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It starts with a…
Well, frankly, Aizawa isn’t sure how it starts.
He counts back the minutes and hours and days, searching his memory for a breaking point. Maybe if he found that perceived slight like stealing the last cookie or taking a hit too hard, nothing comes to mind.
Aizawa recalls the morning he noticed, with the odd quiet at the table, and Katsuki’s sour mood because he left without Hitoshi and Izuku.
When afternoon came, and the trio was supposed to come to U.A. for training, it was Hitoshi who arrived first – unusual; Katsuki next - vaguely normal, and Izuku showed up halfway through looking all the world had been yanked out from under him.
“Kacchan,” Izuku reaches out for Katsuki at the end of a spar. The blond teen jerks away and stomps off. Izuku clenches his hands into fists, curling them against his middle.
Training ends abruptly when Hitoshi slams into Izuku with an easily avoidable maneuver that knocks the kid out for several minutes.
“Do you know what happened?” Hizashi asks in a half-whisper, glancing towards the stairs as he cradles his mug of tea. Hitoshi scratches out his homework alone at the dining table, where the three teens usually do homework together, though it’s conspicuously empty.
“If I knew, would I really be here instead of whoever’s in the right?” The purple teen asks in a bored tone, arching a brow. “Katsuki’s good at math, and I could use that about now.” He sighs, dejected. “But that hothead is probably at fault anyway.”
“What makes you say that?” Aizawa asks, checking his belt pockets has everything he needs before he heads out on patrol.
“It’s Katsuki,” Hizashi and Hitoshi say matter-of-factly.
“Has there been anything at school?” The erasure hero leans against the kitchen counter, nursing a mug of steaming coffee, watching the tired teen pinch his lips in dissatisfaction.
“I don’t know what they’re usually like, and I don’t usually see them. Different classes and whatever. But they’re – hold on – ” He writes out an equation and punches numbers into his calculator before writing the result. “They’re kind of weirder than normal.”
“Weird how?” Hizashi presses.
“Weird like Izuku visits me every break, and this kid with weird long fingers is hanging out with Katsuki. Weird that they don’t speak to each other before or after school. Weird that I have to literally drag them places.”
“This is going to get worse,” Aizawa predicts, “but we have no choice but to observe. If we intervene now, it may damage our existing relationships with them.” Yet another point of permission he doesn’t know how to obtain. Maybe he should pick up those parenting books Hound Dog suggested.
“We’ll figure it out,” Hizashi promises.
“Worse comes to worst; I can practice antagonizing them. If they respond, I won’t use my quirk; it wouldn’t give me the answers we want anyway.” Hitoshi says, turning the page and groaning at whatever he sees. “Either way, it’ll get them talking for or against one another.”
It gets worse in subtle ways.
First, Katsuki takes out his hearing aids whenever Izuku enters the room. It’s not enough to turn them off, but taking them out is a figurative middle finger to the teen. Next, Izuku finds ways to be anywhere but Katsuki, usually at Aizawa’s side. Having the green teen close is a comfort, but it’s a bit much. Izuku is trying and failing to keep himself together, using the hero as an anchor in a turbulent sea. It leads to sleepless nights on the couch and a silent wish to nap in a familiar bed.
Then, Aizawa is pulled away from training heroes at the news that Izuku is being bullied again.
“It’s not a big deal,” Izuku promises, hands splayed wide and open to keep Aizawa from storming the middle school and demand detention for the students that caused the sight before him. “I’m, I’m okay.”
Izuku is not okay.
He has a black eye forming, a darkening smattering of red at his cheekbone. He has a busted lip, one sleeve torn at the shoulder seam and the other shredded with bandages wrapped around the arm beneath.
“I used what you taught us to – to keep myself safe. I didn’t fight back.”
“Hitoshi and Katsuki were supposed to keep you safe too.” Aizawa pulls the teen into a hug, careful when the kid makes a sound of pained protest. “That’s what we do as a family. We keep one another safe.” So why didn’t they keep Midoriya safe?
“Hitoshi’s in another class,” Izuku says, answering the unasked question, “he didn’t know.”
