Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Izuku hadn’t meant to set Tsubasa’s hair on fire. 

Trust him, Izuku is as confused as you. 

Let’s backtrack a bit. 

Ironically, Izuku’s day starts off uncharacteristically uneventful. 

It starts in his bedroom. Waking up on his own, Izuku tiredly swallows a mouthful of saliva down his dry throat and nearly falls off his bed in a fit of coughing. Eyes closed, he shifts his body to lay on his side, ignoring the orange sun rays streaming through his bedroom window, casting the room aglow. 

Tugging the blanket up to his neck to protect his body heat from the morning cold, the reminder of school only makes Izuku want to bury his nose deeper into his sheets. A few minutes later, Izuku rubs at his drowsy eyelids and then sees a trail of his drool soaking the pillow he’s clinging onto in his sleep. 

He gently shoves his pillow up till it reaches the bed’s headboard, and promptly misses its warmth and softness. Blanket removed off his legs, he slowly has his elbows reach the small on his back to stretch. Izuku then grunts as he reaches for his wiggly toes, allowing his eyes to adjust to his bleary surroundings. 

His bedroom is the opposite of minimalist but hardly a rank below a hoarder. 

Suddenly the dirty laundry he procrastinated becomes a priority. 

Across his bed is his closet, and he takes in the sight of his floor, layered in forgotten laundry. Next to him is his rustic wooden desk, which has a vast array of study materials he hasn’t started on and a small collection of action figurines, precious gifts from his mother. The greyscale walls above his desk are plastered by dollar-store cheap posters and a nailed-in bookshelf. 

Mess aside, Izuku’s attention is dragged back to his desk and the calendar hanging above it. On it, he sees today’s date circled in bright red Sharpie. 

“Oh,” Izuku yawns unglamourously, “I’m graduating today,” he finishes his sentence matter-of-factly. He’s close to falling back asleep– 

“FUCK.” 

Panicked, he slaps a hand over his mouth. His cautious gaze veers to his clock, and he breathes out in barely concealed relief. He has time. His bed frame creaks as his legs meet the carpetless floor. Izuku winces as the floorboards squeak as soon as his toes gently press onto the wood. Immediately, his eyes dart to the door, which is open ajar, half-expecting Hisashi to storm inside his room and rip into him to shut up. He wishes Hisashi wasn’t such a light sleeper. 

Oh. Hisashi is his step-father.  Not that Izuku would ever admit it to anyone. 

See, Izuku has never met his biological father, and he’s fine with that. He only ever needed his mother.

But by the time he was eleven, Hisashi came into their lives. He’d been kind at first. To anyone else, Hisashi was the ideal gentleman. He’d open doors for Inko and Izuku. He’d buy her and Izuku gifts and treat the pair to dinner often. It’s no wonder Inko fell in love, and after a few months of further dating, the two married. 

Izuku was happy for his mother and supported their relationship from the get-go, but there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind as if it was ringing an alarm, but Izuku pushed the ugly feelings away. But about two years back, when Izuku was about thirteen, Hisashi was laid off from his job, and now, he lives off Inko’s earnings from her tailoring shop, and he's transformed into an asshole since then. 

He stopped being kind, but Izuku wonders if he was ever truly kind. If he ever meant his pretty and flowery words because they turned scathing within months. And to keep their rent, Izuku’s mother became their primary funder until Izuku turns fifteen, in which he will be in a couple of days. He planned to apply for part-time jobs as soon as his birthday rolled around even if his mother wished for Izuku to focus on school. 

For a beat, Izuku waits as frozen as a rabbit in front of a predator, but no one comes in. Coast clear, Izuku sharply exhales and slowly tiptoes to his desk’s stool. 

There, his wrinkled black uniform sits, its golden buttons dull. The fourteen-year-old slips his uniform on and clicks the buttons into place. In the mirror, at the reflected image of a boy nervously pulling at the uniform collar, he hardly sees a graduating student but a pretender. 

His sagging yellow backpack is stuffed to the brim, a result of Izuku’s bad habit of overpacking. As a kid, his mother fussed about Izuku’s back, but Izuku did not understand the issue as he never experienced any back pain. 

He once measured his backpack’s weight on a scale for fun, and his eyes nearly bulged at the large number of kilograms lighting up the scale measurement. A whopping twelve kilograms. He’d been asked if he carried bricks or bowling balls to school, but it’s only been his study materials, notebooks, and pencils. To sum it up, Izuku determines he’s simply built differently. 

Izuku bends down to shove the rest of his belongings inside and heaves the backpack over his shoulders. 

If he hurries, perhaps he’d make it out the front door before Hisashi notices. 

Poking his head out his bedroom door, Izuku is greeted by an empty and dark hallway. He waits a bit longer, heightening his sense of hearing to pinpoint footsteps or voices only to hear none. Perhaps Hisashi hasn’t left his room. It is early. 

In the clear, Izuku makes the first move. He heads toward the front door of his apartment in quick and recessive strides. Rounding a corner, Izuku spots the door and changes direction carefully to prevent any possibilities of slipping on his white socks, but his body freezes as if encased in ice the second his feet enter the living room space. 

There, head tilted back and legs splayed out in a manspread position, Hisashi is asleep. 

The older, graying-haired man is snoring, and his balding head and flabby neck jerks with every loud snort. His unflattering and oversized shirt does little to hide Hisashi’s pork-belly, and Izuku disgustingly notes it’s greasy and wet, a result of either leftovers of Japanese takeout or exuding sweat. 

Izuku’s nose scrunches up at the toxic pungency, and he fights an urge to gag. It’s definitely from the older man’s sweat. 

Seeing as Hisashi is fast-asleep, Izuku breathes easily, and his contracted muscles rest. The younger boy has no plan of compromising his situation. If Izuku were unlucky and if Hisashi saw the boy, Hisashi would have scheduled Izuku for another “lesson,” which must, according to Hisashi, be kept a secret from Inko or else. 

Izuku knows a threat when he hears one. If Izuku told, Hisashi would direct his physical abuse to his mother. The verbal abuse takes enough out of her as is. And Izuku would not have it. He’d rather be late to school to apply concealer every morning than have his mother be hurt in his stead. 

Izuku doesn’t need any bruises on his graduation day. Izuku prays to whatever deity is listening to let his graduation go smoothly. 

Toeing past Hisashi, Izuku heads to the kitchen, hoping to steal an apple or two as a snack, but his attention is stolen by a bowl. The bowl is carefully tucked in the secret crevice in-between the microwave and the fridge. Izuku reaches in and gently tugs the bowl out and nearly bursts into tears. 

In the bowl is a large portion of freshly heated katsudon, Izuku’s favorite dish. On top of the saran wrap, there is a sticky note, and from the familiar penmanship, Izuku knows it’s his mother’s handwriting. 

izuku,

congratulations on graduating my baby! i’m so proud of you <3 

i will see you at the ceremony tonight. i have a surprise for you! 

lots of love,

mom

A surprise? Truly, it’s his mother who makes everyday worth it for Izuku. He truly would not have graduated without her. Izuku kisses the note and pockets it for luck. As for the hot bowl of katsudon, a sign his mother must have left for her shop a few sparse minutes ago, he decides to eat it while walking to school. 

He glances over his shoulder and is unsurprised to find Hisashi still passed out. Quietly, Izuku slips his shoes over his feet and leaves the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. In no time, he makes it to the aging double doors of the educational institution, a clear sign of the poor neighborhoods and lack of funding for their programs. 

On the outside, the school is not special. The exterior is ordinary with its brick walls, trees, bleach white marble, and it consists of three floors and a roof blocked off by steel fencing. And as for the inside, it’s not significantly different from any other school.

