Archive of Our Own

“You aren’t allowed to use your Quirk on Shouto just to get him to do your chores,” Aizawa says, not glancing up from the lesson plan in his hands.

“Points for creativity, though.” Mic hands Hitoshi his lunch. “I’m pretty sure I put enough ice in your water bottles, but it’s a toss-up.”

Shouto gestures dramatically to his right side, and Hitoshi snorts before reaching for a bottle of syrup. “I think we’ll be fine in terms of ice, Dad.”

It’s a ritual of sorts, all of them sitting in the dining room to eat breakfast together during the peaceful moments before they make their way to UA.

One of their five cats tries to make her way onto the marble countertop and snag a pancake. Aizawa gently scoops her up and lays her back on the ground. She meows in despair; he pets her head.

There are, the majority of the time, more than five cats on the property. They’re all passionate cat people, except Mic, who has resigned himself to his fate. Aizawa leaves out food so he can trap the wild cats and take them to a local no-kill shelter. Any that hang around long enough to pick up a name without getting caught usually stay; someone will be designated to pick up a cat carrier and drive them to the vet. So far, though, there are only five that have collars and live in the house.

There’s Jellybean (named by Aizawa), Sapphire (Shouto), Catsette Tape (Mic), Hatsune Mewku (both Hitoshi and Aizawa), and Paul (a group effort).

Tape, as she’s lovingly been nicknamed, tries to make her way onto the table again, and Shouto picks her up.

Mornings like these are his favorite. He’s still getting used to this, to having a family, and being able to let his guard down sometimes. Being adopted three years later than Hitoshi, he’s still baffled by some of the things that seem normal to everyone else.

Hitoshi fell asleep while doing his homework in the living room once, and Shouto did a mental double take. How could he let himself be so vulnerable in such an exposed area of the house?

His family never looks at him with pity when he fails to understand actions that should be routine, though, and he‘s grateful for that.

Once he discussed at depth with Aizawa how much he loved kiwis but couldn’t stand mangoes (and found out his dad had a similar hatred for bananas).

The next day, he nodded off while studying in his room, and woke up to find himself covered in a blanket, all the lights out, and three sliced kiwis in a cup on his bedside table.

It’s weird, getting used to people caring about what he says, but it‘s nice.

“Anyone doing anything exciting today?” Hitoshi asks.

“Grading finals,” Mic replies.

He smiles. “Sounds fascinating. Oh! Tokoyami’s coming over after school again. Is that okay?”

Aizawa checks his calendar before nodding. “Should be fine. I’ll be home around five.

“Is Kaminari coming as well?” Mic asks.

“Nah, Sero’s dragging them all to see some movie. As much as I was tempted to witness Bakugou watching a romantic comedy, me and Tokoyami are going to rent a horror movie and get some junk food. You guys can join if you want to.”

Mic shudders melodramatically. “I hate scary things, so I’ll pass.”

“If you’re waiting until it gets dark, I might be able to,” Shouto says, considering. “Then again, do I really want to third wheel for my brother today?”

Hitoshi looks at him with such a scandalized expression that Shouto starts laughing, forgetting that he’s holding a gallon of milk in his hand.

It freezes, and he stops to look at it, second nature apologies already tumbling out of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I forgot I tend to get colder when I laugh, I should have been more careful—“

“You’re good,” Mic says, smiling at him reassuringly, and he remembers where he is. “If I’m going to be picking some junk food up for Hitoshi’s movie night anyway, I can get some milk and some cat food.” He says it matter of factly, and Shouto’s breathing slows back down. “Besides, we still have some milk, but I think it’s skim.”

Aizawa mumbles, “Water pretending to be milk.”

“Get the peach soda I like, please,” Hitoshi says.

Aizawa looks at the clock on the microwave. “If you three don’t get going, you’ll be late. I don’t have to be in until fourth period, so I’ll probably stay here. I have some things I need to get sorted out in terms of hero work.”

Mic gives him a thumbs up. “I’ll turn the alarm on before we go.” He kisses him on the forehead, and the two of them hug him before they leave.

Given that two pro heroes and two soon-to-be-pro heroes live there, and by proxy their friends are there a good amount of the time, Aizawa installed a fairly high-tech security system. He also occasionally adds a new lock to the door, which means they currently have nine on each entrance.

(Most people assume this is a precaution in case of kidnapping or villain attack. In reality, Kaminari has a habit of showing up at their house when none of them are home. Hitoshi is the only one who has any idea how he does it, and he finds it too hilarious to tell Aizawa. He’s gotten home multiple times to find all of the doors and windows closed and Kaminari fast asleep on their couch, with Netflix usually playing quietly in the background.)

The sun is just barely rising in the sky when they make their way out the door, through the yard, and onto the sidewalk. Shouto is holding a latte, Mic is holding a thermos of blueberry tea, and Hitoshi is holding a pouch of apple juice.

The quiet of the morning envelops them as the dew and leaves crunch beneath their feet. The silence never lasts long, but it’s nice for the moment.

Mic breaks it first. “So, seeing as it’s Monday, how many desks do you think Class 1-A will have to replace this week?”

Shouto slows down to consider it. “Three, maybe?”

Hitoshi laughs. “One’ll be Bakugou, and one will be Shouto. If there’s a fight between the two of them, then I’ll throw some other furniture into the mix.”

“Hey! What about Midoriya? He’s always breaking things.”

“Yeah, himself. He doesn’t go through nearly as many chairs as the rest of you, just visits to Recovery Girl.” Mic smiles fondly.

“In my defense, the chairs at our school are cheap.”

“Yeah, because if they were any more expensive, all of our budget would go towards replacing them!”

“Hazards of running a school filled with heroes going through puberty,” Mic laughs.

The good natured bickering continues most of the way to school, filling the silence and ending in Hitoshi only having to dodge icicles three times.

It takes the two of them a few minutes before they realize that there’s nothing but quiet from behind them, and they both turn around as one.

Yamada Hizashi is different in a lot of ways from the flashy persona that he shows the world. He reacts more calmly to things, his quirk under control. The first time Hitoshi had seen him, wearing sweats and hair in a messy bun, he didn’t recognize him.

But, though he mostly leaves the skintight leather and glittery speakers for his jobs, there are two things Mic brings home with him. The first is a frankly alarming amount of music in its various forms (record players, Bluetooth speakers, cassettes, boomboxes: you name it, it has been in their house at one point.)

The second is the fact that he never stops talking. It’s slower, gentler, and all around more natural than it sounds on the radio, but given the chance, he will fill the silence for hours on end with anything and everything. This, coupled with the fact that Hizashi considers their walks to school a bonding experience (“Why live so close to UA if we don’t take advantage of it?”), means that he’s only quiet when he’s listening to their conversations, and most of the time not even then.

Frost begins to creep up Shouto’s arm, and Hitoshi steps in front of him, eyes searching. Their dad doesn’t appear to be anywhere.

“I’m calling Dad,” he says, pulling out his phone.

“Wait.” Shouto squints at a bush that’s moving, next to a row of copy-paste houses.

Mic appears from behind it, sheepish grin on his face. “Sorry, guys. I thought I saw a dog.”

Hitoshi gives him a stern look, trying (and failing) to mimic the one Aizawa uses to quell his students. “You scared us!”

He holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry, sorry. I should have told you what I was doing?”

Something about the voice and the question in it, like he’s not really sure that's the right choice, sets off alarm bells in Shouto’s mind, but he pushes them down for the time being. “It’s fine. Just... please don’t worry us like that again. We’re on edge enough as is.”

Mic nods, and they continue the walk to school, but the conversation never quite recovers from the lull.

As soon as they cross the UA threshold, though, the large buildings and gleaming metal calm their fears a little. Bad things can happen here —needless to say, this many powerful quirk users in one spot makes it a hotbed for villain attacks— but that also means there are more people on their side.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Hitoshi asks him as they cross through the gates, before he sets off to the teacher’s lounge.