“And where was Katsuki in all of this?” Aizawa pulls back, looking at green eyes nearly swollen shut.
Izuku pouts. “He’s not my babysitter, and I’m not his. Who knows.”
Aizawa sighs, “What’s going on with you two? I know you fight on your best days, but this is something different.” He guides the teen outside to wait for the final bell.
“We don’t fight,” Izuku says, and when Aizawa gives him a flat look, he shrugs. “Not really. They’re more like physical arguments – ”
“That’s a fight, Izuku – ”
“But it’s more like, this is a brief disagreement, and we’ll come to terms or move past it.” The teen looks troubled, clutching his injured arm to his chest.
Aizawa thinks about Izuku and Katsuki’s daily interactions – before things went wrong. They argued on the daily, from putting away dishes to quirk analysis. They once yelled at each other for several minutes on which math formula was best to solve a problem. Their daily tussles, once they start, are quickly taken outside, turning into sparring matches and critiques of technique. And after every fight and argument and disagreement – Izuku is happy, and Katsuki is a little less sour.
It’s the kind of relationship he’s only heard about, that bizarre sibling relationship where a glare across the room can cause the other to burst out in laughter from a joke told once nearly a decade ago. It’s a relationship that stems from a small world the two created, where there is no hesitation in pitting themselves against each other’s flaws because they’ll accept one another when all is said and done.
What could possibly come between the two that neither are willing to look past their transgressions? Katsuki bullied Izuku for heaven’s sake and may have been his main antagonizer for the night on that rooftop. If Izuku is willing to look past that and Katsuki is attempting to mend the gap, what on earth could split them apart?
Aizawa contemplates the dilemma until Katsuki and Hitoshi show up at the gate. When Katsuki catches sight of Izuku, bandaged and bruised, his gaze lingers before removing only one of his hearing aids. Perhaps that’s progress.
Maybe it’s all his time in the pro hero world, but Aizawa expects more blood and bruises. He doesn’t expect silence to fill the normally boisterous household, cursing all the times he wished for it before. He doesn’t expect extreme avoidance or Izuku changing his sleep schedule to catch Katsuki and Katsuki doing the same to avoid. It’s strange to greet Izuku after a late-night patrol and bang on a bedroom door to rush the explosive teen out of bed. All the while, Hitoshi stands in the middle of this not chaos with Hizashi and Aizawa, completely flabbergasted.
“They’re not fighting; they always fight,” Aizawa tells Inui-san one afternoon, just after lunch.
“It sounds to me that if they always fight, maybe it isn’t actually fighting,” Inui-san growls from behind his muzzle. “What happens when you and Hizashi fight?”
Aizawa frowns; what do they do when they fight? Sure, they don’t always agree on things but fighting? Actual fighting that requires Nemuri as a buffer is so far and few between that Aizawa can hardly remember them.
No, wait.
He shudders at the memory of a microphone hurled at his head, which left a barely visible scar at his hairline. Aizawa remembers excessive night patrols to avoid a warm bed and a stilted husband. He remembers coming home to the blonde – still surprisingly up – and fighting so loud and long Hizashi ran out of words in Japanese and proceeded to curse him out in English. He remembers feeling helpless and frustrated for not understanding; he wound up yelling back, Whatever you just said, same to you, and how that dissolved whatever fight into fits of laughter.
“I always disengage,” Aizawa presses fingers to the scar, “Hizashi brings recording equipment to fistfights.”
“We all show love in different ways.” Aizawa tosses the school counselor a withering glare, and Hound Dog huffs a laugh. “So which one is disengaging and which one is bringing ill-advised items to a fistfight?”
“Katsuki is removing his hearing aids whenever Izuku walks into the room.” The erasure hero runs a hand through his hair. “But Izuku isn’t like Hizashi, Inui-san. He’s,” Aizawa purses his lips into a frown, trying to find the right words, “he’s collapsing, you know? Fight, flight, collapse? I flight, Hizashi fights, and Izuku – he got bullied at school. I think – I think he chose not to signal Hitoshi or Katsuki. Knowing the kid, he might have thought he deserved it.”
