Chapter Text
Experiencing the death of a loved one is difficult for anyone to endure. The lost of a mother, a friend, and a lover in society can bring anyone to their lowest. As blood dried on the concrete Izuku did not react to anything, just staring at nothing as the shouts around him were loud. The rubble having been removed as his mother laid lifeless beside him as they were saved.
Yet she doesn’t move even as heroes come in even as his father comes in screaming something before he is scooped up. Almost like a lifeless doll as the blood on his face smears on his face, his mind constantly interrupting and stopping him. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t feel anything as his body was numb from being still for so long.
Arguments, threats, chaos and he just couldn’t react to anything. Before finally he allows the exhaustion to hit as it all goes black.
Today was his mother’s funeral.
His father, Hisashi Midoriya, doesn’t say a word as he fixes up Izuku’s clothing, giving up on the tie as soon as he tried and picking up the boy.
Izuku is only five years old. His light green eyes are blurred with slight tears, unable to help himself but want to cry, even as he tries to understand why his mom was no longer with them.
“Why are we doing this?” Izuku whispers as his father helps him put his shoes on. The man pauses and looks up at him with white eyes that seemed haunting. Almost like a ghost, his father was almost never around before the accident.
He had good memories of his father playing heroes and villains, always playing the bad guy for him and Kacchan to fight against. Though they always lost despite their best effort, his father would say it was a good lesson before being scolded by Mom for being too intense. He never minded it, as it made him want to think better, and while frustrated, it motivated him.
Then his dad just started to become busier with work. His mom became stressed when, at four, there was still no sign of a quirk, and he just didn’t come around. Now he was around, doing all these weird things since Mom got hurt.
Maybe he was ashamed that his son was quirkless.
His father’s frown deepened, and he tied the shoes a little tighter than Izuku was comfortable with before finishing up. It was clear that his father was not pleased with the question, having been avoiding talking about it.
But his father wasn’t known for tact or delicate words, regardless of if the target for his words was his own five-year-old son.
“She’s moved on from us.”
Those words hung in Izuku’s mind as he stared wide-eyed while his father continued on, as if he was used to grief and was just too exhausted to speak anymore at this point. The large man scooped Izuku up and carried him away from their home. The many boxes and movers that littered the place became more obvious. It felt like they were running away.
On the very day of Inko Midoriya’s funeral.
The day seemed to match their grief as it began to rain as soon as they arrived at the funeral. Umbrellas came out to cover everyone in a sea of black.
His father refused to put him down, as if afraid Izuku would run off, despite his clear difficulty in opening the umbrella he had brought just in case. Izuku didn’t know how to feel as he stared numbly at nothing, this terrible ache in her absence as he lay his head on his father’s shoulder.
He wasn’t listening to anything anymore.
Death was unfamiliar. It happened in the videos with All Might, but he always showed up. There was always some hero that would come to save the day, and they did save him.
So why couldn’t they save his mom?
There was a stab of pain in his chest as his vision began to blur and a stray thought came to mind—memories of his last moment with his mother. Was it his—
“Where’s Ms. Midoriya, old hag? There’s no way she’s gone!” A familiar boy’s voice cut through his thoughts, becoming a temporary distraction. In that moment he almost found his voice as his eyes lit up for just a moment.
“Kacchan—?”
But it was cut off just as quickly. As his attempt to call out to the boy was cut short by his father’s grip suddenly tightening to force him back against his torso before could speak. Forcing the small boy to wince and stop himself. Confused, he looked up at his father to see the man was less than pleased. Izuku shrank, unsure of why his dad seemed so angry, as he turned his head as much as he could to see his childhood friend.
This small boy, Kacchan, certainly held a presence despite his size, looking like he was about to fight his mom. He could only catch the woman, Mitsuki, grabbing the boy roughly to try and quiet him down. Masaru, Kacchan’s father, gave a small sigh and looked over at Hisashi and Izuku almost apologetically.
“We are so sorry, Mr. Midoriya, you know how kids are.” Masaru bowed as it seemed everyone had been talking. The funeral had ended, and now everyone was to say their peace. The Bakugou family had always been family friends. Izuku remembered how both his and Kacchan’s moms would sit on the bench chatting while they played. Yet now that he thought about it, his dad almost never talked to them even in group gatherings.
Izuku could see that Mitsuki Bakugou was whispering and hissing at Kacchan after the boy had already made a scene, trying her best to keep him quiet—an act she seemed to be doing much more often lately. His mom said it was normal to test boundaries. He really didn’t get it, but the way Mitsuki was finally able to get her son to calm down made him miss his own mom.
