Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya was what people two hundred years ago might have called a normal child.
He had friends.
He had parents.
He had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in.
He had a favorite All Might hoodie that he wore even in the summer, a clumsy laugh, and scraped knees from the park down the street. At first glance, his life looked like something out of a children's movie.

But in the world he was born into, normal wasn’t good enough.

At the age of four, Izuku sat on a crinkling sheet of paper at a doctor’s office, swinging his legs nervously as his mother held his hand. He watched the white-coated quirk specialist flip through scans and results, his mother’s anxious grip tightening by the second.

Then came the words.

“No quirk. No signs of delayed expression. It’s highly unlikely he’ll ever develop one.”

A pause. A breath.

“I’m sorry.”

Izuku didn’t understand the weight of that sentence at the time. Not really. But he felt the silence that followed. The way his mother’s hand froze. The sharp inhale. The way the world seemed to stop spinning.

She thanked the doctor. She smiled. She took his hand and walked out of the clinic like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The next three years made it crystal clear.

To be quirkless in this society was to be less. Less than your classmates. Less than your friends. Less than human.

It wasn’t just about not having powers. It was about being a disappointment. A dead-end. A burden.

School became a battleground. Other kids - the ones already manifesting quirks like floating or hardening or explosions - started looking at Izuku like he was some kind of defective toy. Something broken. His best friend had started treating him like he was lesser.

Even adults stopped meeting his eyes the same way. They spoke slower around him. Louder. As if being quirkless meant he was stupid too.

But the worst of it wasn’t at school.

It was at home.

His father, Hisashi, changed after the diagnosis. Maybe he’d always been a ticking bomb, but now he had a target.

At first, it was muttering under his breath. Long nights at the bar. Doors slamming. Unspoken tension sitting thick in the air.

Then came the shouting.
Then the drinking.
Then the rage.

Izuku would lie awake at night and hear it - the muffled sounds of arguing downstairs. Plates breaking. His mother trying to soothe him. Trying to hold the family together with bleeding fingers.

He learned to tiptoe around the house. Learned to recognize the sound of his father’s keys in the door and disappear before the yelling started.

On a humid night in early July, it all broke.

Hisashi came home drunk. More than usual. Stumbling, red-faced, stinking of beer and smoke. He slammed the front door open and cursed when he tripped over Izuku’s shoes in the entryway.

His mother was asleep on the couch, exhausted from her second shift at the store. Dinner was half-prepped on the counter. Chopped vegetables in a bowl. The rice cooker still off.

Hisashi didn’t see a tired woman trying her best.
He saw failure.
Laziness.
A useless wife with a quirkless child and nothing to show for it.

Izuku sat upstairs in his room, hugging his knees, as his father’s shouting echoed through the house. He couldn’t make out the words, just the fury. Then came the sound of something heavy falling. Glass shattering. And his mother - crying, begging him to stop.

Izuku didn’t remember moving. Didn’t remember how long it lasted. Just the thudding of his heart, the tremble in his limbs, and the silence that followed.

When he crept down the stairs, the door was swinging open in the night breeze.

Hisashi was gone. The cabinets looked ransacked from the way they were all open.

His mother lay on the floor - barely conscious, bleeding, bruised, burnt.

The neighbors called the paramedics. They asked Izuku questions he didn’t understand. Everything after that became a blur of flashing lights, cold hallways, and adults talking over his head.

His mother never woke up.

She was declared dead on arrival.

The days that followed were a blur of gray walls, unfamiliar voices, and legal words he couldn’t begin to process. They put him in a chair. Told him he’d be “placed somewhere safe.” That he’d be “taken care of.”

Safe.
Right.

A week later, he stood at the gate of a group home with a small duffel bag and empty eyes.

The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 80s. Yellow paint peeled from the walls, and the grass outside was patchy and brittle. A woman with kind eyes led him inside, speaking gently but too quickly for him to follow.

Words like “transition” and “support system” and “emotional processing” flew over his head. All he really heard was when she said “your mother.”

That was when he cried again. Not the quiet tears from before. The full-body kind. The kind where your lungs can’t keep up with the sobs and you feel like you might disappear.

They gave him a small room with two beds.

Only one was occupied.

A boy sat on the far side, back against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees. He had pale skin, lavender hair sticking out in every direction, and shadows under his eyes far too deep for someone their age.

He didn’t look up. Just sat there, like a statue carved from exhaustion.

“His name’s Hitoshi,” the woman whispered. “Hitoshi Shinsou. He’s your age. A little quiet, but kind.”

Quiet wasn’t the right word.

He was hollow.

Izuku didn’t speak to him that first night. He just lay under the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come.

His whole world had crumbled in less than a week.

His mom was dead.
His father had vanished.
He was quirkless.
Unwanted.
Left behind.

And now, this strange boy was the only person sharing the same air.

Izuku closed his eyes, but the silence only made everything louder.

He didn’t know it yet, but that boy across the room - Hitoshi - would be the first person to ever truly understand him.

And the only one who wouldn't look at him like he was broken.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi Shinsou was confused, to say the least.
In the past three years he’d been in this group home, he had never once had a roommate - not with his villainous quirk, at least.

It had been torturous, the way everyone looked at him: pity, fear, or outright disgust painted on their faces every time he passed by. The endless whispers; "a villain in the making," or "watch out, he might get you", pissed him off to no end. But when you deal with it every day of the week, you learn how to tune it out.

No, it wasn’t that that had him confused.

It was his new roommate – Midoriya.

The only person in this godforsaken place who got looked at weird, too.

Now, he needed to find out why.

The kid hadn’t said much since arriving. A small bag slung over his shoulder, eyes too big for his face, with the kind of silence that wasn't shy - but heavy. Like something pressing down on him all the time. Shinsou knew that kind of weight. He wore it himself.

Midoriya didn’t fidget, didn’t mutter to himself like the other new kids sometimes did when trying to cope. He just stared—at the walls, at the floor, sometimes at Shinsou. Not in fear. Not in disgust. Just… staring. Like he was trying to figure something out.

It was creeping Hitoshi out a little. But also making him curious.

To Midoriya Izuku, life was not a gift.
It was an overwhelming challenge.

Life was the mud he waded through, ankles deep, wallowing and trudging forward ever so slowly. It was the blood running through his veins, thick and heavy with dread.

But right now?
Life was Hitoshi Shinsou.

Izuku lay curled up on his bed, eyes quietly fixed on Shinsou’s figure – observing every subtle habit, every unconscious twitch.

He noticed how still Shinsou was, even when he wasn’t doing anything. Not just calm, but frozen. Like someone who had learned that even breathing too loud would earn him a reaction. Like someone trained to survive in silence. Izuku understood that kind of silence intimately.

He wanted to say something. Break the ice. But the words stuck to the back of his throat like glue. Instead, he watched.

It wasn’t until sunlight spilled in through the window, casting a soft glow across Shinsou’s face, that Izuku saw the muzzle.
Shinsou seemed to notice it too, his eyes widening in an emotion Izuku couldn't quite catch. Fear? No, his gaze was sharp and wary all of the time Izuku had been watching him. So what was it?

"Why would someone wear a muzzle?" Izuku had barely noticed he muttered it out loud before – eep – a high-pitched tone came out of his mouth.