“But he doesn’t,”
Aizawa huffs, “No kid deserves being bullied. We’re working on it. It’s slow work, but we’re building up his confidence.”
“Consider,” Hound Dog growls as he slows to a stop outside his counseling office, “What things are missing when you and your husband fight? What are the toughest things to touch on? What helps resolve these tough moments?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?”
“Then how about this,” The counselor leans against his doorframe, tilting his head in thought. “Is there anyone you know who may have seen Izuku and Katsuki fight before? And if so, can they give you insight on how to resolve the issue?”
The image of a woman who looks like Katsuki comes to mind. “I’ll give that a try.”
Opportunity presents itself a few days later when Katsuki declares that he’ll stay with his parents for the next week. It’s fine; Bakugou’s parents have a fifty-fifty split of custody now that the weather is cooling. Katsuki usually tells Aizawa and Hizashi a few days before returning to his parents, not out of the blue and in the middle of a fight with Izuku.
Aizawa doesn’t miss that Izuku deflates at the announcement, leaning into Hitoshi, black eye barely healing.
“I’ll escort you.” The erasure hero says without hesitation.
“You going to tell me what this is about?” Aizawa asks, walking in step with the stomping shorter teen.
“I’m seeing the old man and hag, what else?” Katsuki snaps.
“Not that,” Aizawa frowns. That’s hardly a polite way to reference paternal figures. The terms are harsher than Katsuki’s nickname for Aizawa, which is unaffectionately, ‘hobo.’ “Izuku and whatever’s going on there.”
“Nothing’s going on.” The teen bites. “Just some dumbass being a dumbass.”
Yeah, that clears things up.
“That dumbass you?” Aizawa presses, trying to get a slip out of the blond by riling him up.
“What the fuck do you think?” Katsuki glares. There’s a layer of hurt beneath the sharpness, turning the bright red dark and deep like a cooling pool of blood.
Katsuki believes he’s been hurt.
Izuku thinks he’s been hurt if the sleepless nights crying are any reference.
Aizawa recalls a manga he read as a kid about two opposing forces going to battle. The phrasing made him pursue underground hero work because it made him realize that the idea of someone being only right or wrong is skewed thinking. The idea of only having heroes and villains is biased because both sides could be working towards a better future.
When both sides believe they’re doing the right thing, you get an impasse. And when you have an impasse, you have war.
Is that what this is? A war between childhood friends? It is a cold war, more like it, with the threat of something destructive hovering over the Aizawa/Yamada household.
Bakugou Mitsuki welcomes Katsuki with a ruffle through his blond spikes, and a chide not to slouch. She offers Aizawa indoors for tea, something he’s hesitant to accept. “I hope Katsuki isn’t giving you too much trouble. I was surprised when he suddenly wanted to move back in for a week.”
“He’s fine. They’re all fine,” Aizawa assures. “We’re going through a bit of a rough patch.” Is that what he’s calling it?
“Is that what you’re calling it?” Mitsuki smirks. “He finally get on Izuku’s last nerves or something? I told him his temper is going to get the better of him.”
“They’re fighting,” Aizawa confesses, “And it’s not their usual kind that stops as abruptly as they start. You haven’t seen anything like it, have you?”
Mitsuki taps her chin in thought, frowning at Aizawa and then over her shoulder where the sound of someone slamming objects can be heard from deep within the large home. “Can’t say I have. Or, hold on.” Her brow furrows. “There was something when they were younger, seven, eight or something. It was fucking terrible if I remember correctly.”
“Do you mind telling me what happened?”
“Well, it wasn’t all that bad, truthfully, once they talked it out – tears on both sides, by the way. It was All Might related, I think. Izuku got something exclusive, something Katsuki didn’t, and you know my kid, he wants everything. I don’t think he always understands when enough is enough. Izuku, sweetheart of a kid, gave it to him as a gift, but the brat misunderstood it somehow. I don’t really know all the details. All I know is the brat moped for an entire week before he gave up.”
“Are you saying I should wait this out?”
“Oh, fuck no,” Mitsuki laughs, flapping her hand dismissively at Aizawa. “Have you met those two? They’ve both gotten more stubborn these past years. A week is nothing. You’ll probably need to pull some teeth.”