Mic’s eyes widen slightly, just enough for them to notice. “Yeah! Don’t worry about me. I'm a bit tired.”

He smiles a little. “Just making sure you’re alright. We all have trouble sleeping sometimes, but you’ll end up like Aizawa at this rate.”

He laughs. It feels forced, which is saying something. Mic has been in the spotlight for so long that his obviously fake laughs seem real. “Well, people do say you start to act like your best friends after a while!” He starts down the path, fast enough that it would be counterproductive to follow him.

Shouto looks at Hitoshi, his expression just as shocked (though he’s better at hiding it). “Did Dad just friendzone his husband?”

They theorize about Mic all the way to their first class, but there are only so many ways to answer the question ‘Why is my hero father who works three jobs a little stressed in the morning?’, so the topic dies out completely by the time they get there.

Homeroom and first period this morning are replaced with an assembly (the reason Aizawa didn’t have to come in until later). This meant that the students were expected to gather in homeroom and let their class representative neatly lead them to the auditorium.

This also meant that Iida was in the center of the room, his commands about as effective as herding cats.

“Kaminari! It could be detrimental to your health to continue doing that, and a visit to Recovery Girl might make you miss the assembly!”

“That’s the plan!” Sero is apparently supporting his friend’s weight, functioning as bungee cord as he dangles out the window. Mina snaps a few pictures from the corner.

Almost all the class has arrived, so Shouto and Hitoshi head off to their respective friend groups.

“What’s the assembly for?” Shouto asks Uraraka, who is sitting in the corner. They idly watch Midoriya and Yaoyorozu get into the age-old debate over why Aizawa’s scarf floats with his quirk. He knows the answer, of course, but it’s infinitely more fun to watch them argue.

“I thought you would have heard by now. I only know from Deku, who knows from All Might. We’re going on a field trip!”

“Because those have always gone well in the past,” he says under his breath.

He hears Tsuyu laugh from behind him. “You have a point. They seem to think they can get it right eventually.”

After a while, the bell rings. A small group hauls Kaminari back into the room, and they walk to their seats in a jumble of sound and chaos.

Hitoshi, who is sitting at the end of the row near Tokoyami and Shouji, spots Aizawa making his way down the aisle to the table where the teachers are sitting.

“Hey!” he whispers, trying to avoid attention. It’s not hard, with the mumble of thousands of people talking to drown him out. “I thought you had an off day.”

“I did,” he says, wrapping his scarf more tightly around himself, “but Hizashi said there was something he wanted to get my opinion on.”

Hitoshi frowns. “Look after him. He was acting really odd earlier. I don’t think he got much sleep last night, and you know he never likes to admit when he’s not feeling well.”

Aizawa nods, giving him a weird salute with his free hand. “Try not to worry about it.”

Reassured by those words, he tells Shouto what happened (both of the boys are now fluent in sign language, which makes things easier both on the field and in situations like this).

Hitoshi manages to lose himself in the familiar drone of Principal Nedzu’s voice, having heard it for so long both at school and at home. Thirteen gives a short speech on something related to the graduating classes, which he tunes out completely.

He reaches over to hold Tokoyami’s hand, content to just relax until the information about the field trip. Even if he does fall asleep, he can ask Iida later and probably get an even more comprehensive answer than the original lecture would have given him.

His eyes pop open, though, when he hears a familiar voice echoing through the room. “May I have your attention, listeners!”

“What the fuck,” Bakugou says flatly, loud enough to be heard over the outburst of murmurs, and he can’t agree more.

In Mic’s right hand is a large knife. He's holding it to the throat of a blindfolded Aizawa, who has gone completely limp in his arms.

Hitoshi looks over to see Shouto frantically signing. “He must have been taken off guard when they went to talk.” A large and rather impressive variety of swears follow this. “What do we do? Is that Dad?”

He looks down at the stage, the question turning over and over in his mind. Is that Mic? It looks like him, and the voice is the same one he’s heard a million times, but the change is jarring. His next words ring inside Hitoshi’s head, barely being processed at all.

“I’ll be taking the great Eraserhead as my captive, and in return, finally coming out of the shadows. Heroism may be a worthy pursuit, but, as I have come to learn, it is truly unattainable. No one is good at heart.” He smirks, and it’s the same one that’s on every billboard in the city. “Now, if you want him back unharmed, I suggest you find a way to stop your precious pro heroes from coming after me, alright? Think of it as leverage.”

Midnight, the closest by far, tries to tackle him to the ground. Her quirk only succeeds in knocking out some of the teachers. He chuckles. “Thanks for making my work easier!” With that, he takes a deep breath and, with a flurry of sound and debris, disappears.

“Shouto,” Hitoshi says quietly. A laugh bubbles up inside of him, but he pushes it down. The entire auditorium is sitting and reeling in the aftermath of the announcement, the quiet murmuring of teenagers with hot blood and superpowers spreading like wildfire through the room.

The teachers look at each other, trying to administer damage control as well as assess the situation.

He continues. “Shouto, do you know what this means?”

“We have to go get our dads back?”

“Obviously, but also, this is the best possible way that could have gone.”

Shouto, who is starting to ice over, glares at him. “This isn’t exactly ideal.”

“No, no, hear me out.” He grins a little, unable to keep his nervousness and the sheer absurdity of the situation from showing on his face. “Some villain went to all the trouble of brainwashing Dad on our walk to school so we wouldn’t notice anything was up. Somebody out there risked making a scene in front of a school full of students that would and can kill him, and they didn’t bother to do enough research.”

Shouto looks at him, nodding suddenly with comprehension. “In any other situation, we might be tempted to believe he'd really gone rogue, but they just so happened to stage Dad kidnapping his own husband.”

All of the students are escorted back to their dorms, and the campus is sent into full lockdown. Hitoshi usually only stays here on school nights, going to the house on weekends and breaks, so he throws his bag onto his bed without unpacking it and tries to come up with a game plan. 

An hour of this proves unsuccessful, so he finally wanders back into the common room, where everyone else is theorizing and gossiping and flocking to Midoriya, who is scribbling something in a notebook and muttering incessantly.

Shouto, he notices, is at a table in the corner, a ball of humidity and palpable despair. Hitoshi knows that if his brother, and all of them for that matter, are cooped up like this for much longer, someone is going to die, so he steps up onto the couch.

A piece of advice: if you are going to stand on a couch in front of an entire, freshly betrayed group of teenagers, to seem noble and as if they should look to you for guidance, you should probably have something in mind to say.

He’s never been good at things like common sense, though, so once every eye is on him, and his mind is decidedly blank, Hitoshi decides to wing it.

“I think we should break out.” He winces internally as he sees Iida’s eyes widen.

“That would be extremely irresponsible! I think the best course of action is to stay put and let the pros do their jobs."

Ojirou nods. "We got in so much trouble the last time we condoned a rescue mission."

“Iida,” he says slowly, “you tried to fight someone named the Hero Killer alone because of what he did to your brother. Family is worth protecting, no matter the cost, right?”

“We don’t exactly have the right resources to fight a pro gone villain,” Kirishima points out.

“He’s not a villain,” Shouto snaps from his corner, palms crackling slightly.

The room falls silent for a moment before Tokoyami nods. “I agree. We’ve all met Mic, and he’s no traitor.”

Hitoshi smiles gratefully at his boyfriend. “Something weird happened this morning, and we think it may have lead to Mic being brainwashed, or somehow...taken over?” He looks at Midoriya. “How plausible is that?”

“How long was he gone?”

He shrugs. “Ten minutes, maybe.”

“That’s more than enough time for a person to do something, but my main issue is that the villain would have to remain close to Mic for his control to continue. Unless, of course,” he says, sounding more excited, “it’s some sort of physical mimicry or body-swap quirk, which are rare but documented.”