Shinsou seemed to hear Izuku's mutters, as his arms crossed with a short huff of exasperation. He signed something Izuku couldn't understand. For all his smarts, sign language was one that he just couldn't grasp. He never had any tutors for that, after all. The budget was already being squeezed tight because of his father's drinking problem.

He bit his lip. Guilt settled in his chest like a weight. It wasn't Shinsou's fault. It wasn't his, either. But that didn’t make the disconnect feel any better.

Shinsou seemed to recognize this in Izuku's stare as he walked over to his shelf and produced a pen and notebook.

"Thank you, Shinsou. I haven't learned sign yet."

Shinsou nodded and began to scribble words onto the page. It took a few seconds of silence until he faced the notebook towards Izuku. “/because sometimes, it's easier for people to see me as an animal./”

Huh?

This wasn't the answer Izuku had been expecting. Come to think of it, he hadn't expected anything, so he would have been confused either way.

"What do you mean by that?"

Shinsou tilted his gaze to the ceiling for a second, lost in thought, before turning back to his notebook and writing again. “/people don't like when i talk. makes them scared./”

Still not truly understanding, Izuku speaks. "Is it because of your quirk?"
Shinsou's gaze hardens.
"I think it might be a voice-activated quirk. That would explain the muzzle. It must be dangerous - or at least, makes people think it’s dangerous.”

Hitoshi scowls under his muzzle, even though he knows Midoriya can’t see it.

He hates that word - dangerous. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s exactly what they all say. What they whisper when they think he isn’t listening. What they write in his file like it’s just another stat: height, weight, threat level.

He picks up the notebook again, writing quickly, sharply, as if each stroke of the pen is meant to puncture.

“/why do you want to know?/”

Midoriya tilts his head in confusion as Hitoshi roughly jots down another sentence.

“/people hate me for my quirk. why do you want to know? it will make you hate me too./”

Midoriya's glare seems to harden at that.

Strange, Hitoshi thinks.

The intensity behind those eyes—there’s something more than defiance there. Not rejection. Not pity, either. Just… something fierce. Protective? He doesn't know what to do with that.

He quickly shakes off the oncoming train of thought. No, he's just another one of them. Just a sad boy with a quirk that isn't hated. Anything that just couldn’t be mine.

His thoughts are abruptly stopped when Midoriya starts speaking again.

"Nonononono!" It seems to come out more as a high-pitched stutter than words, but hey, what can you do. "I would never hate someone for their quirk!"

He looks down.

What else can he say here? That he's quirkless? Pfft. As if that would get him off Izuku's case. As he ponders his thought, he recognizes it.

Is this what Shinsou is thinking?

It feels like a whisper, not in his ears—but inside. A shared vibration of lived experience. Maybe that’s what drew his eyes to Shinsou in the first place.

Shinsou once again lifts the paper. “/oh yeah? well in that case, what's your quirk?/”

Fuuucckkkk.

He knows he's not supposed to say it, he's only seven, but—! He is either hitting the jackpot by saying he's quirkless, or being screwed—no—undeniably fucked to no end.

"Uh..."

He curses himself for being so idiotic.

The faint scribble of a pen followed by a paper lifting makes Izuku want to run.

“/well? get on with it./”

"I'm quirkless."
He blurts it out before thinking.

The words hit the air like a confession. And then, silence.

All Shinsou can do is stare at him before giving a thumbs up.

A beat passes. Izuku blinks. Then again.

“…Wait. That’s it?”

Shinsou shrugs, as if to say, “yeah. that’s it.”

And in that simple gesture, something between them… eases. The tension breaks. Not entirely, but enough.

Izuku lets out a laugh—a real one, light and a little breathless. “You’re weird.”

Shinsou scribbles something and turns the page.

“/takes one to know one./”

"You still haven't told me your quirk yet," Izuku says.

Shinsou once again puts pen to paper."/it's brainwashing. i can control someone if they respond to my questions./"

Izuku, hearing this, simply takes off in a Midoriya Ramble™ .

Later, they sit there, not quite friends, not yet allies, but no longer strangers. Just two boys with too many scars, learning for the first time that maybe they weren’t completely alone in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them feels the need to fill the silence.

Chapter Text

The treatment Izuku had in the group home was unlike anything he had seen before.

The walls were painted soft pastel colors, the furniture slightly worn but clearly cared for. Someone had tried to make this place feel like a home, but to Izuku, it felt... unnatural. Manufactured.

The homey environment confused Izuku, though he had seen Shinsou be discomforted.
He supposed that it was due to the fact that Shinsou had only been here a few weeks.
Maybe he would have to ask about it.

Still, there was something almost wrong about the warmth. It clashed too harshly with everything Izuku had come to expect. A place like this should feel cold. Institutional. At least then, the silence would make more sense.

The pair talked - Shinsou wrote - almost constantly.
They were the only sources of entertainment in their room, after all.

Izuku had almost read every book in the group library. A few had pages torn out, and some had doodles in the margins, but they were still readable. He’d spent hours in corners of the common room, hiding behind thick hardcovers just to avoid eye contact.

Maybe he should bring it up with the-

"Shut up, Null."
Ah, yes. The perfect child. Ryuuto Matsubara. His very own personal demon.

The type that smiled at you with all teeth and no soul.
The type that made hell feel like a group activity.

He didn’t shout it. He didn’t need to. Matsubara’s voice always found a way to slither under Izuku’s skin, smooth and venomous. The kind of cruelty that didn’t need volume to be heard.

The torment from other people hadn’t just continued here - it hadn’t even ceased since he was introduced at dinner on his first day.

"Go on, Midoriya, introduce yourself," the caretaker said with a deceivingly venom-sweet tone.
"Don't be shy now!"

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but her gaze drilled into him like he was a lab rat on display. Izuku hated that kind of smile more than an outright frown — it made the words sting worse.

"Hi. My name is Midoriya Izuku..."
He trailed off at the last part.
Goddamn.

Izuku hadn’t taken into consideration how many people would be here when he only had one roommate.
Rows of faces, different shapes and sizes, turned toward him like an audience expecting a performance.

Oh well. Best to push on - nothing he could do about it.

"I’m 7 years old and I’m..."
Shinsou hadn’t cared, right?
All the other kids were probably here for about the same reason too...
So he steeled his resolve.

"I’m quirkless."

...

The silence was deafening.

A single cough from the far corner.
The faint scrape of a fork dragged across a plate.
And still - nothing.

All that could be heard for the next hour was the quiet drip of the kitchen’s leaky faucet, the crashes and clangs of cutlery being used, the chewing of a homemade meal shared throughout the children, and the faint whispers of disgust in the air.

It would have been obvious to anybody how each child glared at Izuku with hate.
Undeserved - but hate nonetheless.

Their eyes didn’t waver. Like he’d said something wrong. Like he’d chosen it.
Some even turned their heads slightly, leaned away like his very presence might infect them.

Every child.

Except for Shinsou.

Shinsou had been a comforting factor the entire time he’s been here (which was, indeed, a small amount, Izuku would confess), and a nice break from everybody who despised him with a burning passion.

Especially Kacchan.

But was Kacchan really at fault here?
No one else told him to stop.
No one told him that it was wrong.
So really, it wasn’t anybody in particular.

It was just the societal norm.

One that ever so loathed him.

On his way to the sink, holding his plate, Izuku met the sound of a scraping chair - and his own yelp.

