Sine Nomine

by offbrandgizmo

Summary:

You can’t hear anything. Your ears are definitely ringing. It’s harder to shake off the daze when it blends with the kind of pain that makes you want to lie down and never get back up.

But you can’t.

This is something you have to do.

This is something only you can do.

This is how you get back home.

This is how you stay there.

*

You're not even fifteen when, nearly a year after slipping out of your adoptive father's grasp and becoming a vigilante, you attract the very unwanted attention of the Pro-Hero Eraserhead.

Little do you know it will be the greatest gift you ever receive.

Chapter 1

Notes:

trigger warnings: violence, implied child abuse, brief depiction of a house fire, original character death

also quite a bit of swearing

It’s coming down hard in a back alley in a nondescript part of Tokyo you know you shouldn’t frequent but do. There’s a family-owned convenience store at the mouth of the alleyway. It’s your destination. The room in the back is where you exchange information with other vigilantes and the occasional underground hero who knows how to keep their mouth shut.

The entrance to the store is unassuming, a typical small storefront. Inside is much the same; a few aisles of cheap convenience goods. Instant noodles, discount bags of rice, matcha sweets.

The woman who runs the front of the store, Saeko, waves at you as you enter. She stands behind the counter with a genuine smile, tucking a lock of brown hair behind one ear. She’s chipper in a way you, at first, thought was meant to help cover up the deals that are made in the back. But you’ve come to learn that’s really just how Saeko is—a little bit happier than the rest of you.

You wave back with a small smile of your own, though you’re not sure how visible the slight pull of your lips is from under your mask. Saeko always seems to know you mean well, though.

You slip wordlessly through the back door, not sparing a glance at the looming presence beside you as you enter. You don’t know his name, but the same man has stood guard by the door for at least since you’ve been coming here to broker information. You assume he’s supposed to stop anybody he doesn’t recognise, but you’ve never actually seen that happen.

Most of the time, you come by to get a tip for a new job. A new small-time criminal startup to dismantle, or some villain too strong or cunning to be caught by police, but not villain enough for heroes. Anything along those lines.

This time, though, you’re looking for information on an underground hero.

Brokering information on heroes is uncommon in this circle. You’re an establishment of criminals, and it’s your shared capacity for moral ambiguity that keeps you all silent. But most of you are vigilantes with some sense of justice, however fractured. Providing or searching for information on heroes is, in general, frowned upon.

Unless you have the attention of one. And you, throughout the course of the last week, have been tailed by a hero.

You know a few things about your pursuer. He’s male. He tails you from eleven at night until you inevitably give him the runaround and shake him sometime after three. He has to know you’re aware of him, to some degree, given the tentative routine you’ve both established.

He hasn’t approached, but you know from his general manner that he isn’t criminal. You know criminal life, and you know its unprofessional, scrappy way of being. He’s well trained in flying under the radar, but you know heroism, too, and you see it in him.

Still, you’re pretty sure he’s underground—he doesn’t reek of the trademark supercilious pride of the rest of them. He’s treating you with some degree of respect, a shred of humanity not afforded to people like you by most heroes.

He also wears a white scarf. It’s the strangest thing. Sure, it’s dull, and from the distant, sneaky glances you’ve caught of him, it seems to be dirty, greying. But really, a white scarf? It sticks out like a sore thumb against the rest of his all-black ensemble. Especially in the dead of night, when he’s caught by the beacon of an errant streetlight. You can’t decide if it’s clumsy, a break from the rest of his expert conduct, or just straight-up arrogant.

You need to know who he is, and why he’s tailing you.

The back room of the convenience store is meant to look like a semi-legal gambling space. Not so suspicious as to draw attention, but downtrodden enough to warrant the company it keeps.

There’s a round table in the centre of the room, with that tacky green felt they use for card tables. Parts of it have been marred by stains or nicked by knives. The ever-buzzing overhead light above the table is the sole light source, which leaves the small private bar to the side of the room cast in shadow.

There are a few small fold-out tables along the opposite wall. Places for ‘private’ conversation, with old wooden chairs pulled up. A dartboard on one wall. An old-timey record player in the corner that always plays classical music.

Every pair of eyes turns to watch you when you enter. You make a show of removing your phone from your pocket and holding it up before setting it down on a side table beside the record player. There are several other phones scattered there. It’s the agreement. Any devices that could potentially be used to record are put on that table. The cost of entry.

You slide onto a stool at the bar.

‘Juro,’ you nod at the bartender. It’s a fake name, almost certainly. You all use them here, in some form. Yours comes in the form of your vigilante name, which Juro turns to address you by, in short.

‘Sine.’

Sine Nomine. The only people who don’t regularly use this name for you these days are the mother and son duo who live a few doors down from you at the apartment building you call home.

Juro is a muscular man, tall and dark, from his skin to his clothes; shaved bare head and deep brown eyes. His expression is not unkind, but it is measured as he gives you a once-over.

He likely already has some idea of why you’re here. If you wanted to exchange information about the criminal network, or something more illegal, you’d go to the card table. Information exchange is conducted through lightly coded games of poker, with more than a little room for misinterpretation.

You only come to Juro if you want information on a hero. Suffice to say, the back room’s patrons don’t usually make use of the bar stools.

‘Price?’ you murmur, pulling your wallet from inside your jacket.

‘A drink.’ His voice is deep, gruff. He places a glass in front of you. 

It’s the standard response. Another subtle code. You place three-thousand yen on the counter.

As he takes it and stashes it behind the bar, you sniff the glass. You set it down and frown at him. Maybe it’s petulant, but really? Sure, you’re not actually paying for the drink, but three-thousand yen for a glass of water?

He huffs a single-syllable laugh at your glare. ‘You’re what, thirteen? I don’t serve minors.’

‘Seventeen,’ you grumble, refusing to look at him as you take a swig from the glass. Another frown. You’re pretty sure it’s straight from the tap, too. Cheapskate.

But you’re not here for stale water.

‘Underground,’ you start. ‘He’s been tailing me for a week now, from just before midnight until I shake him around three. He’s careful, but he knows I’m aware of him. It’s deliberate.’ You try not to let on that it bothers you, the game your tail seems to be playing. ‘He wears a white scarf.’

Juro raises a single eyebrow at you. For a moment, he’s silent, and then: ‘Just how did you attract the attention of Eraserhead?’

You frown. Even in your generally broad knowledge of the underground, it’s not a name you’ve heard.

Juro sighs, as if doing his job is the most taxing thing ever. ‘He’s underground, you’re right about that. He’s also a teacher at Yuuei.’

Your frown persists. ‘His usual work?’

‘Bigger time than some petty teenage vigilante.’

You match his little smirk with a glare. ‘I’m not petty.’

Another raised eyebrow. ‘We’re all petty around here, kid. You’re not in the big leagues. Which is why I don’t know why Eraserhead would be interested in you.’ Juro sighs again, shaking his head as he dries a glass that almost definitely doesn’t need drying. ‘If you keep your head down for long enough, he’ll probably leave you be. Someone might’ve put him onto you, mentioned your name, but from what I’ve heard, he generally ignores vigilantism as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.’

Nothing surprising there. Most underground heroes know it’s in their favour to respect those who are, generally speaking, fighting the same fight as them, whatever the difference in means. Your trade is as good a source of information as any if they know how to toe the line.

‘His Quirk?’

‘Quirk erasure,’ Juro says, a small twitch to the rightmost corner of his lips as he stares down at the unnecessary drying job he’s performing. ‘Shouldn’t matter to you, since word has it you don’t rely on yours,’ he pauses, and you stare down his sly attempt at getting information out of you. You’re enigmatic for a reason.

Juro sighs. ‘Well, he erases people’s Quirks. Not sure how he does it. He’s skilled underground. Manages to keep the details under wraps—speaking of which, it’s not a scarf. It’s a capture weapon. Not sure what it’s made of, but he’s skilled with it.’

You’re mildly impressed with yourself for managing to maintain a poker face through his poor excuse for a pun. ‘Anything else?’

He shakes his head. ‘Like I said, he’s skilled. Knows how to keep a tight leash on information about him. He’s probably aware of exactly how much you might know, if I had to guess.’

‘You think he deliberately leaked his information to the trade?’

Juro shakes his head, dismissive but not a denial. ‘He’s got contacts. I don’t know who, but they’re tight, and I’d be willing to bet he knows exactly what information’s in circulation.’

You nod and down the rest of your water before sliding from the stool.

‘Be careful, Sine.’ You pause and look up at Juro. He’s staring down at you with the slightest furrow in his brow. Worry?

He slides the yen back over to you, not looking away from your face, or what little he can see of it. ‘He’s big-time underground. Least that’s the rumour. If he really is interested in you, or if he gets interested, you’re fucked.’

Strong words from Juro. He’s not the most cautious of men, at least in terms of this particular circle. You’re all overtly cautious to some degree. 

You stare at the money for a long moment before taking it. You’ve always suspected Juro of having a soft spot for the younger of the back room’s patrons. If it were anyone else, you’d probably have left it. Not a good idea to be owing favours to anyone in this business. But your gut tells you Juro isn’t the type to keep score. You’ve never seen any evidence to the contrary.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ you drawl. But after you’ve retrieved your phone, you hesitate at the door, meeting his eyes once more. After a long moment, you settle on a quick nod. Gratitude? False confidence? He can interpret it however he likes.

---

You decide to put your tail—Eraserhead—to the test. So far, you haven’t done anything especially deserving of the label vigilantism, certainly nothing illegal, throughout the week of his tail. You’ve patrolled, an idle routine, but you’re between jobs, waiting for the next opportunity to present itself, as they’re wont to do.

Of course, as soon as you noticed him, you changed your day-to-day activities to a pre-planned, fake routine you’d mapped ahead of time in case of something like this. It would still look like you knew what you were doing, but he’d know less about you. Better.

So, if you do get up to some vigilante shenanigans, what will Eraserhead do? Will he step in, or will he continue as he has up until now, a silent observer?

You know how to make a situation present itself if you have to. You know the hot-spots, the locations where certain criminal situations or individuals are more frequent, more prone to a little sly engineering.

You’ve been chasing this lot around for the last three months. There’d been a rumour, the faintest whisper of the potential to rid people temporarily of their Quirks. Call it a carry-over from your adoptive father, but you struggle not to take those rumours personally. Anything to do with the abuse of a person’s Quirk and you’re all riled up. And being between jobs, well, it was as good a scent as any. So you’d followed it.

It was hard to find much, at first. But you had a moniker. Overhaul. And you knew a location where several members of his group had shown themselves. The Shie Hassaikai, the Yakuza organisation causing the very early gossamer whispers of Quirk abuse. It gave you a bad feeling back then, and it still does now.

So you deviate from your routine that night, when you’re sure he’s following you. Eraserhead. This will be your test for him.

You are a shadow. Everything about you is black, the way you like it while you’re on the job. Your hair, beneath your hood, is dyed darker with cheap box dye you reapply every couple of weeks. Deep, near-black contacts cover your natural eye colour. You wear all-black clothing, form-fitting to suit the hand-to-hand combat you favour. In a pinch, though, you’re keenly accurate with the two throwing knives hidden beneath your clothes. They’re far from the only knives you have concealed.

Combat boots protect your feet from puddles as you march your way through back streets and alleyways towards your destination. The rain won’t let up. It’s the kind of thunderous downpour that drowns out sound just as well as it drenches clothes.

You don’t try to stay especially quiet. You can, for the most part, be silent if needed, but right now you are Sine, and Sine doesn’t mind drawing the occasional glance.

Your eyes wander, appraising, over every other person dotting the streets as you come nearer to territory you’d expect to house an ambush. Fewer and fewer people are on the streets at this time of night, especially in neighbourhoods like these, where the Shie Hassaikai have taken root. They know of you, you’re sure of it, and they know you’re interested in them. You’ve gotten into a few skirmishes with their main body of lower fighters. So far, none of them have put up a decent fight. You’ve left at least six of them indisposed awaiting arrest thanks to anonymous tips made from payphones.

You don’t venture carelessly into territory you know they consider theirs. Whether or not their actual base of operations is nearby, you have no clue, but an over-abundance of caution has never prompted a criminal syndicate to reveal its secrets to you before. Why would they start now?

And, well. You have a pro hero to test.

A small shuffle cuts through the torrential rain. You stop just before the mouth of an alley, cutting all sound. You keep your breathing light and slow, listening.

Footsteps. They’re quiet beneath the rain, but whoever they belong to isn’t doing a good enough job of keeping quiet—at least not good enough to surprise you. You let a knife slip from its holster on your wrist into your waiting hand.

As you step very quickly and very quietly behind a dumpster to wait, you glance at the dark glass of a windowed back door in the alleyway. You can just barely see the silhouette of Eraserhead on a rooftop high above in its reflection.

The footsteps are closer now, and they turn off the street and into the alley. Three paces, and you’ll pounce.

You tense, bending your knees ready to spring. Two paces.

A soft, slow breath. One pace. You lunge, swinging your knife to face your would-be attacker and reaching for their arm, ready to disarm them as you strike.

A screech halts you. It’s mangled by the rain, but desperately afraid. Something in your chest plummets, twists, bends all out of shape. You look down.

It’s a girl. You blink. That off-putting, foreign feeling, strangling you from the inside out, intensifies as your mind tries to make sense of the moment.

This girl, this child, falls to the ground in front of you. She’s tiny. She can’t possibly get more soaked in her loose, plain gown, even when she lands in a small puddle. She’s drenched through and has her hands raised over her head, cowering from you. Her eyes are clamped shut. She’s shaking. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or the cold. Probably both.

Her raised arms display a litany of scars that make your stomach flip over itself. Her legs are bandaged. It doesn’t take much to imagine that similar wounds are no doubt hidden beneath. A tiny horn peeks out on the top of her head, just before her hairline. Her hair, doused deeper by the rain, is a saturated silver-grey.

When you don’t strike her, her eyes peek open. Vivid, vermilion red stares up at you.

You watch each other for what feels like an eternity. Then you lower your knife, slowly, so you don’t scare her. You want to ask her what her name is.

That’s when the rest of them reach the alleyway.

Five of them. Two far more important-looking than the rest. You don’t know the identities of the higher-ups of the Shie Hassaikai, other than the moniker Overhaul, but you know their trademarks, and you know what some of them look like. 

They are definitely members of the Shie Hassaikai. And you didn’t hear them coming. You let yourself get distracted.

And if they’re here…

You glance back down at the girl. Bandaged and sopping wet and staring up at you in terror. Red eyes look back towards the mouth of the alleyway and her lips shake as she lets out a despairing whimper. She’s pale with cold and fear.

Your heart shreds itself to pieces where you stand. You want to reach for her and it takes everything in you to keep your hands at your sides. You wish she was warm. And safe.

You’d wished you were warm and safe too, back then—but you extinguish the thought. It has no place here. Has no place anywhere.

You step closer to her, until your calf is touching hers where she sits, quivering on the asphalt. You keep your eyes trained on the five who, rather than giving chase as they had before, continue to meander, almost leisurely, into the alleyway.

The one with the full-face plague mask speaks first. His voice is ever-so-slightly muffled and it’s dull, nonchalant. ‘Sine Nomine,’ he says. You just barely manage to tamp down on the shiver that runs up your spine.

You incline your head slightly, feigning a confidence you’d usually have in droves. Confidence you lost to the tiny girl at your feet. ‘Lackey,’ you greet, complete with a mocking, deferential nod.

If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. ‘That’s Overhaul’s,’ he states, gesturing to the girl.

You do your best not to openly bristle.

‘She’s a child,’ you say, raising your voice over the steady thrum of the rain. ‘I wasn’t aware children could be property.’

There’s a long pause. You can tell he’s contemplating you. Then, a question. ‘Are you not involved in the underground?’

‘I am,’ you say, ‘but not by choice.’ You clamp your teeth together, a furious cold racing through you all at once.

Truth Quirk. You know it immediately. You would never divulge even that much if it wasn’t. The words felt like your own, the decision to speak them yours, but they were not deliberate. Not in any sense of the word.

The man hums. ‘Tell me, Sine Nomine. What is your na—’

Your throwing knife halts his words as he whips his head to the side. Instead of striking true, the blade cuts into the side of his mask, a crack spreading from its epicentre. Questions, then. His Quirk probably works by asking questions.

You don’t look down at the girl, but you see her like an afterimage of the sun. Water dripping from the seams of an old gown. Muddy bandages. Scars and red eyes. A face of unadulterated terror.

You don’t give yourself time to think. Before the masked man can ask another question, you throw her over your shoulder and run.

She weighs nothing. She gasped when you grabbed her, but she’s silent as you dart through alleyways and avoid the busier streets. You can’t afford to be stopped by well-intentioned onlookers, not when you’re doing something this stupid. Because really, it’s beyond a terrible idea. Your Quirk is barely useful for fighting, and if any of them have speed or movement Quirks, you’re fucked. Not to mention you rely on close combat, which is far from ideal when you have somebody to protect and you’re significantly outnumbered.

A pair of tiny hands claw at the fabric of your clothes and you do your best to cast off your doubt. She’s a child. She’s just a child.

You were just a child, and nobody put up a fight for you. You’ll be damned if you don’t put up a fight for her.

You turn sharply around another corner, into another alleyway, not chancing a glance over your shoulder, until—

‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, coming to a stop at a dead-end, facing a looming wall of wet-darkened brick. You hadn’t been paying enough attention or you’d have mentally planned a route rather than aimlessly running. You can already hear them behind you. There’s no time for another plan, and no viable escape route.

Fighting will have to be it.

You set the girl down, gently as you can, and urge her towards the back corner of the alley.

‘I’ll protect you,’ you tell her, hoping your eyes alone, all that she can see, show her your sincerity. Then you glance down at the bandages. At the scars. ‘Are you hurt?’

Her eyes are a marred, gemstone red, staring at you. She shakes her head, hands balled into fists at her sides. You don’t really believe her. There’s no way she’s not hurting. But you don’t have a choice. She’s probably been carrying too much pain for far too long. You have to trust she can hold on just a little while longer.

You turn, drawing a knife for each hand, just as they appear in the mouth of the alleyway. Two of the underlings, and one of Overhaul’s main men. Not the one with the truth Quirk. As it sinks in that it’s three against one instead of five, hope flickers back to life somewhere inside you. You’ve won fights with worse odds, and mask-guy isn’t here to throw you off with his stupid truth Quirk. You don’t know what this other guy is capable of, but there’s a chance, and a chance is all you need.

One of the lesser Yakuza steps forward first, pulling out a knife of his own. You can already read his inexperience from the way he approaches; blustering, heavy footsteps. Overconfidence and a lack of discipline. He’s an easy mark. You’re well trained.

Two quick steps forward and a feint at his left side allows you to slice into his arm, redirecting the instinctual thrust of his blade with ease. He swears. His companion presses forward with a baton. You roll your eyes.

‘You brought a stick to a knife fight,’ you quip. You can’t help yourself. ‘Nice.’

An arrogant swipe with the baton opens him up for a slice to his inner wrist, shallow enough to cause pain without threat of deadly harm. You’ve got a clean track record for not quite killing anyone, and you intend to keep that, heritage be damned.

The guy wails and drops the baton. You kick it to the side, spinning to avoid the oncoming attack from Knife Guy.

You catch one of your knives by the handle between your teeth and grab his arm with your free hand in a fluid movement, yanking him down. It jars his momentum enough for you to swing a kick into the back of his knee. He crumples as you yank his arm behind him with enough force you hear a crack.

He howls.

You leave him kneeling as you turn and block a blow from the retrieved baton with your forearm. You swipe Baton Guy’s feet out from under him with a quick swipe of your leg, curling your fist and punching him square in the jaw. A part of you revels in the dull throb of your knuckles as he goes down. Throwing a punch, a clean punch, not enhanced by any Quirk or weapon, has always felt more satisfying than any other form of fighting could be.

You grab the knife from where it’s still clenched between your teeth.

A peal of laughter comes from the mouth of the alley and you look up at the last man, searching for any visible sign of a Quirk or a weapon. He’s probably somebody of higher standing in the Shie Hassaikai, unless they’ve suddenly started offering their creepy masks to the lower strata.

‘This is taking too long,’ he rolls his eyes, an exaggerated motion, opening his hands and shaking his head. Theatrical. Truly, one of the most irritating traits in a villain. ‘Can’t have Overhaul coming down on my ass for dawdling!’

Your knives are yanked from your hands by an unseen force, one followed by the other, both flying into his waiting hands. You clench your teeth to clamp down on your surprise. What the hell? Telekinesis, or something else? Your mind races as you reach for a third knife, but before you can, something comes down hard on your head and you hit the ground with your full weight.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! You’d been taken in for a second too long, startled by his Quirk. You’re smarter than that!

You jump back to your feet a moment later, fighting dizziness from the blow. You’re just in time to parry a second swing from Baton Guy. This fucking baton! You cut a flat hand into the man’s neck, blocking his airway before grabbing the baton and smacking it over his head. He falls to the ground, groaning.

You turn to face Knife Guy. Disarming him should be easy enough, but he’s ready for your advance and parries you with a shoulder, knocking you off balance. He plunges the knife into your thigh.

You grit your teeth, snuffing the gasp that wants to tear loose. Showing that kind of weakness is against the rules. Your rules? His rules? It all gets a little blurry in the heat of a fight.

You whirl on Knife Guy, backhanding him across the face. It’s clumsy, but startles him just enough to let go of the knife, leaving it embedded in your thigh. At least you don’t have to risk bleeding out in the very immediate future. You follow up with a stumbled punch to his jaw. It’s enough force to send him down temporarily.

You’re running on anger alone. You can feel the heat of it under your skin. This has all hit too close to home. You’ve made too many mistakes. You feel like you’re in the past, running from the past, fighting some facade of Father himself. And all of it is a frenzied, fight-for-your-life, mistake-making kind of anger.

Is it for the girl, still curled in on herself, soaking in the corner of the alleyway? Is it for knowing you were in her place and couldn’t save yourself? For still bending to his will in so many ways, even though you’re out from under his immediate power?

What right do you have to think you could ever save yourself? Save this girl? And is that you, or his influence talking?

It makes your anger turn to a full-bodied fury. At him, at yourself, at your mother, at every hero who didn’t do a damn thing to help. It’s all red, hot, seethes over your damp skin and into your clenched jaw.

You’re ripped back into the present when you hear it. A tiny whimper. It makes all your fire go out in one breath. You look back at the girl. She’s staring past you.

You turn to find the masked man—the one with the truth Quirk—at the mouth of the alley. You’re breathing in smoke, you can taste it, but you know it’s just the past trying to pull you in and you have to shake it off. You have to do something.

You take a backwards step towards the girl. Are you shaking? You might be shaking.

You’ll shield her with your body if nothing else. If it’s all you can do, you’ll do it.

But a jarring kick to your injured leg makes you wince and fall to your knees. Another kick to your side and you’re staring up at them, lying on your back. Is it Knife Guy or Baton Guy? You don’t even fucking know.

You try to get back up, but he kicks again at your side and the force of it is enough to nearly break a rib. You wheeze, choking on more false smoke.

There’s a flicker of white, in the corner of your eye. A soaked little girl, standing up. She’s shaking. Definitely shaking.

She walks towards them.

It breaks your heart. It threatens to draw a screaming howl from you. Because you know her. You were her. You are her. You don’t even know her name. But you know what she’s doing, saving you at the expense of herself, and it destroys any hope you had of saving her. When she needs to be saved right now. Because no child should be where she is. Where you were. Where it sometimes still feels like you are.

‘I’ll find you,’ you whisper as she passes. It’s more of a wheeze. Can she even understand you?

She glances down at you and pauses, vermilion eyes wide. You think suddenly that nobody has ever made a promise to her they’ve kept. You know it. You’ve lived it. People only make promises to make it hurt. To give you hope they’ll eventually shatter to pieces, to keep you in line. Promises aren’t worth shit.

But it’s all you can give her. The pain in your leg is starting to flare, a burn creeping up the entire length of your body. You can almost feel the bruises forming on your side. You’ve lost three of your knives. Maybe if you can convince them not to kill you, then somehow, you can come back for her. Find her. You have to. You absolutely have to.

‘I promise,’ you say. ‘I will find you. I’ll save you. I promise.’

You can already see she doesn’t believe you. The aching resignation of always giving up. You’re not sure what hurts more, the burn in your leg or the ache in your chest.

‘Come!’ the masked man snaps, and the girl startles. She walks the rest of the way to him. Her footfalls are heavy, but they make no sound in the quieting patter of the rain.

As the masked man turns away, hand locked firmly on the girl’s arm to keep her from running, he barks the order.

‘Kill them.’

Lucky for you, fighting for your life is easier than fighting to protect someone. You don’t want to let the girl go. But you know if you have any chance of keeping your promise, you have to. For now. Just for now.

Fighting for your life, though, you can do.

You’re debating the merits, or lack thereof, of pulling out the knife to take them by surprise as you force yourself to your feet.

But then he’s there. You’d completely forgotten him in the mess.

He’d jumped down from the rooftop. You hadn’t even noticed. But he’s standing there, a barrier between you and them. You stare at his back; an expanse of black cloth, a shock of birds-nest black hair, the dull white of the capture weapon.

‘Hero,’ the masked man inclines his head. ‘I assure you this has been a misunderstanding.’

Eraserhead doesn’t speak.

‘The child’s father is waiting for her. She’s… prone to running away. Something we’re trying to encourage her not to do.’

You imagine his grip tightening on her arm as he says the last bit, and it makes some of your anger flare, but all you can see is Eraserhead’s silhouette.

‘I understand,’ Eraserhead says, voice an exhausted drawl.

Nobody moves or speaks for a long moment.

‘Well then,’ you hear the masked man say, ‘we must be getting back. Can’t have you catching a cold, young miss.’ He says it like a demand.

You hear them walking away, and it feels like your heart goes with them. You want to cry. You won’t, obviously.

It’s still coming down with rain.

‘Don’t take the knife out,’ is the first thing Eraserhead ever says to you.

You stand, ignoring the throb in your leg. ‘I’m not fucking stupid,’ you snap.

He turns to you, then, a single eyebrow raised. He’s full of condescension. You can’t see his eyes. They’re covered by a pair of yellow goggles. But you can see enough of his unkempt stubble and pale skin to get the gist. You wonder if his dishevelled, half-dead look is deliberate. Something to help him slip under the radar, or make villains underestimate him.

You might have stood there for too long in silence, because he heaves a dramatic, world-weary sigh. ‘I’m taking you to the hospital.’

You blanch. Not only would a hospital require being scrutinised by a bunch of different people, it would also open the doorway to questions about your scars. Specific scars, strange scars, scars clearly not made by any sort of weapon.

‘Nope,’ you say, popping the ‘p’.

That eyebrow shoots up again. ‘No?’ There’s a daring, there, an invitation for you to challenge him.

You do. ‘Nope.’ You pop the ‘p’ again, and emphasise it with a shake of your head.

He sighs again. ‘I won’t turn you in, but that’ll need stitches.’ He nods his head towards the knife sticking out of your thigh, in all its bleeding glory. ‘I’ll tell them you got caught on the wrong side of a fight.’

Huh. As much as things had all gone to shit, he’d apparently passed the test. Maybe? He could just be trying to lure you in until they inevitably cuff you to a hospital bed.

‘I have six more knives hidden in my clothes,’ you smile. It’s eight, actually. ‘Nobody’s going to believe you.’

His eyebrow—it’s the left that keeps getting higher—is starting to get on your nerves. ‘I’ll take them.’

The weird thing, the thing that makes you frown, is that he doesn’t say it like a demand. He doesn’t say it like he expects you to give them to him. He says it like it’s a suggestion to some mutual problem you’re having, like there’s some sort of understanding between you. Some respect, or camaraderie. It makes you pause for a long time. Longer than you meant to.

You blink. ‘I’m not giving you my knives.’

‘Then don’t,’ he shrugs. ‘But you’re going to the hospital.’

You sigh. You’ll dodge him eventually, but you have to wait for your moment. For now, you set off towards the street, Pro-Hero Eraserhead in tow.

---

Shouta frowns as he watches the kid walk out of the alleyway. There’s a slight list to their step when he looks for it, but they don’t betray any significant measure of pain as they walk. He knows from experience how much a knife in the thigh hurts, and this kid—because from what he’s figured out so far, they are a child—is moving like nothing is particularly wrong.

‘Paramedics are on their way,’ he says, falling into step behind them.

Sine Nomine shrugs. ‘Sure. Figured we shouldn’t wait for them in an alley.’

Shouta nearly laughs. The kid has to know he’s prepared for them to attempt an escape. They’re not being subtle.

‘How old are you, kid?’

Sine turns to look at him. Dark, grey eyes meet his for a glance before they flick away.

‘That’s a rude question,’ they say, ‘How old are you?’ Shouta can see the slight ruffle of their mask betraying a smirk.

‘Thirty,’ he replies.

They blink. Probably not expecting such an easy answer, such an easy truth. They stop, suddenly, and turn to face him. They watch him for a moment, eyes narrowed and eyebrows pinched. ‘Why have you been following me?’

Shouta blinks slowly and shrugs. ‘Someone mentioned your name. I was curious.’

‘Someone?’

‘A colleague.’ Hizashi would probably cry, being demoted from husband to colleague, but what he’ll never know won’t kill him.

‘And? Why the curiosity?’ the kid presses.

Shouta closes his eyes and brings a hand up to rub over his forehead. He’s tired. But he’s always tired.

‘Wasted potential,’ he admits.

Hizashi had spoken of Sine Nomine as a competent but young vigilante who’d apparently been active for nearly a year—which, given just how young Shouta now suspects they are, only heightens his concern.

There was a news article, and a video clip of Sine busting open a small criminal organisation who’d been responsible for the distribution of drugs in several vulnerable populations. From Shouta’s understanding, the police and heroes alike had had no idea which organisation was responsible. And there was Sine, a child vigilante, dismembering the entire organisation without leaving anybody permanently injured or dead. They were left incapacitated for police to arrest without using any discernible Quirk. Just disturbing efficiency for somebody their age.

Maybe it was the teacher in him, but Shouta couldn’t let it go. More clips of Sine weren’t hard to find. They weren’t abundant, but they existed, and showcased similar skills. Information gathering, infiltration, and a significant display of discipline. He’d seen them take hits from people much larger than them and stand right back up to counter.

After tailing them for a few weeks, an idea had formed. Vigilantism was still criminal activity, but this kid had skills. And he’d always had a weakness for kids. Hizashi had teased him for it relentlessly, joked about how he’d eventually end up taking kids off the street like he did cats. But Hizashi had the very same instinct, and Shouta knew it.

At first, when he’d presented the idea to Hizashi, it was a half-mumbled, semi-coherent murmur while dozing on their couch. His husband had been ecstatic. It was everything Shouta could do to dissuade Hizashi from marching into Nedzu’s office and demanding Shouta’s request be fulfilled, or else. Shouta was fairly confident, and rightly so, that Nedzu would agree—he’d always been fond of experiments. And though it had been Shouta’s idea, Hizashi’s desperate words as they lay awake in bed at night made him even more sure of the plan.

‘Just think of the kids we could help, Shouta, if we could make it an actual program at Yuuei!’

And so, here it was: if Shouta could convince Sine Nomine to take the upcoming Yuuei entrance exams and give up vigilantism, they would receive a place at the school and a pardon for their criminal activity on the condition that they graduated.

From his initial tail, Shouta knows they aren’t homeless. He hadn’t seen evidence of any parents or a guardian, but he and Nedzu had already discussed waiving tuition. All he had to do was convince them.

He takes the folded-up paper he’s been carrying with him ever since and offers it to a scowling Sine Nomine.

They must not have appreciated being referred to as wasted potential, even if it was just a fact.

---

Wasted potential? Wasted potential? Whatever he knows, Eraserhead does not know the half of your circumstances. To claim your potential has been wasted is bordering on one of the most insulting things you’ve ever heard.

As far as you’re concerned, you’ve done the very best you could with the cards you’ve been dealt. And they’re shit cards!

You scan the paper he handed you and stop short. You blink. Then blink again. A third time for good measure, but it really is an application form for Yuuei High School.

You blink once more, then level a suspicious glare his way. ‘What the fuck is this?’

He just shrugs. The nonchalance and world-weariness that are seeming less and less like an affectation are really starting to get on your nerves. Everything about this man is starting to. He doesn’t even give you an answer to your completely valid question!

You stare him down for a moment before you finally look back down at the paper, at the very official Yuuei logo stamped in the corner.

‘Why?’ the question feels hollow even as it leaves your lips. ‘Why’ has always felt hollow. There are a lot of ‘why’s about your life, and you know you’ll never get answers to any of them. At least not any answers that satisfy you.

He pauses for a moment. Considering his words? Then, finally, he says, ‘The girl.’

You feel your shoulders slump involuntarily. The weight of the last half hour hits you all over again.

The thing about running on anger is that it drains you. When the well is dried up, it leaves nothing but an absence, a nothingness where hope would be if you hadn’t used it all up years ago.

You don’t want to show this man, this pro hero, weakness. But honestly, your thigh really fucking hurts, and your failure, all those damn mistakes, are heavy on your chest. Truthfully, you know there was nothing more you could do. But the self-hatred of this fresh failure mixes with the last, and the last, and the one before that. It runs all the way back until you’re four years old again.

‘Even if you’d managed to get away,’ Eraserhead’s voice snaps you back to the present. ‘There’s a high chance they have custody of her, so you’d have been charged with kidnapping.’

It’s jarring. His voice is rough. And when you mull over his words, another scowl threatens to form over the first. As if you hadn’t already considered all of that. You told him you weren’t stupid.

Something hot flares inside of you. The last whispers of anger yet to be used up. You step towards him on your bad leg before you can think it through.

‘She was covered in scars,’ you hiss through the pain. ‘She was terrified. She was in pain. She was trying to get away.’

You were terrified. You were in pain. You were trying to get away.

You can’t see his eyes past his goggles. Somehow it infuriates you more.

‘They’re hurting her!’ you implore when he doesn’t speak up. ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same thing? Aren’t you supposed to be a fucking hero?!’ Your voice pitches louder at the end, and you refuse to acknowledge its break. It sounds about as shattered as you fucking feel.

‘The best-case scenario,’ Eraserhead says calmly, ‘is that you’d be arrested for kidnapping, they’d take her back, and you’d be behind bars without another chance to come back for her.’

He pauses, and somehow you know his eyes are sharp as he looks at you through the goggles. He doesn’t need to tell you the worst-case scenario—you’d nearly lived it. Nearly been killed.

No wonder he’s a fucking teacher.

‘You promised her.’

You shiver, all over, all at once. You didn’t realise he heard you. He knows the weight of what happened and he knows how much you care. And that in and of itself is a weakness you’ve let slip. A weakness he can exploit.

‘I did,’ you concede, shifting your weight back to your uninjured leg.

He speaks slowly, in a drawl. ‘If you attend starting the upcoming semester at Yuuei and graduate in three years’ time, you will receive a full pardon for your crimes, and your hero license.’

You almost stop breathing.

He continues. ‘As a hero, you can lawfully investigate the Shie Hassaikai and find just cause.’

You can keep your promise.

You hadn’t anticipated that he knew who they were, to some degree, but it does make sense. This must be an area at least partially within his jurisdiction, given that he followed you here.

You consider what he's offering. Three years is far, far too long to wait. But maybe you’d be able to gain information by earning his trust, the trust of heroes. You could turn tail and run later on. No harm, no foul, right?

You stamp down on the distant voice of some long gone version of you, whispers of actually following through, actually becoming a hero. You’re too far gone for that. If they knew who your adoptive father was, they’d never grant you a license.

But you could learn from them. You could get stronger. You could keep your promise. Not just to her, but other promises. Promises you’d made to yourself years ago. Access to a vengeance that had never felt in reach before.

You hear yourself say the words before you can think better of them, ‘I’ll think about it.’ Then you reach out, clasp his wrist, and grin at him through your mask. ‘But I’m not going to the hospital.’

Then you activate your Quirk.

He falls to one knee with a barely audible hiss. And you run.

---

It’s an awkward trek home. You end up removing your jacket to tie around your waist as you walk, if only to cover up the glaring knife in your thigh. You’re still covered in blood and drenched through, and it doesn’t stop the stares completely, but enough that nobody deigns to approach.

It’s not long before you’re back in your apartment, sitting in one of your dining chairs, stitching yourself up. It hurts like hell, sure, but isn’t altogether foreign to you. And it’s only then, mid-stitch, that you realise Eraserhead probably knows where you live. Something about the way he spoke to you, and what he’d offered you. You’re fairly certain, now, that he’s been tailing you for longer than you first thought.

After dressing your finished stitching job, you take the folded-up piece of paper from your pocket. It’s a little damp from the rain and your clothes, so you set it on the table to dry. You look at it, not really reading any of the words, for a long time.

When you finally tear your eyes away, you check the dressing on your leg. No blood spotting shows through, so you decide the job you’ve done is passable enough. It’s far from the best you can do, but given you’d had to stitch it yourself while very, very tired, and in a lot of pain to boot, you’d give yourself a gold fucking star.

Removing the knife had been the hardest part. It had been almost impossible to start stitching through the initial bout of dizziness that came with significant blood loss. Everything you’d used had been sterilised, though, so you’re pretty sure you’ll be fine with time.

Knowing you could sit all night if you let yourself dwell on it all, you clean the dining table of the supplies you’d used and force yourself into bed.

You listen idly to the soft sound of rain hitting your window. It takes a while for sleep to claim you, but claim you it does. And you dream.

You’re four years old. Your classmate falls down and grazes their knee, and when you take their hand to help them up, you take their pain for yourself. Your knee isn’t injured when you cry out and check, but your classmate doesn’t feel the pain.

You run home from school with a beaming smile and tell your mother you got your Quirk. You visit the Quirk doctor, who confirms it. Your mother is very proud of you and tells you there are lots of things you can do with your Quirk, if you want to use it.

‘But I know it hurts a lot, honey, so if you never want to use it, that’s okay too,’ she says as she kisses your head. She turns out the light.

You wake again to the sound of screaming. It’s really dark, but there’s a light coming from under the crack in the door.

You jump out of bed and open it. Orange flames lick the air around your face and you stumble back. The house is on fire. Your mother is screaming your name. You start to cry as you stumble towards the sound. The floorboards are hot on your bare feet. You feel sweat beading all over your face and arms. It’s so hot you almost feel cold.

You try to call for her, but it comes out in a harsh wheeze. You find her in the kitchen, with a wall of flame between you. Your cries descend into coughs as you double over.

You force yourself upright. The sounds around you are at a roar; crackling fire, something crumbling somewhere in the house. But your mother is suddenly silent.

She falls. You run to her. You scream for her. Her eyes are closed. Blood is pooling around her chest. You don’t know why. You try to stop it with your hands. You’re crying. You’re coughing. The fire closes in around you. It’s so hot.

And then you realise! Your Quirk! You can take her pain away so she can help you get out of here!

You clamp your hands down on one of hers. You try to activate your Quirk. Nothing happens. There’s blood between your hands. You’re finger-painting her skin with red. You try again. Nothing.

You sob, and it turns into a cough.

Someone hoists you up from behind. Pulls you away from her. You kick at them, try to claw their arms off you. You have to get back to her! You can still help her! You howl and beat your fists on the arm wrapped around your chest. You can help her! Why don’t they realise you can help her! Why won’t they let you go?!

When you wake again, you’re in a small room. It’s dim, and the walls are grey. You’re in a bed. The only other things in the room are a small wardrobe and a bedside table. Your throat hurts. You try to speak and wince when it stings your throat.

Then there’s a man. He kneels beside your bed. He’s broad-shouldered and has silver-white hair.

‘Ma… ma?’ The syllables are a herculean effort to force out. You just want your mother. You want the man to tell you it was all a bad dream.

But his face is grave. He sets a large hand over one of yours. ‘I’m sorry.’

You cry. You sob. He takes you in his arms. He’s solid. His arms encase your whole body. You feel safe in them. He whispers in your ear that it will be okay, that he will keep you safe, that you will stay with him.

You startle awake, choking on nothing. You’re sweating all over. You try to roll onto your side to dry heave into the trash bin you keep beside your bed. You swallow a swear when you roll onto your injured thigh.

Things always hurt most when you’re newly awake.

For a while, you just breathe. Will whatever semblance of calm you can into existence.

When you glance at the digital clock on your bedside table, you see it’s only been two hours.

You sigh, roll onto your back, and you cover your face with an arm. You will not cry. There is no point.

As a hero, you can lawfully investigate the Shie Hassaikai and find just cause.

Eraserhead’s words come back to you. They echo like a ringing between your ears. You try to shut them out, but they persist. Over and over again.

You grit your teeth, hoist yourself out of bed, and use the walls to support you as you shuffle into the kitchen. The Yuuei application form is still on the table.

You grab a pen, sit down, and start writing.

Notes:

holy shit please tell me if you enjoyed this
also I'm on the fence about making Todoroki/Reader romantic or platonic let me know if you have a preference
comments drive me forward honestly
you are loved <3

Chapter 2

Notes:

content warnings: some allusions to self-harm (in terms of pain grounding the reader), child abuse, swearing

You don’t make a habit of watching the news. It’s on in the background while you stitch up a hole in one of your black jackets. You’d wanted—needed—to stop thinking about everything that’s happened in the last week, since you can’t seem to get it out of your head. The constant, dull throbbing of your healing thigh hasn’t exactly helped. It serves as a constant reminder of failure. Failure, and then Eraserheard, and then the Yuuei application form you’d actually mailed out. You were still battling with that small part of you that really wanted to get in.

It was stupid. Really, really stupid. Probably the biggest bad decision you’d made in years.

So, yes. You’d wanted to get it out of your head. Hence, the news, vile though it was.

Right now, they’re broadcasting a live feed of some villain attack happening somewhere in the city. The villain is some sort of slime abomination, and you almost shiver with the unbidden imaginary sensation of what it must feel like to be trapped in its hold.

You feel a rising anger building beneath your fingernails, all the way up your arms. It’s a struggle not to clench your fist around the needle still held between your thumb and forefinger. But it’s easy to embrace this anger, because it’s not directed at you and your own stupidity. It’s directed at the useless fucking heroes on the screen.

You watch as the slime villain keeps its victim firmly trapped, without air—a boy probably around the same age as you. And not one of the heroes at the scene even attempts to help. The boy is clearly on the verge of losing consciousness. The fight is leaving him by the second. You can see it and you’re not even there!

This. This is the problem with heroes. If their Quirk isn’t perfectly suited to the situation, they don’t even try to step in. They’re so fucking Quirk reliant. God forbid Kamui Woods gets slime on his fucking stick legs, or Death Arms has to think even the slightest bit tactically when his generic Quirk comes up useless.

You’re seething, and it’s another reminder of why you don’t watch the news. But still, this anger, this fury, is far more bearable than any other. It’s also safe, because you don’t have any designs on going out to actually school any heroes. It leaves the anger with nowhere to go, so it can fizzle out safely. The other anger, the kind that comes a little too close to self-hatred, is harder to wrest, and it’s all too easy to throw yourself into stupid fights as some sort of a punishment. No, this outlet is much better, and much safer for all.

You try to pull your focus back to fixing your jacket, stitching faster and with a little more force than necessary. It does little to placate you. And it’s probably why you end up stabbing yourself with the needle when you see Midoriya Izuku running full force at the slime villain.

‘Motherfu—!’ you cut yourself off by shoving the bleeding tip of thumb into your mouth.

What the fuck is he doing?

You watch the only friend you have—if he can even be considered that, given how little he really knows about you—pelt his backpack at the sludge villain. The wound on your thigh throbs harder in protest and you realise all your muscles have tensed up. You really fucking hope these heroes are about to step it up because you’d rather not watch Midoriya die. You hope Inko isn’t watching the news. She’ll be frantic.

But you don’t have to worry.

Because, suddenly, All Might is there.

A chill courses the entirety of your skin, a flame snuffed in a breath.

You turn off the television.

---

Your mother was a fantastic woman. You love her dearly, even if you don’t remember much about her. The few memories you have tell you all you need to know.

You stand in front of her headstone, a you-shaped shadow cast forward from the sun. An accompanying fresh breeze makes it a little easier to breath. It’s a traditional cemetery, tall slabs of polished stone etched with private details made public. Full names, birth dates, death dates, loved ones. There’s a lingering hint of incense in the air from some other recently visited grave. A tinge of fresh, miscellaneous floral beneath that.

Your mother’s grave features only her name, and the dates of her birth and death. There is no reference to anyone who came before her, or anyone she left behind. You’re all there is, but nothing here leaves any indication you survived her. There’s no indication she even had a child at all. You don’t want to imagine the lengths your father went to to have you, your very existence, covered up. Yet still, you often do.

You bow for a moment in front of her headstone, then kneel down to place a bundle of fresh lilies in the small vase you keep by her grave. You bring more every week, to replace their wilting predecessors. It feels right, after years of not even knowing she was here. You’d looked her up once you left Father, found the obituary, the announcement that there would be no funeral, and eventually, discovered she had a headstone here. You visited every week since.

‘I think I’m going to do something very stupid, Mama,’ you say aloud, because you always catch her up on your life. So you tell her about Yuuei. How you posted the application. How you got sent dates for the exam on Monday morning.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing it,’ you admit. ‘I don’t know if it’s for that girl, or for me, or…’ you trail off. You really regret not asking for her name. The girl from that night. It feels so distasteful to be here, referring to her so vaguely when she’s probably suffering as you speak.

You shiver. For a while, you sit silent, arms wrapped around yourself, face hidden. You take deep breaths. Then you sigh, bid yourself to return to the land of the living, and slowly lift your head.

Standing, you pull a cloth from your pocket and gently cradle the rest of the lilies in the crook of your elbow.

You wander a few rows over, scanning each name written on each headstone. How many of these people aren’t remembered anymore? Aren’t visited? That’s why you bring the cloth with you, and keep a few flowers spare from what you leave for your mother.

Your father—your biological one—died when you were very young, years before your mother. You have a distant memory of visiting his headstone with her, some other time, in some other place. You’d sit together in front of it and she’d tell you stories about him, though you don’t remember the stories themselves.

Afterwards, she’d walk for a while, stopping at each grave to bow and read the inscription. Then she’d produce a small cloth from her pocket. She’d gently wipe down any mementos that sat at the foot of each stone, replace any old flowers.

So you do the same, because it’s what she used to do, and you don’t want to let her down. At least no more than you already have.

You pause, take a deep breath and shake off the guilt, the shame. And you keep walking, keep reading, keep dusting off the keepsakes of the dead.

Occasionally, you come across a grave you don’t touch. Some are kept meticulous, probably by people like you, who visit their loved ones often. You still stop for each one, but you don’t linger. At least, most of the time, you don’t.

This time, you do. Something here is different. You’re at a well-kept grave marked with the name Shirakumo Oboro. And there’s a very small logo next to the words ‘valued hero student’ in the inscription. A Yuuei logo. He died when he was seventeen.

You try not to let the symmetry get to you, even though your body tenses up. You don’t want to see the tragic death of another teenager over a decade ago as some kind of fucked up symbolism. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

You deposit a fresh lily in the vase of yellow roses by his grave. You sort of feel like you have to apologise for having such grim thoughts where he rests.

There’s a cafe on the same street as the cemetery. It’s quaint and maybe your favourite place in the world. You stop there nearly every time you come by. It’s small and sparsely decorated, with gentle sage green walls and a few white tables. The counter takes up the entire back wall, with space behind it for making drinks and food prep.

The woman who runs the shop has pale skin, honey-gold hair and green eyes. She’s not old, maybe in her early forties, but crow’s feet pinch the corners of her eyes from her constant soft, gentle smiles. Her name is Hina. You really like her.

She keeps a vase on the counter full of flowers she tops up every day. She tells people to take one if they’re visiting a loved one and can’t afford or forget to buy their own. You deposit the few remaining lilies with the small bunch of daffodils she has there today, and she catches your eyes with a soft smile.

Her smiles make you feel warm, and they’re contagious. You can’t help but return them with your own. All of her smiles have this hint of some sort of known truth she holds, yet they don’t make you feel guarded.

‘Coffee or tea today?’ Hina asks, patting her hands down on her apron.

You opt for tea, and she gestures for you to take a seat. You choose a table by the window. There’s nobody else inside at the moment, but that’s pretty common. It’s a small shop, and most of its patrons are visitors of the cemetery, so it’s quiet like an unspoken rule of the universe.

At least, it’s usually quiet. And it was today, too, until the bell over the door jingled softly, announcing another visitor. You glance over at the man who’s now approaching the counter.

Your first thought when you look at him is bird. His blond hair is ridiculously coiffed straight up, with a little curve that reminds you of a skateboard ramp. He’s wearing tinted glasses you’d bet he doesn’t actually need, and as you scan him up and down you realise he’s a hero. The Pro-Hero Present Mic, to be specific.

You cringe back into your seat in the corner, half because you’re sharing your quiet space with a hero, and partly because he’s jarringly loud when he squawks—yes, squawks.

‘Hinaaa!’ he draws her name out as if he’s announcing her in a wrestling match to ample applause.

And Hina gifts him the very same smile you’re used to. It surprises you a little. Hina typically disapproves of boisterous behaviour in her shop, and she’s not afraid to make that known to her customers. It’s one of the things you like about her, that her kindness isn’t betrayed by weakness.

But facing an overly loud, overly spirited Present Mic, she’s disarmed and happy.

‘Yamada-san,’ she greets, already pulling a large take-away cup from its stack. ‘The usual?’

He nods vigorously, up and down several times more than necessary. ‘You betcha!’

You make a half-hearted attempt at tuning out the small talk as Hina starts making his drink, but it’s difficult when he’s so loud. You rest your chin on your hand and stare out the window beside you, eyes tracking the occasional passing car.

Hina’s place makes you feel drowsy more often than not. You just don’t have it in you to be attentive while you’re here. It feels more restful, even, than your own apartment. And if you did end up drifting off, it wouldn’t be the first time, much to your persisting embarrassment.

You glance up as Hina sets your tea down, along with a plate you definitely didn’t order. It’s a little shortcake, dressed with tiny edible flowers. You narrow your eyes at her, but it’s halfhearted, and she just smiles one of her secret little smiles and shrugs.

You’ve just stabbed the little desert fork into the sweet treat when the quiet is, once more, interrupted.

‘And who’s this little listener?’ Present Mic—or Yamada, according to Hina—asks, thoroughly eviscerating the peace.

You don’t make a habit of parading your dislike of heroes in the open, and it’s not even that you dislike people in general. So you’re not sure what comes over you, but you stare him dead in the eyes and reply: ‘I’ve never listened to your radio show in my life.’

Hina says your name, a soft admonishment, but you think you hear a hint of humour somewhere in there.

Yamada just laughs. An open, honest laugh, not offended in the least. He’s being perfectly genuine, and it irritates you even more. ‘I like your pizzazz, kid!’

You don’t think you’ve ever heard anybody use the word ‘pizzazz’ in your actual, entire life. You scowl at him.

Hina cuts in before you can bite another remark at the hero. ‘I’m actually surprised you've never met. You’re two of my favourite regulars.’ It’s an obvious attempt at placating you, and you hate that it almost works.

‘Well, you obviously know who I am, if you know of my radio show,’ Yamada says, but instead of being haughty, there’s mischief there, as if he knows he’s riling you up. ‘But here I’m just Yamada Hizashi.’

He’s so earnest. And though you’re loath to admit it, even if he’s loud, and boisterous, and all the things you don’t come here for, he still fits. He doesn’t take away from the security and loveliness of Hina’s shop, of the one place you can relax. Which is more than you can say for… well, any hero before him. Ever, actually.

It puts you on edge. Which is conflicting, given that everything about him seems perfectly crafted to want to put people at ease. Maybe that’s just the paranoia talking.

You look back out the window, wanting nothing more than to retreat back inside yourself. It’s all too much. Your shoulders feel tight. You grit your teeth. And still, you mutter your first name in his general direction.

To his credit, Yamada does seem to understand what this place is. Because it’s not just a cafe. It’s a place people come to soften their grief. And despite his… well, his everything, Yamada doesn’t jeopardise that. When Hina’s done with his order, he takes it to a table on the other side of the shop. He sips at his drink while occasionally chuckling or smiling at his phone. But he’s quiet.

You gain a little respect for him after that. Grudgingly.

Your tea is as wonderful as usual. It’s always just what you need when you visit your mother. Visiting the cemetery is a hard thing to do, as much as you’d hate to go without it. And coming to the cafe is the solace you need in the aftermath of reopening the old wound.

The shortcake is good too. You tell Hina as much when you take the plate and cup up to the counter for her. She always tells you it’s unnecessary, but you like to.

As you near the door to leave, another laugh spills from Yamada.

He says your name to get your attention. ‘Do you like cats?’ he asks. He’s turned in his chair to look at you.

And the thing is… you do. And even though you bite your lip and have to fight the urge to turn and run all the way home, you nod.

He beckons you over and holds his phone up. It’s displaying a picture of a black cat, rolled over on its back right on top of an open laptop. You try not to, but you smile nonetheless.

‘My husband is at home working right now, and he’s been sending me pictures of our cats. They’ve been pestering him the whole time! That’s Tsuki,’ he says. He’s still loud, but something about him softens as he speaks. You get the impression he must care about his husband—and their cats—a lot.

He flicks through the pictures until he finds whatever he wants to show you. This time, it’s a ginger cat clearly trying to be inconspicuous where it’s draped over somebody’s lap. ‘And that’s Taiyou.’ You get the distinct impression Taiyou was not invited to be a lap cat for this picture.

Your smile persists despite yourself. ‘They’re cute,’ you say. The idea of petting a cat settles a heavy kind of longing in your chest. It’s always so empty at your apartment. You don’t want to have a pet when you know you might not come home to it one day. But it gets lonely. Really, really lonely.

Wistfulness gnaws at you. Your smile falls. You turn back towards the door and try not to let your soured mood show.

‘If we run into each other here again, I’ll show you more pictures of them!’ Yamada exclaims, like it’s the best idea he’s ever thought of. ‘Shouta sends me loads.’ You can tell he’s thrilled.

You bite your lip harder. Something prickles behind your eyes.

‘Okay,’ you say.

And when you’re finally out of view of the cafe, you run as hard as you can home, trying to stifle everything welling up inside you. Letting it out would be a weakness, and weakness is far too costly.

---

The mock-city looms over you, and the chatter of other prospective Yuuei students builds into an untenable anxiety. You’re not sure if you’re nervous, or if everybody else’s nerves are fraying yours.

The very same Yamada Hizashi you met just a few days ago is proctoring the practical exam here at Yuuei, and you barely even notice. His overly enthusiastic announcements go right over your head.

It feels as though you might keel over from a panic attack at any moment. The written exam had been easy enough, but this? Your whole body feels like you jarred an elbow, but the sensation is everywhere. You can’t remember how to stop gritting your teeth.

Why exactly did you think this was a good idea? Someone could figure out who you are at literally any moment! You’re not wearing your contacts, and you do always wear a hood and mask as Sine. But maybe someone will see something familiar in you.

Or maybe villains will start coming out of the buildings to take you back to him. Or maybe—

You clench your fist so tightly you feel your knuckles crack. You force yourself to take a long, deep breath and focus back on the present, on the here and now. The practical exam has started, and you’ve already been thrown in full-force.

You skid to a stop in front of an army-green robot, waiting to see what it’s programmed to do. It raises a metal arm to take a swipe at you. You jump out of the way as a kid to the side of you electrocutes the thing, short-circuiting it. You raise an eyebrow at him. He just stole your kill! But he just shrugs with a wolfish grin and runs off.

You’re not entirely sure what the scoring metrics in this test are, and you’re not even sure you can pass at all given your Quirk is functionally useless on robots. But, hey, you’ve had some other training. Probably more than anyone else taking this exam. It’ll have to be enough.

You spy a robot straying from the larger group and gun towards it. When it begins to raise its arm, same as the other one, you jump onto it instead, running up the length. You wrap your arms around its head, getting what traction you can to swing yourself onto its shoulders. Or, what you figure pass well enough as shoulders. The robots aren’t overly humanoid.

You look for the control panel. You grin when you find it accessible, just below the joint of the robot’s neck. Jackpot!

It doesn’t seem to know what to do with you on its back. You’re nearly jostled off when it turns, as if sensing something behind it. It turns again and you pull a small knife from your sleeve—ceramic, so it wouldn’t trigger Yuuei’s metal detectors. You use it to pry open the control panel, revealing a mess of multicoloured wires. You blink.

A wicked grin pulls at your lips. This probably won’t cause an explosion, Yuuei surely has safeguards in place for that, but you don’t really care if they don’t. A little bit of chaos never hurt anyone. Probably.

You reach a hand in, grab as many wires as you can in a fist and pull.

It is, regretfully, anti-climactic. The robot folds in on itself and you jump down as its systems fail, leaving it a sparking heap on the ground. You sigh. What a letdown.

You manage to find and dispatch a few more stragglers. You quickly figure that sticking to the outer perimeter is your best bet. There’s too much competition among the main group, where most people have flashy, powerful Quirks.

You start to work your way back towards the entrance when it should be about time for the exam to finish up.

You turn a corner, past an empty skyscraper, and stumble to a stop. A robot approximately five times bigger than the others looms ahead, casting a giant shadow in the street. Why the fuck is this here? Was there some explanation for this in the presentation earlier? You’d tuned it out.

You make a definitive u-turn, time to get the fuck away from that thing, just as someone rushes past you, fast enough to jolt your hair.

You turn to watch as a bolt of green—a… boy?—launches himself from the ground until he’s face to face with the giant, fuck-off robot. That’s when you realise two things.

One, the boy is Midoriya. You’re going to kill him.

Two, there’s a girl trapped beneath a piece of rock right in the robot’s path.

Ah. That makes sense. Obviously Midoriya’s running right at the massively overpowered threat. Someone’s in trouble.

Where the fuck are Yuuei’s heroes? Surely there are some safety protocols for this test. You jog to the girl and help lift the piece of rock off of her. You don’t get to hear what she says to you because of the near-sonic boom that comes from above. You look up in time to see both Midoriya and the robot falling.

A series of small explosions seem to happen all the way down the giant robot. You don’t even hear your own laughter over the sound, not at first. You don’t know what the ever-loving fuck Midoriya is playing at, but that was awesome.

The girl steps forward, tripping into a dive. You stop her from hitting the ground face-first as she grabs Midoriya’s sleeve, stopping his descent. A pretty neat Quirk; she taps the tips of her fingers together and he gently rests on the ground.

You turn to her. ‘What’s your Quir—’ She takes off, running to the edge of the makeshift street to empty the contents of her stomach. Quirk overuse?

You turn back to Midoriya. He’s passed out on the ground, face-down. You kneel down and roll him over.

Somehow, with everything that had happened, you’d forgotten he’d be here today, taking the Yuuei entrance exam. He’d been talking about it for months now.

But… what the hell?

His legs and his arm are mangled. They’re tinged purple, riddled with burst blood vessels. Looking at it makes you feel slightly ill.

Without thinking, you reach out, take his hand in yours, and active your Quirk. You almost swear as the force of the pain washes over you. It almost makes you sweat. You let yourself fall back from your kneel until you topple gracelessly into a sitting position.

You take a deep breath and continue letting his pain flow into you. You’re not sure how much pain he’ll even be in while unconscious, but it still feels like the right thing to do. There’s some deep, significant pride in using your Quirk of your own volition, for no other reason than wanting to.

Midoriya jumped in, even in the middle of an entrance exam that was surely monitored for genuine danger, to help someone he decided was in trouble. He’s the most genuine person you know, the most earnest. His actions don’t surprise you at all.

But you were sure he was Quirkless. Yet here he is, clearly suffering from the consequences of a Quirk after a ludicrously powerful display. Something feels off, and you’re not sure what it is. But you almost get the sense you’re being watched. When things feel this deeply wrong, Father is usually involved.

‘Oh dear,’ a voice sounds behind you, ‘You were hurt this much by your own Quirk?’

The Pro-Hero Recovery Girl steps up to Midoriya. You know her. Or at least, of her. You remember Father’s vested interest in her, before he’d figured out how her Quirk worked and realised it wouldn’t be suitable to help him. To have her here in front of you now, and to have been in the room years ago when a plot to abduct her had been formed and discarded… You almost shudder.

She kisses Midoriya, and you watch, fascinated, as all of his limbs reform and take their rightful places, returning to their usual colour. It’s amazing to see it in person. You vaguely hear her calling for anyone else who’s injured, but you’re drawn to Midoriya as he stirs.

You quickly pull your hand from his, now that he’s probably not in any pain, and wait beside him. He opens his eyes and looks up at you.

‘Huh…’ he’s silent for a long moment, blinking rapidly into consciousness. He murmurs your name, still out of it. Then, finally, he shoots up, nearly knocking your heads together. You swing out of the way just in time and wave at him.

‘Hello, Midoriya-san,’ you nod at him, speaking softly. For some reason, you always find yourself softening around him. Really, you soften around most people when you aren’t specifically out as Sine Nomine, or in a bad mood. You’re not sure if it’s a reflection of who you really are, or who you want to be. There are so many questions surrounding you that it all gets muddled. You gave up trying to make sense of yourself years ago. Too many questions, too few answers. Too many names.

Midoriya doesn’t even know your last name. Neither does his mother. Mostly, you make sure people don't. You don’t like hearing your mother’s name all the time, a reminder of what can never be. What you can never have with her. And everything that followed her death.

You swallow hard. Why did you think going to Yuuei would be a good idea? With any luck, you won’t have gotten enough points to pass at all. You only took out a few robots before you’d been distracted by Midoriya’s spectacle.

But you also know things are never that simple with heroes, and Yuuei is mostly run by heroes. You doubt the biggest hero school in Japan would operate simply.

Midoriya rights himself, sitting up and looking around. When he gets his bearings, his eyes grow wide and he swings to face you. ‘Wait, you want to be a hero?!’

You take in a sharp breath. Because it wasn’t the way you expected to be greeted, and because you don’t have any idea how to answer him. You bite the inside of your cheek hard. ‘I—I guess,’ you say, cringing as you stammer it out with so little confidence.

‘That’s amazing!’ Midoriya beams at you. ‘I think you’ll make a great hero!’

Tension pinches your shoulders tight. You can’t bear to look him in the eyes, so you look away. 

You swallow again, trying to push away the vulnerability you feel creeping through you.

How does Midoriya get under your skin so thoroughly? Every time. His earnestness can’t be real, not all the way through. Nobody is all good. He has to have other motivations.

And why on Earth would he think that you would make a great hero?

But he’s always like this. You’ve never seen him be any less dedicated, not even for a second. Sure, he’s had his moments of doubt like everyone else. But you have never seen him actually falter.

You almost feel envious.

‘But,’ he cocks his head suddenly, ‘your Quirk isn’t physical.’ He looks around at the broken robots that surround the two of you, and at the people slowly filing out of the arena. ‘How did you take out the robots?’

Rather than answer him, you lift one unimpressed eyebrow, letting a beat pass silently before you let it drop. ‘And I thought you were Quirkless.’

His face turns red and he waves his hands in front of himself. Before you know it, alongside his incoherent mutterings and excuses—something about how it came in late, how it’s so weird—he’s gone, racing out with the rest of the attendees at the gate.

You rub the bridge of your nose. That wasn’t strange at all.

---

One week later, and it’s well after midnight. You’ve been going out as Sine every night to take your mind off of the pending exam results. You haven’t seen Eraserhead at all. And nothing quiets your mind like a good fight.

But, right now, you’re not fighting. You’ve been drawn to a part of the city you wouldn’t usually frequent. You followed the smell of smoke, and now you’re a captive audience to the building that’s on fire, and the useless fucking heroes who’re fighting it.

No, fighting it is a poor choice of words. Because these heroes aren’t even doing that. Not really. Not enough.

You crouch on an adjacent rooftop watching Kamui Woods hold back a mother who’s screaming for her child. A few other heroes are attending to the injured, and one hero with a poor excuse for a water Quirk is trying to hold back the blaze.

And none of them are helping to get the woman’s child out of there. All you can hear is her screaming. You know what the heroes must be thinking. You’re thinking it too and you hate yourself for it. That her kid’s probably already dead. You feel sick. You want to leave. Go back to your usual haunt, but you feel stuck in place. Is it morbid curiosity keeping you here? You hate fire. Of course you do. You can feel phantom flames licking at your skin even though you’re above it all, on the other side of the street.

A villain lit the apartment on fire. You’d watched them apprehend him. Slam Quirk suppression cuffs on him and haul him off. Would they ever put those on you?

She’s still screaming. It’s drowns out almost everything else, even among the roaring fire. It’s shrill, a sound that rings in your ears and rattles in your head.

You’re so tuned into the sound of her, and of the fire, that you barely hear it—an answering scream.

‘Mommy!’

Everyone goes silent. At least, it feels that way. It feels like the oxygen on the rest of the street is sucked away, out of everyone. All that’s left is what’s fuelling the fire.

You wait for one of the heroes to move. You watch them exchange glances, see their brows furrow. Not in fear, you realise, or concern. No, in pity.

Nobody even puts a foot forward. You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. The force of it has winded you. Why is nobody helping?

And then, all at once, it’s raining. And there’s a gust of wind so powerful it all but blows the fire out.

All Might himself is in and out of the building before you know it. He’s handing off a coughing, cryng child to paramedics and her sobbing mother.

You lose your balance, falling forward in the crouch until you hit your knees. You’re thankful to be out of sight, where nobody can see you. Because something about the sight of him sets your nerves alight. It always does. You’ve never seen the look on your own face when All Might is in the picture, but you’ve always secretly suspected it might be when you most resemble a villain.

Despite his presence, you do feel relief wash through you. The girl is safe. The mother isn’t screaming anymore. The fire is under control. All Might is here. All Might saves the day, again! All Might, the Number One hero!

The sight of him makes you think of Father. Of pictures he’d shown you of his nemesis. He raised you to believe All Might was the most pathetic hero alive. He told you about his Quirk. Their Quirks. One For All and All For One. About how one day, he’d absolutely decimate Yagi Toshinori for everything he was worth. Rid the world of its saviour.

You’re breathing hard. It’s all too much. Tears desperately try to tumble from your eyes. Fire, the smell of smoke, the heat, the sweat soaking through your clothes. All Might. Kamui Woods holding back a desperate mother, her screaming, heroes shaking their heads, pitying her, heroes giving up—

‘How could…’ it’s a false start, a crumbled sound. It’s… your voice? You feel yourself standing, taking a step forward, but it feels distant, like you’re watching it all play out from above.

The building you’re on is small, only a storey up. You’re close enough to where they’re all standing on the ground that you can see the heroes’ faces as they all bow to All Might. They look sheepish.

‘How could you just wait?!’ your voice pierces the quiet hum of activity in a shout. Suddenly it’s all bursting out of you. Your desperation is a broken dam crashing through the street. All eyes are on you, hackles raised, defences up, heroes back in place, because in the presence of All Might everyone lets down their guard. Everyone except for you.

‘Is that what heroes are?!’ you shout. ‘Is that what heroes do?! Because I thought heroes fought until the bitter end, especially for children! Even if their Quirks weren’t suited to the rescue! I thought innocent people came first!’

You step forward, the fury coursing through you forcing a physical action. A bitter laugh rips itself from your throat. You keep going, threading a hand through your hair and tugging hard, some semblance of an attempt to ground yourself. Because for some reason, part of you is aware you’re shouting at pro heroes. Reprimanding them. You, Sine Nomine, probably a semi-wanted vigilante. What is wrong with you?

But your voice keeps coming and you can’t stop it.

‘What if someone more capable hadn’t shown up?! Or if they showed up just a moment too late?!’ You throw your arms out around you in a wild gesture. ‘It was a screaming child! How the hell could none of you do anything better than shake your heads and give up?! What if she’d already stopped breathing?! Even if you could have only bought her a second longer, until someone else arrived, you—’ Another laugh, this one humourless. Pitying. ‘You couldn’t even do that! I thought heroes were supposed to save people!’

‘Tell me, then,’ you shout, ‘What is the point of you?!’

You’re breathing hard. You think you might almost be hyperventilating. You feel hollowed out as you come down, as the anger starts to dissipate. With the last vestiges of your confidence, you make sure you look every one of them in the eye. Even All-Fucking-Might, whose gaze you hold the longest. His mouth is a thin line.

You clamp your eyes shut as tightly as your fists and hang your head.

‘Some fucking heroes,’ you mutter, mostly for your own benefit.

‘Aren’t you that vigilante kid?’

You look up.

It’s a news reporter. Because of course it is.

The heroes seem to snap out of whatever momentary daze you’d put them in. But by the time they look from the reporter back to you, you’re already in the wind.

---

You come apart a little when you’re sure you’re far enough they won’t give chase. Your legs feel like you might have run for hours, but you haven’t come far at all. You scale a fire escape to an open rooftop, again, above it all, where there’s little chance of being noticed.

And as you stand there, you start to panic. You can’t stop it. Everything, but most of all the fire, and seeing All Might, a man you very nearly hate by proxy of your father. A man you know you should covet, but never, ever will. A man who scares the hell out of you.

Because there’s a tiny part of you, a part of you that’s still a child with a living mother, staring wide-eyed at a television as All Might saves the day. And that part of you wonders if he’s truly good. Wants to believe it.

You know your mother believed it.

But your father’s influence is insidious. There’s another part of you, a part you work constantly to keep down, that hates him, too. That part reeks of your father, is stained inky black and full of teeth and claws and nightmares. Sometimes you feel like a nightmare, too. And sometimes you genuinely hate All Might.

And sure, the heroes did nothing. The burning fury you felt is still skirting you, in and out like a tide, pulled back by an in breath and banished by an out.

The heroes did nothing. But neither did you.

And where the hell does that leave you? You applied to the top fucking hero school in the country when you were literally raised by a villain! You’re still full of dread and an unending paranoia that maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly where he wants you. You might’ve just been playing into his hands this whole time.

You clamp your hands hard over your arms, squeezing. That hint of pain is what you focus on as you force yourself to breathe deeply.

This is why you will never be a hero. Because even as you shake, even as you dig your fingers into your arms, even as you stare out over the city and watch the smoke plumes coil in the distance. Even as you taste the bitter regret of having not run in yourself. (Like Midoriya would have. Like Midoriya did.)

Even as it all weighs down on you in a heavy cast of shame, there’s some part of you that wants to destroy them all.

Heroes didn’t save you. They didn’t come for you after your mother died. They didn’t come for you, didn’t notice you were missing. They didn’t stop the most terrifying man in the world from taking you in. 

It’s a memory never forgotten, not muddied by time or distance. That visceral moment when it all fell apart. When, just as suddenly as you realised Father might not be the good man you wanted to believe he was, you also learned that heroes would never help. That heroes were a total farce.

You’re eight years old. You’ve been by Father’s side for what feels like a lifetime, now. You help him with your Quirk. You’re useful.

Not long ago, he got hurt really badly by a hero. By All Might. You thought he was supposed to be good, but he hurt your father. And you know how much it hurts. Because your job is to take his pain away.

You stand by his side, holding his hand. It hurts all over. But it hurts especially in the shoulder, a blooming pain that entraps your whole body. Your head hurts, too. But not as much.

He’s brought you to the bar. You hate the bar. It’s where he meets people and talks about his plans. To create a league of people who’ll contest All Might, and kill him. It’s where people jeer at you. And they look weird. And they scare you.

Tomura always just looks bored. He sits on a stool in a corner, watching it all play out with half-lidded eyes.

As your father stands tall in front of these people you hold his hand tighter and step behind his leg. You don’t like when these people can see you. They scare you. You don’t show them you’re in pain, though. You’re not allowed to do that. Father helped you learn how to hide your pain. He trained you.

He’s here to punish someone today. You don’t know what they did. But you know Father is very, very unhappy about it.

The world is scary when he’s unhappy. The whole world.

The fight breaks out quickly. You’re not sure why multiple people are trying to fight your father. Don’t they know by now nobody can hurt him?

You peek out at the three men who’ve stepped up to you and Father. The man at the forefront bears the brunt his anger. You can tell. Because he’s the one who looks the most afraid.

You’re not sure how it happens. It’s too quick for you to see where the knife comes from. But when your father deflects it, it strikes you instead.

It’s barely a nick. It lashes across your forehead, over your left eye, a warm trickle of blood tracing the curve of your cheek, and you cry out and reach both hands to cover the wound.

You hear Father call your name.

When you look up, he’s still looking at the people who are trying to fight him. But his hand is outstretched towards you.

He wants to help you. Of course he does. He always wants to help you, and protect you. You take his hand and activate your Quirk, guiding the pain of the cut above your eye into him. It feels nice to be helped like you help him.

It’s what you think until he strikes you. He backhands you, an unforgiving blow to your cheek, and you fall onto your hands and knees. That’s when you realise he hadn’t cried your name in panic, or worry, or fear. It was anger.

Because you stopped taking his pain.

Without looking up, you scramble to your feet and bolt for the door.

You tumble out into an alleyway and try to find your way in the dark with only one eye open. There’s blood flowing into the other from the cut. You think you might be crying, too. Which is really bad. He’s going to be so angry. He hates it when you cry. You’re supposed to be strong. You’re not allowed to cry. Now he’s going to be even more angry.

You don’t get very far. You’re stopped when you barrel straight into something solid. You cry out and look up, keeping a hand over your eye, and the cut.

It’s a man. He’s made of fire.

You scream and fall backwards, covering your face.

Then there’s a familiar hand on your shoulder. A solid, warning hand. With one finger raised.

You freeze. You stop crying, stop breathing. Stop thinking.

‘I’m sorry, Endeavor-san. They have a habit of running away. They got hurt and when our father tried to help them they ran. He’s waiting for us now.’

Your brother’s voice is almost unrecognisable, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he manages to keep the majority of his usual malice from it, or that you suddenly feel so far away.

And then it clicks.

Endeavor?

As in…

The hero?

You look up.

When you can force yourself not to cringe away from the flames, you realise they’re subtle. Controlled. Not so scary when you’re not up close. And he’s tall. He’s big. He’s like All Might. He’s a hero. He’s the Number Two hero.

And there’s a flicker of… something, in you. Like the child from the night of the fire is crying out for help. Like you want away from your brother, who terrifies you more than anybody ever has. Like you want away from your scary, scary father, who’s going to be so, so mad at you.

And heroes… are supposed to help.

You steel yourself and look past the flames that flicker around him. You meet his eyes. He’s looking down at you. You try to push all of your desperation right there into your gaze.

Please. Please. Please help me, Endeavor-san. Please help me. You’re a hero. Please. I just want to go home. Please.

Then: ‘Please, Endeavor-san,’ you say.

You realise your mistake as soon as you realise you’ve spoken aloud. You clamp your mouth shut.

Tomura hauls you up and wraps his arm all the way around your shoulders. ‘Don’t mind them,’ he says. ‘They’ve got a bad habit of running away at the moment.’

And then you’re walking away.

When you’re back in the alleyway outside the bar, Tomura shoves you against the wall. Your head slams into the bricks. You don’t cry out. He puts his hand down on your shoulders, all five fingers eating away your clothes and a few layers of skin. You don’t cry out. He kicks you, hard, in the side. You think you hear a rib crack. You don’t cry out.

And finally, it stops. You hear Father speaking to him.

And then he picks you up. Gently. He walks you back to the car, and holds you against his side all the way home.

When you reach out to take his hand, and urge his pain away from him and into you, he strokes your hair.

‘You’re not mad at me?’ you ask. And then you fall asleep.

The tear that rolls down your cheek now, as you stare out over the city, is out of anger more than sadness. Because when you think of Endeavor, and truly, when you think of most heroes, you think of tearing the world apart. Of exposing them for what they really are.

That’s why it’s impossible. To play nice when Present Mic shows up at the cemetery cafe. To believe what Eraserhead offers you at Yuuei could ever be true. 

To be friends with Midoriya. Not because of his love of heroes, but because he wants to be one. And because he’s the very first person in the world part of you believes might actually make a good one.

And then there’s All Might.

All Might is at the summit of your conflict about heroes. Because you know he hurts himself every single time he runs in to save the day, ever since your father almost beat him. But it’s hard to believe he could really only be doing it out of selflessness. Even when it hurts that much. Because it hurts that much.

You’re scared to know the truth of him. Because knowing the truth of him will confirm the truth of All For One. And there’s still a part of you that wants to believe in him. A child.

A child who doesn’t think about the fire. Or of the night your father confessed.

Because when you do, you want to tear it all to bits again.

The shuffle of a footstep behind you startles you so much that pure instinct kicks in. You slip a knife into your hand and turn, taking a few rapid steps to hold it at the person’s neck. It happens in a fraction of a second. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

The boy in front of you does little more than raise his hands, as if to show he’s unarmed. And he is a boy. Probably around the same age as you.

But his expression doesn’t change. His eyes are completely unfeeling, even with a knife to his throat. One blue, one grey. You think you might have stared at them for a moment too long. There’s a burn scar over one eye. His hair is two-toned, too.

You lower the knife. You chest twinges with shame when you realise you’re developing a habit of brandishing knives at people who’ve done nothing to deserve it. Maybe something to work on.

‘How did you get up here?’ you ask. Or demand. You think you might have sounded demanding. Oops.

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the door leading to the stairwell. After a moment, he clarifies, ‘I was in the building.’

You nod. It makes more sense than you using the fire escape. Especially when the fire escape doesn’t actually make it all the way up to the roof. There’s a fixed ladder that needs to be released from the top. So, technically, you shouldn’t have been able to make it up here at all, not from the outside. But he doesn’t need to know that.

‘And why are you up here?’ you press.

He blinks, still statue cold. ‘Why are you up here?’

You scowl and turn away, returning to stand at the edge of the rooftop. ‘Touché,’ you mutter, resting your hands on the barrier.

It’s not best practice to turn your back on an unknown party, but instinct takes over rather quickly. If he was a threat, you’re fairly sure your knife would never have had the chance to meet his throat.

You’re not sure if you do or don’t expect him to walk up to the barrier as well, but he does. He’s a good distance away from you, though, and you’re glad for it. Whenever people get too physically close to Sine, it feels like everything might just unravel.

You and your new companion stand in silence for a long time. There’s a breeze just the wrong side of cold, lending a faint chilled quality to the night air. The smell of smoke is thick, even from here, but it’s dissipating steadily into something faint.

When you can’t handle the silence any longer, you say: ‘What happened to your face?’

In your peripheral vision, you can see him turn to stare at you. His expression is blank, but he blinks pointedly.

You’re pretty sure you’re being rude in an effort to drive him away. It’s not often, and in fact, never at all, that you’re up on the rooftops because you want company.

‘It was a burn,’ he says. Captain Obvious, apparently.

You turn and stare at him, studying the scar a little more. It’s clearly very old. You sigh softly. ‘It’s fine,’ you say, resting your chin in your hand and flashing a faintly mocking grin at him. ‘I hate fire too.’

‘It wasn’t fire,’ he says.

You purse your lips. It makes sense, it would’ve taken one hell of a fire to leave just this single, distinct mark without also blinding him. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s blind in that eye.

You shrug one shoulder and glance away. ‘Still.’

A beat. ‘Still,’ he agrees, nodding minutely.

You’re starting to feel the heavy weight of exhaustion, like a physical thing bearing down on you, especially on your shoulders. Everything is starting to stiffen, and ache, and your breathing still feels shallow with the faint smell and taste of smoke.

It’s been a long week.

This time, it’s your quiet stranger who speaks up. ‘You were right, you know,’ he says. When you turn to look at him fully, he’s looking away, out over the city.

You huff an unintelligible, ‘Huh?’ Right about fire, or? You have no idea what he’s talking about. Did you somehow miss an entire conversation during that last bout of silence?

He closes his eyes. ‘I think it was,’ he draws in a breath, then speaks, with feeling, an impression. ‘Tell me, what is the point of you?’

He still doesn’t say it with as much feeling as you did.

You bite the inside of your cheek and frown at him. He still doesn’t turn to look at you, but you see the slightest hint of his lips twitching up. You scowl. Is he mocking you?

‘How did you even know what I said?’

‘It was on the news. Downstairs.’

‘Right.’

This time, the silence doesn’t feel oppressive. It feels like you’ve descending into a comfortable routine, the echo of a slow tide; silence, conversation, pause, silence, conversation, pause.

After a while, you glance his way again. ‘You agree with me?’

He nods.

‘And what did the heroes do to make you jaded?’ You try not to sound too personally bitter.

His mouth is a tight line. Somehow, you think this question makes him more uncomfortable than when you asked about his scar.

‘This building is one of Endeavor’s secondary agencies,’ he says. It shouldn’t be enough of an answer, but for you, it is. Even the mention of the Flame Hero sends a helpless feeling hollow in your stomach. Suddenly you’re eight years old again, and you can’t help a full-body shudder.

‘Right,’ you agree, unable to keep a tremor from your voice.

The boy’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

‘What?’ you ask.

You can see the moment he realises he’s let too much slip, when his face instantly folds back into a deliberate, indecipherable mask. You’re familiar enough with the gesture to recognise it. He’s steeling himself, mitigating risk.

‘People usually don’t express openly negative opinions about my father,’ he says after a moment. There’s a slight lilt to his voice, and you know now the risk he was mitigating. He’s testing you.

Your mind goes strangely blank, and suddenly, you’re sure you’ll fail. A hot hatred flares in you, the visceral feeling of fury in your gut, a roiling of wasps deep in your stomach, vying to get out. This—this is Endeavor’s son? For a moment, the boy in front of you is a catalyst for every ounce of negative feeling you’ve ever had about heroes. Anger, grief, resentment, resignation, it all attaches itself to this strangely burned boy.

But you clench your fist. You think of your own father, and the heat of it, the hatred, evaporates until you’re hollowed out. The fire goes out and all that’s left is the whisper of smoke in an empty place.

You’ve lived for years with the knowledge that the entire country, maybe even the entire world, would hate you if they knew the truth. If they knew about All For One, and what he’d done, the irretrievable things he stole from their beloved All Might. If they knew, you’d be a goner. It wouldn’t matter the circumstances that brought you to him. It wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t your father by blood.

But you’re not just his. He raised you, but so did your mother, for a while. Your mother, whose voice and face and touch you can barely remember.

The weight of it all breaks over your back, a moment of oppression followed by a weightlessness you can’t bear. The exhaustion hits you harder after the sudden rush of emotion. You abruptly fall until you’re sitting on the hard concrete of the roof, leaning back against the metal railing, vision of the city skyline abandoned.

‘No offence,’ you say quietly, ‘But your dad’s an asshole.’

The sound he makes is an unsubtle cough of poorly hidden laughter. He doesn’t look at you when he says, ‘None taken,’ just keeps staring out over the city. Is he looking at the plumes of smoke like you were? The fire’s probably been long extinguished, but you know better than most how long the smoke remains. How it persists as a stinging in the lungs for days after a fire.

You lapse into another silence. This time, your thoughts wander to Eraserhead. You wonder if he already knows who you are. If he figured it out from your application, or from the tests. If he’s coming for you right now, because he saw you shouting at the heroes on the news. Maybe he’ll arrest you. Yuuei or no, you don’t have any intention of stopping. Vigilantism is all you know. It’s the sole way you can dig out some of the stains Father left on you.

You can never become a hero, not really. But at least this way, you can right some of his wrongs. It’ll never feel like enough, but at least it’s something.

‘I took the Yuuei entrance exam last week,’ you say. It’s the same sort of confession you’d utter at the foot of your mother’s grave, but this is decidedly not a cemetery, and this young Todoroki is very much not your mother.

You want to take it back, but you’re surprised by just how heady the relief is, of telling somebody alive. Of drawing the line between Sine and yourself just a little closer, if only for a moment. The double life is a burden that folds your spine under its weight, and for just one moment you feel it lift.

You shouldn’t have told a stranger, not least of all a hero’s son, that you, Sine Nomine, a semi-recognisable vigilante, are trying to get into Yuuei. He could use that against you in so many ways. He might even figure out who you are.

But right now, sifting through all of your emotions, you can’t find regret.

‘I got in on recommendations,’ Endeavor’s son tells you.

You smile. It’s foreign, not quite right, like wearing a shirt that’s just a little too big for you. ‘Nepotism, huh?’

---

Shouto laughs. He actually, genuinely laughs. That’s twice now, standing next to this… criminal? Vigilante? Whatever Sine Nomine is, they’re not what he’d expected. Not that he’d had many expectations for a vigilante he’d seen on the news once or twice in passing. But still, their company isn’t any more stifling than anybody else’s. In fact, it’s almost easy. There’s no pressure to uphold any standards. He imagines the standards of a vigilante must be pretty low on principle.

It’s probably because they’ve already openly admitted their distaste of heroes; of his father. It’s like, because of that, he doesn’t have to play his cards quite so close to his chest. It doesn’t feel like the end of the world if he lets the facade slip. While Sine Nomine might not know the extent of his father’s crimes, he gets the impression it wouldn’t necessarily surprise them.

When they’d first touched a knife to the tip of his throat, Shouto’s only thought had been about how pissed his father was going to be if he died. There was a kind of grim satisfaction to it.

Endeavor, for his part, was supposed to be here three hours ago. There was a phone call that lasted no longer than thirty seconds, where he’d mentioned training using some equipment unique to this agency, and demanded Shouto be there when he arrived.

He hadn’t arrived, and despite the likelihood of what would have followed if he had, Shouto couldn’t find it in himself to be relieved at the no-show. It only meant he’d sat for three hours in his father’s private waiting room, on edge and unwilling to relax even slightly, lest his father see him in any state other than ready, in any mindset other than focused. And so far, that nervous energy had only been a constant, perpetual build up.

At least if his father had showed, Shouto would’ve been given some release, even if that release came with a myriad of bruises and burns.

And then there was the other possibility: that his father had changed his mind, and was instead waiting for Shouto at home. Endeavor had a habit of abruptly changing plans and expecting his son to know, with or without any communication.

But God forbid Shouto text him while he’s working, even if it is to clarify plans. No, that would invite its own kind of punishment.

This time on the roof, though, was almost enough to make up for the last three hours. He hadn’t come up to the roof looking for Sine, and he certainly hadn’t expected to find anybody there, he’d just given up and gone on the hunt for fresh air, threat of his father’s potential arrival and all.

And as it turns out, Sine Nomine makes for decent, albeit slightly depressing, company.

‘Yes,’ Shouto says, smile tugging at his lips. ‘Nepotism.’

If they take note of his belated response, they don’t show it. They just sigh, and it’s no small thing. Shouto watches as their whole body slumps over a little, as if being pushed down by a weight on the back of their neck.

‘I don’t even know why I did it,’ they say, and it occurs to Shouto for the first time that they must be around his age. He cocks his head, lifts an eyebrow. He’s lost track of what they were talking about.

‘Applied for Yuuei,’ they clarify.

‘You don’t want to be a hero?’ Shouto wants to know more, though he isn’t sure why.

Sine shakes their head. It’s a graceless, haphazard motion. ‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. I don’t even know if I can.’

The last part is a mumble Shouto’s not sure he was meant to hear.

‘Because you’re a vigilante?’ he asks.

They look like they’re going to shake their head, but they nod. Shouto blinks.

The next silence is longer. Shouto doesn’t mean to, but he thinks he stares at them for a little too long, and by the end of it Sine sighs, and stands.

‘I should go,’ they say.

Shouto almost doesn’t want them to. But he inclines his head in acknowledgement.

They disappear so quickly off the side of the roof that Shouto could almost convince himself they were never really there.

---

You stay out late, looking for petty criminals to take your frustration out on. It’s brutal, even for you. But after sitting around so long with the Todoroki boy, the energy beneath your skin needed to go somewhere, or else you knew you’d never sleep.

Your hands are stinging, knuckles a wash of reddened skin and tiny, barely bleeding splits, by the time you make it back home. The sun isn’t far from rising, and by the time you disinfect and wrap your hands, a sliver of light is infiltrating your apartment.

You flex your hands, taking a guilty moment to let the pain ground you in its own, satisfying way. It makes you feel sick. Normal people don’t enjoy pain. You’re not sure if it’s a side effect of your Quirk, having a high tolerance for pain, or if it’s just another way Father fucked you up. Either way, there’s something different about pain that’s entirely your own and no one else’s. It’s something solid and gratifying.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep when you finally slide into bed. And for once, when you wake a few hours later, it’s not because of nightmares or vivid dreams. You even feel the tiniest bit rested.

The initial peace of the moment is at once soured when you realise why you’ve woken up. There’s an insistent knocking on your door. You’re slightly placated when you identify the frantic, almost bashful repeated sequence of knocks as Midoriya. You just can’t imagine for the life of you why he’s at your door at all, this early in the morning.

You do your best not to scowl at him as you swing the door open, but it’s a near thing. The harsh light of afternoon only worsens your mood. Not morning, then.

Sure enough, it’s Midoriya. His face immediately falls into something panicked and guilty-looking. ‘Oh! Did I wake you?! I’m so sorry, I can go—’

You sigh and shake your head, grabbing at his shirt when he turns to leave. You note the sharp pain in your bandaged knuckles and subtly let the sleeves of your jacket fall to mostly cover them. Midoriya would have a field day.

‘No, Midoriya-san, it’s fine,’ you tell him. ‘Is everything okay?’

He turns back to you with a positively radiant smile. It’s almost too much. These sunny smiles of his are physically painful sometimes. There’s a sunburn sort of quality to them.

His beaming exclamation shakes you from your thoughts. ‘I got into Yuuei!’

At once, your chest swells with pride. It is devastatingly easy to be fond of Midoriya, and while it might make things harder for you in the long run, it also means all your principles and well-maintained distance go out the window in light of his good news. You find yourself beaming back at him.

If he didn’t have such a strong moral compass, he’d be the only person in the world who might not judge you, if he ever knew the truth.

You’re still confused about how he got a Quirk. You confronted him a few days before, about his mysterious newfound strength, and about him running directly at the goddamn sludge villain. But he’d half-shouted something about it manifesting late, and made up some very obvious lie about having somewhere to be, effectively shutting the conversation down.

You knew there was more to it. It made every instinct in your brain scream.

You’d known him for almost a year now. He was the sweet, earnest, Quirkless kid who wanted nothing more than to be a hero, and if anybody could’ve busted onto the scene without a Quirk to make the world take notice, it was him.

You’re glad to see him take a step towards his dream, but you can’t ignore that constant, clawing worry. Where did his Quirk come from? Why is he being dishonest? Why is there something just the wrong side of familiar about it all?

In a perfect world, you’d care much less about Midoriya. But in this reality, you care so much the wrongness of it threatens to tip you over. Suddenly, you want to get into Yuuei, more than ever. You’d tried not to entertain the possibility before; it was a foregone conclusion that you’d never have passed the entrance exam. But if you’re there, with him, somewhere in this beaming boy’s shadow, you can try to keep him safe. You can try to keep him from digging himself any further into whatever shady hole he’s found.

You can’t become a hero, but you can do this.

Suddenly, you’re nervous. It’s the most ridiculous thing. You’re not the same as all these other hero-hopefuls waiting at the door for an acceptance letter. And yet, your nervousness burns the same. It’s a futile, juvenile thing, with nowhere to go. Suddenly the thought you might not get in feels world-ending.

Before you know it, you’ve shut the door in Midoriya’s face and reached down to the mailbox on the inside of the door. The letter is at the bottom, stamped with that familiar Yuuei logo. You tear it open. A disc clatters to the floor at your feet, but you go for the letter first.

All of your breath leaves you like a punch. You’re not sure if it’s relief or horror or fear or surprise. But you’ve been accepted into the most prestigious hero course in the country.

Relief and regret war inside you. You skin flushes hot in the crossfire. You keep reading. With a jolt, you bite down so hard on your lip you taste blood. You read the words again. And again. And again, to be sure. They don’t change.

All Might is teaching at Yuuei. All Might is teaching at Yuuei, where you’ll be spending almost every single day starting in a few weeks time.

And what’s more, he’s been kind enough to record individual acceptance messages for each new student of the Yuuei hero course.

You stare at the disc on the ground. The disc stares back. You retrieve it, taking it between thumb and forefinger the way one might handle a dead rat. You find a small button and press it.

‘I AM HERE, AS A PROJECTION!’

You turn and throw it at the wall, hard as you can. The projection stops.

You take a moment to compose yourself before you turn back and open the door again.

Midoriya’s still standing there, rolling back and forth on his heels.

‘I got in,’ you tell him. ‘What class are you in?’

He beams again. He has way too much energy. ‘Class 1-A!’

You nod. ‘We’ll be in the same class, then.’

He starts to launch into what you know will be a long-winded ramble about who-knows-what. You hear something about making your way to school together, and walking home, and helping each other with homework. He looks ecstatic. But you can feel your mood souring more and more as you think about All Might and the gravity of it all sets in.

‘I’m happy for you, Midoriya-san,’ you say, forcing as genuine a smile as you can. ‘I’ll see you in class.’

You flash him a little wave before closing the door, not waiting for a response.

You sink into a nearby dining chair, letting your head fall into your hands.

What would Father do, if he knew? If he knew you were going to Yuuei? If he knew you were going to be taught by the one person he raised you to despise?

You’re going to be taught heroics by your villain father’s hero nemesis, and it chills you to the bone.

Notes:

Thank you for the comments and kudos so far <3 Much appreciated. Please let me know what you liked from this chapter! I hope it didn't jump around too much. I don't intend to cover parts of the canon storyline in great detail when they don't directly pertain to the reader. That gets boring!

I'm thinking platonic/queerplatonic Shouto & Reader, since after a couple of you requested it, I thought about it and realised how lovely it would be. Would you guys like to see a romance, and if so, who? No promises. I only know the main plot of how this story is going to unfold! Who knows what I'll decide to change later on.

Hope you enjoyed!

Chapter 3

Notes:

content warnings: blood, description of injures, death, allusions to PTSD, mild panic attack symptoms.

as always, let me know if i missed any x

Your breath is a fractured gasp when you hit the ground. The impact is hard enough you’re sure you’ve instantly bruised, but you don’t spare time to confirm. It’s not exactly advisable to stay down in front of an opponent.

You scramble to your feet and leap to the side just in time to avoid an oncoming fist. You swear you can almost hear the wind whistle to make way for the force levied behind it.

You wouldn’t have so readily picked a fight if you’d known this twig of a man was hiding a strength Quirk behind his lanky stature. Even now, he looks unassuming, but a glance at the couple still cowering in the corner of the alleyway, glassy-eyed and trembling with fear, reaffirms your mistake. You really should have noticed something wasn’t right.

Their faces are both bloodied and bruised, misshapen in a slight way that can only mean they’ve got facial fractures. The man’s arm is twisted at a brutal angle, a piece of bone jutting through at the elbow. You should have noticed. Did it actually seem less severe from above, or were you just badly unfocused?

You dodge another punch aimed at your solar plexus. You want to scream at the couple to move, get out of here so you can leave, too—you won’t win this fight, and you’re not too proud to run, but not if it means leaving them to die. But they’re both probably in shock, probably concussed, and neither one of them seems completely aware of what’s going on.

You have to do something, but what?

You’re sidetracked for a second too long and take another hit. You just barely angle to the side in time for it to hit your shoulder instead of your chest. You hear, more than feel, the dislocation, and you bite your cheek on a gasp.

And then he’s there. He swoops in like a knight in miscellaneous black clothing, just in time to redirect a punch aimed right at your head. You hadn’t even noticed it. Rather than grateful, though, you bite down on a palpable frustration.

Eraserhead. This is the second time he’s stepped in for you, and sure, you weren’t exactly handling that fight. But it was your fight. Even if you were going to lose it.

You pointedly step back to let Eraserhead close it out. You’d cross your arms, but one of them is still hanging uselessly at your side. You settle for as deep a scowl as you can muster as you watch him end the fight with ease. In barely three fluid movements, a dodge, a high kick and an uppercut to the man’s chin, it’s over.

Your pride smarts almost as much as your shoulder does.

Soon after, flashing red lights fill the area as police and ambulance arrive on the scene. Eraserhead steps in to briefly explain the situation. You’re reluctantly grateful he doesn’t try to draw you back down from the shadowed rooftop you’d retreated to when you heard the sirens.

You sniff balefully and turn away. If he wants to finish the fight for you, he can deal with the aftermath as well.

Still, he doesn’t even make you come down to be attended to by the paramedics. Apparently he doesn’t consider a dislocation the same priority as a stab wound, which, fair. It earns him a little more respect, though, not that you’ll ever admit it.

He joins you after the lights pull away. He watches you for a moment, and this time his goggles are hanging around his neck, so you get a full view of his expression. He looks unimpressed, but unsurprised. He sighs what you’re quickly learning is his trademark sigh.

‘Are you going to reset that, or am I?’

You laugh. It’s a delighted, twisted thing, more startled than humour. He’s learning. You raise your dislocated arm, grab your wrist with your good hand, and jerk it back into place with one precise movement.

You wince, but otherwise shake it off. It’ll ache for a week, but as long as you don’t strain it you’ll be fine. It’s not the first time you’ve had a dislocated shoulder and not the first time you’ve set it yourself.

Eraserhead is watching you, eyebrows drawn minutely. If you tried hard enough you could probably interpret his expression as mildly impressed, but you know it’s more likely to be thinly veiled disappointment. You choose to pretend it’s the former, but still, you don’t know what to do with it. So, you look away and do nothing at all.

‘You didn’t apply for Yuuei, did you?’

That particular question makes you pause. You’re not sure whether or not you’re insulted that he has so little faith in you, though he has no reason to have faith in you in the first place. And technically, at least as far as it seems he’s aware, you’ve proven him right.

Because Sine Nomine doesn’t have any reason to apply for Yuuei. Eraserhead must have seen you on the news by now. He must know how you feel about heroes, and that probably fits well enough with whatever else he thinks he knows about you. He can surely infer that you’d never consider attending the hero school because, well, fuck heroes.

Still, there’s a painful, dull ache in the back of your chest when you think about being four years old and watching All Might beam at you from a television screen. Wondering, even then, if maybe you’d become a hero one day.

But you were four. It was a childish rite of passage, the unattainable dream of the young. And your father hadn’t entered the picture, then. Now, he’s the whole fucking thing. You’re doomed to the consequences of having grown in his shadow, and you know it’s tainted you in ways you can never come back from.

Eraserhead takes your silence as an answer, apparently. An affirmation. Because he sighs that sigh and runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. And then he says something that throws you entirely off-kilter.

‘I don’t like the idea of a kid with so much potential getting killed because they refuse to swallow their pride and take a handout,’ he says, and you’re reminded at once that this man does not pull his punches. ‘But I don’t blame you.’

There’s some sort of unspoken I’ve been there in those words, like he sees some merit in your position, or at least has empathy for it. You resolutely ignore it, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. There’s something close to pity in the way he looks at you, but it doesn’t make you feel small the way pity should. You have no idea why.

‘And? So what?’ you mumble, pulling your hood tighter around your face. He’s so adamant when he scrutinises you. The urge to shy from his gaze is strong.

‘I’ll train you,’ the underground hero says.

You blink and straighten up, an involuntarily jerk of surprise. You feel something strange, the flicker of a long-snuffed flame peeking its head out from its hiding place.

Surely it’s not hope. That would be stupid. Obviously.

You did your own research on Eraserhead once you discovered who he was. And yes, you had spent an unjustifiable amount of time watching every one of the few recorded fights of his you could dig up. And okay, yes, you were envious of his combat skills. But that was where it ended! Obviously. You don’t need him to teach you anything.

And yet, there’s a yearning in your chest. You haven’t trained in anything new since you escaped your father. And you’d landed on your ass multiple times trying to mimic a particular move you’d seen in one of the videos. The idea of figuring it out is alluring.

Maybe you can stick around long enough to learn a little from him before you ditch him for good. Knowledge is invaluable, and all that.

‘Okay,’ you say, and it feels like pulling teeth. You resolutely ignore the excitement that thrums beneath your skin.

‘Evidently, the first thing we need to go over is when not to pick a fight,’ he drawls pointedly, disapproval underpinning every word.

You scoff, and this time you do cross your arms.

---

Shouta really shouldn’t be offering this up. Sure, he’s got a hell of a lot of pull when it comes to the police force, between heroics and his connection to Yuuei, but that pull will only take him so far. He knows he’s stretching it thin by establishing any sort of working relationship with a known vigilante, child or not.

He’s starting to feel like a mother hen. Hizashi would probably argue he’s always been a mother hen with ‘his kids’, but Sine isn’t one of his students. Sine is a petty criminal who also happens to be the same age as the kids he usually teaches.

And even if there’s a draw there, something that seems to pull Shouta towards them somehow, the truth of it is, he doesn’t know this kid. This is the second time he’s had to step in during one of their fights. He doesn’t know if they’re devolving, picking fights they wouldn’t usually take, or if this is completely normal for them and they’re just that cocky. He doubts they’ve managed to get through the last year just by getting lucky.

But he doesn’t know, because he doesn’t know them. And because they’re not the same as one of his students.

Something about who a person becomes when they’re a student is different. There’s an intrinsic vulnerability that reveals itself in the face of a mentor, and Shouta doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of that. He wants to make better heroes who won’t go off and get themselves killed.

Sine doesn’t have that right now, the natural trust and vulnerability most students come to offer. And he hopes he can foster it, but this is outside the realm of his classroom, and he knows he won’t win Sine’s respect with any small feat. That kind of relationship takes time. And a vigilante’s life always burns at both ends.

He doesn’t want to think about the fact the vigilante in question also happens to be a child, and the time afforded to vulnerable children is often even shorter. But he’s an educator, and he has to consider it. He’s also a hero, and it’s a part of that job description too, to scrutinise. He’s surprised Sine’s even made it this far. It speaks to their capability. He knows it’s not just luck.

And if he can delay the inevitable for a while longer, long enough to teach them to be self-sufficient, maybe he can lessen the impact he knows will come when Sine crashes and burns.

He tries to ignore the prodding voice in the back of his head that reminds him children shouldn’t need to be self-sufficient in the first place; they should be protected, nurtured, and raised up.

It’s the truth, but that line of thinking won’t get him anywhere practical, not with Sine.

---

Eraserhead takes you to a warehouse so nondescript it teeters over into something obviously, gleefully illicit. The two of you crouch on a rooftop overlooking the area. You realise both of you feel at ease in high places, hidden from the rest of the world. You vehemently deny the sense of camaraderie that realisation fosters.

It’s not a thing. There are no things between the two of you. He’s just worried about you ‘wasting your potential’, and you’re an opportunist. That’s all it is.

In his first act as your new mentor, whatever the fuck that means, Eraserhead explains that he’s been investigating the people operating out of the warehouse for a little less than a month.

It’s a human trafficking ring. They gather up adults who won’t be missed and sell them off, usually for underground cage matches that typically result in their deaths.

You spare a moment to appreciate that he doesn’t even try to sugarcoat the details. The details can be important in this line of work.

‘They don’t use weapons,’ you turn back to Eraserhead as he continues speaking. ‘Two of them carry guns. Easily disarmed.’

Something about the curt way he speaks clues you in to the fact he might not be used to taking a leadership position when it comes to the active, heroics side of his career. The clash between his natural penchant for teaching and the whole lone wolf act is awkward, though you can tell he’s still confident.

You tilt your head at him and smile with your teeth. You hope it looks garish, or something to that effect. ‘Do you usually teach your students in the field?’ you tease.

‘I want you to my back, hand-to-hand only, when the fighting starts,’ he says, and you scowl at how easily he ignores your goading.

Still, you nod. ‘No knives?’

He shakes his head, then looks over at you with an expectant sort of look. ‘Is your Quirk limited to transferring the pain of your own injuries?’

You blink. Obviously he’d take note of your Quirk, you’d literally used it on him. That was part of his job. But still, the succinct, no-nonsense way he talks about it gives you pause. You’re not sure why.

You nod, chewing the inside of you cheek idly. ‘That’s the extent of it. It only holds for a few moments after I stop making skin-to-skin contact with someone. Though, you probably already figured that part out,’ you add with a performative lift of your eyebrows.

Yet again, he doesn’t react to your teasing. With nothing to lighten the weight of it, you catch yourself swallowing uneasily. It’s only a partial truth, but it still feels wrong to disclose any details of your Quirk to anyone, let alone a hero. And even then, you can’t shake that, for some reason, it feels wrong altogether, to lie to Eraserhead. Even if it’s by omission.

When he’s quiet, you glance towards him and go very still when you meet his direct gaze through the goggles. You’re close enough that you can see enough of his eyes through them to note the sharp gaze he’s levelled at you. Did he catch you in the lie?

He stares at you in silence for a moment before he looks back down at the warehouse. Just in time for a truck to pull in. Saved by the bell.

You clench your fist tightly and try to will yourself out of that momentary panic. There are people in there who need saving. Innocent people. You need to be focused.

Three men begin to unload people, all tied, gagged and blindfolded. Eraserhead tells you to wait for his signal. You nod. You’re surprised by how easy it is to defer to him in the moment. Authority tends to rub you the wrong way, and you’re far from subtle with your dislike of the subset of authority known as heroes.

As you glance over at Eraserhead, goggles down, jaw set, taking steady, almost perfectly even breaths as he analyses the situation in front of him, you realise it might be because he’s treating you as an equal. It’s a laughable idea, that such an attitude could come from a hero, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He can’t possibly think you’re at the same level as him. As much as you might play at being arrogant, you’re well aware he could kick your ass if he wanted to. But, at least for the purpose of this weird little exercise of his, he’s treating you as an equal on the battlefield.

It makes you feel like an actual human being. Someone with agency. Thoughts, emotions, and wants that matter. And you haven’t felt that way for longer than you can remember. It’s thoroughly disarming.

You don’t get time to mull over it further, because a flick of Eraserhead’s wrist denotes his signal and the two of you are off, moving forward simultaneously, keeping to the shadows until you’re close enough to strike.

You do as he told you to, keeping mostly to his back as you approach one of the two armed men.

He’s holding a generic handgun, and you don’t give him a chance to disengage the safety when he sees you. It’s a simple, practised motion to reach forward, grasp his wrist with one hand and snap his arm upwards, positioning the gun to aim skyward. From there, you opt for a direct method of disarming him, levelling a heavy punch to the outer part of his elbow. It has much the same effect as kicking the back of somebody’s knee, he folds, and the gun drops to the ground beside you.

You swipe his legs out from under him before glancing down at the gun. You kick it into the shadows, out of sight, just in time to raise your arm to block the blow of a man much taller and much, much bigger than you. You almost flinch, expecting the blow to be far more painful than it is. The unassuming strength of the guy from earlier is still fresh in your mind, but it’s no more than a regular punch, and you recover from it in time to counter.

From there, fighting the five men is simple enough. There’s a moment of complete synchronicity you share with the hero at your back, partway through the fight. He leverages his place at your back to spin you around and make up for a poorly timed kick of yours, and you catch on quickly enough to block a blow from the opponent who had been fighting Eraserhead.

Fighting alongside him is easy. You wonder if he’s able to mesh this well with anybody he fights with, or if it’s because you share a similar style of combat. Maybe it’s because he’s a teacher? But he probably doesn’t teach many students who anticipate going into underground work, so how often can he be facilitating this kind of education, really?

You manage a swift kick to the knee of the man in front of you, sending him down with a swear. Eraserhead’s capture weapon shoots out from behind you and he has the man in a tight hold before you get the chance to close out the fight yourself, but for some reason, it doesn’t piss you off as much as it should.

You glance around the immediate vicinity to make sure there aren’t any stragglers before you make your way over to the gun you’d kicked away. Sure enough, it’s there, safety still engaged.

You roll your eyes as you grab it, returning to deposit it in Eraserhead’s waiting hand.

He doesn’t look right holding a gun, somehow.

As the adrenaline and focus slowly leave you, you eye the four kidnapping victims and shift your weight from one foot to the other, uncertain. You usually don’t stick around to help people, opting to call emergency services and make your strategic exit when they show up. But this time, Eraserhead is here, and that’s very much a part of his job description. So you’re not sure where you stand. Where he wants you.

Why do you care so much, so easily, about Eraserhead’s opinions? They shouldn’t mean shit to you, not least of all because he’s a damn hero.

He’s one step ahead of you, though, and you’re not sure if he’d already anticipated this tension, or if he recognises your discomfort in the moment. When he looks at you, you steel yourself for whatever teacherly wisdom he’s about to impart.

After a long moment of considering you, he just nods. ‘Go home. Rest. You did good.’

You grin. ‘Do I get a letter grade, sensei? Or a gold star?!’

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but you’d like to think it was a near thing. ‘Home, kid.’

You snicker and raise one hand in a lazy wave.

You make sure you’re far, far away from the underground hero before you finally let yourself register just how light your chest feels from his praise.

---

You return home to an empty apartment, which isn’t surprising. What is surprising is the strangely hollow feeling of, for the first time in years, wanting to tell someone about your day, and having nobody to confide in.

Maybe that’s why you say yes when Midoriya knocks on your door the next day and asks if you’d like to join him and his mother for lunch. Obviously, you don’t actually tell them about your day, but their company is nice, regardless.

It’s not the first time you’ve joined them to eat. Midoriya Inko can be incredibly persistent, and you’re pretty sure she’s taken notice of the fact you live alone in your apartment. Yet somehow, whenever she serves you a too-large helping of her delicious, home-cooked food and insists you take what you can’t eat home with you, it never feels like pity.

You imagine it might be a fraction of what it feels like to be loved. The hopeless longing breaks your heart a little more every time, with each tiny taste of what you’ll never have.

But you can’t keep yourself away. You power through the ache, because the food is delicious and you might as well bask in the sunlight of the Midoriyas while you still can.

---

You get to class early on your first day, wanting to get a feel for what to expect. When you enter, there are only a few faces, one of which you recognise as Endeavor’s son. Nepotism, indeed.

You opt not to sit directly behind Bakugou, which seems like a headache waiting to happen, and take the window seat one row from the back, instead. The back corner, with a complete view of the room and both the exits, is already taken by a girl with a long black ponytail. You do your best not the let it annoy you. You only sort of succeed.

You recognise Bakugou Katsuki, or Kacchan, from a photo Midoriya has framed in his house; the two of them as kids. Neither of them looks all that different now, just a little older. Bakugou’s scowl is the same as it was back then, and from the few things Midoriya has told you about his old friend, it becomes quickly apparent nothing much has changed at all.

If anything, his ego is even worse than you expected. You’re there for all of five minutes before a tall boy with glasses confronts Bakugou for putting his feet up on the desk. You faintly hear him saying something about it being disrespectful to the people who made the desk, which very nearly startles a laugh from you. You almost laugh again when Bakugou calls him a ‘side character’.

When you glance around the room again, cataloguing the new faces, you see Midoriya apprehensively watching the exchange from the back door of the classroom. In a moment of pity, you wonder if maybe you should have sat behind Bakugou. It’s now the only seat available, your classmates seeming to have naturally gravitated away from the raging disrespect of the angry blond.

You don’t pay much attention as the blue-haired student marches—quite literally marches—over to Midoriya to introduce himself. You just barely catch his name, Iida, from where you’re trying not to cringe in your seat. Just watching Midoriya get swarmed by other students is giving you secondhand embarrassment.

Thankfully, they’re interrupted before long by a tired voice. Less thankfully, it’s a voice you recognise.

‘Go somewhere else if you want to play at being friends. This is the hero course.’

When you see Eraserhead stepping out of a yellow sleeping bag, you want to turn back time and forget you ever applied to Yuuei. You consider the pros and cons of making a strategic exit through the window beside you. The drop isn’t that far.

You know it’s unreasonable to assume he’d immediately recognise you as Sine, considering you’re usually wearing a hoodie, mask and contacts, all of which are now absent. But the possibility still makes you tense. You remind yourself that he thinks Sine didn’t apply, and hope it’s enough of a diversion.

‘Okay, it took eight seconds before you were quiet,’ Eraserhead—Aizawa?—continues. ‘Time is limited. You kids are not rational enough.’

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. If you hadn’t seen him outside of the classroom setting, you probably wouldn’t have noticed the difference. As it stands, you can see the little ways his attitude changes here. He’s all no-nonsense, authoritative guidance. It’s with some sharp, gleeful satisfaction that you realise your classmates will be too busy being intimidated by his gruff affect to see through it. You feel a little special.

Still, you try to subtly avoid his gaze when he introduces himself, and hope it doesn’t look too obvious.

---

The Quirk Apprehension Test is a total farce. You have to resist crossing your arms and making a distinctly Sine face in Aizawa’s direction, because really?

Predictably, you finish dead last. You’re above Midoriya in terms of base physical ability, given he has months of serious training on your years, but his clever little trick of only breaking his thumb in the ball toss sets him firmly above you on the leaderboard. You’re too busy being annoyed to acknowledge the pride you feel that Midoriya passed Aizawa’s test with flying colours.

You’re trying to not outwardly seethe as you muscle Midoriya into letting you take some of his pain while you await Aizawa’s verdict. If he actually tries to expel you on your first day here, you have several choice words and you’ll tell him exactly where he can shove them.

‘It was a logical ruse,’ he says.

He’s wearing this almost manic, ridiculous grin, and suddenly you wonder if he plays up this side of his personality for his students because he wants to spare them, just a little. As if he’s protecting them, at least for now, from the harsher realities of hero work and the world at large.

Because he is not this performative with Sine.

You also think he’s very much not above expelling anyone he thinks doesn’t have what it takes. Eraserhead ‘Wasted Potential’ Aizawa doesn’t exactly seem like the type to entertain childhood fantasies of heroism. Not when they’re backed up by nothing. He wants kids who can live, not soldiers who’ll be sent off to die.

You realise, now, what he meant when he said you were wasted potential. To him, the inevitable death that awaits you at the end of your vigilantism is a waste. He doesn’t know the truth, and so he probably sees Sine as some wannabe hero rather than a villain-adjacent vigilante with a guilty conscience. He thinks the death of a child he mistakenly thinks is misguided, but ultimately good, would be a waste.

He’s wrong about you, fundamentally. Whatever’s coming for you in the end, you deserve it. But there’s an uncomfortable, hollow feeling in your stomach when you realise what this means. He sees potential in this version of you, too, and not just Sine.

All of these complicated feelings are starting to make you feel a little sick.

---

Aizawa’s voice stops you before you can step out into the hallway to leave for the day. He calls your name. You ignore the curious glances of your classmates as they file out of the room.

You step up to his desk and try to breathe through the spike of panic that runs through you. Did he recognise you? You never picked up on a hint of recognition at all throughout the day, and you actively tried to downplay your physical abilities to avoid it being as obvious that you were well-trained. But he’s observant and you did fight with him just a few nights before.

Oh, god. You school yourself into a sense of calm about as solid as a bubble, willing yourself not to hyperventilate. You have a sudden, terrifying suspicion he has Quirk suppression cuffs right behind the desk, just waiting to be slapped on you.

Stop. Be normal.

‘Aizawa-sensei?’

