Chapter Text
Shouta hadn’t even bothered taking his scarf off.
He came in through the apartment door, boots half-dragged across the floor, and promptly collapsed onto the couch like gravity had finally decided to collect its debt. The scarf followed him, tangling around his shoulders as he landed face-down against a pillow with a long, exhausted exhale.
Beside him, Hizashi was tying his boots—bright, annoyingly awake, and very much preparing for his own patrol before U.A. started up for the day.
Shouta didn’t envy him. Not even a little.
Since the semester had begun, both of them had decided to pull back on patrols. Hizashi was down to three patrols a week before classes. Shouta had started ending his nights three hours earlier than usual. He didn’t mind. The extra sleep helped. So did having time to actually plan lessons instead of drafting them between classes and caffeine crashes.
“Oh, come on,” Hizashi said lightly, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s only day two of the semester. What could you possibly be groaning about already?”
Shouta didn’t lift his head. The pillow stayed firmly pressed against his face. “Honestly,” he muttered, voice muffled, “I’d rather relive day one than go through what I dealt with last night.”
Hizashi paused, hands stilling on his laces. “Oh?” he said, curiosity immediately piqued. “Do tell. What was so traumatic?”
Shouta sighed into the couch. “…I was asked for advice. About feelings.”
There was a beat. Then Hizashi froze. And then—he lost it. He slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he laughed trying to be quiet.
Shouta rolled slightly onto his side, eyes still closed. “it’s five in the morning. You’re gonna wake Midoriya.”
Hizashi wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re telling me you—Mr. Emotional Availability Is a Myth—got asked about feelings?” He leaned back, grinning. “By Ghost, no less? The kid who barely let you stand five feet away without bolting?”
Shouta groaned, the sound deep and genuine, and let his face fall fully into the pillow again. “Don’t.”
“Oh, that’s golden,” Hizashi continued, delight practically vibrating off him. “Absolutely priceless.”
“…It wasn’t Ghost,” Shouta muttered.
Hizashi blinked. “Huh?”
Shouta cracked one tired eye open. “It was Kaito.” Hizashi’s expression shifted—not shocked exactly, but thoughtful. He finished tightening his boots and leaned back against the arm of the couch, careful now. “Huh. Okay. That… tracks. Ghost doesn't sound like the type to have time for feelings.” After a beat, he tilted his head. “So. How’s quirk training with the kiddo going?”
“Good,” Shouta said without hesitation. He rolled onto his back, forearm draped over his eyes. “He finally has control of it.”
Hizashi smiled, soft and proud. “That’s huge.”
“It is,” Shouta agreed. Then, dry as ever, he added, “If only I could get him to control his mouth.”
Hizashi snorted, immediately clapping a hand over it and lowering his voice. “You're going to make me use my quirk.”
Shouta’s lips twitched despite himself.
Hizashi hesitated for a moment, then dropped his voice again, the way he did when the conversation mattered. “How was Midoriya in P.E. yesterday?” He paused. “You know—apart from the part where he got attacked by another student.”
Shouta stilled.
He took a moment before answering, eyes still closed, as if replaying it. “He was quick,” he said finally. “Faster than I expected. I could barely keep track of where he was half the time.”
Hizashi blinked. “You?”
Shouta exhaled slowly. “It was… strange. I knew he was fast. I just didn’t realize he was that fast.”
A grin crept back onto Hizashi’s face. “Knew the kiddo had skill.”
Then his expression softened. His gaze drifted somewhere past the far wall, unfocused, thoughtful. “…Has he told the class yet?” Shouta asked quietly. “That he’s quirkless?”
He glanced over to see Hizashi staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I tried to delay it yesterday.” Shouta nodded slowly. “I’m glad I did,” Hizashi continued. “If he stood out in P.E.—if he made a statement there—maybe that’ll be enough.” His jaw tightened just slightly. “Enough that they see what he can do before they decide what he isn’t.”
Shouta looked down at his hands, then back at Hizashi. “You’re doing good by him.”
Hizashi didn’t respond right away. He just let the quiet settle between them—heavy, but steady.
“…We're doing good by him.” Hizashi corrected.
*
Yamada did roll call like it was a performance.
“AYOYAMA!”
“Here!”
“KAMAKURA!”
“Present!”
Each name was punctuated with energy, volume, and at least one unnecessary flourish of the clipboard. Izuku sat straighter as his name was called, answering quietly and immediately, hoping—pointlessly—that it would make him less noticeable.
“ALRIGHT, LISTENERS!” Yamada clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and echoing. “You’ve got a few minutes before Midnight swoops in to steal you from me, so feel free to chill!”
Chill. Right. Izuku barely had time to exhale before a hand shot up in the front row. His stomach tightened. He knew this moment. Had known it since yesterday. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—inevitable, unavoidable.
“Present Mic,” the boy said, polite but eager. “You mentioned yesterday that we’d go through everyone’s quirks. Are we still doing that?”
Izuku’s pulse spiked.
“Ah—YES!” Yamada said brightly, snapping his fingers. “Thanks for the reminder, listener!” Izuku didn’t miss the way Yamada’s gaze lingered on him—just for a second. Not warning. Not pressure. Just awareness.
He dropped his eyes to the desk, fingers worrying the pen between them. He twisted it until the plastic clicked softly, grounding himself in the sound.
One by one, students began to speak.
Emitter quirks.
Transformation quirks.
Utility quirks.
Izuku listened without comment, posture carefully neutral, pen still spinning between his fingers. Then it reached him. He felt the shift before he looked up—the subtle hush, the way attention snapped toward him like a tightened wire. Nineteen pairs of eyes. Curious. Expectant. A few already impressed.
Yesterday had done that. They were waiting to hear something that explained him. A quirk that justified it. Izuku inhaled once, steadying himself, then ripped the band aid off.
“I’m quirkless.”
The room went dead.
Not awkward-dead. Not polite-dead.
Shock-dead.
No snickers. No whispers. No immediate disbelief—just nineteen frozen faces staring at him like he’d announced gravity was optional.
Yamada didn’t say anything. He simply gave a small, deliberate nod—calm, grounding—like he was quietly telling Izuku you’re still standing. And somehow, that made the silence easier to bear.
Then the bell rang.
Yamada clapped his hands again, louder this time. “Alright! Hold those thoughts, everyone. Midnight’s got you next.”
He slipped out of the room, leaving Izuku sitting in the aftermath.
The silence didn’t last. Chairs shifted. Bodies leaned closer.
“There’s no way you’re quirkless.”