Mitsuki stood up, grabbing hold of Kacchan’s hand as she walked toward them after having their talk, and Masaru smiled fondly at his wife and kid. That warmth was slowly starting to feel closer, Izuku’s eyes brightening as he shifted to look at them fully.
“Sorry about Katsuki, he’s just being a bit rambunctious—he’s really worried about Izuku,” Mitsuki spoke, and it brought Izuku some comfort. He had thought the other was still going to be mean today, but that clearly wasn’t the case.
Masaru and Mitsuki’s expressions suddenly looked serious as they glanced at each other. Izuku’s father tensed—the feeling was hard to ignore—as his father’s grip stiffened and tightened a bit, as if he was anticipating something that was impossible for Izuku to comprehend. They were like family, they wouldn’t do anything bad!
“Um, Mr. Midoriya, we don’t mean to intrude,” Masaru started up as if he was speaking to a wild animal that might snap at any moment. “But we care deeply for Izuku and Inko, just like family, so we were thinking if—”
His father suddenly sneered. “We’re fine.”
Masaru was taken aback by the harsh tone from the usually indifferent or casual man who never talked much. Though Mitsuki seemed less than amused as she stepped in, “There’s no need to be hostile. We are just offering—if you need some temporary help, we can watch him a bit.”
It sounded so nice. The idea of living with the Bakugous sounded nice, even if Kacchan might still tease him about being quirkless and a Deku. It would be familiar—maybe eventually Kacchan would come to be friends with him again.
“We’re already moving,” Mr. Midoriya answered them, seeming to have calmed down. The reactions the Bakugous had, even Kacchan, were startled, making it clear that the man hadn’t even given anyone in the neighborhood a heads-up about this arrangement.
“You’re moving? Already!?” Mitsuki’s voice rose just a pitch, seeming offended and shocked at the callousness of it. “But what about the community here? Izuku has been living here all his life—”
Izuku was reeling as the adults talked, trying to register why he had to leave. He was about to open his mouth to speak, but as if his father sensed it, the man put a hand to the back of his head and pressed against it. Just enough pressure as if to say not now, or, from Izuku’s point of view, shut up. As he was pressed against his father’s shirt, he didn’t have the strength to fight it, only able to glance over and see the shock on Kacchan’s face.
Tears welled up in his eyes as his father didn’t allow him a voice. Despite the Bakugous’ best efforts, they left the funeral with any close connection being cut.
Izuku tried to beg when he got “home,” or what would be his former home, to at least say goodbye to Kacchan. At least to show that he still cared and wanted to be friends.
He was rejected. His father didn’t even entertain the idea, as their home was already mostly empty when they returned.
The movers were quick and efficient, boxing up his life without ceremony—his toys, his books, his memories swallowed piece by piece until nothing was left but empty walls. There was no time for goodbyes, no chance to explain or hold onto anything familiar; just the silent rush of movers boxing up his life, and Hisashi’s steady, almost mechanical movements as he bundled Izuku into the waiting car.
As they pulled away, Izuku pressed his forehead to the cold window, watching the apartment grow smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a smear of gray in the rain, disappearing like a dream he was already forgetting. He heard his father’s voice, low and flat, barely louder than the rain tapping against the glass:
“As if that brat even cares if you leave.”
The words carved a hollow ache deep into his chest, sharper and colder than he could have imagined, but Izuku didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, just curled his small hands into fists in his lap and held the hurt there, hidden and silent.
He had thought he was done crying at the funeral. He didn’t cry—not then, not while his father sat stiff and silent beside him, not while the world he knew was swallowed whole by distance and rain.
It wouldn’t be until much later—when the silence grew too thick, when the empty halls echoed too loudly, when the weight of everything he had lost finally pressed down on him—that the tears came, and by then there was no one left to see.
Their new home was not at all what Izuku expected after they passed through some weird mist.
It was huge! Their new home had a third story to it and was large compared to their apartment! They went through some weird black portal and suddenly they were here!.
To a five-year-old still struggling to blink away the heavy grief clinging to his chest, it didn’t feel real; it looked less like a house and more like a castle, so large it might swallow him whole if he wasn’t careful.
They had arrived through a strange black portal, stepping into a world that smelled faintly of fresh paint and something older, something heavier, something that seemed to cling to the walls and press down into the very bones of the place.
It should have been exciting. It should have felt like an adventure.
And for a little while, it was.
Izuku couldn't resist running up and down the wide staircases, his small feet echoing against polished floors as he darted from room to room, trying to memorize every corner and passageway.