Aizawa is not looking forward to that.
“I’ll pull some here too. Maybe some time apart will loosen lips, alright?”
Aizawa bows, “Thank you, Bakugou-san.”
A few days later, two notebooks drop in front of Hizashi and Aizawa, Hitoshi looking a little smug. One looks practically brand new, the spine barely cracked. The other is waterlogged, torn, and covered in scorch marks – likely from Katsuki’s bullying days. Each contains near-identical words on the cover: Quirk Analysis for the Future Volume 13, though the newer one includes a smaller note v. 2.
Version two.
Aizawa doesn’t understand.
“I found it,” Hitoshi says, triumphant.
“Found what, exactly?” Hizashi slides the notebooks closer, opening the pages with care, comparing the contents.
“Izuku doesn’t have duplicates of anything – except maybe his uniform,” Hitoshi explains. “Everything he has, he takes meticulous care of, including those awful red shoes.”
“Then why would he make a second version of this notebook?” Aizawa asks. Why wouldn’t he change it to volume fourteen? Why would he need to duplicate this notebook and not the other twelve?
“That’s exactly what I thought!”
“So?” Aizawa looks at his husband, who’s still thumbing through the pages with care.
“Shouta, I knew his analysis was good. I didn’t think it was this good,” Hizashi marvels, turning the page. “Nedzu might want him. I don’t think I can handle two Nedzu’s.” The blond looks up, flipping the pages of both notebooks. “Nothing out of the ordinary so far. Version two has neater notes, slightly more detail. Nothing that hints at whatever’s going on between them.”
“Keep looking,” Hitoshi assures.
“Oh, look, Shouta! It’s Mt. Lady. Didn’t she debut the day you met Izuku?” Hizashi pours over the identical pages as Aizawa stiffens. “Looks like he captured details from her debut battle in Musutafu.
Mt. Lady debuted in the morning, a sludge monster in the afternoon, and Izuku nearly died in the evening. Somehow, everything keeps coming back to this day. Izuku still won’t talk about it. Katsuki probably doesn’t know he almost lost the closest thing to a brother nearly half a year ago. Has it really been five months?
Aizawa’s gaze drifts from Hizashi to Hitoshi and to the kitchen and living room visible from the dining table. This life is still so new, but it feels like something he’s supposed to have. It feels right.
“Oh,” Hizashi breathes, soft even for him. Aizawa snaps his gaze to his husband, whose brows furrow at the notebooks below.
The newer notebook is immaculate and blank, though Aizawa can tell there’s ink on the opposite sides threatening to bleed through. The spread on the damaged notebook is covered top to bottom in large letters containing an insufferable name: All Might.
Oh indeed.
It was All Might related, I think. Izuku got something exclusive, something Katsuki didn’t…
“They’re both big fans of All Might,” Aizawa says, recalling Izuku’s old room, which was insufferably covered top to bottom in all things All Might.
It’s Hitoshi’s turn to furrow his brow. “Since when?” The teen asks as Hizashi continues to flip through the pages to confirm the only major difference.
“He has collectible action figures, bedspread, everything,” Aizawa waves his hand dismissively.
“Where?” Hitoshi sits at one of the chairs. “Izuku kind of just zones out when All Might is mentioned.”
Has Aizawa ever heard Izuku talk about All Might? He recalls the apartment bedroom decked from ceiling to floor and the apparent lack of yellow, red, white, and blue in his new room upstairs. He thinks about his conversation with Katsuki, attempting to get a point of permission with the teen, where Izuku believes the blond better than All Might. How Katsuki was quick to protest and Izuku just as quick to sour against it. Aizawa remembers the night of roasting marshmallows, Izuku’s tears, and heartbroken words over a pro that crushed his dreams.
Well, fuck.
Aizawa is half tempted to pull up the U.A. directory for All Might’s address. Just to talk, of course.
“Well,” Aizawa heaves, “maybe not anymore.” He stares down into his half-drunk coffee mug. “So that’s it then? Izuku creates a copy of his notebook so Katsuki can have the signature of his favorite pro hero, and he doesn’t have to see it again? What’s the problem? It sounds like they both get what they want.”