Or in Izuku’s opinion: Aldera Junior High’s another hellhole. 

Which explains Izuku’s hope for his graduation to be over and done with as soon as possible. The sooner, the better. It feels as if he’s been in school for ages. But of all fuckin’ days, Izuku’s graduation at Aldera Junior High goes to hell before his fifteenth birthday. 

It seems an explanation is in order. 

As soon as he enters the building, the hallway, the one leading to his homeroom, is crowded by snot-nosed students and stiff-postured faculty members. And Izuku? Other than his curly green hair and matching eyes, Izuku is as plain as pubescent teenagers get. He is wearing his favorite bright red, platform sneakers to make up for his slim and small frame, and he has freckles dotting his pale cheeks. 

Izuku likes to believe he’s a nobody, but his reputation as the kid who faced expulsion at least four times says otherwise. All of which, Izuku wants to point out, were accidents. Off the top of his head, he remembers a moment where a teacher asked Izuku to flip the light switch only for the building’s electricity and internet to short-circuit as soon as his finger hits the switch. Unsurprisingly, Izuku, age five, was blamed for the incident and kicked out. 

Nothing major occurred until Izuku’s acceptance at a new elementary school. He was only eight, and to a scrawny kid, the number of bullies only seemed to increase and their fighting styles became dirtier and more vicious as time went by. Caught in a crossfire, Izuku had closed his eyes and raised his arms to defend his head from a bully’s incoming punch. But the punch never landed. 

By the time he opened his eyes, he saw the bully dangling in mid-air, clawing at his throat and foaming at the mouth. The shock hits Izuku, and like that, the bully is dropped from his levitating position. Izuku recalls the fear-stricken faces of his former peers who were on all-fours, crawling on the floors. Needless to say, Izuku’s expelled for attempting to suffocate a kid, and no pleas of innocence reached the adults’ ears. But Izuku has no memory of strangling the bully but only of a sphere of air sucking the wind out of the bully’s lungs. 

At eleven, Izuku was then punished and kicked out of his next school for breaking a teacher’s arm. Izuku told everyone it was in self-defense because said teacher tried to lock Izuku in one of the classroom’s cabinets as punishment for Izuku’s splotchy handwriting, a result of Izuku’s dyslexia. 

But it was for naught. Everyone believed the teacher, and Izuku nearly faced repercussions for assaulting a teacher. Instead, the school settled the matter by adding another black permanent mark on Izuku’s reputation and having the boy flunk out. 

And the fourth time? Izuku has no clue either, but he was expelled for destroying and defaming school property. At this point, Izuku didn’t have the heart nor energy to explain that a shockwave slammed into the side of the building. By now, Izuku was tired, but at his next school, he swore he’d be a good kid. He doesn’t think he’d stand another bout of poorly masked disappointment from his mother who used most of their savings on his education. 

Thus, Izuku sucks it up. Marching forward and head held high, Izuku pushes past the crowd, hoping to avoid his other least favorite pair of people. 

A leg juts out, but Izuku catches it on time. He attempts to narrowly sidestep the weak attempt only for a pair of large hands to harshly shove his shoulders from behind. Caught off balance, Izuku trips, and the weight of his backpack combined with gravity pulls Izuku onto the tiled floor. He lands on his face, his school supplies spilling onto the hallway floor. 

“Ouch,” he hisses at his definitely bruised nose. He gently pokes at it and hopes it won’t start to bleed. Guess he spoke too soon. He turns his head over his shoulder and meets the infuriating faces of Tsubasa and Niko, the reigning kings of Aldera Junior High. 

Izuku glares at the duo, tears pricking the edge of his eyes. He clenches his fists around his backpack’s straps, a clear sign of his patience thinning. 

“Oops,” Tsubasa replies insincerely while Niko poorly conceals his bark of a laugh. In his head, Izuku thinks his laugh is similar to a seal’s. “Didn’t see you there, Izzie.” Gods, Izuku hates that nickname. And as always, Izuku holds his tongue and makes eye contact with the floor. 

The self-proclaimed kings exit the scene in fits of laughter as boisterous as hyenas. Izuku has given up on reasoning with bullies. Sometimes, people are shitty, and that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t make Izuku feel any better though. Izuku fights to rein in his rage and picks himself up, brushing the dust from his uniform. Izuku knows better than to ask any of the staff members for help. No one cares about a troublemaker. 

He takes a moment to collect himself and wades past the sea of bodies, head hung low. A wad of balled-up tissue paper smacks the back of his head, and another round of laughter ensues. Izuku only pauses for a second and sees the ball of tissue at his feet, but he chooses to ignore it and trudge forward. 

Tears begin to pool in his eyes, but he keeps his chin up. His homeroom is just around the corner. 

Izuku slides the classroom door open and bows in a soldier-stiff stance. 

“Problem Child.” 

Izuku raises his head and straightens his posture. “Good morning, Aizawa-sensei.” 

The teacher removes his glasses to wipe the grime on the lenses and eyes Izuku’s rod-straight back only to find no faults. He huffs. “Take your seat.” 

“Yes, sir,” Izuku responds enthusiastically with forced vigor and sits, front and center, in the empty classroom. Izuku is surprised by the vacant room. 

Although he is usually one of the few to arrive early, he expected there to be other students already present as he did arrive a few minutes later than normal. He doesn’t dwell on it and looks out the window instead, opting to enjoy the peace and quiet of his last day at Aldera Junior High School. 

He then faces back to the front of the classroom and is greeted by his homeroom teacher taking a power nap. Izuku is put off at first, but his expression smoothes out to content and amusement. If his teacher wants to catch a few extra zzz’s on the arguably busiest day of the school semester, who is Izuku to disturb or judge? 

It’s no secret, but Izuku’s favorite classes are led by Aizawa-sensei. The teacher was initially supposed to be a substitute teacher, but months passed, and Aizawa-sensei’s position became permanent. As proficient as the teacher is in nearly every subject imaginable, Izuku wonders if the man is even human. 

Appearance-wise, the teacher gives off the impression of a homeless man. His day-to-day wear consists of only black clothing and a varied amount of off-white scarves. The only neat part of his ensemble were his specs, which contrast his black mussed-up hair nicely, completing the grumpy grandpa look. 

To most of Izuku’s classmates, Aizawa-sensei is not a teacher to be crossed. His grading was brutal and his demeanor gives off the impression of a mobster. His emotions usually ranged from stern and impassive to downright eccentric. Izuku should know. He used to be as afraid of Aizawa-sensei as the rest of his classmates at first. 

And now, Aizawa-sensei is cool in Izuku’s book. 

On a surface level, Aizawa-sensei is a phenomenal teacher. Proficiency in every subject aside, Aizawa-sensei saw each student’s weak points and was a huge motivator (albeit strictly) to turn said weaknesses into strength. Izuku wasn’t used to it. 

He mentioned he was dyslexic and was diagnosed with severe ADHD to Aizawa-sensei off-handedly, fully-expecting the teacher to frown upon Izuku’s disabilities and subtly segregate Izuku from the rest of his classmates. But it never happens. 

Aizawa-sensei only gives Izuku a small nod of acknowledgement and moves on, accepting Izuku’s disabilities as fact. He’d slow down his lectures if Izuku raises his hand to ask. He’d open office hours for struggling students, which Izuku shamelessly admits, he takes up the majority of Aizawa-sensei’s open slots. And he’d give Izuku additional study material followed by audio recordings, which go along with the text readings. 

Izuku then wonders if he’d ever met a teacher as kind as Aizawa-sensei. 

