss, what’re you doing here?”

“Oh, for crying out loud! Does anyone know how to sleep?” Shinsou rubbed his brow, still a little shaken over finding Izuku looking so grotesque.

Did I break Shinsou? Izuku wondered. His friend was not one to lose his composure, but he had worn quite the severe expression when asked about Kacchan's (lack of) involvement.

“I thought I was coming to see a clean beach. Heard you two schoolgirls giggling about it the other day,” she finished her can and chucked it onto the beach for them to pick up later, before hopping from the ledge, “but I guess I’m stuck staring at the world’s smartest dumbass and its dumbest smartass.”

“Um. Which one of us is which?” questioned Izuku, tilting a finger between them.

“Does it matter?” Shinsou asked him blankly before looking over to Miss. “And yet you teach us. What’s that say about you?”

“Careful,” she warned him with narrowed eyes and the hint of a smile, “you’re already paying for that crack at me and my brother from earlier, so don’t start writing checks you can’t cash.”

Miss cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck. Both boys stepped back, but when Izuku stepped into his stance, Shinsou put a hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. She was talking to me. You go get some sleep, and shut off your alarm, too.”

“But you said—” Izuku protested.

“I said that was the plan. It’s not the end of the world if the beach stays dirty for one more day. Honestly, you look—”

“—like crap,” Miss harshly finished his sentence. “Listen to your friend. I’m not about to fight a dead man walking.”

“… feverish,” Shinsou said once he was positive Miss was done. “What if you get ill?”

He had a point. Getting sick would force Izuku into losing even more time, and then he wouldn’t be ready when the time came. What if he kept putting off rest for too long and ended up getting sick when he woke up on exam day?

No, that wasn’t it. Shinsou needed Izuku gone so he could have a proper match without having to deal with him and his poor attempts at humor. Even Miss agreed with him. That was proof right there.

“Okay,” Izuku said at last.

They shared a nod, and only when he turned did Izuku allow his smile to falter. He felt like crying even more than he did sleeping, but Izuku knew he would be doing neither.

Even more strongly than that, he knew this would happen. He predicted it perfectly. For Izuku’s many faults, he was at least able to tell when he wasn’t wanted. That day had obviously arrived. All he had left on the horizon was the day he wasn’t needed either. When Shinsou would pass and he wouldn’t.

Izuku wished he could put off the exam forever.

The slime villain rolled in waves toward him. It was laughing. His quirk wouldn’t fucking go off. All he could do was run, and he was never fast enough. It was toying with him, slithering to keep pace before inexplicably hardening itself into the shape of a boy with a Chesire grin. Deku cackled at the pathetic expression on Katsuki’s face. Katsuki punched a hole straight through his head in retaliation, but it didn’t stop him from cackling. He simply reformed, again and again, until eventually, Katsuki swung and felt like he’d hit a boulder.

“Fuck!” he yelled, pulling his hand away.

Deku smiled at him, piercing red eyes bleeding green, the sounds of laughter constant despite not actually moving. His face cracked from Katsuki’s strike; cracks that swiftly spread out and covered every part of his body. Otherwise as still as a statue, his face rapidly shifted to mock that look Katsuki had worn when he was attacked. Like he had needed saving.

On a dime, Deku exploded into shrapnel, shooting Katsuki to the ground and stealing his breath. Trying to brush off the sharp debris was pointless when they drilled into his flesh the second his hand got close to wiping them away. He groaned, moving to—

"Katsuki?“ the Doc leaned in, resting a hand on his knee as an anchor to the present. Shit, what had he been saying? ”We can take a break if you need to."

"No. It's fine. I’m fine,“ Katsuki’s leg hopped with a mind of its own, shaking off Dr. Shinsou’s comfort. Breaks are for failures. “Sometimes it’s like… he’s following me.”

“Katsuki, I can assure you that is not the case—”

“I’m not an idiot,” he snapped back, unable to find a way to sit threateningly in the marshmellow-y seat the good Doctor had bought. “Your new chair sucks.”

“Most guests find it relaxing, but thank you for your honesty. I’ll take that under advisement,” and he knew she would.

Dr. Shinsou was thoughtful like that. It really pissed him off. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t need coddling. He didn’t need a chair perfectly balanced for his comfort like he was fucking Goldilocks. He didn’t need her to use the word guests because patients is stapled with ‘negative connotations’. He didn't need her to ask that he please use her given name, Shinrai, seeing as she called him Katsuki, wanting him to feel equal and familiar.

“How have you been sleeping? Are you still having bad dreams?”

Katsuki growled at her continued willingness to change the subject back to the actual issues. Not his issues, obviously. He didn’t have them. The issues they talked about every session just happened to be ones affecting him.

“I don’t know,” he knew. “Maybe.” Definitely.

“Anything specific in them you want to talk about?” She asked, stroking a blueish lock behind her ear.

He was wearing that damn pathetic look on his face.

He can’t stand it.

He can’t fucking stand it.

If Katsuki ever has to see that look in the waking world again, he’s ready to fucking die before letting it stay that way.

“Nah.”

Dr. Shinsou watched him thoughtfully, not pressing the question.

“Let’s go back. You mentioned feeling him follow you around. How I responded was not meant as an indictment of your feelings,” she spoke smoothly. “More often than not our fears are far from realistic. That’s called being human. But those fears are no less valid for it. If anything, that makes them the most important fears to tackle, when an intelligent young man like yourself is prepared to put stock in them despite practical evidence.”

She flicked through a slim binder from the stack on her side table.

“If it’s him escaping that you’re worried about, I put in a request for the specifics of his containment and am happy to go over it with you. They were quite thorough—”

“I’m not talking about that slimy asshole!” At least not completely. Dismissive, Katsuki waved the villain’s presence in the conversation away. “He can drop dead for all I care. And if I ever see him again, he’s gonna get his ass kicked. Even figured out my first Super Move.”

Saying that should’ve lit a prideful fire in him. It was worth at least that much, even if he hadn’t exactly perfected the movement yet. But the words flopped out, lifeless. Katsuki sounded like a damn child, trying to convince her that he’s a big boy.

“Yes, well, that’s quite the accomplishment, so long as you aren’t running yourself ragged as we talked about. You’re already miles ahead of where most people are in terms of using these negative emotions to fuel something constructive, but there can still be too much of a good thing. Our minds need chances to relax. Asking one hundred percent of yourself at all times is a recipe for disaster.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. We’re already eating dinner together at the table an’ shit like you asked.”

“That’s good, though it’s… not exactly what I would call relaxation. Someday it might be, if you’re willing to work at it— your mother certainly is. Maybe a little too much,” she sighed, clearly mulling over the hag’s intensity. “There’s no questioning you’re her son, that’s for sure.”

Dr. Shinsou cleared her throat, directing herself back to the matter at hand.

“What I mean by relaxing is, for example, taking a stroll instead of a sprint. Or sitting down and listening to music—preferably at a volume that doesn’t exacerbate the damage your eardrums already take,” she stressed for the nth time.

Katsuki rolled his eyes, betraying the tension that plucked at his nerves, sharp as piano wire at the thought of physical decay. He was going to be number one. He had to be perfect. It took all the willpower he had not to fruitlessly claw at his chest, as though he had any chance of relieving the thorny itch in his right lung.

“—Or going to a movie with friends,” the Doc continued her list of examples.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any fucking friends,” Katsuki bit back through gritted teeth to hide how much of a struggle it was to catch his breath, “I don’t have any and I don’t need any and I don’t want any. Look at how well that shit turned out last time.”

He hiccuped quietly, mentally pleading her to say something back, to give him a mask of sound so he might recover from making any more shameful noises. But she only sat there, staring at him with that thoughtful, empathetic look in her eyes, leaving no options but for another dam to burst.

“My whole life I’m friends with this fucking guy and he turns on me like that,” Katsuki snapped his fingers, before frantically scrubbing an arm over his eyes. “We were supposed to be heroes together, y’know? But when he finally moved close by, that’s when Deku showed his true colors. I should’ve known— his parents were smart enough not to want him, and obviously Auntie was too damn nice to say no to her friend, so I guess that makes me pretty fucking gullible, doesn’t it?”

A number of questions were written on her face, but Katsuki’s words were snowballing too quickly for her to get a word in.

“He started using his quirk on me all the time. Who gave him the right?!” Katsuki punched the armrest. “The bastard kept saying it was an accident, which is bullshit! I never once saw him ‘accidentally’ use his quirk since we were practically babies! and then out of the blue, he seriously expected me to believe that he couldn’t, like, find the fucking ‘off’ switch on his own quirk!?”

“I gave him so many chances,” his throat clenched, tone wavering. “I made sure nobody at school gave him shit about it, and I never tattled to Auntie or my parents, ‘cause I wanted to be a good friend, and friends don’t rat each other out. ‘Specially not for mistakes. Can you believe I actually blamed his mom for leaving him?” Katsuki scoffed at the bitter humor of it.

“But if I ever asked about it, he would just ignore me! He ignored me for giving a shit! And I did, even when he made me feel quirkless!” his voice sounded wetter with each sentence until it shriveled into a whimper.

Katsuki’s shoulders shook, arms falling loose. No amount of clenching or lip biting could delay the inevitable any longer. His head hung low, eyes fixed on the carpet where tears fell past shaking hands.

“I tried really hard, Doc,” he sobbed, weak in his bones. “Why doesn’t anyone ever care how fucking hard I try?”

By the time he felt composed enough to walk out with some semblance of his dignity intact, they’d gone an hour over.

Dr. Shinsou promised not to charge extra and his mother didn’t bother him about having to wait.

Small mercies.

“Okay,” Midoriya said at last, stepping away.

Hitoshi breathed a sigh of relief when the shorter boy was out of sight.

Hitoshi finally allowed himself a moment to breathe, taken aback. For as freaked out as he'd probably came across, Midoriya seemed ten times more so. He looked horrified. Weren’t they friends? Didn’t he know he could trust him?

Hitoshi growled, fists clenching. What the hell had he been thinking?! He should've shut up and told his only friend it’s fine and let him decide where to go from there instead of floundering. Better yet, he should’ve just stayed in bed, or called out for Midoriya before he got close.

His lower body was soaked from the unplanned rush into the water, but he didn’t feel cold. Conflicted, perhaps even ashamed, yes. But not cold.

Quit being an awful friend and thinking about yourself! Do something to help!

But how the hell was he supposed to fix something like that!?

A landscape of twisted flesh that crawled behind Midoriya’s ribs and over his shoulder blades, stretching down to wreak havoc on the remainder of his back until it crawled to a stop just above the waistline. Along the way, some of it tried reaching out toward his sides, but none made it far. They just looked like normal scars whenever he saw them, and Midoriya already had his share of those. What’s a little burn here or there? How was he supposed to know they were the tendrils of some terrible burden scalding his best friend in an apartment fire?

If he’d known… Ah, who the hell was he kidding. He had no clue what he would’ve done.

“Fists up, buttercup. This only ends when one of us is unconscious or quits, and I don’t train quitters. Do I?”

“Can you just give me a minute?” Hitoshi pleaded, desperately trying to collect himself.

As it turns out, she could not, in fact, ‘give him a minute’. Absorbed in his thoughts as he was, it was only by pure luck and reflex he was able to dodge the fist that shot toward him in his peripheral.

After the next few strikes, it was clear she wasn’t going to let up. It being Miss, he wasn’t sure why he ever expected anything else, even under the circumstances. It’s not like she had context and he wasn’t about to air Izuku’s dirty laundry. Lasting as long as he did, and getting at least one decent hit in while he was at it, Hitoshi felt fairly confident. That is, until he was possessed and whacked himself in the side of the head.

In a weird way, as he fell to the ground, he almost felt more confident just from knowing his hits could hurt that much. Confident in his chances of winning against her, though? Not so much. He did, however, have one idea after seeing her rematerialize. She stepped forward, not waiting for him to get up before going back on the offensive.

“Aww, come on, that isn’t fair, time out, time out,” he whined to throw out the proverbial bait.

“Tough break. Sometimes y—” gotcha.

Her arms fell slack, eyes glazing over as she stood at attention. Knowing the fight was over, Hitoshi took his sweet time to regain his composure until his limbs stopped buzzing. The whole Midoriya situation would have to wait. Ack! Why had he agreed not to ask Midoriya's mom? Well, he could at least bring it up to his dad in private for some advice. To be sure he wasn't making anything worse on Midoriya.

Hitoshi almost felt bad for leaving Miss standing there for so long while he mentally worked through problems that had nothing to do with her. It did, however, feel pretty darn good to see the look of confusion on her face when he gave her a knock to the shoulder. Other than Midoriya, he didn’t have anyone to use Brainwash on, and even with him, Hitoshi felt too awful about putting him through the apparent aftereffects to keep doing it.

“That count as unconscious?” Hitoshi asked with a sly grin. Her eyes refocused on her student.

“Not what I meant, but acceptable,” she clicked her teeth. “You landed a solid heel.”

That was high praise coming from Miss.

“Sorry about the headache,” he apologized, pouring in a healthy dose of sympathy, “If you’re gonna puke, I’d appreciate you not doing it all over the garbage. I have to touch that later.”

Interestingly, that marked the first ever time in the history of the human species that someone asked someone else, if they were to vomit, to please do it anywhere except the trash.

“Puke? Don’t get cocky. You didn’t hit me that hard,” Miss rolled her eyes as she returned to her stance. “Now. Round two.”

“You don’t fee—?” he began to ask before his legs were kicked out from under him and his throat met the heel of her palm on the way down.

ow. ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

“You still have another insult to pay for, and this time I’m not holding back,” she said with a sick satisfaction that betrayed her relaxed stretching.

Seeing as Miss wasn’t currently elbowing him in the back, she was at least gracious enough to give him a little prep time after sucker-punching him.

Well. Sucker-kick-and-palming him. Same difference. Hitoshi was rapidly approaching the realization that her brother wasn't there to soothe any bruises. Yikes.

“You were—” he coughed, forcing himself to stand while clutching his neck, “—holding back?”

“Consider my newfound sincerity as your opponent a compliment. I'm not a night owl like you two and I've got things to do tomorrow, so let’s make this quick.”

I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem, Hitoshi mused as she ran toward him.

[8 Years Ago] [10:09 A.M.]

“Two years. Give or take.”

The words looped in her mind.

Really? Is that how things ended for her? And nothing could change it?

No, that couldn’t be right. How was she supposed to believe that?

And yet, his quirk was never wrong.

Reality swooped in to split through the mental fog keeping her in place.

.

.

.

Shit.

Emi shot up into a sprint, almost certainly tearing at her wound as she tripped over her own feet around an alley corner. Anything to be out of sight as an unstoppable sickness took over.

Her breakfast redecorated the inside of a garbage can.

[8 Years Ago] [9:58 A.M.]

“It was too easy,” Emi spoke without context, biting her lip in thought.

“Pardon?” Sir Nighteye raised a brow as he filed a log of the raid.

“This,” she waved her arm around at the rubble blasted across the parking lot and the inconspicuous building it all came from, where villains were still being dragged out in cuffs through the large hole in the wall (or, perhaps more accurately, the large hole that happened to have some wall around it). “It was too easy.”

It sounded so stupid coming from the mouth of a woman with bandages covering the whole right side of her abdomen. That didn’t make it any less true.

“I’m listening,” Nighteye, waiting for her to elaborate, flicked his eyes up from his laptop to meet hers, and despite his flat tone, he meant it.

Funny. If most other people said what she had, he’d surely accuse them of cockiness. Luckily, another Pro Hero was already setting a good example of that by taking selfies with a few handcuffed criminals.

“Are these villains really the suppliers?” Emi scoffed critically. “It just seems too… convenient.”

For whatever reason, she couldn’t buy it after spending the better part of a year chasing down what turned out to be dead leads, time and time again ending with the capture of some small band of random villains. Pocket groups that, while worth getting behind bars, were no more than leeches on the back of whoever was supplying them high-quality support gear. Even your run-of-the-mill crook can be profoundly more dangerous with the right equipment.

And then she and the other Pros show up and, what? Solve the problem in one swoop, just like that? None of the villains seemed like masterminds to her. Granted, at least half of them were unconscious or concussed, so there wasn’t a whole lot of interrogating to be done.

In her hands, she turned the shockwave-enhancing support item she’d yanked from a villain’s wrist as he sent her flying out onto the street.

It had been a long, long time since Emi was last submerged in the world of quirk support gear, having to constantly hear about it, so her guess wasn’t worth much, but the device she held looked more like a piece of heavily modified civilian equipment than something originally designed for blasting down walls. And sure, their hideout technically had the machinery needed to manufacture it, but only just.

Then again, maybe that’s just what villain-built gear looked like nowadays. Maybe it was easier to work off of a handful of molds than to remake blueprints from scratch. Maybe she was still too ticked off at their months of failure to see straight— but shouldn’t she have been relieved after finally catching the perps? The other Pro Heroes clearly were, so maybe she was just crazy.

“Considering the trouble we have gone through to find their operation, both in time spent and labor put in, you have remarkable endurance to call any of this ‘convenient’,” Nighteye adjusted his glasses and closed his laptop to grant his full attention. “Unless you’re joking, I would ask where exactly you learned such patience.”

“Not from hero work, that’s for sure,” she snorted, lips pulling into a sideways smile. “Has anyone talked to the woman in charge yet? I’d be very curious to hear how she inspires such devotion.”

According to all the rando villains from whatever small groups they’d caught along the way, it's always their leader that’s had the only contact with the supplier. But when asked, they always play dumb. No matter what legal consequences they’re threatened with or deal they’re offered, they act like they’ve never even met any supplier.

As if that weren’t enough, they invariably decide to close the curtains on their own lives, to put it gently.

Never let it be said the government doesn’t know how to completely bungle a perfectly good investigation. Fool them once, shame on you. Fool them four times, then maybe they should put these little leaders in a cell that has cameras without any damn blind spots, and with guards stationed twenty-four hours a day.

But of course, that’s too much money to spend on some nobody villains who claim not to have any useful information anyhow.

“Not to mention how she’s been moving merchandise so far without anyone noticing,” Emi ran a hand down her face. “Those last buyers were all the way in friggin’ Korusan. Might as well have taken a vacation in Osaka while we were there.”

Emi shifted as not to upset her wound.

“Your theory is not entirely without merit, but we should reserve judgment until the area has been thoroughly searched and the villains comprehensively interrogated,” said Nighteye, ever logical and usually right, before continuing.

“Even if you are correct and the police are left with questions unanswered about the villains' full capabilities, after a blow like this to their operation, your hypothetical leftovers would be long gone by then. To do anything else would be profoundly unwise,” he spoke curtly, pushing his glasses up. “An unlikely scenario, by my estimation. Even at a glance, the evidence is here, and a search will only reveal more. Real-life mysteries rarely have twist endings, so I see your paranoia as a shortsighted conclusion. No offense given.”

“None taken,” Emi sighed, paranoia retreating to a less busy place in her mind. “You’re probably right. I hope so.”

She stood to stretch a bit. A poor move in her condition, but she was too antsy to stay still.

“Alright, I’m only gonna say this once, so pay attention and enjoy it: I genuinely look forward to reading the paperwork done on these guys,” she mimicked gagging at the word ‘paperwork’.

Emi Fukukado wanting to deal with paperwork was rarer than a comet passing through a rainbow, and the business-like, document-diving Sir Nighteye soundlessly chuckled at her self-deprecation.

“—and before I forget to ask: why the heck have you kept me in the loop with this stuff? I’m all for hopping around, clonking villain heads, it just seems like you could find capable enough heroes wherever you go. That’s what you did the first time you came here to my neck of the woods, so what the deal?”

It was a mystery that had plagued her for as long as they’d worked together, but in an irregular moment of restraint, she held the question close for fear of jinxing her luck.

“For starters, you are not an imbecile,” Nighteye began, pacing about.

“Gee, thanks.”

“—which is a less common trait amongst some Pro Heroes I am forced to deal with than one would imagine. You are effective in the field, familiar with the investigation, have a useful quirk, and I enjoy your company. You are funny,” he said with a mismatched level of intensity. “Unfortunately, my attention has been split too long and should return to its more important function, solely for All Might’s work. Otherwise, I would happily offer you a real, permanent position.”

“Gosh, Nighteye, you’re gonna make me blush,” she snickered to downplay the simultaneous feelings of flattery and disappointment before a realization struck her.

“Oh, man! Endeavor must be pissed those dorks he relocated up here weren’t the ones to catch these guys,” Emi laughed. “They had one job! HA—ow!” the laughter in Emi crescendoed, only to pop like a balloon when the motion upset her injury. Nighteye’s gaze stuck to her bandaged side, a remorseful expression on his face.

“I know they call it ‘having a stitch in your side’, but this is a bit much, don’t you think?”

She raised an eyebrow comically, hoping to curb whatever dark thoughts were running through his head. His quirk was as much a curse as it was a blessing, so it was no surprise he was such a comedy fan. Were he not equally strict she’d have dragged him to meet Izuku. Now THAT would be a riot.

“I should’ve used Foresight on you,” Nighteye said, despondent.

A swing and a miss. Darn, she must be off her game.

“Don’t sweat it. Fate can’t be changed, that’s what you always say, right?”

He nodded, yet the sentiment clearly failed to give him comfort.

“Even still, that doesn’t mean it can’t grant us an edge.”

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Trying to figure out how Sir Nighteye’s quirk functioned tied her head into knots, even after discussing it with Izuku (because of course he’d have thought about it).

Her understanding was that Foresight couldn’t technically alter fate, because whether or not he was going to use it on someone in the first place was already preordained, but using it might give them an advantage they otherwise might not have had, however, “otherwise” was never truly an option with which to begin, since they were going to have that advantage no matter what if the use of his quirk in that instance were destined. Which it was if it did.

Or something.

There was also the argument that Nighteye’s use of Foresight was what ‘locked in’ destiny in the first place, that outcomes were malleable up until that point. Although Emi had a difficult time believing that one man had the ability to take away all choice from people, as opposed to the will of a nebulous “fate”, it did seem a decent excuse as to why he preferred using it as infrequently as possible. She could only imagine what awful sights he’s had to live with knowing.

Both possibilities unsettled her if she thought about them for long, but as with most frightening things, it was physically difficult for her not to manage that fear with questions like “if it says I’m going to eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast, can’t I just eat oatmeal instead? Or will it be destiny that a big villain bursts in and forces cinnamon corn flakes and Super Choco-Choco Blast milk down my throat?”

That had been the one time that Nighteye was distinctly dissatisfied with her sense of humor. Foresight was easy to dismiss for someone who didn’t have to live with it.

The belittling idea wasn’t a fun topic of conversation for him.

Never being wrong must do that to a person.

“Why not use it on me now? Lemme know what kinda strong villains I’ll face! That way I can train even harder,” she pumped a fist enthusiastically. The gesture was cut off when it tweaked her arm, and she awkwardly chuckled the pain away. “If it’d give you peace of mind before we part ways, I mean.”

Sir Nighteye seemed reticent at the prospect, but after a few moments of deliberation, a hand rested on her shoulder from on high and he stared her down. His eye shifted, quirk activating. One second, two seconds, three seconds, Nighteye’s gaze pierced right through her.

He flinched, Foresight abruptly fading from his eyes as he stood.

“What? What is it? Does a villain escape or something?” Emi asked, concern growing.

Nighteye backed up, the significance of each movement lost on the untrained observer; to anyone familiar with him, he looked panicked. Pacing back and forth, his glasses slipping, he wouldn’t answer her, seemingly lost in his own world as he whispered to himself. Whispered things Emi could only half-hear.

“…-m I supposed to say?….no, no…–s why you don’t use it…stupid, stupid man…–rabs my tie…asks…”

Her eyes began to widen when he wouldn’t even look at her, refusing to answer past his mumbles.

“It wasn’t ’that’, was it?…” Emi tried to laugh off the ridiculous notion, but he didn’t even notice her, his neat hairdo turning into disarray when he couldn’t help but drag a hand through it unconsciously.

“Hey,” she called for him, yet he did not respond.

“Nighteye,” Emi insisted again, but still the man did not cave to her request.

“Nighteye. Look at me,” she demanded, grabbing his tie with an unexpected degree of force. He lurched forward, tugged down to her level and out of his own head. “Did you see me die?”

Through her permeated a savage aura that few bared witness to, even fewer having the misfortune of it being directed their way.

Again, Nighteye’s eyes cast down. He nodded.

All things considered, Emi took it fairly well, at least she’d like to think. There was no strict rulebook for this sort of thing.

It was a blessing Nighteye stayed silent. Emi couldn’t hear anything besides her own breathing. A chill ran through her body, weightlessness taking over. Nausea sat in the background, waiting for its moment to strike.

She wanted to ask if there’s a way to change it, but she’d become well acquainted with Foresight. With how accurate it was. Without exception.

Maybe he’d misunderstood the question?

“You saw me die?” Emi repeated slowly.

Again, he nodded, this time meeting her eyes for a brief moment.

Oh.

His tie slipped from her right hand, and the support item dropped from her left.

Everyone dies someday, but a long life ending with loved ones by her bedside did not spark the sort of reaction Nighteye had given.

“How long do I have?” Emi asked with an unnatural calmness.

“Looking this far ahead, my Foresight tends to blur,” he spoke, his voice as silent as the grave… ha. “The best estimate I can give you is around two years. Give or take. As for how it happens—a villain, I think. One minute you’re there, the next you’re… not.”

“Okay,” she mumbled after an extended pause, too stunned to think of anything else.

“Ms. Joke, I am so sorry. I should never have used my quirk on you. It was selfish of me. I thought if I— no… it doesn’t matter now,” he swallowed thickly.

“It’s fine,” she said.

It wasn’t. Far from it, actually. But what good would come from screaming at him? She was too dazed to yell anyway, barely sure of what she was even saying. Emi shrugged lifelessly.

The Smile Hero’s voice was devoid of emotion, her distress too busy ricocheting in her skull, in her heart. Buzzy signals shot through her limbs. She scarcely noticed her knee bouncing on its own. Was it supposed to do that? When had she even sat back down? And did she always clench her fists this tight? Had she not habitually knawed her fingernails down, they’d have drawn blood from her palm.

Dismissing Nighteye’s apology was all she knew to do when her conscious mind took the back seat, giving the wheel to years of twisted lessons she’d done everything to try erasing. Just be a good young lady, be agreeable, don’t make a scene, keep quiet. Downplay the gravity of what he was telling her in spite of her desire to tear his head off and curse him for his prediction. To demand a solution he didn’t have.

“I’m not the one who had to watch his colleague die in advance. Must be a rough quirk to have,” Emi said; it was like hearing someone else talk.

Oh well. She’d have time to lose her mind over it later. At the moment she could barely muster the will to keep breathing, much less speaking.

Nighteye seemed deeply uncomfortable juggling the guilt he’d made and the pity he was being handed.

“Colleague,” he parroted the word. “Presumptuous though it may sound, I would prefer friend. If you’ll still have me.”