It’s the first thing you’ve said to him, and nearly the first thing you’ve said out loud all day. You’re surprised when it comes out feeling different to the way you usually speak. It makes you feel small. Or maybe that’s just the anxiety.

Something about being in a school environment is making you feel very aware of your age. It’s unsettling. Between the uniform and the desks and the classes, you could almost pretend you’re actually a student in a hero course. It’s hard to remind yourself it’s not real when you don’t sit there constantly thinking about Sine Nomine, and Father, and Tomura, and your mother and a burning house.

As Sine, you can pretend you’re an adult, totally independent and self-sufficient. You can forget, for a while, that you’re the same age as your classmates. And that your classmates are definitely children. Children that should not be risking their lives for anything right now, least of all vigilantism. And you’re no older than them.

But you’re the exception. The same baseline just doesn’t fit you. You have All For One for a father—it can’t fit. The sins of the father, or something like that. Something, something, apples falling from trees. You’re different than them, the others in your class. You’re a lost cause.

You think of Todoroki, with his two-toned hair and burn scar that was not fire. Of the man made of fire he has for a father. Of him agreeing he hates fire, too.

You clench your fist until your knuckles ache a protest.

‘You’re aware that you’ll need to work even harder than your classmates to succeed, yes?’

Ah, there’s that signature Eraserhead style, not pulling any punches. It’s almost comforting after a full day of watered-down, educator Aizawa.

You’d listed your Quirk as Pain Relief, playing into the side of your ability that allows you to take away others’ pain. You know it won’t be on any Quirk registry anywhere, if anybody decides to look. It’s risky. But you’d already used the opposite side of your Quirk on Eraserhead, so it hadn’t seemed like the smartest idea to disclose that part to Yuuei. That was just asking for an obvious connection in your already dubious game of secret identity.

You take a quick breath and nod. ‘Yes, sensei. I know my Quirk isn’t inherently useful within a fighting context, so I’ve been training for a while now.’

Aizawa is quiet for a moment. Your shift your weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he says, ‘The way you passed the entrance exam was unorthodox.’

You shift again, avoiding his eyes. ‘Is that a bad thing?’ you ask. You genuinely can’t infer it from his tone.

The corner of his lip twitches. You could have blinked and missed it.

‘Not necessarily, but unorthodox methods won’t always be available. I won’t discourage them, but I won’t let you take it easy, either.’ He sighs, and the line between Aizawa and Eraserhead is blurred a little further. ‘And don’t bring knives to school. Got it?’

You’ll definitely be keeping at least one knife hidden on you at all times, but you nod anyway, and he nods back. You think you can even see a hint of approval in his eyes. You want to crush the part of you that immediately rises to accept it, wanting to bask in it and pester him for more.

You feel a small smile stretch across your lips despite yourself. Satisfaction and wistfulness war within you. Something about the interaction feels like a hint at what could have been if you hadn’t been Sine Nomine. If you’d been normal.

But very little of this interaction is real. It is, after all, what could have been. Not what is. You can’t let yourself slip into believing the lie.

Aizawa is already at the door, but as he opens it and steps outside, he turns back with another sigh. ‘Also,’ he says, ‘I need your emergency contact information. You didn’t fill it out on the form.’

The hollow in your chest makes itself abundantly known. You nod. ‘Oh, sorry. Of course, Aizawa-sensei.’

---

The idea first comes to you when you’re seated with the Midoriya family of two again for dinner. Katsudon, the younger Midoriya’s favourite, to celebrate a successful first day at Yuuei.

Midoriya had run out promptly after scoffing his food, saying something about having someone he needed to meet. You were overcome with nerves when you heard the front door click shut behind him. Midoriya’s absence allows the idea to fully form in your head and you wring your hands beneath the table.

You turn a little in your seat to properly face Midoriya’s mother.

‘Midoriya-san—’

She clasps her hands on the table in front of her, giving you a genuine, kind smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes your heart hurt. ‘Please, call me Inko,’ she says. She’s insisted you do many times before, but this is the first time you oblige her.

You nod, hoping your swallow isn’t as audible as it feels. You stare down at her hands as you speak, tentatively. ‘Inko-san, I spoke with Aizawa-sensei today and…’

Inko reaches a hand further across the table, placing it in front of you with a gentle smile. She’s not quite touching you, but it’s such a motherly gesture, you don’t have a clue what to do with it. You just blink and tamp down on the hot feeling behind your eyes.

‘My parents both work abroad, and I need a local emergency contact for the school, and I was wondering if, maybe…’

A glance shows you Inko’s growing smile before you can muster up the will to finish your request, though you notice something sad in her eyes, too. It’s not quite pity, but it’s something that tries desperately to encourage that behind-the-eyes heat you’re working so hard to shrug off.

You’re ushered out of the apartment a while later, your insistence that you help with the dishes brushed off. You sigh fondly on the doorstep as the door closes behind you, two full containers of leftovers in your arms. A Post-It sits on top with Inko’s number scrawled out, along with the message: Please call me anytime.

The hollow in your chest inexplicably widens.

---

You nod to Saeko as you make your way through the shop, flashing her a small smile from beneath your mask.

It feels a little like a betrayal, to still be going after information about the Shie Hassaikai. But you need to remember that this won’t last, this thing with Yuuei and Eraserhead, and you fully intend to still have your feet on the ground when it’s done.

Besides, it’s not like you’d made any sort of actual promise to Eraserhead that you wouldn’t. But you've also halfway taken him up on the Yuuei offer, even if he doesn’t know it and even if you don’t actually plan on graduating. So, you’re grappling with the rotting guilt of your stomach as you set your phone down beside the record player, a dramatic piano and string-based piece reaching crescendo in the room.

You toss a few notes into the centre of the green-felt card table and wait to be dealt a hand before you sit. You have no idea how to properly play poker, but most of the real gambling only happens when nobody is in to broker information, and you don’t exactly spend your leisure time here.

There are three others at the table with you. Two are patrons of the back room you remember seeing here before but whose names or aliases aren’t known to you. The last is the man at the head of the table. He’s most likely the person, or one of, behind this place as a whole.

Yasumi is a balding man of approximately fifty. The spiderweb of scars across his face, some old, some even older, whisper of his long years in this business. He constantly sports an empty smile, one that has you permanently on edge. You’re not actually suspicious of him, he wouldn’t have been able to keep this place going for so long if he had ulterior motives, but it’s impossible to forget he’s in the room.

You make a show of inspecting your cards before you get to business. ‘Shie Hassaikai,’ is all you say. It’s not the first time you’ve checked in with them about information on the group, and it won’t be the last.

Yasumi throws down a three of hearts, smiling that unsettling smile at you as he positions it purposefully in the centre of the table, pushing a small pile of coins and notes aside to make room for it. The deck of cards they use here is strange. Instead of having the art mirrored, each card has only one correct orientation. He’s set it so it’s facing you right-side-up.

One of the others takes a card from their hand and places it right below the three of hearts. It’s an eight of clubs.

You take a moment to inspect these two cards. Three of hearts at the top, eight of clubs below that. Based on what you already know, you can guess it means that alongside Overhaul, there are two others at the top of the organisation, and another eight below them who probably head various factions. You wonder if the other two ‘hearts’ are in equal standing to Overhaul, or if they still take his orders. From what you know so far, it’s primarily his organisation.

You reach into your pocket, placing another note on top of the pile of yen, an indication you understand and want to know more. One of the others, the one who’d put down the eight of clubs, throws down his hand, as if to fold, indicating there’s nothing more he knows.

After a considering moment, Yasumi does the same. You frown slightly. It’s unlikely he, as the one person who hears all of the information flowing through this place, doesn’t know anything more. You have to assume just as nobody in this place gives information for free, they also don’t give it all at once. You wouldn’t either. Leverage is a life vest in this world. You’ll just have to hope he isn’t withholding anything that could get you killed.

The third man, the one who has yet to fold, takes a long moment to consider, staring down at his hand. Finally, he reaches into his jacket and produces his own note, which he places gingerly on top of yours. It’s not an insignificant amount of money. An exchange, then. You match the amount.

He reaches over and taps a single finger on the three of hearts card, indicating one of the outer hearts. ‘One of them has a Quirk that slows shit down with direct contact.’

You file that information away for later. In isolation, it might not be the most useful knowledge, since the Quirk itself doesn’t seem to be the biggest threat so long as you can keep your distance. Is it limited to objects, people, or neither?

You tap a finger of your own atop the eight of clubs. Usually, divulging a Quirk from a lesser faction of a group like this wouldn’t be considered an equal exchange, and you’d have had to provide something else as well. But you’re confident you’ll have provided more than enough when you say: ‘There’s a truth Quirk, activated by asking the target a question.’

The silence that falls over the table isn’t contemplative so much as it is tense. Sometimes, silences are for people to mull over the information they’ve learned with the backdrop of whatever orchestral piece is coming from the record player. Other times, like now, it’s because somebody dropped a bombshell.

You quite like being the one to have dropped it. You even notice Juro, over at the bar, paying attention with a furrowed brow.

Lying, whether directly or by omission, is an integral part of maintaining businesses like this one. Not to mention the potential personal cost of having a truth revealed. So of course, it’s especially valuable to know when somebody has a Quirk that could derail everything. It’s a vital heads-up.

The system is informal, loosely directed by Yasumi, but you suspect this knowledge might even earn you some credit for a bit extra in the future.

You throw your cards down. The sound of your chair scraping against the worn wooden floor cuts through the quiet beneath the music. You retrieve your phone and leave without another word.

---

When you turn onto a residential street a few blocks from your apartment, a cold finger of dread runs down your spine. Something is very, very wrong. You can smell, almost taste, the iron in the air. You scan the street, looking for threats, for the source of the all-too-quiet. You finally see him. There’s a man, lying on the concrete, several houses down.

He’s positioned beneath a street light, almost deliberately so. The way the light hits the pool of blood beneath him makes it look almost black. The yellow hue cast over everything turns the whole image into something surreal and sickly.

The closer you get, the more his injuries come into focus. He’s been stabbed. Cut up. Carved. That much you can tell, but you have no idea just how many injuries he actually has. He’s coated in so much blood, his clothes torn all over. Dirt is already caked over some of the wounds, but it does nothing to stem the steady tide of blood still leaking from him. You’ve seen, more than once, the volume of blood the human body can hold, but it still surprises you every single time.

You realise, suddenly, that some vague part of your mind recognises the tattered shreds of a costume. He’s a hero. You haven’t got the wherewithal to identify which one.

Later, you’ll wish you could have thought it through. Actually considered the consequences—the potential repercussions—of helping him. Because he’s already dead, even if he’s still breathing. Help won’t arrive in time, and even if it does, he’s a goner.

And he’s a goddamn hero, probably no better than the rest.

But you carry the phantom weight of your mother’s brief influence. Her kindness. Somebody in front of you needs help, and though there’s an equal, if not stronger, part of you that wants the world of heroes to burn, the memory of your mother’s smile wins out.

You’ve never managed to walk away before, and you don’t this time, either.

You pull out one of your knives and start cutting away his clothes to get a better view of the wounds. The worst of them are three deep lacerations to his chest, and one puncture to his stomach. He’ll never make it, but didn’t you already know that?

‘Hero…’

You startle enough to drop the knife when he speaks. It’s the dry, garbled sound of a dying man, a man choking on his own blood. Your knife clatters to the ground beside you, the impact of steel on concrete far too loud in the eerie quiet.

He coughs, a sputtered, dying thing, when you put pressure on the deepest of his chest wounds, covering as much of the bleeding as you can. It’s not enough. He never stood a chance.

You don’t know what to say to a dying man. You can’t even think of some hollow comfort, you mind is so strangely void. You only realise you’re shaking when you notice the flow of blood leaking through your hands. You’re not pushing down hard enough. Your hands are red, wet, hot. For a terrible second, it’s your mother’s blood, instead, and then the sound of his voice pulls you back into the present.

‘Hero Ki—’

When the man chokes again, you notice how pale his lips are. There’s a significant amount of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, and his lips look white in comparison. You force yourself to press down harder on the wounds. One of your fingertips slips deep into the shredded flesh, and you nearly gag.

He’s going to die no matter what you do, but you can’t make yourself pull away.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ you say. Your voice sounds steadier than you expected it to, somehow.

‘Holy shit!’

It takes you a second to register that those words, so loud and bright and alive, didn’t come from the dying man below you. You turn with barely enough time to register the phone aimed at you and raise one arm to cover your face. Two people, bystanders. One of them filming. Fuck. Fuck.

You’ve stopped putting pressure on his wounds, but the bleeding is slowing down, and you know there’s no good reason for it.

Shit. What do you do? In that moment, in between a dying man and someone else, someone very much alive, you feel suddenly insignificant. Your place in this, in all of it, seems not to matter.

The smart, stable part of yourself is shouting at you to take the phone. You know you could do it, easily, in seconds. But before you can make a decision, the hero’s hand is clasped around your wrist. He manages a single moment of strength before his hand falls again, but it’s enough to put your attention firmly back on him.

You turn and almost gasp when you find him leaning up towards you. His body is shaking violently, in a way that must be shock, or adrenaline, or death. You know it’s the end of him, the very last bit of his energy being used up. So, despite yourself, you lean in and listen to a dying hero’s final words:

‘Hero… Killer.’

---

Standing at your bathroom sink, scrubbing at the blood under your nails, you lose yourself. You wonder, for a long time, what you could have done to make your walk home a little less fucked up.

Maybe if you hadn’t taken that specific route, passed by that specific street. Maybe if Eraserhead had been patrolling, tailing you, even though you’ve never seen him following you home. Maybe he could have helped.

But what the fuck does that mean? He wouldn’t have helped you. Nobody would have, and especially no damn hero. Did fighting alongside him one time wear you down enough you suddenly forgot everything you know about heroes? Everything they’ve shown you every time?

Heroes don’t help people like you. They never have and they’re certainly not going to start now. You’re a vigilante, and if they ever manage to dig just a little deeper they’ll find out you’re pretty much a villain, too. So no, Eraserhead wouldn’t have helped you. And you need to stop thinking that he will.

You curse softly. The dried blood beneath your fingernails won’t come out. Your hands are shaking. You breathe short and sharp over the sink, the ceramic tinted faintly pink from all the blood. You try to banish the afterimages of yellow-tinted blood and shredded wounds and a slowly dying hero. There’s phantom warm blood, viscous, seeping between your fingers as you scrub. You’re finger-painting your mother’s skin with red—

You only realise you’re crying when a tear leaves a trail in the suds on your hands. The impact of it stings with imagined pain.

Your hands are red. Raw. Not from the hero’s blood. Most of that has been washed away. It’s what’s left beneath your nails that you can’t seem to get rid of. You scrub harder with the rag you’re using.

The phrase ‘caught red-handed’ could mean being caught with blood on your hands. But it could also mean being caught with the skin of your hands rubbed raw from trying too hard to get it off.

You realise, with that thought, that you’re probably a little bit delirious. You run the shower. Everything seems to come off in the shower.

You stay folded in on yourself, sitting on the shower floor, for longer than you want to admit. The water is just the wrong side of hot, but you let it hammer down against your back anyway. You can’t close your eyes, though. It’ll all become more vivid, more real, if you do. You hide your face in the crook of your arm, instead, staring at the dark nothing.

But no amount of darkness and hot water can stop you from hearing the hero’s final words echo in your head: ‘Hero Killer.’

And they echo. Again, and again, and again.

At first, when he said it, you thought the hero was using his dying breath to insult you. That maybe he’d been unconscious for his actual fight, or attack, or whatever the fuck had happened to him. Or maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d mistaken you for somebody else, mistaken you for his killer, as the strength left him.

But your senses returned on the way back to your apartment, and you grasped at a previously filed-away recollection of a moniker you’d heard in certain underground circles. An up-and-coming villain who massacres heroes he deems ‘unworthy’.

It almost sounds like your would-be MO, in another life. If you’d chosen a path significantly more violent, followed in Father’s footsteps. The thought is unsettling in a deep, inexplicable way.

The blood is finally gone by the time you force yourself to leave the shower. You towel yourself dry, change, and sit at one of the dining chairs. There’s no couch in your apartment, so it’s the best you’ve got.

Three hours. You watch the news for three hours before the story finally breaks.

You try to pay attention to the details they include, but you can’t. The only thing that sticks in your exhausted mind is the headline, a caption for a freeze-frame of you. Arm poorly covering your face, hand bloodied, on your knees in front of the decimated body of a hero. Your bloodied knife is on the ground beside you.

And the headline, in big, bold letters underneath:

VIGILANTE SINE NOMINE WANTED FOR MURDER

---

Shouta’s hair is dripping all over the back of the couch. Much to Hizashi’s continued displeasure, he never dries it after a shower. Hizashi grumbles to himself about not wanting his husband to catch a cold as he grabs a clean towel and drapes it over Shouta’s head.

It’s a practised, habitual motion, starting to gently squeeze Shouta’s hair dry beneath the towel, and Hizashi doesn’t think anything of it. Not until the motion is disrupted by a firm hand around his wrist.

In all the years they’ve known each other, Hizashi has learned, and learned again, the subtle tells of his husband. One of his favourite tells, the one he looks out for most, is the way that Shouta conveys his emotions through his hands.

At sixteen, a solid, cocksure grip on Hizashi’s shirt when he pulled him in for their first kiss. At twenty, in a fistful of Hizashi’s hair, leveraged to keep him close, when they reunited after Hizashi’s stint abroad. At twenty-four, when Hizashi woke in the hospital after an emergency surgery, and Shouta almost crushed his hand. The gentle scrape of fingers on Hizashi’s face when they were married a year later.

Now, Shouta is afraid. He tries to stop Hizashi’s movements as if he can will the whole world to stop turning for a moment, give him time to process, come up with a plan.

He knows Shouta would never admit it in so many words, but Hizashi prides himself on speaking his husband’s language. So he flicks his gaze up to the screen, instead, following Shouta’s attention to decipher his reaction further.

That’s when he finally sees it. He slips his wrist from Shouta’s hold and takes his hand instead. Because now he’s afraid, too.

VIGILANTE SINE NOMINE WANTED FOR MURDER

‘Doesn’t make sense,’ Shouta murmurs, quiet, under his breath.

Even though his experience of the vigilante so far is second-hand, Hizashi shakes his head. ‘It definitely doesn’t,’ he agrees.

The headline doesn’t line up with what Shouta has told him about his interactions with Sine so far. But it’s more than that. The truth of it stares them both right in the face. Hizashi can see it, even in the blurry, under-exposed video clip that plays on a loop above the words.

The vigilante Sine Nomine is shaking.

Notes:

Holy shit I'm back!!! I'm so sorry for the lengthy wait for this to be continued. Life has been hectic. But I've got most of the next chapter written as well, and I hope this sneak peak is enough of an apology: It's USJ. And it's big.

I'll have it up for you soon, lovely people! I've settled on a QPR with Todoroki, with no plans for a romance right now. I promise the fluffier, healing moments are on the way! We're just not there quite yet.

Please tell me your thoughts <3

Chapter 4

Notes:

cw: violence, blood, panic attacks, reference to vomiting, mention of a dead cat, child abuse, semi-graphic injury, and as usual, sine uses pain to ground themselves (clenching fists too tight, etc.)

also all cws associated with Tomura and the USJ arc!

posting this at 1am, so if I missed any please let me know!

The tension of the night, and of getting zero sleep, haunts you in class the next day. You’re already on edge when Yaoyorozu Momo comes up beside you with a friendly smile. You’ve been paired together for a battle trial, one being proctored by none other than All Might. You knew you were going to be taught by him, but somehow the fact of it still hadn’t had a chance to sink in.

It’s just another edge to your barbed-wire nerves. You clench and unclench a fist, again and again, in some futile attempt to calm down.

‘Do you have any ideas for how to approach the battle trial?’ Yaoyorozu asks. She adds your name on the end, honorific and all. It’s very polite.

You scoff openly. ‘Obviously.’

Your regret is instant and you sigh, running a hand over your face. You don’t want to alienate your classmates, at least no more than your general demeanour already will, so you do your best to remedy your attitude with a smile.

‘Sorry, I’m just tired,’ you explain.

Her smile is a little less confident, but still friendly enough, and she shakes her head softly. ‘That’s okay. What did you have in mind?’

Your idea is a little aggressive. You’re on the villain team, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but this is still a high school class. These people are supposed to be your peers, role-play or not, and you suspect nobody will hold you to that classmate camaraderie more than All Might himself. The man seems to get along with everybody.

You should be keeping a low profile, but you’re pissed off and anxious, and you can’t stop fidgeting with nervous tension. You’re running on fumes, and after the events of the previous night, it’s difficult to circumvent the urge to make a splash and force All Might to recognise you. Somehow, you want him recognise your abilities and strength, to really see you. But if anybody really sees you, it means the jig is up, and you can’t afford that, now more than ever.

Not when you’re literally wanted for murder.

He’s watching as you all take a few minutes to strategise, broken off into your pairs. Even when he’s not looking at you directly, it feels like he is. His presence is oppressive. It’s making your already foul mood slowly descend even further, something deep coiling in your stomach, waiting to strike.

The day has been a series of blows. First, when Aizawa announced you were being taught by All Might today for a heroics class. You barely had the energy, even then, to school yourself into nonchalance. Especially when most of your peers were visibly and audibly excited. That was the start of a persistent, pounding headache.

Then, you saw your hero costume. You’d asked Midoriya to help you design it, because it was so far from your area of expertise you didn’t think you could bullshit your way through it. God forbid whoever was on the other end of the design process take their own liberties, if you’d handed in a blank piece of paper like you wanted to.

Plus, Midoriya had given you the most heart-rending beam of a smile when you’d stood, tentatively, holding the form out at his front door. You couldn’t back out after that. It wasn’t the first time you’d thought that he would have made a great addition to any support department. But that was before his Quirk had ‘manifested late’.

He’d done well compromising with your want for something subtle versus his instinctive need to make it a real hero costume. And whoever developed the costume itself pretty much followed what he designed to the letter.

It’s a black base, a bodysuit, with straps around the arms, legs and torso for flair; a few pouches are strapped to your thighs and around your waist for practicality. The accents are in different soft blues, which Midoriya said used to be a common colour for heroes with medical-related Quirks. The only part of your skin that stays mostly uncovered is your hands, and a window cut-out in the fabric above your elbows.

Your scars needed to stay well and truly hidden, but it made sense to have at least a little of your skin uncovered for using your Quirk. Really you just need your hands; you’ve haven’t experimented too much with using it through any other skin-to-skin contact. But Midoriya was a mess of murmured rambles when he had the idea that you might be able to activate your Quirk by having others simply touch your skin.

Maybe that’s something you’ll be able to practice at Yuuei.

Ha, ha.

The problem is that you like it. It’s not wildly uncomfortable given that it’s a far cry from what you’re used to. You’re used to layers, and all black, and blending into the shadows. This… isn’t that. And you don’t hate it. And the fact that you don’t hate it plays on your nerves, in itself.

The day really is setting itself up to be awful. You wish you could look forward to it being over, to going home, sleeping, and resetting it all. But you don’t know how you’re ever going to sleep again. Not when every time you close your eyes there’s warm blood on your hands and you hear the last words of a dying hero.

For now, though, you’re here, and you have to do everything you can to get through the rest of the day.

Every second you spend in the vicinity of All Might makes your skin prickle all over. It makes the headache worse, makes you hyper-vigilant, and being hyper-vigilant requires precious energy you do not have. But you don’t have a choice, because it feels like if you slip for even a second, All Might is going to look at you and recognise your father, even though you don’t bear any familial resemblance.

You can almost imagine his trademark grin falling—you know it does when he’s around Father—as he stares you down and says, ‘Villain.’

You shudder. You desperately want to hide in your head, but now is not the time.

You were trained extensively by Father from the day he first took you in. The physical training didn’t start for a few years, but there’s a lot one can train that isn’t physical. And no matter what the topic of the day’s training, the one constant was your father’s high standards. It’s an agony you’ve never managed to kick. Even now, the fear of failure is an unending thrum in your bones thanks to his conditioning.

You turn back to Yaoyorozu and tell her your plan. She nods along, though she winces at the more aggressive elements. In the end, she agrees, and gets to work with her Quirk. It’s fascinating to watch, and you almost feel a little like Midoriya. If you were just a little more unabashed, you’d take notes for him.

---

When you’re in position on a higher floor, and All Might signals for your group to start, you turn to Yaoyorozu and nod. You place the earmuffs she created over your ears. She does the same. Then, you place a small alarm, also a product of her Quirk, on the concrete floor at your feet. You press the button to set it off.

A high-pitched sound rings through the building, so loud it makes you grit your teeth even through the earmuffs. You can feel the small tremors in your feet. You let the sound play for a solid ten seconds before you press the button again and toss the device back to Yaoyorozu. You slide the earmuffs down and around your neck.

‘If Jirou recovers and gets close, set it off again,’ you tell her. She nods and you turn and leave the room, leaving her to defend the ‘weapon’ the heroes have been tasked with acquiring.

Most of the villain teams, you’ve noticed, have stayed with the weapon they had to defend. They waited for the heroes to come to them. But you know villains better than they do. A villain would get proactive. A villain would hunt down their prey.

So you hunt.

It doesn’t take you long to find Kaminari. You’d guessed, correctly, that Jirou would probably tell him to go ahead, give her a moment to recover. He’s alone. It wouldn’t have mattered, either way. You’re more than confident in your ability to take on any two of your classmates.

You don’t give him a chance to say anything, or launch his own plan of attack. You dart forward and throw a steady punch. He dodges at the last second. You anticipated it, and he falls backwards when he steps into your waiting kick. You throw him off his feet.

You’re on him a second later, flipping him over and pulling him onto his knees with one arm. You leverage your knee into the centre of his back and give his arm a single, soft yank. You certainly don’t use your full strength on him. There’s no reason to actually break any bones. He cries out, and you know you have him.

You secure him with the provided restraints, and when you meet his eyes he’s staring at you with both eyebrows raised. It makes you want to flinch.

‘Sorry,’ you murmur.

‘Are you kidding?’ he gives you a wide grin and attempts a thumbs up even with his restrained arms. ‘That was awesome!’

You blink once, then twice. You have no idea how to respond to that, so all you can come up with is a, ‘Thanks,’ that sounds a little too much like a question.

You find Jirou on a lower floor. She’s less enthused than Kaminari was. She’s not looking at your with outright fear or hatred, but she is scowling up at you from where she nurses her head. You can see a faint line of blood running down her neck, from one of her ears. It makes you wince.

‘Sorry,’ you say again.

She just sighs, making a big show of it, and waves a flippant hand at you. When she looks at you again, it’s still with that unhappy expression, but it’s a little softened. All Might announces your victory before you even tie her up. His voice comes through the earpiece you’d been given, directly into your ear. The proximity makes you seriously consider how much trouble you’d be in if you shattered it.

You manage to restrain yourself.

As the four of you make your way back to the rest of the group, Kaminari is still giving you that strange, excited look, and he’s fallen into step beside you. He’s asking questions about your Quirk, and where you learned to fight so well, and if you know how cool that was.

You subtly dodge giving any real answers.

Your day gets infinitely worse when you meet All Might’s gaze. It’s levelled at you specifically, there’s no denying that this time. He’s still sporting his signature grin, but…

Your father can read All Might better than most, a skill that has been handed down to you. You see the tiniest hint of uncertainty in the Number One hero. It’s an almost imperceptible furrow of his brow, and the way the corners of his smile don’t reach quite as high as they usually do.

If Midoriya hadn’t been sent to Recovery Girl after his fight with Bakugou, you wonder if he would have noticed it.

‘You played the part of a villain well,’ he says.

You stop hearing anything else after that. There’s just white noise, like a bomb went off, and your ears are ringing too much for any other sound to get in. You think he’s complimenting Yaoyorozu, too, but you’re so jarred by the statement you don’t even hear whatever critiques he levels your way. Whatever he says to the other team, that’s lost on you, too.

You feel a moment away from a panic attack for the rest of the class.

---

You can’t get his words out of your head even by the end of the day. You’re not feeling quite as strung up, quite as ready to implode, but all of your muscles are aching from the hours of residual tension.

You played the part of a villain well.

If Father knew his heroic counterpart had told you that, would he be proud?

The thought makes you distinctly nauseous. You’re ready to go home and curl up for some much-needed sleep, nightmares be damned.

You hoist your bag over your shoulder and almost forget the piece of paper you’ve had waiting in your pocket all day, the one with Inko’s contact information scrawled on it. You take a quiet, steadying breath and resolve to push the last twenty-four hours out of your mind just long enough to finish this and get yourself home.

You approach Aizawa, who’s waiting at his desk for everybody else to file out. You walk slowly enough that by the time you’re in front of him, the rest of the class is gone. You place the piece of paper gingerly on the desk in front of him.

‘My emergency contact,’ you explain.

You’re so tired. You’d meant to prepare an appropriate explanation beforehand, for why it’s somebody he already knows, somebody who is already an emergency contact for another student in his class. But the wherewithal to keep your secrets safe has been thoroughly dashed by your exhaustion. You just can’t bring yourself to care.

He scans the paper quickly, and when he looks back up at you, it’s not with the raised eyebrow or confused expression you expect. It’s a carefully blank expression tinged with the slightest bit of something… gentle. And isn’t that something? Something you’ve got no idea how to handle.

You don’t know if he’s anticipating the possible reasons why Inko would be your emergency contact, or if he can tell how bone-deep exhausted you are. Probably both. To be fair, you think you nearly nodded off several times during the final hour of the day, so maybe he caught it then.

You need to do better.

‘And why is your emergency contact Midoriya’s mother?’

He doesn’t say it unkindly. It’s almost like he’s giving you an out, though you have a hard time believing he’d accept a vague answer.

There are better answers. Answers that are less revealing, better thought out. But you’re just so tired, so what comes out is a partial truth.

‘They died. My parents,’ you say, looking down at the desk. ‘I live in the same building as the Midoriyas. Inko-san agreed.’

There’s a moment of silence, and when you chance a glance back up at Aizawa, you find him studying you, his head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side. He looks like he’s about to say something, but the door slides open with a slam and a familiar shock of yellow hair in your peripheral vision.

‘Shoutaaaaaaaa!’

You cringe. Aizawa cringes, too. He turns to Yamada with a tired glare, but before he can say anything you hoist your bag higher on your shoulder.

‘Is that okay?’ you ask, gesturing down at the note. You need to leave.

Aizawa is quiet for a moment before he nods at you. You don’t give either of them the chance to say anything else before you dart past Yamada and down the hall.

It follows you all the way, like a damn echo.

You played the part of a villain well.

You pause at the building’s exit, near the front entrance of Yuuei. You see Midoriya, who looks alright after his visit to Recovery Girl. You’re equal parts exasperated and concerned when you look past him and see that he’s with Bakugou. They’re standing a few paces apart, almost looking like they’re about to face off again for the second time that day.

Bakugou is shaking. You’re fairly sure it’s anger.

You’re busy calculating the odds of getting exploded if you intervene in the state you’re in, so it takes a second to register what Midoriya is saying. But you hear it.

‘There’s one thing I feel like I have to tell you,’ he’s saying to Bakugou. ‘My Quirk is something I received from someone else.’

You back up, taking several halting backwards steps until you’re out of his line of sight. Until you can’t hear what he’s saying, or see wherever this confrontation goes.

It’s petty. It doesn’t matter. Not now.

You thought Midoriya had gotten himself into some small-time criminal shit. You thought the greatest possible coincidence was it being linked to the Shie Hassaikai, with the rumours of them fucking around with Quirks behind the scenes.

You thought maybe it was linked to that, improbable as it was.

But, no. God, no. It’s not that. It’s not that—that would have been something you could do something about. That’s the stupid reason you gave yourself for coming to Yuuei, isn’t it? To keep an eye on Midoriya?

Can you help him against your father?

Did your father give Midoriya Izuku a Quirk?

You don’t realise you’re hyperventilating until the walls start to spin. You turn, and run into the nearest bathroom. You drop your bag at the entrance and very nearly lose what little lunch you’d managed to down in the nearest sink.

You dig your fingers into the ceramic. You stare down at the pristine, unmarked white. You’re running it all through your mind. It plays out like one big fucking joke.

Midoriya’s sudden development of a Quirk. The way it mangles him. His purpled, warped limbs. A strength-based, powerful Quirk. A Quirk that’s too much for his body to take.

Father, and his stories. The things he told you about his Quirk.

He said he would have given you another Quirk, but your Quirk was already so special. You didn’t need it. He needed you. Now you know he probably just didn’t want you to have any more power, lest you try to leverage it against him. That, or he wasn’t willing to take the risk that you wouldn’t survive the process.

He always talked about Tomura. Tomura would be the one to inherit his Quirk. You always knew it.

So why? Why, and how, did Midoriya suddenly come into the picture?

You hear yourself dry-heave more than you feel it. You clamp your eyes shut, only to be met with images of your father. And Tomura. You remember your father’s chest, the way his hands clamped around your arms to hold you still. You remember struggling while Tomura’s hand touched your back. You remember screaming. You don’t remember what you did to deserve the punishment. Not that time. But you can feel it again, the horrific, half-burn, half-sting of Tomura’s Quirk, activated against your skin.

You snap your eyes open as your knees collide with cold tile, covering your mouth with both hands. You manage to avoid screaming with the memory, but you’re sweating through your uniform.

No. No no no, it doesn’t make sense. It’s worse than that, isn’t it? Surely, surely if your father wanted you back he wouldn’t have gone after the Midoriyas. It doesn’t fit. You care for them a lot but you keep your distance. You do. He wouldn’t target them. It’s not like him. He doesn’t need to use underhanded tactics like that. He could do it all by himself, and you know he knows it. If he really wanted you back, he’d send Tomura.

But that means it’s something else. Midoriya hasn’t seen your father. You’d know. You’d feel it, surely you’d be able to tell. People change after meeting your father. Midoriya would have changed. Your father doesn’t meet people and not tear their lives apart.

You bite down hard on your hand, trying to ground yourself, as you let your mind work it all over again.

Father. His Quirk. All For One. You run your mind over all the things he told you, taught you, drilled into your head over and over again.

You think of blond hair and a confident grin. A confident grin you were taught to read. A confident grin you’ve seen levelled at Midoriya, specifically, more than once.

You remember what Father told you about All Might. You remember what he told you about All Might’s Quirk. How All Might is reaching his limit. How All Might isn’t the first.

He told you about One For All. That All Might would be looking for a successor.

Moments later, you do lose your lunch, huddled in a locked bathroom stall.

---

The rain is a fine mist. Your uniform is soaked through beneath the jacket you threw over the top. You pull your arms tighter around yourself as you stare at your mother’s headstone. The night was already cold without the added chill of damp clothes, but you stay there for a little while longer.

You’re too exhausted to cry, but a part of you wishes you could. You shouldn’t. Tears are a weakness, and weakness can be exploited. That point was hammered home more than once under Father’s tutelage.

But even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to cry. Tears never seem to come anymore.

Your whole body aches with the thought of Midoriya. You wonder if he has any idea what he’s gotten himself into. If by some miracle Father doesn’t manage to kill him, Tomura will.

If Father still had you under his thumb, he might order you to do it. Would you be a good little soldier, if you hadn’t gotten out when you did?

It’s a good thing you have nothing left to throw up.

There’s a hint, in the back of your mind, of a past, lost hope. Thoughts of a slightly younger you, after you got it into your head that you needed to escape. Curled up in the dark, chained to your bed, after days without food. They starved the hope out of you when Tomura’s Quirk didn’t do it. They forced you to realise Father was right.

If All Might couldn’t kill him, nobody could. There was no point in escape.

Part of you cares very deeply about Midoriya. If it was possible to let him in, you might see him like a brother. As it stands, all he can ever be is a distant friend.

And now you know the truth. You know the reality of what he’s gotten himself mixed up in is much, much worse than some shitty backfiring Quirk drug for Quirkless people, or any of the other possibilities your mind had conjured up.

The part that makes you wish you could cry, though, isn’t about Midoriya’s inevitable death at the hands of your family. It isn’t about the part you might have to play in it.

You want to cry because you know All Might chose well. There’s no better person you can think of to succeed the Number One hero. Midoriya Izuku makes sense.

You’re jaded. You get a bad taste in your mouth whenever you think about heroes as a whole. It’s a bad taste that turns to a crippling fear when you think about All Might. But your father was aware of the merits of the Symbol of Peace. He had to be, in order to teach you and Tomura exactly why that symbol needed to be erased.

Hope. The Symbol of Peace inspires hope.

And so does Midoriya.

He brought hope to you. It’s a slight thing, fragile; it might fizzle out in a light wind. But he didn’t hesitate when he told you you’d make a good hero. And he was being honest, even if he was wrong.

Whatever he did to earn the trust of All Might, you know it was probably very, very impressive. He wouldn’t have flinched in the face of whatever fear he had to conquer.

You saw him leap in front of a giant, towering robot to save a stranger. You saw the determination in a foolish plan, breaking only a single finger to prove his worth to Aizawa.

You see the way Inko looks at him, like she knows something nobody else does. She’s constantly steeling her heart to the thought of all the things she knows he will do to save others at the behest of himself. Because she’s a mother who would never consider robbing her child of his dream, even if he is in constant danger.

Midoriya brings you hope. But it’s not hope for you. You’ve lost the right to hope you could ever be anything decent, ever be anything good.

Midoriya brings you hope for heroes. And that scares you so much more.

The rain is relentless. You force yourself to your feet. You should just go home, but you need Hina’s right now. You need the space she holds, the questions she knows not to ask. You need her kindness, at least for a moment.

Luckily, she’ll still be open even though it’s late evening. You’re grateful for her extended hours, even if it means she works a little too much.

Your lethargic, slow steps are halted halfway down the street when you hear a cry. You know what it is, and you can’t leave well enough alone. Not when there’s a cat, crying, out in all this rain.

You find it nestled against a garbage bag behind a closed convenience store not far from Hina’s. On a backdrop of soaking concrete, a lone kitten, fur mottled black and white, curls up beside its dead mother. It cries out in pathetic, tiny sounds. Your heart breaks for it.

The parallel isn’t lost on you, dead mother and abandoned child, and if you were just a little crueller, you’d leave it out of spite. But your mother raised you better than that, even if she only had four years of you.

You scoop the kitten up and bundle it against your chest, beneath your jacket. It can’t be more than a few weeks old, maybe even younger. You can feel it shivering violently.

You speed-walk the final distance to Hina’s and take refuge from the rain as it starts to come down even harder. The little bell announces you, and Hina looks up from behind the counter. She’s surprised, you can tell, since you don’t usually come in during the evening, but she still has a smile for you.

She opens her mouth to speak when the little lump against your chest lets out another cry.

Hina’s smile softens. ‘Who’ve you got there?’

You step closer until you can lean over the counter and pull your jacket down enough to show her. She coos, reaching forward to stroke the kitten’s head with a single fingertip.

‘I found it outside,’ you tell her. You omit the gory details. You don’t feel like you could stomach talking about dead parents right now.

‘I’ll have to take it to a shelter,’ you realise with a grimace. ‘Hopefully there’s one nearby that’s still open.’

You hadn’t thought that far. You definitely can’t take it home, which means you might be in for a fair walk before you can finally collapse into your waiting bed. A fair walk in the pouring rain, in your already-soaking clothes.

It sounds like the cherry on top of this awful day.

Hina looks thoughtful for a moment before she brightens. ‘I know a couple who fosters sometimes. I’ll give them a call, see if they can help!’ She turns away and pulls her phone from the pocket of her apron.

You find your usual place in the corner by the window and get as comfortable as you can while having to support a kitten against your chest. Its tremors have died down a little, at least.

You tuck your chin down, hoping your breath might help keep it warm, and you can’t help but close your eyes. Hina’s shop chases away the bloody memories that have plagued your every moment. You breathe a deep sigh as you feel the kitten shift against you, grateful for the moment of rest.

When you open your eyes again, there are two more people in the shop. Your breath hitches on a panicked inhale when you realise you didn’t hear them come in. You must have dozed off.

When you glance up to take stock of the strangers, you realise they’re not strangers at all. You feel yourself relax, just a little.

‘Hey, little listener!’ Yamada chirps. You’re begrudgingly grateful that his voice is quieter than usual. You wonder if it’s on account of you or the kitten. The kitten in question has clawed its way up your shirt to snuggle right below your chin.

Standing beside him is Aizawa, who looks almost out of character with the bulky animal carrier he’s holding in one hand. He’s looking at you with a slight furrow to his brow, and for a moment the lines blur between Aizawa and Eraserhead in your exhaustion, no matter how hard you try to keep the two distant. The closer they are, the closer it feels you are to Sine. And that’s a particular kind of discomfort you’d rather do without.

You almost seem to be at a standstill with him. Student and homeroom teacher; a little deeper, vigilante and hero. Does he find you familiar? You truly hope he doesn’t.

You hadn’t even stopped to consider what Eraserhead thinks of the news. Of Sine being wanted for murder. Is he waiting for the next time you show, to arrest you? Slap you in Quirk suppression cuffs?

You should probably leave Yuuei.

Finally, Yamada cuts through the tension. He steps towards you and it takes every ounce of energy you have left not to flinch. You’re always extra skittish just after waking up.

‘And who’s the little kitty?’ Yamada asks. He raises a hand and moves, slowly, towards you, until he stops with his hand out. Is he asking permission? It’s a concept so foreign you’re sure he must have some other intent.

It finally registers that this is the first time you’ve seen either of them in civilian clothes. Yamada’s lost that stupid cockatoo hair. It’s a half-up, half-down style, instead, partly in a bun. He’s wearing jeans and a red shirt, a black jacket over the top, and his usual shades have been replaced by red-rimmed glasses. It almost makes him look soft.

And then there’s Aizawa, who’s wearing baggy black clothes, barely a departure from his hero costume. A long-sleeve shirt and cargo pants, hair still as dishevelled as ever—it’s so drab and practical you could laugh.

You carefully, slowly, dislodge the kitten from your neck and hold it out to Yamada, who adjusts his waiting hand to scoop it up. He immediately starts cooing, holding the kitten close to his face as it lets out a disgruntled mew.

You’re watching his weird moustache twitch when the pieces finally come together. It all clicks at once. Your first meeting with Yamada, when he showed you pictures of his cats that his husband, Shouta, had sent to him. Just a few hours earlier, when Yamada had burst into the classroom, shouting that very name. Hina, saying she knew a couple who fosters cats.

It slips out before you can stop it. ‘Are you two married?’

You glance between Yamada, who freezes in place as the kitten swipes at his nose, and Aizawa, who’s scowling at the blond beside him.

‘I swear I didn’t say anything!’ Yamada cries.

And you can’t help it. You giggle.

As soon as the sound slips out, you freeze and look down. Your cheeks feel hot. You’re not supposed to giggle. Chuckle, snort, laugh, whatever. Anything but giggle. You’re not a goddamn child.

Aizawa sighs. You tentatively look up and find a firm, very teacherly expression levelled at you. ‘Please avoid discussing this with your classmates,’ he says, the picture of an authoritarian.

This time, you do snort. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t want anybody to know I was married to a cockatoo, either, sensei. It would ruin your image.’

Yamada’s responding squawk does him no favours. Aizawa’s laugh is soft, quiet. It betrays his fondness for his husband way more than he probably thinks it does. You pretend not to notice the faint furrow in his brow when he glances back at you, though. It’s something dangerously close to recognition.

‘Wait,’ Hina cuts in, focused back on you. ‘Are you at Yuuei? Are you in the hero course?’ She’s beaming at you from behind the counter, stopping partway through what she’d been doing.

You bite your lip, hard, and nod.

Her smile softens, a little. ‘That’s amazing, dear. Your mother would be so proud of you.’

There’s an unbearable heat behind your eyes, then, tears that won’t come. Because Hina’s right. If things had gone differently, and your mother was here, and you’d actually attended Yuuei, she would be so, so proud of you.

But that’s not real.

You clamp down on your feelings and shove them as deep as you can. ‘She would be,’ you admit quietly.

Yamada stops the moment from getting any more suffocating when he gently, but somehow with just as much pizzazz as usual, cries, ‘Shouta! We have to keep it!’ The cat bats at his glasses, very nearly knocking them clean off his face.

Aizawa sighs, long-suffering and very Eraserhead. ‘We don’t have room for another cat,’ he says, but he reaches up to scratch at the kitten’s neck, earning a deep purr in response. ‘We’ll just…’ He trails off. The cat uses its tiny paws against Yamada’s chest to prop itself up and rub its head against Aizawa’s hand, still purring loudly. Aizawa blinks, ‘We’ll look after it tonight. I’ll take it to a shelter in the morning.’

Yamada looks ready to cry, big eyes and pouted lips raring to go, but it’s Hina whose laugh cuts in first.

‘I’ve heard those words before, Aizawa-san,’ she says, complete with a teasing lilt and a shake of her head as she rounds the counter to place a cup of tea in front of you.

You don’t have the heart to argue you didn’t order it. You wrap both hands around the cup instead, savouring its warmth.

‘Can I get anything for you two before you go?’ she asks, turning to Yamada and Aizawa with her hands clasped together. ‘Anything other than coffee?’ she adds, levelling a pointed stare at Aizawa. You glance at him and note his unimpressed frown. You huff a quiet laugh through your nose.

‘Oh! Shouta’s been dying to try the new blueberry banana muffins!’ Yamada beams. ‘We could share one!’

You stare down at your tea and pretend you don’t see Aizawa’s embarrassed grimace. They do take a seat at the table beside yours, though. When you glance over, Aizawa has commandeered the kitten. It’s currently trying its best to get inside his shirt.

‘We have to name it!’ Yamada declares when Hina places a muffin on a plate between the two of them, along with a cup of tea each.

Aizawa doesn’t even offer a rebuff, this time. He just sighs. Looks like they’re keeping it.

You heart tugs something wistful. You do your best to ignore it.

You finish your tea as quickly as you can, not wanting to get sucked into any more conversation. You’re letting too much slip.

You gently place the mug on the counter for Hina. She flashes a soft smile your way and you turn to leave. Your throat feels too constricted to even offer a goodbye.

Aizawa’s gruff voice stops you just before you reach the door, the sound of your name making you stall. You turn back to him, shoving your hands deep into your pockets to avoid fidgeting. When you meet his eyes, he’s got that soft, scrutinising look.

He’s quiet for a moment, before his brows furrow slightly, his expression grave. It’s more serious than he looks as Eraserhead, even. He holds your gaze, steady and firm, and says, ‘You did well in the battle trial today.’

You clench a fist in your pocket, tight enough it hurts. You can’t stop a sharp flood of words. ‘Yeah, apparently too well.’

You close your eyes. You shouldn’t have said that. You can’t just go around badmouthing your teachers to one another, even if what All Might said burned you. Even if he’s a goddamn hero.

You played the part of a villain well.

‘Sorry—’ Your apology is cut off when Aizawa speaks over you.

‘I reviewed the footage. All Might’s delivery of criticism was… flawed.’ He’s careful with his words, but his voice remains firm.

You look up.

When you meet Aizawa’s eyes, you see Eraserhead there. For a hot, panicked second, you think he knows he’s looking at Sine, too, because something about that expression is so like the way he looks at them.

But recognition doesn’t overtake the seriousness in his gaze. You let it sink in that he simply means what he says, and suddenly you’re the closest to crying you have been all day.

You just nod. You need to leave.

There’s a child in your chest screaming at you to ask him. To stare Eraserhead, Aizawa Shouta, in the face, and ask him if he thinks you’re a villain.

You take a deep, slow breath. You blink once, hard, and a few times after for good measure, before you can bring yourself to look back up at him. ‘Thank you, sensei.’

You turn and leave as quickly as you can without it being obvious you’re running away.

---

The next day, you grit your teeth as you trudge past the reporters gathered outside of Yuuei.

Clearly, news of All Might’s new side career is circulating. You keep your head down as much as you can. You’ve been lying low, haven’t gone out as Sine since the arrest warrant was announced, but the last thing you need is to have your regular face openly on the news. The thought that there’s even a slim chance of someone connecting the two of you is just a little too much to risk.

Plus, there’s always the chance of your father finding out you’re attending Yuuei. Would that finally be it, the last straw that makes him decide to force you back?

You have no doubt he knows where you live. His presence among villains is too omniscient to delude yourself into thinking he doesn’t have eyes everywhere. Eyes that he probably turns on you, on occasion. You live with the constant stress of wondering why he hasn’t tried to force you to come back yet. You can’t shake the idea he’s building to something, some irreparable end you can’t foresee. All you can do, all you’ve done in the last year, is do your best not to think about it.

The day passes mostly in a blur. You’re still exhausted, and you’re still getting barely any sleep. You wake between nightmares whispering Hero Killer and you played the part of a villain well on a loop.

You do your best to stay awake for classes, at least, though you opt to skip lunch in favour of resting your head on your desk for a blissful moment after everybody leaves.

When you wake, it’s to an alarm blaring. Panic tears through you, and you only just stop yourself from shattering the window beside you to get out. You force yourself to breathe, slowly, and assess.

When you open the classroom door, the hallway is flooded with other students. You don’t even bother trying to get out. You slide the door closed again, turn on your heel and walk back to your desk. You can’t smell smoke, so it’s probably not a fire, and there aren’t any heroes going haywire to save the day, at least none you can see. You deposit yourself right back down, head making a small thunk on the desk when you let it drop.

You’re sure somebody has it handled.

You try to ignore the part of you that can’t breathe steady. The part that’s thinking: this is it, he’s come for you—or God forbid, he’s sent Tomura instead. The lack of sleep, and your face on the news, are terrible kindling for your paranoia.

You remind yourself that if he had finally decided he wanted you back, he’d have ambushed you in your apartment, or somewhere other than one of the most heavily-secured places in the city.

Eventually, the alarms shut off, and you spend your precious remaining time alone steadying your breathing. By the time your classmates begin to file back in, you’re confident you look put together, at least enough that it escapes notice. Any lingering nerves that show can probably be chalked up to whatever false alarm actually caused the panic.

You hide a long-suffering sigh behind your hand when Midoriya steps down from his newly-appointed position of Class Representative. You want to punch him, a little, for turning down something he so obviously wanted simply out of the selfless desire to hand the position to someone better suited to it.

You’d voted for him, earlier in the day, when the vote was first held. You knew how much he’d enjoy it! And now he’s thrown it out the window at the first sight of Iida taking charge. Sure, you weren’t there for it, so you can’t exactly be the judge of how well Iida did, but still. It’s the principle of the thing. Midoriya made your vote count for nothing, and he sold himself short in the process!

You roll your eyes and end up staring out the window for the better part of the day.

---

A day later, you find yourself seated next to Todoroki on the bus that’s taking you to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint. You’re not thrilled that Bakugou is only one seat ahead of you, next to Jirou, who probably doesn’t like you very much after you made her ears bleed in the battle trial.

Still, if you have to be seated beside someone, you choose Todoroki over pretty much everyone else in the class. Mostly because you highly doubt he’ll try to draw you into conversation.

You can tell he’s putting in effort not to be noticeably tense, especially since you’re technically blocking his path, being in the aisle seat. If he’s got the sort of traumatic history you suspect he might have, he probably likes having an easy getaway just as much as you.

You consider giving him what little reassurance you can offer, maybe a tired smile, but when you glance over, his eyes are already closed and he’s leaned his head back.

You mostly tune out the conversation that bubbles up among the group at the front of the bus. You’ve so far dodged Midoriya’s every effort to draw you into his budding friendships, coming up with convenient excuses to sit by yourself or on the outskirts every time.

You snap, hard, back into focus when you hear Asui say, ‘Your Quirk is like All Might’s.’

You stare at Midoriya, who promptly begins freaking out.

If you could tell him you knew, if it wouldn’t derail your own life, you’d school him about how to keep a damn secret.

Todoroki doesn’t even open his eyes when they mention his Quirk, but you see the tiniest twitch of his lips when you snort ungraciously at Asui’s blunt, ‘Bakugou’s always mad, so he doesn’t seem like he’ll be popular.’

---

Standing in USJ, you find you can’t focus on the speech Aizawa and Thirteen are taking turns giving. You’re exhausted. Sleep is still a fickle thing, maybe it always will be. The lack of it keeps all the events of the last few days swimming in your head.

You have to keep reminding yourself to tune back in, so it’s a wonder you don’t miss the subtle message Thirteen gives to Aizawa when they quietly discuss All Might’s absence. Thirteen raises three fingers.

Does he have three hours left in his hero form? That doesn’t line up with what Father told you, or with the gravity behind Aizawa and Thirteen’s conversation.

It takes a moment before you feel your features dip into a scowl.

Three minutes. Number One, who is supposed to be teaching the kids who are the future of heroism, has exhausted himself to the point of only having three minutes left in his hero form for the day.

You have to agree with Aizawa’s quiet, exasperated, ‘That’s the height of irrationality.’

All Might seriously needs to get his priorities straight. If he can’t stop himself from focusing on heroism, he shouldn’t also be attempting to teach at a school. The students he’s teaching deserve—really, need—more than a half-assed education.

You get distracted, again, despite your best efforts to stay present. You’re too drawn in by USJ itself. All of the areas are so real. It shouldn’t be surprising, and really, it isn’t, but you can’t help but admire the budget behind Yuuei.

In the end, what Thirteen’s saying doesn’t really apply to you, either. Thirteen talks about using Quirks to save people, but your Quirk is mostly impractical in that sense. If you were actually pursuing a career in heroics, you’d probably be the second point of contact for a victim. Somebody else, with an appropriately flashy Quirk, would conduct the rescue, and you’d be there on the sidelines to help until paramedics arrived.

And isn’t that exactly what you hate about heroes? When they wait around uselessly, just because of their Quirk’s suitability, or lack thereof, to a situation? At the end of the day, that’s why you took to vigilantism. Quirk be damned, you and your knives make it work.

You glance over at Midoriya, almost absentmindedly. He’s staring at Thirteen with a look of absolute respect and determination. You see it in Uraraka, too, standing beside him. It’s a visible reminder of just how isolated you are here. How much you don’t belong with these people. While your classmates are listening with rapt attention and respect for the people in front of them—heroes who’ve undoubtedly saved numerous lives—you’re stuck in your own head criticising them. You don’t share the admiration your classmates have for any of the heroes who are teaching you. You don’t deserve to be here.

That’s the whole point, isn’t it?

And then you see something, behind Aizawa and Thirteen. At first, it looks like a smudge, improbable and wrong, in the centre of USJ. It expands into a purple-black, swirling portal, and your heart falls into your stomach. Terror raises every hair on your body, covering you in goosebumps.

You’re sure they’re here for you. Kurogiri, and the villains who come through his portal first. But then they keep coming. Flooding in. One after another after another after another.

Father doesn’t respect you enough for an army.

No, this can only be about All Might. All Might, who was supposed to be here. All Might, who isn’t here.

You scan the crowd of villains. You’re not sure if you’re trying to count them, or figure out obvious Quirks. But your eyes stop on a particular silhouette and you feel like the air has been punched out of you, a hollow where your lungs should be.

It’s Tomura.

You feel strangely faint; dark spots in the corners of your vision. You try to blink them away, but it only makes you dizzier. You vaguely register Aizawa saying something. The concerned gasps and murmurs of your classmates feel like white noise, a tinnitus at the very edges of the little you can still make out.

All you can do is stare at Tomura and hope he doesn’t see you.

You can’t move. You try to twitch a finger, experimentally, but it threatens to send you over the edge into a full-blown panic attack. You can’t be here. You can’t do this. This can’t be happening.

Aizawa’s going to fight. Eraserhead’s going to fight. He’s going to rush headfirst into it all and for a moment, you are Sine Nomine, and you want to go with him and fight the way you did before. To have his back as he’s had yours.

But it evaporates. Because here, you’re not Sine Nomine. Here, you’re nothing. You’re a fake hero student with no experience and a useless Quirk. You’re not good enough to stand beside Aizawa. He’s so much more than you.

You only have a single knife. It’s tucked into your boot, a tiny glass throwing knife, only a few inches long. It’s not enough to trigger the Yuuei detectors, but it’s not enough for an actual, all-out fight, either. You carry it for peace of mind, and you haven’t got a shred of that right now.

Your fists won’t help you fight hundreds of villains, and neither will Aizawa’s.

It’s Todoroki’s voice that finally snaps you out of it. He’s speaking with clarity, calm. It’s out of place. Even Bakugou looks riled up, when you glance his way. There’s not a face in the group that isn’t panicked, or riled, or scared.

Except for Todoroki.

Just what the hell has he been through?

‘Did they only appear here, or around the whole school?’ he’s saying, ‘Either way, if the sensors aren’t working, it has to be one of their Quirks that’s doing it.’

He’s right. You glance back towards the villains, as if you could somehow pick the culprit out of the crowd. It could be any one of them. Any one of at least a hundred villains. The one with the Quirk that’s jamming the alarms is probably hiding somewhere, anyway.

‘This place is far from the campus, and they picked a time when there’d be few people here,’ Todoroki continues. ‘So maybe they’re not as dumb as they seem. They must have an objective. Because this is a well-coordinated sneak attack.’

‘All Might,’ you try to say, try to give Aizawa and Thirteen a heads up, but it comes out in a whisper. ‘He was supposed to be here.’

Todoroki hears you, somehow, and he glances at you, face still carefully blank but for a tiny furrow of his brow. Does he see a frightened classmate, wishing for the Number One hero, or is he piecing it together too? The false alarm from the day before, a perfect cover to get the class schedules.

They were probably going to threaten students to goad All Might into fighting. But now, All Might’s not here. Which means your classmates are in even more danger.

But why? Why do this now? You’re sure your father wants the chance to remove All Might himself, in some crazy, fated final fight. His ego might be limited by his intelligence, but it’s very much still there. So why did he send Tomura instead?

Is it some sort of test for your brother? Did he finally convince Father to let him act out one of his stupid plans? But what on earth could he have planned to tackle All Might himself? Father might be sadistic in his teachings, but you’re sure he values Tomura too much to put him at risk of death or imprisonment simply to teach him a lesson.

That’s when you finally see it. It falls into step beside Tomura, to one side, as if it’s one of his fucking knights.

Noumu.

It’s grotesque. The thing is far too tall, far too large. It’s muscular, with stretched, deep purple skin littered with red, angry scars. Its mouth is the shape of a beak, its brain exposed. There’s a horrible, uncanny quality to it, to the way it moves.

You want to run. You want to scream. A small part of you wants to cry. But as reality finally settles in, what you want most of all is to fight.

Anger seeps through every part of you. It burns across your skin in a hot flush, and you find yourself shaking. You are just so, so angry. You’re angry at the villains, for targeting a bunch of defenceless kids. You’re angry at Father, at the Noumu he creates and the sacrifice you know they pose. You’re angry at Tomura, for existing at all. For being here, doing this.

And you’re angry at yourself. For allowing yourself, for even a single blissful moment, to forget about them all. Now, it’s too late. Some of your classmates are going to die today.

You will not let any of them die first. These villains, and Tomura, and Kurogiri, and even the fucking Noumu. They’ll have to go through you. You will do everything in your power to keep them alive for as long as you can. None of them deserve to be corrupted by the world your father is forcing them into. Definitely not this young.

You clench your fists and stare at Tomura where he stands in the centre of it all. You take a single step forward, but your anger is a taut thing, and it snaps when you hear Eraserhead. Not Aizawa, but confident, careful, brilliant Eraserhead.

‘You can’t be a hero with just one trick,’ he says. His goggles are over his eyes when you look at him. Then: ‘I’m leaving it to you, Thirteen.’

And he’s gone. Running straight into it all, just like you knew he would.

At first, the feeling is foreign. It’s almost painful, a pressure deep in your chest. You raise a hand to claw at the fabric of your costume, even though you know the feeling can’t be physical.

Eraserhead doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t falter.

There is no waiting for someone with a better Quirk.

Pure admiration surges through your chest. Admiration for a hero. For Eraserhead.

It almost feels like it will suffocate you. It’s a startling feeling, the sudden hope inside you. All you can do, for a long moment, is watch him fight. He’s incredibly impressive. You realise immediately that he’s been holding out on you. He didn’t fight like this with Sine.

You distantly register the rest of the class running towards the entrance, but you’re too focused on Eraserhead. You can’t tear your eyes away. If it weren’t for Tomura being here, you can imagine almost feeling safe.

As it turns out, not following your class was probably for the best. It means you’re not facing Kurogiri when he blocks the exit.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, ‘We are the League of Villains.’

Your anger flares again, a heat blasting through you all at once. You clench your fists, hard as you can, to prevent yourself from charging in thoughtlessly. You have to play this smart if you’re going to make sure nobody gets killed.

‘It may be presumptuous of us, but we have invited ourselves into the home of the heroes, Yuuei High School, in order to have All Might, the Symbol of Peace, take his last breath.’

You despise his performative villainy. It’s the bane of a villain, you’ve found. Even your father’s not immune to it, especially when All Might comes into play.

‘I believe All Might should have been here,’ Kurogiri says, ‘Has there been some kind of change?’ He says it as though he expects to get an amiable response, though he doesn’t leave time for anybody to give one. ‘Well, that is neither here nor there. This is the part I am to play.’

You don’t hear what else he says, because in quick succession, Kirishima and Bakugou are running at him. Your skin goes cold. The heat is sucked out of you in a second. The only reason you don’t shout at them is because you can barely muster the breath for it.

When the smoke of a Bakugou-shaped explosion clears, you see Kurogiri’s Quirk raging.

He’s going to separate you.

Shit.

He’s going to scatter you all over USJ, students in their first week of hero school, alone against who-knows how many villains.

You don’t even realise you’re moving until you’re diving into the mist.

Kurogiri’s Quirk has always been a strange thing. There’s a sensation like falling through a substance, something just a little bit more physical than air, something not quite a liquid, and then all at once you’re out the other side.

You hit the ground, hard, and hiss when you nearly jar an elbow. When you look up, the mist is gone and there are fractals of reflected light all around you. It’s so dazzling that, for a moment, you can’t tell up from down.

All the light is reflecting off of ice. Todoroki is standing in front of you, a handful of villains already completely encased in his Quirk, only their faces exposed.

Todoroki looks very beautiful in this strange, broken light. Like it was made for him, or he was made for it. Or both. You just stare.

‘You all lost to a kid,’ he says. ‘How pathetic. Come on, now. You’re adults, aren’t you?’

But he’s not done. ‘Divide and conquer, huh? Forgive me for saying so, but it’s hard to see you guys as any more than thugs with Quirks you can’t even handle.’

Maybe you’re a little crazy, or maybe you’re dazed from the sudden change of scenery—you’ve been thrust into what you’re guessing is a landslide zone—but you burst into laughter.

Todoroki, sad, quiet, asshole-for-a-father Todoroki, is mouthing off to a bunch of villains he’d incapacitated before you could even open your eyes.

He doesn’t even look at you when you laugh. You’re half-tempted, in the whirlwind of the last few minutes, to tell him you’re Sine Nomine right now. Maybe he’d find it funny, too. There’s a sort of irony there.

He walks towards the villains, deliberately, confidently. When you hear him start to interrogate them, you laugh harder. He uses fear tactics and everything!

When he does finally glance over at you, there’s this little pinch to his expression, like he’s concerned you hit your head or something. You take a few, long breaths as the laughter finally dies. You can hear the sounds of distant, muffled fighting, and you think of Aizawa. Of Eraserhead.

Even if it means revealing yourself, you’re going to help him. Even if it kills you. Honestly, making one of Tomura’s goons kill you would be a beautiful irony in itself. Oh, Father would be furious. And he’d only have Tomura to punish for it!

You hoist yourself to your feet. ‘I’m going to help Aizawa,’ you tell Todoroki, giving your hero costume—which feels more like a costume than ever, if you’re being honest—a cursory pat down. You’re covered in dust from your crash landing.

Todoroki raises a derisive eyebrow. ‘You’ll just get in his way,’ he says. His tone is almost as chilly as his ice, and you raise an eyebrow of your own, scrutinising him.

Sure, logically, anyone else in the class wouldn’t have the first idea about fighting alongside a pro. Especially Aizawa, who fights with his own underground tactics. It’s not the flashy, explosive kind of combat they teach in the Yuuei curriculum, that’s for sure. But you were never here for the Yuuei curriculum.

‘You’d be surprised,’ you tell Todoroki. You proudly produce your tiny knife, showing it off with a little smirk. It looks like it could’ve been made from his ice. You don’t stick around for his appraisal. He wouldn’t believe you anyway.

You head for the centre of the building. Todoroki can obviously handle himself, you’re not worried about that, and you’ll just have to hope the rest of your classmates can, too. You don’t have the time to search for anybody else.

It occurs to you that, if by some miracle you make it out of this alive without getting dragged back to daddy dearest, you certainly won’t be allowed to stay at Yuuei. Not with what you’re preparing to do. At best, you’ll be kicked out for bringing another knife in. At worst, you’ll be found out entirely, and they’ll slap Quirk suppression cuffs on you along with the rest of the villains.

It was only a four day ruse, but a ruse it was. You can admit you might’ve had a little fun.

By the time you get close enough to make out the fight, you see Tomura taking off towards Aizawa at a run. You’re too far away to help, so you focus on getting closer without giving away your position.

You only make it a few more steps before you freeze. Midoriya and Asui! They’re feet away from the fight! What the hell are they doing?!

You glance up just in time to see Tomura get a hold of Aizawa. You want to scream at him, tell him exactly what Tomura’s Quirk is, cover be absolutely damned, but your throat clamps up when you see his hair fall. You’ve fought alongside him. You’re observant. You know what it means when Eraserhead’s hair falls.

And you’re willing to bet Tomura knows, too.

Aizawa’s hair falls, his Quirk stops, and you can only stare as paper-thin pieces of fabric and skin flake away from your mentor’s elbow. He doesn’t just let it happen, though. As soon as he has the leverage for it, he lands a solid hit on Tomura and retreats a safe distance.

You move, too. You’ll have to hope a year and dyed hair is enough to buy you some time before your brother recognises you. You start toward Tomura at a run.

You’ve always managed to fly under the radar. Even before you conceptualised Sine Nomine, even before you considered vigilantism at all. Growing up with Father, and Tomura, being almost invisible was a valuable skill to have. Father drilled it into you.

You were to be his. If you were good, and quiet, and used your Quirk on him, he would keep you safe. That meant figuring out how to be all but invisible when you stood at his side with his hand in yours, siphoning his pain.

Sometimes, that learned invisibility feels like a burden. Sometimes, you just want to be seen. Heard. Felt. But now, as you manage to get close enough to reach your brother before anyone notices, you consider it a blessing.

You freeze a few paces behind your target. The knife is still clamped in your hand, poised ready to be dug under Tomura’s skin. But again, again, again, all you can do is watch as the Noumu—how did you forget about the Noumu?—moves, in a flash like a lightning bolt, to stand in front of Aizawa. In front of Eraserhead.

You meet Aizawa’s gaze. His eyes are wide behind the goggles. Did you distract him, closing in behind Tomura? He can’t leverage his weight to leap away from the Noumu. Fuck! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

The Noumu’s hand clamps down on his head. You hear the crack when it breaks his arm. You hear the second, when it twists until the limb hangs uselessly, held up by one giant hand. The Noumu pins him to the ground, its other hand spread over his waist.

You hear your brother’s voice, but you can’t make out what he’s saying over your writhing anger as you watch the Noumu break Aizawa’s other arm. Snap.

It crushes his face into the ground with enough force to crack the concrete.

Your eyes follow the slow trail of red, the thin line of his blood, as it seeps along the ground. For a moment, it’s your mother’s. Then, it’s a carved-up hero’s, beneath a streetlight.

The reality is almost worse.

Eraserhead is a hero. He’s a hero, and maybe if you say it enough times in your head it’ll sink in. Aizawa Shouta is a hero, and heroes don’t help. Not really. Every time you’ve stood in front of a hero, every time you’ve asked for help, you’ve received nothing in return.

But Eraserhead—he’s had chances to take you in. To stab you in the back. He’s probably had more chances than you know.

And he’s rejected every one.

More than once, you’ve picked fights that should have killed you. And he didn’t take advantage of them to slap you with those cuffs. He didn’t drag you to a hospital when you dislocated your arm. He didn’t even hunt you down the second the news broke that you were wanted for murder.

When you were ready to give your life for a girl whose name you don’t even know, he was there to stop you. When you couldn’t see a way out, facing down a strength Quirk with your measly fists, he was there to intervene.

So far, Eraserhead has done nothing but help.

Maybe it’s been a series of flukes. Maybe he feels guilty about a kid running around on the streets doing what some heroes won’t even do. Maybe he feels like it’s his obligation. Maybe he’s still just biding his time to pounce when you least expect it.

But he’s been the closest thing to a hero you’ve ever seen.

Your chest fills again with a deep ache and hot, furious anger. Kurogiri manifests in a swirl of mist nearby. He says something to Tomura, but you don’t hear it over the animalistic growl that cuts over him. It’s the kind of sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s a little scary.

You only realise it came from you when Tomura starts to turn. You see Midoriya and Asui looking at you, out of the corner of your eye. You don’t turn to look at them, just in case Tomura hasn’t noticed them yet. You can’t draw his attention there.

Aizawa doesn’t react. He’s still collapsed into the concrete. He must be passed out. From exhaustion or pain? It doesn’t matter.

Before Tomura can face you fully, you lunge. You grab your brother’s shoulder in one hand and use the leverage to shove the knife into his back.

It’s not long enough to do real damage. But Tomura’s surprise and pain is enough for the Noumu to drop Aizawa. Suddenly, it’s on you. Its giant fist collides with your side, throwing you off of Tomura.

You hear your ribs snap. You’re thrown back, rolling to a stop on the hard ground a few feet from Midoriya and Asui.

You don’t hesitate. You’re back on your feet in an instant. You barely manage to keep a hold of the knife you’d pulled out of Tomura’s back. For an eternal moment, all you can do is stare at your hands, slick with Tomura’s blood. How many times did Father let Tomura get his hands on you? How many times?

You never got to fight back.

And now, you have your precious brother’s blood painted on your fingers. It fills you with a twisted, deranged sort of glee.

You glance towards Midoriya and Asui. Their cover’s definitely been blown, you were thrown in their direction. Midoriya’s eyes are wide. He’s staring at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time. Maybe he’s realising you both have secrets.

‘Get out of here!’ you growl at them.

You don’t wait for a response. You run at Tomura again.

You’re almost stopped by the Noumu, but you anticipate its speed and dodge to the side. Momentum prevents it from stopping immediately, and you take the opening to launch yourself at Tomura.

This time, with a growl of his own, he meets you halfway.

You do your best to keep away from his hands. You deflect every hit he tries to land and swipe at him with your small knife at every opportunity. For a few breathless seconds, it’s just the two of you, trading fruitless blows.

You feel the Noumu at your back before you see it. You launch yourself up into a mid-air crouch with just enough time to land on its outstretched arms.

You use the newfound angle to your advantage. You pinpoint an exposed sliver of skin between the two fake hands around Tomura’s neck, and you strike.

Distantly, you think you might be grinning, when you manage to hit that spot. You know, intimately, how much it will upset him. He’ll be irritating the cut for weeks. For a moment, you feel triumphant. Have you ever even felt triumph before?

Then the Noumu slams you into the ground.

The impact is enormous. It leaves you gasping for breath that won’t come. As you scramble to right yourself through the splitting pain in your skull, through the screeching agony of your ribs, the Noumu latches onto your neck. It uses one large hand to lift you into the air until you’re dangling.

You try not to let the panic get to you, even as your feet fail to find purchase on the ground. Tomura approaches. You can barely get his face into focus as you struggle to breathe through the pressure on your windpipe.

Your brother’s eyes are cold. They’re the only part of his face you can see past the puppet hand covering the rest of it.

‘I was going to kill them,’ he juts a thumb towards Midoriya and Asui. ‘But you stabbed me. Twice.’

He sounds deeply offended. If you had the breath for it, you’d laugh in his face. Instead, you meet his eyes. They’re full of righteous fury. It doesn’t matter. You doubt his anger will ever rival yours.

‘So I guess I’ll kill you first,’ he says.

---

Shouta needs to get up. Every part of him is screaming at himself to get up! But he can’t move. He can’t feel his arms. He can barely feel his legs.

He can only raise his head just enough to watch his student match the vitriol levelled at them by the villain—Shigaraki Tomura, he heard the warp gate say.

The way his student fights is almost familiar. It stirs something in him, like an itch he can’t quite reach. Their eyes are full of hatred. Burning with it. Familiar eyes.

His student is baring their teeth, half in a grimace and half like an angry, injured wolf. They’re afraid. Shouta can see it in them. It’s in their posture, the subtle curve of their spine, the rigidity of their limbs where they dangle a foot off the ground. But he can’t see it on their face. Their expression is a carefully crafted mask. Deliberate. This confrontation feels almost practised.

It’s unsettling.

This can’t be a student he’s been teaching for just four days. It doesn’t make sense. They don’t fight like a kid in their first week of the hero course. They fight like they’ve got nothing to lose. He’s never seen somebody so young fight with their level of abandon. Recklessness. And it’s familiar. Why can’t he figure it out?

He tries to move an arm, even just a finger, but he can’t. His body won’t respond.

Frustration shreds his composure. If he could take anything more than a stuttered, shallow breath, he’d… he’d what? He still wouldn’t be able to move. And if he doesn’t get up, his student is going to die. He can’t let that happen. But he can’t move.

He watches his student’s performative anger morph into something else. Contempt. Their lip curls—and then they spit in Shigaraki Tomura’s face.

Shouta feels ice rake over his skin.

The anger on Shigaraki’s face makes way for a careful emptiness. It’s a kind of expression Shouta has scarcely seen before. It’s not meant for small-time, unmotivated villains. This is a silent fury Shouta has only ever seen a handful of times at best. And it’s directed at one of his.

He’s ready to force himself up, pain be damned, body be damned, life be damned if it means saving one of his kids. But as he watches, Shigaraki’s expression shifts again. It changes in an inexplicable way. Shouta has to blink, to make sure he’s seeing it right. Because Shigaraki is looking at them with recognition.

His student isn’t baring their teeth anymore. Now, they’re grinning.

Shouta feels the chill creeping further into his bones. He doesn’t know if it’s his body, shutting down, or a reaction to the scene in front of him. He can see the fear in their eyes, now. It’s buried under other emotions, under this ridiculous posturing, but it’s there. And still, they stare directly into the eyes of their would-be killer, and they grin.

When they speak, in a whisper, Shouta reads their lips.

Tell Father I said hi, Tomura-kun.

Shigaraki’s hand presses forward until it rests, with all but one finger lying flat, right over his student’s stomach. For a brief second, deathly, unadulterated fear floods their expression before they can school it blank.

Shouta knows that look. He teaches children for a living. He’s long known how to read them, and he’s witnessed his fair share of children in devastating circumstances. But there are some emotions he can never stand to see in the face of a child, no matter how many times he does. Fear, swallowed by absence—Shouta knows what that means. It’s the surrender of a child who knows no one is coming. It’s the empty hopelessness of giving up. His student is ready to die.

Shouta explodes with fury.

---

You don’t flinch when Tomura’s hand rests over your stomach, but it’s a near thing.

In that final moment, you make a choice. You make the only choice you can. You let it all go.

Your hopeless wish for revenge against Father. Your diminishing will to fight. The promises you’ve made. To yourself. To the girl, with the Shie Hassaikai. None of it matters. It’s all been for nothing. And you knew it would be, in the end. Your life was never worth it.

Really, what else can you do?

What other choice do you have?

There isn’t one.

You give up.

You close your eyes. Tomura’s fifth finger presses into your stomach. You flinch, despite yourself. But nothing happens.

You only dare to open your eyes when you feel Tomura pull away.

‘Damn,’ he says. ‘You really are cool, Eraserhead.’

You turn your head. And you see him. Eraserhead. Grimacing through the strain of keeping his eyes locked on Tomura. Hair raised.

You feel something wet hit your cheek.

Several things happen all at once, then.

The Noumu drops you and rushes towards Aizawa. Tomura reaches for you again. Midoriya rushes in from behind you and almost lands a punch to your brother’s jaw.

Tomura jumps away. You see the Noumu slam Aizawa’s face into the ground again. Midoriya leaps for your brother a second time. You flick your knife towards Tomura, at the opposite side of where Midoriya is aiming his strike. Tomura can’t dodge both.

The Noumu blocks it. The knife, and Midoriya’s punch.

But it leaves Aizawa alone.

Tomura reaches a hand towards Midoriya. You run at him. You don’t have time to register the Noumu when it appears in front of you. One second it’s not there, then suddenly it is. It slams an arm into your stomach, forces all the wind out of you as you go flying into the dirt a few feet away from Aizawa.

You’re so disoriented you might’ve blacked out for a moment. You’re gasping so loud you barely hear the colossal boom from the entrance of USJ.

Dizziness threatens to undo you as you try and fail to breathe. You can’t even manage the energy to fight when you’re gathered up under a giant arm. You think it’s the Noumu, come to haul you home to Father, but you hear All Might’s voice a second before darkness overtakes you.

‘It’s alright now.’

Notes:

Getting this done nearly killed me, oh my god, this fricken chapter.
Thank you all so so much for all the lovely comments!!!
Please let me know if you liked this one!! I've been working on it so long I can no longer appreciate it, haha!

Chapter 5

Notes:

cws: multiple panic attacks, trauma (yay!), references to past torture, references to past child abuse, dissociation, sine is generally mentally unwell in this one (let me know if i forgot anything)

You wake up in a hospital bed in fits and starts. You hear, more than see, the vague attempts of nurses trying to get your attention, but you can never stay conscious long enough to respond. Your vision swims the few times you manage to open your eyes. There’s something like a shock of yellow hair by your bed at one point. You think you might have hallucinated it.

When you finally open your eyes all the way, it’s dark. Fragments of pain still wash through your body, despite your injuries being mostly healed, probably by some kind of Quirk. You try to catalogue what little damage remains, only for the memory of what happened to slam back into you.

Tomura. The attack on USJ. The Noumu. Your brother’s hand, flat on your stomach. Eraserhead—Aizawa. He saved you. A hero saved you.

A sudden urgency forces you out of the bed, and you ignore the residual pain altogether. You should check your surroundings, run through all the exits and potential escape routes, but you don’t. You push open the sliding door. The hallway is dim, quiet and empty.

The name tag for your room is only your first name. You check the room on the left. It’s blank. The door to the right of yours is labelled Aizawa Shouta. You slide it open.

The hero that saved you lies in a hospital bed, more bandages than skin. His entire face is obscured, as are his arms. There’s a sickly pallor to what little of his skin is exposed.

You drift closer to him.

He saved you. You owe him. You have to repay him. He’ll be expecting it, won’t he? Why else would he have saved you? It’s the only logical conclusion. He knows what you can do and he saved you so you can be of use.

An uncomfortable guilt that had been lingering in your stomach makes way for a wash of relief. This makes sense. You can work with this. You’re not in some scary, uncharted territory, where heroes are suddenly heroes again. He’s just like Father. He’s better than Father, because so far he hasn’t gotten angry. And even if he does, he won’t have Tomura there to hurt you. You can handle it, whatever happens.

You have to be quick, though. You’ve already taken too long to wake up. If you don’t take his pain soon, he really will get angry. Quickly, you touch your fingers to a small, exposed part of his neck.

Your skull starts to throb, first. It radiates through your head, not unlike the constant pain Father feels. But then it creeps, down through your face and right into the depths of your eyes, sharp and dull, a contradictory ache. You’ve never felt anything like it.

Then your arm starts to throb, the memory of broken bones. You bite your lip, force yourself not to betray the pain you feel with even so much as a frown. You cannot show weakness. You cannot show weakness. You cannot show weakness.

You keep pulling. Your other arm shares the ache of its sibling. Soon, the pain is an unbearable wave across the whole of your body.

Aizawa’s unconscious body sags, just a little, some of the tension leaving. This has to be what he wants, so you keep pulling, keep siphoning his pain and making it yours.

You’re ripped into the past, into a mirage of different memories, when you feel your brother’s Quirk on your elbow. It’s not the echo of pain, but the active, living experience of it. You feel your skin start to peel, break, snap apart, a sunburn delivered with a knife. This isn’t what your Quirk does. You know what injuries from Tomura’s Quirk should feel like, and this isn’t it. This isn’t an aftermath, it’s the source.

It’s not right. And it’s not what you expected. You’re out of practice with keeping your composure. It’s been a year since you last felt your brother’s Quirk, and it startles you so much you pull away. You stumble back, away from the hospital bed, away from Aizawa.

You twist your arm until you can see it—actual, current evidence of Tomura’s Quirk, the exposed muscle of your elbow. But he’s not even in the room. You search it, spin in a circle and confirm it. He’s not here, but you just felt his Quirk.

Suddenly, your feet won’t hold you. You crash onto your knees. You can’t breathe. You try, really, sincerely try, but the air just won’t go in.

Somebody cries your name, and you look up just in time to see Yamada drop a takeaway cup, liquid splashing across the floor. He’s saying something, but you can’t hear over the sound of your own wheezing. You eyes are watering with the pain of it all.

You glance down again, at your elbow, at the physical result of a Quirk that hasn’t been used on you in a year. But it’s there. You’re a kid again, screaming as they teach you lessons. Punish you. Make you be good and quiet.

You clench your eyes shut and try to fold in on yourself. You can feel your whole body shaking with silent, dry sobs. You still can’t breathe.

Yamada, with surprising strength, pulls you halfway into his lap. He’s stroking your hair. Part of you wants to claw your way out of his embrace, but somehow, you end up grabbing fistfuls of his shirt instead.

Dizziness forces you to keep your eyes closed. It hurts. It hurts so much. Your pain, Aizawa’s pain, your brother’s Quirk, the memory of it all. It all feels like one long, visceral nightmare. You stop trying to breathe and try to wake up, instead. Everything goes dark, and the pain goes blissfully silent.

---

The next time you wake, your head is pounding, and you’re grateful the lights are still out. As you come to, you hear a soft sound and try to look for the source. Your neck creaks a protest at the movement. Your whole body feels like a giant pile of rocks, but you force its cooperation.

Yamada is asleep in the chair beside your bed, his head bowed forward. The sound resolves itself into soft, gentle snores.

You glance down at yourself. Your elbow is bandaged. It wasn’t before. You suddenly feel very, very nauseous. It takes a few, long minutes to get your breathing back under control.

Finally, you start to realise the reality of where you are. Yamada is waiting at your bedside. He’s being lax about it, and you’re not cuffed to the bed, but it can only mean one thing. Grief swells inside you until it crests into a hollow ache.

You expected this, didn’t you? Truthfully, you expected the cuffs.

You watch for a few moments to determine whether or not he’s faking sleep. When you’re satisfied he’s not, you glance around the room. There’s a bag waiting on a chair on the opposite side of the bed. You can see a Post-It, just barely peeking at you from the top. You’re quiet as you shuffle forward, out of the bed. Every time you look back at Yamada, for every inch you move, he’s still just snoring.

You look down at the note.

Sorry, sweetie, Midoriya Inko’s familiar penmanship states, I asked the building manager to let me into your apartment so I could get you a change of clothes. I hope that’s okay. Let me know when you’re awake and Izuku and I can come and get you.

You have to read it several times over for it to sink in. There’s a horrible moment of fear, wondering if Inko searched enough of your apartment to find your stash of Sine’s stuff, the knives under the clothes in the bottom drawer of your dresser, but in the next moment, you shake it off. She would never do that. You have no grounds for genuinely believing that, but somehow, you do. You trust Midoriya Inko enough to know she wouldn’t go through your things.

You can almost picture it, her carefully opening drawers just enough to fish out a few items of clothing, making sure she doesn’t lay eyes on anything private. It’s the kindness of a mother.

Your whole body aches. You feel it in your teeth. There’s a warmth in your eyes, and you have to blink rapidly to stifle the threat of tears, because now is not the time. You can break down later, if you really, really have to.

Quietly, you shuffle out of the hospital gown and into the waiting clothes. It’s a painful battle, getting everything on while being as quiet as you can, lest you wake Yamada. He continues to snore throughout your whole ordeal. You keep a careful eye on him, freezing whenever he so much as twitches, but he doesn’t wake up.

Regular clothes acquired, you take a moment to evaluate the situation. A glance out the window tells you you’re several storeys up, too high for a window exit. Instead, you quietly pad your way over to the door. You shove Inko’s note into a pocket. There’s no reason to keep it, but you do.

You stop on the threshold of the room, sliding the door open slowly and waiting for Yamada to finally open his eyes. To see you leaving, jump up and arrest you.

He doesn’t. You step outside and slide the door closed—and nothing happens. You look both ways in the hall. It’s empty.

You know how to blend in when you need to, how to toe the line between looking like you belong and not being memorable. It’s knowledge that comes in handy as you leave the hospital. Nobody spares you a second glance. You step out into the fresh too-early morning air and take a deep breath. It feels good to just breathe, for a moment, but you don’t take long to get moving.

All things considered, you’re handling yourself perfectly fine, which rules out that you were too injured to be restrained. You can’t figure out why they didn’t cuff you.

---

You’re cautious about entering Hina’s. She’ll have just opened for the day, and you’ve never come in this early. When the bell above the door jingles your entrance, she looks up from behind the counter.

She gasps when she sees you, and there’s relief in the way she says your name. She doesn’t smile, not at first, not the way she usually would. There’s a pinched coupling of her eyebrows.

She rounds the counter quickly, and you jolt when she rushes to you. You’re gathered in an urgent but gentle hug. You still and tense in her arms. You don’t remember the last time you were hugged. It’s a distant feeling, like suddenly using a language you haven’t practised in a few years.

After a moment, she pulls away, but she keeps her hands on your shoulders and looks you over. ‘Sorry, I’m just so glad to see you’re okay.’

She steps back, giving you some space again. You grit your teeth through the instinct to put even more distance between the two of you.

‘I saw on the news, an attack on Yuuei? I wasn’t sure if it was your class, but I was so worried,’ she says something else, but it’s more murmur than anything, and she sighs heavily as she watches you. ‘Are you okay?’

Fuck, if that isn’t a loaded question. For a moment, you feel like it’ll sweep you right off your feet. You might collapse, right here in the middle of the shop, and never get back up. A feather-light wind could topple you, and you can’t afford that right now.

You inhale once and force a smile. ‘I’m fine, Hina-san. Aizawa-sensei and All Might kept us safe.’ There’s a palpable taste in your mouth, something sour and dry. You still don’t really know what happened after you passed out. All you can assume is that All Might did his thing. Somehow. Even though he was only supposed to have a few minutes left.

You don’t even know if they caught Tomura.

The smile Hina offers you is so warm, so genuine, that you feel guilty for bringing all of your feelings, your conflicts and tension, into the shop. You try to be polite as you skirt past her and grab a single flower from her little reserve. She’s got some sort of orchid there, today.

‘I just… wanted to grab a flower. Nowhere else is open to get any, yet,’ you shift your weight, from one foot to the other and back again.

‘Of course, sweetie. Please, don’t let me keep you!’ She steps aside to give you easier access to the door, but then swivels and grabs something from behind the counter. It’s a little paper bag she foists on you. ‘Take this. I’ll see you soon, okay?’

You hesitate. You’re not sure she will see you soon. You don’t know what’s going to happen when they find you. You just wanted to visit your mother, in case it was the last chance you’d ever get.

Your smile feels brittle, almost painful, when you give it. ‘Thanks, Hina-san.’

You’re out the door before she can say anything else.

If you had lived another life, one where lying wasn’t necessary for your own safety, what would it have been like? To be the kind of person who could be truly honest with people? To make true, genuine friends, and have people who care about you and not just a paper-thin cutout you’ve created to safeguard the rest of you.

You blink hard, once, twice. You can’t be thinking like that, not right now. Not ever. There used to be a little flame inside you that burned for the idea of something better. Father snuffed it out the first time he let Tomura get his hands on you.

Sometimes, the embers flicker, as if there’s a child somewhere lighting matches, dropping them from great heights, and waiting to see if, maybe this time, they’ll ignite something along the way.

But you can’t. You can’t let yourself want, or hope, or dream. Because you know the truth. You know Father exists. And even if one day, somebody manages to bring about his end, Tomura will be there to take his place. There will always be somebody else, and you will always walk a world where your life is constantly threatened. Allowing yourself to wish for anything is, you know from experience, an exercise in futility; a surefire way to have your hopes thoroughly dashed.

You’ve had your hopes toyed with, built up for the sole purpose of being torn down. You refuse to do it to yourself. So you take the wishes, the wanting, the loneliness, the dreams, and you throw them all back, hide them all away. You snuff out the pitiful, tiny flame, just like you always do. It has no place in you, not if you want to stay alive. And staying alive is all there is.

You could run. You could just leave, get out, away from the city. Try to run far enough away, to a place where no one could ever find you. But what is there for you anywhere else? There’s nobody, no place, no memories anywhere else. Your mother’s headstone isn’t anywhere else, Hina’s shop isn’t anywhere else. The Midoriyas aren’t anywhere else. They’d all be better off without you, yet you can’t bring yourself to leave.

There’s nowhere you could go that Father couldn’t find you.

You reach your mother’s grave, kneeling to deposit the single, feeble flower in the little vase. You don’t even want to say anything. What is there to tell her? If there’s any sort of afterlife, she’s seeing it all play out. She already knows how disappointing you’ve become.

You’re tired. So, so tired. You’re worn down and wrung out, a sea sponge left to dry in a summer sun. It feels like the slightest touch could turn you to dust, with or without Tomura’s Quirk.

But what is there to do? You can’t go anywhere else, can’t become somebody different. All you can do is wrap your arms around yourself and try, just try, to stay whole. To be anything at all.

It’s the softest you’ve ever heard his voice, but you recognise Yamada regardless when he softly says your name. You stand and turn, facing the man behind you. He’s not alone. Aizawa is with him, face and arms still bound in bandages. God, he shouldn’t be out of the hospital, should he?

‘Hey,’ Yamada says, softly. He approaches you as if you’re something to be startled, an animal that might bolt on his approach. And honestly, you might. ‘Hina told us where to find you.’

You can’t stand it. His softness, his quiet, so unlike him, does nothing to help how breakable you feel. It doesn’t steady you—it makes you feel even less real, less centred.

You ignore him and look to Aizawa instead. ‘What happens now?’

Aizawa sighs, but it’s something small. You’re used to his world-weary sighs, the ones with an air of melodrama, but this sigh is short, simple.

‘That depends on you,’ he says. You can just make out his eyes through the bandages. They’re sharp, levelled on you. ‘We need to know how much danger you’re in.’

You frown. ‘Danger?’ It comes out in an unintentional scoff. ‘What about the danger I pose? Aren’t you going to arrest me? I brought another knife into Yuuei. I put everybody in danger by joining the fight. I…’ you look away, out over the rows of headstones. ‘I distracted you.’

You feel very small in the silence that follows. It takes everything in you not to look back at them, try to gauge what they’re thinking.

‘In light of yesterday’s events, there won’t be any consequences for you, or for your classmates.’ You turn back to Aizawa, a protest half-formed on your lips, but he continues. ‘I do, however, need to assess your relative safety, given your connection to the villain, Shigaraki Tomura.’

Something in you snaps, some crucial wiring, and you feel completely untethered. They know. How do they know? You run your mind over what you can remember and realise he must have heard you, or maybe he read your lips, when you addressed Tomura.

‘We’re not asking you to tell us everything,’ he says, sharp eyes still trained on you. ‘But we need to know enough to gauge your safety.’

Yamada cuts in, a little too loud, a little too urgent. ‘So we can figure out if you need some extra help to keep you safe, that’s all!’

You take a short, shallow breath and attempt to keep your voice strong when you reply. ‘I’ve lived on my own for a year and nothing has happened. I’m fine.’

Another realisation hits you, then. Aizawa hasn’t realised you’re Sine Nomine. Yesterday wasn’t enough for him to make the connection. If he had, this would surely be a different conversation.

The relief that floods your whole body almost makes you sag visibly, but you keep yourself standing. He doesn’t know.

You try to pull yourself together. Somehow, you’d expected him to have figured it out. Now you know some of your secrets, at least, are safe. You don’t want to say too much, give too much away, based on an assumption of what they may or may not know. You could very easily reveal more than you have to.

’Was Tomura…?’ you trail off.

‘They were unable to apprehend Shigaraki,’ Aizawa confirms.

Well. That clears that up, at least. You’re not exactly surprised. Kurogiri wouldn’t have made it easy to capture them.

Then Aizawa lands another blow.

‘The hospital informed us you have scarring that matches the injury I sustained as a result of Shigaraki's Quirk.’

You close your eyes.

It’s not a question, but there’s an implication in it. He expects some sort of response. If you don’t give one at all, he’ll take whatever he wants from your posture, or your lack of a response altogether.

But you don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to respond with anything that will satisfy him without giving too much of yourself away.

To buy yourself some time, you throw the question back at him. ‘And?’

Yamada has been strangely quiet, but there’s this little sound that comes out of him, now, something soft and utterly dismayed. It makes you feel self-conscious.

Aizawa’s jaw is set in a tight line. You can see the tension even through all the bandages. ‘How much danger are you in now that you’ve interacted with Shigaraki Tomura again?’

You’ve said too much. You told them more than you wanted to, revealing you’ve lived alone for a year. Sure, what Aizawa is saying is an assumption, but it’s a correct one. You hadn’t seen Tomura in a year.

It is a question, though. Will anything change now that you and Tomura have come into contact with one another?

When it comes down to it, you’re still not sure exactly why you’ve been allowed to stay away from Father for so long. You doubt he’s found any other way to consistently manage his pain, but for some reason, he still hasn’t sent someone to get you. He hasn’t come for you himself. He hasn’t tried to summon you back with any sort of communication. He hasn’t done anything.

He must have some kind of plan, some reasoning for not bringing you back, and that means you’re never safe, not fully, not really. But you’re also fairly sure your usefulness to him outweighs anything Tomura might want. Even if he did want to come after you, you don’t think Father would let him. That hasn’t changed, now, has it?

You shake your head. ‘I don’t think my relative safety has changed at all, Aizawa-sensei.’ You try to say it confidently, sternly enough that he will believe it too, but he holds your gaze steady and gives you no indication that he does. So, you give yourself away, just a little more, even if it feels like pulling teeth. ‘I’m still useful to someone Tomura answers to, and that keeps me safe.’ From Tomura, at least. But they don’t need to know that.

The silence lingers for a moment before Yamada breaks it. He looks crestfallen. ‘Useful,’ he says, slowly, ‘because of your Quirk.’

---

Hizashi understands, suddenly, what happened in the hospital last night. Why their student had inexplicably left their own bed, pushed through their own pain, just to take some of Shouta’s.

He hasn’t been blind to the darker parts of the world. He’s been Shouta’s husband for years now, and a best friend even longer. Even if the things Hizashi has seen himself weren’t enough to convince him of what people are capable of, Shouta’s experiences as an underground hero would have put him well over that edge.

But still, it’s inconceivable to try and stitch together the image of their student, in front of them, and the nightmares he’s had about Shouta’s work and the underbelly of the world. That anybody could take advantage of a child at all is almost too much for him. It’s even worse, though, because it makes sense. He gets it. He can be a crybaby about his own pain, and even his stoic stone-wall of a husband is sometimes laid low by it.

He’s been on the receiving end of wanting to be rid of his own pain. He’s longed to take away his husband’s, on the nights when Shouta tosses listlessly in bed beside him, when Hizashi knows it isn’t just a byproduct of a string of late nights keeping Shouta up.

But to abuse a child because their Quirk can relieve a little pain is just too much. Hizashi knows Shouta has seen more than one of his students through horrible situations, but the truth of it is irreconcilable. Here stands one such student, a student he knows is covered in scars, a student who looks for all the world like talking about this is a mild inconvenience at best.

How long was their Quirk abused? How young were they when it started?

They’re looking at him with something inscrutable in their eyes. He can’t puzzle one emotion from another, and it’s clearly a multi-layered thing. He can’t tell if they’re scared, or surprised, or resigned. Maybe it’s everything, all at once. They open their mouth to say something, but almost immediately close it again. He watches their weight shift from one foot to the other, and he almost wants to apologise. For speaking the truth into air. It made it real for him, and he wonders if it’s been made real for them too, in some way.

Hizashi grits his teeth, struck with the sudden desperation to do something actionable. He doesn’t understand how Shouta does it, how he deals with kids in situations like these without going off the deep end. How does he manage to stay still when he needs to, when all Hizashi wants is to do something? Anything? So many years on, and still he is astounded by his husband’s strength.

He rifles through his pockets until he finds a pen and an old receipt. He doesn’t even bother checking what the receipt was for, just scratches out his number and Shouta’s below it. He thrusts it at their student. ‘Please, call one of us if anything happens. At any time. Shouta barely sleeps anyway, you’ll never be waking him up.’

Shouta makes a gentle sound beside him, something half-assent and half-amused. It lessens the dark cloud Hizashi felt looming over them, just a little. It gives him the slightest peace of mind, and it’ll have to be enough.

He glances at Shouta. He knows his husband must be trying to decide whether or not to push, to ask more questions. But he ran Hizashi through his thinking on their way over.

The priority is earning trust and keeping it. That comes before anything else, because keeping them safe, and eventually, getting them somewhere that safety can be maintained, requires trust. When a kid proves to be a flight risk, and this kid clearly is, given the way they left the hospital—seriously, Hizashi nearly had a heart attack when he woke up—it can all go wrong in an instant. One wrong move, one question that probes just a little too deep, and all the trust evaporates. They’ll run. And then the chance to keep them safe is gone.

These half-truths, these hardly answered questions, will have to be enough. They just have to hope they have enough information to make the best decision possible given the circumstances. And they have to continue building that trust and hope that when the time comes, they’re given the chance to help.

Hizashi trusts his husband implicitly. But putting it into practise, the idea of letting them walk away is terrifying. Shouta said it would be, he did his best to prepare Hizashi for what they were walking into. But it still sets him on edge and goes against every screaming instinct.

---

You stare down at the scrawl Yamada has left behind, the mess of numbers. You should throw it away, but for now, you tuck it into a pocket and square yourself. If they’re not arresting you, not hauling you off, then you’re done. You feel stripped bare of every defence you’ve carefully, meticulously built up over the last year. You’ve barely told them anything, but you’ve told them so, so much.

‘Is that it?’ you ask, glancing between them.

Aizawa blinks once. ‘In future, don’t use your Quirk on any of the Yuuei staff or students.’

You open your mouth, an automatic protest on your lips, but it falls closed. You can’t find the words for it. You feel shame spiral in your chest. You thought you were doing the right thing. Now everything feels turned inside out. Your Quirk is what you’re good for, isn’t it? How else were you supposed to repay the debt of Aizawa’s rescue?

‘While I appreciate the intent behind it,’ Aizawa says slowly, ‘it is my job as your teacher to protect you. Not the other way around. And I don’t believe you were using it for the right reasons.’ He says it like a challenge, like he’s daring you to argue that he’s wrong.

You try, again, to speak, but still, nothing comes out. In the silence that follows, all you can do is try to parse the meaning behind what he’s saying. You look for something, anything at all, that makes sense, because right now, none of it does. Eventually, all you can do is give up.

You look up, a silent question levelled at Aizawa. He gives you one last, long look, and then nods your dismissal.

You’re only a few steps past them when Yamada speaks again.

‘Is this… your mother’s grave?’

You can’t. You have nothing left to give. But you turn back halfway and say, ‘Yes.’

Yamada scrambles with his pockets again, but he comes up short of whatever he’s looking for. He clearly has an ‘aha!’ moment, though, and he takes off up the row of headstones, skipping a few rows over. After a moment, you lose sight of him.

‘What’s he doing?’ you ask, glancing at Aizawa.

He doesn’t give you an answer, just watches after Yamada with a gentle shake of his head. He looks… tired. Strung out. But he waits for Yamada to return, and something keeps you there, as well.

When he does, he’s holding a small lily triumphantly. He holds it up high, on display, like he’s found a treasure. ‘Oboro wouldn’t mind, right Shouta?’

He leans down and deposits the lily alongside the orchid you’d left. You stare at the flower for a long moment and blink away a faint sensation behind your eyes.

‘Thank you,’ you say. You leave without waiting for a response.

---

You get to class ahead of everybody else, even after stopping at your apartment to grab your spare uniform. The one you wore yesterday is still at the school, since you’d all changed into your hero costumes before heading to USJ.

You’re situated at your desk before anyone else walks in. Todoroki is the first to arrive after you, and he spares you a once over before he sits at his desk in the row behind you. You wonder what he might say to you if he was less reserved, if you were together on a rooftop somewhere away from prying eyes.

Bakugou arrives next, perpetual scowl firmly in place, and he doesn’t even spare a glance at you or Todoroki before taking his seat.

The next time the door slides open, all hell breaks loose.

Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but it feels appropriate given the way Midoriya cries out your name, as if he never expected to see you again, and launches himself at your desk. He nearly topples over it completely, has to plant both hands on it to steady himself. He’s crying actual tears.

You feel vaguely stunned. An irrational part of you wishes you could cry so freely, but you brush it off. You don’t know what to do, so you just stare dumbly at him as he launches into slightly-too-loud rambling.

‘You’re okay! Oh my god, you were so hurt! I was so worried! They said you went to the hospital, and we weren’t allowed to come visit you! Are you sure it’s okay that you’re here already?!’

He finally stops his tirade when Iida—he and a few other members of the class have arrived now, as well—taps him on the head with the side of his hand, like a little karate chop. There’s something strangely fond about the gesture. ‘Midoriya-kun, slow down. They wouldn’t be here if the hospital staff hadn’t cleared it.’

That’s not entirely true, but you’re not about to correct him.

Midoriya’s face lights in a flush and he leans back from your desk. ‘You’re right, Iida-kun!’ He throws a bashful apology your way, scratching the back of his head.

‘I’m okay, Midoriya-san. I’m sorry to have worried you,’ you say, and you can’t help but glance down at your hands. All the attention is way, way too much, especially this early in the morning.

‘You fight very well,’ Asui croaks from somewhere to the side. You glance her way and find her holding one finger to her chin thoughtfully. ‘Though you did get hurt quite badly.’

Iida perks up, at this. ‘Yes! We heard about you fighting the villains! As Class President, I want to thank you on behalf of everyone for your bravery! However, in future, please refrain from putting yourself in danger! You could have made things much worse for Aizawa-sensei and Thirteen-sensei!’

You blink at him. Midoriya—and Uraraka, to your surprise—are ready on his heels to launch into some sort of protest over his admonishment. You don’t even realise what’s happening until you’re already laughing softly into your hand. Everyone around you goes strangely quiet.

Why do you feel so happy all of a sudden? It hits you out of nowhere, and the smile you flash Iida feels more genuine than any smile you can remember ever smiling before.

‘Thank you, Iida-san,’ you say. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Midoriya is staring at you, mouth slightly open. When he meets your eyes, the smile that lights up his face is blinding. It’s infectious, and your own smile persists.

Is this what it would feel like to have friends?

Despite the reprieve of the moment, you’re still glad when the attention is directed away from you. Kirishima thoroughly redirects it towards the front of the room by crying out. Everyone turns to see the source of his dismay. Aizawa has made an appearance, mummification still fully intact. There are similar cries from around the room, and Iida raises his hand to ask if Aizawa is alright.

As you watch Aizawa, you can’t help but drift back to the conversation a few hours prior. It roils around in your head, and you can still barely make any sense of it, even with some time to think on it.

You tune back in to Aizawa announcing that the Yuuei Sports Festival will be held soon. The class quickly devolves into a discussion about whether or not it’s okay to hold an event like that just after a villain attack.

You rest your chin in your hand as you watch it all play out. It feels strange to be here, when just hours before you’d resigned yourself to being arrested. It doesn’t feel quite real, if you’re honest.

Aizawa explains that the Sports Festival will be the first chance for students to show off their skills to prospective hero agencies. None of it matters to you. You have no intentions of ever actually graduating, and even if you did want to, it’s probably not a good idea to be shown on camera for the entire country to see. Not when you know Father and Tomura will no doubt be watching.

You don’t think it would matter if you did participate, but the prospect of being watched like that, unable to do a thing about it, is deeply unsettling. You’ll happily fly under the radar. You would’ve done it anyway, naturally. Your Quirk doesn’t hold a candle to any of your classmates, and while you could probably outclass them in general skill, that’s not what the Sports Festival is about.

You’ll be perfectly fine cheering them on from the sidelines.

The rest of the day trudges forward. It’s a struggle to keep focused on your classes, between little sleep and so much to think about. Before you know it, the bell rings to signal lunch. Usually, you’d just eat at your desk, bring in your own lunch, but you need to get out of the stuffy classroom, at least for a moment.

Midoriya waves at you when he sees you leave the classroom. He’s with Iida and Uraraka, no doubt on their way to the cafeteria. It’s not the first time he’s tried to rope you into lunch with them. Usually you have no qualms about pretending you didn’t see him, or ignoring him outright. This time, though, almost unbidden, you find yourself walking towards them.

You shouldn’t. Your internal monologue is a flurry of reasons not to—think about the consequences that could come of this, how you’re pretending here, this can only end one way—but after just a few steps, you’re standing awkwardly beside Midoriya, who looks like he just won the lottery.

You don’t think you’re that valuable, but his gratitude fills you with the dull ache of longing anyway. You bite back on the wish that this could be real.

Uraraka beams at you too, not a hint of nerves in her. ‘Are you joining us for lunch today?’

You glance at Iida, one last chance of an out, but he doesn’t look particularly bothered by the prospect, either. You look down and shrug. ‘Sure,’ you say, trying not to sound like you’re pulling teeth for the second time in so many hours.

On the way to the cafeteria, you listen idly as Midoriya asks Uraraka why she wants to become a hero. Uraraka skids to a stop and shoots him a bashful look. She stutters her way through explaining that she wants to become a hero for the money. You’re glad your soft laugh through your nose is mostly covered by Midoriya’s own outburst.

You feel a little out of place as the three of them discuss it. Uraraka opens up about her family, and wanting to help them. You feel envious of the prospect of having somebody to help. You nearly jump three feet in the air when Iida raises his hands and shouts, ‘Bravo!’

He is a very strange person, but he’s not unlikable.

You hear All Might’s laugh before you actually see him, and you take a single step backwards so you’re out of sight when he requests that Midoriya join him for lunch.

It’s yet another reason you shouldn’t get involved too closely with Midoriya. He’s a veritable magnet for All Might, which makes sense given their shared Quirk, but it’s also the very last thing you need.

You feel a little like a third wheel, now that Midoriya is gone, but you persist through lunch with Uraraka and Iida. They do their best to draw you into their conversation. It’s superficial, but surprisingly easy to interact with them. They both seem to pick up on whenever you’re not feeling especially inclined to answer a question they've asked, or provide any input on a topic they bring up, and they don’t push.

Being in the cafeteria is difficult, if only for the sheer amount of noise and people. It makes you itch to be somewhere high, up on the roof, away from the better part of it all.

You’re not sure if it was worth leaving the classroom, but it was almost nice.

---

Midoriya stops you just before you duck into your apartment. There didn’t seem any reason to avoid walking home with him today, and the trip had been mostly in an amiable silence.

Midoriya stares down at his feet, chewing his lip, mulling something over. You wait for a moment, until the dam of him bursts, and it comes out all at once.

‘I—I just wanted to say I thought it was really brave, the way you fought the villains! You were really cool! You’re going to make a great hero!’

The lying, the pretend of it, should come easy to you by now. It’s been your default setting for so long, but it slips in the face of Midoriya’s genuine earnestness. You feel a pit of guilt in your stomach as you flash him the best smile you can manage. You hope it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels.

‘Thank you, Midoriya-san.’

He throws another carelessly beaming smile your way before he heads inside.

You only make it a few steps into your own apartment before you realise something is wrong. The smell of something ashen, dusty, hangs in the air. Every part of you stands on end as you gently lower your bag to the floor.

It only takes another step for you to realise what it is.

Your apartment is empty. Every piece of furniture, every chair, the table—is dust.

Tomura.

You cut all noise and silently retrieve the ceramic knife you’d stashed in your boot. The events at USJ warranted you start carrying something a little heftier than one of your small glass throwing knives. You’re glad for it, now.

Slowly, you move through your apartment. It’s not a large space, and you can clear the dining and lounge area with just another step. So far, so empty, barring the remains of Tomura’s wrath.

The narrow hallway that leads deeper in is a problem. Two adjacent doors open to the bedroom and the bathroom. You’re not entirely sure how to clear both at once, not without leaving yourself open for an attack from the other direction.

You pause for a long time on the threshold of the hallway. You breath in slow through your mouth and out through your nose, keeping every breath shallow. You’ve never been as patient as you are right now. Maybe it’s because the only safety being jeopardised here is yours. Maybe it’s because you’ve been waiting for something like this. Maybe it’s because you feel lost, stuck between two doorways, imagining Tomura behind each one.

You take a single step forward. You try to get a vantage point on the bedroom by using the bathroom mirror, but it’s no good. Tomura’s dusted that, too.

Your patience runs thin. You have to get this over with. You turn towards the bedroom. You solidify the grip on your knife and spin in one quick, sharp, quiet motion, angling the knife at the approximate height of Tomura’s neck.

He’s not there.

You turn, and you shouldn’t lose your composure yet, but you do, abandoning your silence as you stalk into the bathroom. He’s not there either.

But neither are any of your things. With the apartment clear, you return to your bedroom to properly assess the damage.

It’s pointless. It’s the same as the rest of the apartment. Every piece of furniture is dust, your belongings dust with them. You stare at the place where your dresser used to be. Where you had your knives stashed alongside everything you used for your vigilante work.

You know they’re just things. It shouldn’t matter this much. But as you go through a mental checklist of everything your brother has destroyed, it’s—well, it’s everything. What you had on you is all that’s left; a singular ceramic knife and the bag you cart with you to and from Yuuei.

It’s sentimental. You shouldn’t feel sentimental. You can replace everything. You’re working with limited funds, so it’ll take time, sure, but they were just things.

But your things, your knives, made you feel safe. It’s ridiculous, but they were a part of you, an extension of yourself. Your Quirk can only take you so far, and you barely use it in fights as is. The knives were your safety net. They were your teeth. A few truly good, perfectly fitted ones, you’d taken with you when you escaped Father. The rest, the bulk of your collection, had been carefully cultivated over the year since. They were all weighted to perfection, felt natural in your hands. They were your safety.

You were careless with them. You didn’t keep them as clean as you should, and you neglected sharpening them more times than you’d like to admit. You should have kept them stashed in different places.

But they were yours. They were your independence from Father. Your escape from Tomura.

Your chest hurts. It’s such a sudden, startling, sharp ache, right in the centre of you. You notice it all at once, even though you’re sure it’s been settled between your ribs all along. You fist the front of your uniform and try to take a step forward, try to make yourself move, because everything feels stiff and slim, paralysed. You end up crashing down, knees smarting from the impact with the floorboards.

You can’t breathe, but it’s different from the hospital panic attack earlier. Back then, you felt confused, and scared, and small. Now, you feel empty. You feel devoid. Father’s shadow looms over you, real and unreal all at once. You can’t unclench your fist, still grasping at your clothes.

Midoriya Inko was in this apartment just yesterday. You were here this morning. It was all still here, it was all still normal, it was all still your safe space. You know, you’ve always known you were never really safe. Safety is an illusion, but through this apartment and through your knives and through your vigilantism, you created a bigger illusion, the one that’s kept you standing for the past year.

And now it’s all dust. You can feel it beneath your fingers, one hand bracing you up over the ground. It’s just dust. Your safety is dust. Your life might as well be dust, too.

You don’t think Father ordered Tomura to do this. Senseless destruction has never been the way Father deals with you—his methods are more insidious, thought out. This is the destructive rage of a child. A child who hasn’t been given something he wants. It’s a tantrum.

And now you’re no longer safe from that rage. Everything has been ripped out from under you and you’re left scrabbling at a dusty floor.

All you can think is gone. It’s gone. It’s all gone. It was all for nothing. Father’s hand is around your throat again, and he probably doesn’t even know it.

You’re not sure exactly how long you stay there, breathless on your hands and knees, but it’s long enough the sun goes down and you’re left in pure darkness, still grappling with disbelief. It’s all gone.

You don’t really feel real when you finally push yourself up. It’s like another you is moving, whatever’s left of a carefully cultivated mask—a mask that was just shattered right in front of you. You manage to get just far enough that you can drop down in front of your forgotten school bag.

You rummage through it and try to grab your phone. It takes several attempts to keep hold of it, between your shaking and a persistent blur in your vision.

You grab a leftover takeout receipt and turn it over.

Shouta barely sleeps anyway, you’ll never be waking him up.

You tap in your teacher’s number and let your fingers graze the call button. There’s a part of you, some deeper, idle part of you that roars at you for this. They’re heroes, they’re scum, you know better, they’ll stab you in the back with your last fucking knife. It stalks inside you like a wounded animal, trying to lash out. But you don’t think you could stop yourself, even if you wanted to. Your body might as well be moving on its own.

The phone rings once. The second ring is cut off midway.

‘Aizawa Shouta.’

You try to speak, but all that comes out after a lengthy effort is a sharp outward breath. Faintly, you’re aware of your surprise that the man on the other end of the line doesn’t snap at you. He doesn’t demand to know who this is and why they’re calling at a ridiculous hour—he doesn’t even hang up, outright. There’s a long silence, possibly a minute, maybe even longer, before you can finally manage words.

‘Aizawa-sensei. Something happened.’

Notes:

hello my fellow gamers, on the two year anniversary of me first posting this fic, I make my triumphant return o7

apologies for the year long hiatus, 2023 was a shitshow. i slipped a disc in my back (i'm in my mid-20s i literally don't know how) and lost the entire year to excruciating physical pain, but we're back and better than ever, baby!

chapters 1-4 underwent some substantial edits over the last couple of weeks, so if you notice something in a reread that you swear wasn't there before, you're not crazy! none of the core details of the fic changed, tho

i am literally thrilled to be back, and i sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Chapter 6

Notes:

cws: sports festival levels of violence (midoriya breaks his bones again, fun!), insomnia, nightmares, panic attack symptoms, sine levels of self harm (clenching fists to ground themselves, etc.), endeavor being his own walking trigger warning, ptsd symptoms.

let me know if i missed anything <3

By the time Yamada and Aizawa show up, you’re sitting on the concrete railing outside your apartment, legs dangling over the edge. Your mask is carefully back in place, fragile though it feels.

You watch from your birds-eye view as the two of them enter the apartment complex. They’re in civilian clothes again, from what you can see, but you lose sight of them when they reach the stairs.

You don’t bother hiding your knife. There’s something grounding about the fluid motion of spinning it in slow circles, the tip just barely pressed into one finger for balance. It takes a decent amount of focus to avoid actually piercing the skin, so that’s where the better part of your attention stays.

They come into view again when they reach your floor. When Yamada jogs past Aizawa to reach you, it takes every ounce of self-control you have not to physically move. You feel coiled, ready to attack or run or something. But you very carefully force yourself to do nothing.