It’s definitely not favoritism. Izuku would know. If anything, Aizawa-sensei is harder on Izuku than the rest of his classmates. On more than one occasion, he’s told Izuku that people will underestimate him or look down on him because of his disabilities. And that should be his incentive to work harder, to become better. 

That is to say Aizawa-sensei’s in-class tests are probably the hardest ones Izuku's ever taken. While Izuku isn’t class valedictorian nor the best student in the school district, he has kept up his grades, which were high enough to consistently be in the top ten in his school. That’s the only part of school he is good at, and no one gives Izuku trouble for it. 

Izuku’s right hand twitches at the memory of his homeroom teacher’s tests. He uses his other hand to calm it and digs in his backpack’s pouches for a pencil to fidget with. And another memory floats to the front of his head. 

Aizawa-sensei’s capabilities as a teacher are not the only reasons Izuku likes him. 

To remind everyone, Izuku’s hometown, Musutafu, is respectfully a shitty town. And Aldera Junior High is respectfully a shittier school. As such, sometimes, Izuku can’t decide which he hates the most. 

Because of Izuku’s preceding reputation as a delinquent,  none of the remaining private schools nearby would approve Izuku's enrollment application. Aldera Junior High, the neighborhood’s sole public school, was the only school to accept Izuku as a student albeit hesitantly. For a while, Izuku did well. He earned decent grades and was well-behaved until one incident took root. 

Back in March, a few months ago, Izuku was accused of pushing a superintendent down two flights of stairs. According to sources, the story went as follows: the superintendent was doing their rounds,  patrolling the hallways for any lingering students. 

There, the superintendent bumped into Izuku and politely told the student to return to his classroom. Angered, Izuku shoved the superintendent, only for the latter to fall down two sets of stairs and break several bones. The medical condition was severe; the superintendent would likely be incapable of walking for several months. 

Izuku was brought to the office of the school principal and suspected to be the perpetrator because of his record. He was seated and asked a series of questions. Truthfully, parts of the story were true. 

The superintendent was patrolling the hallway and happened to spot Izuku, who was headed back to class after a bathroom break. But to the superintendent, Izuku was playing hooky. The superintendent stormed over to Izuku and went to grab Izuku’s hair. 

Frightened, Izuku tried to push the superintendent off, but the superintendent’s efforts were relentless. In the end, a sudden gust sent the superintendent flying, and he landed at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious. Shocked and knees about to buckle, Izuku called for help, and it landed him as the prime suspect. 

At the time, Izuku accepted his fate because to everyone else, the damage was done. In a small neighborhood and school, news travels fast, and Izuku was nearby expelled because of rumors alone. 

To the bigoted, innocent until proven guilty did not exist. There exists only scapegoats, and Izuku was the perfect target to blame for the set-up. 

For ages, isolated in the principal’s office as his mother’s cell was called, he agonized because his mother would not be able to afford to pay for the superintendent’s medical expenses. 

About to burst into tears, Izuku fully prepares for his entire world to come crashing down on him once more. His opinion of Aizawa-sensei was neutral by that point, and he wasn’t expecting any sort of savior to break down the walls and door for someone like Izuku. 

A set of footsteps, as thunderous as a galloping horse, nears, and the door to the principal’s office slams open. A familiar figure enters the room, and his off-white scarf trails down his back like a horse mane and tail, and his red animalistic eyes flash in fury. 

The school’s principal is taken aback at Aizawa’s sudden entry. Rather than spare the principal the time of day, Aizawa-sensei zeroes in on Izuku and his tear-streaked face. The teacher’s hard gaze softened, and he bent his knees till he reached Izuku’s height as he sat, gently stroking his hair while Izuku cried softly. Izuku wondered if Aizawa-sensei believed the rumors. 

As Izuku cries, Aizawa-sensei doesn’t cease his headpats. “I’ve come for my student,” he said passively to the red-faced principal. 

“Aizawa,” the principal stood up to his full height, which was amusingly shorter than Aizawa, “Midoriya is currently being investigated for alleged involvement in a superintendent’s condition. You can’t barge in-” 

“He didn’t do it.” 

The principal sputtered. “T-there were witnesses-”

“I said, Midoriya’s innocent.” 

Izuku didn’t hear the rest. The next part he remembers is of Aizawa-sensei walking Izuku back to his classroom and asking if Izuku would rather head home. Knowing Hisashi would be there, Izuku shook his head fiercely. To add on, he’d break if he saw his mother opening another letter detailing his expulsion. It is not until later, as days go on, and no expulsion letter is sent home, Izuku hears of Aizawa-sensei’s involvement and the expungement of Izuku’s involvement in the incident. 

“Hey. Did you hear? Apparently Aizawa-sensei argued against Midoriya’s expulsion?” 

“Eh? You can’t be serious?” 

To this day, Izuku isn’t sure how Aizawa-sensei got the principal and the superintendent to not press charges, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. Izuku has a lot to be grateful for. A roof over his head. His mother. And now Aizawa. Izuku doesn’t get it. What is worth it about him? 

Izuku fondly stares at his homeroom teacher’s sleeping form for a bit longer and then taps the heel of his shoes to an uneven rhythm. The wait’s causing Izuku to be antsy. The day cannot end soon enough. 

“Problem Child.” The byname sends a shiver down Izuku’s spine, and the boy drops his pencil onto the desk with a click. 

“Y-yes, sir?” Izuku hates his stuttering habits, but luckily, Aizawa-sensei pays it no heed, leveling the boy with a skeptic’s eye. . 

“What happened to your face?” Worry is etched on the teacher’s face. 

Izuku’s eyes widen, taken aback. He touches the tip of his nose and winces at its sensitivity. Has a bruise appeared? 

“Nothing, sir,” Izuku draws his attention back to his concerned teacher. “I tripped s’all.” It’s not a lie, technically. 

For a second, Izuku worries if Aizawa-sensei will push the matter, but releases a shaky breath as the latter decides to let it go. 

“You’re graduating today,” the teacher says matter-of-factly in a subtle change in subject, blinking away the sleep from his eyes and massaging his neck. “You don’t seem excited.” 

Izuku schools his expression, but his lips curdle into a frown, and his fingers dig into the fabric of his too-large pants. “I am excited, sir. Elated even. Just,” he pauses briefly to collect his racing thoughts, “it hasn’t quite sunk in.” 

Aizawa-sensei heaves a sigh. “Don’t overthink it, kid. You’ve done well.” A warm feeling settles in Izuku’s chest, and he recognizes it as happiness.

“What are your plans for after?” The teacher opts for small talk and sips at his coffee. 

Izuku tightens his posture. “I plan to start work as soon as I graduate, sir.” Of course, he’d have to get his mother’s approval first. 

Aizawa-sensei quirks a brow at this. “A shame. You’re a good student. The only one to get perfect marks on my tests.” 

Izuku laughs at that. “It’s only because you helped me, sir.” 

“I admit nothing,” the teacher pushes his specs up his nose. Izuku stifles a giggle. 

“Aizawa-sensei?” 

His homeroom teacher hums. 

“Thank you. For everything. Really.”  There’ll be one part of Aldera Junior High he’ll miss terribly. 

Aizawa-sensei blinks once and then twice. 

“It’s too early for good-byes, Problem Child,”Aizawa-sensei’s smile is as wide and eccentric as the Cheshire Cat’s. “We’ll see one another sooner than you think.” 

The bell rings and students flood in, and Izuku has no time to ponder Aizawa-sensei’s words. 

***

Breaktime during rehearsal comes quickly, and Izuku can’t be more relieved. 