“Aizawa has done a lot for us,” Kaminari says. “I think we should go and rescue him. At this point, he’s basically our dad too.”

A murmur of agreement sweeps through the room.

“I don’t know...” Hagakure says. “Maybe we shouldn’t go looking for trouble. It seems to find us enough as is.”

Hitoshi nods. “I think we should put it to a vote.”

Momo crosses her arms. “How are we going to find them, even if we decide to leave?”

He stops in his tracks. “Uh. Well. I don’t know? There has to be something. I guess we could—“

Shouto looks at him and, extremely reluctant, pulls out his phone. “I know where they are.”

The class freezes for a second. Hitoshi looks at his brother.

“Do... Do you have a tracker on them?”

“Listen. The last time Dad was left for dead under a bridge, I took a few precautions.”

“Do you have one on me?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Where did you even put them? What the hell, man?”

“If I told you, then you would get rid of it. That would defeat the whole purpose. Anyway,” he says firmly, “back to the point, which is that I have their location. They’re both in the same place, from what I can tell.”

Footsteps in the hall hush them all. Blood King solemnly sticks his head in to remind them to go back to their respective rooms, since curfew is in ten minutes.

As expected, no one follows this rule, and instead they gather in Kaminari’s room. It has the most comfortable places to sit (despite the homework, binders and other clothes, and general mess on the floor).

Hitoshi is once again in charge, a sensation which makes him wonder why Iida has ever liked being class representative. “I think we should put it to a vote. Sound good?” For once, everyone agrees.

“All in favor of going to rescue Sensei, who when freed can hopefully cancel Mic’s quirk, or maybe even the villain’s, raise your hand.” He quickly counts them. “Alright, now all opposed raise your hand.”

It ends up evenly tied, and he counts all of them again.

“Bakugou,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “You have to vote.”

A moment’s silence, in which Bakugou rolls his eyes before growling, “Whatever. Let’s go get our fucking father. I want to blow something up.”

Knowing this is the closest he’ll get to an enthusiastic yes, Hitoshi grins.

This is how they end up hovering above the window, some hesitant to leave at all and the rest gung-ho to stop the insufferable restlessness that’s settled over the school. The ones who disagree with the plan, though, are even more against the prospect of being left behind out of fear for their classmates and themselves, so they keep their complaints to a minimum.

Mina looks down at her phone. “The press somehow found out about this morning.”

Kaminari winces. “That’s not gonna help the teachers. They have enough on their hands without worrying about the public freaking out.”

A few things happen in quick succession after this:

- Momo creating a ladder, and miraculously, Class 1-A making it to the ground without any major injuries or their cover being blown.

- Tsuyu having to catch Satou, who accidentally falls to the ground halfway through his climb. He bruises his left arm and his pride.

- Almost getting caught by teachers twice, narrowly averted by Shouji revealing that he has a hidden talent for throwing his voice, which is very handy when one has multiple mouths.

- Aoyama assuring them that Shouji is also very good at sleight of hand and card tricks. This leads to a whispered, petty argument that lasts at least fifteen minutes.

- Hakagure revealing that there are parts of the school none of them know about, which is how they find themselves at a small stream in a blind spot for the security cameras, ready to scale a wall.

- The unanimous discovery that a class of very determined students trying to leave is really no match for a small amount of frazzled adults trying to contain them.

- A combination of various quirks, mostly Uraraka’s, leading to the scaling of UA’s gates.

- The intense elation that’s probably only found after pulling off a successful multimillion dollar robbery. Seriously, if villains ever experienced this kind of giddiness, they would quit their life of crime in an instant.

By the time they near their destination (after taking the subway and trying desperately to avoid recognition, followed by a short hike through a forest) the sun is dipping behind the horizon. The woods are alive with sound.

“This feels like the beginning of a horror movie,” Kirishima says.

Bakugou slaps him on the back of the head, but they all know he’s right.

After a few minutes of walking, a slight rustling sound comes from behind them. Everyone stands, preparing for battle.

Kouda, however, emerges from the bushes and is almost blown up by several of his classmates. Dodging Shouto’s wave of fire, he whispers, “One, uh, one of the owls said there’s a warehouse near here, and he saw two people enter it earlier. The forest leads into an old shipping district up ahead, I think. He also said there’s a small house nearby where we can regroup.”

Shouto nods. “That sounds good. It’ll help us to remain undetected.”

Reluctantly, exhaustion settling heavy on their bones and nearly impossible to shake off, Class 1-A heads towards an abandoned building through the woods in the dead of night to execute the next step in their (hopefully) foolproof plan.

(“If it’s foolproof, that means even Bakugou can’t ruin it,” Sero snorts.

Kaminari high fives him. “Roasted.”

They, unsurprisingly, are the first to make it through the door, laughing while trying to find shelter from a barrage of angry explosions and Bakugou threatening to show them what roasted really means.)

This morning, the day looked like it was going to be fine.

Bakugou could be sitting in the common room of the dorms, playing Mario Kart with his acquaintances and trusting the pros to actually do their job for once.

Of course, though, he didn’t do that, because he’s an idiot. He was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Except in this case, he’s the straw that made them all trek through the woods. The straw that made them go on a life or death mission which got him holed up in a crusty room with all of his classmates.

Fucking fantastic.

He didn’t even want to approve this stupid mission. He just wanted to stop Kirishima’s face from doing the pinched thing it does when he thinks Bakugou's being a douche, or pushing other people away, or whatever.

And now he’s sitting on the damp ground, freezing his ass off, listening to Deku ramble about whatever plan they were making that would end up failing.

Serves him right for caring about other people for once.

Kaminari and Mina are delicately balancing on the ledge above them, made of connected metal grates and precariously attached to the ceiling. He’s kind of tempted to move over, but cold enough that wasting the energy to scoot three feet to the left just to avoid Pikachu’s hypothetical crash landing on his head doesn’t seem worth it.

There are boxes everywhere, probably filled with black mold. The last time he was this disgusted with a building was when Mina, Kirishima, and Jirou dragged him to help with a home renovation project.

It had looked much the same as his current surroundings: old, probably dangerous on multiple levels, definitely haunted, and having the distinct feeling of a corpse.

It’s been an hour, at least— the only one who has the time is Icy-Hot, and like hell is Bakugou going to ask him— when Tsuyu, Ojirou, and Hagakure burst through the door. Considering it’s partially knocked off its hinges and doesn’t swing the way it should, the bursting is quite an impressive feat.

He ignored the original plan, mostly because it didn’t involve anyone who was attached to him. Now he begrudgingly moves over in a dignified manner, thank you very damn much, or as dignified as he can be buttscooting through cobwebs.

“Izuku,” Tsuyu croaks. “We... might have a problem.”

The entire class falls silent, having managed to cram themselves into the space relatively well.

Hitoshi, somehow, has managed to take control of the entire situation. They are his family, Bakugou supposes, but he wouldn’t go through half as much trouble to save his mom.

“What kind of problem?” Hitoshi asks hesitantly. The only sound is the nature outside and, along with the fact that the sole lighting is a few torches supplied by Shouto to preserve Yaoyorozu’s energy, it really feels like a place to get stabbed to death in style.

She clears her throat (though it’s more of a ribbit) and continues. “So, we went with Izuku’s plan. Ojirou helped me carry Hagakure up to the second floor of the building, we slipped in through a window, and she took a look around.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No one saw us.”

“He’s working on something,” Hagakure butts in. Even though they can’t see her, they can tell she’s fidgeting. “Mic is. He’s got Aizawa in some sort of cage, I guess, and he started talking all this crap. I went over to get a look at the plans.” She took a deep breath. “If this works, the machine he’s building will take down all of UA’s security. He's planning to create enough crises around the city that the teachers will be forced to leave beforehand.”