Yamada stops in front of you, looking you over. Is he checking for injuries? Stupid. If Tomura had been there, you wouldn’t be here anymore. Probably. For now, it’s fine. You don’t think even Tomura could fool Father into staging a fight with you alone. Too risky for his little protege.

‘I’m fine,’ you shrug. You do your best to remain nonchalant as you sit through Yamada’s appraisal, even though you feel like he’s seeing right through you.

Aizawa, still decked out in bandages, finally catches up. He gives you a similarly scrutinising look, though he’s at least a little less blatant about it. You wave a hand at your apartment door as some sort of invitation and look back out over the street.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Yamada watching the knife. It’s a grim satisfaction—you want it to look off-putting. After making the ridiculous, stupid, idiotic decision to call them, you have to maintain what little distance you still can.

Aizawa heads into your apartment, but Yamada stays with you. He leans against the concrete barrier, not too close, but close enough you can hear him when he speaks.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. He’s a little quieter than usual. You wish he wouldn’t be. You decide to pretend it’s for the sake of your sleeping neighbours instead of you. You can’t dwell on the idea that he thinks you’re weak. You feel bad enough as it is.

You frown down at your knife. ‘I said I’m fine.’

Yamada hums and looks away from you, staring at the wall ahead. His hair is down again, and you notice he’s a little dishevelled. You wonder if he was asleep when you called. Did Aizawa wake him?

When Aizawa returns, presumably having inspected your apartment, you preemptively answer all the questions you’re sure he’s going to ask. ‘No, he wasn’t here when I got back. No, he didn’t leave anything behind. Yes, he destroyed everything.’

You try not to sound too put out when you add, ‘I only have one knife left. It’s not even one of my good ones.’

Yamada laughs beside you, but it’s a humourless sound. ‘You had good ones?’

You level him with a glare. ‘My brother is a villain. Of course I had good knives.’

He laughs again, a little nervous this time, and looks at Aizawa for direction.

Aizawa watches you for a long moment. You’re not sure what exactly he’s looking for, and you can’t really bring yourself to meet his gaze. Eventually, he sighs one of his usual sighs and starts walking away. You take it as your cue to follow. Yamada trails behind the two of you.

‘Where do I go?’ you ask. It comes out quieter than you’d intended. You tighten your grip on the knife and grit your teeth. Weak. You need to stop being weak. You can’t afford it anymore.

‘Principal Nedzu is putting a rush on the construction of the Yuuei dorms. They’ve been a working project for a while now. The attack at USJ was enough to make it a priority,’ Aizawa explains. He sounds tired. But he always sounds tired.

‘And until then?’ You could probably crash on the Midoriyas’ couch, but the idea of potentially drawing Tomura there is… not a good one.

Aizawa sighs, but it lacks its usual weight. ‘You can stay with us, or, if you’d be more comfortable, another member of Yuuei staff.’ You’re comfortable with neither, but that doesn’t seem like an option.

Yamada steps up beside you. ‘We have cats!’ He says it just a little too loud and earns a scowl from Aizawa.

You glance down, running a finger up and down the flat of the knife blade. ‘Did you keep the kitten?’

Yamada beams at you. ‘His name is Hoshi!’

You think for a moment, recalling the names of the cats he’d shown you photos of. Taiyou, Tsuki, and now Hoshi. This time, you scowl. ‘You named your cats sun, moon and star?’

Yamada laughs openly. ‘If I didn’t name them, they wouldn’t have names at all!’

Aizawa sighs, complete with a little shake of his head. Long-suffering. ‘So?’ he asks, and you know he’s not talking about the cats.

‘If it’s just for a few days, I guess it’s fine.’ It’s not fine, but it will have to be.

There’s a parked car at the entrance of the apartment complex. Yamada gets in on the driver’s side. You slide into the backseat. You hate it. It’s too small a space, closed in with two heroes.

The knife is still in your hands. The idea of stashing it away makes you feel nauseous. You don’t know what you’ll do if they try to take it. You can’t let them, but what choice do you really have?

The drive is relatively short with the limited traffic of just-after-midnight. Eventually, Yamada pulls up to an actual house. For some reason, it’s a surprise. You’d expected a dingy little apartment or something. This place is a little small, but that’s about it.

You hesitate at the threshold, pulling your bag higher on your shoulder. Aizawa’s already inside, but Yamada waits for you, giving you a reassuring smile that does nothing for your nerves.

You leave your shoes in the entry next to Yamada’s. The first thing you see when you step into the living area is Aizawa getting mauled by two cats. One is the kitten—Hoshi. It’s grown a little, even in just a few days. Probably the result of getting actual food. Now, you can see that his fur is a mottle of grey and black. He’s clawing his way up Aizawa’s sweatpants while the black cat, Tsuki, winds around Aizawa’s legs in a figure-eight. Taiyou is nowhere to be found.

Yamada grins at you. ‘Taiyou isn’t as friendly as these two are. He’ll probably be off hiding somewhere.’ He bends down next to Aizawa and scoops Tsuki up, walking back over to you. It’s an obvious peace offering, but you take it anyway. You reach out to scratch under the black cat’s chin. A resulting thunderous purr actually makes you smile.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the knife in your other hand. Something doesn’t feel quite right about petting a cat while holding it.

Things are… awkward. You knew they would be, but knowing doesn’t help the way your skin crawls as you stand there, in an unknown place, with two people you’re not sure you can trust. Even the soft, warm fur beneath your hand can’t stave off any of your discomfort.

When you glance over at Aizawa, you find him watching you. He must have been waiting for you to look up, because he points to an open door to your right. ‘That’s the spare room, but if you’d rather sleep out here, that’s fine.’

You nod and avert your gaze. Everything feels so wrong. Did you really have to call them? It was such a quick decision. In the moment, it was hardly a decision at all. If you’d just let the emotion of it all calm down, you probably wouldn’t have called. But now you’re here, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

You could try to leave. Wait until they’re both asleep and climb out a window or something. But where would you go? They’d see you at school in a few hours anyway, and then what would you do? You could claim you went back to stay with the Midoriyas, but you don’t think Aizawa is going to accept another obvious lie.

‘There’s some spare clothes in the dresser!’ Yamada says. His voice is back in that slightly-too-loud range, but you’re a little grateful he’s not forcing the quiet anymore. It was unsettling. ‘They’ll probably be too big, but at least you won’t have to sleep in your uniform!’

You nod once, but before you can thank him, you frown.

Yamada must notice, because he asks, ‘What’s up, little listener?’

‘I just realised Tomura dusted my homework.’

---

You’re offered leftovers from dinner. You consider declining, but decide you need to at least feed yourself if they’re going to consider you capable enough of being back on your own once the dorms are ready.

Apparently, Yamada cooks. It shouldn’t be all that surprising. The two of them had to be getting nutrition somehow, and the idea of Aizawa putting in the effort somehow doesn’t seem right.

It’s a simple rice dish, with some sort of chicken on the side. It’s good enough, and you give Yamada a quiet thanks when he brushes you off, refusing to let you do your own dishes. ‘It was good.’

Yamada laughs. It’s a little subdued—maybe he’s conscious of the quiet of the house—but it’s still got his characteristic cheer. ‘One of us had to learn to cook, and it certainly wasn’t going to be Shouta! He was living off of microwave meals and juice pouches before I learned my way around a kitchen.’

You smile. That’s perfectly in character for Aizawa, somehow.

The spare room is… fine. They don’t even try to take your knife. You’re almost optimistic you’ll actually manage to get some sleep, but lying there in the dark, everything is too unfamiliar. By the time you hear an alarm coming from somewhere else in the house, you still haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

---

You don’t get to school much earlier than you usually would, but arriving with them is still strange. Yamada turns to you when you reach your classroom, but you walk in without waiting for whatever he was going to say.

The quiet of the classroom is almost a blessing. You can’t actually relax, but after another sleepless night, you just want the peace for a little while. You can’t even resist the idea of resting your head on the desk. It’s not a comfortable surface, but you actually doze. You only wake with an upright jolt when the classroom door opens.

It’s Todoroki arriving second, as he always does. You confirm it’s him and then thunk your head back down onto the desk. Maybe you should have more presence of mind, but you don’t have the energy for it.

You don’t let yourself fall asleep again, now that you’re not alone, but you don’t bother lifting your head again when Bakugou arrives. Iida comes after. You half expect him to say something to you about not sleeping in class, but for some reason, he doesn’t.

You do make an effort to sit upright again as the rest of the class starts to arrive. Midoriya looks over at you when he walks in. He’s probably wondering why you weren’t there to walk with him. You should’ve texted him, but it completely slipped your mind.

He looks like he’s going to say something, when he takes his seat in front of you, but you just lift your hand in a wave and flash the best smile you can manage. It’s enough to placate him, for now, and Aizawa arrives soon after, class taking precedence over everything else.

---

The second night is no better. Yamada presents you with copies of all the homework you lost; apparently he’d gone to each of your teachers to request it on your behalf. At least you have something to put your mind towards. It’s a decent distraction.

You haven’t been this hyper-vigilant since your first few weeks outside of Father’s hideout. It’s more exhausting than you remember. You’re overly aware of every time one of them moves or speaks. Your paranoia skyrockets every time they’re quiet enough that you can’t hear what they’re saying. They’re probably not even talking about you, but you can’t convince your body to let it go. You fingers itch to retrieve the knife you left under the pillow in the spare room, but you don’t want to push it lest they reconsider confiscating it.

Yamada cooks, again. It isn’t as good is Inko’s, but it comes close.

When you’re all sitting in the living area eating curry rice, Yamada perks up. He flashes an excited grin at Aizawa. ‘Hey, Shouta, you guys will be coming up with hero names soon, right?’

Aizawa nods. He doesn’t look up from his meal. ‘Why?’

Yamada says your name. His eyes are all lit up, and he’s sporting a mirthful little smirk. It’s a half-teasing expression. You’re almost getting used to it. ‘Your hero name should be Painkiller!’

You actually drop your spoon back in the bowl of curry and stare at him, dimly registering your mouth is wide open.

Aizawa laughs. It’s a gruff sound, but it’s genuine. ‘This again?’

You blink. ‘Again?’

Yamada’s beams. ‘I gave Shouta his hero name when we were in high school!’

This time, you laugh. ‘You’re responsible for Eraserhead? It’s awful!’ You glance at Aizawa. ‘Why did you even go with it?’

Aizawa shrugs, and continues to eat. Yamada answers for him.

‘’Cause I chose it!’ He’s being jovial, teasing, but something about the way he says it gives away that he’s proud, too.

You shake your head and return to your food, but you linger on the moment. Painkiller, huh?

---

You still don’t manage to get any sleep that night. You rest at your desk at every given opportunity the next day, and you must look even worse than you did the day before—not even Midoriya tries to approach you.

Part of you wishes he would. You feel fragile beneath his concerned gaze, especially when he keeps his distance. But if he didn’t, you’d probably just end up saying something rude.

Yamada shows up a little early, just before lunch ends and English is supposed to start. You’re alone in the classroom, dozing. You glance up when he says nothing, and for a moment the two of you just watch one another. Finally, he frowns and walks over. He picks up your bag and throws it over his shoulder.

‘Come on, little listener!’ he crows, grinning down at you. ‘Got a special assignment for you this period!’

Your body feels leaden as you stand. You actually sway a little and have to blink yourself awake again. Yamada has a hand out, like he was prepared to help steady you but thought better of it. You’re grateful—you have no idea how you would’ve reacted to his touch right now.

You trail after him as he leaves the classroom. People haven’t started returning to the hallway yet. It’s a small mercy.

He leads you to the teachers’ lounge, of all places. Most of the staff are still here, chatting and eating lunch and doing last minute prep for classes. You notice Aizawa tracking the two of you as Yamada leads you across the room. He stops at an unoccupied couch in the back corner of the room and deposits your bag on the ground. He gestures wide, with both arms, at the couch.

‘Your special assignment! Get some rest!’ His Quirk activates on the last few words, and he says them in English, making a real announcement of it. You want to cringe away from him. You want to walk out, get away from the scrutinising gaze of the collective staff population. It only occurs to you now that most of them are probably vaguely aware of your circumstances, or of the fact you have circumstances at all. It’s an uncomfortable thought.

But you’re so tired. In the end, it doesn’t even take coercion. You sit on the couch for the rest of lunch, blinking periodically to try and keep yourself awake. Eventually, classes resume, and you’re left alone with Aizawa and Vlad King.

So, you give up. You tuck your feet up and let your head fall against the arm of the couch, and within minutes, you’re out.

It’s a dreamless, empty sleep.

You wake to Aizawa kneeling in front of you, softly saying your name. You realise immediately, between the absence of teachers and the soft light filtering through the windows, that it’s evening.

You shoot up and nearly lose your balance. Your breathing starts to come hard. You clench your fists until your knuckles hurt. You slept through so much, around so many people, anything could have—

Aizawa’s hand is firm on your shoulder. It’s strangely grounding. You should instinctively throw him off. You wait for the visceral reaction to finally trigger, for your body to move on its own, but it doesn’t. In the waiting, you realise your breathing has slowed.

You feel teary. You blink. It’s probably because you’ve just woken up. You swallow, and blink a few more times before you finally ask, ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’

‘Because you needed to rest,’ Aizawa says. His hand is still solid on your shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t have absorbed anything from your classes, anyway.’

Yamada pops up beside him suddenly. You flinch. Aizawa’s hand drops from your shoulder as you step back.

Yamada winces. ‘Sorry! But you’ve been sleeping even less than Shouta!’

He has a point, but you wish he’d mind his own business. You feel off-kilter enough without him pointing out an obvious weakness. But you do feel a little more capable of staying on your feet after the few hours of sleep.

---

After you eat, Yamada runs you through what you missed in English, and cheerfully produces notes for the other classes you missed. You recognise Midoriya’s handwriting without Yamada needing to tell you his source.

But your body can’t sustain another sleepless night, even with those few hours as a buffer—you fall asleep in the middle of reading through Midoriya’s Modern Literature notes.

You’re eleven when a new girl comes to the hideout. Her name is Kawata-san. She’s tall, with dusty brown hair and bright red eyes. She’s a cheerful person, but even though she’s Tomura’s age, they don’t get along. Tomura doesn’t get along with anyone.

Father doesn’t go as hard on her as he does with you and Tomura during training. You wonder if she’s special, but when you ask her about it, she just smiles at you. ‘I don’t know if I’m special, but he saved me! My parents were killed by a villain when I was young, so I grew up in a children’s home. That’s where Sensei found me!’

You let it go when she asks if you want to play Two-Ten-Jack. She produces a deck of cards, and she’s shocked when you say you’ve never heard of the game. She hauls you off to her room to teach you.

She’s really good at it. You never manage to beat her, even though you spend most of your time challenging her when you aren’t training or helping Father. Your persistence becomes a game of its own, and there’s something nice about how she laughs whenever you lose. It’s not at your expense, and she always encourages you to try again.

She’s around for three weeks before you finally think to ask. On the way to training with her and Tomura, it should be an innocuous question. ‘What’s your Quirk?’

She grins. ‘Infrared! I can see the electromagnetic radiation living things emit! I can see a little in the dark, too. What’s yours?’

You don’t answer, because your skin has gone cold with dread. You stop in the middle of the hallway. ‘Can you see with your eyes closed?’

Kawata-san barely falters at your strange reaction. She purses her lips to think about it. ‘A little!’

You want to tell her to leave. You want to tell her she needs to go, right now, because a little over a year ago, Father was left blind after his fight with All Might.

He doesn’t even have eyes anymore.

You open your mouth to say it, to tell her to run, but Tomura wraps an arm around your neck and tugs you forward, four fingers pressed into your shoulder.

When you look up, his teeth are bared in a cruel smile.

You fly awake, slapping your hands over your mouth. You taste blood and for a moment you can’t figure out where you are. It comes back to you as you breathe—you’re in the spare room. At Aizawa and Yamada’s house. You’re not there. You’re not there.

When you finally manage to drop your hands, you see you’ve bitten down hard enough to pierce your thumb. For a moment, you watch the tiny, minuscule bead of blood form—then you notice something else.

Taiyou, the long-haired ginger cat, is on the bed with you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him, and now he’s close enough to touch, curled up asleep on top of your forgotten homework.

Slowly, you reach out and run a hand down his back. A gentle purr follows, and he doesn’t wake up. For a while, you just pet him, gently carding your fingers through his orange fur.

Eventually, you wander out into the kitchen for a glass of water. Aizawa is still up, sitting at the couch with papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him. Tsuki and Hoshi are curled up together beside him.

You don’t notice him follow you into the kitchen—you flinch when you turn to find him leaning on the counter just a few paces behind you. He’s quiet, sure, but he shouldn’t have been so quiet that you weren’t able to hear him. You weren’t paying enough attention.

‘Sorry,’ you mutter, looking down at the glass in your hand. You take another sip.

Aizawa is quiet for a moment. When you don’t look up or say anything else, he speaks. ‘The dorms will be ready tomorrow. They’ll be furnished with the basics, but Hizashi can go with you to get anything else you need.’

‘Am I allowed to go by myself?’ You don’t mean to sound as snappy as you do, but you’re all frayed edges. Everything is wrong, and you want to lash out, hit something solid with a fist. But you can’t, not while you’re staying here.

You look up in time to see Aizawa nod. ‘Yes. You can also ask another member of staff to accompany you if it would be more comfortable.’

You almost ask if he would come with you, more as a joke than anything, but you bite your tongue. You don’t think you want to know the answer. Instead, you shrug. ‘I’ll be fine.’

For a while, you’re both silent. You sip at the glass of water, staring at a fixed spot on the counter behind Aizawa.

Finally, Aizawa asks, ‘Nightmare?’

You check on your thumb. There’s a tiny break in the skin, but it’s not bleeding anymore.

You glance up at him. Instead of answering directly, you ask, ‘Is that why you don’t sleep much?’

Aizawa shrugs. ‘It’s part of the reason.’

You try for a wry smile, but it just feels shaky and distorted. ‘Any words of wisdom?’ you joke.

Aizawa blinks, then nods. ‘Counselling.’

You laugh, but before you can say anything, Aizawa continues. ‘A few years ago, I apprehended a villain with a Quirk that caused severe internal bleeding through touch. Hizashi was with me. We didn’t even know he was injured until he collapsed.’

You glance up. Aizawa is staring off into the middle distance behind you. He closes his eyes before he continues. It’s strangely vulnerable.

‘He was rushed into emergency surgery. It was sixteen hours before they were sure he’d make it. I had nightmares about it every night for weeks.’ He opens his eyes and glances up at the ceiling. ‘Eventually, my hero license was temporarily revoked until I attended mandatory counselling.’

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing. There’s a soft sound from the couch, a gentle thud that resolves itself into cat paws hitting the ground when Hoshi wanders into view and stretches.

Aizawa sighs. ‘I’m licensed, but it doesn’t have to be with me. I can give you recommendations,’ he turns away, starts back towards the couch. ‘Whenever you’re ready, the option is available.’

---

The three of you head to Yuuei even earlier the next morning, to allow enough time for moving into the dorms. There are buildings for each class, and in the centre is a teachers’ dorm. Aizawa and Yamada are moving in early to accommodate you living there.

The building is clearly meant for an entire class. It’ll be quiet until the others move in, and you’re not sure yet whether it’s too quiet or just quiet enough.

You drop your things in the first room you find on the fifth floor. A small relief settles in you immediately; you feel at home being this high up. You even get your own balcony! You can already imagine all the nights you’ll spend sitting out there, when you can’t sleep.

The main campus building isn’t far, and you end up situated at your desk even earlier than usual. Throughout the day, you hear murmurs from students wondering about the new dorm buildings—when they’ll get to move in, why they built them now, if it was in response to the USJ attack. Obviously, you don’t offer up any information yourself.

You’re ready to head straight to your doom room and pass out by the end of your final class, but you linger at your desk while the others pack up. You don’t intend for anyone to find out you’re suddenly living on campus. That would invite way too many questions, and you wouldn’t answer any of them, which would invite way too many assumptions.

Midoriya did finally approach you today. You fed him a lie about your apartment needing repairs, and how you were staying elsewhere in the meantime. He probably didn’t buy it—that still didn’t explain why you also missed half of yesterday’s classes—but thankfully, he let it go.

Even taking your time at your desk doesn’t make a difference, as it turns out. Uraraka opens the front classroom door to a flood of students blocking the exit. Bakugou theorises that they’re here to get a look at the class that survived a villain attack, to scope out their competition for the Sports Festival. It makes sense.

You watch the scene play out idly. You just want your new bed in your new, private space, but there’s no way you’re going to shove past everyone. It’s too much of a hassle.

In the end, Bakugou calls them all ‘extras’, you try not to laugh, Iida unsuccessfully admonishes him and some purple-haired guy makes a dumb speech. Todoroki finally decides to quietly leave through the other door. You take advantage of his standoffish aura and slip out behind him.

He notices, and he raises an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in a mocking wave and head in the opposite direction.

---

You play a lot of catch-up in the following week, finally able to get some sleep. By the time the Sports Festival rolls around, you actually feel something like yourself. You’re grateful, again, to be living on campus, because you get yourself to the 1-A waiting room before the majority of the crowd gets in.

The rest of your class arrives shortly after, and you mostly tune out the small talk—someone is bemoaning not being able to use their costume—until Todoroki approaches Midoriya, just before the opening ceremony is supposed to begin.

Midoriya looks downright nervous. You’re pretty sure this is the first time they’ve actually spoken. ‘Todoroki-kun?’ he asks, ‘What is it?’

Pretty much the entire class is paying attention, now. Come to think of it, you don’t think Todoroki has spoken to most of your classmates. Even the interaction the two of you have had was pure circumstance, getting thrown together during USJ.

‘Objectively speaking, I’m stronger than you,’ Todoroki says. ‘More capable.’ Suddenly, you’re thoroughly entertained. This is just like how he spoke to the villains at USJ. Overconfident, blunt. You bite down hard on your lip to stifle the laughter that threatens to topple your composure. Todoroki’s boldness is a delight.

Midoriya nods bashfully. It makes you wanna smack him upside the head, just a little. Couldn't he stand to have even a shred of confidence?

‘All Might’s got his eye on you, doesn’t he.’ Todoroki says, undeterred by Midoriya’s silence.

You really wish Midoriya, or All Might for that matter, had any sense of subtlety at all. You truly don’t know how All Might has managed to keep his Quirk a secret for so long. He reveals so much of himself, and now, he’s revealing Midoriya by proxy. Does he even realise the potential threat he poses to Midoriya?

‘Now I’m not about to pry into why that is, but…’ Todoroki continues. ‘I will beat you.’

Kaminari murmurs something. Kirishima actually gets out of his seat. He puts a hand on Todoroki’s shoulder.

‘Hey, man!’ he frowns at Todoroki. ‘Why pick a fight now?! We’re about to go on…’

Todoroki brushes him off. ‘I really don’t care. I’m not pretending to be anyone’s friend, here.’ Aizawa did open the very first class with a similar sentiment, didn’t he?

Todoroki turns to walk away, but Midoriya speaks up before he gets far. ‘Todoroki-kun, I’m not sure why you felt the need to tell me that you’ll beat me… You’re clearly stronger…’

Lack of confidence or not, he’s right. Midoriya knowing his limits would be great, except that he seems bent on ignoring them at every opportunity.

He continues. ‘And I can’t measure up to most of the others here in skill… Objectively speaking, even…’

Kirishima steps in again. ‘Don’t be so negative, Midoriya-kun! No need—’

Midoriya ignores him. ‘But! Everyone, even the kids from the other courses are aiming for the top! And I’m… well. Let me say this. I’m not gonna fall behind.’ He raises his head and looks Todoroki straight in the eye. ‘I’m going for it too. With everything I’ve got.’

Watching them, something flickers in you. You realise, suddenly, that you want to participate. You want to join in, you want to actually try, you want to actually be one of these people. You want to be an actual student, a Yuuei student.

You want to test your skills against Midoriya, against Todoroki—hell, you want to see if you can run Bakugou around in circles long enough to win a fight. You want to see just how far your combat skills and experience can take you against all these bold, flashy Quirks. You want to show everyone what you’re actually capable of.

But you can’t. You force yourself to think of your apartment, to remember exactly how it felt finding out what Tomura had done. The threat of it, Father’s influence be damned.

It is so, so deeply inadvisable to let yourself be seen at this event. You can’t afford to flaunt it in his face, even unintentionally. It could have irreparable consequences, not just for you, but for any of your classmates. Especially Midoriya. You don’t know if Father has realised it yet, that All Might has chosen his successor, but you can’t afford to be one more reason for him to look at Midoriya.

It’s not just about you anymore. You cannot be selfish here. You’ll just have to keep to the sidelines, avoid the cameras, get out of the Sports Festival at the first given opportunity. It’s the only option you have. Even if it makes you feel impossibly alone.

---

Even with the constant reminders in your head, you still almost forget—and during the very first event, no less.

You’re in the middle of the pack, alongside some of your classmates and some unfamiliar students. Todoroki and Bakugou, even Midoriya, managed to take off ahead. Now, it’s just those of you who are physically capable but don’t have Quirks that give you extra momentum or agility.

Kirishima is to your right, and when you spare a glance his way, you see he’s grinning wildly. The two of you just passed Jirou and Kaminari, and something about that shit-eating grin, not even directed at you, still manages to egg you on.

You end up neck-and-neck with him as you pelt your way past the minefield. Enough of the mines have been revealed or set off you can pretty much run the entire length, only needing to dodge a few times here and there.

When you enter the tunnel that heads back into the main arena, Kirishima’s actually laughing. You’re in the final stretch, now. You almost start laughing, too—then you register the thunderous, cheering crowd on the other side of the tunnel and reality slams back into you like an electric shock. The light of the exit ahead is a pinpoint of focus, and you force yourself to ignore Kirishima’s gleeful challenge.

Again, you think of your apartment. How the dust felt beneath your fingertips. The horror of realising you’d actually called Aizawa for help. You think of Tomura almost killing you at USJ, palm flat against your stomach.

You think of Father, of the two of them seeing you on a massively televised event, throwing in their faces what they already know. That you’re attending Yuuei; you’re trying to become a hero.

And you’re not. You’re not staying. You’re going to learn as much as you can to better your vigilantism, and then you’ll be done. But they don’t know that.

You slow, and let Kirishima pull ahead. As he passes over the finish line, back into the arena, you stop moving completely. Jirou and Kaminari pass you. You’re pretty sure most of Class 1-B do, too. Then, Aoyama.

You just stand there, waiting, until you hear Yamada’s voice announcing that Aoyama was the forty-second and final person to qualify for the next event.

Finally, you move forward. You join everyone back inside the arena. You’re the only person in the entirety of the hero course who doesn’t make it through the first round.

As soon as you can, you slip away, back to the 1-A waiting room. After a moment, when you’re sure you’re alone, you grab the nearest folding chair and throw it at the wall as hard as you can. You kick another, sending it clattering into the first. It’s not enough. You want to hit someone.

For the first time in years, you find yourself asking why. Why does it have to be this way? Why is this how you have to live? Why do you have to be so careful and particular when everybody else your age can just carelessly give it their all in a school event? And why do you care so much?

It’s self-pitying, and that makes it all hurt worse. You want to stifle it all, shove it all down, take it all back, but you’re tired and frustrated and most of all, you’re angry. At Tomura, for existing, and Father, for ever finding you. At yourself, for letting it all still get to you. And you’re angry at Aizawa and Yamada for trying to get through to you. There’s nothing for them to get through to! You’re an empty shell! Whatever’s left will be snuffed out by Father in the end, and the end will be sooner than later.

You thought you made peace with that reality a long time ago, but it takes longer than you want to admit to school your emotions into the barest hint of manageable.

You don’t bother picking the chairs up when you finally leave the room. You shove your hands deep into the pockets of your sports uniform. You’re ready to beeline it out into the stands to watch the rest of the event, but All Might’s voice echoes from the stairwell to your left.

‘… soooo long! Last time we talked was ten years ago, right?! I spotted you and figured I should say hello.’

‘Oh yeah? If that's all, then get out of my sight.’

You recognise that voice, if only from interviews. He never actually spoke to you as a child, but still the memory of Endeavor shakes loose; staring up at him, Tomura’s fingertips a warning, the reality of heroes becoming clear.

There’s no reason for you to bother overhearing anything the two top heroes of Japan have to say, but you stop. This should be your worst nightmare. All Might, jovial, too-bright; Endeavor, his polar opposite, worse in every way except in principle. Part of you wants to bolt in the opposite direction, but your feet stay planted in place.

Endeavor mutters something you can’t quite make out. Then, he growls a command: ‘Get lost!’

It might be the most openly arrogant thing you’ve ever heard.

All Might just laughs, a booming sound. ‘Why such a party pooper?! Your son, Young Shouto. He pulled off an impressive victory, all without using his left side. Guess someone's been raising him well.’

You tamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. Is All Might actually sassing Endeavor? You can’t tell if he’s being terribly, delightfully underhanded, or if he really is just that dense.

Apparently, neither can Endeavor, because he asks, ‘What're you trying to say?’ It’s laced with a heavy suspicion that tends to be of the guilty, in your experience.

‘Actually, I want to ask you…’ There’s something almost vulnerable, imploring, in the way All Might speaks. 'For some tips about training the next generation.'

What, and he thinks Endeavor knows how to do that? On what fucking grounds?

‘You think I'd tell you anything?’ Endeavor spits. ‘Always with that damn happy-go-lucky attitude. Pisses me off.’

‘Sorry, then.’ All Might sounds appropriately subdued, and if it wasn’t at the hands of Endeavor you’d probably find it satisfying.

‘Know this much.’ Endeavor says. ‘I'll mold that into a hero who surpasses you. That's the only reason I created that kid. Sure, he's a rebellious little brat now. But he'll outdo you. I'll make him surpass you!’

It takes everything you have to wrest the fury that flares to life inside of you. You want to turn and run straight at Endeavor. You want to unleash the full force of yourself on him, even if you’d be ash in the face of his fire.

That? That? The only reason he created him? As if Todoroki is more of an investment than a son! It shouldn’t surprise you, not with the implications in what little Todoroki has (and, for that matter, what he hasn’t) said to you, knowingly or not. Paired with your own assumptions, it paints an obvious picture. But still, you shiver in your anger.

Endeavor, in all his flaming, prideful glory, passes you. You keep your head down and hope your fists aren’t obvious at your sides. It doesn’t seem to matter. You don’t think he even spares you a glance.

All Might follows shortly after. When you look up, you see a momentary, unsmiling expression, but as soon as he notices you, he schools his face back into his usual picture perfect grin as he says your name, an acknowledgement.

You’re still reeling with the fury of it all, and he must see it. The grin slips again, just a little.

He cocks his head, and asks, subdued, ‘Are you alright?’

You just nod and skirt past him.

---

You missed the entirety of the second event while you were… preoccupied. You make it to the stands with the rest of your class just in time to see Midoriya’s first fight. Uraraka catches you up—the rest of the festival will be one-on-one fights in a bracket style tournament. Midoriya’s first opponent is a purple-haired boy you vaguely remember being there when everyone came to scout out your class.

You can’t hear whatever he’s saying to Midoriya, but you can tell it’s riling him up. Midoriya runs at him, but he only makes it a few steps before he freezes completely, cut off mid-step. It has to be the effect of a Quirk. Midoriya doesn’t hesitate when he’s decided to do something.

Your suspicion is confirmed when he turns and starts to walk toward the boundary line. You’re not quite jumping out of your seat like Uraraka and Iida are beside you, but you find yourself resting towards the very edge of the chair, silently imploring Midoriya to break out of whatever Purple Hair’s Quirk is.

He does. In the effort, he takes two of his fingers with him, shattering them in a blast of One For All. He’s throws Purple Hair out of bounds, and by the time Midnight announces his win, you’re already back into the hallway.

It’s stupid, what you’re doing, not least of all because Aizawa explicitly told you not to. It won’t make a difference, anyway, but you cut Midoriya off on his way to Recovery Girl. All Might is with him, in his small form. You pretend not to recognise him as you muscle Midoriya into letting you use your Quirk the rest of the way to the makeshift infirmary. The pain that bites through your fingers is intense, but seeing Midoriya’s tense shoulders sag just a little makes it worth it.

You can tell he wants to ask you something—probably why you didn’t make it through the first event when it was entirely within your capabilities—but he stays quiet. Maybe he doesn’t want to broach the subject in front of All Might.

You drop his arm when the three of you reach the infirmary. You level him with your best glare and cross your arms over your chest. ‘You need to tell Aizawa-sensei about your Quirk.’

Idiot that he is, terrible secret-keeper extraordinaire, he glances at Definitely Not All Might before he sputters out some nonsensical reply. You could almost slap him! Could the two of them be more obvious?

You cut off Midoriya’s rambling. ‘It’s his literal job, Midoriya! You think you’re the first student he’s had whose Quirk has a terrible drawback? At least if he knew you’d only had it for a few damn months, he’d be better equipped to help you!’

It’s almost a reflex, to flick your gaze over to All Might and flash him with the same steady glare. You turn on your heel as quickly as you do. Hopefully it doesn’t seem pointed, and he writes it off as residual frustration towards Midoriya.

When they’re both silent for a moment, you sigh and turn to face Midoriya again. ‘Your body is eventually going to start showing signs of permanent damage if you keep doing this. I’m sure Recovery Girl will tell you the same thing. What kind of hero are you going to be when you can’t even use your arms?’

You turn away before he can say anything, heading back out into the stands. This time, you leave an empty seat between you and Uraraka. Midoriya takes it a few minutes later. His fingers are bandaged. He flashes you an apologetic look. You pretend not to notice.

Next up, Todoroki is fighting Sero. As soon as Todoroki walks into the arena, you frown. He’s visibly tense, way more so than usual. It looks like it’s taking everything in him not to visibly shake, and judging by the look on his face, he’s furious. That anger translates into the fight, when he lashes out with his Quirk—a massive amount of ice, the most you’ve ever seen him produce, neatly encases Sero before he even has a chance to move.

Todoroki is shaking, now. Most people will probably write it off as the cold, coming off of all that ice. But as he uses his left side, radiating heat, to slowly melt Sero free, he looks terrified. Underneath all that frustration is fear, and none of it has anywhere to go.

A girl with vines for hair, a Class 1-B student, defeats Kaminari with relative ease. Kaminari’s Quirk is situational. He needs combat training to back it up, but he won’t find it here. Yuuei doesn’t focus on plain, Quirk-free combat skills, at least not nearly enough.

The series of fights that come after aren’t enough to distract you from your growing concern for Todoroki. You don’t even know him—the two of you have directly interacted, what, two or three times? And one of those times, he didn’t even know it was you! But you can’t get it out of your head.

Todoroki is all fear beneath fury. It’s too familiar. And when you connect what you’ve witnessed today to what you learned when you first met him, as Sine…

Endeavor called Todoroki ‘that’.

Iida gets taken for a run-around by an over-enthusiastic student from the support department, Ashido outmanoeuvres Aoyama, and Yaoyorozu can’t react fast enough to defeat Tokoyami. Kirishima manages to draw against someone from Class 1-B with a similar Quirk to his. It’s the most boring fight ever. Neither one of them has any finesse at all. You can’t help but imagine how they’d be if they could combine their brute force Quirks with more technical skill.

You don’t expect Uraraka to manage a convincing fight against Bakugou, but she completely outclasses him. It’s impressive. She manages to keep pace with Bakugou even while keeping all of the debris floating above the arena with her Quirk.

But Bakugou’s Quirk is simply too powerful. In the end, Uraraka can’t even stand.

Yet another student who’d benefit so much from a bit of actual combat training. This school really is a waste.

As the fight ends, you quietly slip away. You find Todoroki in one of the waiting rooms. He’s supposed to fight Midoriya next. Kirishima and the Class 1-B boy are having their rematch—arm wrestling?—on the screen behind him.

‘Todoroki-san,’ you say, stopping in front of him. He looks up and blinks carefully at you. There’s the faintest trace of a frown in his brow.

You falter, not sure how to phrase what you want to say to him. It would be easier if you could reveal yourself as Sine Nomine, if only to bring back that temporary camaraderie. But that would be stupid.

You must take too long to continue, because his frown settles into place properly. It’s almost a scowl, and he doesn’t quite snap, but it’s a near thing. ‘What?’

You force out the first words you think of. ‘My mother was…’ The truth tastes bitter and strangles your throat. You start again. ‘My mother, she…’

Oh, fuck this. You grab the nearest chair and sit, facing Todoroki on his level. ‘My mother died when I was young. She was killed by a villain.’ Telling even this scrap of the truth feels physically painful. You can’t stand the feeling of Todoroki’s eyes on you, so you look down at your hands. ‘The first thing she told me when I got my Quirk was that it was a great Quirk, but it was okay if I never wanted to use it.’

You sigh. ‘Obviously, you have your reasons for wanting to become a hero, so I don’t think it applies to you completely, but…’ You lift your head and look him in the eye again. ‘I just wanted to tell you that you don’t have to use your Quirk if you don’t want to. Either of them. Because I don’t think anyone’s ever told you that before.’

He holds your gaze for a long time. Faintly, you register that Kirishima has settled his match, but Todoroki doesn’t move, so you don’t either.

Eventually, he frowns. ‘You’re shaking.’

You didn’t even realise it. You glance back down at your hands, and sure enough, there’s a tremor.

‘Why?’ he asks. You look up, and he continues. ‘Why tell me that?’

You scowl. ‘I overheard Endeavor talking to All Might. He was running his mouth.’ You stand up, and grin at him when he mirrors you. ‘I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this,’—you do, in fact, because you have told him this—‘but your dad’s an asshole.’

Todoroki blinks, and for a second, you think you’ve tread a little too close. But his face resolves into a small, wry smile. ‘So I’ve heard.’

---

Midoriya won’t come out of his match with Todoroki unscathed. You end up waiting right at the entrance into the arena, where Midoriya will come back out after it ends. If you’re going to blatantly disregard Aizawa’s request that you don’t use your Quirk, you might as well cut yourself the travel time.

Todoroki opens the fight with another massive barrage of ice. Midoriya breaks one of his fingers to deflect it.

You grit your teeth. You understand why Midoriya fights like he has something to prove, why he gives it everything he has, but you wish he’d have just a little more restraint. This won’t be his final sports festival. He could just hang back until he has a better handle on his Quirk, and make a real showing then. As it stands, all anyone will remember of him will be the boy who broke his own bones.

As the fight persists, though, you notice the sheer intensity of him. You catch a glimpse of his expression and suddenly you’re not sure what this fight is at all. Midoriya looks furious. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such an expression on his face.

This can’t all be a result of Todoroki’s challenge from the start of the day. But what else could it possibly be? Is he just pissed off that Todoroki won’t use his left side? You’d expect that kind of reaction from Bakugou, but Midoriya?

He’s fully prepared to break every single one of his fingers. He deflects wave after wave of ice. You have to bite your lip, hard, to stave off your own fury. Why does he not have any self-preservation whatsoever? All Might is a terrible fucking influence.

Todoroki redoubles his offence. He’s not just throwing out his ice from the opposite end of the arena, but closing the distance between them. Midoriya’s tactic doesn’t change, but he only has so many fingers. What the fuck is he waiting for?

Todoroki catches him out—Midoriya has to use his whole fist to deflect against an attack that would’ve sent him out of bounds. You have to take a step back to stop yourself from running out there to physically stop him yourself. The bones in his fingers have to be beyond shattered, by now. Did he not hear a single word you said?

There’s a lapse in the fight, and you can’t quite make out whatever they’re saying to one another, but somehow, Midoriya gets even angrier. He uses one of his already broken fingers to deflect more ice.

Some of your anger dissipates, replaced by a deep worry. What the hell is going on? Why is Midoriya so desperate? Something isn’t right, but you don’t know what it is.

You can make out a little of what he’s saying now, his volume climbing as he speaks. ‘… you're gonna win with half your power?! I still… haven't put a scratch on you!’ He clenches his ruined fist and you cringe. That has to hurt. Badly. ‘Gimme everything you’ve got! Come at me!’

Todoroki says something you can’t hear, but he’s clearly furious as well. He rushes at Midoriya, but his movements have slowed. His reaction time, too. If you can see it, Midoriya definitely can. He lands a solid, powered hit on Todoroki, and even though it must have hurt, One For All doesn’t shatter him, at least not his entire arm. He’s learning. But it’s not enough. And he shouldn’t be learning it like this, anyway. This is so far from the time or the place, and not even a remotely appropriate method.

You’d be surprised if the bones in his fingers were anything more than dust, now. But Todoroki has slowed down too. They circle around the arena, Todoroki trying to land a hit on Midoriya, Midoriya dodging. He’s clearly struggling with the pain. He readies to use one of his fingers again, one that’s already been broken twice over.

‘Don’t you dare,’ you murmur.

But it’s no use. He sends another blast of wind Todoroki’s way. And another. It continues. He levels an especially strong blast forwards, and Todoroki is almost knocked off his feet. He’s just barely able to stop himself from sliding out of bounds by sending up a wall of ice behind him.

Midoriya’s words are coming in and out of focus. You hear him shout, ‘That’s what I wanna be!’ He lunges for Todoroki. Todoroki jumps back.

‘That's why I'm giving it everything! For everyone!’ Midoriya shouts. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, and you strain to hear him. ‘Your experiences… Your determination… I can't even begin to imagine what all that's like… But… if you become Number One without giving it your all, then I don't really think you're serious about denying him everything!’

Something in your chest jerks painfully. You shouldn’t be taking this personally. These words aren’t meant for you. But your chest still feels heavy with the weight of them.

A thin layer of frost is slowly covering more and more of Todoroki’s body. Quirk overuse, from his right side, you assume.

Midoriya runs at him, again. ‘That’s why I have to win!’ he shouts. He punches Todoroki clean in the stomach. ‘I have to surpass you!’

Todoroki goes flying backwards. As he slowly gets to his feet, he says something you can’t hear. But you hear Midoriya’s shouted reply.

‘It’s your power, isn’t it?!’

And Todoroki bursts into flame.

Their impact generates the most raw power you’ve ever seen firsthand. You’re almost blown off your feet. Cementoss threw up some sort of barrier just before they collided, but Midoriya and Todoroki blew right through it.

As the smoke clears, you see that Midoriya has landed, barely upright and definitely unconscious, against the wall just outside the doorway. You don’t even really think about it. You close the distance between you and catch him before he hits the ground.

Distantly, you can hear Midnight announcing Todoroki's win. You focus on laying Midoriya down as gently as you can, and you take his hand and activate your Quirk.

It’s a mistake. As it floods into you—burning-aching-stinging-stabbing everywhere—your brain shocks itself back, back, back, and for a moment you feel ten years-old again. You’re taking Father’s pain for the first time after his fight with All Might, after it suddenly went from something minor, a chronic undercurrent, to something inhospitable, snarling and ugly.

It’s an all-consuming feeling. You passed out the first time you felt it from Father, and your practise with him is the only reason you manage to stay conscious now. You hang onto it, though, because Tomura is behind you, ready with the punishment of his Quirk if you let go—

Reality snaps back into focus. You drop Midoriya’s hand—Midoriya’s, not Father’s—and after a few long moments, the pain slowly recedes. Not helping him feels horrible, but you can’t force yourself to take his hand again.

You follow him to the infirmary when they finally bring out a stretcher, but you’re ushered off by Recovery Girl. You find an empty waiting room for the second time that day and sit, staring at your hands like they might reveal the answer. You don’t even know what question it is you’re asking.

---

By the time you feel up to rejoining your classmates, the final matches have started. Apparently it took Cementoss a while to repair the arena after Midoriya and Todoroki’s fight.

You barely manage to focus on the rest of the fights, anyway. Everything feels wrong. It’s all strangely muted after Midoriya and Todoroki’s fight.

With a little more combat know-how, Iida might have stood a chance against Todoroki. He has the right idea, but as it is, Todoroki easily wins the fight using only his ice.

Tokoyami and Bakugou is a bad match up. Tokoyami can’t really make use of Dark Shadow, not against Bakugou’s bright explosions. It’s another short match, and it leaves Todoroki and Bakugou as the final two.

Todoroki clearly doesn’t intend to use his fire again, and Bakugou is, predictably, angry about it. He escapes Todoroki’s initial prison of ice and wastes no time going on the counteroffensive. He executes a clean move, launching himself past Todoroki’s left side, grappling him into a throw with the momentum.

You realise, then, that Bakugou is actually targeting Todoroki’s left side. He’d be one hell of a threat if he had proper combat skills. It’s almost a scary thought.

There’s an opening when Bakugou purposefully puts himself in the line of fire, literally—Todoroki could use his fire and probably end the whole fight in a second. But he doesn’t. It almost looks like he will, but you see the moment he resigns himself to losing.

Bakugou attacks, Todoroki is rendered unconscious, and despite his refusal to accept it, Midnight declares Bakugou the winner.

---

You find Todoroki on his way to the infirmary. He’s regained consciousness and is refusing get back on the stretcher. You step forward, and before you can think better of it, you grab his hand and take some of his pain.

You actually, audibly sigh. It isn’t half as bad as Midoriya’s was earlier. It doesn’t send you into some panic or flashback or shock. It’s the dull throb of a body overworked, riddled with minor burns from Bakugou’s Quirk.

You expect Todoroki to pull away after a moment, but when you meet his eyes, he seems to give in, a little. You follow him to the infirmary, still holding his hand.

‘You really let him tear you a new one,’ you glance over at him, but Todoroki is staring at the ground. He barely seems aware of his surroundings. Maybe that’s the only reason you’re getting away with using your Quirk on him right now. ‘I hope you find whatever you’re looking for, Todoroki-san.’

He doesn’t reply, and when you get to the infirmary, you leave him with Recovery Girl.

---

Two nights later, carrying a small backpack, you sneak out of Yuuei. It didn’t take much for you to find a reliable escape route once you’d familiarised yourself with the campus. Thankfully, cameras aren’t too frequent outside of the school buildings. You’re not sure if it’s arrogance or surety, but either way, it works for you.

You can’t use the main entrance when you want to leave in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t surprise you if the scanners that open the gates provide specific information about which ID is being scanned. If it becomes known you’re leaving at odd hours, it’ll only be a matter of time before someone gets suspicious.

The inside of the campus is lined with trees, plenty tall enough for you to scale one and make a short drop to the other side of the wall. There’s another tree, a large one, a short distance from the main entrance on the outside of the wall. You can use the exact same method to get back in later.

It feels a little like coming home, to be back in your usual neighbourhood. It feels like it’s been so long—it’s only been weeks, but you’ve never had to take a break like that before unless you were injured, and even then you were never exactly thorough in letting yourself heal. You got by just fine. But recently, you haven’t been able to do much thanks to the arrest warrant, and then everything with Tomura.

You should probably still lie low, wait for things to die down even further, but you need to do something. The urge to do something actionable has been a growing burn beneath your skin.

You find a dark, silent alleyway and throw on your usual getup. It’s welcoming, being back in your dark clothes, mask in place, knives on your person. You’re still far from where you were—the clothes are new, since Tomura dusted your old ones, and the few knives you’ve managed to procure aren’t even close to the standard of your old ones. They’ll take time to replace, and most of your money was blown on replenishing everything else you still needed.

You got your current information from your usual place. They didn’t have anything new they were willing to offer on the Shie Hassaikai or on Stain, but like some sort of consolation prize, Yasumi offered you this: the location of an upstart illegal weapons manufacturer. From what you gathered, they’ve been in operation for a couple of months, taking old weapons, scratching out the serial numbers, and providing them as new, mostly to petty criminals and small time villains.

Scouting the place out proved Yasumi’s intel correct—so far, there are only three people taking part in the operation. Ideally, you’d spend a couple of days surveilling to confirm nobody else was involved and to establish the general layout of the building. But you can’t risk leaving Yuuei more than you really need to; the risk of going in with less information than you’d like still seems worth it.

At the very least, you plan on staying out until you come across Eraserhead, or he comes across you. You know he was cleared for duty just after the festival, and a conversation between the two of you is long overdue. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, and you intend to figure out whether or not he’s going to try to collect.

You might as well make the most of your time.

You’re positioned on the roof of a small building that was once some sort of office. The surrounding neighbourhood has gone downhill. It has the hallmarks of initially being a nice enough area, but a growing crime rate and a plummeting willingness to invest has rendered it at best, run-down, and at worst, actually dangerous.

You slip soundlessly through a window on the second storey. You’d banked on the windows being unlocked, or the locks being broken altogether. You were right. You take a moment to confirm your suspicions—they’re doing the ‘manufacturing’ downstairs, and storing the excess product up here. There’s a messily compiled storage of weapons—knives, a mix of handguns and shotguns, even a few grenades—in one of the upstairs rooms.

You debate taking a knife or two, but ultimately, the quality of these is nothing like you’re used to, and you do try to maintain a reasonable distance from any active criminal activity, vigilantism aside.

The grenades are almost tempting. You pick one up and grin. It’s got a bit of heft, in your hand, and the metal is cold. You’d probably end up blowing off your own hand if you actually tried to use it, but you bring it with you anyway.

You tread lightly down the stairs. The flooring is carpeted, which makes your job of being quiet extra easy. There are voices coming from the room closest to you, door ajar, at the foot of the stairs.

The hallway stretches out a short distance, and there are a few other doors, all closed. You’re fairly positive there’s nobody else in the building, but you wait just long enough to account for three different voices before you make your move.

With a shove, you push the door wide open. A little fear never hurt anyone—you lob the grenade into the room, where it lands with a satisfying thud before it skitters across the carpet. There’s a gasp from one person, a scream from another, then silence. It’s not like you pulled the pin or anything.

You duck your head around the door frame and give them a little wave. ‘False alarm! Hello everyone!’

The man closest to you, a stocky guy a head taller than you, grabs a knife from the table in front of him. He swings it in a wild arc in your direction. It’s pure desperation. He clearly has zero training and a lack of experience to match.

There’s another man, short and lanky, cowering in the corner. His hands are raised over his head. At the back of the room is the woman. She leaps for a gun, the serial number partially scratched away.

You toss a throwing knife at the first guy. It embeds cleanly into his hand. He drops his knife, and in the moment of distraction, you swipe it out of the air and send it flying towards the woman. It misses its mark—this is why you don’t use poor quality knives—but she flinches backwards, hesitating before securing the gun. It’s enough time for you to level a solid kick into Stocky Guy. He goes crashing into her and they both hit the ground.

You secure the gun, making sure the safety is still engaged, and turn just in time to see the second guy making a move for the grenade. You stomp your boot into his hand, and he whimpers and backs off.

Stocky Guy audibly gets to his feet behind you. You twist to block a half-hearted punch, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward using his own momentum. He crashes into the wall behind you.

The woman tries for you again. She grabs the knife you threw earlier—at least she’s resourceful—but she’s got as much training as Stocky Guy. You disarm her before she can launch an attack and jerk her arm backwards. It dislocates, and she collapses, sobbing.

It doesn’t take long after that to have them all rounded up. You leave them just outside the building, tied together with cables you repurposed from inside.

Sirens flare to life in the distance. Instinct, more than anything, makes you scan the surrounding rooftops. You hadn’t called it in yet, but sure enough, you see Eraserhead crouched high above you.

You double check the ties before you join him—and by join him, you mean you leave in the opposite direction and assume he’ll follow. You have no intentions of being anywhere nearby when the police arrive, just in case he has decided to abide by the warrant.

He’s delayed, probably making sure the arrest was successful, but he catches up before long. You keep going, though, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. You’re curious to see how far he’ll follow.

Eventually, something wraps around your arm and tugs you backwards. That damn not-scarf. You lose your balance and fall onto your back. Eraserhead saunters into view above you.

You frown up at him. ‘That was dirty. I wasn’t actually trying to get away.’

His face betrays none of what he’s feeling, but the goggles are hanging around his neck, giving you a fantastic view of his new scar. It’s a jagged little thing, under his right eye. You feel a twinge of guilt, for some reason.

‘Sine,’ he says by way of greeting. He offers you a hand. You don’t take it.

‘Eraserhead,’ you parrot, getting to your feet. ‘Long time no see.’

He doesn’t say anything, and you realise he’s waiting for you to bring it up.

Usually, you’d make a game of it. A silent back-and-forth, testing the limits of his patience. But the nervous hum that’s been permeating your body for days is at an all-time high. You need an answer.

‘So, am I under arrest, or what?’

He blinks. It reminds you of a cat, almost. ‘Did you kill him?’

You hum, taking a backwards step to put some distance between the two of you. ‘What do you think?’

You’re not sure why you’re laying it on so thick tonight. You can’t really help it. You do genuinely want to understand what he’s thinking, but you can’t force yourself to ask him outright.

It’s probably a good thing, too. You’re not supposed to know him. Not really. You’re supposed to be seeing him for the first time in weeks—you’re not supposed to have just stayed at his actual house for three nights in a row. It’s getting harder to remember the distance between these two versions of you.

He doesn’t dignify you with a reply, so you sigh dramatically. ‘No, I did not kill him.’

‘Then no,’ Eraserhead says. ‘You’re not under arrest.’

You don’t really know how to respond to that. The words reverberate strangely inside you. They’re a confirmation of your own suspicions, sure, that he didn’t want to arrest you in the first place. But there’s also this sick sort of feeling that comes from the proof of just how much trust he’s giving you.

It’s too much.

‘Heard you got fucked up by some villains,’ you say. Why can’t you keep your damn mouth shut?

You’re actually glad he doesn’t reply this time. You’d rather not acknowledge your incessant inability to be the slightest bit vulnerable with him, either.

You’re not ready to head back to Yuuei. Not yet. You don’t want to go back to being by yourself again. You want to wear this mask for just a little longer.

So, you offer up something truly insane.

‘I got a tip about a safe house potentially being used by the League of Villains.’ You most certainly did not. ‘I was about to go and investigate.’

Eraserhead blinks owlishly at you. If he’s surprised by the invitation, he doesn’t show it. ‘Lead the way.’

You grin like a fool, for some reason. It’s a shitty excuse to prolong your time with Eraserhead, and it’s a dangerous place to lead him to. There’s too much truth there, even if there’s no possible way for him to see it.

Maybe it’s because you can be a little more of yourself around this version of him, as this version of you; Eraserhead instead of Aizawa, Sine Nomine instead of… the rest of you.

Maybe you’re just not looking forward to going back to an empty dorm building. It’s not like you didn’t live alone before, but there was something comforting about knowing the Midoriyas were just a few doors down.

So lead the way, you do.

The ‘safe house’ is an apartment in a building a few blocks away. You know about it because you’ve been there before. There’s a decent chance it’s not being used anymore, but that’s probably wishful thinking. If nothing else, it would be just like Father to keep the place maintained to immortalise that fucking moment.

The lock on the roof access door has been broken for as long as you’ve known about it. You don’t bother being quiet as you lead Eraserhead down several floors. Eventually, you stop in front of the door to an apartment on the fifth floor.

You feel like stalling, so you glance back at Eraserhead. ‘Would now be a good time to tell you I’ve actually brought you back to my lair so I can kill you with no witnesses?’

He just gives you a long look. You give him your biggest, most obvious grin beneath your mask, then kick the door in.

It gives way with ease. You knew it would. The building is old, and there’s no reason for Father to actually try to fortify this place.

The apartment is dark, but the overhead lighting in the hallway illuminates just enough to get the general layout. You wouldn’t need it. This place is burned into your memory. Tiny living area, tiny kitchen, tiny bedroom, tiny bathroom. As you expected, it’s well-maintained.

You walk straight in. It distantly occurs to you, you might be giving away that you know the place already, with the blatant lack of caution, but you don’t stop until you’re in the middle of the room. You stare down at the dark grey carpet. It’s almost black without the lights.

If they tore this exact section of carpet up, they’d find traces of blood almost four years old. DNA wouldn’t find a match in any system. It’s only because of strict laws that kids who grow up in children’s homes even end up on the Quirk registry. Kawata didn’t even have a proper medical record.

An unfamiliar voice rings out. ‘What—‘

You whip around in time to see Eraserhead, a few paces behind you, restrain the man who is now standing in the doorway. He’s illuminated by the hallway light at his back, but you don’t recognise him. Dusty hair and thin eyes, he doesn’t have a chance to say anything else before Eraserhead’s capture weapon secures his mouth, as well.

You shiver. You hadn’t even realised he was there, not until he spoke. Your guard was completely down. You’re lucky Aizawa—Eraserhead—was here, and you’re lucky he acted quickly. This guy could be anyone at all, threat level completely unknown. Somebody with more training, someone more sinister, probably wouldn’t have revealed themselves like that, but still. Better safe than sorry, and thanks to Eraserhead, it’s the former.

Apparently, Eraserhead has a better memory than you, as well. You hear him speaking on the phone to someone, calling it in, and he confirms this is one of the villains they failed to capture after the USJ attack. You weren’t sure if this place was still being used, but it seems you came up lucky.

An idea forms, then. You can’t get Eraserhead directly involved with your family. It’s too risky, and too easy to connect back to non-vigilante you. But he must be at least tangentially related to the investigation into the League of Villains; he was the hero on scene during the USJ attack. So any information that reaches him will probably circulate even further.

You can feed him a hint.

It’s risky, but you act before you can think better of it. You walk over to the villain, still restrained up against the wall. You get close to his face and peel away the section of Eraserhead’s capture weapon that covers his mouth.

‘Hey, buddy.’ You smile, producing one of your knives and holding it up, nice and close, for him to see.

You hear Eraserhead shift behind you. ‘Sine. Leave the interrogation to the police,’ he says, sounding equal parts tired and punitive.

You turn your smile on him. It may or may not be visible beneath the mask, but you raise your eyebrows for added effect. ‘Oh, this?’ You do a little flourish with the knife. ‘This is just for show! I just have one question.’

You already know the answer—he won’t know a thing—but that’s not why you’re doing this.

You turn back to the villain, and you drop your hint. All you can do is hope Eraserhead will pick it up.

‘What do you know about All For One?’

Predictably, the poor guy just looks confused. You hum, set the capture weapon back into place over his mouth, and leave the apartment. You take refuge on the roof while Eraserhead presumably waits for law enforcement to arrive.

You wonder, does he come up with some excuse for how he knew about the safe house, or is he honest about your cooperation? Probably the former, if you had to guess. But it doesn’t really matter to you, does it?

You jump to your feet when he finally joins you again. ‘Find out anything useful?’

Eraserhead just raises an eyebrow at you.

‘I get it,’ you snort. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anyway.’

He frowns at you. He’s silent for a moment, then he asks, ‘What’s All For One?’

You almost feel giddy, and you’re not sure why. Is it because he might be taking you seriously, or because he’s humouring you at all? Regardless, you shrug, coy. ‘I don’t know,’ you reply. ‘Just something I heard.’

---

Shouta doesn’t call Sine out on their obvious lie. He’s clearly being tested, but he decides not to push it. For some reason, they wanted him to know about ‘All For One’.

Is it a group? A Quirk? A moniker? He’s not sure, but something about it feels important. Is it important enough to justify the deliberate omission in his verbal report to the police? Probably not. He could try to explain it away as wanting to verify the validity or relevance of the information first, but he wouldn’t even buy that himself.

Something has changed about Sine, something obvious but just out of reach, something more than what he already knows. Sure, they’re wanted for murder, but Shouta knows they’re skilled enough at dodging law enforcement for it not to be a concern. They haven’t been an active vigilante for a year for nothing.

Did something else happen, something he wasn’t around for? He’s doesn’t know, but something is definitely different. This is the first time they’ve ever taken him to one of their tips. On top of that, they dropped a hint, a sliver of information that may or may not pan out—but they chose to share it.

He almost wants to be direct, to ask them outright about what happened, but this relationship is still tenuous, fragile, even if Shouta’s sure they’re heading in the right direction. He can’t risk threatening that, not when he’s apparently winning at least some favour. He’s in a better position to help them now, in general, and that will have to be enough.

He sighs quietly. Between this and the rest of his class, he needs a nap. A long one.

Honestly, he’d assumed Sine would’ve taken off by now, but they’re practically hovering. There’s a frenetic energy about them, like they’re waiting for something—Shouta realises with a start that they’re waiting to be dismissed.

When did that happen?

‘You can go, kid,’ he says. ‘I won’t chase you.’

He tries to play it off as some small thing. If Sine realises what’s happening, there’s a chance they’ll pull back reflexively, shut him out completely. He’s almost certain they’re not even aware of what they’re doing.

They flash him a wave and turn away, but they pause at edge of the building. Shouta wonders if he’s been had, but they hover there for a long, silent moment before turning back.

There’s a hard edge to their grey eyes, something uncertain and serious. They open their mouth to speak, and hesitate again. Shouta simply waits.

‘One more thing…’ they say, idly, like they’re still considering their words.

When they meet his eyes, there’s something imploring there. Shouta gets the distinct impression that whatever they’re about to say is very important to them. He tilts his head to show he’s listening.

Sine falters one last time before they finally get it out: ‘You should ask Yagi Toshinori about Midoriya’s Izuku’s Quirk.’

Notes:

This took me forever to edit, say a prayer for my suffering attention span, I really hope this turned out alright.
I can now officially confirm that this will remain a 100% platonic fic, with some sprinklings of QPR Sine/Todoroki.

Also, hurrah, we're over the 50k mark! This is our longest chapter yet!
I hope you enjoyed the food!!!

(also, you can pry good cook!Yamada and certified counsellor!Aizawa from my cold dead hands)

Chapter 7

Notes:

cw: all associated Hero Killer warnings, panic attacks, blood imagery, dissociation, self harm (sine exacerbates an existing wound to ground themselves)

as always, please let me know if I've forgotten anything!

enjoy!!!

The news blares the same headline for two days.

TURBO HERO: INGENIUM LATEST VICTIM OF HERO KILLER

Ingenium… A quick Google search confirms your suspicion—he’s a Hosu-based hero, and he’s the first target of Stain’s in that area. Stain hunts in threes; he’ll kill twice more before moving on. You distantly realise he’s Iida’s older brother. They look alike.

Truthfully, you feel a little responsible for hunting Stain down. You’re not sure if it’s because he keeps slipping away from heroes and police alike, or if it’s because you’ve been credited with one of his kills. It’s so deeply obvious to you that it was him—not least of all because you know you didn’t kill that hero. Anyone with half a brain can see he’s pattern-oriented, that two of his kills in the Musutafu area are accounted for, and there was a third hero death under extremely similar circumstances. You’re not sure if the police are out to vilify you, and they’re swaying the media coverage, or if people just don’t care to clear a vigilante’s name. You’re just as much a criminal in their eyes as Stain.

But when you set aside your own personal feelings about it all, Stain doesn’t make sense as a target. He’s big enough to have the attention of heroes, even if they’re doing a shit job of apprehending him, and he’s not attacking the general public. You’ve never even been a vigilante for the sake of saving anyone, have you? At the end of the day, you bring down criminals heroes overlook, regardless of the victims that are or aren’t involved. Plenty of your hits are just criminals facilitating small-time illegal businesses.

In the end, you have to let it go. Ingenium is lucky he didn’t outright die, and Stain is too far outside your wheelhouse to justify getting involved.

The extra caution you have to take when you’re out and about as Sine is a pain, though.

---

The next day, the rest of the class is treated to Aizawa, freshly out of his bandages. He grumbles about Recovery Girl going overboard on his treatment—hypocrite—and you pretend you don’t notice another stab of guilt at the sight of his new scar.

He announces that today’s class will be an important class, and the tension skyrockets—but it’s just code names. Midnight comes in to take over, and Aizawa checks out in the corner, barely propped up in his sleeping bag.

You tune out most of your classmates’ chosen hero names in favour of staring down at the little whiteboard you were given to write down your own. You feel a little sick, playing this particular game.

‘Sine Nomine’ stemmed from a joke during your early days, when you’d first started frequenting Yasumi’s. Your debut was a quiet thing, and you were never the kind of vigilante who made statements to any cameras. Juro always showed a particular interest in your workings. You’ve always assumed he has a soft spot for kids.

You’d grumbled about how you didn’t want a name, didn’t want to be known by any stupid moniker. He’d joked about ‘Sine Nomine’, a Latin expression for something having no name. You’d showed some interest, a fault of a younger you with less discipline fresh out from under All For One’s thumb, and your best guess to this day is Juro quietly spread it around.

Hence, Sine Nomine.

You don’t think there’s an apt equivalent for a hero version of you. You sigh and scratch down the only thing that comes to mind. You quietly wait to be called up. Maybe if you’re quiet enough, you’ll get away with not presenting at all.

No such luck. Froppy and Uravity are, admittedly, adorable, Deku makes you sigh, and King Explosion Murder makes you poorly stifle a derisive laugh.

When Midnight finally calls you forward, you have to fight the urge to cringe away from everyone, standing in front of the class, all eyes on you.

At least part of the heavy lifting was done for you.

You slap the board down on the front desk a little harder than necessary—chalk it up to nerves. But your board loudly proclaims: Painkiller.

You hear a few snickers, and a few calls of encouragement. You think you hear Midnight chuckle, but she’s just grinning a supportive smile, giving you a little thumbs up, when you turn to her.

It’s a small mercy that when you glance over at Aizawa on the way back to your desk, he's still dozing.

---

At the end of the day, Aizawa asks Midoriya to stay. You file out of the classroom with the rest, and there’s All Might, in small form, shuffling his weight from foot to foot as he waits to go in.

You only feel slightly guilty about ratting Midoriya out. You don’t feel guilty at all about All Might’s side of things. He’s the adult who should’ve had the forethought to clue in Midoriya’s homeroom teacher about their damn Quirk. There’s a chance long-term damage could’ve been prevented if Aizawa had known about it all sooner.

A part of you wishes you could stay behind, be a fly on the wall of this overdue conversation. You almost feel entitled to it. Or maybe that entitlement is more about the potentially life-saving knowledge of your own you’re hoarding. You probably know just as much about One For All as Midoriya does, maybe even more if All Might’s being cagey. And then there’s All For One. The Noumu. Tomura.

You might even know more than everybody in that room combined, and you’re standing outside, withholding it all.

What other choice do you have?

Telling the truth means losing your freedom. It means Quirk suppression cuffs and a cell. It means losing what little you’ve gained since coming to Yuuei—you slam the brakes on that train of thought before it can go anywhere else.

You haven’t gained shit. Everything is built on lies, lies and more fucking lies. You can’t let yourself forget that. If you do, you’ll start slipping up, and it’ll all go to shit anyway.

You force yourself to continue down the hall, head back towards the dorms.

Midoriya wasn’t even supposed to know about All Might’s deteriorating form. You really blew the lid on that.

---

As the week progresses, you can’t shake a bad feeling about Iida. You’ve overheard him dodging Midoriya and Uraraka’s questions about where he was offered internships. And he did get offers, after the showing he put on at the festival.

Under different circumstances, you would’ve brushed it off as indecision. But his brother was just paralysed by the Hero Killer. While plenty of people seem to be fucking idiots about Stain’s pattern, you know Iida’s too smart to miss it if he went looking. And you’re almost certain he did.

You would’ve, in his position.

You have no desire to spend a week trailing some half-assed hero. You considered asking Aizawa, but that would probably be too obvious, too risky. And if you have no other preferences… what’s the harm in making sure Iida’s not being stupid, right?

You follow the trio to lunch the day internships are due, force yourself to bite your way through a conversation starter for the first time during any of your lunches with them.

‘So, uh… Where are you guys going for your internships?’ You pick at your food to avoid looking at any of them. It sounds forced as hell, even to you. ‘I’m not sure where I wanna go, so I figured I’d ask you guys…’

You’re exceedingly glad they leave you enough dignity not to react to your poor excuse for conversation.

Uraraka answers first, beaming. You’re so focused on Iida you only half-register that she’s going with a hero that specialises in martial arts. There’s a swell of pride in there, somewhere—she clearly recognises her weaknesses, after her match with Bakugou, and she’s actively seeking to improve.

But you don’t get to say anything before Iida admits, quietly, almost bashful, ‘Normal Hero: Manual’s agency.’

Midoriya and Uraraka exchange a look. You wish they’d speak up. It doesn’t feel like it would make any difference, coming from you. You could barely ask the question, and you’re not close enough to Iida to get anything meaningful across, especially when he’s clearly extra stressed.

But the others are both quiet. You hope they’re just waiting until after school, somewhere less crowded, maybe, to save Iida the embarrassment.

You can’t be sure, though. The doubt is still heavy in your stomach, heavy enough to lead you into the teachers’ lounge at the end of the day, handing Aizawa your own internship application for Manual’s agency.

---

‘You've got your costumes, right? Wearing them in public is strictly prohibited, but don't drop them or anything.’ Aizawa is hunched over, hands in his pockets. He’s clearly hating every moment of being in a crowded train station with a bunch of over-excited kids who’ve been waiting for their internships for weeks.

Ashido shouts her assent, a jovial, ‘Yeahhh!’

Aizawa tells her to speak clearly. She’s bashful and corrects; a few of your classmates laugh at the display.

‘All of you be on your best behaviour! Now go.’

Everyone starts to disperse, conversing in groups about where they’re going, who’s catching the same train as them, how excited they are.

Iida takes off, heading into the station proper, full of purpose. Midoriya and Uraraka are quick to follow. You trail behind them.

‘Iida-kun!’ Midoriya calls.

Iida slows, but he doesn’t turn.

When he’s back within earshot, Midoriya speaks up, a nervous lilt to his voice. ‘If it ever gets to be too much and you need to talk, just say something.’

Uraraka nods an emphatic agreement, even though Iida can’t see her.

Midoriya tries again. ‘We’re your friends.’

When Iida takes a moment too long to answer, you step up beside him. ‘It’s all good, Midoriya-san,’ you flash him a small smile, and a little wave. ‘Iida-san and I chose the same agency, so we’ll be together for the internship. I’ll keep him out of trouble.’

Iida frowns. ‘What?’ You’re clearly a flaw in his perfectly idiotic little plan.

Midoriya looks confused, but a little relieved. He murmurs your name. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

You shrug. ‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Thank you for the concern, Midoriya-kun, but I’ll be fine.’ There’s an edge to Iida’s voice, now, and he marches forward again without waiting for a reply.

All you can do is follow.

---

Since the trip to Hosu isn’t long, Manual has the two of you out with him on patrol the same day you arrive. He gives you a bit of time, but before long you’re out on the streets of the city in your hero costumes.

Manual himself is friendly enough, if a little shy, or maybe reluctant. Still, he puts on the classic hero act, waving at citizens who greet him. A lot of kids, in particular, seem fond of him.

He seems intent on keeping up conversation the entire time.

‘Usually, I'm just waiting around for a call to come in, But lately, well… Hosu's been in a bit of a panic,’ he explains, arms animated. He leaves the obvious reason for why the city’s been hectic unspoken.

Iida nods along, the gesture exaggerated by his costume’s helmet. ‘Because the number of patrolmen has been downsized?’ he posits.

‘That’s right,’ Manual smiles. ‘Sure is nice to have Ingenium's little brother with me though.’

You wince. That’s gotta sting. Manual’s dumber than you thought, spouting off like that only a few weeks after Ingenium’s attack. You glance over at Iida, but his expression is inscrutable beneath the helmet.

‘I’m sure you had offers from heroes more capable than me,’ Manual continues, unashamed.

A hero, being humble? You almost scoff at how put-on it seems.

Nothing happens, at all, the entire patrol. You end up back at the agency later that night, where Manual is toeing the line between apologetic and grateful. Obviously he doesn’t want any incidents to happen—though you wouldn’t put it past most heroes—but he also gets that that’s kind of why the two of you are here, to get some actual experience.

He sighs. ‘Well, with the whole city on alert, villains can’t come out, huh?’

After Manual leaves the room, Iida pulls his glasses down, blinks the fatigue out of his eyes. He gets this far-off look about him, and you realise this might be your best chance to say something.

But what can you say? You don’t have an in, here. At least with Todoroki, there was common ground that made running your mouth seem plausible. But with Iida… He’s being a stupid kid. He’s being idiotic, petulant, and he’s way out of his depth. You’re not sure you could say anything without it coming across as completely insincere. Not without revealing shit about yourself you’re not prepared to reveal.

Manual should have put it together by now. Aizawa should have, too. There’s simply no reason for Iida to have chosen this internship. Manual was right, but he missed the point. Everyone should be on high alert after Iida’s brother was just permanently mutilated in this very city. But nobody has raised any direct concerns.

In the end, you can’t bring yourself to say anything to him. You’re out of your depth here too, in your own way.

---

‘Just another day of patrolling,’ Manual explains as the three of you start down the street. It’s the third day of your internship, and the sun is just starting to set. ‘Sorry it isn't more exciting.’

‘No,’ Iida replies. ‘It's actually… better that way.’

You frown. Surely that’s a little too obvious?

Manual glances back. ‘Hey. I really hate to ask, but,’ his voice is tentative, ‘you’re after the Hero Killer, right?’

You and Iida both stop. Manual does, too, and he faces Iida.

‘Well…’ Iida trails off.

Manual grins a bashful smile, emoting with his arms. ‘I just can't think of another reason why you'd choose my agency,’ he says. ‘I mean, I'm thrilled that you did! Don't get me wrong! It's just… Don't let yourself be motivated by personal grudges.’

You grind your teeth. No shit, hero. Does he think that’s going to make any difference to Iida, when he says it like that?

‘We heroes don't have the authority to make arrests or dole out punishment,’ Manual continues, as if he’s reciting from a fucking… well, a manual. ‘It's only because of advances in Quirk regulation that we can use our Quirks at all. But vigilantism is strictly against the rules. And if you're caught going off on your own, that's considered a major crime.’

You purse your lips, not sure if you're trying to contain a grimace or a smirk.

Iida is quiet. You don’t say anything, either, but you can feel the tension building inside yourself. He’s trying to put it so simply—and really, why would you expect anything different from the average hero? The average hero probably doesn’t have any experience with what Iida’s going through right now. They’ve probably never tasted that deep, furious desire for revenge. How could they ever appropriately speak about it?

‘Oh! I mean, I'm not saying the Hero Killer should get off scot-free, of course!’ Manual amends, almost pleading. ‘Just that you seem really serious about this! You have this intense look in your eyes.’ He does a gesture with his arms not unlike something Iida would do. ‘I'm just worried.’

Iida drops into a small bow. ‘I appreciate the warning,’ he says, but his tone gives nothing away. It certainly doesn’t instil any confidence in you that he’s taken any of what Manual said to heart.

Manual’s clearly trying his best to toe the line between terse and friendly. ‘It’s fine as long as you understand,’ he says. ‘I had my own suspicions, but Eraserhead warned me about it, too.’

Manual turns to you, then. You almost start—you haven’t spoken to him directly much over the last few days. But he smiles when he meets your eyes, gaze flicking from you to Iida and back again. ‘He spoke very highly of both of you—he seemed pleased you were looking out for your friend.’

You feel your face heat and do your resolute best to ignore it. Eraserhead said what?

Iida turns to you. You can’t see his expression, but he sounds perplexed when he mumbles, ‘You…?’

You brush it off, averting your gaze. ‘I just didn’t get any offers. I didn’t even realise Iida-san had applied here.’

It’s a bold-faced lie, and you’re positive neither of them believe it—definitely not Iida—but Manual must pick up on your desire for an out.

He gives you both one last smile before he turns away. ‘Now, shall we go?’

You don’t get far. You’re only a few streets over when an explosion shakes the ground beneath your feet. Smoke billows from a few blocks away, and a call comes in through Manual’s earpiece immediately.

You hear his side of the conversation. ‘What did you say? A villain appeared?! Alright, we’ll head over right away!’ He turns to you and Iida. ‘We’re gonna run!’

You hesitate, but follow after him and Iida quickly. A villain attack? This isn’t Stain’s style; he wants things quiet, out of the way. The majority of his victims have been found in secluded areas. It doesn’t make sense.

The closer you get to the smoke, the more you can smell it. There’s definitely a fire. The screaming is louder, too. People are racing past the three of you, away from the obvious carnage.

You don’t even really fault Manual for not noticing when Iida stops, glances to the side, and takes off straight down an alleyway.

You're almost positive Iida's not paying enough attention to realise you're following right after him. At the end of the alley, he turns down the next street. You make quick work of the backpack you’ve been carting around—you banked on needing your knives at some point, and you can’t use them freely while wearing your hero costume.

Changing into your usual getup costs you precious minutes, and with each passing one, you feel the tension rising. It becomes harder to swallow, harder to breathe, harder to ignore the smell of smoke. You leave the bag behind a dumpster to retrieve later.

Is this always what it’s been like, being a vigilante? You know it’s not. This time it’s different. But do you even consider Iida a friend? He’s Midoriya’s friend, and you do care about Midoriya, though you’ve done your best to keep your distance since realising he’s All Might’s successor. Iida, though, you’ve only directly interacted with a few times. Mostly, you’re a shadow at the edges of their group every so often for a lunch where you don’t even speak.

So why is the sense of urgency you feel so much worse than usual?

You brush it off, push the thoughts out of your head as you scale one of the smaller buildings, make a leap onto the fire escape of a taller one. You can’t waste time thinking it all over, and it’ll be difficult to catch Iida on foot. It’ll be easier to figure out where he is from above.

Before you get going, you cast a quick glance back towards the chaos.

Stain is here somewhere, you’re sure of it. This incident probably has nothing to do with him, but he’s sure to use the distraction to facilitate his next attack. That begs the question, then: who else is attacking?

The answer flies above the rooftops a second later, a few blocks away from you.

Noumu.

Ice shreds through your veins. For a moment, you feel like your knees can’t hold your weight, and you stumble on the spot.

It has to be Tomura. There’s no reason you can even conceive of that Father would ever do something like this, completely removed from All Might.

But if it is Tomura, that means he’s here somewhere. He would never cause a spectacle without sticking around to watch.

You scan the skyline, looking for any sign of him somewhere high up, where he can watch it all play out—and there! You can just barely make out two figures standing atop a water tower not far from the fire, from the Noumu. You’re guessing Kurogiri is with him.

You hesitate. You could go after him. There would be little point, but you could. He’d probably just escape before you could even get your hands on him. Kurogiri would make sure of that. But you can still remember, vividly, the feeling of his blood on your hands during USJ. The thrill of it, of finally getting some of your due.

But then you think of Iida. Iida, who is doing the same damn thing right now, but who is even more out of his depth than you would be, going after your brother. If you keep appearing in front of Tomura, eventually, All For One will get involved. Clearly, he’s starting to give Tomura more independence, but you doubt he’d ever approve of Tomura dealing with you himself.

No. You know there’s probably a part of him that still wants you. It’s at odds with you still being out here, holding onto your relative freedom. But you know he’ll never let go of you completely. Because you’re his.

A memory comes, unbidden. A cocky head tilt, an assured voice. A plague mask. That’s Overhaul’s. A little girl, property of a villain.

You are property, too. And if you chase Tomura, there’s a chance Father will take it as a reason to tug on your leash. Pull you back in.

Stop. Stop!

A sharp flare of pain in your wrist jolts you, and you look down. One of your hands, squeezing the other. A faint bruise where your thumb joint meets your wrist.

Right. Now is not the time to panic. If you panic, you won’t find Iida. And if you don’t find Iida, Iida will probably die.

You need to focus.

Before your racing thoughts can even catch up, you’re running in the opposite direction of Tomura, deeper into the backstreets of Hosu.

You don’t have to go far—three figures in an alleyway, tension thick in the air. You pause at the edge of the building, assessing the situation from above. There’s a hero, paralysed against the wall.

You know the basics of Stain’s Quirk thanks to intel from Yasumi’s. He paralyses people by ingesting their blood. It won’t make fighting him easy. He specialises in close combat, and even from up here you can see his sword, obviously to get some distance from other close quarters fighters, increase his own reach, capitalise on his Quirk. You count at least twelve other visible knives.

You don’t have time to make a plan of attack. Stain is standing over Iida. You see blood even from a distance, meaning Iida is paralysed. And Stain is poised to strike.

You use the height to your advantage. You toss a slim throwing knife aimed perfectly for Stain’s neck.

He dodges, leaps backwards, but you’re ready for him. You jump, slow your descent by sliding harphazardly down the side of the building. You launch yourself at him partway, knife raised ready to meet Stain where he lands. His reflexes are quick; he lifts his sword to parry, and you shift, landing on the flat of his blade before jumping backwards, towards Iida and the other hero.

You retrieve your throwing knife just in time for Stain to come at you. You throw the knife again, step towards him at an angle—you need his focus on you, not Iida.

Again, he’s fast. He deflects the knife with his sword and meets your counterattack halfway. You parry with one of the knives hidden in your sleeve. You use the other to aim a stab towards his face. You feel pressure near your stomach and jump back just before his own hidden knife pierces your skin.

He’s fighting to kill, you realise. Zero hesitation, decisive, instinctive. You’ve never fought an opponent with such an obvious, natural desire to kill before. Even during Father’s training, fighting opponents bigger, stronger, people who had shit to lose, none of them were as prepared to take a life as the man in front of you.

You’d be willing to bet he craves it somehow. And if his track record is anything to go by, he definitely has an aptitude for it.

Evidently, the first thing we need to go over is when not to pick a fight.

You hear it in your head, Eraserhead’s drawl. The words ring true. You’ve never been so sure about an opponent before. You should not be fighting this villain.

His skill is greater, his reach is greater, his drive is greater. His Quirk is the natural enemy to your own fighting style. Your Quirk won’t do anything here. If you get close enough to touch him, you’re as good as done.

You have no options. You should have alerted Manual. But he wouldn’t be a match for Stain either—his Quirk only allows him to manipulate small quantities of water! He’d be another lamb to the slaughter.

But no one else is coming. You can’t call anyone. Eraserhead isn’t even in the city!

You can’t see any way out.

Stain moves, a precise flick of the wrist, a throwing knife of his own whistling straight past you, towards Iida. You turn, throw your knife at his, knocking it off course just in front of Iida’s face. One of the knives, you’re not even sure which, leaves a shallow scratch across his cheek.

You feel Stain behind you, sudden, and you don’t even have time to gasp, let alone counter. You’re done.

A flash of green flies past you. You glance back just in time to see Midoriya, fist colliding with Stain’s face.

‘Smash!’

Green lightning races across his skin, his face grim, determined. He jumps back, takes his place in front of Iida.

You feel yourself start to breathe again, barely swallow a sigh of relief.

Midoriya’s arm, the one he used to punch Stain, isn’t mangled. You can’t see the colour of his skin beneath his hero costume, but his bones are obviously not broken.

‘Mi… Midoriya-kun?’ You glance down, see the tears in Iida’s eyes. He sounds pathetic, furious, desperate, all at once.

Midoriya is clearly rattled, but a shaky half-grin settles on his face when he looks at Iida. ‘I'm here to save you, Iida-kun!’

Iida’s fury comes through more clearly when he speaks again. ‘Midoriya-kun! But why?!’

Midoriya doesn’t take his eyes off Stain, but he answers Iida. ‘It was on TV,’ he explains. ‘How sixty percent of the Hero Killer’s victims were discovered around blind corners in deserted areas. So I've been scouring the back alleys near the Normal Hero agency, close to the centre of all the trouble, looking for you!’

He can figure that out, when most heroes seem completely fucking lost when it comes to Stain?

Midoriya keeps his eyes forward, and you can see the effort it takes not to look back at his friend. ‘Can you move? Make for the main road and get some pros to come help us!’

Iida’s voice strains with the effort of trying. ‘I can’t move!’ he admits.

You try to speak with an authority you’re not used to, some last ditch effort to disguise yourself from Midoriya’s way-too-observant tendencies. ‘His Quirk paralyses you if he tastes your blood.’

You slide another knife free from a hidden holster on your calf.

Midoriya spares you a quick glance—he’s wary. You’re not entirely sure how much he follows vigilantism. It’s likely he’s at least heard of you in passing, but you’re in the dark about his knowledge beyond that. Ultimately, he must resolve whatever moral conflicts he has about working with you, because he nods.

You can see his mind working through the problem, trying to figure out a way to get Iida and the other hero out without any casualties, all while avoiding a prolonged battle with Stain.

‘Midoriya-kun,’ Iida wheezes, ‘don't interfere! This has nothing to do with you!’

Midoriya frowns, chances a glance back towards Iida. ‘What're you saying?’

Stain finally speaks, and you angle your knife higher on instinct. ‘A friend shows up and says, “I'm here to save you,”’ he drawls. ‘A good line, for sure. But it's my duty to kill these two. And if we're forced to fight, then naturally, the weaker of us will be culled.’

You see Midoriya flinch out of the corner of your eye, and you take a step forward in response.

Because despite everything you know, despite Stain’s killer instinct and the prospect of a losing battle, Stain doesn’t scare you.

He should. He really, really should. But when you look at him, when you feel the almost palpable sense of death that surrounds him, you’re not afraid. Wary, yes, and you’re certainly not confident. But fear is glaringly absent.

Because he doesn’t hold a candle to Father.

‘So,’ Stain says, ‘What now?’

You hear a quiet beep from behind Midoriya. You resist the urge to look, not willing to draw Stain’s attention there, but you’re positive he just texted someone. The hero he was interning with?

Either way, in theory, help won’t be far away. But that’s something you’ve long learned not to count on.

‘No!’ Iida shouts. ‘I told you to run! This is none of your business!’

You’re surprised when you don’t feel anger rushing to the surface as he shouts—it’s not even pity. You just feel sad. That Iida, strait-laced, uptight, motivated, dedicated Iida has been reduced to this: a pathetic mess. You wish you could have helped more, even though you know it never would’ve mattered. There was no difference you could’ve made.

Midoriya, though. His expression sharpens, and you see him visibly tense as he loses his cool. He matches Iida’s aggrieved shouting, ‘What's a hero supposed to do when you say crap like that?’

His fists clench, and he squares himself to fight, gaze still trained on Stain. ‘I… I've got a lot to say to you, but that'll have to come later! Because it's like All Might said. Giving help that's not asked for is what makes a true hero.’

Midoriya moves before you have a chance to react. He closes the distance to Stain in an instant, barely dodges a swing of Stain’s sword by sliding between his legs. By the time Stain looks back, Midoriya is already above him—he lands a heavy blow to Stain’s face, again empowered by his Quirk.

Before you can blink, though, Stain’s tongue runs the length of one of his knives, and Midoriya comes crashing down. You didn’t even see him get cut.

‘You lack power,’ Stain drawls, and you bite back a groan. Seems like he’s grandstanding now. ‘But you did track my movements. You exploited my blind spot and planned to bring me down. That's how you moved. So many fools out there are nothing but talk, but you are worth keeping alive. Unlike these others.’ He glances towards Iida and the other hero. You can’t tell whether or not you’re lumped in with them.

He wastes no time, moving towards you in steady, quick steps. You ready yourself to take over the fight.

But you hear them again—Eraserheard’s words. Knowing when not to pick a fight. Midoriya contacted someone. You’re sure of it. Even if it’s against your every instinct, you have the option of waiting for backup here.

All you have to do is stall.

‘For someone so against people who’re all talk,’ you tilt your head and lower your knives, a pretence. ‘You sure talk a lot, huh?’ You voice doesn’t shake, the authority remains, and you feel the false confidence flow through you, mirrored in your nonchalant stance.

You can do this.

Stain slows, stops a few feet in front of you. He’s about halfway between Midoriya, behind him, and Iida, behind you.

‘Sine Nomine,’ Stain acknowledges. His tone doesn’t give anything away.

You flash him your very best smile beneath your mask, ‘Hi!’ You tuck one knife under your arm and step forward. When you’re close enough, you raise your free hand as if for a handshake.

Stain doesn’t move.

You don’t falter. You keep the grin plastered in place and saunter backwards until you’re squarely in front of Iida again. ‘Seems like I took credit for one of yours, huh? Sorry about that!’

Stain’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone shifts. ‘I’ve been warned off killing you,’ he says. Between the dry and the stoicism, you get the sense he wants to do it anyway.

Have you given him reason to want that? Or was it Tomura? Suddenly the villain attack doesn’t seem totally unrelated to Stain’s appearance.

You urge yourself to continue the performance, and let out your best delighted gasp. ‘Oh, and was that by my dearest brother? Let me guess, he tried to recruit you!’ You’re fishing for information, but nothing in Stain’s pointed lack of a reaction gives any away.

Slowly, you retrieve another hidden throwing knife from beneath your jacket. ‘Please tell me you stabbed him on your way out.’ When Stain remains silent, you laugh, bright and loud. ‘You did, didn’t you! How fun!’

Before you even finish speaking, the knife is loosed, an agile, practised movement of your wrist. He just barely dodges to the left.

He takes it as his cue, and runs forward.

You ready yourself to parry, but before Stain reaches you, you hear a familiar voice behind you.

‘Down!’

You throw yourself to the ground just in time for a volley of hot fire to shoot straight towards Stain, right over your head. Stain jumps back, and once the fire dissipates, you hoist yourself up. You’re glad your mask obscures your expression—that forced grin has fallen, something shaky taking its place. You tense your legs almost painfully to avoid stumbling where you stand.

‘Nepotism,’ you say, turning to greet Todoroki. His left side is lit by a controlled Quirk-based fire. ‘Just in time.’

Todoroki spares you a glance, tilts his head in a way that almost implies a nod, then raises his phone in Midoriya’s general direction. ‘Midoriya. Learn to write more specific directions. I was almost late.’

---

Shouto’s not sure what he expected—he’d gathered on his way to Midoriya’s location that something was wrong. The instinct was strong enough for him to alert his father, as well. Only partway there did it cross his mind that Iida, specifically, is doing his internship in Hosu, too.

Connecting the dots, then, from Iida, to Ingenium, to the Hero Killer was the natural conclusion. He hadn’t expected Sine Nomine.

Behind him, Iida groans. ‘Todoroki-kun, you too?’

Midoriya is behind the Hero Killer, at the far end of the alley. He’s not moving, but he’s alert. Shouto guesses it’s the Hero Killer’s Quirk.

‘But how'd you…?’ Midoriya asks, almost dazed. ‘And… your left!’

Shouto blinks. Midoriya literally texted him. ‘How? That’s my line. Took me a few seconds to figure it out. That group text to everyone with nothing but your location. Because sending out a meaningless message isn't your style. I realised it meant, “I'm in trouble. Help!”’

Sine snorts beside him. ‘A few seconds?’

Shouto ignores them in favour of sending out a wave of ice. He shapes it like a ramp, a gentle slope so Midoriya is moved from the far side of the alleyway to nearby. He sends out flame, simultaneously, to force the Hero Killer back.

Using his fire still feels unnatural, but not unpractised. His father still spent years forcing him to hone his Quirk, and Shouto’s stint refusing to use his fire hadn’t undone all that conditioning.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says aloud, not to any of them in particular. ‘In just a few more minutes, the pros'll be here.’ If that serves to make the Hero Killer hesitate, all the better.

‘He paralyses you if he tastes your blood,’ Sine offers from his left. When he glances over, he sees they’ve moved back, leaning almost leisurely against the alley wall. Are they being hyper-aware of his Quirk, of getting in the way? Or are they just being sadistic, wanting to make him fight off the Hero Killer by himself?

It’s fine, I hate fire too.

Shouto nods, faces the Hero Killer again, squares himself. It makes sense why he uses blades, knowing his Quirk. ‘You're not killing these guys today, Hero Killer.’

He’s not sure what his goal is—he doesn’t trust his father, but he’s still a hero. He’ll likely still take Shouto’s warning seriously, and the backup he requested shouldn’t be far away. But he doesn’t know how long they’ll take, dealing with the Noumu that showed up. He probably won’t be able to stall the Hero Killer with talk alone. His Quirk might hold up long enough to keep him back with broad, long-range attacks.

‘I've just gotta keep my distance, and—‘ He’s cut off by Sine, stepping in front of him to parry a small, glinting knife. Shouto hadn’t even noticed the Hero Killer throw it. Sine shoves him back, and he grunts. ‘What—‘

‘Above!’

Shouto glances up. The sword is spinning above them, a second attack to back up the Hero Killer’s advance. Shouto sends a volley of ice to push him back.

Shouto forces the Hero Killer to keep his distance, not slipping up when he hears Iida speak. He sounds furious, aggrieved. ‘Why…? All… of you… Just stop it…’

Before Shouto can say anything, Sine whirls around to face Iida, voice low, almost a snarl. ‘If it means that much to you, get the fuck up and stop him yourself!’

‘I’ve inherited my brother’s name,’ Iida growls. ‘I have to do it. He’s mine to—’

Shouto doesn’t look back when he speaks, focused on keeping the Hero Killer at bay. ‘Inherited his name? That’s weird. 'Cause the Ingenium I know never made faces like that.’ He switches from ice to fire, to mitigate the chill of his right side. ‘Guess your family's also got a dark side to it.’

He switches back to ice, sending a wall out, high.

Sine steps forward, alarmed. ‘Todoroki! Too high! We can’t see him!’

Shouto realises his mistake too late—the Hero Killer shatters the ice, makes a path forward for himself. ‘Obstructing your own vision when up against an opponent faster than yourself. Poor strategy, indeed.’

Sine throws a knife, sends it up high, towards the Hero Killer’s face. It’s easily dodged. Shouto sees the glint out of the corner of his eyes a second before two knives embed themselves into his arm. The pain startles him, and he loses focus for a second.

‘Shit!’ He hears Sine, their voice pulling him out of the pain when they step forward, jumping up in front of him. ‘Todoroki! Ice!’

Shouto gets their meaning just in time to create a platform for them to jump again, higher, meeting the Hero Killer in the air above.

---

You have no desire to kill anyone, hero, villain or otherwise. But the only way out you can see, the only way you can possibly stall without casualty, is to match Stain’s killing intent. If that’s what it will take to keep him away from Iida, from the other hero, from Midoriya and Todoroki—you have to.

You have to be prepared to fight to kill. You’ve trained for it. Your body won’t hesitate given the chance.

Stain’s sword comes down above you. You grab the blade with your free hand. It bites deep, but you feel the split second of hesitation in Stain's attack. You caught him off guard. You don’t waste the opportunity. You thrust your knife towards his neck. It connects, a thin line of blood beading along your blade before he tilts his head back, out of reach.

He raises his sword to his lips, but before he can get to any of your blood, Midoriya flies past you, another flash of brilliant green, fist connecting with the sword. It shatters, clatters to the ground as you land. A quick flame from Todoroki burns your blood away from the remaining shards.

Midoriya doesn’t stop, follows through on his own momentum, dragging Stain further away, along the alleyway wall.

‘Midoriya!’ Todoroki calls.

‘Somehow I can move again just fine!’ comes Midoriya’s reply.

Todoroki frowns. ‘So it has a time limit?’

‘No,’ you nearly startle from the unfamiliar voice, until you realise it’s the other injured hero, speaking up for the first time. ‘He was the last of us to get hit! I still can't move.’

At the other end of the alley, Stain and Midoriya both hit the ground.

‘Get back, Midoriya!’ Todoroki shouts.

Midoriya jumps to the side as jagged ice sprawls out from Todoroki’s feet. He dashes back up the alley towards you, away from Stain.

You hear a low hiss and glance over. Todoroki is clutching his injured arm. The two knives go deep, nearly all the way through his arm.

‘Don’t take them out unless you’re gonna cauterise that,’ you warn, tamping down on the instinct to reach over and take his pain.

Todoroki nods.

Midoriya, on Todoroki’s other side, starts to work through the problem. ‘So he tasted our blood and paralysed us. But I was first to break free somehow. I can think of three possible explanations. Either the effect is weaker the more people he uses it on… or it's about how much blood he gets… or its effectiveness depends on blood type.’

‘Blood type…?’ The injured hero groans. ‘I'm B…’

‘And I'm A,’ Iida adds.

On the other side of the alley, Stain grins. There’s blood on his teeth. You’re not sure whose, you just know it can’t be yours, since you’re still standing. ‘Blood type… That’s right.’

Midoriya tenses. ‘Though it's not like knowing that'll really help us.’

‘We need to hurry and get these two out of here,’ Todoroki mumbles. ‘He's quick enough to react to both my fire and ice, so I'm not seeing an opening.’

You sigh. ‘I could probably distract him long enough for you two to get the others out,’ you shrug. ‘But I’d die in the process.’ You’re joking. Mostly.

Todoroki pointedly ignores you. ‘Until the pros get here, our best hope is to keep him at bay and keep dodging.’

You shake your head. ‘Not going to happen. You can’t maintain that distance using your Quirk for an extended period of time. Either we’ll lose sight of him again, or you’ll exhaust yourself. You said it yourself, he’s too fast.’

Midoriya nods. ‘You've got too much blood exposed, Todoroki-kun,’ Green lightning arcs across his skin. ‘I'll draw his attention while you provide rear support!’

‘Pretty risky plan,’ Todoroki replies. ‘But yeah.’ He glances over at you, holds your gaze for a moment. ‘The three of us will protect them!’

A little thrill goes through you, and you silently reprimand yourself. Are you that desperate to be included? Stupid.

‘I’ll watch for any knives he decides to throw,’ you toss your own knife up and catch it. ‘I can react just fast enough to parry them, but it wouldn’t exactly be wise for me to get up close right now,’ you hold up your injured hand. A line of blood drips from your palm, all the way down your fingers. You can barely feel the pain, a dull throb at best. ‘Midoriya, keep an eye on both of his hands. It’s easy to slip another knife free behind your back while your opponent is distracted.’

Midoriya nods.

Stain braces himself for your counterattack. He mutters something under his breath. Midoriya doesn’t give him a chance to move, just leaps, enhanced by his Quirk, bouncing from wall to wall. Todoroki sends out bursts of ice along the ground, taking care of Midoriya’s blind spot. He alternates between fire and ice as cover. Midoriya repeatedly tries to favourably connect with Stain while staying out of his immediate reach.

You keep your eyes on both of Stain’s hands, just as you warned Midoriya to do. You see the moment Stain’s demeanour shifts—he’s a man with nothing to lose, the odds are stacked against him, growing finite with each passing moment. He’s becoming more erratic, less readable.

‘Midor—‘ You try to warn him, but you don’t even get his full name out before Stain cuts a thin slice across his calf.

‘Midoriya!’ Todoroki sends out flames to block Stain from taking another stab, but you know Midoriya will be paralysed again within seconds.

‘Stop it…’ You hear Iida, devastated behind you. ‘I can't take it…’

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Todoroki shouts, frustration sharp in his voice. ‘If you wanna stop this, then stand up!’

Midoriya goes down as Todoroki sends out another round of ice. Stain jumps over it. You ready yourself to parry Stain’s next attack.

Flames burst from Todoroki’s left side, hot enough you have to grit your teeth and plant your feet to avoid jumping away on instinct. ‘Never forget who you want to become!’

Stain is forced away again, out of the path of the flames. But you know the back and forth can only go on for so long before something gives. You ready yourself to push forward at the right moment.

Midoriya calls out Stain’s movements when he’s obscured, and you shove Todoroki to the side to parry a blow from a jagged knife. Flames lick out around you, pushing him back again. You resist the urge to clamp your eyes shut. You cannot give Stain an additional advantage.

‘Ice and fire,’ Stain calls. ‘Hasn't anyone ever told you?’ He dashes right through Todoroki’s next jagged ice attack. There’s less ice than there was before—Todoroki’s tiring, and Stain is starting to read his moves. ‘Relying too heavily on your Quirk makes you sloppy!’

You use your full body to slam into Todoroki, sending you both sprawling, just before Stain can cut clean through Todoroki’s arm.

You’re used to being knocked down, and you’re less exhausted than Todoroki, so you recover quicker. You dart forward to clash with Stain and push him further from the others.

He wants to play like someone with nothing to lose? Fine. You can do that too.

Your knife clashes with his. You grab his free wrist with your injured hand, preventing the downward motion of the second knife he’s holding.

‘Too focused on Quirks?’ you grit out, ‘And what about me?’

All at once, you duck back, the leverage of his own weight forcing Stain forward. He’s too erratic, too unprepared to react, and you swipe your leg out and kick at his knee, sending him halfway down.

‘Recipro,’ You hear Iida, feel the movement behind you and throw yourself out of the way just in time for Iida to slam into Stain, ‘Burst!’

A Quirk-powered kick shatters Stain’s knife, and Iida twists his body in place for a second heavy kick. Stain goes flying back, barely managing to say upright.

Midoriya is grinning, relieved. ‘Iida-kun!’

Todoroki is standing again. ‘It wore off? This guy's Quirk isn’t so great, after all.’

You laugh openly. ‘Stop sassing villains, Todoroki!’

Iida is breathing hard, probably still feeling the effects of blood loss despite Stain’s Quirk wearing off. ‘Todoroki-kun, Midoriya-kun, this has nothing to do with either of you, so I'm sorry.’

Midoriya frowns. ‘Not that again…’

Iida’s face is grim. ‘That’s why I swear I won't let you two lose any more blood here!’

‘It’s no use pretending,’ Stain says. ‘A person’s true nature is not so easily changed. You're a fake who prioritised his own selfish desires! A cancer on this society warped by “heroes”. Someone needs to correct the system.’

You say, ‘So you’re the type of guy who has a creepy fucking manifesto,’ at the same time as Todoroki says, ‘So you're a fundamentalist? Get with the times.’

You laugh out loud and hold your hand up for a high-five.

Todoroki ignores you. ‘Iida, don’t even think of listening to his so-called reasoning.’

Iida shakes his head. ‘No, he’s right. I have no right to call myself a hero.’

There’s so many things you want to say, but you bite your tongue. It won’t mean anything coming from you.

‘Still,’ he continues. ‘I won't let him break me. Because if I break, then Ingenium's really dead.’

‘You're hopeless.’ Stain rushes forward, blocked by Todoroki’s fire.

‘Idiot!’ the injured hero calls out from behind you, ‘The Hero Killer's after me and the dude in the white armour! Forget fighting back! Just get out of here!’

You turn, take a few steps towards him and crouch. You cock your head, keeping your eyes perfectly locked on his. ‘So Stain’s right about you, then, is he? You’d rather we leave him to kill a child?’

He opens his mouth to speak, but you don’t let him. ‘You have not done a single damn thing this entire time. So you have two options.’ You raise your hand—the bleeding one, for added effect—and count them off on your fingers. ‘One, you can get up, get out of here, and go find help. Or two, you can shut the fuck up like a good little hero.’

You stand back up, but don’t drop eye contact. ‘You moving?’ You wait, but he says nothing, sufficiently cowed. ‘Thought so.’

‘It doesn’t look like he’ll give us an opening to run,’ Todoroki says, a steady wall of flame just barely holding Stain off. ‘Something clearly changed just now. He’s flustered.’

He switches from fire to ice, uses jagged, unpredictable pieces to keep Stain on the move.

Iida steps forward. ‘Todoroki-kun, can you regulate temperatures?’

Flame again. Todoroki keeps his eyes fixed forward. ‘I’m not really used to my left, but why?’

‘Freeze my leg for me, without blocking the exhaust pipes!’

Stain readies another throwing knife, and looses it with a shout. ‘Stop interfering!’

You jump in front of Todoroki just in time to parry it away. He throws another, this time aimed at Iida, and you just barely manage to throw your own knife in time to collide with his, knocking it off course. It still slices into Iida’s arm, but barely.

‘I’ll buy you a second!’ you shout, darting toward Stain. You grab the knife you discarded, as well as the one he threw at Iida. You throw one ahead of you, forcing Stain to dodge before he meets you halfway.

You try to picture Eraserhead’s movement, the fluid dodge-attack you’d seen in some of his videos and have fallen on your ass trying to replicate more than once. A manoeuvre with a high kick you also personally witnessed at USJ. You haven’t had a chance to ask him to teach it to you properly, but if you can pull it off, you’ll buy a fraction of a second longer in close quarters with Stain.

When he jabs out with a knife, you dodge to the side, angling your body downward. You use the natural motion to follow through with an upwards kick. Your boot collides with Stain’s head.

Yes!

The ground shifts beneath you, and you dimly register the powering up of Iida’s Quirk. You see Midoriya, from the corner of your eye. He’s all green lightning, poised to jump.

You hear Todoroki. ‘Sine! Get back!’

You jump as Todoroki’s flames fly past you. He urges Stain up, high, then higher, forcing him to scale the wall to stay out of range.

Perfectly positioned for Iida and Midoriya to meet him in the air, where he can’t dodge as fast or as far.

Beside you, Todoroki is grinning. ‘Go!’

Midoriya’s fist collides with Stain’s face at the same time as Iida slams his leg into Stain’s side.

As the three start to fall, you grab the final throwing knife you have hidden in your boot. Now, while he can’t dodge! You loose it towards Stain, aiming for his favoured hand. It hits just before Stain can take a swing at Iida, the shock of it causing him to drop his knife.

‘I will defeat you!’ Iida shouts. ‘This time, for sure! You, as a criminal—‘

‘Keep him on the ropes!’ Todoroki shouts, sending up another plume of fire.

Iida lands another Quirk-empowered kick right to Stain’s ribs. ‘And me, as a hero!’

Todoroki’s flames make contact a moment later.

You see the instant Stain is done. The tension in your shoulders gives out all at once.

Todoroki uses a ramp of ice to safely slide Iida and Midoriya back to the ground.

‘Get up!’ Todoroki warns. ‘He’s still—‘

You throw an arm out in front of him. ‘No. He’s done. It’s over.’

Midoriya stands, cautiously. The silence, for that one moment, drowns the alleyway in a dense anxiety. ‘He’s out cold… right?’

As the apprehension gradually settles, Todoroki lets out a relieved little sigh. ‘Let's tie him up and get out to the main road. See any sort of rope we can use?’

Midoriya nods. ‘We should take all his weapons too, just in case.’

‘Good idea.’

You opt to grab all of his hidden knives, given you’re pretty aware of the common hiding spots for holsters and loose blades. You leave them all laid out on the ground. You’re vaguely tempted to pocket one of the nicer ones—he has these retractable knives, like the ones that injured Todoroki, and they’re metal all the way up, from end to end—but it feels distasteful. Knowing the knives were used by someone who desires death so deeply leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You don’t even want to think about how many people he’s killed with these very weapons.

Midoriya and Iida move closer to the mouth of the alleyway, tending to the injured hero, while Todoroki uses ropes he found in a dumpster to restrain Stain.

You linger with him. As he pulls the rope taught, he hisses, a sound of deep pain through his teeth. You glance down at the two knives still sticking out of his arm.

‘Here,’ you step closer and crouch down. You use your uninjured hand, run your fingers over his, and breathe in as you siphon some of his pain.

It’s not an unfamiliar kind of pain—the uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic throb of still having the knife embedded in you. Your brain can’t make sense of where the pain begins and ends, though, between the dual sensation coming from both stab wounds. There’s a stinging between them, the tension of the skin pulled taught from Todoroki’s own rigidity.

You have half a mind to tell him to try to relax. It feels counterproductive, but holding onto the strain definitely worsens the pain.

You don’t get to, though. When you raise your head to meet his eyes, open your mouth to speak, you finally realise your mistake.

Todoroki’s mismatched eyes are wide, his lips slighted parted. There’s unmistakable recognition in the furrow of his brow.

You urge yourself to move, to back away, to get the hell out of there, but you feel fixed in place by those eyes.

You swallow. Todoroki’s pain is still a steady thrum between you.

Your voice doesn’t feel like your own when you finally speak. It feels like talking around gravel, like there’s static in your ears. ‘Guess… guess that’s my cue,’ you mumble.

Todoroki says nothing when you finally pull away, but still, even as you stand, you can’t tear your eyes away from his. Even when you take two backwards steps.

You are so completely fucked—and that thought, that knowledge, is what finally snaps you out of it.

You blink, feel the slow-and-all-at-once rise of an impending panic attack, and, almost on auto-pilot, raise a hand in a partial wave.

‘Bye, Nepotism.’

---

By the time you make it back to where you stashed your bag, you’re dry-heaving. It’s taking every ounce of self-control you have not to collapse. It feels like the world is ending, like everything you’ve built is crumbling to pieces around you.

This isn’t fixable.

He’s going to tell them. Midoriya, Iida, the heroes, the police, Aizawa. All of them, any of them, it doesn’t matter. Todoroki is going to tell them, and it’s all going to come out, and what little you’ve gained these past months, you’ll have lost.

You clamp your eyes shut and brace yourself against the alley wall. Crying, getting it all out, feels so close but so far away. You want to scream.

Why is everything you want always just out of reach? It’s fake, all of it, none of it is real. You’re not actually a student at Yuuei, Aizawa’s not your teacher, Eraserhead is no mentor to you. Midoriya is not your friend, Uraraka and Iida aren’t inching closer. Todoroki’s not someone almost just a little like you, someone you might be able to… to what? To know? To be known by?

Well, he sure as hell knows now, and look where it’s left you!

This isn’t fixable.

You’re done.

In this game, where the walls are closing in, where one side is Father and the other is… is… Fuck, where the other side, the other option, the other possible future is Aizawa, and Yamada and Midoriya and friends and school and stupid homework and people who know you and people who like you and maybe even people who love—

You gasp, dig your fingers into the cut on your hand, force your watery eyes open and breathe.

You focus on the pain, push down on the wound to heighten it, make it bad enough you can feel it through your tolerance, through the distraction of your thoughts, through the ridiculous, weak emotions of an impostor.

This isn’t fixable. Unless Todoroki doesn’t tell them.

You fumble your way through changing again and haphazardly bandage both of your hands. It’s wishful thinking, but on the off chance Todoroki hasn’t told the others, you don’t want it to be so completely obvious when you show up with just the same injured hand.

If you leave now, find Manual before the others, join the evacuation efforts that are probably still ongoing… You might have a convincing enough story to cover your tracks.

If Todoroki doesn’t tell them.

It’s not hard to find Manual. He’s on the outskirts of the actual villain attack, helping fight smaller fires and evac any rescued civilians. You tell him you couldn’t find Iida, ask if you can help. You lose yourself in wordlessly guiding civilians away from the epicentre of the incident.

Awareness comes in and out of focus. You hear snippets of pieces put together, three Noumu, Endeavor taking them down, a secondary incident heroes were called away to.

You don’t hear any mention of Tomura.

Manual relays that Iida and two of your classmates have been sent to the hospital for checkups. You tell him paramedics already saw to your hands—you scuffed them earlier, it’s fine. He sends you back to the agency to sleep.

You don’t sleep. You stare at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to come back, for the terror and anger and fear to flood you, waiting for the breaking point you know must be coming.

It never comes.

You go with Manual to Hosu General Hospital early the next morning. He waves you in the direction of your classmates’ room. You don’t hear whatever he says. You see him meet up with Gran Torino, who you distantly realise is the hero Midoriya is interning with.

You reach their room and slide open the door. The three of them go quiet and look towards you.

You wait. For the recognition, for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn’t. Even Todoroki’s face is perfectly blank, another layer of his usual mask.

You meet his eyes. He holds your gaze.

‘You’re all… okay?’ Your voice is hoarse. You feel stretched thin, rung out.

Midoriya nods, a nervous smile on his face.

Iida’s eyes are cast down, but he nods as well.

Todoroki just blinks at you. ‘Yes,’ he says.

You see an opportunity, and aim your question at Todoroki, specifically. ‘Are you going to tell the others… you fought the Hero Killer?’

Iida’s head snaps up. Midoriya’s mouth hangs open, and he immediately launches into half-coherent murmurs. You ignore him.

Todoroki is on the bed behind them, out of sight for now. He holds your gaze and slowly, just barely, shakes his head.

You shoulders sag. You give yourself a moment, just a second, to take a deep breath. And then you force yourself to snap out of it.

For some reason, a reason he can’t give you right now, Todoroki has decided to keep your secret. Whether it’s long-term, or just for now, you don’t know. You won’t get any answers until the two of you have a chance to talk.

But you’re okay. At least for now. At least for one more day.

You cross your arms and ready yourself to put on the best show you’ve ever put on.

‘I’m… I guess… Just glad you didn’t die.’

Midoriya beams at you.

Todoroki raises a single eyebrow at you. ‘You guess?’

In the absence of a better retort, you flip him off.

Midoriya coughs over a laugh and Iida fumbles his way through a startled reprimand.

Before Todoroki can reply, the door behind you opens again.

Manual and Gran Torino step into the room. You take a pointed seat on the empty bed adjacent to Todoroki’s.

‘Ohhh,’ Gran Torino’s face is a perpetual disapproving frown. ‘All the little wounded warriors are awake.’

Midoriya beams at the sight of him. You guess his internship must be going well—his limbs seem perfectly fine, other than the few cuts he sustained, even after all of the fighting. They must have made a breakthrough. You don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned that Midoriya has even more freedom to do stupid, life-threatening shit.

‘Gran Torino!’ Midoriya exclaims, smile firmly in place.

Iida seems less enthused at the sight of Manual. He greets him with a nervous, ‘Manual-san.’

Gran Torino focuses in on Midoriya. ‘I'm still gonna chew you out, but…’

Midoriya starts a stuttered apology, but Gran Torino cuts him off. ‘Before that, you’ve got a visitor.’

A man… dog? A man that looks like a dog steps into the room.

Gran Torino introduces him. ‘This is Tsuragamae Kenji, Hosu’s chief of police.’

Todoroki and Iida both stand. You fold one leg up onto the bed, pointedly. Midoriya shifts, but before he can stand, Tsuragamae brushes him off.

‘Please stay seated, woof.’

Woof?!

Tsuragamae glances at you, probably ready to dismiss you, but you raise an eyebrow at him. ‘They fought the Hero Killer, right?’

Manual winces. Gran Torino’s frown persists. Tsuragamae’s expression doesn’t betray anything.

You shrug. ‘They didn’t tell me. But it’s obvious. I doubt they got all cut up by Noumu, and even though people are saying Endeavor took him down, Stain didn’t exactly look… overly burned? Endeavor would’ve fried him to a crisp.’

It’s the kind of criticism that probably comes across like you’re admiring him, but you see Todoroki’s lip curl into a small smirk, quickly covered again by a frown. At least someone knows your disdain.

Tsuragamae sighs. Manual rubs the back of his neck with a nervous laugh.

You raise your hands, falsely placating. ‘I won’t tell anyone. Just don’t be surprised if people figure it out.’

Tsuragamae watches you for a moment, probably weighing up whether or not to send you out of the room anyway. Ultimately, he continues to address the room at large.

‘As for the Hero Killer we arrested,’ he says, ‘He's currently in treatment for his burns, broken bones and a number of other serious injuries, woof.’

You swallow to avoid laughing at the second woof.

‘At the dawn of this extraordinary era, the police moved to prioritise leadership and to maintain the status quo, so they decided not to use Quirks as weapons. The profession of "hero" rose as one that would fill that void, woof.’

You didn’t really sign up for the history lesson, but he’s a difficult man to tune out. He speaks with an almost hypnotising authority. You wonder if that’s how he ended up chief of police.

‘Authorising the use of such might—of these powers that could so very easily kill—was a heavily criticised decision at first, but it would garner public support. All because your predecessors acted morally and complied with the laws, woof. But those without permission, those who inflicted harm without explicit instruction from the police and powers that be… Even if they were to face someone like the Hero Killer, such action would represent a stunning breach of the law, woof.

