Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku woke up with a start, his arms spread out wide as he blinked against the brightness of the sky. Snowflakes drifted lazily downward, landing on his face and eyelashes, the cold slowly seeping into his skin. Oddly calm, he lifted his head, trying to shake off the grogginess that clung to him. As he did, a cascade of snow fell from his chest, revealing the layers of white that had piled up on him during the night.

"That… can’t be good," he muttered, his breath visible in the icy air as he laid his head back down, the snow crunching softly beneath him.

He scrunched his eyebrows together, trying to piece together how he ended up in this situation. What was he doing lying on a rooftop, covered in snow? It was hard to recall where he had been or what he had been doing. His mind tended to make him forget the days when he got pretty messed up and died, and the snow piling on him wasn’t helping.

His thoughts were sluggish, weighed down by the same icy heaviness that made his limbs feel like they were encased in lead. Slowly, he began to remember the events of the previous night. He had been trying to be a vigilante, despite being nothing more than a pre-teen with more determination than sense. But with his quirk, why have any sort of self-preservation?

He had thought he could help, that he could make a difference. But when he confronted the villain, everything went wrong. He couldn’t win, couldn’t overpower them, and somewhere in the chaos, he had been hurt—badly.

The moral of the story: he’s not the main character, not the strong kid who can outsmart and overpower all the villains. Sometimes he loses—actually, he loses a lot, most of the time.

He stared up at the grey sky, his mind trying to process the fact that he might have bled to death right there on that cold, unforgiving rooftop. The thought felt distant, like it wasn’t really his to hold. Maybe it was true that he wasn’t good enough.

Izuku tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. He barely managed to lift his shoulders off the snow before the weight became too much, and he collapsed back down with a huff. His body felt heavy, so much heavier than it should have. His muscles were weak, barely responding to his commands, and his thoughts were jumbled, drifting in and out of focus. He wondered, absently, what stage of hypothermia he might be in. The cold didn’t even sting anymore; it was more like a numbness that had settled deep in his bones.

It was funny, in a way. Most kids his age would be at home, tucked in warm beds, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in the world. They’d be sleeping peacefully, maybe dreaming about their favorite heroes, while he was out here, alone, bleeding to death and now freezing to death on a rooftop. But it was fine. It had to be fine. He would just… revive, and everything would be okay, thanks to his quirk.

But as much as he told himself that, a small voice at the back of his mind whispered about how lonely it was, this existence of his. A never-ending cycle of pain and revival, with no one to understand.

The world kept moving forward, but he was stuck in this loop, cold and alone, always alone. He closed his eyes, letting the snow continue to fall on him, feeling its weight as it pressed him further into the darkness of sleep. He hoped his mother couldn’t see him from the sky, watching her son try to be a hero time and time again, only to die bleeding away in an alleyway, instead of going to school, instead of hanging out with kids his age.

As Izuku lay in the snow, ready to embrace the cold, peaceful death that awaited him, his mind drifted back to the countless times he had died before. His quirk, the ability to revive after death, had put him through experiences far worse than what he was facing now.

He had died in excruciating ways: being crushed under the weight of collapsed buildings, suffocating slowly as the air left his lungs, feeling his bones shatter under the force of a villain’s attack. He’d even been burned alive once, the flames licking at his skin until nothing but charred remains were left.

0/10 wouldn’t recommend burning alive.

Each time, he revived, gasping for breath, his body whole again but his mind fractured, the trauma buried deep beneath layers of protective barriers his psyche had constructed to keep him functioning.

This time, though, was different. The cold wasn’t painful; it was more like a slow descent into nothingness, almost peaceful compared to the horrors he had faced before. Just as he was about to surrender to the darkness, a rough shake pulled him back from the edge. Izuku blinked, his vision blurry, trying to make out who had disrupted his final moments.

A face came into focus, one that he recognized immediately—Eraser Head. The vigilante hero everyone talked about. Izuku had heard the stories about him; they spoke of his strength, his skill, the way he could defeat villains without breaking a sweat. Izuku had even caught glimpses of him from rooftops far away, trying to study his movements, to learn from him. But with no pen or notebook to write down his observations, everything remained in his head, jumbled and disorganized. It was hard to keep up when his mind kept blocking out memories, trying to protect him from the trauma of constantly dying and coming back.

Aizawa, with a firm grip, lifted Izuku out of the snow. He was standing now, but it wasn’t because his legs were supporting him—his body was still too weak. It was Aizawa’s posture, the way he held him up, that kept him on his feet. “What are you doing here?” Aizawa’s voice was stern, a mix of concern and authority. “A kid like you shouldn’t be out here in this thin clothing—dying of hypothermia—Jesus.” He cursed the last part under his breath. “I’m taking you to the hospital and then having a long chat with your parents.”

Izuku scoffed weakly at the mention of parents. Replay after replay in his mind confirmed it—he didn’t have parents—or at least, not a mother who cared about him.  His father was long gone, irrelevant to the life he led now.

Despite the bitterness, a flicker of panic surged through him as he trembled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Why… why are you here?” he stammered, the cold making it difficult to speak clearly. “I thought… you taught at U.A.?”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question as he pulled out his phone to contact a medical team. “How do you know me? Also, it’s my day off,” he asked, his tone curious but still serious as he kept his focus on the task at hand. It was good that the kid was talking and responsive—he needed more of that, hence why he answered the kid’s questions.

Izuku’s eyes lit up, stars shining in them despite his shivering. “I’ve heard… about you! All the p-people… say how you save them!” His words were filled with awe, a spark that cut through the haze of hypothermia. “If I could, I would’ve… would’ve asked you for a signature.”

Aizawa frowned, noting the way Izuku’s body trembled uncontrollably, how pale his skin was beneath the layers of snow. “You need to focus on surviving, and I’ll sign something for you at the hospital. Does that sound good?” he asked. He could feel the cold radiating off of Izuku, the way the boy’s body was on the brink of shutting down. Hypothermia was a serious threat, and despite the strange resilience Izuku seemed to have, Shota knew that time was running out.

But Izuku didn’t seem worried, even as his body betrayed him, even as his muscles ached with the effort of staying conscious. Aizawa’s voice grew more urgent as he worked to keep the boy awake, recognizing the signs of someone on the verge of slipping away. Despite the gravity of the situation, Izuku’s gaze remained fixed on Aizawa, as if just being in the presence of the hero he admired was enough to make everything okay.

Little did Shota know, the boy standing before him was already healing. Slowly but surely, his body was fighting back—a side effect of his quirk that kicked in when he was near death. As warmth began to creep back into his limbs, Izuku’s mind became clearer, the fog lifting just enough for him to realize the seriousness of his situation.

Yet, even as his thoughts sharpened, his expression remained calm, almost serene, as if dying was just another part of his strange, lonely life.

“Don’t… have to worry,” Izuku murmured, his voice soft, almost detached. Aizawa’s stern expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or maybe even confusion.
“Don’t worry?” the older man asked.

Izuku’s thoughts were scattered, flickering between consciousness and the cold creeping through his veins. He was on the verge of saying something, of asking if Aizawa had seen a kid with spiky blond hair—a kid who was everything Izuku admired. Of course, Kacchan would have gotten into U.A.; he was amazing, powerful, destined for greatness. But Izuku blinked, the thought slipping away as reality pulled him back. He realized what he was about to say and snapped out of it, his survival instincts kicking in.

He tried to push away from Aizawa, though his strength was barely enough to make a dent. “Kid, what—” Aizawa began, but Izuku interrupted him, desperation in his voice.

“I’m thankful I got to meet a hero like you, but I have to go,” Izuku insisted, his words rushed. He couldn’t be caught, couldn’t be put in a shelter when they figure out he didn’t have parents. If that happened, he’d be stuck with rules, a strict bedtime, and everything else that would come with being under someone else’s care. That would mean the end of his vigilante work, the end of everything he was trying to do.

“Just talk to me—what’s your age, your name, what school are you in?” Aizawa was trying anything to keep Izuku talking, to keep him responsive. “They’ll be here any minute now,” he added. He knew Izuku wasn’t thinking straight; the hypothermia was messing with his judgment. But Izuku was insistent, his urgency growing as the sound of an approaching ambulance reached his ears. He had to go; he had to go, but Aizawa’s grip held firm.

Panic surged through Izuku, and he became rowdier, struggling more violently as the sound of the ambulance grew nearer. Somehow, in the chaos, he managed to slip out of Aizawa’s hold. The freezing conditions, combined with the slick surface of the rooftop, worked in his favor. But as he staggered away, his foot slipped on the icy ground, and he fell hard. Reflexes took over, and he caught himself with his hands, pushing his aching body toward the edge of the rooftop, toward the fence and what he thought was his escape.

But just as he was about to make it, a scarf wrapped around his hand, tugging him back. “I will not let you go anywhere,” Aizawa said, walking toward him, careful not to fall. “You’re delirious because of the cold.”

Izuku’s panic intensified as he heard the ambulance pull up. He looked back at Aizawa, his fear and desperation clear. “I won’t give this family thing a try,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “I’d rather save lives!”

In one last act of defiance, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a box cutter with trembling hands. Everything felt sluggish, like he was moving through slime, but he managed to slice through Aizawa’s scarf, the fabric tearing away with a harsh rip. “It was nice to see you face to face,” Izuku said, his voice soft, almost wistful. “I always wanted to.” He glanced at another rooftop, his escape route, and then let his body tip backward, falling into the abyss below.

“KID! KID!” Aizawa shouted, lunging forward to grab him, but all he managed to catch was Izuku’s shoe, which slipped off as Izuku fell. For a moment, everything went dark, and Izuku thought, There goes my peaceful death.

But when he opened his eyes again, he was alive, back on the rooftop he had last seen. He sat up slowly, disoriented, and looked around. His shoe was missing, but the rest of him was whole, unhurt. He sighed, a mix of relief and frustration now that he was without a shoe, before glancing across to the other rooftop where Aizawa stood, looking panicked as paramedics rushed to the scene. Aizawa was explaining what had happened, and Izuku watched as they ran to the fence, expecting to find his body at the base of the building—finding petals instead.

As they looked around in confusion, Aizawa’s gaze briefly flickered back to where Izuku stood. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Aizawa just stared, disbelief and something like relief flashing across his face. Izuku hesitated, then lifted his hand in a small wave.

Aizawa’s expression hardened, but there was something else there too—something like deep fear, or maybe resignation. Before anyone could react, Izuku turned and sprinted away, running towards the other rooftops nearby, leaping across them with practiced agility. He didn’t look back, but he could feel Aizawa’s eyes on him as he ran. But he couldn’t stop, not now, not when he had so much to do.

There were still lives to save, and Izuku wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He could come back—he always could. His life didn’t matter.

Chapter Text

Nobody is going to save you. Get it up. Get up! GET UP!

The voice roared in his head, harsh and unrelenting like a storm breaking through his thoughts. Izuku's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he was disoriented, caught between the lingering terror of the dream and the cold reality that greeted him. His hand instinctively flew to his side, slapping against the spot where he was sure he’d been stabbed. The wound should have been there—a gaping, bloody tear in his flesh—but all he felt was the smooth fabric of his shirt and the dull ache of a memory that hadn’t quite faded yet. He was panting, breath ragged as if he’d just run a marathon.

He looked around, disoriented, trying to make sense of where he was. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps as his eyes darted around the dark, grimy alleyway. Slowly, the oppressive fog of fear and confusion began to lift, and memories started trickling back into his mind, piecing together the events that had led him here.

The villain. The fight.

His gaze landed on the figure slumped against a nearby pole, arms, and legs bound tightly with whatever scrap materials Izuku had found in the chaos. The villain was unconscious, head hanging limply to one side, a trickle of blood running from a gash on his temple. The sight of the man triggered the floodgates in Izuku's mind, and the memories came rushing back with a violent clarity.
He remembered the darkness of the night, the cold bite of the wind, and the sharp, searing pain of the knife as it had plunged into his side. He remembered fighting back, refusing to give in, even as his vision had started to blur and the world had begun to tilt.

Somehow, despite the searing agony, he had taken the villain down and secured him before collapsing himself. securing him from the authorities.

He should be dead. He had died.
Izuku staggered to his feet, his legs trembling under his weight. The alleyway spun around him, and he barely caught himself on the grimy wall, smearing dirt across his fingers. His head throbbed, and nausea rolled through his gut as he tried to shake off the lingering effects of his near-death experience. He looked down, noticing one of his mismatched shoes was slightly askew on his foot.

One shoe was the usual red one, though it was far from its original state. The fabric was fraying, the sole worn down, and it was haphazardly taped together to cover the holes that had formed over time. The other was a yellow sneaker, too big for his foot, found in a trash can and still bearing the grime of its past life. He couldn’t help but remember how Aizawa—Eraserhead—had grabbed him by the shoe, and how it had slipped off just before Izuku had fallen into darkness.

But now he was here, alive again, heart beating in his chest as if nothing had happened. Except it had. It always did. And he always came back.

Izuku considered the shoe, a fleeting thought crossing his mind. He wanted to ask Aizawa for it back—an absurd desire, really, given the circumstances. He knew the man would recognize him immediately, would see through the pitiful disguise he wore. Aizawa would drag him to foster care without a second thought, and that was if the shoe was even salvageable. It was likely nothing but a ruined, bloody mess by now, useless and beyond repair.

With a sigh, Izuku bent down, grabbing his battered backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. It was heavy, the weight dragging him down, but he forced himself to straighten up, to act as if everything was fine. As if he hadn’t just died and come back to life. As if his mind wasn’t fracturing under the pressure, pieces of himself splintering off with every cycle of death and rebirth.

He stepped out of the alley, joining the flow of people on the street. No one looked at him twice, just another face in the crowd. Izuku kept his head down, blending in as best he could, his feet moving automatically. He couldn’t afford to draw attention, not now, not ever. Pretending was the only thing keeping him sane—or as close to sane as he could manage these days.

The world around him continued on

*
*

Aizawa stood in the dimly lit surveillance room, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark pants. The glow from the multiple screens cast an eerie light across his stern face, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. He watched the grainy footage replay on each monitor, scenes of Izuku-the name he saw on the shoe that slid off Izuku's feet, the mysterious vigilante, darting through the shadows of the city, taking down villains with a relentless ferocity that belied his small stature.

If you stared at the footage long enough, if you ignored the poor quality and zoomed in just right, there were hints of something more—petals. Just barely visible before the boy would appear again, whole and unharmed. Aizawa knew exactly what it was, and had seen it with his own eyes. The image of Izuku jumping off a balcony, plummeting to his death, only to have his body replaced by petals, lingered in his mind like a haunting melody. And then, as if it were nothing, the boy had reappeared on another rooftop, waving at Aizawa as if he hadn’t just died.

Aizawa’s gaze dropped to the object in his hand. Izuku’s red shoe was battered and worn, the sole barely hanging on. It had been collected as evidence, though for what, Aizawa couldn’t quite say. It was a piece of the puzzle, a connection to the boy he couldn’t seem to shake. He should have let it go and handed it over to the proper authorities, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Last time he was seen was here,” an officer said, pointing to a map projected on the wall highlighted in red.

Aizawa hummed in response, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. The kid was elusive, only emerging during the dark hours, like some nocturnal creature. The daylight hours seemed to be his time of rest, but despite their best efforts, every time they checked the places where the cameras had last captured him, he was nowhere to be found.

Naomasa, standing beside him, sighed heavily. “You need to give up, Shota. My team has this handled. You should be focusing on the real threats—the villains. Not chasing after a kid who can’t die.”
Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “I would never give up. I’m still a teacher, Naomasa. A guardian. I’ll help him because he needs it. He needs to be in a warm home, with a bedtime, worrying about homework—not out here doing the work of adults.”