“Sounds good,” Emi gave her best toothy grin. It sucked, it was everything fake she hated, but it was the last she could muster before feeling the threat of bile in her throat if she didn’t quit. “It’s— It’s probably for the best. Right? If you want a joke worth remembering, you’d better work on perfectly phrasing your punchline. That or get super lucky, but I’ve already used my lifetime’s worth of luck. So, that’s how it goes, I guess.”

“You truly have a brighter view,” he commented, unspeakable melancholy burning its way into the lines of his face. “That is a rare quality, Ms. Joke. It is what I admire about you.”

“Yeah, I admire me, too. Who doesn’t?” she stuck her tongue out and blew, stealing a small chuckle from him. All she felt was numb and yet she was still trying to make someone else laugh. Maybe there really was something wrong with her.

“If— if there’s ever anything I can do…” he left the sentence to hang. There was no point in finishing it.

She grunted in acknowledgment, an answer without a real answer.

“See ya’ round, ‘Eye.”

“… I hope so.” Nighteye replied softly, giving what she could only assume was his attempt at a reassuring smile.

Lingering for a few seconds to get a thorough look at her, he soon turned away. There was work to be done.

Yes.

Yes, there was.

[8 Years Ago] [10:17 A.M.]

Blank-faced and slumped beside the garbage can, Emi’s eyes glazed over, looking past caution tape and the last villains being dragged into vans and ambulances.

It didn’t matter how long she sat there, breathing unevenly in between dry retching. It should have, considering she was burning through limited time, but the single wish Emi had—aside from those based on a childish denial of Nighteye’s quirk—was that she’d kept her wallet in her costume. The picture inside could do wonders for her right now. Assuming it didn’t send her into a full-on breakdown.

Two years. Give or take. That’s all she had, huh? Well, if she was to go down, then damn it she was gonna go down swinging.

No use dwelling, being a sadsack. Not when she had more important priorities. One job was all that mattered: secure Izuku’s future as best she could for when— if she couldn’t be there for him.

Although Emi detested the thought, that meant chasing money.

The obvious was out of the question, because she sure as hell wasn't about to crawl back to mother and father. She could do it just fine on her own, as a Pro Hero.

Her old agency would probably hire her back, or she could keep freelancing, though neither were secure and paid well.

All Might's agency would've been an amazing option. Alas, they're overbooked as it is.

But if the number one Hero’s agency wasn’t an option, then she knew just the man to approach.

Chapter Text

This was it.

The day.

The day.

THE day.

THE DAY.

THE DAY.

Things started pretty rocky, as they tended to. Izuku woke up screaming into his pillow and startled Mom. He lied, saying it was just a bad dream about the exam not going well, which wasn’t teeeeeechnically a lie since he couldn’t remember what the nightmare was about, but it made him feel dishonest nonetheless. Though, he’d generally felt ill anyway.

Still, walking through the U.A. gates with his friend was basically the coolest thing he’d ever been a part of, even if they hadn’t been accepted yet, and Izuku vibrated with excitement at seeing Present Mic in person, out on the stage before them. Shinsou, likewise, had his own, more muted, smile.

"HEY, HEY, HEY! PRETTY EXCITING DAY, HUH? CAN I GET A 'YEEEEEEEEAH'?"

The Voice Hero screamed out to a dead silent auditorium, unable to pump any outward enthusiasm from the nervous energy of his crowd.

“Yeah!” Izuku hollered, hoping to spur up some more of the happiness in himself. Shinsou mumbled a near-inaudible ‘yes’.

"THANK YOU, WEIRD KID IN THE BACK!"

Izuku gave a small wave, despite Present Mic clearly not being able to see far past the bright stage lights.

"ANYWAY, HERE'S THE LOWDOWN ON THE PRACTICAL EXAM, SO PAY ATTENTION, MY LOYAL LISTENERS!"

The screen behind the intense, resonant Pro Hero changed from a gigantic U.A. logo into a simple diagram of enemies.

The two boys’ smiles were slaughtered.

"ALL YOU GOTTA DO IS BEAT AS MANY VILLAINS AS POSSIBLE IN TEN MINUTES! OBVIOUSLY REAL VILLAINS ARE A NO-GO, SO WE USE THESE ROBOTS INSTEAD! THEIR POINTS ARE VALUED ON A SCALE FROM ONE TO THREE, WITH ONE-POINTERS BEING THE EASIEST TO DEFEAT AND THREE-POINTERS BEING THE HARDEST! LIKE A VIDEO GAME! EASY PEASY!"

“Uh–” Shinsou started to say, his brow furrowed when looking at the sheet they’d been handed.

"OBSERVANT EXAMINEES MIGHT NOTICE THERE'S A FOURTH ROBOT ON THE PRINTOUT! THAT ONE'S WORTH ZERO POINTS, SO JUST AVOID IT AND YOU SHOULD BE A-OKAY! AFTER THE WRITTEN PORTION OF THE EXAM IS OVER, YOU'LL HEAD TO YOUR DESIGNATED COMBAT AREAS TO GET THE PARTY STARTED!"

Okay, things weren’t looking good, but maybe if they worked together—

"WE'VE MADE SURE TO SPLIT UP ANYONE FROM THE SAME SCHOOL INTO SEPARATE BATTLE CENTERS SO THERE'S NO CHEATING, YA' DIG?"

Aaaand they were screwed.

"GET OUT THERE AND SHOW 'EM WHO'S BOSS! SAY IT WITH ME: PLUUUUUUUS ULTRA!"

Not even Izuku echoed Present Mic this time.

The crowd stood as one, shuffling their way toward the written exam. He and Shinsou locked eyes, wearing their despair brazenly.

“Soooo—” Izuku blew his lips after a dramatic few seconds.

“Yeah,” agreed Shinsou, his wide-eyed shrug conveying a thousand emotions.

“Yeah.”

Katsuki grinned as yet another three-pointer robot turned into scrap metal after receiving a powerful blast from his quirk.

The exam couldn’t have been more perfectly suited to his quirk. Katsuki was born to do this.

There was little use in keeping track of how many points he was racking up. Not just because overthinking shit like that doesn’t help, but because he was going to pass anyway. It was a fact.

That didn’t mean he was going to settle, though. No, he would still give it his all and get the best score ever in return. Plus fucking Ultra.

The battlefield rumbled, buildings broke, and the asphalt cracked away as an unreasonably huge robot emerged from the ground. The zero-pointer.

It was a bit fucking much, but Katsuki was never one for subtly anyway, so he couldn’t help his grin. He was already moving away, on the hunt for more lucrative foes, when a whine had him turning his head back.

Some girl had gotten her leg trapped beneath rubble like a complete dumbass, leaving her right in the path of a massive, mechanical monstrosity treading ever nearer.

Katsuki’s brain told him to go get more points.

But she had that look on her face.

That fucking look.

His chest seized, and he skidded to a stop. The longer he stared, the further away from the exam his mind was sent.

Get it together, you’re better than this, don’t think about it, don’t think about how sore you are, or the last time you were this exhausted, and the way that shitbag villain slid inside you, and the bits and pieces of himself he left in your lungs, forever, and how you couldn’t beat him even with all your strength, and he’d have controlled you like a damn marionette, and your best friend likewise controlled whether you got to use the best part of yourself, and you’re such a fucking whiner, you should be able to handle shit for yourself—

Did one of the “villains” hit him? Katsuki clutched at his chest like maybe, just maybe he could claw his way into everything broken inside him and tear it all out by the roots. Was he having a heart attack?

Katsuki closed his eyes and plugged his ears, trying to ignore his shaking in public. Despite his eyelids being painted with her helpless, terrified expression, perfectly overlapping with the one he’d worn before, the break from outward stimuli gave him a flash of clarity. Enough for Katsuki to recognize what was happening: the same bullshit he’d dealt with over and fucking over in his weakest moments.

But now was not the time to stand around losing his head. For as much as Katsuki wanted to find somewhere to hide until he once again had some semblance of control over his emotions, the girl was still right in front of a giant robot villain that rolled closer by the second.

He shifted into a practiced stance, paying no mind to the prickling sensation at the edge of his eyes, and ran headlong into danger.

You got this, you got this, you got this.

Releasing a savage war-cry as his feet left the ground, his quirk sent him spiraling upward with a self-taught rhythm.

“Howitzer—!”

He’d never gone this high before or corkscrewed so quickly. Even still, Katsuki kept his eyes trained unwaveringly on the zero-pointer’s boxy head. Ironically, it was that single-minded focus that at last allowed him to relax, if only for as long as absolutely necessary. Intuition in the face of overwhelming pressure.

He could feel precisely how much power to put behind each blast, the exact second where he’d need to release all the power he had left for the greatest damage.

Heard beneath the commanding cracks of his explosions, grating mechanical noises bent and squealed as its arms moved in his peripheral vision.

“—fucking—!”

Katsuki shot up without regret, his inherent battle-sense lording over any conscious thoughts.

He came face-to-face with the beast at the crucial peak of his Super Move; that painfully brief period where he could either unleash his reserves or let himself lose all the momentum and force he’d built up. The zero-pointer brought its hands together with remarkable swiftness for its size, cupping him in like a particularly troublesome firefly.

Hesitation was not in the cards. Not for Katsuki Bakugo. Time, however, seemed to stretch out in crystal clear detail for the most unforgettable two and a half seconds of his life, in the best and worst ways.

The hero-to-be kept sailing forward, from one end of its grasp to the other, gathering everything he could possibly give.

Nary a shred of light could break through its tight grip. Not a problem. Katsuki would just have to give the damn thing the biggest (and last) light show it was ever going to see.

It had sealed him inside what was fundamentally a sound-proof chamber. Proofed from outside noise, that is. Those on the inside would just bounce back.

He heard only one sound during the microscopic lull before things went nuclear, that of him exhaling. The slow, even puff of air seemed to reverberate with a metallic edge at an undeserved volume.

Just before he could slam into the 'wall' in front of him, Katsuki threw forward his perfectly timed finale to the greatest display of power he’d ever pulled off in his young life.

“—IMPACT!”

All at once, the world went from pitch black to blindingly bright. Presumed silence turned into truly, whole silence. The hands that held him were blasted open, through, apart, and off. ‘Vaporized’ was perhaps a bit of a stretch, but it had a nice ring to it. Maybe someday.

And holy fucking shit his ears hurt.

Watching its head start tearing like paper mache was invigorating. Or, it would have been, except that the destruction he was hoping to dish out still wasn’t strong enough to go beyond the zero-pointer’s outermost, superficial layer of metals.

What his explosives did do, however, was shatter most of the zero-pointer’s eyes and send the stumps that had only moments prior been its hands slamming right back at it.

Metal plates curled as its bare wrists pierced through its domino-ass face, neck flicking up at an angle his now-jammed arms wouldn’t allow. It jerked backward in an attempt to dislodge its head, thus hammering the final nail in the zero-pointer’s coffin. It hurtled down toward an inevitable junkyard disposal pile and hit with all the expected weight of a huge fucking robot.

Burn in mecha-hell, you piece of shit!

Even if it wasn’t what he’d been trying to go for, it got the job done and looked pretty sick doing it. Internally, he was livid that he hadn't won his way, on his terms. A busted robot is a busted robot, though. He could be pissed later.

Any of the satisfying pops, screeches and crunching noises the collapsing zero-pointer was no doubt making were drowned out by a single, ringing tone. He could still feel the force of the blast shooting up through his arms, but neither his own detonation nor the chain of explosions he saw going off inside various pieces of the fallen metal monster made a sound.

Every part of his body ached to varying degrees, but he’d done it.

Shit, luck beat it more than he did. If he'd just blasted its face like he wanted to, without its arms getting in the way, he now had factual proof that it wouldn't have done a damn thing. It made him want to restart the whole exam from the beginning.

Katsuki was well on his way toward hitting the ground before he became genuinely cognizant of that fact, and of how little control he had to change it. He limply fell like some forgotten toy, unable to fire out a blast as small as a firecracker. Even the wind was too fast and harsh to keep his eyes open.

He couldn’t help but think back to when Doctor Shinsou—the other one—told he might've died on the operating table, easily.

Out of nowhere, something slapped Katsuki’s cheek and left him feeling… weightless. After a few seconds of spent in a confused pause, his eyes hesitantly opened to find the culprit. A queasy-looking girl with soft, round features stared back at him, her face framed by bouncy, brown hair. She, like Katsuki himself, was hovering in the air.

Wait a second— was he fuckin’ dead? Aw, man, that's such bogus. Fuck off, great beyond!

He jerked away from her (unsuccessfully, as he had no real way to move) when he saw her arms move. Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t about to be sherpaed into the next life, frolicking hand in fucking hand with some squishy-faced motherfucker.

After a few blinks, he realized she was just what the chick from earlier looked like up close. And she wasn’t flying, she was floating on the body of a downed villain robot. Which meant he was probably just floating due to her quirk.

She pressed her fingers together, dropping him (and the two-pointer she was laying across) down to the crater of a street below. If Katsuki’d had any wind left in him, it would’ve been knocked right back out.

Thank fuck. Being dead didn’t suit him, anyway. Holy fucking shit did he ever dodge a bullet on that one.

However, realizing he wasn’t dead also meant realizing the exam was still ongoing.

He wanted to crawl, determined to get every last point humanly possible. Except, he could barely move.

Suddenly, everyone he could see came to a standstill. That probably meant the buzzer had gone off. Although Katsuki would never admit it, he was relieved. That last attack had been everything he’d had left and then some. In terms of a workout, it definitely beat gym practice, though. It hurt like a motherfucker.

Shadows danced at the edges of his vision but went easily ignored in the face of an unbearable ringing in his ears. He’d never been in so much pain.

Katsuki rolled over onto his back and tilted his head to look at the girl, thankfully sans pathetic expression. She was puking her damn guts out. It was gross as hell, but a testament that she’d given the proceedings her all.

Once her insides had been fully evacuated and the subsequent dry heaving ended, her lips moved and she gave him a shaky smile.

Giving her a grunt, Katsuki bit down with a grimace, teeth grinding together as he resisted the urge to scream. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be found lying on the ground yelling over a bit of ringing. It didn’t stop him from clutching uselessly at his ears as he tossed and turned in the dirt.

Her nauseated hue tinging marginally more pink and less green, the girl looked away for a moment out of some combination of fear and embarrassment over speaking so damn softly on a battlefield.

After failing to rid herself entirely of the saliva still stuck to her face, she propped up onto her elbows and tried again, looking distressed.

Katsuki barked at her even louder, jaw locking as he tried desperately to ignore the excruciating information his body was giving him.

Shit. He really didn’t want to prove Doc right about something else. This least of all. If it was a wakeup call, he’d rather sleep. Though, listening to his own bullshit was beginning to be more of a struggle with hours and hours of the woman’s measured voice rattling around his head.

Fuck fuck fuck. Katsuki’s heart was still pounding and his breaths came fast, sucked through clenched teeth. This was not how Katsuki fucking Bakugo was meant to behave. Then again, Katsuki fucking Bakugo also wasn't supposed to have to rely on blind fucking luck to not die. So much for the 'progress' he'd made.

Katsuki fucking Bakugo? Oh, you mean that hero who can't do anything for himself? 

FUCK OFF!

Couldn't someone stop that damn ringing?! Or did he need help for THAT too?!

The third try, with an urgent look, she called out to Katsuki, her words kept short and enunciated very deliberately. Growling, he sucked in one deep breath and forced himself to stand far too quickly using all the strength he had left.

Katsuki’s retort was cut short as quick as it started when his legs gave out from under him. The blackness that swam in his peripheral washed over the rest of his vision.

Go fuckin’ figure.

For those initial few seconds after the mad rush into the testing ground had ended, as metal beasts darted every which way and hunks of concrete shot off the buildings around him, one thought stood out in Hitoshi’s mind:

I did everything to prepare for this.

And I am so not prepared for this.

Out from around the next corner, a robot drifted on its one large wheel. Nearly as big as a car, it swiped at another applicant, who promptly sent some sort of decoy hologram of himself down the street. Right toward Hitoshi. Jerk.

By the size alone, Hitoshi figured it had to be a three-pointer. When it turned, however, he saw the “1” etched onto one of its shields.

That’s a one-pointer?! Isn’t this a little excessive?!

It locked its single red eye onto him, lens focusing, and all his training felt futile. How was he supposed to sweep the legs out from an opponent if they didn’t have legs or counter a strike if their arms were thick sheets of metal mounted with— were those chain guns?! Ain’t that a kick in the teeth.

It didn’t seem to be firing. Instead, it was coming to mow him down like roadkill, so that was good news.

Oh, how his standards had fallen.

Convincing himself that he was ready to be batted around like a pinball, Hitoshi squared his stance. It wasn’t like he had many options. Maybe they just looked like metal? They had to have a weak spot. They had to.

The closer it sped the less faith Hitoshi had in his legs' ability to keep him upright. He could’ve been shaking like a leaf, but taking his eyes off the mock-villain would be game over. Before it could get close enough to him for real fear to set in, a blond guy hopped onto its back like a baby koala to its mother, refusing to let go.

The difference being that baby koalas don’t electrocute their parents, to his knowledge. Then again, they are from Australia.

Its once-bright eye fizzled out. The arms once poised to smack him across the road dropped, lifeless as it crashed into the asphalt, and the blond guy jumped from the moving wreckage, tumbling to a stop. When he didn’t move, Hitoshi ran over to check on him.

“Wooo!” Blondie yelled, sitting up with a jolt, making Hitoshi hop back.

“Holy crap,” he muttered, scanning the blond boy and relaxing his posture now that the ‘bot had been taken care of. He’d uselessly stood by while someone else destroyed it with a hug.

“Yeah, I know,” Blondie boasted, looking more than a little drowsy, taking his helping hand to stand. “How many points is that?”

The robot was just lying a few feet away with a giant “1” facing toward them both. Hitoshi raised a brow.

“Uhhhhhhh, one…?”

“Awesome! With the others, that means I’ve got…” the other boy started counting on his fingers, irritatingly slow, before getting lost halfway through and starting again. “…points.”

Blondie smiled, braggadocios, as though what he said was a number— an impressive number at that. Now that Hitoshi had a moment to think, he considered the boy. Slurred words, difficulty standing, confusion…

“I think you should lie down. You might have a concussion,” he suggested, stepping away, anxious to go find a way to beat up robots.

“Nah, nah, nah, it’s my quirk,” Blondie explained, pointing at his head.

Ah, well, then it can’t be helped.

It wouldn’t be right to take away both their chances with any more discussion. Hitoshi nodded hesitantly and they both ran in their own directions, though Blondie’s was less ‘run’ and more ‘stumble’.

Every road he took, all there seemed to be were the remnants of 'villains'. One-pointers, two-pointers, three-pointers, it didn’t matter, they were being demolished by his competitors all the same. After what felt like an eternity of dashing around like a chicken with its head cut off, he came to a busy intersection.

Busy, not with cars, but examinee after examinee after examinee wiping the floor with an even greater number of 'villains'.

“What the hell,” he muttered, head on a swivel as he gawked at the destructive display of quirks all around him.

A two-pointer lunged at Hitoshi’s side, only for him to roll behind it. Working with a serious deficiency of options, he tried hitting it in the weakest-looking part of its thinnest joint.

The second his hand made contact, Hitoshi knew he’d miscalculated. They were just as sturdy as they looked. Now he had fingers to nurse and a robot staring him down.

He relaxed his posture, dropping any pretense that he could reasonably fight it head-on.

“I don’t suppose you can talk?”

Judging from its steely gaze: no, it could not. But maybe there was some kind of remote or switch or—?

“Shut up and get out of the way!”

A girl with spiky, navy blue hair shoved past him harshly, rubbing her hands together like she was trying to start a fire. She slammed her palms into the two-pointer’s frame. It began to melt, slowly, but enough to immobilize it, though the girl was clearly fatigued by even a single use of her quirk at that scale.

A one-pointer caught her eye farther down the street. What caught Hitoshi’s eye was the glare of sunlight hitting the missiles mounted on a three-pointer at the mouth of an alley. Missiles it was at the ready to launch right into the rude girl’s path.

“Stop!” Hitoshi commanded once his brain connected the dots, forcing her into a doll-like standstill.

The three-pointer’s missiles whizzed by close enough to blow her hair back, though they naturally garnered no reaction from the girl in her brainwashed state. The one-pointer, meanwhile, was kicked in half by another applicant.

With a sigh of relief, Hitoshi released his hold on her and watched as she spun around with confusion over what had just occurred. When no obvious answer presented itself, she glared at Hitoshi.

“What, I’m the bad guy?” he grumbled dryly, more to himself than the girl, with a roll of his eyes as he left for more lucrative battles, “that’s a nice change of pace.”

She yelled something about how he was a jerk who wanted to steal her points, but the clock was running too low for him to waste any more time.

Then it came.

The zero-pointer. Hitoshi wasn’t even that close to the ludicrously sized "villain", but he felt the shockwaves that its waking caused. He couldn’t see the whole thing, but with how tall the buildings around them were, that he could still see most of it did plenty to give him goosebumps.

Some students lost their balance, others were already running away even though it was a couple of streets south. Better safe than sorry. Choosing between retreating and potentially dying tends to be no difficult task for most. The ground fractured around them, pavement sinking in toward the cracks. Windows blew out. Buildings that lost any amount of their integrity, whether by a potential student's quirk or attacks from robots, had chunks crumbling off onto the streets.

After wasting precious time to mindlessly stare up at the monstrosity in amazement and terror, Hitoshi thought it best that he get back to his search for a "villain". Preferably one that wasn't the size of a skyscraper. Finding one should’ve been easy, seeing as a majority of the crowd had all run in the same direction while he and a few others—perhaps foolishly—scoured the area for any remaining enemies.

The final straw for Hitoshi to beat feet was the sight of explosions twirling their way up toward the head of the zero-pointer. Whatever or whoever was setting off so many blasts continued to pick up speed. Their detonations only grew larger, the accompanying ‘popping’ noise all the louder. As they neared the quite literally pointless, towering robot, it clasped together its colossal hands around the flying detonator.

For that one moment, with its hands cupped around the mystery bomber, there was quiet, and Hitoshi looked on with bated breath. Then, in an instant, those hands were torn to shreds by the biggest blast of them all. The bomber dropped and the zero-pointer’s stumps flew back into its many-eyed face. With a jerk, its body tilted and crashed to the ground.

That’s when Hitoshi knew to run. Everything that had merely splintered before started to break completely off. As he narrowly avoided being impaled by a bent lamppost and watched as others dodged long sheets of broken glass, Hitoshi noticed a familiar face that wasn’t in any sort of hurry.

“Run, man! Do you have a death wish?!”

The blond guy was pacing around aimlessly beside a heavy, concrete wall on the verge of snapping. Oblivious to the danger he was in.

“Hey! You! Electric guy!”

Talk to me, you moron!

Blondie was clearly in no shape to say anything. He just drooled and gave two thumbs-up.

Feet pounding against the asphalt, eyes moving nonstop between the wall and the blond, his stomach turned as he saw the decisive crack shoot through the concrete at a steep angle, splitting it in two.

Hitoshi thought he’d been sprinting to get out of the danger zone. He thought that was as fast as his legs would move him. That was before he was faced with the possibility of some dummy getting crushed to death while wearing an extraordinarily stupid little smile if he couldn't reach him in time. Hitoshi learned that what he ‘thought’ was wrong.

He could see the wall's shadow begin to stretch along the ground but refused to look up, cyclically afraid of being afraid. Anything that might stop him from following through with a choice he’d already made needed to be compartmentalized and promptly thrown in the mental garbage can until further notice.

Blondie met his intense, strained look. The wall came down. Hitoshi tackled him.

It hit the ground, inches from where the pair had landed.

Sitting up, Hitoshi rubbed the dust from his vision and double-checked that the dope hadn’t gotten himself killed in some equally moronic way, like chewing on glass or swallowing a rock.

Nope, the guy was still alive and well. Eh, maybe just alive, considering the condition his brain was still in. He did have the decency to look frightened over what had just occurred, so there was at least a little activity going on upstairs.

“Listen– up– Blondie— if you– somehow– pass— we– are gonna– have– a talk– about this—” Hitoshi warned between short breaths, flopping onto his back. He ever so slowly managed to stand back up, leaving the living spark plug to his own devices. They were safe now. Blondie would have to solve the remainder of the expert level "basic human movement" puzzle on his own.

Hitoshi stumbled down the street. He still needed to figure out how to beat a robot.

A startlingly loud buzzer announced the end of the practical and had Hitoshi plugging his ears until it stopped.

His arms fell slack at his sides. He’d had fears of failure, but this went beyond all expectations. Or below all expectations, as it were.

I thought I could get at least one point.

Hitoshi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed into them with a thumb and forefinger to center himself. He was a natural at maintaining composure, but his dreams had just crumbled right in front of him as easily as the buildings that littered the testing area.

Its more apparent effect was merely causing colors to blossom into view for a few moments when he finally opened his eyes, but it did its intended job adequately. He wasn’t about to walk out crying.

As Hitoshi made his way to the exit, he was separated from his thoughts by a shouting match near where the zero-pointer had been destroyed.

“HAH!?” yelled a gruff voice.

“ARE! YOU! OH! KAY!’” replied a high voice.

Aside from the oddity of hearing two people being so unnecessarily noisy, Hitoshi chose to ignore the pair. That was before something—or someone—dropped to the ground with a dull thud, followed by a high-pitched ‘yeep!’

Hitoshi pushed his way past a few other examinees and assessed the situation at a glance, sliding to check on the unconscious boy. He must've been the gruff voice.

“Did I kill him!?” the girl asked, wearing panic like a winter coat. She was almost certainly the high voice.

Hitoshi reassured her as best he could, electing not to mention the blood pouring from the boy's ears. One problem at a time, he reminded himself, hoping he hadn’t sounded too freaked out. He wouldn’t be much of a hero if he couldn’t comfort even one person.

Apparently he wouldn’t be much of a hero either way, considering he got zero points.

The girl took in a sharp breath, dashing his hopes that she'd miss the alarming details from her place atop the robot corpse.

“Oh my gosh!” she said as an explanation more than an excuse, expression mixing with worry for the unconscious boy and being appalled at her own behavior. “Is he gonna be alright?”

“Uh, yeah, I— yeah, probably, yeah, yes, right, yeah, why wouldn’t he be?” Hitoshi said, a response so unconvincing he didn’t even believe himself.

Thankfully, help soon arrived in the form of an old woman and a pair of robots (of the non-killer variety) to take the boy to a cot until he woke up. Hitoshi found her dismissively definitive tone a tad dubious, but chalked it up to stress. Who was he to second guess a professional? So, all’s well that ends well. Even though it wasn’t going to for Hitoshi.

If nothing else, seeing the state that both of the two strangers had been in made Hitoshi glad he couldn’t overuse his quirk like that. To his knowledge.

“So?” A rubble-covered Midoriya asked him when they finally met back up at the gate, a sight for sore eyes. Sore everything, actually.

“For starters, I want to lie down. You?”