There were so many rooms—an entire wing filled with comics and dusty old cartoons that still managed to fascinate him even if the heroes looked strange and outdated, a massive living room with a TV bigger than anything he'd ever seen, walls stacked with books far out of his reach, a music room with instruments he wasn't allowed to touch yet, and at the very center of it all, a sprawling courtyard that stole the breath from his lungs.
That courtyard was what truly captured his heart.
It was beautiful, overflowing with vibrant life—a garden bursting with wild trees, flowering bushes, and a small, shimmering pond where squirrels darted along branches and birds flitted overhead, singing melodies so sweet they made something deep inside his chest ache in ways he didn't yet understand.
One of the birds in particular caught his eye: a creature with brilliant, iridescent feathers that seemed to scatter rainbows wherever it flew, and he had spent hours lying in the grass, naming every animal he could find, weaving stories in his head about each one as if they were characters in some grand fairy tale.
It was amazing. It was everything he had ever dreamed a new home could be.
But as the hours dragged on and the first few days slipped past like water through cupped hands, the wonder slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to thin at the edges.
Because no matter how many doors he opened, no matter how many corridors he wandered, there were no neighbors peeking out from behind fences, no mail carriers laughing and waving hello, no passing cars rumbling down the street outside.
There were no windows that opened. There were no doors that led anywhere but further into the house—or back into the same, beautiful courtyard.
It was just him and his father. Along with the many animals trapped inside this expansive courtyard with him.
But there was no path outside this home.
The house, so massive and beautiful at first, now felt hollow and endless, every footstep echoing too loudly, every laugh from the television sounding too sharp against the walls when Hisashi disappeared into his office and left Izuku to wander the halls alone.
The first few nights, Izuku cried himself to sleep beneath thick, luxurious blankets, hiding his face and muffling the sound so his father wouldn’t hear, because even at five years old, he understood instinctively that sadness was something to be hidden.
He had wanted so badly to be strong, to be good, to not give his father another reason to be disappointed in him.
But this wasn’t a castle, no matter how beautiful it was.
It couldn't replace the sorrow he feels as the silence of his home became defeaning.
Dinner was quiet, the way it often was now.
The clinking of silverware against fine porcelain echoed strangely in the wide, empty kitchen, filling the space where once there had been chatter, where Inko’s laughter might have danced through the air like music.
Hisashi cooked—something Izuku hadn’t realized his father even knew how to do. The food was good, better than he expected, but no matter how carefully his father plated it, no matter how many new dishes appeared on the table each night, there was a hollow place inside Izuku that the food could never quite fill.
But tonight, something was gnawing at him.
"Dad," Izuku whispered, voice trembling despite his best effort to sound brave. "Are you… going to leave me alone?"
Across the table, Hisashi Midoriya froze, the glass of water in his hand pausing halfway to his lips. His eyes, so often full of a strange warmth and even stranger sadness, widened in genuine shock.
"Hm?" he uttered, caught completely off guard.
Izuku's heart pounded as he looked down at his plate. He hated saying it out loud, hated how small and needy it made him feel. It felt wrong, ungrateful even—but the fear had been growing too loud to ignore. This house had no doors to the outside. No other children. No neighbors. Just endless corridors and the gentle singing of the birds in the courtyard.
Was his father… planning to disappear too?
There was a scrape of a chair, and before Izuku could react, his father was beside him, kneeling down and scooping him up into his arms. Izuku let out a startled breath, feeling the familiar strength of his father's arms wrapping him close.
"Oh no, Izuku," Hisashi murmured, rocking him gently as he brushed a large hand through his messy green hair. "I would never leave you."
For a moment, Izuku let himself melt into the embrace. It had been so long since his father had held him like this—not since before… before everything fell apart.
The steady hum in Hisashi's chest was soothing, grounding him like it used to when he was small and the world was less broken.
But the words—the words weren't enough.
"But… what if you have to leave for work again?" Izuku burst out, the dam of all the emotions he could barely contain in his small body breaking all at once. His hands clutched fistfuls of his father's shirt as he sobbed into it. "What if… what if I'm bad, and you get tired of me?! I'm… I'm no good…!"
Hisashi tensed, but only for a second. Then his hand returned to stroking his back, steady and calm.
"Izuku," he said softly, firmly, as if stating a simple fact, "even if you were bad. Even if you were a monster. Even if you hated me—I would never leave you. You are my son. I already made that mistake once." His voice grew heavier. "I will never leave you behind."