He stumbled, heart skipping, the plate nearly slipping from his grasp. The noise startled him more than the voice.

"Ha! Dumb quirkless. Can’t even walk straight," Matsubara spat out.

A few kids laughed - not because it was funny, but because they needed to be seen laughing.

The room echoed with a hollow kind of cruelty. No punchlines. Just power games.

Izuku stared at his shoes and wondered if they’d ever stop tripping him.
He hated how familiar the sight of them had become.
Worn soles. Untied laces. Always pointing downward.

Shut up, Matsubara...
The thought wasn’t verbalised, but Izuku would bet that anybody - bar Matsubara, for all of his one braincells - would be able to see it on his face.

No one else spoke up.
No one dared.

Their silence was its own kind of approval - like a slow, suffocating tide.
Izuku felt every pair of eyes burn into his back like fire.

He just trudged back to his room, head down.

The hallway felt longer than usual, each step heavier than the last.
Every light overhead buzzed slightly, flickering just enough to be annoying.
It felt like even the house was turning against him.

Inside, the quiet was both a refuge and a reminder of how loud the world could be.

"You should just-"
Matsubara abruptly stopped his rant.

He had cornered Izuku near the back stairs, out of view. His arms were crossed, one shoulder pressed against the wall with practiced casualness — like he owned the hallway.

"Are you even listening, you quirkless loser? Tch."

Izuku could hear the disgust in his voice.
He hated it - more than anything.
He just wanted to be normal.

Not special. Not powerful. Just... not this.

"Not even good for anything, I swear."
Matsubara’s sharp gaze quickly shifted into a cold grin.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. The kind of whisper meant only for its target — and no one who could help.

"I have an idea for you."

"If you want a quirk so bad,"

"Jump off the roof and pray for one in your next life."

.

.

.

The words echoed louder than they were spoken.
They didn’t even seem real at first - just noise, floating around the edge of his mind, refusing to land. But they did land. Hard.

Izuku froze.

For a moment, it felt like the hallway stopped breathing. The air thickened.
His ears rang, his heartbeat climbing into his throat, uneven and too fast.

He stared straight ahead - not at Matsubara, not at anything really. Just into space. If he looked directly at him, he might scream. Or cry. Or worse — agree.

The silence between them stretched, pulled tight like a wire.

Izuku's fingers curled into the sleeves of his shirt, nails digging into fabric as he held his arms tightly to his sides. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

He tried to blink the heat from behind his eyes, but it only made the tears build faster.

Don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

He wasn’t sure what hurt more - the words themselves, or how easy it was for Matsubara to say them. Like it was a joke. Like Izuku’s life, his worth, could be dismissed in a single sentence.

Jump off the roof and pray for one in your next life.

How many times had he thought something close to that, even if he didn’t say it outright? How many times had he wished he could be someone else? Someone better?

He hadn’t told anyone that. Not even Shinsou. Not even his mom, before...

A cold chill slid down his spine.

Matsubara had said it out loud. That was the difference.
He’d given voice to the ugliest thought Izuku had ever had - and smiled when he did.

There was no laugh. No mockery. Just that sharp little grin, as if he’d gifted Izuku with a revelation. Like he was doing him a favor.

Izuku swallowed hard. If he wanted to, he could hav- couldn’t. Couldn't answer. His voice felt stuck behind a lump of something heavy.

So he didn’t answer. 

He grinned.

And he struck first.

A sob rung throughout the hall. 

Fists collided with face, elbows to chest.

Matsubara in a state of panic, flailed around aimlessly, like a chicken with its head cut off.

A fist straight to the nose.

Clean hit.

Broke it.

Elbow jab to the jaw.

Clean hit again.

Would bruise.

Izuku's analytical mind cut through the noise of his wailing, cut through the pain he should be feeling, and cut through Matsubara.

His hits were calculated, aimed specifically where he knew it would hurt most.

He never learned any martial arts, but he knew the fight so well.

He assumed it came from being a hero fanboy.

In his train of thought, Izuku missed a fist coming towards him.

Pain swelled on his right cheek where Matsubara hit.

In the state of being unbalanced, Midoriya swiped his leg and took down Matsubara.

A punch hit the side of Matsubara's jaw.

A snap hit Izuku's ears.

A body hit the floor.

The smell of blood hit Izuku's nose.

Hitoshi wasn't one to expect mail. He never got any, to be fair. So why should he have expected anything different today?

He woke up in the morning, blanket rough from stumbling in bed all night. He couldn't sleep until 3.

He checked his right; Midoriya was gone.

Strange. Must have been past breakfast then, he's probably in the library.

He stood up, and was about to get dressed when he saw a folded up piece of paper - a letter - on his desk.

------------------------------

Dear Hitoshi,

I'm running. I can't take this anymore. I snapped at Matsubara, and he's knocked out. I can't let you see me like this. I'm broken, Hitoshi. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I left my figures, I couldn't take them so quickly. Keep them safe for me, okay? If you see any of your clothes missing, that was me. Sorry for making you clean up my mess. I'm sorry.

Goodbye. Maybe I'll see you someday. Become a hero for me, Hitoshi.

Regards from your pen pal, 

Midoriya Izuku

-------------------

In the process of overthinking, Hitoshi didn't realize his quiet sob had broken out into a full breakdown. He didn't realize there was someone watching.

Hitoshi couldn't believe it. Just couldn't. Did Midoriya really write this? It looks like his handwriting, but it looks so scratched into the paper, so rough, covered in dried tears, so miserable, and-

GOD! He just couldn't take it. 

Or at least, Midoriya couldn't.

Not anymore.

He vowed to himself to complete Midoriya's wishes. 

He would take care of himself.

His figures.

And become a hero.

For Mid-

No.

For Izuku.

"

Chapter Text

Izuku wasn’t exactly having the best of days. When he ran away from the group home, he hadn’t exactly figured out where he would be "homing" from now on. 

As he passed the bright cityscape lights of busy streets, his knees buckled under the weight of his body. Seeing this, he decided to rest in an abandoned alleyway.

Shouta Aizawa wasn’t exactly having the best of days. The patrol route he always took was unusually packed to the brim with criminals. Filthy ones. Criminals who would do whatever it took.

He took a punch to the jaw before sweeping the criminal’s leg.

Shouta humphed at the criminal before tying him up in his capture scarf. 

Usually, criminals who would do whatever to get their goals would be skilled, cunning, and their operations were always planned with ease and precision. 

These ones were just plain stupid.

Really, if they were any slower, they’d be moving backwards.

He knocked out the criminal, striking him on the neck. 

The criminal in his capture weapon resigned from his struggles. That made 42 for the night. He was about to bring him back to the station before a movement was heard from a nearby alleyway. It sounded like a cat.

Usually, he would bring back the strays to the vet, to be set up for adoption. Sometimes, he brought them home. 

Hizashi was always eager when they got a new “roommate.” Especially the last one, who he had dubbed “Bastard.” They currently had 3.

It really wasn’t logical to bring home another one. 

.

.

.

Fuck it.

After bringing the criminal to the station, he rerouted back to that alleyway. It wasn’t a cat. Shouta stared in shock as he saw the living, breathing form of a small child. A CHILD for god’s sake. Who in their right mind would leave their kid outside? It’s quite literally the asscrack of dawn! The kid shivered and unconsciously pulled up the jacket covering them. 