Hitoshi brushed away at the thick layer of dust that covered his pondering friend. With his eyes shut he could pass himself off as a statue in a pinch. Just patting at his hair puffed out a gray cloud that sent Hitoshi into a short coughing fit.

“I doubt I got first place, but I wouldn’t count me out,” Midoriya answered succinctly, face scrunching as the remainder of Hitoshi’s water bottle was emptied onto his head, flattening his hair straight down over his eyes.

Without the dust covering his features, he looked clammy and pale. That had become an unsettling trend, but there was nothing to be done. At least this time he could mentally excuse it with the exam. Hitoshi figured he likely looked like a right mess, too.

“Seriously though, how’d you do?”

“I failed,” Hitoshi floundered in his attempt to say the two words like they didn’t bother him. Like it was no big deal.

“Did they give out the scores already?” Midoriya asked, shaking the wet locks from his face like a dog.

Both his voice and expression oozed facetiousness. Somehow even his plodding walk seemed sarcastic. All efforts to ignore what should’ve been left as a rhetorical question were burned away by the pair of big eyes boring a hole in the side of his head as they walked.

“No,” Hitoshi mumbled an answer, wishing his friend would get through the point without demanding participation in the fantasy.

“So you’re just assuming?”

“I’m not ‘assuming’, I obvi—”

“So they did give out the results?”

“No, But—”

“Ah-ah! No ‘but’s!” Midoriya held up a finger. “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

“Bu—”

“Ah!”

"B—"

"Ah!"

Hitoshi deflated. With how worn out he already was, he didn’t have the fight in him to keep up being realistic in the face of Midoriya’s silly, stupid optimism.

Haggard by an exhausting day (and from that old woman kissing his hand), the rest of the walk back home was laborious. It was, however, nowhere near as troublesome as the long, agonizing wait for his exam results. His nerves were left on rapid-fire in spite of Hitoshi already knowing he failed. Midoriya’s temperament was a bit of a curse sometimes. Damn him for giving out false hope.

The two boys only lasted a handful of days participating in the same contentious conversation on repeat before they were ready to spar at lunch. After narrowly averting disaster (getting in trouble at school was the last thing Midoriya needed) they agreed not to discuss the matter further until their results came in the mail, lest they get into an uncharacteristically petty argument over it.

Some fun facts Hitoshi learned as the days went by were [1] he remained perfectly capable of staying more nervous than he'd ever been before in his entire life, even without Midoriya's input, and [2] it is extremely difficult to not keep talking about the one thing that determines your future.

In Midoriya’s case, that sentence could have ended at just “it is extremely difficult to not keep talking”.

In any event, they managed, even when it came to chatting about heroes, like during his recap of Present Mic’s latest interview, with Gang Orca.

He’d just have to wait.

Until he didn’t.

Hitoshi had just been staring at his phone one night, flopped over the arm of the couch as he hit save on more cat gifs than he would realistically ever look at. Mom sat nearby, reading some astronomy book while she waited for her husband to come home from an extended shift. When he did, it was with the family’s post in his hands.

It had been such a long day, Hitoshi had gone right for the shower. Checking their mail on the way in must’ve slipped his mind.

“Hitoshi?”

In three syllables his dad told him everything that needed saying. It only took two for Hitoshi to have already snatched the mail from his grasp in a mad dash to his bedroom, shedding a literal paper trail of letters and leaflets along the way.

“Um. Can I at least have the—” dad asked innocently, door slamming shut before he could finish, “—bills?”

In a frantic few seconds, Hitoshi determined the correct envelope and cracked his bedroom door open for a split second, shooting the excess mail out like a shotgun.

Hands manic with anticipation, a foot bouncing with anxious expectation, he leaned against the back of his door and slid down, finally alone in the darkness of his room. There he sat, taking in the U.A. seal, illuminated by the light from his window. Some combination of a streetlamp and the bright, waxing moon.

Simply having a letter from U.A. in his hands felt momentous, regardless of what it said inside.

With a sudden pull, he tore open the envelope. A small, metallic device rolled out.

What.

Sharp light beamed from it without warning, as if challenging Hitoshi not to flinch away on instinct. A video of All Might in a pin-stripped suit was on his wall when he looked up.

“Greetings, Hitoshi Shinsou!”

All Might!? What was he doing in my U.A. letter?

“I am here!… In a prerecorded message!” he gave a few strong ‘ha’s, “‘Why’, you ask? Because I’ll be teaching at U.A. starting this coming semester! Exciting, isn’t it? You passed the written test just fine,” said All Might, but Hitoshi couldn’t yet allow himself to release the tension in control of his mind.

“As for the practical, I’m sure you don’t need to tell you that you earned zero villain points.”

Heart sinking, Hitoshi’s head soon flicked back up when All Might kept going.

“But did you notice how I said ‘villain points’? This test was about more than just smashing robots! That was only half of it! It’s for future heroes, after all! The other half was based on your ability to save those in need! And Hitoshi Shinsou, you did more than enough saving to secure yourself a spot in U.A.’s Heroics department!”

To All Might’s side, a list of names appeared showing his own name and number on the leaderboard, and a few of the students above and below him.

#6 TENYA IIDA - 52 VILLAIN POINTS - 9 RESCUE POINTS

#7 TETSUTETSU TETSUTETSU - 49 VILLAIN POINTS - 10 RESCUE POINTS

#8 HITOSHI SHINSOU - 0 VILLAIN POINTS - 58 RESCUE POINTS

#9 FUMIKAGE TOKOYAMI - 47 VILLAIN POINTS - 10 RESCUE POINTS

#10 YOSETSU AWASE - 50 VILLAIN POINTS - 6 RESCUE POINTS

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, because I sure am! So please, allow me to congratulate one of the exceptional few—that means you,” All Might leaned in to whisper, “—who will soon be under my tutelage: this is your Hero Academia!”

Existence itself seemed to hold for Hitoshi, but it was rudely interrupted when All Might started speaking again, as if restarting the message.

“…Greetings, Fumikage Toko— huh? Oh, I thought— you stopped it now, though, yes?” he mumbled to someone behind the camera.

What.

The recording cut off abruptly.

I… did it?

I did it.

“I did it,” his body whispered, since he had clearly died.

Hitoshi stared straight ahead, even when the image of the number one hero disappeared and cast his surroundings back into relative darkness.

He blinked.

“I actually did it.”

Then it hit him.

“I DID IT!”

“—ne of the highest combined scores U.A. has seen in years! So, what I say next should be of no surprise: this is your Hero Academia!”

Fuckin’ A, it is.

“Greetings—” said the projection of a giant, cocooning caterpillar.

Oh, no, wait, it was a homeless person sitting in a fluffy sleeping bag.

Ah, a man of taste, to rest in such luxury, Izuku thought as he huddled tighter in his incomparably cozy cat hoodie and smiled to himself. For once he'd have a restful nap and woke up to a late sky and mom anxiously ready to hand him the long-awaited letter. His results had finally showed up.

Izuku’s phone dinged. He flicked it to silent, captivated by the U.A. video.

The man being projected paused to let his eyes flick down and read the impersonal sheet of names sitting on the desk before him. Pages and pages of tiny font were in piles. The one closest to him was a group of neat towers, and the opposite end of the desk was a heap that reminded Izuku all too much of what the nearby beach had once looked like.

“—’Izuku Midoriya’. I am here. In a prerecorded message. Ha. Ha. Ha,” he checked off Izuku’s name in a comically dry tone before clearing his throat, “If the script wasn’t obvious enough, All Might was supposed to do these, but he left because he’s an idiot and a chicken.”

What a dilemma. Between the delightfully dull cadence of the man's voice and his blasphemous insult at All Might, Izuku's love of heroism and comedy tore him in two.

He scratched at his jaw with a look of confusion. What was that about All Might not showing up?

“D’you really think you should be talking about the guy behind his back?” a sassy woman’s voice critiqued from another part of the room, outside the frame of the projection.

“I’m more than happy to say it to his face.”

“Don’t I know it,” she verbally whipped back. Izuku snickered despite the man’s sacrilege and wiped a long sleeve over his sweaty face.

“Do you feel like doing this many individualized videos?” The scruffy man asked, waving a hand around at the copious papers rowed with names and scores, “I’m the one that said we should just have one generic clip to use for all prospective students, but nobody listens to me. If they did, maybe our entrance exam wouldn’t still be a biased, illogical, financially irresponsible mess, and the refrigerator would have personal compartments.”

When she didn’t reply, the disheveled host opened his mouth to continue the unorthodox presentation, facing the camera.

“You did quite well on the written portion of the exam,” he frowned when looking back to the paper. “Unfortunately, with zero points earned in the practical, you will not be a part of U.A.’s Heroics department. Sorry, kid. I wish you didn’t have to hear it from me. We’d be lucky to have you in General Education, but trust me, I understand if that doesn't bring you much comfort. Despite what some people might lead you to believe, though—some people who couldn’t be bothered to show their face to any applicants that didn’t make the cut—you can still do great things in Gen Ed. So keep your chin up. Plus Ultra.”

The recording ended.

It’s wasn’t a surprise. There was no reason for him to have expected any other outcome, yet he couldn’t help taking solace in the mystery back when there had been that elusive “what if?”.

Hoping for anything better than what he got was delusional, but it had been too tempting to pretend the whole test was some kind of trick or ruse. What kind of school designs such an unfair test?

No, that’s no excuse. He failed. HE failed.

All he was able to ‘accomplish’ in the exam was getting in other people’s way. His father's quirk had been nothing but a hindrance, and even if he’d wanted to use it, he’d been too petrified to make a peep. No matter how much Izuku had run through the battlefield, desperate, trying any idea that came to mind, it all amounted to zero.

And to think that even to All Might, the Hero who helped everyone, he wasn't enough. Izuku couldn’t necessarily disagree in that he wasn't worth much, but all the same, bottled indignation leaked from his heart. If All Might didn’t want him, then fine, they’d both be better off for it.

With a quiet whine that soon grew to be a growl, Izuku shifted, ripping an All Might poster from his wall, and another, and a figure from his nightstand. He balled them up into a torn mess and tossed it into the small waste bin by his desk, finally kicking the bin over for good measure.

The regret was immediate, a voice in Izuku’s head saying he’d made yet another mistake, but his stifled need for release drowned out less rash alternatives.

If terrible choices were his inevitable future, then he might as well make sure they’re his terrible choices. Surely it was better to be decisive, regardless of whether he ended up being right or wrong, than to scrape through life like a flossing pick littered at a stoplight.

Izuku sighed, pulling the strings on his hoodie tight.

It all seemed like too much sometimes. Why did he even have to be born? The world deserved a better Izuku. His mom deserved a better Izuku. Maybe then his father wouldn't have left. She'd still have her husband. Shinsou would have a worthy friend. Maybe that Izuku could still be Kacchan's friend— if he wanted to be. The actual, depressingly real Izuku wasn't so sure about that one anymore.

Izuku’s phone screen soundlessly lit up for the trillionth time. He clicked to scroll through his new messages.

[Hitoshi] MIDORIYA

[Hitoshi] AAAHHHHHH

[Hitoshi] I GOT IN

[Hitoshi] I ACTUALLY GOT IN

[Hitoshi] Number eight on the board

[Hitoshi] Num

[Hitoshi] Ber

[Hitoshi] Freaking

[Hitoshi] Eight

[Hitoshi] #8

[Hitoshi] !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Hitoshi] Lmslljkhsgflmsvlmsgscssvsncranhsrvsenhsrhnusvdfgs

[Hitoshi] By “I got in” I mean into U.A.

[Hitoshi] He ro course

[Hitoshi] Obviously

[Hitoshi] Not like into my house or whatever

[Hitoshi] So don’t reference what I know you're going to reference

[Hitoshi] I regret ever telling you that story

[Hitoshi] But yeah anyway I GOT INTO U.A.

[Hitoshi] YES

[Hitoshi] HELL YES

[Hitoshi] Every single person that ever said we’ll be villains can officially duck themselves

[Hitoshi] You know what I’m not even going to fix that autocorrect

[Hitoshi] U.A.

[Hitoshi] I can’t believe it

[Hitoshi] Punch me in the face I might be dreaming

[Hitoshi] WE’RE GOING TO BE HEROES

[Hitoshi] I got mom-tears on me and I don't think I've ever seen my dad look so smug

[Hitoshi] Also hearing All Might say my name was a trip and he's not even one of my favorites

[Hitoshi] AKA you’ve prob had a heart attack hearing him say yours

[Hitoshi] Holy crap

[Hitoshi] Next stop: herotwon

[Hitoshi] *town

[Hitoshi] Did yours come yet

[Hitoshi] Yo Midoriya

[Hitoshi] Midoriya

[Hitoshi] ayirodiM

[Hitoshi] Did you fall asleep

[Hitoshi] Or break your phone again lol

[Hitoshi] Miiiidddoorrrriiiyyyaaaaa

[Hitoshi] Ok well I look forward to hearing the universe’s biggest “I told you so”

[Hitoshi] See you at school

[Hitoshi] Gn

[Hitoshi] Ok I know I already sent "gn" a few minutes ago but we both know that just means "I'm still going to use the internet for another hour"

[Hitoshi] And I have one last thing to add

[Hitoshi] I just wanna say thanks for always being there, man

[Hitoshi] Never could have done this without you

[Hitoshi] Ok gn for real this time

Izuku clicked his phone to sleep.

He'd outlived his usefulness, again. There was nothing inside left to give, even tears. Not one was shed despite the horrible clarity that Izuku felt consume him. Worst of all, he considered himself lucky. They'd had a good run together.

'It ain't over 'til it's over'. That's what he'd told his friend.

Well, it was over.

Maybe it was for the best! Maybe on his own, things could turn out. Fewer things holding him in place.

Izuku's best friend would soon realize he's too good for him, so he could help that ship set sail with relative ease now that they weren't going to be classmates anymore. Better that than clinging on 'til the bitter end like he stupidly did with Kacchan! Plus, his idol literally found him to be so unworthy that he wasn't even worthy enough to deserve being told he's unworthy, so, fine, who needs 'em. Izuku didn't have a strength modifying quirk, and he was already a reliable smiler.

There would always be something wrong with him. Izuku knew that. He knew a few other things, too, though.

He knew that he wasn't a villain and he never would be.

He knew the sight of All Might was giving him a hollow feeling. It was strange, Izuku remembered him being more relatable when he was a kid. Funnier, too. Now the man just seemed oddly shallow, and he hated feeling that way. It was just so gosh darn frustrating.

He knew that somewhere along the way, the emotions that stirred inside him when thinking about Kacchan stopped being quite so sad. He was angry, more than he had a right to be. It didn't lessen the guilt about feeling such selfish emotions, but he similarly could not exorcise himself of them.

Most of all, Izuku knew that never being good enough didn't mean he couldn't at least be good.

So, to heck with it all.

No, no, he needed something stronger.

To hell with it...?

Darn it?

Dang it?

Damn it?

"... Fuck it!"

Yeesh. On second thought, it didn't taste right on his tongue. Worth a shot, though!

When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose, right? With odds like that, Izuku can't not win! 

HA!

Chapter Text

[8 Years Ago]

Although the sun had since seen its journey past the horizon, when they made their way down the road the sky had looked as if it were on fire.

Fitting.

Get your game-face on, Emi coached herself, rolling her neck. The elevator smelled like perfume.

It was an important night for some. For Emi as well, though for different reasons.

To combat the Hero Public Safety Commission’s unconscionably meager government funding, a yearly auction in support of the HPSC was held by the Hero Association of Japan. While not openly attached to the biannual Hero Billboard Chart, it was scheduled within a week of a year’s second chart announcements to coast off of the excitement and take advantage of flippant holiday spending habits.

Emi, however, had no intention of making a purchase. She’d made sure to arrive after the auction was over and the party had begun.

There’s no such thing as ‘late’ when you’re not invited in the first place!

When Izuku asked why there needed to be such an event at all and what these organizations existed for and why his Mama wasn’t asked to go and a million other questions smushed into a single breath, all she had to do was mention All Might would be there to sufficiently distract him.

She wasn’t in the mood to explain the HPSC’s job as the official governing body of Pro Heroes around the country, overseeing agencies’ respective villain data, collateral damage resolution, enforcing rules of conduct, coordinating vital criminal investigations, and doing a butt-ton of paperwork Emi was very much glad not to have a hand in.

The Hero Association (H.A. What an amazing acronym!) on the other hand, was a nonprofit that assisted in keeping Pros in their areas of expertise. If Selkie wanted to relocate to a downtown agency for the higher villain density and increased media presence, then the H.A. was there to offer incentives to keep him where he’d do the most good.

Most of the H.A.’s efforts were spent lobbying the Japanese government for said incentives; it’s why almost every agency helped keep their lights on. The rest of their work was small potatoes stuff like support up-and-coming sidekicks in forming connections to get their feet in the door, storing data backups for the HPSC, helping with fundraisers (even when some of them did seem needlessly posh).

Gotta spend money to make money, I guess, Emi sighed, lamenting all the wasted yen that could have gone straight to the Hero Public Safety Commission.

On the bright side, it was one such swanky event that gave Emi the opportunity to nab a position working for a man who—in a yearly online poll run by an alternative Pro Hero fan forum Izuku found (that she has since forbade him from visiting)—had won himself the award for Biggest [Expletive] twice in the last eight years.

It was a feat made impressive due to the website not even being about Japanese Pro Heroes. The website was Australian.

HA!

Unfortunately, Emi was not one of the three biggest heroes in the country, so receiving an invitation wasn’t likely to happen, short of a ‘special invitation upon request’— basically someone spending an exorbitant amount of money to bring a particular Pro Hero. Usually one like Midnight.

But lucky for her, the attendees weren’t all execs vying for the top Pro Heroes’ attention. Some were perfectly-nice, rich goobers that were genuine Hero fans, or brought kids who were. It was possible a wealthy attendee wanted to meet a woman who knew how to put on a lively sock-puppet performance.

If this blows up in my face, maybe I could support a side career in educational television. Emi pictured running toy scissors over the matted fabric ‘fur’ of her (well, Izuku’s now) cuddly rabbit. She could do a version for overseas audiences, too. ‘See kids? There’s no need to be scared of a haircut.’

“What?” Izuku questioned, taking Emi’s eyes off the elevator’s growing number in front of them.

“What?” She questioned his question, using the rabbit’s voice she’d been mumbling with. Ah.

“Er— ‘what, ma’am?’” Izuku partially corrected his manners and stood up straighter.

“Nothing, just thinking,” Emi sputtered a laugh, resisting the urge to mess up his groomed hair. “We aren’t even in there yet, so don’t worry your fluffy lil’ head.”

He pouted cutely, mostly at not being allowed to touch his combed-flat hair. She’d have left him at home, but bringing such a ridiculously cute kid along as her +1 could only further persuade the doorman to let them in. It’s surprising how many things a person can get away with simply by acting as though they belong. And who could say no to a face like Izuku’s? Nobody! That’s who!

She absentmindedly listened to the pair of preppy middle-schoolers that squeezed past her to get in the lift, full of verve and chatting up a storm to their parents about how cool it was to meet Best Jeanist. It was nice, ridiculous pageantry be damned.

They didn’t seem to recognize her, for which she was appreciative. It made sense, given the context. It’d be like seeing Fat Gum, skinny and out of costume, busking with a saxophone. You’d just think ‘Huh. That guy kinda looks like Fat Gum. Weird.’

Emi had to stifle a laugh at the irony of what anyone would expect of her social graces. "Presentation," Mother would say by way of backhanded criticism, an abridged touchstone to remind Emi she was lacking when it took too long to specify what she was being critiqued over.

Funnily enough, even with that wealth of insipid knowledge, she found herself crouching beside a potted plant in the hallway around the corner from the party's entrance. At some point on the elevator ride up to the 33rd story of the Hero Association’s northern HQ, Izuku's tie had come undone from his constant fiddling. As though it had ever been properly tied in the first place.

"Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it," Emi guaranteed, trying to redo the shoddy job she'd done for him back home. It came out looking like a bowtie that lost a street fight. “Probably.”

They shared a quiet high five. He didn’t need to know they weren’t supposed to be there.

Emi brushed a hand down the immaculate dress she would have otherwise never had a reason (nor a desire) to buy. Alluring without seeming desperate, the lush, black garment hugged her in all the right places and the long lace sleeves were flowy enough to deemphasize her muscular arms without looking like she had anything to hide.

Even better, she hadn’t needed to pay to have it made.

If this works, the Bakugos have my undying gratitude, Emi decided while making sure not a single hair had fallen from the braid that overlapped down her shoulder blades.

“Excuse me, ma’am—” the doorman held a hand out to stop them from passing right through the ironically-doorless entryway. “Oh! Mrs. Kyoei, isn’t it?”

Her brain was skidding to a halt. There was no reason for someone to see her as anything but a dolled up Ms. Joke. There were even less who would see her as Emi Kyoei. A doorman certainly wasn’t one of them.

She boxed up her confusion in a mad rush and leaving it to handle later in favor of accepting the opportunity she’d been given.

“Ms. Emi Kyoei II,” she corrected him, blinking away the desire to scrub at all the makeup she was wearing. “This is my son, Izuku.”

Izuku shot her a hesitant look, to which she replied with a small gesture to ‘roll with it’.

“My apologies. This should only take a second,” the man gave her a short bow.

He read and reread the names on his touchpad with a look of bemusement, as though he assumed they were meant to be there and had only gone to the list out of due diligence.

“Hmph. Someone must’ve misspelled your name. You can head on in and I’ll enter you into our list manually. One last thing before you go, though,” he tapped his temple, briefly changing his eyes into bright red lights. “Just a quick x-ray to make sure you aren’t using a shapeshifting quirk. Can't be too careful. Have a pleasant evening!”

Can you steal your own identity? Emi pondered as she power-walked away from the doorman, dragging Izuku behind her. In her other hand, she clutched her clutch.

Couldn’t whoever invented clutches changed the word a little? They could’ve called them, like, ‘clatches’. That would’ve worked. Or how about ‘the mega-wallet’.

Their spontaneous deception was going rather well so far. She assured a fretting Izuku that nobody named Emi Kyoei would show up, so they weren’t stealing anything.

The room was larger than it had any right to be, yet still found a way to feel crowded despite its exclusivity. Wide frames of abstract art were hung here and there. The ceilings were high, and the floor was glossy hardwood smoothed into a single, massive sheet with the help of some combination of quirks. She didn’t envy whatever poor contractors had to find a way to get it all the way up there when they built the place.

To their left, a well-stocked bar sat to the side of another doorway, beyond which was a vacant, table-filled room where the auctioning had been done. Cleaning up the many trendy, barely-eaten dishes kept the waiters and busboys busy.

To their right was a window that took nearly the entire wall. It was flawed only by inconsiderate guests smudging it up. The thick glass looked unbreakable, but Emi couldn’t help but cringe at the tipsy, lightbulb-headed woman leaning against it in her attempts to act casual and woo the steely-skinned gal beside her.

At the far wall was a small stage where a number of self-congratulatory statements had undoubtedly been made earlier that night. Now it had but one man sitting beside his folded jacket on a bench, dressed in an immaculate suit. He played a piano the same spotless shade of white, each key given a delicate touch. Emi had to imagine the beautiful music since the room was far too busy talking over it.

Yeesh. He better be getting paid in more than exposure or she’d have a moral obligation to at least bring the poor guy a beer from the bar.

In two of the four corners, thick, stone pillars held up modestly-sized indoor balconies to look down on the rest of the party. Bingo. Emi would bet a pretty penny her target was on one of those.

“Alright, Izuku, here’s the plan,” she spoke like a leader laying out a meticulous battle strategy and the focus in his eyes was intense, much to Emi’s amusement. “I need to go talk to somebody about work stuff. You head toward All Might and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Do you know who that is? He’s the really tall one with the big muscles and blond hair shaped like a ‘V’. Do you need me to draw a picture for you? Hey— what’s so funny? are you making fun of me?”

Emi tapped the uncomfortable shoe her foot was in with facetious frustration while Izuku giggled. As his head moved, the floof of hair she’d flattened into a neat ‘do was already springing back to their rightful disorder. Emi almost bent to fix it but chose to admit defeat in the face of chaos.

She stuck out her hand, palm down, for him to lay his own across.

“Break on three. Ready? One, two, three!”

Their two-person huddle’s chant was practically inaudible, but nevertheless granted an extra bit of pep.

And really, who doesn’t love themselves a bit of pep?

[8 Years Ago]

He’d moved with purpose after Mama’s jocular coaching. All Might stood only feet away. Lots and lots of feet, but feet!

Izuku worked through the crowd little by little. He slipped past well-dressed men and women and, to a less frequent degree, a few of kids, though all of them were older than Izuku. Determining bigger kids' ages was tough, even more so when his focus was dead-set on the distant All Might’s large figure.

Against the wall was a boy, doing everything in his power to sink through the wall, like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet. He was older, like the other kids Izuku had spotted. His deep red hair pulled Izuku’s attention. The angst held in his features is what kept it. Although he’d done a far better job tying his tie than Izuku did, he looked no more comfortable for it.

Izuku made a mourning hum, eyes flicking between the options.

All Might. Sad person. All Might. Sad person.

What stung wasn't over having any indecision, but a lack their of.

Plugging the holes in his jittery confidence, Izuku strolled up to the boy. He was too close to turn back when it dawned on him that he hadn’t thought of anything to say.

“D-do you like All Might?”

The boy looked at him for all of an instant before he returned to fuming with indignation.

“Who cares.”

Had someone turned the heat up? The pressure left him sweating. Now was the time he needed to deliver! To be someone’s hero! To make them smile!

“… Um… T–This place sure is fancy!” he blurted out. Fantastic sentence. Perfect. Great.

“So because it’s expensive that means it’s good?” the other boy snipped, forcing Izuku to backtrack incoherently.

“T-that’s not what I was saying! I don’t go to big parties, th-that’s all! The last party I went to was my friend Kacchan’s birthday party and that was cool until one of his friends said something that hurt my feelings and his other friends laughed but I didn’t wanna ruin everyone’s fun and Mom always tells me to, um, take the higher road so I said it was fine even though I felt like crying, also, Mama told me if anybody started to hurt me I could hit them in the mouth but I don’t think feeling dumb counts for that rule and I didn’t wanna hurt anybody anyway but Kacchan got mad at his friends and made ‘em all go home and he even kicked Takehiko in the shin ‘cause, um, he’s allowed to get in fights even though his quirk is really strong butifIdothenit’lljustmakeeveryonesayI’mbadandmyteachers’llgetangrywhichstinks‘causeheshouldn’thavetoprotectmeallthetimeandhonestlyitcanjustgetreallyfrustratingsometimesandIdunnowhattodowithitandIknowIprobablyshouldn’tfeellikethatsoIdon’ttellanybodybutyoudon’tknowmesothatmakesitokayI’msorryfordumpingthisonyoupleasedon’tbemadcanyoujustforgetIsaidanythingsowecanstartoverplease?”

He swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva. There was no response. The boy started to walk away, though he kept close to the wall and made his way under the shade of one of the balconies. Naturally, Izuku followed.

