Chapter Text
The U.A dormitories were infinitely nicer than your university accommodations. The realisation strikes you before you’ve made your way across the green expanse of the newly built quad. It bristles your feathers and adds yet another reason why privately funded academies were far from your wheelhouse of experience. The Miyagi University of Education was a fine school, it had a small number of students which meant one on one time with their professors, and was built in the late 19th century making the campus as picturesque as a university could be. Sure, the accommodations were a bit dated especially in comparison to a brand new, state of the art building, but you couldn’t complain. Your university years were enjoyable, you wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.
And, Sendai was a lovely city. Costal, filled with enough greenery to never make you miss the quaint rural town you were raised in. There were a plethora of museums and cultural sites that kept you busy and when your close friend worked as an apprentice curator, affordable year round passes were suddenly far more accessible.
Friend, almost boyfriend. Situationship. You chuckle to yourself with a shake of your head. Almost something, almost, nothing. It was maddening when you were stuck within the pit, uncertainty wearing at you. Now, it just seemed silly.
The lines were still blurred on where exactly your relationship stood. Not that the semantics mattered much when you moved nearly four hours away to a new city, with new people, and a new job. You hadn’t seen him in two months, not since you moved into Musutafu for work and he refused to answer any text messages you’d sent. Not that you cared, that chapter of your life was firmly shut and left in the past– in Sendai– and he was still a close friend, at least that’s what you liked to believe, and would until he said otherwise. Not that he would say otherwise. Still, he was a good friend to have even if he didn’t see you as a friend, or was pissy that you never made a move to clearly define what you were. It’s not like he did either.
Almost, he was an almost.
You had a lot of those in your history books. Paramours who weren’t quite lovers but you could hardly call them a friend. Always feeling too attached to simply name them as a friend. Women who’s friendship was so intense you couldn’t call it anything other than something akin to love. An almost something that you were scared to commit to. Your heart locked firmly behind the fortress of your rib cage when you wished it could be freely given.
You think that’s why you took this job.
Aside from the clear résumé booster this would be, the pay, and the perks, and the fact that you’d be stupid not to take the job, it was a far leap from your comfort zone. Sendai was the safe choice for university, it was only an hour train ride from your family’s home, a handful of upperclassmen had already been in attendance and offered to shepherd you into this new era. Most weekends were spent back at home until you made a few friends. Even those came with a caveat and a safety net. Mister situationship with the spiky blonde hair and glasses was your lab partner and subsequently became the gateway to the group of friends you'd made. You didn’t dare to branch out on your own, beyond them.
You took the easy way out. If asked you’d say that made you sensible. Your elementary school teachers would agree. They all thought you to be well beyond your years, an old soul trapped behind a pair of chubby cheeks. Never one to act out or step beyond your comfort zone. Your assignments were predictably perfect and drawn directly from your wheelhouse of interests. Your arguments were well polished and you possessed an arsenal of peer reviewed resources that you shuffled around based on your topic of choice.
As a child the adults in your life fussed over you, shirking their misplaced dreams on your frail shoulders. A little leader in your own right, keeping your stuffed animals and friends in line. They told you that you’d make a great teacher, your voice was gentle and your touch was always soft. That or a mother. As if it were the middle ages and that’s all you could amount to.
But, you were predictable.
You stayed the course they mapped out for you. Too scared for anything bigger. The figs that branched out beyond you had long since rotted and died, taking with it, whatever other paths and aspirations you might’ve filled your life with.
And, in some fruitless attempt to extend beyond their expectations, you left home and took this job. In most lights it still existed within the realm of your comfort zone but in some it pushed you.
You decided, your one saving grace of the day was that you packed lightly and still managed to scarcely fill out your apartment. Though it may not have been half as fancy as the U.A accommodations, you learned from your university dorm that you probably didn’t need as much as you thought you did. Clearing out your apartment took an hour and the commute back to U.A only about thirty minutes. Foot traffic was much lighter now that the morning rush had subsided. It helped that you’d spent the last two months living out of your suitcase. The apartment was temporary, a placeholder until you found something closer to the school. Though you stupidly never thought to consider that you’d be expected to reside on campus grounds.
Perhaps you were a child like Aizawa accused. Your brain gnawed on his words, playing them on loop until it accepted it as fact. Wearing boots too big for your feet, your naivety glaring. Obvious to everyone but you.
It was an easy fix. Pessimism was your middle name, though, you preferred to call it realistic. You would wise up in no time. Gather your bearings, plant your roots, and never stumble over the shock of the unknown again. Prove to them, to you, to anyone else who thought to question you, that you were meant to be here. Then, maybe you wouldn’t feel so sick with insecurity even as you tossed your things into your new lodgings.