Poor kid. He was probably cold. 

What if he brought them back to the station? 

As he turned back around for the second time today (this time with a child), he checked his watch and found that it was getting closer and closer to daytime.

The streets were still quiet, bathed in that eerie bluish tint that only existed in the moments before sunrise. Shouta’s boots echoed against the rooftops, each step feeling heavier than the last. The child, half-awake, clung to his jacket, small fingers curled into the fabric like it was the only anchor they had left in the world. Shouta didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say?

As a movement registered, he glanced down at the kid again. Their face was smudged with dirt, eyes wide and glassy, cheeks flushed from the cold. No shoes. Just socks. Thin ones. Shouta felt his stomach twist.

The child didn’t respond. Just looked up at him with a blank expression.

They passed a bakery just beginning to stir. The scent of fresh bread wafted through the air, warm and inviting. 

Shouta hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. He ducked inside, bought a small bun, and handed it to the child without a word. The kid took it slowly, eyes still wary and waking, and began nibbling at the edge.

Back at the station, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the chill outside. Shouta led the child to the break room, wrapped them in a blanket, and poured a cup of hot water. No tea. Just warmth.

He sat across from them, watching as they slowly thawed. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy. Meaningful.

He’d have to file a report. Call child services. Maybe even dig into missing persons. But for now, he just sat there. A quiet guardian in the early hours of morning, watching over a child who had no business being alone in the world.

And outside, the sun finally began to rise.

Shouta had been quiet today. Too quiet.

Was what Nemuri thought to herself as she watched him in the breakroom. 

His eyes were glassed over, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Shouta had only been like this once. And it hadn’t been a good time. For any of them.

She was filled with sadness at the thought of Oboro.

The lunch bell rang, and Nemuri quietly kept to herself and left.

She would have to talk to Hizashi about this.

After his long day at U.A., Shouta had been reluctant to go back to the station. Was the child still there? Would he even remember him?

He steeled his resolve and slowly trudged his way through the bustling traffic down to Musutafu Police Station. 

The station was quieter than usual when Shouta arrived. The usual hum of chatter and clacking keyboards had dulled to a low murmur, as if the building itself sensed the weight he carried. He nodded to the officer at the front desk, who gave him a curious glance but didn’t ask questions. No one ever did. Not with him.

He made his way to the break room, heart thudding with a strange mix of dread and hope. The door creaked open.

The child was awake.

Curled up on the couch, the blanket wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon.

The TV in front of him was on, but the child didn’t seem to quite register what was happening around him. His eyes, glassy and wide, simply staring into the distance as if piercing through the metal and stone of the wall.

The boy stirred at the sound of the door, blinking up at Shouta with those same wide, unreadable eyes. There was no recognition, but Shouta recognized the quiet fear he displayed.

“Hey, kid. I’m Aizawa Shouta. Who are you?”

The question rang through the empty break room, as the child neglected to respond.

A spark in his eyes was seen by Shouta, seemingly recognition of some kind. 

His mouth hung open as though wanting to speak, but not being able to.

He closed his mouth and frowned before giving an answer.

“I’m Midoriya Izuku, Eraserhead. I ran away from my group home. Are you going to take me back..? Please don’t make me..”

…what?

The child’s shoes, given sometime unbeknownst to him, made soft noises as he quickly moved through the floor. The cup of coffee he had poured from himself was lifted, and hot liquid hit him in the face.

All Shouta could hear as the boy ran was the squeaking of shoes.

Why did he run?

.

.

.

And how did he know who Shouta was?

Izuku and Eraserhead were playing a game of cat and mouse.

Izuku would be the mouse, and Eraserhead the cat.

The past month he had been running, Eraserhead had been desperately chasing him down, but criminals seemed to come out from anywhere near him, and Eraserhead was obligated to stop them. Izuku had barely caught his breath in weeks, each alleyway and shadow offering no refuge - only more chaos. Eraserhead’s pursuit was relentless, but it was the constant interference of petty villains that kept the chase from ending. It was as if the world itself conspired to keep Izuku just out of reach.

He had cycled through abandoned apartment buildings, alleyways, dumpsters, places a kid like him should have never had to be. Alas, fate was not one to lie.

Only getting by on dumpster scraps and stolen goods, Izuku had grown sickly and pale. These past few months, he had grown a good amount. His arms were gangly and legs just a bit too long, but it was growth nonetheless.

Izuku thought how amusing it was that criminals would be the one to save him. The irony wasn’t lost on him - those who society feared were now his accidental shield. He had never imagined that danger could be a form of protection.

But right now, Izuku wasn’t so sure this criminal would be a savior. There was something different about this one - something colder, more deliberate. His instincts screamed that this wasn’t a chance encounter.

“A quirkless one. Good, good.” The words slithered out like poison, each syllable laced with intent. Izuku’s heart pounded as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the phrase.

As the light shined on the criminal’s face, Izuku saw what seemed to be a plague doctor mask. The eerie beak and hollow eyes gave the man an inhuman presence. It was like staring into a relic of death itself.

The man with the bird mask held a gun - or at least, something vaguely shaped like a gun. Its design was unfamiliar, jagged and cruel-looking, more like a tool for torture than a weapon. Izuku’s breath caught as he realized this wasn’t just a threat - it was a promise.

“Your blood will do nicely…” The man’s voice was low, almost reverent, as if speaking to a rare ingredient. Izuku felt his skin crawl at the implication.

The man held out a hand before attempting to grab Izuku. His movements were swift, practiced - this wasn’t his first time hunting. Izuku’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.

In a feeble attempt at escape, Izuku ran. He hadn’t gotten far. His legs stumbled beneath him, panic overriding coordination. The alley seemed to close in around him, offering no exit.

His attacker quickly yanked Izuku’s arm, causing a yelp of pain. The force of the grip sent a jolt through his shoulder, sharp and unforgiving. 

Was this it? Is this how it ended? Had Izuku not suffered enough yet? The thoughts overwhelmed him as he wrenched his arm back. He never was a fighter, really.

Because if he was…

Maybe this would be different.

He never wanted to hurt anybody. Whenever someone attacked him, or bullied him, a chill went down his spine. Hurting went against his very nature as a human.

Izuku’s vision blurred for a moment, but his hand found something solid.

The gun-shaped object was grabbed by Izuku, and swiftly pointed at the man. His fingers trembled, unsure of the mechanism, but determined to act. It was a desperate gamble, one he never thought he’d make.

“Ha! You don’t know what to even do with that, kid. Hand it over.” The man sneered, confident in his dominance, amused by the boy’s defiance. But Izuku stood steady.

“It’s a gun. I know my way around.” Izuku’s panicked voice was overridden by one of false confidence. It was a feeble bluff, Izuku knew. He probably saw right through it. It never hurt to try, though…

“I have a weapon. You don’t. Scram.” Izuku’s fearful eyes narrowed.

The man sneered. “Oh, really? And what do you plan to do with that “gun,” child?”

As the attacker lunged once more, Izuku did what he thought he would never have to do. Ever. He made a choice that shattered the last piece of innocence he had. He attempted to take the man’s life.

As Izuku pulled on the trigger, he felt a surge of adrenaline and pain swelling in his hand. The recoil was violent, unexpected, and the sensation burned through his nerves. A syringe or harpoon-like projectile - not a bullet - had been shot from the gun.