Hitoshi shrugs as Jelly jumps into his lap. “I don’t know. Thought you two would since you’re pros.”
“It sounds like – to me – little listener, that there’s some sort of communication mishap. A station playing two different radio waves. We’ll figure it out.” Hizashi reaches out a hand and ruffles the messy purple hair, and gestures to the open books. “Now that we know where to start, we can figure a way towards the end.”
Katsuki returns a day early from his parent’s home, and Izuku lights up like a Christmas tree, only to dim just as quickly when the blond only acknowledges Aizawa and Hizashi. The silent treatment, it seems, now extends to Hitoshi.
“I talked to him after school the other day,” Hitoshi is quick to explain when Katsuki stomps up the stairs. “I said I knew about the notebook. He looked like he was going to punch me, but he exploded a trashcan instead.”
“That’s good he didn’t take it out on your face,” Hizashi sends a worried glance Aizawa’s way, “right?”
“Katsuki has made great strides to counteract his anger issues, especially in the past few months. While it’s not ideal, the fact that he took it out on the trash can is an improvement.” Aizawa sighs.
Footsteps thunder down the stairs, catching Aizawa’s attention. Katsuki stomps down two at a time as Izuku chases clumsily after him. “I’m not listening to shit, Deku!” The blond roars, muscling his way past the heroes.
“Kacchan, please!” Izuku begs, tripping once but catching himself on the back of the sofa. He clutches the original number thirteen notebook to his chest. “I won’t give it to you anymore, promise! I just want us to be friends again!” He chases Katsuki out into the backyard.
“Should we follow?” Hizashi stage whispers in the suddenly silent home.
“Or should I make popcorn?” Hitoshi asks flatly.
Aizawa pinches his nose. “Hang back. I’ll referee.”
Izuku is crying with big fat tears rolling down his face. Katsuki has a dirt hole next to his foot. Aizawa knows the local sod distributor is going to be thrilled to see him again. If not for Izuku’s tears, the pro would assume this a western high noon stand-off.
“Why the fuck are you crying?” Katsuki demands.
“Just fight me and get it over with!” Izuku cries.
These are two completely separate conversations, Aizawa thinks.
“Get over?” Katsuki scoffs. “You’re the one lording it over my head!”
“I don’t have anything over you!” Izuku yells, throwing the burnt notebook until it hits Katsuki in the face. The blond kicks the notebook away and into the dirt hole as if it’s poison. Maybe it is. “I don’t understand, and you won’t talk to me, and I want you to fight me so we can put this behind us!”
“You don’t understand? You’re the one pulling this bullshit!” Katsuki gestures aggressively at the notebook.
“Please, calm down, the neighbors.” Aizawa turns to see Hitoshi leaning at the back door, expression flat and voice monotone. The teen holds a bowl of popcorn in one arm, picking at the contents with his other hand.
“Just punch me already!” Izuku demands, wiping furiously to dry his tears.
“That’s not going to do shit!”
“Then what will?” Aizawa asks. His voice is softer than the two screaming teens but commands their attention. The erasure hero’s eyes itch, and he realizes his quirk is activated and his hands are on his capture scarf, ready to remove one teen or the other from the situation. “You’re both miserable. We’re miserable,” Aizawa gestures to the doorway where Hitoshi waves before popping another kernel into his mouth. “There are going to be fights you can’t come back from. This doesn’t have to be one of them. Don’t let a notebook ruin your childhood friendship.”
“It almost did,” Izuku stares at the dirtied notebook.
“It already has,” Katsuki says with finality.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Hizashi pushes past Hitoshi, forcing the purple-haired teen to drop half the contents of his bowl to the ground. “It’s not going to end like this. We’re gonna figure this out. It’s probably some misunderstanding. So, here’s the plan, little listeners,” Hizashi steps between the two teens. “Shouta and I will each take one of you into separate rooms, and you will tell us what’s going on. Hitoshi will be the keeper of the notebook and clean up the popcorn. Shouta and I will reconvene and see what can be repaired and what can’t. Got it?”