Shōta stands with his back pressed against the wall outside of class 1-A when Yamada pops out of the classroom. Kayama would be there soon for modern hero art history, Shōta decided then that he’d prefer to keep whatever schemes Nezu was cooking up to himself. He scoffs to himself as he replays the conversation he has with you.
Concerned.
The ministry of education was concerned? Now? Of course they were. Shōta wasn’t stupid, he saw the uptick of distrust growing between the general public and the ministry– it went hand in hand with the near constant criticism that floated across the gaggle of paparazzi that sat outside the school gates everyday. They questioned the ethics behind U.A as an institute, wrote think pieces and created conspiracy theories to work out every move they made as if to catch the school in some lie. It was as exhausting as it was hypocritical. Shōta laughed at the mere thought. The general public had no problem fawning over his class during the sports festival, marvelling at just how powerful they had to be to stand against the League of Villains all on their own.
But sure, now there was a problem. It was serious now that a student had been kidnapped.
Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Shōta grabs the small plastic bottle of eye drops he keeps handy. His eyes sting with irritation, if that was even possible. His unkempt bangs slide away from his forehead when he tilts his head back, widening his eyes for a few drops of temporary relief.
“Hey” Hizashi calls, popping his head out of the classroom door, “Who was that you were talking to? Your students sure had a lot of questions but I didn’t have many answers”
“Irrelevant,” Shōta snips.
“Hm?”
There’s a stack of workbooks tucked in the crook of his elbow, the covers worn and the colours faded. The class must have finished their latest grammar unit. He tilts his head down, his bright orange glasses slip down the slope of his nose to reveal his inquisitive yellow eyes. He peers at Shōta with interest.
“I said, she’s irrelevant,” he repeats, with a frown, “At least to you.”
Hizashi chortles, “Oh? So what, only you get a special little helper?” he quips, with a smile, “Iida said she introduced herself to the class and Nezu was with her, it seemed like she was supposed to be there.”
Shōta hums, pushing off from the wall and away from his classroom, “Seems to me you’re pretty well informed already, Mic.”
“Eh, not anymore than your students.”
His laughter bounces down the hall as he bounds after Shōta, only pausing to adjust the stack of workbooks under his arm.
“C’mon, Shōta, spill!” He says, throwing his free arm over his shoulder, “No one’s losing their job are they?”
The teasing lilt dies quickly, “Right?” Hizashi asks, concern drips from his tongue. Concern for Shōta. He’s getting sick of it.
“She’s from the ministry of ed,” Shōta huffs.
There’d been concern after Bakugō had been kidnapped. Selfish ones. Some worried their positions were up for debate, others wondered if alumni and sponsors would pull funding. Of course, there was always the concern for bad publicity. This entire school year was bad for publicity. Not that it mattered. Bored, nameless nobodies on internet forums always had something to criticise even when the academic year was perfect, when U.A graduates continually climbed the ranks, opened their own agencies, and continued to keep Japan safe. Whatever concern they had now was purely bureaucratic to save their own skin.
“Oh?” Hizashi raises an eyebrow.
They share a look, “Apparently they’ve begun to worry,” he explains, thinking back to what you said. How much did you believe in the lines you’d been fed? Did you create them?
No. You seemed earnest, young enough that your naïvity was genuine and you were likely just a piece for them to move about the board as they saw fit. You couldn’t be complicit in whatever cover up scheme Nezu had allowed into the building. Your flighty, nervous demeanour told him as much. He was worried he might burst into tears if his voice dared to sharpen any further. The way you wilted like a sad, delicate flower beneath the uncomfortable heat of the sun reminded him of a few past students. The ones he expelled for being too soft and too thoughtful. The ones who weren’t cut from the right cloth, they’d never be able to hack it as a hero without that reckless drive most had.
You were like them but somehow even more fragile. Even with the tenacity and sheer stupidity you had.
“About?” Hizashi questions, his eyebrow quirking upward.
“Our teaching capabilities,” Shōta shrugs, jabbing his thumb into the up bottom once they reach the elevators.
Hizashi leans against the wall, hitching his leg upward, “What does that mean?” His scrunches up in annoyance, “It’s deceptively vague.”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
The ride up the elevator is quiet. Hizashi keeps his lips pursed in a fine line while Shōta scowls in contemplative silence.
Concern?
If they were concerned they’d help implement mental health services for all students at U.A. He’s petitioned them relentlessly for years, they had the funding, Nezu was onboard but there was far too much red tape to navigate through and each thread led back to the ministry. Instead they wanted to throw you to the wolves. A peppy, fresh faced, anxiety riddled university graduate who had yet to experience much of the real world. You sparkled in the way most did before they got a taste of how monotonous their dream careers were.