“If you don’t have a quirk, how did you come up with all that yesterday?”
“Are you sure you don’t have, like… an analysis quirk or something?”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard.
Those weren’t the questions he’d braced for.
Not Why are you here?
Not How did you get in?
Not That’s impossible.
Just… confusion. Curiosity. Disbelief without cruelty. His mouth twitched despite himself. Yeah, he thought dryly, do you want me to show you my extra toe joint?
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the noise—sharp, irritated.
“You’re lying.”
Izuku’s gaze flicked forward. Fumiko had turned in her seat, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “I refuse to believe I lost to a quirkless person.” The air tensed.
Izuku opened his mouth—
—but someone beat him to it.
“Hard to believe you’re not the star in the class, huh, Fumiko?” Kyou’s voice was lazy, almost amused, as he leaned back in his chair. “If Midoriya pulled all that off without a quirk, that’s not embarrassing. That’s impressive.” He glanced around the room, unbothered by the attention. “I wouldn’t look down on him. He’s the whole reason Blue won yesterday. Underestimating him would be stupid.”
Silence again. But this time, it felt different.
Fumiko’s expression twisted—annoyed, begrudging—but she didn’t argue.
And then—
CRACK.
Midnight’s whip snapped against the board as she stepped into the room, grin sharp and knowing. “Good morning, my lovely children.”
Conversation died instantly. Izuku barely registered the start of the lecture. His mind was still stuck on one thing. Kyou had stood up for him. As Midnight launched into the lesson, Izuku leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Why’d you do that?”
Kyou glanced sideways, then smirked. “What? Defending the truth?”
Izuku frowned. “You didn’t have to.”
Kyou shrugged, easy. “You’re a cool dude.” Then, quieter, “And I respect skill when I see it.”
Izuku sat back, chest feeling strangely warm.
He hadn’t expected this. Not today. Not from someone who barely knew him. As Midnight’s voice washed over the room, Izuku let himself breathe.
Maybe this place wouldn’t be as hostile as he’d feared. Maybe—just maybe—being honest wouldn’t always cost him something.
***
The week passed faster—and more gently—than Izuku had expected.
No one had commented on his quirk status since Kyou had shut the class down that second day. No whispers. No pointed questions. No careful, pitying looks. Even Fumiko had elected to ignore him entirely, save for the occasional moment when she had to pass a worksheet back down the row, which she did with a low snarl like the inconvenience personally offended her.
Most of the class talked to him. Casually. Easily.
It was different.
A good different.
Patrols, too, were… manageable. Easy, even. He hadn’t expected Eraser to start ending patrols early, but on Wednesday he’d nearly run into the man on his way home, both of them slowing in surprise before silently acknowledging each other and continuing on their separate paths. Homework and sleep were still a balancing act—he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise—but it was a rhythm he could learn. He always did.
By Thursday, the week was already folding in on itself.
Last period of the day: English. Yamada’s class.
Izuku’s handwriting trailed off mid-sentence when a shadow fell across his desk. He looked up just in time to see Yamada slide a folder onto the tabletop, his grin sheepish and entirely unapologetic.
“Hey, listener,” Yamada murmured, leaning down conspiratorially. “Do me a favour? Looks like I swapped folders with Aizawa again. Think you can drop this off for me? He should be with Class 1-A in the hero course wing.”
Izuku blinked at the folder. Aizawa’s name was scrawled across the front in sharp black marker—clean, precise, unmistakably his. The sight made something in Izuku’s chest tighten. There was absolutely zero chance Aizawa hadn't not noticed it was missing yet.
“Sure,” Izuku said, already packing up his notebook. “What about your folder?”
Yamada winked. “Hostage situation. Tell him I want it back uncrumpled.”
Izuku rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
The walk toward the Hero Course wing was quieter than he expected. His sneakers barely made a sound against the polished floors, each hallway feeling like a threshold into a different world. He’d never been this deep into the building—not really. The air felt heavier here, charged in a way he couldn’t quite name.
He found the classroom and hesitated, knuckles brushing the wood before he finally knocked. The low murmur of voices inside dulled.
The door slid open.
Izuku blinked.
Aizawa stood there—tall, unreadable, dark circles carved deep beneath tired eyes. But Izuku barely registered him. His gaze slipped past the man, sweeping over the classroom beyond from what he could see.
It wasn’t what he’d expected.
A firm hand settled briefly on his shoulder, grounding him. “Midoriya.”
“Oh—right.” Izuku refocused, lifting the folder. “Yamada sent me. Said he gave you the wrong one.”
Aizawa arched a brow, already stepping aside. “Figured he wouldn’t notice until last period. So typical.” He gestured inward. “Come in.”
Izuku hesitated, then let curiosity win. He stepped just far enough inside for his eyes to roam again. The Hero Course stared back.
For a moment, time slowed. His breath caught, chest tightening with something unfamiliar—something dangerously close to awe. His gaze found Shinso first, slouched low in his chair, looking like sleep was an active lifestyle choice. Of course.
Then the boy with heterochromia—his eyes flicked constantly from student to student, never still. A girl with cotton-candy pink skin and bright yellow eyes sat near the middle row, vibrating with barely contained energy—bubbles or acid, maybe? If controlled, it could be devastating. Near the back, a boy’s long, powerful tail twitched subtly as he noticed Izuku’s stare. The balance alone would be a close-combat advantage.
And then—
“Midoriya.”
Aizawa’s voice cut through the haze.
Izuku jolted, blinking hard. “Sorry—yeah.” He exchanged the folders quickly, fingers brushing Aizawa’s. The man didn’t look angry. Just… exhausted. A quiet sigh left him. "Tell Present mic to stop stealing my folders.”
“You know he’s going to blame you too,” Izuku said automatically.
Aizawa huffed, something almost like amusement buried under the exasperation. “Dinner’s going to be fun. Now go,” He whispered.
Izuku nodded and turned to leave, already halfway lost in thought—
Until he heard it.
A name.
Sharp. Familiar. Wrong. He froze. No. He must have misheard. It was a joke. Or someone else. That name didn’t belong here. Not in this room. Not aimed at him.
He forced himself to take a step. Then it came again. Clearer this time. “…Deku?”
The moment froze. His body followed, still and unresponsive. The voice was older, roughened by time—but he knew it. Only one person had ever said it that way.
And Izuku had buried him for a reason.
Slowly, Izuku turned.