‘You three, as well as your pro hero mentors… Endeavor. Manual. Gran Torino…’

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Todoroki tense up.

‘The six of you must be dealt with strictly and impartially.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ Todoroki steps forward, eyebrows pinched. ‘If Iida hadn’t acted, Native would’ve been killed. And if Midoriya hadn’t shown up, both of them would be dead. Nobody even knew the Hero Killer was in town. Should we have let people die, all in the name of your "law"?!’

Tsuragamae doesn’t visibly react to Todoroki’s words. ‘Are you saying that as long as it turns out alright, it’s okay to bend the rules?’

Todoroki’s face morphs into a full-on glare. ‘Isn’t it a hero’s job to save people?’

Tsuragamae closes his eyes. ‘Clearly you've much to learn.’

You try not to openly bristle. This dog is a condescending asshole. Yes, there are flaws in Todoroki’s reasoning, but ultimately, he’s right!

‘Some education you're getting, woof, from Yuuei and Endeavor.’

In an instant, all you have is anger. Before you can rein it in, you snap. ‘And you’re gonna take that out on them instead of the Yuuei curriculum, or that fucking clown?’

You freeze. Todoroki coughs. You hear a strangled, confused little sound from Midoriya. Iida is completely silent.

When you glance over at Todoroki, his expression is a little less heated than it was before.

You decide slipping up was worth it.

When you glance over at the group in front of the door, though, you see Manual, mouth agape, Tsuragamae, eyes wide, and Gran Torino—poorly hiding a smirk?

You look down, affecting your best bashful apology. ‘Sorry.’

Gran Torino breaks the silence that follows with a sigh. ‘Just listen to what he's got to say.’

Tsuragamae nods. ‘All of that… is what I'm obligated to tell you, as the police. But the real question is whether or not to deal with this issue publicly, woof. If we let the story out, you'll all be lauded by the public, but you won't be able to avoid punishment.’

You realise what’s happening at the same time as the others. Todoroki is all silent fury, Midoriya’s eyes are wide, and even from behind, you can tell from Iida’s lilting posture that he feels the weight of the realisation.

‘But if we keep all this nasty business to ourselves, the Hero Killer's burns will support the story that Endeavor was the key operative. He'll receive the accolades, woof.’

The heroes must have been briefed on this ahead of time. None of them look surprised.

‘Fortunately, the number of eye witnesses was small enough. The involvement of the vigilante Sine Nomine complicates matters, but we’re confident they won’t make a public statement. We can hush this whole matter before it causes problems, woof.’

You blink. If Todoroki hasn’t said anything, what makes them so sure you won’t speak out? You almost want to do it just to spite them.

‘But in that case, your decisive action and achievements will remain unknown to the general public.’ After a brief, heavy silence, he speaks again. ‘What do you say?! I'm an understanding man. So when it comes to a promising group of young people I'd rather not have to pursue charges over this admittedly massive indiscretion, woof!’ His tongue sticks out as he flashes a thumbs-up. It’s all very doglike.

Manual sighs. ‘Either way, our negligence is to blame. We have to take responsibility.’

You bite back a scoff. You don’t say!

Iida steps forward and folds into a bow in front of Manual. ‘I'm so very sorry.’

Manual gives him a gentle chop to the head, the same thing you’ve seen Iida do to Midoriya a couple of times. When he speaks, his tone is regretful, but gentle. ‘Yeah! You caused big trouble for your mentor, so don't do it again!’

‘I won’t!’

Gran Torino glances towards Midoriya, who drops his head. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ he says.

Todoroki is still frowning, still looks furious, but he bows, as well. ‘Please take care of it.’ You almost smile—it sounds like he’d rather say literally anything else.

‘The world's an unfair place,’ Tsuragamae says. ‘You'll receive none of the commendations that you might have otherwise, but…’ He drops into a bow of his own. ‘At least, as someone invested in keeping the peace, I can thank you.’

You wonder if he’d have done the same for you, if he knew Sine Nomine was standing in front of him. You doubt it. Quirk suppression cuffs, more like.

Todoroki’s fury finally folds. ‘You could've led with that,’ he grumbles.

---

Later, Iida tells you all the results of his full examination.

‘My left hand could have permanent damage…’

An injury he sustained before you got there. You try to ignore the tense guilt that threatens to turn your stomach. If you hadn’t hesitated, had headed straight to him, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so badly hurt.

‘Both of my arms were badly injured, but my left got the worst of it. He severed something called the brachial plexus nerve,’ he explains. He smiles softly at Midoriya, who looks crushed. ‘But they said that I might regain most of the feeling and use of my hand and fingers if I receive a nerve transplant.’

He looks down again, brow furrowed. ‘When I found the Hero Killer, my mind went blank. I should have told Manual before doing anything else… I may hate him, but he wasn't wrong… So, until I succeed in becoming a true hero, my left hand will serve as a reminder.’

You scoff. All eyes turn on you, and you frown at Iida. ‘That’s completely irrational. You’ll be limiting what you can do to help people. If you have the means to fix it, you should.’

His smile is dull, regretful. ‘All the same…’

Midoriya raises his own hand, deeply scarred after his match against Todoroki at the festival. ‘Iida-kun, I feel the same way.’

You roll your eyes. Of course he does.

He extends his fist, holding it out towards Iida. ‘Let’s… get stronger. Together.’

They nod at one another, and when you glance over at Todoroki, his eyes are wide.

You tilt your head at him. ‘Todoroki-san?’

He looks down at his own hands. ‘I'm sorry…’

Midoriya’s face immediately twists with concern. ‘For what?’

‘Whenever I'm involved, it feels like… people's hands get messed up,’ Todoroki says quietly, ‘or something.’

You glance down at your own bandaged hands—only one of them is injured for real, but it did happen while Todoroki was around. You blink.

When you look back up, Todoroki is glaring deeply at himself. ‘Is it a curse?’

For a moment, everyone is silent. You wait for the punchline until you realise he’s being dead serious.

You, Midoriya and Iida lose it all at once. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, a futile attempt at stifling your own laughter.

‘What on earth are you talking about?!’ Midoriya gasps between laughs, ‘Looks like even Todoroki-kun knows how to make a joke!’

‘No, I’m not joking.’ Todoroki looks positively aghast. ‘Just call me the Hand Crusher…’

You double over when Midoriya and Iida, in perfect chorus, shout, ‘The Hand Crusher!’

Distantly, you think this might be the hardest, the longest, you’ve ever laughed. And you can’t even bring yourself to stop.

Notes:

dw, I never intend to make y'all beautiful people wait another year between chapters, even if it takes me some time!
i deeply hope you enjoyed!

BONUS, A DELETED SCENE, IMMEDIATELY AFTER HERO NAMES ARE CHOSEN:

Later, in the staff room, Kayama proudly displays the little board that reads 'Painkiller' to Hizashi: ‘Look what your kid picked out!’

Shouta’s not sure what makes Hizashi cry harder; that you used the name he picked, or that Kayama called you ‘his kid’.

Chapter 8

Notes:

cw: violence, blood, ptsd symptoms, flashbacks, child abuse, sine's self-esteem is fully in the bin for this one

(mind the child abuse one especially, please, there's a few paragraphs of particular note that were a lot even for me to write! take care of yourself x)

You text Midoriya for Todoroki’s number the day internships end. He sends a follow-up text asking how you are, but you ignore it. After a brief exchange with Todoroki, you’re set to meet at a park not far from Yuuei the day after.

You leave early, hoping to get there first, but Todoroki’s already sitting on a park bench waiting. When you sit beside him, you leave as much distance between you as you feasibly can without falling off the bench entirely.

For a few minutes, silence persists between both of you. You try not to be too obvious with your fidgeting, but all the anxious energy of the last couple of days eats at you, and the only out you can find is aggressively tapping your foot.

‘So,’ you try when it finally becomes too much, ‘Endeavor doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy getting credit for something he didn’t do.’

You glance over and attempt to measure Todoroki’s expression. It’s blank, but for the tiniest quirk at the corner of his lips that disappears as soon as you see it.

‘Especially if his son is the one who did it,’ you add.

This time, Todoroki does smile, a wry, ironic little thing. ‘He’s furious,’ he admits, and his shoulders slant forward. It gives the impression of slumping, like a heave of relief, but he doesn’t look relieved at all. He’s tension all over.

You know the feeling.

You lean back a little and stare up at the sky. It’s overcast, probably the last foggy day of spring before the coming turn to summer. The air is humid.

You don’t want to talk about it. You’re not sure you could force yourself to, even if some part of you did feel like it.

Todoroki speaks before you can make another half-hearted attempt at dodging the subject.

He doesn’t start where you expected, though.

‘You said your mother…?’ he trails off, and when you look over at him, a little surprised, his head is tilted slightly. His eyes are strangely gentle.

It makes you wonder what his relationship with his mother is like.

‘She died,’ you say, though it’s not information he didn’t already know. Part of you wants to look away, to maintain as much distance as you can in the face of a truth you’ve not handed to anyone. But something about him keeps you there, draws you in.

Despite yourself, you feel safe to tell him things.

That could be a problem.

You sigh, but continue. ‘I was four.’

‘You said it was a villain?’

You wonder if this is how he’s spent the last day—connecting some of the dots between your interactions as a vigilante and those as students. You honestly hadn’t expected him to remember the things you’ve told him.

You hum a simple assent. You really don’t want to talk about Father.

‘How old were you when you started…’ he trails off again.

You flash him your own wry smile. ‘Young,’ you offer, a small concession for your own sake. ‘The villain that…’

Todoroki blinks at you. Apparently, it doesn’t need to be said.

‘He raised me,’ you admit.

Something gives way, somewhere inside you. Handing him these small pieces of you feels like such a betrayal of all you’ve kept close for as long as you can remember. It hurts. Like pulling at dead skin, revealing the new, tender growth beneath.

You hate this.

So why don’t you stop?

Todoroki’s brow is a tiny frown. ‘He’s not your father?’

That’s a hard one.

‘Not biologically,’ you concede. ‘But in every way that matters. I didn’t know my biological dad, he died in an accident not long after I was born. I never knew him.’

‘So why did he—‘

You anticipate his question and answer with a dismissive shrug, the last defence mechanism you can dredge up. ‘Because of my Quirk. It goes both ways, I can transfer my pain to another person, or I can take theirs.’

Todoroki’s expression falls back into that carefully blank territory you’re so mutually familiar with. You don’t blame him. You can still remember how pale Yamada got when he put it all together.

‘My father, he…’ you pause, because now you’re about to start telling other people’s truths alongside your own. They’re all so interwoven, and you’re not sure how you’d ever parse them. In the end, you decide not to bother. ‘He’s All Might’s perfect opposite.’

Another blink from Todoroki. ‘How so?’

You grin, a mocking expression that borders on a sneer. ‘I mean literally. He’s All Might’s nemesis. If All Might is the hero, Father is the villain. Even their Quirks are related, though I’m still not entirely sure how or why.’

Finally, Todoroki’s face betrays a bit of surprise. It’s still in his trademark, subtle way, but you feel a bit of triumph at having broken through. ‘All Might’s Quirk,’ he starts, and you cut him off.

‘Has been up for debate for decades?’ When Todoroki tilts his head in an almost nod, you roll your eyes. ‘Yeah, well, I know exactly what it is. I have for years.’

You force yourself to relax a little, enough to come to your senses. There are some secrets you’d be actively doing a disservice to those you kind of, sort of, care about by telling. You might be keeping your distance from Midoriya, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to actually put him at a disadvantage if you can help it.

Thinking of Midoriya makes you think of Inko, and there’s a resounding echo from the fissure of grief that calls your chest home. It’s a sinking feeling.

It’s the least you can do, to admit to yourself that you do miss her.

‘I probably shouldn’t tell you too much about it. It’s not just my secret to tell. It’s not even just All Might’s.’

You really wouldn’t care about revealing All Might’s secret. But it’s not just his, is it?

Todoroki surprises you again when he doesn’t even bat an eye at your dismissal. He just moves right on. ‘Does All Might know who you are?’

You shake your head. ‘Not even a little. No one does, actually. You’re the first, other than Father and my brother.’ And Kurogiri, but that’s not worth explaining.

‘Your brother?’ Todoroki asks.

You smirk, grasping readily onto another escape route from the crawling feeling of giving yourself away. You angle your body so you’re properly facing Todoroki, and play up the conspiratorial nature of your next words. ‘Oh, this is a good one,’ you lean a little closer, and barely contain a flinch when Todoroki does the same.

Well, it’s now or never, isn’t it? If he wasn’t ready to run at the idea of All Might’s nemesis, he’ll surely piss himself now. ‘Remember USJ?’

Todoroki says nothing, so you continue. You raise a hand to your chest and puff it out in some grand, ridiculous gesture. ‘The great Shigaraki Tomura is my brother.’

All you get for your work is another vacant blink.

You drop your hand and your smirk. ‘Really? Nothing?’

He shrugs, and again he moves on like it’s absolutely nothing. You’re almost offended as he fires off another question. ‘Does Aizawa-sensei know?’

Your guard goes up, for some reason. A tension ripples across your body and you stare at him. ‘What makes you think that?’

Todoroki shrugs. ‘You seemed pretty confident you’d be able to fight alongside him when the villains attacked.’

He’s perceptive, then.

‘He knows about Tomura,’ you admit. ‘And a little about my father.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I meant about you being a vigilante.’

‘Oh.’

You’re not sure why you feel bashful about revealing it to him. In the end, though, you can’t find a reason not to. Lying after all this truth would leave a bad taste in your mouth. ‘No, but he does sort of train me sometimes.’

Another slow blink from Todoroki. He reminds you of a cat.

You look away and take in the grey of the sky again. ‘He’s actually the reason I applied for Yuuei. He offered me a deal. I’d get a pardon if I graduated.’

‘But he doesn’t know?’

You shake your head. ‘I didn’t actually take him up on it. One of the stipulations was that I needed to stop, and I…’

You couldn’t. But if you say that, it becomes a part of the story. A truth. And you don’t want it to be.

Because you’ve considered it. Stopping. Especially lately. There’s a sickening part of you that wants it.

You’ve been fighting for so long. For as long as you can remember, it was all you could do just to hang on. It was all you knew. There was nothing and nobody to fall back on if you didn’t have to fight. Sure, you never needed to take the fight to the streets like you did, but becoming a vigilante was the only option you thought you had.

You didn’t want to be a villain.

‘What you said during the Sports Festival,’ Todoroki says quietly, ‘It didn’t sound like you wanted to be a hero.’

You laugh. It’s a bitter, resigned thing. ‘It’s not an option for me.’

‘Because of your father?’

Again, you’re surprised by his perception. It stuns you, that he’s gleaned that much from this conversation. You feel… raw. Exposed. Small.

‘I thought you hated heroes,’ Todoroki adds.

Something shifts, some nervous lurch in the pit of your stomach.

So did you.

‘I do, mostly.’ The lie tastes like smoke. ‘Eraserhead is…’

‘Different?’ Todoroki offers.

You stare at the greyscale sky and will the painful feeling in your chest away. You don’t entirely succeed.

‘He might be,’ you say quietly, and it feels like the biggest admission of all.

Todoroki shifts, and you catch the tail end of a poorly hidden wince. The way he curls inward instinctively isn’t right, though. That can’t be from any of the injuries he sustained from Stain.

Your frown, and before you can second guess yourself you reach forward and grab his wrist. You activate your Quirk without giving him a chance to react.

There’s the dull sting of the stab wounds from his shoulder, and the general tired ache of post-fight muscles. But the throbbing centred entirely around his abdomen almost winds you. You barely manage to stifle a genuine gasp.

The pain lingers well after Todoroki has pulled his wrist free. He stands up and takes a full backwards step away. When you look up, his gaze is cold and cutting. He looks borderline combative, and you instinctively grit your own teeth in a halfway snarl.

‘Don’t,’ Todoroki warns.

You raise a derisive eyebrow and ignore him. ‘Daddy dearest give you that, then?’

Todoroki doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression falls into a scowl when he turns to leave.

You cross your arms as you watch him go, the echoes of his pain resolving until all that’s left is your own. The stinging from the cut on your hand feels louder than ever.

---

You feel like a ghost haunting the dorms while you try to convince yourself not to get involved.

It’s not that you hadn’t considered Endeavor could be awful towards his own family—you’d expected it. Maybe it was wishful thinking, though, that a hero father would be better than a villain one.

Evidently, you were wrong.

The incessant anxiety you can’t shake off wins out, fuelled by your growing anger. How dare he? It’s one thing for a hero to leave an obviously endangered kid alone, it’s entirely another to endanger his own kid.

You’re inexplicably tied to your father, there’s no doubt about that. You’ve never taken much solace in the lack of blood between you. But the distance you’d taken for granted has been pulled into stark focus by Todoroki’s situation. Because he doesn’t get to take that connection for granted. He has no options.

Maybe, even if it oversteps, you can give him one.

You end up wandering into the teachers’ dorm in the evening. You’re banking on Aizawa being here, since it’s a Sunday. It only occurs to you that you don’t know which room is theirs when you’re standing on the threshold into the common area.

It’s similar to the student common area, if a little smaller. Teachers get the short end of the stick, apparently.

With a sigh, you start knocking on all the doors one by one. Eventually, you’ll find the right one. Probably.

And you do—or rather, you almost do. You’re knocking loudly on one door when another opens further down the hall. Aizawa steps out, seems unsurprised it’s you, and raises an eyebrow.

Now that you’re here, though, after all the back-and-forth with yourself, you stumble over what to actually say.

Aizawa sighs and turns away, walking back through the door. He leaves it open, which you take as permission to enter.

Their room is pretty similar to their house, just smaller. It makes sense, now, why the teachers’ common area is smaller. The room is fully equipped with a kitchenette off to the side of the main room.

‘Is Yamada-sensei around?’ you ask, doing your best to sound casual. If you can, you’d like to at least avoid spilling Todoroki’s secrets to more people than strictly necessary.

‘Not at the moment,’ comes Aizawa’s reply. He sits in the space between Hoshi and Taiyou on the couch, and from the way neither of them so much as bat an eye, you assume this is where he was before you knocked.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow at you. ‘You can sit.’

You try to shake off the strange embarrassment that takes hold as you take a seat on the furthest side of the couch, crossing your legs to face him.

You’d figured out a way to avoid blatantly outing Todoroki’s circumstances but still hopefully give him an out, but it requires you performing some sort of vulnerability in front of Aizawa.

But you do feel vulnerable. It’s becoming a common theme around him, and it’s not one you’re comfortable with.

You decide to do what you do best: avoid it.

You pick at a loose thread at the bottom of your shirt while you finally speak. ‘The police told you about Midoriya, Todoroki and Iida fighting the Hero Killer, right?’

Aizawa pets Hoshi absently. ‘I heard you had some choice words about Endeavor.’

That embarrassment returns full force. ‘Yeah. Well. He’s…’

‘A clown?’

You duck your head as if Aizawa won’t hear you snort in response. ‘He is, though,’ you mutter.

Aizawa is silent, and when you glance up, he’s looking down at Hoshi, carding his fingers through the cat’s black and white fur. There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his lips.

You sit up straighter and point at him in accusation. ‘See! You agree!’

The twitch resolves into a full, amused upturn of his lips and you let out a triumphant laugh.

Aizawa shakes his head, but the small smile lingers for a moment. When he does look back at you, it’s replaced by his classic stern teacher look. ‘I don’t need to tell you not to discuss what happened with the rest of your classmates.’

He doesn’t phrase it like a question warranting a response, but you roll your eyes anyway. ‘Obviously.’

For a moment, he just watches you. You do your best not to shift under the scrutiny. Then, he looks back down at Hoshi.

‘How’s your hand?’ he asks.

You flex your bandaged hand on instinct. ‘Fine.’

After a moment of silence, if only to change the subject, you finally cut to the chase. ‘Can someone else move into the dorms?’ you ask, focusing on the movements of Aizawa’s hand through Hoshi’s fur.

Aizawa doesn’t say anything, so you shift uneasily and add, ‘It’s too… quiet.’

It’s a lie. Mostly. But it still feels like an impossible task to tell him you feel lonely, or something. This is as much as you can offer.

You can feel Aizawa watching you steadily. Eventually, he says, ‘I’ll ask Midoriya.’

Damn him. He knows. He knows this isn’t just about you. He’s forcing you to admit it without saying as much.

You look up at him and try to be adamant when you say, ‘Actually, can it be Todoroki-san?’

He stares at you in that same, searching way he sometimes looks at Sine. You swallow. ‘It has to be Todoroki-san,’ you add.

While he continues his inspection of you, you grit your teeth and force yourself to hold his gaze. He has to know how serious you are. This is as much as you can give him.

Finally, he sighs. ‘Got it.’

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t expect him to cave, but you did think you’d have to fight a little harder, at least.

You glance down, staring at Hoshi again. ‘Thanks.’

Aizawa doesn’t get a chance to reply, or if he does, you don’t hear it. You jump about a foot in the air when a familiar shout comes from behind you.

‘Shoutaaaaaaaa!’

You end up bent over, clutching at your chest in a desperate bid to recover. How does this man manage to startle you, but not scare you? It’s the same for the cats, apparently. They both woke up, but neither one of them actually moved. You watch as Hoshi’s eyes close and he falls straight back asleep.

Aizawa sighs. ‘Hizashi—‘

Yamada inadvertently cuts him off when he finally notices you. ‘Little listener! Sorry about that! I didn’t realise you were here!’

When you glance up, he’s got one hand rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. He’s in regular clothes, with a bundle of grocery bags in his other hand.

When you tell him it’s fine, you really mean it. Part of you is blaring alarm bells, because it can’t mean anything good that you’re getting less jumpy around him.

Maybe you’re just getting used to his pizzazz.

Yamada beams at you as he raises the grocery bags for you to see. ‘You should stay for dinner, since you’re here!’

---

Shouta just barely contains a sigh. He loves Hizashi, more than anything. But he feels conflicted. He’s grateful his husband keeps trying so hard to win their student over, but he hates how dejected Hizashi inevitably gets when they reject his attempts.

He’d be lying if he said Hizashi’s relentlessness wasn’t one of the things that made him fall in love. But he knows it has to hurt when it doesn’t pan out.

It surprises them both, he thinks, when their student ducks their head, a shy gesture that makes them look especially young, and murmurs a soft, ‘Sure.’

Hizashi’s mouth almost drops clean open. He recovers quickly enough, though, and a blinding grin cuts across his face. He’s as happy as he ever gets; ecstatic, even, and Shouta’s powerless in the face of that warmth.

Shouta watches their student as Hizashi rushes into the kitchen to start cooking. Tsuki has surfaced from wherever she was hiding, and she’s winding herself around his student’s ankles. Their lips are curled into the smallest of smiles as they card their fingers through her fur.

Todoroki, then.

Shouta doesn’t want to assume too much, not without proof or even some especially warranted suspicions. But he wonders if there isn’t a connection between his student’s open dislike of Endeavor and their being so adamant the hero’s son joins them in the dorms.

Todoroki is a reserved boy, even cold at times, with skills a cut above the majority of his classmates. Having the Number Two hero for a father would be the simplest explanation. But Shouta didn’t miss Endeavor’s conduct during the Sports Festival. His show of pride when Todoroki finally used his flames went beyond that of a proud parent.

It was arrogant. Personal.

He can’t do much with assumptions alone. But getting Todoroki into the dorms is a start.

---

You’re the first in class again the next day. Todoroki shows up not long after. You consider apologising for pushing him the way you did, but ultimately you don’t say anything. You know you were just looking for any way to ignore the complicated feelings brought up by your conversation, but you still don’t actually regret what you said to him. An apology would be disingenuous.

In the end, neither of you say anything, and the room stays silent until more of your classmates show up.

General chatter fills the room as everyone files in. Midoriya and Iida end up hovering around Todoroki’s desk, and they both seem uncertain of themselves. They’re probably dreading having to field questions about their internships.

You don’t bother paying any attention to the various conversations happening around the room until you hear overlapping, raucous laughter coming from up front. Kirishima and Sero are both laughing so hard they’re fully crying.

That’s when you finally notice Bakugou, still on time, but arriving far later than he usually does.

His hair is… tame. It’s slicked down, all gelled close to his scalp, but the ends are still jagged and clearly fighting to spike out like usual.

‘Seriously?!’ Kirishima and Sero both crow in unison. ‘Seriously, Bakugou?!’

Bakugou’s face is a dangerous snarl, and he’s visibly shaking with fury. ‘Stop laughing! My hair’s gotten used to it, so it won’t go back even after I wash it!’

Oh. So there’s no product in it at all? It’s just… staying like that?

Oh. That’s funny.

You duck your head, covering your own laugh with your hand. Now you know where Bakugou must have gone for his internship—if his hair is anything to go by, and apparently it is, he must’ve been with Best Jeanist. He looks like a furious, miniature version of the hero.

Kirishima and Sero are still laughing uncontrollably, but Bakugou’s not having any of it. ‘Hey, stop laughing! I’ll kill you!’

‘I’d like to see you try, Side-Part Boy!’ Sero crows, sending Kirishima into another fit of laughter.

Bakugou’s anger redoubles, and sparks fly from his fists. ‘What’d you say?!’

Then all at once, his hair explodes back into its usual shape, a perfect little mirror of his Quirk.

‘It’s back!’ Kirishima and Sero both shout, still laughing.

Everyone’s attention is drawn away from their individual conversations when Kaminari raises his voice, loud enough for the entire class to hear.

‘If you wanna talk about the most transformative, most traumatic experience, that'd be the one you four had!’ One arm points at the trio by Todoroki’s desk, and the other at you.

You feel your back straighten out at the attention. Why, exactly, have you been singled out? You had absolutely nothing to do with this.

Well. You did. But he doesn’t know that.

Bakugou has Sero and Kirishima both held up by the backs of their shirts, one in each hand, but that doesn’t stop them from giving their input.

‘Yeah, yeah! The Hero Killer!’ Sero exclaims.

Yaoyorozu chimes in from her desk, next to Todoroki’s. ‘I was so worried.’

‘I’m just glad you're all still alive,’ Kirishima adds.

Everyone starts to close in around the bundle of desks in the corner, yours included. You try to be subtle about grinding your teeth. You do not feel like being boxed in right now. You end up turning your chair to face the group, so your back isn’t turned to so many people. It’s not enough, but you can’t exactly just up and run out of the corner.

‘But Endeavor came and saved you, right?’ Satou asks.

‘That’s our Number Two for you!’ Hagakure adds.

You can’t help it. You roll your eyes and just barely bite back a remark. You see Todoroki watching you, and almost lose your composure when you see the corner of his lips twitch. At least you’re not the only one having trouble here.

‘Yeah,’ he says, voice utterly toneless. ‘He saved us.’

Midoriya smiles and nods. ‘Yeah.’

Ojiro steps in closer to the group. ‘So I saw on the news that they think the Hero Killer's connected to the League of Villains? I hate to think how things could've turned out if a scary guy like him had showed up at USJ that time.’

You bite down hard on your lip in a last-ditch effort not to say anything. Why do you feel guilty?

‘Hold on. Sure, he's scary, but did you watch that video, Ojiro?’ Kaminari wanders closer. 'You can really see his tenacity. His one-track mind. Kind of cool, don't you think?

You snap. ‘You think the guy who killed seventeen heroes is cool?’

Kaminari winces. ‘Well, no, but…’

Iida speaks up, looking down at his bandaged arm. ‘He's certainly a man of conviction, so if some people think he's cool, I get that. But his convictions have led him to conclude that society requires a purge. And no matter what one's motives are, that's just wrong.’

The classroom is the quietest it’s been since people started arriving. Kaminari looks sufficiently cowed.

‘So that no others like myself emerge and suffer my fate,’ Iida chops his arm out flat against the air, a typical Iida motion. ‘I will correct my course and walk the path of a true hero!’

‘Iida-kun!’ Midoriya grins.

‘Class is about to start!’ Iida shouts, ‘Get to your seats!’

---

Todoroki moves into the dorms at the end of that week. You get halfway to the dorms once classes finish before you realise he’s a few feet behind you.

You want to snap at him, ask him how he’s so quiet—but if his upbringing was even the tiniest bit like yours, you already know the answer to that question. Bringing it up would only hurt you both. Instead, you turn and continue on your way.

You’re a little surprised when Todoroki jogs to catch up to you. He falls into step beside you, but doesn’t look at you when he says, ‘You’re as bad as Midoriya.’

You turn to look at him so quickly you almost hurt your neck. That comment shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, and yet. You glare at him. ‘The fuck does that mean?’

He looks over at you, expression carefully blank. ‘You can’t help but meddle.’

You scoff, and open your mouth to retort, but nothing comes to mind. He’s not right, but you can’t figure out what to say in response. You only speak up again when you’re finally entering the dorms. ‘I didn’t tell Aizawa-sensei any specifics. He knows when to infer and not ask questions.’

Todoroki is quiet for a moment, then he nods.

Apparently his stuff was moved in during class. He’s set up in the room beside yours. You duck your head in to sneak a peek when he opens the door.

The room’s been set up traditionally, with tatami mats perfectly lined up on the floor and all matching furniture. There’s even a bamboo plant in one corner.

He starts to unpack his school bag—does he unpack and repack it every single day?—and you linger by the door. You should really leave him be, but it’s boring otherwise. You weren’t being serious when you told Aizawa the dorms were too quiet, but…

Maybe a little bit.

Todoroki glances back at you once his things are packed away. ‘Yes?’

You falter. ‘Uh. Nice room?’ You don’t mean to phrase it like a question, but that’s how it comes out.

He gives the room a cursory second look, as if taking it in himself. When he looks back at you, his face is unreadable. ‘I didn’t want to waste Endeavor’s money.’

You choke on a laugh. Todoroki’s lips twitch and you can’t help but grin. It takes a second, but a tiny little smile emerges for him, too.

You jab your thumb over your shoulder. ‘Want the tour?’

Todoroki considers it for a moment, a tilt of his head, a blink, the usual catlike behaviour. Then, he nods.

You’re not the most enthusiastic tour guide, and there’s not much to see, but Todoroki voices no complaints.

---

Todoroki leaves the next morning and doesn’t get back until late afternoon. You’re sitting in the common area, homework spread out around you, when he returns.

He sits down on one of the couches adjacent to you, and you glance up at him. He meets your eyes, but stays quiet.

Just when it threatens to turn into a staring contest, you finally break the silence. ‘Do you need something?’

Todoroki blinks, then relaxes a little. ‘Where did you learn to fight?’

You sit up straighter. You only realise you’re frowning when you notice the tension in your shoulders. You don’t even bother trying to relax.

Those first few vivid years are something you’ve tried deeply to repress. Having them forced to the forefront of your mind is uncomfortable at best.

You don’t want to talk about it. ‘Why do you want to know?’ you ask, and it sounds forced even to you.

‘You’re the best fighter in our class, if you don’t include Quirks,’ Todoroki says.

You grimace. You’re not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment, and you’re even less sure how it makes you feel. Since it’s Todoroki, he’s probably just stating it as fact. Objectively, he’s right, sure. It’s not like you haven’t thought it before. But having somebody else point out your strengths is entirely foreign to you.

‘And?’ you prompt when he doesn’t say anything else. His face, like always, gives nothing away.

‘I was going to ask you to train me.’

A complicated roil of emotions tears through you. You try to tamp down on it all, at least for now. ‘Were you going to ask, or are you asking?’

Todoroki tilts his head. ‘I’m asking.’

You’re on edge, all over. The best thing you can think to do is to snap at him. ‘Didn’t Endeavor teach you how to fight?’

He doesn’t even falter. ‘Not the way you do.’

You look down at your hands, flex your fingers if only for something tangible to focus on. The cut on your hand is mostly healed, but for a slight sting. ‘You shouldn’t learn to fight like me,’ you murmur.

He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know his likely follow up question. You continue pre-emptively. ‘I was thrown into an illegal fighting ring when I was eight. That’s how I was trained.’

There was no warning, and certainly no choice. You were forced into caged fights with a series of far more seasoned fighters, most of them with some sort of sadistic streak. None of them had any qualms about you being a child. You genuinely thought you were fighting for your life, back then, but you know now that Father must have had some kind of stopgap for if your life was ever seriously threatened. You were too useful to him.

The Underground Masquerade. It’s one of Father’s sources for finding useful Quirks. As far as you know, All Might dismantled the first attempt, but the second is probably still active even now. You spent years in and out of fighting there, whenever Father didn’t need you for your Quirk.

‘There were no rules,’ you explain. ‘Weapons, Quirks, killing, even torture. Nothing was off limits.’

You don’t want to tell him any more than you strictly need to, to make him understand why you training him is not an option.

You don’t even want to think about it.

‘That sort of fighting was…’ you shift, hoping your blatant unease isn’t coming across too clearly to Todoroki. ‘I learned what I needed to survive, nothing more, nothing less. There’s nothing heroic about it.’ The words taste sour in your mouth. ‘It’s desperate, exploitable and cruel.’

You’ve been lucky enough that most of the criminals you’ve targeted through vigilantism haven’t been experienced fighters. Your underhanded tactics work well enough on them. But they’ll only take you so far—that’s why you’ve been lamenting Yuuei’s terrible training. You came here to steal their knowledge and leave, didn’t you?

Todoroki stands up, so suddenly it almost makes you jump. When you look up at him, he’s staring at you. His expression is still blank, like always, but there’s something else there, in the tiniest widening of his eyes and the slim line of his lips. ‘Train me anyway,’ he says, like it’s nothing.

You shove yourself to your feet and level him with as hard a glare as you can manage. ‘Did you hear anything I just said?’

‘You looked resolved,’ he says.

You frown. ‘What?’

‘When we fought the Hero Killer. You reacted quicker than any of us could have, even without a Quirk like Midoriya’s, or Iida’s. You knew exactly what to do. And you did it. You looked like a hero.’

You feel like you might pass out, just a little. It’s like all your blood has pooled in your feet. You can barely breathe. ‘That’s not—‘

Todoroki interrupts whatever half-hearted denial was on your tongue. ‘It might not be a Quirk, but it’s your power, isn’t it?’

It takes you a moment to connect the dots, figure out why those words feels so familiar. Then, it hits you; the Sports Festival.

You scoff. ‘Seriously?’

Todoroki shrugs. ‘Midoriya was right.’

You sit back down and stare at the carpet, trying to think it through and resolutely ignoring your feelings.

How would it even work? Yes, Yuuei’s lack of basic combat training bothers you. But how are you supposed to make up for that? How would you avoid teaching Todoroki all the wrong things? Do you even have any skills worth teaching him? He sure seems to think so.

You don’t want to do this.

So why are you going to?

‘Fine.’ You pin Todoroki with another heavy stare. ‘But I’ll be setting rules. If you break any even once, we’re done.’

Todoroki just nods.

---

The Saturday after, Todoroki leaves again, just before lunch. When he returns late in the afternoon, you wonder if this is going to become a trend.

Standing a few feet apart in the courtyard behind the dorms, you decide to ask. ‘Where do you even go every Saturday?’

It’s probably not a very fair question, and you’re delaying what’s about to happen. You don’t really expect him to offer an answer at all, let alone the truth. But he does.

‘I visit my mother,’ he says. ‘She’s in a long-term care facility.’

Well. That’s what you get for asking.

‘Whatever,’ you mutter, probably a little too eager to move on.

Todoroki just waits, watching you.

‘Fine,’ you sigh. ‘First, I’m only training you. This isn’t going to become some class-wide thing. If Aizawa-sensei finds out, he’ll probably make us stop anyway, so keep quiet about it.’

You wait pointedly for Todoroki to nod before moving on. ‘Second, no Quirks.’

‘That seems obvious,’ Todoroki deadpans.

You ignore him. ‘Third, any time one of us wants to stop, we stop. No questions asked.’

He nods again, and you sigh again, some small relief sinking in.

It’s not that you hate the idea of training him. You know you’ve got some tips and tricks you can impart, even if there’s a warranted insecurity there. The fact you’re doing this at all is proof you can’t let go of Yuuei’s failings, and you care enough to do something about it.

But you don’t know how to trust yourself and Todoroki to both know your limits. And you’ll have to learn his limits, too, if you’re going to be the one leading this thing. It’s too much. You don’t want to do it, but you feel like you need to. It’s not purely out of obligation, but… Maybe this is something you owe to yourself. Maybe this is some small way you can make up for some of things you’ve done. Make some things right, or as right as they ever can be.

You take a deep breath and shake out your arms. You hold your head high as you stare Todoroki down. You might be unsure of this, and of yourself, but all he needs to see is confidence.

‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Come at me.’

To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate. He runs straight at you. He opens strong with a feint, a punch aimed at your stomach. You easily deflect it, but he follows up with a high kick. He ducks low, and you recognise the move; it’s the one you stole from Eraserhead’s old videos, and the one you used for the first time while fighting Stain.

You take the hit, using your forearm to block. Before Todoroki can right himself, you sweep your foot out, narrowly avoiding his head, and send him sprawling onto his ass.

‘How many times did you practise that?’ you demand.

He shrugs as he rights himself. ‘I didn’t.’

This time, you’re the one with a vacant blink. ‘What.’

‘That was my first time trying it.’

You scowl. ‘Nope. No way. That’s not fair. I stole that move from Eraserhead, and it still took me weeks of trying and landing on my ass to get it right.’ You lean forward and jab a finger into his chest. ‘You saw it one time in the middle of a fight for our lives and you pulled it off from memory alone? Fuck off. Find someone else to train you. If I do it, you’ll know all my moves and I’ll never win a fight against you again.’

Todoroki smiles. It’s a small thing, and it stops your tirade in its tracks. It takes you longer than you’d like to recover.

When you do, you huff and cross your arms. ‘Flashy moves like that are cool and all, but I only used it in that situation because I had backup if I fumbled it, or if Stain recovered quicker than I did. I judged that his reaction time was limited in that moment, and that you or Midoriya would be able to make up for the time it took me to recover before he could do exactly what I just did—use your position against you.’

Todoroki nods, but he doesn’t immediately continue when you take a few steps back and wait for his next advance. Instead, he tilts his head. ‘That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say without hesitating.’

Yeah. You’re not touching that with a ten-foot pole. You roll your eyes. ‘Come on, then.’

---

That’s how the first sparring session goes. Todoroki makes a move, you dodge, deflect or take the hit and see how he follows up. You trip him up every chance you get, then explain what was wrong about his approach. Sometimes, he used the wrong move for the situation, or his form was poor and exploitable.

As you head back inside, both of you dripping sweat, you decide it wasn’t awful. Honestly, it almost felt productive. Worthwhile, even. It wasn’t the agonising, exhausting experience you thought it would be. You might’ve even had a little fun.

Todoroki seems satisfied, at least. He never half-assed things, always listened carefully to anything you said, and he really committed to it.

‘Was that okay?’ he asks. He’s looking ahead, face carefully blank—only this time, you can see how hard he’s trying to keep it that way. The tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

Apparently you weren’t entirely right. Maybe he’s more insecure about it all than you thought. You wonder what exactly it is that made him approach you about training in the first place.

All you know is you need to wipe that awful, calculated look off his face as efficiently as you can. With as precise a movement as you can manage, you throw your foot out and sweep his legs right out from under him.

He falls forward and barely catches himself before he hits the floor. He rights himself with a little too much grace, then looks at you. He looks genuinely confused, if a little annoyed.

Your laughter hits you quicker than you can even consider stifling it. It’s so loud and sudden it makes him flinch, but you still can’t stop yourself. You end up doubled over, arms wrapped around you stomach. Isn’t this the second time that’s happened lately?

Both times have been because of Todoroki.

When you finally compose yourself enough to face him, you see that his lip is quirked up slightly, just enough to betray his own humour.

‘It was fine,’ you tell him. Your shoulders are still shaking. ‘If you’re really concerned, you can pay me for it, or something.’

‘How much?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised. His mirth is apparent in his voice.

‘I take payment in the form of baked goods.’

---

The next day, Todoroki returns to the dorms just before lunch. You hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

He comes bearing two comically large paper bags. When he sets them down at the oversized dining table and starts to unpack them, you quickly realise they’re full of anything you could ever want from a bakery. There are cookies, muffins, slices of cake, a few different kinds of bread. There’s enough here to feed the entire class twice over.

It’s completely absurd. When you point that out, Todoroki just shrugs. ‘I didn’t know what you liked.’

‘And you didn’t think to ask?’ you retort, still staring at the ridiculous assortment of food in front of you.

Todoroki shrugs, again. ‘It’s Endeavor’s money.’

Times you’ve laughed so hard you’ve doubled over thanks to Todoroki? That would be three. But who’s counting?

---

Are you out of practice? Are you getting worse? Were you just not focusing?

You thought some time out doing the usual shit would help things feel less off kilter. But now you’re limping all the way back to Yuuei wondering how you’ll get in when even you’re not game enough to jump out of a tree with a sprained ankle.

It’s not a bad sprain, as such, but enough that you should reasonably be off your feet for a few days.

Yeah. That’ll happen.

It was your first night out in weeks, and you didn’t even bother going to Yasumi’s. It felt redundant, when all you really wanted was to put your fist through something to see if it would help.

You can’t even tell what exactly is making you feel so wrong. Is it Todoroki? You don’t think so. And nothing major has changed with Aizawa or anything else. Sure, you’ve stopped going out as much, but it’s just harder to do now that you have to finesse your way in and out of Yuuei undetected. That’s the only real reason for it. Isn’t it?

Either way, it didn’t take long patrolling a variation of your usual route to find a guy trying to break into somebody’s car. You’d gone in underestimating him, which was your first mistake. He reacted quicker than you expected, and your attempt at a quiet approach meant you weren’t ready for the fucking spikes to shoot out of his back. There was zero indication he had a Quirk like that at all! He just looked like an ordinary guy!

But in your effort to dodge, you’d tripped yourself up and crashed sideways, slamming your ankle straight in the concrete. You’re just glad your boots are heavy-duty enough that the impact wasn’t enough to fracture.

At least, you’re pretty sure it didn’t.

You still managed to take the guy out, in the end. Left him beside a payphone for authorities to grab if he was still knocked out against the wall when they showed up. You didn’t care enough to wait, an onslaught of admonishments ringing in your ears the second the fight was over.

How could you be so stupid?

There’s only one option for you, now, as Yuuei comes into view. You sure as hell aren’t going to climb that wall.

It’s past midnight, so there’s a good chance he’s asleep, but you’re sure Todoroki will wake up if you call him a few times.

At least, you hope.

Founded hopes, when he answers on the second ring. He doesn’t even say anything, just leaves the line open and silent.

‘Can you let me into Yuuei?’ you try.

He hangs up.

Well.

You call him again.

He doesn’t answer, and you’ve managed to leave him six voicemails featuring a variety of expletives when the gate finally opens.

It’s very loud, for the middle of the night.

You make a snap decision to hide the limp, even if walking normally sends a shooting pain all the way up your leg. You’ve had worse, and revealing the injury would probably do more harm than good.

‘Don’t you take your key card?’ Todoroki asks, halfway back to the dorms.

You shake your head. ‘What if I get caught with it? Poof, there goes my cover!’ It’s not a lie, exactly, but it’s also not the truth.

‘Then how do you usually get in?’

You consider not telling him. Should you really reveal your way in and out?

But then, it’s not like it’s exactly creative. Anyone could figure it out. You’re still not sure how Yuuei gets away with having trees along the outside of the wall.

‘I climb a tree,’ you admit.

Todoroki stops, and his expression is an open mix of exhaustion and exasperation. ‘A tree?’

You nod. ‘A tree.’

‘And you jump over the wall?’

‘Yup.’

‘And you couldn’t do that tonight,’ he adds, not a question, but a statement of fact.

You shrug. ‘I didn’t feel like it?’

Todoroki blinks at you, and he relaxes a bit, for some reason. ‘You’re a surprisingly bad liar.’

You step forward, ready to hit him with some scathing retort to get him to back off, but you shift some weight to the wrong foot. You wince.

Shit.

Todoroki glances down. The exasperation is back on his face. ‘Is it broken?’

You scoff. ‘I’m not Midoriya. It’s just a sprain.’

Todoroki steps closer. For a strange moment, you half expect him to hit you. You have no reason to think that, but… Maybe he wants payback for you tripping him after you sparred?

Instead, he slides his arm under your shoulders and—apparently—readies himself to support you the rest of the way to the dorms.

‘Uh,’ is all you can manage.

He’s close, now. His face is closer to yours than it was even when you sparred. This close, you can make out the hints of how he’s feeling through his expression even more acutely. His lip twitches, the smallest, faintest, instantly recovered slip of a smirk. You wouldn’t have seen it from a distance.

He’s enjoying this, isn’t he?

Bastard.

You decide to call his bluff. Two can play at this game, and you fully embrace the situation, shifting most of your weight onto him.

‘How kind of you, Todoroki-kun,’ you say, trying to sound genuinely grateful even though you’re really not.

Somehow, he ends up supporting the majority of your weight all the way back to the dorms. After the first few steps, you realise you’ve backed yourself into a corner, and now there’s no way to get yourself out. You’re stuck relying on him all the way there.

The stairs at the entrance prove a challenge. You can’t climb them without putting some weight on your foot, and another involuntary wince leaves you on the second step.

‘You can use your Quirk,’ Todoroki offers.

Uh. No? What? That’s not how this works.

‘Why would I?’ you deflect.

He throws it back at you with ease. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘That’s a loaded question,’ you admit, if only to get him to back off about it.

When you’re safely in the elevator, heading up to the fifth floor where both your rooms are, he speaks up again.

‘Is it because of your father?’

You shrug. ‘Mostly. Aizawa-sensei also asked me not to.’

‘He doesn’t know about that part of your Quirk,’ Todoroki points out, not letting you have that particular lie.

You scowl at him. ‘You’re too observant for your own good.’

The corner of his lip quirks up. ‘So are you.’

It’s only when you’re back in your room, on the verge of sleep, that you realise that was the first time anyone has ever offered to take your pain.

---

Since sparring is out for a few days, you end up joining Todoroki in the common area to study. You don’t bother hiding the limp in front of him—no point now—so that at least takes a bit of pressure off your ankle while you move around.

Late in the afternoon, you get a text from an unknown number. You’re apprehensive until you open it.

Hey little listener! I’m making dinner! You and Todoroki-kun are welcome to join us!

Before you can even consider a reply, another text follows the first.

This is Yamada, btw!

And then a third. This time, it’s a picture. Yamada is holding the phone, flashing a grin punctuated by a thumbs up. Aizawa is seated behind him, and he’s not even looking up, just scowling down at Hoshi, asleep in his lap.

You glance up at Todoroki. He’s sitting across the dining table from you, still focused on a textbook.

‘Yamada’s cooking, and we’re invited.’

He doesn’t say anything. You can practically feel the reluctance rolling off of him.

‘His food is good,’ you try, deciding not to consider why it is you’re attempting to convince him at all.

Still no reply, but he does look up at you.

You sigh. ‘What’s your favourite food?’

He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Cold soba.’

Isn’t that a bit on the nose? You shrug and finally send a reply to Yamada.

If there’s cold soba, we’ll come.

You’ve just put your phone down when it buzzes again.

Consider it done! (b ᵔ▽ᵔ)b

---

By the time you get to Aizawa and Yamada’s room that evening, you’re starting to get concerned that you’ve genuinely upset Todoroki. He’s openly irritated, and he keeps sending you these little glares and glancing down at your feet.

Well, your foot, at least.

So, you’re walking normally. Yes, it hurts a little. Why does it matter to him? He’s not the one who has to put up with your pain.

The furrow in his brow has gone so deep you’re surprised he hasn’t snapped at you yet. He stays silent even when Aizawa opens the door to let you both in.

The smell of Yamada’s cooking hits you immediately. It’s homey. It reminds you of the nights you used to have dinner with the Midoriyas. God, why do you keep thinking about them all the time? You might miss them, but that doesn’t change that distance is for the best. It’s for their safety.

You’re so caught up with berating yourself over letting your mind wander that you get no warning before Todoroki finally makes his move.

You barely make it two steps into the room when his foot suddenly swipes out, too fast for you to react. He’s careful enough to avoid your ankle, but you go stumbling forward, arms splayed out in front of you. You just barely manage to avoid falling flat on your face.

‘Oh no,’ Todoroki says above you, doing a terrible job at sounding sincere. ‘Did you hurt your ankle?’

You’re going to kill him. Or, at least, you’re definitely going to punch him. You push yourself back to your feet and you’re this close to swinging, but Yamada comes flying out of the kitchenette in a genuine panic.

‘Are you okay?!’ he shouts, too loud—and still not scaring you. You’re getting way too used to him.

He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss The Cook! on it. The sight alone forces all your anger to evaporate. You can’t decide if it’s more endearing or embarrassing. Maybe both.

You hook your arm around Todoroki’s neck and lean on him, putting more weight on him than you really need to. You make a show of testing your bad ankle, but the wince that follows is real. ‘It’s not bad. Probably just a sprain,’ you say.

As Todoroki hauls you further into the room so you can sit, you feel like there are seriously too many eyes on you. There’s only three other people here, but you feel like you’re on display, exposed, being judged. The surface of your skin feels hot with the panic of it.

You want to get out. But that would probably just make things worse.

Yamada, at least, doesn’t hover. When Aizawa waves him back into the kitchenette, he goes with one last concerned look at you.

Any relief you feel over that is short lived, though, when Aizawa crouches down in front of you.

You feel incredibly small when he looks up at you. Smaller, still, when he reaches out towards your foot so slowly it’s obvious he’s giving you the chance to brush him off.

You want to. You really do. But for some reason, you don’t.

How childish can you get?

He’s utterly gentle when he removes your shoe, gentler still as he pulls down your sock. Only then do you realise your mistake. The bruises have already yellowed slightly. They’re almost a day old, already.

You’ve been caught in a lie.

Ice cold shreds through you as you try to prepare yourself for it. For the rebuke, the disapproval, disappointment, questions. He’s going to call you out, ask what happened, demand to know.

The panic blurs the edges of the present, and for a moment, it’s Father in front of you, it’s damage done by Tomura’s Quirk, it’s Tomura having acted out, it’s you being punished for it, for hiding it. It’s not your place to keep things from Father, it’s his responsibility to pull Tomura back in line. Secrets are the speciality of heroes; you don’t keep things from family.

Father’s hand folds over your injured shoulder, and consolation gives way to pain as he applies pressure. Heat gathers in your eyes, and you refuse to let the tears fall. When you can’t control yourself, they fall anyway. The resounding backhand that follows is provoked by your weakness. You deserve it.

You flinch violently. It’s so sudden the force of it drags you back into the present, where the sensation of unshed tears has followed you like a fucking ghost.

Yamada’s humming in the kitchen. Todoroki is across the room, back turned as he plays with one of the cats.

Aizawa is watching you, calm as anything. He hasn’t pulled away, and the closeness should sting you.

So why doesn’t it?

You allow yourself a single breath, deep and slow and quiet, before you yank your foot away and pull your sock back up.

‘See?’ Is the way your voice catches as obvious as it sounds? ‘It’s nothing! I’ll be fine in a few days!’

Aizawa doesn’t say anything, a blessed reprieve even if you’re not sure why he didn’t call you out on your lie, or the moment that followed it.

He moves away, heads into the kitchenette and returns with an ice pack. ‘Just try to stay off it, alright?’

The ice pack helps. So does Yamada’s cooking.

---

Even when your ankle is almost fully healed, you still feel like an open wound. Every day, something feels wrong, off, like you’re forgetting something but can’t remember what it is.

You keep reminding yourself of what you know is true, even when it hurts.

You’re not a real Yuuei student. Your time here, in this place and with these people, is limited.

Maybe it’s running out. Maybe that’s why it feels like some inevitable ending is catching up to you.

When was the last time you went to the cemetery? To Hina’s?

You haven’t been able to look Aizawa in the eye all week.

Todoroki’s been trying to drag you to lunch with Midoriya and the others. You’re guessing it’s some kind of retaliation for you making him come to dinner with you, as if he didn’t enjoy every bite of Yamada’s food. You’ve been narrowly dodging every attempt, even though avoiding Todoroki has been harder than you expected. Ever since he found out, it’s like a part of you gravitates towards him.

When he texts you on Saturday, you’re fully prepared to ignore him. But what are you supposed to do when all he sends is:

Help.

You glare at your phone as if your irritation might translate directly to Todoroki on the other end.

I’m going to pretend you didn’t just send me an SOS for something that’s obviously not an actual emergency.

Seconds after you reply, he calls you. You let it ring for a while before you finally pick up.

‘What if I was attacked by a villain?’ Todoroki asks.

‘If you were, you wouldn’t have called me. You’d have called Midoriya,’ you drawl.

Todoroki is quiet for a long moment. You almost hang up before he finally replies.

‘Midoriya can’t help me with this,’ he murmurs. He sounds genuinely distracted, if a little perturbed.

‘And why is that?’ you ask, curiosity piqued despite yourself. What could you possibly help him with that Midoriya couldn’t?

‘I’ll send you the address,’ Todoroki says, and then he hangs up.

You contemplate violence while you wait for his location text.

It’s for a mall?

---

Barely an hour later, you’re waiting at the entrance of a pretty generic looking shopping mall, texting Todoroki that he has two minutes to meet up with you before you head straight back to Yuuei.

He finds you in less than one.

To his credit, he does look a little rattled, for him. You give him a cursory once-over, but nothing seems visibly wrong, other than the pinched brows and hard line of his mouth. What could possibly be bothering him so much, for his face to show it so clearly?

He doesn’t even say anything, just stands in front of you, staring right through you with that mildly aggravated expression.

You wave a hand in front of his face. ‘Earth to Todoroki? You needed help with what, exactly?’

He sighs—actually, full on sighs. It’s quiet, but it releases the tiniest bit of the tension he’s holding all over.

‘Tomorrow is Father’s Day.’

You blink. ‘Oh.’

Todoroki nods, and his expression is so genuinely grave it makes you snort.

You tilt your head at him. ‘Do you absolutely have to get him a gift?’

Todoroki’s quiet for a moment, apparently thinking it over. Finally, he decides, ‘It’s easier just to do it, for now.’

You don’t really understand that. It’s not like Father expected gifts on Father’s Day, or any other occasion for that matter. You couldn’t even take a guess at when his birthday is. You don’t remember yours. The same is probably true for Father. Being the world’s greatest villain probably takes precedence over meaningless things like gifts.

The only gift he ever got you was a second-hand knife you watched him take from the corpse of a man he’d just killed in front of you. Someone who’d slipped up, in one way or another, you’d guess. That wasn’t long before you were thrown into the Masquerade.

You’ve certainly never given him anything.

Well. Except yourself, but that wasn’t really voluntary, was it?

You raise an eyebrow at Todoroki. ‘And you need my help because?’

Todoroki shrugs. ‘You seem like you’d be good at choosing a gift that’s acceptable, but also…’

‘Oh,’ you realise, ‘You want to tell Endeavor to go fuck himself, but politely.’

Todoroki’s lip twitches. ‘Will you help me?’

Well, when he says it like that.

And that’s how the two of you end up in a novelty gift store on a Saturday afternoon. Not exactly somewhere you’d expected yourself to be.

‘Here’s an idea,’ you start, battling laughter as you watch Todoroki’s face change between confused and appalled as he picks up various terrible novelty Father’s Day gifts—this time it’s a key chain that reads Best Dad Ever!

When he looks at you, his eyes are wide and genuinely pleading. ‘Please.’

‘You make him a handmade card with glitter and shit that says, “You’re the Number Two hero, and you’re a second-rate dad. Happy Father’s Day!”’

What little hope was on Todoroki’s face fades, and you nod sagely. ‘You’re right, he’s not even second-rate. He’s at least third.’

Todoroki almost smiles, but he still looks utterly lost.

‘Alright, how about this,’ you try, impressed with your self-control when you don’t laugh at how the hope returns to his face. He’s like a child. ‘You find some high-end hero merch of his, but something that specifically states he’s the Number Two hero. Make it expensive, so it passes as a decent gift, but only you and him will know what it really means.’

Todoroki turns on his heel and stalks away from you. Apparently he’s given up on your help entirely. You were trying!

You jog to catch up with him. This time, he’s standing in front of a giant wall of mugs. They have every variation of positive adjectives one could hope for, and they’re all Father’s Day themed.

‘I don’t know why you thought I’d be good at this,’ you tell him, glancing over the mugs absently. Greatest Dad, Favourite Dad, Smartest Dad. ‘I’ve literally never given anybody a gift before.’

Todoroki glances over at you, then back to the mugs. ‘Your father didn’t expect it?’

You shake your head. ‘I think it’s weirder that yours does, but I guess your family has some social status, so it’s probably about keeping up appearances?’

Todoroki nods. He’s silent for a moment, then he looks at you again. ‘What about Aizawa-sensei and Present Mic?’

You don’t feel your face heat, thank you very much. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ you retort.

Todoroki’s smile is surprisingly gentle. You thought he was just teasing you.

When he moves on to the next set of shitty novelty items, you linger by the mugs, waiting for your cheeks to cool.

It’s not… It’s not the worst idea ever.

Is it?

It might be.

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

It’s not like it’s a ton of money. You can always just get rid of them later.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you swipe two mugs off the shelf and stalk over to the checkout.

---

In the end, Todoroki picks out a card the two of you find in a display of hero-themed pun cards. Your vote was for the It’ll Be All Might card, but Todoroki settles for Good Luck In All Your Endeavors.

You can’t really blame him for that. Your final suggestion is your best—to make a donation to a family violence organisation in Endeavor’s name—but Todoroki insists the card is fine. You just barely hear him murmur, ‘Maybe next year,’ to himself, though.

Once you’re back at Yuuei, Todoroki heads up to his room to stash the card away until tomorrow. You hover in the doorway to his room until he turns to you, eyebrow raised.

‘Do you have a paperclip?’ you ask.

Todoroki frowns, but grabs something from out of his low desk draw.

You grin, triumphant, when he hands you a very nice paperclip. Sturdy, metal, probably expensive. You bet on his expensive taste, and it worked in your favour.

You grab his arm and haul him along with you, the mugs hanging in a bag from your wrist.

‘Where are we going?’ Todoroki asks, but he doesn’t make any move to stop you from dragging him along.

‘To see the cats,’ you say. It’s not a lie. Technically.

You make Todoroki knock on the door to the Aizawa-Yamada room to make sure no one is there. When you’re certain it’s empty, you hand Todoroki the mugs and begin unfolding the paperclip. It’s sturdy enough you have to use your teeth to straighten it out. Jackpot!

When you crouch down and work the paperclip into the lock, Todoroki snorts. ‘So you can pick locks?’

You focus on feeling the telltale click of the lock giving way. When it finally does, you push the door inward. ‘I’m a vigilante, of course I can pick locks.’

Todoroki hands the mugs back to you. ‘I didn’t realise that was part of the job description.’

You scowl at him. ‘Do you want to see the cats, or not?’

When he doesn’t answer, you nod. ‘That’s what I thought.’

Todoroki beelines it for the couch, where Hoshi and Tsuki are curled up together. You head for the kitchenette.

After opening a few cupboards, you find where they keep their mugs. They’ve got a sizeable enough collection that the additions might just go unnoticed, if you’re lucky.

You retrieve the mugs from the bag and carefully tuck Best Dad and Coolest Dad towards the back of the cupboard, not so far that they’re out of place, but enough that they’re not easy to read.

‘There,’ you announce, returning to Todoroki and making a show of dusting off your hands. You scrunch the paper bag up into a ball. ‘Now, if they find them, I have plausible deniability.’

‘I don’t think that’s how that works,’ Todoroki murmurs, but he’s too busy scratching Taiyou behind the ears to—

Wait. Taiyou?

No fucking way. You literally spent days with these cats and Taiyou only came near you once, while you were asleep! Todoroki’s been here a single time and Taiyou’s already wrapped around his finger?

Wait.

‘You’re a fucking cheater!’ you shout, pointing at the arm Todoroki’s using to pet Taiyou.

Taiyou, for his part, startles and bolts into what you assume is the bedroom to hide.

Todoroki frowns at you, clearly confused.

‘You’re using your left side! To pet the cats! That’s cheating!’

Todoroki actually laughs, ducking his head in a failed attempt to hide it. He returns to Hoshi and Tsuki’s little pile of fur and resumes his petting, unfair advantage and all.

You cross your arms and glare daggers at the cats. Traitors. ‘We should go.’

Your heart’s not really in it, but you don’t want to get caught. Todoroki neither moves nor acknowledges that he even heard you, so clearly he’s also in no rush.

‘Todoroki,’ you push. ‘Let’s—‘

‘Call me Shouto.’

For the second time in as many hours, you feel your face warm. You can’t even think of anything to say in response.

Todoroki, or…

Shouto…?

He doesn’t look up from the cats.

You shiver.

No one has ever asked you to use their first name before. Other than Inko, but that’s different.

‘Let’s just go,’ you try, but he still doesn’t move.

You feel like you’re shaking, like a light breeze would knock you right over, but a glance at your hands reveals that no, you’re very much not.

‘Shouto,’ you say, carefully, ‘Let’s head back.’

Shouto finally turns to you. His smile is disarmingly genuine. Most of the warmth, and you hope, the colour, has left your face, but you turn on your heel and dart out the door anyway, heist entirely forgotten.

---

You pull your hood tighter around your face as you scout out a few of the shadier industrial areas along your usual route. It’s especially cold, even with summer just around the corner. You probably could’ve picked a better night to come out, even if you were itching for it.

Lately, you can barely tell which feeling is stronger; the urge to get out there and hit someone who deserves it, or the anxiety that’s hiding around every single corner.

Maybe it’s because of Tomura. After a year of total radio silence, suddenly he shows up, first at USJ, then he dusts your fucking apartment, and then you spot him in Hosu. It’s like he’s fucking stalking you, which isn’t entirely impossible.

You always knew Father was letting you stay one step ahead of him, but his shadow has been hanging over you with a renewed sense of urgency ever since…

Ever since when? When did you actually start feeling like this?

Maybe you’ve always felt like this. Maybe you’re just not as good at hiding it as you used to be.

It’s been, what, a month since you last showed up at Yasumi’s? The last time you did anything worthwhile was taking down those shitty amateur weapons dealers. That feels so long ago, now.

What happened to your routine?

When did you get so weak?

There are too many questions you can’t even begin to answer.

God, you need to hit something.

Right on cue, a scream shatters the quiet. You’re equal parts alarmed and grateful. Not that someone is in danger, but that you’ve at least found something to do.

You run the length of the building you’re perched on, following the direction of the scream. It’s eerie quiet again, and a shred of panic urges you on.

You find the source a few buildings over, in the courtyard behind a dilapidated warehouse.

You’re not so eager you’re going to make the same mistake twice. You crouch down at the edge of the roof you’re on and try to assess the situation. No running in without thinking, not again. That whole ankle situation was hell.

A woman with long, black hair is approaching two people who’re slumped together on the ground. There’s the telltale glint of a knife in her hand.

You climb down the side of the building as quick and discreet as you can, keeping an eye on the scene unfolding in front of you.

One of the pair on the ground pulls the other up, shoves them away with a, ‘Run!’

The guy doesn’t wait to be told twice. He bolts, leaving the woman who’d pushed him to… To what? Distract the knife-wielding baddy? Unless she has some sort of useful Quirk and she’s not afraid to face the consequences of using it, staying behind is useless. She should’ve run, too.

She stands tall, though, and shouts with surprising confidence at the approaching villain, ‘I know you’re not her! Stop pretending!’

Oh?

Before you can blink, the woman with the knife darts forward. You take off, but you can’t reach them in time. The knife is in and out of the woman’s stomach with a wet snick before you can get between them.

The villain retreats, leaving some space between you. You stand in front of the wounded woman, sparing a half-glance back to tell her, ‘If you can run, run. If you can’t, try to put pressure on the wound.’

She nods, but it’s shaky, and it’s only a second before you hear her crumble behind you.

Shit. You want to do what you can for her wounds, but you can’t afford to take your eyes off the villain while she’s still a threat. You only see the one knife, but there’s no telling whether or not she has any other hidden weapons. You haven’t even seen her Quirk yet, if she has one.

You need to act fast, or the woman behind you might die—but go too quickly, and you could fall into some kind of trap, or slip up again.

You could run. The injured woman seems light enough for you to carry, but what if you jostle her too much, and worsen the bleeding, or you can’t get to safety in time to help her? What if the villain has a Quirk that could prevent your escape? Or backup. She could even have backup, though you see no signs of it.

You draw a knife and urge yourself to make a decision. Something, anything, is better than nothing at all. But what gives you the most favourable odds? There are too many things you don’t know, too many possibilities, too much risk.

When did you stop being able to take risks?

What happened to you? Just months ago you threw a girl over your shoulder without a second thought.

And you almost died for it.

But you didn’t care. Not if it meant saving someone else. Not if it meant saving her. Not when she was so familiar. Not when she was so much like you.

Where did that version of you go? When did you get so scared?

This is not how you were raised.

You steady your knife. Waiting is the worst choice. It’s the only one with a guaranteed negative outcome—that woman will die.

You take a breath and make your move.

You advance on the villain, and she doesn’t even try to dodge. A smile creeps across her face when you get close, and it’s warning enough, but your body has made its decision. This is what you’re doing.

You swing towards her stomach, a feint that doesn’t even make her flinch. She doesn’t make a sound when your knife plunges into her shoulder, your real aim. She doesn’t even blink.

She grabs your wrist and swings her own knife right at your neck. You dodge back easily, leaving your knife embedded in her shoulder and regaining some distance.

That was too easy. Her attack was too slow.

Something is wrong.

She says your name, then. It’s the first time you’ve heard her speak, so why is her voice so familiar? It reaches into the very back of your mind, rifles through your memories, but you still can’t pick it out.

Wait. How does she know your name? She didn’t say Sine, she said—

Her face starts to shift. Dark eyes turn bright red, dark hair lightens to a dusty brown. She even gets a little taller.

Her name falls from your lips unbidden.

‘Kawata-san?’

It’s… It’s not her. It can’t be her. You were there when she died. You held her hand while Tomura—

The next time she says your name, you feel eleven years old. The first, fleeting friend you ever had is standing right in front of you.

After you were the reason she died screaming.

Your knife is sticking out of her shoulder.

That’s not right.

Did you stab her?

You wouldn’t hurt Kawata. You couldn’t hurt her, even when you should have.

It’s your fault. You did this.

‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper. Something warm traces the line of your face, drips from your chin. You can’t possibly be crying right now. Crying, as if it’s something you deserve. As if you get to break down like that.

You stumble closer to her. You have to tell her. ‘I’m so sorry, Kawata-san.’

She steps towards you, meets you halfway. You stumble back half a step, presence of mind fighting a losing battle. This is not Kawata. This is a villain.

But it is. It’s Kawata. She’s standing right in front of you.

She closes the distance completely while you’re rooted to the spot. She’s smiling, and it’s Kawata’s smile. All the joy she was is captured in her lips.

She reaches out to you, and you let her. She caresses your face, and you let her.

Part of you is screaming, like an old ghost tugging on your hand, trying to make you move.

You should really move. She’s not Kawata. She’s a villain.

But maybe that’s what’s been missing. That’s why it all felt wrong. The fragile tenderness you’d found in Ai—

No. You can’t think about that. You can’t use that as an excuse.

It felt wrong because it was. You were never meant to have those things. A place, or friends, or people. If it even existed, the part of you that was owed them died the day you let Tomura—

If a villain kills you in Kawata’s image, maybe it was supposed to happen all along.

A tear tumbles down Kawata’s cheek.

If she kills you, isn’t it because you deserve it?

She uses a thumb to wipe away your tears. One hand still caressing your face, she pulls the knife out of her shoulder with the other. It comes free with a sickening wet sound. It’s almost enough to shake reality loose. Almost.

‘You’re bleeding,’ you say. ‘I did that.’

Kawata’s expression shifts into something gentle. Piteous. ‘You did.’

You never thought pity could feel like relief.

‘I’m really sorry,’ you tell her. Your breath hitches on a sob. ‘I’m so sorry, Kawata-san.’

‘I know you are,’ she says. She raises the knife, and instinct nearly tears you loose. You want to step back, duck out of the way, but your body is fighting a losing battle with the truth.

You can’t look away from her again.

But this isn’t Kawata! You try to jerk away from her, but her grip on you is solid. A sharp, burning pain erupts from your shoulder. You gasp.

Faintly, you realise she stabbed you. Same place you stabbed her.

She leans close. You can feel her breath on your face.

‘I don’t forgive you,’ she says.

Your knees hit the ground with a rattling force.

---

‘You have a choice,’ Father tells you. His voice is a disjointed thing, echoing from the phone Tomura is dangling between finger and thumb.

You’re on your knees in front of Kawata. Her eyes are open. She’s staring right at you, but she looks so… lifeless. She’s barely said a word since Father took her Quirk.

She’s on her back, bleeding from a gaping wound in her stomach. Layers of her—shirt, skin, muscle—have been eaten away by just the few seconds Tomura’s hands were on her.

‘One of you will kill her,’ Father says.

Why did he change his mind? You’d begged. You’d begged him to let her live, to stay in one of the safe houses, to at least not have her life taken as well as her Quirk. Why did it matter to him so much? He agreed with you! He let you stay in this apartment with her for weeks! She hasn’t said much, but you even got her to play cards with you again.

Kawata’s still in there. He has no reason to kill her. He has her Quirk, and she’s not useful to him anymore, but she’s not a danger to him, either. No one is.

‘Will it be you, or Tomura?’ Father asks. ‘The choice is yours.’

You can’t. You can’t.

But you can’t let Tomura do it! That would be infinitely more painful.

But refusing to choose is as good as condemning her to Tomura.

‘Decide.’

No command of his has ever felt so impossible to follow.

Fight. Take his pain. Endure it. Fight. Take his pain. Atone.

But kill Kawata? You can’t—

‘Tomura.’

You lurch up, toward Tomura. To block him? To hit him? To stop him? It doesn’t matter. He sneers at you, waves a hand in your direction, and that’s all the threat you need to stumble out of the way. Your breath is coming hard. Heavy. Too quick. You feel faint.

Tomura moves around you and crouches beside Kawata.

You have to stop him. You can’t stop him. You have to stop him.

You turn and drop to your knees beside Tomura.

‘Don’t,’ you tell him, as if it matters even a bit, as if you have any ounce of authority over him.

In the end, Father can live with his pain. He can’t live without his successor.

Tomura reaches for Kawata’s stomach, for the wound he’d already inflicted.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

You want to look away. You don’t want to watch this happen.

You should stop this. You need to stop this. But you can’t.

You’re completely helpless.

Kawata’s eyes are fixed to the ceiling. She’s not looking at you.

Before Tomura can make contact, you grab her hand.

In the agony that follows, Father’s lesson stains you, inside and out.

You acted out of turn, asking him to spare her.

You get it, now.

Death would have been mercy.

---

It hurts. Everything hurts. Tomura’s Quirk is everywhere, unmaking Kawata, unmaking you. You choke on a desperate sob. You can’t breathe. It hurts. Stinging, stabbing, aching, burning, flaying, all over, everywhere, make it stop—

A warm, solid weight settles on your head. The gentle touch guides you out of the past.

The pain slowly fades, leaving only the ache of your bleeding shoulder.

Your own pain is so much easier to stomach.

Reality returns in pieces; the villain, the knife, the woman, Kawata.

The hand on your head falls away. You don’t bother looking up. You know who it is.

Somehow, he’s always showing up right when you need help.

Fuck.

Solid black boots walk away from you, and you have to clench both your hands into fists to avoid reaching out.

The villain has changed shape, again. A boy with light hair.

‘Shouta! It’s me!’ he shouts.

Eraserhead doesn’t hesitate. Why would he? He’s a hero.

As soon as he activates his Quirk, the boy changes. Bright hair becomes brown. The villain’s form is completely different, a petite woman you’ve never seen before. Her real body, then.

A quick assessment of your shoulder tells you it’s not a life-threatening injury, even though the knife’s been taken out. Didn’t hit anything important, then.

You turn and crawl the few feet to the injured woman. She’s unconscious, and very much in danger, if the pool of blood she’s lying in is anything to go by. You use both hands to apply as much pressure as you can, even when it strains your shoulder.

You can hear the fight happening behind you, but you don’t move or even bother looking back. Eraserhead will handle it.

He always does.

The woman in front of you exhales a weak breath.

Oh. Right.

You activate your Quirk. Her shirt is torn, so there’s skin-to-skin contact. Sure enough, you feel her pain wash over you. You feel a little nauseous, but it’s worth it to see her relax. The less pain she’s in, the less her body will be rattled by shock, the better her chances of survival. It’s the best you can do for her.

The few minutes it takes for first responders to arrive feel eternal. As flashing red lights draw close, you glance back, the familiar urge to run taking root. But Eraserhead has his hands full restraining the villain. She’s thrashing about, not cooperating or giving up for even a moment.

Fatigue clings to you all the way through. And it’s not just tonight, is it? It’s been like this for a while now.

You want to leave. You need to, even.

But you have to stay.

You’re the only difference between certain death and possible survival for the woman below you. Her bleeding has slowed significantly, but that’s not exactly a good sign. There’s no guarantee these last moments between your contact and the paramedics reaching her won’t be the last of her life.

She’s still breathing, barely.

So you stay.

---

Shouta’s attention is dangerously divided.

He hands the villain over to police. It takes multiple officers to get her restrained again, and he should be making sure the hand-over is successful. But he’s only half-aware of them making the formal arrest.

He watches Sine stand, stepping back to allow paramedics to attend to the injured civilian.

An officer is trying to get his attention, probably wants a statement. Shouta doesn’t care.

A paramedic approaches Sine. Her eyebrows are pinched with concern, and she’s glancing down at what Shouta assumes is Sine’s shoulder. She’s saying something, but Sine is shaking their head, and when the paramedic reaches out, they step back.

But they still don’t run.

Why? What’s stopping them? They have to know by now he’s not going to chase them. They’re injured, but they’ve been injured before. Shouta is well-versed with swallowing his worry for the sake of letting them go. As long as they needed to run to feel safe, and as long as things weren’t immediately life-threatening, he’d let them—that’s what he’d decided after the first time.

Does it have something to do with the villain? When he got there, she was in the form of a young girl. When she touched Shouta, she changed. She became Oboro, or some caricature of him.

Oboro’s death wasn’t major news, and Shouta’s relationship with him should be virtually unknown outside of his old classmates. If he assumes there’s no way the villain could’ve known, then the choice was a part of a Quirk.

So, who was the girl?

Sine takes another step back when the paramedic persists.

When an officer approaches them, Shouta is sure they’ll finally take off.

Instead, they stare down at the Quirk suppression cuffs the officer is holding.

Shouta frowns. He brushes aside the officer still pestering him for a statement and moves close enough to hear what’s happening in front of Sine.

‘Sine Nomine,’ the officer announces, ‘you’re under arrest for vigilantism and suspected murder.’

The paramedic throws her arm out in a broad gesture towards Sine. ‘They are injured! They need medical attention!’

‘And they will get it in police custody,’ the officer counters.

Shouta waits for any reaction out of Sine. But nothing comes. No rebuttal, no quip, no attempt to run. They just stare down at the cuffs.

Shouta sighs. With a few decisive steps, he closes the distance and moves in front of them.

---

You stare at the expanse of Eraserhead’s back, blocking your view of the officer and the paramedic both, and for a moment, you’re in an alley in the rain again.

Stabbed in a different spot, this time, though.

You can’t focus on what he’s saying to the first responders. Your ears are ringing faintly. It might be panic, or what’s left of it. You’re too exhausted to really feel it. Even the pain from your shoulder is barely a dull throb.

What he tells them does eventually get them to leave you alone. You’re not sure how he managed that. Those cuffs were obviously meant for you.

You’re struggling to catch up with everything that’s happened. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours?

When Eraserhead turns to you, enough of the truth slams home that some consuming part of you suddenly wants to run. Your feet stay rooted to the spot.

Why won’t you move?

He looks at you with the same eyes that examined your ankle weeks ago.

He sees right through you, doesn’t he?

The distance you’ve tried so hard to keep is slipping through your fingers like sand. You take a step away from him in some futile attempt to claw it back.

It’s not safe. You cannot let him look at you like that. He’ll unravel everything.

But what’s left? If it all comes undone, is there anything worth keeping?

What could you possibly still want?

Father? Tomura?

That’s it, then, isn’t it?

There’s nothing. There’s absolutely nothing left.

When did that happen? When did you give up?

First, there was safety. The very basest of instincts. You were finally out from under Father’s thumb, so you had to keep yourself safe. You had to make sure you would never end up back there again. By capture, or by choice.

You wanted to go back, sometimes. That it makes you feel sick doesn’t change the fact that Father is still your home. Maybe he always will be. Isn’t it normal to long for home when you’re scared? Alone? When your entire existence feels uncertain?

Part of you knew, though, if you stayed there any longer, what was left of you would’ve been destroyed. You’re not somebody you like, you’re not somebody you’d ever have aspired to be, and you’re not sure if you can ever change. But if you’d stayed there, it wouldn’t have been long before you’d have finally killed somebody with your own hands.

And if you crossed that line, that little part of you that your mother gave you would’ve been gone.

You’d have been as good as a puppet, meant for inflicting pain. And always a receptacle for his. You’d have hollowed out until pain was all that was left.

You feel halfway there as it is.

You raise your hands, covered in that woman’s blood. Your left side is saturated in your own. Your shoulder is a distant ache. It might as well belong to someone else.

When did you really stop feeling it?

Eventually, the need for safety became such an impossible necessity that you had to cover it up with something else. Your flimsy desire for revenge came, then. But did it ever really have a proper target? Sometimes, it was Father, sometimes Tomura. For a while, it was Endeavor. Your mother, even, once or twice.

Was it revenge, then, or was it just anger that had no place to go?

You have always been good at posturing.

When, then? When did all that anger give way to this?

There’s nothing.

You feel so empty.

You’re terrified. You can feel yourself shaking. It could be the shock, or maybe even a little of the blood loss. But it’s definitely the fear, too.

Everyone in your life has failed you. From your mother, though it was never her fault, to Father. From Endeavor to All Might.

But.

That’s not true, anymore, is it?

You’ve given him so many chances to fail you. You wanted him to fail you. It would’ve been easier than this.

But you’re really, really glad he didn’t.

When you look up, he’s still just watching you.

The distance between you, hero and vigilante, teacher and student, flickers out.

When you inhale, there’s an audible hitch in your breath.

You fix your gaze on Aizawa’s chest, on the off-white capture weapon draped across his shoulders. Right now, you can’t handle looking him in eye. It would be too much.

Another inhale. This time, you sniff and brush your sleeve haphazardly over your eyes. They’re not even wet, not a tear to speak of.

So why does it feel so much like you’re crying?

In the end, all you can give him are the only barely audible words you can think of.

‘Can we go back to Yuuei, please?’

Notes:

Hello again. This chapter was not going to be what it became, yet here it is.

Writing this was important for me, and I hope you got, at the very least, some enjoyment out of it. If even one person finds a little catharsis in it, too, my work here is done.

(Well, not done done, there's still plenty of this fic to go, worry not! We haven't even made it to Eri, yet!)

I hope this chapter met all (or most) of your expectations, and I look forward to delivering the next one. <3

Chapter 9

Notes:

cw: panic attacks/symptoms, PTSD symptoms, referenced child abuse, AFO's mental fuckery, self-injury* (sine incidentally harms themself), blood, reference to our favourite voice hero's canonical bug incident during the practical exam

*click here for a more detailed explanation of the self-injury in this chapter (spoilers)

1. Sine dislocates their own arm while sparring with Aizawa to escape his hold. Not out of panic or anything, just because it's the way they've learned to fight.
2. Sine cuts their own throat with a knife during the mall encounter with Tomura, threatening their own life in an attempt to make Tomura leave Midoriya alone.

‘Power isn’t given freely, child. It is taken. And you don’t have the stomach for it. You flinch, you hesitate, you let in the very weakness that will destroy you. How will you survive without my hand to guide you?’

Father leaves a lingering silence, as if you’d receive anything more for answering him than a stinging cheek.

‘You won’t,’ he sighs. He stares down at you with his eyeless visage and somehow, ever since he took Kawata’s Quirk, you can feel him peering right at you. He used to glance in your general direction with a gaze that passed through, though it did nothing to diminish his presence.

Now, you can feel it. You can feel his eyes as they pin you in place, pose you like a dead, taxidermy insect exactly the way he wants you.

Right now, he wants you small. He wants you pitiable and slight.

So you are small. You are pitiable. You are slight.

‘You won’t survive without me,’ he says, voice gossamer, a spun web binding your limbs. You believe him. Father is strong, the strongest, and you don’t need more proof. ‘Deep down, you know the truth, yes?’

In this, he expects an answer. You don’t know how you know, but your neck moves of its own accord in a muted nod.

‘Good.’ His praise is a hand around your throat. ‘Nothing has changed. Stay with me, and I will keep you safe. I keep my promises, child. You know this.’

You do. He does.

---

Aizawa calls Yamada to pick you both up. You wanted to walk back, really, but the objections were trapped in the back of your throat. You can barely swallow around them, can hardly breathe, let alone give them a voice.

You keep your distance from him while you wait. It’s the least you can do. You just opened a bridge to him, and you’re not sure you want him to close the rest of that distance. It might kill you.

It really might.

You’re an instant away from something crucial inside you fracturing completely, a single step from an invisible line that, when crossed, will ruin everything. Turn your world to dust at your feet—you wouldn’t even need Tomura’s Quirk.

You’ll fuck everything up. More than you already have, if it’s still possible.

Is it still possible?

Yamada leaps out of the car the moment he pulls up, approaches you with concerned hands, softly splayed. You shrug past them and slide into the back seat.

You cannot handle it right now. Those hands, those eyes, the gentleness that is so much more profound when it comes from him, because it’s counter to how he usually is and somehow not counter at all.

You hate that you know him well enough to understand that, now.

You stare resolutely out the window the entire drive back to Yuuei. You don’t take in the passing view, stifled by an awkward silence not even Yamada tries to break.

When the car slows close to the gate, you tear your seat belt off and reach over the centre console. You grab Yamada’s key card, ignore his squawked alarm and jump out of the still-moving car.

You stumble, but you don’t fall.

You can’t. Can’t afford it.

You get to the gate as quickly as you can without breaking into a run.

You want to. You want to run. You should run.

Why don’t you?

You swipe Yamada’s card, then drop it at your feet as you slip through the gate. As soon as you’re out of sight, you do run. You sprint past the main campus towards the dorms.

You’ve never felt more like an impostor here. The trees and buildings that fly past feel unfamiliar, casting shadows you’ve never met.

Why are you still here?

You take the steps outside the dorm two at a time. On the last step, you trip. Feet out from under you, knees slammed into the concrete, is what nearly undoes you. There’s a deep, hot stinging behind your eyes. Stifling it is painful, but you do it anyway.

By the time you make it to the top of the stairway onto the floor you share with Shouto, you’re aching all over in a way you know isn’t purely physical. It’s a deep, familiar ache, but it’s tinged with something new that tastes suspiciously like regret, but might be something else. Close to it, of the same family tree, but sweeter. It dulls the sting, and you hate yourself for letting it.

You somehow find it in yourself to be quiet about pushing open your door, then shutting it behind you, then shucking off your boots and stumbling into the adjoining bathroom.

There’s a first-aid kit under the sink, but when you finally pry it open, your shaking hands fail you. You lose your grip. The contents spill out across the floor, and then you’re on your knees again, barely aware of getting there.

Your vision blurs and you’re not sure if it’s the blood loss catching up to you or tears you can’t let fall.

There’s one resounding echo in your head, an admonishment that sounds like you but feels like Father.

What have you done?

You get your contacts out with practised ease despite your shaking hands. You should’ve washed them first, blood still dried on your skin and under your nails—blood of your mother, blood of a hero—but the whirling chaos in your head belies all rational thought. You need to get out of this fucking costume.

It could have been fine. It all could have stayed like this, stayed the same, you, pretending to be a student at Yuuei, basking in the warmth of your friendship with Shouto—that’s what it is, isn’t it? Or what it’s becoming? Actual, genuine friendship with somebody who knows the broad strokes of you and still enjoys your company sometimes.

You could’ve kept up your vigilante work, garnered what you could from Eraserhead’s expertise and then, here at Yuuei, Aizawa’s. Yamada’s cooking and his freely offered kindness. Being as close to Midoriya as you dare, bearing witness to a fraction of the possibility of him. Hina’s, and just a little bit of Inko. Hell, those few moments with Iida and Uraraka weren’t awful.

You’d have had them just enough.

You’re supposed to be okay with just enough.

You have to be okay with just enough.

You don’t deserve more than that, and you’ll never find it. Asking for more is too much, it already feels like you’ve cashed in on every good thing you’ll ever be owed.

It’ll hurt so much worse when it ends.

You want it so badly. You want it so much. What you have, and those little unspoken promises of what could be.

But it’s going to end.

It has to.

You barely manage to clamp your hand around a packet of sterile bandages when a shadow falls over you.

You didn’t hear him come in, too caught up in your own head. Stupid, you think, but your heart’s not really in it. He’s always slipped under your radar so very easily; you really can’t keep being so surprised.

It feels like the longest moment of your life, the suspense hanging between the two of you, silent and still. But where you stay frozen, held in place by terror and admonishment—yours? His? Father’s?—Aizawa closes the distance.

You only realise how accustomed you’ve become to his slowness, the careful telegraph of all his movements, when he isn’t slow. When he doesn’t give you the chance to pull away. His hand is on your head again, firm and warm and steady and solid. It’s heavier than the weight of earlier, when he used the same gesture to pull you out of the past.

It’s a touch that, by all rights, should trigger every instinct in you to throw him off. Flinch, snap, panic, anything. This is what you trained for, so your body would move even when you were utterly wrought.

But you don’t move. You can’t. His touch doesn’t hurt you, and it doesn’t scare you. Maybe it helps, a little. Makes you feel just a bit more capable of keeping it together, of not shattered apart entirely and surrendering to the dregs of panic underneath your skin.

And then he kneels down in front of you, and that stupid white capture weapon fills your field of view, and he keeps his hand in place, and he says, ‘It’s alright,’ in a voice more gentle than anything you’ve ever heard, the perfect counterweight to the heft behind his hand, and you take a risk before you can consider its consequences.

You look up.

What you find there, in dark, tired and familiar eyes, crinkled and shadowed and always so carefully guarded—is unhindered relief. Aizawa, Eraserhead, all of him is looking at all of you and he looks relieved.

‘It’s alright,’ he says again.

He doesn’t know half of who you are or what you’ve done. Most of what he does know has come in fragments interwoven with posturing and fear and anger and outright lies. You’re sure you’re overestimating how much he really has figured out.

But he’s kneeling with you on the bathroom floor behind the walls of Yuuei, a place you were never supposed to end up, and his hand is such a solid weight on your head that you’re struck with the incomprehensible thought that maybe—maybe—he doesn’t want you to leave.

And then he says it again. ‘It’s alright.’

And he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know half of who you are, or half of what you’ve done.

But it feels like he’s absolving you of all of it.

And you finally, finally, shatter. Every twisted truth and necessary lie that’s kept you safe until now crumbles under the weight of his hand, and somehow in the middle of crying, really, finally crying, you’ve thrown your arms around him and you can’t let go.

You don’t want to let go.

And when he folds one arm around you, when he keeps his hand in place, you think that maybe just for now—just for right now—you don’t have to.

---

You’re not sure how much time passes like that, but eventually the tears stop coming with avalanche force and you extricate yourself from his hold. It doesn’t sting as much as you’d expected it to.

He bandages your arm. You let him. The whole thing is a quiet affair; he prioritises efficiency over gentleness and you’re grateful for it. It keeps you there, grounded, when all you really want is to do some combination of pass out or space out.

When he’s done, he hands you a warm, damp washcloth and you do your best to scrub some of the dried blood from your skin. A shower would be better, but you don’t have it in you tonight. Apparently Aizawa sees it, too.

As you work yourself over as best you can, he retrieves his phone from his pocket. He scans the screen briefly, then turns it to face you.

It’s a string of texts from Yamada, all within the last ten minutes.

Tell them I have tea, if they want it x

They don’t have to come here

I can bring it up!

Taiyou is feeling especially affectionate right now!

I’m sure he’d love some company!

Or I can just send them pictures

I’ll send them pictures

Should I send them pictures?

Shou, this is kind of hopeless

I’m not good at this like you are

But I’m here if there’s anything I can do to help!

Just make sure they know that, okay?

I love you.

There’s something unbearable about being given a window into Yamada’s vulnerability. In Aizawa choosing to show it to you when it’s inherently vulnerable for him, as well.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet before you really have a chance to think it through.

Maybe there’s some part of you that’s just trying to delay the inevitable. Trying to gather up all the warmth they have to offer before you never get to feel it again. Either way, you’re too tired to care right now.

Or maybe that’s just an excuse.

Aizawa trails behind you the entire way to the teachers’ dorm, the vague impression of a secure presence on your heels. The door to their room is open, spilling warm yellow light into the hallway.

You stall on those last few steps. Suddenly, you can barely find it in yourself to cross that final distance.

You don’t want to go. In some inexplicable way, it feels like this will be the last time you ever get to cross that threshold. If you go in there now, you’ll never get the chance to return when you leave.

If this is the last time you ever get with them, you don’t want it.

Hoshi, casual as anything, slinks out into the hallway, a black-and-white patchwork of fur that parks itself right in front of you and meows.

‘Hoshi!’ Yamada comes bounding out into the hallway after him. He startles to a stop when he sees you. He says your name, all soft with an uncertain smile on his face, and you feel like an unfathomable darkness against the bright of him.

‘The tea’s still warm,’ he says, voice regaining some of its usual volume. He scoops Hoshi up and holds him out to you. Hoshi doesn’t protest, legs dangling freely in the air.

He’s so much bigger than the first time you held him.

You end up in the middle of their couch, legs pulled up under you and Hoshi settled in your lap. Taiyou, the little traitor, is nowhere to be seen despite Yamada’s insistence that he was just here.

A cup of tea is foisted on you before Yamada settles to your left. Aizawa is already on your other side, and really, you should feel anxious about being boxed in. There’s discomfort there, sure, but it’s not nearly enough to send you spiralling.

The tea is the same kind you usually get at Hina’s.

As if he’s some kind of mind reader, Yamada explains, ‘Hina said this is what you usually get.’

His voice is soft, but this time you don’t get the impression that he’s doing it consciously. It’s a more natural subdued quality you’ve never heard from him before. When you glance over at him, he’s staring down into his cup.

‘If you have a different favourite kind,’ he says, catching your eyes with a tentative smile, ‘I can get that, too.’

He gives you a thumbs up with his free hand, and for some reason, that’s what does it. That little gesture is what turns the gnawing ache of grief in the centre of your chest into something consuming.

You ask the only question you can think of, put it into words the only way you know how: ‘Why would you do that?’

Yamada’s face falls with all the sadness of standing in a cemetery, learning the truth of your worth. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

He doesn’t say it like it’s a rhetorical question. You wish it was, because there are too many answers you could give.

Because it’s too much. Because you’re not worth the effort. Because you don’t deserve kindness like that. Because it’s impossible to even think he would—that anyone would—do something like that for you.

The thing you finally land on is the same thought you’ve had variations of every day since you first met Aizawa, since the fragile potential of him put down roots in your chest. ‘When are you going to stop pretending?’

Yamada makes a wounded sound. Aizawa, for his part, gets up. Walks away. You try to convince yourself it doesn’t hurt, but it’s a losing battle.

Yamada’s hand finds your knee. You still don’t flinch.

‘We’re not pretending to care,’ he says, a surprising firmness in his voice followed by what you’re sure is supposed to be a reassuring murmur of your name.

But you have to be, is what you don’t say. I need you to be so it hurts less when you stop.

Aizawa returns to his place beside you and drops a slim stack of papers in your lap, right on top of Hoshi, who doesn’t even stir.

It takes more effort than you’d like to admit, to keep your vision steady enough to actually read the words.

Beneath a Yuuei logo is a title.

PROVISIONAL PARDON AND INTEGRATION AGREEMENT

You feel something like anger claw at your chest. Why is he giving this to you now? Any hope it could’ve brought is immediately strangled by the part of you that knows this can never happen. It can’t be real.

It’s even less possible than it was when you first met him, because now you can’t seem to stop running into Tomura. If nothing else, your brother is a bad omen, a sign that the distance between you and Father is finally closing.

So, this? This now?

Even if you could entertain the fantasy for a while, it’s one strong exhale away from crashing down. If not because of you, fucking it all up, then because of Father, who’ll tear it down himself.

The first page outlines the basics of the agreement—the practising vigilante is to cease all illegal activity upon signing this contract; the pardon is conditional to graduation at Yuuei and acquisition of a hero license; the practising vigilante will be monitored by a supervising hero as designated in this contract. The vague, generalised overview of it all.

On the next page, you recognise Aizawa’s handwriting where he’s filled in all the appropriate blanks with either his information or yours. His full name, contact details, his designation as the supervising hero. Then there’s your name; the age and birth date you’d shared with Yuuei, both of which are wrong; an approximate starting date for your vigilantism, also inaccurate.

Nausea twists in your gut, a deep, curling sense that something is wrong.

Your vigilante moniker is scrawled there in the same black ink. Sine Nomine.

Why does—what makes that feel so wrong? Why are there silent alarms screaming in your head? Sure, it’s an acknowledgement that Aizawa knows. But you blew the lid on that not even two hours ago.

Is it just because seeing it written, in front of your eyes and beneath your fingers, makes it feel more real?

A few details have been carried over onto the last page. There’s additional information about your experience as a vigilante, or Aizawa’s best estimation of it. Then, the full details of your Quirk. At the bottom of the page are two empty boxes. One for your signature, and another for Principal Nedzu’s. Aizawa’s signature is already penned carefully in the box labelled ‘supervising hero’.

The nausea, that sense of sickening wrong, resolves itself when you read the date beside the signature, scrawled in the same black ink.

It’s over two months old.

Scrawled in the same handwriting, printed in the same ink—the same pen, it has to be. Too much of a coincidence otherwise.

Isn’t it?

He hasn’t had the time to fill all of this out in the last two hours. Hell, he’s been with you for most of it.

But the date is more than two months old.

There’s only one explanation. It tears free from suspicion before you can even be afraid of what recognising it means.

Aizawa knew.

He knew.

There’s a heavy ache in your chest, something so viscerally painful you don’t even dare to name it. ‘How?’

His answer is calm, measured. ‘The day after USJ. Your apartment.’

He tailed you. Before you first met him, before that night with the Shie Hassaikai girl, before he ever handed you that stupid Yuuei application, before he ever offered you this ridiculous, impossible promise you knew he’d never actually keep—he tailed you.

You’d thought as much back then, hadn’t you? That it was likely he’d tailed you longer than you’d been aware of it. He was familiar with your routine, skilled and intentional. His decision to reveal himself, you were so sure, was deliberate, calculated. He probably already knew where you lived.

And then you called him. Not Eraserhead, but Aizawa. You called him right to the same fucking apartment.

You should have known. You should have known better.

He knew.

He knew—this whole time. Those three days you stayed at their house, through the Sports Festival, after the Sports Festival when you took him to the place Kawata died, when you gave him All For One’s name, when you revealed you knew All Might’s identity and told him to look into Midoriya. When you applied for your internship, when you fought Stain, when the police were somehow so sure you wouldn’t make a public statement about it.

It was because of him.

In an instant, shock gives way to anger. You’re all barbed wire and teeth, heat like fire on your tongue. You’re on your feet, Hoshi jostled from your lap as you whirl on Aizawa and fling words at him like an accusation. ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

He doesn’t rise to the bait. He never does. Never meets your combat by making weapons of his words. He holds your gaze, silent, for long enough for the fire to go out. You’re tasting wispy smoke by the time he finally says, ‘Do you want me to stop you?’

The answer is an instinct akin to raising a knife to a stranger’s throat. ‘Yes.’

Something snaps in you with the halting realisation of just how true that is.

You want to stop. You can’t deny it, can’t cover the truth of it up with posturing and lies now that it’s out there.

You weren’t doing a good enough job of hiding it from yourself to begin with.

And now you’ve said it. Now you’ve made it real.

You don’t want to do this anymore.

The thing that prevents you from collapsing into whatever hollow comfort or pretend safety they might offer you is knowing it’s not just about being a vigilante.

It’s everything else. It’s all the things they can’t touch.

Vigilantism was your way of clawing back some agency, pulling yourself out of the underground Father had you trapped in. It was rebellion, it was a false sense of control and it was your lifeline. An outlet and a way of repenting for being what you are to him. For being the thing that helps him breathe and exist and sleep at night.

Sure, you never let him turn you into the perfect little blade for his hand, but what you did do might be even worse.

You held it. You held his hand and you made him comfortable while he systematically ruined lives and laid all his best, most terrifying plans. Plans to crush All Might and grind the ashes of hero society beneath his boot.

You will never make up for having been a part of him.

Never.

You just wish you could’ve had the chance.

Because you can’t deny what’s in front of you. Aizawa isn’t using this outdated contract as a way of twisting some invisible knife—you’d be wilfully ignorant to believe that after everything he’s done.

No, he’s offering you another chance. A real one this time.

He won’t be the one to throw you out. Not him, and not Yamada.

They’re not going to discard you.

You’re sick nausea all over, trembling hands and a blur that’s returned to your vision with a vengeance.

Because despite that, you still belong to Father. He still exists, and he has always been where you’re headed, an inevitable pull from strings embedded in some fabric of the universe he twisted to ensure you’d be his puppet. And now Tomura keeps popping up, again and again and again, and he’s the shadow of Father creeping closer behind you by proxy. His constant reappearances have taken the truth out of the carefully labelled box Do Not Touch, and it’s front and centre now, a crystallised, undeniable reality.

The two heroes sitting in front of you have torn almost all of your defences to shreds. You’ve never felt more exposed than you do now, trembling in front of them.

Because you believe them. You believe they’re ready with open hands and a whole host of second chances; a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. They really mean it.

And now, you want it, too. Those promise-shattered walls are in pieces at your feet and you want to reach back towards their offered hands.

You just can’t.

Because even though you’re here, deep in the heart of Yuuei, veritably surrounded by some of the strongest and most skilled heroes in existence every day—you’re still in the cage Father made for you. A cage with no lock to pick and no metal that could melt or shatter.

There’s no way out. There never has been.

Why were you ever so scared of any Quirk suppression cuffs? The thought startles a hysterical laugh from somewhere deep inside you.

You’ve always been as good as shackled. You knew. You knew! You just didn’t want to look it in the eye.

Whether it’s fatigue, fear, or resignation—hell, maybe it’s the residual effects of blood loss—somewhere between your punched exhale of an admission and more hysterical laughter, you go out like a light.

The last thing you feel is a pair of warm arms—whose? Does it matter?—catching you before you hit the ground.

---

You wake under too-warm blankets with Taiyou curled up at your feet. It takes a few hazy moments to realise you’re in their bedroom, in their bed. The door that leads out to the living area is ajar, a sliver of midday sunlight peeking through. You can hear the hushed undertones of a conversation. You remember, back when you stayed with them, before the dorms were built, how much paranoia their indecipherable murmurs caused.

Now, they have a warmth no blanket could ever rival. The certainty of it settles in you so heavy you feel sick with it. All the things about them that should drive you away have kept you close, instead.

It’s going to hurt so unbearably when you lose it.

You should just cut and run. It would be for the best. Really, it would.

You give Taiyou a few idle head scratches—and then the little traitor wises up and bolts out the door, knocking it clean open in his wake.

Yamada’s voice is too loud when he sees you from the little round dining table he’s seated at with Aizawa. He shouts a good morning, and you see Aizawa cringe, but it’s like getting a dose of sunshine first thing in the morning. Uncomfortable and warm.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything. You suspect Aizawa feels the same when his instinctive cringe resolves into a glare full of fond exasperation levelled at his husband.

By the time you’ve carefully tread into the living area, Yamada is already setting some reheated leftovers at the table for you. You take the offered seat, expecting Yamada to sit back down. Instead, he swipes his phone from where he left it on the counter and throws a loose salute your way.

‘I’m headed out for a bit!’ he announces. He swoops down and plants a smiling kiss right on Aizawa’s cheek. ‘Don’t have too much fun without me!’

You cast your eyes down and try to focus on your meal in an effort to preserve what little dignity Aizawa has left—really, it’s sweet the way his face tinges pink from such a gentle display of affection. There’s a homey warmth to it deep in your stomach, but maybe that’s just the food.

You eat in silence. Aizawa is, you think, grading papers? When you chance a sneaky peek you see they’re from the latest mock-exam for English.

You snicker before you can help yourself. Of course he’s grading for Yamada’s class. That fits, somehow.

Aizawa glances up at you, that characteristic eyebrow raised, and you’re slammed with the fresh clarity of morning, the new light it brings to what happened last night.

He knows the truth, now.

Or, rather, it’s you who knows. Because he already did. He’s known for a while. You were the one in the dark about it.

Even still, something feels so much lighter, somewhere inexplicable under your skin. That twisted, shadowy part of you that’s so used to keeping secrets has loosened its grip. It’s a little easier to breathe.

You set your dishes by the sink when you’re done, but before you can start going through the motions of actually cleaning them, Aizawa calls your name.

He’s cleared the papers he was working on away. Instead, sitting in the centre of the table are three crisp, untouched sheets of paper. A fresh copy of the contract he showed you last night.

You return to your seat, staring at the words without really reading them, as if they’ll reveal something in just their shape. Some loophole in all of this, a way you can ever possibly convince yourself to take it at face value, accept it for what it is without the giant, screaming caveat of Father’s existence. Of his tightening hold on you.

‘I can’t do it,’ you admit before you can talk yourself out of it.

‘Because of All For One?’

Your head snaps up so fast a jolt of pain shoots through your neck. Aizawa’s expression is as flat and as measured as always, still with that almost bored undertone he seems to perpetually carry. You’ve only ever seen him lose it, really, during the events of USJ. There was a feral desperation to him, then, like a snarling beast called his chest home.

You know the feeling.

‘Do you know who he is?’ you ask.

Aizawa inclines his head slightly. ‘I know what All Might told me when I interrogated him about Midoriya’s Quirk.’

You blink. It shouldn’t surprise you—you did see him pull Midoriya and All Might into his classroom the day after you told him to look into it. Something painful shifts in your gut, anyway.

You avert your eyes down, focusing on the contract again. ‘You listened.’

He’s quiet, like he knows he doesn’t need to say anything in response to that. Yamada might, that’s more his style, affirmations that build upon actions and solidify trust. Aizawa, you’ve learned, knows actions speak well enough on their own.

It’s different than it was with Shouto, the way you first felt safe to let some of your secrets through, carefully spoken and feeling like you were giving pieces of yourself away in the process, tearing off a fingernail for every truth.

It doesn’t feel like you’ll be tearing yourself to shreds if you tell Aizawa. At the same time, it doesn’t feel like some triumphant, thrilling thing, like finally being known the way you thought it might in daydreams you never let yourself have.

Instead, there’s a cold sting of defeat there. The same thing you felt last night, before you passed out.

Resignation. Hopelessness.

Unbidden, you think maybe having Midoriya here could help. Hope is written into every part of him. But you push the feeling away as quickly as it comes.

‘He’s my father,’ you finally say. It tastes like ash. ‘Not biologically, but in every way that matters.’

You hate how much you mean it. The carefully fostered love of a child who only recognised the offered safety in large, warm hands still lives inside you. It’s not real love. You don’t think so, at least. But it’s a mirror image of it anyway, indistinguishable from the real thing for the most part. The thing that makes Father seem like home to you even if it might kill you to go back there.

‘Was he responsible for the death of your mother?’

Aizawa always finds the heart of things, doesn’t he? Still, there’s something more careful about his choice of words than you might otherwise have expected. A softening quality to them that leans more towards the teacher of him than the hero.

He’s pulling his punches, you realise, and somehow that hurts more, but it’s not an unwelcome sort of ache. It’s a little like your bad habit of too-tight fists.

‘I didn’t know, at first,’ you’re more aware of hearing yourself speak than you are of feeling the words that leave your mouth. The honesty, genuine and unfiltered, comes without a second thought. ‘I was four, my Quirk had just come in. It was the doctor. He was using a Quirk doctor to scout kids with useful Quirks. Mostly, they were used for creating Noumu. I was…’ Different, but it doesn’t need saying, does it?

The house was on fire, you explain. You found your mother bleeding from her chest and you didn’t realise those two things weren’t conducive to one another until you were old enough to understand that fire doesn’t make people bleed. Not like that, at least.

You were ten when you finally confronted him, and All For One just smiled. It was the same smile he wore whenever Tomura gained a little more control of his Quirk, whenever you incapacitated another fighter at the Masquerade.

It was pride. Pride that left a foul aftertaste on your tongue.

There was no apology. Why would there be? But there also wasn’t an explanation. You’re not sure if he just didn’t feel the need to gloat, not when you’d clearly put all the pieces together already, or if he just wanted to leave you with the fractured memory, knowing it would torture you enough all on its own.

He knew you wouldn’t leave him, in any case. He knew you didn’t have the strength for it.

Then Kawata happened. But it wasn’t strength that drove you out. It wasn’t some heroic mustering of will and might or even a deep, genuine desire to escape. It was desperation. It was a child’s feeble hands clawing at splintering wood, buried alive in a casket. Getting out was never a way to avoid what he wanted for you, or even to avoid certain death—it was just a way to slow it all down. Crawl out of the casket and into the dirt, suffocate in a different way, this one of your own volition.

You don’t tell Aizawa everything in so much detail, but you do explain the basics. The fire, the hands that cradled you when you woke up afterwards. You keep a light touch on the facts about the Underground Masquerade, but you do tell him that’s where you learned to fight. Scrappy and cruel. Baseless and desperate.

‘And then… something happened,’ you say. But you can’t will your lips to take the shape of her name. ‘Something happened, and I had to—‘

The panic slams into you so quickly you’re consumed before you have a chance to remember what breathing is. One second, you’re seated, tense but there, and the next you’re on the floor, hands fisted into your hair, pulling, tugging, forceful attempts to find your way out from under the dirt again.

You have to get out. You have to leave. You have to get out. You have to get out, if you don’t, every dirty thing Father is and ever has been, every thing he’s ever touched and has ever changed will become yours, you’ll be it for him, you’ll be his soft landing at the end of all his plans, plans nobody can stop, not even All Might, plans that will continue a trail of death that started before you ever existed, you’ll become another cobblestone in his bloodied path, you’ll be the ghost that haunts the people you’ve failed to kill, you’ll bear just as much responsibility as Father, you’ll lose the tiny bit of heart that still beats in your chest, the last echo of a mother whose soft hands steadied your every fall, you’ll become something less than human, you’ll become a vill—

You have to leave. You have to leave. You have to leave. You have to leave. Youhavetoleaveyouhavetoleaveyouhaveto—

It’s a firm hand on your head that pulls you free a second time. Or is it a third? You’re losing count.

You want to tell him why, why you’re so resistant to the idea of accepting what he’s offering with so much kindness. What Yamada is offering with all the comfort of a fa—

But when you’ve clawed your way back from the panic just enough to scramble back to your feet, when you ask if you can leave, if it’s okay if you go back to the dorms, Shouto might be worried and you should let him know you’re alright—Aizawa doesn’t push. He doesn’t bring the contract up again, and so maybe, you think, he knows. Just a little.

Apparently he has a habit of knowing more than you give him credit for.

Either way, you can’t bring yourself to give the truth of it words, to paint the picture of the inevitable fist that is closing around your throat. You just can’t.

---

When you walk into the common area of your own dorm, Shouto just blinks at you. He gives you a perfunctory little once-over, clearly notes something is wrong, but instead of asking if you’re sparring today like you’d usually do on a Sunday, he just returns to what he was doing before you walked in. Studying, presumably.

It’s a shred of normalcy, but the heady relief of it is so strong you could almost collapse into an exhausted heap right there.

Instead, you take that normalcy and, for whatever inane reason, tear it into tiny pieces where you stand. You’ve been doing a lot of that, lately.

‘Can I take you somewhere?’

---

You’ve never brought anyone to Hina’s before. Sure, you met Yamada here, and you’ve been in the shop with him before. Aizawa, too. But that wasn’t this—that wasn’t explicitly bringing someone to your favourite place, your safe place, your quiet place where there are lines that aren’t supposed to be visible, let alone crossed.

Hina’s is safe because it’s separate from everything else. Vigilantism, Father, Tomura. Yuuei as well, eventually. It’s apart from all of that, a little parallel space in the universe that, even if you always knew it was still technically in the same world as everything else, felt comfortably isolated.

Hina is obviously delighted to meet your friend. For his part, Shouto seems apprehensive at first, but he settles into the atmosphere of Hina’s the same way you’d guess most people do. Shouto’s not an exception, and you’re quietly smug about it.

Tea and a couple of shared pastries later, you trade out your dishes for a couple of flowers from Hina’s stash. She’s got bright red poppies today. You hand one to Shouto, who flashes you a faintly confused expression but follows you out the door regardless.

When you stop in front of your mother’s headstone and deposit your poppy in the decorative little vase, Shouto follows suit. There’s a calla lily there, too. It looks like it’s a couple of days old. You decide not to think about who might’ve put it there, because there are only two people who fit that bill, one more than the other, and no matter which of them it was, it’s too painful a generosity to acknowledge.

You consider talking out loud to her like usual, but you’re not sure what you’d even say. You’ve done what you wanted to, sharing these places with Shouto. If it feels a little like insurance, so there are at least a few people who know the significance of these places when you can’t come to them anymore, that’s only for you to know.

On the way back to Yuuei, you finally say it. ‘Aizawa’s known since after USJ. I just found out last night.’

When you glance over at him, Shouto just inclines his head in a way that implies he’s listening if you want to say more.

It takes a while of mulling over the words, but you do. ‘I think I’m going to stop… doing the vigilante stuff.’

‘Are you going to take Aizawa-sensei’s offer?’

Because of course nothing you ever say to Shouto won’t be remembered, vividly and in great detail, and you really need to stop being surprised by it.

You shake your head. ‘I can’t, actually.’

‘Because of your father?’

You try for your best off-putting grin. ‘Now I feel like we’re just talking in circles.’

Shouto offers you a small smile, but doesn’t call you out on your not-so-swift little dodge.

The comfortable silence persists for the better part of the journey back. You don’t speak up again until you’re both walking through the gates.

‘I’ll end up back there, eventually.’ It’s a greater admission than anything you’ve ever said to him, or to Aizawa.

He sounds genuinely curious when he asks, ‘Why are you so sure?’

You try, you really do, to find a way to put it into words. The inexplicable certainty that lingers in your chest. But there are no words for it, not really. How do you describe the shadow that disappears whenever you turn to get a look at it?

‘I just am.’

---

First thing Monday morning, Aizawa sends you to Recovery Girl to have your shoulder healed. Her Quirk is strange, but it’s helpful. You couldn’t even really put up a fight when Aizawa said it was happening. What reason do you have to say no?

It’s doesn’t exactly feel right, continuing with school as if nothing has changed. You feel a little more like an actual student in some ways, and even less able to play the part in others, as if deciding to properly stop your vigilantism has lessened the gap just enough for you to properly inhabit your seat—but that seat is uncomfortable.

The problem, now, isn’t so much feeling like an impostor as it is knowing your time is finite. Because it is. But life persists anyway, with that inconceivable feeling of something inside you being whittled away.

Preparation for exams kicks into high gear. The workload isn’t enough to take your mind off of the impending, intangible sense of walls closing in on all sides, but it distracts you a little. When Shouto redoubles his efforts to drag you to the cafeteria with Midoriya, Uraraka and Iida for lunch, you make less of a show of your begrudging attendance. That first day, he literally just stands in front of your desk without a word until your attempts to insult him taper into resignation. From there, it snowballs until suddenly you’ve spent every day that week with them and it’s a given you’ll keep doing it.

And Shouto said you were as bad as Midoriya.

---

Shouto gets back later than usual from visiting his mother. You’re definitely not waiting for him in the common area, not at all, but you’re on your feet as soon as the door opens.

You’re dying to spar. Now that you’re not heading out on the regular—or, semi-regular, since it hadn’t been a regular thing for a while—to do vigilante shit, all that energy you used to get out suddenly has nowhere to go. The Yuuei curriculum doesn’t have enough intensive physical training, at least not for the first years, and you’ve been too bogged down by studying for the upcoming exams to find time after classes to take Shouto for a run-around.

You’re busting for it, but you don’t get the chance to corner Shouto to ask if he’s up for it. He just darts right past you and up the stairwell that leads to the dorm rooms.

That’s fucking weird. So, obviously, you follow.

He can only dodge you so far until he’s ducking into his room, and you get a foot in the door before he can slam it shut. Just before he manages to turn away from you, you see a lump shift under his shirt, around his chest.

You feel something suspiciously akin to déjà vu. ‘Shouto?’

He doesn’t turn around. You circle in front of him instead. He’s clearly trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes are just a little too wide.

And there it is again—that shifting beneath his shirt.

‘What is that?’

‘Nothing,’ he says in a tone that very much implies it’s not nothing.

As if to prove your point, the wriggling lump lets out a meow.

‘Oh shit,’ you say for lack of a better reaction.

Shouto sighs, this big exaggerated thing that reminds you a little of Aizawa. He pulls the shirt away from his body just enough for a calico kitten to fall onto the tatami floor, landing on all fours. It darts into the corner, hiding behind the bamboo plant semi-successfully.

Shouto looks at your imploringly. ‘Can you watch it while I go buy some food?’

You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Are we even allowed to have pets in the dorms?’

‘Aizawa-sensei and Yamada-sensei do.’

‘They’re teachers.’

Shouto shrugs.

Which is how, half an hour later once you’re both certain the kitten will be fine on its own for a few minutes, you end up knocking on their door, let in by Yamada after a single knock. You’d sort of banked on him being alone, since it’s a Saturday evening and Aizawa is probably off doing Eraserhead things.

You don’t even bother to hide it. ‘Do you have any kitten food left from when Hoshi was younger?’

Yamada’s attempt at stifling a wide grin is a total failure. ‘And why would you need kitten food, little listener?’ He sounds seconds away from bursting into laughter.

Which is how you end up back in Shouto’s room, Yamada in tow, kitten food and a few extra supplies bundled in Shouto’s hands.

‘Hello, you!’ Yamada coos, crouched down in front of the kitten. It wants nothing to do with him, hissing dramatically and darting back over to Shouto—which, didn’t it just run away from him too, before you left? It scrambles up his pant leg until it ducks beneath his shirt again, the little lump materialising on his shoulder. The left side, of course.

‘Cheater,’ you mumble. It’s meant to be under your breath, but Shouto must hear it anyway because he looks almost smug.