Naomasa shook his head. “We haven’t found him, Shota. He’s as sly as a fox. And you can’t keep—”
The door to the surveillance room burst open, and an officer hurried in, out of breath. “We’ve got a lead. We know where he is—on the rooftop of this marked building!”

Aizawa’s eyes met Naomasa’s, a silent determination passing between them. Naomasa sighed, knowing that arguing would be pointless. “I’ll bring my team. We’ll surround the area.”
But Aizawa was already moving, slipping past the officer and out the door.

As he walked through the city streets, his mind was a whirl of thoughts, each one centered on the boy. He wasn’t just chasing a vigilante. He was chasing a child who needed help, even if the boy didn’t realize it yet.

He came to a sudden stop in front of a shop, the display of shoes catching his eye. A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Izuku’s shoe had been a mess, barely holding together, a reflection of the boy himself—held together by sheer willpower. Rows of shoes lined the shelves, bright and new, a stark contrast to the worn-out one he held. He came to a stop, a thought forming in his mind. He stepped inside the store, ignoring the curious glance of the shopkeeper as he browsed the selection. It wasn’t much, but Aizawa knew that sometimes, the best way to coax a stray cat was with food and treats. You had to show them something they’d forgotten—or perhaps never known—they needed.

When he finally reached the rooftop, Aizawa was careful to approach quietly. The city stretched out below, a sea of lights and movement, oblivious to the small figure perched on the edge, staring out at the world with longing. Izuku’s cheek rested on his arms, which were crossed atop the railing, his entire posture one of exhaustion.

“Midoriya,” Aizawa called out softly, his voice steady.
Izuku’s head whipped around, eyes wide with shock, his body tensing as if ready to bolt, ready to leap off the edge if it meant escaping. But Aizawa raised a hand, his tone calm, almost gentle. “Let’s not do that...And before you panic, your name was found written on your shoe”

Izuku froze, every instinct screaming at him to run, to disappear. But something in Aizawa’s demeanor, in the way he wasn’t rushing forward or trying to corner him, made him hesitate.
Aizawa reached into the bag he was holding and gave it a little shake. “Before you go off and… do what you do, I brought you a gift.”

The curiosity in Izuku’s eyes was immediate, despite the fear that still lingered there. Like a cautious kitten, he edged closer, unable to resist the lure of something being offered, something just for him.

Aizawa pulled out a pair of shoes—new, sturdy, the kind that would last through a thousand scrapes and stumbles. He held them out, watching as Izuku’s gaze flickered between the shoes and his face, uncertainty and longing to battle within him.
Izuku eyed the shoebox warily, his instincts screaming at him to be cautious. Aizawa, sensing the tension, slowly set the box down on the rooftop and took several deliberate steps back, his hands in the air to show that he meant no harm.

"I know your scarf can pick me up from back there. I’ve seen you do it," Izuku muttered, his voice laced with disbelief. His mind was still dizzy, the haze of confusion clouding his thoughts. Yet, something about Aizawa’s presence was grounding him, pulling him back to reality.

"That’s right," Aizawa acknowledged. He unwrapped the scarf from his neck, letting it drop to the ground near him. He raised his empty hands, making sure Izuku could see there was nothing hidden. "But I’m not going to. I’m just here to talk."

Izuku’s eyes darted between the box and Aizawa, his heart pounding in his chest. He hesitated, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts, but eventually, his curiosity won out. He took cautious steps forward, always keeping Aizawa within his peripheral vision, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger. The rooftop seemed eerily quiet, the city below a distant hum as he approached the box.

When he reached it, Izuku knelt, his breath hitching as he noticed the brand on the shoebox. It was from an expensive company—one he could never afford. His hands trembled as he gently lifted the lid, revealing a pair of pristine, high-quality sneakers inside. The sight of them made his chest tighten with a mix of emotions, and he glanced up at Aizawa, who gave him a reassuring nod.

"They’re yours," Aizawa said softly. "If you want them."

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the shoes, his eyes wide with disbelief. He took a hesitant step closer, then another, his movements slow and deliberate, as though the shoes might vanish if he got too close. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the laces, the material smooth and cool under his touch.

"They’ll fit better than what you’ve got," Aizawa added, his voice gentle. He offered a small, encouraging smile, but Izuku shook his head, stepping back slightly.
"I’ll ruin them," Izuku whispered, his voice barely audible. "They’re too nice… I’ll just ruin them."

"Shoes are meant to be worn," Aizawa replied calmly, "and getting them dirty is part of that. They’re meant for you."

"Why?" Izuku asked, his voice breaking as he looked up at Aizawa with confusion. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you need a home," Aizawa said, his voice firm but kind. "You shouldn’t be out here alone, surviving on your own. You need a place where you’re safe, where you have a bed to sleep in, where you don’t have to jump off rooftops or fight villains to survive."

Izuku shook his head. "I’m fine here," he murmured, the lie slipping out automatically. He reached out to put the shoes back in the box, but Aizawa’s voice stopped him.

"Take them, please," Aizawa urged. "It’s a gift."

A gift

Izuku froze, his hands hovering over the box. After a long moment, he slowly removed his old, tattered shoe, the one barely held together by tape, and hesitantly slipped on the new one. The fit was perfect, the material soft and supportive around his foot. He repeated the process with the other shoe, feeling the difference immediately. It was more comfortable, more secure, than anything he’d worn in years.

His bottom lip trembled as a memory surfaced—his mother, smiling as she handed him a new pair of shoes when he was younger. The memory was bittersweet, and before he could stop himself, a hiccup escaped him, followed by a quiet sob. The tears came suddenly, uncontrollably, and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he cried.
It's hard to control your emotions when your mind is constantly running crazy, barely remembering your past or who you were so this was a lot to take in, he had forgotten what his mother used to look like

Aizawa saw his chance. He walked slowly toward Izuku, stepping over the scarf he’d discarded, and crouched down beside the sobbing boy. "It’s time to stop running, Midoriya," he said softly. "You shouldn’t be jumping off rooftops," he mumbled

Izuku shook his head, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand, the realization dawning on him slowly. "Did I really do that?"
"Yes," Aizawa confirmed, watching as Izuku blinked, the clarity of the memory settling in. "But you don’t have to keep doing this. You don’t have to keep putting yourself in danger. There’s another way."

"My mind… it’s crazy. I forget things. I can’t remember what’s real," Izuku admitted his voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes, I just want it to stop."

Aizawa’s heart ached. "Foster care isn't for you, I see it, but I can get you a spot at U.A.," he offered, hoping to reach the boy. "You don’t have to risk your life anymore. You could be a Quirk Specialist, help others without putting yourself in harm’s way."

Izuku’s eyes flickered with something—hope, perhaps, but it was quickly overshadowed by doubt. "Is that true?" he asked, his voice shaking. "You think I could do that? That I don’t have to risk my life?"
Aizawa nodded. "Yes, I do. You have a lot to offer. More than just your Quirk. You could help people in ways you haven’t even thought of yet."

For a moment, Izuku seemed to consider it. His gaze drifted to the edge of another rooftop, and then he closed his eyes, his hands trembling as he struggled with the decision. "Is that /really/ true?" he whispered, more to himself than to Aizawa. "Could I really…?"

But then, in a sudden burst of emotion, Izuku stepped forward and hugged Aizawa tightly. Aizawa stiffened, shocked by the sudden display of affection. He hadn’t expected this, not so soon, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. But before he could process what was happening, he felt something shift behind him.

His eyes went wide in shock as he looked down to see blood pooling on his shirt, spreading across the fabric. Izuku slumped against him, his weight suddenly heavy in Aizawa’s arms.

Izuku’s voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. "Your touch… it feels warm. Like my mom’s." His breath hitched, and he raised his head, eyes closed but still did the act of trying to look up at Aizawa with a faint, fading smile. "I’m grateful, Aizawa-sensei. I want to be a hero… with my Quirk, I could be… But… thank you for the shoes. I’ll cherish them. For the first time in forever, I felt like I could think, and I guess I formed this 'plan' "

Aizawa felt the life drain from Izuku’s body as the boy went limp in his arms. The hero’s mind raced, disbelief and horror mingling as he watched the blood pool around them. Izuku’s form began to dissolve, petals replacing flesh, the boy’s body disintegrating into a pile of delicate flowers that scattered in the breeze.

Aizawa was left kneeling on the rooftop, his hands empty, no blood to be found, and a knife—his knife that he carries behind his back and Izuku has used—clattering to the ground beside him. His eyes were wide with shock, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at the roses scattered where Izuku had just been.

And then, in the distance, he saw it. Izuku, standing on another rooftop, waved at him with that same innocent smile. The boy turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows before Aizawa could react.

For a moment, Aizawa was frozen in place, the weight of what had just happened. The horror of it all—the boy’s quiet acceptance of death, the way he had slipped through Aizawa’s fingers once again—left him reeling. The scent of roses lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the boy who refused to stay dead.
Aizawa stared at the rooftop where Izuku had stood. He couldn’t let this continue. He wouldn’t let this continue. Izuku needed help—real, genuine help—and Aizawa was determined to give it to him, no matter what it took.

He picked up the knife, his mind already working on a plan. He wouldn’t let Izuku suffer like this anymore. He wouldn’t let the boy slip away again. Not this time.
He figured out how Izuku's quirk works now

Chapter Text

Izuku sat perched on the edge of a dilapidated rooftop, his legs dangling over the side as he stared out at the city bathed in the soft glow of early morning. The world was quiet, just starting to wake up, but his mind was anything but still. For the first time in ages, he felt like he could think—really think—clearly, without the usual fog that clouded his thoughts. It was strange, unsettling even, to have this kind of clarity. His brain had been a mush of fractured memories and half-formed thoughts for so long that the sudden sharpness was almost too much to handle.

He yawned, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He should be sleeping, his body worn out from days spent scavenging and surviving, but instead, he’d woken up early, a gnawing hunger driving him out before dawn. He’d gone to the soup kitchen first, where the volunteers didn’t ask questions and the food was warm, and filling. After that, he’d made his rounds through the city’s alleys, digging through trash bins that hadn’t yet been emptied. To his surprise, he’d found some amazing, still-wrapped food—no mold, no rot—just tossed aside as if it were nothing. It was a small victory, one that filled his stomach.

But as he sat there, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to Aizawa and the new shoes the hero had given him. He looked down at them now, the pristine red shoes contrasting sharply with the dirt-streaked rooftop. They were still clean, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Part of him wanted to keep them that way, to preserve them as a token of kindness he didn’t deserve. Another part of him—stronger, more cynical—told him it didn’t matter. The shoes, like everything else, would get ruined eventually.

And hey-Aizawa himself said it was fine.

He sighed, knowing full well that he was being watched. Some of his usual shelters had already been searched or blocked off by the police, but he wasn’t worried. He had plenty of places to hide, and eventually, they would give up.

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought of Aizawa, the man’s determined face and gentle voice echoing in his mind. He shouldn’t bother, Izuku thought bitterly. Aizawa shouldn’t waste his time on someone like him. His life didn’t matter—it couldn’t, not when he could come back from the dead as easily as someone else might wake up from a nap. But everyone else… everyone else’s life mattered because they only had one. They were fragile, vulnerable, and worth protecting.

He was fine being alone—he had to be. He didn’t need a family, didn’t need anyone. Families were for people who had something to offer, something to give. What could he offer? What could he give when all he did was die and come back, over and over again?

No, it was better this way. He had learned to survive on his own, and that was enough. It had to be enough. He didn’t want to drag anyone else into his cursed existence, least of all someone like Aizawa, who had real responsibilities and real lives to protect.

Izuku pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he stared down at the empty streets below. The early morning chill nipped at his skin, but he barely noticed it. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need a home or a family. He was fine. He had to be fine because there was no other option. Not for him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small voice whispered that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as fine as he thought. That maybe, despite everything, he wanted something more. Something he could never let himself have. Because if he let himself want it, if he let himself hope, it would only hurt more when it was taken away.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought, but it lingered, stubborn and insistent. The shoes felt too solid, too real on his feet, a reminder that someone out there still cared, even if he didn’t want them to.
But caring was dangerous, and he couldn’t afford to take that risk. Not now. Not ever.

*

*

Izuku walked through the early morning streets, the city gradually coming to life around him as he looked for shelter to hide in, a bag of food in hand. He moved silently, his mind swirling with a mixture of thoughts. Then something caught his eye—a pair of familiar figures. …Uh…Shinso? He thinks that's his name…from the UA events right?? Dressed in his hero costume, patrolled the streets alongside Aizawa, his capture weapon draped over his shoulders. 

The sight made Izuku stop in his tracks, curiosity pulling him closer.

What’s up with fate? Why is it dead set on me running into them so often? he wondered.

Shinso and Aizawa were clearly on patrol, a training exercise to sharpen Shinso’s instincts. Izuku could tell from their alert posture and the way Shinso scanned the area with sharp, calculating eyes. Izuku felt a pang of longing watching them.

"I wonder what my hero costume would’ve been," he muttered to himself, the thought slipping. Would it have been practical, reflecting his Quirk? Or something more symbolic, like All Might’s? He shook the thought away, forcing himself to focus on the present, but for a moment, he let himself imagine what it would have been like to patrol alongside them.

Then again, I wouldn’t need a costume if I became a Quirk analyst like Aizawa suggested, he mused bitterly.

As they moved down the street, Izuku followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows. He couldn’t help but notice how much Shinso had grown since he saw him on the TV— Izuku watched, feeling jealous. He’s come a long way.

Suddenly, Shinso paused, his eyes narrowing as he glanced to the side. Izuku quickly /ducked/ farther into the shadows, but he knew it was too late. Shinso’s gaze had already locked onto the faintest movement. He didn’t make any sudden moves, though—he just continued scanning the area, his posture relaxed but ready. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turned his attention back to Aizawa.

Eraserhead trained him well, Izuku thought, watching the way Shinso moved. But the peace of their patrol was soon shattered when, up ahead, a villain appeared.

Aizawa engaged the villain without hesitation. The villain was strong, every blow sending shockwaves through the ground, but Eraserhead stood firm, his capture scarf cracking like a whip as he dodged and countered with deadly precision.

He was so…cool…!

Izuku’s heart clenched as he watched the fight unfold. Aizawa was holding his ground, but the villain was ruthless. His eyes scanned the area, and then, with a cruel grin, they landed on Shinso.

Oh

Oh

He knows that look well

"Oh no," Izuku breathed, his heart pounding. He recognized that look—the villain was going to make a move.

With a snarl, the villain lunged toward a nearby building, intending to bring it down on Shinso. The structure groaned under the strain as the villain’s strength began to crumble its foundation. Shinso, noticed the danger immediately, his eyes widening as he realized what was about to happen. 

He was fast, but not fast enough to escape.

Izuku didn’t have time to think. His legs moved on their own, driven by instinct. He sprinted toward the collapsing building, his heart hammering in his chest. 

I have to save him…!

“Move!” Izuku shouted, throwing himself into the fray. With a burst of speed, he pushed Shinso out of harm’s way, his own body absorbing the impact of the falling debris.

Pain exploded through Izuku as the building crashed down on him, the weight unbearable. His breath was knocked from his lungs, his vision darkening as he was buried beneath the rubble.

Shinso hit the ground hard, his head spinning as he rolled to his feet. He froze when he saw the pile of debris where Izuku had been just moments ago. But of course, he didn't know who this person was, in his eyes, a civilian had died for him.