“I heard the minister of education is planning on campaigning for Prime Minister,” Hizashi comments, stepping toward the now open elevator doors.
Shōta clicks his tongue, “Hm, how convenient.”
“It could be worse.”
“How so?” He raises a brow to Hizashi.
“The hero commission and the ministry could be breathing down our necks,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m sure she’s harmless and her presence is merely a formality, a box to check to appease antsy civilians and overzealous journalists.”
“Right.”
Shōta gives Hizashi a tight, strained smile as the elevator door shuts between them.
A formality.
That’s what you were. He didn’t often feel uneasy, but none of this sat right with him. His stomach churned at the thought of you. The same looming feeling of dread sat like a pit in his stomach most days when he stared directly into the bright eyed, determined faces of his students. You held the same look, though it was shrouded with an obvious nervousness that you couldn’t shake. Still, your dreams had yet to be jaded by the cruelties of this world, much like his students. It made him uneasy. They at least understood the gravity of their reality, he wasn’t sure you did.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shōta sighed to himself.
He was growing soft in his age. That’s why he didn’t fight you. It had to be why.
Sauntering down the hall to his office, Shōta wonders if he made the right decision.
Aizawa finds an hour after the final bell has rung. The sun has dipped low in the afternoon sky, painting your lodgings a warm, comforting yellow. The walls are bare and the decor is sparse. Only a few polaroid pictures, a calendar and your two degrees occupy the space. It feels oddly big, too big for just you but there’s nothing else to cram in the nooks and crannies to make your new home a little less lonesome.
It’s a relief to see Aizawa’s tired face on the other side of your door. He’d offer you a reprieve from the anxious thoughts that relentlessly ping pong around your skull.
“Hi!” You chirp, opening up the door, offering him a nervous smile, “Did you want to come in?”
He hoarsely grumbles out something resembling a, “Yes”, pushing past you before you’ve fully moved out of the way. His eyes scan his surroundings, you suppose he’s taking in the little decorations you’ve set about the place but you struggle to follow his gaze from where it’s hidden beneath his fringe. You suppose it’s a learned trait. After a bit of googling, you found that his quirk was aptly named erasure and manifested through his eyes.
Aizawa settles on your sofa, his legs spread as he rests his elbows on his thighs.
“Did you uhm, want something to drink?”
All you had was a nearly empty tin of instant coffee and a box of tea that expired two years ago. You hoped he’d say no, so you didn’t have to go through the mortifying ordeal of scrounging something you. Your parents raised you to be hospitable when you opened your home to guests. So, you couldn’t help but ask.
He dismisses you with a wave of his hand, “Thank you but, I’m fine,” he says, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers.
“Okay!”
Scratching the back of your head, you flounder around the living space. The armchair was piled high with your winter coats and the only other space to sit was next to him.
“I don’t bite,” he mutters, peering up at you.
You shift nervously from foot to foot, reminding yourself that he’s a pro hero– despite his tired disposition. He was likely trained to read body language. It wasn’t that you were easy to read but that he read others easily. There was no need to feel nervous, he wasn’t doing it purposely and you probably weren’t giving anything away. Shuffling closer to the sofa, you sit as close to the arm as you could without making your discomfort obvious.
“You’ve settled in?”
Nodding you nervously bite your lip, “I pack light so it wasn’t much work.”
Aizawa hums. His arm brushes against yours. You can feel how his chest rumbles as he speaks.
“Good,” he says, pausing for a moment, “Then, I trust you have the time to elaborate on why you’re here?”
A small sound of agreement passes your raw, bitten lips, “I sure can!” You smile, hoping the pep in your voice disguises the panic, “Uhm, well the ministry of education was worried that the repeated villain attacks and lack of consistent curriculum was negatively impacting their development.”
You wrack your brain trying to remember what exactly their email outlined but all that comes up is the excitement you felt. The picture in your mind is hazy, the details sparse but you remember most of the key points they had. They’d stuck out to you and seemed reasonable enough once you started digging into the files they sent you.
“I think it’s fairly obvious that being the target of villain attacks would have adverse effects,” you state as if he didn’t see that for himself, “However in addition to the unique mode of learning employed by each teacher here, there has been concern that the lack of consistency is what’s causing their markedly low grades.”
Aizawa scoffs, staring at you in disbelief, “Their grades are fine, I would know.”
“Their grades are still above average; however, compared to their entrance exam marks and results from the previous year's standardised tests, the class's average has dropped by 5%,” you explain, pressing a finger to the tip of your chin, “I have the data sheets, I can show them to you if you want.”
Initially you hadn’t been concerned when looking over their most recent examination marks. They had done exceptionally well with material that far surpassed the curriculum expectations set in the prefecture, however the decline was clear. You presumed the several areas in which they hadn’t done as well in, had been lessons interrupted by villain attacks. It wasn’t their fault, and if anything they were still on track but still, you couldn’t help but worry.