Combined with the stuffiness of the gymnasium, the droning of his soon-to-be former teachers and principal has become mild buzzings to Izuku’s ears. The first half of rehearsal consisted of the homeroom teachers guiding their classes in alphabetical order to their correct positions. Izuku is at neither the front or the back of his line but the middle, a forgettable placement. 

Good. As soon as he leaves through the double-doors he has dreaded entering since his first day, he hopes to never remember his junior high graduation for as long as he lives. 

By the better half of the rehearsal, Izuku’s close to falling asleep. Izuku’s pretty sure everyone recycled their speeches used in previous graduating years. By the looks of the other students, most of whom were either fiddling with their uniforms or masking their yawns, Izuku’s sure he isn’t the only one who feels this way. He steals a glance at Aizawa-sensei and is surprised to see the teacher was unabashedly sleeping while standing. 

Aizawa-sensei’s sure something else entirely, Izuku thinks. Never has he met a teacher who was capable of falling asleep as fast as Aizawa-sensei. 

The principal calls for a break in the middle of one of the elderly teacher’s speeches who silently fumes at the interruption. Izuku watches in mild amusement as the elder huffs and stomps off the stage, and is then directed back into attention by Aizawa-sensei’s voice, who apparently woke up. 

“I don’t care where you go,” Aizawa-sensei flatly addresses his homeroom class, and Izuku sweat-drops at the teacher’s blunt tone. “Just be back in fifteen minutes.” And with that, the teacher heads to the gymnaisum’s dark gray, green bleachers to no doubt take another power-nap. 

The majority of the students file out of their assigned rows neatly and others not so much. By the one-minute mark, most of the students sorted themselves into their allotted friend groups, and Izuku is left alone as the remaining quiet student in the rising noise levels of chatter and laughter. 

He thinks about sitting next to Aizawa-sensei to keep the older man company as he naps until the end of the break, but he chooses to walk around for a bit if only to get rid of the restless feeling in his body. 

Sighing, he discreetly slips away from his spot and ambles past the crowd of students and faculty members, making his way outside the building for a breather. As soon as he steps outdoors, the sudden drop in temperature in comparison to the gymnasium’s humidity tears a gasp out of his lungs. 

His back against the institution’s wall, Izuku unbuttons the top of his collar and pulls at it to relieve its tension on his neck. The crisp air nips his cheeks, and Izuku welcomes it, but the summer heat is bound to hit their town soon enough. 

A sharp scent of water envelops Izuku’s nose. Smelling the dampness of the air, he reaches an arm out with the palm facing upward. A raindrop plops onto his hand, and Izuku watches the clear sky darken. 

A storm is brewing. 

Izuku watches it happen before he feels it. A thick arm reaches out and grabs Izuku’s shoulder, slamming it into the school’s brick wall. Izuku cries out at the impact and then registers the tightening grip of his arm, pinning his body in place. Stray pieces of debris crumble off the side of the building from Tsubasa ramming Izuku’s shoulder. 

“Look what we have here,” Tsubasa smirks at Niko, the latter of whom returns the wicked grin and waves over their lackey to join in on the fun. “A lil mouse.” 

The smell of rainwater strengthens. 

Izuku bites his tongue and nearly draws blood. His nose hasn’t healed since this morning, and the pain to his shoulder spreads to the rest of his body tenfold. The pain is immeasurable, and he’s sure Tsubasa has never injured Izuku this far before. Tsubasa then squeezes his shoulder harder, and it takes all of Izuku’s willpower to not scream. Since when was Tsubasa this strong? 

“Does it hurt?” It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so bad. 

Tsubasa, Niko, and the rest of their goons aren’t necessarily gifted in the height department, but their broad frames and larger numbers overpower Izuku’s smaller stature easily. Izuku helplessly glances to his left and right only for the school grounds to be empty. Shit. There’s at least five of them and only one of Izuku. His odds of escaping unscathed are slim. 

Tsubasa seems to tire of Izuku’s silence. Before Izuku gets a word in, Tsubasa uses his other hand to roughly seize the curls in the back of Izuku’s head and repeatedly smash it into the brick wall. Izuku gasps at the pain, and his eyes roll to the back of his head. Underneath the pain, there is uncharted anger. 

The wind picks up, violently this time. 

“He’s prettier bleeding. Aren’t you, Izzie?” 

Blinking past the drops of blood dripping down his forehead, Izuku winces and looks past the group of bullies to see the once clear sky blanketed in black, ominous clouds. A kick to his abdomen, and Izuku coughs out a mixture of spit and blood. The rage burns in him. He wants to destroy. He wants to hurt. He wants to kill. He wants them dead. 

Just as the final punch is about to meet its mark, Izuku closes his eyes and wills the pain to vanish, but all of a sudden, a bolt of green lightning, so bright it appears stark white, strikes the posse of bullies, setting the grassy areas around the boys aflame. 

Tsubasa screams as not one but several parts of his hair and clothes go up in flames. His screaming spreads to his friends who in turn either drop to the dirt in tears as the white-hot flames burn past the fabric of their uniforms, or run into the rain for their lives, leaving their friends behind. 

Izuku can’t do anything but watch as Tsubasa’s hair burns up till the flames reach the scalp of his head. The other boy’s head is as black as soot as the fire singes skin only to reveal a purplish-black head and a brain? Izuku blinks, and Tsubasa’s scalp is back to normal albeit burnt and scarred. 

Tsubasa’s screams increase in intensity and pitch till Izuku thinks his voice shatters glass. The polyester uniform sears into Tsubasa’s skin, melting it to near bone marrow. The bully rolls into the dirt in violent wails, and the last of the flames die out in the rainwater. Tsubasa’s shrieks lower to whimpers and he fixes Izuku with a glare as sharp as daggers that promises death. 

“You’ll fucking regret this,” Tsubasa hisses, brown eyes contorted in fury as he stumbles to his feet and runs off in the direction of his goons. 

Shaky and bleeding, but alive, Izuku glances at his grimy hands and wonders if that strike of lightning was his doing or a bout of luck. As far as he can see, outside of the injuries he received from the bullies, he’s relatively uninjured, but his clothes do smell barbequed. 

He can’t see Tsubasa in the dark rainy weather anymore, but Izuku swears he saw the boy’s pupils had shrunk and glowed red. 

***

The verdict is quick. He’s expelled without a second’s notice. 

For purposefully setting students on fire. The absurdity of it. 

Izuku foresees it as soon as he walks back inside the gymnasium and feels the weight of hundreds of cold gazes. A pair of teachers step out of the crowd and approach Izuku cautiously, and the clicking of their high heels echoes in a crescendo as if they’re about to escort Izuku to a private execution. 

Lucky him. 

From behind the teachers, Izuku sees Tsubasa’s devilish smile, and Izuku purses his lips. He and Tsubasa know what’ll happen to Izuku now. Knowing better than to argue his case or question their actions, Izuku is guided by the teachers past the crowd of students, all of whom cleared a path as if Izuku’s an animal in a zoo exhibit, ready to be gawked at. 

The students whisper among themselves about the dried blood on Izuku’s scalp and his smoked uniform, and Izuku ignores it all. Whispers aside, Izuku knows he’s headed for the principal’s office. 

The school nurse is called in, and she gently bandages Izuku’s head and bloody shoulder, to which Izuku expresses his gratitude, but truthfully, he’d forgotten he suffered a critical head injury. About an hour of yelling on the principal’s end and a parade of colorful threats from Tsubasa’s parents is what Izuku endures next. 

Tsubasa and his goons are brought in, one by one, to give their side of the story. Izuku refrains from scoffing as Tsubasa ups his dramatic retelling by full-out bawling, to which his parents stroke their hairless son’s head and demand repercussions. 