Yamada is looking between the two of you with a sunshine grin. ‘I won’t tell Shouta,’ he whispers theatrically, a finger to his lips.

He’s definitely going to tell Aizawa.

---

The next day, following Yamada’s advice, Shouto takes the kitten to a nearby vet for a full check-up to book any necessary vaccinations and neutering procedures. It’s not as young as Hoshi was when you found him, so it shouldn’t be in any danger, but Yamada says it’s best practise anyway.

You opt not to go with him, instead doing your best to beg without actually begging Aizawa to let you into one of the school gyms for some training, since you didn’t manage to rope Shouto into it yesterday.

You’re pretty sure Aizawa sees right through you, because you end up sparring with him, instead.

He’s traded out his hero costume for regular—but, of course, still all black—training clothes, hair tied back. You’re more nervous than you expected to be, standing across from him on a training mat. It’s different, wildly different, from the few times you’ve sparred with Shouto. There’s an edge here, like you’re up against the sharp blade of a knife and one wrong move will cut you.

You might be able to win an actual fight against Shouto, if you went all out for real. You’re not so sure about Aizawa. Realistically you know he’d probably run circles around you.

Yet here you are.

He inclines his head in a nod and instinct drives you forward.

You open with a wide swing he counters with ease, followed with a knee aimed towards his stomach. He redirects it with a flat palm, all solid muscle and honed technique, and you jump back to regain some distance.

He doesn’t let you. He follows, this time throwing his own punch, a fist aimed at your face. You duck left and catch his wrist in one hand and his forearm in the other, tighten you grip ready to yank—and then you let his own momentum carry him through, tamping down on your reflexes and letting go.

He swipes your feet out from under you before you can blink.

‘Don’t ignore your instincts,’ he says, face impassive as you push yourself back up.

You huff a breath through your nose, frustration at your fingertips, still dancing on that knife’s edge. ‘I was going to break your wrist.’

That’s the difference, you realise. Shouto doesn’t actually pose a threat to you. Even with his Quirk, you’re sure you could leverage one surprising moment enough to knock him off his feet and take him out. Aizawa, though, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. Even if you know, logically, he’s not going to actually try to kill you or seriously hurt you, your body can read the threat he could pose. It’s easy not to lean into the desperate and the cruel with Shouto, because there’s nothing about him that screams risk.

Aizawa, though?

Everything about him is a risk. All of your Masquerade cruelty is right there at the surface, waiting to come to life.

Aizawa’s lip twitches, and you swear you see the hint of a barely contained smirk. ‘If you think you see an opening,’ he says, ‘take it.’

You roll your shoulders and step back into position. When he nods, you try again.

You close the distance with a punch and wait to see how he’ll block it. He grabs your wrist and spins you, grappling you against his chest. That leaves him open for a hard elbow to his lower ribs.

Ribs, especially the lower ones, are fragile. Incredibly painful when fractured or broken. It was one of the first things you learned; there’s a lot of leverage in an elbow, and bigger, stronger opponents are always comfortable letting a child get in close. There’s nothing a kid can do once you’ve got your hands on them, right?

Wrong. A sharp elbow with enough backward strength to, at the very least wind, if not fracture, is plenty to escape someone’s hold. Follow it up with by stomping on the back of an ankle, and you’ve suddenly got the perfect victim, an opening with which most opponents can be readily incapacitated. Quick, brutal, and an immediate upper hand you desperately needed in a place like the Masquerade.

The combination worked because they never expected it.

Aizawa does. He twists just enough for the blow to hit a more solid line of muscle, avoiding any real damage, and then he pins your arm against his torso. His hold is strong, and your free hand instinctively twitches for a knife you’re not carrying. You left it at the edge of the mat at his request.

You know what to do—you know what you would have done, in a situation like this in the Masquerade. You’d leverage being underestimated. Doing the thing they’d never expect you’d be crazy enough to do. Sure, Aizawa isn’t underestimating you, but that doesn’t mean he can anticipate everything. And he told you to use your instincts.

So you do.

You snap your weight forward against his hold, right up against where your arm is pinned. Your shoulder dislocates with an audible pop and you clasp your free hand over his and shove your Quirk at him. There’s a hitch in his breath and then the arm pinning you falls and you stumble away.

You turn and recover as quickly as you can manage, pulling yourself upright to block whatever advance he makes next. Just because you’ve injured yourself, just because you’re out of an opponent’s hold, doesn’t mean they’ll pull their next punch. Surprise is only a momentary advantage.

Except, Aizawa isn’t making another move. He’s not squared up. Instead, you watch as he resets his own dislocated shoulder with a grunt.

That’s when you realise the pain hasn’t rebounded like it usually does. You’re still carrying yourself as if your arm is dislocated—but, with a roll of your shoulders, you realise it’s not.

You barely remember it. Being in the hospital, taking Aizawa’s pain, Tomura’s phantasmal hand against your elbow branding you with an injury that, for once, wasn’t yours. Waking up with a bandaged elbow that wasn’t bandaged before.

It’s the only other time your Quirk has done something more than transfer pain.

Part of you considered it some big fluke. It only happened because it was Tomura, or his Quirk or something. The rest of you just didn’t want to think about it at all. You still feel sick with the memory of it. The faint line of familiar scars anew.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ you say, staring between your elbow and Aizawa’s shoulder.

Aizawa doesn’t seem surprised, somehow. ‘Quirks can evolve,’ he explains. ‘Stress or heightened emotional experiences can prompt it. It never happened before the hospital?’

You shake your head. Only when the silence lingers for a moment do you add a bashful, ‘Sorry.’

‘I told you to take an opening,’ he says, sounding faintly amused. ‘But incapacitating yourself, however temporarily, won’t always be the smart choice.’

You can’t help but roll your eyes. ‘Obviously,’ you drawl. It’s not like you even planned it—you already use your Quirk sparingly in combat, more for that moment of tripping an opponent up than doing any real damage.

‘Good,’ Aizawa rolls his shoulder once before falling back into a ready position. ‘Again.’

You almost hesitate, almost ask him if he’s sure. But he always is, it seems.

So you go again.

---

When you finish showering back in your room, the hot water a balm to your newly aching muscles—a satisfaction you honestly missed—you duck your head into Shouto’s room and see he’s absolutely kitted the place out.

There’s a cat tree, the tallest you’ve ever seen. There’s not enough space between the highest pedestal and the ceiling for the cat to even use it. The velvety looking cat bed he picked out might be bigger than his futon, and there’s an automatic feeder by the door and an expensive-looking bag of treats on his desk.

Shouto, for his part, is sitting cross-legged against the wall where his futon usually goes, the kitten curled up in his lap.

‘Endeavor’s money?’ you tease as you join him, shuffling close enough to pet the kitten with a single finger.

Shouto nods. ‘She’s a girl,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t know what to name her.’

‘Yamada’s good at names,’ it slips out before you think about it, and then you have to backtrack. ‘Actually, no, he’s terrible at names, don’t go to him.’

Speak of the devil, Yamada texts you barely half an hour later with an offer of dinner.

I can bring it over, special delivery!

One less thing to worry about before your exams start!

I hated exams when I was a student ＼＼٩(๑`^´๑)۶／／

Shouta’s the only reason I didn’t fail!

He’d lock me in my room until I finished studying

He was scary!

Before you can think better of it, you’re firing back a reply.

He’s not scary anymore?

Yamada’s reply comes quicker than you can actually follow through on your teasing.

!!!

Don’t tell him I said that!

I’ll bring mochi if you promise not to!

---

At the end of the week, written exams handled with relative ease thanks to the excess of time you’ve had, you’re pit against Midnight for the practical. Sero is your partner.

‘How long can you hold your breath?’ is what you have for him in the way of strategy before the battle starts.

Sero grins, tears a piece of tape from his arm and slaps it right over his own mouth as if it’s any more effective than just… holding your breath normally. But now he can’t talk back to criticise your strategies or offer his own, so you suppose that works in your favour.

Your plan isn’t flashy, but there’s not much room for flashy against a Quirk like Midnight’s. It requires practicality and, really, simplicity, given neither your Quirk nor Sero’s is especially suited to counter her. But you can hopefully take her by surprise just long enough to buy Sero time to get through the gate, which should net you both a pass via escape.

You tell Sero as much, and he seems receptive to the idea, a cordial shrug. Somehow, you can tell he’s still grinning even under the tape.

As soon as Midnight comes into view, he takes off as planned, tape still over his mouth—you think he stuffed some up his nose for good measure, though you’re really not sure how effective that could actually be.

You can hold your breath for a minute and a half max, especially if you’re exerting yourself at the same time. But you take slow, deep inhales while you still can. It’s the best you can do to prepare your lungs for what’s ahead. With one final deep inhale, you seal your lips and start your mental timer.

Midnight’s approach is slow. She’s saying something goading, really getting into the whole villain persona, but you ignore her in favour of reading her body language. As soon as she catches on to Sero’s escape attempt, you see the way her left foot shifts in advance of going after him.

You pounce. You’ve got a set of training daggers Aizawa gave you, blunted edges that’ll still bruise but shouldn’t do any lethal damage unless you’re really desperate. You throw one, aimed for the hand Midnight still has raised to her shoulder after she shifted her costume to let her Quirk out.

She dodges, but her attention is fixed back on you. It’ll take Sero maybe two minutes to reach the exist, so you just have to buy enough time that Midnight can’t incapacitate you and catch up to him. She’ll be fast, you’re sure. You can’t hope a few seconds head start will be enough for Sero to make it.

She doesn’t waste any time, now, either. But she doesn’t underestimate you. Her offensive is quick and leaves few openings, none of which are easy to capitalise on. You barely duck out of the way of a high kick and damn, those heels must be lethal with the right intent.

You raise the training knife still in your hand, strike out towards her stomach, but you shift your foot and change the angle at the last minute as though your initial aim was a feint. She falls for it and doesn’t move to dodge, and you slam the blunted blade into her with as much force as you can levy after sacrificing your own momentum.

She wheezes, just a little. You’ve managed to ignore her faux-villainous goading up until now, but then she mutters a satisfied little, ‘Shouta’s been doing work on you, kid.’

You hesitate. Before you can course correct, her fist slams into your cheek and you go flying back.

You scramble upright, keeping one hand pinched over your nose as a physical reminder not to breathe. It’s getting harder. You have maybe thirty seconds left, tops, before you’re breathing whether it’s safe to or not. Your chest is heaving with the effort it’s taking not to.

No time like the present, though. If you can’t stall her long enough, both you and Sero will fail, but this is still just an exam. It’s not some fight to the death like Stain was, so you might as well go for gold.

When she steps forward, fist ready to follow through on another blow, you dodge, angling downwards and following through with the high, arching kick that’s slowly becoming second nature. Your boot connects with Midnight’s head and—

And you inhale sharply, a strangled gasp of triumph laden with the sweet taste of her Quirk.

‘Oh, goddamn it,’ is the last thing you manage before you pass out, vaguely aware of Midnight… laughing?

---

Hizashi is still crying, begging his husband for hugs Shouta refuses to give while they’re still on school grounds despite Hizashi’s insistence that we’re always on school grounds now, Shou, when Nemuri joins them in the staff room, cackling to herself about something.

And look, Hizashi doesn’t really care what’s got her so amused, because right now he just wants a hug from his husband after he almost suffocated on bugs thanks to Jirou and Kouda. He’s miserable, Shou, there were so many BUGS, SHOU, but Nemuri cackles her way over to him regardless.

‘Trust me,’ she insists through laughter, ‘this will make it all better!’

Hizashi doesn’t miss the sharp, gleeful glance she throws Shouta’s way, and suddenly his interest is piqued. His tears resolve and he leans over Nemuri’s shoulder to peer at the phone she’s brandishing at him.

Shouta’s gone tense, obviously having noted the predatory glint in Nemuri’s eye, but he joins them anyway. When they’re all finally situated around the small screen, Nemuri presses play.

It’s a clip from her practical exam. Specifically, she’s fighting their ex-vigilante—at least, that’s what Hizashi is firmly hoping they are—student. At first, it’s a standard fight, nothing really out of the ordinary. He can see the visible exertion of their student fighting while holding their breath, but he’s really not sure what could be so funny—

‘Wait,’ he says, tapping Nemuri’s phone a few times to rewind the clip, ‘isn’t that…?’

He’s fairly sure that last move was something a teenage Shouta spent days practising in the gym, something he paid for in bruises Hizashi used to poke at while telling him to stop overdoing it. Not that Shouta ever listened.

Nemuri’s shoulders are shaking with barely contained laughter again. She nods and presses the phone into Hizashi’s hands just in time to double over again.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she’s wiping tears from her eyes now, ‘It was like fighting a younger Shouta!’

Hizashi rewinds the clip again. Then again, for good measure. They really do look like a mini Shouta. When he glances up for the input of the man in question, he realises Shouta’s blushing. There’s a dull red flush to his cheeks, and Hizashi is absolutely delighted.

‘Well, Shou-chan?’ Hizashi can’t resist teasing him, bringing out a nickname he’s used sparingly since their high school days. It’s worth it to watch his face flush even deeper. ‘How did they do?’

Shouta glances down at the phone as if Hizashi will mistake his stalling for genuine consideration and not just him trying to get his face under control.

‘Their technique needs work,’ he grumbles, and it’s such an obvious deflection that Hizashi finally dissolves into laughter alongside Nemuri.

The pair of them only laugh harder when, heel turned to walk away, Shouta barks over his shoulder, ‘Delete it.’

Hizashi, of course, makes Nemuri send him a copy instead.

---

Hizashi knows his excuses aren’t working anymore. First, it was offering dinner so they could focus on studying, then it was so they could focus on exams, and now it’s as a celebration for successfully getting through those exams.

Yeah, his excuses aren’t working. But their early birds in the dorms are gracious enough to keep letting him get away with it, so he keeps pushing his luck. He’s good at that. He knows Shouta worries about him, about how readily Hizashi dives into things that might hurt.

It’s funny, really, that Shouta can be so blind to some things. Hizashi adores him, knows he is deeply loved in return, and Shouta is one of the smartest people he knows. That he doesn’t recognise his penchant for doing exactly the same thing just because it looks a little different surprises Hizashi, sometimes.

Because sure, Hizashi will dive head first into something that might pack an emotional punch. But Shouta’s the one who runs head first into a fight even if he knows it’ll leave him with new scars, exacerbate existing pains and throw new fuel on his nightmares.

The fact Shouta worries so fiercely, even if it’s a quiet sort of concern, about Hizashi’s feelings getting hurt is both endearing and baffling. The hurts Hizashi is willing to endure pale in comparison to those of his husband, in Hizashi’s opinion.

Their ex-vigilante—really, he’s keeping his fingers crossed on this point—student reminds him of Shouta in more ways than just them stealing one of his moves in a mock-battle. Hizashi fought for a decade to make Shouta see even a fraction of the worth inherent in his existence, not just tethered to his abilities or accomplishments that were never going to feel like enough.

There are days even now when his husband’s hands tense in that very particular way, when it looks like he hardly trusts himself to keep hold of a piece of paper, let alone successfully guide a generation of future heroes, and Hizashi knows he needs to spare an extra whispered word only Shouta can hear to keep him standing.

Shouta might not voice his self-doubt the way Hizashi is heedlessly able to find words for his own uncertain moments, but he relies on Hizashi to recognise them and soften the blow anyway. Sometimes, that takes Hizashi getting loud enough to drown out whatever silly little lies are lurking in his husband’s head. Sometimes, it takes a lighter touch.

Hizashi still hasn’t figured out which their student prefers—but he’s determined to keep trying even if it burns a little when they lash out. He got through to Shouta in the end, and he’ll get through to them, as well.

It’s different now, of course it is. He and Shouta were the same age back then, and it really didn’t take much for Hizashi to reach through Shouta’s walls and get him to admit they were, at the very least, friends. But whatever form it ends up taking, he will get through to their student as well. No matter how many times it takes, no matter how many times he gets snapped at or makes the wrong decision, it’s all worth it in leaps and bounds. He knows Shouta feels the same. The cats might be Shouta’s love, first and foremost, but both of them would reach out to a wounded stray even if it meant getting scratched or bitten.

And cat scratches hurt!

But it’s the same principal. Hizashi will never stop trying.

And it’s just his luck that their student has been reciprocating his efforts more and more lately!

Usually, he’d wave away their attempts to help with the washing up, but tonight, after a quiet dinner in their dorm to give Shouta some peace and quiet, you damn loudspeaker to plan for the upcoming training camp, he lets them join him, drying as he washes.

Todoroki has already returned to his room, presumably to feed their new little kitty, which is exactly why Hizashi decides to take advantage of their privacy.

It’s easy, he thinks, to fall into the trap of not asking certain questions just because you can assume the answers. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask at all.

‘How are you doing, little listener?’ he asks as he hands them a plate to dry.

Their shoulders bunch—another point for reminding him of teenage Shouta, and aren’t those adding up—and it takes a long moment before they decide to answer.

‘Okay, I guess,’ is what they settle on. And yeah, Hizashi can work with that.

‘Shouta worries about you, you know,’ he says it conspiratorially, leaning in a little for a performative whisper. He’s sure they’d never admit it, but he suspects their student finds something fun about rolling their eyes at his antics, and Hizashi’s no stranger to making a fool of himself for the sake of someone else.

It’s pretty much entirely how he got through to Shouta, when he wasn’t prodding bruises and using his words.

‘He’d raise hell if something happened,’ he continues when there’s no reply. ‘If you needed him.’

Usually, Hizashi is very careful about offering words on behalf of his husband. He’s confident he knows Shouta better than anyone in the world, even more than Shouta knows himself, but it’s a point for both of them that he doesn’t try to be his husband’s translator. Shouta is perfectly capable of communicating when he wants to, even if that communication often happens through actions rather than words.

In this case, though, he doesn’t think Shouta would mind.

Their student’s reply doesn’t startle him as much as it might’ve just a couple of weeks ago. ‘What if I don’t want him to?’

‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

They’re not looking at him, focus fixed on the plate they’re drying that’s definitely already dry. ‘What if I don’t want him to help me? What if I don’t need him?’

‘It’s okay to need things,’ he says. He murmurs their name for good measure, and it has the desired effect of turning their attention to him properly.

Hizashi has wondered, recently, about their student’s real age. Shouta’s information gathering had figured the vigilante Sine Nomine’s age was seventeen, but Shouta leaks false information to the trade sometimes, when he needs to. There’s no reason a competent young vigilante couldn’t have done the same. The information they gave to Yuuei when they enrolled would back up the claim of seventeen, but sometimes when Hizashi looks at them, he sees someone younger. Maybe closer in age to the rest of their classmates.

It’s difficult to think about. The implication of it makes his stomach turn.

He decides to go out on a limb. ‘It’s okay to be scared.’

There’s part of him that wants to ready himself for the snap, haul his own walls up for protection, but that’s never the thing that gets him anywhere with someone so closed off. He needs to be an open book, needs to let it hurt if it does. How else can someone so obviously terrified entertain the idea of trusting him?

Instead of lashing out—which he really wouldn’t have blamed them for—their student just looks away again and speaks softly enough Hizashi has to strain to hear them. ‘What if I’m scared all the time?’

Hizashi raises his hand, the instinct to physically comfort them pulling free, but his hands are still dripping wet, so he stops. ‘That’s okay too,’ he says. ‘All the best heroes are scared most of the time.’

He turns back to the last few dirty dishes, picking up a bowl to occupy his hands. ‘Shouta told me about the girl you were trying to save, when you first met.’ He sees their student stiffen, but he presses on. ‘She was scared, right? That’s why you were trying to help her?’

He passes them the clean bowl to dry, and they nod.

‘But you were scared too, weren’t you?’

They don’t react, don’t say anything. But they don’t disagree.

‘Being a hero, or even just someone who helps, isn’t about not being scared,’ he continues. ‘It’s about acting even when you are scared. I think you’ll make a great hero, if you let us help you. I know Shouta thinks so too.’

In the rigid line of their shoulders, though their face gives nothing away, Hizashi sees pain. Visceral and heavy. He knows it’s too deep for him to touch right now. But maybe one day, if he keeps chipping away at it, he can help dig some of it out. Bloodied fingertips and all.

It would be his honour to help carry their load.

‘And Shouta’s not the only one who’d fight for you, if you need it,’ he adds. When they glance over at him again, he grins.

He’s not sure how much of what he said got through, but he hopes—no, he knows—that it’s a start.

---

Todoroki Shouto is a manipulative bastard.

He’s standing in front of you, face reticent after he upended the half-full bag of very expensive cat treats at his feet. The still-unnamed kitten is chewing through them at a frankly concerning rate, and all Shouto has to say for himself is, ‘We need more treats.’

‘You are fucking insufferable,’ you snap.

Shouto just stares at you, eyes just a little wider than usual as if that’ll make a difference.

It’s not your fault your mother is dead, so you don’t have the convenient excuse of visiting her to back out of the class-wide trip to the mall. You don’t even have anything to buy for the damn training camp! You’re fine with what you have, and Aizawa already said the school will supply the rest!

But manipulative bastard Todoroki Shouto has apparently made it his mission to not let you ignore Midoriya’s invitation that you come along. There’s nothing you’d want to do with your Saturday less than spend hours in a crowded mall with all your rowdy classmates, especially if Shouto’s not even going to be there as a buffer. No, here he is instead, wasting a week’s worth of perfectly good treats just to goad you into going as if he has any stake in it at all.

‘You’re a pain in the ass,’ you tell him.

He pulls a shiny bank card from the wallet on his desk and holds it up. ‘You can use Endeavor’s money.’

And that… is not not a tempting prospect.

Which is how you end up in the middle of a massive shopping mall with nearly the entire class, cringing away from Ashido’s very loud and very enthusiastic introduction of the place. She reminds you of Yamada.

Even better is when strangers start to recognise some of you as Yuuei students, thanks to a few members of the class—looking at you, Midoriya—leaving an impression during the Sports Festival. You want to run and hide in a pet store or something. Get Shouto his stupid, unnecessary treats and go.

You do get the chance to slip away when everyone decides to split up into smaller groups. You take it readily. You find the nearest pet supply store and grab the most expensive kitten treats you can find. You grab a few toys for good measure. Endeavor’s money, right?

But all that only takes you a few minutes, and by the time you’re leaving the store with a little paper bag under your arm, you’re confronted again by exactly the same thing you tried telling Shouto—there is nothing you need or want here. It’s not like you’re going to go find wherever Midoriya is probably geeking out in a hero merchandise store or whatever. If Shouto was here, maybe you’d go find him, but he’s not. That’s kind of the whole point.

You could just head straight back to Yuuei. Midoriya aside, it’s not like the rest of your classmates would miss your presence.

You end up retracing your steps back to the place you all met up, figuring you’ll find your way back to an exit from there. You’re not paying attention to your surroundings any more than normal, just enough of the passing stores to remember where you are.

It’s a wonder you see them at all.

Midoriya, not wide-eyed and admiring in the window of a hero merchandise store, but sitting on a bench. Someone beside him, obscured by a hoodie but for a slip of light blue hair. A hand around Midoriya’s throat.

Tomura’s hand. Around Midoriya’s throat.

Father’s successor. All Might’s.

It’s not supposed to end here, is it?

Tomura’s lips are moving. His hand twitches tighter. Tears are gathering in Midoriya’s eyes. He looks terrified.

Moving forward isn’t even a conscious choice. The panic is so absolute, the fear so given, it builds in your chest until you’re left with nothing but a knowing so strong, from some place within you, you can’t identify, that you have to move.

The fury finally finds you, then. There’s fire beneath the soles of your feet, spurring you forward.

How dare he. How dare he threaten Midoriya. Does he know? Does he know Midoriya belongs to All Might? Was Tomura’s plan to snuff him out here?

No. He can’t know. Maybe All For One suspects, but Tomura? If Tomura knew, he wouldn’t be here, not like this. Father would never allow it. Father is the villain. And there are certain luxuries afforded to the near-immortality he wields. Luxuries like being able to perform without fearing any weakness such a performance exposes could ever be properly exploited.

When he decides to end All Might, to eradicate One For All, it will be a spectacle. It won’t be some random attack in the middle of a random mall, with Tomura as sole executioner.

Which means there’s a chance Tomura is alone right now. That Father doesn’t know exactly where he is, that you might get away with—

No. Stop. Of course he knows. He might not know exactly what Tomura is doing right now, but thinking he doesn’t know Tomura’s exact location at all times is ridiculous.

He taught you better than that.

You slipped up, not paying enough attention to the people around you, but that doesn’t mean you’re suddenly stupid enough to stop carrying knives. You pull a slim knife from the holster above your boot, and you continue forward.

You’re not sure what’s winning now, the fury or the fear, but you know the only choice you have is action.

You can’t let Midoriya die here. You absolutely can’t.

Midoriya catches sight of you. His eyes widen even further with an alarmed back-and-forth shake of his head. It’s enough to get Tomura’s attention, and he looks up. Follows Midoriya’s line of sight straight to you.

A twisting grin whittles his lips into thin lines, teeth on display like jagged, yowling creatures.

You know what to do, now. You know the one way you can guarantee he’ll stop. Leave without harming Midoriya.

You tighten your grip and will your hands not to shake as you look Tomura in the eye and raise the knife to your neck.

Midoriya needs to stay fucking quiet before he draws Tomura’s attention back to him, but he calls out your name anyway, somewhere between shock and panic. The hand around his throat tightens.

You just need to get louder to compensate.

You press the sharp edge of the knife into your skin hard enough to draw a line of blood. You can feel the fading liquid warmth as it drips down into your shirt. ‘You really want to see which one of us moves faster?’

When the single finger Tomura has carefully raised away from Midoriya’s skin twitches, you dig the knife in deeper. You’re don’t think you’re in danger of hitting anything vital, but it must be close. Your shirt is starting to dampen where it’s soaking up blood.

You can barely feel the pain. It’s a muted hiss, a snake bite in your sleep. Dead before you have a chance to realise it hurt.

Tomura knows what you know. That you mean something to Father, even if it’s marginal compared to what he’s grooming Tomura for. And Father would figure it out. That it was Tomura’s fault, because he figures it all out in the end. Tomura would be blamed.

You’re honestly not sure how he’d be punished for it. He’s still Father’s successor. But there are fates worse than death and Father is their sovereign.

You barely suppress a shiver when Tomura’s hand finally lifts and the reality of what you’re doing slams home. Not because you’re doing it, but because you would have. Because you were going to.

You weighed your life against Midoriya’s—and Midoriya won.

That’s not a new thing for you. Midoriya’s life has immeasurably more value than yours. He’s the future Symbol of Peace and that matters. You probably know that better than anyone.

But as you watch Tomura whisper something in Midoriya’s ear before finally sliding away, you’re not thinking of you. You’re not even thinking of Midoriya—you’re thinking of Aizawa. Of Yamada. Of Shouto. Of what would happen if you died. What they would think, what they would feel.

The fear is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt. And Tomura has nothing to do with it.

The knife clatters to your feet as he finally steps towards you. He doesn’t even raise his hand for the threat of it as he passes, but the inherent terror of his closeness is more than enough to make you flinch.

‘I passed on your message,’ he murmurs, grin still fixed in place. ‘He says he’ll see you soon.’

Notes:

I am so, so proud of this chapter. It's my personal favourite so far and I hope you enjoyed it, too.

I want to say a massive thank you for the love towards the last chapter. I've lost count of how many times I've reread the comments and little notes added to bookmarks (yes, I read those!). They really helped motivate me through the tougher parts of making this chapter work.

So if you have the time and are so inclined, please drop a comment and let me know how you felt about this chapter. It means more to me than I can say!

Chapter 10

Notes:

cws: all prior content warnings apply, of particular relevance in this chapter are descriptions of death, blood, and a moment that could potentially read as bullying

Breathe. Breathe.

The sliver of a sting across your throat. A shock of roiling nausea in your gut.

Her apartment dons the sickly-sweet scent of death like a new coat of paint. What little of her Tomura left behind is an imprint of viscera soaking through the carpet.

Something warms your hand. Blood, barely a tangy hint on your nose, less consuming than the smell of Kawata’s death in your memory.

Midoriya clambers over to you, slaps his hand over yours, applying pressure as best he can. At some point, you must’ve raised your hand to your neck to stifle the slow weep of blood. Right—blood from the cut you made. It’s not life-threatening. You know that, surely Midoriya knows it too. He’s not stupid.

Distantly, you register the words, ‘Use your Quirk,’ but you can’t seem to work out what they mean. You feel faint. Light-headed. But you haven’t lost nearly enough blood for that.

Are you breathing? Maybe you’re not breathing. She’s not breathing.

She didn’t even have the chance to rattle out one final exhale. You’ve already forgotten the last thing she said to you. You try to fish back in your memory for it until you’re distracted by the damp feeling beneath your hand.

You lift your arm above you, study the dull red smudge of—yours? Your mother’s? A… hero’s?—Kawata’s blood. There’s something stuck to your hand, something pink and faintly viscous. You don’t want to think too hard about what part of her it might be.

A rattle of a gasp floods the deathly quiet, Tomura long since scurried back to Father. You startle, shoot up, dizziness blurring your vision. You try not to glance to your left, to the source of the stench. It’s still just you, you alone, alone with—

Maybe you’re not breathing. Uraraka shows up, at some point. First responders, too. You’re not fully aware of your own stubborn refusal for treatment, but it seems way more important that you figure out how to breathe, breathe, she doesn’t get to breathe anymore, than bother with the shallow nick on your neck. It’s barely a tickle by now. It’s not that big of a deal.

A stray thought you catch in the midst of it all, noticed and too strong to be discarded; you wish Aizawa was here.

At some point, you lose track of Uraraka. You’re dragged to the nearest police station and sat in a chair next to Midoriya where an officer asks for both your statements.

Aren’t statements supposed to be taken individually? You’re not sure. You barely feel like you’re sitting in the room with them. You feel like a broken tether, trapped in your body but not able to take up enough space to fill it out and regain control.

Words spill from Midoriya’s lips, uninhibited, unguarded. You stay categorically silent. Through all of it, you’re still trying to remember how to breathe. Your arm is starting to ache, still holding faint pressure at your neck, but you don’t have enough presence to move it.

The officer can’t leave well enough alone. He’s persistent, asking again for your statement. On his third, maybe fourth attempt, you hear the frustration leak into his voice. You manage to find enough of yourself in the present to raise your eyes to meet his. All you do is stare, really, it’s all you can do, but whatever he sees is enough that he stalls mid-sentence.

You’re vaguely aware of Midoriya beside you, of the rapid motion of his head swivelling between you and the officer, frantic worry apparently sending him into a tailspin. Does he think you’re gonna throw a punch or something? If anything, you’re closer to hysterical laughter than lashing out.

Breathe. Just breathe, even if it feels like no air is getting in.

Eventually, the officer gives up.

Slowly, the untethered feeling starts to subside. Instead of feeling far away, you’re in perpetual free fall, hanging in that moment when you realise you’ve missed a stair, when your stomach flips over itself and all you can do is wait for your feet to find solid ground.

You know exactly what you’re waiting for.

And there’s hope. Hope that they’ll show up, in spite of how familiar you are with having your hopes dashed. Crushed in a tightened fist. Spoken through a phone—one of you will kill her. Even though you begged. Even though he handed you the lifeline—but it was a trap disguised as one. You have to remember that. Father has no tender bone in his broken body.

The officer opens his mouth again, critical stare aimed back at you, and you shoot up out of your seat and through the door of the interview room, back into the foyer. The scales started to tip in favour of violence, after all.

Try to breathe. Hope. Maybe it will be okay.

When the sliding doors at the front of the station finally open, you honestly expect it to be Inko. She’s the kind of parent you’d expect to miraculously arrive before anybody else was able to. She’d move mountains for her son.

But it’s not Inko. Not yet.

It feels like your heart falls into your stomach. You almost start crying on the spot.

Yamada sees you and immediately starts walking faster. Halfway to you, he backtracks, an immediate spin on his heel back towards Aizawa. He’s a bundle of frantic, concerned energy that’s starting to become familiar to you. It’s strange, isn’t it? He’s a hero, he’s usually calm and collected, especially under pressure. It’s in the job description. Why is it different with you?

There are answers to that question, ones you might not have to dig very hard to find.

You glance over at Aizawa instead, before those answers have a chance to take any meaningful shape. Aizawa is the picture of composure as usual but for a measured furrow of his brow. He hands something to Yamada, who hurries back towards you.

In the time it takes you to blink, Yamada’s already made it back to you, a gentle hand on your arm as he guides you over to the side. The contact feels warm, settling. You’re ushered into a chair you hadn’t even noticed before, positioned near the wall of the room. There’s a little circuit of chairs that make up a waiting area.

Were you that caught up in your own head you didn’t even take stock of your surroundings when you first got here?

Yamada kneels in front of you and starts unravelling a small travel first-aid kit. Does Aizawa just carry those around? Maybe it makes sense. He is a hero.

Your hand is still clamped around your neck. The stiff pain of holding your arm up has gotten worse. You’re not even sure why you’re keeping it there anymore. The bleeding must have stopped by now. It wasn’t a bad cut in the first place.

Yamada tears open the packet of an antiseptic wipe and holds it up. You flinch.

Guilt spirals out from the centre of your chest. You know you’re not okay. Haven’t been for… How long has it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? Years? But flinching because of Yamada feels so wrong by now that an apology makes it halfway to your lips before you manage to stifle it.

Awareness of your surroundings is trickling in like a tumble of white noise, a persistent fuzziness you can’t ignore. To your left, Aizawa is saying something to Midoriya, who must’ve followed you out of the interview room at some point. That officer is hovering by the door.

Yamada’s face softens in front of you. He adjusts his grip on the antiseptic wipe, holding it out so you can take it when you’re ready.

When he speaks, it’s softer than you’ve ever heard from him before, quiet enough that you’re positive no one else can hear. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

Again, you feel like crying, but some stubborn part of you latches onto anything but that urge. The pain, the guilt, the constant gnaw of anxiety. Anything else.

You don’t know what to say, what response is the right one to give him. To tell him the truth, you’d have to wade through the complicated haze of uncertainty to grasp something tangible, and you don’t have the energy for it. But you don’t want to lie.

Instead, you drop your hand from your neck. Finally relieving the light pressure, exposing the cut to air, makes the stinging harder to ignore. You just tilt your head up and stare at the white ceiling panels and wait.

Yamada takes a long moment, whether catching up to what you’re asking of him or taking it slow for your sake, but eventually you feel the cool, damp touch against your neck. It’s gentle as anything, even with the antiseptic turning the sting into a momentary burn.

In the same gentle murmur, he asks, ‘Do you want to use your Quirk?’

‘No.’ It’s the only answer you can give him.

He doesn’t push, just finishes up as quickly as he can. He only cleans what’s strictly necessary before he—gently, always gently—wraps a sterile bandage around your neck a few times, fixing it in place at the end.

‘All done,’ he says.

Slowly, you tilt your head back down. Before you can think better of it, you make eye contact with him. There’s an impossible softness in him, and you really, really feel your age. Younger, almost. Your eyes water, and you force yourself to look away.

You want to thank him, but you’re sure if you try to say anything you’ll lose it completely. Maybe it’ll happen eventually, but it’s certainly not happening here.

It must only be minutes later when Inko arrives, still just as quick as you expected her to. The hug she pulls Midoriya into looks like it could snap him clean in two. You’re fairly sure she saturates his shirt with tears.

You’re not expecting it, though maybe you should be, when she rounds on you and catches you in the very same hug. She’s babbling, incoherent in a distinctly Midoriya way, but you catch the essence of it. She’s so glad you’re okay. She was so scared for you. You can always call her.

When she pulls away, it’s only far enough that she can take your face between two clammy hands. Gently, but insistently, she guides you to look at her. It’s the gentlest act of strength you’ve ever witnessed in your life. Your knees feel unsteady.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks, and the way she cradles you, the unrestrained tears and genuine concern that she’s reserved not just for her son, but also for you… It’s just so motherly. It’s a gesture, or a set of gestures, that wouldn’t have the same impact coming from anyone else. Anyone who wasn’t such a mother, right down to the heart of her.

You can’t lie to her. You just can’t. It’s as if she’s thrown a brick right through the last brittle wall you’ve kept around the lingering fear of seeing Tomura again, and you know that if you speak, anything you say will be the unhindered truth.

You have to spare her—you have to spare all of them. So you nod, because it’s the closest thing to an answer you can give her that isn’t a lie. Even if what you mean by it is maybe. Maybe you might be. One day. Or maybe you were once before.

The universe, as ever, has a sense of humour. The next time the sliding doors open, you’re still engulfed in Inko’s warmth. You don’t realise until he stops beside Midoriya that the newest arrival is none other than All Might, in his ridiculous skeletal form.

Not that you’re supposed to know it’s him. Except, you can’t help but glance towards Aizawa when you realise that he knows you know. He’s watching you, impassive. You wonder if Yamada knows you know.

You gently extricate yourself from Inko as Midoriya lights up. You’re sure he only barely stops himself from shouting All Might! right there in front of everyone.

You make use of the distraction to duck behind Aizawa. You’re not hiding, not really. You’re just utilising his conveniently positioned shadow to avoid any unnecessary notice by your father’s rival.

‘Can we leave?’ you mutter.

He turns away from the others, glancing down at your bandaged neck, then back up at you. Unrelenting, scrutinising. It should be threatening, but it hasn’t been for a very long time. For a moment, you think he’s going to interrogate you here, in front of everyone, and you feel yourself tense, waiting for it.

If he asked, you’d answer. Even if you didn’t really want to.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods his head towards the doors. You take that as all the permission you need to head outside.

The night air is an almost welcome degree of chill. It helps shock a bit more awareness into you even though you can feel your energy flagging already.

Yamada is still right beside you, and when you glance over your shoulder, you see Aizawa nod at the officer before he, too, starts towards you. You pretend not to notice Midoriya when his focus slips from All Might and his mother towards you. You turn away. You just want to leave.

But he’s never left well enough alone before. Why would he start now?

He catches up easily and forces you to a stop, hand clamped around your wrist. You just barely manage not to instinctively tear yourself away.

He sounds a little breathless, panic playing on the edge of him when he asks, ‘Are you really okay?’

You sigh and turn back towards him. ‘Yes, Midoriya—‘

Whatever half-truth or platitude you were going to say dies on your tongue. You expected the stuttering, hesitant, well-meaning mess that is Midoriya Izuku—not this Midoriya, with the tense line of his mouth and harsh, pinched brows. There’s concern there, somewhere, buried under everything else. But everything else is anger.

You can’t tamp down on your own surprise quick enough to stop it being visible.

Midoriya’s face softens, just a fraction, gives way to the concern a bit more. ‘I don’t believe you.’

It feels like being slapped, right there in front of everyone. All Might and Inko have gathered behind him. Inko looks troubled, as if she’s holding herself back from stepping between the two of you. You don’t look at All Might.

You probably deserve it. To Midoriya, you’re just the person who strung him along on the cusp of a friendship you never fully committed to, until you pulled away with no explanation.

You’ve been erring a little too close again lately. You need to keep yourself in check.

Part of you wishes you could tell him why. It aches in your chest like something trying to dig its way out of you. You wish you could move closer to him, tell him what you know, help support him properly.

But you’re too scared. Of what his light, his sunshine, might do. Just because you enjoy the warmth of a fire, doesn’t mean you should try to touch the flame. Midoriya is an inevitable heartbreak. You need him at arm’s length so that it doesn’t kill you when he figures it all out.

Because he will. He’s too smart not to. And he won’t pull his punches when he does. You saw him at the Sports Festival, with Shouto. If Midoriya somehow gets it in his head that he can help you, or god forbid, save you, he won’t stop for anything. He’ll kill himself trying.

And you can’t let him do that. This? This is you saving him.

You tug your wrist free. It feels a bit like saying goodbye. You give him the most convincing smile you can, but even you know it’s small. Brittle. ‘I’m glad you’re okay, Midoriya-san.’

He doesn’t try to stop you when you turn away again.

---

It shouldn’t be as second nature to you as it is, leading the way up to the teachers’ dorms when you get back to Yuuei. But you know they’ll want to talk, that they’ll want an explanation. You’re not sure how you’re going to find the words, but you do want to.

You get to their door first—but of course it’s locked. It’s a bit awkward, having to step back and let Yamada nudge past to let you in. For some reason, though, he opens it and steps away, gesturing for you to go in first.

Weird.

Hoshi’s sitting by the door. Does he always wait for someone to get home? He’s getting bigger, almost an armful of cat when you scoop him up and carry him over to the couch. He’s still pretty wriggly, but once you sit, he settles in your lap. He headbutts your hand as you pet him.

You’re hyper-aware of the two of them moving around you, Yamada into the kitchenette, probably to make tea, as Aizawa slips into their bedroom. When he comes back, it’s to place a black shirt on the couch beside you. He doesn’t even look at you, just follows Yamada. He doesn’t try to hide a gentle press of a hand against Yamada’s lower back, an intimate display that tastes as bitter as it feels warm.

You’re sure he wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t change your shirt. It’s just an option he’s giving you. You’re recognising more and more how often he seems to do that; quietly leaving the door open for you in one way or another.

While their backs are turned, you’re quick about switching into the clean shirt. It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s not brushing a constant, scratchy patch of dried blood against your chest, and that’s a bigger relief than you’d expected.

Yamada comes first, taking the same seat to your left he sat in last time. He leaves a cup of tea waiting for you on the low table in front of the couch.

Aizawa takes longer to join you. There’s a restlessness to him, something you can’t place, and instead of sitting on your other side, he shifts the cup Yamada left for you closer to the edge of the table and sits in the space he made. It puts him at eye level right in front of you.

You almost bite your tongue as tension weighs you down. He’s boxing you in. You’re sure he knows it, too. You’re not scared. Just uncomfortable. It makes you feel unguarded.

He speaks first. ‘What happened?’

Maybe before, even just a few weeks ago, you could’ve lied to him. Half-truths and obfuscation came easily to you. Now? You’re so thoroughly disarmed by him that even the prospect of not telling him as much as you’re physically capable of makes you feel nauseous. He doesn’t deserve a falsified lack of faith or trust.

Neither do you.

So you tell the truth even though it’s terrifying.

‘He had his hand around Midoriya’s neck. It was the only way I could think to get him to stop.’ It’s so much more pleading than you wanted it to sound, halfway to an apology that doesn’t make any sense, but you barely feel in control of the words now that they’re coming. ‘To get him to let go of Midoriya without hurting him.’

Your hand finds the bandages on your neck instinctively. ‘I didn’t know he would be there, I don’t know why he was there, I didn’t know,’ you close your eyes, tilt your head down, try to slow the rambling. ‘I just saw him, I was coming back, I didn’t want to be there, and then I saw it was Tomura with him and—‘

It’s not enough. You can’t talk your way around it, can’t pretend it wasn’t there, the part of you in that moment that gave up, and the part of you that didn’t.

‘I didn’t want to.’ It’s almost a whisper, the first time you say it, so you say it again, louder, ‘I didn’t want to, I swear—‘

You don’t even realise you’re crying until you feel Aizawa’s hand—his, always his—rest firmly on your head. Your next punched exhale feels like the breath you didn’t know you were waiting to release.

Yamada’s hand rests on your shoulder, gentle, tentative. ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ he murmurs.

The urge to apologise, for what you still don’t know, feels like a hand wrapped around your aching throat. All you can do is keep your eyes pinched closed and try, try, try to keep it together.

Those two points of warmth, on your head and on your shoulder, help. They help so much.

---

You can’t sleep. The night air is still cold, especially for summer. It must be well past midnight now, and you’ve been sitting on your balcony, arms wrapped around your knees, since you got back to the student dorms a few hours ago. An unshakeable anxiety kept you from even trying to rest.

Father’s shadow was already creeping closer with every step. You’ve felt it every day. Seeing Tomura again, this time with his hand around Midoriya’s throat, makes it feel so much worse.

Midoriya is supposed to be the next Symbol of Peace. Are you meant to believe it was all just a coincidence?

But it was. It must’ve been.

You can’t believe in things like destiny or fate. Divine intervention or karma. They’re all fancy ideas to gild the bars of a cage you’ll never escape from. Trying to pretty it up, trying to reconcile it, just makes you feel more trapped. You’re smarter than that.

But what are you supposed to think this time? When Tomura shows up again, in direct opposition to Midoriya, when you’re sure he doesn’t know that Midoriya is All Might’s successor.

Unless he does. Unless Father already told him.

Father knows. You’re almost certain of it. He’s not stupid, and All Might isn’t nearly as secretive as he needs to be.

The sliding door opens on the balcony next to yours. You glance up as Shouto steps out.

He covers his surprise to find you there, but not so quickly that you miss it.

‘I could hear you thinking,’ he says. ‘You’re too loud.’

‘And here I thought I was the bad liar.’ It’s not the worst deflection you’ve ever heard from him, at least.

His lip quirks up, a motion you only barely make out under the light of the moon. He steps up to the railing of his balcony and leans against it. You’re reminded of the rooftop where you first met him.

His brow furrows, and he glances back at the balcony door behind him. Then he plants one foot on the railing, hoists himself up and jumps across to your balcony, an ungracious stumble quickly recovered for a landing.

‘What the fuck?’ you snap. ‘What if you fell?’

‘Don’t you regularly scale buildings?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Not anymore.’ A pang in your chest—surprise? Not as much as you would’ve expected. ‘Why are you over here, anyway?’ You’re snippier than you intended to be tonight.

Shouto doesn’t bat an eye, just takes up residence beside you, sitting close enough you can feel his warmth. ‘The cat. She’s pawing at the glass. She won’t go back to sleep if she can see me.’

His naivety is endearing enough you have to stifle a smile. ‘Cats are pretty nocturnal. They sleep more during the day, especially as kittens.’

He just hums, eyes fixed on the stars.

‘Still haven’t picked out a name?’

He shakes his head.

The silence that follows is soothing, in a way. It softens your fatigue.

‘Will you miss it?’ he asks, quiet.

Does he realise just how much he’s asking of you? If you give him a truthful answer, it’ll be deeply revealing either way. It’s… a lot.

You stall. ‘Being a vigilante?’

He doesn’t say anything, so maybe he does know. Or has some idea.

The truth is, you’re not sure. It doesn’t feel like you ever even really made a conscious decision to stop. It just sort of happened. Aizawa offered you a safe landing and eventually, you took it. Sure, you had no idea he already knew. But the more you’ve traced it all back, the more it makes sense. He gave you too many chances, let you off the hook too many times.

He was waiting for you to come to him. You know that now. You’re not sure what you would’ve done if he’d confronted you sooner. Nothing good.

Shouto’s presence, thoughts of Aizawa, of Yamada, maybe—something bids the anxiety a partial retreat. The answer you’re now chasing brings it back, that undeniable flutter in your gut that feels a bit too much like intuition.

You feel it coming. Or at least, you think you do. Father is circling. Maybe you’re overthinking it, maybe it’s just a byproduct of seeing Tomura one too many times. But you feel him. One day soon, you think, he’ll try to pull you back in. Tug on your leash.

Because you’re still his. Nothing could ever completely sever that tie. You will always be his.

But maybe that connection, that link between him and you, was a bigger part of your vigilantism than you ever realised. That it was less in spite of him than it was because of him. Because you felt like you had no other choice but to toe the line between villain and not-villain. Hero was never an option.

Aizawa wants to offer it to you anyway. He wants to, but he hasn’t pushed yet, because for some reason he respected your decision not to let him.

But does he know what that really means? Does he know you won’t… that you can’t stay? Father is an inevitable force that even Aizawa can’t stand in the way of.

What’s the point of staying at Yuuei if you can’t actually be a hero?

You know the answer. You know why you’re staying. You know why you will hold onto this place, to these people, for as long as you possibly can.

Stopping, stowing your knives and letting go of vigilantism, isn’t about reaching towards Aizawa, the way it felt in the immediate aftermath. It’s just delaying your inevitable return to All For One. It’s stalling.

You do want to. Reach for them. Aizawa and Yamada. Shouto. Hell, even Midoriya.

‘No,’ you finally answer. ‘I won’t.’

And it’s the truth.

Somewhere in the silence that follows, your head comes to rest on Shouto’s shoulder. He stiffens, but he doesn’t shove you off, doesn’t ask you to move. Instead, eventually, his head rests against yours in kind.

His left side really is warm.

---

The end of the school term leads into the first few weeks of break before the training camp. It’s better than you thought it would be. It should’ve been excruciating, at least you’d expected as much, all your time suddenly free, nothing to distract you from the Father of it all.

But, either by design or out of sheer coincidence, between Aizawa’s sparring sessions, Yamada’s constant meal invitations and Shouto’s occasional tagging along when you go to Hina’s, it’s not as empty as you thought it would be. Hell, Shouto even manages to drag you on a day trip to the beach. He plays dumb when you mysteriously run into Midoriya, Iida and Uraraka there, but it’s not an awful day.

You spar with Shouto, too, but it’s friendlier. Casual, and loaded with dry, sarcastic banter you try—and, really, fail—not to enjoy too much.

You do start carrying knives again. Just two, but it’s an insurance you sorely missed.

You’re learning a lot from Aizawa. You get the sense he’s trying to unravel some of your deeper instincts, the ones that drive you towards more violent means; instincts that could have lingering consequences if misused in a fight. There are consequences unbecoming of a hero student baked into some of those methods.

It’s hard work, he’s a harsh teacher, but it’s exactly what you need. There’s a kindness beneath it all, and his rare praise makes you happier than you’d care to admit.

The time passes quicker than you realise. It’s not long before you’re finally boarding a bus at the crack of dawn with the rest of your classmates, the day the training camp is set to begin.

How they all manage to be so loud is beyond you. When Class B shows up, and Iida starts shouting directions for boarding the bus in an efficient manner, it’s all too much. You saunter over to Shouto and plant yourself directly behind him. If he wants to start becoming friends with everyone in class, the least he can do is be your buffer.

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. The shadow of an amused lilt plays at the corner of his lips.

You scowl at him.

He speaks quietly beneath the din of activity. ‘You’re a vigilante with a family full of villains and this scares you?’

This is it. This is the other issue. Between coming out of his shell thanks to Midoriya, and some shift between the two of you ever since that night out on the balcony, Shouto has become far less apologetic with his goading.

And oh, he goads.

‘Was a vigilante,’ you stress, ‘and it’s not a family full, it’s just two.’ You hold up two fingers to emphasise. Kurogiri’s been around almost as long, but he doesn’t count.

You only realise you’ve been baited, and with great success, when his lip twitches and he makes a suspicious coughing sound.

You shove him forward, pushing him towards the bus, right past Iida’s orderly little line. You’re pretty sure the Iida tries to stop you, but you don’t care. You can feel Shouto’s silent laughter through your hands against his back.

---

Hours into the trip, the bus pulls over onto a dirt lookout, right up against a massive forest. You see none of the usual hallmarks of a rest stop. It’s not suspicious at all. It definitely doesn’t scream one of Aizawa’s not-actually-spontaneous spontaneous tests.

When a couple of fully-costumed heroes jump out of the nearby car, introduce themselves as the Wild Wild Pussycats, and promptly throw you all out into the damn forest, your suspicions are confirmed. You have to make your way through the forest the rest of the way to camp. Simple enough, except this is Aizawa. Nothing is simple with him.

So, of course, there are great big, hulking earth beasts that are a worse match up for you than even the robots at the entrance exam were.

You’ve got the two knives on you, but it’s not like they’ll help against something made of literal earth. There’s virtually nothing you can do to assist with taking the creatures down physically—seriously, at least robots are exploitable—so you’re relegated to outrunning them through the trees, doing your best to utilise your agility to distract them while someone else takes them out. That someone else is usually Shouto. Is he gravitating towards you, or is it you towards him? It’s hard to tell these days.

The sun is on its way down by the time you make it to the campground. Everyone is dead on their feet. You’re faring no better. So much for the hero course not being rigorous enough…

There’s a sullen looking kid trailing Mandalay, one of the Pussycats. He’s glaring right in the direction of your class with way more open vitriol than you’d expect from someone that young. Which, of course, means the future Symbol of Peace can’t help himself.

Midoriya sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong, a surprise to no one, and he’s rewarded with a swift punch to the balls.

Midoriya is still doubled over when the kid spits, ‘I can’t abide jerks who wanna be heroes.’

The degree of posturing is almost impressive, given his age.

‘Cute kid,’ Bakugou murmurs. He’s grinning. It’s clear, sadistic approval.

‘You two are a lot alike,’ Shouto says. His face, you’ve noticed, has become more and more relaxed recently, less of a mask. You’re starting to realise that one of the only times he returns to his tried and true dead-eyed stare is when he’s trying to goad someone. Usually you.

For whatever reason, this time his target is Bakugou. And, well. The bait is just as effective. The grin is wiped from Bakugou’s face in an instant. He bares his teeth and snarls in Shouto’s direction. ‘A lot alike? Buzz off. Don’t wanna hear anything outta you, Mr. Threw-The-Match.’

‘Sorry,’ Shouto says, sounding not the least bit apologetic.

You bite your lip in an effort not to laugh, but Bakugou turns his glare on you anyway. ‘Something funny, you creepy bastard?’ His palm is raised, little sparks coming off his fingertips.

You cock your head. ‘You think I’m creepy?’

You don’t know whether to be offended or honoured. Maybe a weird mix of both?

---

You’re roused at the crack of dawn the next day. This time, training begins in earnest.

At first, you’re sparring with Aizawa like usual, this time with your blunt training knives in play. After a couple of hours, though, he gestures in the direction of the group of students who’ve been training with Tiger. All students with strength-based Quirks, they’re an exhausted motley of sweat and bruises who’ve been doing nothing but intensive physical training.

Midoriya comes jogging over, panting and curious. ‘Aizawa-sensei?’

Of course it’s him.

Aizawa turns to you. ‘Practise your Quirk. See how far you can push it with just bruises.’ He blinks, then adds, ‘Stop if it’s too much.’

He walks away before you have a chance to respond. It makes sense. He can’t spend all his time with you, not when he has an entire class to consider. And everyone else is training their Quirk, why shouldn’t you? It’s the whole point of this camp, apparently.

But did he have to choose Midoriya? You almost would’ve preferred any one of the strangers from Class B. And that’s saying something, really.

You must look as unenthusiastic as you feel, because Midoriya tries to overcompensate with an obviously strained smile.

The day you first met him, an ache made its home in your chest. It hollowed you out, left a space full of yearning. You witnessed just how freely he offered friendship, how indiscriminate he was with trust. He would’ve been so easy to let in.

Still would be.

Every time he tries, makes another bid for connection, you remember that ache. And Midoriya Izuku never stops trying.

What would it take to make him? You feel guilty even considering it, but it’s still the best thing for him, even if he doesn’t know it. He’ll learn, eventually. He’s All Might’s successor, you’re All For One’s… whatever you are. The two of you are diametrically opposed, and Midoriya will figure that out one day. When you’re back in Father’s hands and All Might’s time is up and it’s Midoriya’s turn on the front lines.

If Father ever figured out just how fond of him you are…

One of you will kill her.

Maybe next time you won’t get the choice.

There’s enough space between you and everyone else at the camp that you won’t risk getting in the way where you are. Midoriya follows suit when you sit, crossing your legs right there on the packed earth surface where Aizawa left you.

You don’t even have to prompt him. He holds out his hand to you. There’s a nervous energy to him, one you can’t exactly say you don’t understand. You have to be the reason it’s there, with the way you’ve treated him lately. You haven’t exactly made yourself good company.

It’s for his own good.

You place your hand over his and activate your Quirk. The dull, subtle ache of overworked muscles undercuts a plethora of bruises, some visible, others hidden. There’s a particularly nasty throb across his stomach. Tiger doesn’t pull his punches.

You close your eyes and try to focus on the simple, barely-there pain of a small stippling of bruises along his forearm. Making the pain yours isn’t unfamiliar, but there’s a distance to it you’re not used to. It was always intimate, in a way, for better or worse. It was sacred, special, scarce. Because you only used it for Father.

It was never really your decision, was it? It was the opposite of what your mother wanted for you. You remember what she said to you when you got your Quirk. It was okay if you never wanted to use it.

The memory of the first time you really did use it is so hazy you’d call it a figment of your imagination if you didn’t remember the immediate weight it left behind. It was maybe a year after your mother’s death. He made it feel so important. So right. It was what you were meant to do. A foregone conclusion.

You still remember how warm his hand was, how big it felt, how safe it all seemed.

You don’t even remember the pain. Not really. You were blinking up at him from a cold, hard floor moments after you took his hand. Did he look concerned, or is your memory still treating him with more kindness than he deserves?

Somewhere between then and the time you fucked up, the time he hit you, the time you realised that you didn’t have a choice, your Quirk stopped really being yours. It was his. His, but he could never actually take it from you. Not unless he lined up another good little soldier who was a better suited vessel for his pain.

The bruises start to fade from Midoriya’s arm. You watch them, clinging to the tiny thread of pain that intensifies beneath the surface of your skin. You don’t have to look to know the bruises must be taking shape along your arm, instead.

Why was it you? Father wanted the Quirk, not the person who had it first. He could’ve just stolen it to begin with, given it to someone else. Hell, he could’ve gone through people one after another, using them up until they couldn’t do it anymore. It could’ve been anyone.

You lose all your breath to a sharp exhale as if you were punched. Your skin feels cold. The pain of your Quirk is muted, on the far edges of your suddenly blurry perception.

It could’ve been anyone?

Midoriya makes a sound, a strangled, excited gasp. He starts rapid-fire rambling, staring down at your arm, then back at his, then back at you again. You know it must be speculation about your Quirk, but you can’t keep track of his words. Not when the sudden silence in your head is so damn loud.

It could’ve been anyone. He didn’t need you, it didn’t have to be you—it wasn’t you.

You always thought there had to be something, something unique to you, something you couldn’t see, that made it so that you were what he wanted. You don’t know what it is about Tomura that makes him a suitable successor, but there’s a reason he’s the one Father chose. It had to be the same for you, too. At least, that’s what you thought.

But Quirks don’t make people unique. Not to Father. Not to All For One.

And there’s nothing. Nothing about you that makes you special to him outside of that, that power that’s barely even yours under the guardianship of a man who wields Quirks like little wooden pieces on a board.

So why does it have to be you?

You glance at Midoriya, still rambling incoherently. He brightens when he catches you watching him, even though his face collapses into something bashful and his cheeks go red.

You weren’t born a villain. You don’t think anybody really is, villain or otherwise. And Father could’ve made you one, but he didn’t. Was that his failure, or yours? Was it just not worth the effort?

But he didn’t make you a vigilante, either. You chose that for yourself, even if necessity made it feel like your only option. You always thought it was your way of making up for things, but maybe now that you’re not holding onto it so tightly, you can admit it was just a way to exert a bit of control when it felt like you had none. Make sense of things in a place where there was so much senselessness.

But as a hero… you could do that for others. The way you needed it.

You haven’t forgotten her. Damp hair, red eyes and bandages. The plan was always to ditch Eraserhead once you’d learned enough from him, gather your own intel on the Shie Hassaikai and get her out yourself.

Enough has changed that you can admit how suicidal that was. And maybe you were, just a little. It’s not like you were trying all that hard to survive. Dying could’ve been a relief. You think it would feel like regret, now.

Eraserhead isn’t just Eraserhead anymore. And you’re not just Sine. You’re not a vigilante. If where you are right now is to be believed, you’re a hero student. It felt fake for so long you can’t really remember when it stopped feeling that way. Now it just is.

Maybe it could keep on just being.

You still feel him around every corner. Breathing down your neck. Maybe you’ll feel it for the rest of your life, no matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing. Maybe you have nothing to lose if you accept Aizawa’s offer. Or, Yuuei’s offer. You’re not sure how much of the motivation is his—and Yamada’s—personally.

Midoriya must have stopped rambling at some point. You hadn’t noticed. Now, he’s just watching you with open concern.

Before you even realise it, you’re smiling at him. It’s a small thing; for a moment you’re not even sure he’ll recognise it. But his relief is clear when he beams right back.

---

That night, after dinner, you make your stint in the baths a quick one, just enough to clean yourself up.

You’re covered in bruises and even a few small cuts, all from using your Quirk. You mostly stuck to the other students training with Tiger; physical training meant physical injury. That did mean interacting with a couple of Class B students, but neither of them seemed particularly interested in engaging you in conversation, which suited you just fine.

A long bath sounds amazing, but it’s not worth risking your scars being seen by a nosy bunch of hero-hopefuls. So, while everyone else soaks in the hot springs, you head into the forest.

You walk until all you can hear are the gentle sounds of softly rustling leaves and cicadas. You make sure not to lose sight of the campground. You trust your sense of direction, but getting lost would be embarrassing.

You doubt you could get truly lost with Ragdoll around, though. It’s what you’re banking on, actually, that she’ll notice your location using her Quirk and Aizawa will be sent to retrieve you.

You need to talk to him, but you’re not about to let anyone in your class—other than Shouto, because that ship has sailed—get any ideas about you and Aizawa. Unlike Midoriya, you’d rather not invite the extra scrutiny.

Not that it’s his fault entirely. All Might should know better.

It doesn’t take long, a few minutes at most, before you hear soft footsteps stirring up leaf litter. You know he’s only making sound for your sake. He’s perfectly capable of moving through the forest silently.

You still appreciate it.

You straighten up from where you were leaning against the base of a tree. One arm comes up to grip the other a little too tightly. In all the places you’ve stood, all the villains—and heroes—you’ve encountered, you’re not sure you’ve ever been this genuinely afraid.

The fear in the presence of All For One is an encompassing, primal thing. This is different. The outcome of this could actually hurt.

Aizawa doesn’t say anything. He just settles a short distance in front of you, ready to wait. Like he always is.

Maybe you have nothing to lose.

You fix your gaze on a patch of dirt near where he’s standing, not willing to risk looking up at him. But you don’t make him wait long. You’re tired of it, too.

Your voice breaks the first time you say her name. You’ve never spoken of her before, not out loud, not since you were in her dying presence.

‘She was older than me. Her name was Kawata.’

The first time, when you told Shouto some of the truth, it felt like tearing yourself to shreds piece by piece. It was self-flagellation, though you didn’t recognise it at the time. But it felt like it had to hurt. It felt like that was what you deserved.

The second time, with Aizawa, it felt like acknowledging the heavy weight that had been pressing on your neck for as long as you could remember. It was hopeless defeat, and it just made you feel heavier even though it wasn’t quite as painful.

This time, as tears suddenly, freely roll from your face into the dirt at your feet, it feels like surrender. It feels like all of you laid bare. There will be nothing left to hide, for better or for worse. It’s extraordinarily painful, because you’re pinning more hope on Aizawa—and Yamada, and you wish he was here, too—than you ever thought one person was capable of carrying. Let alone you.

‘She was my friend. She was my only friend before Midoriya, before Shouto. I was…’ you have to pause in an effort to breathe through almost-sobs here and there, but you don’t make any attempt to close the floodgates now they’ve opened.

If this is what they wanted all along, you, in front of them, defenceless, your guard completely down, then they can have it.

‘I was lonely, I was really lonely, and then she was there and everything was almost bearable. She made me feel like a person, like something more than what I was to Father.’

Something about her being around made you think more of your mother, of the world outside of Father’s immediate hold.

‘But he was blind because of All Might. It happened not long before Kawata showed up. And Kawata’s Quirk let her see in the dark, even with her eyes closed, and I knew, I figured it out, but it was too late, I took too long and he took her Quirk.’

Your shoulders are shaking enough that your voice follows suit, and somewhere in the middle of it all you curled further in on yourself. But you can’t stop there. You have to tell him all of it.

‘When he takes Quirks, most people can’t handle it, they end up… catatonic. A lot of people never get better. But Kawata did.’ You can barely say the words louder than a whisper. ‘She started to. She started to respond again, and she couldn’t talk much but I got her to play cards with me again and she was getting better, I promise she was, she really was.

‘He agreed to let me use one of his safe houses, the apartment I showed you, and I tried to help her get better. I tried. And then one day Tomura showed up and Father was giving me a choice. Tomura would kill her if I didn’t. I… I couldn’t think, I couldn’t say anything, I tried, I wanted to try, I wanted to stop Tomura, Father wasn’t even there I should’ve, I should’ve stopped him, I should’ve tried harder, I was so scared. All I could think of was… using my Quirk. It was slow, it was so slow, and it… If I’d done it, it wouldn’t have hurt so much. For me or for her.’

You feel utterly wrung out. But you force yourself to keep going, to expel the final thing you need to say to him.

‘I felt it. I felt her die and I didn’t try to stop it.’ Finally, you look up at Aizawa. He hasn’t moved, still standing in front of you. You’re too wound up to try and read anything in his expression. ‘I don’t… How can I be a hero when I didn’t try when it mattered most? How could I ever be a hero when he’s my father?’

For a long moment, it’s quiet save for the sounds of the forest and the soft hitches in your breath. Aizawa breaks the silence with a question.

‘Do you want to be a hero?’

You hang your head again, quiet sobs persisting in earnest. This isn’t a denial. It’s not him agreeing with your assessment of yourself. He’s not turning you away or suddenly seeing you in another light.

You already know what it means.

You compose yourself as best you can until you can look him in the eyes again. You need him to know how much you want this. How much you mean it when you finally tell him:

‘I want this. More than anything. Please.’

Even through the blur of watery eyes, you see his face soften. It’s a small thing, but it’s unmistakably a smile. There’s pride in it, you think.

‘I’ll expect a lot from you,’ he says. He doesn’t get another word out before you’ve all but slammed into him, pressed into his chest with your arms thrown around him.

You can’t stop crying. It’s everything, all of it, all at once. Pain and sadness and happiness and relief. Anger and grief and pure exhaustion.

One hand comes to rest on top of your head, that increasingly familiar grounding weight. The other threads around your shoulders. It’s a loose but steady grip. You’ve had people reach out to you with kindness before. Especially these last six months. It’s happened enough that you’re almost, maybe, starting to get used to it.

But Aizawa’s penchant for it, this way he makes even a solid touch feel gentle, the way you can feel the inexplicable care in it, means the most to you.

Even if you’d never have admitted it to yourself, you wanted his approval early on, maybe as soon as your first meeting, when he showed you a higher level of respect than any hero before him.

It’s bigger than approval, now. You don’t want to name it, not yet. It’s still just a bit too much.

But as far as his approval goes, you’re pretty sure you’ve had it for a while now.

Yamada’s care means a great deal to you. Shouto’s companionship. Maybe one day, you could ask Midoriya’s forgiveness.

But this, Aizawa’s acceptance, is what you needed more than anything.

When you’re finally not crying quite as hard, you sniffle and whisper, ‘Is it really okay?’

Quietly, but without hesitation, he says, ‘You have everything it takes to be an exceptional hero.’

---

You carry Aizawa’s words and care with you into training the next day. Same as the previous day, you start off sparring. You’re able to throw yourself into it more wholly than ever before. You even find yourself smiling at him here and there, having a bit of genuine fun with it. His criticism hasn’t softened, not that you’d want it to, but you don’t think you imagine the pride in his approval.

You’re able to offer Midoriya the tiniest bit more of yourself, too, when it comes time to start training your Quirk. You quietly answer some of his more surface level questions about it. He is, of course, elated.

You feel some pride in taking the smaller injuries of the other students. For once you can be sure it’s not because you’re doing it to hurt yourself.

You’ve never felt safer. This place, in the middle of nowhere, isn’t exactly familiar and you have no real reason to believe that it’s truly safe, but something about finally letting yourself accept Aizawa’s offer makes everything feel more solid, more certain. It’s hope, you think. Maybe.

You know it won’t be simple or easy, but for once you’re able to brush off focusing on the finer details. You’re even able to tamp down on the paranoia, the feeling of Father’s breath on the back of your neck, at least for now.

You’ll go over the contract next week, when the camp is over and you’re back at Yuuei. It’s something to look forward to.

Dinner is as uneventful as the night before, though this time there’s a buzz among the other students. Apparently you’re supposed to do some test of courage after you clean up. Most of your classmates seem excited. Some of them are obviously terrified.

You’re just not interested. You’ve seen scarier things in your life than you could ever expect Class B to pull off in this forest.

Still, you’re not thrilled about drawing lots for pairs. There goes your tried and true method of defaulting to Shouto. Maybe you can ask whoever Shouto’s with to switch with you.

That fleeting hope flies out the window when your partner is revealed—it’s Midoriya.

Shouto’s partner is Bakugou.

You don’t even bother.

It could be worse. Maybe. You did answer some of his questions earlier, so maybe he’ll spare you any small talk or further attempts at bridging the gap you’re trying so hard to maintain.

You enter the forest after a couple of other groups. Apparently you’re supposed to make it to Ragdoll at the halfway point to retrieve a name tag. You hadn’t been paying much attention to the rules, but Midoriya readily explains as much.

A few Class B members make attempts to scare the two of you as you make your way through the forest. Midoriya shrieks every time. He’s even more worked up than you would have expected.

After a few more minutes of walking, when you’re sure you must be getting close to the halfway point, Midoriya suddenly stops. He looks around, and it’s obvious he’s making sure no one else is nearby.

Clearly, your hopes he wouldn’t try to say anything to you were unfounded.

He’s not looking at you, staring at the ground as he nervously scuffs one of his red shoes against the dirt. ‘Can I ask you something?’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to ask even if I say no?’

He doesn’t answer you, but you see a brief, crooked smile before he steels himself again. After a few long seconds of silence, you hear a distant scream deeper into the forest. Another of your classmates getting startled, you’d guess.

Midoriya’s resolve is shaken for another moment before he finally looks at you. ‘Are you Sine Nomine?’

It’s so, so far from whatever you expected him to say that you can’t even react.

He keeps going, speaking quicker, as if he’s moments away from devolving into one of his rambles. ‘When we fought the Hero Killer, Sine Nomine said they’d taken credit for one of the Hero Killer’s murders. Then, in class, you said he’d killed seventeen heroes instead of sixteen—you added one.’

Oh.

‘You’ve also been a lot closer to Todoroki-kun ever since then. And you were technically a better fighter than anyone else in class at the start of the year even though your Quirk isn’t a physical one. And you were really quick to jump in and try to help Aizawa-sensei when the villains attacked USJ, and that villain Shigaraki—‘

It hurts. It hurts so much more than you thought it would, the closer he treads to the truth. The surface of your skin is on fire with it. You can almost smell the smoke. He’s close, too close, and it’s too hard. It’s too hard letting him in.

It wasn’t enough. You wanted it to be enough, accepting Aizawa’s offer, choosing to stay, but Midoriya is too bright, too warm, too brittle and too safe. The world is going to need him one day, and you can’t be the thing that causes him to break before then.

Being close to you puts him one degree closer to All For One, one step closer to interminable danger.

And All Might… All Might almost did it. You saw the aftermath, you felt it. If that man, the one who laid your father so low, believes that Midoriya is the person with a chance to finish the job, you have to believe it too.

It’s your only option. You have to drive him away. To push him so far he’ll recoil at the thought of even trying to be friends with you. Help you. Save you.

You need him to hate you.

It’s easier than you wish it was to stir up that familiar contempt. It never fully left, even if Eraserhead softened it.

Heroes are still heroes, after all. And there are still a lot of them who disgust you.

You think of that as you level Midoriya with your coldest glare. You step towards him, grimly satisfied when he takes a step back.

‘You just can’t help yourself,’ you spit. ‘Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong again and again and again. Seriously, Midoriya.’ You step closer and jab a finger against his chest. It’s a small thing, but you hope it hurts. ‘You think doing your best is enough to help anyone? You’re so fucking naive.’

You grab a fistful of his shirt and shove him back against a tree. ‘You have a borrowed Quirk you can barely even use! You will never be enough to take All Might’s place.’

Finally, his eyes widen.

You laugh, a bitter, incredulous thing that feels more past than present. You feel your face twist into a familiar, cruel smirk. ‘I know about One For All. I know about All For One. Has All Might even told you about him? Or has he already realised you can’t handle it? That he chose wrong?’

‘Everyone!’ A chill runs the length of your spine as Mandalay’s voice, her Quirk, momentarily carves out a space among your own thoughts. ‘We’re being attacked by two villains! It’s possible that there are more! Everyone who can move get back to camp immediately! Even if you come across the enemy, retreat and do not engage!’

Your grip on Midoriya slackens. His eyes are wide, processing, as he finds steady footing again. He’s not looking at you.

You hear him whisper, horrified, ‘Kouta-kun,’ before green lightning starts to flicker across his skin. He hesitates, the smallest twitch in your direction, then he’s gone.

You’re not sure how long you stand there in his wake. You don’t know how to react. You barely know what’s happening. You’re only snapped out of it when you realise the smell of smoke wasn’t just in your memory this time.

Blue embers are rising over the tree line, coming from another part of the forest, further in. You scale a tree to get a better vantage point and see flames—blue flames, they have to be a Quirk—circle back towards the campground, to where some students were being kept back for remedial classes with Aizawa and Vlad King.

There’s a clear path, a clear intent in the way the fire’s been arranged. It’s fencing everyone in, limiting escape routes, reducing the amount of ground to cover. You spot a clearing in the distance that’s been given a wide birth by the fire. It has to be the villains’ meeting spot.

This isn’t All For One himself. It’s too overt for how he’d approach something if he wanted it under the radar, but this place is so out of the way you can’t imagine it’s where he’d choose to make some grand appearance. It’ll take the media too long to get here. It’s really not his style.

But it’s a coordinated villain attack—that much you’d guess. If Mandalay is sure there are at least two villains, they were probably attacked back where you entered the forest for the test of courage. But the fire isn’t anywhere near there yet, so the villain who started the fire probably isn’t one of the villains Mandalay is fighting. That makes at least three. It’s not hard to imagine there are more.

It’s probably the League of Villains. Which means it’s probably Tomura. Which means they have a reason to be here. Something significant.

There would’ve been easier ways to get to you, so you don’t think you’re their target. At least, not their primary target. You can’t imagine why it would be any of the students, other than Midoriya, but again, that’s not Father’s style. He wouldn’t let Tomura interfere with that particular battle. One For All is his to conquer, and if he really has figured out that Midoriya is All Might’s successor, he’ll have marked Midoriya as off limits.

If not that, then what? Could it be Aizawa they’re after? His Quirk could be both useful to the League and a hindrance—it already has been. But it’s not useful enough for an attack like this. Just like there are better ways to get to you, there are more convenient opportunities to get to him.

There’s no one glaringly obvious reason for them to be here.

Unless they have more than one reason.

If they have multiple objectives, this would be the perfect moment to strike. While everyone is split up, in the dead of night in an unfamiliar location, after days of training to the point of exhaustion.

It’s the perfect setup if they have more than one objective.

How did they know?

You retrace your mental steps, try to rework your thoughts with this new understanding.

You have to assume you’re one of their targets. Aizawa might be another, but you’ll have to trust he can handle himself. Midoriya still doesn’t seem as likely. Really, you still don’t see why they’d go after any of the students.

Who else is here? Vlad King, the Pussycats—

Fuck. Of course. What else could it be?

Ragdoll. Her Quirk. You remember her explaining it when you all started training.

My Quirk is Search! I know everything about anyone I lay eyes on, up to one hundred people at a time! Including location and weaknesses!

It would be a massive advantage. One big enough that All For One would absolutely try to get his hands on it if he saw an opening. And right now, Ragdoll is on the furthest side of the forest, separated from the rest of her team.

You jump out of the tree, make sure you’re still oriented correctly, and take off down the trail you were meant to follow for the test of courage.

You don’t have to go far to find where Ragdoll should’ve been.

A table’s been set up for the name tags. They’ve been haphazardly scattered across the table’s surface, with a few stray tags resting in the dirt. Several are obscured, soaked red in the pool of blood splattered in the table’s centre. It’s dripping from either end into the dirt below.

There’s an obvious trail of blood leading deeper into the forest.

You have the presence of mind to pull your phone from your pocket as you start after it.

Aizawa picks up on the second ring. It sounds like he’s running, as well. ‘Where are you?’

You cut to the chase. ‘Ragdoll is one of the targets! I think they already have her! She’s lost a lot of blood!’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not far from where she was stationed for the test of courage, a little deeper in—‘

You freeze, a stop so sudden you almost slip in the trail of blood you were following.

Aizawa says your name. You don’t reply.

You can’t seem to fully make sense of the scene in front of you. Easiest to wrap your head around is Ragdoll, a blur of green and yellow and weeping red, being passed from one set of hands to another.

You’re able to process the first set of hands next. It’s a Noumu. Arms sprout from its back, chainsaws at the end of each of the unnatural limbs. No, not just chainsaws. There’s a hammer. A drill. Blood, Ragdoll’s blood, drips from the end of some of the tools.

Most of them.

It’s not quite as big as the Noumu from the USJ attack, at least.

It turns toward you. You hear Aizawa saying your name again, a distant, tinny sound. Your phone is in your hand, but at some point you stopped being able to hold it up to your ear.

The Noumu approaches you with slow steps. It’s surprisingly quiet for its size. Its skin is pale green. A helmet protects most of its exposed brain, held in place by a bit clamped between regular human teeth.

You know you’re shaking as it comes up right beside you. You couldn’t move, wouldn’t be able to, eyes still fixed straight ahead, even if it swung at you with a chainsaw, or a hammer, or a drill.

It doesn’t, and you know it won’t. It just keeps going, walks right past you, back the way you came.

You’re still frozen by the familiar, eyeless gaze pinning you in place.

Another call of your name from your phone, this time sharper, more concern bleeding through.

You want to raise your hand, bring it to your ear, say something, anything to Aizawa.

There’s so much you want to say to him.

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

I want to stay with you.

You and Yamada did more for me than anybody ever has.

I don’t want to go back.

Help me.

Please.

But you don’t say any of it.

You tear your eyes away from the bloodied, unconscious Ragdoll, limp in All For One’s arms, and glance down just long enough to end the call. The soft thud of your phone hitting the ground is barely audible.

The few steps it takes to close the distance to Father are the heaviest you’ve ever taken.

He rests his free hand on your shoulder. You don’t remember his touch being this cold.

When you hear him speak for the first time in a year, that part is still exactly how you remember it. Gentle. Firm. Assured. Kind. Hollow.

‘Welcome home,’ he says.

Notes:

Hiiiiiiii.

I hope this chapter lived up to expectations. Please let me know what you think. Every comment spurred me on a little harder, especially those left over the last couple of months as I was chipping away at this chapter.

I do just want to assure anyone who reads this that even if it takes time, this is one particular fic that won't ever be abandoned. It's my baby. I'll admit that plenty of other fics on my profile are abandoned or semi-abandoned, but I promise I'm always thinking about this one, haha.

Life just lifes sometimes :')

Take care <3 I hope you enjoyed this one.

Chapter 11

Notes:

cws: all past warnings apply, everything AFO related, child abuse, gaslighting and manipulation, graphic violence

Aizawa Shouta has always had a great capacity for rage. It has lived under his skin, an electric hum, for as long as he can remember. When Oboro died, the fuse was lit, and Shouta has kept an iron fist around it ever since.

It’s a boon as much as a burden, one he’s able to wield with precision, more often to his benefit than not. It lets him stay standing in fights that are rarely in his favour, gives him the strength and the drive to push further than he otherwise could when the situation is dire; to go beyond.

But he hasn’t had a hair trigger since he graduated, got a little older, learned the trade he might have to make if he chooses to give in to that anger at the wrong time, in the wrong way. Anger unchecked begets mistakes, and mistakes can be so incredibly costly in his line of work—in both of them.

So, when he hears the beep of a call disconnected, he doesn’t stop running. He doesn’t try to call his student back. He pockets the phone and stows his fury, chooses what he knows is a temporary, naive hope that it’s just poor reception, or that their phone was destroyed at the beginning of a fight they’ll win. That he will make it to the clearing, work with the Pussycats to capture the villains, and find all of his students safe.

---

The first thing you notice when you step through Kurogiri’s portal is how familiar it all is. There’s a certain comfort in it, a security you can’t quite shake. For a moment, as the soles of your boots make contact with a hard cement floor, it’s impossible to remind yourself how wrong this is. It’s still a sort of coming back.

It’s twisted, perverse, but it’s still coming home. It’s the same as all the other times you’ve done that. Returning to a house you don’t remember, one that’s not aflame, one where your mother strokes your hair and smiles down at you. To an apartment, free of dust, with the Midoriyas a few doors down. To a dorm, with its tiny secure space all your own; Shouto nearby and Aizawa and Yamada not much further.

This, too, feels like that. But instead of warmth, what settles in your stomach when you cross the threshold is dread. It’s new, but not unrecognisably so. Was it always there? Did you ignore it, avoid it, or could you just not feel it? Did you get so used to living in it, to wading through the thick, impending nausea of it, that you developed some sort of immunity?

Whatever the case, being back, coming home, whatever it is—it’s as much a horror as it is a relief.

You hate yourself for it, but part of you is truly glad to be back. To finally be here. It’s a release of the tension that’s been following you at a slow crawl ever since you left. Building and building and building and building, especially these past five months.

Finally, you’re at the peak of it. And you’re still fucking standing. Even as you shake. Even as you taste dust on every inhale, you can still breathe. You are alive. You have options. Last time you stood here, in this very room where Father spends most of his time, in this home that’s more underground than it isn’t, you couldn’t see a way out. There were no options, no alternatives, no choices to be made.

This time, you can see them all, splayed out in front of you like an invisible map. Ways out, ways back in, ways to give up, ways to shove a knife into your father’s back and twist it.

Father hands an unconscious Ragdoll off to the doctor, who bids a quiet retreat.

The doctor. Kyuudai. He is the man responsible for Father finding out about your Quirk, and for every domino that fell in the wake of that knowledge. Anger almost makes your fists curl, but you keep a lid on it.

You are angry. You’re scared. Terrified, even. But this is not the same as last time, when you were so certain that staying meant the inevitable erosion of the few remaining things that made you redeemable.

Somewhere in the last five months, you stopped being able to believe that completely. Maybe all you have right now are reservations. Doubts. But it’s not the absolute lack of faith you had before. It is so, so much more than that.

For the first time in more than a year, you are alone in a room with Father. And you have every intention of surviving.

---

Shouta reaches the clearing moments after Mandalay’s Quirk shivers up his spine once more, confirming the villains’ escape. They used a warp Quirk. Shouta would put money on it being the same one they used to pull off the USJ attack.

This makes two. Two major villain attacks his students have endured before the start of their second term. Both under his watch.

He can’t dwell on it now. Not yet. There’s still work to be done.

He left Vlad King back at the cabin with the remedial course students and Kouta, who was rescued and handed over to Shouta by a very injured Midoriya. Midoriya, who is not here. That alone sends up another flare of anger, forces him to take another moment to tamp down on it.

Shouta had explicitly said Midoriya wasn’t to run off when he found Mandalay. He was to share Shouta’s message so she could communicate it to the rest of the students—that Bakugou is one of the targets, and that they have permission to fight, under Eraserhead’s authority—and then he was to stay put.

Shouta’s not sure if he’s more furious with himself, for trusting Midoriya to listen, or with All Might, for being the role model that he is. The kids with the strongest Quirks are always the ones prone to drive themselves into an early grave, and Midoriya is on another level entirely, with the Symbol of Peace himself backing it up.

But still, there’s little he can do about it in this moment.

He has Mandalay use her Quirk to tell Vlad King to bring everyone to the clearing. Now that the villains have retreated, it’s as good a triage spot as any, and they’re going to need one.

Emotion takes a back seat once more as, with that out of the way, he alerts Mandalay and Tiger to the possibility of two more targets. Ragdoll and…

He shares their last known location, and once they confirm he has it handled here, they leave him with Pixie-Bob, unconscious from a bad head injury, and the few uninjured students gathered in the clearing.

At the same time as Vlad King arrives, remedial students and Kouta in tow, students start to trickle out of the forest, instructed by Mandalay to return to the clearing if they’re able to move. Several of them are carrying unconscious classmates. Apparently one of the villains had some kind of gas Quirk.

Vlad King leaves Shouta to take point on triage and first aid, heading into the forest in search of the remaining students. Mandalay uses her Quirk to keep them apprised of the students she and Tiger find while looking for Ragdoll.

He keeps a headcount as more and more students trickle into the clearing. There are some minor injuries here and there, but it’s already clear the gas Quirk dealt the brunt of the damage.

A larger group of his students arrive a few minutes later. Shouta adds them to the mental list—Midoriya, Todoroki, Tokoyami, Shouji, Uraraka, Asui and Aoyama. At first glance, he finds only minor injuries between them, excluding Midoriya, who’s barely standing. He already knew as much.

He knows he’s missing something though, when he takes them in a little more closely. Midoriya is swaying dangerously, eyes on the ground, looking utterly defeated. Uraraka is propping him up, glancing between him and Todoroki, concern in every tense line of her face. Todoroki is as shuttered as Shouta has ever seen, but frustration is clear in his white-knuckled fists.

It’s Shouji who approaches, tells him what happened. Shouta learns that the villains achieved at least one of their goals. Bakugou was taken.

Again, he grabs tight around that anger. He’s still doing his job. He can’t waver now.

He heads towards the group—he needs to do a closer examination, make sure his initial assessment of minor injuries is correct.

But with his approach, Todoroki’s face finally shifts. It softens, the mask slipping, as he looks around. His head turns this way and that, eyes tracing over everyone in the clearing, from the uninjured remedial students huddled together, to where Iida is keeping a close eye at Shouta’s request on the row of unconscious students.

Shouta knows what’s coming. He doesn’t have an answer for him.

Not until Mandalay’s Quirk echoes in his head. No one else in the clearing reacts, and he knows she’s addressing him alone when she says, They’re not here, Eraserhead. Neither of them. We found… We believe they’ve both been taken. We’re on our way back.

Finally, Todoroki’s eyes stop on Shouta, his expression halfway between a glare and something desperate. He blinks, glances around the clearing again, as if he could’ve just missed them. ‘Where are they?’

Midoriya, for the first time since arriving in the clearing, looks up. Despondent resignation gives way to genuine horror, eyes wide and jaw slack. ‘No. Aizawa-sensei, they can’t, that’s not… What?’

Midoriya’s emotional state is visibly fracturing, even further than it already had. It’s with pure disbelief that he stares at Shouta, waiting for an answer. Todoroki, too, is staring at him. Both boys waiting for him to tell them that they’re wrong.

Vlad King makes his way back through the trees, carrying two more unconscious students, both his. With a glance around the clearing, he nods in Shouta’s direction. ‘Mine are all accounted for, Eraserhead.’

Tight grip, Shouta. Don’t let go. Not now, not yet.

It’s a cowardly out, but he takes it, directing his response to Vlad King. ‘Bakugou was taken. Mandalay and Tiger are on their way back. We have to assume Ragdoll and…‘ Saying their name is a bitter thing, but he does. ‘We should assume they were also taken.’

Midoriya’s knees hit the dirt, a strangled sob torn free. Todoroki just stands there, but it’s all clear on his face. Devastation. Helplessness. Horror.

Shouta is torn between two instincts—to be a hero or to be a teacher.

The decision is made for him when he hears the steady approach of sirens.

No time to lose his grip on himself.

---

Father turns his chair away from its usual setup—in front of a screen he probably uses to monitor Tomura—to face you. The wooden legs whine against the hard floor, the only sound in the room other than the low, steady thrum of the machine that helps him breathe.

He rests his chin on one hand to study you. The scrutiny is a chill up your spine even though there’s no visible tell that he’s watching you. It’s all gnarled, ugly scar tissue where his eyes should be. You’re pretty sure what little of it he made up for when he stole Kawata’s Quirk couldn’t even count as a worthwhile replacement, but it intensifies the pressure of his gaze regardless.

That’s probably all he really wanted. Given the chance to recover his eyes, you’re not even sure that he would. He’s too aware of the impact of his current visage. To some, it’s the sign of an imaginary weakness they think they can capitalise on, the perfect effortless bait. To the rest, it just adds to the fear.

Both serve him. And neither of them apply to you.

You know he has no visible weakness. And though you’ve never figured out if it’s because of a Quirk or just the very nature of who he is, the tangible sense of impending doom he brings with him everywhere he goes stifles any foolish notion of being unafraid before it has a chance to muster.

You know even more than you did when you left. You know things that, alongside your existing knowledge of the man in front of you, bolster your ability to feel real, distinct, and apart from him. You are not just what he made you, and you are not just an extension of him.

Three things feel especially important. They ring the loudest in your head.

First, there is a man whose opinion you value more than anything. And he believes you can become an exceptional hero. The words themselves might be difficult to believe, but Aizawa Shouta never gave you a single reason to doubt him, and in the battle between disbelief and trust, you will always choose the trust he fought so hard for.

It’s not even really a choice.

Father ends the relative silence when he holds out a hand, palm up. ‘Come, child.’

The second thing you know is that all the best heroes are usually scared. Your legs shake, but you move forward in spite of them. Your hand trembles when you raise it, as you place it in his waiting grip, but you let his thumb trace an imitation of care against your knuckles anyway.

Because it is okay to be scared. It’s okay that standing there, faced with the unspoken demand that you reclaim your role in this, your resolve falters in the face of something you should’ve realised much, much sooner.

Your Quirk is no longer limited to pain.

Injury and pain are two different mechanisms, two impulses that are distinct enough when you seek them out with your Quirk that you don’t think you’ll ever get the wires crossed again—but exactly what injuries can your Quirk actually handle? Is it just the immediate, visible kind, or can you take the internal, the unseen, the injuries that never quite heal even after the damage has run its course?

And what happens if Father ever finds out what you can do?

You cannot give him the chance.

You can’t stay here—you won’t. It feels like a return, it felt like an inevitability, but this is not your home.

You have to get out. You have to get back. And to do that, you can’t just hide and wait for help to come, even if you’re sure it will this time.

And there’s one more thing you know. The final important thing you brought with you this time around. Except, you always knew it. It was just a little too scary, gave a little too much truth to a deep fear. You couldn’t admit it then, but it’s an undeniable asset to you now.

You were raised by a villain. So, of course, you can play the part of one well.

---

Fifteen minutes after the villains’ retreat, emergency services finally arrive. Shouta is swept up in helping coordinate the efforts of first responders, no time to afford his students the emotional care they so desperately need, let alone take a moment for himself.

By the end of it all, fifteen students and the Pro-Hero Pixie-Bob are unconscious and in serious condition. Eleven students are conscious, with a few major, but mostly minor, injuries. Twelve come away physically unharmed.

Three villains were incapacitated—all thanks to the efforts of the students—and taken into custody.

The Pro-Hero Ragdoll and two of Shouta’s students remain unaccounted for.

It is a colossal failure by Yuuei and the supervising heroes, the Wild Wild Pussycats. Pushing through the aftermath is the only way Shouta keeps from… What? Exploding? Imploding? Breaking down? He doesn’t give himself time to wonder what his reaction should be.

Vlad King assists in the handover of the injured who require hospitalisation while Shouta supervises the students capable of giving statements to officers on scene. He’s able to cobble together a rough timeline of events; what happened to each student, each group, those who fought and those who couldn’t. The only mystery is what happened to Ragdoll. What happened in the wake of a disconnected phone call.

He was the one with last contact. He is the one who should know what happened. But Shouta feels completely in the dark.

Was his student captured? Did they go willingly? Was it a ridiculous sacrificial play? Part of him, the paragon of logic, whispers about the increasing likelihood of a traitor at Yuuei. How the obvious early suspect, all things considered, has been right in front of him the entire time.

Shouta, admittedly, sometimes focuses on his students at the expense of everything else. It’s part of what makes him a good teacher, until it doesn’t. Hizashi has always been the better of the two of them when it comes to looking at the bigger picture. It was his thought first, not long after the USJ attack and the ‘false alarm’ that preceded it.

The idea of a traitor is one worth consideration. But not by him. And not by Hizashi. They both know that much. Whether it’s a result of warranted advocacy or wilful ignorance, neither one of them could ever entertain the idea that it’s them, most likely suspect or not.

That’s as much as he allows himself to think on it before he shoves it all down and gets back to work.

---

Father’s pain is as bad as you remember it. It blooms, first, in your head, forces your eyes closed against an unrelenting wave of pounding vertigo. You have no idea how he exists through it all. How he speaks through it, thinks through it, how he even manages to survive it. Just that pain is strong enough to almost eclipse the other familiar aches that howl through you.

His right shoulder, a tender throb that curls under his arm and traces the right side of his rib cage; thudding, breathless. Then his left knee, sharp, piercing, taut, shooting all the way down into his calf.

Practise is the only thing that keeps you standing. Apparently the muscle memory of exactly which limbs to lock, where to carry your weight to best hold yourself against the onslaught, survived the time in between.

Not all of it, though. You barely feel it, the sensation of a pinprick of heat on your face as an inexplicable tear rolls down your cheek. The horror of what it could cost you makes it feel like barbed wire dragging a charted course until it drips like blood from your chin. Will he still wield Tomura like a punishment?

He releases your hand, and you’re not prepared enough to stifle an immediate exhale. You’re so exhausted, from that or from everything, that you don’t even flinch when he raises his hand. But he is gentle, so, so gentle, when he brushes the trail of the tear from your cheek.

There’s a lump in your throat you can hardly breathe around.

‘I am sorry it took me so long to come for you,’ he says. ‘Your time away has left you weak.’

Has it?

‘I will give you time,’ he adds. ‘You’ll grow used to it again. Go, now. Rest.’

You get away from him, out of that room, as quickly as you can without running.

If that place was familiar, stepping out into the hallway is like stepping right into the past. It makes you flinch, even as nothing happens to evoke such a reaction. You’re alone and it’s quiet, and this place doesn’t get many visitors. You’ve no reason to believe a single thing has changed in your absence. You know exactly what to expect.

It’s a short journey, only a few doors down to make it to your old room. It’s exactly the same as you left it. Same bare furniture, same peeling walls. When you open the stiff drawer of the bedside table, it’s all the same there, too. Dingy little first aid kit, faded deck of cards.

There’s a broken pencil and a blank piece of paper you and Kawata used as a score sheet. The surface of the paper is rough, just barely shredded in some places from the wear of how many times you had to erase it for reuse.

You leave everything where it is and curl up on the bed, against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. You don’t hide your face—don’t want to close your eyes and even risk entertaining the hope that you won’t be here when you open them again.

You’re not devoid of hope.

Most heroes aren’t worth the title. Aren’t worth the position, the power, the reputation, the prestige. Most heroes, if they knew of All For One, if they knew who and what he is, wouldn’t be able to justify the risk of rescuing one hero, whose Quirk is probably already gone, and one unattached student. The benefit would never outweigh the cost.

For most heroes.

You know of at least two who you’re sure could figure out a way. To justify it, to spur others into action over it. There will be a rescue effort, it’s just a matter of when and whether they have even a slim chance to succeed.

You don’t see a way that they could. Not without Father escaping at the very least. There’s no world in which any near future could herald the capture or defeat of him. Even All Might, in his current state, can’t do it.

All there is is waiting. For Midoriya’s shot, years down the line, when he’s more experienced and knows exactly what he’s walking into. When he’s wrung every drop of wisdom he can from every mentor he’ll ever have.

But victory and defeat are not mutually exclusive. Father’s previous clash with All Might is proof enough of that. You’re sure All Might probably considers it a bitter defeat, but as far as you’re concerned, he greatly wounded your father and survived it, and that is a triumph regardless of the heavy losses he sustained.

Maybe, maybe, there’s a way for you to help balance the scales. You’re never going to be the deciding factor, not in a battle like this, but maybe you can leverage something, knowledge or surprise or pain, to tip things in the heroes’ favour. A drop in the ocean is still another drop, and against someone like Father, every one counts. It has to.

You shuffle over to the bedside table again. You grab the paper, then the pencil, from the still-open drawer.

In the smallest handwriting you can manage without tipping into the illegible—you’re restricted to the two sides of this single piece of paper, after all—you start writing down the location and relevant details of every hideout and safe house you can think of. The name of the Quirk doctor and every other acquaintance of Father’s who might be important. Each of the most powerful Quirks you know that he has for sure, and every attribute you can ascribe to them.

You cram all of it onto that crumbled piece of paper until you run out of room, then you fold it several times and retrieve the old deck of cards.

Kawata brought them with her. They’re still in the same box they came in, the little cardboard sleeve that’s barely holding it together. You peel it open carefully, so as not to exacerbate the already ripped seams, then tuck the folded up piece of paper in amongst the cards.

It’s not exactly secure, but it’s better than carrying the frail piece of paper by itself. You tuck the box into a pocket and settle back on the bed. This time, you let yourself lie down.

Sleeping won’t be easy here, and that’s familiar, too; it’s not like it ever was. But you need to get what rest you can.

You close your eyes and try to hold onto thoughts of everyone who is waiting for you. At least, you hope they are. You’re pretty sure. It can’t be selfish to wish for that much, right?

You have nothing more to lose. The worst case scenario has already happened. And it hasn’t levelled you yet.

---

By the time Shouta makes it back to Yuuei, back home, the sun is peeking over the horizon, casting everything in pink and pale orange.

It was a long night of ensuring the severely injured were taken to the nearest hospital. And that was before the three hour trip back to Tokyo to ensure the rest made it safely home. He’d have preferred to stay at the hospital to oversee the kids’ care, but Nedzu called him back. There’s work to be done here, work he’ll have a part in—but not before he gets some mandatory rest.

It’s not what he wants, but he’s smart enough not to argue. Things have slowed down since they started the trip back, the adrenaline wearing off; the distractions wearing thin. Shouta knows he’s not in a sound state of mind right now, at least not enough to work effectively.

Hizashi is waiting for him on the steps of the teachers’ dorm. He’s still wearing his hero costume. Shouta wonders if he ever actually changed after his patrol the day before.

They make their way up to the room in silence.

Hizashi gestures to the couch as soon as they get in. ‘Sit,’ he snaps, voice a little too loud and a little too terse as he turns away and heads into the kitchenette. Shouta catches the stray feeling of an old insecurity—did he do something wrong? Did he hurt Hizashi?—like the ghost that it is.

He really is tired. He sits, begins making a slow effort to unlace his boots, and shakes the feeling off. He’s done enough therapy to know when it’s fatigue trying to wield old hurts. There’s enough pain in the present moment without the past getting in the way as well.

Therapy should be an ongoing process for all heroes, not just those who’ve pushed too far too many times. In the absence of the ideal, though, Shouta is grateful that he and his husband fall into that category. He knows he wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t been forced into it, but it’s been valuable for both of them. He’ll never discount that.

There are probably a few sessions in his near future. Hizashi’s, too. Of course, they have separate therapists who work in completely different offices.

The aches he ignored for the better part of the night are starting to seep in with a vengeance. He groans softly, abandoning his laces in favour of sitting back into the couch, head falling onto the soft cushion as he takes up the far less arduous task of staring at the ceiling.

He’ll have to organise some form of therapy for his students, too. They’ll all need it, and it would be good to get them in the habit of utilising appropriate resources before they’re old enough to fall into the trap of avoiding it.

He can hear Hizashi fumbling his way through making tea neither of them are in the mood for. But it’s how he gathers his thoughts, how he creates a bit of space for himself before what might be difficult conversations, so Shouta doesn’t say anything.

He’s not even sure when Hoshi joined him on the couch, only registering the cat—still a kitten, really—when he starts kneading his claws into an inattentive Shouta’s thigh. A rumbling purr picks up when Shouta gives him an obliging scratch behind the ears.

He only realises just how dry his eyes are when he lets them fall closed. He sighs, pats at the pocket of his costume where he usually keeps his drops, and groans again when he comes up empty. He settles for rubbing at them, probably a bit harsher than necessary, even though he knows it’ll just make it worse.

He hears the quiet clunk of a pair of mugs being set on the table right before Hizashi swats at him with a gloved hand. ‘Hey. Cut it out.’

Another sigh falls from his lips, but Shouta relents. When he opens his eyes, Hizashi is right in front of him, probably unnecessarily close, and he makes a little tch sound at whatever he sees. Shouta’s eyes are probably red. It happens.

Hizashi goes again, this time into the bathroom. Shouta feels a pang of guilt. He should’ve just done it himself. But it’s barely a moment later that his husband returns, thumbing open the little cardboard box to get to a fresh bottle of drops.

He settles on the couch, peeling off his gloves as he gestures for Shouta to tilt his head back again. ‘Look up,’ he mumbles, already the picture of intent focus as he raises the bottle above Shouta’s face.

He should do it himself. But he hates doing it, and Hizashi knows that, and it feels like an act of care—of love—he needs right now. Maybe Hizashi needs it too, to help in some small way after waiting up all night, probably restless and worried sick and knowing even less of the story than Shouta did. So, he gives in.

Hizashi is gentle but firm as he positions Shouta’s face with soft fingers. Shouta can tell his left hand from his right by the callouses that have lived on Hizashi’s left fingertips for as long as they’ve known each other. It’s more from playing guitar than it is from hero work—perks of being primarily a long range fighter.

Hizashi squeezes two drops into Shouta’s right eye, then his left. ‘Close ‘em,’ he instructs. ‘Thirty seconds.’ It’s not like Shouta needs the reminder of how to administer the drops he’s been using since their second year of high school, but Hizashi’s voice is soothing, so he doesn’t point it out.

He shuts his eyes with another sigh. He hates this part. He’s used to putting them in, but the thick, heavy feeling before they settle almost puts him off them entirely. If he weren’t a hero, he’d swear off them for the rest of his life.

Hizashi’s thumb catches the watery excess that slips from the outer corner of his right eye, tracing the scar Shouta’s had since USJ.

He doesn’t know exactly what does it, but Shouta feels the dam break about fifteen seconds in. It takes Hizashi a bit longer to catch on, one, maybe two tears swept up before he’s clambering into Shouta’s lap and taking his face in both hands.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ his voice is just a little too loud and Shouta relishes the familiarity of it. Needs it. ‘Stop. You’ll cry out all the drops.’

The rumble in Shouta’s chest is more the inaudible laughter than the sudden flow of tears. He’s never been a very expressive crier, but his next sigh could be easily mistaken for a sob as he drops his head against his husband’s shoulder.

He does his best to keep it in—because, yeah, he does want to give the drops a chance to work—but it’s been hours of doing that. It’s been long enough that even the anger has fizzled into the heavy pelt of rain rather than the blazing of a forest fire. It feels worse, that it’s come to this instead of something easier, like shouting or hitting something.

They don’t say anything for a long time. Hizashi doesn’t mention that Shouta’s shoulders shake far longer than they have any business doing, so Shouta doesn’t mention that he can feel Hizashi’s tears through a sleeve that was definitely dry when they got in.

Eventually, when they do speak, it’s Shouta who breaks the silence. He can’t hide from how wrecked he feels when his voice comes out even rougher than usual. ‘I fucked up.’

‘No,’ Hizashi snaps, pulling back, fistful of Shouta’s costume tightening as he levels him with a glare. ‘Don’t you dare do that. Not now.’

The frustrated rebuff reminds Shouta of when they were teenagers, when he’d overwork himself to the point where Hizashi’s facade would crack, pushed too far not to let some of the anger out.

But that’s not really fair, is it? Shouta knows it’s not a facade. Hizashi is genuine, and it’s not fair of Shouta to deal a low blow, even if it’s only in his head.

‘What were you going to do?’ Hizashi continues, heedless of Shouta’s momentary distraction. ‘Never let them out of your sight?’

It’s vague enough that he could be talking about anyone. He could be talking about all of Shouta’s students, all of the first years. But they both know he’s not.

Another twinge of guilt for that—Shouta should be worried about everything, should be just as concerned about all his students. And he is, but…

‘They knew,’ he murmurs.

‘What?’

Shouta closes his eyes for a long moment, lets his head fall back again. ‘They knew this would happen. Maybe not now, maybe not like this, but they knew. They knew. I should’ve pushed harder, I should’ve—‘

Hizashi doesn’t relent. ‘You did everything you could. We both did! What more could we have possibly done that wouldn’t have scared them off? We were making so much progress, Shou.’ His face falls, some of his own doubt creeping in. ‘Weren’t we?’

Shouta raises a hand to Hizashi’s face. Hizashi leans into it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Shouta says. ‘I know it’s hurting you, too.’

Hizashi sighs. ‘Of course it is. They’re…’

Special. Important. Significant.

Could be any number of words, but Hizashi doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he manoeuvres himself out of Shouta’s lap, taking hold of both of his hands to pull him up. Shouta goes willingly, all the way into their bedroom.

Admittedly, Hizashi does most of the work when it comes to extracting Shouta from his costume. It’s a fight to even keep his eyes open, and he loses a bit of time between then and when they’re finally lying together, sharing in each other’s warmth.

The last thing he hears is Hizashi’s uncertain murmur. ‘We’re gonna get them back, right?’

‘Whatever it takes.’

It’s a promise as much for himself as it is for his husband.

---

When you wake, it’s from a light enough sleep that you’re not completely rattled by the realisation of where you are. You allow yourself a single deep breath before you rub the sleep from your eyes and stand.

There’s no point waiting or avoiding any of it. Especially if you’re dedicated to playing the part. You leave your room and make your way back to Father’s usual space.

He’s already standing by the door when you approach. He sweeps out an arm, gesturing down the hall, back the way you came. Then, he starts in that direction.

He doesn’t instruct you to, but you quickly fall into step beside him, close enough to take his hand as you walk. When you activate your Quirk, a cursory squint up at him through the pain confirms the shadow of a smile on his face, though it reads more like a smirk or a grin. He’s never managed a smile, not that you’ve seen. There’s always some other motive hidden beneath that warps it into something else.

You focus on the steady thrum of pain—head, right side, left leg—and manually move your body forward despite the screaming instinct to curl into yourself on the floor and ride it out.

There’s no riding out something that will never stop. Knowing it so well, a part of you almost pities him. It’s bitter, a sour thing, but it’s there nonetheless. Was it the pain that drove him to all of this?

No. No, you know it wasn’t. The pain wasn’t always there. People aren’t born good or evil but Father—All For One—is something else entirely. At what point does humanity erode so far that even the visage of it stops resembling its like?

You figure out where he’s taking you before you even get there. It’s an unsurprising confirmation when he stops outside Kyuudai’s office.

The place is more of a lab than anything. Some parts of it have changed, leaning even more into its true purpose. It’s the first notable departure from your memory, but even then, it’s just some updated furniture and a slight rearranging of the room.

Kyuudai isn’t here, probably off doing god knows what at the Noumu factory. It’s a hollow relief, but one you’re still grateful for. The guy is a fucking creep.

He’s not here, but you’re not the only ones in the room. Ragdoll is laid out on an operating table.

You follow obediently as Father makes his way over to her, even though you want to be anywhere else. You’d rather find out where Tomura is, what he’s been up to during all this, than be in this room right now. You can’t even be sure if the sinking dread you feel is the usual byproduct of Father’s presence or just your own genuine terror.

She’s been stripped of her costume, the wounds left by the chainsaw Noumu carelessly bandaged. No attempt has been made to clean her up or preserve her modesty. What has been done is little more than a perfunctory effort at keeping her alive in the first place. But the detail that holds your immediate, unwavering focus is that familiar, dead-eyed stare.

For a moment, you’re staring into bright red eyes instead of yellow. She’s barely said a word since Father took her Quirk.

She’s on her back, bleeding from a gaping wound in her stomach.

‘Kyuudai wanted to experiment,’ Father says. His voice is not a welcome draw back out of the memory, but it tethers you to the present regardless. ‘But I decided this would be your test.’

It would be wishful thinking to hope he doesn’t feel the way your hand tightens in his, but he doesn’t remark on it. It’s mercy, again, and more than you deserve.

You blink hard. That’s an old thought, one that doesn’t sound as much like you as it used to. This isn’t mercy, none of this is, and it’s not a question of what you do or do not deserve.

You can be a hero. Heroes are always scared. Right now, you’re only playing a part.

You’re not a villain. You’re not. But it’s difficult to remember that when you’re staring down at another person whose Quirk he’s stolen. When the unravelling realisation of what he wants from you feels like four fingers clamped down on your shoulder. Already, the whispered promise of a lingering fifth.

‘You failed the first, after all,’ Father continues. He lets go of your hand and steps back. You try to pay attention to his words instead of the heady relief of the pain ebbing out of you or the breathlessness of an impending panic attack. ‘That’s why you were sent away.’

Ice rakes through your veins.

Sent away? That’s not… That’s not right, is it? No, you know it’s not, that’s not what happened, you escaped. You knew, you knew he let you go, you’d never have managed it otherwise, you knew there had to be an ulterior motive behind it, you knew he had more planned for you but—

Sent away?

As if being back is some gracious reward?

As if all of it was for nothing? Every day you fought, every fight you took, every time you crawled a little bit further away, gasping in the dirt, every bit of distance you gained, every offer of help you took to buy yourself more time even when it felt like it was killing you.

He places a hand on top of your head, strokes back towards your neck, a caress that tastes like a threat.

You want to scream, snarl, claw his hand away from you. It’s like he knows, like he dug his way through your memories and found Aizawa doing the very same thing. Like he’s taking the gesture and stripping it of all the safety and the approval and the shelter and he’s marring it, staining it, turning it into something else.

Stop. Stop it. Please. Leave that alone. Let me keep that much. Please don’t take back all of it.

‘It was a harsh punishment, yes, but a necessary one,’ the regret in his voice is so close to the real thing, as if it genuinely hurt him to lose you. And it did, but not in the way it counts, not in the way it matters most, not the way you think it might for at least three people whose care is genuine, isn’t conditional on your Quirk or your ability to be pliable.

His hand is on your back, now. In the other, he’s holding a knife, the blade against his skin, hilt in front of you like an offering. You accept it. You have no choice.

‘You understand what I am asking of you, yes?’

One of you will kill her.

‘You know what the alternative is.’

You think you hear the satisfaction in his voice, the dripping certainty that he’s winning. That he’s won.

‘Can I use my Quirk?’ you ask. Because you are obedient. You are pitiable, and small, and pliable.

‘Of course.’ It probably just adds to the punishment.

But you are not a villain. You’re not even a vigilante.

You are a hero student in Class 1-A at the most prestigious hero school in the country. Your homeroom teacher is Aizawa Shouta, and he thinks you have what it takes to become an exceptional hero.

So much energy spent trying to prove him wrong, and what do you have to show for it? He’s been right about you at every turn, hasn’t he? From the moment he said that you were wasted potential.

Until you weren’t. Until he offered you something more than that.

And maybe you’re starting to see why.

You know more than most what it’s like to not be saved. You know what it is to know that help is not coming. What it is to run, to keep running, to run until you can’t anymore. To collapse, sobbing, into waiting arms. To be accepted and absolved.

You have experience that so many heroes lack. And some of the best have proven it to you.

The inexplicable thought finally manifests in full: You can save her. You can save Ragdoll. At the very least, you have to try.

After all, he gave you permission to use your Quirk.

The triumph doesn’t last. The determination is reduced to smouldering coals in your chest when you step up to the operating table, when you crowd in close to her. You have to watch her chest for a long time to even find the rise and fall of a visible breath. She’s as close to lifeless as you think someone could get before actually dying.

It’s a narrow window and a terrible risk. But the kind of hero who wouldn’t take it is the same one you’d scream at from a rooftop about inaction and cowardice.

And your Quirk is suited to this. Isn’t it the perfect rescue?

You position the knife over her stomach, opposite the side closest to you, then rest your free hand on part of her exposed thigh. You activate your Quirk, focusing on the quick rush of full-body pain, the sting of her existing wounds.

You’ve been using knives for as long as you’ve been fighting, but the weapon feels foreign to you now. Even more so when you pierce her skin, sink the knife down into her gut as far as you’re willing to go.

It’s not especially deep, but it’s by no means a shallow cut. Blood pools against the blade at the site of the incision, already a slow ooze that’s not a promising sign of how little blood she can afford to lose.

You just have to hope Father either doesn’t pay too much attention to your halfhearted effort, or forgives it on account of just how little it would take to kill Ragdoll right now.

You’re shaking as you pull the knife towards you. The drag of it contradicts the easy give of her pallid skin, how little it really takes to carve your way through her stomach. The taste of bile rises in the back of your throat as you watch the thin stream of blood stain her skin. It trails down either side of her, onto the cold steel of the table. Eventually, it starts to drip onto the white, tiled floor.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

The warmth of Father at your side, barely a step behind you, is a heavier weight than anything you’ve ever known. Especially when he rests a hand on your shoulder.

How long is he going to make you wait? Until her blood is a puddle beneath your feet? Until the remaining colour drains from her face? Until she’s absolutely, irredeemably dead?

Each passing second feels like an hour until eventually, you only have one, repeating thought.

Did you just kill a hero?

Notes:

actual footage of me writing this chapter

This chapter is a bit of a test! It's shorter than the last few chapters, and I'm wanting feedback from my dear readers. Do you have a preference for these slightly shorter chapters or would you prefer to wait for the big, mammoth ones?

Much love, please take the time to leave a comment! The economy is crumbling, I am broke, and comments are my only income. Every time someone leaves a comment I get 0.1% richer (in the will to perpetuate both reader suffering and, apparently, my own, if we're being specific).

Chapter 12

Notes:

cws: all prior warnings apply <3

Shiretoko Tomoko can’t use her Quirk. There’s an empty space where the sensation of activating it used to be. A hollow fissure where it should sit inside her chest. She reaches for it, searches every possible hiding place inside herself for even a whisper of it. But no matter how much she tries to coax it out of the dark, nothing comes to greet her but visceral, aching cold.

She’s chilled so utterly it feels as if the concept of cold itself has settled into her bones, into her very essence. A foggy weight holds her down against what must be the deepest part of the earth. She cannot sink any further than this. But she cannot rise so much as an inch.

She can’t see a thing. Faintly, she’s aware of what feels like it might be air against her eyes, a persistent dryness that makes her think her eyes might be open, but her vision is a cluster of blurry, indistinct grey. Just incoherent shapelessness.

It’s almost a relief when she finally begins to catch snippets of sound. The squeaking hinges of a door are so sudden and stark it feels as though the sound might be tearing into her fragile mind, but she cannot help but take a little comfort in being capable of hearing even that much.

Then, after a time, she hears what she’s sure must be fragments of faint conversation.

The first voice she hears seems to draw her even further down, deeper into whatever fugue state she’s grappling with. What little she can feel of herself gets even hazier than before, as if she’s somewhere between a full body sensation of pins and needles and an entirely vacant lack of sensation altogether.

And it takes her too long to actually make sense of the words themselves.

Wanted to experiment.

Do they mean… experiment on her?

She tries again, pointlessly, to get a grip on her Quirk, if only to feel the calming presence of something familiar, if only to prove to herself that she can move, that it’s not just a futile desire. But still, there’s nothing. Just that cavernous void that doesn’t respond to her fumbling hands.

The same inescapable tug toward oblivion comes again, in that same voice uttering another snippet of a phrase. Failed the first.

Tomoko’s breath suddenly becomes even harder to come by. Fear shreds through her, her throat constricting as if grasped in a tight fist. But she can’t so much as gasp; the energy for it is nowhere to be found. She has no idea why, but suddenly, her entire limited existence is pure terror.