“NO!”
Shinso’s voice was hoarse, disbelief coloring his tone. He scrambled toward the wreckage, his heart pounding in his chest. "No, no, no…"

He already messed it up.

He dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he began to pull at the debris, frantically trying to dig Izuku out. His mind was racing, panic bubbling up as he clawed at the rubble. "Come on, come on… I need to get you out!"

Izuku could barely make out his face through the dust and rubble, but he could see the fear and confusion in his eyes.

Pain exploded through Izuku’s body, sharp and unrelenting, but he gritted his teeth and reached out with trembling fingers. In his last moments, he fumbled for the bag he had carried with him, his mind fixated on one thing. His food

The last remnants of his strength were fading fast, his vision blurring as he held it out to him. "Take it," he rasped, his voice weak and strained, but he didn't take it. He could feel his life slipping away, but it didn’t matter. He had done what he needed to do before…and then even more debris fell on top of him and shinso instinctively fell back until it all stopped, the one thing that remained outside was his hand still gripping the bag.

He screamed, yelled, and pleaded for help to let the kid who looked his age out of there

Aizawa, who had been fighting off the villain, turned just in time to see Izuku's final moments. The hero’s eyes widened in shock as he watched the boy’s life flicker out, the bag slipping from his grasp as his body crumbled under the weight of the rubble. His student was sobbing, Shinsou reached out as if he could somehow pull him back, but it was too late.

The villain behind him cackled before Aizawa landed a punch right in the villain's face, knocking him out.
The scene of someone dying under rubble...he remembers that too well

His heart lurched in his chest as he recognized the freckled hand sticking out from under the rubble, the familiar green hair peeking through the cracks.

Midoriya.

He knew Izuku’s Quirk, knew that the boy would come back, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the panic rising in his chest. The image of Izuku’s fragile body crushed beneath the debris was too much, too real. His breath caught in his throat, but there was no time for hesitation.

He ran toward Shinso, dropping to his knees beside him. Together, they worked in silence, their hands moving with frantic urgency. Shinso’s breathing was ragged, panic clear in his every motion as they uncovered more and more of Izuku’s body.

"He’ll be fine," Aizawa said, but his voice wavered, the sight of Izuku’s broken form making his stomach churn.

"How can you be so sure?!" Shinso’s voice cracked as he cleared another piece of rubble. "He’s not moving…!"

Aizawa didn’t answer, his jaw clenched as he pulled away a large chunk of debris. Izuku lay there, motionless, his body pale and lifeless beneath their hands.

Shinso’s heart dropped. His fingers brushed against Izuku’s cold skin, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. This stranger /died/ for him

"I–he..," Shinso whispered, his voice breaking. He shook his head, refusing to believe what he was seeing.
But just as despair began to settle in, something strange happened. Izuku’s body began to change. His flesh dissolved into petals, which fluttered to the ground, light and weightless.

Shinso froze, his wide eyes locked on the impossible sight before him, flinching when he heard slow footsteps come their way.

The petals fluttered to the ground, scattering in the wind as Izuku took the bag from the floor. He dusted it off casually, as if brushing away the remnants of a bad dream, and stood up, the bag slung over his shoulder.  Whole. Unscathed. The bag of food was still in his hand.

Welp

His expression was unreadable, before looking up at Shinso. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "Didn’t mean to... well, traumatize you."

He was staring at him with a mix of shock and disbelief, tears streaming down his face. He had just witnessed his death, only to see him come back to life as if nothing had happened.

Shinso stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend what he had just witnessed. "You—" he started, but the words failed him.

Aizawa turned, his heart leaping into his throat as he saw Izuku—whole and unharmed—standing a few feet away. Avoiding the tearful, stunned faces on the kid and the haunted look in Aizawa’s eyes.

But why, he knows Izuku can come back-so why does he /care/ so much about him?
Why?!

Izuku watched it happen, how he tried to get him off the rubble, why did he care so much for someone who could just come back?
Why did he search for his cold body as if he deserved someone’s warmth

He doesn't need it

Shinso stared at him, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. He was speechless, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

Aizawa slowly rose to his feet, watching Izuku with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Midoriya…"

Izuku met Aizawa’s gaze for only a moment, his expression unreadable. "You didn’t have to save me like that," he said quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. "You knew I’d come back."

Shinso was still on his knees, staring at Izuku with wide, confused eyes. "Why... why did you do that?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Why risk yourself like that?"

Izuku blinked as if the question surprised him. He looked down at the ground, his voice soft. "I didn’t want you to get hurt, if anyone is to die, it's better if it's me. Im sure /sensei/ will explain my quirk some other time"
students
Shinso opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His mind was racing, his emotions a tangled mess. Izuku had saved him. He had saved him, even though he didn’t have to. Izuku was willing to die painfully and slowly just for shinsou to live.

And they dont even know each other…!

Izuku shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at the bag in his hand. "Thanks for the shoes," he muttered, looking anywhere but at Shinso and Aizawa. "But... I don’t need saving. Not really."

He turned to leave, but Shinso reached out, his hand hovering just above Izuku’s shoulder, hesitant. "Wait," he called out.

Izuku paused, but he didn’t turn around. "I’m not who you think I am," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You shouldn’t waste your time worrying about me."

With that, he slipped into the shadows, disappearing before either Shinso or Aizawa could stop him.

Aizawa rested a hand on Shinso’s shoulder, his voice low. "He’s always been like that. But even knowing he’ll come back… it never gets easier."

Shinso swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stared at the spot where Izuku had disappeared.
“Why does it feel like he’s the one who needs saving?" Shinso whispered, his voice barely audible.

Aizawa didn’t answer

“Dont tell anyone about what you saw today,” He said as he saw cops approaching and Shinso’s eyes widened
“I made it my mission to save him personally, and I will do it, sooner or later”

TBC

Chapter Text

The night was heavy as Aizawa and Shinsou trudged through the UA dormitory doors. Both were battered and bruised, though the medics had already tended to them. Bandages adorned Shinsou's hands, and a dull ache settled in his cheek where the rocks had narrowly grazed him. Aizawa, limping slightly but still composed, barely paid attention to the bruises and minor wounds.

His mind was elsewhere, drowned in thoughts of the massive pile of paperwork waiting for him back at the office. But at least the paperwork was better than a life lost. It could have been so much worse.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing off the walls of the darkened entrance hall. The familiar weight of exhaustion hung heavy over Aizawa’s shoulders. His tired eyes darted toward Shinsou, who hadn’t said much since the medics released them. Not that Aizawa expected much talk—Shinsou wasn’t one to unload his thoughts freely, especially not after the day they’d had.

He’d come too close to dying today—too close.
If not for that stranger, that boy...

Aizawa moved with practiced efficiency, his usual slouch even more pronounced as he made his way down the hall. His coat, frayed at the edges, hung limply around him. The bandages wrapped around his arms and chest were reminders of the day they'd had. A close call. Too close.

The medics had done their job well, but the dull pain persisted, a reminder of how vulnerable he had been just hours ago. His mind, however, was far from the physical wounds.

Aizawa was used to moments like this—close calls and brushes with death came with the territory of being a pro hero. The paperwork, endless as it was, could be dealt with later. What mattered was that the mission had been accomplished without civilian casualties, and he and Shinsou had made it out alive.

Liability-wise, Aizawa knew he was in the clear. He was the only hero on the scene, a solo operation that had put him in a position where minimizing damage was nearly impossible. And Shinsou? The boy had been perfectly within his rights to stay back, to help civilians, or simply observe. Not once had he interfered beyond his capabilities.

But none of that eased the tension gnawing at Aizawa's tired mind. It was the kind of tension that came with knowing how easily the day could have ended in tragedy. A wrong step, a moment of hesitation, and Shinsou could have been dead.

Shinsou, for his part, couldn’t stop thinking about *him*. The stranger who had appeared in the chaos, the one who had saved his life. His name lingered in Shinsou’s mind like a specter: Izuku Midoriya. A name Aizawa had spoken in the aftermath, almost as if the boy was someone he knew. But Shinsou had never seen him before—not in training, not in the dorms, not even in passing during his brief time at UA. And yet Midoriya had appeared just in time, yanking Shinsou out of the path of the collapsing building with a strength and speed that didn’t match his unassuming frame.

And then, just as suddenly, he had vanished after saying a few words.

Shinsou couldn't shake the image from his mind: the wild green hair, the freckles that dusted his cheeks, and those round green eyes filled with something like determination—or was it fear? Shinsou wasn’t sure. What he did know was that Midoriya had saved him from certain death, and then he had run, disappearing, it didn’t make sense. Why would someone like him—someone with that kind of power—run?

Shinsou shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they stuck to him like glue. He was alive, yes, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. What had he really witnessed tonight? And why had Aizawa warned him to keep quiet about it?

The dorm's common room came into view, a soft glow emanating from the large television on the wall, where news reports looped footage of the destruction left in the villain’s wake. Some students sat on the couches, eyes glazed over with exhaustion as they mindlessly watched the broadcast. Others were playing video games in the far corner, the sounds of button mashing and occasional laughter punctuating the otherwise quiet room. A few students slept, sprawled out across the couches, unaware of the intensity of the battle that had just taken place.

They felt like a family, a family that Midoriya looks like also deserves to have

Shinsou scanned the room, feeling an odd sense of displacement. He didn’t belong here—not really.
But now, here he was. The thought that had plagued him all night persisted—he should have died. 

The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he noticed some of the students had turned to face him, concern on their faces.

"Hey, Shinsou," Kaminari called from the couch, sitting up straighter. His usual goofy grin was replaced with something more subdued. "You okay, man? That cheek looks pretty bad. Does it hurt?"

Shinsou blinked, taken off guard by the question. He wasn’t used to this—people worrying about him, asking if he was alright. His first instinct was to shrug it off, but the concern in Kaminari’s voice made him hesitate.

"I—uh," Shinsou started, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling awkward under the attention. "I’m fine. It’s not that bad, really."

"Are you sure?" Yaoyorozu chimed in, her eyes focused on his bandaged hands. "Your hands… they look pretty beaten up. Are they okay?"

Shinsou glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers cautiously. The medics had done their job, but the stiffness in his joints was undeniable. "I guess," he muttered. "They’re fine. I’ll be okay."

The students around him seemed to relax slightly, though their concern hadn’t entirely dissipated. Shinsou shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to being a part of this… /family/, for lack of a better word.

As he scanned the room, his eyes caught movement—Katsuki, entering the common area with a sort of intensity that Shinsou had come to recognize. Bakugou always carried himself with barely restrained fury, his explosive nature palpable in every step he took. But today, something about his energy was different. More focused. More dangerous.

Bakugou’s sharp eyes locked onto the TV, where the news was still playing footage of the wreckage. His brows furrowed, his mouth tightening into a thin line. Something about what he was seeing on the screen triggered something in him, and his entire body seemed to tense.

Suddenly, Katsuki’s eyes widened, a rare expression of shock crossing his features.

"Deku...?" Bakugou’s voice came out low, barely a whisper, but it was laced with something Shinsou couldn’t quite place. Disbelief? Anger? Both?

Before anyone could react, he stormed across the room, his usual brashness cranked up to a dangerous level. He shoved Kaminari aside with more force than necessary, his eyes wild and locked onto Shinsou.

"Hey!" he barked, his voice sharp and demanding. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and the air around him seemed to crackle with barely contained fury. "What the hell did you see out there?"

Shinsou tensed, taken aback by the sudden aggression. Katsuki had always been loud, always brash, but this... this was something else. Before Shinsou could even think to respond, Katsuki was in his face.

"Was his hair green? Did he have freckles? Round, green eyes?" His voice was rising with every question, his frustration boiling over. "Answer me!"

Shinsou’s heart raced as he took a step back, trying to put some distance between himself and Bakugou’s intensity. But Katsuki wasn’t giving him any room to breathe.

Kirishima, who had been watching from nearby, quickly stood up, moving to intervene. "Bakugou, man, chill! Shinsou just got back from his first real patrol—give him some space!"

But Katsuki wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked onto Shinsou, his demands clear and unyielding.
"Answer me, damn it!" Bakugou snarled, his fists clenched tightly.

Shinsou’s mind raced. He knew who Bakugou was talking about. Midoriya. The boy who had saved him. The boy who had disappeared just as quickly as he’d arrived. Shinsou wanted to tell Katsuki the truth, wanted to say that yes, he had seen him, that the description was spot on.

But Aizawa’s words from earlier rang in his ears: /Keep quiet/.

Shinsou swallowed, his throat dry. "I... I don’t know what you’re talking about," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. His instincts screamed at him to tell the truth, but he knew better than to disobey Aizawa’s orders.

Katsuki’s glare intensified, his hands twitching as if he were moments away from exploding. "Don’t lie to me!" he hissed.

Shinsou forced himself to meet Bakugou’s gaze, trying to keep his voice steady. "No," he said, quieter this time. "You must be confusing him with someone else."

The tension in the room was suffocating. For several agonizing seconds, Katsuki didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at Shinsou, his eyes blazing with frustration and something deeper—something Shinsou couldn’t quite understand.

Then, with a frustrated growl, Bakugou turned away.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue in irritation and stormed out of the room

Everyone exchanged confused glances, whispering to each other, trying to make sense of Bakugou’s sudden outburst. Meanwhile, Shinsou let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

"Man... what was that all about?" Kaminari asked, still recovering from being shoved.

Shinsou didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to explain what just happened—didn’t even know how to explain it to himself. All he knew was that something about this kid had set off Bakugou in a way he hadn’t seen before.

*
*

Aizawa walked with slow, deliberate steps through the UA dormitory hall, leaving the common area and the chaos of students behind him. He had quietly slipped away before Katsuki’s outburst, and the muffled voices of the students faded the farther he got. He pressed the button to call the elevator, his mind heavy with everything that had transpired tonight. The doors slid open, and Aizawa stepped inside, his finger instinctively reaching for the button that only UA staff could access—an option to take him to the underground tunnels where the teachers and staff had their temporary living quarters. 

As the elevator hummed quietly, Aizawa closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the back wall. His body ached with exhaustion, the events of the day weighing heavily on his shoulders.

The battle had been brutal, and the paperwork waiting for him tomorrow morning was daunting, but that wasn’t what kept gnawing at his mind. No, it was /him/—Midoriya Izuku—the boy who had saved Shinsou today.

The doors opened, and Aizawa exited the elevator, making his way down the dimly lit corridors of the underground tunnels. His footsteps echoed faintly as he walked, the tunnels stretching long and empty ahead of him. This place was a far cry from the bustling halls of UA above, a hidden world where the staff could retreat and be near the students without being too far from their responsibilities.

It wasn’t home, but it was enough.

As Aizawa reached the door to his own temporary quarters, he swiped his ID card. The door clicked open with a soft beep, and he stepped inside, greeted not by silence, but by the smooth, low tunes of a playlist playing softly from the TV. Aizawa paused, his gaze flickering to the screen. 

The music wasn’t Hizashi’s usual loud, energetic rock—far from it. Instead, it was a slow, calming melody, the kind that Aizawa preferred after a long, difficult day. He knew what this meant. It was Hizashi’s silent way of acknowledging what had happened, of telling Aizawa he knew it had been a rough day and that he was there, waiting for him.

Aizawa let out a quiet sigh, grateful for the support. He took a few steps deeper into the living room, and as he rounded the corner, he saw not just Hizashi lounging on the couch, but a few of their closest friends and colleagues waiting for him. Present were Nemuri Kayama, Toshinori Yagi, Snipe, and Principal Nezu himself, all gathered together in a loose semicircle around the sofa, clearly expecting him.