“He’s not looking for ransom money then,” Kirishima said. “He'll start a massacre. He’s trying to take down our school, and anyone else who gets in the way of the League of Villains.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Midoriya says, but Bakugou doesn't think anyone else hears him.

“He’s got his husband in a cage? Keep your kinks at home, friends,” Mina mumbles. Kaminari elbows her in the ribs. She topples from the catwalk and lands in a heap on the floor. Bakugou is mildly content with his decision to move.

Images flash through Bakugou’s mind, of being chained up and in pain and terrified, of whispers around school about a betrayal in their midst, of all the nights he’s spent pushing down nightmares and reluctantly going to therapy sessions.

The words come out before he can stop them. “What if it’s him?”

“Huh?”

Bakugou puts on his well-rehearsed facade and rolls his eyes. “We’ve all heard the teachers talking. They think somebody’s giving our secrets away. Well, what if it’s the loud asshole?”

“Bakugou,” Kaminari says, and he knows the same disappointment he hears in those words will be mirrored when he looks at Kirishima, and he loves both of them to death, but he can’t—

“Just something to fucking think about,” he says. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need any of this. He stands up, wrapping his blue hoodie tighter around himself, and walks out into the cold.

It’s a nice night. There are more stars visible above him than there ever are in the city. During the school year, he almost forgets how to breathe, forgets how nice it feels to be outdoors instead of straining to be better or cramped up indoors.

It takes a few minutes for two pairs of footsteps to follow him. He doesn’t deign to turn around.

“You know it’s not him,” Kirishima says. He sinks to the ground next to Bakugou and lays his head on the other’s shoulder.

He knows. Kaminari has dragged him to their house too many times. He doesn't believe the words, but he remembers dreams where the hands burning his skin morphed into Kirishima’s, and he can’t shake this damn paranoia that follows him everywhere he goes.

“It’s not fair,” he says instead. Kaminari is sprawled out a short distance behind them, looking up at the stars and not saying a word.

“What’s not fair?” Kirishima replies, and it takes everything he has to bite back a bitter reply. Kirishima can’t know everything, but he should, should know exactly why Bakugou is chomping at the bit to do something, anything—

He takes a deep breath. “They don’t trust me.”

“You certainly don’t make it easy,” Kaminari mumbles.

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “I mean, like— they didn’t see everything that happened. You two don’t even know it all. And they keep looking at me like some kind of animal, and before Kamino fucking Ward it was— everyone may have treated me like I wasn’t human, but at least I got some respect. At least I was something to be feared. Now...”

He takes a deep breath, sucking the cold night air into his lungs. “Now, whenever I do something that shows you guys how screwed up I am, all anyone feels is pity. And here this guy is, all signs point to him betraying everyone, all signs point to him being the person that ruined my life— and everyone is scrabbling to find proof that he’s not. He’s right there. He’s in that building, actively working as a villain, and only ten percent of our school thinks it could be him. And I know, I know that when I was kidnapped, a lot of people didn't give me the benefit of the doubt."

He slumps dramatically backwards onto Kaminari’s legs, bringing Kirishima down with him. “Like I said. It’s not fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. The only thing surrounding them is the rustle of the wind in the trees, the distant call of animals he hopes respect Kouda, and the sound of their breathing.

Slowly, Kaminari wraps his arms around Bakugou, and Kirishima follows suit. None of them are good with words of comfort— Kirishima, maybe, but he’s out of practice with that particular skill, and he doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know how to even begin to conquer this monster that’s been haunting his boyfriend for the past year, doesn’t know how to hand him a sword or bear the guilt when Bakugou can’t kill the dragon.

Instead, he pulls him closer. All three of them are capable of speaking Bakugou’s language, a dialect built on fear and sharp edges, words aiming to kill and always on the offensive.

The three of them lay in a pile and stare up into the face of infinity. The fear nestled between his ribs coagulates into something palpable and real, but Bakugou can smell Kaminari’s shampoo and feel the soft spikes of Kirishima’s hair on his arm.

It’s enough.

After a while, Kirishima shifts his position, and they all know the moment is over.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says softly.

Bakugou nods.

The entire class watches as Kaminari and Kirishima follow after Bakugou, content to let them diffuse the situation in the way they’ve somehow managed to master.

Shouto’s eyes are vacant, fixed on the spot where Bakugou was just sitting. His words fill the space he occupied, inky black and threatening to choke the life out of the room.

His eye hurts.

Shouto turns and sweeps out of the room, going through the opposite door. As soon as he’s gone, the temperature and humidity return to normal, but it’s more stifling than before.

Hitoshi leans forward as if he’s going to follow, but then he sits back down and tilts his head towards the exit. “Midoriya.”

“What?”

“Talk to him. He needs a friend right now, not his brother.”

Izuku smiles nervously. “Oh! Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

When Izuku sees him, his heart skips a beat. Shouto's right side is crackling, embers popping and threatening to consume him. He’s on top of the building, his legs hanging down; the warehouse is made of stone and steel, less likely to burn than the dry grass around them.

“I’m sorry,” Shouto says, even though Izuku thought he was out of sight.

“About what?” he says, hopping to sit next to him. Izuku is genuinely curious how he made it to the roof so quickly, but refrains from asking.

He gestures to the flames, expression tight and focused on something in the distance. “They always come out when I’m overwhelmed. Usually, Aizawa can keep me from destroying anything until I calm down, but...”

Izuku’s heart squeezes again, his emotions close to being physically painful. “We’ll get him back. I promise, we’ll get them both back.”

“You want to know the shittiest part? This is just normal to me,” he says, his voice cracking. “All I’ve known my entire life is that parents are going to act like they care for you, and that’ll make it even worse when they hurt you. They always hurt you.”

Midoriya feels his heart being shattered into millions of pieces and ground into the earth. “Parents aren’t supposed to act like that. You deserve to have someone to rely on. I can’t say for certain that’s not the real Present Mic, but I will say this: no matter what happens, it isn’t on your shoulders.”

“But—“

“You can’t carry the weight of the world,” he says, and thankfully, the words seem to be working. “You’ve only got two hands.” Midoriya leans over and wraps his arms around the parts of his friend that don’t immediately burn him.

Shouto’s flames dim slightly. “What if I need to take responsibility for my actions?”

Izuku looks at him, confused.

“What if it’s me? After all, my old man was a dick. What if I poisoned this one, too? I’m the common variable. I’m not—“

He breaks off into a sob. Izuku’s words catch in his throat; if he says anything out loud, all of this will come crashing down on his head and suffocate them both.

His voice is hoarse and scratchy when he speaks again. “Everyone leaves. Everyone leaves, because loving me is too hard. I don’t want that to happen to you. You’re too good, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s face grows hard. There is one thing he knows, one thing in life he is certain of.

“Shouto,” he says, “do you know how much you mean to me?”

He looks at him, a little taken aback by his tone, but Izuku presses on.

“You helped me through things I didn't even think I could survive. You went with me on a suicide mission to save someone who doesn’t even like us. And you have the audacity to sit here and think that I’m going to leave? You’re a part of my life now, alright, whether you like it or not. You’re a part of me.”

He takes a deep breath. “I lost an entire Sports Festival for you, because you needed desperately for someone to see that you were worth saving. I knew in that moment I didn’t need to tell the entire world I was here to help them.”

Izuku looks Shouto dead in the eye. “I just needed to say it to one person.”

Shouto’s lip trembles, and suddenly all the walls break. He cries into Izuku’s lap, repeating mumbles of things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘thank you’.

Eventually, he pulls himself together enough to look up at Izuku, eyes red. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I got you all wet.”

“Shouto,” Izuku says, completely deadpan. “I sob into someone’s shirt every other Wednesday. About time you joined the party.”