“M-my name’s Izuku Fuku—ooohhh, uh,” he coughed, “Key..oh…aye. is my name.”

The boy finally looked at him for more than half of a second. It was with a decidedly unwelcoming expression, a decent attempt at channeling a threatening glare. Izuku, who was afraid of a great many things, was able to withstand it. Maybe because his bestest friend forever and future fellow Pro Hero looked angry a good deal of the time.

“Funny name,” the boy snarled. Izuku didn’t agree. He'd know. He had a good sense of humor.

“What’s your name?” Izuku asked guilelessly as he took a seat down beside the mystery boy, his back against the easing chill of a stone pillar. He spoke undeterred in spite of the nerves that rose from talking to an older kid and messing up his pretend-surname.

The boy was clearly caught off guard by the question, otherwise he’d have surely again moved away.

“If you’re looking for a play pal, look somewhere else, because you don’t matter to me,” he replied with a grimace, chastising Izuku as if offended by the very question itself. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers?”

Izuku promptly huffed in response, shoulders rising to his ears as he muttered about how slim the chances of finding a dangerous stranger in a room with multiple Pro Heroes must really be.

“Are you deaf? I just told you to leave,” the older boy rudely repeated as he rubbed his temples, exasperated at having to spell out basic tasks. “You like All Might, right? Go annoy him, ‘cause I don’t give a shit who your daddy is or how much he paid for you to be here, it’s not my job to babysit.”

“T-that's fine! I– I don’t even have one!” Izuku defended and stood up, frustrated at his kindness being rebuffed. He gulped deeply, trying to speak as if the words didn’t bother him. “It’s– It’s just me and Mama.”

“Then count your blessings and beat it,” the older boy growled through a look of thoughtful sadness. He looked off into the crowd, then to his shoes.

A lightbulb clicked on in Izuku’s head. He’d been saving up a small collection of very niche jokes for himself but hadn’t ever had the right audience to use them on.

“Do you wanna hear some jokes?” he asked, sitting back down. “If you don’t like ‘em, I promise to leave you alone.”

Eager to be done with him, the boy rolled his eyes as Izuku beckoned him to lean down and cupped a hand over his mouth, as if to deter any potential lip-reading observers.

“What do pigeons and dads have in common?…”

[8 Years Ago]

Endeavor didn’t look quite right without his hilarious flaming goatee facial hair being on fire, but there was a distinct lack of other hulking statues of masculinity standing around on balconies to mistake him with. As Emi made her way up the spiral staircase and got a closer look at the man, it was evident he was just about ready to burn the building down just to escape the oblivious insurance executive blabbing at him.

Emi had to commend Endeavor’s willingness to so brazenly display his contempt. A part of her had been worried he would enjoy the vapid attention, but seeing otherwise rose Emi’s hopes that her interview might go even better than expected.

Having waited to the very edge of her deteriorated patience for proper manners, which she calculated to have lasted about nine billion decades, Emi pushed her way past the person talking to him. Taking charge of the situation, of her destiny, she stood authoritatively in front of Enji Todoroki, as though he weren't easily a foot taller than her.

"Alright, Endeavor. I'm about to give you the deal of a lifetime."

"Do I know you?" the fiery man asked, inspecting her. When Emi put on her biggest, toothiest grin as a mallet-to-the-head-sized hint, she could see the precise moment he recognized her. It was the moment his face achieved a new whole new level of exasperation. “Ugh. What do you want, Mrs. Joke?”

"Ms. Joke!" she scoffed with (mostly) mock-offense. "But it’s good to know you’ve heard of me!"

“Through osmosis, yes. And I’m already wishing I hadn’t."

"Ouch! That’s pretty cold for the Flame Hero!”

"Get on it with,” Endeavor pushed out through clenched teeth.

Straight to the point. She could work with that.

"‘Osmosis’ my toned butt. You know my name because I'm great at what I do, and I helped do what your guys couldn’t: catch those villains leaking gear and the groups they were selling to, and that's on top of the freelancing I already do,” Emi said firmly and continued before he could say ‘no’. “My capture rates speak for themselves, I keep collateral damage low, and frankly, I work my patootie off. "

"You want a job." It was said as a statement, not a guess. “My agency has no need for a clown."

"Would it help if I scowled?”

He scowled at her… Wait, that might just be his resting face. How he hadn't keeled over from being so mad for so long was truly impressive.

“Suit yourself," she shrugged, as though her chances weren’t balancing on the razor's edge. "But you should know that Sir Nighteye offered me a job. I assumed you already knew that we worked together for a while. Gosh, he must've been pretty impressed by my work, huh? But I couldn't give him an answer until I found out whether my first choice—your agency—would take me in.“

"Bullshit,” Endeavor grunted. His eyes narrowed as he look down at her.

"Call 'em up if you want to," Emi grinned beyond her white lie, standing her ground.

Endeavor breathed out like a bull, detoxifying his system of all the verbal garbage spewed his way over the past few hours to have an actual conversation with another Pro.

"If your freelance work is going as well as you claim, why give it up?"

Emi’s tongue ran an apprehensive lick across her bottom lip as she mulled over her answer.

“Getting paid at a per villain rate has been fine, but I’d prefer a steady paycheck and consistent hours,” and more importantly, life insurance, she didn’t add.

“You could start your own agency,” Endeavor probed, searching for holes in her story, though appreciating her candor.

“Don’t have the time,” Emi shrugged with a macabre joke her potential-employer would never get. “Besides, there are other priorities in life. You've got kids, right? You know how much attention they need."

“That they do,” he hummed in agreement as he gazed past her, ostensibly with thoughts of his children. “My son was meant to shadow me tonight, but unfortunately his mistakes led to a fever.”

Kind of a weird way to say he caught a cold playing outside too long, but whatever! Emi smiled awkwardly in lieu of a reply to the tilted response.

Although his jaw stayed locked, the intensity in his features was no longer focused squarely on her, much to Emi’s relief.

The dry point of their discussion was cut by a snorty laugh coming from below their platform. In spontaneous synchronicity, they both slyly peered over the edge.

Her kid was down there! She’d know that wavey mop of hair anywhere, even for as black as it looked when covered in the balcoy’s shadow. He was making an older boy crack up, who was muffling his laughter with only moderate success. She almost called down to them but thought better of it. Best not to interrupt another comic’s set. She turned to see Endeavor’s face clenching again as he mumbled unintelligible hostilities about his ‘backup’.

Why would he need to call for reinforcements at a time like this? Emi asked herself, failing to note any suspicious characters nearby.

“Is he yours?”

“Hm? Oh, yep!” she gave a thumbs up paired with a chuckle. “I promise the resemblance is clearer in the light.”

“I can see why you need to spend time on him," he took one last look at the shaded boys and downed the rest of his drink.

“Um, thaaaaaanks…?” Emi said, having yet to acclimatize to the man’s tendency to speak as if every word were sent to kill.

Was he just pissed off tonight or was he always like this? It didn’t seem fair to hold his natural inflection against him. After all, Shouta sounded like he was perpetually done with everyone and everything, and people told Emi she sounded like every sentence of hers was a setup or a punchline.

“I respect a Pro Hero who knows how to be forthright,” he started.

Here comes the ‘but’.

“—but,” he continued.

Called it!

“—you lack the temperament needed to work at my agency.”

"This isn’t some charity plea,” she returned, resting her hands on her hips. “You wanna be number one, don’t you? Because if you really want to beat the Symbol of Peace on the billboard, then I can help.”

Interest peaked, Endeavor crossed his arms over his broad chest, waiting for Emi to finish her most appealing point yet.

“I’m not some glory-hog, if that’s what you’re worried about. If any reporter asks, I’ll make sure they know ‘the key to my success is getting to work with a hero as incredible as Endeavor~’”

She spoke with a sing-song tone, fluttering her long eyelashes in a bout of pretend-swooning. On a dime she switched back to her fierce, direct pitch. Endeavor gave a short, noncommittal noise, but did not interrupt.

“And if my rank and stats aren’t good enough for you—which they should be—keep in mind there’s only a few weeks before the fiscal quarter is up. Sign me before then and your agency can claim responsibility for allllll my recent villain captures,” she leaned in on her tippy-toes and hid her mouth to give a stage-whisper, “including a certain spicy little band of dealers that someone’s associates failed to catch.”

It was too late to hand over a number of the buyers they’d caught, but she could still offer him the biggest, freshest, most enticing fishes.

Emi stepped back and waited for his response, their eyes locked the entire time. The longer he stood there wordless, the wider her smile grew. Emi could practically see the gears turn in his head. And although his flames were extinguished, she could feel the heat of his intimidating aura under such targeted judgment.

“Tempting, but I don’t sign long-term contracts for short-term benefit,” he calmly spoke at last.

Crud.

“Pinky promise you’ll at least think it over?” she stuck a hand out, refusing to show her disappointment with the discouraging answer.

He glanced down at her outstretched pinky finger like it was the smoking gun of her insufferable nature.

“Be thankful that I’m ignoring what you just said,” Endeavor grunted as he stepped past her. “I need a drink.”

“Does that mean you will?”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Ms. Joke,” his voice called back, halfway down the stairs and pushing past anyone that tried talking to him.

“I’m gonna take it as an ‘I will’,” she mumbled with a sigh and tilted her head past the railing again to find Izuku, only to come up short. He must’ve already started toward All Might.

Taking a moment for herself, Emi rested against the railing and closed her eyes. She focused on simply picking out the piano from between the layers and layers of irritating chatter.

Yes, she, Emi Fukukado, was put off by people being too loud. She snorted at the realization. Maybe she should change her name again and call herself Double Standard.

HA!

On a dime, the music suddenly sounded very childish and… muffled?

♫ Laaaaa la-la-la! Little kitten, big adventures! ♪

♩Have no fear! Hirune’s here! ♬

♫ He’s got nine lives, okay? Come on, let’s play! ♪

♩Laaaaa la-la-la! Follow the treasure map! Right after a catnap! ♬

♫ His best friend Ōmu squawks and flies! ♪

♩And his sweetheart is foxy, her name’s Sumai! ♬

♫ Laaaaa la-la-la! Little kitten, big adventures! ♪

It took a few lines of the cartoon’s opening song before Emi was paying enough attention to tell the poppy tune was coming from her tinny-sounding phone speakers, and she quickly scrambled to retrieve it from her clutch before any more of the jingle could play.

“Hello?” she answered, more than a little dazed.

A familiar voice responded. One Emi recognized from his rumbling breath before he’d even spoken.

“Emi? It’s, uh– it’s Shouta.”

Of all the nights.

[8 Years Ago]

In a giggly daze, drunk off helping the older boy and the prospect of meeting All Might himself, Izuku paid no mind to the people he was moving past. Naturally, he was greeted by an unexpected face full of ribcage.

As he and the owner of the ribcage clumsily tumbled to the floor, a pair of wine glasses in the man’s hands spilled their contents over them both.

“You gotta be kidding me,” the disoriented man groaned as he brought himself to his hands and knees. “Do you mind watching where the hell you’re going?”

“I’m sorry! I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!”

The man’s expression changed in an instant once he saw the culprit.

“Calm down, you just startled me,” the man frantically talked him down off the ledge of worry with open palms.

He had the same straight, minty hair as Mama, cut into a smart, professional style. Short enough to slick back at an angle with just a dab of gel, though a few strands struggled to hold when he leaned to pick up the glasses. His eyes were narrower and had shorter lashes than hers, but the coloring of his irises and pupils were the same familiar shades of green.

Izuku didn’t know a thing about how fancy people were meant to dress, but the man’s clothes seemed to fit the bill, aside from the utterly plain, featureless silver band around his left ring finger. He wore a charcoal suit and slacks, fitted to refine his unassuming frame, with a matching tie of a colder grey underneath a burgundy vest. ‘Seemed to fit the bill’, past tense, as his arms had been soaked with dark red wine, courtesy of an absentminded child.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, making simple conversation to ease the stilted atmosphere. It was something the young Izuku struggled to join him in, thankful though he was for the luxury of bumping into a fancy person that hadn’t crucified him for it.

“Izuku…” he croaked out, his brain only a fraction of the way through remembering the surname he and Mama were using.

“Izuku…?”

“Izuku Kyoei. Sir.”

Izuku gave a stiff, nervous bow from his spot on the floor that dragged out the briefest of chuckles from the stranger.

“Small world. I’m a Kyoei, myself.”

He froze, desperately searching for a way to switch over to a channel of reality where he wasn’t faking his identity right to the face of someone who, for all he knew, was the person he was impersonating.

“I didn’t mean to mess up your nice, um, shirt–jacket, thing,” Izuku repeated his apology, simply to have something to say.

“It was just a blazer. A nice blazer, but a blazer,” Mr. Kyoei carefully slipped out of the ruined garment to sweep up what shards of glass he could.

“D-don’t! You’ll cut yourself!”

“A bit of broken glass isn’t going to kill anyone,” he shrugged off Izuku’s protests, rolling the stained sleeves of his dress shirt past his elbows and electing to ignore the bits of fleshy concealer that came off at the bottom.

Close as he was, Izuku could see deeply-faded scars painting the man’s arms in a myriad of short dashes, small blotches, and rougher lines splitting like roots. The farther down Izuku looked, the straighter the cuts were, running in uneven rows. They became less and less frequent despite being thicker and more defined from repetition. They petered out near his wrists, right above the cuff-line, save for a few nicks on his knuckles. Maybe he was a hero?

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” the man casually chided Izuku, who was rapidly realizing he’d been mumbling again. “Those are just from life experience. Things happen. Rock climbing, that sort of stuff. Nothing you should worry about.”

“Oh… I’m— I’m gonna meet All Might!” Izuku offered a topic he could speak on for more than one sentence.

“How fun! I was into Pro Heroes around your age, too. I think everyone goes through a phase like that,” Mr. Kyoei hypothesized, trying to find common ground, and when he smiled, Izuku couldn’t help but join him. “Beacons of hope who can swoop down to save anyone in need and bring the bad guys to justice? It’s quite the pitch. Nowadays, I’m more into regular heroes.”

“Regular?”

“Nurses, police officers, social workers— average people doing their part. Could you get me some napkins for this?” He said, sending Izuku on a short quest.

It took a few minutes, but the two of them ended up reasonably presentable, so long as no one unrolled Mr. Kyoei’s sleeves or tried to touch Izuku’s sticky hair.

On one knee, Mr. Kyoei squinted at the floor as they talked, searching for any sharp pieces he might’ve missed. He pulled a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from the breast pocket of his vest and let out a comical yelp when he put them on. He fell back onto his butt, startled by the gigantic cracks splintering the lenses, damage he’d failed to note until they were on his face.

Izuku knew he should probably feel guilty, but he’d already been forgiven (twice). He needed both hands to contain his snickering.

With flushed features, Mr. Kyoei pulled the specs back off and coughed to gloss over his bumbling.

“You’re very mature to be walking around by yourself.”

“Thanks!" Izuku's laughs winded down. "Mama brought me!”

“Dad isn’t the party type?” Mr. Kyoei said as though anticipating the answer. He glanced to Izuku when the boy spent too long worrying his lip over how to respond.

“No! Er– yes! Maybe? Ah, y-you’re right!” Izuku blurted out, spinning on his heels to avoid the perplexing frown he got in return. “O-okay, well, I’m gonna go see All Might, b-but it was, um, nice to b-bump into you, and—”

The lights flicked off, leaving them in darkness. The room was lit only by the faraway city lights that shone a dreamy glow through the window, and by the faint haze that the room’s bulbs left in the eyes of each partygoer. Within seconds, even the latter was little more than a memory.

One or two people cursed loudly with entitled frustration. Others sighed with relief at the respite. Everyone else seemed content to pass blame around to absent third parties. Was it a power outage? Had some tipsy nincompoop tripped over an important cord? The most paranoid among them crafted conspiracy theories of villains, ones that proved less and less likely as each uneventful second ticked by.

It’s funny how hushed people can become just from being in a dark room. Bawdy guests spoke at a measured volume. Even the pianist seemed to take a break. If anything, it was a perfect cue for Izuku to split and find All Might, but Mr. Kyoei caught his wrist before he could go any farther.

“Hold on. You slammed right into me when the room was fully lit. I can’t say I know much about children, but something tells me it would be irresponsible to let you wander off in the dark. What would your parents say?”

Izuku considered it for a moment, and although it wasn’t to run away, he nevertheless petulantly wiggled his wrist out from the man’s grip. He already knew what Mama would say, but what would Mom say?

“Prob’ly not to go hang out with strangers.”

“Well that’s,” brow furrowing, Mr. Kyoei’s sentence hung, “a really good point. But which is better? A big, dark room full of strangers, or just a single, puny, quirk-free stranger?”

Izuku looked at him with complete bafflement. A free quirk? The confusion must have been clear from his face even in the poor lighting, as Mr. Kyoei continued.

“Someone that’s a ‘stopgap’? A ‘miscount’?”

Mr. Kyoei threw out more terms to no avail. Izuku was still in the dark, in more ways than one. He scooted back to rest against the wall of the open-concept room, off to the side from the ceiling-to-floor window. With a dramatic exhale, the man massaged his temples.

“I don’t have what you would call a quirk.”

“You’re quirkless!?”

Izuku quickly regretted the volume of his reaction and was thankful for the lack of light keeping him from seeing if he’d caught any stares.

“I have an extra joint in my pinky toe, yes, but that isn’t the proper nomenclature. Even if most people don’t bat an eye with being labeled ‘quirkless’, others, myself included, prefer terms like ‘determinate quirk’ for an ability based solely on your genes and ‘chosen quirk’ for things a person can teach themselves to master. It’s better than deciding who’s ‘normal’ and who’s ‘less’.”

“What? Why? That’s weird… N-not in a bad way! Just… takes longer to say, I guess,” Izuku mumbled after seeing how ‘chosen quirk’ sounded in his head.

“Mmm. I get that a lot. It’s surprising how many people suddenly start caring about one extra syllable when the topic comes up. Apparently Japan is full of linguisticians. People always find an excuse,” he dryly complained, downing a cup of resentment. “Lately there’s been a push to use ‘quirk-free’, so hopefully that catches on. We’ll see.”

“I thought quirkless people were, um…” Izuku hummed, trying to recall the statistic he’d been told in school.

He fiddled with his bowtie, though at this point it came across more like a complicated fisherman’s knot or a pair of earbuds forgotten in the pocket of a jacket thrown in the dryer. Either way, it certainly didn’t seem like something that should be around a person’s neck. Looking down at his fingers, the answer came to him.

“Five people, and one of ‘em is quirkless, right?”

“Ha! That’s what they said when I was in school!” Mr. Kyoei guffawed. “Everyone quotes that study, but they fail to account for the disparate ratio of senior citizens, the age of the data itself, or cultural biases. Population density alone is a major determining factor in whether a person is willing to settle for a quirk-free partner. Japan’s quirk-free population is closer to two percent than it is to twenty. Did you know it’s still listed as a disability?”

Mr. Kyoei, having long-since gotten caught up in his own zeal, finally took note of Izuku’s strained expression. His rant came to an abrupt halt.

“I apologize. That was too much to throw at a little kid,” he winced at the sight of a pouting Izuku.

“I’m not a little kid!” Izuku corrected and the air between them seemed thick. Sadly, Izuku’s sturdy verbal shield could not protect from Mr. Kyoei’s spiel going right over his head.

Ms. Joke, the man most certainly was not.

“… A-anyway, t-that sounds super duper hard, not having a quirk… If– If I could give you one, I would! I promise!”

“Thanks.” Mr. Kyoei responded flatly. As amicable as he tried to make his reply, he had yet to become as indifferent to comments like Izuku’s as he made out. “But being quirk-free has been a big motivator in my life. It’s a real asset toward creative problem-solving for my work; I can’t rely on one trick.”

Izuku tilted from side to side, unsure whether he should ask or if it was something he was already supposed to know. After a few moments without a response, Mr. Kyoei caught on and granted him mercy.

“I develop support equipment!” said Mr. Kyoei, moving to scrounge around in the dark through the pockets of his wadded-up blazer without cutting his hands on the glass scooped up in it. He pulled out a wine-splattered clip of business cards and handed one to Izuku, who held it up close to his face.

Ryota Kyoei | [Senior Technical Designer] | Kyoei Defense & Support

‘Senior’? That seemed uncalled for. Mr. Kyoei was an adult but he didn’t look THAT old.

“The domestic market isn’t our strong suit, so don’t feel bad if you don’t recognize our logo… Hold on, does a kid your age even—”

“I know what support stuff is!” Izuku stomped. He’d have to be a dummy not to know some people had help. Like Present Mic having speakers! Or his classmate Jiama having that fish bowl helmet so he didn’t dry out. His knowledge didn’t extend far past that, but it was wrong to assume!

“Just checking,” Mr. Kyoei leaned away from the boy’s vehement defense.

A stoic minute passed between them before Izuku, with a pensive expression and courage in his throat, thought of what to say.

“When, um– when you think about it, I’ll be quirkless in a fight, kinda,” Izuku as an apology, and to test truth against the rare specimen of a person that might understand what he puts up with at school. Finding it hard to look the man in the eye, he played with the fabric of his cuffs.

“How’s that?”

“M–My friend Kacchan’s quirk is super cool, so if somebody was gonna hit him, he could just,” Izuku pushed his palms forward and imitated the sound of an explosion. “But mine isn’t like his. I’ll need to beat the bad guy like a quirkless person would. So, m-maybe I can’t blow stuff up like Kacchan or punch like All Might, but I can make sure everybody fights fair.”

No words were needed, for Mr. Kyoei’s face alone asked the question.

“Everybody at school thinks it’s for a villain. They don’t like me very much. Sometimes…” Izuku shrugged. Having done his best to speak in an even, rational manner, he let the sentence fade, not wanting to tank the conversation.

“Sometimes you don’t like yourself either?” the man quietly offered as an end to the boy’s sentence.

Izuku made an affirmative grunt, thoughtlessly wringing his hands as he’d often witnessed Mom doing.

“And they make you feel like you’re less than you are?”

Izuku nodded, and Mr. Kyoei’s voice lowered to a conscientious whisper.

“And sometimes you wish you really were as awful as they say, because at least then they wouldn’t be lying about you?”

Again, unable to muster up any denial, Izuku nodded, but added a rambling, verbal asterisk.

“It’s fine though. S’mostly just school that stinks. Kacchan’s friends are usually okay as long as he’s there. An’ I talk to the man who mows the park near Auntie’s house. So, um, now he gives me stickers. Our neighbors are nice, too. So’s Tohaku at the corner store— and funny, even though it’s on accident,” Izuku murmured, focusing on positives. “She and her cousins play dominos really, really late. They don’t tattle when I come out and play with Cuddles and Garbage-butt… That’s, um— those’re their cats. We used to have a cat. Kind of. I miss her. Sometimes if we have too much breakfast Mama wraps it to bring to Mr. Joy. I’unno his real name. He doesn’t talk much, but when we sit with him he listens. I don’t think he has anywhere to go. It makes me sad for him, but also happy that I have my family. They think I can be a hero… so, um, I like that answer more. Yeah. I dunno. But, um, yeah.”

“Well, what do you think?” Mr. Kyoei said after a lengthy pause.

“… yes?” Izuku answered like it was a pop quiz he didn’t study for. “If– if I do my best, I can.”

Mr. Kyoei smiled.

“I think so, too. Your family is right. You can definitely be one of the good guys. Mind if I give you a word of advice?”

Izuku spun to directly face him as a form of ‘yes’.

“When—”

“Wow, that was a good word!” Izuku interrupted, biting his lip to hold back a laugh at the confusion present on the man’s face before the joke settled.

“You’re kind of a smartass, aren’t you?” Mr. Kyoei rhetorically asked. Izuku was too busy holding back giggles to answer, but gave a thumbs up since that’s what Auntie called him sometimes even though he wasn’t totally clear on the definition.

“Just make sure when you’re a Pro Hero you always do the most good for the most people you can, no matter what, even if it scares you. Got it?”

Izuku nodded rapidly, looking like one of the dummies they use in crash tests.

“Atta’ boy,” he gave Izuku a pat on the shoulder, “and when you become a hero, if you ever need support gear, you let your uncle Ryota know, alright?”

“H–h-huh?” Izuku sputtered, wrapping his head around the idea that he’d gotten away with the whole ‘fake name’ thing, to the point that this Kyoei man thought they were related.

“Your mom is Ms. Joke, isn’t she?”

Izuku turned white.

That couldn’t be right. Did he fall for the fake name or didn’t he? There was no way he could know Izuku’s mama is Ms. Joke and believe his last name is Kyoei at the same time. That’s a circle of bad logic.

Besides, Izuku would’ve known if he had an uncle.

“Apparently you wouldn’t,” his uncle(?) laughed, wagging a finger toward him. “I was pretty convinced when I first saw you, but it’s that motormouth that cinched it. That’s my sister, through and through. Plus, you’ve got your dad’s hair, and those eyes— they had that intensity to them when you got mad at me. You’re definitely your father’s son.”

“You knew my dad?!” Izuku leaned in with unbridled enthusiasm.

“Knew him? He dangled me off a building! Don’t worry, I deserved it,” he chuckled at Izuku’s facial muscles completely failing to cooperate. “Why do you… ask…? Oh, I– I didn’t, I’m so, so sorry. When did he pass?”

“I’unno,” Izuku shrugged, missing the implication. “Mama says he’s super busy an’ stuff.”

His uncle chewed on his lip. With numerous questions behind his face—a number surpassed only by how many his nephew wanted to ask—he pivoted.

“So, tell me your plans, future hero! Have you been training hard?…”

Izuku’s expression dipped, however, he didn’t want to push his luck.

Reminding himself how fortunate he was to even be asked such a question, he took a breath large enough to last him through the many scattered thoughts he’d been mulling over.

[8 Years Ago]

“Oh. Hi.” Emi spoke just barely above a whisper. The party’s noise made her sound all the more subdued.

“This is you, right? I got a few dozen wrong numbers. Couldn’t remember what order the digits were in. I used to just use your contact, but I, er, it’s—”

“It’s me,” she affirmed before he stammered his way to an early grave. Emi smiled, picturing a sixteen-year-old Shouta shaking in his boots when he asked her for a dance, so unlike his normally curt self. Her heart seemed to bounce in her chest and up into her throat.

“I’ve been meaning to contact you for a few weeks now. When I saw your name on the chart, stalling any longer seemed… Is this a bad time?” he asked, likely from hearing the cacophony of voices in the background.

“Well, I’m talking to you, soooo,” Emi huffed, angry at herself for feeling nostalgia. She made her way down the steps, plodding along her journey in the general direction of that iconic, giant, ‘V’-shaped blonde hair far across the room. And if she ended up taking the long way around, so be it. "You're lucky I don't hang up right now."

“That’s— yeah, I earned that,” Shouta mumbled, nothing to say in his defense.

“Why are you calling?”

“I assumed showing up at your apartment would be inappropriate.”