“If they're above the country's average, I don’t see the issue.”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you sigh “Well there’s a clear pattern that indicates an issue that needs to be addressed,” a frustrated puff of air passes your lips, “These kids are meant to be above average, sure that’s why they’re here, however their emotional well being and emotional needs should also be met instead of being ignored because they’re so special!”
Clearing your throat, you sink deeper into your sofa’s cushion, cheeks warmed to the touch. Your voice had raised several octaves, progressively getting louder as you prattled. You’d always been passionate about mental health, but you didn’t know you were this passionate. Aizawa watches you, there's something in his eyes, you can’t name it. Not yet. You don’t know him well enough. He gestures for you to continue on with his hand.
“It’s evidentially contributing to a class-wide decline,” you conclude, fiddling with your fingers, “It’s not your fault! I tried asking Principal Nezu about U.A’s guidance counsellor and mental health resources and apparently neither exist.”
He nods, seemingly knowing it all too well,“How do you propose we fix that then?”
“This isn’t something that’s cut and dry, I need to spend some time with your students, get to know them, and hear from them where they’re needing support.”
Aizawa laughs. He laughs at you, throwing his head back and letting out a full bellied laugh. You’re stunned to silence, blinking, half in disbelief and half in shock. His laugh was nice, rich even. Oddly befitting for a man like him, but still unexpected. At first glance you wouldn’t have expected from him. Though, you’re unsure what you had expected of Aizawa. He was nothing like the glamorous, larger than life pro heroes you grew up watching on television. Aizawa was far more relaxed, his dress casual, and seemed to proudly wear the dark circles that lined his tired eyes. It made him approachable, the lack of lustre and branding around the elusive Eraserhead.
You liked that about him.
“Is something funny?” You asked with a quirk of your brow.
“It’s just rather amusing that you think any of them will ask for help,” he states, leaning back into the sofa, “Have you ever heard of a hero's pride?”
“Well, it’s a good thing they’re not heroes, they’re teenagers,” you hum, clasping your hands together.
“Try telling them that and see how well that goes.”
A joke, you think he was making a joke,“I’m well aware they think they’re more grown up than they actually are,” you felt the same at that age, you’re sure the responsibility of herodom only intensified it,“They kinda are compared to their middle school peers at the very least.”
Aizawa snorts, “Something like that,” he agrees with a shake of his head.
His gaze catches yours for a moment, it’s held for a few short seconds before you anxiously look away. Letting out a forced cough, you train your eyes on the television that sits across the room.
“So I was thinking it would be a good idea if I could have a copy of your students' syllabus for each course they're taking?” You blurt, eager to continue the conversation forward.
“What?”
“The syllabus?” You repeat, “You know, the document that outlines their course expectations, assignments, and schedule for the semester?”
He scratches his chin, rubbing the stubble, “We don’t have those,” Aizawa says with a frown, “Is that standard practice?”
“Ah, mostly in University but many secondary schools are beginning to use them,” you explain, “It helps give students an idea of their semester beforehand.”
“It’s the beginning of the semester,” Aizawa comments, his lips pursed.
“That it is.”
Shrugging his shoulders, his eyes slide over to you, “We could make up a syllabus,” he suggests, “If you think that it’d be a worthwhile endeavour.”
“I think it is,” you sit a little straighter, a grin overtaking your lips, “Students seem to respond well when they feel prepared rather than blindsided, I can send you one of the research articles I’ve read!”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Giving your knee a pat, Aizawa offers you a strained smile.
You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking if he was sure. Aizawa didn’t strike you as a man who did anything he wasn’t sure of. Your overly eager, zealous attitude could be a bit much. You didn’t want to come off any stronger than you already did. Whatever impression that you’d made to him likely wasn’t one you’d want to stick around for too long.
“Well, that sounds like a plan!”
“So, tomorrow you’ll observe my class,” he proposes, “We can regroup in the evening, if it should suit you?”
You find yourself nodding before he’s finished speaking, “Oh for sure!” You grin, clapping your hands on your thighs, “I can do that!”
Aizawa rises from your sofa with a small grunt, stretching out his spine before he turns to you, “I’ll see you then.”
Nodding in agreement, you watch as he walks out of your front door. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, flopping back onto the sofa as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. Tomorrow would be the big day then, the day you stepped into adulthood and kickstarted your career. Your stomach churned at the realisation. You’d spent the better part of two weeks preparing for this day, meticulously rehearsing what you’d say, how you’d say it, what you’d wear, and how you’d part your hair.
You’d have to do it all again, tomorrow. This time, without any of your planning.