Both teens show signs of hesitation. Izuku curls into himself a bit; Katsuki snarls and looks away.
“Fine,” They say in unison.
Hizashi takes Izuku to the bedroom to talk while Aizawa leads the way to the kitchen. Katsuki is always more relaxed when cooking. Though, getting to that calm state may be a struggle, judging by how loudly the teen is banging pots.
“He wanted to get into U.A.,” Katsuki growls, accepting the container of rice from Aizawa to pour into a pot.
“I’m aware.”
“He was going to get himself killed.” The blond shoves the pot into the sink, filling it with water. He swirls the rice around a few times, rinsing the extra starch before measuring rice up to his knuckle. “I had to stop him the only way I could.”
“You burned his notebook.”
“And tossed it out a window. The idiot needed to stop being something he wasn’t.” Katsuki starts the rice cooker before pulling out a selection of ingredients. “I was the fucking worst to him that day. I wanted him to give up. I’m more than enough hero for both of us. I said shit to him. Shit, I’m not proud of and – that thing with the marshmallows?” Katsuki waves a bottle of oil towards the living room. “It still bothers the fuck out of Deku.”
“Did you apologize?” So, Katsuki had questionably good intentions with cruel and terrible follow through. Aizawa makes a note to talk with the Bakugou’s about getting their son into counseling sessions. Regardless of whether or not the teen becomes a hero, he needs to learn how to show care positively and in a less mentally damaging way.
Though, there’s something strange in Katsuki’s words. If Aizawa remembers correctly, Izuku spoke about a pro hero the ‘night of the marshmallows.’ Izuku, from what the pro can tell, doesn’t blame the blond in the slightest when it comes to the night of the jump. Why would he, when the greatest hero in the public eye was potentially the green teen’s last straw?
“I don’t do that sort of thing.” The teen growls, gaze firmly on breading pork chops. “He knows that.”
“Does he?”
Katsuki grips the counters too tightly before moving to the stove to drop in the freshly breaded pork cutlets. “Guess not, since he’s trying to lord it over my head.”
Aizawa simmers on the response while oil crackles and bubbles on the other side of the kitchen. He may be new to this whole parenting thing, but the pro knows Katsuki is as likely to apologize as Izuku is capable of being vindictive. Surely the childhood best friend knows this?
“What if he isn’t trying to hold it over you?” The pro asks when the teen sets aside the last of the fried cutlets and placing another pot to boil.
Katsuki scoffs, “I’d hold it over me.” The blond shakes his head, cracking more eggs into a measuring cup. “Bullied the fuck out of him for years, destroyed his shit – even when I knew he couldn’t replace it – told him to swan dive off a roof – ”
“Stop.” Aizawa cuts him off, holding up a staying hand. “You baited him?” The pro feels lightheaded, suddenly thankful to be sitting. He can see that night clearly in his mind. There’s a kid at the edge of the roof, foot extended out, just ready to tip and fall. He recalls the night was a little chilly, remembers camping out in front of Izuku’s apartment until the kid left for school in the morning. He remembers how light Izuku felt in his arms, the small trembling form, the hopelessness in verdant green eyes.
Aizawa remembers wondering what could make a kid as young as Izuku feel so unseen and unwanted that the better option was dying. He wonders and continues to wonder about all the factors that lead to that night and finds out one of them stands before him, whisking eggs in a measuring cup.
“You baited him on the day he – ” Aizawa stops short. It’s not his place to tell Izuku’s decision from that night. He would have offered information to a police report – if he made one, to heroes that could help. Nemuri still doesn’t know the details, while Hound Dog has some basic knowledge of the situation.
“Day he what?” Katsuki’s eyes narrow.
The pro hero breathes in and counts to ten, gaze slowly drifting up to lock eyes with the blond. “That,” He says through gritted teeth, “is currently irrelevant to this conversation.”