“Yeah, especially since someone else lives there now,” she said, irritated but chuckling lightly to herself at how literally he interpreted the question. “Not the answer I was looking for, though. Emphasis on ‘why’. As in, what do you want?”

“Right. I know it’s been a while, but there are a few things— more than a few things I want to get off my chest that I... think I owe you an apology for. But let’s not pretend like you didn’t also lash out or say things to hurt me, and, shit, it’s just, wait, don’t hang up, ugh—” there was a pause filled by a few dull thuds.

It was not difficult for her to visualize his head banging into the wall as though he could rid his skull of any more unhelpful sentences via blunt force trauma. Eventually, he landed on something coherent.

“If I hadn’t been such an idiot and goaded you into some stupid fight, we wouldn’t— at least, I hope things wouldn’t have ended up like this,” Shouta’s voice fell even lower, the anguish in his tone all the more pronounced. “I’m so sorry. I felt my actions were necessary in order for us not to hold each other back.”

“And…?” Emi’s jaw tightened, the subtleties of her posture all demanding the rest of his explanation.

“… And that was an erroneous decision?” Shouta repeated, sounding puzzled, as though he’d already reached the heart of the matter. “As it turns out, there are plenty of Pro Heroes who maintain stable relationships, including those with other Pro Heroes. The implication that it would hamper your progress was insulting. I came to an unreasonable conclusion based on flawed logic and I should have thought it through further before making a choice.”

The heart that had risen in her chest plummeted fast, like a vomit-inducing amusement park ride. This was the guy who dumped her without a second thought. His pregnant girlfriend. The myriad of things she’d imagined yelling at him ever since balled up into a congealed mess that weighed her tongue down for an entirely different reason than the airy feeling from before.

“Let me get this straight,” Emi started. “You and I don’t talk for years. Then, out of the blue, you call me up one night. And the big revelation you felt was worth breaking that long silence for can be summarized as ‘I messed up pretty bad’? And you’re capable of recognizing that your first excuse was a bunch of garbage, but you still can’t give me the real reason? Am I getting everything so far?”

“That is the real reason, though?”

“No, Shouta, it’s not. It is obviously not. Don’t you see that?” Emi asked, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “What am I talking about? Of course you don’t. Even when you know you’ve screwed up, you can’t help agreeing with yourself.”

“But I know I made a mistake and the gravity of that mistake, and I’m trying to fix it,” he said, baffled and frustrated with himself at his own lack of comprehension. “What difference does it make to know what I was thinking at the time?”

“THE difference!” Emi seethed into the tiny microphone.

“I’m doing my best,” is all Shouta could offer, undeterred by the spotlight on his faults.

“Your best isn’t good enough.”

“Plus Ultra.”

In a peculiar way, he’d built determination atop defeat. Shouta’s voice had changed with age in small ways someone who didn’t know him intimately might have missed. But not Emi. She heard each note he dragged lower, listened to every syllable that brought with it an extra grinding noise, like pebbles being mashed together.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he heard similar changes in her.

“Why now? After all this time?” Emi questioned, worn about by the conversation.

“It's like I said, a couple months ago I found a few things I thought I threw out. Some notes. A book. The rest of those coupons you made. Any other day I would’ve thrown them away,” she could practically hear him cringe, “except, something told me to read them first, that I could always throw them out later. So, I read. Then I came to the correct conclusion.”

Emi was stunned by the plain response.

“I wish I had a better answer,” Shouta regrettably said, “that it came from somewhere momentous. I guess I’m just… older.”

“Are you drunk?” Emi asked, squinting as though it would help her ears find a hidden fault or nefarious intent behind the phone call. Her ex was a notorious lightweight. Half a glass of liquid courage would’ve done plenty for him.

“What? No!” Shouta denied, caught off-guard by the question. “How I’ve transgressed is sufficiently detestable. Inventing reasons to resent me doesn’t help.”

“It is genuinely mind-boggling how big of an ass you are. Here’s a tip: don’t tell the person you're apologizing to what they’re doing wrong when all you're looking for is forgiveness.”

“What I'm looking for is a chance to talk,” he said weakly, “even if it is just you calling me an ass.”

She wanted to slap herself for being too preoccupied with stopping the childish song to consciously recall she’d only set that ringtone up for a single number years ago. Overwhelmed with stimuli, Emi took a detour into the empty dining area and found herself a quiet corner in which to finish their phone call, for the sake of her sanity.

Pacing back and forth, she took a deep breath, ready to fulfill Shouta’s earlier request and finding a thousand more names to call him. Then, all the lights fizzled out, and her breath went with them. Apparently, despite her decades of experience walking, she was still able to manage slamming her shin into the metal rim of a waiter’s cart.

“Ah, come on! Are you serious right now?” she whined to the universe at large for its continued reliance on Murphy’s Law. Learn some new material! Geez!

“I know, it might sound pathetic,” Shouta kept going, thinking she was speaking to him, “but I’ve never been particularly fond of… people. So, walking away from one of the few I’m invested in was… I’m not saying we have to be friends or anything, if you don’t want. I’m sure you’ve got plenty as it is.”

He wasn’t technically wrong, Emi was terrific at friendship. She could get along with almost anyone, because who doesn’t love to laugh? There were few people, however, that she trusted with her self. Definitely none she’d lay together with, tracing old scars.

Emi knew she was a handful. She knew how to push people’s buttons and could annoy the absolute heck out of Shouta, but he never made a distinction between her broken parts. Like those fractured edges were no more or less 'Emi' than the rest of her; an occasionally-maddening, often-lovable byproduct of his stunted emotional intelligence. Heck, if she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed he got hit in the head on a semi-regular basis.

Not unlike waking up to a bowl of sugary cereal being shoved into her lap with a dryly-uttered “made you breakfast in bed”, it was the kind of thing she’d have swooned over, back then. Now, she was more occupied with crouching to dab at where her leg had been sliced with a flowery, cloth napkin without slamming her head into a table on the way down. Her lips hesitated on a stretched ‘f’ noise, begging to become a string of curses ala a normal sentence out of Mitsuki Bakugo’s mouth.

Although she was flying blind so-to-speak, on the bright side, if whatever bumbling city worker that caused the power outage didn’t fix it soon, the party would likely end prematurely. So that was a bonus.

Eh… pipe dream. There’s no way they don’t have backup generators.

“If you’re free sometime, I could explain better over coffee. I’m sick of talking on the damn phone,” Shouta complained.

Yeah, I also remember dating someone from another high school, but you don’t hear me whining about it.

“You could order one of those vanilla-things. If I’m too boring, we could bring some paperwork to finish instead…” he coughed to fill the void where her laughter might’ve been, were the joke not badly timed and poorly told. “Emi…? Are you there?”

Emi sucked in a startled breath, cringing at a terribly sharp crash from the other room, and pushed into action by the helpless scream that followed. Did someone drop a chandelier? Could’ve been, but her instincts said otherwise, unable to set aside the worst-case scenarios in her head.

Don’t freak out. Izuku’s fine. Don’t freak out. Izuku’s fine.

More screaming. She shushed Shouta in the middle of his explanation. Then a few loud whacks, and a metallic ‘pang’. Emi picked up her pace, careful not to run into anything (else), and stepped up to the threshold of the entryway between the two rooms.

“Uh-oh. That can’t be good,” she mouthed at the sight of five silhouettes—though it was difficult to tell with the rushing crowd blocking much of her view—in front of the large window. That is, in front of the broken glass that used to be a large window. So much for unbreakable. “Gotta go. Call you back.”

“You will?” Shouta asked, dumbfounded, hope leaking into his voice. “I– uh, alright, great, I’ll make sure to keep my pho—”

Emi dropped the cell from her ear. Two of the villains swayed like zombies on a boat toward the crowd, drifting their way over the crystalline debris and dragging guests toward the edge. The third villain hovered as the fourth held his hand toward the civilians—likely some sort of projectile—and fifth was engaged by Best Jeanist.

Quickly tearing her dress to make sure she could move unrestricted and throwing her uncomfortable shoes to the side, Emi cursed quietly, eyebrows squeezing together as she frowned.

There’s three of the nation’s top heroes in that room. Everything will be fine. Take a few seconds to think of a plan before you run right in and potentially make the situation worse.

“H-hey, you can’t do that! That’s not fair!” Emi faintly heard a boyish voice say, one she immediately recognized.

She ran right in.

[8 Years Ago]

“—oesn’t work on mutation quirks, does it? No? It seemed a safe assumption,” his uncle’s voice hummed thoughtfully, weighing pros and cons in his head. Izuku was rapt by the discussion, and with the many followup questions he was presented. “It’s situational, but it could be strong with the right gear. Do you need line of sight? Do you get dry mouth? Are there additional activation requirements?”

Izuku could’ve sworn he heard a quiet cracking noise, but it lasted only long enough to briefly distract him from the conversation.

“How long can you hold it? What additional breathing difficulties do you have, if any? It makes sense that your quirk factor would require an excessive amount of oxygen, but it’s also possible that your body is simply inefficient at processing—”

The sound happened again, so faint it would’ve gone unnoticed were he not so close to the edge of the window’s frame. He could see faint roots of imperfection begin to grow, spreading their way toward the center.

“M–Mr. Kyoei?” he interrupted, hesitantly pointing behind the man.

“There’s no need to be so formal when it’s family, Izuku, but please don’t talk over me.”

“Right, but, um,” Izuku twiddled his fingers.

“When you’re a hero and you’re meeting with support equipment agencies, these are the kinds of questions you’ll need to think about.”

“There’s— I just—”

“What?” Uncle Ryota finally cut him off.

The moments that followed were flashes at best, much to Izuku’s disappointment. He’d have loved to see a lengthy hero fight up close. But any villains that would try robbing a room with All Might (not to mention Endeavor and Best Jeanist) in it weren’t going to stay conscious for very long.

The first villain to come inside looked like someone stuck giant insect pieces on a normal person. Flying on beetle wings, he swooped down and smashed through the flawed window with his plated, helmet-like head. A woman leaning against the glass fell back into his awaiting arms. He lifted her up, only to drop her out of the building with a shrug.

Izuku and his uncle shot up, but whereas his newly-found relative started to back away ever-so-slowly from the excitement, Izuku didn’t budge. There was no reason to fear, Izuku knew. All Might would save the day! He wouldn’t let anyone be in danger. If only Izuku a paper and pen with him!

As if on cue, All Might went from the other side of the room, up to the window and then down after the woman in a blur. On his way, he slammed the villain’s face into the hard flooring, knocking him out cold. All Might was amazing!

That’s when the next (and last) two villains arrived, not unlike the first. The swarm of insects that held them up were only barely able to drop them into the room before they flittered away, lacking a unified consciousness. One of the villains was covered with sharp quills like a porcupine. The other was dressed black and red straight down the middle like a pair of jumper cables. He proceeded to punch their unconscious, beetle-esque colleague like his knuckles were a defibrillator. Their cohort jolted awake.

Uncle Ryota put a firm hand around Izuku’s arm to stop him in case he tried to go anywhere near the danger and whispered a few words that the civilians in the movies always say, like ‘don’t worry, the heroes will protect us’. It was a nice gesture, but an annoying distraction from getting to watch a sight as cool as villains and heroes fight in person. Izuku didn’t want to miss any of the action, but even at a glance, it seemed like his uncle was the one in need of reassurance.

People stomped and shoved their way from the danger. A handful were forcing their way against the current of bodies: the few other Pro Heroes present and trained to handle villains, no matter how unlikely the scenario.

Was he going to get to see Mama fight up close?! SO awesome!

His huge smile faltered at the disgusting sight before him. The bug villain vomited thousands of small insects that, together, stood up to make two mindless, drooping dolls. They picked up the closest of the runners and tossed them off the edge, while the spiked villain stole their valuables as they went by, always keeping a hand up, ready to fire his natural thorns at anyone who might approach.

The electric villain held a bald man by the collar and slapped him, demanding to know where the auctioned items were held. When his answer was less than satisfactory, he allowed the bug-zombies to take him away.

Black fiber shot out from a well-dressed Best Jeanist and formed a small net, catching the civilians and dragging them back up, though he took an electrified kick to the gut for it. Each of the hostages, even the rescued ones, looked terrified, and Izuku was weakened by the sight.

The jump-starter villain slammed both knuckles into the chest of another hero Izuku only vaguely recognized, knocking him out of commission.

Before they could repeat the process, the insect villain’s tiny army was burned to ash by a very determined-slash-angry-looking Endeavor.

So… Endeavor, basically.

Best Jeanist was making quick work of the electric villain, wrapping him in clothing fibers like a mummy. Even after he'd subdued one hero and delivered a handful of solid blows that shocked Best Jeanist backward, he was no match for the number three hero.

With a look of growing concern, the quill-equipped villain dropped their growing sack of loot to yank out another civilian. No one was going to get hurt, of that Izuku was certain. The heroes were there! They didn’t let stuff like that happen. But seeing the hostage’s frightened face twisted his stomach with righteous indignation.

“H-hey, you can’t do that! That’s not fair!” Izuku heard a young boy say, only to realize it was him when Uncle Ryota clapped a hand over his mouth and forced him against his chest, turned from the danger. Izuku struggled to wrench himself free but found it futile, even as a spasm shot through Uncle Ryota’s body.

Izuku’s muffled objections petered out at the sound of the villain’s confused laughter as he was knocked to the ground by an opponent with a familiar chuckle. He felt his uncle begin to giggle, then himself, and soon various shades of laughter all around, though muffled from his face being pressed into a chest.

Mama!

Wiggling was pointless, but he had to try for a chance to see Mama in action up close! From the slivers of light in his vision, he could tell the power must have come back on once Best Jeanist knocked out that nasty electric villain.

Izuku wasn’t able to make much of anything distinct out of the noises alone other than fighting, but suffice to say All Might returning with a Texas Smash to instantly vanquish the last villain wasn’t something his ears could mistake (though he still would’ve LOVED to have seen it).

The involuntary laughing was making Izuku’s legs feel like jelly. Even with his senses muffled however, the applause to All Might’s return sounded enormous, and the relief in the room was palpable. At least it was from the tension leaving his uncle’s body. Izuku wasn’t sure why everybody had been in such a big fuss in the first place.

“Not yet,” Uncle Ryota replied to his squirming with a well-suppressed chuckle as the cheers continued, as did nearby smacking sounds.

“Ma’am,” All Might awkwardly spoke through his classic, booming ‘HA’s. “Ma’am, he’s unconscious, you can stop. M-Ma’am.”

“Enough!” Endeavor yelled with a long-held breath, like a scuba-diver whose tank broke. The noises stopped, save for Mama throwing an English word at the villain that Izuku didn’t recognize but could tell from her tone was exceedingly rude.

“I’ll take him from here, Ma’am,” All Might’s fittingly mighty voice declared as he regained his composure. “That was definitely– eh– thorough. But everything’s okay now, just leave it to the heroes!”

As the number one hero stomped away with the villains, Mama laughed at the unintentionally-backhanded compliment. Didn’t he recognize the hysterical Ms. Joke?!

Izuku was slowly released to the sounds of conversation that were hard to piece together over a crowd that was very much looking forward to leaving down an elevator and not out a window. Pushing from his uncle’s hold, he saw Mama, disheveled though she was. Her relieved smile grew as she ran up to meet him in a hug.

And decked his uncle in the face.

[8 Years Ago]

I should probably thank those villains. They made this silly party end faster. HA!

“I need to see more, but that wasn’t terrible, Joke. I’ll have my people pull up your statistics again—"

Again? she almost interrupted, smirking.

"—and call Sir Nighteye to support your claims. If those can prove you're worth more than children enjoying your... antics... I might be agreeable to have you on board,” Endeavor’s voice rumbled, too prideful to admit he his 'temperament' comment was a load of crap. “But I want what I was promised: my agency granted rightful responsibility for the incidents you resolved as my previously unsigned but nonetheless active employee. Send over the necessary paperwork by Friday evening and we can have this squared away.”

“Shake on it?” Emi panted, her bloody hand outstretched.

“Don’t push it,” Endeavor grunted, disgust in his voice.

Endeavor moved with heavy steps, meaning to quell the crowd from simultaneously stuffing all their butts onto the small lifts in their desire to head home after an explosively conclusive end to the night.

“Are you sure? Red’s your color!” she called back.

HA!

Emi turned. Izuku was there, unharmed and wearing his quirky smile. Behind him was—

Ryota.

The adrenaline and relief from the proceedings kept Emi’s grin going up until the point she was close enough to hug her son and give Ryota a solid sucker punch.

Far behind her, Endeavor barked a laugh as her brother recoiled from the blow.

“Nice to see you, too, Sister,” Ryota tilted back to make sure she hadn’t busted his nose, but the blood on his face wasn’t his. “Never saw you as a prospective Endeavor groupie, but I guess stranger things have happened.”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, having to shush Izuku’s attention-seeking ‘wait’s and ‘mama’s. Suddenly the ease of their entrance made a lot more sense. It was as though they were party to her brother. Ugh. Gross.

“Same as you: my job. Father’s busy, so I came in his stead. Damn that hurt,” he winced, wiping his sore face clean. He was being a big baby. She’d kept the punch family-friendly. Not a hit to whine about.

“Uh-huh,” Emi grunted, finding his claim dubious at best. Their father asked him to come? Yeah, right. And then Ryota agreed? DOUBLE yeah, right.

“Don’t act so shocked, Emi. It’s not like he had much of a choice after running out of better children. Or should I be using your surname now? What was it now… Falman? Fujioka?”

“Fukukado,” she corrected with a flat expression. “I’m surprised he didn’t have one of his suits do it.”

Although, if a member of the family were ready and able to attend but didn’t, that could’ve been perceived as a social slight, Emi considered. So, it wasn’t entirely nonsensical.

“You know somebody that can control suits!?” Izuku yelled with a gasp. “Are we related to Best Jeanist?!”

“What?” Emi questioned as her jerk brother raised an eyebrow. “Figure of speech, gag.”

“Oh… Hey, wait! Mama, you should say sorry for hitting Uncle Ryota,” Izuku suggested, his head switching gears on a dime and betraying her with good intentions.

“Yeah, Emi, say you’re sorry,” Ryota repeated.

She had so many snarky responses ready to fly, but with tremendous fortitude, she bit her tongue for Izuku’s sake.

“I…” Emi looked up at the ceiling so as not to face her brother as the dreaded word came from her mouth, “… may have been slightly mistaken, from one point of view, while looking out for Izuku.”

Nope. Couldn’t do it. That was the best she was willing to give him, so he darn well better buck up and take it.

“‘Apology’ accepted,” he said with a lingering bitterness, sounding as strained in receiving as she did in giving.

“Yay!” Izuku clapped as though he’d resolved decades of familial tension in one swift stroke.

“A little thanks would be appreciated, too,” Ryota added. “I did protect your son.”

Emi stretched her neck as if prepping for a fight. I missed these conversations like a kick in the shin.

“I wasn’t gonna get hurt!” Izuku defended proudly. “Mama and All Might are here!”

“See? He wasn’t gonna get hurt. Those wimps barely count as real villains,” Emi rolled her eyes when Ryota nodded to the blood on her hands as evidence to the contrary. Clearly she’d missed cleaning most of it with the handkerchief All Might handed her. “Don’t be a drama queen, the guy got a nose bleed. It happens. Especially when—”

She made a quick clicking noise with her cheek and looked to Izuku, signaling him to plug his ears.

“—when you’ve got a lady as sexy as this straddling you.”

“And you’re being hit in the face.”

“Yeah, that too,” Emi sighed at her brother’s lacking humor and pointed to Izuku to release him from his soundless prison.

And so what if she punched the villain once or twice or twenty-seven times more than necessary? She had a stressful night. If her boy had been in capital-D danger, that villain wouldn’t have a face. The police would be cleaning up chunks and have to go by dental records.

Although Izuku demanded her attention with a squeeze of her wrist, Emi was too focused to hear him beyond bits and pieces of what he was excitedly saying, like ‘roof’ and ‘is that true?!’. She was drawn to the thin, crimson line lethargically stretching down the shoulder of Ryota’s sleeve whenever he turned too much. She grabbed at him despite his protests, shushing her son.

The drying blood on her hand mixed with a small blotch of her brother’s. A host of quills were lodged into his back in distinct patches. Most stuck out around his right shoulder blade at a downward angle. Some were straight out, nearer his midsection. The lower patch didn’t look to be bleeding. If it was, his vest was doing a tremendous job at soaking up any of the blood. Even if her assessment were correct, however, all his moving wasn’t going to help.

“Crud. Ryota, stop squirming. Ryota,” Emi warned. The freshly-red fingers she showed her brother finally froze him.

“Is this some sort of prank?” he asked with a shake to his voice as he was moved toward the tables. The look she gave him in response was answer enough, judging by his silently terrified expression. Thankfully, the crowd had largely migrated to the entrance, whether to compliment the heroes responsible for their safety or to get in line for the ride down.

“Izuku, go find one of the other heroes. Tell them we have an injured bystander in the dining area. Tell them Ms. Joke doesn’t think he’s in immediate danger, but when the medical professionals arrive, they should be sent this way. If All Might, Endeavor and Best Jeanist are too swarmed to approach, there were a couple others I saw when we came in. They'll probably be ushering people out. Do you recognize them?”

“Inugami, and, um, uhhh,” Izuku swayed nervously and Emi cut in, leading her brother to a chair. “Good enough. Do you have all that?”

He gave a quiet “yes ma’am” but stopped short of running away.

“I-Is Uncle Ryota gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” she answered, giving him a comforting smile. “We’re just being extra careful. I know your uncle looks scared, but he just isn’t used to this kind of thing, that’s all.”

Izuku nodded back to her, not looking quite so worried anymore, and started on his mission. Only once he was sufficiently distanced from the siblings did she turn back around to find Ryota yanking one of the quills out. He yelped.

“Quit it,” she slapped his hand away. “It looks like they have barbs. Just because they felt forgettable on the way in doesn’t mean they won’t hurt like a son of a gun on the way out. You’ll only make it worse if you mess with them, and I’m not about to turn an annoyance into an emergency. Hold this here.”

Doing as he was bid, Ryota kept the handkerchief pressed to the small hole he’d opened up. Emi compared the barb he foolishly pulled out to the ones still in him to ascertain how far they’d stuck themselves.

She let out a small sigh of relief. As expected, they hadn’t gone deep, but she did not envy the stinging pain her brother would be dealing with later. Until then, she’d just have to stand by and make sure he didn’t do anything else as moronic as trying to pull them out. That could’ve gone badly if she hadn’t been there to tell him off.

“Shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, lying down or something?”

“Do you trust me? As a Pro Hero,” she asked, adding a crucial specification, to which her brother nodded. “Then take a chill pill. I know you like hard wood but there’s no point in rubbing your face all over it outside the bedroom. The poison will pump to your heart in a matter of minutes either way, so it’s best not to let the victim linger.”

“Poison?!” He jerked forward, brain skipping past her juvenile wordplay. Emi sat him back down before he could stand, keeping a loose hold on his shoulder while hers bounced. She gave a devilish grin.

“That wasn’t funny,” Ryota said, too relieved to effectively glare.

As expected, he still had a terrible sense of humor. At least that much was still true about him, although another important detail had seemingly changed.

The Ryota she knew would’ve died before working for their father. The last time she saw him, he’d been employed at a dinky repair shop in a mall. Not exactly the height of success, a fact she was ashamed to admit had given her a remarkable amount of pleasure.

“… So, you and Father are on speaking terms? How’s that?” Emi almost regretted asking.

“We make it work. You should come see them sometime. They’d really like that.”

“Pass”, Emi dismissed the idea out of hand, swatting his hand as it unconsciously reached to again mess with the quills.

“Suit yourself. They’ve been doing alright though. Mostly. Father has been a bit off recently.”

“‘Off’?” she echoed.

“Paranoid,” he explained, “if that makes any sense to you. Whenever I visit, I come in to him yelling at Mother. More than usual. He won’t go to either of the psychiatrists I recommended, because obviously any idea I thought of couldn’t possibly be useful.”

“Wow, Ryota, you almost sound concerned,” she said with surprise, but it came out with unintended, sardonic overtones.

“Sorry for giving a shit, they’re still my parents,” Ryota immediately snapped back at her, giving no quarter. “I just can’t win with you, can I? When we fought, you hated me, and yet here I am trying to be the fixer, and you still hate me. Even if I cut them out of my life and changed my name, you’d find a way to hate me for that too.”

“That is so low,” she shook her head with disdain.

“Low? What, like your implication that I’d do anything to hurt a kid? My sister’s son?”

“Being family never stopped you before.”

“How could I forget, you’re perfect in every way and I’m a devious psychopath bent on ruining your life.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m not!” he said despite that being literally what he was doing. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Emi scoffed, shoving his arm down from its emphatic gesturing to its proper place. “No problems here. I’m peachy keen. All I’ve ever tried to do was help.”

“Yeah, you’ve always been a biiiiiiiig ‘help’. Well, guess what? I didn’t need you looking down on me!” his hand squeezed the red-stained handkerchief tightly. “Because that’s what it felt like, even if it wasn’t what you meant.”

“Would it have killed you to say that at the time? Is that supposed to justify all the crap you pulled? You tried to stab me. More than once! I don’t know if you’ve ever been stabbed, but I can tell you it hurts like—” Emi’s sentence fell apart at her brother pointing to his back. “—Aw, gimme a break. Those aren’t stab wounds.”

“Technically they are,” he quibbled with her, an aggravatingly smug look on his face. He could be so infuriating.

“Well, technically I had a razor-sharp, potentially-deadly blade slice right through my flesh earlier tonight, but it’d be super pedantic for me to phrase it like that, because all I did was kick my leg into a dining cart like a total dope,” she mimicked his expression.

"My mistake, Emi, expert of all pain. How does being stabbed compare to being whacked with a fire iron? Or do you not know?"

"And here we have yet another example of you taking things out on me that I had nothing to do with," she said like she was narrating a fury-fueled documentary.

“Emi, that ‘crap I pulled’,” Ryota made air-quotation marks, “was years ago. We were kids. I’ve done a lot of self-work since then.”

“I’m happy for you,” Emi spun the galaxy’s largest emotional slot machine about how much of that she believed. It was more accurate to say she wanted to be happy for him. All things considered, she felt that was more than fair for her first reaction.

“You don’t mean that,” he spoke as though it were an undeniable truth, rejecting her olive branch. “Maybe you’re glad. But not happy.”

“Could you go two seconds without nitpicking what I say? Please? I’d prefer to stand here without being wrapped into an argument.”

“When have I EVER been the one to start a fight?” Ryota slapped a hand on the table at his side.

“How about the one we’re having right now? Or do you want me to pick an argument at random? Why not! It’s not like there’s a lack of choices! How about when you loosened my front bike wheel? I’m the one who got blamed for ‘acting out’, but I still didn’t rat on you. You’re welcome.”

“Quit guilt-tripping me! Do you honestly think I sat in my room at ten years old, rubbing my palms together, twirling my mustache, plotting evil schemes to sabotage my little sister’s bicycle? And don’t pretend you didn’t relish having the attention. I’m surprised you couldn’t find a way to break your arm every week after that.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid!” Emi barked at him, feeling like she was a child all over again.

