Work Text:
Shouta was just about ready to shove yesterday’s Exhausted Him down a set of stairs or two. He stared at his work calendar—at the date he’d so carefully set aside and the now glaring note attached to it—and muttered a string of inaudible curses. Yesterday, he’d gotten a call from another underground hero requesting aid on that day and Exhausted Him had taken one look at the massive hole of ‘availability’ on his calendar and thought, perfect.
Today, he had enough sleep to realize how massively he’d messed up. (It wasn’t like he was breaking a promise by not being there, but it sure as hell felt like it.)
July 15. The one day a year (or whichever day that week that he could spare) that he always set aside. It wasn’t unusual for him not to make the day of, but this year they had plans. Hizashi and Nemuri and even Tensei had all cleared their schedules like he had, and everything was ready for the experiments and what not.
Groaning, he searched for a day that had an opening or that he could make an opening on. There! The 20th was open. All he had was a meeting with Nezu in the morning and then night patrol. Narrowing his eyes, he blocked off the open slot and labeled it ‘Personal’ so even Exhausted Him wouldn’t screw it up again.
He grabbed his phone and dialed the number (whose ID had been changed in recent weeks to Literal Sunshine, no doubt courtesy of Hizashi).
Izuku picked up immediately. “Hi! What’s up?”
“Izuku—” He grimaced. Nothing for it, but to tell him honestly. “—something came up and I won’t make it to the party tomorrow. But I’m free on the 20th if that’s alright with you.”
“Oh okay. The 20th—yeah, that works! Uncle Masaru is going to video the experiment so you can watch it, too! Oh, are any of the others not coming?”
“No, everyone else is coming last I checked.” Sometimes Shouta wondered how anyone could have raised such a sweet and understanding child. Considering everything that had happened, it was something of a miracle.
Behind him, the door opened, and the soft patter of paws drew close. “Morning, Nezu,” he said, turning slightly to look at the principal out of the corner of his eye.
“Morning. I had a question, if you have time.” Beady, mildly mischievous eyes met his and Nezu held up a notebook. A notebook with Izuku’s handwriting scrawled on the front, labeling it as ‘Quirk Analysis No. 15.’
. . . It occurred to Shouta that he’d sort of unconsciously hidden Izuku from the principal out of concern for world peace habit.
“Is something wrong?” Izuku asked.
“Not necessarily,” he told him, eyeing Nezu warily. “The principal found that notebook I borrowed from you.” Static and garbled words on Izuku’s end told him the kid was sputtering with newfound nerves. Meanwhile, Nezu just grinned and waited expectantly.
It was inevitable, wasn’t it.
“Izuku, would you mind coming with me to a meet him in the morning on the 20th?”
“. . . can I?”
He snorted. Even after all this time, some things just don’t change. “Yes. In fact, he expects to meet you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Okay, bye Dad!” And he hung up. Just like that.
Shouta stared into space a moment, trying to reboot his brain.
“Aizawa?”
He spun in his chair, smothering his internal panic and taking a deep breath. “Yes?”
Nezu regarded him with that infernal calculation, like he could take the measure of a soul, and went on in that chipper tone. “Did I hear right that the author of this will be joining us at the meeting?”
You know damn well you heard right, you just like watching me squirm. “Yes. There isn’t any confidential information to discuss last I checked, or at least nothing he shouldn’t know about anyway.”
Nezu’s whiskers twitched, and he nodded. “Indeed. I’ll look forward to it.” He set the notebook down on Shouta’s desk, probably having memorized it already, and trotted off.
Shouta sent a message to the group chat about the change of plans, omitting Izuku’s meeting with Nezu until later. It wouldn’t help anyone to cause a panic.
The relative chill of the morning made every joint in Toshinori’s body ache horribly. He should have been used to it really, but honestly, it was summer! It wasn’t cold, by any stretch, and yet here he was, in a thick coat so he could go get groceries without hating every step. Pathetic really.
Glass shattered as a man bowled through the store front and onto the sidewalk. Just his luck.
He checked the man over (unconscious, mild cuts from the glass, and a dark bruise spreading over his left arm), noting he was wearing an employee’s uniform. The criminal was a hulking woman with wild eyes and even more erratic movements. Probably on Trigger.
And she had a kid cornered.
Damn.
He reached for One For All right as the kid brought something heavy down on the woman’s head and motioned for the remaining customers to get out quickly. Toshinori’s control sputtered out for a moment as he watched, mildly awestruck as the woman stumbled about and the kid dodged her almost effortlessly.
He’s tiring her out? It certainly seemed that way. With each passing moment, the woman got smaller and slower. Maybe she wasn’t on Trigger? Or she burned through it faster than most? He didn’t have as much experience with fighting villains on that drug, but he knew it typically lasted longer.
Coming back to himself, he helped the other civilians out and, once that was done, went inside to help. And not a moment too soon. The criminal had regained enough of her brain function to catch her opponent.
One For All flared inside him and he gently knocked her unconscious.
“Holy shit,” whispered a small voice. Toshinori looked down and found the boy, upside down and propped up by the counter, staring at him with eyes that were both filled with joy and horrifyingly reminiscent of Nezu’s gaze. “Katsuki’s gonna be so jealous.”
“Izuku! Where’d you go?” cried another young voice from outside.
“I’m in here!” the boy (Izuku, apparently) called back. “I’m fine!” he added, as he got up and brushed himself off.
His friend pushed through the door and started swinging his arms around in sharp arcs. “What were you thinking?! You could have been injured! You could be arrested!”