All she can do is wait. The pain in her chest expands the harder it gets to breathe, but she is a captive audience. To what, she doesn’t know.

Sent away, come the next words, and this time Tomoko is able to catch on what makes it feel so deeply, unthinkably wrong.

It’s malice. Malice that is veiled yet undeniably true in a way she cannot comprehend. It’s impossible, somehow, that she knows this, because at the same time, Tomoko understands that their tone is not a malicious one. Their words are not inherently malicious, not that she can tell. This person, this man, sounds regretful, disappointed, maybe even ashamed.

And yet he is so steeped in malice that it bleeds into every word, free of effort, free of intent. Harsh… Necessary… Understand… Yes? More isolated words that still don’t give her enough substance with which to wrap her head around even an idea of what is happening.

And then, like a flicker in the dark, Tomoko hears a voice she recognises. And this time it’s in what feels like a clear, complete sentence.

‘Can I use my Quirk?’

It still takes her a moment to thread the familiar voice back—it’s not one she’s heard much of, but it was recent, she thinks, recent enough that it feels near to touch when she reaches back in her memory for it. And there! There it is, it’s a student, the one Eraserhead was quietly doting on at the training camp—the training camp! The Yuuei first years, Quirk training, the test of courage!

It all comes back to her in pieces that slowly come together to form a cohesive picture. And yet, there’s a gap at the end, between then and now. What happened? Why is she here? Where is here? Why can’t she see? Why can’t she move? Why can’t she use her Quirk?

Where is her Quirk?

The details are hazy, fragmented and improbable; the forest at night, a table full of name tags, a painful blow to her head. Blood, her blood, trailing through the dirt, consciousness fading before she even had a chance to consider reacting.

A villain attack. It had to be. The whole reason the Pussycats were working with Yuuei in the first place was because their first years were experiencing a higher than usual rate of villain attacks. It was a precaution. Bring in a trustworthy, external team right at the last minute to bolster their training for the difficult year ahead. And no one had a better set up for it than the Pussycats.

And yet. Now Tomoko is in a secondary location with no access to her Quirk, a body full of frozen lead and limited senses with which to inform herself of the situation. She’s not in the forest anymore, that much she’s certain of. There are no sounds or scents that would be indicative of such, even with her limited awareness.

But she has no idea where she is. Or who this man is, with a voice that cuts into her with tangible malevolence.

But she recognises the student. The one this man is speaking to. The Yuuei student Eraserhead seemed especially fond of.

She’s pretty sure nobody else picked up on it, at least no one on her team. Eraserhead was subtle enough, but Tomoko has always been particularly perceptive, usually more so than those around her. It’s not always because of her Quirk, but it’s a reasonable speculation that it’s a natural byproduct of it.

But what does this mean? There are still too many pieces missing for her to even hazard a guess about this situation. If she didn’t know better, the most plausible theory would be that she’s dreaming.

It’s difficult to gauge time through the senseless haze, but it can’t be more than a few moments after she heard the student speak before Tomoko feels a sharp, deep pain against her stomach.

She thinks, maybe, that she’s been stabbed.

She’s never been stabbed before—she’s never been the front line of the Pussycats, and their formation has never been tested enough to fracture to the point of Tomoko finding herself at the centre of a knife fight. And yet, instinctively, this sharp pain feels like what she’d expect from a knife to the gut.

She wants to cry out, feels heat swell around her eyes as pain shreds from one side of her stomach to the other. She doesn’t know what to do, only that some deep, reflexive part of her knows she has to do something. It’s not the natural instinct of a body to accept pain without response, but she can neither flinch nor tense nor scream. She cannot cry or whimper or wail.

She can’t hear the voices around her anymore. Are they no longer speaking, or is there just no perception beyond the agony?

And then it’s just gone. One moment, her entire experience is pain and nothing else. The next, absence. From an overwhelming torment into bleak, grey nothing once more.

She couldn’t say how long passes after that. It feels like a while, though she has little understanding of why. But when the pain returns, it’s a fraction of what it was before—just a sharp, shallow sting that, if it didn’t spread so wide, Tomoko could almost convince herself was merely a cat scratch.

---

The first thing Shouta notices is a soothing warmth and the familiar smell of Hizashi’s cologne. Gradually, more awareness returns as he wakes. Aching muscles and a pang of indiscriminate feeling he can’t quite place; the presence of a cat curled up between his feet; a quiet sense of loss.

The events of the past couple of days return quicker when soft fingers prod at his shoulder. When he blinks his eyes open, he’s staring up at his husband.

‘You have a meeting with Tsukauchi after lunch,’ Hizashi says too softly, ‘Kan will be there, too.’

Tsukauchi—the lead detective for the ongoing investigation into the League of Villains. Shouta has spoken to him a handful of times since the USJ attack. And, according to the conversation he had with All Might and Midoriya a month ago, he’s also one of the few people who knows about One For All. About All For One.

It’s not easy to rouse himself after only a few hours of sleep, but it’s an old, familiar routine he settles back into without great difficulty. He’s surprised Hizashi was able to wake up first after so little sleep, himself. Usually it’s the other way around even on a good day.

When they’re sat together at the table sharing a quick breakfast—rice with an egg on top, Hizashi’s go-to for something simple and filling—Shouta takes the opportunity to really look at his husband. At the weary slant of his shoulders. The faint circles beneath his eyes.

‘Did you sleep?’ He knows he sounds gruffer than usual, sharper than he means to.

Of course, Hizashi doesn’t seem to care. He never does, when it comes to Shouta. He just shakes his head dismissively.

‘Maybe an hour. Tsukauchi called you not long before I woke you up. By the time I put down your phone, mine was buzzing. Nedzu wants the rest of the staff in for a meeting as well.’ Irritation pitches his words into a more familiar, louder territory, only waylaid a little by his fatigue. In that moment, Shouta knows Hizashi’s not fine, but he’s doing well enough that it’s not cause for immediate worry. So, he files it away for later, in the same place he’s left his own feelings about it all.

They finish eating, and Hizashi feeds the cats while Shouta showers. Usually, he can hardly be bothered by showering to begin with, but standing under the heat for a short while is a surprisingly welcome reprieve.

That just makes leaving harder. But not even half an hour after waking, he and Hizashi are both heading out again.

They only make it as far as the steps of the teachers’ dorm before they run into Todoroki. Shouta thinks he’s been waiting for them. Rigid, impassive and clearly exhausted. By the looks of it, he got about as much sleep as either of them.

‘Was it him?’ His voice is flat, carefully so. He’s so shuttered, in his words and in the tension of his entire body, that if Shouta hadn’t been teaching him—and spent a healthy amount of time with him outside of classes—he wouldn’t have cause to pick out just how much of it is a facade. But he does, and it is. All of it.

It reminds Shouta of himself. How he was, after Oboro.

With a sigh, Shouta descends a few steps to stop in front of Todoroki. ‘I don’t know,’ he tells him. What he doesn’t say is that it’s not unlikely, that it’s almost certain, but he’s under no illusions that Todoroki won’t infer as much. Still, the situation isn’t so dire that Shouta is willing to put extra burden on a student. Not if he can help it. And he doesn’t think complete honesty would make a difference, here.

Nothing is going to make a moment of this easier. Not until an outcome is reached. And there’s probably no one as aware of that as the three of them.

Todoroki stares at him, not disguising clear scrutiny. He’s silent for a long moment before the mask finally slips, his gaze falling to the ground in front of them as a faint sheen covers his eyes. It could just as easily be exhaustion or the beginning of tears. Probably both.

‘You’re going to get them back, right?’

Hizashi moves before Shouta has a chance to, clearing the distance before he falters in front of Todoroki, not quite reaching out to make physical contact.

‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Shouta says. It’s a platitude and a promise.

Todoroki meets his eyes again over Hizashi’s shoulder, fixes him with something close to a glare. ‘Will it be enough? Are they even a priority, or is it just Bakugou? He has family fighting for him. What do they have?’

Shouta sees it for what it is. A challenge.

Todoroki is one of his brightest first years. He’s also one of the most forthright students Shouta has ever had. And right now, he’s taking something that should be nuanced and delicate, and he’s reducing it to its simplest denomination.

Are you their family?

It’s Hizashi who eventually answers, and Shouta doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s fighting tears. It’s evident in the words he chooses, thick with unnameable emotion. ‘Us. They have us.’

---

Bakugou Katsuki is an intelligent person. He spent enough time in the nerd’s shadow growing up that he’s pretty sure a lot of people forget it, but he’s just as smart—smarter, even—than Izuku. And he’s perceptive.

Katsuki knows exactly why the villains targeted him. From the moment he was pulled into that damn warp Quirk with Scar Face’s ugly fucking hand around his neck, he knew. These morons probably think they can convince him to join their side.

Fucking stupid, all of them.

Katsuki also knows Aizawa’s permission to fight hasn’t expired. Not for him, not while he’s still captive, still an active participant in what technically counts as a villain attack. Doesn’t matter that the initial fighting is over, he can still use his Quirk, and the second he sees an opening, he’s going to show all of them just how badly they miscalculated, bringing him here.

So, yes. He is an intelligent, perceptive person.

It’s why, partway through the second day of his captivity—they still haven’t unbound his damn mouth once, goddamn it, what’s the fucking point of all this talking if they’re not even gonna give him a chance to speak—when the creepy fucking classmate Izuku keeps trying to be friends with shows up, Katsuki isn’t fooled by their charade.

That’s what it is. A front.

They step into the bar, radiating caution and projecting nonchalance, and their immediate momentary shock at the sight of him doesn’t get shuttered quick enough for Katsuki to miss it. Same probably goes for some of the villains here, which probably isn’t going to win them any favours in keeping it up. He’s paid enough attention to know that not all of the League members are outright stupid, even the ones who seem dense.

A tense silence settles over the bar in the moments following their entry. No one moves. The villains are all watching them; they’re fixated on Katsuki.

Then, with barely more than a quirk of their lips as warning, they suddenly burst into manic, hysterical laughter.

Katsuki watches several different reactions from the villains. The guy with all the hands, Shigaraki—Katsuki’s heard his name too many fucking times by now—is their obvious leader, and several of the others look to him first for how to react.

And Shigaraki clearly doesn’t see this as any sort of threat. The corner of his mouth, barely visible beneath the disgusting hand he keeps over his face, curls in exaggerated distaste as he turns away from them entirely.

A few of them don’t look to him to measure their responses, though, and Katsuki notes these, too. Scar Face is wearing a similar look of bored derision. The Deadpool wannabe whines about them being scary before immediately, in a deeper tone of voice, saying something that sounds like a threat. The lizard just looks unimpressed.

For his classmate’s part, when they finally stop laughing, they fix Shigaraki with a grin that’s too wide to not be creepy. ‘You really thought he,’ they jab a finger in Katsuki’s direction, ‘would ever want to join you? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a raging asshole,’ Katsuki narrows his eyes at them, which he’s pretty sure goes entirely ignored as they continue, ‘but he’s the furthest thing from a fucking villain! He’s an All Might fanboy!’

How the fuck do they know that?

Still. He can’t help but feel a little vindicated that at least one of these idiots hasn’t immediately equated his attitude with an inability to be a hero. He’s gonna be Number One, and if anyone thinks otherwise, he’ll show them how it feels to be on the receiving end of a fucking explosion.

‘Why are you here?’ Shigaraki drawls, sounding bored, if not outright chagrined. Villains with a penchant for drama are the fucking worst.

His classmate takes up a post beside the door they came in, leaning back against the wall in what Katsuki’s fairly sure is an affectation of indifference. It’s what’s always been creepy about them. Everything they say, everything they do, has always seemed put on. It’s not like he’s keeping an eye on them, he doesn’t care enough for that, but from what he has seen, none of it has been completely genuine. Even Half-and-Half mostly just seems awkward, not fake.

They’re still mostly focused on Katsuki himself, but even their gaze doesn’t seem to be fixed all the way on him. It’s like they’re always staring sidelong at Shigaraki, never fully taking their focus off him.

It’s hyper-vigilance. Fear.

He watches as they shift to cross their arms, narrowing their eyes in what almost looks like a wince but ends up being another forced attempt at boredom. The longer he looks, the more he notices. There’s something off about the way they’re carrying their weight, an unnatural pallor to their skin. He’s not sure if it’s just the situation or something else.

In the moment before they finally answer Shigaraki’s question, quick as anything, they do fix their eyes on Katsuki, followed by an immediate glance, almost quicker than he can follow, in the direction of the bar itself.

They’re trying to communicate with him. But what about? It can’t be about the Warp Quirk, who’s been stood behind the bar the entire time. Too vague.

‘He sent me,’ they say plainly, ‘Wanted me to see what you’re building.’ There’s something mocking about the way they emphasise the words, but Katsuki doesn’t bother with that.

He scans the direction they’d indicated. There’s a screen off to the side, mounted on the wall near the bar. The words ‘AUDIO ONLY’ have been displayed on it ever since he was brought here.

Someone is listening in. Which means Shigaraki’s probably not the big boss.

‘Who’s this, Tomura-kun?’ The blonde bitch who’s been sitting at the bar the entire time—she was mumbling about Izuku when they first brought him here, the freak—cuts in.

Shigaraki sighs. ‘No one important.’

‘Always knew I meant so much to you, Tomura!’ Katsuki’s classmate shifts slightly to address the room at large, and for the first time they stop staring so hard at either Katsuki or Shigaraki, instead meeting the eyes of each of the villains in turn. Something about that feels a little less fake, somehow. ‘He’s such a good brother, don’t you think?’

A short-lived silence is broken by an avalanche of overlapping voices, different members of the League saying different shit, questions thrown at their leader, threats towards Katsuki’s classmate. None of it matters. He’s focused on them, and they’re focused on him.

There’s not much they can communicate purely through eye contact, but he’s pretty sure they’re not some kind of traitor. There’s something fucked up about it all, that much is obvious, he’s just not sure what, yet.

Back at Yuuei, from what he’s seen, they have a preference for skirting the edges of a room, hovering just barely on the fringes of the average person’s awareness. Easily missed and conveniently forgotten.

Too bad for them, Katsuki’s not the average person. He doesn’t miss shit. Doesn’t forget it, either.

He can figure this out. He will figure it out, sooner or later.

---

Shouta’s second—or is it third, now?—recounting of the events during the attack in the forest borders on clinical. Kan, Vlad King, doesn’t take as much distance from it, letting emotion colour the way he speaks about it, between anger and anguish. Shouta doesn’t cast any judgement. If anything, it’s yet another reminder that he’s simply too close to the situation to be impartial.

It’s that, he thinks, that decides the course of action he was mulling over on the way to Tsukauchi’s office. Once they’ve wrapped up the final questions the detective has for them, Shouta catches his eye and says plainly, ‘I have some information for Yagi-san.’

Tsukauchi blinks, and though his demeanour remains almost indeterminable, Shouta doesn’t quite miss the way his eyes sharpen, just so, as if bringing him into full focus for the first time. More critically, now.

Truthfully, when Shouta first approached All Might to enquire about his connection to Midoriya, he’d been operating off a hunch. He knows, now, that only a select handful of people know All Might’s given name. But back then, when his student, under the guise of a vigilante who believed their identity was not known to him, had offered Shouta that name, he’d worked off of several logical guesses.

First, that Yagi Toshinori was someone Shouta could reasonably contact. And, when there was suspiciously little information to dig up during his careful enquiries into the man behind the name, he’d assumed it must be someone he already knows. The confidence with which his student made the connection was enough to tip Shouta off that it was a doable, if even a simple task.

Naturally, he looked toward Midoriya for the extra link. Shouta had already been keeping an eye on the relationship between Midoriya and All Might, after the early moments of the school year that bordered on favouritism before All Might started to keep himself more in check.

Benefit of the doubt given, it could’ve been as simple as a man with a similar Quirk mentoring a student who was struggling with control. But the threads connected well enough for Shouta to confidently pull them into a room together and, essentially, bait them into confirming it. Neither of them are competent liars under pressure.

Which is marginally concerning, given the breadth of All Might’s secrecy that he learned of in the conversation that followed.

Kan turns to him and raises an eyebrow, but Shouta simply shakes his head. He’s aware of enough of the situation to know that it’s a matter of safety that as few people as possible are directly involved.

Thankfully, Kan knows when to take a hint. He always has. After a brief, assessing look, he shrugs. ‘I wanted to head back to the hospital, anyway. I’ll check in on yours, too?’

Shouta offers him a tired nod. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

Once Kan is gone, Tsukauchi focuses back on Shouta. ‘Is he aware that you know?’

Shouta sighs. ‘Yes. He also told me about One For All and All For One.’

There’s a wariness in the way Tsukauchi looks at him. Probably a byproduct of years spent in narrow, unforgiving secrecy, never quite able to reconcile or leverage the sheer weight of the problem that is All For One. Shouta can see how trust would be a rare commodity, given the circumstances.

---

He arrives barely an hour later. When they’re all settled in with tea graciously offered by an assistant, the door firmly shut with Tsukauchi’s terse request for privacy, Yagi inclines his head and asks if this is about that student.

Sometimes All Might seems… obtuse. Shouta has had reason to question his logic on more than one occasion, but he also understands that he’s not the Number One hero for no reason. Yagi Toshinori is not a stupid man, and he immediately finds the heart of the matter.

Shouta doesn’t want to betray their trust. But, right now, the desire to ensure their safety in the long term is a much higher priority. It’s rational. So he breathes out one final sigh, takes a sip of his tea—not as good as Hizashi’s—and cuts right to the chase.

‘They were raised by All For One.’

He expected surprise. Naive shock. Instead, Yagi’s eyes narrow and a shadow falls over his face.

It’s Tsukauchi who speaks. ‘Another child? We suspect that he’s grooming Shigaraki Tomura, but you’re saying…’

‘Their Quirk allows them to transfer pain to or from another person,’ Shouta clarifies. Now, he does see Yagi pale slightly, though he still stares forward unblinkingly. ‘He discovered it through a Quirk doctor.’

Tsukauchi sighs, flicking a glance over at Yagi in a way that briefly betrays some concern. ‘It makes sense. We knew he had other methods of finding Quirks.’

‘It’s horrendous,’ Yagi says. ‘I knew he was—but to target children.’

None of them bother to say the obvious. That they make such an easy target, that the registry system is the perfect way to keep track of all manner of Quirks. Even more convenient that it’s children, before they ever have a chance of making it onto the registry at all.

Shouta continues, his feelings about it all hovering somewhere between the importance of sharing all of this and the numbness of needing to at all. ‘They’re fairly sure Shigaraki is supposed to be his true successor. They didn’t seem to consider themselves some sort of backup plan.’

‘They’re a form of pain management.’ Yagi finishes, a grimness to him that Shouta hasn’t witnessed before. With a timely cough, he grips the place beneath his shirt where the worst of his lasting injury sits. That was another detail he’d shared with Shouta when pressed.

If anyone can understand the sheer amount of pain All For One apparently lives with, it’s the very man who dealt it to him and received it back in kind. It leaves him perfectly positioned to understand All For One’s motives. And, Shouta suspects, to hate him all the more for it.

He shares a few more pertinent details, being as light on the specifics as he possibly can while still giving them as much knowledge as he deems relevant to the rescue effort.

But there’s one unspoken thing bearing down on all of them. The elephant in the room. Shouta can’t be the one to bring it up; he’s too close to all of this, too weak to it. An irony considering he’s the only one who might have the answer.

But Yagi doesn’t say it, either. Probably the prideful naivety granted to him as the Symbol of Peace, allowing him to let it go unsaid.

It’s Tsukauchi, who doesn’t have either the luxury of raw power and determination, nor the closeness to the student in question, who ultimately says it. ‘What is the likelihood that they don’t want to be rescued? Or that their mental state is such that they’re unable to comply with rescue efforts?’

With it finally dredged to the surface, Shouta forces himself to consider it.

They still don’t know exactly what transpired in the forest. Whether it was an abduction, whether they were coerced into leaving, whether they felt they had to for Ragdoll’s sake. Were they conscious, did they fall back into old habits, was this as much of an inevitability as they seemed to think it was all along? The how would inform so much of the answer to what is being asked of him. But they don’t have it.

Instead, Shouta has to rely on everything else he knows. Every other moment they shared.

From the first concession they made to him as a vigilante, well before they ever realised what it meant, even though Shouta knew it immediately for what it was. Behind the posturing and the false confidence, the manufactured distance.

Do I get a letter grade, sensei? Or a gold star?!

To the first concession of a student, a half-truth that cost them more than Shouta realised at the time.

They died. My parents.

Seeing them in Hina’s shop, the instant rise of panic when waking up to strangers quelled by the realisation that they weren’t. A rare, bright giggle in the face of he and Hizashi’s marital status, and the simple embarrassment that followed for everyone involved.

The events at USJ, as well. The memory is a hazy, uncertain thing, but when he puts it next to everything else, Shouta is certain of it. The way they looked at him when he prevented Shigaraki from using his Quirk on them was all wonder and admiration and longing and fear.

Then, the next day. The hospital. Learning from Hizashi what they did. Realising they’d run, then realising they hadn’t. That, instead, they’d backed themselves into a corner of their own making.

It wasn’t very long after that, that they started really giving way. Giving him piece after piece of themselves, each more vulnerable than the next.

It must have been excruciating.

Can we go back to Yuuei, please?

When are you going to stop pretending?

Why didn’t you stop me?

He’s my father.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to, I swear—

She was older than me. Her name was Kawata.

I want this. More than anything. Please.

And even the night of the attack. What was the first thing they did, when they realised what was happening? When they identified that Ragdoll was one of the targets?

They called him. They didn’t go running straight into untold danger like he’d witnessed them do more than once as a vigilante.

They called him.

Shouta considers all of this as he contemplates his answer to Tsukauchi’s question. To whether or not they want to be rescued. Whether or not they’ll put themselves in a position to be saved.

There’s only one answer, when he puts it all together. When he decides to have faith in them.

By that point, it’s not even a question.

‘They want it,’ he says. ‘If they see an opportunity, they’ll take it.’

But it’s not enough. Not quite. Shouta’s at his wit’s end. He is exhausted. He’s out of options. Even with the complete and utter certainty he has that they’ll reach back if someone only reaches for them.

He’s rattled by the desperation, by knowing he won’t be there during the rescue. Can’t be there. His role is at the press conference, a distraction.

But there is something he can do right now. Just one thing. It will have to be enough.

He stands, stepping back from the table a short distance. The hard metal chair he’d been sitting on slides back across the carpet behind him. Without preamble, Shouta bows at the waist, shallow and proper, but deeper than strictly polite, deep enough to convey the gravity of his request. He won’t let Yagi—won’t let All Might—forget this.

‘Please,’ Shouta implores. ‘Do what it takes to save them.’

‘Aizawa-kun…’ Genuine surprise is evident in the way Yagi says his name.

He falls silent for a long moment. Then, finally, the determination of the Symbol of Peace resounds in two simple words. ‘I will.’

Shouta chooses to believe them.

---

Midoriya Inko’s son can’t sleep. After nearly an entire day unconscious, he finally roused in the late afternoon. But even though it’s well into the night again, and he should really be resting, Inko can tell he’s wide awake. He’s facing away from her where he’s lying in the hospital bed, but she never quite forgot the rhythm of his breathing when he’s truly asleep, so she knows he isn’t now.

Sometimes, Inko feels very, very weak. Especially compared to the bottomless well of resolve that is her son. She can hardly fathom that she somehow instilled such a manner in him, though it definitely wasn’t his father. Hisashi hasn’t been responsible for much of anything in Izuku’s life, a distance Inko hasn’t tried to rectify in a long time. Her desire to do so lessens every time she sits alone in a hospital room next to their injured son.

But being the only real parent he has makes Inko acutely aware of how little it feels she’s really able to provide for him. Because she failed him in a very big way, very early on in his life.

All she had to do was be on his side. Support him. Lift him up.

But she knew, even then, that doing so could send him to his death.

She’s been stuck, alone, in this constant battle with herself all this time. In the aftermath of such a failure, she thought it might be best if she just… let him chase his dream. Even if it meant turning a blind eye to a Quirk that never should’ve happened, a sudden uptick in how hard he was pushing himself. Even if it meant watching him break himself time and time again. Even if it broke a part of her every time, too.

What is she supposed to do? How can she do right by him? What does he need? What happens if what he needs doesn’t align with what keeps him safe?

Izuku shifts, a quiet exhale that Inko knows, instinctively, is pain.

Sometimes her son feels so far away, Inko fears she’d fall short if she tried to reach for him. She knows there are things Izuku isn’t telling her. She just doesn’t quite know what they are, or if it’s even her right to ask.

She doesn’t want to hinder his dream. Especially not as she once did, by withholding support out of fear.

But it’s a fear she can’t let go of. Is his dream worth it if he… If it always leaves him like this? Broken and defeated and in too much pain to sleep?

She reaches towards him, wants to take his hand. But his arms are both still in thick casts she can’t quite manage to look at directly. She opts for a different gesture, instead, something she hasn’t done since he was little. She begins to card her fingers through his hair.

After a while, he shifts again. This time, he rolls over to face her, a shift made awkward by the casts. He poorly stifles another sharp breath.

He’s crying. Inko feels her own face crumble as she leans further forward, takes his face in both her hands. How long has he been crying, too softly for her to hear? She sweeps her thumbs gently along his cheeks, under each eye, wiping away some of the tears.

What can she say? She doesn’t think there’s anything, not in this situation. It can’t be easy, having two people he cares about taken by villains. Yet, still, this feels like something more somehow.

In the end, she doesn’t get the chance to ask him about it. He speaks up first.

‘I think,’ Izuku says, sniffling his classmate’s—their former neighbour’s—name, ‘… might hate me.’

And oh, how that makes her want to cry right along with him. Inko is sure that isn’t true. But how to reassure him?

She settles for learning more, if she can. ‘Why do you think that?’

He leans into her hands a little, softening a fragile warmth in Inko’s chest despite the sadness of the moment. A few more tears fall as Izuku blinks his way through confiding in her. ‘I thought we were friends, or I thought—I thought we were becoming friends. Even before I got my Quirk. But they…’

The force of the sobs that start to tear through him prevent him from saying anything further. Inko’s heart breaks. For him, for his friend, for all of them.

Instinctively, he tries to hide his face, even though he can’t use his arms. Inko ushers him closer to the edge of the small bed before she climbs in alongside him. She barely has a chance to get comfortable before Izuku buries his face against her chest. As he lets out some of what Inko thinks are emotions that have been left to build up for far too long, she feels a bit less like a failure of a mother.

At least he can still do this. It matters, she thinks, that he’s still willing to turn to her for comfort even when he can’t find it in himself to speak of certain things.

The time might be approaching, though. She might need to guide him into a proper conversation sometime soon. Sometime very soon. There are too many secrets between them, and it’s clearly eating her son alive.

Inko won’t abide it.

For a while, she just lets him cry. She sheds a few tears of her own while she holds him. But when Izuku is finally calm enough to listen, she begins with a gentle murmur. ‘I think,’ Inko says, ‘that they’re in a lot of pain. I think they have been since you first met.’

She doesn’t need to understand everything that’s happening to know this much with some confidence. She’s known they were struggling since the first time Izuku invited them around for dinner.

‘I’m not sure what their life has been, but I think they were very, very lonely before they met you. And I think it must be very scary to find a friend you have to worry about losing.’ She can tell he’s holding onto to every word she says, especially when his sobs redouble when she murmurs, ‘But I do believe they care about you, Izuku.’

She just keeps running her fingers through his hair. ‘The heroes will rescue them. Katsuki, too,’ Inko’s certain of this. Or, at least, she can be for Izuku’s sake. Sometimes, there’s not much of a difference. ‘And then you can invite them over for dinner again, because it’s been too long.’ Whether he wants to include Katsuki in ‘them’ is his decision alone.

His next sob sounds a bit more sure, a bit more hopeful, and at least a little bit affirmative. It’s enough, for now.

When he finally exhausts himself enough to fall asleep, Inko lets herself start to drift as well.

It might not be much, but cradling her son in her arms makes for what feels like the safest sleep she’s had in years.

---

You are an invisible sentinel taking Father’s pain. Head, right shoulder, right side, left knee, calf. A steady, inescapable thrum of constant pain, all while you’re subject to the live audio feed of your brother’s attempts at winning over Bakugou.

It’s fucking laughable—and really, laugh you did. The only person you know with more obvious determination to become a hero is All Might’s actual successor. Sure, you can understand in essence why Tomura thought he had a chance with Bakugou, but something about it doesn’t quite add up.

Why risk turning the eyes of all of hero society—and society at large—directly on himself for a huge gamble that’s not all that likely to pay off? It feels like you’re missing something, some consolation prize or backup plan screaming for attention in the back of your mind like an itch that feels close enough to the surface, yet still can’t quite be reached.

They’ve persisted well into the night, ever since you left, as far as you know. You returned to Father willingly after a brief stop back to your room to stitch up your wound. A good thing your old first aid kit really was still there, if a sewing needle, a lighter and a spool of fishing wire can really be counted as such.

It’s… bad. Even you can admit it. The wound itself, the pain, the infection you’re sure is guaranteed to start coming on over the next day or two. You’ve handled weathering infected wounds before, but they were usually smaller, and if you really needed it, you could at least request assistance from Father and the asshole doctor. You’re better to him alive than dead, after all.

This time, that’s not an option. You’re hoping that Ragdoll’s obviously catatonic state lasts long enough—if she’s even still alive, you’re trying not to think about it—that she goes unnoticed, and that no one thinks to check her too closely for the wound that’s supposed to have killed her.

You’re struggling to stay even halfway present, though you know you need to if you have any chance of finding a way out of this. But it’s so hard. It feels like every other moment you alternate between absolute certainty that there’s a rescue effort coming, one that you’re included in, only to feel that old clawing beast of doubt stumble back through you the next.

You’re just trying to remind yourself that this is temporary. But all the old feelings are so much heavier than they used to be. Maybe it’s because you’re really carrying them, now, and not just dragging them along behind you like so much dead weight. Maybe it’s because you’ve known something other than them.

Maybe it’s because part of you has been starting to wonder how anybody could ever deserve this.

You… don’t really think that you do. Not anymore. Not when you’ve know such a genuine antithesis, one that didn’t punish you just for wanting it.

Because it’s not easy. What’s waiting for you out there isn’t easy. It’s immeasurably hard. In some ways, staying would be so much simpler. This familiar place, with its familiar role, its set rules and expectations and predictable punishments. This is what you know. Part of you gravitates towards it even now, through some magnetised, indecipherable tug.

But what you’re really longing for isn’t here. What you hope is waiting for you. In another place, with other people, where everything is still painful and so, so much scarier, and so much harder to keep hold of. Where it’s unpredictable and loaded and half the time doesn’t even feel true or real or right.

But it’s softer. And lighter. And happier. It’s a kind of love you thought, for the longest time, didn’t exist in the aftermath of a house fire and an indescribable loss.

You don’t know how you’ll survive this. But you know you want to, if that’s what you’ll get back in return.

You’re not even certain when the conversation on the other end of the audio feed dies out. But it must, because suddenly Father is breaking what feels like a lengthy silence to speak to you.

‘You had an eventful year,’ he says. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

Something about the quality of his voice, the tone, the hidden intent that lingers just beyond the surface of the innocuous words—you feel an immediate headache spear through you, separate from the one already pounding against the backs of your eyes, his made yours by your Quirk.

Head, right shoulder, right side, left knee, calf. Permanent pain carving through every inch of you from multiple shattered epicentres.

This is hell.

How did you ever think you could live with this?

You’re pretty sure this new headache is fear. A fear so strong, so visceral, that your body can only comprehend it by lumping more pain on an already heaping pile. There’s no room in your chest for heartache, nothing in your dry eyes to facilitate tears, no energy in your mind to process any complex thought beyond a resounding litany of agonising, desperate pleas.

You don’t want this. You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to have to hear him speak of it. He taints everything he touches and you don’t want to let him have any of this.

But nothing is beyond his reach. Nothing ever has been, least of all you.

‘Would you tell me about Midoriya Izuku? It’s fitting, isn’t it? That you found All Might’s successor before he did?’

You don’t want this. Please, anything but this. He’ll tear all of it to pieces. And you know you cannot lie to him. Your only choices are to speak the truth or say nothing at all. And saying nothing is as good a confession as any. That all of this is important to you. That you strayed, in your time away. That there’s suddenly all this leverage he can use against you.

All For One has always wielded leverage with impossible finesse.

‘Your friendship with Endeavor’s son has a certain irony to it.’ He shifts, then, and his free hand, the one you’re not already holding, begins to card through your hair in a motion that should be gentle but makes you want to fall to your knees and gasp for breath you can no longer seem to find. ‘Endeavor is everything you always hated in heroes, yet you still found your way to his prodigal son.’

You can almost forget the pain thrumming between you in favour of him ripping everything you love to shreds with each mention. You knew. Of course you knew that none of it was ever really secret. There are no secrets with him.

But it still felt like yours. Yours to covet and hold and protect.

And you’re failing it.

‘What about Kobayashi Hina?’

You clamp your eyes shut to fend off a flinch. You didn’t even know Hina’s family name.

You wish there was something you could do. You wish there was anyone here to ask for help. But there isn’t.

‘Yamada Hizashi?’

You feel tears swell beneath your closed eyes. It feels like he’s digging right into your chest with his bare hands. It’s a violation you hadn’t thought possible.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

His hand is still on your head, still a perpetually gentle back and forth, when he finally does. ‘But it all started with Aizawa Shouta, didn’t it?’

A hot tear slips down your cheek, leaving a cooling trail as it drips from your chin. You’re shaking. When did that start?

You don’t know what’s worse. What he’s already done, tearing through all of this, leaving his mark on everything that is yours—or what he might do next. He has never tolerated crying, or shaking, or any other outward display of fear. Fear is weakness, and weakness is a luxury you can’t afford.

But where you expect to find the back of a hand, or suddenly, improbably, Tomura’s fingers pressed against your neck… Instead, you find an impossibly gentle embrace.

You want to be sick. Nausea twists in your gut like a living thing. The wound on your stomach is on fire, his pain is still screaming through you, you’re more terrified than you’ve been in your entire life. You can’t breathe and you can barely stand, and when your knees finally buckle, All For One supports your weight.

His hand is still on your head. ‘You’re safe, child.’

It’s… it’s such a mockery. One you cannot fall for again.

But what choice do you have? Giving into it is your best shot at getting out of here alive. Part of you is snarling, a rabid and hungry beast desperate to show him how wrong he is, in everything he does and says and everything he is, to the core of him.

You’re still shaking, but now, it feels equal parts fear and anger.

You don’t deserve this. Nobody deserves this.

But any amount of resistance will only make things worse for you.

You were wrong. It’s not about playing the villain. Not anymore.

Instead, you have to be Father’s perfect, quiet, malleable child. A victim who sees no way out. Someone so devoid of hope that they truly believe this is the best place for them. The only place they could possibly exist. The only place they might find even a modicum of worth.

You can do it. You did it before.

And at least this time, there’s an end in sight. You might not know exactly when or how, but you have to believe it’s coming. Have to believe they will come.

You just have to survive long enough to let them.

Notes:

I'm not entirely sure how this chapter will land. Bit nervous posting it. But I hope you enjoyed. Please take some time to let me know if you did, it would mean a lot!

Chapter 13

Notes:

cws: all the usual suspects

extra warning for self-injury this time around, not in a self-harming capacity, but sine's usual bullshit

You’re shivering, body so wracked by shakes that your teeth won’t stop chattering painfully. A sheen of cold sweat makes your face feel puffy and sore to the touch as Mama gently rests the back of her hand against your forehead.

She winces. ‘Oh, baby,’ she croons, ‘you’re really sick, huh?’

You force your exhausted eyes open. Looking up at her would help right now, you think, your Mama is such a comfort—

She’s a blur. You can’t make out any of her features properly. There’s a glimpse of hair the same shade as yours, but only when you don’t try to look at her head on. She’s all fuzzy, indistinct, a complete mystery to you.

You raise your hand. You feel small, young. But your hand is—now? It’s not the size of a young child’s hand. It’s you, now? When is now?

Everything hurts. Your stomach, the tips of your fingers, your head. The shaking won’t stop. You feel so cold, but too warm.

‘Mama, it hurts,’ you say. You hardly recognise the sound of your own voice.

She’s a blur.

You don’t remember her face.

‘It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be okay.’

Somehow you know what she’s going to say next before she even says it. She leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. For a moment, she takes your face between her hands, but the feeling of her skin is so faint, you don’t have enough time to commit it to memory. But she’s going to—

‘I have to go now, okay? But it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I promise.’

Please don’t go, you want to say, but you can’t seem to move anymore. Your eyes don’t want to stay open. But Mama is leaving, she’s moving towards the door. You think she just blew you a kiss, but you can’t tell because her face is a blur.

‘Shhh,’ she murmurs. ‘Rest now, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.’

She turns out the soft light of your bedroom. The only light left is the hallway—but the hallway isn’t real. The bedroom isn’t, either. You’re not really in a bed. Or are you?

You’re still shaking. You peel your eyes open one last time and watch as your mother turns to two more indistinct smudges, both a little taller than she is. They’re not quite the hazy same as her forgotten face, but still hard to discern. One is black, shadow, warmth and safety; the other bright and loud and full.

‘Thank you,’ Mama says, ‘for taking care of them.’

She casts one last look back at you. For just a moment, you think you can see her face, the shape of her coming into focus—

And then you wake up.

---

Hizashi fusses with Shouta’s tie. It’s this ugly blue thing that doesn’t suit him at all. Hell, even the half-up, half-down way he’s wearing his hair just doesn’t quite feel right. Hizashi will stand by the fact that his husband looks hot as hell with his hair up, but this isn’t that. This is somewhere halfway, somewhere only half committed.

He tucks a loose piece of black hair behind Shouta’s ear and tries not to scowl too openly. Clearly, he fails, because Shouta catches his hand before he can pull away and brings it back to his face, pressing his cheek into it with a sigh. His eyes fall closed and Hizashi feels like crying all over again.

He’s been so useless these past few days. And now Shouta’s going off and doing probably the single most unappealing thing he could possibly conceive of—going toe to toe with the media. Sure, it’s for the sake of being a distraction for the rescue that’ll take place a couple of hours from now. But that doesn’t mean he won’t loathe every second of it.

And in the meantime, Hizashi’s just supposed to… stay here? Again, after doing so much nothing this entire time?

What good even is he?

He lets Shouta rest his eyes for a few stolen moments while Hizashi just… looks at him. Drinks in the sight of him like it might be enough to quell some of the horrible, insidious feeling that’s been simmering in him for…

For how long, now? Part of it is an old hurt, something that took root more than a decade ago, around the time they lost Oboro. Around the time he found Shouta in the aftermath, when all he could do was stand by his side and shove all his own feelings down and try to help Shouta move forward.

Sometimes, it feels like the loss was more Shouta’s than his. Part of Hizashi’s grief about it exists solely on Shouta’s behalf. He shouldn’t have had to go through that, especially not at that age.

Sometimes, Hizashi forgets that it was his loss too. That he bears the scars of it just as much, even if they look different on him. What Shouta carries as anger, Hizashi weathers as constant, perfidious doubt.

Every moment since then, every moment like this, where Hizashi is relegated to the sidelines, has felt so much more visceral. Barbed. His own uselessness feels like a solid weight pinned to his chest, keeping him stuck lying on the floor. All he can do is scrabble at it until he bloodies his own fingertips, and then he just ends up being the one who needs help, instead.

He knows it’s not actually true. But in moments like this, it becomes so much harder to remind himself of the lie. And of where it comes from. The same place as every lie that anybody tells themselves, really.

Fear. It’s always fear. And Hizashi is always just a little bit afraid. And instead of being able to harness it the way Shouta does, instead of wielding it onto a battlefield to propel himself forward, it just makes him freeze.

And now, his husband is standing in front of him statue-still, looking like he’s one more blow from losing it completely, and Hizashi is still at a loss for what to do.

The fatigue is wearing Shouta thin. The skin around his eyes is dry and dark, his jaw tight with a tension Hizashi can’t remember when he last saw him without. It’s been building for so long, now. At least for the last six months.

In some ways, it’s what they signed up for as teachers. But Hizashi’s never been a homeroom teacher before, and he knows it’s another role entirely. Shouta basically ends up being an extra parent to a group of twenty or more kids every single year.

And this time it was different still. In a way Hizashi doesn’t think any of them saw coming.

Right from the start, constantly letting them be in active danger, doing as much as he could all while keeping enough distance that they never felt like they were being cornered or denied options. Even when it meant watching them hurt themselves and run straight into danger again and again. It was important to make sure they still felt like they had agency.

And it took too long for Hizashi to realise exactly what that meant for someone like Shouta.

He is both their teacher and the hero responsible for them. Not to mention the other thing, the third thing that none of them have properly acknowledged yet.

But because of all of that, Shouta carries the weight of every single mistake they make, every injury, every second that they spend in any kind of pain. To Shouta, that’s his responsibility alone. He was ultimately the one who decided to gamble on the long-term. Even if it was the right decision, it means that every bit of fallout is, to him, because of him.

He could’ve stopped them sooner. He could’ve forced it, could’ve taken them into custody, could’ve protected them more thoroughly. It would have made a difference in the immediate short-term.

But then they never would’ve had the chance they do now. The chance to choose.

If only Hizashi knew what that choice would be.

Shouta seems so certain that they’re going to let themselves be saved. Of course he is. This is everything he’s banked on, even if it’s not happening in the way he expected, even if the stakes feel so much higher, the risk infinitely worse.

But Hizashi is a whispering cacophony of doubt.

He doesn’t want to be. He has all the faith in the world in his husband and his judgement.

He just doesn’t have the same faith in himself. He cannot help but feel like he’s missed something here, something crucial that he could’ve done to make it a sure thing.

Because what has he done, really? Especially compared to Shouta. Shouta, who’s been the hero helping them this entire time. All while Hizashi just… what? Cooks for them, tries to make them feel safe, tries to talk to them—but what does any of that really amount to?

It’s not that he thinks those things are unimportant. He knows damn well how important they are. They made all the difference during the foster placement that stuck, for him. His third foster family, they prioritised that stuff, and it played a massive part in him becoming the man he is today. Those people are his family because of that, because they gave him the humanity that so many others overlooked.

It’s all so easy to overlook when somebody’s safety is on the line. But that’s exactly why he does it. Especially when it feels like others, people like Shouta, have the safety stuff well in hand. The other stuff, the gentle and the home and the security—Hizashi is good at that.

But now, with their safety more immediately endangered than it ever has been before…

What does all of that matter? What is the worth of all of that, all of what he’s done, when it comes down to this?

It doesn’t sit right with him at all that neither he nor Shouta will be there, on scene during the rescue. He knows Shouta hates it too, that he’s shoving the resentment down because he knows his role is still crucial.

Hizashi doesn’t have that.

All he has are his doubts. His myriad unanswered questions. Why did they leave? Were they forced? Or did they…

Will they come back? Do they even want to come back?

He knows it’s not fair to them, to think about it this way. But he can’t make it stop.

He’s pulled from his spiralling thoughts when Shouta steps in closer and puts his forehead against Hizashi’s.

Hizashi lets his eyes fall closed. It’s warm.

Here he was, supposed to be comforting Shouta before this godawful press conference, but now Shouta’s comforting him. Typical.

‘I’m fine,’ Hizashi grumbles.

Shouta hums, something noncommittal. Always actions over words, with him. He won’t waste time trying to rid Hizashi of his doubts. Not if he knows he can just trudge on with his own certainty and prove it to Hizashi later.

He does spare him a few words, though. Really, very important ones, after he presses his lips to Hizashi’s in the ghost of a kiss.

‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘I have to go.’

Hizashi sighs. He wants to keep his eyes closed as if he might convince himself Shouta isn’t going anywhere. But he opens them and takes another good, long look at his husband.

‘The media doesn’t deserve to see you looking this good,’ he mutters.

Shouta laughs, a soft huff through his nose. His eyes narrow slightly, something tired and fond about the expression.

Hizashi steals another quick kiss before he steps aside to let him leave. ‘I love you, too.’

Not even fifteen minutes after Shouta leaves, there’s a knock at the door.

Hizashi doesn’t bother to hide a scowl at the sight of Nemuri waiting across the threshold. ‘Shouta really called in the cavalry?’

Nemuri snorts a laugh, making herself right at home as she pushes her way inside. ‘Of course he did.’

This is how it’s always been, really. The way they carry themselves might be different, but Nemuri and Hizashi have always had similar ways of being. It’s silly, in a way, that it’s somehow often Shouta quietly reminding them of the comfort they can derive from one another’s presence.

Hizashi watches her eyes slit when she takes in the state of the kitchenette.

So, Hizashi’s been going through tea like it’s water. Which, yeah, it pretty much is, so at least he’s hydrated? But, admittedly, the dishes have been piling up, and it’s not a good look.

A plethora of mugs are stacked on the counter next to the few bowls and plates from the quick meals he’s managed with Shouta. He knows he really should get to them; he’s a couple of meals from running out of clean dishware entirely, but it’s been the least of his concerns.

For a second, he’s sure Nemuri’s gonna give him a verbal lashing, but when she finally looks at him, her eyes are soft. ‘This is really doing a number on you, isn’t it? Shouta didn’t look much better.’

Hizashi sighs, really lets his energy visibly flag a little in a way he’s free to do in present company. ‘Something like that.’ It’s a needlessly evasive way to respond, but he doesn’t feel like facing it properly right now.

He heads into the kitchen to make them some tea. At least that’s one thing he knows how to do. And, if Nemuri decides to rope him into a conversation about it all, the tea will help make things feel a little smoother. It always does.

She follows, settles in front of the sink and retrieves the dish soap. She turns the water to hot and lets it run.

Hizashi levels her with a flat look. ‘You’re not doing my dishes.’

Nemuri snickers. ‘You’re almost at the paper plate stage. What kind of friend would I be if I let it get that far?’

With a sigh, he waves her off, all but hip-checking her out of the way. ‘Just get some clean mugs and do the tea,’ he gestures to the cupboard they keep their cups in.

‘Yes, sir.’ He sees her mock-salute just before he turns away, back to the sink. He eyes the growing pile with distaste, mostly aimed at himself for letting it get this far. He grabs a plate and starts going through the motions of washing it.

It’s only once he’s given it a thorough once-over that he realises it’s too quiet. Nemuri hasn’t moved since she reached into the cupboard.

He turns to her, mouth halfway to a question that dies on his tongue when he sees the way she’s staring, too still, down at the mugs cradled in her hands. The look on her face is soft and indescribably sad in a way Hizashi has seldom ever seen from her.

When she notices him watching, she musters a small smile. ‘These are new,’ she murmurs. ‘Did they…?’

Hizashi has to step closer to glance down at the mugs in question when she doesn’t offer anything more forthcoming.

His hands go painfully numb. He’s suddenly not quite able to keep hold of any awareness of what’s happening around him. With a loud crash, the plate he was holding shatters against the tile floor.

In block-y, gimmicky lettering, the two mugs in Nemuri’s hands read Best Dad and Coolest Dad.

He can’t breathe. A thousand thoughts and feelings flood him all at once, so quickly that it all turns to white noise. All he knows is that he’s shaking and there are hot, stinging tears running down his cheeks.

But for the first time, it isn’t fear at the forefront. It’s not fear that makes him shake.

It’s rage.

Nemuri sets the mugs on the counter very, very gently. She’s frowning, the open sadness on her face giving way to concern. He can tell, even though his thoughts are a mess, that the look she’s giving him is searching.

He’s searching, too. Asking himself a very important question.

Can he do this?

Can he do this in a way that doesn’t make things worse, doesn’t make things harder for everyone involved? Is this a moment where he’s too close, or will his closeness be exactly what they need?

He glances down at the ceramic pieces shattered at his feet and, carefully, manoeuvres his way out of the kitchenette without stepping on any of the shards. Nemuri just watches him.

‘I have to go,’ he says. He doesn’t give her a chance to respond, be it permission of rebuff. He just turns on his heel and marches into the bedroom.

He’s quicker than he ever has been about getting into his costume and coiffing his hair. When he does resurface, Nemuri is almost done sweeping up the remnants of the shattered plate.

‘Thanks,’ he tells her.

She stares at him for a long moment, then nods. ‘You’re sure about this?’

Hizashi doesn’t hesitate. ‘I have to.’

Finally, she grins. It’s a little shakier than it usually might be, but it’s there nonetheless. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I know. Go get your kid back.’

He manages a grin of his own before he heads out.

He’s been an idiot. He’s been such an idiot.

Doubt? That’s what he let in, during all of this? Forget unhelpful, it’s dishonest. He knows better than that. He knows.

If he reaches out, they will reach back.

So that’s what he’s going to do.

---

Right shoulder. Down your right side. Left knee, into your calf.

You repeat it like a mantra in your head even though you’re not taking his pain right now. You can’t let yourself forget. Not that it would be easy to, not after all this time.

But it’s important.

You don’t know why you’re here, though. Where you’ve been for the past hour or so, back in the bar with Bakugou and the League.

Why are you being allowed this much freedom? It doesn’t make sense. Before you left the first time, you were at his side almost constantly. And when you weren’t, you were at the Masquerade. That was all your life consisted of.

Why hasn’t he pulled you straight back into that? What is he planning?

You want to figure it out, turn it all over in your head until you come up with something, but you don’t have the energy to spare. It’s difficult enough to puzzle out his motives under regular circumstances, let alone at a time like this, when everything is askew and none of it feels entirely real.

It’s all you can do to stay aware. But you need to.

The pieces of your own half-baked plan are partial, lacking specificity. But that’s probably a good thing. You don’t know exactly when or how the heroes’ rescue is going to take place, so you can’t lock yourself into anything concrete, not when you’ll have to make do with whatever situation you end up in.

But it will happen. The rescue. It’s coming, and you’re going to do your part. You have to do your part. And if you do it right, you can give them an edge. You can give All Might an edge.

Because you’re sure of that, too. A fight is coming. There’s no way this doesn’t end in one.

That was always going to be the case for All Might and All For One. For All For One and One For All. It’s as predetermined as anything ever could be.

And this is something you can do.

So, you keep repeating it to yourself, over and over and over again. It helps distract you from your own wound, as well.

You’re not sure how bad your fever is, or was, earlier that morning. Bad enough that you had ridiculous dreams the likes of which you haven’t had at all in recent memory. Just nightmares. But that wasn’t… It wasn’t really a nightmare.

Just a fever dream.

Hidden beneath your clothes, the cut on your stomach has the beginnings of angry red infection bordering its edges. It’s not bad enough that you can’t stand. But it’s enough that you’re grateful to have a distraction, even if it’s just keeping track of the remembered pain of another.

Right shoulder, right side, left knee, calf.

You’re perched on the bar itself, much to the apparently distaste of a number of the League members. You’re not sure if they’re just following Tomura’s lead, disgusted by your presence in general, or if some of them actually give a shit about manners. It doesn’t really matter to you in the end.

You do wonder why they haven’t challenged you more. That much has to be them taking Tomura’s lead. He knows he can’t actually get rid of you, not without Father explicitly allowing it.

Have any of the others actually met All For One? Or has this just been Tomura’s venture alone?

You’ve pointedly avoided looking at Bakugou as much as possible. It was risky enough, trying to communicate with him in the first place. Plus, he’s still bound, so it’s not like he’s going anywhere. He’s not in a position to try anything. And you do think he’s smart enough not to immediately jump into an all-out brawl given the chance.

You just have to wait. Wait and see, and try not to get too many ideas about how this is going to play out. You’d rather go in under-prepared and rely on your ability to think quickly, rather than be over-prepared for specific outcomes and miss an opportunity as a result.

You’re categorically ignoring any thoughts about what happens if they don’t make a move soon. If this wound, this brewing infection, gets the better of you first.

It’s not worth considering. There are no options, so you might as well focus on what’s in front of you.

You hope Ragdoll’s okay.

Right shoulder, right side, left knee, calf.

You’ve only been paying half attention to the conversation around you. Mostly, it’s been Tomura trying out different tactics to turn Bakugou to their side, throwing out a bit of everything to see what sticks. If they’ve ever actually given Bakugou the chance to respond, it hasn’t been while you’ve been in the room.

All of that changes when the wall-mounted screen at the end of the bar switches its display. Instead of the audio-only live feed direct to All For One, it’s Aizawa. His hair is pulled back partway and he’s wearing a suit.

You clench your fist to avoid visibly reacting as you try to process what you’re seeing. Principal Nedzu, Aizawa and Vlad King all stand in a row behind a table. The three of them are unnaturally lit again and again by flash photography.

A press conference.

And Aizawa is the first one who speaks over the sound of clicking cameras.

‘I regret to announce that our unpreparedness was responsible for the harm that came to twenty-eight of our first year students. Though ours is an institution for heroes in training, we were nonetheless negligent in our defences against villains, and we understand that this has made many of you uneasy. We apologise for this deeply and sincerely. There is absolutely no excuse for what’s occurred.’ All three of them settle into bows that they hold for an extended moment—the clicks and flashes intensifying as the press clamour for photos—before they finally take their seats.

It’s clearly a prepared statement, and probably the opening of the press conference itself. Off screen, a reporter identifies their workplace before launching into the first question.

Everyone in the bar makes for a rapt, silent audience.

‘This makes the fourth time this year that Yuuei students have been confronted by villains. Given that some were actually injured this time, what explanation have you given to their understandably concerned families? Furthermore, please tell us in concrete terms what measures you’ve taken to prevent these sorts of incidents in the future.’

Nedzu is the one who answers. ‘We’ve increased surveillance of the surrounding areas and revamped our school’s security system,’ he says. ‘And we’ve explained to parents that our strong stance against villainy will guarantee the students’ safety.’

It’s such a non-answer. There’s absolutely nothing satisfying about it for anybody involved. It shouldn’t make any sense, but it does. The realisation of it shocks you into wakefulness.

This is deliberate. It’s an answer so aggravating that it leaves them open to complete and effortless scrutiny by the media. Dangling Yuuei’s current vulnerability right in front of their collective noses.

No reporter would ever be able to resist such a clear opportunity.

And everyone will be watching. All eyes on this instead of the other efforts being put into motion.

It’s a distraction.

The heroes are going to make a move tonight.

Hell, it could start at any moment.

‘Pretty weird, if you ask me…’ Your focus snaps to Tomura as he speaks. ‘Why’re they criticising the heroes, huh? Their only crime was doing too little, too late! It’s their job to protect people, but anyone can screw up now and then, right? Why’re people expecting them to be perfect? Heroes today sure have it rough, I’d say. Am I right, Bakugou?’

You can’t keep the scowl off your face. It’s such a desperate, last-ditch effort to sway him. You wonder when, exactly, your brother realised he was in over his head with Bakugou. Was it before or after you laughed in his face?

It’s the lizard guy—Spinner, you’re pretty sure—who speaks up, then. ‘The minute that protecting people started coming with a paycheck, heroes stopped being heroes. This is what Stain has taught us!’

It’s pretty much exactly how you felt about heroes for the longest time. In many ways, you still do, but…

Tomura’s not done. ‘Save someone, and you get money. You get fame. Sounds weird to me. And in this society, where the precious rules are everything, the people aren’t cheering for the losers, telling them to fight another day. They’re blaming them. Our war is based on a few simple questions. What is a hero? What is justice? Is this what society’s really supposed to be like? Once we get people thinking about this stuff, that’s when we’ve won. And I know you love to win!’

If it weren’t for the fact that his methods include death and absolute destruction, you’d actually agree with him. But he’s choosing villainy to champion his cause, and you could never accept that.

He could’ve at least tried vigilantism first. It’s really not a terrible gig.

‘Dabi,’ Tomura says, ‘Untie him.’

You clench your teeth to fend off a frown. What is Tomura playing at, here, exactly? He must know Bakugou is just going to immediately lash out.

You’re trying to go unnoticed, trying to keep yourself from registering as a threat to anybody in the room barring Dabi, who you’re pretty sure already clocked you. Something about him is deeply, deeply unsettling. And strangely familiar, in some inexplicable way you can’t put your finger on.

But if Bakugou’s safety is threatened, you’ll have to step in. But how, and to what end? If you reveal in any obvious way that you’re actively working against them, it could complicate your ability to take advantage of a future opportunity to make good on your half-formed plan. But is losing that chance worth potentially letting Bakugou get hurt? Or worse? How far is Tomura willing to go, here?

After a brief argument about who’s willing to get close enough to Bakugou to untie him, one of the members whose name you don’t know finally steps forward to do it.

To the surprise of nobody, the second he’s unrestrained, Bakugou levels an explosion directly at Tomura’s face. The hand he uses as a mask flies off, landing on the hardwood floor at his feet.

It chills you and gratifies you in equal measure, to see Tomura briefly cowed.

And then Bakugou starts shouting. ‘Thought I was gonna croak of old age while you idiots yap, yap, yapped away! Can’t stand morons like you who can’t get to the damned point! Basically you’re saying, “We wanna cause trouble, be our pal!” What a joke! I’ve always admired All Might’s triumphs. No matter what any of you assholes say, nothing’s ever gonna change that!’

You can’t help but smirk. It’s not too far off the persona you’ve been putting on, so you embrace it and offer an exaggerated shrug. ‘I told you so. Shouldn’t have picked a Yuuei student, if you really wanted to make a statement by turning a future hero. They’re the most insufferably righteous of the lot.’

Dabi stares at you, unnaturally blue eyes sharp and calculating. ‘Weren’t you a Yuuei student, as well?’

The words he uses make it seem like he’s mocking you, but you get the sense that it’s more than that. A test of some sort. Like he sees right through you.

He just feels deranged and dishonest, even in a room full of people who supposedly share those traits. It’s like…

He’s like Father. Maybe even more than Tomura is.

And it scares you.

You lean your hands back against the top of the bar and grin. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

It’s just enough of an insinuation that a few of them might make the leap that you were there deliberately for All For One, or whoever they think is above Tomura, at the very least. But it’s not so specific that it’ll raise immediate red flags for All For One or Tomura, themselves.

You hope, at least. It’s a dangerous line you’re toeing, but you don’t see any other option.

You’re banking on the fact that, no matter how likely it appears you are to betray them, All For One will fundamentally underestimate you. That he’ll think you’re the same as you were before, easily brought to submission, easily defanged. Nothing you could leverage could ever possibly threaten him, and so at best, he’ll entirely disregard your suspicious behaviour, and at worst, only keep half an eye on you anyway. Because what could you really do to him?

The press conference has been running in the background. In the lull that follows Bakugou acting out and your little aside with Dabi, everyone’s attention refocuses on the current question.

A different reporter is speaking this time, somewhere beyond the reach of the camera. ‘Eraserhead, you claim it’s for the students’ safety, but in the middle of it all, you urged the students themselves to fight. What were your intentions, at that point?’

What an inane fucking question. Yuuei offers them the most obvious bait on a silver platter and this is what they’re going with?

Aizawa doesn’t hesitate. This would’ve been one of the first questions they prepared for, after all. ‘Since we had no way of grasping the full nature of the situation, I made that decision in an attempt to avoid the worst case scenario.’

‘Worst case scenario?’ the reporter fires back, equal parts incredulous and antagonistic. ‘How else would you describe a situation where twenty-six were wounded and two kidnapped?’

Aizawa’s reply is scathing. ‘At that moment, the worst case I could imagine involved the deaths of my students.’

It’s satisfying, to hear him retaliate as much as he can while he’s still obviously leashed by Yuuei and his position. You feel a flicker of something like pride in your chest. Which is still weird, but not really surprising anymore.

Nedzu cuts in, probably to try and diffuse some of the tension. ‘It became clear that the gas responsible for most of the harm was a villain’s Quirk—one with a soporific effect. Kendou-san and Tetsutetsu-kun’s quick thinking was responsible for minimising the damage. The students have all received psychological evaluations, and none seem to have suffered emotional trauma.’

That’s…

‘Is that meant to be a silver lining?’

‘We believe that the worst has been avoided as long as the students still have their futures,’ Nedzu says firmly.

Again, it’s just more of the same perfect, gleaming bait. The reporter goes hook, line and sinker.

‘Can you say the same about the two students who were abducted? What of young Bakugou-kun? He won your Sports Festival. He struggled valiantly against a powerful villain during the sludge incident. His impressive record implies the making of a tough hero, yet he showed a rather violent side of himself after his festival victory. An attitude that persisted up through the awards ceremony. We’ve already caught glimpses, here and there, of his mental instability. What if it was those very qualities that made him a target? What if a skilled manipulator gets to him and sends him down a path of evil? Can you provide proof that, as you say, that boy still has a future?’

You glance at Bakugou, but he doesn’t look particularly angry. Just cautious. He’s waiting, you think, to see how Yuuei will respond.

Aizawa stands, and for a moment, you think he’s going to fully snap. But instead, he falls into another deep bow. ‘Any lapse in his behaviour is my failing. Still, he behaved that way at the Sports Festival because he has such strong convictions and ideals. More than anyone, he pursues the title of Top Hero with everything he’s got. If the villains have mistaken that for a weakness, then their thought process is indeed superficial.’

A smirk grows on Bakugou’s face, overflowing with gratification.

The reporter still doesn’t back down. ‘That doesn’t sound like proof of anything,’ he dismisses Aizawa’s defence with a verbal hand-wave. ‘Bakugou-kun aside, what of the rumours about the other abducted student?’

There’s just enough time for a pit of dread to form in your stomach before he continues.

‘Is it true that Yuuei accepted the admission of a wanted criminal as a student? Are they really the vigilante Sine Nomine, who is currently suspected of murdering a hero? How can the public expect this institution to uphold the supposed tenets it represents if it would accept a vigilante as a hero student? Not to mention one accused of murder.’

Oh. Oh.

This is why Father doesn’t care what you do. Where you are. What you’re planning.

He’s still finding ways to exert control. This could only be because of him.

You can feel eyes on you. Everyone in the bar, probably. You’re not sure if your desperate lack of a reaction convinces anyone.

It’s… This is… There’s so much…

You lean forward just enough that the pain from your wound pinches just a little harder than it did before. Just enough to shock you out of any impending panic. You cannot afford to consider all of the ramifications of this right now.

You just need to keep moving forward.

There’s no visible reaction from Aizawa, who’s seated again after he fielded the question about Bakugou. Before he can say anything, Nedzu steps in.

‘We recently devised a rehabilitative program that allows children with certain criminal backgrounds to enrol in the hero course. The limitations of the program are a work in progress, but so far we’ve seen clear and unequivocal success.’

The reporter tries to cut in, but Nedzu continues, raising his voice. Even from here, across the room on a tiny screen, you can see the hard edge to his gaze. ‘With the rise of villainy in younger populations, we were forced to reckon with the future of hero society if measures were not put in place to provide adequate support to those without it. What will happen if those children continue to be left behind? What ramifications will there be if those of us responsible for fostering the next generation of heroes continue to overlook the problem that has been under our noses this entire time?’

The reporter does find an in, then. ‘Even if what you’re saying is true, how can the public be expected to trust Yuuei if these sorts of programs are being conducted in secrecy and with no oversight?’

Aizawa’s face visibly hardens. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him with an expression of such blatant reproach.

Nedzu still steps in to answer first. ‘Just because this information was not made public does not mean we are without oversight. This is a high school with primarily underage students, all of whom are still afforded the same privacy that exists by law to protect them. That they are aspiring heroes does not suddenly void this. If events such as the Sports Festival are enough to make the media and the public feel entitled to the private information of our students, then perhaps we will need to reconsider allowing media coverage of them in future.’

Coming from him, that’s a very big threat. Even you’re a little floored by it.

After a moment of stunned silence, the reporter continues pushing, sounding more obviously frustrated now. ‘Even so, does Yuuei not draw the line at murder?’

He’s trying to back them into an impossible corner. You’re almost certain Stain wouldn’t have had any qualms about admitting to every single one of his crimes given the chance. Law enforcement are probably aware by now that Sine Nomine—that you—didn’t kill that hero, but they haven’t released any public statements. Why would they? There’s no incentive to exonerate a wanted criminal for the crimes of one they have behind bars.

But if Yuuei makes a statement about that, it could technically be considered interfering with an ongoing investigation. There are clearly enough parties interested in holding Yuuei to account, which is probably warranted in some ways, even if this might not be one of them.

So, either they double down on their decision to allow a criminal, a suspected murderer, to become a student, or they overplay their hand and walk themselves directly into other potential problems with law enforcement in the future.

The logical response is something that does neither. Pull the reporter up on his own slip, using murder instead of suspected murder, even if it’s a technicality that still won’t make Yuuei look favourable. It’s probably their best option.

‘The Hero Killer was responsible for the murder of the hero Gima Yoshiaki,’ Aizawa intones. ‘Both forensic evidence and a confession from Stain himself confirmed this.’

He’s…

He’s definitely not allowed to say that. There’s no way. From his reaction, you know that your identity wasn’t an expected line of questioning for this conference, so there’s no chance Yuuei was able to get permission to reveal that information to the public beforehand.

Either he has a very strong relationship with law enforcement, enough to be certain they won’t make a big deal of this, or…

Or he judged the risk worth it.

He’s protecting you. Still. Again. Fuck.

Finally, the reporter has to concede. This is derailing the point of the press conference, even if from a media perspective it’s meant to paint Yuuei in a negative light. Going too far against one specific student could quickly make the media look like the… well, the villains.

‘The students themselves aside, do you have a concrete counter-strategy moving forward with regards to recovering them?’

Nedzu is as stone-faced as Aizawa when he replies, ‘We’re hardly approaching this passively. Currently, I am personally cooperating with the police in their ongoing investigation. Make no mistake, we will retrieve the students who were taken from us.’

You’re aware that at least a few people in the room are still staring straight at you. You’re not entirely sure you can convincingly hold a conversation that toes the line, right now.

Thankfully, Bakugou prevents it. He doesn’t look at you, but him stealing back all of the attention seems almost deliberate.

‘Hah!’ he crows, ‘Good ol’ Yuuei. Thanks for sticking up for me.’ His palm crackles with the force of another impending explosion. ‘Get it now, League of Scumbags? Just so you know, technically I’ve still got permission to fight back!’

He’s not including you in any of this, still speaking as if he’s the only captive here. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s written you off as one of them, or if he’s keeping careful distance the same way you did the first time you saw him here.

He’s smart. You know that much. So maybe there’s a chance it really is the latter.

The woman who’d been leaning against the wall next to the screen moves to stand properly. ‘This boy… really seems to understand his position!’ She’s an uncertain combination of surprised, concerned and approving. ‘Clever little thing!’

The girl sitting a few seats down at the bar blinks idly. ‘Can I stab him?’

Dabi stares at her. ‘No, you idiot.’

Your fingers don’t itch for your own concealed knives, but it’s a near thing. If anyone is going to be stabbing here, it’ll be you. You won’t let any of them make a move for Bakugou. Fuck it all, the rescue efforts should happen very, very soon, if the press conference really was a distraction. Your plans might not matter, not if it comes down to simply buying you and Bakugou a few more seconds.

Even if that’s probably wishful thinking.

The magician-looking guy addresses Bakugou, then. ‘If that’s your attitude, then why not just pretend that we’d won you over? I don’t understand.’

Bakugou scowls. ‘If I’m not feeling something, I ain’t gonna lie about it. And I’m not in the mood to hang around this boring dump for much longer.’

Through all of this, Tomura hasn’t moved. Ever since Bakugou exploded the hand right off his face, your brother has just been staring down at where it sits, slightly charred, on the floor.

And you’re starting to feel the malice growing in him.

Kurogiri seems to pick up on the shift, too. He starts forward, as if he’s going to leap right over the bar to get to him. ‘You mustn’t, Shigaraki Tomura! Calm yourself—‘

But Tomura doesn’t do anything. Just reaches down to pick up the hand. Once he has it, he even puts an arm out to ward off Kurogiri’s approach. ‘Just stay back, all of you. This kid… is an important pawn.’ He stares at Bakugou, and this time, there’s nothing openly hostile about him. He’s just calm.

It’s so much scarier. You’re almost relieved when he puts the hand back over his face.

‘I wish you would’ve listened,’ he says. ‘I thought we might understand each other.’

Bakugou’s grin borders on a sneer. ‘Nope!’

‘What a shame. We all just heard about the heroes’ investigation, so I can’t waste much time trying to convince you. Master, lend me your power.’

The force of the terror that floods you almost makes you slump off the bar entirely. You stop being able to hear what’s happening around you. If anyone is reacting, saying anything, it’s lost on you.

He wants to steal Bakugou’s Quirk.

In that moment, a glance around the room tells you nobody is looking at you.

Nobody except Bakugou. He’s staring right at you, not with a sneer, but with a furrowed brow and an unvoiced question.

He knows something is wrong. He’s taking the cue from you. Which probably means he hasn’t written you off. Which might just mean that he’ll be inclined to trust you, even temporarily, just enough to make it through this.

You’re halfway to sliding off the bar, head a mess of improbable ways to stall things out, when it happens. Sound returns to you forcibly, cuts through your panic like an earthquake that rattles the very foundation beneath your feet as All Might smashes through the wall.

You take two steps towards Bakugou, the only instinct you can muster in the midst of everything happening around you. Each of the villains are restrained by Kamui Woods’ Quirk. Gran Torino swoops in and immediately knocks out Dabi.

It’s all too much, too fast, and it’s missing one giant, screaming caveat. You can’t process any of it because you know the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet. The heroes are speaking, some of the villains are, too, but you can’t make any of it out. Even when All Might glances down at you, then at Bakugou, you can’t hear anything even though you watch his lips move.

You need to tell him. He probably knows, but you need to tell him that All For One is close. That there’s no way he doesn’t show up. That he can hear all of this.

You don’t get the chance. Foul-tasting sludge bubbles up out of your mouth—you can see the same happening to the League, and to Bakugou—and you’re covered in it, whisked away by the back-up teleportation Quirk Father uses when Kurogiri is out of commission.

When it’s over, and you’re able to see again, the first thing you register is that All For One is standing over you. That he is speaking to Bakugou.

Stop. Stop it. Stop it. He taints everything he touches, Bakugou doesn’t deserve—

But you’re not there for more than a minute before All Might comes flying out of the sky, fists barely stopped by All For One’s own hands.

That’s when you finally notice Tomura and the rest are behind you.

And when you finally take in the landscape you're standing in.

Decimated. It’s the only word for it. Where the Noumu factory once was, where you’d just been with Father not an hour before, the surrounding buildings have been utterly levelled. You’re standing in a crater of rubble and dust.

And All For One’s first counterattack eclipses the existing damage. With some sort of air cannon Quirk, he sends All Might flying back, and in the wake of the attack, another hundred-feet stretch of buildings go down, reduced to debris.

How far did the heroes evacuate? Surely they took every precaution. They knew he’d be involved. They had to.

But even knowing what he’s capable of doesn’t help how completely jarring it is to witness it firsthand. Has he amassed even more power than the last time he and All Might fought? You wouldn’t know.

You’re too distracted by them, and someone from the League takes advantage. You feel the prickle at the back of your awareness behind you, but before you get a chance to turn and defend yourself, Bakugou steps in from beside you, levelling an explosion that drives them back.

You try to gather the wherewithal to take stock of where everyone is. A few of them are knocked out, Kurogiri among them, and Tomura looks as dazed as you feel.

You try to take a breath. It’s shallow and stilted, but you force it through anyway.

Right shoulder, you remind yourself. Right side, left knee, calf.

You and Bakugou are in the middle of this; All Might and All For One are keeping each other in check, neither able to go all out because both have collateral on the battlefield. Which means it’s you and Bakugou against the members of the League who are still standing. Outnumbered. Maybe, on a good day, the two of you could take them. Maybe.

This is not a good day. You can feel the heat from your stomach wound on the edges of the cutting pain.

This is a stalemate that will eventually swing in one side’s favour, and you don’t know which.

Logically, right now, the villains have the advantage. Something has to give.

There’s no point even bothering to fight the League. As long as they don’t get an obvious window with which to grab Bakugou, All Might will be enough of a counterweight to prevent them from swaying things in All For One’s favour.

You doubt Tomura has nearly as much incentive to prioritise you. The rest of the League still don’t know what to make of you, and are probably naturally wary.

To All Might, you and Bakugou are probably of equal priority. It’s less about who you both are and more that you’re the true goal of this confrontation. Rescue. But he’s also naturally drawn to All For One. It’s the first time his nemesis has come out of hiding since their last battle. Of course he’ll want to take him out this time around.

You don’t think that’s possible. But it does mean All Might probably isn’t paying any particular attention to you. None more than he’s paying Bakugou.

And Father…

He trained you to be as invisible as possible. There’s no way he considers you a threat.

All of it combined means that this is the only opening you’re likely to get to twist things in your favour. In the heroes’ favour.

Bakugou is still at your back, staring down the League. You turn to him and murmur, though you’re sure there’s enough distance and enough sound coming from the blows All For One and All Might are exchanging that no one could reasonably hear you. ‘Can you distract them?’

Red eyes flit towards you briefly before his face twists into an incredulous glee. He’s adrenaline all the way through right now. You wonder how scared he’s been during all of this.

The answer you get is part growl, part laugh, part question, all bundled in a wild-eyed, ‘Hah!’ But he turns toward Tomura and the rest, sparks flickering from his palms.

You’re not sure if he’s deliberately putting effort into making himself the centre of attention or if it’s just a byproduct of who he is. It works for you either way.

This is—insane. Your plan, the half-hatched impossibility of an idea you’ve been mulling over these past two days. It’s categorically insane. It would be for anyone.

But it’s something only you can do. It’s your power, if you want to steal Midoriya’s words to Shouto; Shouto’s stolen words to you.

Only you can do this. So you have to.

You have far too much to lose if you don’t. If you don’t get out of this, get back to—

You turn away, put your back to where Bakugou is entertaining the League. This puts you in line of sight of the absolute slug-fest that is All Might and All For One, but you don’t expect either of them to have a chance to notice what you’re doing. All For One couldn’t, besides. Whatever cobbled together replacement he has for sight isn’t detailed enough, you’re certain of it.

You crouch and retrieve the knife hidden at your ankle.

If you can become small enough, you’ll go unnoticed, just for the few moments you need.

Part of you second-guesses it. You’ve lived through so much pain. Once, you thought the idea of even more meant nothing to you. That it was impossible to fear it, to dread it, to want to avoid it, when you’d felt as much as you had. You were so accustomed to it, of course it came naturally to you. What’s a little more pain in the face of all of that?

Instead, the absolute gift that has been the past six months has showed you that it does scare you. You do dread it.

But you won’t avoid it if the alternative is letting it happen to someone else. And if he’s left unchecked, Father will hurt so many more. People who are even less prepared for it than you.

You won’t let that happen.

You raise the knife and position the tip against the outer part of your right shoulder.

Stab. You drive the knife deep into your shoulder, gritting your teeth and exhaling hard through your nose to ward off any audible reaction. Having the control for that much is a relief.

You won’t ever thank Father for that conditioning, but you will relish using it against him. The pain is enough to eclipse the cut on your stomach. But it’s fine. For right now, it’s fine. Because this is a weapon no one else can wield.

None of it is worse than his pain.

And his pain doesn’t belong to you.

You’re going to give it all back to him, and you’re going to get out of here alive. You have too much to lose.

Part of you aches for who you used to be, back when you really believed you had nothing to lose. Back when you’d dive into a suicidal fight without a moment’s hesitation.

But that’s not you. Not anymore. You have so much more to lose than nothing. And you won’t get it back, can’t get home to it, if you keep hiding in the shadow you were raised in.

You have so much to look forward to. So much to return to.

You want to go home.

Where you have a Post-It note you keep in the top drawer of your desk that reads, in Inko’s handwriting, Please call me any time.

Where Midoriya Izuku stops you just to tell you things like I just wanted to say I thought it was really brave, the way you fought the villains!

Where he freely gifts you words he never got to hear himself. You were really cool. You’re going to make a great hero.

He was the first one to ever tell you that.

You yank the knife free of your shoulder and tuck it underneath your arm. It’s not an easy angle to find, made harder by the warm thread of blood you can already feel trickling down the blade to coat your fingers.

But you find it—right side. Stab. You shove the knife into your side, just below your underarm, right where the echoing memory of his pain lives. Your vision blurs. Hot tears threaten to spill over as you pull the knife down, tearing open the gash in your side.

But you just keep thinking of home.

Where Todoroki Shouto understands, as much as anybody ever could. Because of your father?

Where he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, that You can use your Quirk.

Where he traps you. Call me Shouto.

Where he goads you. You’re a vigilante with a family full of villains and this scares you?

You’re feeling a little faint when you pull the knife free again. But you can’t stop. Not yet. You’re not done. Not yet.

You leverage the knife as best you can against the back of your left knee and slice.

Home, home, home, home.

Where Yamada Hizashi never stops trying. You should stay for dinner, since you’re here!

Where he’s really, really kind. If you have a different favourite, I can get that, too.

Where it’s okay that you’re scared. And it’s okay that he knows it. Because You were scared, too, weren’t you?

Where he’s too loud. Your hero name should be Painkiller!

Where he’s too honest. Shouta’s not the only one who’d fight for you, if you need it.

Where he asks if you want to use your Quirk, and for the first time, you might’ve actually considered it.

One more. One more cut. Down the length of your calf, beneath your left knee. Your knife shreds your clothes and comes away bloody. By now, the pain is becoming a pounding throb, screaming so loudly from every part of you that it drowns itself out.

It’s a means to an end.

You’re going home. You’re going home.

Where Aizawa Shouta tells you It’s alright and It’s alright and It’s alright.

Where there’s an old contract with a signature that’s over two months old.

Where he asks, Do you want to be a hero?

And he says, I’ll expect a lot from you.

And he says, You have everything it takes to be an exceptional hero.

And he puts his hand on your head.

You want to see him again. You want to see them all.

You have to tell them they were right.

You push yourself back up, and somehow, you stay standing. You tuck the knife into your sleeve and turn just in time for Bakugou to leap back towards you, dodging Tomura’s outstretched hand. He forces your brother back with an explosion so bright it hurts your eyes.

Your ears are ringing faintly, but that could be either his Quirk or your… everything.

You grab his sleeve. You don’t have the strength to keep hold, but it’s enough to get his attention, and he rounds on you with a sneer.

You watch a looming retort die on his tongue, his eyes widening as he gives you a once-over. ‘What the fuck.’

One chance. You have one shot at clearing the distance all the way to Father, in the middle of the battle between giants a few hundred feet away from you.

And Bakugou is that chance.

‘I need you to blast me over there,’ you say, tipping your head back to motion behind you.

Bakugou’s sneer comes back to life. It’s honestly a little bit terrifying. You would hate to be a villain on the receiving end of his genuine ire. ‘You wanna die?’

Your feel your lips twist into a shaky grin that probably looks deranged, though he’s playing that game far better than you are right now. Still, you spit out the only honest response you can. ‘I want to live.’

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you push harder. ‘I can give All Might an advantage. And that villain won’t kill me.’

Another member of the League, you couldn’t even say who, makes a move towards Bakugou. He doesn’t even bother turning to look, just angles his palm behind him and looses another explosion. Effective crowd control, that.

‘You’re so damn sure?’

‘I’m his kid.’

And, really, you are sure. You’re more certain of it than you ever have been. Because you get it now. That stunt he pulled, letting the media leak your identity as a vigilante… From a lesser man, it could’ve almost come across as desperate. Instead, because it’s him, things make more sense to you than they ever did. It’s the same reason he let you leave in the first place, the same reason he let you stay away for as long as he did.

You will never be a threat to him. Nothing you could do, no power you could wield, no knowledge you could share, could ever threaten his existence or complicate his goals. To him, it’s as simple as finding another link for the chain that binds you to him. Another bit of leverage, another way to force you into the corner of inevitability that leads only and always back to him.

You are going to take all of it, every bit of pain and fury and leverage, every link in that chain, and you are going to shatter it. You are going to ruin it so thoroughly that he has no choice but to look at you.

Because the way you see it, if you force him to acknowledge you properly, he’ll be backed into one of two outcomes. Either he recognises you as a threat, which you know he’s far too prideful for, or…

Or he’s forced to let you go. If you can make yourself so much of an inconvenience that you’re not worth his time or effort to keep, then he’ll have to forfeit his… his right to you.

You are not anyone’s right. You are not a possession. But that is how he views the world. Your only real value to him is in the temporary and occasional relief of his pain.

So you’ll make the cost of keeping you higher than the worth that he perceives.

Bakugou is looking at you with something that might resemble recognition, like some puzzle is becoming less obscure to him, but you don’t have time for that.

You retrieve the deck of cards, the hidden note, from your pocket and shove it into his hand. ‘Give this to Aizawa, Present Mic or All Might. It can be any of them, but only them.’

You’re not going to die here. But this is insurance, just in case.

He stares at you for a moment that must feel longer than it actually is, frown fixed in place—then he slaps the cards back against your chest. ‘You’re so sure you won’t die, do it your damn self.’

You blink. All you can really do is stare at him in return. You hesitate, then stow the deck back in your pocket again. ‘Yeah,’ you say, a little bemused, and maybe a little hazy from the blood loss. ‘Sure. Okay. You’ll help me get over there though?’

It’s a bit revealing, putting it like that, careless and unconsidered. But this entire situation is so outside anything you’ve ever experienced that you’re quickly losing your grip on your ability to make a show of things.

And Bakugou just… He doesn’t seem entirely clueless, here. You sort of… trust him, somehow. More than you’d ever have expected to.

He seems like a trustworthy person.

You don’t care if it reduces you to begging. In the face of his silence, you stare him dead in the eyes and plead, ‘I can help. I can do this. Please help me do this.’

A shattering sound deafens your senses as a fractal wall of ice floods the space between you and Bakugou and the League. It happens almost too quickly for you to even register the deathly fear that washes over you—ice, ice, ice—and then green lightning arcs overhead, Midoriya, Iida and… Kirishima? They come tearing up the ice, not a wall, but a ramp, and Kirishima is holding out a hand, eyes fixed on Bakugou beside you as he shouts, ‘Come on!’

Bakugou grabs you by the front of your shirt and suddenly you’re flying, propelled upwards by his Quirk. Terrible panic grips you in that instant, amalgamating with the drop in your stomach at the height you’ve reached, certain that he’s refused your request.

But, just before he reaches Kirishima’s outstretched hand, you hear him shout over the sound of his own explosions, ‘Shut your damn eyes!’

You do. You tuck your head away from him just in time to feel his hold slacken on your shirt, another fleeting plummet in your gut as your momentum changes and you start to drop—and then you’re on the receiving end of searing heat and your awareness blinks out entirely, no sight, no sound, no feeling—

Until it all fades back in. First, the searing pain all over your body, localised in such familiar places that you almost forget it’s actually yours this time. Then, the feeling of the hard rubble against your face, then your hands, as you try to push yourself up.

You landed face down in the centre of the battlefield, right in the middle of the distance between All Might and All For One.

Bakugou has good aim.

You can’t hear anything. Your ears are definitely ringing and, this time, his Quirk is definitely to blame. It’s harder to shake off the daze when it blends with the pain that makes you want to lie down and never get back up.

But you can’t.

This is something you have to do.

This is something only you can do.

This is how you get back home.

This is how you stay there.

You think All Might is saying your name, the distant, booming sound of his voice registering as if through a tinny filter. He starts saying something else, as well, but whether it’s your ringing ears or your single-minded focus, you can’t make any of it out.

You stand in spite of the pain and make your way towards Father.

You’re not even worried that he’ll notice anything amiss. It’s not like he can see the blood, and if he notices your hobbling gait, he still won’t be able to guess exactly why. He could never conceive of what you’re about to do. You’re so far beneath him that you only register as a feeble thing to be used, to be brought to heel when necessary.

You are exactly as invisible as he made you.

Your appearance causes a temporary lull. Neither he nor All Might move to continue fighting. All Might is shouting now, you’re still not sure what. But All For One doesn’t even dignify him with a response. He probably thinks this is going to be some extra victory over his counterpart, another nail in the coffin, another failure for the list.

He’s watching you, as much as he can. It’s almost funny, though; the closer you get, the less intense his focus feels. The lower his guard. By the time you finally reach him, it’s as low as it could ever get.

Even when you raise your hand, there’s not a hint of detectable wariness in him.

He has no idea the weapon he really made.

He takes your hand and returns his focus in full to All Might. You’re sure he’s about to call something across the battlefield, something goading, a triumphant provocation.

But you don’t hesitate.

You slip the knife free from your sleeve and stab clean through the both of your hands, pinning him to you for the briefest moment as you shove your Quirk at him with every ounce of willpower you have left. The pain recedes, the weight of the injuries lessens so starkly you feel light-headed—and then you’re flying back across the decimated landscape, towards Tomura.

Something small and slight inside of you almost howls with the full force of your despair. You’re not done, you’re not done, you have to keep going. Even as you crash back to the ground, thrown away by Father without enough time to wonder if it was a Quirk or just the pure force of a bare-handed blow that got you there, even as you roll across the jagged concrete, even when you hear your arm snap, you keep your eyes fixed on Father.

And you keep using your Quirk. You can still feel it, even though you’re not touching him, even though you’re at a distance, you can still feel the push of the pain and the injuries away from you and towards him. He’s halfway turned to face you, and you can see the blood starting to darken and soak through parts of his suit.

His right shoulder.

His right side.

His left knee.

His left calf.

You keep pushing, keep throwing everything you have at him. You give all of it back. None of it was ever yours and you won’t carry it a second longer.

You can’t even feel the place where you’re sure your arm broke on impact. Even though you don’t bother to check, don’t take your eyes off Father, you know you’ve transferred that to him, too.

None of the injuries will last. They won’t actually, properly weaken him. He probably regenerated almost as quickly as you inflicted the damage with your Quirk.

But that was never the point.

You hear a snarl from behind you, and all the fear you forgot in the wake of what you just did returns to you all at once. Your throat feels tight, not enough breath for so much as a gasp as you turn your head just enough to see Tomura running towards you, hand outstretched.

You start to push yourself up, ready to fight this one last battle if it means making it back, but horror slowly seeps in and takes up what little space the fear didn’t.

You can’t move. Maybe it’s the fear, maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe it’s the lingering impacts of how badly wounded you were. Transferring the injuries doesn’t suddenly negate that you lost a lot of blood. And every ounce of adrenaline, every bit of resolve you’d stockpiled over the last few days is gone, not even a whisper of it left to hold on to.

Your eyes start to sting. Your hand is pressed against the ground, all you have to do is get up, put your weight onto your hand and push, get up, but you can’t, you can’t, but you have to, you don’t want to die, you want to go home, all of this was so that you could go home.

Tomura’s hand is almost close enough that you could reach out and grab it.

Are you really not going to make it back?

After all of this?

Is this seriously how it ends?

But you didn’t even get to—

A screeching sound brings everything around you to a standstill.

It hurts your ears. But all you can do is hang your head as you fail to stifle a silent, relieved sob.

Tomura flinches back. Behind him, you see the rest of the League do the same.

From the corner of your eye, you see All Might make to rush towards you, but All For One keeps him in check.

It’s Gran Torino who, almost too quick to track, appears beside you and kicks Tomura in the face, sending him flying solidly back, well out of reach.

And then, finally, walking onto the battlefield fully decked out in his costume with his ridiculous hair that you never thought you’d be so grateful to see—Present Mic.

It’s nothing like when he showed up to the police station. Nothing like when he came to your apartment before the Sports Festival. Concern doesn’t temper any measure of him as he approaches, not his voice or his manner.

Instead, pure rage sharpens him to a fine point, from the way he moves to his cutting gaze, aimed squarely at Tomura, to his voice when he offers Gran Torino a terse, ‘Thanks, old man.’

‘Who’re you calling old man?’ Gran Torino scoffs, though it lacks bite. ‘Kids these days.’

The improbably tiny hero glances at you, then over your shoulder to where All Might and All For One are interlocked in battle again. You barely have the wherewithal to wonder what he’s thinking when he says, ‘It’s time to go, kid.’

You feel like crying. But this time, there’s something so joyful that accompanies the stifling threat of tears. You can hardly stand it.

Even though you’re still here, still in the middle of this battlefield, this fight isn’t yours anymore.

You’re… well. You suppose what you feel is free.

It must look absurd, but you can’t help but smile through the tears you can feel welling, barely contained, in your eyes as you look between Gran Torino and Present Mic. Helpfully, you tell them, ‘I can’t move,’ as if it’s just one big fucking joke.

Present Mic’s hard expression does crumble a little, then, a bit of worry at the edges. ‘Are you…’

He doesn’t finish the sentence, or the question, probably realising there’s no simple answer to any of it, certainly not one worth contemplating here. Instead, he reaches down and, quicker than you can process, hoists you up onto his back, pulling your arms over his shoulders.

He’s stronger than you expected.

Once he straightens up and is apparently satisfied that you’re not going to fall, he turns his head just enough that you can see one green eye peeking at you from behind his glasses. ‘Let’s get you out of here, Painkiller.’

The laugh that startles from you makes him grin.

You consider something, some itch at the back of your mind. It’s hard to grasp it. The slim undercurrent of exhaustion and pain—you’re not badly injured anymore, at least, but the exertion still translates to a full-body ache—is starting to overcome everything else.

You blink, glancing back at the fight. They’ve lapsed again, some sort of dialogue happening between them.

You turn back to look at Present Mic. ‘Can you tell All Might…’ It’s getting harder to form full words. Your next blink feels a little too long. ‘It’s where he’s weakest. The blood.’

Not the most coherent explanation. But you think he gets it. He shifts so that you’re not in the way as he faces the battle again and shouts, ‘Yo, All Might!’

You can hear the grin on his face as he adds, with the full force of his Quirk, ‘Hit him where it hurts!’

That is… so not an appropriate translation of what you said. But you’re pretty sure it makes enough sense, and even if it doesn’t…

It’s not your fight.

You let yourself sag against his back as he starts to run, tightening your grip around him so you’re not jostled too much. It still heightens the pain you’re feeling, just a little. It’s not especially bad, and not localised anywhere specific; just the widespread, exhausted pain of everything you’ve endured.

You rest your face against the leather of his jacket.

‘Hey,’ he says, softer this time, and you know it’s more Yamada than his boisterous hero persona speaking to you now. Gently and with no expectation, he asks, ‘Want to use your Quirk?’

You tighten your grip around him even more. The tears are starting to win out over your absolutely frayed composure.

‘Okay,’ you say.

And you do.

Notes:

holyshitholyshitholyshit

Fun fact: the scene where Sine uses their Quirk against AFO was the very first idea I ever had that formed the basis for this entire fic years ago.

If you could spare a comment, I'd really appreciate it. I've invested years and well over a hundred thousand words to get to this moment and having you all along with me has been a blessing. I really, really, really hope this chapter lived up to expectations.

Of course, fret not, there's still plenty of this fic to go ;) But we're starting on the up.

(Also, shiny new summary for the fic because the old one has been bugging me for ages)

Chapter 14

Notes:

cws: all prior warnings apply, plus nightmares and panic attacks for this chapter

It takes a couple of hours to get back to Yuuei. You get bundled into the back of some hero’s assistant’s car with Yamada, feeling more tired than you ever have in your life.

Younger, too. More your age.

And you can’t seem to let go of Yamada beside you. You’re not even using your Quirk, anymore. The pain isn’t bad, just an aching fatigue, and for the first time, you think you’re actually experiencing the negative side effects of Quirk overuse. You’re not sure you could use it even if you tried.

But you just don’t want to let him go. Don’t know if you’d be able to stand it. It’s a bit embarrassing—a little contact just doesn’t seem to be enough. Not enough to make you feel safe. So you’re fully tucked under his arm, nestled right up against his side, with both your arms wrapped around his torso.

You don’t remember winding up in that position. You’ve been coming in and out of awareness the entire time. But you’re just so done with it all, and he feels so safe, and you’re not sure you could really do without that, right now. It feels like you might fall into some pit of loneliness and sadness and grief and all the feelings you haven’t let yourself feel these past few days.

But it doesn’t feel as bad when you’re holding him.

So you don’t even try to force yourself not to. He doesn’t seem to mind. And, by now, you’re not even surprised by that.

He keeps up a din of soft small talk with the driver the entire way back. You don’t pay any attention to the words themselves, but the warmth of him and the sound of his voice, the soothing familiarity of him, let the time pass quicker than it should’ve. One moment, you’re blinking your eyes closed—the next, you’re standing in front of the Yuuei gates.

Yamada’s voice is soft, and you get the sense he’s saying it as much for himself as he is for you when he looks down at you and murmurs, ‘We’re home.’

Even though you can stand on your own, and can even manage walking, you still end up with a fistful of Yamada’s jacket, still halfway to a hug the entire walk through campus.

Vaguely, as you make your way into the teachers’ dorm, you’re aware of the time that’s passed. That the fight is probably over, the rescue wrapping up.

You just can’t bring yourself to care about the outcome. To wonder what happened to Midoriya and Iida and Kirishima and Bakugou and Shouto, because you know he was there too, you saw his ice. But all you can do is file it away as a note to give him a piece of your mind when you see him next.

All of it can just wait. You can’t be bothered with any of it. You just want to be here. Where you’re safe.

In the common area of the dorm, one of the overhead lights illuminates the large communal dining table. Two people are seated there, waiting for you.

Midnight looks a little haggard in her civilian clothes, obvious shadows beneath her eyes. She gives you a quick once-over, and her shoulders slump with visible relief. She gives Yamada the very same treatment.

Recovery Girl, still wearing the same uniform you’ve always seen her in—does she ever wear anything else?—immediately stands to approach you.

‘Welcome back,’ she says, mouth set in a pleased, relieved smile.

‘Shouta had to go round up the others,’ Midnight explains. ‘Stupid kids.’ It’s a fond, exasperated admonishment. She turns her attention more fully to Yamada while Recovery Girl stops in front of you.

‘Are you hurt?’ she asks.

You still have a vice grip on Yamada’s jacket. Now that you’re finally closer to familiar, safe territory, you think you can let go and survive it. So you do.

But you still end up inching close enough that you’re all but pressed against his side, anyway.

You try to push through the exhausted haze to find an appropriate answer to Recovery Girl’s question. You look down as if you might find more answers—and realise just how much of a state you’re in. Your clothes are tattered and caked with dry blood, still the same ones you were wearing during the test of courage. You’re covered in a layer of dust and grime on top of it all, probably from getting thrown against the rubble at the end, there.

Finally, you settle on, ‘I don’t think so. I lost a lot of blood, but I don’t… I’m not hurt, I don’t think. Not anymore.’ Somehow, that doesn’t feel like it’ll be enough of an answer for the three adults hovering around you, so you add a mumbled, ‘I probably just need to sleep.’

Recovery Girl makes a little tsk sound. ‘Your Quirk is a dangerous one, isn’t it?’

You remember her saying something to that effect about Midoriya’s Quirk, months ago.

‘How ‘bout I use mine as a precaution, hm?’ she adds, stepping closer to you.

You nod, and let her do so. You’re too tired to tell if it even does anything, but you quietly thank her anyway.

‘Of course, dear.’ She glances back up at Yamada with a sigh. ‘I’m sure you’ve got this all well in hand. I suppose we’ll go see if any of the others will be needing medical attention.’

Midnight nods, then spares you a soft smile, too. ‘Glad you’re okay, kid.’

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Present Mic saved me. My hero.’ You mean to say it with a bit of humour, maybe even some sarcasm, but in your fatigue, none of that comes through. It just ends up sounding completely serious. Before you can say anything else, you have to cover your mouth to stifle a big yawn.

It’s a little embarrassing. But again, you just don’t care. You’re too tired for it, and, really… You’re exactly where you want to be.

The others leave, and the two of you head into his and Aizawa’s room.

Once you’re finally in their space, you feel capable not being quite so attached. As long as he’s still close by.

You’re never more than a few steps away, half following him as he retrieves a change of clothes for you from the bedroom, followed by a towel from the linen closet.

‘Will you be okay to shower?’ he asks. ‘I’ll sort out some food.’

It’s not a question of whether or not you need to get cleaned up. You’re absolutely filthy. But when you consider the idea of not being in the same room as him right now…

You’ll just have to.

It’s only when you’re stripping out of your ruined clothes that you remember the deck of cards, still tucked away in a pocket. You set them gingerly on the counter and try not to stare at the blood smeared on the sleeve. It must’ve happened when you tried to give them to Bakugou. It almost feels like you’ve ruined something important, even though that was never supposed to be the point of them.

There’s a tightening coil of anxiety in your stomach that gets heavier as you step into the shower. Standing beneath the running hot water, staring down at the red that blooms against the white tiles—it’s too much.

You don’t want to suffer through it alone anymore.

Before you have a chance to second guess it, you call out, as soft as you can while still hoping to be heard, ‘Yamada?’

He calls back not a moment later, a little too loud even though he’s muffled by the door. There’s a hint of panic in his voice. ‘Is everything okay?’

You don’t really know how to answer that, except that the sound of his voice makes the tight feeling recede, just a little, so you answer, ‘Can you open the door a little?’

He does. ‘Of course. What’s up?’

The next part feels like a bigger admission, but the spike of fear you feel in giving it isn’t the same as it once was. This doesn’t feel like setting yourself up for some big future loss, and it doesn’t feel like admitting to an exploitable weakness.

It just feels like being honest. And yeah, that’s scary, but you also feel safe enough with him to do it. And that feels important.

‘Can you just… keep talking, please?’ Tears spring to your eyes at the expression of vulnerability, despite yourself, and you know it’s audible in how fragile your words sound. Still, you clarify, ‘I just want to hear your voice.’

There’s a pause, during which you hear something that sounds like a sniff, but then, with a watery voice, Yamada starts to speak.

He tells you a story from back when he and Aizawa were in their third year at Yuuei, a time when Aizawa got hit by a Quirk that turned his hair yellow, barely a few shades lighter than Yamada’s. It lasted nearly an entire week, and the only reason Yamada didn’t coif it to match his while Aizawa sleeping was because Aizawa threatened to shave it all off if he so much as tried.

The story draws a smile from you, from the way he describes his own feelings about it, to the way he recounts all of Aizawa’s reactions. By the time he’s finished telling it, you’re done scrubbing the blood from your skin. The water finally runs clear.

You shut it off and step out. As you start drying yourself off, Yamada calls softly, ‘I’ll heat some leftovers for us?’ He poses it as a question, which makes something warm and appreciative stir in your chest.

‘Sure.’

You grab for the clothes left for you on the counter. You shrug them on and realise they fit. They’re your size. They’re all black, so you just assumed they were more of Aizawa’s spares.

You try not to think too hard about exactly when or why they ended up with spare clothes for you.

When you step out, Yamada gestures with his full hands—two bowls, lightly steaming—towards the couch. You both settle, and Tsuki surfaces from the bedroom and curls up beside you while you eat, thankfully not trying to steal your food.

You’re too tired to eat, but you know you need to eat something, so you force down as much of it as you can, slowly so that you don’t worsen your already weak stomach.

When you’re finally done, you set the bowl on the low table in front of you and turn to Tsuki beside you, running your fingers through her soft, black fur.

Eventually, Yamada puts his bowl beside yours. From the corner of your eye, you see him retrieve his phone from his pocket. You know what he’s going to do. You just keep your focus on Tsuki as best you can.

After a long, silent moment, he asks, voice strained and quiet, ‘Do you want to know?’

No. You really don’t. But you have to.

You don’t look away from Tsuki as you offer Yamada a tiny nod.

‘They’ve taken All For One into custody.’

It’s not the end. You know it’s not, not until he’s dead and gone for good. But your hand stills against Tsuki’s fur and suddenly, you’re holding your breath.

Why does it hurt? Inexplicably, you feel such a wave of sadness and grief and longing, with no idea what to make of any of it. It can’t be towards him, and yet hearing that he’s been… however temporarily, taken out, somehow, apparently—it rattles up those feelings inside you.

And you don’t miss what’s missing. Voice terse, you say, ‘The League got away.’

Tomura got away.

You glance at Yamada when he gives no answer, and he just meets your eyes with his own regretful green—he’s traded out the tinted glasses he wears as part of his costume for his normal, red-rimmed ones. They look weird with the rest of his ensemble. Too normal.

You suddenly, desperately, want a moment alone. Not completely—you’re not sure you could handle that, yet—but enough.

You tear your eyes away from his and return to scratching behind Tsuki’s ears. ‘You can shower, if you want. I’ll be okay.’

You can feel his eyes on you, and you wonder what expression he’s making, but you don’t turn to look. ‘Are you sure?’

You nod. ‘I can’t take you seriously with your hair like that.’

He snorts, but stands. When he passes behind the couch, he drops his hand to your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘I won’t be long.’

Only once you hear the water running—and the sound of him humming softly, and you wonder if he does that usually or if it’s because of you, because he wants you to know he’s still here—do you look up and glance around the room.

It feels… surreal, being back here. Hopefully for good.

Yamada left the bowls on the table in front of you, so you resolve to clean them up. A small thank you, but a thank you nonetheless, and it gives you something to do. It doesn’t take long, but once they’ve both dried and put away, you return to the couch.

Yamada’s phone is buzzing, silenced, where he left it on the arm. The lit-up display shows the name Aizawa Shouta as the caller.

For some reason, your heart twists itself into knots at the prospect of hearing his voice.

Part of you doesn’t want to. For some reason.

What if he’s angry at you?

You left without saying a word to him. And, sure, you weren’t exactly in your right mind when you did it. But… you probably worried him. You don’t want him to be disappointed in you. You’d hate that.

But you also can’t lie to him. And he’ll want to know what happened. What you did. You’re not sure how much the media was there in time to broadcast, but what if he doesn’t get it? What if he doesn’t understand why you did it, what about—

Panic wraps around you like a vice.

You forgot about Ragdoll.

You were so—so sure, that your place here was guaranteed now, that you were finally here to stay, in this place with these people, that you forgot that there is a very real chance you’ve still crossed a line there’s no coming back from. You could still lose your place at this school.

You could still lose your place with them.

What if they don’t see what you did as an act done to save her? What if all they can see is that you hurt her in the first place?

What if she didn’t survive?

Yamada’s screen goes dim, the call rung out. You don’t realise he’s finished his shower, not until you see motion out of the corner of your eye. But you can’t hear him—didn’t hear the water stop running, didn’t hear him come back into the room, can’t hear whatever he’s saying to you when you look up—over the sounds of your own hyperventilating.

Your eyes are wide and stinging, you don’t know when you last blinked. Yamada rounds the couch, lips moving but no sound registering, and he reaches out to you. You stumble back, tripping over the low table and landing hard against the floor. But even as he gets closer, brows lifted in concern and panic of his own, you shuffle back further until he stops.

His gaze flits from you to his phone. He immediately grabs it and answers an incoming call, probably Aizawa calling again.

You can just barely make out Yamada’s words over your own heaving breaths when he says, ‘Shouta, I don’t know what’s happening, they’re panicking and I don’t know why, it’s bad, Shou—‘ He cuts himself off, listening for a moment, before he pulls the phone away from his ear and taps the screen.

He crouches, still keeping his distance, and says, ‘You’re on speaker.’

Aizawa says your name. ‘You need to breathe.’ His tone is similar to the one he uses as a teacher, severe and certain, but there’s an edge of something else there, too.

It’s like when he crouched with you on the bathroom floor, months before. A lifeline to you—and in a way, that only scares you more.

You don’t know what you’ll do if he hates you. If he takes it back, what he said, about you having what it takes to be a hero.

‘Breathe,’ he repeats, insistent.

But you don’t know how to look past the overwhelming, devastating possibility that you’ll lose this, even after fighting so hard for it. Especially after that.

It was hell. You fought like hell. What if it was for nothing? What if you ruined it all the second you took a knife to her—

You’re lightheaded, vision blurry, when you hear a second voice. This one is familiar, too.

Shouto says your name, tentative but firm.

You latch onto the sound of him. That’s easier, feels simpler somehow, you don’t think he’d be disappointed by you, even if—no, you can’t think about it. Shouto hasn’t ever looked at you in a way that makes you feel like he has hopes for you. Like he’s looking not just at you, but at everything you might become. He’s different from everyone else.

Because he just looks at you.

You try to get your breathing back under control and manage it just enough to say, between slowing gasps, ‘Did you,’ another breath, ‘name the cat yet?’

There’s no hesitation in his reply. ‘I would’ve named it Sine if you didn’t come back.’

You gasp out a startled, strangled laugh. You don’t think he’s serious—he can’t be serious—but you can’t see any of his tells, so all you have to go off is his perpetually monotone voice. ‘I’ll kill you.’

A pause. Then, ‘You spent too much time with Bakugou.’

Another sharp, disbelieving laugh. ‘I can’t believe you’re already joking about it.’

But instead of playing along again, he just says, with perfect, genuine simplicity, ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’

You clamp your eyes shut, the heaving in your chest calming little by little.

When you finally have it mostly together again, the wave of post-panic attack fatigue cresting over you, Yamada murmurs, ‘What happened?’

It’s telling, you think, that he doesn’t immediately assume it was just the weight of everything hitting you all at once. That he knows it was something specific.

You know your silence lasts too long for it to be believable when you say, ‘It’s nothing,’ but you don’t give anyone a chance to call your bluff before you add, ‘Will you be back soon?’

‘We’re on our way,’ Aizawa confirms. ‘An hour or so.’

‘Okay.’

Yamada waits, as if you or someone on the other end might say something else. When no one does, he sighs. ‘We’ll see you soon.’

‘See you soon,’ Aizawa agrees.

The second the call ends, you look to Yamada. ‘Can I go back to the dorm?’

Yamada doesn’t bother to hide the way his brows knit with even more concern. ‘Of course, if that’s what you want. Are you sure?’

You don’t blame him for being unconvinced. An hour ago, you could barely let him go.

Now you’re running away. You can’t help it.

You don’t know how to stomach the horror of the what-if.

---

You’re alone in your room for all of five minutes before you realise you can’t handle that, either. You didn’t think to ask about your phone, after you dropped it in the forest. You wouldn’t know who to text, maybe Shouto, but you don’t even have that option.

You’re utterly alone.

You can’t stand it.

So, you pick the lock to Shouto’s room and slip inside.

The cat, still unnamed, eyes you warily from his futon. It’s still spread out, though he’s made it as neat as possible.

Does he really just leave his futon out for the damn cat? She has a perfectly good, expensive bed right next to it!

You approach slowly and sit gingerly beside her. You expect her to dart off, find somewhere to hide like she normally does. But apparently the futon is too comfortable for her to deem you enough of a reason to vacate it.

She even acquiesces when you move to pet her, allowing a gentle scratch under the chin. She peers at you with bright amber eyes that make the orange of her calico coat stand out, and you could swear she’s telling you something haughty. Maybe something like I’m only putting up with you because Shouto’s not here.

She doesn’t grace you with a purr, and only lets you touch her for a couple of minutes before she moves to the far end of the futon.

You couldn’t say how long you sit there, just watching her, all of your thoughts wiped away. It’s easy to just… stop thinking. Especially given how exhausted you are.

The room smells like Shouto. Something about that is comforting.

Your eyes are getting heavier the longer you sit. You’re on the cusp of dozing even though you’re still sitting upright.

Then the door slams open. Shouto stands on the threshold. You can only see his silhouette properly in the dark, but you can tell his chest is heaving, just a little.

You barely have enough time to scramble to your feet before he’s yanking you into a solid embrace.

After a moment of surprise, you thread your arms around him, in turn, murmuring an uncertain, ‘Shouto?’

‘You weren’t in your room,’ he says, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Oh.

You scared him.

For the longest time, you both just stand there. For the first time you feel the actual, noticeable difference in his temperature from his warm left side to his cool right. It’s subdued, not as obvious as you thought it would be, which just confirms that he knows full well that he’s cheating when it comes to the cats. He does it on purpose.

Something about that makes you smile and hold him tighter.

He scared you, too. Ice. Right there on the battlefield with Father himself. Tomura, too. Damn right, he scared you.

But you’re not sure if you knew he meant this much to you. You had some idea, sure. He’s the first real, long-term friend you’ve ever had. He’s important. You knew that much.

But did you know that you meant this much to him?

Maybe he didn’t either.

Eventually, your fatigue gets too much. You’re not far from being unable to stand on your own, again, so you have to murmur a quiet goodnight and head back to your own room.

Before you do, Shouto pulls something from a pocket and hands it to you.

Your phone.

‘Aizawa-sensei had it. He said to give it to you.’

‘Thanks.’

You think the churning anxiety of what’s still to come will keep your awake, but you’re gone the moment your head hits the pillow.

For the first time in—how long?

You have a nightmare.

Something ugly inside you takes the memory of the last few days and warps it; twists it out of shape, makes it into something gnarled and many-clawed, jagged and insatiable.

You dream of taking a knife to yourself and trying to give it all to him. But your Quirk fails, and you’re left bleeding out in the middle of a void, and no one comes to help.

You dream of taking the knife to yourself again, but this time, when you use your Quirk on him, it’s the other way around. You’re swamped not only with his pain, but the permanent injuries, too. You’re left sightless and scarred and unable to cry. You have no eyes.

You dream of his hand on top of your head, his fingertips ending in jagged claws that slice you open from the scalp. Blood pours down your skin, gets into your eyes, into your mouth, you can taste it—

You wake up to the improbable vision of Shouto back-lit by high, midday sunlight as it streams into your room through the open door.

You stare at him, gradually noticing the unsteady rise and fall of your chest. The sweat beading down your forehead.

‘You were screaming,’ he says.

‘Oh.’ You blink, and warmth blooms around your eyes as you push yourself up until you’re sitting. ‘Sorry.’

What are you supposed to do? You know what you should do. You should call them. Tell them everything. End this, ask for help.

But what if you end up losing them?

You’ve become so reliant on them, and that’s… That’s not safe. You know you can trust them, you know they’re there to help you, you know they’d go to a lot of trouble for you, they already have.

But to rely on them is another thing entirely. Sure, they’re doing what any good teachers would do. Looking out for their student.

But you don’t want that to be the only reason why.

And that is a truth that terrifies you utterly.

This time, instead of panic, the fear becomes sadness. Tears bubble over with a vengeance you can’t quell. All you can do is cover your eyes with a hand and drag out another wrecked, ‘I’m sorry,’ for Shouto’s sake. Your shoulders start to shudder and it’s almost painful, just how sad you feel.

You’ve never cried, not like this, in front of anyone other than them. And this feels different, somehow. Because they are part of the reason.

It’s like you’re already grieving the loss of them.

Because what if, what if, what if.

You feel the ever-so-gentle brush of warm fingers against your wrist. The bed dips under his weight at Shouto sits beside you, his hand shifting until he’s gently holding you by the wrist.

‘I don’t want to lose them,’ you manage. ‘They’re the only good—the only good—they’re—’ When you finally pull your hand away from your face to look Shouto in the eye, you’re stunned. Because he looks more openly, honestly sad than you’ve ever seen.

Slowly, his expression does return to something more neutral. But you can still see it in his eyes as he murmurs, ‘Why do you think you would? Lose them?’

‘Because I—‘ you choke on a sob that feels like a shard of glass in your throat, ‘Because I—‘ When you finally get it out, it’s barely more than a whisper. ‘I think I killed Ragdoll.’

His eyebrows pull down into a frown, and without a moment’s hesitation, he’s reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

‘No!’ You reach forward, but he just leans back, keeps his left hand around your wrist as leverage as his right hand quickly thumbs through his phone. ‘Shouto, don’t, please don’t—‘

Aizawa answers on the first ring. Shouto already has it on speaker.

Your mouth slams shut.

Shouto doesn’t even give him a chance to say anything, just immediately demands, ‘Is Ragdoll okay?’

Aizawa’s reply is immediate. ‘She’s in the hospital. The rest of the Pussycats are with her. She’s stable.’

Another shattered glass sob tears free before you can stop it and the words rip from you in a half-shout, ‘I hurt her! I hurt her, Aizawa! I hurt her—‘

You lose awareness of what’s happening around you. Vaguely, you can hear voices, but you just curl in on yourself and break into thin, hoarse sobs. All that you know is that you can’t stop saying it. I hurt her. I hurt her. I hurt her.

In the few minutes it takes them to get to you, you somehow end up with tight fistfuls of Shouto’s shirt, bawling your heart out as it wrests from you in a horrible confession.

And then you feel Yamada’s arms thrown around you from behind, another shift on the bed as his weight gets added to it, too. You feel the unsteady motion of his chest against your back, and you know, immediately, that they ran all the way here.

And Aizawa crouches on the floor beside the bed. He reaches out, and one hand wraps around your arm, right above where Shouto is still clutching your wrist. The other finds your head, resting firm and warm and familiar and—

And not his. Not Father’s.

The relief is so heady, so painful, that it feels like you come apart even harder than before. ‘I—I hurt her,’ you whine, fists painfully tight around Shouto’s shirt, your eyes fixed on Aizawa. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in days, and it feels so much longer. But he’s here. But you hurt her.

‘She’s okay,’ Aizawa tells you, and his face is so gentle and open and mixed in with the concern is relief, just like last time, and just like last time, that relief is what undoes you. ‘You’re okay.’

Yamada, too, his voice so soft it might as well be a whisper in your ear. ‘You’re safe. You did nothing wrong.’

‘But you don’t even know what I did!’

Aizawa holds your gaze. ‘It was like last time, wasn’t it?’

For a moment, it might as well just be the two of you alone in the room. You haven’t told Shouto or Yamada about Kawata, haven’t told anyone other than Aizawa. But Aizawa listens. He listens, and he understands, and whatever he’s come to understand about All For One, after readily and unquestioningly taking your word for it, he’s right, and he…

He never doubted you for a second.

Eyes fixed on you, intent and certain, he says, ‘You saved her, didn’t you?’

You feel your face crumble hopelessly and have to close your eyes against the wash of feeling. ‘I tried—I tried to.’

‘And you did. You saved her.’ After another moment, he adds, ‘Hey. Look at me.’

You do. You open your bleary eyes and look at him.

His lips form a gentle smile to match his impossibly soft, relieved eyes—and pride. You think he looks proud when he says, ‘You were her hero.’

The little breath you had leaves you in a mangled sound. You wouldn’t know how to protest that if you tried, not when he says it like that, while he’s looking at you like that.

So you don’t try.

Instead, you blink away another round of tears as your grip on Shouto’s shirt finally lets up. ‘She’s really okay?’

Aizawa nods. ‘She is.’

Right then, right there, you’re surrounded by the three most important people you’ve ever had in your life. Because you got back to them. Because you made it home.

Because you get to stay.

You feel the safest you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

You finally release your grip on Shouto’s shirt completely. Then, tentatively, you pull your wrist free from his grip. It’s awkward, because Yamada’s still holding you, but Aizawa’s hand has shifted to rest on your knee, so you have enough leverage to throw your arms gently around the boy in front of you.

Because he saw that you needed help. And he got you exactly the help you needed.