“Y’know, a part of me does want to apologize for my involvement in how things were with us, but you make it so, so difficult, Sister. You really do,” he spoke with a joyless chuckle. “You called me so many awful slurs. Like I wasn’t already hearing enough of them.”

“You’re the one that got physical, I’ve never so much as touched you!”

“You literally just punched me,” he responded.

“Other than that! And you know I never believed those things about quirkless people.”

“Yeah, I do know that. Meaning you only said them to hurt me specifically. Your brother.”

“If you had to deal with a young version of yourself, you would wanna hurt him too.”

“Of that, I am well aware,” Ryota hissed.

“See this? Do you know what this is?” Emi asked, rubbing her index finger and thumb together. “It’s the world’s smallest cello playing a sad, sad song for you.”

“I think you mean ‘violin’.”

“No, the Funny Store was out of those. Apparently that joke has gotten stale over the years from being repeated so many times, just like the excuses you give for why it’s okay to lash out at the one person who has ever had your back. If you need a different memory to weasel your way out of, how about that hole you smashed into my door, chasing me with a hammer?”

“Would you just grow up already? This might shock you, but most adults move on with their lives instead of obsessing over whatever messed up childhood escapism neurosis you’re stuck in, ‘Ms. Joke’.”

“Because you’ve clearly moved on soooo well,” she bit back.

“Honestly, Emi, it’s like you plucked your personality out of a Psych-101 class. Maybe you’d understand that if you went to college instead of sticking your textbooks high on a shelf in exchange for a career of punching people.”

“I’ll tell you where I’d like to stick ‘em—” Emi paused in a moment of clarity. “It’s happening again! It got out of hand so fast! This is why I left!”

“So it’s my fault? I’m not about to apologize for being taught the wrong lessons.”

“I didn’t say— Ryota, it’s not about you!”

“That’s the first true sentence you’ve come up with all night. Nothing has ever been about me.”

“You mustn’t let anger get the b–etter of you, darling,” spoke a smooth, lightly accented voice that hung on the ‘b’ a hair too long, but lost none of its confidence for it.

A man with a head of dusty blond curls slipped his way from behind Emi to Ryota’s side. Although he stood tall, back straight, his steps were uneven, lending to the cane in his right hand.

“Glad to have found you. I was starting to get w-w-w-worried,” said the soft-spoken man, before spotting the quills sticking from her brother’s back. “Ryota! What happened?”

“Don’t!” the siblings both warned when the newcomer reached for the foreign objects. Ryota eased him with a touch more delicate than she’d seen him handle anything except the most fragile of mechanisms.

“I’m fine, I barely felt a thing. She said not to take them out, so we’re waiting for an EMT. It’s okay, you can trust her— with this kind of thing.”

“Iffffff you say so…” the man’s fingers tightened around the grip of his dark wood cane.

Emi scanned him up and down. The pallor of his face, though diminished with cosmetics, was emblematic of a deficient vitality. His hands had two separate pairs of half-gloves on. They were the kind made for quirk safety, where the first pair was put over two fingers and the other covered the remaining three. The winter coat thrown over his suit looked as insulating as it could possibly be without anchoring his weak, stiff frame to the floor.

After plenty of fussing over Ryota’s wellbeing and an extra moment to calm his unease, the man turned his attention to Emi with a formal nod, “How do you– you– you do. Forgive me if I don’t bow, I am not as resilient as Ryota, here.”

His tone showed not a hint of meekness or embarrassment over having such a present vocal tick. The man held an undeniable poise.

He handed Emi’s brother a pair of spectacles, presumably Ryota’s own that he’d dropped in the commotion. He cleared his throat, pulling in their complete attention and signaling the shorter man to begin the introductions.

“How rude of me,” Ryota adjusted his glasses. “This is my estranged little sister, Emi Fukukado, otherwise known as the Smile Hero, Ms. Joke, who it appears has taken up with our colossal prick of a number two.”

“Be nice. We all have ‘that one coworker’,” the taller man told him. There was no dissent among the adults.

“And this is my nephew, Izuku, here with perfect timing,” Ryota gestured to Emi’s side. She spun to see Izuku running up behind her. “He’s going to be a great hero someday.”

“Charmed,” the man held a hand over his heart in place of a handshake or a bow.

“Emi, Izuku, this is my husband, Yowahari.”

Ryota Kyoei… had a husband?

As in, he maintained a relationship for any significant length of time?

… WHAT?

Oh, how the tables had turned.

Barely able to squeak out a ‘hi’, Izuku waved, his face flush from his uncle’s compliment.

“The pianist!” Emi pointed right in the man’s face, recognizing him from the white suit beneath his coat and mentally capitalizing on that fact to ignore her other emotions. “You play beautifully.”

“You are too k-kind,” Yowahari stuttered in reply, followed by Ryota talking from the side of his mouth. “Trust me, she’s not.”

Emi did her best not to bite his head off for it.

“Rock climbing?” Izuku cryptically asked without thinking, eyeing the man’s cane.

Yowahari shared a look with his husband, then chuckled and looked back to Izuku.

“A–Allergies,” he corrected, half-jokingly. “A reaction to medicine I was given as a boy. My q-q-q-q-quirk… I would be better off without one. Imagine my luck to have a brilliant, quirk-free man walk into my life.”

I think I’m gonna puke, she grimaced at the saccharine sight, and if someone said a part of her was jealous then they were liars and traitors to society in need of silencing.

“Ryota never t-t-told me he h—as a sister,” Yowahari’s soft voice spoke sadly. He side-eyed her brother in that ‘we are going to have a talk about this later’ kind of way. Ryota made a dreading, crackly noise she’d heard herself make in the past when faced with a significant other in the same mood, speaking with the same tone.

“Don’t be too harsh with him,” Emi suggested amicably, then jabbed a thumb at her son. “Izuku didn’t know about any uncles, so I’m as much to blame on that end.”

Speaking of Izuku…

She crouched down to his level.

"Hey, you wanted those autographs, didn’t you? You should get some before the other heroes leave. I doubt they’ll be here much longer, and there’s really no need for you to have to hang around with us boring adults," she urged him with her easiest smile.

As a bonus, he’d be spending as little time as possible around Ryota.

Izuku nodded meekly as an answer to her question, wearing a red tint in his cheeks. His tiny shoes were practically rubbing a hole through the glossy flooring.

"Alright then, ask! They'll definitely say yes, especially to a future hero! Just stay where I’ll be able to spot you when it’s time to go, 'kay? Go get ‘em, gag!" Emi wrapped pinkies with him to lock-in the promise before sending him on his way toward the shrinking crowd at her back. “No offense, fellas, but for a kid, it’s hard to beat All Might.”

Yowahari raised a considerate, gloved hand. Ryota huffed in reluctant agreement.

“He intends to be a hero, as you said. So it m—akes perfect sense.” Yowahari’s hand uncomfortably shifted its grip on his cane. “I do envy his vigor. Yours a-a-as well, Fukukado.”

They shared a brief smile. Killing the moment was none other than her brother, once again.

“Why don’t you have him in some quirk improvement courses or martial arts classes?” Ryota questioned, though it sounded far more like an accusation.

“He’s a child, Ryota, not a tiny adult,” she spent immense willpower resisting the urge to thump his skull. “You talk a big game about being able to see through everyone’s bologna, and yet you still come out with dumb questions like that. You of all people should know just as well as I what it looks like when someone’s parents plan their life out. How it can end up.”

Each of their faces shifted to her words. Ryota turned away, affronted but unable to retort. Emi awkwardly ran a hand through her hair, regretful yet not remorseful over having to invoke the memory of him. Yowahari caught on a second shortly thereafter, frowning.

It took another few minutes of gradually less dodgy smalltalk between her and Yowahari (a man who’d apparently been her brother-in-law for over four years! A concert pianist! Way too nice to be her jerk brother’s husband!) until Ryota spoke up again. The mood was almost relaxed before he interrupted.

“… Your nickname for Izuku is ‘choking’?”

They looked down at him in confusion before she realized what he was referring to.

“The other definition, you doof,” she rolled her eyes. Ryota really could find the worst in everything, couldn’t he?

“So basically you’re trying to convince him he’s just a joke?” her brother’s eyes narrowed and his husband tried desperately to stop the siblings’ fight before it could reignite.

“Ryota, I don’t think sh-sh-sh-she means—” his words fell apart, teeth chattering.

“Izuku is not ’just’ anything,” Emi stood up straighter, features hardening as they would in her most threatening brawls, “and he knows what I mean, so stop trying to get me all turned around! What is it about being a gearhead that qualifies you in child behavioral psychology? Jog my memory, O’ Great One. Please, speak slowly, I’m only a lowly high school graduate. You must have a good answer. There’s no possible way you’d say something stupid for the sake of contradicting me. That could never, ever happen,” she spoke with catastrophic levels of sarcasm.

The petty, if not sometimes outright repugnant things that came spilling from her mouth whenever she interacted with her family—no, no, not her family, her birth family—made Emi sick to her stomach. She was supposed to be over this! It was like being a vegetarian in a pack of hyenas: either go for the throat or starve.

“Perhaps,” Yowahari cut in, having to physically step between them, though careful to keep from touching either of them, “it would be p-prudent to stop talking alto–gether if this is where it leads.”

“Works for me,” Emi said like a heavy stone smacking the ground. Ryota grunted.

Seconds lagged like decades. The siblings glared at each other like it was life or death. Yowahari fidgeted more and more, always on the verge of wanting to converse pleasantly. In the end, he was the first to speak up, ironically breaking his own imposed silence.

“Does anyone want ssssomething to drink? I’m parched,” he squeaked out when neither Emi nor Ryota broke eye contact with one another. “I haven’t had a drop tonight. Do either of– of– of you….? Alright then, no drinks, unders–stood. I will be right back. Don’t kill each other, please.”

Once he hobbled away at as brisk of a pace as his condition would allow, her brother couldn’t resist making another unsolicited comment.

“I heard about Aizawa. I'm sorry," he offered with an earnest sympathy, looking somewhat forlorn.

"You heard what, exactly?" Emi couldn't help herself from responding. "Actually, never mind. I don't need to hear any more about him or what he's been up to, especially not from you."

"Wait, you mean he's not dead? You just... broke things off with him?"

“What about ‘stop talking’ didn’t you get?” she asked, bending her whole posture backward in exhaustion at his persistence to be as grating as possible.

“It’s a simple question. Izuku’s the one who brought him up, not me,” he deflected. “I thought you’d be thankful that I changed the topic out of respect, but I should have known better. Would you prefer I give Izuku his father’s contact information and wash my hands of the whole affair? I’ve got a friend at the Hero Association who would be happy to find his work number.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Why is everything I do a ‘threat’ to you? I’m making conversation.”

She willed the medical professionals to arrive already.

“We separated,” Emi said at last, to get him off her back. “I wasn’t the one to give up, though. I should have been, but he beat me to it. One day he just,” she made an ill-defined hand gesture, “left.”

“You’re telling me he skipped town at the drop of a hat, for no reason?” Ryota’s face pinched together. “I don’t buy it.”

“I couldn’t care less what you do or don’t buy. It was a long time ago. I’m over him,” Emi warned through grit teeth, remembering every time she’d had to hear similar inferences. Even Yowahari approaching from the corner of her vision with an aura of concern couldn’t make her suppress that frustration.

“Clearly not long enough, but keep telling yourself that and maybe someday you’ll believe it,” her jerk brother snorted.

“I— you— augh!” Emi clenched the air, burning through the reserves of her willpower by resisting the knee-jerk urge to call him a quirkless freak. It was one of few tools she could rely on to retaliate his insistence on exploiting her weaknesses and undermining her at every opportunity.

“I must say, I haven’t the f-f-faintest idea who it is we’re t-talking about,” Yowahari frowned, clearly ready to change the subject and hiding behind his champagne glass.

“Nobody important.”

“Damn, are you that sickened with yourself that you can’t even discuss him?” Ryota scoffed.

“There’s nothing to discuss. He’s just my bastard of an ex-boyfriend,” she spit, retrying an answer to Yowahari’s question by venting her anger toward an absent third party.

“That’s— you don’t mean that,” Yowahari added nervously, as though it were an announcement. The siblings argued right over him.

“Ouch, Emi. This is what you said that made him leave, isn’t it? Did he get tired of hearing it all the time?”

“Knock it off with the pretentious, feigned ignorance, Brother,” said Emi with an agitated breath, knowing her intent was not lost on him. He knew damn well she’d meant the word as ‘jerk’, not ‘illegitimate child’. She wouldn’t dream of saying something so terrible as to blame a kid for their parent(s) abandonment.

“Shhh! Please, not in fr—” her brother-in-law choked on his words, withstanding a full-body shiver that had him leaning against the table, drink spilling. Ryota stuck his hand out instinctually to block him from hitting the edge.

She and Ryota stopped their bickering abruptly, looking to Yowahari with varying degrees of concern, both of which he shook off. He could not stand to so quickly ignore the third look, however.

“A–Are you okay?” asked a tiny voice right behind her. Emi spun around to see for herself. “C-Can I help?”

Staring at Yowahari with his big eyes and bigger heart, Izuku clenched a folded white napkin with floral edging. Black ink had bled through it in thick strokes. In his hands Izuku had his holy grail, yet his gaze never wavered. Emi knew no matter how much that rectangle of signatures meant to him, he would give it up in a second if it would help make the sickly man better, a man he’d known all of a few minutes, and he’d never regret the decision, even if it did eventually make him cry. Which it would.

Jeez! I didn’t even notice him sidle up behind me! I wonder whose genes he got that from? Haaaa.

“This is– is– is not my favorite time of year, b-but I will be fine,” Yowahari hoped to put the boy’s mind at ease by waving away the offer. It did not.

He brushed off Ryota’s attempts at keeping him stable and lifted himself until he was leaning on his cane alone. It was like watching a man climb Kilimanjaro with one hand. The air around them felt as though it had crystallized in discomfort, though a clever glint soon appeared in his eyes.

“On second thought, perhaps you could sh-sh-show me to one of those t-tables over there,” he said with ragged breaths, pointing a number of seats away. “I would lllllove to hear about the signatures you have collected, if you will ind-d-dulge me.”

Izuku nodded enthusiastically. He stuck out a small hand to hold, as if he could support the man’s weight if he fell. It brought a small smile to Yowahari’s haggard features. Before being led away by the chatterbox child, he took one last glance at his husband to stare dangers straight through his soul.

“You fffix this, and you fix it right now,” Yowahari demanded at the volume of a mute mouse. “Y–You’re better than this.”

“But she—”

“I don’t care ‘but she’,” Yowahari interrupted. “Sh–She’s not my husband. Fix. It.”

Emi couldn’t help but snicker at her brother getting such a hushed dressing down. If only it could have gone on longer before Yowahari was dragged away by her son, taking the boy's hand with an affectionate ‘m-my hero!’.

It was a bit of a drag not to have gotten to see Izuku run up to her with All Might’s signature, wide-eyed, grinning back to his molars and bouncing off the walls like she’d hoped, but everyone could get overwhelmed sometimes. She wasn’t about to enforce restrictions on expression, telling him how to look or act with each emotion to satisfy her biased expectations. Except crying. He really needed to let himself cry more.

Ack! He’s so good at it when he spends time with Inko! Being stuck with my smiley-ass most of the time sure ain’t helping, and that Katsuki boy really needs to shut up about telling him not to act like a baby.

Ryota sat up straight and kept firm but neutral eye contact with his sister, though she never took Izuku and Yowahari from her line of sight. They were finally left alone. Her brother spoke as fairly as his unfair brain would allow.

“I heard Endeavor mention you sending him your incident resolution stats from this quarter. Correct me if I misunderstood that.”

Opening up the possibility that there might be even one conversation in all of history where he could be anywhere close to ‘wrong’ was unprecedented to hear from Ryota without a catch.

“You should know that the Hero Public Safety Commission’s deadline to transfer those kinds of documents ends one month before the quarter’s through, though. Look it up if you don’t believe me. It’s there to stop people from doing— well, pretty much exactly what you’re doing.”

Wait, what? But the month had already started, which meant…

Emi made a whining sound, blood going cold. She knew in his voice, in his mannerisms, he was telling the truth.

“Go ahead, rub it in my face. Get it over with.”

“Emi, do I look like I’m trying to rub anything in?” he wore nothing but a serious expression.

“What was it you were saying about being looked down on?” she snarled at the pretend-caring.

“See this? Do you know what this is I’m holding?” Ryota rubbed his index finger and thumb together just as Emi had before.

“The world’s smallest cello?”

“Wrong. Absolutely nothing. Which is what your new salary is going to be unless you’re willing to hear me out.”

Emi furrowed her brow, unable to discern what his angle was. She did not speak.

Ryota released a slow breath, his shoulders relaxed without sagging entirely. He was careful to maintain a wall, though his calculating look eased off of her, body language gradually wearing down to match their draining encounter and whatever proposal he was debating within.

“I’ve got a friend at the Hero Association that owes me a favor. If it’s for the right reasons, she could retrieve those forms you sent the HPSC two weeks ago. They must’ve gotten caught up in a Hero Association mailroom by mistake. It’s a good thing she was able to find them in time.”

“The wha—? Right. Yes. Those.”

“You’ve gotten rusty In your old age,” her brother commented, blowing his lips with a vague finality. “Looks like you’re free to go. I see the professionals are here.”

Her eyes followed his finger, pointing to the arriving paramedics, before he raised his hands in the air to mockingly placate her with an exasperated defense.

“Not that you’re not also a professional at what you do," he rolled his eyes.

“Is it too late to let you bleed out?”

Ha.

“Spite can’t blind these eyes. Emi Kyoei would never act so unheroic, and I doubt Emi Fukukado is much different. Besides, for once you actually need me,” he puffed a rough facsimile of a chuckle.

“What’re you playing at? Why would you do this for me?” Emi questioned, tired of the guessing games. She whistled to draw the attention of Izuku and his pale uncle-in-law.

“For you? Don’t be an idiot,” Ryota was repulsed by the suggestion. “That kid deserves every chance he can get, though, and I’m a pushover for Yowahari.”

“If you’re fishing a ‘thank you’—”

“Would you thank a printer with low ink for making a ‘2’ look like a ‘1’? It’s the date on a piece of paper. A soon-corrected error. I’m not helping, so no help exists to accept. Your long-standing record of pettiness will remain intact.”

“That’s actually decent of you," Emi reluctantly pointed out.

“Quick, give me CPR, my little sister acknowledged I’m not pure evil,” Ryota facetiously asked his approaching husband. Izuku’s eyes were starting to droop, rapidly coming down from all the excitement.

She might have laughed, were the joke from anyone else, to anyone else, about anyone else. Letting him have silence in place of a snarky verbal reply would be her gift in return. Emi kept her response simple and immature by pressing a finger against the smooth lenses of his spectacles and smudging a line across them.

He removed his glasses with a long-suffering sigh and took his time collecting the right series of words, like he’d keel over from the strain if he were ever required to express any appreciation for her actions, and yet needed to release himself from the burden of being saved earlier in the night. She was merciful to him in this regard, stopping him before he could start.

“Brother. No. You’d rather build a tiny crossbow out of hors d’oeuvre toothpicks and shoot yourself through the eye than show me a little gratitude,” Emi explained, maintaining a straight face. “You know it. I know it. Let’s skip the charade.”

“Your personality remains as exasperating as ever, Sister,” Ryota spoke under his breath with an indecipherable air of both respect and derision, though he did not deny Emi’s assessment. She poked her tongue out at him.

“It was a p-p-p-pleasure to make your a-acquaintance, heroes,” Yowahari gave Emi weak nod and Izuku a wink. The Fukukados returned his gesture happily. Ryota was not so gracious to his sister.

“Bye, Emi. It wasn’t nice to see yo—oof!” Ryota had his side lightly elbowed by Yowahari for his lack of civility.

“No. No it was not,” Emi agreed, deadpan.

“But it was nice to meet Izuku. He’s a good kid.”

“I know,” she agreed, the corners of her mouth quirking upward despite her unwillingness to accept the compliment with grace.

She stepped away and gathered a blushing Izuku, who followed her like a little duckling, signed napkin in hand. When the EMTs passed them on their way out, she heard her brother call out to grab Izuku’s attention.

“See you around, kid!”

Emi doubted that. Izuku however waved back wearing a toothy smile— minus the top canine he’d lost the week before.

Their exciting (and/or stressful) run-in concluded, Emi released a sigh of relief. It was time to head home and get some well-earned rest; something Izuku desperately needed as sleepiness began to take hold.

First, however, the Smile Hero had one last mission for the day. She opened her phone and stared uselessly at the recent calls list, one tap away from continuing her ex’s conversation.

Hmph. I’m kiiiiiiiiiiinda trying to pre-plan how I’ll provide for my son when I’m dead, which apparently is scheduled for the near future. Do I reeeeeally have to deal with this too?

What a mess it was, having to flip flop between solving two vastly different issues: figuring out what was in Izuku’s best interest and speaking with his absentee father.

Or maybe she just wanted them to be vastly different issues.

“Mama?” Izuku tapped her arm, noticing the conflicted slant of her mouth.

If Nighteye was right (and he was never wrong), what wouldn’t she be around for? It was a self-indulgent question that kept popping up ever since she learned about the ‘looming death’ thingy. Now she had answer #126: the inevitable day that Izuku would face the world with teen rebellion pumping through his veins.

It wouldn’t matter how many videos she planned to record for him. There were some things she wasn’t equipped to deal with, period. As a woman whose entire skillset revolved around facilitating rebellious behavior, to curb those self-destructive tendencies seemed impossible.

Emi sighed, dragging a hand down her face, reflecting on the Shouta she’d known for years up to their final encounter before judging the person built up in her head ever since.

With an anticlimactic click, she put her phone to sleep, a black wall coming between her thumb and the choice to keep her word.

Because screw him, that’s why. He didn’t deserve her boy. And Izuku would understand when he got older, wouldn’t he? Of course he would. He was a smart boy. He could have his wants and wishes, but they were doing fine on their own. Shouta made his decision a long time ago.

This would be better for everyone.

“When’re we gonna get home?” Izuku rubbed his eyes. “D’we have any pizza left?”

“Cross your fingers,” Emi ruffled his… weirdly-sticky hair?

Far into their journey home, he got so tired that she ended up needing to piggyback him. But it was hard to mind when she had a kid as cute as he was.

“Hey, Izuku?”

“Mhmm?” he groggily replied.

“I know things are a little tough right now, but they’re going to get better. I promise.”

“Um. Okey-dokey,” Izuku yawned, failing to fully take in her response.

“Good answer:” Emi grinned. “okey-dokey.”

Chapter Text

As much as she enjoyed bitching about morons to the few people worthy of her time, Mitsuki's life as of late had been so hectic she'd almost forgotten that she was scheduled to see Dr. Shinrai Shinsou.

“Just under a month and a half, isn't it? Until Katsuki starts at U.A.?” Dr. Shinsou asked at a lull in their conversation. “You must be proud.”

Mitsuki grunted an affirmative, but the following silence pressured her to elaborate. “We always knew he’d get in though, so it ain’t what I'd call a shock. But yeah, 'course. It's U.A."

The other woman gave a quiet ‘ah’ and waited for her to say more, something Mitsuki had no intention of doing as there was little more to be said.

“Has he been adjusting well?” Dr. Shinsou casually asked, evident that she did not mean adjusting to his U.A. acceptance. 

Mitsuki huffed, knowing that although she never had to answer, staying silent would be like giving up, accepting defeat. “Didn't you ask him?"

Dr. Shinsou brushed away a rebellious strand of bluish hair and gave Mitsuki a regrettable ‘you know that I know that you know that I can’t talk about that’ expression. If only life’s problems could be resolved so easily. Then the good doctor would be out of a job.

Mitsuki sighed, turning away from the intensely-understanding vibes.

"The house ain’t on fire, so that’s fantastic. What do you wanna hear? He’s hurt. Half the time he's louder than ever and the other half he's so quiet I can barely hear him, and being able to hear him is kind of important when he's trying to actually talk to us about this mess. I hate seeing him like this. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled he hasn't shut us out, but I'm not used to this shit. As much as I try to be there for him, I don't do sugar-coating very well, Doc."

"Even if you did, I doubt the boy you raised would want to hear it," Dr. Shinsou said with a hint of a smile, making Mitsuki snort in agreement. "Some of us need hard truths. The good news is that despite how awful it must seem to him at the moment, especially given his self-image, it is a manageable impairment, albeit not the ideal. Just as your husband or I have imperfect vision," she tapped at the arm of her spectacles, "Katsuki has imperfect hearing. It's as simple as that."

Mitsuki nodded in agreement. "Listen, I get it, I've said that, but I ain't dumb enough to try and force Katsuki to see it that way. If I've learned one thing from fifteen years of him shouting all the damn time, it's knowing when I'm punching a brick wall. Sometimes you just gotta wait on people, yeah?"

"Well put," Shinsou smiled through her eyes. "As an aside, I must say, I'm proud of how well you're taking the news of our separation."

"...Hah?"

"Our separation," she said again, as if Mitsuki was the one with fucked-up eardrums. "The email my office sent you since our last appointment. Twice. Dokoji spoke with you over the phone to reconfirm your email address, just to be sure. We also sent a letter. It had 'important' printed in bold on the envelope."

"You mean that wasn't some survey crap?" Mitsuki twitched. "Hold on, are you ditching us?"

"My duty is to ensure you're given the best possible care, even if that means from someone else. We can still meet for the remainder of our currently-scheduled sessions, and there are a few recommendations I wrote down inside the letter that—"

"Holy shit, you ARE ditching us! What'd we do?!" Mitsuki's hands grasped at nothing, like anger was enough to attract answers.

“Please, there is no need to be so reductive," the other woman tried to calm her. "My son was accepted into the U.A. hero course. There is a fifty percent chance he and Katsuki will be in the same class."

"And?"

“It’s the most prestigious hero school in the country, being competitive is a given."

Mitsuki ground her teeth, but otherwise kept herself in check. "So, you're punishing my kid for excelling."

Dr. Shinsou frowned in equal parts disappointment and empathy. "I'm not punishing anyone. This is for his benefit, and yours, and it's something I've been mulling over since before their results came back."

The doctor rolled a pen between her fingers, staring to the side for a considerable length of time as she broke down how to elaborate her answer. Mitsuki bit her tongue, waiting.

"I have interacted with Izuku Midoriya—" Dr. Shinsou held the slightest pause, "—more than once. He goes to my son's school. I may have mentioned that in the past, I do not recall. Initially, I felt this distant enough to use simply as context for my sessions with Katsuki, however, having since spent a... not insignificant amount of time in Midoriya's presence... Ethically, I am confident with how I have conducted the professional relationship between myself and your family up to now, and that doing so has been in good faith. However, it would be arrogant to assume I can remain forever impartial."

