Chapter Text
The first day of school is usually pretty rough in Shouta’s experience. A whole nother group of students and a whole nother three years to go through. Sometimes he wonders why he’s even a teacher at all since he’s never really been all that suited for the job, but it’s whatever. He’s here, he does it, and that isn’t changing any time soon.
Plus, with the exception of perhaps Mineta, all the Class 1-A students show potential. In the entrance exam, they’d all fought their hardest. He was surprised by how many robots Hagakure was able to take out, given she was invisible and all and didn’t have any outstanding physical abilities. And Shinsou managed to get in, too, despite having a more psychological Quirk. It’s impressive.
He’s filing through paperwork and mentally going over what he wants to work with tomorrow on their official first day of school. The Quirk Apprehension test is a must; plus it’s a good way for him to see where the students are positionally. Their confidence, their drive, how badly they want to be here. That sort of thing.
Shouta heaves a long sigh and massages his temples with aching fingers. He feels like he’s been at this paperwork for hours and has put no dent in it. Sometimes he wonders why he bothers with this. He doesn’t get enough sleep even when school isn’t in session.
He’s just about to screw it and call it a night when across from him, the door opens and slams.
Shouta doesn’t jump, but his eyes snap upwards to the door and his hands come down from his face. The door had been closed snugly, he’d made sure of that. It hadn’t been a draft. He hadn’t seen anyone open or shut the door, either.
He watches the door for a while longer afterwards, and when it doesn’t happen again, he rises from his feet and makes to pack up his things—though he does keep looking over his shoulder, even though he knows there’s no one there. With how crime rates have escalated over the years despite the reign of All Might, he doesn’t trust this city.
The strange phenomenon doesn’t happen again. Once he’s packed his things and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, he heads outside. The door handle feels like it’s been frozen, then thawed with ice water, but he turns it and steps into the hall. There’s some part of him that feels like he’s being watched, but he knows that can’t possibly be. There’s no one here to watch him. The feeling is unwarranted and doesn’t make any sense.
So he ignores it.
He takes a cab back to his apartment, and as soon as he’s got one foot in the door, his resident cat bounces over. Shouta had found the cat in an alleyway after taking out a band of villains one night, and the creature had looked so helpless that he couldn’t help bring it home. He’d named the cat “Ashtray” because that’s what it looked like (and smelled like) the day he brought him home.
Ashtray mewels at him unhappily, angry that he’s been gone this long, and Shouta is just about to apologize, but that’s precisely the moment that Ashtray arches his back, fluffs up his fur and hisses at the spot right beside Shouta.
The banging door hadn’t startled Shouta earlier, but this does. His head snaps around to follow Ashtray’s eyes, but there’s nothing there. Just the blank space beside him.
“There’s no one there,” Shouta says, finally pulling the door shut beside him. Ashtray doesn’t stop hissing, though, and Shouta takes the long way around the cat and heads into the kitchen to get him his dinner. Ashtray doesn’t move from his spot at the door until he hears his food bowl rattling in the kitchen, and even then he looks warily back at the entryway.
Shouta hadn’t been all too bothered before, but he’s definitely on edge now. Ashtray isn’t a very friendly cat, but he’s pretty laid back unless deliberately aggravated. To see him so upset about something is unusual.
Shouta sets the food bowl on the ground and heads into the bedroom. Maybe some mindless TV will help distract him from all this.
The TV isn’t working.
It turns on alright, and for a little while the news blares annoyingly and he has half a mind to shut it off, but about thirty seconds into the program is when it starts acting up. Right in the middle of the report, a wave of static engulfs the screen.
The sound of the static is what really startles him, because it seems far louder than usual. Almost like the TV is actually shrieking at him and not simply malfunctioning.
Shouta reaches blindly for the remote, but his fingers grasp air. The remote isn’t where he left it; instead, it’s all the way on the other side of the room, on the floor.