At first, Izuku feels bad for burning their hair off. But now, he thinks they all look much better. If anything, he gave all of his tormentors a free hair-cut and didn’t charge them for it. 

And Izuku? Izuku does what he’s always done and that is to shut up and be punished. He’s silent as Tsubasa’s parents threaten to sue. He’s silent as his school principal uses his personal paper shredder to grind Izuku’s diploma into smithereens and ring his mother up. And he’s silent as Tsubasa sends Izuku a dirty look, but to Izuku, it doesn’t seem as scary since Tsubasa is now bald. 

Izuku waits. He sneaks glances at the office door for any signs of his savior to barge in and ask for a proper investigation, but in the end, Aizawa-sensei is nowhere to be found. 

He’s ushered out of the building as soon as the school and their school board sees fit. 

Well shit. 

“On graduation day too,” Izuku whines, kicking at a pebble in frustration. He didn’t think it’s possible to be expelled on graduation. No doubt that the paperwork signifying his expulsion will definitely be sent out soon. 

He tries not to pin the blame on Aizawa-sensei. He probably did not hear about it because he was napping. More than that, Izuku’s more disappointed that he didn’t even get a chance to properly say farewell to Aizawa-sensei. 

His next thought is of Inko, his mother, and his mood dampens further. Izuku knows for a fact that his mother would be disappointed to have to miss his ceremony. A few days ago, she’d been excited about attending and bought a new dress to wear for it. To think, he was so close to making it the entire year this time too. 

Left with little choice, Izuku slings his backpack over his uninjured shoulder and starts the trek home. By this point, the unforecasted rain from earlier turned from a shower to a drizzle. At least he’d wouldn’t have to worry about ruining the rest of his uniform. He hopes by now that his mother is home, and Izuku wouldn’t be alone in the house with just Hisashi. 

“Izuku~”

Izuku freezes in his tracks, and sweat precipitates down his back. All hopes for a peaceful walk home are interrupted as a familiar voice calls out Izuku’s name, but for an unknown reason, Izuku cannot pinpoint its location. 

“Who’s there?” Izuku calls out, and his voice is lost to the empty streets. He speeds up, but the voice persists until it's as if the voice is right beside him. 

“Izuku~” And Izuku knows. He knows who it is. 

“Izzie~” Tsubasa sing-songs. Izuku pivots on his heel, but the streets are empty except for the whistling of leaves blowing through the air. A nefarious giggle rips into the sound barriers, and Izuku feels Tsubasa’s breath at his ear. 

“Izzie,” thrills travel up Izuku’s spine, and he jumps out of Tsubasa’s wingspan’s reach, dropping his backpack in the process. Izuku breathes in sharply, eyes wide with unadulterated fear. Just how did Tsubasa catch up to him? 

“Tsubasa,” Izuku says, wary. “What do you want?”

“I missed you,” Tsubasa smiles eerily. “I told you I’d make you pay for this,” he points to his bald head, which he has covered with a cap, “remember?”

“Wasn’t my expulsion enough sick entertainment for you? Do you take pleasure out of my misery?” Call it what you want. Izuku’s already been expelled. He has nothing to lose, and he’s tired of playing nice. 

Tsubasa has the audacity to giggle manically. “Silly, Izzie. Of course I do! There’s nothing I loved more. It’s almost a shame our fun has to end.”

Izuku narrows his eyes and takes a step back. “What are you talking about?” 

It is then Izuku takes notice of Tsubasa’s shadow. Earlier, the clouds and rainwater hid their shadows, but now, Izuku sees it clearly for what it is. Blocking the sun, a shadow the size of a winged monster instead of a normal teenage boy is attached to the bully. 

A cold sweat builds up inside of Izuku. “You aren’t Tsubasa. Who are you?”

‘Tsubasa’’s laughter ceases. “My Master told me I needed to be careful around you,” Tsubasa’s pubescent voice morphs to something far more sinister, “I didn’t understand then, and I still don’t.”

His chubby silhouette painfully transforms into its true form. His former body enlarges to a size three times its original. The charred skin of its ‘human’ form pales till it becomes ivory white, and in place of feet and hands, a pair of talons and gigantic feathered wings spring out respectively. 

“Because here’s the truth, Izzie,” instead of a proper head, the head of ‘Tsubasa’ shifts from human to crow-like except its brain and dilated red eyes are exposed. “You’re weak.” 

Gone is Tsubasa’s childish, high-pitched voice, and left in its place is a distorted one, the voice of death. The bird monster charges at Izuku, wings blazing, and Izuku barely ducks out of the monster’s path. The sharp edges of its wings scratch Izuku’s ribs, but only a piece of his uniform is caught. 

‘Tsubasa’ screeches a bird’s war cry and flaps its wings, readying itself to charge once more and snap Izuku’s neck in half with its beak and claws. Izuku is about to call for help, but the streets and alleys are a ghost town, and Izuku has to run for his life with the monster’s on Izuku’s heels. 

There’s no time to think. Izuku is barely dodging the monster’s attacks as it is. Every few moments, ‘Tsubasa’ would nose-dive and send Izuku off-balance, causing Izuku to earn a couple extra bruises on his ribs. Its bulked-up size and reach are its strengths, and Izuku is growing exhausted and sloppier at every sidestep. 

But the monster does have a weakness, Izuku notes. His attack pattern is repetitive, predictable. Right claw. Left claw. Headbutt. Talons. Right claw. Left claw. Headbutt. Talons. Right claw-

“FUCKIN STAY STILL,” ‘Tsubasa’ screeches as it narrowly misses Izuku for the eleventh time. Izuku ignores the monster’s poor attempt at baiting and tries to think of a counterattack. 

The problem is, Izuku has no weapons, and no experience in hand-to-hand combat. He suddenly wishes he was able to afford to study martial arts for self-defense. Perhaps it’d be effective on bird-brained monsters. 

The memory of the lightning bolt from earlier strikes Izuku’s head. It seemed lightning was effective against the creature, but where would Izuku generate lightning? 

It seems improbable to Izuku, but does it come from his body? Does he have powers of his own? It wouldn’t hurt to try, but he doesn’t know the first step to channeling that sort of raw and destructive power. 

He tries recreating the scenario and channeling his emotions. He remembers the bullies’ sneers. The damp weather and cold rain. His wrath. A voice like thunder rebounds in his head, commanding Izuku to squeeze his buttocks and have his heart yell like his life depends on it. Something in his brain and body click, and all of a sudden, the two are in sync, and Izuku goes green. 

“SMASH!” 

For a split-second, Izuku’s body glows green, every movement of his is crackling. He’s suddenly landing punches at accelerating speeds, and ‘Tsubasa’ is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of power in each punch as it seems to knock the wind out of the creature’s body every time. 

Izuku doesn’t let up. He clenches his buttocks tighter, bends his knees for balance and to level the foundation of his amateur stance, and sends another round of punches, each impact as powerful and loud as claps of thunder, in 'Tsubasa's way. 

With the last of his depleting strength, Izuku drives a fist, enshrouded in green lightning, into the crow monster’s chest in the location of its heart. ‘Tsubasa’ is frozen in place, and its neck twists downward to see the fist lodged in his chest, and its red eyes roll in front to see Izuku’s sickly expression. 

“You got me,” ‘Tsubasa’ rasps, body twitching as if its body is still processing the sudden death. “But don’t think this is the end, Izzie. He’ll come for you. The end of the Gods is near. I can’t wait to see the other miseries my Master has in store for you.” 