... The fuck? Mitsuki's expression degraded to one of complete bafflement.

"What the hell does Izuku have to do with this? I thought we were talking about your kid— shit, I thought we were talking about my kid!"

"We are," Dr. Shinsou answered cryptically. Coming to a halt when faced with Mitsuki's confusion, she decided to approach from a different angle. "Let me tell you what I see when I look at Izuku Midoriya. I see a natural predisposition toward intense emotions, not unlike his adoptive mother, exacerbated by how relentless he is in disguising it. Low self-esteem, an acute fear of abandonment, pronounced social anxieties, distrust of authority figures, insomnia, and clear signs of long term verbal and physical abuse."

Mitsuki frowned, sad to find even a hint of merit in Dr. Shinsou's estimation. It made her heart hurt to think about, but she could conjure up a terrific explanation for a couple of those, as Izuku's background was not all sunshine and rainbows. The rest of the list gravitated between being unlikely to blatantly wrong, obviously, which she chalked it up to her doctor not knowing the boy long enough.

Getting anything right didn't seem like bad odds for a random guess, though.

What this had to do with her family had yet to be mentioned, and Mitsuki mentally urged the woman to get to the fucking point. The only hypothetical connection she could imagine was being made seemed profoundly distasteful.

"I could go on, but I'd rather not speculate more than I already have," Dr. Shinsou said. "Do what you will with my informal observations on the matter. I simply wanted to give you notice before I share them with Inko Midoriya."

What began as an unflattering possibility moved into sounding like a flat-out accusation. Worse still, one that didn't even make sense.

"Okay? The hell are you implying with that?" Mitsuki barked, passionate as ever, barely registering that she had stood up.

"I would ask that you not yell at me, Bakugo," Dr. Shinsou spoke flatly, but it was clear how much weight her request carried. "I am doing everything in my power to help, short of using my quirk."

"Do whatever you want, who gives a shit," Mitsuki said, flopping back into her seat at the doctor's quiet warning.

"I beg your pardon?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Use your quirk. If that's the only thing that'll stop us from talking in circles, then hit me. Be my guest. Ask away. I got nothing to hide."

Dr. Shinsou seemed to consider it, studying Mitsuki's face.

"Are you positive?"

Mitsuki threw her hands in the air. "Yes. That's what I said."

With a nod, Dr. Shinsou removed her glasses and made prolonged eye contact with Mitsuki. They soon fogged over, making it difficult to tell where the woman was looking. When she spoke, there was no attempt to bury the lead, much to Mitsuki's surprise.

"Has Katsuki ever been abusive toward Izuku, to your knowledge?"

"Yes," came out when Mitsuki was certain she'd said 'no'. It was like hearing another person say it. "Wait, I meant yes. Agh! Goddamn it, hold on, I'm saying it depends on your definition. Now, I know that sounds very bad—"

"It does. Please explain."

"—but after Izuku came to live with Inko, Katsuki complained about Izuku using his quirk on him. I don't remember how many times, but not much, since I told him to knock it off."

"You told Izuku to stop it?" Dr. Shinsou questioned, drawing a look onto Mitsuki's face like she'd sucked on a lemon.

"What? No! Even if he was using it, you can't get more harmless than Izuku's quirk. Unless you need your quirk to breathe, which ain't how Katsuki's works, even if he acts like it sometimes, so I told him to quit bitchin'. Anyway, I saw Katsuki and a couple of those little assholes he used to hang out with being mean to Izuku a week or so later. I told 'em to stop that shit, obviously. That happened a few more times, but it didn't last long."

"Did you not bring this up with Inko Midoriya?" Dr. Shinsou asked, and Mitsuki shook her head. "Why not?"

"She had a lot going on that I didn't wanna add to. I also didn't want to admit Katsuki was picking on him, so having a decent excuse to avoid that was very convenient," Mitsuki answered with complete honesty despite herself before jumping to play damage control on her previous sentences. "It's not like Katsuki was sending him home in tears! It was just some name-calling, twisting his arm, that kind of shit."

"What were they calling him?"

Mitsuki blew her lips, recollecting. "There was one time I heard Katsuki call him a bastard, which I dragged the brat right home for and told his toadies to piss off. Most of it I don't remember, though. Saying he must've cheated on some test or that he's annoying— I didn't stand around to listen. Like I said, it didn't last long."

"So, after these encounters, you never saw or heard about Katsuki having a significant issue with him? Discounting the fight that led to Izuku's transfer to Nabu."

"Yeah, that's right. By their last trimester of elementary school, though, it was pretty clear to me that their friendship had dissolved a bit. I saw Izuku with scrapes or bruises during— well, that isn't too unusual. He's not exactly the most..."

"Risk-averse?"

"Yeah. He's not the most risk-averse person—"

"Trust me, I've gathered that," Dr. Shinsou nodded along.

"—but this time was worse than that. He was sprinting home, looking like he got his shit kicked in, and he had gunk all over his arm and his mouth. I tried to ask him what happened, but he isn't the type to name names."

"I've gathered that as well."

"There was this classmate of theirs—don't remember his name, he had a clay quirk, fucker looked like a golem—that I saw the morning after, except his face was dented as hell and he had bite marks on his knuckles. So, I handled that part of the situation, and I let Inko know what was going on, she talked to their principal, there was—"

Dr. Shinsou held her hands up in a T shape. "Time out for a moment. Go back. What do you mean you 'handled' it?"

Mitsuki gave her a puzzled look at the question. "I grabbed him by the collar and said if he ever does anything like that again I'd beat his parents to death with the family dog. And when I saw Izuku, I told him to bite harder next time."

They sat in silence for a beat as Dr. Shinsou debated whether to approach that answer or save it for later. Mitsuki made the choice for her by continuing.

"My point is that I wouldn't have handled it if he and Katsuki were still best friends, because Katsuki would've already turned that bully into a regrowing puddle. So, they still got problems, which I guess culminated into that tussle of theirs at Aldera, but they'll sort it out with age. Sure, junior high has been a low point, but Izuku's a tough kid. Katsuki doesn't need to be his bodyguard anymore. Insults are a total joke to Izuku, nothing anyone says bothers him, and he's fought and won against a lot worse than some doughy little shit bully."

Dr. Shinsou made a soft hum to show she was not only listening, but giving Mitsuki's words considered thought.

"Yeah, they're distant right now, but once Izuku gets into the hero course—which he will—things'll go back to normal," Mitsuki concluded.

Despite her foggy eyes, Dr. Shinsou looked at Mitsuki as though she could stare straight inside her if she wanted to. "You've never worried about whether their relationship soured further than being 'distant'?" 

"Yes. Oh, wait, do you mean aside from when they were caught fighting and my kinda-adoptive-nephew had to change schools?" Mitsuki answered sarcastically, eyes rolling. "Let me put it to you this way: I've gotten food poisoning and worried about desert sharks tricking my husband into kicking me off my high school debate team. So, 'worried' is pretty fuckin' relative. As far as Izuku and Katsuki go? Yeah, sure, there have been moments, but I knew if things between them ever got bad, Masaru would say something." 

"With all due respect, from what I gather, your husband is not a confrontational man."

Mitsuki shook her head, not even considering it. "No, fuck that, I know Masaru, if things between them had gone to hell, he would've said something," she repeated.

"Perhaps he was preoccupied with consistently micromanaging the communication between his wife and son before you wisely decided to seek help," Dr. Shinsou threw out a different option. "Is 'why' really the most important question at this point?"

"No, it's not, so it beats me why we're still discussing hypothetical ancient history. You're talking about this like it happened," Mitsuki scoffed, but when Dr. Shinsou didn't visibly react at all, her blood began to cool.

"... Would you mind if I gave you a suggestion?"

"Yes, I will definitely mind, it is going to annoy the shit out of me to be told what to do right now, but if it weren't for your quirk I would avoid saying that out loud, so tell me anyway."

"Tell Katsuki why Izuku lives with Inko Midoriya. Not the answer you gave him in elementary school," Dr. Shinsou was deliberate in noting.

Mitsuki gave a look that might have come off aggressive were doubts not planting themselves in her mind. The other woman seemed to understand.

"I haven't known the Midoriyas for long, I've never met Izuku's birth mother, and I cannot begin to extrapolate why he is no longer with her, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that they are not the reasons you told your son. At least not fully," she deduced. "Although I haven't seen what came of it myself, I wholeheartedly trust there was a fire. As for the rest..."

Dr. Shinsou briefly paused, simply to make sure Mitsuki wasn't about to interrupt, before continuing.

"Maybe being a hero really was more important to her, maybe she really had never been financially or emotionally equipped to handle Izuku, maybe he has every cause not to talk about her, maybe the other excuses were equally true— or maybe not. I wouldn't know, but something is missing, and if you ever expect Katsuki to be forthright with you, you owe him the same."

Mitsuki sat up straighter, finding her voice. "I won't needlessly endanger my son."

Dr. Shinsou blinked. She hadn't expected that.

"The truth could put Katsuki at risk?"

"It might, and that's enough for me," Mitsuki said with conviction.

Dr. Shinsou yawned, not from lack of engagement with Mitsuki, but from keeping her quirk active. "You don't have to tell me what happened. I'm not prying for skeletons in the Midoriya family's closet. All I want to know is this: were the excuses you gave Katsuki accurate?"

That really was the question, now wasn't it?

"No," Mitsuki began so easily with the influence of Dr. Shinsou's quirk, "they were horse shit. We didn't want him causing Izuku any more grief or putting himself in danger, thinking he can fix the unfixable, and you can bet your sweet ass we weren't about to stick Katsuki on some crazy fuck's hit list," she ranted, eliciting a shocked reaction, notable even behind Dr. Shinsou's foggy eyes. "I don't have the ins and outs of it, but fucking sue me for being overprotective after hearing about what the Fukukados dealt with. I put my kid first. Yeah, I might have reason for shame, but any half-decent parent would make the same call."

"Mitsuki, you never have to justify yourself to me," Dr. Shinsou assured her.

I'm not, she tried to say, but the quirk did not allow it. "I... don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Dr. Shinsou rested a hand on Mitsuki's. Her eyes returned to their normal state.

"Some of us need hard truths," she echoed, "even if we can't have them all."

Against every urge telling her to leave it be, Mitsuki took the intelligent Doctor Shinrai Shinsou's advice. She could not in good conscience let her doubts go unresolved.

She and Masaru left out a detail here or there, only what they agreed was needless risk, regardless of size, but it was in all other ways the flood of ugly facts they'd kept from their son.

Katsuki, in turn, vomited. 

Not because of what they had told him, but because of what he went on to reveal. Katsuki unleashed a torrent of words that, in parts, rivaled Izuku's own near-endless strings of mumbling.

He voiced years of wretched behavior, inexcusable action; he openly recalled encounters he'd had with Izuku at random, moments where his judgment faltered. Those turned out to be the vast majority since Izuku came to live with Inko.

After a while, Mitsuki almost doubted that her son was even talking to them anymore. He was just talking.

Eventually, when Katsuki rediscovered their presence, the sharing session inevitably devolved into shouting at one another over the others' involvement, which then evolved back into even louder shouting at one another over what they themselves had done, like some kind of fucked up competition.

The yelling went on for hours, however, it was the quiet that lasted. They lacked the drive to bicker even the average amount. There was far too much self-loathing—or what an optimist might call reflection—to bother critiquing each others' involvement. 

The family collectively understood that they had talk with Inko, and Mitsuki knew it would have to be sooner than later.

They chose their timing very carefully, when they knew Inko would be home but Izuku would be gone. He didn't deserve to have this thrown at him without warning, and Mitsuki's boy sure as hell couldn't face him. Katsuki gave up his perfect attendance record to make the timing work, and if that bothered him in the slightest, he was too despondent to show it.

Speaking to Inko, someone Mitsuki would have usually considered her gentle friend—two words she certainly couldn't use now and worried she wouldn't be able to again—it went about as well as Mitsuki expected.

She hadn't been able to nab Fukukado's contact information before they were kicked out, but Inko must have explained the situation to the Pro Hero after they left, because the woman 'luckily' arrived at their doorstep out of the blue within a week. 

Mitsuki did not have much experience with injuries, but she was... pretty sure her nose wasn't outright broken...? Or maybe it was, she didn't have a fucking clue. Damn did it hurt like hell though, following the surprise visit. She couldn't even be mad. The other woman could have done so, so much worse. Frankly, it was also impressive how much she'd gotten done in a reunion that lasted all of thirty seconds.

Mitsuki set her work aside at the sound of the doorbell. No sooner did she open the door than have somebody ram their skull into her face.

"OW! WHAT the FUCK—?!" Mitsuki shouted, knocked down by the headbutt. The intruder—a woman, dressed in a baggy hoodie, with a bandanna covering much of her face—casually strode past her.

Her husband stepped out from their office wearing an appropriately-confused look. The woman moved without allowing him a single millisecond to grasp the situation.

"Hold this for me," she placed what looked like a snow globe into Masaru's hands and gave him a thankful pat on the shoulder. Mitsuki rolled over, groaning, as the woman shoved her husband back into their office filled with all manner of hard work, slaved-over designs, prototypes, and incredibly important documents, then slid a chair beneath the door handle. 

Without hesitance, the intruder came back to stand over her. Mitsuki tried to sit up despite her disorientation and bleeding nose. The woman, however, pulled a gun from her hoodie. 

Having a bulky pistol pointed at her, Mitsuki could do nothing but freeze at the sight.

She flinched at an explosive noise, followed by a yelp, that both came from their office. Masaru was in there. Horror shot up her spine. It all felt like it was happening in slow motion, seeing the trigger squeezed inches away from her face.

Mitsuki jumped as the pistol fired—

—a rod, still attached to the barrel. A tiny sign unfurled: 

BANG! written in cartoonish lettering.

Snickering, the intruder crouched and pulled her orange bandanna down. It took a moment for the blurry-eyed Mitsuki to recognize the woman's derisive smirk.

"Gotcha'," Fukukado taunted, spinning her toy gun around as relief washed over Mitsuki.

The toy fired in a flash, rod firmly embedding into their hardwood flooring mere inches from Mitsuki's face. The fear that had begun to drain from her body spiked tenfold. Any disdainful amusement had fallen from Fukukado's face. What remained was the most hateful look Mitsuki had ever seen, against which all other sights worth fearing could be compared.

It felt like a cautionary tale. Why pushing a truly kind person past the point of reason was a far greater danger than pissing off anyone else. If the tables were turned, this was the kind of shit Mitsuki would fantasize about, and she'd definitely talk about it, too, but she'd never actually fucking do it.

Where Izuku fell on that gradient, Mitsuki had no desire to learn.

She turned to see how deep the rod had gone through the floor.

The goofy sign attached was partway in the ground, like an upside down flagpole. So close to it, she could see reddish-brown stains that made her skin crawl.

When she looked back up, a casual mask of indifference covered the loathing in Fukukado's features. She held the toy tight enough for her hand to shake, but spoke as though its firing had been a mistake. "Oh, good, that still works," she inspected the toy, yanking its shot out of their floor.

Holstering the reloaded prop in her jacket pocket, she pointed to the blood gushing from Mitsuki's nose. "You'll wanna sit forward for that." 

Ah, how very courteous.

When Mitsuki started to move, she was knocked right back down from a punch to the face.

The office door handle wiggled and Masaru spoke, but whatever he said was buried under her own curses while Fukukado pulled her to sit up, without a punch this time.

"Smile more, Bakugo," Fukukado suggested at the sight of Mitsuki's snarling, giving her a few pats on the back. "That slimy rat son of yours isn't here to see you looking helpless. So chin up."

By the time Mitsuki could stand, Fukukado was outside, bandanna back in place. "And by the way, I have an alibi for this," the hero succinctly summed up, shutting their front door behind her without further explanation.

"She's efficient, I'll give her that," Mitsuki reminisced, accepting an ice pack from Masaru, who, like everything in their office, had been covered head to toe in extra-strength glitter.

[8 Years Ago]

"What the hell is this?" Emi stormed into the office of her new boss, doing a poor job of capping her target-less, passionate disbelief.

Endeavor looked on, bored. "Nothing that will go on your record."

"My record? Don't you see what this says?" she whacked the short stack of HPSC paperwork dangling from her clenched fingers, a standard E-14 police form on top acting as summary.

[Case No.] VL59230-783

[Name of Deceased] Saiko, Zen

[Sex] Male

[Age] 25

[Cause of Death] Severed medulla oblongata

The Deceased voiced irritation multiple times over a pinching sensation above the nape of their neck. Given that many of the quills covering their back (pg.3) snapped as a result of resisting detainment, these complaints went unanswered by the officers that were subsequently present at the TOD. Officers Yoichi and Rin, who were stationed on guard duty, found no cause for concern, operating with a basic knowledge of the Deceased's physiology via their quirk database page, on which it is stated that the process of regrowing quills could cause them mild discomfort. When the Deceased suddenly collapsed, both officers immediately administered first aid, to no avail.

The full autopsy report (pg.6-13) shows a fragment of shockproof shrapnel wedged into the sensitive, exposed flesh typically protected by the quirk of the Deceased, likely a result of their losing balance during the incident leading to their arrest. It appears that over the next fifty-nine hours, the movement of their head, exacerbated by their frequent attempts to remedy the pain, caused the invasive object to slide deeper until it pierced through the brainstem of the Deceased, killing them in seconds.

Endeavor kept eye contact, having prior read the report. "It says a man died."

"It says I killed him!"

Well, not in so many words. 'Lost balance'? Emi tackled the guy hard, yet she was referenced only three times, and by the title 'an off-duty hero' at that. Whether that began as a result of her absence from the guest list or an obfuscation on the part of her employer, Emi could not say. Either way, it wasn't a detail the investigators could misplace, unless done willfully.

"Don't be dramatic. The police just want to debrief you," to look like they're doing their due diligence despite the gaping omissions made to avoid prolonging an open-and-shut case any longer than it has to be, her brain finished his sentence. He didn't need to say it out loud.

Frustratingly, she couldn't even blame them. The police had an untold amount of other, actually-important piles of work to get through. However, guilt still clawed at her for 'getting away with it', as if wading through a bunch of legal crap for who-knows-how-long only to reach the exact same obvious conclusion was any better or more moral of an option.

"Look, Joke. We save everyone we can. Even villains. But sooner or later there comes a person you can't save. It happens. Or so I'm told. Never had that problem, myself."

What a poet. He should become a motivational speaker.

"No— No, it doesn't just 'happen'. Not to me. I've been doing this a long time and I've never— I wouldn't—" and the simple fact that had been kicked off a cliff when she started to read the report finally hit the ground. "I killed someone."

Endeavor grunted and returned to his work. "You looked ready to feed him his heart for threatening that child of yours. Go back to that and stop wasting work hours."

Yeah. That wasn't a... terrible point. The villain did attack her kid, after all. What if something had happened to him? Between the two options, the correct choice, for Emi, was undeniable. Not that anyone can put a price on life, because it isn't valued that way, it can't be measured like that, except when it comes to Izuku, in which case everyone else can take a hike—

"Why are you telling me this."

"—I mean, sure, having the cost of a life on my conscience is definitely gonna haunt me for a few decades at minimum—"

"I do not care."

"—probably longer, but not as many as it would if my gag had been hurt, and besides, I'm pretty good at compartmentalizing awful stuff, not to toot my own horn, the trick is to stuff it down as deep as you can, box it up and—"

"Joke," he harshly snatched Emi's arm during one of her sweeping, emphatic hand gestures, only long enough to catch her attention before letting go. "Get out of my office. Now."

"You got it, boss! I'll leave right away! Man, I know a lot of folks say you're a colossal jerk and that your property damage costs are ridicky-donk-ulous and you frighten children and apparently the Australians don't like you—no clue how you managed that—but I think you're a swell guy!" Emi knocked him on the shoulder. It felt like tapping concrete.

His eyes drifted to spot she punched, then back to her, unblinking and accompanied by a heavy scowl. "And I don't mean that as a come-on," she spoke, backing out the door, still talking to cope against a profoundly intimidating glare. "No offense, you just aren't my type. I hope you're okay with that."

"Literally nothing you've said in this conversation has mattered to me in the slightest."

"Oh, uh, my bad... P.S. can I have Christmas Eve off?" she cupped her hands to yell, like the door and the desk were much farther away from one another than they really were.

"No."

"What if I promise not to have another intense moral conundrum in your office for at least six months?"

When he didn't look up from his work, she raised her offer to match every tiny step she took until only her face was peaking through the doorway.

"Seven months...? Eight months... Eight months and one week... Eight months and eight days... Eight months and nine days and I try harder to be less fun whenever we're in the same room and I never tell a soul you agreed."

"Half-day," he countered like it was wasted breath and Emi clicked the door shut with an agreeable cheer. "Heck yeah! Happy Holidays!... HEY, YOU GUYS! YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I GOT ENDEAVOR TO AGREE TO!"

She popped back in the doorway for a split second, "Just kidding!" Emi gave a little wave before popping out. 

Then back in. "But seriously, though. I'm holding you to that. No take-backsies." Then popped out again.

As she stepped down the hall, a head-like 'thud' could be heard hitting her boss's desk.

Chapter Text

"Izuku?"

Izuku peered up from his homework, on which he had been working diligently. It would suck to screw up his finals when U.A. was only a month away. General Studies, his brain barbed at him.

His mother was by his door, though. He could take a break for her.

Having her in his room however, left him feeling... vulnerable, somehow. It wouldn't have been an issue, but recently he'd been living in quite the mess. The result of owning All Might posters, All Might sheets, All Might pens, All Might figures, All Might everything, but not wanting to even see the man's face.

"I'm going to tell you something, but I need your word that you'll let me finish and that you won't make excuses."

His heart rate quickened, because no painless conversation ever started that way, but cleared his throat as not to stutter. "Yes ma'am."

She took a seat at the foot of his bed. "Some visitors came by today—"

"Oh! You and Shinsou's mom had plans, right? Yeah, I know," Izuku chuckled away any anxiety. What a relief! He thought it was something serious. "We're both totally for it! You guys don't see each other enough without us hanging around, and you deserve more people who appreciate you!"

His heart sank when she shook her head. "No, that's not— well, we did, and she continues to be a lovely woman, but I'm talking about the Bakugos."

His pencil dropped alongside his gut. Kacchan wouldn't take a day off school for no reason.

"I made some tea when they told me they needed to talk. The way they said it— I'll admit, I was a little worried, but Katsuki...." 

So close, Izuku could hear his mother fight to take a deep, steady breath, for she would not begin without one, nor without considered words. 

"He wanted me to give you a letter because you 'wouldn't want to see him in-person'. He looked... awful. Like something was tearing him at the seams and he might split. He usually puts on such a brave face. I haven't seen him like that in years. S-So I reached over to give him a hug, since I assumed it was because of his accident—"

Accident? Izuku mouthed. 

"His hearing, sweetie, it— don't worry yourself over it, that's beside the point," she waved away with a shake of the head. "He froze up when I got close. I didn't quite understand why until..."

Oh no.

"Katsuki started reading from h-his phone. He said it was... He said that it was every terrible thing he could remember doing to you." 

Izuku stilled and mom audibly gulped through silent tears. 

"Izuku, he must have gone on for ten minutes straight," Mom barely got out, throat clenching down individual sobs. She extended a hand, prompting him to sit on the bed with her. Her delicate fingers squeezed his callused ones, as if to determine which came from his own doing and which were the fault of his explosive peer. "Is it true?"

Is what true? 

That Kacchan bullied him? That they hadn't been friends in years? That since their last move, he'd heard Deku, villain, worthless, and on the worst days, bastard, more than he'd heard his own name? 

That up until he transferred to Nabu, he often spent his weekdays feeling like he sat right on a knife's edge because he never knew what Kacchan would use as an excuse to 'fight' him? That Kacchan would use other kids as bait if he tried to avoid those fights? That he wasn't just 'clumsy'? 

That staying up late had been the only way to maximize the hours he was away from Kacchan? That he was an expert in reasons why no one would ever want him, and Kacchan was brilliant at reminding him of the highlights? 

That he never wanted anyone, his mom least of all, to find out about any of the things that she likely now knew? Because at least then he could pretend that the rest of the world might be able to see something in him?

That he could probably double whatever list Kacchan read to her? That the last thing he wanted was for her to worry?

When Izuku looked up from their hands, his mom's expression told him a simple fact: whatever she now knew, it was more than he could laugh off. Far more.

"Yeah," he answered, because there was no running from it now. "It's true."

Izuku saw her face twist for but a brief moment before he was wrapped into her shaking arms as she wept in full.

"I know I haven't always— I've made so many mistakes, Izuku, but you have to believe me, I didn't know. I promise you, baby, I— I didn't know!"

Well, at least he'd done that right.

"I love you so, so much, and if I could go back in time— there are so many things I wish I had done differently, I— I just— I didn't want to change you. You're already such an incredible young man, and I was so petrified of teaching you the wrong lessons— of re-replacing any of the right ones that your..." she trailed off shortly, "... that I'd already taught you, that I don't think I realized how much I was putting on you. Oh, Izuku, I'm so sorry you got stuck with such a crummy mother."

"No! You're not!" he passionately defended. "Don't say stuff like that about yourself! You're the best mom ever!"

She snorted through the last few dozen teardrops from the initial wave before reinforcements could arrive. "That's definitely not true."

Of course it was! What about that had Izuku explained so poorly that she would ever think otherwise? 

She was his constant. Never once had his mom told him he could be anything less than everything he wanted to be. Never had he questioned her love. Whether that love made any sense to have was another matter entirely, but as far as Izuku could tell, she had never considered that question.

She told him every day how much she loved him. She never critiqued him. She gave him space when he needed it. She welcomed his friend with open arms. She would proudly speak of the amazing hero her son would be, of how he was already a hero in her eye. 

She helped him stick to his diet even when all he wanted was sugary cereal. She never brought home complaints about her work, even though she probably had lots of her own frustrations. 

She was always there to talk to. He did his best to avoid that option, obviously, but she had always made herself available. She did so much for him. It wasn't her fault he didn't like to worry her or—

"Sweetie, you're going to give yourself a sore throat," Mom gave him a strong pat on the back and held him tighter still. "And you don't need to defend me. Though it is very sweet that you would want to, even if I couldn't catch most of that. But alright, I won't say I'm crummy if it makes you so upset. It's just... I should never have treated it like changing schools would fix everything. Even before that, I should never have stopped looking for specialists."

Oh, yeah. Why had they gone to so many way back then? The scaring on his back had mostly healed fine by then, hadn't it? Even at that young age, Izuku may not have known exactly how much money things cost, but seeing Mom at the kitchen table at eleven o'clock at night looking over bills equaled 'a lot'. Still, it seemed like for a while there, it was appointment after appointment. Kind of a blur.

Izuku made a comment into the shoulder of her shirt with half his mouth available for use. "Aren' you b'owing dis' a bit oudda' puh'portion?"

"No." her voice firmly stuck the landing. "I've always wanted so badly to support you and your dreams, and yet I failed to support you in the now, Izuku."

"Nuh you haben't!"