“Goddamnit! You brat!” The man growled in pain at Izuku as he stepped back. Blood sprayed across the alley walls, and the man staggered, clutching his side. Izuku’s eyes widened at the damage he had caused.

He hadn’t meant to pull the trigger, really. It was a fight or flight response! His muscles tensed and his eyes widened as he took a step back and dropped his gun.

“Damn brat…” The man slapped the floor only to be met with nothing.

His attacker looked shocked before looking at Izuku, then the gun on the floor.

At this moment, Izuku felt something inside him change. He felt different. It wasn’t just fear or guilt - it was something deeper, something primal. But one thing was clear right now.

To him, this man needed to simply… cease. There was no room for mercy, no time for hesitation. Izuku’s body moved on instinct.

Izuku felt a strange sensation as he put his arm out… and he pulled. It was as if something invisible responded to his will, something raw and violent. The air around him seemed to twist.

The man, skin and internal organs, ruptured in a storm of blood and flesh. The sound was sickening, wet and final, echoing through the alley. Izuku stood frozen, unable to look away.

Once a person had been turned into a splatter on the floor. The remnants were unrecognizable, a grotesque painting of red and ruin. The one thing that had remained intact was the bird mask he had been wearing.

Did Izuku do that..? The question echoed in his mind, louder than the screams that had just ended. He took a step back.

No. He was quirkless. Useless. A Deku. So what was that..? His identity fractured under the weight of what had just happened. He looked at his blood-covered hands in disgust and disbelief.

So he did the rational thing to do. The only thing that made sense in the chaos. The thing he did best.

Izuku ran. And he didn’t look back.

As Izuku got back to his abode, the shutter door creaked behind him like a whisper of guilt, and he leaned against the wall, catching his breath as if the air itself resisted entering his lungs. 

He staggered toward his shattered mirror, its jagged edges reflecting fragments of his face - none of which looked familiar anymore. His reflection was soaked in blood, not just on his clothes but in the haunted glaze of his eyes, like a ghost staring back.

He looked like a dead body; lifeless, hollow, as if his soul had fled and left only a shell behind. The mirror said he looked like a murderer, and the mirror didn’t lie. 

A murderer, Izuku thought, the word echoing in his mind like a curse he couldn’t unhear. That’s what I am. The thought of taking a life twisted inside his head like barbed wire, each loop tighter than the last, until the pressure made him physically ill. 

He gagged, the bile rising with the weight of his guilt, and stumbled outside toward the storm drain, desperate to purge the feeling clawing at his insides. But even as he emptied his stomach, the shame remained, clinging to him like a second skin-he couldn’t help but feel like a murderer. 

His hands felt impossibly heavy, as though the act had filled them with lead, and he dragged them behind him as he tramped slowly back into the building. 

He rushed - if such a word could apply to his slow and broken pace - toward the sink, the one he used when he needed to feel human again. He rinsed, soaped, rinsed, soaped… each cycle more frantic than the last, his fingers raw and callused from the obsessive scrubbing. 

His mind raced with every motion, replaying the moment again and again, as if the water could wash away memory itself. 

click.

Finally, he turned off the tap, the silence that followed louder than any scream. The blood stained him from the inside out, and no amount of soap could reach the places it had touched.

 His hands, even washed, would never be clean to him. He mulled over what he had done, the question gnawing at him like a parasite - was that a quirk..? 

To test the theory, he placed his hand on the sofa, the fabric cool and familiar beneath his palm, and waited. As he pulled, the sofa tore apart violently, the seams splitting like wounds, confirming the power was real. 

He felt the will of himself—an instinctive urge to undo the damage—and placed his hand once more on the ruined pieces. He pulled again, and this time, the sofa reassembled itself with eerie precision, every fiber aligned as if stolen right off of a billboard. It didn’t just return to its original state; it was perfect, pristine, as though it had never been touched by time or wear. 

Izuku flexed his fingers, the sensation of power tingling beneath his skin, and he wasn’t sure whether to feel awe or fear. But three truths crystallized in his mind, undeniable and sharp. 

One, this was a quirk, there was no room for debate there.

 Two, he needed to revisit the alley, just in case there were any clues.

 Three, he definitely needed some gloves.

 Not just to hide his hands, but to shield the world from what they could do.

Chapter Text

Food was bound to be a problem at some point. For Himiko, she just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She ran. She ran some more. She ran until her legs gave out. Her mind was a mess of frantic thoughts, a blurry haze of pain and hunger. Why had her parents been mad? Blood just tasted so good. She needed more. Waaayyy more. Right now. She wasn’t sure what came over her; the hunger, the adrenaline, the memories of what she’d tasted - it was an insatiable craving. And it had to be filled.

It wasn’t the first time her appetite had gotten the better of her, but it was the first time it had been this bad. The only thing that kept her going was the need to run, to keep running, to get away from the memories of what she had done. What she was. She hadn’t planned for this. She never planned. It just happened, spiraling into chaos. One thing was for certain, though: she wasn’t stopping until she could find the next... source. She needed it. ASAP.

Her parents, the police, the teachers - all of them. She was on the run from all of them.

It wasn't her fault.

She couldn't drink.

She couldn't eat.

So, when she saw food,

was it truly wrong to take a bite..?

The Shimuras were an awkward folk, most would say. 

To the teachers, their kids were excellent students. Hard-working, diligent, and proactive. The two always had the highest grades in the class.

To the other kids, their children were awkward. Never coming out to eat with the others, nor coming out to play. They did their work, and that was it. They were weird people.

To top it off, one of their kids was quirkless. A useless tumor on the side of the earth. It wasn’t possible for him to have the best marks. He was a useless, good-for-nothing idiot.

To the Shimura children, the relationship with their parents (if you could call both of them that) was complicated at best.

Their doting mother, always caring and loving for them both had always tried to cheer them up.

Their father didn’t like that. He beat the kids. Beat the wife. Etc. He hated heroes with a burning passion, and that was final. There would never be anything to change that.

But to Himiko, it wasn’t the parents she was interested in. It was Tenko. He was the only boy that would see her for what she is, not just a quirk. 

When her quirk developed, she had been cast aside overnight. Nobody wanted her.

Nobody needed her.

But when Tenko saw her, dirty and tracking mud, he hadn’t been mad. He hadn’t ran. He hadn’t acted like the others. 

And when he left, he made sure to give some blood to her.

Himiko knew it wasn’t his.

It didn’t taste like his. 

When she drank it, she didn’t look like him.

But it was the thought that counted, right..?

So when Izuku came into her alley, she saw a little bit of Tenko in him.

The weathered look on his face spoke ages about his character. 

He helped Himiko, no strings attatched.

She was sure it was him that Himiko wanted.

And finally, to the Musutafu Police Department:

The Shimuras were currently piles of ash and blood.

Except for one.

"

Chapter Text

Himiko was having the best night of her life. There was so much blood! So much food.

No! Bad Himi-chan! 

But it looked so good…

A slap rang across the alley as she whacked herself in the face. Get it together, Himiko. You’re here for the green boy! 

For a few weeks, Himiko saw flashes and blurs of green before she slept. 

As she leaned to her right, she saw the half-conscious movements her roomie made. It made her shiver with excitement and delight.

She hadn’t expected her alleyway roommate to be so cute… But really, that was more of a bonus than anything.