Izuku hiccuped, still sobbing as his chest seemed to tighten. Unable to help his fear as his small body trembles at the idea of being abandoned and left all alone. He flinched as Hisashi pulled back slightly, grabbing some tissues to wipe his tears. Before finally he pressed the tissue gently against his nose.
"Blow," he instructed.
Obediently, Izuku blew into the tissue, a loud, messy sound that made Hisashi pull a face of exaggerated disgust.
"That's a lot of boogers," Hisashi said gravely, and Izuku let out a snort between hiccups.
Hisashi smiled—that real, warm smile that only Izuku ever seemed to see—and crouched down to Izuku's eye level. Those white eyes looking at him almost contemplative with that smile as if understanding how to help with this.
Then, he lifted his pinky.
"How about this?" he said. "I will make you a pinky promise."
Izuku blinked, confused. Kacchan had told him pinky promises were for babies, but… but here was his dad, dead serious, holding out his pinky.
"I promise that no matter what," Hisashi said solemnly, "even if you become mean, hate me, evil, or even if you run away it doesn't matter. I will never stop loving you. I will never abandon you. If I ever break that promise… I'll swallow a thousand needles."
Izuku gasped. A thousand needles!? That would hurt! That was serious!
Tentatively, he wrapped his tiny pinky around his father's.
"Then it's a promise," Izuku whispered, his voice shaking.
Hisashi squeezed his pinky gently.
"It's a promise," he echoed.
And for a moment—just a moment—Izuku let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.
Yet a thought lingered. Would it still count if I grew into someone he didn’t love?
At first, Izuku tried to find wonder in the endless halls and towering staircases of their new home. He built forts out of the plush couches, pretended the sweeping curtains were capes fluttering behind him as he dashed through echoing corridors, filled entire notebooks with drawings of the strange birds that nested in the courtyard trees.
There was so much to explore, so many new rooms to discover, and for a little while, the loneliness stayed quiet—lingering only at the edges of his mind where he could pretend not to hear it.
But as the days slipped into weeks, and the weeks melted into months, the vastness of the house began to change.
The laughter that should have filled its halls never came. The windows never opened, no matter how hard he pushed. The doors that should have led to bustling streets or parks or neighbors led only to more rooms—or worse, nowhere at all.
Sometimes, in the dead stillness of the afternoon, Izuku would press his hands against the cold, smooth glass of a window three stories high and wonder why the outside world looked so far away. The garden, once a place of wonder, began to feel like a stage. While the animals were like carefully placed props.
And him—he wasn’t sure what he was anymore.
He tried to be good. He dressed up in whatever his father laid out for him without complaint, even if the fabrics itched or the colors weren’t quite to his taste.
He studied the books left for him, practiced his writing, smiled when he was supposed to smile, laughed when his father looked his way.
But the ache inside his chest was growing heavier with every passing day.
Izuku was six now—and loneliness gnawed at him more and more each day.
Despite the sprawling mansion, despite the towering trees and chirping birds outside his window, there was no one else his age. Just endless rooms and quiet halls, tutors who rarely stayed, and the soft hum of the television that couldn't fill the ache.
When he asked again about meeting other kids, his father only frowned, murmuring something about "safety" and "the world being too dangerous right now."
Izuku had slumped in disappointment, feeling that the old ache in his chest had tightened—until a few days later, Hisashi called him into the living room with a rare smile.
"I know you're a bit lonely, Izuku," his father said as he knelt down, cradling something in his arms. "So I got you a companion."
Izuku blinked—then gasped.
A rabbit—or at least, something like a rabbit—peered at him with odd, pupil-less green eyes. Its fur was black and sleek, gleaming almost unnaturally in the light, and a strange metallic plate sat atop its head like a tiny crown.
It was huge—far bigger than the rabbits he remembered from picture books—but in his father's arms, it still looked... manageable.
Until he tried to hold it.
As Hisashi gently passed the creature into Izuku's arms, the boy stumbled backward with a yelp, the rabbit’s surprising weight nearly toppling him over. He clumsily clutched at the rabbit's chest, and to his amazement, it simply… stood.
Balanced perfectly on its hind legs, like a furry little sentinel.
Izuku stared, awestruck—then laughed.
It was a bright, sharp sound, bursting out of him without permission, cutting through the lingering gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.
The rabbit's fur was soft against his fingers. It smelled faintly of metal and something green—like leaves in the spring.
"I love him!" Izuku cried, hugging the creature fiercely. The rabbit blinked slowly but tolerated the embrace with surprising patience, only twitching its nose in mild disapproval.
Hisashi’s smile widened a fraction, some private relief in his eyes.
"I'm going to call him… U!" Izuku declared proudly.