Aizawa blinked at the sight, feeling an immediate surge of both irritation and gratitude. He hadn’t expected an intervention tonight, but here they all were.

Nemuri raised an eyebrow, her usual teasing demeanor tempered by concern. “Finally back, Eraserhead. We were starting to wonder if you’d sneak off into the shadows again.”

Toshinori, in his gaunt, skeletal form, gave him a tired but warm smile. “It’s good to see you safe, Aizawa.”

Aizawa sighed heavily, his gaze shifting to each of them in turn. “It couldn’t have waited until morning?” he muttered, though he didn’t sound too annoyed. He moved toward the empty sofa and collapsed into it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Before anyone could ask, he held up a hand. “I’m fine. No one got seriously hurt—just roughed up.” He glanced toward Hizashi, who gave him an understanding nod but didn’t press for more details.

The rest of them waited in silence, knowing there was more to the story.

Aizawa rubbed his tired eyes before continuing, his voice gruff. “The news didn’t cover everything, of course. The boy was too fast, and his quirk is… too strange for the media to bother with. But it was him again.” He looked up, his eyes heavy with a weight that wasn’t just physical exhaustion. “Midoriya Izuku. He saved Shinsou.”

The room went still. Nemuri’s eyes widened in shock, and even Nezu, who rarely showed surprise, leaned forward in his seat. Snipe’s hand hovered near his hat, a gesture of contemplation.

“Midoriya?” Toshinori repeated softly, “He… saved Shinsou?”

Aizawa nodded, his jaw tightening as he remembered the moment. “Shinsou was about to be crushed. A building was coming down, and Midoriya appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t hesitate, just pushed him out of the way and took the brunt of the hit himself. Got hurt, but he ran again. Just like the last time, just like /always/.”

Hizashi was frowning now, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened intently. “That kid’s still out there, running around like this? You’d think the police would find him.”

Aizawa exhaled sharply “We did— we always do, he just’s better at running away. And now he’s saving my students while he’s out there losing himself.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “It needs to stop. He needs to come to UA. We need to get him here and keep him safe. The more I see him, the more it’s obvious—he’s dying.”

The room was deathly quiet as Aizawa’s words hung in the air. He leaned forward. “Every time he uses his quirk, it’s killing him. Midoriya dies and teleports back to wherever he was looking last—he comes back to life. But it’s not natural. It’s tearing him apart. He’s losing pieces of himself each time, and he’s going to keep doing it until there’s nothing left of him and he seems /fine/ with it.”

Aizawa ran a hand through his hair, his exhaustion deepening. “He’s a kid. He’s not going to survive out there like this. Foster care isn’t enough for someone like him. He needs to be here, where we can watch him, where we can help him.”

Nezu, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “You have my support, Aizawa. I agree that he should be under our care. But you understand what this means, don’t you?”

Aizawa looked up, his tired eyes meeting Nezu’s sharp, calculating gaze.

Nezu continued. “If we bring Midoriya Izuku into UA, there will need to be significant measures in place. His quirk makes him a risk—not just to himself, but potentially to others, yes I understand he had just saved your student, but this will change his environment and so will the way he acts. You’ve said it yourself—his quirk kills him and brings him back. We will need to monitor him closely. He will require constant supervision.”

Aizawa nodded grimly, fully aware of the scope of what he was asking. “Whatever it takes. I’ll do it.”

Nezu tilted his head slightly. “That would mean putting him under a strict surveillance system. Likely involving a quirk-suppressing bracelet to prevent him from using his quirk without permission since he’s… suicidal, isn’t he?”

Aizawa’s jaw clenched, and he gave a sharp nod. “Yes. And if we don’t intervene, he’s going to keep using his quirk, and keep throwing himself into danger…he needs structure and class, he would be great as a quirk specialist, we found a few notebooks of his during his small hideout raids, the detail he has on heroes is phenomenal and that is without the resources he can have been here”

Hizashi’s face had gone pale.
“You’re really saying that he… he’s purposely dying just to use his quirk?”

Aizawa’s eyes darkened. “He doesn’t know how to stop. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.”

Nemuri, who had been silent for most of the conversation, leaned forward, her face serious. “And you’re sure we can get him into UA? What about the legal issues?”

Nezu raised a paw, signaling calm. “I’ll handle the legal side. We’ve worked with troubled cases before, though none quite like this. It will take some maneuvering, but it’s not impossible. The real challenge will be ensuring his safety—physically and mentally.”

Aizawa’s gaze sharpened, his determination crystal clear. “Then we do it. Whatever needs to be done. I’ll take responsibility for him.”

Toshinori shifted uncomfortably, his eyes full of concern. “Aizawa… taking on a student like that—”

“I know,” Aizawa interrupted, his voice firm. “But we have to try. He’s not a threat. He’s a kid who needs help. And I’m not letting him fall through the cracks.”

Everyone understood the enormity of what was being proposed, and the risks that came with bringing Izuku under UA’s care. But they also knew Aizawa—once his mind was set on something, he would follow through.

Nezu finally nodded, his eyes gleaming with thought. “Very well, Aizawa. You’ll have my full cooperation. We’ll do everything in our power to bring Midoriya here and protect him!”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, exhaustion tugging at him again, but beneath it all, there was relief. This was the first step. Now, they just had to find him and bring him home.

Chapter Text

Izuku lay in the snow, his breaths coming out in jagged gasps, every inhale scraping through his lungs like glass. Blood seeped from a deep gash on his shoulder, staining the snow around him a dark, vivid red. His legs twisted at unnatural angles beneath him, so badly damaged that the thought of moving them was almost laughable. 

Though he had to admit, he was so used to dying by now that the absurdity of it was almost comforting. What was one more time? One more breathless, painful moment that would soon enough be erased by his quirk’s cruel mercy?

He was bleeding out, the life draining from him in sluggish pulses, but it was taking its time. Agonizing, dragging him out for one last painful, quiet goodbye.

He wanted to laugh, but even that small act hurt too much. His chest was tight, his head foggy, and his limbs cold and distant. The biting cold of the snow piled over him was pressing down, numbing him inch by inch. The ache radiated from every part of his body, his muscles twisted with pain, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He knew this feeling too well—the onset of another panic attack. His breathing grew shallow, each gasp more painful than the last until he was left frozen, staring blankly at the darkened sky above. ‘Why did I die again?’ he wondered, though the answer hardly mattered anymore.

He would forget this death, like so many others. He would wake up and do it all over again. Over and over, a cycle of lives and deaths that never seemed to end. A life to save others, no matter the cost to himself. What did it matter, anyway? His life was endless. The lives of others weren’t. That had always been enough for him.

But even that felt hollow tonight.

The snowfall growing heavier, dusting his lashes, and his frozen fingers. If the blood loss didn’t take him out soon, hypothermia would. He could feel it creeping in, sinking deeper into his bones, numbing the pain. In a way, that was a relief. If this had to be yet another ending, he wanted it to be a quiet one, without an audience, without worry.

Not like that time with Shinsou, he thought. He remembered the panic on Shinsou’s face when he’d stumbled upon him dying, the guilt and horror in his eyes. Shinsou had looked at him as if it had been his fault as if he had caused Izuku’s death simply by being nearby. Izuku didn’t want that again. He didn’t want anyone to feel responsible for what happened to him. He was alone now, and that was better. No one to find him, no one to mourn or blame themselves.

The snow was so thick now, pressing down on his broken body, that he was almost hidden beneath it. He let his eyes slip shut, waiting for the darkness to take him, his mind drifting in and out of focus. 

Then, faintly, he heard it—footsteps. Crunching through the snow. Slow, deliberate, getting closer with each step.

He didn’t bother opening his eyes right away. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he thought, feeling the pull of unconsciousness growing stronger. ‘No one’s coming for you.’

Another step. This time, closer. A low shadow cast over him, blending with the falling snow, and finally, reluctantly, Izuku forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry, shapes and colors bleeding into each other, but he saw them—a pair of black boots.

Izuku’s gaze slowly trailed upward, blinking through the haze of snow, his breath ragged as he fought to stay present. His mind struggled to focus on the figure before him. It was only when he saw the familiar dark eyes, the tired yet piercing gaze, that he finally recognized him.

“A-Aizawa…sensei?” he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. He could see the way Aizawa’s eyes widened slightly, the first flicker of emotion in his otherwise steady expression.

He dropped to one knee, eyeing him with a mix of relief and frustration, as though he had known he’d find Izuku like this, yet was still disheartened to see it. “Kid…” Aizawa’s voice was low as if he were choosing his words carefully. But there was no need for words. The look in his eyes said enough. 

He had been searching all night.

Izuku couldn’t help the faint, breathless smile that crept onto his face, even as pain flared through his broken ribs. “Guess I’m… too easy to find, huh?” he managed, his voice strained, broken by a mix of exhaustion and cold.

Aizawa’s brow creased, his gaze growing stern. “You put yourself in this situation—again,” he said, though his tone was edged with an understanding that Izuku hadn’t expected. “You never know when to stop.”

The snow fell thicker around them, flakes clinging to Aizawa’s scarf as he unwrapped it from his neck. He leaned forward, carefully looping it around Izuku’s shoulders, the warmth of it stark against the freezing air. Izuku’s eyes drifted, his head lolling slightly as he took in the familiar gesture.

“You can’t… save me,” he whispered, the words slipping out almost involuntarily. It was painful to even speak, his breath hitching with each syllable. He shook his head slowly, trying to focus. “No point… no point in trying. You already… already took my body out of the rubble once. Nothing’s changed.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes never leaving Izuku’s face. “That’s the point,” he murmured. “I know it wouldn’t matter now, I know I am too late. But last time… when I saw you under that rubble, I panicked, even if I knew you would come back to life.”

Izuku’s gaze sharpened at that, a flicker of surprise breaking through his pain. “P…Panicked? You?” He let out a broken laugh, though it was more of a painful rasp. “You’re… the best hero I know. You don’t panic.” 

Aizawa held his gaze, the smallest flicker of something—vulnerability—crossing his face. “Sometimes… even I do. I had a friend once when I was at UA.” His voice dropped, becoming a low murmur as if he were recounting a memory too painful to voice aloud. “He died, trapped beneath a building that had collapsed during a fight. We had plans together—an agency, a whole future.” He sighed, his gaze distant, almost haunted. “But he didn’t make it. So, yeah… I panicked.”

Izuku stared at him, the ache in his body momentarily forgotten as Aizawa’s words sank in. A friend… a partner. Someone who had died in a way Izuku was so used to. And for the first time, he saw a piece of Aizawa that he hadn’t before—a glimpse of his own pain reflected back at him.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku murmured, his voice barely audible. “I never meant to make you… feel that way.” His broken, numb fingers curled against the snow as he fought to keep his focus. 
Aizawa shook his head, cutting him off. “Don’t apologize. This is beyond apologies now.” 

It was so long ago

“I just… I can’t help it. If it’s between my life or theirs… their lives are always going to matter more.”

Aizawa’s brows drew together, “That’s where you’re wrong, kid,” he said, his voice stern yet tinged with something softer. “You can’t keep throwing yourself away like this. Hero work isn’t about sacrificing yourself until there’s nothing left.”

Izuku let out a hollow, bitter laugh, each chuckle sending fresh waves of pain through his chest. “But it’s all I can do… the only thing I’m really good for.” He looked away, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I die, I come back, and then I do it all over again. It’s like I was made for this… I don’t think I’d even know how to stop.”

Aizawa’s hand was gripping Izuku’s shoulder, the pressure grounding him. “Listen to me, Izuku.” He waited until Izuku’s eyes met his, a sharp intensity in his gaze. “You’re more than a tool to throw at problems, more than a sacrificial pawn. If you keep pushing yourself like this, if you keep dying and coming back, it’s going to destroy you from the inside out. That’s not what anyone wants for you. Not what I want.”

Not what I want

Izuku felt the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes again, his vision blurring. “Maybe I was never meant to live in the first place. Better than…whatever this is”

Aizawa’s grip tightened “Don’t you dare say that. You’re here, and that matters. You have a place here, and people who care about you—even if you don’t see it. If you can’t hold onto that for yourself, then hold onto it for them.”

Who? His mother is dead, who knows where his father is, Kacchan—kacchan…he probably thinks he’s dead—no, kacchan /knows/ he’s dead—izuku shook his head at that snapping his back to his original thought.
Aizawa is just doing his job, he IS another job that needs to be solved, that's all.

It still hurts though, everything does

Izuku stared up at him “Please… just… please, make it stop,” he begged, his voice desperate. “Do whatever you have to… just make it stop, Sensei.”

Izuku’s vision swam as he stared up at Aizawa, his body barely holding on, every nerve screaming with pain. His breaths were shallow, each one an effort that left him weaker, and the world around him seemed to blur in and out of focus. But even now, through the haze of agony, he could make out the worry in Aizawa’s eyes.

“You know… you’re the strongest kid I know, Izuku,” Aizawa’s voice was quiet. “To be able to do this again and again, just because you want to be a hero… it takes a special person. A very special kid to want to put the world on his shoulders.”

Izuku forced a small, broken smile, though it hurt to even do that. “You’re… you’re a kind man, Aizawa-sensei. Kinder than you think.”

Aizawa’s eyes softened. “It’s nothing, kid. Not compared to what you’re doing.”

Izuku blinked slowly, feeling the exhaustion seeping into every part of him. “I… I might not remember this,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “It’s… when I die, it’s all… blurry. Hard to keep track…”

“Then I’ll remind you,” Aizawa said, his voice firm. “Every chance I get.”

Izuku tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak huff, barely louder than a sigh.

Aizawa gave him a small, almost sad smile, his rough, calloused hands gently cupping Izuku’s cheeks. “Just close them—your eyes,” he murmured. “Let go. This time, I’ll handle the rest.”

Izuku’s vision blurred further as he felt the warmth of Aizawa’s hands, grounding him, comforting him. He wanted to scoff, to tell Aizawa that he was used to things that hurt—a villain’s fists throwing him through walls, gunfire, falling debris. But now, with Aizawa’s hands on him, all that didn’t seem to matter. A strange calm settled over him, filling the hollow ache inside him.

Izuku looked up, staring into Aizawa’s eyes, then, after a second, looked away. “I’m tired,” he whispered. “I’m… so tired of all of this.”

One

Aizawa’s hands tightened gently against his cheeks, his face steady as he gave a soft, resigned nod. “I know.”

Two

Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut, the last sight of Aizawa’s face fading as darkness surrounded him. His breathing stopped, and Aizawa twisted his neck in one swift motion. A crack echoed in the silence as everything went black.

*
*

For the briefest moment, Izuku felt a comforting darkness, a quiet that he hadn’t felt in so long it was almost foreign. It reminded him of his mother, of her soft hands, cupping his chubby, freckled cheeks when he was small, her thumb brushing across his skin in comfort. But soon, the memory slipped away, and Izuku found himself somewhere else—somewhere cold but alive.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing behind Aizawa, watching the man kneeling in the snow, holding a body—a lifeless form that Izuku recognized all too well. His own.

That’s me, he thought numbly, staring at his broken body, the twisted limbs, the pale skin already growing stiff in the cold. His heart clenched unexpectedly, the sight of himself lying dead in Aizawa’s arms stirring something he couldn’t quite name. Why was he being held at all? It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t matter. He shouldn’t be… cared for.

And yet, there was Aizawa, holding him gently, as if he were something fragile, something worth grieving. Izuku’s throat tightened, his hands shaking as he watched Aizawa pull his lifeless form closer, his expression unreadable, but the pain in his eyes unmistakable.