The thoughts of her roomie filled her head. And boy, did he drive her mad.

He just looked so hot when he was dirty..

And when he was bloody..

GOD! She needed him so bad right now.

Usually, he would comfort her when she was having nightmares… The day he saw her was the best! He had been so kind, and upon learning her quirk, he didn’t act like the others. 

He didn’t run. He wasn’t scared. He looked at her like his life would be worth it if he could just help Himiko drink.

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t angry.

He gave Himiko his love. Properly. Not those lovey-dovey smooches that you saw on TV - or at least, what she had been allowed to see of it. The way Himiko did it.

With blood. 

Then he killed somebody.

When he ran off, Himiko did too. She gave chase to the smaller, blood-soaked boy. She pseudo-expertly avoided police sirens and busy streets. 

She caught sight of the way he ran - it wasn't calculated. Not planned. He was scared.

As she turned back, she decided.

She would give him some time. And when he was brave enough to return to Himiko, then they’d be happy. Together.

Shouta Aizawa was having a rough day.

The leader of the Shie Hassaikai had been found dead. An unknown caller had rung in last week that a gory mess had been found in an alleyway near the convenience store.

The same convenience store he caught Midoriya at. 

He wasn’t sure there was a correlation, but he needed to be sure. After all, he was dealing with a murder and a missing kid.

The gore Shouta saw in the alleyway truly messed him up beyond his years.

It looked like someone had gone and torn him to shreds. Some loose chunks of meat or organ had been left intact, and lay there unaffected. 

After a quick DNA test, it was confirmed that this was Kai Chisaki. The leader of the Shie Hassaikai. After a quick and simple base raid, the police force had discovered quirk-transfering devices. 

Apparently, they could be stored in capsules inside of a ragged-looking machine. It also auto-activated upon usage, which was mildly concerning at best. There was a syringe on the grip, waiting for the strange liquid solution to work magic and insert an artificial copy.

These capsules had apparently been made by some unknown benefactor, and were able to last forever inside of a living human being. 

Kai Chisaki’s quirk was Overhaul. The ability to take something apart and put it back together anew. 

According to the evidence at the scene, his quirk had been turned on him. Shouta wondered by who.

As he rolled over the question in his head, a movement registered at the edge of his vision.

He turned sharply.

A shadow slipped past the yellow tape at the end of the alleyway. Slender. Quick. Hesitant.

Yellow. 

It was definitely a cautious profile, no doubt about it. But why were they looking for something?

Would be one to keep an eye out for. 

Wait - the pigtails - this was a murderer.

Before he could give haste, the blonde girl’s eyes shifted to the right. Not with hostility, nor curiosity. But something akin to love.

A sharp turn, and once again something caught his eye.

Green.

Shouta’s eyes widened.

“Midoriya,” he breathed, then shouted: “Midoriya!”

The figure flinched. For a moment, Midoriya just stood there, caught like a deer in headlights.

Then he ran.

Shouta didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instinct. He leapt over a barricade and gave chase, boots slamming against pavement as he darted after the boy.

“Midoriya, STOP!”

But the boy didn’t. He weaved through side streets and ducked into tight spaces, slipping past dumpsters and around fire escapes like he’d done this before.

And maybe he had.

Shouta was faster, though. He was closing in.

They rounded a corner into a narrow corridor between buildings. Trash clung to the walls. The stench of rot filled the air.

Midoriya climbed up a low ledge, scaling the side of a wall onto a rooftop.

Shouta followed - rope binding in his grip, capture weapon at the ready.

At the top, they collided. A scuffle. Elbows. Scrambling. Breathless.

He noted the fact that Midoriya seemed to have artist’s gloves on, and seemed to be avoiding using hands. Weird.

Using this information, he aimed a hand at Midoriya’s wrists. Midoriya looked shocked - no, that was a look more akin to fear - as his arm quickly pulled back.

In the struggle, Midoriya twisted away - and Aizawa’s goggles were torn from his face.

He reached for them, but it was too late.

Snap.

The strap broke.

The goggles - the same pair Oboro had given him in their second year - fell to the rooftop. One lens cracked instantly. 

Aizawa froze.

The weight of that sound - that break - was heavier than any punch.

Midoriya looked down, horrified. “I-I didn’t mean to-”

A pause. Wind picked up across the rooftop.

Then, before Aizawa could reach out again, Midoriya turned and ran - fast, stumbling over the edge and disappearing into the night.

Aizawa didn’t follow.

Not right away.

He stared at the broken goggles lying at his feet. Rain began to fall, soft and cold. Water pooled in the fractured lens, like a single, unmoving eye staring up at him.

His mind wandered.

“They make you look terrifying, Shouta,” Oboro had laughed, tossing the goggles into his hands years ago. “But I guess that’s the point, huh? You gotta keep the weirdos in line.”

He could still hear the voice. Feel the weight of that moment.

Back when they thought they’d all live forever.

Aizawa bent down slowly, picked up the broken goggles, and held them in both hands. His jaw clenched. A thousand memories rose up - training, laughter, loss.

He closed his eyes.

“I’m trying, Oboro,” he whispered. “I really am.”

Then, alone on the rooftop, soaked by the rain, he stood - heart heavier than ever - and walked back into the dark.

And from the dark, came Izuku. 

He was having a rough day, wasn’t he? 

As he rushed back to his new living quarters, (he hadn’t dared to sleep another night in that alley) his thoughts wandered to the girl from the alley. Himiko. 

She had neglected to tell him her family name, most likely for the same reason as Izuku hadn’t told his.

Had he put her in danger? Where would she go? What would happen to her?

When he opened the door, he bumped into something.

Nevermind, be an idiot and forget to open the door.

…

But his hand was on the handle. 

And the door was pulled outwards.

As he looked up in fear, he saw someone he thought he had been hallucinating. 

.

.

.

“Himiko?”

And on the other side of Musutafu, another person stood alone, equally as haunted by his past.

Shouto wasn’t exactly having the best of days. He needed to clear his mind. When he needed to clear his mind, he always went somewhere. However, today was an especially bad day. He walked along the path to Sekoto Peak. Where his brother was abandoned. Where Touya died.

Sometimes it helped him, sometimes it made it worse. Shouto always threw his thoughts out to the wind, praying, desperately, that somehow Touya would be able to hear him.

After the incident, Father had gone silent. His harsh, commanding tone took a step back and mellowed. 

No more was the brash number two hero.

This was Enji Todoroki. 

The man who couldn’t speak of the death of his child.

The man who didn’t know what to do when anger wasn’t an option.

The story had been kept hush-hush from the press and him, but Shouto knew. 

The way everybody lost a little bit of life.

The way Touya stopped showing up.

Touya had been planning to run away. 

He wondered what changed.

Shouto wondered what would be, if he simply wasn’t a Todoroki. Would it be this hard? Or was he just weak? Did he really have it worse than everybody else? 

.

.

.

Shouto didn’t really know. He was only seven. But these last three years have made it especially clear that just being “something” is better than nothing.

Quirkless.

Father had always talked about the quirkless with disgust. He had said that they’re worthless. He only saves them for the PR. Foolish man. 

Shouto was hoping that one day.

Someone might save him too.

The trees along the path waved in a calming manner. Shouto always liked nature. Nature always followed a pattern. One that Shouto could keep up with. 