With a laugh of finality, ‘Tsubasa’ dies, and Izuku watches, horrified, as Tsubasa’s or the monster’s body disintegrates into yellow dust around his fist, fading into the air, wiping away any traces of its existence. 

Izuku squats, and digs his fingers into his scalp; a hundred questions pop up, but there is no one to answer. The green aura around his body fades, and the adrenaline dies. Izuku nearly vomits, and is scared to see his arms, which are now discolored, a scary black-purple. 

And for the first time, Izuku is scared of himself. 

*** 

Shaken by the encounter, Izuku recovers enough to gather his school belongings, which spilled during his fight with the monster. His hands tremble as he secures the buckles of his backpack, and he slaps his face if only to get a grip. Willing his body to breathe, he hurries home lest he’s jump-scared by another one of the monster’s friends. 

At his apartment door, he shoves a hand in his pants’ pockets for his copy of the key and frantically unlocks the door. He slams the door shut, and the wood of the door frame chips, and then ferociously throws his shoes at the shoe rack. For a split-second, Izuku thinks he harnessed the super-strength he controlled earlier. 

He clenches and unclenches his fists, wincing at his prickling pain. Other than his soreness, Izuku isn’t that harmed. He has to be grateful for that at least. 

Izuku yanks the sleeves of his burnt uniform to cover the blackening color and then flinches at the high volume of the television playing in the background of the living room. As if on cue, Izuku hears Hishashi shouting expletives at the TV, no doubt directed at the soccer game streaming on the flat screen. Great, Hisashi’s awake. 

Truly, ‘monsters’ do exist. Izuku curdles his lips and shakes his head in disbelief. He must be hallucinating. Reimaging ‘Tsubasa’ as a monster has to be an undiscovered symptom of his ADHD or dyslexia. Is he schizophrenic, and he didn’t know? Maybe he’s suffering from a concussion from earlier? Or is he just tired? Gods, he can’t think. 

Intent on ruminating on his own, Izuku stiffly heads straight to his room, internally praying Hisashi would be too engrossed by his soccer game to take notice of Izuku’s arrival. Izuku’s plan unsurprisingly fails. 

“Yah, pissant,” Hisashi fixes Izuku with a stink-eye as Izuku struts past. As if on command, Izuku’s feet come to a stop. “Not gon’ say hello?” 

Pin-drop silence enters the living room. Izuku is emotionless as he turns his body to face Hisashi and bows at a perfect right angle, hiding the purple of his hands. “Good afternoon, Hisashi.” 

His tone is neutral and void of any signs of contempt or annoyance, but inside, Izuku is simmering. Miffed, Hisashi has a mental debate, but seemingly decides Izuku isn’t worth missing his ongoing soccer game, as he lets it go. He situates his body a bit more comfortably into the coach and ups the volume of the television. 

Seeing as Hisashi is choosing to actively ignore Izuku, Izuku straightens his posture and quietly heads back to his room, but a voice as sweet as honey filters in the atmosphere. 

“Izuku? Is that you?” The gentle voice resonates off the apartment walls, growing louder as the owner of the voice comes closer. 

His favorite person in the universe enters the living room, wiping the sweat off her brow with her worn-out apron, and immediately, Izuku brightens, all of his worries disappearing. 

“Mom!” Izuku smiles as if he’s still a toddler and runs into Inko Midoriya’s arms. He’s slightly taller than her now; thus, his chin brushes the top of her forehead, but her arms wrap around his thin waist easily but just as tightly. 

In addition to the stress lines and piles of workload she faces on a daily basis, over the course of time, Inko’s beauty has faded. Her hair was once of the same vibrant shade of green as Izuku’s, but now it is graying at the ends. 

She’s gained weight in her stress while Izuku has become as thin as loose-leaf paper. And her viridescent eyes hold every color in the rainbow, but at the same time, underneath her eyes are heavy, dark eyebags. 

The thing is, like his mother, Izuku’s a worrier. And at the same time, Izuku and his mother are the type to never bother other people about their troubles. But Izuku is proud to be the only one who knows the difference between Inko’s real and fake smiles. This smile is real. 

His mother’s smile lights up the entire room. At her son’s hug, she reaches up to brush the long curls from his forehead. “Welcome home.” 

And that makes Izuku want to cry. Another thing, he and Inko are crybabies. 

“Glad to be home.” 

Inko pinches his cheeks, and Izuku playfully tries to escape her prodding, but she only brings his face back in her field of vision. Pawing her son’s cheeks, Inko sees the bruise on her son’s nose on closer inspection and then takes notice of his disheveled appearance. 

“What happened to your nose–” Inko begins to ask and a finger of hers gently brushes it, and Izuku recoils. Her eyes are as wide as saucers at his crooked and discolored fingers and at the red scabs from drying blood on his forehead. She means to eye it critically, feet ready to rush her son to their first-aid kit or drive him to the hospital. 

Izuku gently bats her hands away. “I-I fell s’all!” He comically moves out her line of sight as she tries to get a closer look like a doctor would. 

“A-anyways, what’s the surprise you mentioned?” Izuku quickly changes the subject. He is curious, really. 

His mother allows Izuku a moment of reprieve and clasps their hands together, giving him one of her secret smiles. “I’m closing the shop for the weekend! Since your fifteenth birthday is this Sunday, I thought it’d be a great idea if we celebrated it at the beach!” 

Izuku’s green eyes sparkle at the implications. “The beach?” Inko nods. “Just me and you?” She nods again.  It seems too good to be true. 

Izuku is about to shriek, but he keeps his composure in check with Hisashi present. “What about Hisashi?” 

“He agreed to stay with a friend of his until we return,” Inko explains sweetly. “Right, Honey?” Hisashi doesn’t even bother to break eye contact with the television and only grunts in affirmation. The day is suddenly becoming better and better. 

“Well, there’s no time to waste! Go pack!” Inko puts her hands on her hips and then jokingly shoos Izuku to his room as he’s in hysterics.  

Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever packed that fast. Ushered into his room, he hastily strips off his smoked uniform and shoves it into his wastebasket with no hesitation. Good fucking riddance if you ask him. 

Furiously throwing his closet open, Izuku fetches his luggage and tosses a hefty amount of his clothes and beachwear into its pouches. As if racing to pack became as important as beating a world record, Izuku pulls a plain white shirt over his head and fumbles to put on his navy blue swimming trunks. 

Leaving Hisashi behind, the mother-son duo are readily packed by the front door in three minutes flat. Izuku joins Inko in their run-down jeep, strapping in his seatbelt and rolling down the windows to allow the summer heat to blow in. Inko laughs as her son ups the volume of the radio, blasting their favorite songs. 

During their drive, Izuku has never felt such peace. The sun scalds his skin, painting it a dim gold, but he’s too tired to lather sunscreen. He practically is vibrating in his seat in excitement as his mother enters the public beach’s empty parking lot. It isn’t long until the sea comes into view. The horizon of the sparkling blue waves kisses the equally blue sky. 

Upon their arrival, Inko parked the car and gestured for Izuku to stay put for a second. Impatient to leave the vehicle if only to calm his jitters, Izuku nods. He sees Inko dig into her luggage in the rearview mirror and take a first aid kit out. 

Moments later, Inko returns and opens the door on Izuku’s side. She reaches a hand to gently take Izuku’s hand in hers and pull it closer. Opening the aid kit, she salves a soothing ointment cream onto his arms in gentle circles. 

Izuku shifts uncomfortably at his mother’s furrowed eyebrows. She’ll have wrinkles on her forehead because of her son at this rate. “It-it’s not as bad as it looks, Mom. Promise.” 

He’s not lying per say. The original peach color of his skin is returning slowly but surely as is. 