Hisashi tilted his head, clearly puzzled.
"U for Usagi!" Izuku beamed up at him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Understanding dawned, and Hisashi let out a soft chuckle, ruffling Izuku's hair.
"Good choice," he said, his voice almost tender.
Before Hisashi could say anything else, Izuku was already racing toward the courtyard, the massive black rabbit hopping obediently after him.
His laughter echoed through the house as U chased him in wide, clumsy circles, occasionally catching him and pinning him to the ground with his full, heavy weight.
Izuku would squeal and squirm and giggle—and for a while, the cold weight in his heart eased just enough to let him breathe again.
For a little while, it almost felt like he wasn’t alone.
Just a boy and his strange, wonderful rabbit, running wild through a world that, for a moment, didn’t seem so empty after all.
One evening, when the sky outside had melted into a soft purple haze, Hisashi called him into the parlor.
Izuku came wobbling in, arms wrapped awkwardly around U’s huge fluffy frame, half-dragging him across the floor with determined little grunts. He beamed automatically at his father—until he noticed the spread laid carefully across the low tea table.
Clothes.
Not just any clothes. Beautiful, intricate outfits made of fabrics so soft they seemed to ripple like water, colors so vivid they almost glowed against the pale wood. There were dresses and robes, hanfu and yukata, outfits that belonged in fairy tales or on the stages of grand theaters.
Izuku stared, wide-eyed, as Hisashi knelt down beside the pile, running a hand reverently across the cloth.
"Your mother," Hisashi said quietly, his voice soft in a way that made Izuku’s heart ache, "she loved designing clothes. Before we settled down, it was her dream to make things like this. Dresses, costumes... beautiful things that could make people feel like they were living inside a story."
Izuku didn’t know what to say.
He had so few memories left of his mother—her laugh, her smell, the way she would ruffle his hair when he was upset. The idea that she had once dreamed of this—this magic—made something in his chest twist painfully.
"I thought," Hisashi continued, offering him a gentle smile, "maybe we could honor her dream together."
He held out a small hanfu, its fabric a brilliant green edged with white embroidery that shimmered like frost. It was beautiful—too beautiful for someone like him, he thought—but Hisashi’s expression was so hopeful, so soft, that Izuku couldn’t say no.
Carefully setting U down (earning a half-hearted grunt from the rabbit), Izuku allowed himself to be dressed.
The fabric was cool against his skin, sliding into place with a weight that felt far heavier than it should. Hisashi worked deftly, fastening the ties, adjusting the sleeves, his hands steady and sure.
When he was finished, he stepped back, studying Izuku with a warmth in his eyes that Izuku hadn't seen in a long, long time.
"You look just like her," Hisashi said, voice thick.
Izuku ducked his head, embarrassed but also... pleased. If wearing this made his dad happy—if it made his mom smile somewhere far away—then it was worth it.
And for a time, it became their ritual.
Sometimes Hisashi would bring out another new outfit, something he’d found or commissioned or bought on a whim. Izuku would let himself be dressed up, twirling awkwardly in the middle of the parlor while U watched with a deeply unimpressed stare from under a chair or atop a couch he had claimed as his throne.
It was strange. It was silly.
But it was also warm. And after so much loss, so much emptiness, Izuku would take warmth wherever he could find it.
Even if, sometimes, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he didn’t quite recognize the boy staring back at him.
And the grief didn’t leave.
Izuku was still six when he asked again—asked if he could leave, if he could go outside and meet other kids his age, if he could have friends instead of just tutors and pets. The answer that came back was sharper than before; not cruel, but cold enough that Izuku flinched, Hisashi's voice firm as he demanded that he forget the old neighborhood, forget Kacchan, forget the world beyond their courtyard walls. It was too dangerous, he said. The world was cruel, and Izuku was too precious to risk.
Izuku felt a cold fear settle in his chest, the kind that made him realize, even then, that maybe his father wasn’t really seeing him anymore, only the memory of something already lost. He didn’t ask again for a long time.
He forgot why he was scared.
One of his tutors died not long after that, though Izuku never saw it happen. Only the sharp, metallic scent of blood lingering in the far hallway near the study doors, and U—usually lively—trembling and restless that night, unable to meet his eyes.
Some part of Izuku already knew, deep down, that something terrible had happened.
The replacement tutor arrived days later, stiff and distant, careful not to linger too long in conversation or step too close. None of them tried to get close to him after that, and whatever invisible line had been crossed, it sealed Izuku further inside the gilded walls that grew higher, thicker, colder around him.
He had just turned seven. And he wants to forget.