And you think maybe that’s what you do for each other. Maybe that’s part of how much he understands you. Maybe you understand him, too.

‘Thank you,’ you tell him.

He just hums, setting his arms around you in kind.

---

You and Shouto both get squirrelled across to the teachers’ dorms, where Yamada gets started on putting together lunch. Shouto immediately finds his place at the end of the couch with Taiyou in his lap—in his lap!—while you get stuck entertaining a hyperactive Hoshi. He’s getting too big for how intent he seems on clawing the shit out of your hands, breaking little lines of skin every time you don’t quite dodge a swipe.

Aizawa’s seated at the dining table, leafing through a bunch of papers spread out in front of him. Apparently, Yuuei is officially proceeding with relocating all students to the dorms as soon as possible. And, because of it, Aizawa will be gone most of the week across the country conducting home visits to discuss it with the families of the rest of the class.

And he’s doing it all with All Might.

Learning that much reminds you to ask something you’ve been wondering. ‘Does All Might know?’

Aizawa nods. ‘I told him as little as I could, but I did deem some of it important to share. With him, as well as Detective Tsukauchi.’

You recognise the name—you think he’s been after All For One for as long as you’ve been alive.

You just shrug. ‘That makes sense,’ you concede. ‘I sort of expected—’

It hits you like a bolt of lightning. The cards.

You know, logically, that nothing will have happened to them. It’s not like they’d have been discarded as trash, but you still feel a flit of panic anyway as you jolt upright. ‘Yamada, what happened to the deck of cards I left in the bathroom?’

Yamada turns away from where he’s posted in front of the oven, gesturing to the low table in front of you. ‘Left drawer. I figured they were important, if you took them with you.’

Of course he did. He’s like that. And you don’t doubt that anymore, don’t worry that he’s lying.

Now, it just makes you feel soft.

‘Thanks,’ you offer him a soft smile as you reach for the drawer.

And there they are, tattered sleeve smeared with blood and all. You notice Aizawa glance from them back to your face, expression unreadable. You’re pretty sure you mentioned playing card games with Kawata, so he probably has some idea of… Well. Their sentimental value.

You hadn’t realised before now just how much you also wanted to keep the cards themselves. Not just what’s hidden inside.

But right now, that’s what you’re after, so you upend the box in your hand, not enough for any cards to slip out, just enough that you can tug at the folded piece of paper stuck in the middle. Once it’s in hand, you wander over to the dining table and set it in front of Aizawa. ‘I guess it doesn’t matter as much now, since I can just share all of that. And more, probably. But it’s all the most important stuff I could think of while I was there. About All For One.’

Aizawa inclines his head, looking up at you, something gently searching in his eyes. ‘I can delay law enforcement for a little while, but eventually they’ll want a statement. More than one, probably.’

You blink. You’d expected as much, but it reminds you of the press conference. You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘How much pull do you have with them?’

The corner of his lip twitches. ‘You’ll learn a thing or two about handling unruly pests as an underground hero.’

You feel a smile rise unbidden to your face as you bite back a laugh. ‘What makes you so sure I want to be underground?’

Yamada laughs from the kitchenette.

The look Aizawa gives you sends you all the way back to the very first moments the two of you shared, when you were just Sine Nomine and he was just Eraserhead. Flat, eyebrow raised, a hint of condescension.

It makes you giggle. And you can’t even really be embarrassed about it, not when you watch his face soften again before he turns away, refocusing on the papers in front of him.

You glance over them. It looks like they’re mostly plans for the upcoming home visits. ‘You’re visiting Bakugou first, right?’

He nods. ‘They’re closest. It doubles as a courtesy.’

‘The Midoriyas would be next, then?’

He glances at you. ‘Yes.’

You don’t give yourself a chance to back out. ‘Can I come? Just for that visit, I just… I have an apology to make.’

He breathes out a soft sigh, but nods.

You head back over to the couch, huffing a laugh at the sight in front of you. Hoshi’s moved on in your absence, instead swatting at Taiyou’s tail. It swishes back and forth even though the ginger cat is, supposedly, still asleep in Shouto’s lap.

For the first time, you finally find your thoughts wandering over exactly what it all means—that everybody knows, now. That you were a vigilante.

First, you think of the rest of the class. It’s not like you care all that much about what most of them think of you. But what if some of them think you’re not fit to be a hero?

It’s… not an appealing thought.

Then there’s Hina. You don’t expect anything other than concern and relief from her. That much is a certainty, at the very least, and it’s a balm to be so sure of something. You’ll visit her soon. The cemetery, too.

But that’s just this side of your old double life. There’s the other side, too. All your old contacts, everyone at Yasumi’s, will know that you’re a Yuuei student now. You wonder, idly, what they might think of that. Someone like Juro might find it amusing. Maybe even a relief. He always seemed a little unsettled by your age.

But, if you do become an underground hero, which is your obvious inclination, you might still be able to use some of those contacts. It might even work in your favour that the knowledge is public, at least in that case, because you’ll have an existing sort of rapport with some of them.

Hopefully, at least.

---

After you’ve all finished lunch, you teach Shouto Two-Ten-Jack using the faded old cards. You’re not all that surprised that he doesn’t have much experience with card games. You didn’t either, before Kawata.

Shouto picks up the rules quick enough, but by the end of your first game, you’re staring down at your winning hand. Something wistful claws at your throat.

‘That’s the first time I’ve ever won,’ you say softly.

Shouto blinks at you, head tilted in question. It’s an invitation you don’t feel ready to take. But you barely have time to shake your head at him regretfully before Aizawa interrupts you anyway.

He says your name from where he’s still posted at the dining table. ‘All Might would like to know if you feel up to speaking with him,’ he relays. His phone is in his hand, so you assume All Might just texted him.

A whisper of dread settles in your stomach. You know it’s mostly the circumstance, and your conditioning. An honest conversation with All Might won’t entail anything too awful. But you feel the anxiety of it anyway.

You have no reason to refuse, though. And it’ll happen eventually, no matter what. It’s a long overdue conversation. So, you end up heading towards the main campus with Aizawa in tow.

You find him in a small, cosy meeting room with a low table and a couple of plush couches. He already has tea waiting.

He is, of course, in his small form. From what you heard, from the bits and pieces the others have told you—you still haven’t managed to look up the media coverage of the fight or its aftermath yourself—he’s probably going to be in this form permanently, now.

You know what it is, even if the public doesn’t.

The last ember of One For All used up. All of it rests with Midoriya, now.

All Might looks weary, but somehow a bit lighter, too, even with one arm still in a sling and bandages still wrapped around his forehead. It makes sense; he finally put All For One behind bars.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he says, standing to receive the two of you in a formal, stiff gesture. He only sits again when the two of you are settled across from him.

An awkward silence lingers for a long moment. He finally breaks it by asking, ‘Can I ask… How are you?’

It could be an empty sort of question, a courtesy or even just small talk. But you don’t think it is. Not from him.

‘I…’ You purse your lips, staring at the steam rising from the cup of tea in front of you. ‘I don’t really know,’ you admit. ‘Okay, I think? Sort of.’

‘That is understandable,’ All Might concedes. After another too-long silence, he continues. ‘I have been… going back over some things, in my head. Recontextualising them, with what I now know. Was it you, who told Aizawa-kun about One For All?’

That’s not exactly what you did, but close enough. You glance up at him, searching his expression for an indication of whether it’s an accusation or something more neutral. He just looks grave—but he sort of always does, in this form. In his real form.

You nod.

A soft smile crosses his face. ‘You care a great deal about your friends. Thank you, for that. Aizawa-kun’s input has been invaluable to Midoriya-kun already.’ His offers a sheepish, wan smile in Aizawa’s direction.

You shrug, a little bashful yourself. ‘It just felt like the right thing to do at the time.’

In truth, you were just pissed at All Might for failing to adequately protect Midoriya. If he wouldn’t take that step, do the very, very obvious thing by including his homeroom teacher, then you would. And you did.

But All Might’s smile turns into a grin, close to his trademark grin even in this form. It might even be a truer version of it. ‘A hero’s instincts.’

You feel heat rise to your face.

Another lapse in the conversation prompts you to finally take a sip of your tea.

Yamada’s is better.

‘I owe you an apology,’ is how All Might ends this particular silence.

You set down your cup, but don’t take your eyes off it.

‘Not knowing that he had a child under his thumb is no excuse for what you must have endured because of my failing.’ He rises from his seat, only to bow low at the waist. ‘I am deeply sorry,’ he says, adding his usual ‘Young’ epithet when he says your name, as well.

You’re overwhelmed by the conflicting feelings that rise in you. Sadness and anger and grief and shame. None of it makes sense, none of it concrete, but it’s all sitting right there in your chest.

And somehow, there’s only one thing you can think to say, paired with a small, genuine smile that rises to your face unbidden. ‘You chose an incredible successor.’

When All Might relaxes out of his bow, the look he gives you is one of surprise, but it soon folds into his own half-smile, half-grin. ‘Young Midoriya certainly is that.’

You steel yourself for a long moment in the ensuing lull. You’re not sure you want to ask anything of him, but he’s also probably the best chance you have with this particular thing. There’s probably nobody with more sway in the entire country.

So, you swallow your pride and ask, ‘Could you do something for me?’

All Might returns to his seat. ‘Of course. Anything I can do, I will.’

Which is pretty much exactly what you expected.

‘It’s probably a long shot, but… You’d probably have the best chance, if it’s even possible.’ You take a breath to buy yourself an extra moment, then continue. ‘I had a friend, a few years ago. While I was… with All For One. He took her Quirk, and then… she died.’

It feels like a lie, even though it’s not.

‘I know almost nothing about her, just her given name and her Quirk, really. But if there’s any chance of finding out if she had family, if they might still be looking for her, or wondering what happened… I know that’s not likely. I know what he’s like. He doesn’t really leave evidence behind. But even if I could just learn her full name, just to know…’ You blink. ‘I think that might help. A little.’

When you glance up at All Might, he’s watching you with that same grave expression. It might be a little softer, though. It’s hard to tell. But he nods, ‘I’ll do everything I can. What do you know about her?’

You tell him as much as you can.

---

As the sun goes down and night descends—way too fast—you’re faintly nauseous with the weight of the anxiety growing in your gut.

You don’t know how you’re going to sleep. You don’t want to, not if there’s a chance you’ll have more nightmares like you did the night before. But you know you need to. You’re nowhere near recovered from the last week, not to mention everything before that. You’re not sure you’ll ever be done playing catch up with your sleep.

You know that rest is vital. You can feel how strung out you are.

But how are you supposed to get any meaningful rest if it’s going to be like this?

You’re drawing out the time you’ve been spending in the common area with Shouto as long as you possibly can. He’s started acclimating the kitten to the common spaces in advance of the rest of the dorms being occupied, so she’ll be comfortable enough that she won’t always have to be in his room.

So, you’re sat together on one of the couches while Shouto dangles a cat toy, the kind that’s on a stick, dragging it along the floor for the cat to chase.

‘Do you think…’ It’s a false start, and you trail off, because you’re not exactly sure how you’re supposed to ask this particular question.

Shouto just blinks at you, bleary-eyed.

You look away, focusing your gaze on the night sky where it peeks in through one of the large windows on the far side of the room. The moon is especially bright tonight.

‘How do you think they’ll react?’ you finally ask, ‘The rest of the class?’

Shouto seems to know what you mean without you needing to clarify. He’s quiet for a moment, then: ‘Some of them will probably think it’s cool. I don’t think anyone will be upset.’ He tilts his head, considering. ‘Iida might have something to say, though.’

You frown. ‘Why Iida?’ Sure, you can imagine he might want to school you on appropriate behaviour, try to steer you away from doing illegal shit, but you don’t think that’s what Shouto’s getting at.

When no answer is forthcoming, you glance back at Shouto. He just stares back.

And then it clicks.

You followed Iida to his internship. And, though he didn’t know it at the time, you were the first one to interfere in his confrontation with the Hero Killer.

‘You don’t think he’ll be mad, will he?’

Shouto’s shoulders shake with a single-syllable, silent laugh. ‘He’ll probably apologise, actually. He did to me and Midoriya.’

You… suppose that makes sense. But you won’t hold you breath. Besides, what he did was stupid, but it’s nothing that you’re owed an apology for.

Shouto’s flat resting expression is split by a wide yawn, the sort that makes tears gather in his eyes. It’s sort of adorable.

Then you’re yawning the same yawn, blinking away the same tears. You catch the tail end of a soft smile from Shouto before he stands, scooping up the kitten under his left arm. She clambers up onto his shoulder without fuss.

When you don’t immediately follow him, he stops, staring down at you for a long moment before he says, ‘Will you be okay?’ It’s still said in that same neutral, toneless voice, void of expectation in a way that doesn’t make you feel quite so vulnerable. You appreciate it.

But not because you want to hide behind it. Not this time. As you stand, you admit, ‘I don’t know.’

Shouto grabs your wrist, his hold gentle but insistent as he pulls you along with him. You let him, and he leads you all the way up the stairs to the fifth floor, where both of your rooms are. He releases you outside yours, plucking the cat off his shoulder and holding her out to you. She’s wriggling fitfully in his hands.

You’re confused, but you comply and take her. She lets out a high-pitched whining sound that you think is supposed to be a meow as Shouto ducks into his room.

You give her an unimpressed look. ‘You really can’t be without him for five seconds? Just because he’s warm?’

All you get by way of a response is another indignant mew.

When Shouto comes back out, he’s carrying his rolled up futon and bedding.

You blink. Something shifts in your chest, warm and hopeful, and you try to stamp it out even as you stare at him, wide-eyed.

You let him into your room, where he proceeds to set the futon up in the empty space next to your bed. You’re still holding the cat.

You leave the door ajar behind you so she can go back to Shouto’s room if she needs to. But, otherwise, once Shouto is set up, he sits on his futon and holds his hands out for her.

‘She’s a menace,’ you say as you hand her over. She, of course, gets cosy on the left side of his lap immediately, perfectly behaved and quiet.

Shouto just looks down at her with a fond smile.

Uncertainly, you turn out the light and, once your eyes adjust enough to see the vague shapes of your room, you pad your way back over to your bed.

‘It’s what my mother always did,’ he finally explains. ‘For my nightmares. We’d sleep in the same room. Sometimes I’d hide in her futon.’ You think you hear the hint of a smile in his words.

You settle into your bed at the same time as Shouto shifts so that he’s lying down instead of sitting.

‘You have nightmares?’ It does make sense, when you think about it.

‘For as long as I can remember.’

Regret settles like a stone in your stomach as you stare up at the dark ceiling. ‘I’m sorry.’

After a moment, he says, ‘So am I.’

You talk for a while longer, soft conversation about nothing at all. At one point, tentatively, you let your arm dangle from the side of the bed. Just in case.

Shouto doesn’t say anything. Just hooks his little finger around yours.

It’s his right side, this time. Cool to the touch. And there’s something special about that, you think.

It’s his mother’s side.

‘Does this count as a sleepover?’ you joke.

You can definitely hear the smile in his voice this time when he says, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

You snort. ‘Neither would I. We’re pretty pathetic, huh?’

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, quietly, ‘I don’t think so.’

You feel your eyes start to water. You take a breath to compose yourself and add, ‘Yeah. You’re right. We’re badass.’

This time, the soft snort of laughter is his.

You’re not sure when it happens, but once you fall asleep, you don’t wake again until morning, no nightmares to speak of.

---

On the way to the Bakugous’ residence, you sit in the back of the car with Aizawa. All Might has been relegated to the front passenger seat. Things between you are awkward, to say the least. The conversation from the day before was a start, but you’re sure there’s more he wants to say to you. And you know there’s more you should say to him.

But it can wait.

It doesn’t take too long to make it to the first destination. But you’re really only in this for the Midoriyas, so you just get out of the car to stretch your legs and wait while Aizawa and All Might head inside.

It’s not even ten minutes before they reemerge, relief evident on All Might’s face.

You glance at Aizawa, impassive as usual. You think there might be something a bit less heavy about him, though, his posture not quite as slanted. ‘How did it go?’

He doesn’t get the chance to reply, because Bakugou follows them out. He looks more subdued than you’ve ever seen him.

‘All Might,’ he says.

All Might turns back with an affirmative sound.

Bakugou stares at him, unwavering, as he says, ‘Deku. What is he to you?’

After a silence that’s far too long, All Might says, ‘My student. Just like you. A fledgling hero with potential.’

Bakugou stares for a moment longer before he sighs. ‘If you just don’t wanna say, that’s cool.’ He inclines his head, pauses, then adds, ‘Thanks.’

The sincerity in his expression makes you think he’s probably talking about the rescue.

Finally, his eyes shift for the first time to you. He’s still subdued, but you hear a bit more of his usual energy when he declares, ‘Fight me.’

You feel a smile creep onto your face as you blink at him. It twists into something closer to a grin. ‘Sure.’

His own grin answers yours, a manic quality to it. ‘I’ll destroy you.’

‘I’ll kick your ass with my eyes closed, Kacchan.’

His grin widens impossibly, screaming danger, and a single spark flickers at one of his hands.

Aizawa’s sigh is weary when he says your name, full of exasperation.

You whirl around to face him, pointing a finger in Bakugou’s direction. ‘He started it!’

‘I can end it, too,’ Bakugou agrees. When you glance back at him, he turns on his heel and stalks back towards his house. ‘Later.’

You think you’re actually looking forward to it.

---

On your way up the stairs of the apartment complex you used to live in—that the Midoriyas live in—you glance at All Might out of the corner of your eye, where he’s climbing the stairs on Aizawa’s other side.

‘You might want to prepare yourself, All Might,’ you tell him, barely containing your amusement. You think Aizawa notices, because he glances over at you briefly.

All Might looks at you, almost clear over the top of Aizawa’s head. He’s so tall. ‘What do you mean?’

It’s sort of surreal, that you are where you are, and that you’re messing with All Might himself, but you keep your manner carefully neutral as you add, ‘Did you forget your successor is a giant fanboy?’

You see the corner of Aizawa’s mouth twitch.

All Might’s face flushes slightly. ‘I’m, ah, sure it’s not that bad.’

‘Just pray you don’t see his bedroom.’

The Midoriyas are an exact replica of one another when they answer their door—both rigid and sweating bullets.

Inko stammers out a welcome and steps aside to let you in.

That’s when they both catch sight of you. You guess you’re pretty eclipsed next to All Might, and Aizawa’s tall as hell in his own right, too.

Midoriya looks faintly stunned, and you see his hand twitch, the same way it did in the forest, as if he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it.

You feel a pang of guilt, at that.

Inko, though, despite her obviously raging nerves, pushes right past the two heroes in front of you and wraps you in a warm hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay!’ For a moment, you think she’s going to start crying, but she holds it back. When she pulls away, she stops to study your face. ‘Are you okay?’

Other than a faint roiling of nervous guilt, sure. But she doesn’t need to know that, so you just nod.

The path down the hall to the joint dining and living area takes you right past Midoriya’s room, the door, regretfully, closed. You still don’t miss the wry, embarrassed expression on All Might’s face as he passes the All Might-themed Izuku nameplate and the All Might posters that are hung up right next to a few family photos on the wall.

Inko quickly lays out things for tea. The five of you barely fit around the small dining table, but you end up on one side with All Might and Aizawa, the Midoriyas on the other.

When they finally broach the topic of the dorms, Inko looks down at her hands where they’re settled on the table in front of her. ‘Yes, well, my answer…’ The longer her silence, the more dread settles in your stomach, until finally, she delivers a gut punch. ‘Is no.’

Midoriya whips around to face her. ‘But, Mom?! You said it was okay yesterday…’

Inko still doesn’t look at anyone, but you can tell she’s primarily addressing All Might, seated directly across from her. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and now I’m not so sure. Izuku used to be Quirkless, but he still grew up admiring you. And ever since he somehow developed a Quirk and enrolled at Yuuei, my Izuku is always getting hurt.’

She looks… exhausted. Her shoulders are slumped with defeat and you can see the conflict written all over her face even as she keeps looking down. ‘His arm,’ she continues. ‘You know about it, right? If he injures it again, he might lose it forever! Of course I saw your fight on TV the other day. As a citizen, I’m beyond grateful for what you’ve done. But as a parent, it scared me.’

Finally, she does look up, meeting All Might’s gaze with something almost pleading. ‘Izuku looks up to you. Is that his fate? If he’s headed for a future that bloody, I…’ Her face starts to crumble, but she presses on. ‘Back when he was Quirkless, he got so much joy from watching heroes do their work. So now I’m thinking, shouldn’t that be good enough?’

Midoriya shoots up out of his seat, staring down at his mother with an expression etched with betrayal. ‘Mom!’

Inko looks down again. ‘Izuku. I’ll always support you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry. You know that. I know Izuku wants to keep going to Yuuei. But… I’m sorry, Izuku.’

Her voice hardens, and when she looks back up at All Might, then at Aizawa, she’s fixing them both with a hard glare despite the tears streaming down her face. ‘Let me speak plainly. As Izuku’s mother, with Yuuei in the state it’s in, I cannot in good conscience entrust my son to your school.’

Midoriya’s still standing there, still staring at her. ‘Mom…’

Inko focuses on All Might again. ‘This has nothing to do with how great a hero you are. It’s about classes that keep getting attacked by villains and students who suffer injuries that the school can’t prevent. I don’t want my son going to a school like that anymore. I just don’t.’

All Might starts to stand, mouth open to say something, but Midoriya beats him to it. ‘You’re wrong, Mom!’ He raises his bandaged arm. ‘Me getting hurt was my own fault! The teachers gave me warning after warning, but I just…’

Inko’s face is still hard. ‘If this is how it turns out, though, it’s still the school’s responsibility.’

‘Kid,’ All Might says. ‘Take a seat.’

You can’t help but notice that Aizawa isn’t stepping in. You wonder if it’s because he’s thinking the same thing you are. That All Might—and Midoriya—should have told her about all of this. That Inko doesn’t just deserve to know—it’s her right as Midoriya’s first and foremost protector. As his mother.

‘You can call me a helicopter parent if you want,’ Inko says, ‘I’m fine with that. It’s not that I want to ruin Izuku’s dreams. If he’s still intent on becoming a hero… Then there are plenty of hero courses at schools other than Yuuei.’

Midoriya’s face contorts into something conflicted with an edge of heartbreak—and then he bolts out of the room.

‘Izuku!’ Inko calls. She rises, glancing back for a moment to say, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll call him back.’

But you can’t sit quietly anymore.

‘Inko-san,’ you say. She pauses, now standing across from you at the table after she’d moved to follow Midoriya. You glance up, to make sure she’s watching you. Her expression is pained and uncertain.

You look back down at the table in front of you and take a deep breath. ‘You said you saw All Might’s fight, with that villain.’

After a moment, Inko says, ‘I did.’

‘I was raised by him.’ You hear twin intakes of breath, one across from you and the other from the door, where you have to guess Midoriya has already returned. You don’t dare to look at him.

Inko sits back down in the seat he vacated.

So you continue. ‘My biological father died not long after I was born, and after I got my Quirk, that villain—All For One—orchestrated my mother’s murder and took me in. He raised me to hate heroes.’

You clench your fists softly atop the table, not enough to hurt, just a focus of tension somewhere external. Because you haven’t really talked about this at length with anyone, and now you’re telling four people. At least three of whom matter to you in some way. And All Might is… well, he’s All Might, isn’t he?

‘And heroes didn’t save me from that. Not even when one of them had the chance,’ you try not to let a scowl take over your face. That’s not what this is about, not entirely. ‘So, I did. I hated heroes. I didn’t trust them. I didn’t believe in them. I didn’t think there was a single truly good one. Not even All Might.’

That’s not strictly true, not the full story, but it’s not like you need to get into the complexities to be honest here.

‘When I saw the chance, I escaped. I became a vigilante. I did it as much in protest of heroes as I did to go up against villains. And, eventually, I met you and Midoriya.’ Your eyes start to sting, but you keep going. ‘He was one of the very first people who ever tried to be my friend. And it was really hard to let him, but it was just as hard to keep him at arm’s length because I knew who my father was, and I didn’t want to risk dragging you both into that.

‘But the thing is, even back then, even when he was Quirkless,’ you raise your head to look at Inko, to meet her eyes even as the outline of her blurs through your tears, tears that are mirrored on her face, ‘your son was the first hero I ever believed in. But I knew how scary it was, because I thought it too—that he’d end up getting himself hurt trying to become one, maybe even killed.

‘I took the entrance exam because of Eraserhead, but I enrolled because of Midoriya. I had this stupid thought that if I just stayed close to him, I could protect him, I could be there if he needed help. And maybe it was just an excuse, maybe I just couldn’t admit that I wanted to become a hero, too, because I really didn’t think I could. But Midoriya was also the first person to ever tell me I’d make a good one.’

You blink and steel yourself as much as you can, aware of the very person you’re talking about still hovering by the door. ‘Midoriya was the first hero I believed in, and he was the first one who believed in me. And I think that let me follow him to Yuuei, and that decision saved my life. Your son saved me, and he did it without even trying, without knowing any of this.’

You offer Inko the brightest smile you can through your unruly tears. ‘That’s how much of a hero he is, Inko-san. And Yuuei is home to every other person who helped me, every time I didn’t think I deserved it, even though I didn’t believe in any of them. Except for him. I always believed in Midoriya.’

You reach across the table and take one of Inko’s hands in both of yours. ‘So please let him stay. My Quirk isn’t much, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to protect him when he needs it. And I know everyone else at Yuuei will, too. Please let me stay by his side.’ You think your grip is a little too tight, but Inko just reciprocates in kind. You’re not sure which of you is shaking when you say, ‘Because I really want to finally be his friend.’

There’s a strangled little sob from the hallway door, and you finally glance over at Midoriya. He’s pulled the front of his shirt up to bury his face in it, shoulders shaking.

And you’ve never hugged him before. Even though you’ve wanted to, more than once. So you launch yourself out of your chair and clear the distance in a few quick steps, and you throw your arms around him.

‘I’m sorry,’ you tell him. ‘I’m sorry about everything I said. I was lying, all of it was a lie. I think you’re going to be the greatest hero anyone has ever seen, Midoriya.’ You lower your voice to the smallest of whispers when you add, ‘All Might couldn’t have chosen better.’

Another sob, and you can feel Midoriya’s tears soaking into your shoulder as he threads his arms around you in kind.

He buries his face against you, voice muffled when he finally speaks. But you hear his, ‘I forgive you,’ clear as day.

Notes:

December is December, and writing this fic is my big coping mechanism at the moment. At least y'all are getting a lot of food out of it!

A couple of notes: I changed the age Sine was nabbed by AFO from six to four. Because that's the latest you're meant to manifest a Quirk anyway, lmao, and it just made more sense. The more relevant change is that Sine was only away from AFO for a year doing vigilante shit, rather than two years. It just felt more accurate that way. So if you notice those changes on a reread, you're not crazy!

Let me know what you thought of this one. I'd super appreciate it! <3

Chapter 15

Notes:

cws: actually sort of none this time?!
but assume all prior warnings apply just to be safe <3

The hug lasts just a little longer than it has any right to. But you don’t think either of you—or any of the watching adults, for that matter—could mind.

When Midoriya finally pulls away, eyes red-rimmed, he steps past you and holds up a piece of paper you hadn’t realised he was holding the entire time. ‘It doesn’t…’ he hesitates, glancing at you beside him before focusing back on his mother. ‘It doesn’t have to be Yuuei. Look. Look at this letter I got. It’s from a kid I rescued during our training camp. He hated heroes and Quirks, but still… He wrote to me just to say thank you.’

His head dips low, eyes on the ground, and you can tell it hurts him, to say what he says next. But he says it anyway. ‘I know I’m still a pain, making you worry all the time, but… Even if it was just for a second, this kid’s letter made me feel like a real hero. I was so happy!’ He raises his eyes again, clutching the letter to his chest, and he’s all but shouting when he adds, ‘It doesn’t have to be Yuuei! I’ll go wherever! Because I’m gonna be a hero!’

You can tell he means it, and that makes pride blossom in your chest. But you can’t look past the fact that he’s shaking, as well. Resolve and fear in the very same breath.

There’s something like a whoosh of air, and suddenly All Might is in his hero form, looming large over the top of all of you as he moves to stand in front of Inko. And then he kneels and folds into a full-body bow, head resting on the ground and all, right in front of her.

‘Sorry for getting ahead of myself,’ he says. ‘I believe Izuku is suitable to be my successor. In other words, I want to make him the next Symbol of Peace.’

Inko is gawking in front of him. Midoriya isn’t faring much better. Aizawa is standing, too, still by the dining table, still not moving to intervene. You wouldn’t expect him to.

As for you… For the first time, you feel a flicker of genuine, honest respect for the Number One hero. Respect for the version of him in front of you, and not just the inherited respect of his status as a national hero.

‘Uh…’ Inko stammers, looking moments from a genuine panic attack, ‘What? Hold on! What are you doing?! What?!’

‘As the former Symbol of Peace, I have to apologise,’ All Might presses. ‘I took his admiration for granted and was lax in his education. For that, I’m sorry!’ In a puff of scentless smoke, he recedes back to his true form, but he doesn’t budge from his position. ‘So now, as a teacher of Yuuei, I beg you.’

Inko only looks marginally less horrified as she stares down at him. But now, she looks sad, too.

‘Indeed, the path I walked was a bloody one. But that’s exactly what I don’t want for your son. I will stand by him and help him find his own path.’

‘All Might…’ Midoriya murmurs.

But All Might just keeps going. ‘It’s completely reasonable to have doubts about Yuuei because of the state it’s in. But the heroes of Yuuei know that… They know that things have got to change! Please do not focus on the current Yuuei, but on the Yuuei going forward! Please allow me to devote myself to mentoring Izuku. I will protect him and raise him right even if it costs me my life.’

The energy gets sucked from the room like a breath. Inko collapses onto her knees in front of him. ‘I can’t… agree to that…’ she says breathlessly. ‘Because… Izuku lives for you. It’s not that I have something against Yuuei. All I want is for Izuku to find happiness in life.’

She stares at All Might until he finally raises his head. Her expression is something you’ve never seen before. The most accurate description you could give it would be unconditional kindness distilled right there in her wide eyes.

‘So don’t sacrifice your life,’ she implores. ‘Live. And please look after him. If you can promise me that… Then I’ll give you my consent.’

Tears return to Midoriya’s eyes with vengeful force. ‘Mom!’

All Might bows his head once more. ‘You have my word!’

‘And Izuku,’ she adds, her own head folded down away from you and her son, ‘If you’re going to live at Yuuei now, be careful, okay?’

Midoriya wipes away some of his tears, a look of determination on his face. ‘I promise. You won’t regret this!’

He sounds grateful. Triumphant. But you can’t stop watching Inko.

She looks so alone.

Giving Midoriya that permission cost her something. A great deal.

And as you look at her, at the way her whole body sags, at the way she’s refusing to look at anybody in the room, as if she’s trying to become small, small enough to disappear, as if she could ever be insignificant…

You think it’s going to tear her apart.

‘I think you need to tell her the truth,’ you say, before you can think better of it. You feel everyone’s eyes snap to you, even Inko, who looks up at you with painful uncertainty written into every part of her. You can’t take your eyes off her. It feels like if you do, she might disappear. ‘All of it,’ you add. ‘Both of you.’

‘I…’ When you finally tear your eyes away to glance at Midoriya, he’s looking at you with pinched eyes. Shame, regret, and a hint of betrayal stare at you through un-shed tears.

But you can’t regret it. You might not feel great about taking the choice away from him, but for some reason, he couldn’t see it. How alone she looked. How she just resigned herself to something incredibly painful; to carrying the weight of that something alone.

To being left behind.

Nobody deserves that.

You fix your eyes on Aizawa, and he grasps the intent behind your silent communication immediately. He hoists his little messenger bag properly over his shoulder as he addresses All Might. ‘I’ll finish today’s visits.’

He turns to the Midoriyas and offers Inko a small bow. ‘You can consider All Might’s words representative of all of Yuuei. And as his homeroom teacher, I personally swear to do everything in my power to keep him safe. Thank you for entrusting your son to us.’

He looks at you again and inclines his head towards the door.

Before you can walk away, Midoriya grabs your wrist. When you turn back to him, he’s staring down at his mother. She and All Might are still facing one another on the floor.

‘Thank you,’ Midoriya murmurs, glancing back at you. His eyes are sad, something grave in them.

You think he’s seeing it, too.

You and Aizawa make it halfway down the stairs of the apartment building before he speaks. ‘You’re making a habit of exposing Midoriya’s secrets,’ he comments. When you look over at him, one eyebrow is gently raised in a way you interpret to mean he’s not necessarily upset.

You shrug. ‘You saw her. I don’t think either of them could’ve, they were too focused on keeping Midoriya at Yuuei.’

Aizawa just sighs. ‘You have a good instinct for these things. Don’t second guess yourself, even if you are lacking tact.’

You swing around to face him again. ‘Pot, kettle!’

A rare, full smile blooms on his face. After a moment of watching you, it falls, something carefully neutral taking its place.

Your guard goes up. It’s the face he makes when he’s setting a trap, waiting to see if you’ll try to dodge or lie. It’s been a while since you last saw it.

‘What did you mean,’ he says, his voice carefully devoid of feeling, ‘that a hero had the chance to help you and didn’t?’

Something ugly blinks awake inside you. A poisonous thing that bares its teeth.

Of course it wouldn’t get past him. Not Aizawa. Never Aizawa. He doesn’t miss a thing.

You fix your gaze ahead as you descend the last few steps. Your answer is honest, if a bit avoidant. ‘Just some fucking clown.’

You see him stop, out of the corner of your eye. When you turn to him, he’s not looking at you, but his face is folded down into a dangerous scowl. The last time he looked like that was during the USJ attack.

It makes you aware of your heartbeat, makes goosebumps prickle your skin, as if your body is trying to decide whether the appropriate course of action is fight or flight.

But it also makes you feel so incredibly safe.

Then, in the next breath, he closes his eyes and expels it all with a sigh. ‘Hizashi’s on his way to pick you up.’

You’re not entirely sure why he’s letting you off without the details this time, but you’re not going to question a convenient escape.

---

The week passes mostly the same, quiet and near-restful. You spend time doing almost nothing with Shouto; Yamada cooks for you at least once a day. Aizawa is gone most of the week around the country doing home visits, so it’s just the three of you.

He gets back on Saturday. Apparently, the visits all went well enough, and everyone is set to move into the dorms early next week.

Things are going to get a lot louder. You’re sort of terrified. You’re so used to being on your own, or only around a few people. It’s such a big change. You don’t know what to expect. And, on top of it all, move-in day will be the first time you see the rest of the class since… Well, since everything.

It won’t just be your dorm, either. The rest of the staff will be moving into the teachers’ dorm as well. Will you need to be sneakier about coming here, to Aizawa and Yamada’s room? Will you have to start visiting less? You’re here pretty much every day now, usually for at least a couple of hours.

What if it’s not allowed at all?

You flick the toy you’ve been lazily waving around for Hoshi and try not to let the anxiety eat at you. You’re currently on their couch, and at some point, you ended up upside down, head dangling from where your feet should be while your feet hang over the back.

Hoshi’s definitely not a kitten anymore, though he’s still got some growing to do. He’s a bittersweet reminder of the amount of time that’s passed.

Yamada’s in the kitchenette and Aizawa’s sitting at the table, doing something on his laptop.

Ever since you got here—definitely not so you could be here when Aizawa finally got back, thank you very much—it’s sort of felt like they want to bring something up with you. Something just feels a little off, a little tense, but you have no idea what it is.

So, you’re just waiting. Waiting for them to bring it up. Whatever it is.

Yamada finishes making a fresh round of tea, and when he catches sight of you, partway to bringing it to the dining table, he quickens his pace. You track him warily with your eyes, already sensing something amiss.

The second his hands are free, he whips out his phone and snaps a photo of you, quicker than you can blink. The shutter sound is almost deafening.

‘What—‘ you get halfway through a protest, rolling over so you’re right-side up again, but you do it too quickly and have to blink away a wave of dizziness. Once your vision is stable again, you fix him with a glare. ‘What was that for?’

Yamada grins at you, though his eyes are a little too wide, a little too deer-in-headlights for you to buy that he doesn’t know exactly what a little shit he’s being. ‘You looked cute!’

You frown, feeling a little bewildered. ‘That’s—what?’

He softens, then, and quickly adds, ‘I can delete it if you want.’

You glance at Aizawa, but he’s just staring at his laptop. You see a small smile on his lips for a second, though.

You get up, heaving a slightly dramatic sigh as you concede. ‘It’s fine.’

The gesture feels like something caring, anyway. Not that you’re entirely sure what to make of that. Has anyone taken a photo of you before? Not since you were a kid, you’d guess, and none of those photos exist anymore.

You don’t think the few times the media managed to get photos of you as Sine count, either.

You claim the open spot you usually take at the table, Yamada setting a mug in front of you after he sits in his usual spot, too. Aizawa closes the laptop, tucking it back into its bag and withdrawing a thick stack of papers in the same motion. He sets them on the table in its place.

‘This is overdue,’ he says, and you glance down at the top paper and see the familiar provisional agreement you were meant to fill out and sign what feels like ages ago, now. ‘But first, there’s another matter we need to sort out.’

He pulls most of the paper out from beneath the provisional agreement and separates out three thicker sections, each stapled together.

When he looks at you, it’s almost with the manner he uses when he’s teaching. It’s gently severe. ‘All For One is still your legal guardian,’ he says, ‘and we have a few ways to amend that.’

You think he wants some sort of response to that, so you nod. There’s a hard knot forming in your stomach, and you’re doing your best to just breathe through it. The idea that you’re still connected to him in such a way is horrific. You’re sure there’s nothing he could actually do about it right now, not from Tartarus. But you hadn’t even thought about it before now.

Aizawa gestures to the slimmest of the three bundles. ‘The first option is becoming a ward of Yuuei.’

Your face immediately scrunches into a sceptical grimace. Yamada laughs and the corner of Aizawa’s lip twitches, but he continues, ‘Nedzu already gave the okay, even though I told him you’d sooner resort to vigilantism again than be “owned” by an institution.’

This time, it’s you who laughs. The tension in your face dissipates.

‘Don’t worry,’ Yamada chimes in, ‘We never expected you to choose that, little listener.’

It’s the first time he’s used that nickname in a while, and you can’t help but quip back. ‘Is your radio show even appropriate for minors? Your time slot is the middle of the night on a Friday.’

His grin is just a little sly. ‘Awww, you know when my show is on!’

Before you can do anything but glare at him, Aizawa sighs. ‘If you’re both done.’

Yamada scratches the back of his head with a wry smile. ‘Sorry, Shou.’

‘I’m not,’ you snort, prompting another peal of poorly stifled laughter from Yamada.

‘The second option is emancipation,’ Aizawa persists, pushing another, thicker stack towards you. ‘You’d usually be considered too young, but the circumstances being what they are warrants some unconventional options. We already have preliminary approval from a family court judge Nedzu knows, pending your decision.’

You’re not sure how to react to that. It’s the sort of thing you would’ve jumped at before all this. It’s all you could’ve hoped for.

But it just feels lonely. And you’re really, really tired of feeling that.

When you don’t say anything, Aizawa sets the final bundle of paper in front of you. ‘The third option is to petition for alternative guardianship. In this case, it would be us.’

You stop breathing, staring down at the paperwork.

Aizawa’s still speaking. ‘Again, it’s already been pre-approved, pending the necessary paperwork, but—‘

You’re moving before you can even finish a full, coherent thought, bolting out of your chair and through the door, slamming it shut behind you. Yamada calls out for you, his voice muffled, but you don’t stop. When you turn back to check once you’ve descended the steps at the front of the dorm building, no one is following you.

You start towards the main campus, hoping the walk might help you make any sense at all about the absolute mess that is your feelings. The sky has the pinkish tint of an oncoming sunset, but it’s still mostly blue, dotted here and there with clouds.

What the hell is wrong with you? You thought you were done running away. But there’s no other way to describe what you just did.

You make it all the way to the main gate. You’re staring up at it, wondering if it would help to get some fresh air outside Yuuei altogether, when you hear your name being called, paired with a familiar epithet that could only belong to one person.

All Might waves as he approaches at a jog. His arm is still in a sling, but his head is free of bandages, now. You’re pretty sure he got back at the same time as Aizawa, so he must’ve had a meeting with Nedzu, or something.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he says when he’s at a comfortable speaking distance.

You blink and deadpan, ‘I live here.’

His smile turns awkward, and he fumbles out a, ‘I, ah, suppose that’s true.’

You feel just a little bad, glancing down at your feet.

He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, oddly serious, ‘Were you going somewhere?’

You sigh. ‘Just for a walk.’

He hums thoughtfully. ‘I could accompany you?’

You stare at him, and your expression might have a little more derision in it than you mean for, because he gets that sheepish look again. This time, he sounds apologetic when he tells you, ‘I’m not sure if you’ve been cleared to leave Yuuei by yourself yet, that’s all.’

You’re about to protest—you haven’t heard anything like that—but you realise that every time you have left the school this past week, it’s been with either Aizawa or Yamada. They never made a big deal out of it, but they were always there, whether for the visit to the Midoriyas with Aizawa, or Yamada offering to tag along when you finally visited the cemetery and Hina’s. Even the time you went to the convenience store down the hill, Yamada just happened to need something, too.

You sigh, a little put-out. ‘Traded one prison for another, I guess.’

All Might’s face falls, but you wave him off before he can say anything else. You gesture to the gate and add, ‘I don’t have my ID, so if you’re offering, you better have yours.’

He blinks, then pulls the shiny card from his pocket with a smile.

The gates open when he scans it, and he falls into step beside you as you start down the hill. Once you’re at the base of it, you pick a random direction and start walking.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Then, All Might asks, ‘Do you really feel that way?’

‘No,’ you answer without hesitation. You were just offered emancipation, you hardly would’ve been given that option if you were actually being kept against your will. ‘Besides, I think I’m the real escort, here.’ You give him a critical once-over. ‘You’re retired, aren’t you?’

That sheepish smile returns. ‘I suppose I am that, yes.’

You snort. ‘You don’t sound sure.’

‘It’s not easy to accept, after so much time,’ he concedes.

You incline your head. ‘You’ll always be a hero to most people, though. Not being active won’t change that, even if you want it to.’ You aim for a sardonic grin as you add, ‘No peace in the Symbol of Peace’s future.’

All you get in response is another wry smile.

You walk in silence for a bit longer, then he asks, ‘Is something on your mind?’

You’re being obvious in your discomfort, somehow.

You shove your hands into your pockets and fend off another sigh. ‘He’s still my legal guardian.’

It’s a safe enough way to avoid deflecting entirely. You’re not sure why, exactly, but you don’t want to brush All Might off altogether. You feel a little sorry for him, somehow. You can tell he’s really trying with you, and while you do think he’s, in a way, trying to make up for what you’ve endured, you can tell it’s not out of some misplaced sense of self-importance. He’s not doing it because he thinks he needs or deserves some sort of commendation or redemption. He’s not trying to atone.

He’s just being a hero. Incorrigibly so, through and through.

It’s exhausting. And so much like Midoriya.

No wonder you can’t really hate him.

So you can admit that much to him, even though All For One’s guardianship is not the part that’s actually bothering you. Mostly, anyway.

After a contemplative pause, he says, ‘Have Aizawa-kun and Yamada-kun not submitted the paperwork, yet? I thought the turnaround would be quite quick, given the circumstances.’

You stop, feeling like you’ve plunged directly into a body of frigid water. ‘What?’

He stops too, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘Have they not mentioned they want to file for guardianship?’

You’re breathing too fast. Not hyperventilating, just unable to catch up with how fast your heart is beating, or the rapid avalanche of your thoughts.

Because that’s exactly it. He says it as if it’s such a simple thing, but is that what they really want? And do they want it in the same way you do? And are you even allowed to want it, in that way? That way that none of you have said out loud, that you’ve determinedly skirted around even in your own head, because looking at it directly could reveal that it might not exist at all. It might be a fragile, brittle thing, crumbling beneath your touch.

It’s not like it’s adoption. It’s just guardianship. As far as you know, it would be an indefinite thing, ongoing but not permanent. It would probably be voided once you graduate, or maybe when you’re of age. And, knowing them, it would probably be a technicality more than anything they’d ever actually hold you to.

But what if you want them to hold you to it?

Not in some big, horrible way like Father did, obviously. But… what if you want to be cared for by someone who cares about you so much that they’d make difficult decisions on your behalf, just to ensure your safety? Just because they give a shit?

But it’s more than that, even.

Inko wasn’t willing to withdraw Midoriya from Yuuei, completely against his wishes, just because she wanted him to be safe, just because she cares. Those things are a given.

The rest is love. It’s being loved by somebody so much that they can’t stand the thought of losing you. Loved so hard that they’ll make the hardest choices, even when you can’t accept it, even if you shout, even if you slam a door.

And you let it happen, even when you hate it, because you can always trust that they’re only ever thinking about how to keep you safe from as much as they possibly can. Because every single choice is made out of love.

And they will always love you at the end of the day, no matter what.

You would kill for that. You would do anything for it. And you were sure it died before you could ever experience it properly, in a burning house with bloodstained hands.

They’re offering you guardianship like it’s something so simple, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve put them in an impossible situation. Because even if you asked, how could they possibly tell you what they really want?

What if they don’t want it, but they just don’t want to hurt you by saying so? What if they’re giving you the other options—being a ward of Yuuei, emancipation—as a roundabout way of telling you they’d prefer you didn’t choose guardianship at all?

It’s one thing to protect a student. This is something else, something bigger. That’s the way it feels, even if it might be more logical to assume that nothing would change at all, that it would be a formality and nothing else.

But All Might is saying they mentioned it. When? How? Was it just to him, was it in passing, was it during some meeting where they were debating what to do with you? Did they mention giving you the choice? Did they say what the other choices were? Did they say why?

Your head is spinning. You start walking again, as if it might help you remember how to breathe.

When he speaks again, All Might’s tone is full of understanding in a way that makes you feel utterly transparent. ‘They’re both very fond of you. I think they’d be honoured to be whatever you need them to be.’

‘Want and need are two different things,’ you say, too frazzled to think better of the slip. That alone probably tells him everything, doesn’t it?

You hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him when he says, ‘I think, in this case, they’re one and the same. For them, at least.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As I understand it,’ he says slowly, mulling over the words, ‘The only thing they would refuse to do is leave you to fend for yourself. The rest is up to you.’

‘That’s not…’ You slow, feeling the tension of the frown you hadn’t realised you were wearing soften. Sadness fills you, suffusing ever part of you all the way to your fingertips. Talking around it in circles like this hurts, and you hate it, and you’re sick of it. ‘I just want to know what they want,’ you manage, barely more than a whisper.

You want to know—need to know—if they want this, too. If they want it in the same way as you.

You’d resigned yourself to this unspoken, undefined thing. To just having them in your life. It’s enough. Really, it is. This time, you’re not just kidding yourself about that. This is enough. They can just be two incredibly important, special teachers. Your heroes. That’s all you need.

But if you were allowed to… it’s not all you would want.

All Might’s voice is matter-of-fact, but not unkind. ‘Have you asked them?’

‘You make it sound so simple,’ you mumble, glancing at him.

‘It could be,’ he says, his eyes impossibly gentle against the sharp edges of his true form. ‘You’ll only know if you ask.’

You sigh, a quiet, dramatic thing. Then you turn on your heel and start back in the direction you came.

Neither of you says anything else, All Might apparently giving you space with your thoughts. You want to hate him for the amount of consideration he’s given you, but you know it’ll never happen. And something tells you he’s far from done.

Determined to save you, not just physically, but all the way through. Maybe he and Midoriya were actually related in a past life, or something.

You do wonder, though, if you’d have been able to speak so plainly with anyone else. Any adult, at least. You’re sort of determined not to respect him out of sheer spite, not for anything he’s done, but just because of how naturally easy it is to respect him in the first place.

He’s so genuinely good. And because part of you still wants that to not be the case, you end up being a lot more prickly around him. In a way, it makes you more honest.

And he never seems to hold it against you—more than that, it doesn’t seem like he’s waiting you out, expecting that you’ll eventually trade your irritable sarcasm for warmth and acceptance and smiles. He’s just taking you at face value.

Just like Midoriya does.

They make you want to pull your hair out. They’re just so likeable. It would be so much easier if they weren’t!

All Might swipes his ID to reopen the gates once you make it to the top of the hill, but he doesn’t follow you back inside.

‘I was heading out anyway,’ he explains, a little bashfully.

You avert your gaze, maybe feeling a little bit of that yourself, but you offer him a genuine, ‘Thank you.’

The grin you receive in turn is almost blinding. He flashes you a cheesy thumbs-up. ‘Anytime!’

---

It can’t have been more than half an hour since you ran out on them by the time you make it back to their door. But it feels like it’s been significant, somehow. You linger for a long moment before you finally let yourself back in, taking for granted that they’ve left the door unlocked.

You’re not even sure when you started doing that. It was way before all this.

They’re both still right where you left them. You catch Yamada’s knee bouncing restlessly before he swings around to look at you and goes still. His eyes are wide.

You look at Aizawa. He’s just blinking at you, impassive. Nothing new, there.

You’ll only know if you ask.

You cast your eyes down and say, ‘I need to know what you want.’

‘What we want?’ Yamada echoes, sounding a little doubtful. After a pause, he adds, ‘We want whatever will make you feel most comfortable.’ Every word is spoken like a reassurance, but all you can hear in it is his uncertainty.

It’s still an attempt to appease you.

It’s not that you’re sick of it, not exactly. You needed it. Needed it so much, for so long. How gentle they were, how careful, how slow.

But all this meeting you where you’re at needs to stop. At least for right now.

Because you need to understand, and it won’t happen like this.

You fix your eyes on a particular spiral in the wood grain of the floorboards. ‘Thank you both for everything you’ve done. You’ve done more for me than anyone ever. It’s not even close. You’re the kindest, most caring people I’ve ever met.’

You try not to make it sound like a goodbye, even though it feels a little bit like one.

You’re drawing a line in the sand that only they can cross. Because this isn’t your choice—it’s theirs. You know what you need, and you have it. Friends who care, a lot, and a home that’s safe. Two wonderful teachers you can go to any time. You have that, and it’s really all you need.

And you know what you want, too, but you cannot accept something that hasn’t been offered.

You have a responsibility to yourself. You are still your biggest protector, just like you always have been. And you would trust them with anything else. But with this, you almost wonder if they aren’t too kind. Too kind to be honest, too kind to let you down if this isn’t what they want.

They’re just so damn focused on not overstepping. On not scaring you off.

But that’s not going to happen. Not now, not after everything.

And, sure. Part of you wants to protect them, too. To make sure they don’t sacrifice themselves for your sake.

Because you’re going to be fine.

You smile, hoping it looks genuine and not too wistful even though you’re still staring at the floor. ‘I’ll be okay from here on out,’ you tell them, pushing as much sincerity into your voice as you can. Because you do mean this. ‘I’m safe now, safer than I’ve ever been, and I’m not going to do anything to threaten what you’ve given to me. I’m going to hold onto it for the rest of my life.

‘I’m going to stay here, at Yuuei. And I’m gonna become a hero. And you’re both great teachers, really, and I know you’ll be here whenever I need support, but…’ You bite your lip gently, trying to find the words. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is, you’ve done enough. More than enough. You’ve given me everything I needed to get this far. And I’m really, really glad I get to stay here and learn from you both for three whole years.’

You stuff both hands into your pockets and shrug to stifle the urge to fidget. ‘So, I guess, um, thank you? But you don’t have to keep trying so hard on my account, because I’m not going anywhere.’

You mean it all. Every word. Even though it feels like pulling something painful taut in your chest, almost to the point of snapping.

But it’s fine. You’re going to see them both all the time. You’re going to learn from them and you know you’ll always be able to come to them if you need help. They’ll probably always go above and beyond for you.

They’d do the same for any of your classmates. For anyone in need. And that’s okay.

They’ll still be special to you. But, especially in Aizawa’s case, he’s special to everyone. How could he not be, when he acknowledges and believes in every single one of you wholeheartedly? He’s a hard-ass, but you know nobody in the class has ever felt like it was actually unfair. Because you all know exactly why he does it.

He wants all of you to reach your full potential. And you all want it, too.

And you get to have that for three incredible years.

Isn’t it awesome?

Don’t cry, you tell yourself. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

‘Is that what you want?’ Yamada asks. It’s quiet. Way, way too quiet. There’s this careful distance to him, like he’s taken a step back.

It feels the same as yours.

And whatever it was, that careful string of feeling you’d pulled barely to the edge of breaking—it snaps.

You look up and fix him with the full force of a glare. ‘I’m asking if it’s what you want!’ It surprises even you when you start shouting. It’s loud. But you don’t stop.

‘You’re too kind, Yamada! Both of you!’ For a moment, you level the glare at Aizawa, instead, but you don’t look at either of them long enough to actually pick anything out of their expressions. ‘You’d do anything if you thought it was something I needed! I really believe that now! I know it’s not a lie! Do you know how scary that is?! How am I supposed to know if that kindness is because of who you are or because of me?!’

You drop your head into your hands, trying to muffle an involuntary, frustrated groan. You’ve said too much again. This was exactly what you didn’t want, to sway them with your own feelings. How can you believe anything they say about it now?

You let your hands fall back to your sides, but you don’t look up as the silence wears on.

Aizawa is the one who finally ends it.

‘Hizashi didn’t want to offer you guardianship,’ he says. You don’t have enough time to register that that’s the moment where your heart should break before he continues, ‘He wanted to offer adoption. I vetoed it because adoption records are tracked on the family register. Guardianship isn’t.’

You don’t know how to react, every single thought and feeling abruptly silenced. All you can do is listen to him speak.

‘We can revisit it after you graduate, if it’s still what you want by then. It’s up to you. It’s your decision and it always will be. But it is what we want.’

Your eyes ache from how wide they are. But you still can’t catch hold of any particular thought or feeling. Your knees—which you hadn’t even realised were shaking—give out and you suddenly find yourself kneeling, slack, on the floor.

Yamada speaks, then, and the distance from before has vanished, like it was never even there. It helps that he’s already up out of his seat, approaching you. ‘Sorry if we ever made you doubt it,’ he settles on his knees in front of you, leaving a bit of space next to him that’s so obviously meant for Aizawa. He ducks his head until you meet his eyes, and says, ‘but we really do love you, okay?’

The sound you make is an incomprehensible wheeze, a noise of disbelief, but not because of what he’s saying. You believe him. There’s just no way he’s lying. But you’re stunned, utterly lost for words, because of how it makes you feel. Finally, a feeling you can grasp, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers and dissolve right back into the indecipherable maelstrom with the rest.

Aizawa finally takes his place in front of you, next to Yamada—though he crouches instead of kneeling, like some damn cryptid—and you know with complete certainty exactly what it is.

It’s happiness. Pure, simple, uncomplicated happiness.

You can see the fondness in Yamada’s eyes even though the rest of his expression looks a little unsure, a little unsteady. But Aizawa’s just smiling, a small thing that feels like peace.

He nearly topples over when Yamada jabs him in the side with an elbow. ‘You have to say it too, Shou.’ It’s teasing, but you think he really means it, too. ‘It’s important.’

The flat look he gives Yamada only lasts a moment before Aizawa turns back to you. The smile doesn’t return, something serious and almost sombre in its place that lends even more gravity to the words he murmurs. ‘We do—love you. We’re here if you’ll have us.’

You don’t think you’ve ever smiled so wide. Your cheeks hurt, and it feels awkward, too full, too big an expression for your face, entirely unfamiliar. But the genuine happiness you feel isn’t the kind that can be pushed down.

You have no idea what you look like, but you catch the way even Aizawa’s eyes go wide, for barely more than a moment, before he drops his hand on your head and starts smiling again as well, all soft and sincere. He ruffles your hair this time, which isn’t something he’s done before, and you instinctively reach up to halfheartedly swat him away.

‘Stop,’ you whine, but you’re still smiling.

That’s when you realise Yamada is crying. Big, full tears dripping from his chin and all.

You throw yourself at him, arms around his neck. Suddenly bearing your full weight sends him sprawling onto his back with a surprised little squawk until you’re both on the floor.

Your bury your face against his chest so that your words are muffled, even though you’re positive they both still hear you say, ‘I love you both, too.’

You know Yamada hears, at the very least, because his chest starts to jolt beneath you along with his audible sniffles. ‘You’re gonna kill me, kid!’

There’s another passing ruffle of a familiar hand through your hair before you hear Aizawa walk away.

‘How do you think I feel?’ you grumble into Yamada’s chest. It just starts jolting with his laughter instead of tears.

---

You stay with them for dinner, which was already pretty much a given, but feels like it’s probably going to become a thing, now. Afterwards, once the table has been cleared and the dishes done, you’ve all taken the same seats as before, papers spread out in front of you.

The provisional agreement and the guardianship petition.

Aizawa’s doing most of the actual work filling them out, but there have been a few things he’s had to clarify with you, details that you originally lied about or omitted.

You’re starting to get some idea of what you’ve really gotten yourself into here after answering one such question, because Yamada’s staring at you, mouth agape.

‘You don’t know your own birthday?!’ he cries, aghast.

You shrug, feeling a little guilty for some reason. ‘I was four when my mother died, and it’s not like he cared. I sort of remember celebrating it before him, but I have no idea what day it was.’

Aizawa doesn’t seem as surprised by it, and that’s sort of a relief. ‘There’s virtually no record of your existence from before that age, so there’s no sure way to know. You’ve been using the first of January as a placeholder?’

You nod, but Yamada interjects. ‘That’s the same as Nedzu’s! It’s gotta be something else!’

Aizawa glances at you. ‘Nedzu also uses a placeholder, technically.’

That makes sense, given what you know of his history.

You shrug. ‘I really don’t care. It’s not something I’ve ever cared about.’

‘You’ll need something for identification purposes long-term,’ Aizawa points out.

‘Can we just make it today’s date?’

‘No!’ Yamada throws his hands up, ‘That doesn’t give us time to plan anything!’

But Aizawa is already penning it down in the appropriately labelled box. The seventeenth of August.

You shake your head at Yamada. ‘I really don’t care. I haven’t celebrated it in ten years, why would I start now?’ His face falls again, so you quickly cut in before he can continue the dramatics, ‘When’s yours?’

He grins, ‘July seventh! Shouta’s is November eighth!’

So Yamada’s already passed…

‘Cool,’ you say. ‘Just a little more information and I’ll finally be able to steal your identities.’

Aizawa laughs, that typical soft huff through his nose.

You spend the next hour like that, going through the paperwork with them and filling it all out, printing your name where required. You know it still isn’t official official, but it feels pretty damn close by the end.

Later, when you’re lying in bed, Shouto’s breathing soft and heavy in his futon beside you, the cat tucked under his left arm—you’ve spent every night in the same room since that first time—you text Midoriya. It’s well past midnight, so you’re not expecting a reply until morning.

Can you give me All Might’s number

Almost immediately, though, you hear back.

Sure, let me just check if it’s okay!

How are you?

For a moment, you instinctively go to shut him down before you remember you don’t have to do that anymore.

I’m pretty good, actually
You?

You can almost hear his excitement through his texts.

I’m so glad!! I’m good too!

For few minutes, neither of you says anything else. You’re not sure if it should feel awkward or not, but it sort of does. Then, another text comes through. It’s the longest text you’ve ever received from anyone.

Thank you for the other day. I didn’t realise how much Mom was struggling with everything. I mean, I knew it was hard, but I had no idea it was that bad. But telling her helped, I think! I think it made some of it worse, though. But I think everyone feels a little better now that it’s not a secret! Even All Might! It was really kind of you, sorry I was a bit upset. You’re such a kind person.

His earnestness is completely overwhelming. You end up being a little evasive on instinct.

Sorry I keep spilling all your secrets

He doesn’t reply for another few minutes, then he sends you a string of numbers.

All Might said it’s okay!

But what do you mean? I don’t think you’ve said anything else?

Walked right into that one. Apparently no one told him. Though, All Might did seem to figure it out himself, that you were Aizawa’s source. You don’t think Aizawa ratted you out, which is sort of sweet.

I told Aizawa about your Quirk
Sorry
I just knew he could help

While you wait for his reply, you open a new text to send to All Might’s number. You don’t bother saving it as a contact, just send him a quick, Thanks again.

His reply is almost instant.

Did things go well?

You hesitate, not really wanting to have a full text conversation with him. You’re barely capable of holding actual conversations with him, as is. But in the end, you fire back a succinct, Yep.

I’m glad. Sleep well, he texts back, complete with his usual address of your name. For the first time, something about it feels a little warm. Less perfunctory.

You think he really is glad.

By now, Midoriya’s reply has come through.

That’s okay! He’s been super helpful. He’s such a great teacher! It was a good idea.

You don’t know if he’s literally too nice to even be hurt by you snitching or if he’s just that good at brushing it off.

He sends you an emoji—a miniature version of All Might in his hero form, falling asleep, complete with little Z’s floating above his head—then follows it up with a final text.

Goodnight! Sleep well!

You realise you’re smiling at your phone, and you can’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed about it.

You too

Notes:

How's your heart doing after this one, dear reader? Mine barely held up writing it.

I hope this lands well! It gave me a bit of trouble but I think I found the sweet spot. Literally been waiting so long to write that guardianship scene. <3

Please take the time to give me your thoughts, comments are such a precious commodity and I get excited every time I see one!

Chapter 16

Notes:

cws: heavy on the discussions of child abuse this time, not in graphic detail but definitely in a manner that could be triggering. also a panic attack. stay safe <3

All Might is a series of contradictions.

That is what you find yourself thinking when you finally watch the media coverage of the fight that took place little more than a week ago.

You’re in the common room beside Shouto, staring at the television screen, where you’ve paused a video right on its final frame—All Might in his true form, standing amid the rubble with his fist held high.

He looks beaten down. He looks triumphant. During the fight, he looked feeble. He looked weak and sickly. He looked utterly unstoppable. Insurmountable.

He looked exactly like the kind of hero who could beat Father.

You sniff and rub your sleeve haphazardly over your face. You’re not entirely sure when you started crying. You think it was around when the cameras captured an expression of absolute defeat on his face, somewhere before the end of the fight, just after his true form was exposed.

All For One said something to him. The media wasn’t able to get close enough to capture any of the words they exchanged, and you’re grateful for that much, for All Might’s sake if nothing else.

You don’t need to know what was said to feel its impact, to recognise the dark cloud that shadowed him from that moment on. You know how Father works, you know the traps he lays to provoke that specific, heart-rending grief. You’ve felt it, been victim to it at his hands more than once.

And so has All Might.

Most of the people who share that experience, being on receiving end of All For One’s games, are no longer around to tell the tale. To, if you ever desired it, commiserate.

All Might’s still here.

It makes you feel sick. Your fists curl so tight you feel a twitch of pain shoot through them—only then do you realise you are angry.

You don’t regret watching it. You didn’t want to risk stumbling in on it unprepared if your classmates decide to re-watch the footage, and with them all moving in a couple of days from now, you needed to see it on your own terms.

And you had Shouto to keep you company, even though you’re not sure if his presence actually helped soften the feeling of it. All you’re left with is a terrible, furious energy trapped beneath your skin. It feels like something burning, searing the edges of you, eating away at you slowly until it can finally get out.

You have to get it out.

‘Let’s spar.’

Shouto just inclines his head.

---

You meet him in the courtyard behind the dorm once you’re both dressed in more appropriate clothing for a fight. Neither of you says anything as you move into position across from one another.

For a long moment, the two of you are poised to strike. Waiting.

You move first.

You dart forward, aiming a fist low towards his stomach. He steps out of the way and angles a knee up towards your gut. You dodge, leveraging the momentum to kick out at him. He takes the hit to his shoulder, tries to get a hold of your leg to unbalance you.

You throw yourself back into a roll and spring to your feet at a safe distance.

The snarling anger blossoms in your chest, clawing deeper, inch by inch. You think of All Might. Of All For One. You think of Tomura. You think of yourself.

This time, when you run at him, you open with a high kick. Immediately, you know it’s a mistake. Opening with a move like that is stupid, exploitable, idiot. It leaves you wide open to a counterattack, and you’ve unbalanced your footing, not quite steady enough to react.

Shouto responds exactly as he should, stepping out of the way and sweeping your leg right out from under you. You go down hard, biting down on your lip to stifle a grunt.

Without hesitating, you grab a fistful of dirt and dust and throw it into his face. He flinches back, an arm coming up to cover his eyes. You shove yourself back to your feet and punch him, hard, in the gut.

His breath comes out on a gasp as he folds over, and you feel him go rigid under your blow before you retreat. He goes down onto one knee and stills, unnaturally silent.

The tiniest thread of sense comes back to you, and you step towards him, one hand out in some half-baked bid to help. His fingertips graze the ground and ice, almost quicker than you can track, forms beneath his hand and rushes toward you.

It halts abruptly halfway. Shouto’s head snaps up, eyes wide and fixed on something behind you. His shoulders are heaving with short, shallow breaths.

You glance over your shoulder. Aizawa’s there, at the top of the stairs, hair raised and eyes glowing red. He looks irritated, perturbed. Concerned, maybe. But not angry. You have enough presence of mind to be relieved about that. Just barely.

Your anger is still a living thing, hot air trapped with nowhere to go, but it recedes just enough in that moment for you to whirl back around and properly look at Shouto. He’s still on one knee, a hand curled protectively over his stomach. His eyes are wild and wide, pinned to the ground in front of him.

When you step forward and try to reach for him again, he flinches.

Somehow, the sting of hurt in your chest just makes the anger feel even worse.

You glance back over your shoulder and lock eyes with Aizawa. He’s on his way over, but you shake your head at him once and hope that he trusts you.

He does. He stops where he is, brow still furrowed.

You kneel down in front of Shouto—another flinch, and this time he closes his eyes, too.

You’re not really familiar with things like this. Providing comfort. There’s rarely been a need for you to do so. But just as quickly as it comes, the anxiety of whether or not you’re doing the right thing gives way to the certainty that you can help.

Shouto looks like he’s about to disappear. Like if he willed it hard enough, he might just cease to exist completely. You know exactly what it feels like to want that.

Sometimes what you really needed was someone to ignore your attempts to fend them off. To reach out to you in spite of your fear, like prodding on existing bruises just enough to acknowledge that they’re really there. You’re not crazy; it really does hurt. And someone, anyone, can see that. See you.

You won’t let Shouto disappear.

‘Hey,’ you try to balance gentle and firm in your voice. His eyes flick to yours briefly, and you think he’s half-aware that it’s you in front of him.

It will have to be enough. His chest is still heaving, and you’re pretty sure he’s trying to stifle the sound of panicked gasps, but you can hear them just enough to know he’s barely breathing. It’s a risk, you don’t want to hurt him more, but you also need him to breathe, so you reach out and grab his right wrist and tug his hand against your chest.

He goes rigid under your hold again. Another pang of anger and grief. You stow it in favour of exaggerating your breath, deep and slow so he can feel the motion under his hand. When he glances up at you again, this time you’re sure he’s really seeing you. He keeps his eyes locked on yours for a long time, long enough that his breathing finally slows. His shoulders sag, then, with a familiar wash of post-panic attack exhaustion you know all too well.

He grimaces, an expression you’re pretty sure was meant to be his best attempt at a grateful smile before he starts to pull away.

And in that moment, the anger wins out over your efforts to be careful. You should learn to leave well enough alone, but right now the lesson evades you. It so often does with Shouto. Before he can break contact completely, you activate your Quirk and take his pain.

The bruises that line his stomach are a suffocating throb, and this time, they’re accompanied by the waspish sting of a burn.

---

Todoroki’s face shifts into a harsh, cutting glare as he yanks his arm back and shoves past them. He mutters an, ‘I’m fine,’ that does nothing to assuage Shouta’s growing concern even as the boy passes him and heads back inside.

His student—though, it’s a little more than that, now, isn’t it?—is still facing away from Shouta, and even after he waits a full minute, they don’t so much as move. So he goes to them.

He raises a hand, the growing instinct to physically comfort them an automatic gesture by now. He doesn’t even make it halfway to touching them before they strike, quick as anything, and his wrist is grabbed in a grip so tight he’d almost call it brutal.

Now that he’s closer, and they’ve turned partway toward him, Shouta can see their face. Eyes still fixed on the ground, every part of them is etched in quiet, barely restrained fury.

Their voice is low when they say, ‘You’re a mandatory reporter.’ There’s a danger in it that he’s never heard from them before.

For a moment, Shouta is back at USJ, watching Shigaraki Tomura’s childish destruction dissolve into that carefully blank, murderous rage.

Blood is not a prerequisite for family resemblance, and right now, his ward looks like their brother.

Shouta blinks himself back into the present and concedes, ‘I am.’

‘You know,’ they say, their voice lilting with a distant mockery he hasn’t heard them resort to outside of their time as a vigilante, ‘sometimes, when my father couldn’t be bothered doing his own dirty work, he’d just send the CGC to do it for him.’

Child Guidance Centres. Shouta wishes he could be surprised that All For One has been able to worm his way into that disaster as well, but he’s not. He’s been wary of the CGC ever since he became a teacher. Why wouldn’t he be wary of a government body that operates privately, without any independent oversight, and receives financial incentives for every child they take into custody, with or without evidence or reasonable suspicion?

Not to mention that most families have no viable legal avenue to contest it. Sometimes, there is no reuniting parent and child. Sometimes when it happens, it comes far too late.

Hizashi was an infant when he was taken from his mother, not even a year old. All because a neighbour put in a complaint about a baby whose cries were too loud, and the CGC took it upon themselves to deem Hizashi’s mother unfit.

It was pure luck that he eventually got placed with a decent foster family, people who were more than willing to help him find his birth mother when he was old enough to start asking about her, and who encouraged a relationship between them when they did.

‘Swear to me that you won’t report it,’ the child in front of him says. It almost sounds like a threat.

Shouta has no doubt that the CGC’s involvement in what he suspects is Todoroki’s situation would not be an improvement. There’s every chance he’d be pulled from Yuuei altogether, prevented from continuing his visits with his hospitalised mother, restricted from seeing either of his siblings. Stripped of his entire support system.

And, worst case scenario, Endeavor’s wealth and relative reputation as the Number Two hero—soon to be Number One—would afford him sway that the average parent would never have. Todoroki might not be kept from him at all. Shouta’s seen comparable situations play out, to lesser degrees; Todoroki would bear the brunt of whatever combination of irritation, anger and embarrassment the ordeal fostered in his father.

Shouta suspects he already has.

Even so…

He narrows his eyes, reaches out with his free hand, and flicks his ward square in the forehead.

‘Ow!’ It has the desired effect, and they start, blinking rapidly and dropping his wrist to rub at the spot. Their visible anger evaporates into a more manageable, tempered frustration. ‘What was the for?’

‘Listen here, problem child,’ Shouta drawls, watching their face scrunch like they’re not sure whether or not to be offended, ‘I’ve been doing this for five years. You really think I don’t know how to navigate a delicate situation? How do you think I managed yours?’

They drop their hand from their forehead, looking sufficiently cowed. ‘That’s different,’ they mumble, sullen. ‘I’m guessing it’s not as easy to justify blatantly ignoring procedure when it’s the Number Two hero’s kid and not a super-villain.’

Shouta snorts. He can’t help it. ‘There’s nothing easy about it. But your situation wasn’t easy either. It’s not something I particularly enjoy, but I know how to handle this stuff.’ He makes sure he’s extra firm when he adds, ‘You need to let me do my job.’

Because this is that. Part of his job. Hero, teacher, either one. Both warrant prioritising the protection and well-being of the children in his care above all else. And he cares for the one in front of him a great deal, but they’re still a kid, and they still have a lot to learn. They might have more relative experience than their peers, but they’re a long, long way from being a licensed hero.

There are certain battles he will not let them fight. As a hero, as their teacher, and definitely as their guardian.

When they don’t say anything, he sighs, ‘Threaten me like that again and I’ll ground you for a year.’ He says it with just enough melodrama that they should know he’s joking. Mostly.

It successfully draws a spluttered laugh from them. The sound, paired with the bewildered expression on their face, makes Shouta’s lip twitch.

‘A year?’ they echo, shaking their head. Shouta expects some sort of quip as a follow-up, but instead, they avert their eyes to his wrist and murmur, ‘Sorry.’

He drops his hand onto their head. Shouta wonders if they realise how much they’ve taken to pressing back against him when he does that. Like a cat. ‘Want to tell me what happened?’

They wince. ‘I think I sort of lose it when Endeavor’s involved. He’s…’

It takes them a long time to pick back up after they trail off. Shouta waits.

‘He reminds me of him, just a little.’ Abruptly, they turn on their heel, slipping out from under his hand and starting toward the dorm. ‘Shouto should tell you, not me.’

---

You find him in the kitchen. He’s bent over the sink, wiping his eyes dry on his shirt. He must’ve been rinsing the dirt from them.

You can’t believe you let your anger get the better of you like that. And that you took it out on Shouto of all people.

‘Sorry,’ you tell him. ‘That was stupid of me.’

Shouto glances up, his eyes just a little red as they track from you to Aizawa and back again. Quietly, he admits, ‘Me too.’

Aizawa sighs. ‘What happened?’

Obviously he already has some idea, but you’re not surprised he wants to hear how you and Shouto will explain it.

‘I was angry,’ you say, not bothering to deflect or dress it up into something it isn’t. ‘I got mean and stupid and took it out on Shouto.’

Aizawa blinks at you, then fixes his gaze on Shouto instead.

Shouto stares at the ground, raising a hand to rub idly at one of his eyes. ‘It was a reflex. It won’t happen again.’

‘And is there anything you want to tell me about those reflexes?’

After a long moment, Shouto shrugs. ‘Endeavor’s training.’

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’ you scoff. The echo of bruise and burn hasn’t completely faded.

Shouto glares at you. ‘You said the same thing about what happened to you.’

‘I still knew it was a shitty thing to do to a kid!’

‘It’s not as easy to separate that kind of thing from my actual father!’

As soon as he says it, his face collapses into something regretful and pained. He opens his mouth, probably to apologise, but you just clear the few steps of distance between you, grab the front of his shirt and yank him down until you’re both sitting on the kitchen tiles. He lets it happen even though he scowls at you, but he still sits close enough that you can feel the cold radiating from his right side.

You tuck your knees against your chest and hug them, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. ‘I know,’ you mumble. ‘I know that part’s way harder for you. But we’re not that different. And sometimes when I’m angry, I’m actually just sort of scared.’

The silence in the wake of those words—which feel like a bigger concession than you realised, now that you’ve said them—is heavy. Eventually, Aizawa joins the two of you, dropping into a crouch in front of where you’re both sitting.

‘You look like a cryptid when you do that,’ you say.

The look he gives you is pointed, and you avert your eyes back to Shouto. He’s not looking at either of you, just staring at the ground.

‘I just…’ It’s a false start as you try and will yourself to say what you need to say, what you need him to hear. Because you want to help, and you think you know at least a few words that might coax some truth from him.

You’ve been doing well, compared to how you’ve been for most of the past… well, for most of your life. But the highs of the last week, of being back at Yuuei with the people you care about and having it feel permanent, of how much you’ve managed to say out loud, how much you’ve been able to admit, the shift in the dynamic between you and Aizawa and Yamada…

In some ways, you think it’s just let you hide from how messed up things really are. How messed up you are.

You know you’re doing a lot better these days than you were before you met everyone, but…

You still get glimpses of it. Everything that weighs you down. And it’s not just that you’re carrying a heavy weight, now—you’ve been doing that all your life. Now, you’re carrying the weight of having to carry it at all. Because it’s with you. All of it. And it probably always will be. And that is terrible, irreconcilable and vague.

Really, it just makes you even more grateful to the people you have now. It feels like they help you stay tethered to the better feelings, the scary ones that you know are good and worth it even when they feel a bit like holding your hand over an open flame.

Maybe one day, with their help, you will feel lighter than the rest of what you carry.

You desperately need Shouto to have that too.

You hide your face against your knees to brace yourself against the vulnerability of it before you speak. ‘Feeling safe is really hard. Sometimes it makes me feel sick because part of me thinks it must be wrong, because I really believed it was impossible. But it’s real, and it sucks, but it’s also a really big relief.’

You feel tears pool behind your eyelids. Your voice shakes, but you add, barely more than a whisper, ‘No one makes me feel safer than Aizawa.’

It feels like you all sit there in complete silence for ages. But you just wait. Aizawa does, too.

Finally: ‘Sometimes I just stop.’ The words are quiet, subdued. Shouto is quieter still when he adds, ‘I can’t move. I can’t think. I panic.’

When he doesn’t add anything more, Aizawa asks, ‘Why?’

Another lengthy silence. You turn your face just enough to see how shuttered Shouto’s expression is. He’s completely closed off, a wall of frigid ice between him and anything that might provide him with some warmth. Because all he’s known of warmth is his father’s version of it. Hellfire.

You don’t want to emerge from the little cocoon you’ve made of yourself, but you want Shouto to feel alone in this even less, so you peel your arm away from where it’s hooked around your knee and offer him your hand.

He hesitates. But when he takes it, his grip is tight.

‘He gets angry when I react,’ he confesses.

‘How old were you when it started?’

Quiet. Then, ‘As soon as I got my Quirk.’

Horror swells in your chest, tinged with just a little bit of shame. You should’ve expected as much. It feels ridiculous that you’re even a little surprised, but you’re so used to the inherent evil, the inherent villainy of Father, that it almost seems to account for his actions in some way. Of course he was awful, he’s a villain. It’s only natural he’d be capable of terrible things.

Endeavor is the Number Two hero. Technically, now, he’s Number One. Technically.

You know, and you’ve known, that not all heroes deserve the title. Not that long ago, you still believed it to be true of the vast majority. You’ve known it about Endeavor for years.

Yet still you cannot shake the hypocrisy of it. His actions—the abuse—should be anathema to him as a hero. And yet.

You reciprocate Shouto’s tight squeeze of your hand and lean into his right side a little more. All at once, his shoulders slump and his face goes blank. This time, you don’t think he’s shutting you out. He’s just completely exhausted. Defeated. Drained.

Did you look the same way the first time you talked about it?

‘Please don’t report it,’ he mumbles. ‘I don’t want to make things worse for my brother and sister. Or Mom.’

‘Your siblings are both of age?’ Aizawa clarifies. When Shouto nods, he concedes, ‘I won’t report it, but I need you to agree to a few conditions.’ He’s gentle in the way he says it, even though the words broker no compromise.

Shouto looks apprehensive, but he raises his head.

‘You’ll have an escort whenever you visit home,’ Aizawa starts, ‘We’ll say it’s a new measure for student safety after the recent villain attack.’

Shouto nods, some of the tension leaving him, just a little.

It comes back with a flinch when Aizawa continues, ‘And I want you to see Recovery Girl and have her document any current evidence of physical abuse.’ He must’ve picked up on Shouto’s reaction, but he doesn’t falter. ‘Records will be kept under the strictest classification Yuuei has, and it will be your choice when you’re of age whether or not you want to have them destroyed. But they will be there if you decide to press charges at any time, now or in the future. It wouldn’t be easy, but Yuuei will support you no matter what you choose. I will support you.’

You pick up on what he’s not saying, and you understand why he omits it. But if Shouto ever does choose to pursue legal action against Endeavor down the line, it will likely have consequences for Aizawa and any other Yuuei staff who are made aware of the situation and don’t report it. At the very least, hefty fines, if not termination. They could even lose their hero licenses.

Just how much does he—does Yuuei—put on the line for the safety and well-being of their students? All you saw when you first came here were the gaps. Now you can’t stop seeing just how far they take the school motto. Going beyond, even in the shadows.

You’re not sure what to make of it. Maybe you’re finding a bit of respect for Yuuei. Or, at the very least, a handful of the people who are a part of it.

Aizawa goes over some other conditions. Mandatory check-ins after visits and a safeword that Shouto can use verbally or via text that will prompt a member of staff to immediately intervene and remove him from Endeavor’s presence, no questions asked.

Finally, he says, ‘Yuuei doesn’t have any internal school counsellors, an oversight Nedzu is currently rectifying. But eventually, there will be a number of mandatory sessions you’ll have to attend on an ongoing basis.’ He shifts his focus from Shouto to you and adds, ‘That goes for both of you.’

You nudge your elbow gently against Shouto’s side. ‘Hear that? At least we’ll both be suffering.’

Aizawa sighs. ‘I won’t lie and tell you it will be easy. It rarely is. But I can guarantee it will help. There will be multiple counsellors to choose from, and you’ll have a say in who you’re most comfortable with. You’ll be able to change at any time as long as you’re seeing someone.’ When neither of you say anything, he adds, ‘Got it?’

You nod, and Shouto chimes in with a, ‘Yes, Aizawa-sensei.’

‘Good. And you can come to me or Yamada whenever, obviously,’ he pushes himself up out of his crouch. ‘Pretty sure he’s almost done with lunch, so come over when you’re ready.’

He steps back, ready to leave, but gives you one last long look. You read the question in it and nod. You’ll both be fine. And if you’re not, you know where to go.

Once he’s gone, you and Shouto sit in silence for a while.

Eventually, you lean into him some more and squeeze his hand. ‘You okay?’

‘Will you come with me to see Recovery Girl?’

---

A little over an hour later, once you’ve both been sent off by the Youthful Heroine, each with a handful of sweets even though Shouto was the only recipient of her Quirk, you both settle in for a late lunch with Aizawa and Yamada.

It’s quieter than usual, the mood predictably sombre. Yamada coaxes Shouto into the kitchenette to help with the dishes after the fact, and at first, you think he’s doing what he did with you before—finding a convenient excuse to have a heart-to-heart. But when you see a small smile quirk Shouto’s lips, instinct makes you narrow your eyes in their direction.

Something about it is suspicious. It takes a lot to make Shouto smile, and you doubt a serious conversation about the events of the last few hours would’ve done it.

Before you can think more on it, Aizawa approaches, holding an oversized tote bag out to you. You take it, and a cursory glance inside just shows that it’s full of a strange mix of miscellaneous items. You see what you think are some clothes, the bag he keeps his laptop in, a few books and framed photos you’ve seen on a shelf in their bedroom.

You adjust your grip on the unexpectedly heavy bag until you’re holding it steady. ‘What am I doing with this?’

Aizawa, of all things, turns and stacks the four dining chairs on top of one another and hauls them up into his arms with ease.

What is happening right now?

He inclines his head toward the door. You take the hint and open it for him, then follow him into the elevator. Once the door opens and admits you both a few floors up, he sends you a sideways glance and says, ‘There should be a key, near the top.’

You set the bag on the floor to check. Sure enough, a loose key is visible, tucked between his laptop bag and what you’re guessing is a shirt. The key is unmarked, but you recognise the design as being the same as the other dorm keys.

Aizawa nods toward one of the doors further down the hallway, and you fit the key into the lock.

Inside is pretty much what you’d expect. It’s another staff dorm, bigger than their current space. It’s unfurnished, and still mostly an open concept, but the kitchen and dining areas are sectioned off a little more on account of the size. There are multiple doors leading to other rooms, including glass double doors that open onto a balcony.

‘It was Nedzu’s idea,’ Aizawa explains, making his way inside and setting the chairs down against one bare wall. ‘Most of the staff will be moving in as well, so he suggested we take a bigger room. The key’s yours.’

Something in your chest twists painfully, tight and aching and warm.

He leads you over to one of the closed doors, opening it into a small empty room. ‘Students who want to will be encouraged to visit home during holidays. We wanted you to have a place to go if you want a break from the dorms, as well.’ He sighs, running a hand through his perpetually mussed hair. ‘We would’ve set you up in the spare room at our house, but moving the cats back and forth is a hassle, so we’ll probably just stay here indefinitely.’

He’s being all long-suffering about it, but it’s so, so obvious that he loves his job. Being on campus even more often probably just gives him more of an excuse to be a workaholic. That makes you wonder, actually—Yamada plays guitar and has his radio show, and you’re pretty sure he actually enjoys cooking, too.

Does Aizawa have any hobbies?

He blinks at you, a little blearily. Maybe sleeping is his hobby? Not that he seems to find much time for it. Sometimes he crawls into his sleeping bag during classes, usually when it’s a study period or he brings someone in to guest lecture, but you’re almost positive he’s not actually sleeping when he does. Just resting his eyes.

When you don’t say anything, or give him any reaction to work with, he just sighs again and adds, ‘Hizashi’s going to ambush you about going with him to pick out furniture at some point. How you want to handle it is up to you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

There’s a hint of discomfort in him, something awkward about the words. Maybe it’s the way he says them.

You feel it too. This is a lot, and it means a lot to you. But you have absolutely no idea how to react to it, how you’re supposed to feel, how you’re supposed to carry the feelings you do have. Feelings you’re definitely not used to.

Security. Warmth. Care. Love. Comfort.

It’s one thing to accept their guardianship. It’s another thing entirely to be on the receiving end of that guardianship put into practice.

Part of you is still waiting for it to be a trap, even though you’re completely certain by now that it’s not. It’s like you can’t get the constant sense of readiness to settle down even though you know you don’t need it like you used to.

And another part of you wonders if you really deserve all of this—and with that thought, the tight apprehension you’d been feeling gives way until all that’s left is the wispy anger from earlier and a heavy, cloying sadness.

You should thank him. For this, for everything. But the kindness is just a little too much for you to swallow right now.

You turn away and set the bag down next to the stack of chairs. You tuck the key away. Its imagined doubled weight feels scalding against your awareness.

You have to say something. There’s a restless pull to break the silence that’s descended between you. You reach for the very first thing that comes to mind. But what could possibly be on your mind right now other than Endeavor?

‘It was like with that girl,’ you say, the words tumbling free before you can even consider containing them. You try to remind yourself of what you told Shouto earlier. You are so, so safe with Aizawa. ‘With the Shie Hassaikai,’ you add, though he probably doesn’t need the clarification.

You turn to face him, and he nods in a way you’re pretty sure is meant to prompt you to keep going, so you do. ‘I’d just realised Father wasn’t a good person. Or… I think I knew, but I was still trying really hard to believe in him. And then I just couldn’t. And I tried to run. It wasn’t some big thing I planned, I was eight—I just got scared and ran.’

The world is scary when he’s unhappy. The whole world.

‘It was the same place, Aizawa,’ you keep your eyes fixed on his, and in a way, you realise you’re almost pleading with him. For what, you’re not sure. ‘It was the same bar where Bakugou was being kept by the League.’

Grief carves a fissure right through you. It feels like your heart is splitting in two. This memory always felt like that, and it still does. It might be the single biggest what if of your life.

Things could’ve—should’ve—changed right there. But they didn’t.

‘I ran into him. Endeavor. Literally ran right into him, exactly the same way she ran into me. Tomura came after me, and even with him there, I looked up at a hero and I asked for help.’

Something wet hits your cheek. Aizawa steps closer.

‘Endeavor never said a word. Nothing. Tomura told him I was a runaway and he took me back and—and he hurt me. And Endeavor just…’

He never showed up.

Again, again, again, it always comes back to this. Anger, a smouldering thing in your chest. Hatred claws up your throat, suffocating and painful. A single spark could set you ablaze.

‘I want to know,’ you grit out, ‘I want to know if he even looked. If he even made a note of it, told someone else. He had so many different places he used but that one never changed. Does that mean no one ever even investigated it?’

If someone had just found something. If someone only knew that you existed. That you were still out there, still waiting, still hoping that rescue might come.

Until you stopped. Until the hope became too painful and you buried it under as much packed earth as you could get your hands on until the only evidence that it was ever there in the first place was your own filthy hands.

‘She probably did the same thing,’ you whisper. ‘We don’t even know her name.’ You glance back up at him, not even sure when you averted your gaze. ‘I have to find her, Aizawa. I can’t be to her what Endeavor is to me, because I hate him so much, and I don’t—‘

You don’t want to be hated. You don’t want to hate yourself even more than you already do. Sometimes.

And isn’t that just the most selfish motivation you could have?

He finally closes the distance and hugs you. It’s such a simple thing, soft and sheltered. It feels world-ending. In all of these complexities, the what ifs and the unknowns, feelings that twist and amalgamate and have nowhere to go, where there are no easy answers, there is still this—uncomplicated and demanding nothing of you.

You return the embrace and relish its warmth. Every other time he’s held you in some capacity, you’ve been breaking down, untethered and terrified, one foot in the past. His touch has served as much to ground you as anything else.

This time it just feels like comfort. Care and love and maybe…

‘I’m sorry it took so long for us to find you,’ he murmurs.

Yeah. It’s that.

It feels like an apology. As if he’s someone who owes you one, even a little. As if he deserves to shoulder the weight of hero society all on his own, as if he alone could right it.

But he did. For you, at least. He did.

You breathe deeply against his chest, inhaling his familiar scent as much as the feeling of utter safety you find in his arms. The tight pinch of anger and grief unravels, just a little.

‘I’m glad it was you,’ you whisper.

He doesn't say anything, but he brings one hand up to rest on your head.

---

The next day, just past mid-afternoon, Shouto attempts to rope you into leaving Yuuei with him to stock up on stuff for the kitten, who still doesn’t have a name. Maybe you really should tell Yamada to name it, after all.

‘Weren’t you out two days ago?’ you ask, incredulous.

He’s so obvious when he wants something, but it’s not always obvious what that something actually is. And he’s terribly good at getting his way.

So of course, he just shrugs. ‘I didn’t think about it.’

The problem is he’s so stubborn and so simple that it’s nearly impossible to find a feasible counter to his manipulation. He’s a veritable goddamn master at it, and you’re positive he’s not even really trying.

‘This better not be like last time at the beach,’ you warn. ‘If we somehow just happen to run into Midoriya at the pet supply store…’

Shouto smiles, for some reason. ‘We won’t.’

You’re pretty sure he’s being honest, even if he clearly has an ulterior motive. And it would be nice to get out of Yuuei for a while. You’ve barely left campus grounds for the better part of a week.

So, you concede and send a quick text to Aizawa to confirm that you’re allowed to leave without an escort. You don’t wait long for his response.

it’s fine

Seconds later, he adds,

be careful

Almost simultaneously, Yamada texts you as well.

Have fun!! ヾ(・∀・*)

You roll your eyes even as you feel an almost saccharine fondness for the both of them. You add their contacts to a group chat and send a simple:

I will

Immediately, multiple replies come through, one after the other.

（＾ワ＾）

hizashi you are 30
stop using kaomoji

｡･ﾟﾟ･(థ Д థ。)･ﾟﾟ･｡

---

Shouto ends up dragging you all the way to the station, then all the way onto a train that takes you all the way to another prefecture. He absolutely refuses to elaborate when you point out that there are definitely a ton of perfectly acceptable stores way closer to Yuuei!

You do end up in front of a pet supply store in the end as promised. Not just that, but apparently it’s family-owned and doubles as a cat cafe. But if he really wanted to bring you to a cat cafe, you’re sure there are plenty in Tokyo that are perfectly fine!

You turn a narrow-eyed stare on him, but he just blinks at you. ‘Yamada-sensei recommended it.’

‘Is this what you two whispering about yesterday?’

He doesn’t even answer you, just heads inside, a little bell jingling over the door in his wake. You don’t really have any choice but to follow.

‘Morning,’ a tired-looking boy yawns from behind the counter. He’s sort of familiar?

A woman’s voice calls out from the back room behind him, concealed by a hanging curtain. ‘Hitoshi! It’s four in the afternoon!’

The boy—Hitoshi, apparently—studies the two of you with a furrowed brow. You’re doing the same thing, trying to put your finger on why you recognise him.

It clicks when his face shifts from a critical stare to an unimpressed scowl. Purple hair isn’t exactly common; he was Midoriya’s opponent at the Sports Festival, the general studies student who nearly beat him in the first round of the tournament battles.

He glances from you to Shouto, then calls, ‘Ma! Take over for me!’

That hint of exasperation is still in her voice when the woman replies, ‘Why?’

He doesn’t take his eyes off the two of you, a hint of disdain in them the longer he looks. ‘They’re from the hero course! I fear for my well-being if I’m forced to interact with them!’

There’s not a drop of actual fear in him, that much is obvious. But he seems entirely unrepentant as well. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you or just being an asshole. Maybe both.

You exchange a glance with Shouto. You know him well enough to interpret the confusion in his idle expression.

‘Maybe you can make some friends!’ the woman suggests. She doesn’t sound remotely concerned.

‘One of them’s that vigilante kid,’ the boy fires back. ‘That’s pretty dangerous, right? Isn’t it your duty as a parent to protect me?’

Should you be offended by that? It sort of feels like you should be offended by that.

The woman finally peeks her head out from behind the curtain. She has cool, dark skin and a bundle of greying hair thrown into a bun at the base of her neck. Her eyes are a shock of vivid green, hooded and homely.

She glances between you and Shouto, then whacks the boy gently upside the head. ‘You’re gonna throw me under the bus that easy? What would your mother say?’

His lips twist into a shit-eating grin. ‘Trick question. She’d never be caught dead working the front in the first place.’

She scowls at him and jabs a finger against his hair, a poke he’s not quite quick enough to dodge. ‘I should call the agency,’ she bites, poking him a second time, ‘Maybe they’ll still do an exchange.’

‘Pretty sure the change of mind policy expired years ago,’ he counters, swatting her hands away. The grin hasn’t quite left his face.

The woman’s smile is equally self-satisfied, and equally fond. ‘You’re not getting out of this! You wanted the extra money, you have to work for it! Do your damn job!’

She stops chewing him out in favour of turning a positively beaming smile on you and Shouto. ‘Hi! I’m Shinsou Akane, and this is my son, Shinsou Hitoshi. Call me Akane!’ she ruffles his hair, heedless of the scowl that’s returning to his face. ‘Sorry about him. He’s a punk, but he’s a punk who’s trying to become a hero too, so please treat him well!’

With that, she disappears back behind the curtain before either of you can so much as return her greeting.

For a long, long moment, none of you say anything. Then, finally, Shinsou drawls in what you think is supposed to be his best attempt at a customer service voice, ‘Are you here for the cafe or the shop?’

‘Both,’ Shouto answers.

You turn your head to stare at him. You were not aware of this plan. Sure, obviously you want to check it out. Pet some new cats. But is it really worth it if you have to put up with this guy?

‘Entry to the cafe is free, but you’ve gotta buy something. Minimum spend is five thousand yen.’

Akane calls out once more, still unseen, ‘He’s lying! You don’t have to buy anything just to see the cats! But it’s nice if you do!’

Shinsou smirks, unbothered.

‘What’s the most expensive thing on the menu?’ Shouto asks.

You wonder about finding the nearest solid wall. Just so you can smack your head against it, because Shouto’s going to be the death of you, and you might as well get a head start.

Midoriya bringing him out of his shell—shattering it, really—was a terrible idea and clearly lacking any sort of foresight. Because Shouto is a goddamn problem. Why is he picking a fight right now?!

Shinsou frowns, and you’re pretty sure he’s trying to work out whether or not Shouto is being intentionally offensive. And really, it’s a coin flip. There’s as much chance he’s being deliberately goading as there is that he’s missing a social cue about not blatantly flaunting his wealth, and there’s no sure way to tell which it is.

‘None of it’s actually that expensive,’ Shinsou concedes, grabbing a single-page laminated menu from the counter and handing it to Shouto. ‘You wanna sit?’

Shouto nods.

Shinsou comes out from behind the counter, guiding you both over to a door on the left. It’s the kind of door that has a window in it, and he peers through before he opens it, angling his foot in the gap just in time to stop the small black kitten that immediately tries to make a break for it. Shinsou scoops it up without so much as batting an eye, gesturing you both inside.

It’s a quaint little space with mismatched furniture that feels like it was probably acquired at different times, in different places. Three tables are situated evenly apart, the walls lined with carpet-covered platforms at different heights, clearly meant for the cats to climb. A few cat trees are strategically positioned around the room as well, some within reach of the tables and others at a distance.

You count at least five cats you can see, minus the one Shinsou places on a carpeted platform once the door is firmly shut behind you. The most striking of the bunch is a long-haired, pure white cat, curled up asleep on one of the chairs.

‘Everyone’s pretty friendly, but mind your manners,’ Shinsou warns. ‘If a cat doesn’t want to be touched or held, respect it. If you get bit or scratched being an idiot, we’re not liable.’ There’s just enough disinterest in the words that you can guess he’s sick of saying them.

There’s a pause, the tiniest bit awkward, while he waits for some sort of acknowledgement from either of you. You glance at Shouto, but he’s already laser-focused on the white cat.

You sigh. ‘Thanks.’

Shinsou blinks, then inclines his head slightly in his own acknowledgement. ‘Can I get you anything, or did you want some time to—‘

‘We’ll get one of everything,’ Shouto says. You don’t think he even bothered looking at the menu.

‘We absolutely will not,’ you veto. ‘Not unless you want to carry whatever we don’t eat back to Yuuei.’ Seriously, when did you become the voice of reason here?

‘You guys are in the dorms already?’ Shinsou asks. Somehow, you get the sense that the boredom in his tone is an affectation. He’s curious. And maybe even a little bit envious? You wonder if it has something to do with what his mother said, about him wanting to become a hero. But he’s in the general course, so what’s up with that?

Instinctively, you want to grab for the quickest, simplest deflection; secret-keeping is still very much your natural response to anything that feels a little vulnerable, and for good reason. But do you really care enough about what some random general studies student thinks to bother?

‘Yep,’ is what you land on. ‘It’s special treatment. We’re Aizawa-sensei’s favourites.’

The corner of Shouto’s mouth twitches. He leans down and offers his left hand to the cat. Cautiously, it opens its eyes and sniffs him.

Shinsou raises an eyebrow, a lilting grin settling on his face. Something about it feels like a challenge, especially when he says, ‘Are you?’

You have half a mind to drop the ‘he’s about to be my legal guardian’ card just to get one over him, but you have no idea why he’s baiting you in the first place.

You haven’t had a chance yet to discuss ground rules with Aizawa and Yamada about exactly how much of your situation needs to be kept under wraps, but you have enough common sense to know you shouldn’t just be telling random people for your own satisfaction.

You do have another way to boast, though, one that isn’t quite as revealing. He already played his hand about it, too, so you know he knows who you are.

‘He trained me when I was a vigilante,’ you tell him, hoping your smile makes it obvious you’re taunting him, just a little. He started it.

For some reason, though, Shinsou’s grin just gets even wider. Your first impression of it, all bared teeth and almost-sneer, is that it reminds you a little of Bakugou. But paired with his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes, the similarities actually point more towards Aizawa.

Something about it makes you bristle.

‘So training with him makes you his favourite, huh?’ Shinsou drawls. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

Before you have a chance to come up with some sort of retort, he glances over at Shouto and the grin is wiped from his face. ‘She’s not usually that friendly,’ he murmurs, cocking his head as he watches the white cat butt its head against Shouto’s hand. A soft purr kicks up, growing even louder when Shouto starts to scratch under her chin.

‘His left side is warm because of his Quirk,’ you tell Shinsou, because you’re not bitter about it at all, thanks.

Shinsou scowls. ‘That’s totally cheating.’

‘It is!’

The look the two of you exchange could almost be considered amicable. There’s nothing like a common enemy to inspire a bit of solidarity.

---

By the time you make it back to Yuuei, the sun is barely a golden sliver on the horizon. Shouto ended up dragging you to a nearby department store after you spent some time at the cafe and got what you needed for his cat.

Even though you successfully talked him out of buying one of everything from their menu, he still ended up with a few bags from other stores. You don’t even know what most of it is, so of course, you’re not carrying any of it. Not your problem. You stopped paying attention halfway through his little shopping spree, anyway.

You’re tempted to refuse to open the door for him, just to see how long the stare-off would last. But you take pity on him—and on yourself, really, because trying to out-stubborn Shouto is an exercise in futility.

The moment you step inside, the combined voices of several people shout, ‘SURPRISE!’

The sound of two confetti poppers is eclipsed by the full force of Yamada’s Quirk, which puts him firmly as the loudest among the small group you find standing in the common area. Confetti slowly settles on the ground in front of them as you pick out the familiar faces.

Yamada and Aizawa are both in civilian clothes, one of the confetti poppers held high in Yamada’s hand. Aizawa is standing several feet away from the rest of the group, and you just know he anticipated the noise and acted accordingly. A side effect of living with Present Mic.

The second confetti popper is held by… Iida? His face is drawn in complete seriousness. You can already imagine Yamada choosing him for the very important duty of setting it off at the right time. Iida would do any task given to him with the utmost care, and apparently this one is no exception.

Uraraka stands beside him, a big grin on her face even though she looks a little nervous at the same time. Next to her, Midoriya is beaming; next to him, Inko looks much the same as Uraraka.

You’re at once overwhelmed by parallel feelings of embarrassment and appreciation. You wait for some other, more exhausting negative emotion to well up alongside them, but other than a bit of discomfort—which is pretty much your natural state, lately—there’s nothing. You just feel warm. Too warm, but warm nonetheless.

The more that it sinks in, and the longer the silence wears on, the faces of the people in front of you shifting into varying expressions of uncertainty, the more your embarrassment grows. Heat rushes to your cheeks so fast it makes you feel light-headed.

You turn on your heel and put your back to everyone, but you manage a, ‘This is embarrassing,’ just to make sure no one actually worries.

You glance at Shouto. He’s still beside you, and he’s looking at you with this tiny little smile.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ you murmur, just for his sake, because you finally get it. The bastard was distracting you. This whole time.

His smile grows, which just embarrasses you even more because he looks so damn sweet with an expression so earnest.

‘It was Hizashi’s idea,’ Aizawa sighs, and you can tell the world-weariness in his tone is exaggerated.

Yamada barks a laugh. ‘Yeah, it was!’ Utterly unrepentant, as usual.

As if you couldn’t have guessed who was behind this in a heartbeat.

Still, though. You can’t help but wonder, as you work yourself up to turning back around to face everyone again, if this isn’t a bit too obvious? If you saw this situation as an outsider, you’d immediately assume there was some sort of connection between you and them. And that’s potentially sensitive, exploitable information. Isn’t that exactly why Aizawa vetoed adoption?

Apparently, the man in question spontaneously developed some sort of mind-reading Quirk, because he inclines his head. ‘I have full confidence that the people in this room,’ he says, shifting his attention to Midoriya, Iida and Uraraka in turn, ‘will not spread this information around carelessly.’ He pauses for a moment, as if letting the warning sink in, then looks back at you. ‘Tell them whatever you want.’

You just barely keep a tight enough grip on your composure that your jaw doesn’t drop—did he just get retribution on Midoriya’s behalf? He just did to you exactly what you did to him a few days ago, basically forcing you into telling some version of the truth to the people in front of you!

What was it you said then? Pot, kettle!

But you know exactly why he did it when you feel the relief slowly creeping in as you process it. Again, your heart twists painfully in the face of that hard to swallow kindness.

Secrets have been eating you alive ever since you were old enough to keep them. You know so, so well how much they can rot you from the inside out.

This is him telling you that you don’t have to anymore, at least not with the intensity you used to.

It occurs to you, then, that this might not have just been Yamada’s idea. Everyone else moves into the dorms tomorrow, and somehow they’ve managed to create a situation that both allows you to confide in the people you have budding friendships with in relative privacy and gives you a chance to gradually acclimate to having more people in the dorms. As gradually as you could on such short notice, anyway.

The only thought in your head as you realise all of this is a loud and undeniable certainty that they really, really do care about you. You knew, of course. But will it ever stop being a surprise?

Well. You’re not about to earnestly return their consideration in front of all these people, no matter how grateful you are!

You narrow your eyes and smirk, glancing between them and leaving just enough time for the grin on Yamada’s face to fall as he registers the impending danger before you announce, ‘Aizawa and Yamada are married.’

Payback’s a bitch, and Aizawa said you could tell them whatever you wanted!

---

Right before you settle down to eat—you couldn’t quite bring yourself to tell them all the actual truth, yet—Midoriya approaches you, a bashful look on his face.

He holds up his phone and says, apologetic, ‘All Might heard about me moving into the dorms early. He says he has something he wants to tell me, but I’ll be right back!’

You’re not sure why he’s looking for your permission to leave. It’s weird. But the thought of All Might makes you feel guilty, somehow. It reveals a pit in your stomach.

His existence has probably been a lonely one, hasn’t it?

The Symbol of Peace. Holder of One For All. One of the very few heroes carrying the weight, all this time, of the knowledge of All For One’s existence. And his first instinct upon learning the truth about you was to add it to that interminable weight.

You know the heavy toll of secrets, and really, yours aren’t even as big as his. You haven’t kept them half as long.

And you hated feeling lonely. If you truly had to go back to that, after everything you’ve found, you’re not even sure you’d survive.

All Might has been… good to you.

‘Tell him to join us.’ The words slip out before you can give yourself the chance to rethink them, even as your stomach lurches with anxiety at the very thought of his presence.

You’ll get over it.

Midoriya’s eyes are wide, and he’s so clearly trying not to look hopeful. ‘Are you sure?’

You heave a dramatic sigh. ‘Who am I to deprive the Number One hero the combined home cooking talents of Midoriya Inko and Present Mic? Only a villain would be so cruel.’

Midoriya’s face brightens, and just before he can run off, a thought occurs to you. All Might is a selfless, overly charitable man who’d probably ignore his own desires at the very hint of inconveniencing the people around him.

‘Tell him I’ll be insulted if he declines,’ you add.

Midoriya’s lips thin into a line that you can only guess is his attempt at stifling a laugh. ‘Thank you!’

You wave him off, turning back towards the dining area to rejoin everyone else—only to be cut off by Aizawa, who’s apparently been close by this entire time.

‘If I can put up with him, so can you,’ you say.

He snorts, but doesn’t reply. After a moment of staring at you, he drops his hand on your head, ruffling your hair. ‘You’re a good kid.’

Yeah, you’d rather die than accept a compliment like that from him. It’s so much more loaded considering how sparse he is with that sort of thing. You swat his hand away and roll your eyes, ‘I just wanted to make him squirm. He’s going to be so awkward, it’ll be great.’

His lips twitch with a barely concealed smirk. But instead of calling you out, he just says, ‘The guardianship petition was accepted.’

You blink. ‘It’s only been two days?’

‘Nedzu said it was a birthday present,’ he explains, a tad wryly.

‘Has he told everyone?’ you hiss.

Revealing their relationship clearly wasn’t enough. Yamada better watch out—there will be a reckoning.

---

You’re almost disappointed by the fact that dinner isn’t actually that awkward. Turns out, once she’s had a chance to settle in and isn’t a stammering wreck in All Might’s presence, Inko is exceptional at making anybody feel comfortable. It’s about the least surprising thing to come out of the past twenty-four hours, given that you’ve been on the receiving end of her hospitality before.

It’s also why you only feel minimally embarrassed when she’s the one who kicks off gift-giving once the table has been cleared. Because of course there just had to be gifts, too.

She sets a container in front of you, a double-batch of homemade cookies you first sampled not long after you started sharing dinners with her and Midoriya. It was ages ago, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all that she remembered how much you liked them.

You thank her, and have barely enough time for even that before Midoriya is pushing a small bag across the table towards you, a light flush to his face. ‘I didn’t really have time to go out and buy you something, so it’s just something I already had. I know you said you’re not the biggest fan of, well, heroes, but I just thought you should have, you know, at least some sort of—well,’ he cuts off his own rambling with a grin that’s almost blinding. ‘It doesn’t matter! I hope you like it!’

He seems a little too pleased with himself, like some of his nerves are more anticipation than actual worry. There’s a satisfaction to him that you can’t quite pin down.

The outside of the bag is decorated in a pattern of multi-coloured balloons in All Might’s colours. You glance at the man in question where he’s seated beside Inko further down the table. There’s a small, embarrassed flush about his cheeks. You really wish you could’ve seen his reaction to Midoriya’s room.

But you swear if he gave you All Might merch…

You push the tissue paper that lines the bag out of the way until you can reveal what’s hidden inside. It’s a small figurine on the end of a key-chain. The first thing you notice is that the colours are too dark for it to be anything All Might related, but it takes a second of looking at it for the details to really register.

Yellow goggles and an off-white capture scarf.

Not for the first time in the last few hours, you feel your cheeks warm. It really is very cute. Adorable, even. Where did Midoriya find something like this? You doubt Aizawa ever green-lit an official run of Eraserhead merch.

You stare down at it without moving for long enough that Yamada chimes in from his seat across from All Might. ‘What is it?’

Immediately, you clamp the top of the bag shut between your hands. ‘It’s nothing.’

Midoriya visibly deflates. ‘Do you not like it? I can get you something—’

‘No!’ you cut him off, causing him—and a few others—to start. You might’ve added too much volume, but hey, it’s not like you shouted. ‘I like it! Thank you! I’ll treasure it!’

You’ll treasure it? What are you even saying?!

His beaming smile comes back full force. ‘I’m glad! I just noticed you really seem to adm—’

Before he can say anything else, you throw yourself halfway across the table and slap your hand over his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he says your name, the sound of it muffled by your hand.

But there’s this faint hint of something in his expression that you can’t overlook. Something suspiciously playful.

Is he… doing this on purpose?

As if he can tell exactly what you’re thinking, he just tilts his head with a closed-eye smile, not even trying to pull away from you. Utterly unrepentant. You are surrounded by terrible, horrible people. What did you do to deserve this? You knew he had a cunning side to him, but of all the…

‘Oh my gosh, it’s so cute!’ Uraraka cries.

You whip your head around to see that, somehow, Shouto has managed to commandeer the bag you left behind in your haste to silence Midoriya, and he’s holding it open between himself and Uraraka, both of them peering inside.

Shouto glances at you and slowly reaches into the bag.

‘Do not.’

He just blinks at you, not showing any sign of stopping.

‘I swear I won’t even touch whatever you got me,’ you threaten, because you know for sure he must’ve got you something, and it’s probably something way too expensive, and he’s probably looking forward to giving it to you, because he’s way too kind like that.

He frowns, and it’s just close enough to a pout that you know you’ve won. You clamber back into your seat and swipe the bag out of his hand.

‘I wanna know what it is,’ Yamada whines.

You glare down the table at him. ‘Not a chance.’

You’re saved from any more of a show about it from Iida, your one true ally in this world. He was the only one of your fellow students who had the decency not to look in the bag. He gifts you an expensive-looking stationary set, explaining that it’s his preferred brand and everything usually holds up even after extensive use! You mumble about studying with him sometime, and he offers you a warm, genuine smile.

Uraraka bashfully hands you a plush toy—a soft black and white cat the perfect size for hugs. Apparently when she asked Shouto for advice on what to get, he told her you like cats.

It really is very soft.

All Might apologises profusely for not getting you anything right up until you tell him that the perfect gift he could give you would be to stop apologising.

Not too long after that, Inko has to head home, and All Might offers to escort her out. The farewell turns predictably teary when she gets to her son.

Then Shouto casually mentions that he has a cat, which spirals into Uraraka demanding to see it, and Midoriya and Iida get dragged along with her. When Shouto doesn’t mention your inclusion, or lack thereof, you realise it’s a deliberate ploy on his part. Probably to give you time alone with the your guardians.

He’s insufferable.

Yamada gleefully deposits his own gift bag into your hands once the three of you are alone. ‘I picked this one out,’ he stage-whispers, practically vibrating with excitement.

In the bag is, of all things, a mug. It’s emblazoned with gimmicky block letters and reads I’M THE FAVOURITE CHILD.

Yamada, apparently allergic to subtlety, nudges an elbow against your side. ‘Mugs are pretty great, huh?’

‘I actually don’t know what a mug is,’ you say, holding the mug up and making a show of inspecting it. ‘Is that what this is?’

‘You give teenage Shouta a run for his money in the sass department, y’know?’ Yamada quips, reaching out a hand to ruffle your hair. You dodge out of the way just in time. ‘And he was bad.’

‘I was not that bad,’ Aizawa grumbles. Without any fanfare, he retrieves something from a pocket and holds it out to you.

It’s not wrapped, nor is it in a gift bag. But it’s already the most precious gift you’ve been given.

In his hand is Kawata’s deck of cards. You know it’s hers, because you can see the place her name used to be visible, etched in hiragana along one edge of the cardboard sleeve.

かわた

The last time you saw it, when you used the cards with Shouto, the sleeve was in tatters and stained blood had completely hidden her name. Now, it’s perfectly in tact, looking exactly as it did when Kawata first brought the deck with her, only the faintest hints of wear at the edges.

You voice comes out strained and quiet, and all you manage is, ‘How…?’

‘Hina’s Quirk,’ he explains. ‘Simple Fix. She can revert small objects back to their previous states. Thank her next time you see her.’

He’s saying it so simply, as if this isn’t one of the single kindest things anyone has ever done for you. It’s not like it was Hina’s idea—she definitely helped, and you’ll definitely thank her, but…

You wind your arms around him, tentative and gentle. It’s such a special thing that even a thank you wouldn’t feel close to enough, and you’re at a loss for how to truly convey the importance of what he’s done. All of it.

‘Do I get a hug, too?’ Yamada teases when you pull away. He’s subdued about it, though, voice soft in a way that you know means he’s sincerely joking.

You still turn and give him one, anyway.

‘Happy birthday,’ he says quietly, and you swear you feel the ghost of a kiss pressed into your hair.

You blink away the sudden threat of tears. Crying is way too exhausting to keep doing it all the time, even if these two seem bent on making you weep every other time you see them.

You gather up your things and exchange a goodnight with them, but you hesitate before you start up the stairs. ‘Hey, Yamada?’

‘Hm?’ he perks up, both of them turning to face you from where they’d made it to the large double doors.

‘They made Present Mic key-chains at some point, right?’ It’s such a basic piece of merch that you’re all but certain of it.

Yamada’s grin is smug, and just knowing enough that you suddenly suspect he managed to peek into a certain gift bag when you weren’t looking. ‘Do you want some of my merch, little listener?’

‘Yes,’ you answer, then beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

You find everyone crowded in Shouto’s room. The cat has taken a liking to Iida for some reason, curled up in his lap, kneading her claws into his leg. You wonder how devastated Shouto was, finally being on the receiving end of a cat’s rejection.

Once you’re all situated, as spread out as you can be in the cramped dorm space, you tell them.

You tell them about your mother, and the night of the fire. You tell them about being raised by All For One, about growing up with Tomura. You even tell them about the Underground Masquerade, and about when you left. About becoming a vigilante and meeting Aizawa. About what he and Yamada are to you.

Your legal guardians.

Through the earlier parts of your story, Midoriya looks incredibly sad, but not terribly surprised. He did know some of it, after all. He still seems halfway to throwing himself at you for a hug the entire time.

Iida’s face stays severe and focused through it all, and something about just how seriously he takes it feels grounding. Like he’s really listening. Like he respects you.

And Uraraka cries. She sheds real, genuine tears on your behalf, and you feel a little less alone in your own grief. You feel seen.

By all of them.

Shouto’s weight is a familiar comfort pressed against your side from start to finish.