Inko rips an excessive amount of gauze bandages to wrap it around his arms. “We should go to the hospital,” she insists, “I don’t have ice to treat it.” 

Izuku’s stomach plummets. “No. Mom, I’m fine. Seriously. It doesn’t hurt.” He flexes his freed arm to demonstrate he has full control over it. 

Inko then pulls on the bandages a bit too tightly, and Izuku yelps. “Doesn’t hurt you say.” 

“I think anyone would feel pain if someone did that,” Izuku pouts. 

“Smarty-pants,” Inko teases, and Izuku beams. 

Tying up the last of the gauze, Inko trails a finger across his injured forehead and nose. Izuku can see a thousand unvoiced questions and concerns laced in her eyes. He brings a hand up to take her hand in his. Since when were his mother’s hands so small? 

“Mom, please,” Izuku practically begs as Inko opens her mouth. “I don’t want to go. I’m,” tired, the word is at the tip of his tongue, but he reins it in. He hates complaining. “I-I want to stay here.” 

Inko’s face contorts in conflict, and her shoulders suddenly release tension. “Fine,” and Izuku whoops, “But the second it worsens, I’m driving us to the doctor’s. End of discussion.” 

“Okay, okay!” Izuku is so happy, and he readily agrees to her conditions, throwing his arms around his mother in a tight hug. 

Municipal Park Beach is a dumpyard to say the least. 

It’s void of people and of a lifeguard post. More than once, Izuku wants to ask if being at Municipal was legal, but legal issues weren’t his concern. The once golden sands are littered in scraps of metal and sharp shards of glass. The water is murky and stinks of excess seaweed and salt. Every now and then, Izuku spots a stray plastic bottle bob up and down the surface of the water. 

Izuku loves it. 

“Someone’s having fun.” 

Izuku lets the cold seawater douse his toes and finds childish amusement as sandy pebbles tickle his ankles. Murky as it is, the cool water feels nice against his dry and itchy skin. 

He splashes his hands into the water and sprinkles droplets into the air, kicking at the waves of sea foam. Izuku turns around to see Inko sitting comfortably on a red-white plaid patterned picnic blanket, basking in the evening sun. 

“We haven’t been to the beach in ages,” he exclaims in reply. 

His mother hides a giggle. She then digs into her bag and pulls out two large steaming-hot bowls. “Y’know what else we need?”

Izuku’s smile stretches his cheekbones. The two say it in tandem. “KATSUDON!” 

“Why do you like it here?” Izuku asks, mouth half-full as he stuffs his cheeks of burning hot katsudon. His tongue will hate him later for it, but Izuku can’t bring it in himself to care. 

Inko does not answer at first. Lowering her bowl, she gazes to the sea and then to the clear sky reflecting off the water. 

“I met your father here,” she reveals, “on this very beach.” 

“It might not look like much now, but it was once a beautiful beach, Izuku. Your father and I were actually doing some community service together and our job was to clean up this beach, but I guess fifteen years did a number on it.”

“Community service? How’d that happen?”

“Let’s just say your father and I got into a teensy bit of trouble with the police.” 

Izuku gawks. “Who are you, and what have you done with Mom?” 

Inko laughs at that. “You didn’t think I was a good girl my entire life, did you?” 

Inko’s face turns serious for a second. “Izuku.” Izuku tilts his head to signal he’s listening, “I got an email from your school.” Oh no. Izuku is too cowardly to look his mother in the eye. 

“Oh,” Izuku is at a loss for words. “What did it-it say?” 

“Well. It was very colorfully-worded,” she jokes weakly and nudges his shoulder lovingly. “What happened, Izuku?”

“The same as always,” Izuku busies his hands by collecting handfuls of sand and letting stray bits escape in-between the slots of his fingers till he’s only fisting the sticky residue. “Didn’t the email explain?”

Inko snorts, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m not interested in anything an overgrown manchild has to say,” Izuku almost breaks out into a laugh at that, “I want to hear it from my son.”

Izuku picks at the bandages he wrapped tightly around his arms. What could he say? 

At Izuku’s silence, Inko exhales. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin our trip. But y’know, you can tell me anything. Anything at all, Zuku.” 

And once more, Izuku lies. “I know, Mom.” 

“How about I get us some drinks?” Inko brushes sand off her dress. “That alright with you?” Izuku smiles weakly and nods. 

Sand pooling at his feet and stuck in-between his fingernails, Izuku envelopes himself in the sounds of rushing waters and soft breezes. And for a bit longer, Izuku hates himself for ruining their getaway. 

A dozen feet down the beach Izuku spots a scrawny but tall silhouette of a man admiring the tides wash in and out the shore. To hide his body, the man’s wearing an oversized white shirt and baggy evergreen cargo pants. But his most striking features are his cascading golden hair and cerulean eyes. 

Izuku squints in disbelief as if the stocky tall man is a mirage. Pushing himself up, Izuku treads the sand to get a closer look. Soon he’s by the boulders, half of his body hidden by the cliff stones. Raptly, Izuku is fascinated as the blond tries (and fails) to skip stones, only for the flat rocks to sink as soon as they slap the water’s surface. 

“Good evening,” the man waves in a friendly manner, and Izuku promptly shrieks at the sudden greeting, slipping on the rocks and landing on his butt. 

Another injury to add to the growing list, Izuku grumbles. 

“Are you alright,” the man frets, having sped over, his tall silhouette looming over Izuku. He offers a hand, and Izuku accepts it gratefully. 

“Thank you,” Izuku dusts his shorts and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

The stranger pointedly avoids the splashing water from reaching the tips of his sandals and his toes. “No-no. It was my fault for startling you.” 

“Who are you?” Izuku then asks, his society anxiety forgotten if only briefly. 

“I’m,” the man stops to think. “You may call me Toshinori. I’m the caretaker of this beach.” 

“Right,” Izuku drawls in a suspicious manner. “It’s nice to meet you, Toshinori-san.” A beach caretaker who avoids water? Interesting career choice. A plastic bottle drifts their general direction and is caught in the pull of the tide. If the beach has a caretaker, it doesn’t seem he’s doing his job. 

Izuku remembers his manners and comically bows repeatedly in greeting. “I’m so sorry,” a dark blush travels from his sunburnt legs to the tips of his ears, “I must have sounded so rude.”

Toshinori waves it off, smiling widely in amusement. “I never said I was good at my job.” His bellowing laugh shakes his towering frame. Izuku can’t help but envy his height. 

A comfortable silence follows. As Toshinori watches the sea ebb and flow, Izuku takes in the caretaker’s stature to his nearly unnaturally large hands, ones like Izuku’s. 

“Do you like the sea?” Izuku blinks at the question. 

“I do.” Like Izuku, the sea doesn’t like to be restrained after all. It reminds Izuku of his mother’s tenacity and her boundless love for him. 

Toshinori gives Izuku a funny look and then his gaze softens as the blue of the seas and firmament match the piercing blue of his own eyes. “As do I.” 

“But I think I like the sky more.” Izuku admits. The waves crash, and the wind blows into Izuku’s curls, and the gold of the sun-streaked sky glitters. The sea isn’t always there for Izuku like the sky is. 

At that, Toshinori grins wider. “As you should.”  

Izuku looks down at his feet and watches as his toes sink into the thick and brown sand. “What do you mean–” 

But Toshinori is already gone. 

***

As soon as Izuku’s worn-out body lands on the motel’s mattress, he sinks into it and moans softly, to which Inko stifles a giggle at her son’s antics. Truly, the bed feels like heaven. Today has officially become the longest and shittiest day of Izuku’s life. 