He tried to rebel after that—small things, the kind any normal child might do. He refused to eat certain foods, whined when asked to dress up, dragged his feet during lessons, tiny acts of defiance that barely felt like rebellion at all. But Hisashi didn’t see it that way.
All Izuku recalls is pain and terror as he cried feeling as if he was hated.
Hisashi’s horror—his panic, his trembling hands trying to patch the harm he'd caused, babbling desperate apologies that Izuku couldn't quite believe. He looked up at his father through wide, frightened eyes, and for the first time, a terrible truth rooted itself inside him: he was afraid.
Izuku was ten years old now, trying so desperately to bury the memories he dared not fully revisit.
Hisashi never raised his hand to him again—but the damage had been done. The fear stayed, festering like a thorn lodged deep in his chest, blooming sharper each time his father smiled too wide or spoke too softly. Izuku could never quite shake the suspicion that crept along his spine in those moments, a whisper in his mind that wondered if what gleamed in his father's eyes was truly love—or something else entirely.
He still tried to be good, tried to be the son his father wanted—the perfect little doll, obedient, smiling, safe. He wore the dresses and suits, practiced his handwriting, answered every request with a smile, each polite gesture building the careful image Hisashi needed to see.
But late at night, lying beneath too-heavy covers in a room far too grand and empty, Izuku would stare into the dark and wonder how much longer he could keep pretending. No matter how many birds fluttered in the courtyard, no matter how soft U’s fur felt against his cheek, no matter how brightly he smiled—he was still alone, still trapped, still a delicate bird in a cage so beautiful it almost made him forget the bars were there.
Almost.
How much longer was he supposed to pretend he was okay? His father had kept his promise—he had never abandoned him, never left him truly alone. But Izuku hadn’t wanted to be trapped with him either.
Every day was the same. Every routine was stagnant. If it wasn't for the tutors cycling through the manor and U, the strange rabbit who tolerated his hugs with the patience of a saint, Izuku was sure he would have lost his mind long ago. Almost seven years of growing up like this, tucked away in a cage too beautiful to see the bars at first glance.
He was eleven now. He had been homeschooled from the moment they moved here. He studied, he behaved, he wore any outfit his father chose without complaint—or at least he tried to.
So he couldn't help but wonder: When would he be "ready" to go outside? Because frankly... it felt like he was suffocating.
These thoughts gnawed at him, picking at the fragile threads holding his patience together. More and more he started to feel less like Hisashi Midoriya’s son and more like something kept, something protected, something caged. A pet. A doll. A pretty object to dress up and keep safe from the world.
It was hard to fight those thoughts. Especially when his father, for all his affection, could be so cold, so utterly detached. It wasn’t as if he forced Izuku into the dresses; he even seemed to treasure those moments, treating them as something sacred. His father would talk about his mother, about the dreams she once had of designing clothing before she gave everything up for family, and in those moments, Izuku let it happen—for his father's sake, for the faint memory of his mother.
But no matter how beautiful the clothing was, it didn’t change the truth gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He was still trapped.
Izuku sighed as he sat alone on a stone bench in the courtyard, U sprawled at his feet lazily gnawing at a wooden chair—probably one Hisashi treasured. Izuku barely even scolded him anymore. He simply watched, green eyes unfocused as they drifted up to the sky.
One bird, brilliant and iridescent, caught his gaze. Its feathers shimmered green and blue under the false sunlight that illuminated the manor’s courtyard. It stared up toward the ceiling, cocking its head as if weighing something deep within its tiny heart.
It stared up at the sky with fierce, unwavering focus. Izuku wondered if maybe, finally, one of them would leave. They weren’t native birds; there was no reason they couldn’t fly away — soar far beyond the little walled-off world he'd been trapped in. At least... someone should be able to.
And then, to Izuku’s amazement—it launched itself upward.
He watched as it launched itself upward in a burst of wild, desperate flapping. The other birds, usually so calm, were fluttering and shrieking in panic. It was strange. Unnatural.
The bird hit something.
The sky itself—what he had always assumed was sky—flared with a pulse of light, and there was a terrible snap and crackle as the creature fell.
Something invisible caught the bird mid-flight, and it tumbled, smoking, toward the ground. Izuku was already moving before he even registered what happened, leaping from the bench, sprinting to catch it.
He barely caught it — the bird’s small body twitching in agony, its once-beautiful feathers charred and smoldering against his skin. The stink of burnt feathers filled his nose. He clutched it tighter, horror and heartbreak crashing down all at once.
Its feathers were charred black at the edges. Its body was trembling.