When they go back inside, Bakugou, Kaminari, and Kirishima have already returned.

All of their faces are red and puffy.

No one mentions it.

The door to the 1-A dorms opens, slowly and hesitantly. There’s no one to be seen. An odd occurrence considering the sheer amount of life and dumbassery the class contains, but not unexpected considering the shock they must be in right now.

He doesn’t know what to believe, which is a common misconception. All Might always knows what he wants, a pillar of shining justice (at least, he used to be). Untouchable, unshakable, and undeniably solid.

Toshinori, on the other hand? He’s internally screaming and scared as hell a good 75 percent of the time.

Young Midoriya had seen an odd balance of both, something he wasn’t quite sure how to describe. Despite the fact that he was vulnerable around his protégée, something their relationship had been founded on since the very start, he also wanted to protect him. To help him become the hero that he so desperately wanted to become, while somehow protecting him from the evils of the world he’d already been more than exposed to.

Which led him here, for reasons even he isn’t entirely sure of. He only knows that he needs to see how Midoriya is doing. The boy’s trust in heroes is unshakable, but it takes a critical hit about every other week. At this rate, he‘s going to become bitter before getting through his sophomore year.

He walks up to Midoriya’s dorm door, knocking lightly.

He waits a beat. No reply.

He knocks again.

It’s not uncommon for the entire class to gather in one place, so he makes his way to Kaminari’s dorm. The door is wide open, and there are no students to be found.

He sprints, half frantic, to the living area. What if something happened, what if All for One coordinated another attack, what if—

He spots the open window and immediately finds the ladder leaning precariously below it.

All Might is indignant. These students have been learning the same lesson over and over again, and yet they never stop risking their lives to save the people they love. A noble quality to have, but a headache-inducing one nonetheless. He should really keep them under closer surveillance.

Toshinori, on the other hand, feels the cold night wind whipping through the window. The glint of moonlight reflecting off the metal and the ringing silence are the only clues that something is amiss.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles, before heading back downstairs.

When Aizawa wakes up, his head is foggy and everything aches. This is not new.

He’s blindfolded. This is also not new, which makes him think about the fact that some people out there don’t have to put up with the bullshit of being accustomed to hostage situations—

There’s a whimper from the corner. Someone else is in here with him; that complicates things. The total and complete recklessness he treats himself with doesn’t apply if he has to help someone else escape.

He shifts his hands slowly, since he has no idea where his captor is, and no attention is good attention. They’re tied behind him, attached to either a pole or some sort of bar.

He hears another hurt noise from the corner, and his heart stops. He’d know that voice anywhere, heaven help him; he’s surely heard it enough times.

“Hizashi!” he hisses. “Are you okay?”

A sniffle. “Shouta?”

“How long have you been awake? Is there anything you can tell me about these assholes?”

“Nothing— nothing yet. I thought for a minute I’d lost you.”

He hears quiet footsteps coming towards him, and suddenly Mic is holding his hand.

“Hizashi—“

Are you sure this is the best idea, he tries to say, but it’s swallowed up in the warmth of his husband. He cards a hand through Mic's hair, pulled back in a simple ponytail. Even though he can’t see him, Aizawa reaches out and laces their fingers together. Mic hugs him back, fierce and passionate and—

Wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Aizawa has perfected, over his years as both a teacher and hero, the art of detecting bullshit. It’s kept him safe in every aspect of his life, and too many alarms are ringing in his mind.

Why isn’t Hizashi tied up? Why is he behaving so recklessly in a high stakes situation? Why isn’t he showing any signs of being hurt now? All of these questions combine into one solid, eloquent sentence.

“What the fuck?” Aizawa chokes out, shoving away whatever is pretending to be his husband.

The room is almost deafening in its silence, and then he hears a small chuckle. “Ah, Eraser. You were always too smart for your own good.”

His blindfold is yanked off. He hisses at the burn in his eyes as they adjust to the fluorescent light of the room.

The man that’s not his husband looks at him. His eyes are too sharp. They’re identical to his husband’s eyes, but they’re not the same.

They’re not the eyes that crinkle every time he coaxes a genuine laugh out of Aizawa. Not the eyes of a man that bursts into tears every time he sees a puppy. The one who once ate 41 Christmas cookies on a dare from Midnight and then spent the whole afternoon throwing them up. The one who has a passion for language and music and that one Italian place down the street that shut down due to bankruptcy.

This isn’t the Hizashi he knows, the one who accidentally wilted their entire flower garden laughing at his own pun, the one who grades Aizawa’s papers for him when he falls asleep, the only one who can get him to wear clothing with actual colors.

It can’t be.

...Right?

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag.” He shrugs, fiddling with some chemicals spread out on a metal table.

The room they’re in is plain. Aside from the table, there’s not much to see. A window shows a forest view with the city off in the distance. In the corner is a gold machine, whirring softly. A speaker in the corner plays 80s hits; he’s not sure how he didn’t notice that sooner. His ears are ringing. He vaguely remembers a hit to the head.

There’s a small contraption around him, too big to be called a fence but too small to be called a cage. He’s absolutely tied to a wall, and a glance down shows a small amount of blood dripping onto his shoulder.

Great.

“What,” Aizawa growls, “did you do with my husband?”

“Shouta!” the imposter whines and oh, no one else gets to call him that and survive. “I expected you to understand more than anyone. That’s why I brought you here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m the same person I’ve always been. I finally have the chance to get away from everything the public knows. All the lies I’ve told over the years.”

Aizawa scoffs. “Why would you put so much effort into something you didn’t mean? Hizashi is a horrible liar.”

“I guess that was the biggest lie of them all,” he says quietly, and there’s something like hurt in his voice. Slowly, quietly, he slips his wedding ring off his finger and holds it up to the light.

The ring is gold with a black line down the middle, matching Aizawa’s black striped with gold. Flashy yet subtle enough to suit them both, crafted specifically for them by cashing in a few favors they’d allotted over the years.

“I think I loved you once. At least, it was the closest I’ve ever come.”

Aizawa knows this isn’t him. He knows this isn’t the man who held his hand when they finalized the adoption of their two sons. And yet, it still fucking stings. The possibility that he might be wrong, that this might be reality. That the aching love he feels in his chest every time he looks at his husband could just be a lie.

Hizashi slowly leans out the window, watching the lights turn on in the distance as the sun sets. At least now he has some idea what time it is. Hopefully he hasn’t been gone for more than a day.

The music switches to something poppy and annoying, the kind of thing he’d only ever listen to when it was on Mic’s radio show. Looking at the trees below him, Hizashi sighs deeply before looking at the ring one last time and tossing it out the window.

“What the hell was that?”

If he’s going to be here for a while, conversation will probably be his best bet to gather more information.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

(Aizawa inhales sharply as he watches the metal fly into the distance.

Even if this is brainwashing, or a clone, or whatever sort of outlandish possibility is part of his life now, it still hurts.

He feels like crying, but that wouldn’t help him at all.

There will be plenty of time for that later.)

“What about the last fifteen years? Don't they mean anything to you?” he begs.

Hizashi grins, menacing and cold. “It was, as you like to say, a logical ruse.”

He continues to stir whatever it is he’s working on. The smell of copper and the fuzziness in Aizawa’s head is becoming stronger, which is never a good thing.

“It could have been great, you know? We could have worked out. But at the end of the day, you’re still you and I’m just... me. You would do anything to keep people safe. I guess that’s what I liked about you back in school.”

Aizawa shakes his head, blood loss making every movement seem strange and sluggish. His left foot feels like it might be broken. “You’re the one who made me believe people were worth saving.”

“Ironic, I suppose.” He pauses, shifting his weight constantly between his feet. He pulls his leather jacket off and drapes it over a folding chair in the corner. “Who do you think they’ll send to save you? Are you worthy of the number one hero? Will they even send someone?”