Izuku looked down at his hands, flexing them. They were whole again, unmarked by scars, not a single scratch left from his last death. Somehow, he was alive, untouched by the pain he had just endured. But this death… he still remembered it. He could still feel it in his bones, the heaviness of Aizawa’s hands on his cheeks, the crack of his neck, the coldness of the snow against his skin. Why was this one so clear, so vivid?

Does it matter? he thought, trying to shake it off. It shouldn’t matter. He wanted to scoff, to say goodbye and move on, but there was a knot forming in his throat, a sting in his eyes that wouldn’t go away.

Why do I want to cry? he wondered, the pain twisting tighter in his chest as he stared at Aizawa, who was still holding his body close, as if reluctant to let go. Why does seeing this make me feel… like I matter?

Izuku felt the overwhelming urge to turn and leave, to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest, the part of him that yearned to reach out, to say thank you. But he couldn’t move, his feet rooted in place, his heart aching.

Suddenly, he watched his body in Aizawa’s arms begin to dissolve, turning into small, delicate petals. They floated softly into the air, scattering in the cold breeze until nothing was left. Aizawa’s hands fell to his sides, empty, and he remained kneeling in the snow, his shoulders slumped as he saw his scarf plop on the snow.

Izuku turned to leave, determined to go back into the night. But before he could take a step, Aizawa’s voice called out, breaking the silence.

“Stay.”

Izuku froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He shook his head, resisting the pull of the word, the softness in Aizawa’s voice. He forced himself to keep moving, willing his legs to carry him far from here.

No, he shouldn't

But Aizawa’s voice came again, steady, insistent. “Hizashi’s working late at the news station. It’s only getting colder, and I made extra food tonight. There’s a guest room back at my place.”

He cant…he—

Izuku took a shaky breath, his chest tightening. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need to be saved. But his stomach growled the hollow ache a reminder of how difficult it was to find food, how few warm places there were to go, and how cops would be in most of those locations to try to find him. He tried to ignore it, tried to leave Aizawa behind, but the words cut through him like a knife.

He’s supposed to be saving lives, what he said is probably by accident, he didn't mean it.

“You said you were tired,” Aizawa said softly.

He is

“So, for one night… just be a kid. Take it as a thank you for saving Shinsou.”

…

Izuku stopped, his fists clenched at his sides. His mind screamed at him to keep walking, to refuse, but his legs wouldn’t move. He looked back, his eyes meeting Aizawa’s, and he felt the walls he had built around himself begin to crack.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips. “Just… this one time.”

Aizawa’s expression softened, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he nodded. He stood, his scarf pulled tight around his neck and gestured for Izuku to follow.

Izuku hesitated, his heart pounding, but he took a step forward, then another, until he was walking alongside Aizawa. He kept his eyes on the snow, fighting the urge to look up, to see the relief in Aizawa’s face.

“Remember, it’s just for food and a good bed,” he said, his voice wavering as he tried to sound indifferent. “If you lie, or try to… to keep me there, I’ll leave and—and.” He’ll never trust that man again

Aizawa nodded, his voice gentle but firm. “One night, Izuku. Just one.”

Izuku’s mouth closed, his words dying in his throat. He nodded

For one night, he would have a place to go, a warm meal, and a bed. And maybe, just maybe, he could let himself believe that it was okay to be a kid and not have to do the overplanning and overthinking in every situation.

The first thing you do for a stray kitten is to leave food outside the door.

Chapter Text

Izuku stepped into the apartment cautiously, his brand new sneakers barely making a sound on the polished wood floor. The warmth of the space immediately hit him, a stark contrast to the icy cold outside, but it did little to calm the storm of nerves rattling inside him.

His grip on the straps of his bookbag tightened, his knuckles going white as he scanned the room. Every shadow seemed like it could hide a threat, every corner another potential trap. His chest was tight, and his breaths came shallow and quick as his mind raced with all the worst-case scenarios he could imagine. 

It’s fine. It’s fine, he told himself, but the mantra wasn’t working. The faint sound of a heater buzzing in the background felt too loud. His gaze darted to the windows, taking note of their size. If the door locks… if they try something… the window’s my best way out.

Aizawa’s calm, steady presence was a stark contrast to Izuku’s barely contained anxiety. The man had already begun unwinding his signature scarf, the fabric dropping onto the table with a soft thud. The sound made Izuku flinch, his shoulders jerking upward as if expecting something to follow. Aizawa raised a brow but didn’t comment, his movements slow and deliberate as he placed the scarf on the table. It wasn’t an act of carelessness but rather intention. 

The subtle message was clear: See? I’m unarmed. No tricks here.

“You can check the rooms if you want,” Aizawa said casually as he moved toward the kitchen. “Make sure there aren’t any heroes lurking—or cops.”

Izuku froze mid-step, his wide green eyes snapping to Aizawa’s face, his mouth opening slightly in surprise. “Wh—no! I wasn’t—”

“You look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin,” Aizawa interrupted, his tone even and unbothered. “Go ahead. Check. I don’t mind.”

Izuku sputtered, trying to form a coherent protest, but nothing came out. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the hallway leading to the rest of the apartment. He fidgeted where he stood, his fingers twitching against the straps of his bookbag. “I wasn’t…thinking about that,” he muttered under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in the denial. The truth was, of course, he had been thinking about it. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining all the ways this could go wrong. He had to know. 

After a moment of hesitation, he shuffled toward the hallway, his steps slow and uncertain. The first door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open gently, his breath hitching as he peeked inside. The room was small and unassuming, a guest room with a neatly made bed and a plain dresser. No shadows moving. No hidden figures lurking in the corners. 

He checked under the bed, his heart pounding in his ears, and found nothing. Just dust and clean floors.

He moved on to the next door, repeating the process. The bathroom. The closet. The master bedroom. Each time, he checked every possible hiding spot, every nook and cranny, even doubling back to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. His paranoia was like a weight pressing down on him, heavy and relentless.

But Aizawa had been telling the truth. No one else was here.

When he finally returned to the main living space, he felt… calmer. His chest didn’t feel as tight, and his steps were a little less tentative. The faint clinking of plates and the sound of silverware scraping against ceramic greeted him from the kitchen, where Aizawa was busy reheating food. The rhythmic noises were soothing in a way that Izuku hadn’t expected, a simple, domestic kind of normalcy that made his shoulders relax just a fraction more.

The savory smell of the food wafted through the air, making his stomach growl loudly. He winced at the sound, embarrassed, but Aizawa didn’t comment. Instead, he continued his quiet work, moving with practiced efficiency. Izuku found himself drawn to the warmth of the kitchen, his earlier nerves fading as he slid onto one of the stools at the counter. He rested his arms on the surface, watching Aizawa’s back as the man moved from the stove to the counter and back again.

Izuku didn’t say anything, but his eyelids felt heavy as the warmth of the apartment seeped into his frozen body. His fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the counter. The sound of plates and the faint hum of the heater were comforting, lulling him into a drowsy haze. 

He yawned quietly, curling his arms beneath him as he rested his head on top of them. Just for a second, he thought, his eyes fluttering shut. Just to rest my eyes. He told himself he wouldn’t fully fall asleep—he’d stay alert, ready to spring into action if anything happened. But the warmth, the sounds, the smell of food… it was too much. His body betrayed him, and his breathing slowed as his exhaustion took over.

*

“Izuku? Did you fall asleep on the counter again?”

The voice was soft, warm, filled with a teasing fondness that Izuku hadn’t heard in years. His eyes blinked open slowly, his vision swimming as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. The room around him had shifted, blurred, and reshaped itself into something achingly familiar.

The apartment wasn’t Aizawa’s anymore—it was his childhood home. The tiny kitchen where he’d spent so many nights watching his mom cook, the faded wallpaper with tiny floral patterns, the faint hum of a refrigerator that had always run too loudly. Everything was exactly as he remembered it.

“Izuku.” 

He looked up, his heart twisting painfully at the sight of his mother standing in front of him, her face as warm and kind as it had always been. Her soft hand cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing gently over his freckles, and for a moment, he forgot everything else. 

“Dinner’s ready,” she said, smiling down at him.

Izuku smiled back, his voice quiet and small. “Sorry, Mom.”

She chuckled, ruffling his messy hair before letting her hand linger on his cheek. “It’s fine, sweetheart. You’ve been so tired lately. Come eat.”

For a moment, everything felt perfect—whole. But then, from somewhere far away, he heard another voice. A deeper, steadier voice. 

“Izuku. Izuku. Izu—”

The warmth of the memory shattered as Izuku’s eyes shot open, the world around him returning to Aizawa’s apartment. He blinked rapidly, disoriented, his heart pounding as he looked around. The warm yellow light of the apartment’s lamps illuminated the space, and the hum of the heater was back, grounding him in the present.

“Wh-what happened?” Izuku muttered, his voice shaky as he rubbed his eyes. He glanced around wildly, half-expecting to find himself back in that old kitchen, with his mother smiling down at him. But it was gone. Just him and Aizawa, and the faint smell of food.

“You dozed off,” Aizawa said simply, his tone calm but watchful. He stood by the counter, holding a plate of food. 

Izuku stared at the plate, then at Aizawa, his mind still struggling to catch up. The memory lingered, painfully vivid, and he felt a knot tightening in his throat. His hands trembled slightly as he clenched them in his lap, his breathing uneven.

“Eat while it’s warm,” Aizawa said, setting the plate down in front of him. His voice was steady, but there was a softness there, an unspoken understanding.

Aizawa didn’t press him, didn’t ask any questions.

Izuku hesitated for a moment before reaching for the food. His fingers brushed against the edge of the plate and stared down at the plate of curry in front of him, still warm, the savory scent curling into the air. His hands trembled slightly as they hovered over the utensils beside the plate. He hadn’t been served a proper meal in so long that he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. His stomach growled loudly, making his face flush as he quickly grabbed the fork, muttering, “T-thanks for the food.”

Aizawa gave a small nod from where he leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His expression remained neutral, but his observant eyes stayed fixed on Izuku, watching as the boy hesitated, as if still debating whether it was safe to eat. 

With careful deliberation, Izuku scooped up a small portion and brought it to his mouth. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his wide green eyes lit up. The rich, spiced curry was incredible—better than anything he’d tasted in what felt like years. Without thinking, he took a much bigger bite, practically inhaling it. 

A soft hum of delight escaped him as he chewed, his shoulders loosening for the first time since he’d stepped into the apartment. The warmth of the food spread through him, chasing away the chill that had settled into his bones. 

Aizawa chuckled, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t eat it all at once, or you’ll choke,” he said, his tone carrying a rare touch of humor.

Izuku froze mid-bite, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster’s. His gaze darted to Aizawa in surprise, but the man didn’t elaborate. Instead, he reached out and ruffled Izuku’s unruly green hair, the touch brief but firm. 

Izuku’s entire body went stiff at the unexpected gesture. His fork paused in mid-air, his mouth still full, as he let out a small, muffled “hmph” of confusion. He watched, dumbfounded, as Aizawa straightened and walked toward the bathroom with all the casualness in the world, grabbing a towel along the way.

“I’ll be taking a shower,” Aizawa said over his shoulder, his tone as neutral as if he were announcing he’d be going to the store. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Izuku alone with his plate and his thoughts.

For a long moment, Izuku just sat there, staring at the closed bathroom door. His hand absentmindedly brushed over his hair where Aizawa had ruffled it. He could still feel the faint weight of the man’s calloused hand, the way it had lingered just long enough to leave an impression. 

He sniffled quietly, quickly wiping at his face with his sleeve before returning to his food.

Why did he do that? Izuku thought. No one’s… done that since Mom.

He shook his head quickly, trying to dispel the memory as he turned back to his plate. The curry was too good to waste, and his hunger outweighed his confusion. He picked up the fork again and dug in, stuffing bite after bite into his mouth until the plate was wiped clean. 

*

*

When he finished eating, the sound of the shower was still running, the faint hum of water echoing down the hallway. Izuku sat awkwardly on the stool, staring down at his empty plate. The warmth in his stomach felt foreign but pleasant, and for a moment, he simply enjoyed the sensation of being full. 

But then, his nerves crept back in. What do I do now? he wondered, his eyes darting around the apartment. I can’t just sit here… Leaving the plate dirty felt wrong—rude, even. Slowly, he stood and carried the plate and utensils to the sink. 

The water ran warm as he scrubbed the plate clean, the clinking sound of dishes filling the quiet apartment. When he finished, he dried his hands on his shirt, his gaze drifting to the empty kitchen counter. The space was tidy and simple, not at all what he’d imagined a pro hero’s home to look like. 

His eyes wandered further, taking in the details of the living room. The space was cozy, with small personal touches scattered throughout. A blanket was draped over the back of the couch, and a few books were stacked neatly on a nearby table. His gaze caught on a set of framed photos, and he found himself drawn toward them almost without thinking.

The first photo showed Aizawa and Present Mic in their hero costumes, both of them standing on what looked like a cliff overlooking a vast landscape. Present Mic had his arm slung around Aizawa’s shoulders, grinning broadly, while Aizawa looked as stoic as ever, though there was a hint of amusement in his expression. 

Another photo showed the two of them surrounded by cats—at least five of them sprawled across Aizawa’s lap while Present Mic laughed in the background. The sight made Izuku smile faintly, the image so far removed from the stoic, no-nonsense persona Aizawa presented in TV.

His eyes shifted to another photo—a group shot of four teenagers in UA uniforms. Aizawa was there, younger and slightly less gruff-looking, standing beside Present Mic. Next to them was a girl Izuku immediately recognized as Midnight, her vibrant smile lighting up the frame. But it was the fourth figure that caught his attention—a boy with hair like soft clouds and a gentle smile.

Who’s that? Izuku wondered, tilting his head. The sight of the UA uniforms made his mind drift to Kacchan. How would I have looked in that uniform?

“What are you looking at?”

“WAH!” Izuku yelped, jumping back as he spun around, his hands flying up defensively. His heart pounded as he came face to face with Aizawa, who stood in the hallway, a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair was damp, water dripping from the ends, and he was holding another towel in one hand as he dried his hair with the other.

Aizawa raised a brow at Izuku’s reaction, glancing toward the kitchen. “I see you cleaned your plate. Did you enjoy the food?”

“Yes! I did! It was really good!” Izuku blurted, his voice higher than usual as he nodded fervently. His cheeks flushed as he glanced back at the photos. “S-sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Aizawa interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “I left the water warm for you.”

“Huh?” Izuku blinked, confused.
“You’re not going to sleep in a bed dirty, are you? Go take a shower.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, his hands flying up as he waved them frantically. “W-wait! No, I can’t! I mean, I shouldn’t! I’ve already bothered you enough, and—”

“You haven’t bothered me,” Aizawa said calmly, cutting through Izuku’s panicked rambling. His voice was steady, “It’s just for tonight. Take a shower and sleep in the guest room.”

“No! I—I really shouldn’t—” Izuku stammered, his words spilling over each other as he backed toward the door. His gaze darted to the hallway, then back to Aizawa, his breathing quickening. “I—I’ve already done too much! I ate your food, and I’m staying here, and I—”

“Stop,” Aizawa said firmly, holding up a hand. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was commanding enough to make Izuku pause. Aizawa took a step back, making sure the door was visible from where Izuku stood. “If you want to leave, I’m not stopping you. But don’t force yourself to go back out there when you don’t have to.”

Izuku bit his lip, glancing nervously at the door again. His fingers twisted the hem of his shirt, his mind racing.

A soft meow interrupted the tense moment. Both of them looked down to see a fluffy orange cat rubbing against Aizawa’s leg, her tail curling around his ankle.