To his disbelief, Bakugo Katsuki stared back. Years collapsed into a single, suffocating second. Izuku didn’t move—not at first. The room tilted, the present bleeding into something rusted and sharp buried deep in his memory. His hands curled into fists before he realized it. The classroom noise blurred into static beneath the pounding of his pulse.
Bakugo stood. The scrape of his chair against the floor cut through everything. His voice was smaller now. Uncertain. “…Izuku?”
That was it.
Izuku moved. One moment he was frozen. The next, he was lunging.
He slammed into Bakugo, shoulder to chest, knocking him backward into a desk. They hit the floor hard, limbs tangling, breath tearing loose. Gasps erupted around them—chairs scraping, someone shouting—but Izuku didn’t hear any of it.
He was already on top of him.
Fists came down. Once. Twice.
“You—!” Izuku’s voice cracked, raw and furious. “You don’t get to say my name!”
Bakugo didn’t fight back. No explosions. No counter. He lay there, stunned, arms slack, staring up at Izuku like he couldn’t believe this was happening—or like he knew he deserved it.
Izuku grabbed his collar and slammed him back against the floor. “It’s your fault!” His voice shook under the weight of years he’d never been allowed to speak. “Everything—my life—it’s all your fault!”
Bakugo’s mouth opened. No sound came out. He didn’t raise a hand. He just looked at Izuku like he was staring at a ghost.
“And you just get to walk around like nothing happened?” Izuku spat, hauling him up again, hands shaking as fury poured through his veins. “Like you didn’t destroy everything—like you’re not a monster—”
A flash of grey cut across his vision.
Aizawa’s capture scarf lashed out, snapping around Izuku’s torso and yanking him backward mid-sentence. The sudden force knocked the air from his lungs. He thrashed instinctively, rage tipping into something wild and desperate as the fabric dug into his chest and arms.
“Let go!” he roared, voice already hoarse. “You can’t just let him—!”
The scarf tightened, harsher this time, and Izuku was ripped away from Bakugo completely. His boots skidded uselessly across the floor as he fought for traction, hands clawing at nothing, eyes locked on Bakugo like sheer will might finish what he’d started.
“I’m not done!” he shouted. “He doesn’t get to just sit there—he doesn’t get to forget! He shouldn't even be here!”
Aizawa’s hair lifted, eyes glowing red. His voice cut through the chaos, low and razor-sharp. “Everyone stay seated. Shinso—stay in your seat.”
The room froze. Then, to Izuku: “Enough. You’re coming with me. Kirishima—get Bakugo to Recovery Girl.”
Izuku bucked against the restraint, body bending like a live wire. “Let go! I—I’m not done with him!”
He managed three staggering steps toward Bakugo before Aizawa planted his heels and hauled the capture cloth sideways, redirecting Izuku with brutal efficiency. The hallway swallowed them whole, the classroom door hissing shut behind them and cutting off the stunned, whispering aftermath.
Aizawa shoved into an empty classroom—desks stacked, whiteboard bare, air thick with dust and stillness. He forced Izuku into a chair and wound the scarf once around the metal backrest, another loop crossing Izuku’s torso like a restraint harness.
The red glow faded from Aizawa’s eyes, but the tension in his jaw didn’t. “Talk,” he ordered, voice calm but charged. “What the hell was that Midoriya?”
Izuku didn’t answer. He stared at the wall, breath coming sharp and uneven, anger still burning under his skin with nowhere to go.
Bakugo Katsuki.
It had been years since he had thought that name. Yet the name burned all the same.
A hero. Izuku’s jaw clenched.
Izuku wasn’t surprised Bakugo still wanted to be a hero. They’d wanted the same thing once. What shocked him was that U.A. had let him in at all. That they’d looked at Bakugo Katsuki—at the kind of person he was—and decided he was fit to wear that uniform. Fit to stand at the front of a class and be shaped into something meant to protect others.
And that Aizawa hadn’t expelled him yet.
That was the part Izuku couldn’t make sense of.
Bakugo had a quirk. A violent one. An impressive one. And apparently, that was enough. He wondered how many others U.A. had let in the same way. How many monsters were polished and pointed toward heroism, while the people they broke were told to move on.
The anger had nowhere to land. And so it stayed—hot, restrained, and waiting.
Aizawa stepped closer, concern threading through his frustration. “I need you to talk to me, Midoriya.” Izuku’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. His throat tightened like something had wrapped around it from the inside. Instead, the words slipped out low and shaking. “You shouldn’t have stopped me.”
Aizawa sighed through his nose and dropped to one knee in front of him, bringing them level. “That’s not how we deal with things. You know that.”
Izuku finally met his eyes.
What Aizawa saw there made him still. This wasn’t scattered anger. It wasn’t panic or fear or misplaced adrenaline. It was hate—sharp, focused, old.
“He doesn’t deserve to be in that room,” Izuku whispered. “He doesn’t deserve any of this.”
Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He studied him carefully, like he was looking at an injury that hadn’t fully surfaced yet. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “It’s clear you know Bakugo,” he said. “What am I missing?”
Izuku’s gaze drifted past him, lashes damp, refusing to blink. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Make me understand.” Aizawa rested a firm hand on his knee, grounding, steady. “You put Bakugo in the infirmary. I was more worried it’d be the other way round. He could’ve seriously hurt you, kid. Whatever set you off—that’s bigger than a schoolyard feud.”
Izuku couldn't stop the words from leaving his mouth, "He wouldn’t dare use his quirk on me again.”
Aizawa’s brow furrowed.
Izuku’s lips trembled. Rage flared again, frantic for somewhere to land. “He’s the reason—” He bit the words off hard, jaw locking. Can’t say it. Won’t. His voice scraped out quieter, rougher. “He destroyed my life. That’s all you need to know.”
Aizawa watched him closely—counting breaths, noting the tremor in clenched fingers. The scarf loosened a fraction, easing the pressure without granting freedom.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said firmly. “You know that.” The irritation in his tone was edged with exhaustion—the sound of a teacher whose concern outweighed the chaos of the moment. “We’ll sit here until you can speak. Or at least until you stop trying to tear my scarf in half.”
Izuku’s shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him in a shaky exhale, leaving only the weight behind. He stared at the floor, jaw working, teeth grinding against words that burned too much to let out.
*
Midoriya didn’t say anything.
After a few minutes, Shouta pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a brief message to Kayama, asking her to cover and check in on the class. He didn’t want to imagine the chaos brewing in that room—students buzzing with questions, theories forming faster than facts. Questions he couldn’t answer. Questions he wouldn’t answer.