"Yes, I have, but I swear that isn't a mistake I will make again. I swear it. Look at me, baby." 

"... 'ow?" 

"Oh!" his mom caught on. She delicately leaned Izuku away to look at him directly, a hand on either cheek, brushing the hair from his unsightly face. Her glistening, still-damp eyes met his own tearless ones.

"You are the smartest, kindest, most earnest person I have ever known. You are also easily the most stubborn when it comes to helping people. It's no wonder you're going to make an incredible hero. But a person can only be so self-sacrificing before it eats them from the inside, along with their loved ones," she said, and while Izuku didn't register releasing a single, short whimpering noise, he did hear it. "You might not care about yourself, but there are others who do. More than you know."

A slight buzzing pain sat behind his eyes. Izuku did his best to tune it out, but the sensation checking in on him had been enough to distract him from replying. Instead, his mom continued.

"I'm not asking for habits to break in a day. I understand you can't flip the way you think on and off like a light switch. I know this is a transition. But it will be a lot easier on both of us if you just let me in, because we are way, way past the point of me being able to assume you'll tell me when something is wrong."

He almost spoke, but she had a 'let me finish' look about her.

"You don't have to tell me every thought in your head, or do everything right instantly, always, and I'm not going to go snooping, but learn to tell me the big stuff, Izuku, because mark my words, either way, I will find out for myself, and it won't be from somebody else bringing it up once it's too late for me fix. Through hell or high water, I will not allow you to brush me off. Not again." 

"I'm sor—" the familiar phrase escaped his lips.

"Stop. None of this is your fault. None." Mom ran a thumb across the last scar Kacchan had given him. The last he would ever give him. "What do you think? Are you in? Can you agree to talk to me? Make this easier for us both?"

Izuku opened his mouth, and her index finger hovered in front of it.

"And you don't get to use a loophole answer of saying 'we already talk everyday', so do not try to give me that, young man. You are more than smart enough to understand what I am asking of you, and a lie of omission is still a lie. I need you to be honest with me. I am not an audience to perform for. So?"

Izuku had no idea what he was meant to say.

'Yes', without thinking it through in order to make her happy, even if it would make her twice as sad later when he let her down?

'No', and get what he deserved, but not what his mom wanted?

Or maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world to admit 'deserved' wasn't the hard road he punished himself with. It was the easy, routine, desirable answer. Maybe making the difficult choice to indulge in a habit he actually wanted deep down, no matter how steep the hill, wouldn't be all that bad. 

Heroes make tough choices all the time, and 'deserve' just means you have to be good enough, right? That felt doable. He wasn't good, and part of him doubted he ever would be. 

But he could be good enough.

"Okay," Izuku said lamely.

He could see his mom's expression shift to one releasing silent tears of joy before the two of them clamped onto one another for so long that by the time they split back apart, Izuku spent a few seconds adrift from not having her breathing and sniffles right next to his ear. She wiped at the trails of salty discharge on her reddened face.

"I should..." he shrugged toward his homework, and his mom understood.

"I'll holler when dinner is ready. You probably aren't hungry, but you've got to keep your strength up for when you transfer into the hero course," she knocked her knuckles together.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. Izuku let her belief drown out his doubts. He gave a shallow nod. His mom took a few scant steps to the door before he stopped her with a whisper.

"Do you think maybe at some point... I could show you the video U.A. sent? I've been, um, redecorating, which I guess is obvious," he glanced around his messy room, "but i-it'd be nice i-if you knew why? I'm sorry, this is stupid, I shouldn't have said anything, forget I even—"

"Izuku."

His rambling abruptly halted.

"Y-Yeah, Mom?"

"Do you want to show me now or after supper? Then we can tidy up your room. Together."

A second passed before Izuku started to laugh. It wasn't quite the tearful, emotional release he wanted, but the way his sides hurt from all the laughter felt like a brilliant substitute.

Every morning, it was on Katsuki's mind. 

On their counter was the phone he'd used to speak to his best friend more times than he could count. Miss Fukukado—whose son she could not hold, whose son had needed a friend, then more than ever—always had to set her phone volume to very low for the sake of her boy's eardrums. 

Katsuki's parents did the same for him, as they had always been a loud pair of kids, but he still found a way to fuck up his hearing. Go figure.

That cupboard used to have an ever-present, colorful brand of cereal in it that made milk look practically radioactive. Katsuki and his family all hated it. They had always kept a box in stock because Deku liked it, though.

Every day at school, it was on Katsuki's mind. 

He could only hope that he was still scoring well, because he hadn't been conscious of the schoolwork he was turning in for days. Deku had been terrific at academics. He might have even been as good as Katsuki if he spent less time joking around.

That was the seat where his best friend sat. As quietly as he could. Over there was where he ate. Alone. Near the stairs was a spot he frequently tussled with assholes. Like Katsuki. Deku hadn't been one to fight back against a friend, though.

Every minute at the gym, it was on Katsuki's mind.

His own quirk was pretty damn powerful. He'd 'trained' it against someone for years. 

Deku had a strong quirk, too, in a different way. It couldn't be strictly-speaking trained and improved like Katsuki's, but he could have found something useful to do if he were there. He would have. Deku had always been crafty like that.

Every second spent trying to talk through all the bullshit, it was on Katsuki's mind.

The new guy wasn't as good as Dr. Shinsou, but he wasn't the absolute worst either. Katsuki's least favorite part was having to be there with his parents. The atmosphere felt overwhelming with an extra person in the room. It felt pointless.

Katsuki hated having to articulate himself ad nauseam to someone who didn't intimately grasp the situation. His parents knew what he'd done. He knew what he'd done.

There were a thousand reasons to hate him, but he wasn't a moron. Every minute of every day, Katsuki searched through years of memories, trying to determine precisely where and how he'd fucked everything up. 

With each mental scan through his background, he found more. The process would've gone much faster if it were Deku.

He really did have a lot more experience with this analysis shit, huh?  Except he never would have made the same mistakes in need of analyzing. That nerd had been too damn nice.

Even the nickname Deku soured on his tongue. Something as innocent as misreading kanji as a kid, he'd since twisted it into an insult.

"'Deku'? What the hell is a 'Deku'?"

His friend giggled. "Kacchan, it's just my name! See? Izu - ku."

"I know that!" Katsuki defended, face flushed. "I was just messing around!"

Before he could get any more flustered at the laughter, Auntie chimed in sweetly, crouching over them both. 

"Almost sounds like 'Dekiru', don't you think?" and when neither boy caught on, she explained in her ever-soft way. "As in 'you can do it!'."

"Y-Yeah! That's why I said it! So, take the stupid compliment, Deku!"

Katsuki would've been lying if he said the way his friend's face lit up didn't warm his explosive heart even a bit.

It was so much better before. Before learning years worth of choices had been wrong. Before, when he and his parents could focus solely on fixing their dynamic and not this shit. Before working with this new fucker. Dr. Shinsou's placidity had felt natural, unlike her more performative replacement.

Katsuki still spoke to her, sometimes.

He wanted to hate her for having to terminate their relationship, but couldn't. Deku changing schools, like so many things, had been Katsuki's fault. Besides, she'd been able to convince his mom to stop lying to him about what happened with Miss Fukukado, so he owed her one, even if he hated the results.

More than that, he was terrified of her hating him. Dr. Shinsou knew shit about him he'd never told anyone else.

He saw her buying noodles while he took part in his new favorite pastime: wandering aimlessly for a reason to be anywhere but home. Despite a desperate attempt at ducking away before he could be spotted, it was too late.

He definitely didn't feel like welling up when she bought him a small bowl of soba.

They'd had a second short lunch since then. Nothing much. Without speaking inside the context of her job, she was a bit more inclined to give her opinion and evidently had awful taste in sweaters, but was still herself. 

It was mostly just nice to speak to a person that didn't treat him as though their image of Katsuki Bakugo as they knew him had been irreparably shattered. (As far as he was concerned, everyone at his shitty school even didn't count as people.)

Once, when he was really freaking the fuck out, he dialed her number in private. She spent a few minutes on the line 'til he stopped feeling like he was about to have an actual fucking heart attack, or like he was breathing his last breathes because his lungs must have punctured.

The kindness was more than he deserved and not a privilege he'd dare test again.

Katsuki knew it was wishful thinking to say what he had with the pensive woman felt a bit like having a thoughtful aunt—seeing as he had just lost one of those—but he had trouble fighting the feeling nonetheless.

That seemed like a running theme. Fighting his feelings.

Every night in bed, it was on Katsuki's mind. Even more than the prestigious new school he'd be attending in a mere two weeks.

One particular slice of wisdom bounced around in his head. Something Dr. Shinsou had mentioned off-handedly the last time he saw her in between strategic bites of her sandwich. 

"You're not perfect, Katsuki. You never were, you never will be. But if you have one thing in spades, it's tenacity, and a tenacious person can do a lot of good with regret," she said, standing to leave, her napkin compressed into a crumb-filled ball. "Just one woman's opinion."

So.

How the fuck was he meant to fix this?

[8 Years Ago]

An early sun was shining right in Shouta's eye via the rear view mirror. Stupid morning being all morning-like. With any luck, it wouldn't take all day for Hizashi to comprehend what he'd just been told, but Shouta had doubts. 

He'd just have to stick by Hizashi until that happened so the loudmouth wouldn't blab something out.

Did Shouta have much better things to be doing with his Friday, off-work? Yes. It was called sleeping. Preferably somewhere with less frigid wind blowing through the windows. But life is full of compromises.

"Ms. Joke," his friend echoed Shouta's own words back at him. So, Shouta nodded, then said 'yes' when he realized Hizashi was busy adjusting the radio, not giving Shouta's 'fake' answer his full attention. "Right, right, but seriously though, who was it?"

"Ms. Joke," Shouta repeated.

Hizashi snorted and kept driving. There was almost a glazed look to his eyes, like a pleasant screensaver over a glitching computer in need of a reboot.

.

.

.

"Ms. Joke?" Hizashi asked him after a forty-five minute gap, eyeballing an expensive guitar.

"Correct," Shouta answered, hoping his uncomfortable presence warded off any of the music store's too-helpful staff.

.

.

.

"You said 'Ms. Joke', right?" Hizashi questioned, a few more hours later, as if to triple-check.

Shouta hummed an affirmative, sucking down his lunch through a straw and ignoring the inane activity that had already burned fifteen minutes of his finite life away and would almost certainly waste at least five more before Hizashi was ready to leave.

"The Smile Hero?"

"That's the one," Shouta confirmed. Yet again.

Hizashi nodded vacantly, ignorant to his bowling ball rolling the wrong direction.

.

.

.

Shouta ducked a punch that night while intervening in a robbery on their way to Hizashi's second job. Because crime didn't care that he was supposed to be off-the-clock.

Capture weapon wrapping around a. criminal's forearm, Shouta flipped him onto his stomach. He dug a heel into the man's back, looking up just in time to watch Hizashi send two more crooks across the icy pavement with his quirk. They both slammed against a brick wall, one landing in the trash.

"Killer eyelashes? Wears lots of color?"

Shouta grunted 'uh-huh' to each, answering the same question for a fifth and sixth time that day. Alas, he was still stuck waiting for the revelation to sink in with his friend.

"Quirk makes people laugh? Kind of a plain face?"

"Her face isn't plain," Shouta was quick to retort, yanking a zip-tie tighter around a criminal's wrist than necessary.

"I said 'kinda'," Hizashi raised his palms in defense, "I'm allowed an opinion."

"Your opinion is incorrect."

Hizashi rolled his eyes, then raised his brow in surprise when another voice spoke from beneath Shouta's foot.

"Are you guys talking about Ms. Joke? I'm not big on the comedy schtick, but that chick is fiiiiiiiiiine as hell," the young criminal whistled, face against the concrete. 

Shouta kept eye contact with Hizashi and gestured down at the guy, as if the comment had helped his argument at all. 

His friend threw his hands out in disbelief. "You're agreeing with the robber?"

"No. The robber is agreeing with me," Shouta replied using impeccable logic. Unfortunately, his confidence encouraged the robber to say more.

"Yeah, come on, 'plain-faced'? What're you, gay or something?"

Hizashi crossed his arms. "Yes. Extraordinarily. I'm steeped in gayness."

"Oh." the robber blinked. "My bad, man. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm just working through a lot right now and—"

Shouta delivered a swift kick to his stomach, knocking the wind out of the crook, who made a confused moan to go with his pained expression. "I was apologizing..."

"Shush. Nobody asked you," Shouta dismissed him.

Slumped against the wall and making no move to escape, the slightly older—or at the very least, most muscular—of the three crooks chimed in. "Eh. She's like a five outta ten, so I gotta agree with the homo on this one—"

"Bro, that is a majorly pejorative term," the younger robber quietly corrected, desperately sucking in air. 

"—but have you seen the ass on her? It's hard to see with those puffy shorts she wears, but I'm telling you, that shit is tight."

"Stop imagining the shape of her butt!" Shouta demanded petulantly.

"There's nothing to imagine," the muscular criminal shrugged. "Just look up 'Japanese Pro Hero asses'. You'll find some awesome websites."

Shouta and Hizashi both wore disgust clear on their faces. Firstly, for the comment on Hizashi, but secondly for the idea that people were compiling pictures like that of heroes other than Kayama, the R-rated hero. Of someone that might as well be the G-rated hero.

"You're on there, too," the robber defended, pointing to Hizashi. "You're one of the top searches."

"Really? Huh..." Shouta's best friend scratched at his jawline, determining whether it was acceptable to feel flattered. He stood in silent contemplation for a few seconds before rapidly shaking the thoughts away. "What am I even— no, that's still weird!"

"Oi! Don't try to kinkshame me! It's just photographs, you can't control what's in my head," the large crook turned his nose up at them. "I ain't hurting anybody."

Shouta stared at him, deadpan. "You're a robber."

"Because I have no money, not 'cus I like a nice ass."

Shouta could feel a headache coming on, but was thankful to see the red and blue lights of police cars parking. He turned away from the spent criminals to head out with Hizashi. 

"And before you ask," he said to Hizashi, "she's about average height and she's got green hair."

"Yeah, because that totally narrows it down," Hizashi's expression flattened. "How often do you actually pay attention to what people look like? Tracking villains doesn't count."

Shouta slowed his stride and eyed his friend up and down. "Name one person with green hair."

"Ms. Joke," replied Hizashi, earning a growl from Shouta.

"Name one other than her," he specified.

"Ragdoll."

"Name one more."

"The dude who runs that really great twenty-four-seven crab place."

"Name two more."

"Both my cousins on my father's side."

"Name another five."

"The bassist from Daaaaaammmmnnnn!, the leader singer of I Will Annihilate, that one hero in the business suit that works with All Might, the building superintendent we had for like, three years, and, uh, gimme a sec..." Hizashi came up short.

Before Shouta could claim his victory, the last of the three robbers raised his hand out from inside the dumpster. "I have green hair," his voice reverberated in the metal box.

"Thank you, surprisingly helpful robber!" Hizashi yelled, snapping his fingers into guns and receiving a thumbs up in return before the robber's arm flopped back down in the dumpster.

"You've made your point. Congratulations on aligning yourself with the only criminal in this alley that can finish a sentence without sounding like a bigot. We're done here," Shouta dragged Hizashi by the arm.

"Wait, wait, I need to ask them the name of those websites first. So I know what not to look up."

"Hizashi."

"Ugh. Fine."

.

.

.

Inside the radio station, Shouta crashed on the visitor couch right beyond the glass where his friend was interviewing some other Pro he couldn't care less about. 

Halfway through a needlessly-long anecdote, it became clear this person didn't care if Hizashi was even listening. So, Shouta watched as Hizashi slipped off one headphone and moved to tap on the glass separating him from Shouta. 'Ms. Joke?' he mouthed.

Shouta gave a lethargic nod and Hizashi scooted his chair back to position. 

.

.

.

Over two hours into the show, Shouta was on the cusp of sleep. Something raised the hairs on his neck, however.

Although he wasn't actively listening to his friend or the guest behind the glass, nor the muffled tunes that played between segments, he could distinctly recognize Hizashi's words slowing down with each of the last few sentences.

Shouta's eyes snapped opened as he frantically jumped up (fell down) from the couch to look at Hizashi. He activated Erasure as his friend's own eyes widened, a new reality dawning. 

An airy sound escaped Hizashi's throat, notable even over the noise that filled the room, like the biological manifestation of a thought finally clicking into place in the mind. 

'A thought' at that very moment meaning the fact that YES, Shouta was being serious, and YES, he'd been talking about literally the only Ms. Joke in existence.

Shouta wanted to plug his ears, but needed his hands free. If only he could stumble toward the glass faster. 

Three.

Two.

One.

"WAIT, WHAT?!"

"Aaaaaaand there it is," Shouta said to himself.

"MISS FREAKIN' JO—!?" Hizashi was cut short as Shouta punched the glass and locked eyes with him, giving off the most intense glare he could manage.

The Voice Hero sat motionless. His guest was likely beyond lost, but neither man cared to check.

Body still, Hizashi took his eyes off Shouta for a split second to look at the door, then back to Shouta. Leaning to the microphone, he cleared his throat.

"... We'll be back after a short break."

It was easy to tell that Midoriya was slipping, as much as he tried to hide it.

And who could blame him? He pretty much had his dream ripped out from under him by a grossly imbalanced test, and his last hope was another test, this time against others in his same position as well as the very students who won the first test, and with far fewer available seats to reach for.

Hitoshi’s heart plummeted when he heard the news. He could scarcely imagine how Midoriya felt.

There’s a saying that goes: ‘shoot for the moon so that even if you miss you’ll land among the stars’. Whoever said that clearly didn’t work at U.A., because instead of hanging around stars, Hitoshi’s best friend was being asked to get back in the cannon and shoot for an asteroid 1/40th the size of the target he just missed.

It was these sorts of things Hitoshi was ready to hear Midoriya vent about, how unfair the whole situation was. On the contrary, he seemed ready to discuss anything else. Even when Hitoshi would try to help brainstorm ways for him to come out on top at the Sports Festival, Midoriya would cut him off, citing how they’ll technically be opponents and Hitoshi shouldn’t handicap himself for his sake.

As noble of a thought as that may have been, it was also insanely naive. Hitoshi would have to be an actual sociopath to so easily detach his emotions. And if Midoriya was going to be offended by Hitoshi throwing a hypothetical match? So be it, if that's the price to achieve his dream. He'd have to deal with. He’s a ball of sunshine for crying out loud! Hitoshi didn’t even want the glory!

It was the last fact that knocked down the first few bricks from Midoriya’s “no no I’m fine I don’t need help don’t worry” wall. But with how many different events the Sports Festival could hold each year and their total lack of information on the quirks of the other hero course students, it was hard to get any real work done.

It felt good to be useful, though. Even if only a bit. Anything to help.

Perhaps the most perplexing development was the eerie tingle of entering Midoriya’s room and finding it had minimal amounts of All Might memorabilia. There was still a small poster here or a novelty toy there— but the vast majority of Midoriya’s All Might merchandise had been lovingly placed into his closet.

A room full of All Might stuff. Relocated to his closet.

AKA Midoriya’s closet couldn’t shut anymore, but at least reminders of his favorite hero had been largely quarantined to one corner of the room. With nowhere to go, his clothes had to be neatly folded in the opposite corner while his uniform hung from the lamp. Hitoshi offered to store some in his room, but that only lead to the back of his closet being pilfered through like it was an archaeological dig for embarrassment.

“What’s with the plaid?” Midoriya peaked at him through one of the holes in a grungy button-up.

“I was a very cool thirteen-year-old.”

“I’ll bet!” the shorter boy denied his sarcasm.

His best friend was a little weird. Hitoshi wouldn’t have it any other way, even if he wasn’t sure what Midoriya’s deal with All Might was. There were times to push and times to respect privacy. This felt like the latter.

Seeing the sketches he’d slaved over pinned to Midoriya’s walls in the absence of the number one hero, however, felt at once flattering and as if he’d also committed symbolic infidelity.

Days passed, as they tend to do. Then, out of the blue, although it happened only a scant few times, Midoriya would let his face drop, and his shoulders would sag. There was no pattern to when or where, at least not that Hitoshi could tell.

One time they were at a cat cafe. One time they were jogging and Midoriya just stopped. One time they were watching a movie on Hitoshi’s laptop on a rainy day. One time Midoriya was scrubbing through that blurry video for the fifty millionth time while Hitoshi read Midoriya’s notebook #11 and zoned out in his attempts to retain even a fragment of the jargon written therein.

There was no pattern, at least not that Hitoshi could tell. He heard, though. He paid attention to every word, for as few as Midoriya had to say whenever he mustered the mettle to release himself to a mood that wasn’t nonstop 1000% positivity. The voluble boy didn’t so much clam up as he just couldn’t be bothered to chatter.

That was okay. Hitoshi could wait and listen when needed.

Pieces by piece, Hitoshi forced Midoriya to accept that he was someone to lean on, through whatever culmination of small supports it took. There was no breakthrough moment or profound flood of emotion like on cliche TV shows. It was a gradual effort to expunge an intangible tension.

Despite (or perhaps because of) the angst that had done—and continued to do—its best to infect the peaceful days they shared, Hitoshi could say with certainty that he’d never felt closer to Midoriya, and he often wondered whether the other boy would agree.

The headaches were another matter. Hitoshi felt helpless on what to do besides giving Midoriya some ibuprofen. Sometimes they were no more than an annoyance, but other times…

The boys sat on the lonely little bench where they’d first met, reminiscing, chatting about whatever came to mind on their last day before high school. The next thing Hitoshi knew, Midoriya was about to collapse, clutching his head like a professional pitcher having cracked his skull with a softball-sized stone.

After all the exercise they’d endured, it took Hitoshi longer than it should’ve to piggyback his friend back to his apartment. Midoriya, however, was intent on stubbornly throwing himself off. The guy was perpetually adamant about not being a burden. Less so than he used to be, it seemed.

They made it eventually, although the excuses Hitoshi had concocted to dissuade Midoriya’s mom from fretting ended up being irrelevant. She had yet to get home. A small blessing, as something told Hitoshi the fountain-eyed mother lacked his knack for silence. For now, the best way to help Midoriya was to let him sleep.

Ever so gently, he flopped Midoriya onto the bed, All Might pillowcases turned inside-out. The covers were more of a crumpled suggestion than any real help after the boy squirmed himself down to his undershirt. Although his brow tightened like someone drew a maze on the backs of his eyelids, it was a marked step up from clenching his jaw so hard that Hitoshi questioned whether his teeth would have enough time to chip from the pressure or if they would grind down to stumps first.

As Hitoshi turned to go, he felt a hand take his wrist in a loose grip.

“Please don’t leave,” Midoriya whispered as if he didn’t want to wake himself from the crest of sleep.

“Midoriya, you have to get some rest,” Hitoshi explained like the hypocrite he was. “Or do you plan on being unconscious throughout the entire entrance ceremony?”

The drowsy Midoriya kept a lethargic arm over his eyes for protection against spewing deep-seated beliefs. Did he think he had already started dreaming?

“I don’t want you to,” Midoriya admitted in a tone Hitoshi could only guess was meant to come across authoritative. It sounded like a child pleading that his parents turn around halfway through a road trip because he just realized his favorite toy must’ve fallen out of the window at some point over the past six hours.

Hitoshi kept a steady disposition in spite of the light blush that bloomed over his features, but couldn’t contain a morsel of hurt from leaking into his voice as he started to grasp what it was Midoriya meant.

“Why do you think I’d leave?”

He got no answer. Midoriya relinquished his weak hold on Hitoshi’s wrist and curled up on his side.

Hitoshi frowned, deliberating his options. Then, with a conclusive huff, he sent off a text to his mom and dad about crashing at Midoriya’s place. The phone was left on silent, in case they said no. Consequences are for the weak.

As he quietly changed, Hitoshi kept his eyes firmly on the doorway. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but if he was going to be caught in his undergarments, sweaty clothes at his feet, and pulling on a pair of Midoriya’s pajama pants, then he’d at least like to see the person coming.

Hitoshi flopped down and threw an arm around Midoriya, whose eyes flashed with surprise for a brief moment until they couldn’t hold themselves open any longer. He rested his head on a fluffy tumbleweed of seafoam-colored hair and raised an eyebrow at how toasty Midoriya was. He didn’t have a fever and yet felt like a furnace compared to Hitoshi’s ice cube.

If a hot water bottle or the cool side of the pillow is relaxing, then a human-sized equivalent must be doubly so for either. Hitoshi was running one such test to prove the theory.

“Hey, Midoriya. Speaking as an enabler for your bad behaviors, I gotta level with you.”

“Wha’ bad behaviors…” Midoriya leaned back into Hitoshi’s chest far enough to inadvertently share some of the sheets he was so shamelessly hogging. Hitoshi could hear the languid echo of a cheeky smile in his voice.

“I’ve been meaning to bring this up, now that we’re in U.A… We have no more excuses not to let at least one of our parents know—” he stopped himself.

“If you keep having these migraines,’ is what he was ready to say, but Midoriya would jolt awake and get all flustered about ‘what if i'm not allowed to compete in the sports festival!?’ or something like that. And then what was Hitoshi meant to say? ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that stress giving people headaches isn’t that uncommon, but yours seem kinda bad, so don’t be angry that my ignorance and big mouth cost you your dream because I swear I did it to help,' as though that'd make it okay’?

Midoriya hummed quizzically for him to finish his sentence.

“Nothing. I forgot what I was gonna say.”

It could wait ‘til he had a clearer head.

By the time Midoriya’s mom got back, Midoriya was fast asleep and Hitoshi was on his way. He could hear her faint footfalls and prayed she wasn’t about to start banging around the kitchen or calling out ‘Izuku? Izuuuuuukuuu?’

When Mrs. Midoriya gently pushed open the lazily-shut bedroom door, they locked eyes. She had no flabbergasted reaction, no series of overly-innocent questions, nor single-mindedly crude accusations in her expression. All she had to offer the flush-faced teen spooning her son was a smile, understated and motherly. Then she just… left.

It was a hell of a lot better reaction than he’d expected, seeing as she just walked in on her kid lying in bed partially undressed, passed out next to his classmate who, for all she knew, could’ve been legitimately naked when his bottom half was under the blanket. There was also something to be said about her charismatic kid being notably out of the classmate’s league. Not that Hitoshi put heavy stock into that kinda stuff. But still.

Midoriya’s mom came back with her camera in hand and snapped a picture. Hitoshi buried his beet-red face in minty curls to escape the electronic Medusa, but found them soft enough not to move even after the woman’s sounds moved farther and farther away.

Okay, alright, yeah, fair enough, well played, Mrs. Midoriya. She at least knew to turn the flash off first, so, great. Touché.

As he began to fade into unconsciousness, Hitoshi had little doubt the morning ahead of him would be a frantic mess of sprinting back home to get his uniform, trying not to wake his friend up prematurely, and making it to orientation in time, but the day was going to be worth it, because his dream and his friend both were.

He slept easy.

Chapter Text