Aizawa sighed, bending down to pick her up. “Peanut Butter,” he muttered, cradling the cat in one arm. “Where’d you come from?”

Izuku’s wide green eyes lit up, his nervousness momentarily replaced by fascination. He stared at the cat, his hands twitching slightly as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.

“She’s friendly,” Aizawa said, noticing the look. “You want to hold her?”

“I-I—” Izuku stammered, his hands trembling as Aizawa stepped closer. He hesitated for a moment before nodding, and Aizawa carefully handed the cat over.

Peanut Butter immediately began purring, nuzzling into Izuku’s chest as he cradled her gently. Izuku’s breath hitched, his eyes glistening slightly as he ran a tentative hand over her soft fur.

“She likes to sleep with people,” Aizawa said casually, watching the way Izuku’s face softened as he held the cat. “But since you were about to leave…”

“No!” Izuku blurted, holding the cat a little tighter. “I—I mean… um… I’ll stay.”

Aizawa smirked faintly, nodding. “Good. Remember I left the clothes in the bathroom. If you want, I can toss your clothes in the wash—they’ll be dry by morning.”

Izuku opened his mouth to protest again, but Peanut Butter let out a soft mew, rubbing her small head against his neck. He sighed in defeat, nodding slightly. “O-okay…”

“Good,” Aizawa said simply, setting the towel down on the back of a chair. “The bathroom’s yours.”

Izuku gently placed Peanut Butter on the floor, but she followed him as he shuffled toward the bathroom. He paused at the doorway, peeking out nervously to glance at Aizawa.

“I’m… um… I’m going to shower,” he muttered awkwardly, his face flushing as he slipped inside.

Aizawa chuckled softly, scratching Peanut Butter behind the ears as she sat by the bathroom door. “You’ve got a way of convincing people to stay,” he murmured to the cat. She purred in response, curling up to wait for her new friend.

Chapter Text

Izuku sat at the edge of the guest bed, his legs dangling off the side, Peanut Butter cradled gently in his arms. The soft orange fur of the cat provided a strange sort of comfort as he absentmindedly ran his fingers through it, the repetitive motion soothing his restless nerves. His other hand fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, tugging at the soft fabric as his thoughts churned in a chaotic mess. 

Staying the night… It felt too risky. His stomach twisted with anxiety, a knot of unease tightening with every second. What if this was a trap? What if while he was asleep, Aizawa called in reinforcements—heroes, cops, someone to take him away? He glanced at the man, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched Izuku wrestle with his thoughts. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Aizawa said, breaking the silence, “it won’t happen.”

Izuku blinked at him, startled out of his spiraling thoughts. 

Aizawa sighed, his tone calm but firm. “If I wanted to surround you with cops and take you to wherever you think I’d take you, I would’ve done it already. Just go to sleep.”

Izuku stared at him, the words sinking in slowly. He didn’t know how to respond. His grip on Peanut Butter tightened slightly, the cat letting out a soft, questioning meow. He glanced back at the bed, the pristine white sheets and soft pillows, and the knot in his stomach grew tighter. It still didn’t feel right. The food could’ve been drugged. There could be something hidden in the room. Something was going to go wrong—it had to.

Peanut Butter mewled again, a soft, almost reassuring sound, and Izuku forced himself to move. He set the cat down on the bed and hesitated, his hands hovering over the edge of the blanket. Slowly, he pulled the covers back and climbed into the bed. 

The mattress was soft, far softer than anything he’d slept on in years. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent, clean and fresh, and the pillow cradled his head like a cloud. He blinked, staring at the ceiling, his body stiff with tension. 

“What’s the matter?” Aizawa asked, his tone quiet but steady. 

Izuku didn’t answer right away, his mind flashing back to all the places he’d slept in the past—cold, hard floors in abandoned buildings, the rough fabric of old rugs in hideouts, creaky rooftops, and dusty attics teeming with spiders. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d laid on a real bed. 

“I…” Izuku hesitated, his voice trembling. “I’m not used to this.”

Aizawa’s eyes softened slightly. “It’s a bed. It’s meant to be comfortable. Peanut Butter’s waiting for you"

Izuku glanced at the cat, who had already made herself at home beside him. She was kneading the blanket with her paws, her small, soft body radiating warmth as she let out a quiet purr. Slowly, Izuku shifted, laying down fully. He felt awkward, his body stiff and tense as if expecting something to go wrong at any moment.

Peanut Butter immediately curled up in the crook of his arm, her tiny head resting against his ribs. Her purring grew louder, steady and soothing, and Izuku stared at her with wide eyes, completely in awe. He didn’t move, afraid that even the smallest shift would disturb her, but the warmth of her tiny body against him slowly began to ease the tension in his muscles.

Aizawa stepped into the room, turning off the light by the bed. “Good night, kid,” he said, his voice low but gentle. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. 

“I know you’ll probably be gone in the morning,” he said, his back still to Izuku. “But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Izuku blinked, his breath catching in his throat.

“You don’t have to keep running,” Aizawa continued. “You’re welcome here. We could figure something out.”

For a moment, Izuku thought he might say something, but the words caught in his throat. He stared at Aizawa’s silhouette, his mind racing, but no sound came out. Aizawa didn’t press him. With a quiet sigh, he closed the door softly behind him, leaving Izuku alone in the darkened room.

Izuku stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. The bed was too soft, the room too warm, the blanket too comforting. Everything about this felt wrong—too good to be true. His stomach twisted with guilt and unease as he thought about what Aizawa had said. Stay? Stop running? The words felt foreign, impossible. 

I can’t, Izuku thought, his hands clutching the blanket tightly. I have lives to save. I can’t stay here and pretend like everything’s okay.

The thought repeated in his mind like a mantra. The memory of the soft purrs beside him grounded him for a moment

He closed his eyes, trying to push away the overwhelming sense of déjà vu. It felt like another life, another version of himself, where he could have slept in a bed like this every night. Where his biggest worry might have been exams or school projects instead of survival. A version of himself that could’ve had a normal life.

But what life could I even have now? Izuku wondered bitterly. Go back to being a citizen? Never helping anyone again because of my quirk? They’d never let me use it… not after everything. His chest tightened at the thought. No one would want me to help.

The image of Aizawa standing at the door came back to him
You don’t have to keep running.

The thought was tempting. Too tempting. 

Izuku sighed heavily, his hand drifting to Peanut Butter, who was still nestled in the nook of his arm. Her purring filled the quiet room, a steady rhythm that eased the tightness in his chest just a little. 

Even if it’s just for tonight, he thought, his eyes fluttering shut. Even if I can’t stay… I can pretend. Just for now.

As sleep began to take hold, a faint, fragile dream formed in the back of his mind—a dream of what life could be like if he didn’t have to run. A life where he wasn’t alone. A life where he didn’t have to fight so hard just to survive. A life where maybe, just maybe, he could let himself be saved.

*

*
Izuku woke up suddenly, his body jerking upright as his mind fought to make sense of the peaceful, unfamiliar warmth around him. His breathing was quick at first, his heart pounding, but the quiet stillness of the room slowly brought him back to reality. The soft blanket tangled around him and Peanut Butter’s tiny, purring form curled up against his side. 

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, the red digits glowing faintly in the dark. 5:00 AM.

Izuku let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his messy green hair. His body wasn’t used to this—sleeping this well, eating so much that his stomach wasn’t an empty pit of hunger. It was almost disorienting, and for a moment, he just sat there, staring at the wall as his thoughts churned. 

His muscles ached in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. It was the ache of rest, of having his body finally relax after being on high alert for far too long. But it also felt wrong, like he was indulging in something he didn’t deserve. His bones, his very being, seemed to beg him to stay, to give this fleeting moment of peace a chance. Trust Aizawa, the thought whispered. 

Aizawa—the same man Izuku had seen save countless lives. One of the few heroes Izuku truly respected. A hero who saved because it was the right thing to do, not because there were cameras watching. If there was anyone he could trust, it was him.

But Izuku’s heart clenched painfully. I can’t, he told himself. I have to leave.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, careful not to disturb Peanut Butter. The little cat mewled softly in her sleep, stretching out her tiny paws before curling up again. Izuku hesitated, his hand lingering on the edge of the blanket. The sight of her small, peaceful form made his chest ache, but he shook his head and pulled away. 

Moving silently, he padded across the room, glancing around until he found the laundry room. His vigilante clothes sat neatly folded, clean and dry. The sight of them was jarring—he wasn’t used to seeing them like this. Usually, they were torn and grimy, a visual reminder of the life he lived. 

He slipped out of the pajamas Aizawa had lent him, his movements slow and hesitant. The pajamas had fit him perfectly, almost unnervingly so, and for a moment, he stared at them, neatly folded on the counter. Goodbye, he thought with a pang of regret. You were really comfortable.

Dressed in his vigilante gear once again, Izuku made his way back to the guest room. The warmth of the apartment wrapped around him, the faint scent of detergent lingering in the air. He stopped in front of the window, staring at the world outside. The ground was a good 15 feet below—a height that could easily be fatal if he didn’t land just right. 

Izuku opened the window as quietly as he could, the cold morning air biting at his face and hands. He sucked in a sharp breath, steeling himself. You can do this, he thought. You’ve done it a million times before. It’s just another jump. But his heart wasn’t in it. The idea of leaving this warmth, this fleeting taste of a life he couldn’t have, felt like tearing something inside him apart.

As he put one leg over the windowsill, a soft sound broke the silence. 

“Mew.” 

Izuku froze, his head snapping back toward the bed. Peanut Butter sat on the blanket, her round eyes watching him intently. She mewled again, a sound that tugged at his heartstrings. 

“I… I can’t,” Izuku whispered, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’ll come back, okay? Maybe never.”

The cat mewled louder, tilting her head as if to question him. 

“I don’t know why I do it,” Izuku continued, his voice trembling. “Or how long I’m going to keep doing this. I just… I don’t know.” 

Peanut Butter’s small form was motionless except for the flicking of her tail, as if she understood him. 

“I know, I know,” Izuku muttered, his tone turning self-deprecating. “For a guy who overplans everything, I really don’t have a plan right now, do I?” He let out a humorless laugh, the sound almost breaking. “Talking to a cat about it. Perfect.”

Peanut Butter let out another insistent mew, her tiny paws kneading the blanket as if telling him to come back. 

Izuku’s hands tightened on the windowsill. “I don’t have time for this,” he whispered. “I can’t…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “I can’t stay.”

He pulled his mask over his face, his gaze darting to the ground below. He... hesitated. The drop looked farther than it should have, the cold air sharper than it usually felt. His heart pounded in his chest, and he closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. 

And then he jumped.

*

Peanut Butter let out another soft meow, her eyes fixed on the open window. Aizawa stepped into the room, his expression calm but tired. He scooped the cat into his arms, scratching her gently under the chin. 

“You tried,” he murmured, his voice soft. Peanut Butter purred, her head leaning into his touch.

Aizawa had woken up the moment Izuku started moving around. He had stayed quiet, listening to the boy rummaging for his clothes, to the quiet, one-sided conversation between Izuku and Peanut Butter. It wasn’t much of a conversation—more of Izuku talking aloud while the cat meowed back—but it had given Aizawa insight into the boy’s conflicted heart. The hesitation, the doubt—it was progress.

A faint creak of the floorboards caught his attention, and he turned to see Hizashi yawning as he walked into the hallway, adjusting his glasses. 

“Did he leave?” Hizashi asked, his voice thick with sleep. 

Aizawa nodded, handing Peanut Butter to him. She purred in his arms, her tail curling around Hizashi’s wrist. 

“You could’ve locked the windows,” Hizashi said, raising an eyebrow. “Or the doors. Don’t you think you’re moving a little too slow with this? What if some villain notices his quirk and tries to recruit him? Or worse, what if his quirk really starts messing with his head like you said?”

“I want him to come over on good terms,” Aizawa replied evenly. “We’re making progress. He hesitated before jumping. That’s something.”

Hizashi hummed, his brow furrowing. “And what if he doesn’t want to come on good terms after more time passes?”

“Then he’ll come in bad terms,” Aizawa said quietly, his gaze drifting to the open window. “But I want to give him a chance. He doesn’t deserve to feel like a trapped animal. He’s just a kid.”

Hizashi sighed, his expression softening. “How much time do you think you’ve got? You know how people are going to react if they find out a kid’s been cleaning up their messes out there.”

“I’ll push for as much time as I can,” Aizawa said firmly. 

Hizashi leaned in, kissing Aizawa lightly on the cheek. “He seems like a good kid, Sho. Out like a light even when I came in to check on him.”

Aizawa snorted softly. “Just give it time.”

As Hizashi returned to bed, Aizawa stayed behind, his gaze lingering on the open window. He couldn’t shake the image of Izuku out there, cold and alone, choosing to throw himself back into the chaos instead of accepting a moment of peace. 

And yet, he hoped. Maybe next time, he thought. Maybe next time, he’ll stay.

*

*

*

The room was quiet save for the faint scratching of pen on paper and the occasional sigh from Aizawa as he sifted through another poorly written test. The day had been uneventful, a welcome respite from the chaos that often followed being both a teacher and a pro hero. No patrols, no training exercises, just a regular day filled with classes, lectures, and grading.

Aizawa leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, squinting at a particularly illegible test paper. “What is this, Kaminari?” he muttered to himself, his monotone voice laced with mild irritation. “Are these words or hieroglyphs?”
He sighed heavily, pushing the paper aside for later. He’d have to pull Kaminari aside and arrange extra lessons. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but someone had to reteach the boy how to spell basic words. Aizawa rubbed his temple and glanced to the side, noticing movement near the door.

“Shinsou,” Aizawa said, sitting up straighter in his chair. He gestured for the boy to come closer. “Is it time for after-school training already?”

“Yes, sir,” Shinsou replied, stepping into the room. He shut the door softly behind him and walked toward Aizawa’s desk. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but…”

“No interruption,” Aizawa said, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “I should’ve been keeping track of the time. My bad.” He glanced at the scattered test papers on his desk and sighed again. “Sit tight. I’ll wrap this up in about ten minutes, and we’ll start.”

Shinsou nodded, taking a seat at one of the desks near the front. He sat stiffly, his eyes darting around the room before eventually landing on his hands. He rubbed his palms together absently, his expression thoughtful.

After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice quiet but clear. “Just wondering… it’s been a few days, and I was wondering about… him.”

Aizawa stilled, his sharp gaze flickering toward Shinsou. He didn’t need to ask for clarification. “I’ve got it under control,” he said evenly. “It’s taking him time to adapt, but Midoriya will come around eventually. This is the first and last time we talk about him. Understood?”

Shinsou straightened in his seat, nodding firmly. “Yes, sir.”

Aizawa studied him for a moment, his tone softening slightly. “...Why do you ask?”

Shinsou hesitated, his fingers fidgeting against the desk. “I think Bakugo is onto me.”

Aizawa frowned. “Bakugo?”

“Yeah,” Shinsou said, glancing toward the door as if expecting the blonde to burst through it at any second. “I swear I haven’t told him anything, but ever since he saw the news about that building collapse, he’s been…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s like he’s switched into full-blown interrogation mode. He’s been cornering me in the halls, glaring at me. And honestly? It’s terrifying.”

Aizawa’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Bakugo can be intense.”

“That’s an understatement,” Shinsou muttered. “The rest of the class has been really nice, though. I think they’re trying to make me feel safe. Like they think I’m traumatized or something. Either that, or they think Bakugo just hates me because I’m the new guy.”

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “And you’ve said nothing?”