The stink of burned flesh clung to his hands as he cradled it.
"No, no, no—" he whimpered, vision blurring as he held the broken thing. A sob tore out of him, raw and instinctive. Without thinking, he screamed the one name he had left in the world:
“Dad! Help! DAD PLEASE!”
He didn’t even register his father’s approach at first—only the sound of hurried footsteps and the sharp intake of breath as Hisashi Midoriya took in the scene before him.
"Izuku, what happened!?"
Izuku couldn’t even answer. He just sobbed harder as Hisashi knelt beside him, his large hands carefully prying the bird from his son's trembling fingers.
"Shh... it’s okay. I can fix him. Don’t cry." His father’s voice was gentle, even soothing.
But Izuku was trembling for another reason entirely.
"W-why?" he choked out, voice breaking, and Hisashi—uncharacteristically—seemed to understand exactly what he was asking.
"For their own safety," Hisashi answered, almost bewildered by the question. "They wouldn’t survive out there. All they've ever known is here. If you hadn't found it, it would have died anyway."
The words were said so simply. So logically.
As if keeping creatures locked away under an invisible, electrified sky was just common sense. As if preventing them from even trying to live was somehow... kind.
Izuku swallowed thickly, staring at the trembling bird now cradled in his father's arms. Was that all this was? Was this what his father saw when he looked at him too? A delicate creature to be preserved, even if it meant a lifetime of imprisonment?
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.
The world he lived in—the life he thought was safe and real—was a gilded cage.
His father smiled gently at him, utterly unaware of the horror and betrayal twisting inside his son.
"It's okay," Hisashi whispered. "I would never let anything bad happen to you."
But Izuku could only sit there in stunned silence, hands trembling, wondering if he would ever see the real sky again.
Time passed. Days blurred into months, and months into years. But the cracks in Izuku’s world had already begun to spread.
In the quiet hours, when even U had tucked himself beneath furniture to sleep, Izuku would sit by the soft glow of his tablet, scrolling through streams of distractions. Sometimes it was clips of heroes—larger than life and shining with purpose. Other times, it was images of distant schools and bustling classrooms he could only dream of. But one evening, by accident or fate, he stumbled onto something he hadn’t expected—an online community devoted to beautiful, lifeless dolls.
They were exquisite. Draped in flowing silks and intricate lace, posed in carefully crafted scenes, each one preserved behind spotless glass. Their porcelain faces wore serene expressions, their glass eyes gleaming in the light. The people who owned them adored them—praised their beauty, dressed them lovingly, and displayed them like cherished trophies.
Izuku stared, and for the first time, he felt something sick curl in his stomach.
Because he saw himself.
The fine clothes, always tailored and elegant. The carefully curated life, every need met before he could even speak it. The walls built high and smooth around him, polished like glass, meant to keep him pristine. The affection—always a little too tight, a little too smothering—as if he might crack if not handled just right.
At first, he tried to shove the thought away. His father loved him. He cooked for him, read to him, brought tutors and pets to stave off the loneliness. He smiled whenever Izuku smiled—as if Izuku were the only thing that mattered. If he were just a doll, why would his father care so deeply?
But then he thought of the tutors who vanished without warning. Of U, always tense when strangers came. Of the courtyard, so bright and full of birds that could fly—but never leave. Of bruises that hadn’t come from accidents, of pain followed by whispered apologies that didn’t make it stop hurting.
And suddenly, he couldn’t unsee it.
He was twelve now—old enough to feel the weight of the cage he once mistook for home. Old enough to recognize that love, when twisted by fear and control, could become its own kind of prison. That devotion, even when sincere, could still suffocate.
He couldn’t live like this. Not forever. Not if he wanted to remain himself, to grow into more than something placed carefully on a shelf and admired.
Curling his knees to his chest, Izuku wiped his face with trembling hands. Then, slowly, something cold and steady settled inside him.
He would not be a doll. He would not let this house become his grave. He would not let fear masquerading as love dictate his life.
He was going to be a hero. He was going to live a real life. He was going to fight for it—even if it meant risking everything.
Izuku stood, breath shuddering as he steeled himself.
It was time to ask. Really ask. And this time… he wouldn’t back down.
The house was too quiet when Izuku finally found him.
Hisashi sat in the lounge, the flickering television casting ghostly reflections across the dark wood and his sharp, unreadable eyes. In the half-light, he didn’t look like a man anymore—he looked like something older, heavier, worn down by years of battles no one else could see.
Izuku lingered at the doorway, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to stay silent, to not disturb the fragile peace that had settled like dust in the corners of their world. But he couldn't. Not anymore.