Green was his favourite color. For Shouto, it symbolized life. Calm. Any life, just one that isn’t his.

As he reached Sekoto Peak, his eyes were filled with lush nature. Nature that he was familiar with. 

No one there to save him, after all.

Unfortunate.

But there was teenager. 

Sitting.

.

.

.

A TEENAGER???

Let it be known that Tenko Shimura is a patient child. He had always been patient. But running until you passed out wasn’t exactly a good strategy. And it didn’t matter how patient you were if your body was too tired to keep moving. He wasn’t athletic, not like the other kids who were naturally gifted. The last map he saw had been taped to the wall of his room back in the house, right next to the stack of hidden posters he kept. 

He sighed, thinking about his room. He wasn’t there now. He was miles away, running for his life. Or was he? What was he even running from? Himself? The feeling of never being enough? He didn’t know anymore. He just knew he wanted to go home. More than anything, he wanted to see his mom again. Natsuko Shimura, his mom, his one constant, the only person who could see him. Not just “son of Mr. Shimura”. However, leaving the home was the hardest thing he’d ever done. 

Even if she wasn’t.

Even if she was out.

Even if she was dead.

Tenko took a step back and found a bench to sit on. His legs felt like lead, his body aching with exhaustion. His breath burned in his chest, feeling as though it was coming from an open flame. Tenko couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. It sounded absurd, but then again, everything about his life felt absurd right now.

The dehydration was hitting hard. He looked up, his tired eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. What was he even doing here? He laughed harder, clutching his stomach in a mix of relief and exhaustion. He probably looked ridiculous, but it didn’t matter.

He looked around. And just as he expected, he did look ridiculous.

A boy, much shorter than him (Tenko was tall, even for his age), was watching him with a curious gaze. His eyes weren’t just curious, though; they were like a cat’s. Heterochromatic eyes and a burn scar, and a-. A burn scar?

“Are you alright?” the boy asked, his tone laced with suspicion. He tilted his head, furrowing his brows, as if trying to make sense of Tenko’s odd behavior. “What are you doing at Sekoto Peak? I thought this area was restricted to people outside the Todoroki family.”

Tenko froze. The Todorokis? That name hit him like a brick to the chest. They were in Musutafu, right? A long way from the group home, but not too far. The Todorokis. That was Endeavor’s family, right? The-

“Excuse me, you haven’t answered,” the boy interrupted, his voice slightly sharper this time. Tenko snapped out of his thoughts, blushing a little. “Sorry,” he stammered, trying to clear his throat. “You said Todoroki? As in, Endeavor?”

At the mention of the number two hero’s name, the boy’s face darkened. A scowl crossed his features, the kind of scowl that told Tenko everything he needed to know.

The same hateful scowl his father gave to heroes.

“Yes. My father said this was for us Todorokis only,” the boy replied curtly.

Tenko took a deep breath, his mind racing. Okay, okay. This kid was clearly part of the Todoroki family. 

That meant he was probably rich. 

Probably had a completely different life from the one Tenko had known. 

But what did that mean for Tenko? 

How should he approach this? 

There were several options flashing through his head. Maybe the boy didn’t know what it was like to be normal... Maybe he’d grown up pampered, sheltered, unaware of how cruel the world could be. 

Maybe he was compassionate, the kind of kid who could relate.

Or maybe he was like his father. Cold, unforgiving, just like the scowl on his face. Maybe he was a spoiled brat who didn’t care about anything but his own privilege.

Then again, there was the possibility that his father wasn’t just a hero. Maybe he had been abusive, the kind of dad who left emotional scars as deep as the burn on his cheek. That could explain the boy’s bitterness. Maybe he was running away too. Maybe that was why he looked so... sad.

A deep sigh escaped Tenko. Some options were clearly better than others. He didn’t know which one he was dealing with, but one thing was for sure: he needed to be careful.

He thought about it for a moment, weighing the risks. "I’m running away.”

…huh?

Shouto didn’t know how to process what was happening. This wasn’t how he expected his day to go. Hell, this wasn’t how he expected any day to go. He hadn’t seen another kid his age since he was four, when his father, Endeavor, started training his "masterpiece" (which was, of course, him).

And yet, here was this teenager, stumbling through the forest like he was in some kind of fugue state. His appearance, his nervous energy, it was all strange. Unsettling.

Shouto’s mind raced. Was this kid sent by his father? A little spy? Or... no, that was stupid. He didn’t know how to think about this. All he knew was that this kid wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met. He hadn’t met a lot of people though, to be fair.

The kid’s eyes flickered with something Shouto couldn’t quite place. He was holding something back. It was obvious. Too obvious.

His hair flowed in the soft wind. It was black, black as ink. Like Yaoyorozu’s hair. There was a scar on the left side of his lip.

“What's your name?” Shouto asked, his voice flat, neutral. He needed to know if he was a threat. And if so, what to look out for.

Maybe-Yaoyorozu’s-Brother hesitated. (Tenko was thinking “why is that what you’re asking?!?!?) For just a moment, Shouto saw him falter. Then, with a stutter, the black-haired boy answered.

“Shi-. My name is Tenko.”

The child’s - Tenko’s - voice was tight, his body stiff, like he was forcing himself to say those words. His eyes were shifty, and for some reason, Shouto knew, he knew, that there was something more. Something behind those eyes. Something… scared. Calculating, still.

Shouto narrowed his mismatched gaze, studying him like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. He didn’t want to feel bad for this kid, but a tight knot formed in his chest. He recognized that trembling.

It was a familiar kind of fear. A fear that mirrored his own. And for the first time in a long while, Shouto didn’t know what to make of it.

“Why are you here?”

Before Tenko could answer, a rustle was heard from the bush.

Chapter Text

Midoriya vaguely gestured to his hair. 
"It's bright. It's fluffy."
"So? What does that have to do with your nickname?"
"It looks like candy floss!"
Midoriya sounded exasperated.
Hitoshi, ever the brat he was, answered "Okay, broccoli head."

Hitoshi Shinsou has been left out his whole life. And when he learns that everybody else in the group home’s been talking behind his back, he’s not mad.
He’s seething with rage.

The sods have always been mean, dare he say villainous, (the words ring through Hitoshi’s mind like a slap to the face) but at least he knew about it.
When the muttering got quieter, he was happy. He thought they were grieving over Matsubara or something, and hadn’t been able to give any attention to him.
When they stopped 
When they finally acted like he didn’t exist - well now, that was suspicious.
When you’re being hunted down by your own mother, you learn some situational awareness.
And he was currently aware that he should run.

“Let’s kill that villain bastard!”

“Tomura."

"You're mine."

Chapter Text

Izuku’s been having weird dreams lately - ones that twist reality into something unrecognizable, where the laws of physics bend and memories bleed into nightmares.

So when he wakes up in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by shadows that flicker like candlelight and walls that breathe like lungs, he’s not surprised.

When he tries to speak but finds his voice swallowed by silence, as if the air itself refuses to carry his words, he’s not surprised.

When his vision is filled with swirling color - hues that pulse and churn like a kaleidoscope caught in a storm - he’s not surprised.

What does surprise him, what sends a jolt of ice down his spine, is the man standing in front of him, perfectly still, like a statue carved from vengeance.

“Greetings, Midoriya Izuku,” the man says, his voice smooth and venomous, like silk soaked in poison.