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but Izuku is suddenly waking up in a dark room. Bone-dead tired, he rotates his neck on the soft pillow to loosen its strained muscles and eyes the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:37 A.M., it reads. Izuku drags his hands down his face. No wonder he’s tired. He’s only slept for about four hours. He’s a night owl at heart and is usually able to function while sleep-deprived as heck, but not today. 

He finds his body is properly tucked under the sheets and he’s barefoot. Izuku hardly remembers his mother removing his shoes for him, and Izuku sets a reminder in his head to cook her breakfast at a reasonable hour later today. He then glances at the other twin bed, expecting to see his mother soundly asleep, only to find the blankets upturned and the bed empty. 

Izuku’s first reaction is to fret, but he calms his heart rate. She probably went to the bathroom s’all, Izuku reasons. Eyelids heavy, he’s about to drift back into deep sleep until a familiar voice catches his attention. And then another voice, another familiar one, joins the fray. 

Leaving the comforts of the bed, Izuku fumbles his way in the dark to the door and sees it open a crack. A sliver of golden light from the hallway lamps filters into the motel room, and Izuku tiptoes till he’s able to hear their voices clearly and has one of his eyes peek in-between the gap. Outside of their motel room, and a little ways down the hallway, Izuku sees his mother and Toshinori-san. 

The voices of Inko and the beach’s caretaker are hushed, but both subconsciously raise their voices as their argument reaches dead ends. 

Izuku purses his lips, thinking deeply. Why was Toshinori-san here at such a late hour? 

“I can’t protect the two of you forever, Inko,” Toshinori-san says exasperated, “The Association is suspicious as is. The monster attacks will only worsen as he becomes of age. He’ll be safer there, I promise.” 

"Then help us," Inko pleads. “He’s only turned fifteen. I can’t imagine the Gods would hurt him.”  

The Gods? Izuku thinks back to ‘Tsubasa.’ He’d mentioned the Gods as well. 

"You don’t know them like I do. I-," Toshinori-san sighs and presses a hand against her cheek. "I've done all I can. The rest is up to Izuku." 

Inko slaps his hand away. "You fear losing your powers more than you love me,” she accuses, heartbroken. “More than you love Izuku." 

Pain bleeds into Toshinori-san’s eyes. "No, that's not true. Inko, I love you. I've loved Izuku since he was born, but I can't. My power and influence is fading as is. There’s too much you don’t understand-” 

“Then help me understand,” Inko said, frantic. 

“I can’t risk you any more than I already have,” Toshinori-san sighs, large hands clenched at his sides. “The best thing you can do for him is let him go, Inko.” 

Izuku sees his mother’s bottom lip tremble, but she stands her ground. “Leave.” 

“Inko-”

“I’ll bring him. I swear it. I just want,” Inko clasps her hands together. “I just want one more night with my baby. Please. He’s all I have.” 

A beat, and Toshinori-san relents as Inko is on the verge of tears. “Okay, okay.” 

The distance between the two is small but far too wide all at once in the deafening silence. 

“I’m sorry-” He moves closer to her as if to hug her. 

“Don’t,” Izuku’s heart breaks as he hears a sniffle. “Good-bye Yagi.” 

Inko turns her back to Toshinori-san, eyes wet with unshed tears. Seeing as she’s heading back to their motel room, Izuku hobbles to his bed and slings the blanket over his shoulder in a poor attempt to pretend to be asleep. It takes all of Izuku’s mental fortitude to not flinch as his mother closes the door with the click of a lock. 

Out of a blanket opening, Izuku watches as Inko drops her head on the wood of the door and a round of sniffles and muffled sobs begin. His mother then forgoes her bed to crawl onto the empty side of Izuku’s bed and bury her face in his birdnest of curls, an arm wrapped around his waist in a desperate embrace. 

Izuku’s heart hurts as Inko cries in earnest, choking in-between sobs. He contours his lithe body to hers and clasps her calloused hands to act as an anchor of comfort for the strongest woman in the world. Closing his eyes, he kisses his mother’s forehead and falls back into a fitful slumber. 

His questions can wait till morning. 

***

Izuku. 

He ignores it at first. He wants to sleep and forget this shitty day never happened. 

Izuku. Izuku. 

No. He wants to be left alone. 

Izuku. Izuku. Izuku. 

IZUKU. 

Izu-

“-ku!” Izuku is jostled awake and squirms as the blanket is all but ripped off his body, exposing his bare legs to the chilly, air-conditioned motel room air. 

“Mom?” Izuku has to squint to see as his eyes slowly adjust to the lamp-lit room. His mother is pacing back and forth the room in long strides, tossing their clothes and the rest of their belongings into their suitcase. Inko doesn’t answer, too busy zipping up the last of their stuff inside the luggage. 

“Mom,” Izuku tries once more, and positions his body to rest on his legs, knees sinking into the mattress. “What’s going on?” 

Alarm bells seem to ring in his ears once he sees his mother’s frantic expression. Izuku’s sure he’s never seen his mother this terrified in his life. 

Inko abandons packing to stand in front of her son. She sets her hands on Izuku’s cheeks and moves to stroke his bed hair. For a moment, Izuku takes in the sight of his mother, his favorite person in the world, and in turn, lets her take in the sight of her son as if it's the last time. Her smile is obviously forced and wobbly, and on instinct, Izuku knows something is terribly wrong for Inko to have to put on a brave facade. 

“Izuku,” Inko chokes on her words, “I’ll explain on the way. For now, I need you to trust me and follow my instructions. Do you understand?” 

A thousand questions run at a hundred miles an hour inside Izuku’s head. More than anything else, he wants an explanation, but at Inko’s pleading eyes, Izuku relents, pocketing his questions for later. 

“Okay,” Izuku reaches up to take her smaller hands into his own. Her mother smiles, a real one. She kisses the top of Izuku’s head, and he breathes in her scent, the smell of katsudon. 

Seconds later, his mother picks up his shoes and is about to press its soles into Izuku’s hands, but a sudden thump at the door causes her to drop the shoes. 

Izuku rubs at his crusty eyes and makes his way to the door. Inko reaches out to pull him back, but Izuku tiredly shakes it off. The sooner he answers the door, the sooner whoever is there will leave. 

The doorknob to the motel door is shaking. Because of its rustiness, the doorknob creaks at every turn, and there’s the sound scratching at the wood of the door. Heart pounding, Izuku is about to unlatch the lock to open the door, but then, his instincts take-over, and Izuku puts an ear to the door instead. His knees threaten to buckle at the sound of a hiss and a series of gurgles. His instincts scream to not open the door no matter what. 

He tiptoes to reach the peephole and has to grind his teeth to not shriek. Outside of the door is a bird hybrid, similar to Tsubasa’s true form. Its pink-ish brain is exposed, and black fur runs across the length of its animalistic body. Like Tsubasa, it has a beak, but rows of sharp teeth and a long, slimy tongue are hidden inside it. The creature’s beady, pupil-less eyes dilate as it smells its prey and claws at the wood in-waiting for its dinner to exit. 

His danger sense is at an all-time high, and Izuku backs up as quickly and quietly as possible, hand clasped over his mouth as to muffle any noises. The scratching persists. 

“M-mom,” he hates that his voice comes out as a squeak. “T-there’s a m-monster out-”

He never finishes his sentence because his mother then decides to throw his raincoat in his general direction only for it to land on his head, to which he yelps as the fabric slaps his face. 

“Izuku, we have to leave,” Inko zips her own coat up, leaves their forgotten luggage on the side, and opens their room’s window by force. The clap of thunder and rainwater flood Izuku’s ears. “Now.”