Was it a mistake to welcome Katsuki into his home? Yes, Aizawa knew about the bullying. He witnessed it first-hand undercover but determined it to be mostly bravado and façade for school appearances. Katsuki posed no actual threat to Izuku. Aizawa wonders if he would have willingly offered joint custody of the blond if he had known about the baiting. But, a quiet side of Aizawa reasons, Katsuki has been more protective and cautious with Izuku outside of school walls and even in them as of recent months. The two are practically inseparable, feeding off each other in a strange symbiotic relationship. It’s hard to imagine Izuku as happy as he has been without Katsuki in the house. These two are so tangled together, Aizawa doubts there could have been another option.
“Let’s backtrack,” Aizawa releases a heavy breath, “But we are in no way done speaking about you baiting Izuku.” He levels the teen with a glare, feeling his quirk activate ever-so-slightly.
“Yeah, I get it.” Katsuki mumbles, turning to the stove and pouring some of the egg into the pot.
“Hypothetically, why else would Izuku want to give you that notebook?”
“Fuck if I know.” The teen slices up cutlets with expert care, dropping one into the pot before serving rice into a bowl.
“Think,” Aizawa presses.
“It’s his shitty analysis books; what do you think is in them? Probably some dumbass information about whatever hero he thought was cool that day. Or, I don’t know, he wrote up shit on that fucking sludge monster because he probably thinks I’m still scared of it or something.” Katsuki scoops out the eggs and cutlet in one go, laying it over the rice. He prepares a new bowl and repeats the process of egg and cutlet into the pot.
The pro hero thinks back on the night he met Izuku, how the sludge monster was on the news but all Aizawa could remember about it was yellow backpacks, green hair with a trembling smile, and fire.
Explosions make fire.
“Izuku was rescuing you that day.” Aizawa realizes.
“I didn’t need the help!” Katsuki snaps. “Fucking idiot runs in there because he thinks I did, but I fucking didn’t, got it?”
“Sure.” The pro watches the teen prepare two more bowls. “You said ‘still.’”
“Ha?”
“You said ‘still scared of it.’ Katsuki, do you have flashbacks? Nightmares?”
“As if I would have something so weak.” The blond serves another bowl.
“It’s not weak. The villain encounter was a traumatic experience. Being scared is completely logical. By pushing the emotion away, you may be making the experience worse.”
“Fuck that,”
“Yeah, it’s not exactly the most pleasant feeling in the world.” Aizawa doesn’t think Izuku would do a write-up on the sludge monster – not because the green teen’s analyses are typically of heroes – but because Izuku is far too ill-equipped to handle his trauma, much less address another’s.
“Why else would Izuku want to give that notebook to you?”
“What, like he meant it as a gift?” Katsuki raises a brow, moving dirty dishes into the sink. “And here I thought you were smart.”
“And here I thought you knew your childhood friend.”
Katsuki sours.
Aizawa and Hizashi determine it’s a misunderstanding during dinner. That’s not new information, but there’s a tiny bit of satisfaction of moving it from ‘speculation’ to ‘fact.’ There is trauma wrapped up in the pages of this notebook. It will be difficult to parse through it to reach an understanding.
They gather in the living room.
Hizashi and Izuku sit on the sofa at one side of the coffee table, while Katsuki stands and Aizawa slouches in the yellow armchair. Hitoshi holds the burned and torn notebook tight to his chest like it’s the most valuable thing in the house. It’s not – monetarily speaking – there’s a half-million-dollar painting Nemuri made in the entryway that Hizashi has carried from place to place. It’s inflated in value the more the heroine rises in the popularity charts. But emotionally? This entire household is riding on the contents.
“Hitoshi, please open to the page in question,” Aizawa says tiredly. Hitoshi glances once towards Aizawa and then to Izuku, who nods tentatively. As the purple teen flips through the pages, Katsuki stiffens as if something might just leap from the paper and strike him.
Slowly, Hitoshi sets the spread down on the coffee table, the large signature visible for all to see.
All Might, the person that’s supposed to be the best hero humanity has to offer. All Might, who may have been a tipping point in Izuku’s collapse. All Might, whose signature nearly ended a relationship between two childhood friends.
“When the fuck did you get that?” The blond asks, voice hissing into the silence.