“They will. Some people, and I know this will sound strange to you, believe in loyalty.”

It’s Hizashi’s turn to scoff. “Haven’t you always said that attachment only sabotages the mission?”

I haven’t said that since you asked me out, he thinks but doesn’t say.

Instead, Aizawa leans back as casually as he can while being tied to the bars of a cage, smirk masking all his fear. “Pretty good show you’re putting on, I must say. Had me fooled for a little while.”

Mic turns around. “What are you talking about?”

Aizawa holds up his handcuffs. It was easy to undo them while Mic was facing the other direction, distracted by their conversation. “The real Hizashi has made me watch too many classic superhero movies to ever commit the mortal sin of monologuing.”

Mic rolls his eyes and turns around. Aizawa has seen this attack too many times. He helped him practice subtlety and develop his speakers, around the same time Tensei figured out how to make Aizawa’s capture weapon bond to his quirk.

He wonders where his scarf is now. He doesn’t see it anywhere, and its replacement got lost the last time he was held for ransom.

He closes his eyes for half a second before opening them. They glow red, his hair (still matted with blood) floating above his head.

Hizashi opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. He stops in his tracks. “Very clever, Shouta. You’ve always been good at this. Today, though, I'm one step ahead.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says. His retinas are burning; he’s pretty sure there’s blood in his left eye.

Hizashi reaches for the mixture on the table before walking back towards him. “Clever trick with the handcuffs," he says, gripping Aizawa’s chin with one hand. Aizawa glares at him with as much anger as he can muster, which is a significant amount.

Hizashi dumps it straight into his eyes, and Aizawa...

He can’t see.

He can’t see.

Many villains have tried to damage or even steal his eyes, but none of those attempts ever hurt so badly.

(He remembers one particular date night with Hizashi. His boyfriend prodded him until he’d given in and helped build a pillow fort in the living room.

There, underneath the glow of Christmas lights they’d dug out of the garage, legs tangled together, they’d discussed their worst fears.

Once they’d gotten past the usual ‘Without a doubt, bugs’ and ‘I cannot stand dogs’, Hizashi sighed a little.

“Probably losing my voice.”

There was so much sadness in the way he said it, and Aizawa understood completely.

“I worry about what would happen if I lost my eyesight.”

“I’m sure Recovery Girl would be able to fix us?”

“She can’t fix everything.”

A pause.

“That’s not the only thing about you that matters, you know. You could still do so much without your Quirk.”

Aizawa smiled at him. “Then I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“That’s so sappy. That’s the most saccharine thing you’ve ever said to me! Someone get a video camera. Shouta Aizawa just said something romantic completely unprompted!” Mic smiled. “Really, though. I’ll love you no matter what.”

“Same for you,” Aizawa said, slinging his arm over Hizashi’s chest. “Now, get some sleep.”

“Never,” he said, leaning over to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek.

Neither of them mentioned the conversation in the morning, but the weight of it was shared between them.)

And now...

Now, he’s in a warehouse fifty miles from civilization. He's powerless to do anything, and there’s a good chance he’s lost the two things that truly make him feel like himself.

Aizawa curls into a ball on the floor, faces the wall, and doesn’t speak to his captor again.

“Are we sure giving up the only advantage we have is a good idea?” Sero says.

“You’re right, but all we have left is the element of surprise. It’s now or never. We have to act.” Hitoshi is pacing the room now, looking nervous and as if he could have used a good cry on the roof earlier.

“Everybody,” Yaoyorozu says, taking control, “it’s go time. If you’re in, you’re in. If you’re out, you’re out, but you have to make up your mind.” She gives Bakugou a meaningful glance as she says this, which he doesn’t shy away from.

No one leaves.

In the end, a bunch of hurting teenagers go out into the night with a patchwork plan to take down one of the world’s best heroes.

It’s hard for Aizawa to tell what’s wrong at first.

His eyes are still refusing to work with him, and he’s spent the last he-doesn’t-know-how-long trying to think his way out of this. For once, logic isn’t doing anything for him.

The only thing his mind is giving him is the all-encompassing betrayal, along with the fact that he’s cold and his back hurts and no one is coming to get him. He’s a Pro, damn it. He should be better than this idiotic hostage situation. He worked hard to earn that title when no one thought he could.

Of course, though, the only person who believed in him is now putting him in this position, and he’s back to square one.

So, still a little lost in the fog of his thoughts, it takes him a short moment to notice the scuffling from behind him.

Mic makes a small noise and shifts position before the unconcerned hum turns into something more like a scream.

He doesn’t want to have hope. He doesn’t want to let himself hope anymore, not after all that’s happened. Then, though, he hears Mic hiss “Bugs,” and he knows, or at least he thinks he knows, what’s happening.

There's only one constant in this world. It's the fact that his class and his children (though those are synonyms) are always going to rush into danger without any concern for their own safety if it means saving a person they love.

He can almost sense it, now that he knows what he’s listening for: tiny legs scuttling across the concrete floor. He hears voices in the hallway, very familiar voices that he’s told to shut up time and time again.

Aizawa expects to hear Midoriya. Really, the boy's defining characteristics are breaking bones and making bad choices with good intentions. All he hears, though, are three pairs of almost silent footsteps coming through the door. His suspicions are instantly confirmed.

“Stick to the plan,” Shouto hisses, and Tokoyami hums in affirmation.

That’s how he knows the other person is Hitoshi. No one else understands Shouto without saying a word, combined with the fact that he’s never been good at sitting on the sidelines.

Suddenly, there’s a burst of heat. At first he’s worried that his son has lost control, but then he hears the crackling and swearing. He smells singed caramel, feels the debris hitting his face and leaving a few scrapes.

He knows who the fourth person is.

“Never been one for subtlety, have you?” he mutters wryly. No one hears him over the screaming and the cries the building is emitting over the fact that a hole has been blown into its spine.

“Dad!” Shouto yells. “Are you okay?”

He feels his bindings dissolve, either passing beyond their melting point or frozen so solid they crumble with the slightest touch. A pair of arms are wrapped around him for a fleeting second, and then they’re gone again.

“Alright,” Bakugou says. “Let's get this show on the road, grandpa. Bee Whisperer is outside. He can probably only hold Mic for a few minutes. Most insects have gone into hibernation.”

Tokoyami cuts in, solemn as ever. “We need you to erase his quirk, and then we can easily take him down.”

He’s impressed with all of them. Really, he is, despite the fact that they’re going to get a stern talking-to once everyone is out of harm’s way. It's a good plan, some of Midoriya’s best strategic work.

He takes in the moment, knowing the next isn’t going to be nearly as filled with triumph.

“I can’t do that.”

“What?” Hitoshi says. “Why not?”

“...I can’t see.”

“You what?” Shouto says, and Aizawa can feel the temperature change.

“Calm down. We have to stay rational until the fight is over for good.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Shouto says. Aizawa can feel Dark Shadow dive to hold him back.

“I guess it’s time for Plan B, then,” Hitoshi says quietly. The room stills so suddenly that Aizawa almost doesn’t want to ask.

“Absolutely not," says Tokoyami.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Hitoshi,” Shouto pleads, and the fear in the way he says it hurts. “I’m not going through last autumn again. I can’t. Dad can’t.”

Hitoshi doesn’t answer, but Aizawa knows. He remembers October. Hitoshi had been targeted by villains and attempted to brainwash all of them at once. He had not only passed out when confronted with a psychic quirk more developed than his, he had fallen into a coma.

Aizawa thinks about it all: the weeks of waiting in the hospital, begging Recovery Girl to help him somehow, not knowing if he would pull through.

He thinks about the days and days of training that have occurred since that moment, and of the twenty-some people present that need to get to safety.

He turns to where he assumes Hitoshi is. “Did Midoriya plan this?”

There’s an affirmative hum.

“With all the information?”