They sat like that for another twenty minutes, the silence heavy and unmoving, until the bell finally rang.
Shouta didn’t flinch at the sound. Midoriya did.
Shouta watched him from the corner of his eye, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his gaze never lifted from the floor. Whatever had happened between him and Bakugo, it wasn’t something Midoriya could talk about. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
His mind sifted through possibilities anyway.
Same school? No—Midoriya had been doing online schooling for years. That meant whatever history they shared went back further. Before foster care. Before everything Midoriya refused to talk about.
Nothing fit cleanly. Then again—nothing ever did with this kid. Once the hallway noise dulled and the flow of students thinned, Shouta loosened the capture scarf and stepped back. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said quietly.
Midoriya didn’t look at him. He simply stood and stormed out of the room.
Shouta exhaled slowly. Midoriya was supposed to be in English. Hizashi would be worried—probably already pacing, pretending not to be. He should’ve sent a text.
But Shouta stayed where he was for a moment longer. Because sitting and waiting for answers wasn’t an option anymore.
What he’d seen in Midoriya back there—how raw and unfiltered it had been, how unlike the careful, controlled kid he knew—set something cold in his chest. That side of him hadn’t been normal. And it bothered Shouta far more than he wanted to admit.
He knew patience was important. He knew forcing things would only make Midoriya shut down further. But this wasn’t just about him as a guardian. This was about him as a teacher. About student safety. About understanding the situation before it exploded again.
If Midoriya wasn’t ready to talk—
Then there was only one other person who might be.
Shouta headed for the infirmary.
He half-expected Bakugo to be gone by the time he arrived. Instead, when he opened the door, he found him sitting on the bed, pressing an ice pack to his face. Kirishima sat beside him, mid-conversation, both of them falling silent as Shouta entered.
“Kirishima,” Shouta said evenly, “school ended ten minutes ago. You can head home.”
“But what about Baku—”
“I’m fine, shitty hair,” Bakugo snapped. “Go home.”
The words were familiar—but the spark behind them wasn’t. Years of teaching had trained Shouta to notice the smallest changes. Bakugo sounded flat. Controlled in a way he hadn't all week.
Kirishima hesitated, then nodded and left.
Shouta took the chair he’d vacated and studied Bakugo’s face. Midoriya had landed more than a few solid hits. That alone surprised him.
“Why are you here, Sensei?” Bakugo asked. “Did the nerd tell you what happened? You here to expel me?” Shouta frowned. “Midoriya didn’t tell me anything.” He paused. “Do you think you deserved those punches?”
Bakugo didn’t hesitate. “I deserved a lot more.”
“No,” Shouta said firmly. “Violence is never the right answer.”
Bakugo scoffed. “Unless it is. If you knew what I did, you wouldn’t be saying that.” His jaw clenched, gaze dropping to the floor.
“Then tell me,” Shouta said. “Because right now, I don’t even have half the story. I have a sliver. And I can’t help either of you if I don’t know what happened.”
Bakugo shut his eyes and took a shaky breath. “Why do you even want to help me? You don’t owe me anything.”
Shouta didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t soften it either. “The moment you stepped into my classroom, you became my student,” he said. “And that makes it my responsibility. I’m here to help you learn from your mistakes. No matter how big they are.”
Bakugo looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he swallowed.
“Me and the nerd were childhood friends.”
Shouta stayed silent, letting him continue.
“I was shocked to see him today. Standing there. Alive.” Bakugo’s hands tightened in his lap. “After we lost—after he lost aunty—he went into foster care. I heard my parents talking.” His breath hitched. “They said kids without quirks didn’t last long there. That the chances of making it out at eighteen were less than five percent.”
Understanding struck like a blow.
“You thought he was dead,” Shouta said quietly.
Bakugo nodded. “My family tried to adopt him. For months. But the agency said it wasn’t safe.” His voice dropped. “Because of me.”
Shouta’s jaw tightened. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and he didn’t like it.
“I bullied him,” Bakugo admitted. “When he didn’t get his quirk, something in me snapped. I don’t even know why he kept following me. I treated him like shit.”
The words settled heavy between them.
Shouta didn’t react right away. He kept his posture loose, his expression neutral, but inside his thoughts moved fast and sharp. This wasn’t a single bad incident. It wasn’t thoughtless cruelty or kids being kids. This was sustained. Deliberate. Long enough to leave marks that still hadn’t faded.
Long enough that Izuku held a grudge.
And worse—Bakugo was saying it plainly, almost clinically, like it was something he’d rehearsed. Not to excuse himself, but not fully confronting the damage either. Shouta had heard that tone before. From people who knew they’d crossed a line, but hadn’t yet accepted just how far they’d gone.
He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. This wasn’t the moment for anger. It was the moment for clarity.
“Do you acknowledge that what you did was wrong?” Shouta asked.
“Of course I do,” Bakugo snapped, then faltered. “The things I did were—” He stopped, teeth grinding. “They were unforgivable.”
Shouta exhaled slowly. “People make mistakes. Some of them big.” His gaze stayed steady. “Owning that doesn’t undo the damage—but it’s where accountability starts.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “But something doesn’t add up. Midoriya said you ruined his life. If it was only bullying, he would’ve tried to get away from you. Not stayed. That cant be the reason for today.”
Bakugo froze. Shouta saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath stalled.
There was more. Something big.
“Look, Sensei,” Bakugo said abruptly, standing. “I should go. Deku won’t want me talking about this. If he didn’t tell you, there’s a reason.” He headed for the door. “All you need to know is that I ruined his life. Everything he said was right. And I deserved every punch.”
Then he was gone.
Shouta sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, questions multiplying instead of fading.
He checked his watch. Hizashi and Midoriya would be waiting by now. Shouta rubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t looking forward to dinner. But first, he’d have to survive a very uncomfortable car ride home.
*
Hizashi knew something was wrong for two reasons.
The first had been easy enough to dismiss. Midoriya hadn’t returned to class at all during last period—but Hizashi knew exactly where the kid would’ve gone. Shouta. So he hadn’t panicked. Much.
The second was harder to ignore.
After the final bell, Hizashi waited in the teachers’ lounge like usual, boots kicked off, chair tilted back as he watched the door for his husband and the kiddo. Midoriya did show up—but the moment he stepped inside, Hizashi felt it. The tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes kept flicking to the exits.
Hizashi had tried to joke about it. Asked where he’d vanished to all class.
The response had been flat.
Ask Aizawa.