“I met him,” Izuku says to his feet, “that day after school. The sludge monster got me under that bridge; you know the one.” The kid looks up briefly, gaze flickering between Aizawa and Katsuki. Aizawa thinks he knows the bridge, vaguely recalling the kid avoiding the direct path home a few days after meeting the green teen.
Got Izuku? What does the kid mean by that? Did the monster try to claim Izuku like it tried to claim Katsuki?
“All Might came when I thought I was a goner.” The kid continues. “Rescued me, signed the notebook. I’ll spare you all the boring details.” At this, Izuku stares at Aizawa for a long time. The darkness in his green eyes all but confirms whatever All Might said is what pushed Izuku over the edge. “It was cool at the time, but after that day, I decided I didn’t want to be a hero like All Might. So I thought, I thought you might want it. You still admire him, right?”
A three-count of silence passes through the stilted room.
“What the fuck did he do?” Katsuki growls. “You’re obsessed with All Might. You practically have a hard-on at the briefest mention of him – ”
“Kacchan!”
“ – So what the fuck did he do to you?” Katsuki clenches and unclenches his hands into fists.
“Aizawa-sensei,” Izuku all but whimpers.
Aizawa stands, motioning for Hizashi to follow as he pushes Hitoshi towards the door. “Don’t destroy the house. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“Is it wise to leave them alone?” Hitoshi asks as the trio walk down the street.
“Not in the slightest,” Aizawa puffs out a breath. “But I think they’re done fighting. They have a common enemy now.”
“All Might?” Hizashi hums.
“All Might.” Aizawa agrees.
“Do I ever get to know what’s going on, or am I supposed to just guess why the Symbol of Peace is really a piece of garbage?” Hitoshi grumbles.
“It’s Izuku’s story to share,” Aizawa offers, “he isn’t comfortable telling it to everyone just yet, but I’m sure he’ll tell you soon.”
When Aizawa returns – ice creams in hand – Izuku is speaking from one side of the couch about a brief encounter with Nemuri a few days ago when Katsuki stayed with his parents. “She’s really nice. She was wearing this big baggy sweater, even though it’s still a little hot out.”
“The thickness of the sweater may absorb the scent of her quirk from accidentally getting out.” Katsuki is thumbing through a textbook as he leans back against an armrest. “Do you know what type of fiber the sweater was?”
“That’s what I thought! Not really – it was knitted, though. It looked kind of itchy, no crisp lines.”
“Not cotton, acrylic, or bamboo, then.” The blond says. “In this weather, it was probably an alpaca or cotton and wool blend. Merino would be less shitty since it’s made to be odor resistant and for every weather, but most commercially sold items are too thin for a baggy sweater.”
“I didn’t know the little listener was into fabrics.” Hizashi marvels.
“Kacchan’s parents work in fashion!” Izuku beams, perking at the sight of Hizashi, Aizawa, and Hitoshi. “He knows a lot about how fabrics affect quirks.”
“And why I know you bought that ugly ass shirt from the dollar bin.” Katsuki flickers his gaze up at Izuku with a frown. Izuku glances at his pale blue shirt with the words ‘dress shirt’ written on it and shrugs.
“I’m so confused,” Hitoshi whispers from behind Aizawa. “An hour ago, I could have sworn there’d be murder. But everything’s fine now? We’re fine?”
Aizawa glances between Izuku and Katsuki, then to the rest of the living room. He takes a deep breath, realizing this is the calmest this home has been in weeks. Izuku no longer looks half a second away from bursting into tears, and Katsuki no longer looks like he wants to set fire to anything and everything. It’s not a truce, of that, Aizawa is sure. Otherwise, both teens would still be some semblance of tense and emotional. A resolution has happened, though Aizawa isn’t sure how they could have come to one so quickly.
“Everything’s fine!” Izuku assures, bright with happiness. “It’s Kacchan.” He offers by way of explanation.
Katsuki tilts his head back to look at Hizashi and Aizawa. “What he said, it’s Deku.”
It’s Kacchan.
It’s Deku.
“Yes,” Aizawa sighs, “It appears we are, in fact, fine.”
Aizawa cannot begin to fathom the unwavering trust that comes from this friendship, but he chooses to trust it too.