“When does he not—“ Bakugou starts, but Aizawa cuts him off.

“Do it.”

“What? Dad, you—"

Aizawa can hear Mic making his way to where they are, footsteps heavy and wrong. They only have a minute at most.

“Go through with it. The problem last time was with quantity, and you’ve improved massively since then.” He’s not sure how true that is. His brain is screaming. That's his son. That’s his son, and he has lost so much.

“Are you sure?” Hitoshi asks softly, and all of the worry condenses itself into their last hope.

"Yes,” Aizawa says, “when I signal.”

He hopes to hell he hasn’t lost his edge.

Hitoshi is terrified.

He’s been scared before, sure, but it’s different now. He’s not positive if things have changed for better or for worse. Probably better, he thinks as he looks around him.

Things had high stakes before all of this, but life is even scarier once you have things that can be lost. Life is even scarier once you realize that you can’t die without regretting it, and that is the dilemma Shinsou Hitoshi currently faces.

Present Mic opens the door. Aizawa waves his hand towards the ground.

Mic looks at them, barely scratched from the previous attack. It’s all up to him now. He balks, his mouth too dry to form words.

The three others form a shield around Hitoshi. Bakugou’s palms are crackling with barely contained energy. In the black of night, Dark Shadow is writhing like a cape around Tokoyami, making a noise that almost hurts.

And Shouto?

Shouto is looking at the man in front of him. No flames envelop his body, and no ice protrudes from the floor. He’s just there, shivering, looking like he might cry, as the villain— his dad— moves closer.

How many times has Shouto’s father been the villain before?

Hitoshi can feel the presence in front of him, and he focuses in. He’s sure now more than ever that this is an imposter; everything about the mind he’s sensing feels off, feels wrong in an almost imperceptible way. The thought is wrapped in a layer of imitation, but he can tell his dad is in there somewhere, lying beneath the surface.

He still can’t move. He curses himself for it, for his lack of heroism when so many people believe in him, and then he sees Shouto.

He sees Shouto crying, and no, that’s his little brother, that’s his little brother—

“So, a doomsday device. Real original, huh?” Hitoshi drawls. His voice rings through the room. The thing resembling his dad looks directly at him.

Please respond, Hitoshi thinks. Please don't be the type for research. Please don’t know how my quirk works.

Mic grins. “A bit cliche, but I’ve always been one for theatrics.”

Hitoshi only has a second to celebrate the fact that he got a response before he’s hit with the sheer pushback from another mental quirk. Whoever is doing this... He won’t say they’re more powerful than him, but the recoil lashes through his bones. He shakes his head a few times in an attempt to clear it.

“It only needs one last thing!” Mic says, walking over to it.

Hitoshi braces his quirk and scrambles to find some purchase, a foothold. He only needs a tiny crack where he can get past Mic’s defenses and take control now that he’s been invited in. “And what would that be?”

Mic grins. “A source of electricity.”

Hitoshi fumbles for a second, processing the implications of those words. Kaminari is in the stairwell, waiting with the others for a chance to move in, and Mic knows it. He thinks about his best friend, about his talent for evading security and speed-eating and playing piano. He thinks about how much energy it would take.

“He’ll die,” Hitoshi says. The amount at risk slams him in the face. Bakugou is yelling now, telling him to maintain control, and Aizawa has joined in. He's falling backwards into a familiar void. He can feel his consciousness slipping away, but he renews his efforts and focuses harder than ever.

“That’s a shame. He had real potential,” Mic says, but the stress is showing on his face. He’s losing, and he knows it.

In one brisk movement, Shouto marches forward and wraps his arms around Mic. The room is tense, everyone poised for an attack, but instead the world stops.

Mic falls to his knees, coughing profusely. After a second, he looks up.

“That bitch stole my body,” he mumbles, eyes blazing and barely processing the scene around him. “He stole...” He coughs again, looking up. “He changed my hair! Shouta, tell me you caught him already.“

A number of things happen in the next few minutes. Sero, not willing to take any chances, restrains Mic with his tape. Aizawa throws his arms around his once-again husband, and Shouto joins a moment after.

Mina and Jirou, with the combined force of their quirks, destroy the machine of unspecified but surely destructive intent in the corner. Kaminari tries to help, but everyone present for the villain’s threat prevents him from doing so.

Midoriya runs in on the verge of tears. “Good job, problem child,” Aizawa murmurs, still clinging to Mic. Aoyama signals their location to police searching the area with the brightest laser he can muster.

Hitoshi doesn’t register any of this. He collapses to the ground after a few seconds, slipping into unconsciousness.

When Aizawa wakes up, he knows exactly where he is. It’s a comforting feeling compared to the last time he woke up with his head pounding and arms restrained.

He blinks a few times, looking around him. Immediately, he sighs in relief. Sitting in two stiff plastic chairs, scrolling through their phones and looking dead on their feet, are Hitoshi and Shouto.

“How long have I been out?” he asks, voice cracking.

They both jump at the noise. Shouto recovers first. “Six days.”

Longer than ideal, but this situation was never really ideal.

He looks at their clothing, the bags beneath their eyes, the way Hitoshi’s hair falls around his face.

“For the love of all that is holy." He slowly drags a bruised hand down his face. “Tell me you haven’t been here the whole time.”

Neither of them answer, and that’s his cue to sit up. From the look of his room, Recovery Girl is somewhere near, but he’s been transferred to a larger facility. From the absurd amount of trinkets, cards, and flowers strewn around, his class has been here as well.

Shouto clears his throat, ignoring the question. “You can leave as soon as you feel up to it.”

Aizawa pauses. “Six days? Without a concussion?”

“Dad, you broke eleven separate bones,” Hitoshi says flatly. “Plus, the stuff you had in your eyes was powerful. It took a lot of energy to heal that, along with some surgery for the bigger injuries.”

"And you two are okay?"

Hitoshi nods. "Just exhausted, but what's new?"

Aizawa gains his bearings slowly, questions coming to him faster as he regains his memory.

“Where’s Hizashi?”

For a moment, no one answers, and he fears the worst. What if all their efforts had been in vain? What if he had already been left for dead, what if—

“Getting dinner, I think. He’ll be back in a second.”

Shouto smirks. “He’d be back faster if you didn’t have such an intricate order.”

“No onions! No cranberries! Extra vinaigrette!” Hitoshi says. From his tone, it isn’t their first time having this discussion. “It isn’t that hard. If he can’t handle getting his son a salad, he shouldn’t be a Pro.”

“You can’t put those on the same level!” Shouto says, eyes gleaming with laughter. “Ordering the salad is much harder.”

Hitoshi snorts, reaching over to punch Shouto in the arm, but Aizawa interrupts them. “You’re telling me Mic just let you stay in this room like vagrants for six days?”

“We don’t have classes,” Shouto points out. Aizawa winces, imagining all the public outcry at press conferences and extremely glad he wasn’t awake for it.

“Dad’s been at the police station most of the time. They had to call in some people with telepathy-related quirks, have a lot of his colleagues ask questions. To prove it was really him and not just phase two of the plan.”

“Verdict?”

“He greeted All Might as Thottimus Prime. It’s definitely him.”

Aizawa snorts. “Who fed the cats?”

“Kaminari, mostly. He’s the only one who has the key.”

Aizawa chooses not to comment on the absurdity of that sentence. There’s a slight pause.

“I really should expel your entire class for this kind of reckless behavior,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Trust me,” Hitoshi says, “we’ve heard it already. We got a lecture on unnecessarily endangering ourselves from the principal.”

“And Midnight.”

“And Blood King.”

“And Iida.”

“And Midoriya’s mum.”