Then Midoriya had disappeared again, this time claiming he was heading out to hang with Shinso. Hizashi had given him a thumbs-up and let him go—because pushing never helped, and because the kid had looked like he needed space more than questions.
Still… it nagged at him.
And then there was Shouta.
Normally, by the time Hizashi finished packing up, his husband was already cocooned in his sleeping bag on the lounge couch—out cold, scarf half-eaten by gravity.
This time, thirty minutes passed. Then forty. When Shouta finally stepped into the room, Hizashi spun around in his chair. “Sho, where have you been? I’ve been ready to go home for ages—” He stopped. Shouta wasn’t looking at him. He was scanning the room, eyes sharp, like he was on duty.
“Got held up in the infirmary,” Shouta said. “Where’s Midoriya?”
Hizashi straightened. “He went home with Shinso—wait. Infirmary?” His brows shot up. “What happened? Lemme guess. Kaminari shocked himself again?”
“No,” Shouta replied. “Bakugo got into a fight.”
Hizashi blinked. “He did? With who? Are they okay? How long is he suspended for?”
“It was Midoriya—”
“What!?” Hizashi was on his feet instantly. “Is Midoriya okay?! I knew something was off earlier, but he didn’t look hurt!”
“No,” Shouta said evenly. “Bakugo was the one injured.” Hizashi stared. “…Wait. What?”
“Midoriya attacked Bakugo when he dropped off the folder,” Shouta continued. “I was with Bakugo in the infirmary trying to figure out why the golden retriever went for the angry Pomeranian.”
Hizashi felt his brain short-circuit. “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
“I had to use my scarf to pull Midoriya off him,” Shouta said. “And he still tried to go back for seconds.” He paused. “You want to know the most concerning part?”
Hizashi swallowed. “Don’t like where this is going.”
“Bakugo didn’t fight back,” Shouta said. “He just sat there and took it.”
Hizashi’s joking instinct never even twitched. “That’s… not like him.”
“Tell me about it.”
Silence settled between them—heavy, thoughtful. "Should we go to Shinso’s and bring the listener home?” Hizashi asked quietly. “If what you’re saying really happened, we should probably talk about it. Tonight.” Shouta shook his head, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Not yet.”
Hizashi frowned. “Sho—”
“We need to talk about what Bakugo told me first.”
Hizashi’s stomach dropped. “…That bad?”
Shouta didn’t answer.
And that told Hizashi everything.
*
Izuku wasn’t sure what to do.
He’d spent over forty minutes sitting in silence with Aizawa—forty minutes of questions hanging unasked, words lodged painfully in his throat. He wished he were strong enough to just say it. To force the truth out and be done with it.
But he wasn’t.
So instead, he’d told Yamada he was going to Shinso’s.
It was a lie.
Izuku checked his phone as he boarded the train, slipping into an empty seat near the window. He just needed space. From the school. From his fosters. From everyone.
He knew better than to go anywhere near the club in his U.A. uniform—that would only invite attention, questions, complications he didn’t have the energy to deal with. So he stayed where he was, letting the train carry him forward without a destination in mind.
The vibration in his pocket made his shoulders tense instantly. If it was Aizawa or Yamada, he wouldn’t be able to ignore it. He pulled his phone out with a small knot in his chest—only to see Shinso’s name on the screen.
You alive?
Izuku exhaled slowly and locked the phone without replying. Sorry, he thought, not for the first time. Just… not right now. He didn’t get off the train until one of the last stops.
By the time the doors slid open, the station was quieter—less foot traffic, fewer voices bouncing off concrete. Izuku checked his watch. He still had time. Plenty of it, actually. Enough to exist somewhere that wasn’t pressing in on him.
The walk to the beach was familiar, even if he hadn’t been here in a while.
Salt hit the air first. Sharp, clean, unmistakable. The sound of the waves followed—not loud, not violent, just steady. Patient. Like they weren’t in any rush to go anywhere.
Izuku slipped off his shoes and stepped onto the sand, the cool grains sinking under his weight. He walked until the noise of the city dulled behind him and the ocean filled his ears instead.
He stopped near the waterline.
Normally, places like this made people think too much. Gave their minds room to spiral. But Izuku had lived inside his own head long enough to know the difference. Right now, the quiet didn’t demand anything from him.
He sat down, knees pulled loosely to his chest, and stared out at the horizon. The sky was beginning to shift into deeper colours—soft blues bleeding into orange, the sun lowering without ceremony.
He breathed in.
Salt. Wind. Cold air filling his lungs.
Then out. Slow. Controlled. Grounding.
The tide rolled in and retreated, again and again, uncaring about what had happened in a classroom miles away. Unbothered by names or fists or memories that refused to stay buried.
For the first time since earlier that day, the tight coil in his chest loosened—just a little.
Izuku leaned back onto his hands, letting the sand press into his palms. He closed his eyes and listened.
The waves didn’t ask him to explain himself. They didn’t look at him differently. They didn’t expect him to be anything other than still.
By the time Izuku got home, the sun had fully set. Night pressed softly against the windows, the world outside quiet and dark.
The ocean had helped. More than he expected. The steady rhythm of the waves, the cold sand under his hands, the salt in the air—it had taken the edge off the storm inside his chest. Not erased it. Just dulled it enough that he could breathe again.
So when he slipped inside the apartment, he moved carefully. Shoes off. Bag eased down. He angled toward the hallway, already planning to retreat to his room and disappear for the night.
He made it exactly three steps.
“How was Shinso’s?”
Aizawa’s voice came from the table—calm, even, unavoidable.
Izuku stopped dead. He turned slowly, schooling his expression into something neutral, something believable. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “It was… good.”
Yamada watched him over the rim of his mug from the table. Aizawa didn’t look up from where he was sorting through papers.
The silence stretched. Izuku took one step hoping they wouldn’t continue the conversation. As usual, he was wrong.
“Midoriya,” Yamada said gently, “we don’t mind if you need time alone. Especially after today. But you have to tell us where you go.”
“I did tell you,” Izuku replied, the edge creeping into his voice despite himself. “I told you that I was—”
“At Shinso’s?” Aizawa cut in. “We know you weren’t at his place, kid.”
Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it just as quickly. …Yeah. He wasn’t surprised. “Did Shinso call you,” Izuku asked quietly, “or did you call him?”
“We called,” they both said in unison.
Izuku hummed, gaze dropping to the floor. Anger flared, sharp and unwelcome. Of course they’d gone behind his back. He knew he’d lied—but they hadn’t even asked him first.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa said, tone shifting. “We need to talk about what happened between you and Bakugo today.” Izuku’s lip curled before he could stop it as he collapsed onto the couch. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped. “I thought I made that clear when we sat in silence for forty minutes.”