It’s him. The man he murdered with trembling hands and a heart full of desperation.

His foot gives out behind him, buckling under the weight of recognition and guilt, and he crashes to the ground, breath caught in his throat.

“What, you missed me that much?” the man sneers, his lips curling into a grin that reeks of mockery and madness.

A sadistic cackle fills Izuku’s ears, echoing like laughter in a tomb. “Yes, boy. It’s me. Kai Chisaki.”

But how? I killed you! The thought screams through Izuku’s mind, louder than any voice he could muster, as his eyes crawl up from the man’s polished shoes to the face that haunted his dreams.

“Yes, brat. You killed me. But now, I’m part of you,” Chisaki says, his tone dripping with twisted satisfaction. “You have my quirk.”

If you listened closely - past the pounding of Izuku’s heart and the rush of blood in his ears - you could hear static crackling from his head, like a broken radio trying to tune into reality.

…I have a quirk now. Right. The confirmation settles in his chest like a stone.

“Child,” Chisaki continues, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. “What you used to kill me was my quirk. Every quirk has a soul, and when it’s transferred, the souls combine. You see the past user as a vestige, or ghost. Which is what I am right now.”

Izuku forces himself upright, legs trembling, spine rigid with defiance.

So what? You’ve come to haunt me? Big whoop-de-doo. Could have picked a better ghost, Izuku thinks bitterly, though he keeps the thought locked behind clenched teeth.

Even in this dream - if that’s what this is - he can feel the danger radiating off Chisaki like smoke from a campfire, warm and choking.

Stranger still, Chisaki seems to hear the thought, his eyes narrowing with cruel amusement.

“Brat. You don’t need to talk. I’m in your mind right now, you half-witted midget,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut.

So, why are you here? What do you want from me?

“I want you to finish what I started.”

.

.

.

eh?

“My quirk didn’t just appear in you, obviously. Remember that “gun” you were holding?” Chisaki’s eyebrow raised, feigning ignorance. Obviously, he knew the answer, as he was part of him. 

Not waiting for Izuku to “answer,” he continued on. “Those are called Roses. Obvious reasons, of course. Shoot it, get a quirk, get stabbed in the hand. Roses have thorns, yes?” Once again, Chisaki asked a rhetorical with no means of answering.

“What I was working on were quirk-transferring devices. I only ever made 3. You, being the small child you are, are still very, very smart for your age.”

What are you implying? I’m not doing your dirty work..

.

.

eh?

“You impudent brat,” he growls, stepping forward, shadows clinging to his form like armor. “Come on! Do you really not remember every time you were left out? Every time they called you useless? Quirkless? Deku?”

A chuckle slithers through Izuku’s racing mind, cold and familiar.

“They all hated you for your quirk — no, rather — your lack of one. So how about… you make it even?” Chisaki’s voice is a whisper and a roar, tempting and terrifying.

What do you even expect me to do?! Izuku shouts in his mind, desperation clawing at his sanity.  I’m like, SEVEN!

“Just because you can’t reach the kitchen counter doesn’t mean you can’t do experiments. It’s not rocket science.”

The face Izuku held at that sentence - squinted eyes and open mouth - held many years of hearing terrible jokes. That might be the worst joke I’ve ever heard.

“Oh, come on. I’m right here, you know,” Chisaki says, arms spread wide like a preacher before his flock. “It’s not hard! Finish my work! For the good of society! For your mother! For me! For You!”

.

.

.

…Was this the right choice…? Izuku’s thoughts spiral, doubt gnawing at his resolve.

No! Bad Izuku! He scolds himself, clinging to the last thread of morality.

But he wasn’t wrong… a whisper in his mind counters, soft and seductive.

“No! I won’t do it. I’m not…” Izuku begins, but the words crumble before they reach completion.

The silence that follows is louder than any scream, filled with more explanation than a thousand confessions.

“Not what, Izuku?” Chisaki asks, his voice a dagger wrapped in velvet. “Not a bad person? Not a bullied child? Not understood? Or…”

Chisaki — or whatever this half-physical form is — grins with a malevolence that sends chills down Izuku’s spine, his teeth gleaming like fangs.

“Not a murderer? Come on, I know you can do it. It’s nothing new!”

Have fun.

Get your revenge.

Get what they owe you.

Back in blood.

Izuku’s muscles tense, his breath shallow, his stress morphing into anger, anger into rage, rage into something darker.

“I’M NOT YOU!” he screams, voice echoing through the void like a thunderclap.

“My, my, you’re feisty,” Chisaki says, unfazed, almost delighted. “Remember what I said?”

“I’m part of you.”

Chisaki sneered, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “Overhaul. You will use it, whether you like it or not. It allows me to tear something apart and put it back together how I want it. I could create a body of armor. I could decimate walls. I could build skyscrapers with the flick of my hand.”

“All you need to do…” he whispers, raising his hand.

Chisaki places his palm on Izuku’s face, fingers cold and invasive.

He pulls.

And Izuku unravels — threads of his being torn apart, reassembled, reshaped.

“Is use it.”

Cold sweat pools on Izuku’s skin, his heart hammering, breath ragged, the echo of Chisaki’s voice still lingering in the corners of his mind.

He could still feel Chisaki’s breath on his skin. It made his face contort into one of horror and dread. 

.

.

.

He wasn’t wrong, though….

—----------

Shouta was having a particularly shit day. And he was pissed off more than usual.

Which was a rare sight, as the man always had his signature glare on his face. 

Today was a particularly bitching day. The coffee machine in the U.A. faculty room was broken. He tore his sleeping bag. He got a papercut and put on hand sanitizer. 

And of course to top it all off, truly the greatest tragedy: his cat, “Lord Bitchington III,” had fallen asleep in front of the door.

He had to climb out the window in civilian clothing, which was awkward at best.

But it was all for naught to tank Shouta’s mood, for Hizashi had planned a date night with him. To quote Hizashi himself, they were headed to “the fancy restaurant.”

His heart skipped at the fact that his husband had planned, but he took care not to show it, simply to keep his stone-faced demeanor.

They shared a kiss (Shouta noted the watermelon flavour of his husband’s mouth, a recent addition with his gum-chewing addiction), hands wrapped around each other’s waist in a loving embrace. 

As they both pulled away, tongues out, the pair headed out the door.

The sunset, a beautiful sight to see with your lover nearby, painted the sky in streaks of crimson and gold. The light stretched long across the street, catching in Hizashi’s blonde hair, turning it a molten color, like the world had decided he was its own personal sun. Shouta, of course, didn’t say that out loud, no. He just grunted, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as Hizashi laced their fingers together anyway.

The air smelled faintly of grilled meat and car exhaust, the strange cocktail of city life. Couples and families dotted the sidewalks, chatter rising and falling like waves. Hizashi kept shooting Shouta these sidelong glances, his grin wide, like he’d already won some secret bet. Shouta ignored it, though the warmth crawling up his neck betrayed him.

He didn’t need to speak. Not when Hizashi’s thumb traced lazy circles against his knuckles, not when the fading light draped over them like a blanket. Only when they ate together and shared conversation. For once, even the city felt slow, almost gentle. Almost perfect. 

Just for him and his lover.

And then—

BOOM!

The ground trembled, the sky’s pretty colors swallowed up by a spray of smoke and fire.

Motherfucker.

“Stay down! This is a robbery.”