“Nothing,” Shinsou said firmly. “I mean, what would I even say? ‘Hey, Bakugo, you’re right, I do know something about Izuku Midoriya, you know, the guy you went crazy the moment you saw green curls for’? He’d blow up the whole school! Besides so many people can have green curls in this world!”

Aizawa snorted softly. “Just...keep pretending you don’t know anything. Bakugo’s stubborn, but eventually, he’ll move on.”

Shinsou nodded, though his expression remained uncertain. “I hope you’re right.” He paused, then added, “Actually, before we start training, can I… go to the bathroom? I’d rather do it now than in the middle of everything.”

“That would be wise,” Aizawa replied, gesturing toward the door. “Go ahead.”

Shinsou stood, adjusting his collar as he walked toward the door. He slipped out quietly, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing softly through the room.

The halls were mostly empty, the usual chatter of students replaced by a comfortable silence. Shinsou walked briskly, his hands in his pockets as he tried to shake off the lingering tension from his conversation with Aizawa.

As he rounded a corner, he came to an abrupt halt. Standing in his path, arms crossed and expression sharp, was Bakugo.
Talking about the man himself

“Mop hair,” Bakugo said, his voice low and dangerous. “We need to talk.”
He stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “What do you want, Bakugo?”

“You know exactly what I want,” Katsuki replied, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Ever since that news report about the building collapse, you’ve been acting weird. Like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Shinsou said quickly, trying to sound calm but firm.
“/Bullshit,/” he snapped, taking a step closer. “You’ve been fidgeting, looking over your shoulder, avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding you because you keep cornering me,” Shinsou shot back, his voice rising slightly.

Katsuki's glare deepened, his fists clenching at his sides. “You know something about Deku. Don’t you?”

The use of the nickname made Shinsou freeze for half a second, his eyes widening slightly before he could stop himself.

He noticed.

“See?” Bakugo said, a dark grin spreading across his face. “You flinched. You /do/ know something.”

“I don’t know anything!” Shinsou insisted, his voice cracking slightly.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Bakugo said, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step closer, and Shinsou resisted the urge to retreat further.

“I don’t,” Shinsou said, his tone firmer this time.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t think I didn’t notice how you reacted when I asked about—”

Shinsou cut him off, his voice rising slightly. “I don't know anything about Midoriya!”
Katsuki’s expression darkened. “Funny. I never told you his name, only his nickname.”

Shinsou’s heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth to respond but quickly realized there was no way to backpedal from this. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to maintain his composure.

Chapter Text

“Funny. I never told you his last name, only his nickname.”

God—Katsuki is scarily smart, something Shinso never wanted to admit. He didn’t want to acknowledge that the hotheaded guy who screamed at everything actually had brains. But he did. And now, he was backed into a corner—maybe literally, maybe figuratively.

“There are a lot of Midoriyas in this country,” he said, but he knew it was a weak defense. Who was he trying to fool? A green-haired guy with the last name Midoriya? Really?

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “If you know something, tell me.”

“And why should I?” Shinso shot back, his voice carefully measured. If he could just get the blond to answer his question, he could find a way to slip past him and report back to his teacher. Let Aizawa deal with this mess instead. But Katsuki wasn’t giving him that chance.

Instead, he shoved Shinso harder against the wall. The sudden impact rattled him, and for a second, his grip on his quirk wavered.

“Asshole!” Katsuki snapped. “I’m his—we were childhood friends! Do you have any idea what it’s like to think someone’s dead for years, only to find out they might be alive? Do you know what his parents went through? What my parents are still dealing with? He meant something to us, so the least you can do is come clean.”

Shinso’s eyes widened. He had never seen Katsuki like this before. Angry? Sure—he’d seen that plenty of times. If he had a nickel for every explosion-laced tantrum, he’d be rich. But this? This was different. There was desperation in his voice, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

For a second, they just stared at each other in silence.

Then Shinso sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine… fine! Oh, Sensei is so not going to trust me after this. And I worked so hard for that trust,” he groaned before shoving Katsuki’s hand off his shoulder. “Can we talk at the dorms? School hallways aren’t exactly the safest place to spill this kind of info.”

Katsuki glared but eventually let out a sharp breath. “My dorm. Seven o’clock. Be there, or I’ll find you myself.”

Shinso barely stopped himself from flinching at the threat. He settled for a casual shrug. “Sure.”

With that, Katsuki stormed off, leaving Shinso to finally let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Yep. He was screwed.

Maybe he could convince Katsuki to keep this quiet, and let Aizawa handle things like he’d been trying to. But knowing Katsuki, that was about as likely as him politely asking for directions. Yeah, right. The worst part? His plan could basically boiled down to: Hey, you’re hotheaded and impulsive, but please listen to me and don’t go charging off to find your long-lost childhood friend once im done talking.

Yeah. That was going to work so well.

Shinso sighed. He had gotten so wrapped up in this mess that he almost forgot why he had left in the first place—to use the bathroom.

With a groan, he scurried off, already dreading the conversation at seven. If he didn’t show, Katsuki would make an even bigger deal out of this. Worse, he’d tell the entire class. And then?

Shinso would be completely screwed.

*

*

Shinso was quiet at dinner.

Not that anyone thought much of it—he wasn’t exactly the talkative type. The rest of the class didn’t ask, and Katsuki didn’t hound him with questions, which was unusual. Honestly, at some point, the class had probably assumed the blond had moved on. For a second, even Shinso thought so.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Because every now and then, Katsuki’s sharp, assessing gaze would flicker toward him, and it was clear as day— I didn’t forget.

He kept his head down, pushing his food around his plate, appetite nonexistent.

After dinner, he helped clean up, dragging the inevitable moment out as long as possible. But as soon as he stepped away from the sink, he spotted Katsuki leaning against the wall near the elevators.

Waiting.

Shinso sighed, bracing himself as he walked over and pressed the button. Katsuki stepped inside when the doors slid open, wordless as he stared straight ahead. Shinso looked at the panel, trying to remember which floor to press.

"Uh, which one was—"

Katsuki reached over and hit the button for him, still silent.

Shinso huffed. “You know, this is a little much for someone who has very little to say. You’ll be more pissed about how little I know than what I do know."

“Didn’t ask.”

The elevator dinged open.

“I just need you to tell me what actually happened back at that crumbling building," Katsuki said flatly as he typed in the code for his dorm. "That way, I can figure out why the hell he's still… here. ”

Shinso stepped inside first, Katsuki following, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit.”

He pointed at the desk chair, and Shinso sat, watching as Katsuki perched on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

“Explain.”

“You’re oddly calm for—”

“ EXPLAIN. ”

There it was. The Katsuki he was familiar with.

Shinso exhaled through his nose. “Okay, patrol was...fine." Katsuki blinked " But you’re not asking about that, I'll get to it.  A villain attacked Aizawa-sensei. My job was to evacuate civilians. I guess the villain thought I was an easy target, so he went for me—brought the whole damn building down in the process to either take me out or distract Aizawa enough to get the upper hand. Kind of smart if you ask me.”

Katsuki stayed silent, eyes locked on him. Shinso’s grip tightened on his pants. "The building was coming down. I was sure I was going to die. Then, out of nowhere—someone shoved me out of the way. Took my place.”

A pause.

“ Him. ”

The moment the word left his mouth, Katsuki’s eyes widened, body tensing.

Shinso swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “Green, curly hair. Freckles. Round eyes, does that check everything for you?”

Every detail made Katsuki’s expression shift—shock, realization. This wasn’t just a coincidence. Not just the same nickname. Not just a blurry figure on a screen.

It was him.

“I was scared out of my mind,” Shinso admitted. “I screamed. I—hell, I ran to get him out of the rubble, knowing how stupid that was. But I couldn’t help it. I’m still a teenager, man.”

Katsuki didn’t care how he felt. That much was obvious. He was focused on one thing— the kid.

Shinso sighed, rubbing his face. “Aizawa-sensei was there too. He tried to help, but when he pulled him out—he had this look on his face. One I’ve never seen before. Maybe it reminded him of something. But at that point, it was already too late. His hand hung loose. Pulse—cold.”

Katsuki looked like he was going to explode. His eyes were practically bulging out of his skull, and before he could start shouting, Shinso held up a hand.

“Wait. Let me finish.”

Katsuki clenched his jaw but stayed silent.

“Before I knew it—petals. They just appeared around him. And then— poof. Body gone.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

“Then I heard his voice,” Shinso said, quieter this time. “Behind us.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

“It was him. Standing there. Completely fine. Not a scratch, not even a bruise. Physically? Good as new. Mentally?” Shinso shook his head. “No clue. Before I could even say anything—he ran.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "That’s it. That’s all I know.”

The blond stared at the floor, one hand resting under his chin. Yeah, this was scary. Too scary. Honestly, it was worse than if he had just screamed at him.

The silence sat heavy between them, Katsuki lost in thought. Shinso shifted awkwardly. Was that it? Could he go now? He had told Katsuki everything. But even so, questions buzzed through his mind. He wasn’t the only one who wanted answers.

“I still don’t get it, man,” Shinso finally said, trying to break the tension. “What’s your obsession with him? It’s pretty obvious this goes deeper than just childhood friends.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, eyes still fixed on nothing.

“Look, as far as I can tell, his quirk is… well, that. He dies. Becomes petals. Then poof , back to normal,” Shinso continued. “That’s what happened. It’s weird, yeah, but not impossible.”

Katsuki’s head snapped up. “You don’t get it.”

“What is there not to get?” Shinso repeated, frustration slipping through. “He comes back to life, Katsuki. I don’t care. Can you at least promise not to tell Aizawa? If he finds out I told you, it’s going to ruin—”

Him trying to catch the kid.

He bit his tongue, forcing himself to stop before saying too much. “It’s going to ruin… things,” he finished lamely.

“I said you don’t get it!” Katsuki snapped, his voice sharp as he pointed directly at Shinso.

Shinso held up his hands in surrender. “What? What don’t I get? For a guy who’s always yelling, you’ve been way too quiet. Thinking!”

“When Deku died,” Katsuki growled, his voice low, “there were no petals. None. ”

Shinso blinked, caught off guard.

“Hell, we didn’t even know he had a quirk.” Katsuki’s hands shook as his voice cracked. “He had a casket. I touched his hand. His parents did too. There was no damn ‘dies and comes back’ quirk. He was dead, mop hair. Dead. ”

His breath quickened, small sparks flickering from his palms. He was losing control.

“He died!” Katsuki repeated, the sparks intensifying. “You’d think that if he hadn’t—if he was alive—he would’ve gone back to her. To his mom. He loved her! More than anyone! I know that! He’d never let her think he was dead if he was still breathing. He’d never make her cry like that!” His voice cracked, but he pushed through. “So why didn’t he come back? If it was so easy, why the hell did he disappear until now?”

“I don’t know!” Shinso shouted, pushing himself up from the chair. Katsuki’s breathing was ragged, his hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to punch something. “How long has he been dead? How long has he been back? How many times has this happened?”

Okay, Shinso thought, Katsuki’s lost it. How was he supposed to know any of this? But the question still gnawed at him. If Izuku really could come back from the dead—if it had become so normal for him, like going to the store—why did it feel like he’d left everything behind? Why did it seem like he’d abandoned his life, his real life, his civilian life?

“I don’t get your line of thinking,” Shinso said, his voice low as he tried to keep Katsuki from spiraling. “Maybe you should splash some water on your face, calm down, and—”

But the moment Katsuki’s crimson eyes locked onto him, Shinso flinched.

“I’m asking,” Katsuki snarled, “if that even is the same Deku.”

The words hung in the air.

Shinso froze, his heart sinking. “Are you saying… the Midoriya I saw wasn’t him?”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

But the emptiness in his eyes? That was an answer.

“You think someone stole his body?” Shinsou’s asked. He shook his head, trying to grasp what Katsuki was even suggesting. “Or… his identity?”

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flopped back onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress as his limbs sprawled out. His face was pale, eyes wide and unfocused. He didn’t look like the Katsuki that anyone knew — not the aggressive, loud-mouthed explosion of a person that could terrify anyone in his path. No, this Katsuki looked… small.

Shinsou didn’t know many people who would even be able to sit after realizing that their best friend — the one they had mourned and buried — might not actually be gone. Or worse, that whoever they buried might not have been them at all.

Was it someone else?

The thought twisted uncomfortably in Shinsou’s stomach. He needed to tell Aizawa. This was information that could change everything. But if he did that, Aizawa would demand to know how he got it. Then, of course, he’d have to admit he had spilled everything to Katsuki.

Great. Yeah, that’ll go well.

Shinsou’s internal spiral came to a halt as Katsuki suddenly spoke, his voice low and hollow.

“I saw him get buried.”

Shinsou flinched slightly.

“I saw them lower the casket,” Katsuki continued, his jaw clenching. “The preacher said the prayer. His mom—she—you know” He broke off, shaking his head. “I saw everything. Every second of it.” Katsuki’s voice wavered. “And yet you described him as if he was alive. Like he was here the entire time.”

His red eyes snapped back to Shinsou, burning with barely contained rage. But behind that anger, there was something else. Something fractured.

“I have to go to him.”

The statement was absolute, like a decision had been made in real time. Katsuki shot up from the bed, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. “I have to find that fucker who even thinks they can steal his body and give him a piece of my—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Shinsou cut him off, stepping in front of him with his hands raised, though he made sure not to touch him. “Look—I get it. No, scratch that, I don’t get it. But I feel you. I know this is… it’s a lot. And I’m not even sure what words I’m supposed to say to make this any better.”

“Good. Then move.”

Katsuki’s voice was low and lethal, his body already shifting to step forward.

But Shinsou didn’t budge. He held his ground, his hands still raised in a gesture of peace. “Listen, man. Don’t do this. You’re going to get caught, and then what? You think they’re just gonna give you a slap on the wrist?”

Katsuki’s fists clenched. “I don’t care.”

“Yeah? Then what?” Shinsou countered, his voice growing sharper. “You get locked up and miss the one chance to actually find out what’s going on?”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened, but Shinsou saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He took the opportunity, his voice dropping to something calmer.

“I’m not supposed to say this,” Shinsou began carefully, “but Aizawa’s trying to find him.”

That got Katsuki’s attention. He blinked, glaring. “What?”

“He’s trying to catch him,” Shinsou clarified, “but he wants to do it willingly. No full-scale manhunt. No dragging him in like a criminal.” He hesitated for a moment. “And if it’s really him — if it’s really Midoriya — then I’m guessing Aizawa’s going to ask for you since you know, Izuku is bound to spill you two are childhood friends right? If that is truly him.”

“Sensei isn’t telling me shit,” Katsuki spat.

“He will,” Shinsou insisted. “I’ll tell him enough about this conversation so that he has to. That way, you’ll get answers. Real answers. You’ll be able to know if it’s the real him or not.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He simply stood there, fists trembling, his eyes locked onto Shinsou like he was trying to see straight through him. The silence grew heavier, but Shinsou didn’t dare speak again. He knew he’d said enough.

“Look,” Shinsou finally murmured. “I know it must feel… wrong seeing who you thought was dead suddenly alive. Talking. Existing. But listen to me — he’s going to be caught. And when that time comes? Whatever answers you’re looking for — you’ll get them.”

Katsuki’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes still narrowed. But Shinsou could see the internal battle raging behind them.

“Who knows?” Shinsou added quietly. “Maybe it really is him.”

The thought lingered in the air, but Katsuki didn’t say anything. His jaw was tight, his breathing slow but heavy.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

Shinsou didn’t relax, not yet. But he felt like maybe — just maybe — he had gotten through.

“You’re lucky I didn’t blow your face off for holding that back,” Katsuki muttered, though the heat behind his words had dimmed.