“Kid, you could’ve seriously hurt Bakugo when you punched—”
Izuku shot to his feet. “You’re on his side.” It wasn’t a question. “Just like everyone else.”
Yamada and Aizawa exchanged a quick, confused glance. “No,” Yamada said immediately, voice firm but warm. “Listener, we aren’t on anyone’s side.” He got up from the table. “But if we were, we’d both be on yours. Always.”
Aizawa nodded once. “That doesn’t change the fact that what you did was wrong.”
Izuku laughed—short, sharp, bitter.
Aizawa moved before Izuku could spiral further, sitting on the coffee table directly in front of him, close but not crowding. “He may have deserved consequences,” Aizawa said carefully, “but you’re better than this. You aren’t the violent type.”
Izuku scoffed. The sound surprised all three of them.
Violent type. Funny.
“I know you, kid,” Aizawa continued. “You’re smarter than this. If it had been anyone else, you’d be looking at suspension—minimum.”
“So why didn’t I?” Izuku shot back. “Great. Just give them another reason to treat me differently.”
Yamada frowned. “Do you want us to suspend you?”
“Of course I don’t!” Izuku snapped—then stopped himself. He dragged in a breath, slow and deliberate. He was angry, yes—but not at them. Taking it out on them wouldn’t be fair.
He exhaled shakily.
“I saw Kacchan,” Izuku said quietly. “And I just—lost it. I’m usually good at keeping my emotions in check.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I’m sorry I lashed out.” Silence. “I just…” He swallowed. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
The room stayed quiet—heavy, but not hostile.
“We’ll call it a night on the topic,” Yamada said at last. The usual brightness was gone from his voice, replaced with something steady and serious. “But this isn’t being put to bed entirely. We will talk about it again.”
Izuku nodded, shoulders tight but relieved. At least it was over. At least for now.
He was halfway to standing when Aizawa spoke again.
“I didn’t take you for the type to be childhood friends with Bakugo of all people.”
Izuku froze.
Yamada sighed deeply. “Shouta, I just said we were done—”
“How do you even know that?” he cut in, tension creeping into his voice. Izuku’s jaw tightened. “…You spoke to him.” It wasn’t a question.
“I did,” Aizawa replied. “He’s one of my students.”
Of course he is, Izuku thought dully. Of course that’s all it took. The room felt suddenly smaller. The walls too close. His thoughts spiraled fast—too fast.
What did Bakugo say? How much did he tell him? Did he tell him everything?
The images he didn’t want to think about pressed in anyway. The past clawing at the edges of his vision. His stomach twisted.
He didn’t want their pity.
He couldn’t handle that—not now. Not when things were finally… good. Normal. When laughter didn’t come with strings attached.
If they knew—really knew—it would change things. He’d seen that look before. In his first foster house. Because he couldn’t keep them from finding out. The careful voices. The way people started treating him like something fragile, already broken. And for once it wasn’t to do with his quirk.
“Izuku,” Yamada said gently, sensing the shift. “Hey—”
“What did he tell you?” Izuku cut in.
The words came out sharper than he meant them to. He turned then, finally facing them, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Both of them were watching him closely now. Not judging. Not angry.
Concerned.
His pulse spiked. Aizawa didn’t answer right away. That pause felt intentional. Izuku’s hands trembled. He hated that. He shoved them into his pockets, nails biting into his palms.
“Did he tell you,” Izuku pressed, voice tight, “or did he just—did he make it sound like nothing?”
Yamada straightened fully now. The easy warmth he usually carried was gone, replaced with something quieter but firmer.
“He told me he bullied you,” Aizawa said at last. “Repeatedly.”
Izuku let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“Yeah. Okay. And?” he said. “Bullying for me is not exactly breaking news.”
“Listener,” Yamada said, tone careful but unmistakably serious, “don’t brush it off like that.”
The room tilted.
“Why not?” Izuku shot back. “That’s what everyone else did. Teachers. Adults. People who were supposed to notice. So why is it suddenly a problem now? I've moved on, why cant everyone else.”
Yamada opened his mouth, then closed it again. When he spoke, his voice was slower—deliberate. “Because you didn’t react like someone brushing off old history.” he said. "Midoriya, you may think you've moved on but after today its clear you haven't."
Aizawa nodded once. “People don’t lose control over something that’s settled,” he added. “Which tells me it wasn’t.”
Izuku’s chest tightened painfully. “You don’t need to understand it,” Izuku said, voice low. “You just need to drop it. I thought this topic was done for the night.”
“We can’t,” Aizawa said flatly. “Not as your teachers. And not as your legal guardians.”
The words landed cleanly. Unavoidable.
Yamada nodded once. “When we took responsibility for you, that didn’t stop at food and a roof. If something this volatile is still affecting you, we have to address it.”
Izuku's gaze flickered between them.
“And not when it affects how you see yourself,” Yamada added quietly.
That—that—was the crack.
Izuku felt something inside him snap taut. The room blurred at the edges, not with tears but with sheer, overwhelming pressure.
He stood.
“You keep saying things like that,” Izuku said, taking a step back instead of forward. His voice shook despite his efforts. “Like it’s your place.”
“It is our place,” Yamada said gently. “We care about you.”
The word hit like a blow.
Care.
Responsibility.
Izuku laughed, short and hollow. “You don’t get to say that,” he said. “You don’t get to act like this is—like I owe you explanations.”
“We’re not asking for everything,” Yamada said. “Just honesty. When you’re ready.”
Something hot and sharp flared in Izuku’s chest. Fear twisted into something uglier—something defensive. “You keep talking like—like you’re entitled to that,” Izuku said, stepping back again, putting space between them. “Like you’re—”
He stopped himself too late. Izuku swallowed, then forced the words out anyway, because they were already there, burning. “You can try to ‘understand’ me all you want, Yamada,” he said. “But let’s get one thing straight.”
Yamada stiffened.
“You’re not my dad,” Izuku continued, every word measured and cutting. “You never were. And you never will be. You’re just someone filling a space that was already empty.”
The room went utterly still.
Aizawa’s expression hardened—not with anger, but with something deeper and more complicated. Yamada looked like the air had been knocked from his lungs, shoulders going rigid as he absorbed the blow.
“That’s enough,” Aizawa said firmly.
“Izuku—” Yamada started. But Izuku was already turning away. He stormed down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame.