Later, Iida takes charge and herds you all out, reminding you about the importance of a good night’s sleep. After the rest of them head to their respective floors, Shouto follows you into your room like always.

His gift to you is a handheld gaming console, complete with a bundle of games. You don’t know much about consoles, but the ‘LATEST MODEL’ sticker on the box confirms your suspicion that this was definitely as expensive a gift as you’d expected.

‘I got one too,’ he says. ‘I’ve never played a video game before. Have you?’

You shake your head. ‘The only reason I’m allowing this is because you’re adorable when you’re happy.’

His face scrunches a little, but a small smile is fixed in place. ‘Not because I wasted more of my old man’s money?’ he teases.

‘That too,’ you concede.

You huddle shoulder-to-shoulder on your bed, backs against the wall as you set up your matching consoles. His is black, yours is white. You felt like it should be the other way around, but he insisted, even though it’s your gift.

At one point, while you’re both trying to figure out the controls of some sort of racing game, the cat slowly droops from her perch on his leg, falling halfway onto yours. She doesn’t even wake up, just stays there, spread out between the both of you.

‘She has a name,’ he murmurs. ‘I thought of it earlier.’

But he doesn’t offer it up. Of course not. Instead, he just stares at you pointedly.

The silence stretches on until a wa-hoo! blares from one of the consoles and startles you both.

Fine, you’ll humour him. ‘What is it?’

‘Tomo,’ he says. And damn him, his smile is contagious.

Notes:

Edit: I forgot to mention when I first made this author’s note that Tomo in this case is short for ともだち, the Japanese word for friend.

me, adding that new relationship tag: (¬‿¬ )

I know some of you have been waiting eons for Shinsou. I hope I made at least one person's day now that he's finally here!

The amount of time I put into this chapter is a tad ridiculous, but I really wanted to get it right, especially the more serious stuff in the first half, so let me know what you think. Every comment makes me feel warm and happy, just like Sine every time they're in the same room with Aizawa and Yamada! So please take the time to leave one <3

Chapter 17

Notes:

cws: panic attacks, ptsd symptoms, some flashback-esque stuff, anxiety, awkward teenagers being awkward (it's adorable though)

Having friends is strange. You never imagined yourself willingly choosing anybody's company over Shouto’s—he’s easy to default to, always a comforting presence even when he’s being irritating on purpose. A balm even when he chafes.

But it’s not even midday yet, and after sharing a simple breakfast with Shouto, Midoriya, Iida and Uraraka, the latter two announced their plan to visit a nearby secondhand store. Uraraka wants to pick up a few things to decorate her room. Apparently Yuuei was generous about covering the cost of most of her furniture, so she still has some of the budget she set for herself left over. Iida’s tagging along to keep her company.

Midoriya and Shouto both decided to hang back and enjoy the quiet for the few hours left until everyone else arrives to start moving in, and when it came time to declare your intentions—well. You surprised everyone, including yourself, by opting to go with the others.

That’s where you are now, genuinely enjoying their company as the three of you peruse the cheap assortment of pre-loved items, everything from old clothes to random amateur landscape paintings to out-of-date dish ware.

You are here for a reason, though. After a good fifteen minutes of mindlessly trawling the cramped, haphazard aisles, you opt to wander over to the kitchenware while Uraraka sifts through a bin of crumpled throw blankets.

You’re eyeing the frankly concerning assortment of mugs that take up multiple shelves when Iida approaches.

‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ he asks, a polite opening even though you already have some idea of why he’s taking this opportunity to catch you on your own.

You nod. ‘A gift,’ you tell him, your eyes tracking a slow circuit of the different mugs, waiting for something to jump out. After a moment, you decide you’re okay with giving him more detail than just that. What’s the point of them knowing about the guardianship if you’re not going to take advantage of the luxury of being honest? ‘Yamada’s birthday already passed, but I wanted to get him something.’

A glance over at Iida shows off his genuine smile. It’s a little stiff, but you’re pretty sure that’s just how he is most of the time. ‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’

You snort. ‘Oh, I know he will. He’ll act like it’s the greatest thing ever no matter what it is. He’s like that.’ You can almost hear it in your head already—him sniffling his way through a thank you while he fails not to cry. That’s exactly why you don’t plan on being around when he finds it.

Iida laughs, and you both lapse into silence for barely more than a moment before he starts, ‘In any case, I wanted to—’

You turn to face him and hold up your hand. ‘I’m gonna stop you right there. There’s no reason to apologise. What I did back then was my choice, and in case you hadn’t noticed, that was kind of my whole thing. It’s not like I was just some promising hero course student acting out to help a friend. I was still a vigilante first and a hero student second. And if I were in your place, I probably would’ve done the same thing. So don’t apologise for dragging me into something I would’ve dragged myself into anyway.’

Iida blinks a few times, as if he’s trying to find a way through whatever passes for your logic. Eventually, though, he lands on a wry smile with only a faint hint of regret. ‘Then I’ll offer my thanks instead. I am incredibly grateful for what you did.’

You suppose that’s acceptable. ‘It’s fine,’ you acknowledge with a shrug, but you can feel the feather-light touch of an automatic smile on your lips.

Friends, huh?

Before you can ruminate on that too much, or linger long enough to make things awkward, your eyes finally land on an absolute monstrosity of a mug. It’s so egregious it pushes all thoughts of the Hero Killer clean from your head.

You reach into the back row of one of the lower shelves—clearly the place all the rejects end up when more palatable mugs get donated and used to sequester their ugly siblings out of sight. The thing only gets worse when you finally grab it. Beyond being a visual disaster, it also feels terrible to hold. The bulk of the handle is such that your hand can’t actually fit all the way through.

It’s a cockatoo, or rather, the very unfortunate rendition of one as depicted by somebody who’d, in fact, never seen a cockatoo before, but still attempted to recreate the image of one proportioned to the scale of a mug. If it weren’t for the size, you might even think it was a jug because of the shape.

The handle is made up of the purely black beak, the top and bottom jaws wide and meeting in the middle to form the semi-circle that barely leaves enough room for a few fingers. The rest of the mug is the head of the bird, lumpy and misshapen and ending with the jagged points of a yellow crest.

There’s not even a flat section that could be reliably used to drink from—no, whoever attempts to drink from this mug is almost guaranteed to spill their beverage of choice.

It’s perfect.

It’s a calculated choice, really. You’re already certain that Yamada is the kind of person who might give lavish, unnecessary gifts if given the chance. You’re pretty sure he went easy on you yesterday, still that careful inching closer to make sure he doesn’t scare you off. You don’t hold such hopes for the future.

But if you start this as a tradition between you—the exchange of simple mugs—then you’ll automatically cap the extent of whatever he wants to waste on you in the future.

Well. You’re sure he’d object to that phrasing, but it’s not like you need much, or want it besides. Just being gifted their continued presence in your life is already an impossible standard that no future gift could hope to live up to.

As you exchange the few hundred yen with the elderly woman working at the counter, you find yourself lingering on that thought—their continued presence. Tradition.

It feels warm in your chest but tastes bitter on your tongue. You trust them, you really do, and you’re trying to hold onto the overwhelming happiness you felt when it sunk in that they wanted to offer you guardianship, but you’re still not sure you can rely on this really being a long term thing.

You want it to be. That’s not even a question. But there’s still so much that’s up in the air about what this even is and what it’s going to look like, how it’s going to work.

Not even six months ago, you were still resigned to a short life of futile running that would inevitably lead you back to Father. Now you’re trying to imagine and prepare yourself for finishing high school and—whatever comes after that. Because there might actually be an after that, too.

All For One is still out there. Remanded to Tartarus, as if any prison could even indefinitely hold him, he’s still a looming threat even though you don’t feel it half as heavy as you used to. It’s not a shadow on your heels, just a glimpse on the horizon.

And there’s Tomura. Freely untethered from his master, with the rallying support of his own allies. It’s almost as if All For One planned it. Really, you’re almost certain that he did in some capacity, if not on these exact terms.

Something could happen tomorrow—it might be nothing for years.

Will you still have them through all of it? Through graduation, through Tomura, through whatever comes next with All For One? Will they still…

As you start back towards Yuuei, Iida and Uraraka in tow, you take a deep breath and resolve to do your best to accept things for what they are and trust that you’ll be capable of picking up the pieces of whatever comes crashing down later on.

You might not even have to do it alone.

---

The key to their new front door also unlocks the balcony door.

Shouta realises as much when, a couple of hours before he’s meant to conduct orientation for the rest of the class moving into the dorms, he watches from the couch as his ward appears. At first, they’re just a set of hands on the balcony railing. Then, they fault over it in a fluid motion and land solidly on the balcony itself.

They have the decency to look caught when they meet his eyes through the glass door and realise they have an audience of one, cats not included.

Shouta’s first thought is that he deserves a raise. Really, his ability to maintain a straight face when his students do things that are genuinely amusing is impressive, but it’s not like he can give them the satisfaction of making him laugh. It would only encourage all sorts of trouble. He doesn’t have the time for it.

The second thought is that something about the first falls flat. He can’t help but wonder if some amusement wouldn’t be a helpful thing to let slip for the sake of affirming to his ward that they are not just his student. The boundaries are different—but it’s been difficult to toe the line between those two extremes and the uncomfortable middle ground they currently reside in. Neither strictly teacher and student nor simply parent and child.

Right now, they are guardian and ward, and it’s a messier dichotomy than even he’d anticipated. Adoption would've made things concrete, given them a language to follow, a recognisable rhythm—god, he’s thinking like Hizashi.

But it was definitely too soon for that, not least of all for Shouta’s given reason for putting it off; their collective safety.

The third and final thought he manages in the space between them staring at him like a deer in headlights and finally recovering enough to unlock the balcony door—using the same key that unlocks the front door, which Shouta has duly noted—comes with a pang to his chest.

Oboro used to do the same thing.

Mostly, anyway. It feels similarly chaotic whether it’s his best friend—and, surreptitiously, his gay awakening at the time—using his Quirk to enter through a window fifteen minutes late to class, or his ward using nothing but their own dexterity and desire to break arbitrary rules to scale a building just to ‘break in’ to a room they have a key to.

The sound of the door finally sliding open interrupts the peace and quiet Shouta had been basking in moments before. His ward steps inside and shuts the door behind them, and for a long few moments, all they do is hold his gaze and stare.

Shouta’s not about to break the stand-off. They made their bed.

Eventually, they hold up a hand. ‘Before you say anything,’ which, again, Shouta didn’t intend on doing, ‘I can explain.’

He blinks. ‘Can you?’

‘I have a proposition.’

He valiantly fights down the twitch that threatens at his lips, allowing himself only a raised eyebrow. ‘Do you?’

It’s fine. All he has to do is keep a straight face. He’s been doing that for years. He’s not about to start failing now.

Their raised hand shifts until they’re holding up one finger. ‘I should be allowed to use the balcony as an entrance once a week. I have good reasons.’

They’re trying so hard to be serious, expression severe and eyes sharp, and Shouta just…

He’s spent almost every moment before now being cautious with them. Even when his own fondness for them grew, even when it got the better of him, it only ever presented itself as a reciprocal gesture when they needed it. A sort of plausible deniability—of course he was going to provide comfort when they looked like they could use it. He’d do it for any of his students, especially the ones who can’t get it from anywhere else.

He’s been logical. Logical and calculating. He hasn’t taken the bait of any of their quips, hasn’t played into their attempts to get a rise out of him.

Maybe there’s room for something to give, now. In this new middle ground they’re building. Room for him to shed some of that caution, some of his reservations, the things that make up the teacher and the hero.

Maybe there’s room to have some fun.

He could justify it with logic. He’s one of their primary guardians; he has to model a wider range of behaviour than he did before, not just professionalism and safety. They could probably learn something from seeing him let down his guard, indulging in the things Hizashi fought so hard to give back to him in the wake of Oboro's death. What Oboro and Hizashi both tried to give back to him after his parents were killed not even a year before then.

Humour and joy and fun. Things that Shouta thought were unnecessary for so long after so much loss. Things he’s learned, over time, are as vital as the rest.

He could justify it. But he doesn’t have to.

He closes the lid of his laptop pointedly and plays along with their severity. ‘Let’s hear it.’

For a moment, they fold like a house of cards, a grin splitting the facade clean in two before they get it back under control. ‘Okay, so, it’s basically just extra training, for one.’

‘Extra unsupervised training,’ he comments.

They bristle. ‘You have to listen to all the reasons before you critique them!’

Shouta is losing the battle with his stern expression. It’s all he can do to gesture for them to continue.

‘Okay, so, it’s training. Obviously. But it’s also… It’s…’ They’re scrambling, clearly losing track of their argument. Finally, their eyes widen when they find it again, ‘It’s post-vigilantism enrichment! It’s harm reduction! You’re keeping me from being compelled back to a life of crime by allowing me to do something that feels illegal even though it isn’t!’

Shouta breaks. He laughs, quiet and full. They smile, too, their lips thinned in a failing attempt not to.

‘You can do it once a month,’ he concedes. ‘But if you get hurt, it stops.’

They frown, silent for a moment, staring at him like they’re gauging whether or not they have more leverage here. They don’t, but they still try. ‘Once a month, and this time didn’t count.’

Shouta huffs another laugh. He shakes his head, but says, ‘Fine. Why the bag?’ They haven’t bothered to bring their backpack with them when they’ve visited before. He’s curious—and guessing it has something to do with why they suddenly go the bright idea to scale the building.

Their smile grows into a grin, which turns wicked as they sling the bag off and pull a smaller paper bag from within. ‘Late birthday present for Yamada.’ They tromp over to the couch and sit a careful distance from him, tucking their legs up and turning to face him.

The mug they pull out to show him is a sight to behold. A terrible one.

Shouta’s barely kept Hizashi’s mug collecting tendencies in check since they started living together. He used to make him pick one mug to donate per every new mug he bought, but Shouta knows there’s no chance he’s getting away with that now. The kid has barrelled right through a rule they had no knowledge of, and will probably never know about.

It’s endearing. It’s also clutter. Endearing clutter, then.

‘It’s awful,’ he says. Because it is.

They beam. ‘I know!’ They scramble up, a restless quality driving them—and maybe letting them scale buildings from time to time will help keep that growing restlessness to a minimum. ‘Now I just have to hide it somewhere.’

He can’t resist the opportunity to tease them. ‘Like last time?’ It feels like he’s crossing a line he drew six months ago. He has to remind himself that it will take more than a bit of teasing to send them running, now.

They’re already halfway across the room towards the kitchen. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Shouta huffs yet another quiet laugh and opens his laptop again, resuming familiarising himself with the various requests from his students and their families regarding dorm life. He already approved a couple of requests that needed to be handled in advance—Kouda’s rabbit and Satou having a small microwave oven in his room. Both reasonably justified as Quirk accomodations. It helps that they’re two students Shouta can trust to be responsible.

Recovery Girl is taking over the logistical side of several students who need regular medications. He forwards her those details in an encrypted email. They were already in the loop about most of the relevant medical history of the students, but they’ve been given more access given the changing situation.

Eventually, his ward returns to the couch empty-handed. He doesn’t bother asking where they hid the abomination. He’s sure to find out about it whenever Hizashi finds the damn thing.

They’ve barely made it back to their previous spot on the couch, feet up and facing Shouta, when the man himself makes a typical entrance.

‘Shoutaaaaaaaa!’

Shouta cringes, just a little. As fond as he is of Hizashi, he’s never gotten all the way used to how loud he can be. It’s been a long time since Hizashi learned not to take it personally, at least.

Their ward, though. There’s not so much as a flinch from them. They just turn halfway around, their back straightening and a smile settling on their face. It’s so telling that Shouta actually feels the next dramatic thud of his heart as if it were louder than the last.

‘Little listener!’ Hizashi crows, his face splitting into genuine, unreserved delight that, again, makes Shouta’s heart thud. God, he loves that man.

The three of them still have a lot to work through. The dynamic is changing, and it will only change more with time. Shouta anticipates ups and downs. But maybe now they won’t be in such equal measure. Maybe some things will stay like this—uncomplicated and earned.

Their ward deserves simplicity. However much of it he can give them, he will. Their life has been entirely painted in shades of grey. Forced moral ambiguity that fostered an unjustified self-hatred they never should’ve had the capacity to internalise so young. And yet.

If he can make a few things black and white, if eventually they can be certain of the simpler things, guarantees without hesitation, without any caveats…

Hizashi beats him to the first part. Apparently, Shouta got lost in thought enough that he missed the start of their conversation. Hizashi has settled in behind the couch, resting his arms over the back of it, equal distance between its two occupants. ‘I was thinking, what if we have a couple of nights a week where we all have dinner together? Like, family dinner! No getting out of it, for any of us!’

Shouta watches their face, and sure enough, the suspicions he and Hizashi had both shared are clear in their expression—a tentative smile they’re clearly trying not to let too much hope bleed into.

Shouta sees it anyway.

And he gets it. Because things aren’t going to stay the same as they have been. Both their dorm and the teachers’ dorm will be filling up, and given that it’s in their best interest to keep their situation relatively private, visits won’t be as frequent or as simple.

But all three of them could use the stability. Their ward most of all.

They agree to it, and the fact that no one is surprised by their easy acceptance is a wonder all its own. The ensuing conversation is an ambling one, during which they gradually address various things that’ve gone unsaid. Logistical changes and certainties.

‘I won’t go easy on you in class,’ Shouta tells them, a clarification he’s sure he doesn’t need to make, but the educator in him feels compelled to anyway. Like an itch, a formality that’ll bother him if he doesn’t at least say it.

They snort. ‘I’m almost expecting you to be even harder on me.’

He raises an eyebrow at them, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, ‘And since you’re so desperate for extra training,’ they have the decency to avert their eyes, but he’s pretty sure it’s embarrassment more than anything like regret, ‘I have another student I’ve been training, from the general course. He’d benefit from sparring with someone from the hero course. You’d be a good fit, if you’re interested.’

Slowly, their expression shifts into a scowl. Their eye twitches. Actually, honestly twitches with their sudden irritation.

‘What is it?’ Hizashi asks, sounding entirely too curious.

‘It’s Shinsou Hitoshi, isn’t it?’

Shouta blinks.

Apparently, that’s all the confirmation they need, because they heave a dramatic groan and hang their head. ‘I’m surrounded by antagonists.’

A little while later, they leave, claiming they want a bit of time to enjoy the peace and quiet before it disappears forever.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Hizashi falls onto the couch and drops his head in Shouta’s lap with a miserable whining sound. Automatically, Shouta starts to card a hand through his husband’s hair—a rare gesture, given how fussy Hizashi can be about it.

‘I can’t believe I chickened out again!’ he crows, predictably.

‘I can,’ Shouta drawls. They’ve had some variation of this conversation every day since the guardianship petition was first filed.

‘Why can’t you ask them?’ Hizashi whines, staring up at him with what he probably thinks passes for a pout. Hizashi’s never been good at pouting, at least not when it comes to Shouta. He’s too cunning for Shouta to actually buy it.

‘Because you obviously want to.’

Hizashi frowns and reaches up to poke Shouta’s cheek. ‘You’re a big meanie.’

‘Mature.’

The frown dissolves into a soft smile as Hizashi stares up at him. Shouta has to breathe deep and slow to allow the attention without instinctively brushing him off. When Hizashi gets like this, laser focused on him, the intensity is enough to make his skin crawl.

It’s not that he dislikes it. He’s just never gotten around to getting used to it. He probably never will.

‘You’re a lot more relaxed these days,’ Hizashi comments, not breaking their eye contact.

Shouta scratches his fingers against Hizashi’s scalp a few times until his husband emits a deep sigh and softens even further against him. ‘You too.’

---

Shouto doesn’t like modern flooring.

This realisation—and the gnawing guilt that accompanies it—finds you after the rest of the class arrives, after Aizawa gives a thorough orientation, and after everyone has a few hours to unpack their stuff.

By then, it’s well into evening, and everyone except for Bakugou, who apparently went to bed already, and Asui, who hasn’t been feeling well, gets roped into what quickly devolves into a dorm room contest of some sort.

You barely pay any attention to it, especially after everybody gets a look at Shouto’s room, because when he’s asked about the tatami flooring while everyone fawns over Tomo, he admits that he finds modern flooring uncomfortable.

You feel like you’ve been dropped off a cliff.

Have you been taking advantage of him? Asking too much? Has it been an inconvenience this entire time? You’ve become so used to the warmth inherent in knowing he’s beside you, to the sound of his breath. To rolling over when you can’t sleep and watching the gradual rise and fall of his chest.

Is it not the same for him? Is he just putting himself through discomfort for the sake of soothing your nightmares? You took for granted that he felt the same way, or something like it.

But what way is there to feel? It’s just friendship. Why are you making it bigger than it needs to be?

While everyone is distracted with the latest running commentary, this time about Ojiro’s plain room—which was the same assessment yours got, actually—Shouto falls into step beside you and tilts his head in a silent question.

All you can manage is averting your eyes and pretending, poorly, that you didn’t notice.

After the dorm contest is wrapped up, he gets dragged outside by Uraraka, a few others in tow—Midoriya, Iida, Kirishima and Yaoyorozu. Which just leaves you with the rest of the class lounging around tiredly in the common area.

You’re debating whether or not it’s worth quietly sneaking away when the slim undercurrent of tension that’s been brewing ever since orientation finally gives. How, you might ask?

Well. Kaminari takes a fucking knife to it.

He rounds on you, eyes lit up and fatigue thoroughly shaken as he exclaims, ‘Is it true?! Are you really a vigilante?!’

Hagakure hisses an unsubtle, ‘Kaminari-kun!’

At the same time, Jirou slaps the back of his head. You can’t tell if he’s wincing from the impact or the realisation that he put his foot in his mouth.

‘That’s probably a sensitive topic, Kaminari-kun,’ Ojiro adds, rubbing the back of his own head a little bashfully. He’s sitting on the couch across from Kaminari and the others, Shouji on one side of him and Kouda on the other.

As much as he’s right, and as much as you’re sure you could get away with brushing them off, you know their curiosity won’t allay if you do. And you sort of feel like you owe them some answers after spending all this time with them in what amounts to something closer to a half-lie than a half-truth.

You did want to be one of them. A real hero course student. But you weren’t.

You’d still like to be.

‘I was,’ you admit. ‘Not anymore.’

‘How’d you end up at Yuuei?’ Sero asks, leaning forward a little where he’s perched on one of the plush stools that line the low table.

With a quiet sigh, you move from where you were awkwardly hovering off to the side and take one of the other open stools. At least if you sit you can pretend you don’t have such a strong desire to run. ‘Eraserhead tracked me down and offered me admission. There’s a whole agreement involved. I get a pardon when I graduate.’

‘But weren’t you at the entrance exam?’ Kaminari asks. ‘And didn’t you fight the Hero Killer as, like, Sine Nomine?’ His curious expression turns sheepish when he adds, ‘Makes sense you were mad about what I said about him being cool. Sorry.’

Sometimes you forget he’s not stupid. Just… scattered, maybe?

You shift a little, trying to shake off some of the discomfort that’s settled in what feels like every part of you. This is a lot of people to be giving so much to. But you don’t really have a reason not to. Not anymore.

‘I didn’t accept his offer at first.’ You scrabble for a half-truth—you can’t exactly tell them you followed Midoriya for the sake of keeping him safe, that treads too close to All For One and Tomura, which you definitely don’t want to tell them about. You don’t want them thinking you’re some kind of traitor. ‘I sort of took the exams as a joke. It just snowballed from there.’

‘What was it like?’ Jirou asks, finally giving in to her own curiosity. Kaminari is a bad influence. ‘Being a vigilante?’

For some reason, this truth slips from you easily, like an outward breath. ‘Lonely.’

The large double doors open as the others come back inside. Asui is with them too. Her and a few of the others have red, watery eyes.

Were they talking about what happened at Kamino? During orientation, Aizawa said that if the situation in hero society wasn’t so dire, he would’ve expelled everybody except for you and Bakugou, who were kidnapped, and Jirou and Hagakure, who were unconscious. Everyone else either showed up to the battlefield or didn’t try to stop those who did.

With everyone gathered again—minus Bakugou, who you don’t think would give a shit anyway—you take the opportunity to stand, swallow your pride and temper your discomfort as best you can. You fix everyone’s attention on you with a loud, ‘Um.’

The late arrivals start settling in around the common area, and when everybody is focused back on you, you start, ‘I just wanted to apologise to you all. While you were all giving it everything trying to become heroes, I was… lying. And that—’ You think of USJ, of Tomura, of the training camp. You know you weren’t the major reason for any of it, but you definitely played a part. ‘Me being dishonest put you all in danger. I’m sorry for that, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever made any of you feel uncomfortable.

‘Jirou-san, Yaoyorozu-san, Kaminari-san,’ you look at each of them in turn, ‘I’m sorry about the battle trial at the start of the year. I was… I was in a pretty bad place back then, and I took it out on you, I think, in different ways. I think I sort of thought you were all beneath me at the time.’ You smile, just a little, to alleviate some of the severity of that admission. ‘But now I know you’re all pretty cool people, so. If it’s okay, I’d like to continue being part of this class, and maybe, if anyone wants to…’

You glance over at Shouto, who’s somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Iida. The sight of him settled in among everybody, despite how hard he was fighting to keep his distance not long ago, lets you find a confidence you didn’t know you had in you.

‘It would be nice to have more friends,’ you finish.

Yaoyorozu, eyes still red-rimmed from whatever happened outside, stops in front of you and takes your hand gently between both of her own. The smile she offers you is among the most graceful, soft smiles you’ve ever seen. It feels special. ‘I don’t truly think you have anything to apologise for, but I accept it nonetheless.’

‘She’s right!’ Uraraka adds. ‘You weren’t lying, you just couldn’t tell us what was going on!’

You laugh through the sudden stinging of your own eyes. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

She shakes her head vehemently, her hair bouncing around.

‘The darkness of self-imposed silence is especially dense,’ Tokoyami says, nodding sagely to himself.

‘It would have been very lonely,’ Aoyama adds, genuine sadness practically glittering in his eyes. Does he cry sparkles or something?

‘Momo’s right, though,’ Jirou says, a little awkwardly, but with emphasis. ‘You don’t need to apologise. Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’re hero course students, we’re gonna hurt each other sometimes.’

‘You know,’ Kaminari muses, a grin creeping onto his face, ‘You could always show us a thing or two! Some cool moves! To make it up to us!’

‘That would be really cool!’ Kirishima agrees, smacking a fist into his own palm.

Ashido laughs. ‘You’re gonna opt into extra training, Kaminari-kun?’

Kaminari’s grin falls. ‘Don’t call it that, that makes it sound less fun!’

Again, you find your eyes wandering over to Shouto. He’s watching everything play out impassively, but visibly, he looks so relaxed. At ease.

Like he’s home, you realise.

You glance back at the rest of them. ‘I’d be happy to spar with anyone who wants to, but we should probably ask Aizawa-sensei to supervise if we do it outside of class.’

You don’t want a repeat of what happened with Shouto last time.

‘He’d definitely turn it into extra training!’ Kaminari moans.

Asui speaks up for the first time, her voice a little hoarse. ‘You and Aizawa-sensei seem close. Is it because you’ve known each other longer?’

She wasn’t even in the room when you told the others he approached you in the first place, but she’s always been perceptive and unafraid to speak frankly, so it doesn’t surprise you that much. It would make you nervous if you weren’t… well. Where you are right now.

You don’t want to be dishonest with them, even if you do have to withhold the full truth. So you settle for a piece of it, shrugging as you share it with them. ‘He’s my hero.’

You’re almost startled to realise, as you say it, just how small a piece of the truth it really is.

He’s so much more than that now. But instead of a lie, some kind of deception, it just feels like your own little secret.

You didn’t know there could be a difference between a secret and a lie.

For a while, you endure a lighter, surface-level questioning about some of their curiosities about your time as a vigilante. Eventually, though, Iida herds you all off to bed. You can see that becoming a theme already.

Even with everyone having moved in, you and Shouto are still the only ones in your area of the dorms. There’s plenty of space, and pretty much every floor has a few vacant rooms, but yours is the least occupied. You’re almost certain it was deliberate, especially considering everyone else’s rooms were assigned by Aizawa.

The two of you hover in front of your door for a moment before he asks, ‘Did I do something?’ His voice is so… small. It feels like he’s trying to reduce himself, make it so he takes up less space.

’No!’ you emphasise with a firm shake of you head. You do your best to meet his eyes when you add, ‘I think maybe I did.’

His face falls into a soft frown. You just sigh and head into your room, leaving the door wide open as an invitation.

You sit on the bed, wriggling back until you’re leaning against the wall. When Shouto takes the hint and follows you inside, you gesture for him to sit beside you. He shuffles into place against the wall as well, the faint chill of his right side a soothing familiarity.

You don’t know where to start, so you just start with, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ The same soft, confused frown is still on his face when you glance over at him.

You look away and tuck your knees up to your chest. ‘It’s probably not very comfortable sleeping in here.’

‘Do you… not want me to anymore?’ The hurt in his voice is so unexpected that you turn to look at him again, searching for confirmation of it. Sure enough, it’s there, barely legible in his shoulders, slumped so finitely it could be mistaken for a natural slouch. His eyebrows are raised the smallest bit as well. You’ve spent long enough learning the intricacies of Todoroki Shouto to read him.

Your eyes itch. His vulnerability draws your own to the surface and you scramble to soothe it—yours, his, you don’t know. ‘I do. Want you to. I just. Do I rely on you too much?’

His frown returns, deeper this time, but you can still see the hurt in his mismatched eyes, paired as it is with uncertainty. ‘You don’t rely on me at all.’ He doesn’t say it like an accusation, just a fact.

You splutter out a sound halfway between an incredulous laugh and a scoff. ‘The hell? Shouto, you started sleeping in my room because I had a nightmare.’

He shakes his head, a strand of white hair falling over his eye. He brushes it out of the way. ‘I told you I get them too.’

‘You don’t wake up screaming.’

He just shrugs.

‘I literally use you as a buffer between me and almost every other person. Like, physically. I physically hide behind you, Shouto.’

His lips quirk into a half-smile and it feels like triumph.

‘I wouldn’t have been able to talk like that with the rest of the class if I didn’t see you do it first,’ you admit. Another confession slips out on the tail end of that, unbidden. ‘Sometimes I think you’re going to outgrow hiding on the sidelines with me.’

Shouto blinks, confusion swallowing the hurt completely. ‘I wouldn’t.’ Something in your expression must convey how hard it is to believe that, because he’s insistent when he repeats, ‘I wouldn’t leave you behind.’

He holds your gaze with such sincerity that your resolve crumbles. ‘Okay,’ you concede. ‘Seriously, though, is sleeping on modern flooring uncomfortable for you?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t prefer it. I still don’t mind.’

‘I mean…’ you hesitate, but ultimately follow through, ‘we could switch to your room? Try that out instead?’

Shouto blinks, tilting his head in what you interpret as consideration. ‘My futon is big enough for both of us.’

Heat floods your face. ‘That’s not what I meant!’

He blinks again, raising an eyebrow just a little. ‘Then where would you sleep?’

‘I don’t know! On the floor? I hadn’t thought that far! Besides, wouldn’t that defeat the entire purpose of making you more comfortable?’

His expression doesn’t change. ‘I wouldn’t be uncomfortable sharing a futon with you.’

‘But that’s—it’s not a large futon, Shouto!’

‘I like being close to you.’

Something happens internally, some wiring in your chest or your brain, or maybe both, frays. You short-circuit. Poof, smoke might as well be coming out of your ears for all the brain function that’s happening. All you are is a flustered, warm face and an overwhelming cacophony of confusion and safety, the two a self-fulfilling cycle that only confuses you more.

‘That’s. Um.’ You scramble for an out, something, anything, to latch onto. ‘You said you used to share with your mother, when you had nightmares. Is it like that?’

His smile is a little wry, a little wistful. ‘I haven’t shared a futon with Mom since I was five.’

Of course he hasn’t, you idiot! ‘What about your siblings?’ you try.

He shakes his head. ‘We’ve never really… been close like that. I was separated from them most of the time.’

Because of his father.

If Endeavor ever finds himself in front of you again…

But that’s neither here nor there.

‘Then who would you share a futon with? Other than me, I guess.’

‘No one,’ he says, as if it’s the simplest sentiment int he world.

‘But why me? Why me and not, like, Midoriya or Iida or Uraraka?’

He looks lost, and you get the sense you’re only leading him further astray with all your questions. But it’s not like you can just come right out and ask him what you’re thinking!

‘Because I don’t want to share a futon with them?’

Oh god. Now it’s progressed from would to want. You’re going to die by the end of this conversation. It’s like pulling teeth, only you’re not sure which of you is the one doing the pulling.

At a loss, you finally give in and opt for the direct route. ‘It’s not… romantic, is it?’

Your entire body tenses, braced for the answer. His reaction isn’t one of disgust, though, or even more confusion. He’s not repelled or, god forbid, affirming. He just gives you that same soft, considering gesture, the tilt of his head.

His eyes fix somewhere on the wall behind you for a long moment before they settle back on you. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says, and as much as the words aren’t exactly a strong denial, he sounds decisive.

You tuck your face against your knees and sigh, feeling the relief that floods you like the warmth of a hot spring.

‘Did you… want it to be romantic?’

You snap back up to face him so quickly your neck cricks. ‘No!’

You rub at the ache in your neck and fix your eyes on the wall behind him. The words are a murmur when you confess, ‘But you are… special to me.’ You turn and rest your chin on your knees, mulling over the words slowly. ‘It feels like more than it does with anyone else. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not romantic for me either, but it’s not the same as with Midoriya or Iida or Uraraka. It’s not even like the… the family stuff, with Aizawa and Yamada.’

It almost feels like a betrayal to them, using that word. Almost. Yamada said it first. Family dinner.

‘It’s like,’ you keep going, ‘I don’t want to kiss you, but I do really like being close to you. I like… holding your hand and stuff. But I don’t want to be in a relationship with you,’ the very idea is uncomfortable. ‘But calling you my friend doesn’t feel right, either. Same with calling you my brother.’

The only reason you find the courage to look at him, to measure his reaction to all of that, is because you feel perfectly safe even in your nervousness. He won’t ridicule you, even if it’s not the same for him. ‘Does that make any sense?’

He’s smiling. A tiny, soft thing, full of the sort of contradictory warmth you feel whenever he touches you with his right side, his mother’s side, the cold part of himself he finds the most solace in—of course you feel warm when he shares that with you. It’s special.

So is this. Somehow.

‘Maybe it’s a secret fourth thing,’ he says.

You laugh. ‘A secret fourth thing?’

His smile grows. ‘I don’t know. But it makes sense. It’s the same for me.’

There’s more relief than you expected, having whatever this… this secret fourth thing and its associated feelings be reciprocated. ‘So we’re a secret fourth thing, then?’ you say, halfway between serious and teasing.

‘Guess so,’ he shrugs. This one dissolves into a yawn, and then he turns an expressionless stare on you. ‘I’m sleepy.’

You feel your face contort into something that might resemble a grimace. ‘Are you trying to be cute right now? Stop it.’ You reach out to shove his face away, but he just grabs your wrist and clumsily hauls you off the bed with him.

You manage to extricate yourself from his grasp by pointing out that you still need to get changed. But you’re quick about it, and when you duck into his room a few minutes later, he’s already in his futon, closer to the edge, leaving half open for you. Tomo is wiggling in his hands, held up in the air above his chest.

‘I can only hold her off for so long before she takes your spot,’ he says.

You snort, shutting the door behind you and turning out the light he left on. ‘She has you wraped around her finger. Or her paw, I guess.’

As you settle in beside him, hyper-aware of his closeness, he holds Tomo up between you. ‘Look at her. Could you really deny her anything?’

Her wriggling intensifies and she lets out a very loud meow.

‘She’s obnoxious.’

Shouto doesn’t dignify that with a response, just finally lets her drop—right on top of you.

‘Shouto!’

Tomo takes off immediately, bounding awkwardly down the length of the futon until she starts cleaning herself at Shouto’s feet.

You feel his shoulder jolt against yours and realise he’s laughing. It’s silent, but when you look over at him, you can just barely see the shape of his smile in the dark.

He shifts until he’s lying on his side, facing you. And then he disarms you completely with a quiet declaration. ‘I’m glad you came to Yuuei.’

Nobody can accuse your eyes of watering. It’s too dark to see in that much detail.

‘Me too.’

---

The first day of the new term is mostly housekeeping with some simple classwork thrown in. You barely leave the classroom all day outside of scheduled breaks. You’re so ready for it to be over, to get out and maybe go play some games with Shouto or something.

Except, instead of sending you all off like usual, Aizawa says your name, then Bakugou’s. ‘You two stay behind. The rest of you, dismissed.’

Tension creeps in, settling just beneath the surface of your skin. Nothing in his tone or his expression or his posture helps you figure out what’s happening, and he doesn’t say anything else as everyone files out.

Shouto glances at you, asking a silent question you don’t have an answer for.

Even when the three of you are alone, Aizawa just waits. It has to be a full minute of dead silence before he glances down at his phone and finally says, ‘Come with me,’ and leaves the room.

Bakugou moves first, and you have to take a few quick steps to fall in beside him. His face is unimpressed, a disinterested mask. He’s been oddly quiet all day, and he barely showed his face last night. Is the aftermath of being abducted and held for almost three days weighing on him, or is it something else?

Maybe that’s what this is about. A check-in to see how you’re both doing.

Aizawa leads you to a sunny little meeting room with a large table. Several people are already seated. Bakugou’s parents—the resemblance between him and his mother is obvious, and it’s the natural conclusion that the man holding her hand is his father—are seated across from All Might, whose face is shadowed and severe, posture taut. He looks faintly nauseous.

At the far end of the table, Nedzu sits behind a laptop, expression similarly grave. Or, it’s more his posture that gives him away, really. There’s not actually that much to glean from his expression.

The last person already in the room is Yamada, but he’s not seated. He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to the rest of the room. Even when Aizawa closes the door and gestures for the two of you to sit, Bakugou with his parents on one side of the table and you beside Aizawa on the other, Yamada still doesn’t join you.

He doesn’t even turn around.

Without a word, Aizawa nods to Nedzu, who turns the laptop to face you all. He taps at the keyboard and a video clip begins to play. It’s fuzzy surveillance footage from a distant building that somehow didn’t get completely levelled by All For One that night. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you probably wouldn’t even be able to make out the details.

As it is, though, you can. You watch the blurry perspective of the camera as a black and white rendition of Shouto’s ice splits the battlefield apart moments before you and Bakugou, barely distinguishable as two people, go flying into the air—and then he explodes you, in a vivid flash of white, right back into the fray.

It’s like you’re gripped by the same fuzzy static. The edges of your awareness suddenly feel hazy as you watch yourself go flying further and further down until you leave the camera’s field of view.

‘Explain,’ Aizawa demands, voice quiet and hard.

You can’t find breath, let alone words. You’re one wrong move away from hyperventilating. You want to tell them the truth, absolve Bakugou of any misplaced blame, but the words get trapped in your throat. Your hands are shaking under the table, and you’re glad they’re out of sight.

‘I figured they were a good for nothing traitor,’ Bakugou drawls, still full of that affected disinterest. ‘Decided to blow ‘em up.’

‘Katsuki!’ his mother cries, somewhere between anger and anguish.

Your gut twists. You know that’s not true. It can’t be true. It’s not what happened.

But you were only operating off your own hunches that night, weren’t you? It’s not like the two of you had a proper conversation. What if—

But it doesn’t make sense. He didn’t need to do what you were asking of him. And if he really didn’t trust you, at least a little, he didn’t even need to grab you in the first place. He could’ve just left you there, bleeding out in front of the League. But he didn’t.

It stings like freezing water when Aizawa’s hard stare turns on you, waiting for your input. You hate it, because it tries to drag out out from under the weight of everything that’s stifling you right now—and you desperately need it, because you can’t let Bakugou be this stupid.

You want to shake your head, want to jerk yourself into motion so you can snap out of it, but your limbs are full of lead and your mouth is full of cotton. You manage a whisper you’re not even sure Aizawa can hear, ‘That’s not true.’

Bakugou grits out an unfeeling, ‘So, what, are you gonna expel me?’ He glares at Aizawa, but the expression is as empty as the rest of him.

You do manage to shake your head, then, a spasmodic back and forth that’s almost painful. ‘That’s not true. That’s not what happened! It wasn’t—I asked him to do it!’ You hate the way your voice sounds, all high and fractured. You feel it in your stomach like a poison. Shame.

‘So what?’ Bakugou growls, turning his glare on you. ‘I still did it ‘cause you deserved it.’

You try to swallow past the painful jolt in your chest. ‘Why are you lying?’

Is this how Midoriya felt? It’s not the same, but your mind goes back there anyway, back to shoving him up against a tree, to attacking his deepest insecurities.

At least Bakugou’s not doing it intentionally. He doesn’t know you well enough for that.

He pulls his eyes away from you as if he’s bored, averting his gaze towards the windows. ‘Whatever. If you’re not gonna expel me, just let me fuck off and study.’

‘Language, Katsuki,’ his dad murmurs uncertainly.

Aizawa looks at you again. You do your best to shake your head and convey through your eyes what you can’t make yourself say.

He looks toward Nedzu, some silent communication passing between the two of them. Finally, he says, ‘Bakugou, you can go. I’m not punishing you this time, but if you use your Quirk against another student like that outside of supervised training again, I will expel you. There will not be a second chance.’

Some words are exchanged between his parents and the rest of them, but you can barely pay enough attention to process what any of them are. Across from you, Bakugou rises from his seat and stalks from the room, followed shortly after by All Might and his parents.

Which just leaves you, Aizawa, Yamada—who still hasn’t so much as looked at you—and Nedzu.

You feel Aizawa’s gaze on you for a long time, but you keep your own stare fixed on the table. Your hands are still shaking in your lap. The longer the silence drags on, the more it feels like there’s a growing scream trapped in your throat.

Eventually, in your peripheral vision, you watch Nedzu hop down from his chair and round the table until he’s standing beside you. Gently, he says, ‘The footage we received captured the moments before that as well. We have some concerns about your well-being,’ he tacks your name on the end, too, as if it’ll help soften the words and what they mean.

‘I’m fine,’ you lie, but even you can hear how transparent it is.

Yamada finally speaks, his voice a wash of calm even as the words themselves feel like a slap. ‘Didn’t seem fine to me.’

You flinch, clamping your eyes shut tight and grabbing fistfuls of your clothes under the table to try and calm the shaking.

‘It’s not—like that,’ you grit out.

‘Not like what?’ Aizawa murmurs beside you. Some of the softness has returned to his voice. It finds you with the lightest touch of shivering relief.

‘I didn’t want—’

Right shoulder, right side, left knee, left calf.

Right shoulder, right side, left knee, left calf.

It takes every shred of willpower and effort you have to jam a whine back down into your chest before you have a chance to vocalise it. The memory of his pain aches through you and steals your breath on a gasp. You try for a deeper, slower breath in. It’s just enough to get out a hurried, ‘I’m not suicidal, and I didn’t want to hurt myself. It’s not like that, I swear.’

You force your eyes open, if only to keep yourself from slipping into the memory of it completely as you jolt from a ghostly impact on concrete, hear the phantasmal snap of your arm. From the corner of your eye, you see Aizawa nod over your head at Nedzu.

Quietly, the principal rests his hand—paw?—on your leg and tells you, ‘Yuuei is in your corner. I’ll do everything I can to support you.’

The door clicks quietly shut behind him moments later, and you’re left on the other side of the threshold he just designated with his words—him, a representative of Yuuei, and the rest of you, something else. Even though Aizawa and Yamada are part of Yuuei, too.

Maybe they’re not right now. Not with you. Not anymore, not completely.

You think, based on the way he spoke, that Nedzu left the room on behalf of Yuuei the institution. That his exclusion of Aizawa and Yamada in that was intentional.

The brief silence left in his wake is shattered by a frustrated sigh from Yamada, who abruptly, finally, turns away from the window and rounds the table to your other side. He nudges a chair over a little with his foot until it’s facing you before he sits.

‘I’m sorry for snapping,’ he says, reaching out to place a hand on your knee. He’s quiet until you take the hint and look up. ‘I’m not upset with you, ‘kay? I’m upset with myself.’

You frown. That doesn’t make any sense. ‘Why?’

Hesitantly, he glances over your shoulder at Aizawa before looking back at you. After a long pause, he admits, ‘It’s my job to protect you, and I failed that night.’ He holds a hand up when you open your mouth to argue—he literally carried you off the battlefield, he saved you—and prods a gentle finger against your chest. ‘Protecting what’s in here is just as important as the rest. And I didn’t realise how bad it was at the time. And I should’ve noticed. Not just because I’m a hero, or a teacher, but because I’m your guardian, and that’s the most important part.’

You feel your eyes start to water as you murmur, ‘You weren’t, though. Not yet.’

This time, there’s no hesitation in his firm response, underpinned by the intensity of his eye contact, ‘I was. I already was.’

You have to close your eyes and turn back towards the table to stop yourself from crying. When did you stop shaking? ‘You did help. You didn’t let go.’ Not the entire way back to Yuuei. And even after that, not until you moved away first. ‘You saved me.’

‘But not before you had to save yourself,’ he’s gentle in the way he says it, and—no. You can’t do that. It’s not safe to do that, you don’t want to think about the what if. What could’ve been. The juxtaposition between that and what was, and how much worse that makes it. It’ll end you. You can’t.

‘That’s what you were doing, isn’t it?’ Yamada urges, ‘You said it was where All For One was weakest. You knew that because of what he did to you. He hurt you. And you made him stop.’

There’s a lump in your throat when you try to swallow. You feel seen, almost too much, as if your very nerves are exposed to the air and to their eyes. It’s too much. Thank god it’s them and not someone else.

‘You were saving yourself, and you shouldn’t have had to. You never should have had to.’ His hand tightens just a little on your knee, and he says, ‘I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you, and you have nothing to be ashamed of. But it’s okay to admit that it was hard. And…’ his voice softens, and you barely have time to brace yourself before he says it, the terrible thing you cannot acknowledge. ‘It would’ve been nice not to have to go through all that, huh?’

You slap both hands over your mouth just in time to stifle a sob. It’s not enough to stop the tears that you can’t keep holding back, fat and painful and warm. It all tumbles out. ‘I was so scared. It hurt so much and I hated it, but I had to, I had to give it back to him, and it gave All Might an advantage, and it was all I could do, and I had to do something.’

It’s such a contradiction. Because it doesn’t feel good, saying all of this out loud. But it feels so good to be safe enough to give it to them. ‘I was so scared and it hurt so bad and I didn’t want to die and I kept thinking of both of you and I just,’ your rising pitch plummets back into a broken whisper, ‘I just wanted to come home.’

Yamada’s grip tightens again. ‘Do you feel like you’re home now?’

You think of where you are right now—Yuuei. You think of your classmates, of apologies accepted and budding friendships. Of Shouto, and the secret fourth thing. Midoriya. Uraraka and Iida. Inko.

And the two people who are right here, now.

The most you can manage is an affirmative-sounding sob and a stilted nod.

The gentle warmth of a hand rests on your head and before you can think it through, you reflexively reach up and put both of your own on top of Aizawa’s. You’re not sure whether you want the extra contact or if you’re somehow desperate to keep him there. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I had to do that, I hate it, I hate that I had to. It’s not fair!’

Even as a part of you whispers an admonishment to yourself—childish, you’re being childish—Aizawa murmurs two quiet words that validate it all. ‘It’s not,’ he agrees. And he sounds sad, and god that hurts in as many good ways as bad.

Something almost slips out. The greatest admission you’ve ever given anyone. Even yourself.

You can almost tangibly feel it; the culmination of ever shred of safety they’ve offered, this home they slowly built around you. The undeniable level of care that could almost let you share a truth so disarming.

But if you say it… If you say it, that’s it. If you end up back in a situation like that again, you definitely won’t survive it.

Not acknowledging this one crucial, obvious thing was how you made it through the worst of those years with Father. To admit it to them is to admit it to yourself, and you’ll lose that lifeline.

But you have a new one now, painful and scary as it is.

You have them.

‘I really don’t like being in pain,’ you admit.

And of course you don’t—you were made to feel it most of your life. Suddenly, in saying it, it feels like such a small, insignificant thing. Reduced in its admission even with all that it cost you.

‘Sometimes I…’ Your shoulders hunch forward a little, as if you could hide from what feels like something that might be a betrayal even as you say it, ‘I sort of wish I didn’t want to be a hero.’

When neither of them say anything, you risk a glance at Yamada—that feels easiest, somehow.

He’s smiling. It’s a small, sad thing, full of understanding. His eyes are watery behind his stupid costume glasses. ‘I know a lot of heroes who feel that way,’ he says. ‘You’re with two of them right now!’

‘Really?’ you sniff.

He nods, but it’s Aizawa who answers. ‘Things won’t change, this won’t change if that isn’t what you want, now or in the future. You’re not obligated to become a hero.’

It feels good to hear that, more than you thought it might. But as you look over at him, his eyes asking a gentle question of you, you think back to the forest, the training camp, the night before everything happened.

This is the man who told you you have what it takes to be an exceptional hero.

He knows your answer.

You say it anyway. ‘Maybe if I didn’t know what’s out there. But I do. I was. And there’ll always be someone who needs help. Knowing that, knowing I can help… I don’t think I could ever just not.’

You wouldn’t hate yourself for it, not really. Inaction just isn’t a viable option for you.

Maybe it’s the same for them.

You try for a wry smile as you add, ‘I can’t say I’d hate it if my Quirk was different, though.’

‘Hey,’ Aizawa’s voice is surprisingly firm. ‘You don’t have to use it.’

If you never want to use it, that’s okay too.

You sigh, and you’re not sure whether it’s relief or resignation. It’s all a little mixed up right now. ‘I know. But it’s something only I can do.’

You finally lower your hands and stare down at them. You can see the faintest hint of a scar on the one you used to grab Stain’s sword. ‘It feels right, I guess. To use it for good after so long using it for…’ You trail off, not quite able to give voice to it.

Yamada, of all things, snorts. A genuine, honest snort of laughter. It sounds particularly ungracious coming from him. ‘You weren’t the one using it for nefarious purposes, honey.’

He barrels right through the pleasant warmth that suddenly floods your cheeks. You try to avert your eyes, but he swiftly catches your chin in a gentle, gloved grip and coaxes you back to facing him. Somehow, you find both sadness and ferocity in his eyes. ‘You just admitted you wouldn’t have done it if you had the choice. You were taken advantage of.’ He doesn’t give you a chance to cut in, some of the sharper edges of his expression smoothing out with the addition of a slim smile. ‘It’s not all or nothing. Your Quirk isn’t just giving or taking pain. It’s so much more than that. You are so much more than that.’

It feels like as much of an I love you as the time he actually said it. ‘You don’t just give or take what hurts. You share it—you share the pain of others, and you use that to understand them. So you can share your own pain, too. You can choose to let other people help you. To let them understand you. And you’ll never have to carry that burden alone again if you don’t want to.’

He glances over your shoulder, his smile widening and fond, and when his eyes return to you, it lingers. ‘We’ll be here from now on. We’re not going anywhere.’ The smile shifts halfway to a mischievous grin. ‘And you don’t get to go anywhere now, either, ‘kay? You’re finally stuck with us!’

You instinctively try for a deflection in the face of the painful shifting in your chest, a fissure Yamada seems so determined to fill that was never even supposed to be visible, let alone addressed. It’s too much. ‘Well, I have nowhere else to be.’

It doesn’t land. You can’t force enough sarcasm into it, and it just makes you feel lonely, and… Maybe it’s okay to try and feel the things that are too much when you’re with them. Even if it feels like you might drown, it’s… Well, it’s not even a matter of trusting them to dive in if you need it.

They’re already right there with you.

Before the mood can sour, you amend, ‘I wouldn’t want to. Go anywhere else. I promise.’

‘Hey,’ Yamada hushes, a hint of a laugh in the sound. One gloved hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and even though it’s a new gesture, it feels natural and old. ‘You don’t need to give us assurances. That’s our job now.’

You scowl. ‘I didn’t ask you to critique my expression of vulnerability,’ you rebuff, but you’re struggling not to smile as you say it. You do pull back from his hand with a very real grimace, though. ‘Take off the stupid gloves next time.’

His laughter is a loud bark. ‘Shouta hates them too!’

‘When you touch my face like that all I smell is leather,’ Aizawa drawls.

You whip around the face him. ‘Exactly!’

His scowl softens with a little huff of laughter.

‘By the way, little listener,’ Yamada’s tone is full of mischief, and your hackles barely have time to raise before he adds, ‘You said next time. Is there going to be a next time? Do you want me to caress your face again?’

You flinch when soft fingertips dance up your side, and it’s the first time a flinch has ever felt like an involuntary jerk without a hint of danger. Because it tickled. He’s trying to fucking tickle you!

‘Absolutely not!’ you exclaim, swatting Yamada’s hand away. ‘You just lost all rights to ever touch me again! Only Aizawa is allowed, now!’

His grin when you turn back to him is delighted, but it measures out suddenly. You feel a pang of anxiety in your chest, emotions still running high in the shadow of the last… however long it’s been.

When he speaks, though, you quickly realise it’s not because you said something bad. He just sounds shy.

‘Actually,’ he says, drawing the word out like he’s trying to work himself up to whatever he’s trying to say. ‘If you want to, you can use our first names when we’re in private. If you want to.’

‘Oh,’ is your very intelligible response.

‘Only if you want to,’ he amends, as if he hasn’t said that part three times now.

‘Is that… really okay?’ You end up turning towards Aizawa halfway through asking the question.

He inclines his head in something that resembles a partial nod. ‘You’re not just our student,’ he says, his hand coming to rest on your head again. ‘And we’re not just your teachers. You can acknowledge that, where appropriate, by using our first names. If you’re comfortable with it.’

You’ve seen his stiff professionalism enough by now to understand that it only happens in contexts where he’s trying to stifle his own feelings. And you do sort of want to know what those feelings are, in this case, so you ask, ‘Do you want me to?’

He stares at you for a moment, and you’re pretty sure he sees right through you. But he smiles, just a little, with an accompanying exhalation of breath that lands somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. ‘I don’t mind either way, but I’ve never cared much about how I’m addressed.’

Yamada snorts, but doesn’t say anything.

It makes sense. That’s the only reason—paired with the origin of the name—why he could ever handle the indignity of going by Eraserhead. If he just simply doesn’t care.

Which… is sort of the same as you, isn’t it? Historically speaking.

But in a way, part of the reason you didn’t mind not being overly attached to the various monikers you’ve used was because it gave people less of a chance to know you, which gave them less of a chance to hurt you.

Something about that decides it for you. It’s an additional vulnerability with them and… you want every bit of closeness you can get. You trust them not to take advantage of it.

‘Okay,’ you nod. Tentatively, you add, ‘Shouta and Hizashi, then.’ It’ll take a while to get used to the shape of their names, you think.

‘Oh my god,’ Hizashi whispers, a strangled quality to the words. When you glance over at him, his face is buried in his hands.

Your lip twitches. ‘Something wrong, Hizashi? I’m just doing what you asked.’

‘Oh my god,’ he reiterates—and then he’s up and out of his chair and you barely decode his rapid fire muttering into words can’tdothisgladyou’reokayloveyoubye before he’s bolting out the door.

You duck your head through your silent, jolting laughter that only resolves when push yourself up out of your seat. ‘He asked! Why was he so unprepared for it?’

Shouta—and oh, there’s that little flutter in your chest, somehow it feels so much lighter now—follows suit, his hand resting on your head again once you’re both standing. When you shift a little to look at him, he’s smiling, all soft and fond. ‘Because he knows what it means.’

You blink. ‘What do you mean?’

A bit of tension undercuts his expression. ‘He grew up in foster care. He can tell you more about it himself, but he knows how important it is, and how hard it can be, to make unconventional familial relationships work.’

‘Oh.’ A lot of things make sense with that piece of the puzzle revealed to you. He’s so naturally been the glue to this complicated, elusive thing between you all, and it just… makes sense. He’s not some paragon of intimacy and warmth, he doesn’t just know, intrinsically, what you need.

He learned it. Because, at one time or another, he didn’t have it either.

Somehow, that only adds to the monumental weight, the heavy significance of everything you have. The counterweight to the feather-light feeling of utter safety and being home.

But… you have it. You have this. There’s no denying it now. Not with every domino that’s fallen in the aftermath of the training camp and everything since.

You blink to wrangle your misty eyes—you’ve cried more than enough for one day—and raise your head to meet Shouta’s—Shouta’s!—gaze when you say, with every shred of sincerity you can manage, ‘Thank you. For giving me all of this. For bringing me to Yuuei.’

His smile is knowing and fond. ‘It was Hizashi who found you first.’

You have a vague memory of Eraserhead, the first night you met, saying somebody mentioned you to him. And somehow, the knowledge that it was Hizashi—don’t cry, don’t cry, this is fine, this is normal—makes perfect sense.

Notes:

(they're so familial i'm gonna be sick
i actually did not expect them to get there so fast but yamada is a wrecking ball of affection)

Next chapter, we officially return to canon shenanigans. Pop quiz, who can tell me which character guest stars in the provisional license exam arc? The one that’s relevant to this fic, anyway. Food for thought.

I really appreciate comments and the boost they give me helps me write chapters faster ;) <3 Do with that knowledge what you will. And please for those of you who were particularly invested in queerplatonic Todoroki vibes, let me know how this landed for you. I'd really appreciate it.

Also, have this bonus deleted snippet from shortly after the end of this chapter:

Shouta’s eyes are impossibly soft, fixed on Hizashi with an intensity that makes him feel like the sun. ‘What? I didn’t miss anything, did I? Did I say something wrong?’

Shouta’s lips quirk into the shadow of a smile. ‘Being a father suits you.’

Hizashi blinks several times in quick succession, heat rising all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears. ‘What? That’s not—Shouta!’

But Shouta just walks away, leaving Hizashi to argue with his retreating back.

Chapter 18

Notes:

tw: typical levels of violence (no self-inflicted injuries this time)

Good luck today! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

You don’t quite manage to fight back a smile when you glance down at Hizashi’s perfectly timed text. You don’t bother replying before you stow your phone away and focus back on Shouta. He’s been strangely patient about giving everyone a chance to stretch their legs after the bus ride from Yuuei to the Takoba National Arena, where the Provisional License Exam is being held. Even still, he waits a while longer for the chatter to die down before he finally speaks.

‘Earn your provisional licenses by passing this test, and you won’t be mere eggs anymore, but full-fledged hatchlings… reborn as semi-pros! Show them your best.’

You barely tamp down on an inappropriate laugh. Since when does he speak in metaphors? It wasn’t even a good one.

Is he nervous?

You suppose most of the rest of the class has been clamouring with a general nervous energy all morning. Maybe you should feel it too, but you don’t.

You grew up with a family full of villains—Shouto’s words, not yours. Why would an exam scare you?

‘Yeah!’ Kaminari crows, raising a fist in the air. ‘We’re gonna hatch from those eggs!’

Kirishima mirrors him. ‘Time for our cheer! All together now! Plus…’

You intend to join in with them, however half-heartedly, but you get distracted by the random boy creeping up behind Kirishima just in time to participate.

‘ULTRA!!!’

He’s louder than any of the actual Yuuei students. But he’s wearing a uniform from a different school. And besides that, none of the other Yuuei classes taking the exam today are even at this location. Apparently they avoid pitting classes from the same school against each other.

So why is this guy joining in with the chant? It’s weird.

‘It’s bad manners to intrude on another group’s huddle, Inasa-kun,’ a boy in a matching uniform says, sidling up behind him, a few others from their school on his heels.

‘Ah, you got me!’ The overzealous interloper folds into a very deep bow and shouts, ‘I am so very sorry!’

‘Who’s this whacked-out ball of excitement?’ Kaminari looks as perturbed as the majority of your class.

‘He’s like Iida-kun plus Kirishima-kun, squared,’ Sero adds.

A few more words are exchanged between the two schools. Somebody identifies them as being from Shiketsu High, which is apparently a hero school that rivals even Yuuei in prestige. You wouldn’t know anything about that. For all his grandstanding about lacking ego, All For One was always more fixated on All Might’s alma mater than anything else.

‘I just always wanted to try saying it!’ the interloper explains, as if he’s not actively bleeding from his forehead. Did he hit it on the concrete when he bowed?

What the fuck.

‘Plus Ultra! I freakin’ love Yuuei High! It is truly an honour to compete along with the fine students of Yuuei!’

And, almost as quickly as they came, he and the rest of his class head off towards the arena.

Shouta looks thoughtful when you glance at him. ‘Inasa…’ he murmurs, watching after the retreating boy. He must finally put a name to the face, because he adds, ‘Yoarashi…’

‘Do you know him, sensei?’ Hagakure asks.

‘He’s really enthusiastic,’ Kirishima chimes in, ‘but from what he was saying, he actually seems like a nice dude.’

‘He’s… very strong,’ Shouta admits after some hesitation. ‘Yoarashi. This year, he got placed into your grade at Yuuei under special recommendation. His top grades were enough to open the door for him, but for some reason, he decided not to matriculate.’

‘Huh? So he’s a first year?!’ Midoriya exclaims, glancing over at Shouto. ‘With special recommendation and top grades…’

You’re pretty sure Shouto was in the same situation.

‘This guy says he’s a big fan of Yuuei, but he turned down the offer to attend?’ Sero muses. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Weird,’ Ashido agrees.

‘Weird or not, he’s the real deal,’ Shouta cautions, ‘Keep an eye on him.’

He’s being such a teacher today. It really feels like his protective streak is out in full swing.

Is it because you’re competing with other schools? Is your class his pride and joy? Is he nervous on behalf of you all? How cute. You almost want to tease him about it. Not that you would, obviously. Time and place.

‘Eraser?! Is that really you, Eraser?!’

A woman approaches your group at a jog. She’s dressed like… a jester? A clown? Some mix of the two, with just a little bit of pirate thrown in there for good measure. It’s obviously a hero costume. And she’s waving enthusiastically at Shouta, who’s gone so tense you can almost see the taut outline of his spine through his own costume.

‘I saw you on TV at the Sports Festival,’ the woman crows, still waving even after she’s stopped in front of him. ‘It’s been so long since we last met face-to-face!’ And then, without an iota of hesitation or preamble, she declares, ‘Let’s get married!’

‘No thanks,’ comes Shouta’s immediate reply.

For some inane reason, you feel your hackles raise in preemptive defensive of Hizashi. Who is she?

The woman just doubles over laughing. ‘No thanks?! Just do it!’

‘You’re the same pain in the neck as always, Joke,’ he sighs, long-suffering. It’s been a while since you’ve heard one of those sighs.

‘The Smile Hero: Ms. Joke!’ Midoriya announces. He’s beaming, in full hero fanboy mode. ‘Her Quirk is Outburst! She can force those around her to start laughing, effectively slowing their thoughts and movements! The methods she uses to take down villains are insane!’

‘Marry me and we could build a happy household where the laughs never stop,’ she offers, hands on her hips.

‘Nothing about that sounds happy to me.’

‘Ugh!’

Tsuyu—who insisted you call her that, vehemently, after the talk you had with everyone at the dorms—cuts in, curious, ‘So, are you two friends?’

‘Our agencies were close by, way back when!’ Ms. Joke explains, ‘I’d save him a few times, and he’d save me. We fell in love, and you know how it goes…’

‘It went nowhere,’ Shouta deadpans.

You catch Shouto’s attention beside you and widen your eyes at him. You have to commiserate about how ridiculous this situation is with someone. Someone who knows that your teacher is happily married. To a man, no less.

Shouto’s lips twitch with a tamped down smile and he shrugs.

‘So your school’s here too?’ Shouta asks, and he’s cordial enough that you have to assume it really is a joke, and apparently not one that makes him genuinely uncomfortable.

You do your best to settle.

One boy from Ms. Joke’s class steps forward and very, very enthusiastically tries to shake the hand of every single member of your class. You catch the tiniest hint of competitive pride between the two teachers as they watch it play out. One girl even approaches Shouto to ask for his autograph, to which he tentatively agrees.

Which is… insane. But of course Shouto is amassing fans before he even has a provisional license.

Before long, Shouta finally sends you all off to go change into your hero costumes and prepare for the exam. You're still reeling from the whiplash of everything that just happened, all in the span of what felt like five minutes!

One thousand, five hundred and forty examinees makes for a crammed arena, even with its monumental size. Strangely, though, the information session is held in a tiny, even more cramped little room that doesn’t have any seating or supposed layout other than a podium at the front from which the proctor explains the rules.

He drones on for a while about hero society as a whole, the over-saturation of heroes, the impact of Stain—and how only the first hundred examinees to meet the requirements will pass the exam and earn their licenses.

That gets your attention.

You want this. You need it. This is the first step to eventually being able to make good on your promise. To a little girl whose name you still don’t know.

You have to pass.

And it just got a whole lot harder.

He goes on to explain the actual rules. Everyone will be given three small targets to place somewhere on their person, along with six balls that can trigger them. You’re eliminated if all three of your targets get lit up, and you have to eliminate two other examinees to pass.

Simple. And so much harder for you. You have no idea how many big, flashy, physical Quirks are dormant in this very room with you, waiting to blow anything your Quirk could do right out of the water. You’re a competent combatant overall, but there’s a certain level of brute force you won’t be able to do shit to counter.

There’s only one out for you, here.

Teamwork.

And then, because of course the people behind the exam are also proponents of spectacle, the very walls of the tiny room you’re all crammed in fold down and leave you all standing in the very centre of the massive arena itself. It was a temporary room the entire time. Dramatic, much?

Predictably, Midoriya has the same idea as you. He immediately starts trying to rally the class as several of the people overseeing the exam start handing out the targets and the balls.

Also predictably, Bakugou immediately splits off in the opposite direction. Kirishima follows after him, calling out for him to wait up.

What you don’t predict is Shouto leaving.

‘I’m out, too,’ he says. ‘I can’t make good use of my power if we’re packed together.’

There are so many holes in that logic you don’t even know where to start. Midoriya calls after him to no avail. He’s already gone.

At least you probably won’t have to worry about him passing. He’s more than skilled enough for that, even if he’s needlessly disadvantaging himself and the rest of you in one fell swoop.

Whatever. You’ll have words with him later. Right now, you have to focus on the task ahead of you.

‘I don’t think they’re better off on their own,’ Midoriya sighs, not quite past the point of lamenting just yet. ‘This is gonna turn into a battle between schools, I’m sure of it. Which means the next step is picking a school to target.’

Ah. You see where he’s going with this.

‘Out of all the schools competing here today, there’s only one that’s lost the advantage of having unknown Quirks,’ he says, a tad ominously. ‘One top school whose students had their Quirks, styles and weaknesses exposed to the world, thanks to the Sports Festival.’

The tension as his words sink in for the rest of the class is thick as the countdown being projected over a loudspeaker creeps closer and closer to the start of the exam.

Excitement twists your lips into something that might be a grin or a snarl.

Almost everyone lost the advantage of being unknown.

Who’d have thought that not getting to participate in the Sports Festival would end up being a boon?

No sooner than the countdown is up and the exam officially begins are you all surrounded by other schools, an avalanche of balls lobbed at you from all directions. A few of the others step forward and use their Quirks to halt the balls—Ashido with her acid, Ojiro with his tail, Tokoyami using Dark Shadow to lash out and volley a handful of them back the way they came. The rest of you dodge.

‘Stick together!’ Midoriya shouts, ‘Let’s move!’

Someone uses a Quirk to try and send some of the balls underground. Jirou repels them with her Quirk.

They’re being kept at bay, but it won’t last. You know you’re not the only one looking for an opening, but none of you ever get the chance to find one. Someone, the kid who was overly enthusiastic about shaking everyone’s hands earlier, causes a sort of earthquake. He shreds the very earth beneath your feet across a massive distance and the entire class goes scrambling.

Of course they’d split you all up. It’s only natural.

You dodge the few balls you see coming towards you in the fray, but by the time you find yourself on solid ground again, none of your classmates are in sight.

It’s chaos. And the fucking proctor keeps announcing every time somebody passes, and it’s already well into the sixties. Time is running out already, and you haven’t even had a chance to do anything. It’s barely been a few minutes!

Then it happens.

You clench your teeth, white hot pain searing through you as something embeds itself in your upper arm—right through the target you’d positioned there. Apparently, they work even when damaged, because with an obnoxious beeping sound, the cracked little device lights up red.

The thing sticking out of your arm is jagged and orange, and you vaguely recognise it as one of the balls they handed out. Someone must’ve used a Quirk to change its shape, making a weapon out of an exam tool. Part of you can’t help but respect the ruthlessness.

You just have to figure out where they are. You should personally commend them, after all.

A gradual circle, scanning the surrounding area, doesn’t tell you anything. You can see people at a distance, engaged in their own battles, but you don’t think the ball was thrown from especially long range. They must be somewhere in all the debris left by the quake.

As quickly and as discreetly as you can manage, you glance down at the inside of your wrist. Seventeen percent. Could be worse.

Your new support item is already coming in handy.

You’ll have to thank Hizashi again.

---

This is… not the group you expected to find yourself gathered with after class on an ordinary Thursday.

You’re at one of the smaller, no-frills outdoor training areas with Midoriya, Kaminari, Aoyama, Hagakure and Recovery Girl. Hizashi’s here too—he asked the five of you to stay back after class just days after you’d already been kept back with Bakugou. Days after you started using their first names.

He produces two identical wristbands. They’re both slim and blue, the same shade as the accents on your hero costume.

‘Your first support item!’ he announces, holding one of the wristbands up.

You raise your arm as he slips it on for you. It’s a cuff that slots right over your wrist itself, though it’s loose fitting. A closer inspection makes it look like the two ends are meant to be secured together once it’s on.

‘When you close it, you’ll feel a pinch!’ he warns, just in time for you to clip the two ends together and, sure enough, there’s a sharp pinprick of pain against the underside of your wrist.

You blink, a little offended even though he warned you. ‘Ow?’

‘Look at it!’ Hizashi says, grin wide. He’s so obviously excited. It’s endearing. Too endearing. It’s going to cause you all sorts of problems, you’re sure.

You turn your wrist over, mirroring the gesture he’s repeating in front of you. On the inside of the band is a small monitor that wasn’t previously visible. There are two numbers, both displayed as percentages. The top number reads three percent. The number below that is only one.

As the pinprick of pain starts to fade, the top number decreases until the numbers match. One percent over one percent.

Before you can ask about it, Midoriya’s already stepping closer, craning his head into your personal space so he can see the numbers, too. ‘Is that reading their Quirk factor?! The top number must be the level of pain, and the bottom… is it the level of injury?’

Hizashi’s still grinning. ‘Right in one, Midoriya!’ He turns the grin back on you. ‘It should give you more information about your Quirk, which gives you more options. But!’ He holds up another wristband, this one silver. ‘This is a prototype,’ he says, slipping it over his own wrist and clicking it into place.

You don’t think it pricks him, because he shows no visible reaction.

‘Transfer your pain to me,’ he tells you. When you hesitate, he rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, ‘Just for a second!’

Uncertainly, you do what he’s asking.

The others crowd in around you and Midoriya, all five of you staring at the silver wristband Hizashi angles in your direction for you to read.

Four percent over one percent.

‘It’s just an estimate. Your percentage is more accurate because it’s measuring your Quirk factor—this is just measuring my heart rate.’ He waves his wrist around a little for emphasis. ‘Your pain tolerance is higher than average, probably because of your Quirk, so we’re gonna calibrate a second one,’ this time, he holds up the wristband that matches the one you’re already wearing, ‘to a few different approximate pain thresholds so that you have even more information! Since your one percent could be someone else’s four percent!’

So that’s why everyone is gathered. Recovery Girl makes sense now, too, given the nature of what you’re doing.

Hagakure raises one glove in the air and waves. ‘I’m here to measure a below average pain tolerance! Yamada-sensei got my permission beforehand, so don’t worry! I’m happy to help!’

‘I believe this makes me average, for once.’ Aoyama says. He throws a wink in for good measure, and you swear it sparkles a little.

Midoriya rubs the back of his head. ‘I guess breaking my bones all the time was good for something?’

You—and the others, actually—stare at him flatly until he laughs, the sound just shy of a nervous giggle.

Kaminari grins, putting two fingers together and making a spark that’s definitely real this time. ‘And I’m here to zap! Sorry in advance, people, but it’s good training for control!’

You glance between Recovery Girl and Hizashi, both off to the side as everybody hashes out their role. Hizashi’s smile is full of pride and excitement in equal measure. He really thought this all through.

It’s… one way to spend an afternoon. Somehow, it quickly becomes a game of guessing what percentages will come up after Kaminari zaps someone. Their readings aren’t quite as accurate, as Hizashi said, since the calculations for everybody else are based on a combination of measuring heart rate and blood pressure, along with verbal feedback. Things are smoothed out a bit by the more accurate readings from your Quirk, at least.

The percentages that came out of the highest level of shock were the most interesting. At lower thresholds, the numbers didn’t have as much variance, but the higher the percentage, the wider the variance became. Ninety percent for Hagakure, which very nearly caused her to pass out, was only forty percent for Midoriya; forty-eight percent for you. Aoyama landed in the mid-seventies.

Hizashi was right. It’s good information to have, and now, the wristband on your opposite wrist displays three different sets of numbers that change according to what’s being measured by your Quirk factor, each correlating to the output for low, average or high pain tolerances, respectively.

The potential applications just from that knowledge alone are enough to make your head spin.

You’re all exhausted by the end of it, but no one is suffering any lingering effects of being repeatedly electrocuted thanks to Recovery Girl’s careful oversight.

Well. Almost no one. Kaminari is completely out of it, stupefied from Quirk overuse as usual. But he’s still deemed well enough to return to the dorms, being supported out of the training ground by Hagakure.

You’d feel bad about it, but you’ve seen him end up in that state after offering to charge people’s phones three separate times already, and it hasn’t even been a week since the rest of them moved in!

You linger with Hizashi outside the training ground as the rest start making their way back—only after you assure them you’ll catch up with them.

‘Thank you so much,’ you tell him, pushing as much severity and sincerity into the words as you can. ‘This… There are so many options I never would’ve thought of without this.’

‘Aw, no problem, little listener!’ he says, just a tad shyly. ‘Support items have been life-saving for me, so I couldn’t help but wonder about some that might help you, after that conversation we had.’

He’s skirting around it, but it makes something in your chest feel heavy to know how seriously he took your admission of how you feel about your Quirk, and about pain in general. He’s such a busybody.

‘Actually,’ he reaches into one of the larger pockets of his costume, ‘there is one more thing.’

You only realise what they are when he holds them up.

Goggles. They’re a similar design to the ones Shouta uses, only white instead of yellow.

Hizashi is especially subdued when he speaks again, in a way you’ve rarely heard from him. You can’t place why. ‘Since you can use your Quirk at long range, you’ll need these. They’ll disguise whenever you’re using it, and let you really play the element of surprise against opponents who don’t know your Quirk. It’s the same thing Shouta does. They’ll hide the glow, too.’

You blink. ‘The what?’

He laughs, bright and full. ‘You didn’t know? They glow now, when you use it at range. A little when you don’t, too.’

‘How could I possibly know that?! It’s not like anyone told me! And I haven’t exactly tried using it while looking in a mirror! What the fuck!’

He keeps laughing, even when you take the goggles and pretend holding them doesn’t make your stomach lurch. They feel special.

When he’s finally done laughing at you, he sobers a little. ‘The cuffs do have built in functionality to work with injury readouts, too, but… Shouta and I both agreed that it’s probably best if you wait to use that side of your Quirk properly. Obviously, you’ll still use it in training, like you did at the training camp, but...’

It almost makes you cry, right there on the spot. Them making a decision for you. There’s not even a big enough part of you that cares about restricted freedom to complicate it, not when all you feel is cared about and loved.

You swallow past the well of feeling and shrug. ‘I get it. It’s dangerous. I’d only want to use it in emergencies anyway. I don’t really like the idea of using it to hurt people.’

He smiles and ruffles your hair, laughing again when you swat him away. ‘Glad we’re on the same page, honey!’

You groan. ‘You’re insufferable.’

---

You tug the goggles up from where they were hanging around your neck, fixing them over your eyes as an extra measure. If you can’t easily find wherever your target is hiding, there’s too much chaos too close to justify seeking them out. It’s a waste of time.

You’ll just head back towards where the class got separated and see if you can find someone to team up with. If your hidden opponent just so happens to take you leaving as an opportunity to strike again…

You make it three steps before, just as you expected, a flash of orange whizzes towards you from the left. You step out of the way just in time to see a head duck below a piece of debris.  You clear the distance at a run, vaulting over it and pulling a training knife free from the sheath strapped to your thigh.

A girl rises to meet you. Her costume is all loose, flowing fabric that juxtaposes the unnaturally jagged ends of her red hair. When she sees your knife, she tears a piece of her costume free and, in an instant, it becomes a jagged, sharp weapon of her own. It’s a wicked, imprecise blade, the length of her forearm.

Well, that hardly seems fair. Here you are using training knives as a precaution while there are people running around with the ability to create sharp objects on a whim. If only.

She lunges first, loosing a battle cry as she aims for your knife arm. You shift and parry, her weapon dinting the hard rubber of yours.

You step in close to counter, slamming your fist against her opposite shoulder. Simultaneously, you activate your Quirk and siphon some of the pain from the impact from her to you. It’s a delicate balance—you’ve only just started trying to do incremental transfers, and while you’ve been training hard, you haven’t quite managed to stamp out the all or nothing instinct yet.

She swings her weapon at your neck, forcing you back a few paces. She pulls another orange ball from the folds of her costume and uses her Quirk on that, too, turning it jagged and short.

You glance down at your wrist again, as discreetly as you can. Twenty-two.

She moves, darting towards you, an opening strike with the black blade that’s an obvious feint as her other arm stays low, orange blade steady and aimed for your leg. You finally see one of the her targets, hidden—and revealed—by all the motion of her costume. The entire thing is designed to be a visual distraction. You’d bet all the loose fabric is flimsy enough that she can tear it at any time and create a weapon out of it.

Part of you admires it even as you grab a ball from one of the satchels strapped to your costume and ready yourself for her approach.

You parry the quasi-ball and let her black blade slice a thin line into your arm, using the moment of faint surprise to get in close enough to slam the ball into the target with a satisfying little beep. You don’t even get the chance to see it light up red before it’s hidden again. You swing your training knife at her gut with enough intent that she backs up. You persist, throwing out a leg to try and trip her. She pivots, desperately aiming the orange blade right at your neck.

She’s overzealous. Dangerous. Messy. You retreat, getting some distance before you glance down at your wrist again—and yeah, you’re glad the goggles hide your line of sight. It lets you plan. Twenty-eight.

You close in again quickly, not giving her a chance to recover or effectively parry before you slam the training dagger into her side, using your Quirk to dull the pain on her end. With one final kick to her ankle, a risky final glance down at your wrist confirms a thirty-three. According to the other wristband, it’s an average of sixty-eight. Higher, if she doesn’t have an especially high pain tolerance.

You reverse the effects of your Quirk all at once, turning the slow siphon of her pain into the full force of that and your own. Her eyes widen and she gasps, doubling over, one hand clutching at her opposite arm in the place she originally injured you.

You pin her to the ground and make short work of locating the other targets—one near her shoulder and the other on the outside of her thigh. With two beeps, you’ve secured your first elimination. One down, one to go.

‘What the hell,’ the girl grunts, baring her teeth at you as you get back to your feet.

You raise an eyebrow at her. What does it look like, with the goggles? If it’s anything like how Shouta looks when he does it, the full condescension of a distinctly Eraserhead expression, that’s a bonus.

You gesture loosely at your arm, where the jagged orange of what once was a ball is still sticking into your arm through the target. It’s not that deep on closer inspection, and you’re certain you can safely pull it out.

If only for show, you do, dropping the bloodied thing at her feet. ‘You started it.’

You turn and head in the opposite direction, back towards where you were originally gathered with the rest of the class. You dodge the bigger all-out fights that are still ongoing. It’s not worth getting caught up in any of that on your own. You have to find—there! You see a flash of familiar blond and purple hidden behind a large chunk of displaced earth a ways below you.

You slide down the slope of the rubble to join him, scraping your hands a little in the process. ‘Aoyama!’

His grin borders on dazzling. ‘A friendly face! Come to join me at the end?’

You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘What end? This is an exam, and it’s not over yet.’

He blinks. ‘Yes, well. It’s a predicament nonetheless, non? I’ve yet to secure an elimination.’ Two of his targets are already lit up red, as well.

You shrug. ‘I’ve only got one so far. There’s still time.’

You’re conveniently ignoring the fact that the last time you heard the proctor’s announcements overhead, the count of people who’ve passed was already in the high eighties. Sure, there’s time, but there’s very little of it.

‘Painkiller! Can’t Stop Twinkling!’

You snicker hearing Aoyama’s mouthful of a hero name, but you’re relieved when Iida practically zooms toward the two of you, a trail of unsettled dust in his wake.

Less so when you see the herd of other examinees closing in after him. Only a few have their eyes on him, specifically, but the fighting is gradually creeping closer, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re all caught in the crossfire.

‘Merde!’ Aoyama curses, dodging a stray ball at the last moment, ‘It seems that the three of us have found ourselves in the midst of this chaos. I don’t imagine our odds of survival are very high.’

Is he just really into role play or something?

‘What’s that, now?’ Iida raises his fist in what you think is supposed to be a rallying gesture. ‘Anyone is capable of giving up, but we must endure!’

‘Yes, very well,’ Aoyama sighs, ‘but—’

A large chunk of rubble soars toward him, Iida yanking him out of the way by his cape just in time. ‘Don’t get crushed by falling debris!’

While Aoyama tries to settle himself a little, chest heaving—he’s way more anxious than you ever realised—Iida trudges on, ‘I’m supporting our fellow members of Class A as much as possible! I managed to gather a few in one place, but now I’m in search of others! Yaoyorozu is with the other group! She should be more than capable of leading them to victory!’

Ever the Class Rep. It sounds just like him, even if the image of him carting people back and forth across the battlefield to reunite you all like stray animals is a comical one.

Aoyama sounds a little baffled. ‘Huh? You mean to say you’re running about the battlefield alone?’

‘Indeed!’

‘How strange! You don’t even know who might be left out here! What will you do when the others take their wins and leave you behind?’

You frown. ‘Have you been paying any attention since the start of the year, Aoyama? Most of the people in this class would never leave anyone behind, real emergency or not. They’re so heroic it’s annoying.’

‘I don’t know if I’d go that far…’ Iida says, chuckling in a way that sounds just a little forced. ‘But I found the two of you, didn’t I?’

Aoyama’s not having any of it. ‘If the others pass the test without me, that’s great!’ he insists.

You frown. What’s his problem? You’d figured he thought pretty highly of himself, or at least he acted like it, but apparently it’s all false confidence. A facade, and a deeper one than you realised. This feels… bigger, somehow. Bigger than just insecurity or cowardice.

Iida is doggedly persistent, as always. ‘I’m the president of Class A, one meant to lead the others. I want to buy the class as much time as possible with these legs of mine,’ he explains. Redundantly, to your mind, because his actions obviously speak for themselves. ‘That’s what my brother would do. In that way, my actions will reflect the dream I pursue.’

Dreams, huh? A lot of people in your class—a lot of your friends—talk about things like that. You’ve never really had the chance.

What would your dream be, if you had one?

‘Still,’ Iida concedes, ‘I would like to earn my own license, and we’re nearing the end of the exam. We will take our wins while searching for the others! Will you help me?’

After a contemplative moment, Aoyama throws himself back and sends his Quirk straight up into the air, shining a giant beam of sparkling light all the way to the impossibly high ceiling of the arena itself.

‘What are you doing?! Wait…’ Iida stumbles, grasping for understanding, but he ends up doubling down on his bewilderment. ‘No, really, what are you doing?!’

‘Standing out!’ Aoyama announces with a surprising lack of fanfare, given the situation he’s in and how much he was projecting it before.

‘Yes, you really are!’ Iida nods, then rapidly shakes his head instead, ‘Wait! That’s not good!’

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter. Aoyama’s such a drama queen! And he clearly doesn’t realise the real consequence of what he’s done, does he? He hasn’t just attracted your opponents…

‘Try to save me and you’ll both go down too,’ he explains. ‘I’m doing this because two of my targets are already lit. One more, and I’m out. It’s my gift to you. You will sneak behind those who come to claim me. With Iida’s speed… that should be well within your power, non?’

’All you’ve done is create a beacon for the rest of the class,’ you say, barely managing to reduce your laughter to quiet snickers. ‘You know they’re all on their way here to save you now, right?’

He has time to blink, his expression one of open confusion, before a flock of birds fly straight towards the three of you, descending on the crowd of other examinees that was starting to gather. A second later, you see Dark Shadow’s giant arms swipe out and knock several others off balance.

Ojiro’s voice comes first. ‘Hit every target you can!’ he shouts, ‘Before anyone else gets them!’

It’s chaos. Complete and utter chaos, insanity, and Ashido swoops in as well, and—it’s exactly what you missed out on at the Sports Festival. You break into laughter again. The irony of it isn’t lost on you; you’re here, laughing and feeling like a real, genuine hero student for the first time, while the others are all striving to prove their worth as future heroes.

For a lot of the people here, this is probably their first major setback.

To you, it feels like freedom.

But you do have one more elimination to claim.

You don’t hesitate to jump right into the fray with them, but you don’t quite manage to stop laughing until it’s over.

---

You’re swept up in the whirlwind of the immediate aftermath. Everyone congregates in the waiting room and there’s a collective realisation that you all passed the first round, which prompts several of your classmates to celebrate. Loudly.

At least you’re used to that sort of volume now.

You pick Shouto’s mismatched head out of the rest of your classmates and throw your arms around his shoulders from behind. Once he gets over his initial surprise, he gives you a gentle smile and reaches back to tug your goggles down until they’re around your neck again.  They don’t obstruct your vision as much as you’d first expected them to; you’d forgotten you were even wearing them.

Before long, the proctor of the exam is addressing you over the loudspeaker again. ‘Now, will all hundred of you please watch the screen.’

You never made it far from the initial starting area, so you were only distantly aware of the surrounding landscape. It comes into stark focus now as you watch on the small overhead screen as the environment is decimated. Every bit of it, from the giant skyscrapers to the small mountain, to a wide copse of trees—it all explodes and crumbles into a disaster zone.

‘Round two’s the last one! You examinees will venture into the ruins as bystanders and prove your worth when it comes to rescuing innocent victims! You will not act as ordinary civilians, but as those who have hypothetically earned their provisional hero licenses. You’re being tested on how well you respond in rescue situations.’

On closer inspection of the screen, you notice several banged-up looking people of all ages ambling through the new debris. Around you, a number of examinees start to point out that there are actual people involved, actual victims.

‘Everyone there is a highly trained professional rescuee and in very high demand as of late! Please welcome the good people of Help Us Company, or HUC for short!’

That’s a job?

‘The members of HUC will be feigning injuries all across the field. It is your task to rescue them. You will be scored on how well you perform these rescues. Those who attain the required points at the end of the test will pass. We’ll start in ten minutes, so take your bathroom breaks now.’

You linger on the fringes of conversation during the break, sticking close to Shouto’s side on instinct. Nearing the end of the break, a few of the Shiketsu High members approach, asking Bakugou about what happened to their classmate who didn’t pass. Apparently Bakugou fought him.

Before they can walk away, Shouto steps forward. ‘Hey, Crew Cut.’

That… Even you remember that his name is Yoarashi. Really, Shouto? How is he simultaneously the kindest person you know and one of the most needlessly antagonistic?

He stops behind Yoarashi and asks, ‘Did I do something to offend you?’

‘Oho, nahhh,’ Yoarashi replies, turning and drawing out the sound as he stares down at Shouto. He really is very tall. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, but… It’s ‘cause you’re Endeavor’s son.’

You move closer to Shouto, spurred by the spark of anger that flares to life inside you.

‘I hate all of you,’ Yoarashi continues. ‘You’ve changed a lot since then, but those eyes… look just like Endeavor’s.’

You’re stepping past Shouto before you can think better of it, closing the gap between you and Yoarashi. You stare at him until his scowl softens into something closer to a frown. ‘He looks nothing like that walking dumpster fire. Get your fucking eyes checked.’

Idly, Shouto says, ‘You used to call me Nepotism.’

You whirl around. ‘That is not the same thing!’

A deafening alarm cuts off any further protest. ‘Terrorists have launched a massive attack! There’s wide-scale destruction throughout the city. Buildings are collapsing and people are hurt. With most of the roads out of commission, rescue and relief squads are having a hard time reaching the scene!’

The waiting room’s walls drop again, unfolding and kicking up dust, leaving you all standing once more in the centre of the mess. ‘Until they arrive, it’s up to you heroes to take charge and rescue civilians! Save every life you can!’

You throw yourself into things with an ease that feels natural, following the members of your class who moved quickest—Yaoyorozu, Iida and Sero. Midoriya gets mouthed off at by an adult dressed as a child—you’re guessing that’s the case for all the HUC members. They wouldn’t put actual children into these situations, and from the way Midoriya’s initial hesitation was critiqued, you know they’re part of the scoring system.

Still. They do a good enough job of portraying the imperilled children they’re supposed to be, and when one of them, a little girl with blonde hair and freckles, runs up to you and points in the direction of a fallen skyscraper, screaming about losing her brother, you flag down a student from another school who looks reliable enough, scooping the girl right up into his arms.

‘I’ll find your brother,’ you tell her, ‘but you need to get to safety too, okay?’

The other student—a boy with hair that looks like tissue paper—smiles at you and starts towards the makeshift triage area some of the others have set up, murmuring what you assume are comforts or platitudes at the girl in his arms.

Before they get too far away, you realise your mistake. It’s one you’ve made before. You really don’t want to repeat it.

You quickly call out while they’re still in earshot, ‘What’s your brother’s name?!’

‘Yuta!’ the girl cries back. She sounds genuinely aggrieved in a distinctly unsettling way. How much are they getting paid for this?

You start in the direction she pointed, listening out for any obvious sounds of distress. When you don’t hear any, you start calling out his name. It takes a few tries, but eventually you hear a reply.

‘Help me! I’m in here!’

You’re on the outskirts of the main disaster area, in front of the base of what once was a building, rendered so much dust. The cry came from inside, and with a cursory glance for any obvious structural damage—nothing seems like it’ll be an immediate problem, to your untrained eye—you head in through the doorway.

You find the boy cowering behind a counter. This room must’ve been a sort of reception area. He actually does look like the girl, too, the same blond hair and smattering of freckles. Are they actually siblings?

Yuta stares up at you with teary eyes, hands fisted into his shorts. He’s trembling.

It’s convincing enough to rattle you even though you’re sure he isn’t actually a child. You can’t slack of just because it’s not real.

Your thoughts stray to white hair, red eyes and bandages. You have too many regrets to count about that night. You were rough with her. You couldn’t save her. You didn’t learn her name.

You made a promise that probably just diminished her hope even more in the long run. Waiting for help that might never come is an insidious thing. You still feel the remnants of hope and doubt that gnawed on you in equal measure, frayed you to the point you couldn’t tell one from the other. It made it feel so unreal when it finally came.

You might’ve made it worse. Her situation. Her wellbeing. You have no way to know.

But you’ll do better next time. You have to do better next time. Whether it’s her or someone else. You can’t fail again.

That much is a promise to yourself. And you still intend to keep every promise you’ve made.

This is the first step. It starts now.

‘Hi there,’ you say, crouching down in front of the boy. ‘Are you Yuta?’

He nods, eyes wide, but he makes no move to come closer. He’s still shaking. He needs help. But how to give it without just barrelling your way through it, without being careless with one part of his wellbeing for the sake of prioritising his physical safety above all? That’s not enough to save someone. You learned that from the best.

If the situation was dire, compromise would be necessary. But you have time, here. You can spare a few precious seconds to soothe. That’s part a it. An important part.

What did you need, when you stood in front of Endeavor, bleeding and begging for help?

It’s so obvious. So simple. So easy. With uncomplicated certainty, instincts that’ve been praised by both the hero you admire most and the Number One hero himself guide you forward until you’re resting your hand on his head. You feel a nauseous little twist in your gut for some reason, but your personal feelings don’t matter here. Not right now, so you stow them.

You activate your Quirk as you try to quell his shaking with your quiet gesture. ‘Are you hurt?’

Your Quirk gives you the answer—he’s not—even as he stares up at you and says, ‘Your eyes are freaky!’

Your lips twitch into a smile. ‘It’s part of my Quirk. If you were hurt, I could take the pain away for a while. But it seems like you’re okay for now.’

He blinks up at you, and for a moment, he doesn’t look so much like a helpless child. You think you’ve thrown him a little. There’s fake blood caked into the pants, near his ankle. He was probably supposed to pretend to be injured there.

You, one. Provisional License Exam, zero. Get outplayed, HUC.

You force yourself not to snark at him about it. ‘Are you ready to get back to your sister, Yuta?’

He beams. ‘Yuka’s okay?!’

Really? Yuta and Yuka? Surely those aren’t their real names. People really need better naming conventions.

‘She is,’ you nod, holding out your free hand. ‘So how about we get you back to her?’

He nods emphatically and finally scrambles to his feet, taking your offered hand. Before you can guide him out of the building, though, a massive explosion rocks the ground. Judging by the sound, you don’t think the blast was anywhere near you, but the foundation shakes enough that you hoist Yuta up into your arms and run out as quick as you can.

When you set him down outside, he’s staring up at you, wide-eyed. ‘Are you alone?’

You tilt your head, unsure whether you should still be playing along with their little ruse or not.

He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, either. His lips curl into a grin. ‘Does anyone know where you were headed? When you came to rescue me?’

You tense. ‘Not… as such.’ You hadn’t conferred at length with the student you passed ‘Yuka’ off to.

‘Thought so,’ ‘Yuta’ declares, his expression the polar opposite of the childlike stress he’d been projecting moments before. ‘Points deducted! What would’ve happened if we both got trapped in there and no one knew where we were? Rookie mistake, rookie!’ He seems to take great pleasure in the reprimand. Are all the HUC members this sadistic?

You just sigh. ‘Noted.’

When you make it back to the triage area, he and his maybe-sister act out a tearful reunion and everything. You search for the source of the disruption earlier and see a bunch of examinees are fighting the Pro-Hero Gang Orca and a flood of his sidekicks. Of course they had ‘villains’ attack at the same time. Really, you should’ve guessed that much.

You see Midoriya on the outskirts of the battle, waiting for an in to fend them off. In the distance beyond him, you can see Shouto. He looks frustrated and hurt, pinned to the ground by some sort of substance.

It’s enough to spur you into action. You run towards Midoriya, shouting once you’re in earshot, ‘Midoriya! Let’s try that!’

He turns to face you, his expression utterly serious in the way he gets when faced with trouble. It makes him feel reliable, even more than All Might’s perpetual smile. He glances at the triage area behind you, then back towards the ‘villains’, before finally settling on you. ‘Are you sure?’

You roll your eyes. ‘What’s was the point in coming up with the idea if we’re not going to actually use it? Come on, Deku, you said it. We’re basically—’

---

‘—the dream team!’ Midoriya exclaims, grinning at you as green lightning rakes across his skin and sweat beads down his forehead.

He’d approached you in the evening by way of a series of familiar uncertain knocks on your door. Even just the sound of them took you right back to when you used to live a few doors down from him and Inko.

He’d smiled at you uncertainly, notebook clutched to his chest, as he explained that All Might told him you’d be working on ultimate moves soon. Midoriya had a few ideas for yours, if you wanted to hear them. Because of course he did.

The two of you spent an entire hour going over theories and testing smaller applications of your Quirk—the pain side of it, anyway—using an elastic band to cause harmless spikes of pain to experiment with.

You both had the idea simultaneously, as if you’d been unknowingly working towards it the entire time.

‘Do you think…’ you start, ‘I could use my Quirk on you in a way that lets you—’

‘—use more of One For All!’ he finishes, eyes wide as he springs to his feet. You’d both been sitting on the floor, bent over his notebook. ‘Can we try?!’

You feel your own grin grow to match his. ‘Obviously.’

You end up in the courtyard outside the dorm, using the light from the moon and the common room windows to see just enough as you try—over and over and over again—to get it right.

When you finally manage it, and Midoriya is able to hold ten percent more of One For All than usual, he turns to you, grinning and sweating, and says, ‘We’re basically—‘

---

‘—the dream team,’ you recite, somehow managing to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. ‘Let’s do it.’

He’s still tentative, but as he takes in the battlefield again—Gang Orca barely being held off by a combination of Shouto and Yoarashi’s Quirks even though they’re both still pinned to the ground—Midoriya’s expression becomes one of grim determination. Finally, he nods. ‘Let’s do it.’

The idea, and its execution, developed in parts.

First, it started with the theory that you could activate your Quirk in advance, shield somebody from feeling the pain of an impact in the first place. Obviously, that meant you taking it on instead. You don’t void pain, you just sort of… move it around.

But from there, you could either hold it just long enough to give an ally an edge in a fight, or temporarily transfer it to an opponent instead. That part proved more difficult, but the first application worked, and it worked well.

But even just that much takes a lot of control and a lot of effort. You’re still not entirely sure how practical it even is. Back then, you’d both concluded that it would probably be a niche application you’d use situationally.

Until you both expanded on it even more.

Midoriya is an exception. One For All is an exception. But it works.

The balance isn’t easy to maintain. It falls somewhere in the middle of the two parts of your Quirk; pain and injury. You’re not just taking pain from Midoriya, but you’re not taking actual injury either. At the halfway point between those two things is the moment before. Discomfort and strain, a body pushed too far, right before something breaks.

That is what you’re holding together for Midoriya. Stretching that boundary to its thinnest degree and enabling him to draw on more of One For All than his body can typically handle.

It only works because your pain tolerances are so similar. It lets you communicate a little in the moment, even from across a distance. If the pain increases on his end, he knows your control is slipping, and he needs to ease up. If it increases on your end, you know he’s trying to push it further, and you can respond in kind, either reining him in or ‘going beyond’ right there with him. Plus Ultra, and all that.

In the same breath as his affirmation, Midoriya takes off, bolting towards the centre of the battlefield. The centre being Gang Orca himself.

There’s something warm in the lack of hesitation as soon as he’s made the decision, his complete trust in you bleeding through. Trust you haven’t done enough to deserve from him, yet he still gives it freely.

It’s another treasure you somehow have to hold.

Still. It’s good to be trusted.

It’s even better to be able to support Midoriya like this. It’s the most opposite to Father thing you could possibly do.

Fuck him. Fuck All For One. You’re on the side of One For All, now.

You advance a little closer to the fight yourself and find a perch on a small mound of rubble, not high enough to make yourself an obvious target, but giving you a better vantage point of the action.

Your job is to keep Midoriya in your line of sight. You have a short window when it breaks; your Quirk doesn’t immediately snap back, but it’s far shorter at range than when you use it physically.

Strangely, the amount of time seems to vary. There’s probably a reason for it, but it’s not one you’ve figured out. At a distance, you have anywhere from eleven to thirty seconds before it reverts, all pain returning to its original source.

But that only happens if you lose line of sight. And you’re not exactly planning on it.

You see the moment Midoriya’s posture shifts, the moment green lightning starts to arc across his skin, and you activate your Quirk in tandem. It feels different, using it this way. Normally, it’s just an instinct, a push or a pull, away from you or towards. Out or in.

This is projecting it out and holding it there. But it’s not pushing, either. It’s the middle point between both feelings, dragging your instincts to a grinding halt and holding on. The place where you can push and pull at the same time.

It’s not easy. The best way you’ve managed it is by visualising it around your target like a shield, and even that’s flimsy, a crutch, a way to anchor yourself outside your own instincts. Don’t tug, don’t release, just pull it taut and hold it there.

As soon as you get it right, you feel the strain. Mostly, it’s in your limbs, which isn’t surprising given the way Midoriya uses One For All. He focuses it in his legs to build momentum before he jumps like a shot into the fray, landing a few blows on Gang Orca’s sidekicks as he fights his way to the centre, closing to Gang Orca, Shouto and Yoarashi.

They’re clearly on the back foot. Shouto uses his left and right side simultaneously in a last ditch effort to hold Gang Orca back. You can’t see his expression at this distance, but his posture is enough for you to know he’s frustrated.

You want to help. You practically itch with the urge to jump in and help them with your own two hands. But right now, you are helping. You’re doing what only you can do.

You’re enabling the strongest person here.

Ojiro jumps in just in time to redirect a hit Midoriya would’ve taken from one of the sidekicks. A bunch of other examinees are hot on his heels, though you only recognise Ashido and Tsuyu. The evacuation must be nearly complete, if they’re all here to assist already.

Finally given the leverage for it, Midoriya finds an opening and launches himself at Gang Orca.

You fall back on instinct. It’s too easy to slip up when you anticipate the impact of his kick moments before it lands and—you slip. Your focus narrows to the point of impact, and your Quirk narrows with it, accounting only for his dominant leg. The rest of him tenses, but when the kick connects, Gang Orca’s one-armed block is blown away, giving Midoriya a line to a direct hit.

Before he can go for it, the proctor’s voice blares from the overhead system. ‘Ahem! At present, every last HUC member on the field has been rescued from impending danger. Therefore, I declare that this test is over!’

He says something else, but you don’t pay attention to it, too focused on getting to Midoriya as quick as you can. You’re still siphoning his pain, in full now, and you can feel the nasty throb of bruises spiralling up each of the limbs you stopped protecting. You’re pretty sure nothing’s broken, but…

When you reach him, you grab his shoulders and turn him towards you. ‘Are you okay?! Holy shit! I’m so sorry!’

He shakes his head throwing both hands up in what you think is meant to be a placating gesture. ‘Don’t worry about it! Nothing’s broken. I’m just a little bruised, I think. It was a good idea! We should test it more!’ He glances down at himself briefly. ‘Also, you can stop using your Quirk. Really, it’s fine!’

You groan, but acquiesce, letting his pain slowly ebb away from you. ‘It wasn’t an idea, it was just a dumb instinct. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt because of me!’

He laughs, and it almost feels like he’s literally laughing in your face when he adds, ‘I mean, I’ve lost count of how many times that happened in the first few months of having my Quirk, so…’ He shrugs, then adds, ‘It’s really not that big of a deal.’

You stomp your foot on the ground in front of him, needing a physical outlet for your frustration. Could he have any less of a sense of self preservation? ‘That doesn’t make it okay, Midoriya! You trusted me, and if that was a real fight and you weren’t prepared, I could’ve gotten you killed!’

He sobers a little, though he’s still smiling when he says, ‘Hey, it’s okay, really. I’m fine.’ He looks over your shoulder, his smile slipping a little. ‘Todoroki-kun! Are you alright?’

You whirl around. Shouto’s managed to peel himself off the ground, finally, and he’s moving alright. He doesn’t seem too hurt, or anything, but all thoughts of your fuck-up with Midoriya fly right out the window when you see the way he’s carrying himself.

His expression is shuttered like you haven’t seen in months, even when he talked to Shouta about his father. His posture is so lax it makes him look fragile. Despondent. If you didn’t know him better, you’d just think he was exhausted, but you do know him, and you know what it looks like when he feels utterly defeated.

You’re in front of him in a second, Midoriya by your side. ‘What happened?’

He shakes his head, but you catch the glance he throws Yoarashi’s way.

That’s good enough for you. ‘Do you need me to stab him? All I have are training knives, but I can make it work.’

He stares at you blankly for a moment before he huffs, his lips twitching a little. ‘It’s fine. It wasn’t just him.’

You frown. ‘Who else? Tell me, Shouto, and I’ll—‘

‘I meant me,’ he deadpans. He even has the audacity to give you a long look, as if you’re the problem here.

You sigh. ‘Well, I’m not going to stab you.’

Pleadingly, Midoriya offers, ‘Maybe no one needs to be stabbed?’

Shouto’s at least smiling a little, now, though it fades when he glances down at your arm. ‘You need medical attention.’

You follow his gaze to where the broken target from the first exam is still fixed to your arm, caked in dried blood. ‘Oh. I forgot about that.’ At least it’s not actively bleeding.

Midoriya says your name, and he sounds just fed up enough that you turn on him, grab a tuft of his hair and tug on it.

‘Like you can talk!’ you snap.

---

A short while later, with your arm patched up and everybody’s various injuries seen to, you stand in front of a stage—which seemingly came out of nowhere, and hasn’t that been a theme for the day—where the proctor unveils a board with the names of everyone who passed.

Your name is there. But as quickly as your chest lifts with pride and excitement, it falls again.

Shouto’s isn’t.

‘Todoroki!’ The shout comes from Shouto’s other side, insistent and loud. Yoarashi marches up to him and immediately folds into another bow that has his head colliding with the ground all over again. ‘I’m sorry! It was entirely my fault that you didn’t pass! My pettiness is to blame! I’m sorry!’

It takes more self-control than you’d like to admit not to snap at him again, but you have to let Shouto fight his own battles. Most of them, anyway. And you already gave Yoarashi a piece of your mind.

‘Nah,’ Shouto says. ‘I started it, back then. There’s no need for all this.’ He steps forward and raises a placating hand towards the still-bowing Yoarashi, speaking softly. ‘You approached me openly and honestly and helped me realise some things.’

He’s so kind that sometimes you can’t even reconcile it. How did this version of Shouto make it out of Endeavor’s house? You’re so glad, and so relieved, and so, so lucky to be his friend.

And his secret fourth thing, too.

A few of the others from your class approach, wondering what happened and why Shouto didn’t pass. Apparently Bakugou didn’t, either.

You’re too focused on Shouto to care, and he’s just staring down at Yoarashi. The other boy is still deep in his bow. He only stands again when a man in a suit comes around bearing scoresheets for each of you, and even then, he just takes up post standing on Shouto’s other side.

You keep half an eye on him as you scan your paper.

The point system was punitive, starting at one hundred points. Anyone who ended the exam above fifty passed. You’ve all been given your individual score breakdowns, including details about the deductions you received.

You ended up with a final score of eighty-one, with deductions mostly from the beginning of the exam, thanks to your initial mistake of going in alone. There are some additional notes and minor deductions about the practicality of your Quirk in rescue operations, and how you can better apply it. None of the feedback is anything Midoriya didn’t already have written in his notebook. You feel just a little pride, at that.

When everyone compares scores, you discover that you were the third highest in your class. Sero topped you at eighty-four, and Yaoyorozu blew everyone out of the water at ninety-four. You receive several congratulations about it, but you can’t stop staring down at the scrawled eighty-one on the paper in your hands.

It’s so high.

It’s one thing to be told you have what it takes to be a hero. It’s another to realise that your natural skills—as a first year—are well above average.

You were just doing the things you always needed. Replicating the actions of those you respect.

Something about it is deeply unsettling. A pit forms in your stomach and you can’t make it go away no matter how many times you read the feedback, no matter how much you try to forget it and distract yourself. You can barely focus on the proctor’s closing words.

You don’t miss that those who didn’t pass will be given a chance to take a remedial course and earn their licenses in a few months, instead. When Midoriya and Iida excitedly approach Shouto about it, he professes quietly that he’ll catch up soon.

You wish you could ask him what happened. Let him lean on you about it, if he needs to. But in the time after, when you’re all handed your actual, physical provisional licenses—little plastic identification cards in the official style of the Hero Commission—you’re too distracted trying to make sense of your complicated feelings, let alone make room for his.

---

‘So, how was it?’ Hizashi asks, digging into the food he prepared for the three of you not long after you got back to Yuuei.

You’re lucky you have the others to cover for you when you bail on dinner with the rest of the class. It helps that not everyone shows up every time, either. At least a handful of you are introverts, and Bakugou bails whenever he’s in a remotely bad mood, which… well.

You chew through a bite of your own before you finally answer. ‘It was… fun, I guess.’

‘Hm? You don’t sound sure,’ he says, but it’s with enough levity that you’re pretty sure you’re being given an out, if you want it. ‘What’s on your mind, honey?’

You’re not sure why he’s decided to start calling you that. It’s been sparing so far, only dropped into conversation here and there. That almost makes it worse, though, because it catches you off guard and makes your face feel unbearably hot every time, and you haven’t had a chance to get used to it.

You glance over at the provisional license that’s bundled with the stack of papers on top of Shouta’s laptop. Hizashi asked to see it as soon as you got in, and it ended up being piled with everything else to make room at the table once dinner was ready. Now it’s just… there. Staring back at you.

You hesitate. ‘Um. I sort of just…’

Shouta doesn’t even look up when he says, ‘Don’t discredit yourself. That was the toughest exam they’ve ever held. You earned it.’

Does he have to read you so well? It’s annoying.

You get through some more of your meal before you can’t hold your silence any longer. You speak quickly, rushing to get it all out. ‘I can’t stop thinking about her. That girl. It just… it feels like too much of a failure to call myself a hero, even just a provisional one.’

‘If anything, that’s Shouta’s failing before it’s yours,’ Hizashi points out, shrugging like that wasn’t an incredibly harsh thing to hear from him, of all people.

Shouta must see something of your feelings—incredulity—in your expression, because he smiles, the tiniest half-smirk. ‘He’s right. I was the hero on scene. There wasn’t a feasible legal way to remove her from her situation. But if there’s blame to be laid in the time that’s passed since, it’s not yours. It’s mine.’ When you open your mouth to speak, he holds up a hand to stop you. ‘You have the ability to do legal hero work now. You can’t start out by carrying blame around. It’ll cloud your judgement, impact everything you do. That’s not fair to you or to the people you’ll help.’

It sounds like he’s speaking from experience.

After a short silence, you ask, ‘But how am I supposed to let it go?’

‘You don’t,’ he says. ‘It will motivate you, but it can’t be the reason why you’re doing this. Not in full. Because that means that the next time you don’t accomplish all that you set out to do, it’ll start adding up. If you carry all of that with you, you’ll eventually start to hesitate.’

Oh. So he’s a hypocrite. ‘Didn’t you try to bait me into coming to Yuuei by saying I could eventually rescue her, anyway?’

That little half-smirk returns. ‘It worked, didn’t it? I always intended to rectify it later,’ he gestures at you with his chopsticks, ‘and I just did.’

The sound you make is somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

‘You will,’ he adds, serious and simple all at once. ‘If it’s what you want to do, you’ll find a way. We’ll help you find a legal avenue. Just don’t let the idea of it get in the way of what’s in front of you right now.’

You tilt your head towards him in quiet acknowledgement.

’It’s not easy, though,’ Hizashi says softly. He’s staring down at his plate. ‘Trying to do things the right way often means waiting, even when you know there’s someone who needs help. And that sort of thing eats away at you.’ He shifts, finally looking at you again. ‘That’s why you have to rely on us, okay? That’s what we’re here for, not just as your teachers, but as your—guardians.’ There’s a little hitch, a hesitation you almost miss on that last word. Is he still not used to saying it?

You know it’s not exactly what he means, but you can’t help but think about how much they waited for you.

You don’t know what’s worse. That you’re here, with your strange little almost-family eating a home cooked meal in a safe place, not knowing her name or where she is or how she’s doing, how much she’s had to go through in the last six months—or what it was like for them, being within arm’s reach for so long and never being able to actually hold onto you. Having to choose to let you go even though they knew you were throwing yourself into danger again and again.

It’s out before you can think better of it, a little whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey!’ Hizashi exclaims, loud and gentle at the same time, with a thread of panic, ‘What—’

The hush when Shouta interrupts him is immediate. He doesn’t do that very often, but he does it now.

‘It’s worth it,’ he says, eyes boring into you in that knowing way again. His reaches out, brushes his hand against your hair, though it doesn’t rest there long, a fleeting gesture that almost feels more affectionate in its aimlessness. ‘You’ll see. Whether it’s with her or someone else.’

It’s the sort of thing that might usually feel insincere; too nebulous to not feel like a roundabout way of brushing you off. But you believe in him so much that you can almost believe in this, too. And for now, almost is enough.

---

Midoriya and Bakugou both miss class the next day. Apparently they went to one of the training grounds late at night and had an all-out brawl, using their Quirks and everything. Now they’re both on house arrest.

You can’t help but wonder if the giant stick Bakugou’s had up his ass since moving in had anything to do with it.

Shouta starts your first class out by explaining that those of you with provisional licenses now have the option to do work studies, a more intense version of the internships you already did. Apparently, the work studies double as part time work with a hero agency.

Only issue is, you have to use your existing contacts, whether from the pool of agencies who reached out after the Sports Festival—of which you had none—or the connections you made during the internships themselves.

You don’t have any reason to return to Manual, and no desire to besides. But that leaves you high and dry.

You could always ask Shouta, but he’s probably got enough on his plate with teaching. He doesn’t do a great deal of regular, day-to-day hero work as is, usually being called in for specific situations where his Quirk is needed. The same goes for most of the teachers.

It might not be the worst thing, not doing one right now. It would’ve been a good excuse to get out of Yuuei more and get some hands-on experience, but you can’t imagine trying to get along with just any hero. Especially not with your history as a vigilante being open knowledge, now.

After a couple of classes, you’re all dismissed for lunch. Shouta gestures you over with a tilt of his head. ‘You won’t miss lunch,’ he explains, starting down the hall once you’re following. ‘This won’t take long.’

It’s still early, so the staff room is almost empty. With only a few familiar faces around, you only feel slightly embarrassed about following him over to his desk. It’s not even like this is unusual. You’re just hyperaware that you entire situation is.

He grabs an envelope that was tucked under a stack of other papers, sighing as he skims the contents of the enclosed letter for what you’re guessing isn’t the first time. ‘You received an offer from an agency to do a work study.’ He sounds less than impressed, frowning as he mutters, ‘How they even knew we were allowing the first years to do work studies is beyond me. We only came to that agreement this morning.’

He glances at you, something about his expression guarded. Or careful, maybe? ‘It could be a good opportunity. You’re not the only one he’s asking for, so you wouldn’t have to deal with him on your own.’

Deal with? That’s an oddly specific way to refer to another hero. Is it someone he dislikes or something?

‘Who is it?’

Shouta sighs through his nose. ‘Hawks.’

Well, that clears up exactly nothing.

‘Who the hell is Hawks?’

Notes:

my dumbass forgot endeavor doesn’t show up until the remedial exams oops that encounter will have to wait a little longer

I got some absolutely lovely comments on the last chapter (y'all have been making me CRY) that meant the entire world to me, so I just want to thank everyone who has ever taken the time to leave one. They mean so much to me, especially right now. Thank you!!!!!

Considering how lowkey boring the provisional license exam arc is I think I did okay making this chapter decent! But I have so many wonderful things planned in the very near future, so the next few chapters are gonna be awesome! <3

For now, a query: I’m a big lover of ToshInko and have been tossing up including it as a very quiet background ship. I am curious if anyone has any particular thoughts or feelings about that. Can’t promise they’ll influence me one way or another, but feel free to let me know!

I love you all, stay safe x