The sad part about it is, this evening has been so weird and he’s so worn down that for a second he wonders, did I actually THROW it? but then he remembers that, no, he’d put it right beside him after turning on the TV. He wouldn’t have thrown it across the room anyway.
He gets to his feet, and once he has the remote in his hands again, he shuts off the television. That’s enough of that.
Ashtray is staring at the wall.
He’s always been a weird cat, and more than once Shouta thought that perhaps he’d suffered some kind of head affliction before Shouta took him in, but he’s never done anything like this before. He’s sitting on the foot of Shouta’s bed, tail curled around his toes, and he’s staring with wide eyes and fluffed fur at the wall.
Shouta’s first thought is, yep, his cat has officially lost it and honestly he’s probably lost it too, but that can’t be the answer. Shouta hadn’t opened and slammed the door earlier; he hadn’t thrown the remote across the room; there’s nothing wrong with the TV that he can find; and he’d done nothing to warrant Ashtray hissing like that.
Something more must be at play here, but Shouta can’t come up with anything conclusive. He thinks about it until his headache redoubles, and when he can’t think any longer, he goes to bed. It’s three in the morning and he doesn’t have much time, considering tomorrow’s the first day of school for the new U.A. students, but he’ll take what he can get.
If Ashtray could stop staring at the wall, now, that would be fantastic.
“AND NOW, WE WILL RETURN TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING—”
Shouta yells and shoots upright, scrambling for the TV remote. The sudden burst of sunlight against his eyes burns, but the volume of the TV burns his ears even more, and he fumbles and scrambles for the remote. Ashtray makes some kind of strangled, inhuman sound and all but flies out of the room, just as Shouta’s fingers close around the remote and blindly slam buttons.
The volume’s up all the way, definitely, but before he can shut the accursed thing off and be done with it, the static comes back and it’s piercing.
It takes more time than it should, but he’s still exhausted and this is the rudest awakening he could’ve gotten this morning. He finally finds the off button and slams it with enough force to break it. The TV clicks off and the chaos is gone as soon as it’d come.
Shouta sits there for a while longer to wait out the ringing in his ears. He sets the remote on the side-table and brings his hands up to his face again, rubbing his temples and shutting his eyes against the piercing sunlight through the window. It’s morning now. He needs to get ready to go to school.
“Damn thing,” he grumbles under his breath. If it happens again, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep himself from just launching the TV into the sun or something.
Ugh. What a morning.
He pushes himself to his feet, still rubbing his head, and heads towards the hall bathroom. He passes Ashtray on the way, who looks every bit as disheveled as Shouta, and Shouta supplies a brief, unenthusiastic good morning and steps into the bathroom.
There’s something red and dripping on the mirror.
His first thought is immediately oh, as if this morning couldn’t get any better, but then he’s crossing the room to examine it closer. The nearer he gets, the less it looks like blood (which is what his brain had first jumped to). Against his better judgement, he touches a drop with his finger and smells it.
Paint.
It’s paint.
He reaches for the tap to wash off his hands (and possibly call the police about a break-in), but that’s when he notices that it’s not just lines and symbols written on the mirror in paint.
They’re words.
They’re smeared pretty badly, and it takes Shouta a lot longer than it should before he can read them, but soon enough, he does.
I’m sorry I broke your TV and scared your cat.
Shouta doesn’t know why it happens now of all times, but it clicks. The slamming door, Ashtray’s snarls, the static on the TV, his rude awakening, and now this. Writing on the bathroom mirror with no one else in sight.
There’s a freaking spirit in his apartment.
He looks around for a second longer, half-expecting to see whoever they are, but there’s no one there except him (and now Ashtray, who has poked his head through the door to probably nag about breakfast). Once he’s made sure he’s alone, Shouta looks back towards the mirror.
“Who are you?” Shouta says.
He’s not really expecting a response, but he gets one. At the very bottom of the mirror, in tiny lettering, words are smeared.
Not enough room.
Ah. Yes. The first message took up the majority of the bathroom mirror, the spirit doesn’t have the space he needs to properly answer.