The apartment fell silent.
And this time, nobody moved to break it.
*
Shouta was conflicted.
He didn’t know what to do—or what he should do. Part of him wanted to follow Midoriya. To knock on the door, make sure he was okay, remind him he wasn’t alone.
The other part of him wanted to strangle the kid with his scarf.
Shouta knew Midoriya hadn’t meant a word of what he’d just said to Yamada. It was what happened when the kid felt cornered—when fear and overwhelm twisted into something sharp and defensive. Still, knowing that didn’t make it sting any less.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He should’ve seen it coming. Push too hard, and Midoriya did what he’d learned to do best—shut down, lash out, and put distance between himself and anyone who got too close.
And Shouta hated that he’d let it happen anyway.
He turned to gauge Hizashi’s reaction. He expected hurt—maybe anger, maybe the shine of unshed tears Hizashi would try to laugh off later.
What he got instead stopped him cold.
Hizashi was staring straight ahead, expression completely blank. Not tense. Not shaking. Just… empty. Like something had been knocked loose and hadn’t settled yet.
“Hizashi?” Shouta said quietly. He knew the question was stupid, but he needed to pull him back. When that didn’t work, he reached out and gave his shoulder a light shake. Hizashi blinked, focus snapping back in place. He looked at Shouta and nodded once. “I’m alright,” he said. His voice was steady—too steady. “He wasn’t wrong.”
Shouta frowned. “Yamada—”
“I know,” Hizashi cut in softly. He turned away before Shouta could press further, long strides already carrying him toward the balcony. “I just… need a minute.”
Shouta watched Hizashi’s silhouette against the evening light, shoulders rigid, head bowed. He wanted to say something—anything—but he didn’t. Hizashi needed space. He always tried to be the loud one, the strong one, the one who could take a hit and laugh it off later. Words like that didn’t bounce off him.
They sank in. Shouta dragged a slow breath through his nose and scrubbed a hand down his face.
One thing at a time.
Bakugo. The bullying. The past. All of that could wait. None of that could be dealt with if the damage happening right now wasn’t addressed first.
What Midoriya had said to Hizashi—that couldn’t sit. Shouta turned toward Midoriya’s room. The boy’s breathing reached him before he knocked—slow, deliberate, the kind you used when you were holding something down with both hands. Shouta knocked once and opened the door without waiting.
Midoriya sat at his desk, notebook open, pen clenched too tightly in his fingers. “I don’t want a lecture,” Midoriya said immediately. His voice wavered despite his effort to steady it. “I meant what I said.”
Shouta leaned against the doorframe, arms folding loosely. His tone stayed calm—not sharp, not soft. “I’m not here to lecture,” he said. “And I’m not here to talk about Bakugo.”
Midoriya stilled. Shouta continued, steady. “I pushed too hard earlier. That wasn’t my intention, and I should’ve recognized when you were hitting your limit. That part’s on me.”
Midoriya didn’t turn around, but the tension in his shoulders shifted—just slightly.
“But,” Shouta added, firmer now, “what you said about Hizashi doesn’t fall under that.”
Midoriya's jaw tightened. “He’s not my dad.”
“I know,” Shouta said immediately. “And no one’s asking you to pretend he is.” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, careful not to crowd him. “But you said it to hurt him,” Shouta continued. “And you knew it would.”
Midoriya's fingers trembled, betraying him. “He kept pushing. Asking. Acting like everything wasn’t fine.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want him looking at me like I was his responsibility. Or his problem to fix.”
Shouta nodded once. “I get that.” Midoriya let out a shaky breath. “Then why didn’t you drop it?”
“Because avoiding it doesn’t protect you,” Shouta said. “And because pushing people away by cutting where it hurts isn’t something we’re going to ignore.”
Silence stretched.
He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I just don’t get why he’s trying so hard.”
“He tries because he cares,” Shouta said.
“I know,” Midoriya whispered. “That’s the problem.”
Shouta exhaled slowly. This wasn’t landing. He could hear it in the way Midoriya kept circling the same point—care as pressure, concern as threat. Words weren’t going to bridge that gap, not right now. Not when fear had its claws in so deep.
Sometimes, when logic failed, you needed proof. His gaze drifted to the bedside table. The notebook.
Shouta stood, walked over, and picked it up. The notebook was heavier than he expected—well-used, edges frayed, the cover softened by years of handling. He flipped it open, scanning rows of neat, obsessive handwriting. The ink was faded in places, the pressure lighter—old entries. Midoriya must’ve written most of this long before moving in with them.
He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was after. It was a full analysis of Present Mic’s quirk. Charts. Sound-wave diagrams. Notes on frequency ranges, estimated stamina limits, how resonance affected structural integrity. Technical, precise, hero-focused. He could almost picture a much younger Midoriya hunched over these pages, studying a hero he admired from afar.
But then Shouta noticed something different. Halfway down the page, the handwriting shifted—not the style, but the age of it. Fresher ink. More recent pressure on the page.
These notes weren’t about Present Mic, the hero. They were about Hizashi Yamada. Small comments written in the margins between sound diagrams:
‘He drinks way too much citrus tea but it makes him smile. That’ll make a good birthday present.’
‘His voice is different when he’s tired. Softer. Not what I expected.’
'He hums when he cooks. Off-key on purpose.’
‘He’s… kind. I don’t know why that’s hard to accept.’
‘Why does it feel easier to breathe when he’s around?’
Shouta stopped reading for a moment, feeling something in his chest tighten. These weren’t hero analyses. They weren’t old childhood notes. These were recent—days, maybe weeks old.
Midoriya's breathing hitched from the desk. “What are you doing?” the boy asked, voice thin.
Shouta didn’t answer. He turned the page. Another margin note caught his eye—slanted, hurried, like Midoriya had written it before he could talk himself out of it:
‘Sometimes I think he actually cares about me. And I don’t know what to do with that. Why would either of them care about me?’
That one had to be older. Probably from the first few weeks he started living with them. Midoriya took a step forward, panic flaring. “Stop reading that—! Just—give it back!” Shouta closed the notebook gently and looked at him, expression still. “You say he’s not your dad,” Shouta said quietly. “You say you don’t care how he feels.” He lifted the notebook slightly. “But these pages say something else.”
Midoriya froze, hands trembling at his sides. “This isn’t about Present Mic,” Shouta continued, voice steady. “Or hero analysis. This is you trying to understand Yamada. The person who makes you hot chocolate. The person who hums when he’s nervous. The person you watch more closely than you'd probably admit.”