He stepped forward, his small hands bunching into the fine green silk of the hanfu dress he had chosen carefully, a desperate, silent plea stitched into every fold.
"Dad," Izuku said, voice barely above a whisper.
Hisashi turned his head slowly, like the simple act was too heavy to bear. His smile was thin and hollow. "Yes, Izuku?"
The words tangled in Izuku’s throat, but he forced them out anyway, squeezing his hands tighter into the fabric until his knuckles went white.
"I want to go back to a real school. I want to have real friends. I... I don't want to stay here forever."
The words hung in the air between them, trembling and naked.
For a moment, Hisashi said nothing.
The television crackled softly in the background, the only sound in a house that suddenly felt far too large, far too empty.
Then Hisashi rose from the chair with slow, deliberate movements, his figure towering in the gloom, the pressure around him growing heavier with each step. Izuku fought the instinct to flinch, to back away. Instead, he stood his ground, swallowing hard as he met his father's eyes.
"You even managed to tie it properly," Hisashi said, voice light but distant, almost like an echo from some forgotten time. "You look beautiful, Izuku."
The compliment landed awkwardly, out of place, as if trying to soften something that could not be softened.
"I'm serious," Izuku said, his voice wobbling despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "I’ve done everything you asked. I've studied. I’ve behaved. Please, I just want—"
Hisashi raises a hand to stop him and Izuku obeys able to see there is a moment.
For a long moment, Hisashi simply watched him.
The television murmured forgotten noise in the background, flickering shadows against the walls. Rain ticked faintly at the windows, a distant, steady heartbeat. And in the silence between one breath and the next, something inside him shifted—a shadow brushing old wounds he refused to name.
His hand twitched once at his side before stilling.
Izuku stood there, too small for the weight he was trying to carry, his hands clenched tight in the green silk. So earnest. So terribly fragile.
The world had taken before. It would not take again.
"You've grown," Hisashi said quietly, the words heavier than he meant them to be, the ghost of a memory passing unnoticed in his voice.
"My sweet baby boy."
His face was unreadable, but there was a sorrow there, hidden beneath the usual warmth, as if he were looking at something precious that had already started to slip away.
"You really think you’re ready?" Hisashi asked softly, his voice almost kind, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
Izuku nodded, unable to trust his voice.
Hisashi sighed, long and deep, like he was carrying the weight of a hundred regrets. Slowly, he knelt down so they were eye level, reaching out to brush a hand through Izuku's still green, messy hair. His touch was gentle but heavy, as if he were memorizing the feel of him before something changed forever.
"I will agree," Hisashi said carefully, "but only under certain conditions."
Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.
"Anything," he blurted out before he could stop himself, the word tumbling from his lips like a prayer. "Whatever you want, I'll do it!"
Hisashi’s smile curved just slightly. It wasn't cruel, not exactly—but it wasn't kind, either.
"One," he said, holding up a finger. "You will submit to a strict regime. Tutors, physical training, study schedules. You will not complain. You will not argue. If you fall behind—" his voice sharpened just slightly, "—you come back here. No questions."
Izuku nodded quickly. That was fine. He was used to studying, used to structure. He could handle that.
"Two," Hisashi continued, lifting a second finger, "you will write me reports. Detailed. Weekly. Everything you learn, everything your classmates say, everything that happens. If I find you omitting things, or lying—"
The warning didn't need to be finished.
Izuku nodded again, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He could do that too. If it meant freedom—even just a little—he would endure it.
"And three," Hisashi said, his voice dropping low enough that Izuku had to strain to hear it, "you will stay out of trouble. You are not a hero yet, Izuku. You are still a child. If you are harmed, if you are endangered, if you so much as come near danger—"
Hisashi leaned in, the sharpness in his gaze cutting deeper than any blade.
"You come home. Immediately. And if you don't, I will come for you."
The promise in those words sent a chill down Izuku’s spine. Not because he doubted it—but because he believed it completely.
There was a finality in the air now, heavy and suffocating. Izuku realized with a sick, twisting feeling that this wasn’t a negotiation. It never had been.
It was a contract.
A deal struck between jailer and prisoner.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the fear clawing up his throat.
"I promise," Izuku whispered, and Hisashi ruffled his hair again with a hand that lingered just a second too long.
"You're all I have left," Hisashi murmured, almost to himself, something raw slipping through the cracks of his voice before he caught it and buried it again.
Izuku closed his eyes against the sting in his chest, holding onto the fragile illusion with both hands.
This was love. It had to be.
Because it was all he had left, too.