“Would a notebook work?” Shouta asks. Honestly, he’s having one of those moments in life where really, he may as well just be talking to a ghost. Like seriously, why not. Why not.
The word yes shows up at the very bottom, and Shouta spins on his heel, motioning for the spirit to come with him. Ashtray fluffs up his fur again and scampers down the hallway at light speed.
“Don’t mind him,” Shouta says, recalling the spirit’s first message. “He’s pretty laid back once he gets to know you.”
He says, to the spirit. Maybe he should call in sick today because something isn’t right about this situation.
In the end it isn’t a notebook he finds, but rather a stack of sticky notes and a marker. He sets the items on the kitchen table, then gestures at the air in front of him where he guesses the spirit might be.
“So. As you will.”
He’d been scarily okay with the blood-like lettering on the mirror, but there’s something far more unsettling about watching the pen rise as though of its own fruition and scratch words onto the post-it.
My name is Izuku. I’m 12. I’ve been following you since this morning. I tried showing you I was there but nothing worked. I’m sorry.
This, this is what gets him. Not the spirit, not even the blood-like letters on the mirror or the pen moving as though on its own. It’s that number, 12.
This is a child.
This is a dead child.
“It’s fine, kid,” Shouta says, still staring into the empty space. “Sorry I didn’t realize what was going on sooner.”
It’s okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear sooner.
This is almost too much to deal with, and to think, he still has to go to U.A. and teach an entire group of students on their first day. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this unenthusiastic about anything in his entire life.
“You’re fine,” Shouta says, but he shakes his head and rests his arms on the countertop, leaning his weight on them. “What’s up? Why’ve you been following me around like this?”
The post-it tears from the bunch, sticks on the table, and the pen moves again on a new, untouched sheet.
I wanted to ask you about U.A. And…
The pen taps against the countertop for a little while at a speed that almost gives Shouta whiplash.
… I wanted to ask if maybe I could take some classes there or something.
Good lord, what is today?
Shouta sighs. “I’ll be frank with ya, kid,” he says, shaking his head, “that’s not gonna be easy. You said you’re twelve, right? That’s a little young for high school.”
If I was alive I’d be 15.
Shouta blinks. “... It’s been… three years?”
The post-it tears itself from the rest again, and a new post-it replaces it.
Yes. Three years is…
More tapping. More hesitation.
It’s a long time. To be alone.
This is a child. A child. Just a little kid, a dead little kid, and he’d come to Shouta for help. Every part of Shouta wants to do something, because there’s some part of him that says that, as a hero, as a protector of the public, this is his fault.
But… a ghost at U.A., and not just that but a student ghost. Is that even a thing that’s possible? In a world full of abnormalities and unusuals, is this too much? What determines “too much”? Hagakure is invisible and she’s still a student. Is it really that different?
“... You said your name was Izuku, right?”
Izuku. Yes.
“Well, Izuku.” Shouta can’t believe he’s saying this, let alone to literal blank air, but he exhales sharply through his nose and shakes his head again. “I’m testing the Class 1-A students later on today to determine whether or not they have enough potential and determination to make it through U.A. If you want, you could come along and watch. Maybe you could even participate.”
Something in the air changes drastically. Shouta hadn’t realized what a weight had been on his shoulders until now, when it’s removed.
Do you mean it? says the post-it note.
Shouta nods. “Sure thing, kiddo. I’ve gotta go get ready to head out, but—”
The pen has started scratching on a brand new post-it note to form the words, Favorite Person. The post-it tears from the rest and smacks against Shouta’s forehead.
Shouta flinches back at first, but the post-it note is stuck to his head now and honestly? He just accepted a freaking ghost onto U.A.’s campus. Having a post-it note stuck to his head is the least weird thing that’s happened today.
“... Thanks,” he drones, shoulders slumped.
The atmosphere rises yet another notch, and Shouta imagines that, if he’d been able to see the boy, there’d be a smile on his face.