Shouta could tell Midoriya's wanted to look away but he didn't.
“You can tell me you don’t see him as family,” Shouta said. “But you don’t write things like this about someone you feel nothing for.” The room went impossibly quiet.
Shouta didn’t move closer. He didn’t push. He simply held the notebook loosely at his side and waited.
Midoriya's breathing wavered—uneven, shallow—like he was holding something back with both hands. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, then forced a slow breath in through his nose. Another. Gradually, the tension in his shoulders eased—not gone, but contained. “…He means more to me than I want him to,” Midoriya said finally.
The words came out soft. Careful. Like they might break if he said them too loudly. He swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
“I’ve never… had a real dad,” he continued, voice quieter still. “Mine was never around. Not even before everything went wrong.” His fingers curled into his sleeves. “The foster ones—when they were there at all—I mostly wished they weren’t.”
Shouta stayed silent, listening.
“I don’t know what having a dad is supposed to feel like,” Midoriya admitted. “Or what it’s supposed to be. So when Yamada started acting like that—hovering, checking in, caring—it just felt wrong. Too much.” His voice cracked. “Like I didn’t know where to put it.”
He finally looked up. “I didn’t want to need him,” Midoriya said. “But I do.” Shouta felt something shift in his chest. Izuku drew in a shaky breath. “He’s not my dad,” he said again, quieter now. “But… he’s better than one. Because he chooses me. Every day.”
The words hung between them.
Shouta nodded slowly. “Then you should tell him that.”
Midoriya hesitated. Then nodded too. “I will.”
Shouta was about to speak but the kid beat him too it. “And about today,” Midoriya added, jaw tightening slightly. “About Bakugo.” He met Shouta’s eyes this time, steady despite the tremor underneath. “It won’t happen again. I won’t let him get that reaction out of me. Not at U.A.”
Shouta held his gaze, searching for cracks. Found none. “I believe you,” he said.
Midoriya nodded once. “I mean it.”
Shouta set the notebook on the desk. “I’m going to start on dinner,” he said evenly. “Take your time with Hizashi.”
Midoriya nodded and pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the door. As he passed Shouta, he slowed—just for a second. Then he stopped.
“…You’re not so bad either,” Midoriya said quietly. “At the dad stuff. Even if you pretend you’re not doing it. And thank you for not suspending me today.”
Then he slipped out the door before Shouta could respond. He stood there long after he was gone, staring at the space Midoriya had occupied—heart heavier, warmer, and more unsteady than it had been in a long time.
And for once, he didn’t hate that feeling at all.
Great. So now he was giving advice on feelings and having emotional breakthroughs
*
The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. Every step echoed too loudly in his ears, each one heavy with the weight of what he’d said. He glanced around the living room until he noticed the figure on the balcony. He slowed as he reached the balcony door, his hand hovering over the handle for a heartbeat too long before he finally pushed it open.
Cool evening air rushed over him, sharp and grounding. Yamada didn’t turn.
He didn’t flinch or greet him, didn’t even shift where he leaned against the railing. The city lights reflected faintly off his glasses; the breeze stirred his hair, brushing loose strands against his cheek. He looked small like this—quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar and wrong.
Izuku stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, careful not to let it click too loudly. Still nothing. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the back of the man he’d hurt more deeply than he’d intended. Guilt tightened painfully in his chest. “Yamada?” he tried. The word came out tentative, unsure.
“Yeah?” Yamada answered without looking up. His voice was steady—too steady. The kind of steadiness that meant something fragile was being held together with both hands. Izuku swallowed. “I… I’m sorry.”
Yamada's shoulders dipped just slightly, like he’d finally let out a breath he’d been holding. He kept his eyes on the city. “You were angry,” he said gently. “I get that.”
“But I shouldn’t have said it,” Izuku whispered cutting in. “Not to you. Not like that.” The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was careful. Like both of them were choosing their footing. Izuku moved closer, stopping a step away, leaving space he could retreat from if he needed to. He wrapped both hands around the railing to keep them from shaking. “You’re not my dad,” he said softly. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just honest. “I wasn’t lying.”
Yamada nodded once, slow. “I know.”
“But…” Izuku forced himself to keep going. “You matter to me. More than I wanted to admit.” His voice wavered. “And I got scared. And instead of saying that, I hurt you.”
Yamada finally turned his head enough to look at him.
His eyes were damp, the city lights catching along the rims, but his smile was warm—careful, familiar. The kind that always made Izuku’s chest ache.
“Kiddo,” Yamada said quietly, “you didn’t break me.”
Izuku wasn’t sure he believed that. But he didn’t argue. Yamada shifted, angling his body a little more toward him, resting his back against the railing. “You don’t have to call me anything,” he continued. “I don’t need you to see me as a dad. I just—” He paused, choosing honesty over polish. “I care about you. That’s all I’ve ever been trying to do.”
Izuku nodded, throat tight. “I know. That’s what scared me.”
Hizashi’s brows lifted, concern softening his expression. “Scared you?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Izuku admitted. “Being around people who stay. Who notice.” His grip tightened on the railing. “I never had a dad. Not really. And the people who were supposed to be there…” He swallowed. “Most of the time, I wished they weren’t.”
Yamada went very still.
Izuku took a breath, steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet—but sure.
“You’re better than a dad,” he said. “Because you don’t act like you own that role. You choose me. You keep choosing me. Even when I’m difficult. Even when I mess up.”
For a moment, Yamada didn’t speak.
His mouth parted slightly, like the words had caught him off guard. His eyes shone brighter now—not quite tears, but close enough that he had to look away, blinking hard.
Izuku immediately tensed. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Yamada said quickly, voice rougher than before. He cleared his throat and let out a shaky breath. "No, listener. That’s—” He let out a shaky breath. “That means more than you know.” He rubbed at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand, then looked back at Izuku, smile trembling but real. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For trusting me with that.”
The air between them warmed—not lighter, but steadier. Yamada didn’t reach out. He didn’t crowd him. He just shifted closer until their elbows brushed—barely there. An offer, not a demand. Izuku didn’t move away.
“…Thank you,” Izuku whispered. “For trying. For not giving up on me. Even when I make it hard. I hope you can forgive me for what I said.”
Yamada bumped his shoulder gently against his. “Of course I forgive you, kiddo.” His smile returned—brighter now, though still careful, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.
“For what it’s worth,” Yamada added softly, “I’m really glad you came out here.” Izuku felt something loosen in his chest. Not all at once. Just enough.
“Me too,” he murmured.