Aizawa laughs at that; it feels warm and real. Suddenly, he hears a familiar voice from around the corner. “Well, I think they got everything right. I checked, but if something’s wrong, you’re going down the single flight of stairs to get it—“

Mic stops when he sees Aizawa, eyes widening slightly. “Shouta,” he mumbles. The bags drop to the ground, an apple bouncing beneath the side table. He sits down carefully on the bed, grabbing Aizawa’s uninjured hand. “I’m so sorry.”

The creases in Aizawa’s forehead smooth. “You don’t have anything to be worried about. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I think we need more dressing,” Shouto says. Hitoshi nods vigorously, and they both book it out of the room.

“They caught him,” Hizashi mumbles from where he’s pressed his face into Aizawa’s good side. “His quirk had a short radius of control, so they knew he had to be somewhere in the woods.”

“Good,” he says, sitting up. He leans over and presses a kiss to his husband’s cheek before attempting to get out of bed.

“And where are you going?”

“They said I could leave whenever I was ready,” he says matter of factly. He tests each foot, seeing which one can bear more weight. Yep, the left is definitely broken.

“You aren’t going anywhere!”

“I have lessons that need to be taught tomorrow.”

Mic flicks him lightly on the back of the head. “Absolutely not. I’m more than happy to take care of you at the house, but if I see one single test out to be graded...“

Aizawa sinks back down, mumbling in unintelligible frustration. “We should probably let the kids know we’re done being mushy. I can’t believe you didn’t make them shower.”

He gasps with mock offense. “I was a little busy!”

Aizawa laughs. He leans over, kissing Hizashi’s forehead one last time before they head back to the house and the biggest scandal of their time.

The following Wednesday, Aizawa walks into Present Mic’s class while he’s still teaching and slams a package on his desk.

As soon as Mic sees that it’s his wedding ring, the waterworks start.

“You’re such a sap!” Kaminari laughs from the back of the room.

“How did you even find this?” Mic asks through tears.

“I had Hound Dog help me. He knows those woods.”

“But you‘re afraid of... oh my gosh, Shouta. That's so sweet! I’m gonna cry!”

“You’re already crying,” says Shouto. The rest of the class watches in varying stages of concern and amusement.

Mic tries to catch him in a hug; Aizawa flips him off and leaves.

“Absolutely not,” Aizawa says immediately upon walking into the dorms. Recovery Girl had fussed over his vitals for a few minutes, but eventually relented and gave him the all-clear to return to UA, albeit with strict instructions to take it easy. “This is the opposite of bed rest.”

“Live a little,” Hitoshi says, rolling his eyes and unwrapping what seems to be his fifth cupcake. Aizawa stops himself from putting any limit on it. After all, they’re still riding the high of not being dead, and Sato’s cooking is incredible.

The party lasts until almost three in the morning. “It’s not like we have anywhere else to be,” says Ojirou.

Over the course of the night, all his kids come over and talk to him. Some students thank him. Some students (read: Izuku) sob.

“That was the manliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Kirishima says, clenching his fist. “I hope me and my husband can be that badass someday.”

“My husband and I,” Bakugou mutters.

A while later, Aizawa finally gives in to Satou’s nudges and goes to find a cupcake. He finds Bakugou with an absurdly big pot of curry, which he shoves into his teacher’s hands with the instructions to 'fucking take care of yourself, you old bastard'. It’s the nicest gesture he’s seen from the boy; he resolves to work a few sparring days into the upcoming week of class.

Bakugou stands in the kitchen door awkwardly. “For a while there, I, uh, I thought he’d gone off the rails. I thought you were both villains, and that was a dick move. I’m, y’know.”

He doesn’t say sorry, but Aizawa understands. “That’s reasonable. You have to establish a certain amount of distrust in this profession, but remember there are some people who’ve always got your back.”

Bakugou’s eyes stray over to Kirishima, Mina, Kaminari, and Sero. They're currently attempting to do a keg stand on a cooler of white grape juice. “Yeah. I... yeah.” He walks over, and Kirishima mutters something like 'I’m proud of you'. Aizawa knows they’ll be okay.

Across the room, Kouda is signing to Mic. “I’m glad you’re alright. It would suck if one of the best heroes who uses sign language turned out to be a villain.”

“Too bad he’s not the best hero that uses sign language, because I’m the best, period,” Bakugou signs rapidly. He then swears in the impressive amount of ways Kirishima taught him one weekend, but he’s smiling too much for there to be any heat behind it.

“Yeah,” Jirou adds, “what would I do without the world’s best radio host?”

Mic looks like he’s about to cry again. Aizawa starts toward him, but his efforts are thwarted by Iida and Tsuyu. Iida bows so low Aizawa worries he’ll break in half.

“Sensei!” he yells, doing the odd thing with his arms that makes Aizawa worry they’ll break too. “Forgive us for disobeying the commands of our teachers!”

“We couldn’t just sit around,” Tsuyu croaks, “but we put our lives at risk again. We’re sorry.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Tokoyami says. He's in the corner of the room, feeding Dark Shadow a puff pastry. “He knows we would go to hell and back if it meant he could be saved.”

“Admirably edgy,” Aizawa says, “but you either apologize or you’re formally uninvited to all future family nights.”

“No, please! I’m sorry for my insolence!” Tokoyami says, looking panicked at the prospect of being banned from laser tag.

“That’s adorable,” Shinsou says, linking their hands together. Tokoyami somehow manages to blush through his feathers.

“You heard the man!” Kaminari yells across the room. “I’m the only one invited to gingerbread house night now!”

Tokoyami gasps dramatically. “You expect me to die a peasant, having lived as a king?”

“Man,” says Mina, “we should have our own laser tag nights.”

“Absolutely not,” Sero says. “I’m putting a stop to that right here, right now. Not after Recovery Girl banned us from playing Monopoly.”

“You’re just mad I won! You’re bitter I owned the boardwalk!” Hagakure yells.

“You only owned the boardwalk because you’re a filthy cheater,” says Shouji, not looking up from his crocheting. She tackles him into the sofa. Aizawa lets it happen.

“I’m sorry as well, Sensei,” Izuku says. “I know we haven’t exactly made your life easier.”

Aizawa tilts his mouth in a way that could be a smile. “You’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah,” Shouto says quietly. “Now he only breaks all his bones 50 percent of the time.”

“Hey! Those are fighting words!”

“Absolutely not,” Iida insists. “We need to be the model of responsibility from now on—“

“I’ve got money on Shouto,” Uraraka says, and Izuku makes a noise of despair.

“I’ll take Midoriya,” Aoyama says, getting up. He helps Shouji gather his yarn and needles from the floor.

“Isn’t this a bit reckless?” Momo protests.

“Not if we use the gyms!” Mic says, pulling out a keycard.

They all look to Aizawa, who shrugs. “Good heroes are always ready to train.”

Later that night, after everyone who bet on Shouto gathers their winnings and the whole class is finally in bed, four people remain in the common room.

There’s silence for a while, all of them content to be together as a family, before Aizawa breaks it.

“You can’t protect me all the time, you know.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same,” says Hitoshi. “I’m not entirely convinced you haven’t killed someone for us already.”

“But—“

“You can’t protect us all the time, either,” says Shouto quietly.

Mic sighs. “How’s your head feeling, Hitoshi?”

“Better.” He pauses. “That was kind of badass.”

“That was super badass,” Aizawa corrects, “but you’re not allowed to practice it outside of training.”

“How about during badminton?”

“No.”

“We didn’t put any rules on badminton,” Mic points out.

“Are you suggesting we host battle badminton for our next game night?”

“That is exactly what he’s suggesting,” Shouto says, stretching across all three of them on the couch. “I love it.”

There will be things to worry about later: gaining the public’s support again, a cornucopia of trust issues, classes and villains and all the usual insanity. There are tons of problems Aizawa should be giving his attention to.

But here, in this moment, with all of his family lying sleepily around him, all of his kids safe in the rooms above?

This is the only thing that counts.