“Yeah,” Shinso replied dryly, shrugging. “I’m aware.” He paused, then added, “And who knows? Maybe that is the true Midoriya and  sure he missed a few chapters when it comes to... you and his life but he's being a hero at least right? ”

The last part seemed to hit Katsuki harder than Shinso expected. He looked away, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching at his sides.

Being a hero

TBC

Chapter Text

Izuku sat at the edge of the rooftop, his legs dangling off the side like a little kid on a swing. It was peaceful—well, as peaceful as a life like his allowed. He watched the city breathe, lights flickering in windows, steam rising from vents, cars inching along far below like toy vehicles on a forgotten playmat. Every exhale from him added a small puff of fog to the freezing air.

He hugged himself tighter, arms locked around his thin frame, trying to preserve what little heat he had left. It was bone-deep cold, the kind that made your joints ache and your skin sting. Still, he stayed, maybe because the rooftop was quiet, maybe because his base wasn’t much better. Just four moldy walls that did nothing against the chill, a blanket that had seen better days, and cracked windows that howled when the wind blew just right.

He tapped the tips of his sneakers against the ledge—tap tap, like a child. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he noticed the shoes Aizawa had gifted him. Then his stomach growled, loud, and that smile faltered. He winced, looking around like he had something to be embarrassed about, but of course, no one was there. No one ever was. Still, it didn’t stop the hunger from gnawing at his insides.

He turned back to the city, arms still wrapped around himself, and sighed. Nose and cheeks a soft, irritated red. His breath fogged in front of him again. He wondered if the shelters were still open—probably not. They usually closed around this hour, and besides, he didn’t want to deal with the questions. Where was his ID? Who were his parents? How old was he? Why didn’t he just go home? It was easier to stay away, even if it meant starving.

He briefly thought about that group of staff workers he helped the other night. A small-time thief had tried to run off with their donated food crates, and Izuku had intervened. Not for thanks. Not even really to help. Just because he was there, and someone needed to do something. Maybe if he showed up again, they’d remember and give him something. But he also knew how it looked. A dirty kid showing up again after a conflict? They’d probably assume he caused it just to gain favor. Just another angle to manipulate kindness out of people.

Izuku shifted to the right, brushing the snow off the ledge before leaning into it. The cold bit through his shirt instantly, but he didn’t move. His head and arm rested against the icy stone as he looked down at the city again. He was thirty—maybe forty feet up. He didn’t know for sure. Just that it was high enough. High enough that slipping would be catastrophic. High enough that he could feel that strange what-if curling at the back of his mind. The kind of thought you don’t want to acknowledge but lingers anyway. He had no quirk to fly. No reflex fast enough to catch himself. If he fell, he’d splatter just like anyone else.

He wouldn’t even have time to think. And part of him—just a very, very small part—wondered what it would be like if, this time, when everything went black… it just stayed that way. Wouldn’t that be nice? To not have to wake up again and do it all over? He hated that part of himself. It was small and quiet, but it was there.

His stomach growled again, and he grimaced. Maybe he should just go to the back of the supermarket. Pick through the garbage. Try his luck again. Even cold rice or stale bread would be something. He tried not to think of his mother’s cooking. Of the warm meals she used to make him, the way they’d steam on the table in winter, how her soft hands would ruffle his hair and call him to dinner. That was a lifetime ago.

He leaned closer to the edge, snow still falling gently around him, settling on his shoulders and hair. His fingers were numb now. He closed his eyes briefly, just to feel the weightlessness of the moment. The quiet. Then—there it was. A sound. So quiet he almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t snow. Not the creak of the building. Not the hum of traffic. A footstep. Barely a whisper. His body went rigid instantly, eyes snapping open as he twisted around.

Dark boots.

The trailing edge of a familiar white scarf.

Izuku's breath caught in his throat, heart kicking hard against his ribs as he lifted his gaze higher, meeting the eyes of Aizawa. The older man was standing still, unmoving, a plastic bag in one hand, its top folded over, shifting faintly in the wind. The bag didn’t make a sound. Of course, it didn’t. If Aizawa hadn’t wanted Izuku to notice him, he wouldn’t have. That tiny footstep? That was intentional.

He wanted me to know he was here.

Izuku glared, more instinct than anything. That usual defensive spark that lit inside him whenever he was caught. He shifted slightly, inching back from the ledge, but not completely. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to flee, fight, or freeze. Aizawa didn’t say anything right away. He simply let the moment stretch between them, the wind howling faintly behind them. His scarf flapped softly at his sides, his coat dusted with snow, but he was calm. 

“You’re going to catch a cold up here,” he said finally, voice low, like he didn’t want to scare the quiet away. Izuku’s brows furrowed, lips parting slightly in disbelief. Of all the things to say. A cold? Really? Aizawa stepped forward slowly until he was a few paces away. He lifted the bag slightly.

Izuku’s stomach growled loudly again, and his face burned red in embarrassment. He hated how easy it was to feel like a kid again around Aizawa. How fast the exhaustion hit when someone offered to carry even just a bit of the weight. He wanted to scream. To cry. To collapse into someone and say Please help me. But he couldn't. He wouldn’t. That part of him—the survival part—wouldn't let him.

Izuku barely had time to process the presence beside him before Aizawa leaned forward and—flicked him, right between the eyes.

"Ow—!" Izuku hissed, recoiling immediately, his hand flying up to cover the spot. His eyes squinted, and his mouth parted in protest, utterly baffled. Did he just get scolded? Like a toddler? By a Pro Hero?? He could feel the sting right above the bridge of his nose and rubbed at it with a slight whimper, more from the indignity than the pain. I mean yeah, technically I am a kid, he thought, ears turning red, but that’s not the point!

The glare that had been sharp and laced with wariness and instinct faded. His mother’s voice came back to him like a memory peeking through the snow. “That frown never looks good on your baby face, Izuku.” She used to say it with a soft chuckle and her thumb rubbing between his brows to smooth the crease. It would always make him laugh, back when things were simpler. When the only monsters he feared were the ones in movies, not the ones in dark alleys or sleeping in his bones.

“Mr. Eraserhead,” Izuku mumbled, turning back to face the city. His voice was low, quieter than he intended, like he was ashamed of how small it sounded.

But he didn’t relax. His back, now facing the Pro Hero, was drawn tight like a wire pulled taut. One wrong move, one sound of that scarf snapping through the air, and he was gone—off the edge, no second chances. He didn’t want to. God, he didn’t. But he would if he had to. He’d learned not to wait for kindness to turn sharp.

“I know you’re still skeptical. Stop that,” Aizawa said, cutting through Izuku’s thoughts.

The boy stilled.

Of course he knew. Of course he could see it. Izuku was ready to bolt like a skittish animal, cornered and watching the hunter from the corner of its eye. And Aizawa, despite how exhausted he looked most of the time, wasn’t blind. He probably saw it all—the tension in Izuku’s shoulders, the way he crouched closer to the ledge, the readiness in his legs, the split-second glances over his shoulder like prey watching for the strike.

But Aizawa didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t tighten his scarf like a whip about to be used. Instead- “I’m not going to take you to the police,” he said. “But I’m not leaving you alone, either.”

That... made Izuku glance sideways, just enough to catch the man’s figure in his peripheral vision. The teacher wasn’t looming. Wasn’t threatening. He just stood there, bag in hand, eyes tired. Like he wasn’t here to fight him—just be there. And that was maybe more terrifying.

“Here,” Aizawa said after a pause. “I brought you something. Peanut Butter wouldn’t stop pacing.”

Izuku’s back tensed more at first—then slowly eased just a fraction. He turned slightly, gaze darting to the paper like it was a trick. A poisoned apple. A trap with bait. Izuku blinked. “Please,” Izuku muttered, voice strained and almost inaudible. “You shouldn’t bother.”

His hands were fidgeting now, fingers pulling and tugging at one another, the nervous tic louder than his words. “I don’t want you wasting your salary on someone like me.”

“It’s food,” Aizawa replied, simple and direct, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Izuku flinched at the word. Of course, it was food. His body screamed at the word. His stomach let out another desperate growl, humiliatingly loud. He looked away fast, shame written all over his face. Of course, Aizawa noticed. Of course, he knew. “You... brought food because of your cat?”

“She has good instincts,” Aizawa replied, a ghost of a tired smile playing at his lips. “And you’re obviously starving....Come on,” the man said with the faintest ghost of humor. 

Izuku turned all the way back now, facing him, though he was still unnervingly close to the ledge. Closer than anyone would want a teenager to be. Closer than someone like him, who had more lives than he should, had any right to keep gambling.

“You shouldn’t… have,” Izuku finally managed to say, the words brittle and too polite for a starving kid.

His eyes—those big, soft eyes—lingered on the bag. His fingers itched. His mouth watered. But still, he didn’t move. He didn’t reach. He didn’t want to look like a stray, even if he was one. His pride, chipped and bent as it was, still had teeth. “I don’t—is this another method for you to…” he hesitated, glancing at Aizawa’s boots, “…trap me?”

Aizawa’s tone stayed even. “To what? Force a bond?”

Izuku kept his gaze low.

“Feed the feral kitten stray in hopes of bonding and then trusting me?”

Izuku’s eyes widened slightly. He blinked and looked up at him.

“…Yes,” he said quietly.

And Aizawa… smiled. Just a bit. “In a way, that’s exactly what it is.”

Izuku blinked again, stunned.

“I’m not going to lie to you, kid,” Aizawa continued, stepping forward. “I’m not going to pretend I do this for everyone. I don’t. Lying to your face would be an insult to your intelligence—and that’s not how you build trust.”

Izuku swallowed thickly.

“But I know you’re starving. And I know I have a better chance of helping you like this, with food, than chasing you down a freezing alley.”

The bag was placed gently on the snow beside him. No pressure. No demands. Just a quiet offering. Inside, there were three separate smaller bags—probably because Aizawa figured he’d either run off with one or maybe take his time. The choice was Izuku’s.

“Hurry,” the hero said as he moved to sit down beside him. “It’s gonna get cold.” He sat with the same lack of drama, his legs dangling off the side of the rooftop like Izuku’s.

No quirk is ready to save him. No weapons drawn. Just a man, in the cold, beside a boy who didn’t know how to stop running. Izuku didn’t even realize how fast his hand moved. The moment Aizawa looked away, his fingers were already on the bag, gripping it like it might vanish if he blinked. The idea of caution—of examining the contents, sniffing for anything weird, even considering the very real possibility of it being drugged—flew right off the rooftop like the wind never caught it. He threw all sense down the building—literally and figuratively. No window, no second guesses.

He should have paused. He should have suspected something. This could be it, right? The moment where a bite in and he feels sleepy, eyes slipping shut as he collapses forward and wakes up behind bars, behind containment fields, behind everything he’s been running from. But his stomach growled in protest, an angry howl of emptiness, and the warmth from the bottom of the box made his hands tremble. He couldn’t help it. Hunger always won.

He noticed the sticker holding the flap shut. A tiny detail, a branded seal, the kind fast food places used to show an order hadn’t been tampered with. Still intact. Not ripped or smeared, or peeled off and reattached. That gave him pause, if only for a second—because it meant Aizawa hadn’t opened it either. No last-minute meddling. He had bought it and brought it straight here.

His fingers shook as he peeled back the sticker, breaking the seal with a tiny snap. Inside, the warm scent of greasy, cheesy heaven hit him like a punch to the gut. Pizza. Actual pizza. Not burnt. Not stale. Not scavenged from a bin or picked at from a group of half-eaten leftovers. No mold. No torn crusts. Just… food. Real food.

He grabbed the first slice so fast he nearly dropped it. Took a massive bite—and immediately regretted it. “Hot—hot—hah, ow—”

He puffed out tiny huffs through his nose and mouth, trying to cool the molten cheese before it seared the roof of his mouth. But he kept chewing. God, it tasted amazing.

“Don’t eat it that quick,” Aizawa said from beside him, voice low and calm. “Nobody’s taking it from you. And if it gets cold, we can go back to my house and reheat it in the microwave.” Izuku didn’t answer, even though his shoulders stiffened slightly. That subtle push toward Aizawa’s home—the warm apartment, with the extra clothes and soft beds and actual heating—was there. And Izuku ignored it. His excuse was simple: mouth too full.

He wasn’t ready. Couldn’t be. That kind of warmth scared him more than the cold ever did. Aizawa, for his part, didn’t push further. He just let out a small sigh, barely audible above the wind. But it was there. At least the kid was eating, he thought. That was something. No sudden movements. No loud noises. No lectures. Just patience. That’s how you approached a skittish kitten—and right now, Izuku was all bristled fur and trembling paws.

It was funny, Aizawa thought, how different the kid looked when he first turned around and glared at him. That glare had weight. Worn from exhaustion, sharpened by experience, full of fight and fear—like he expected the worst every second of his life. But that expression only lasted until the moment Aizawa flicked him in the forehead.

Then, just like that, he looked like a kid again. A sulky, surprised kid who’d just been scolded. It reminded Aizawa of his own students—catching them sneaking snacks after lights-out, or playing video games in the dorm lounge when they should’ve been asleep. There was something oddly comforting about the familiarity.

Izuku licked his lips, already done with the first slice, and turned to glance at Aizawa. He looked a bit less hollow now, like that single slice had already started to stitch something together inside him. “I’m thankful that you, um… bought this,” Izuku murmured, eyes flicking away like he couldn’t hold eye contact. “But you shouldn’t have to, Sensei.”

He was already reaching for the second slice.

“I don’t want you to waste your money… You probably don’t earn a lot and—”

Aizawa cut him off with a sharp breath through his nose. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you insult my wage and how much I earn as a teacher and Pro Hero working double shifts.”

Izuku choked. Not on his words—on the actual bite of pizza he’d just taken. “Ah—wait, I didn’t mean—” he coughed, nearly doubling over, one hand clutching his chest as he wheezed out, “I didn’t mean to—about your wage, sir—! It's just...I didn't do anything to deserve this food...”

Aizawa calmly reached out and patted his back a few times, not even a trace of concern on his face. “Don’t you dare choke to death on a slice of pizza. That would be embarrassing.”

“I’m not going to die,” Izuku wheezed mid-cough.

“I didn’t bring water. So breathe.”

“Sorry—sorry—!”

“Just keep breathing,” Aizawa muttered, still rubbing his back with two fingers like it was routine by now. “Honestly, of all the things. Choking on pizza…”
Eventually, Izuku managed to cough through it, sitting upright again and wiping his face with the edge of his sleeve, cheeks red with embarrassment. He pouted slightly, and that too made him look his age—too young for the things he'd seen, too young for the burden on his back.

Aizawa leaned back slightly, arms resting on his knees, staring out at the city beyond. “Midoriya,” he said after a long pause, “you don’t have to justify existing to me.” Izuku blinked, hand frozen mid-reach for his third slice.

“I brought you food because you’re hungry. Not because you earned it. Not because you deserve it more or less than anyone else. But because I wanted to.”

“But—”

“And I’ll do it again. Whether you want to feel guilty about it or not.”

Izuku sat still. His throat tight.
He looked at Aizawa. Really looked at him. And hr looked back. Tired, yes. But patient. Honest.

“You like it?” Aizawa asked.

“M-Mhm,” Izuku nodded, taking a bite.

“Yeah, it’s Zashi’s favorite spot,” Aizawa said, glancing back at the city. Izuku kept eating—cautious and tense, like a stray kitten wary of a reaching hand, but still devouring the offered food with urgency. Then, he glanced down at the pizza, then up at the teacher. “What other places… does he like?”

TBC