Ah, vigilantism, then? He dragged the criminal to a relatively clean corner and snapped suppression cuffs on her, listening all the while (not intentionally, but the other boy was rather loud).
“Actually, I won’t be arrested, Tenya. If you had done it, then yes. But I’m Quirkless, and vigilantism laws don’t account for that.”
Toshinori coughed to disguise the laugh threatening to come out and that got the boys’ attention.
“All Might!” Tenya cried, flushing pink. “Ah, apologies for our behavior! And thank you for your help! Uh—”
“Not to worry, young man. Your friend is correct on the legal front,” he told them, and they relaxed slightly. But he let his smile fall at the next word, “However, you shouldn’t do such dangerous things for your own safety’s sake. This time, you managed to prevent injuries to yourself and the other customers—which I appreciate—but it is still best practice to leave crime fighting to professionals.”
Both of them nodded, though Izuku’s general demeanor gave him the impression he’d be seeing a great deal of borderline illegal activity from him. Hmm.
“Mind telling me your names?”
He sat across from Naomasa and recounted the incident with the Quirkless vigilante. The detective took it all in stride until he mentioned the name Midoriya, when he nearly spit his coffee all over his paperwork.
“You know him?” Toshinori asked.
Naomasa swallowed and set his cup down. “Yes and I really should have seen this coming.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is this a repeat offence? He certainly didn’t give off the impression of being properly scolded.”
“I bet. And no, this is technically the first time this has happened.”
“Technically? What happened?”
Naomasa sighed and set his note pad and various bits of paperwork off to the side. “He saved Eraserhead’s life some years back. He didn’t fight and he was very young, so it didn’t count even as technical vigilantism, but being able to do something in a crisis at that age increases the probability of getting involved in this sort of thing later on.”
“Eraserhead, huh?” he muttered to himself. That was unusual, all things considered. Eraserhead was thorough and precise and by far one of the best underground heroes, but then, even heroes were still human.
“He’ll be applying to UA in a year or so. Vigilantism aside, you may very well run into him a lot.”
He blinked and looked up. “You think he’ll make it in?”
Naomasa barked a laugh. “He’s been practically adopted by four different Pros. There are two others from what I hear, all in the same year, and all of them are getting some informal prep training from the Pros.”
Toshinori leaned back, considering this. That was not an impossible thing then. Prep work was important for any hopeful applicant, Quirk or no. “Which Pros?”
“Eraserhead, Present Mic, Midnight, and Ingenium. In that order, in fact.”
“. . . what.”
“You don’t want to know.”
It was a wonderful view from the cliff, really, but the effect of the lush valley under the afternoon sun and the gentle breeze soured significantly when two loud and aggressive people yelled at each other for no apparent reason. Not that Masaru wasn’t used to Mitsuki and Katsuki’s general everything, but this was supposed to be a birthday celebration—even if the kids were planning on doing some Quirk testing as a ‘fun activity.’
No, none of this was strange at all considering the company they were keeping, and with Aizawa off on a job, the shenanigans went largely unchecked. Yamada and Ms. Kayama were responsible, but they were also 100% agents of chaos whenever they were not required to act like adults, and even Ingenium and his uptight younger brother weren’t enough to call them to order.
He looked over at Izuku, chatting away with their friends as they set up the picnic tables, completely unbothered by the shouting match behind him. He’d grown so much since the heroes—Aizawa specifically—had come to be a permanent part of their lives, and now that they were officially out of their old neighborhood, he looked completely comfortable in his own skin.
Masaru sighed. He might not have been as close to her as Mitsuki, but even he got nostalgic when Izuku’s birthday or the anniversary rolled around. It chafed some deep part of him that Inko would never get to see this. If it had been him, not getting to watch Katsuki grow and mature. . . Well, plainly speaking, it was heart wrenching.
“Something on your mind?” Yamada asked, appearing next to him with an unopened drink extended.
Masaru smiled and took the offering, saying, “Just old regrets. I’m glad you all are here.”
Yamada grinned wide. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He snickered, watching Katsuki aggressively fill water balloons and nail Shinso in the back of the head with one (declaring war, naturally). Behind them, Mitsuki and Ms. Kayama took up positions to defend the food while the balloon war turned into a free-for-all, even with Tenya Iida shouting at them to mind their manners and getting a balloon to the face for his trouble.
Katsuki laughed as Tenya took in a deep breath and removed his glasses, but the laugh turned to a choke of surprise as ‘Mr. Goody Two Shoes’ joined in.
Yamada leaned against the tree trunk behind him. “Shouta was pissed he couldn’t come.”
“I heard. Izuku mentioned he’s promised to spend the day with him later this week to make up for it.”
Yamada snickered. “You know, the neighbors have gotten it into their heads that he’s Izuku’s father. Can’t imagine why.”
That got a small derisive laugh out of him. “He’s more than welcome to the title, that’s for damn sure.”
“Mm. I bet.” Yamada hummed to himself, eyes fixed on some distant point.
That had been an awful conversation, but a necessary one. Not too long ago, Aizawa had walked the boys home and stayed long enough to tell Mitsuki about meeting Hisashi. Mitsuki had snapped a pen in half when he mentioned the fact the bastard was visiting some relatives with his new wife and kids.
Then Aizawa had asked a question, and that had prompted a story about a night when Inko had come to their door with dry, empty eyes. A night when she and Izuku stayed over in the guest bedroom so she wouldn’t have to sleep in a too big bed knowing her husband was sharing with someone else.
“Speaking of, has the jerk shown his face since Shouta warned him off?”
“No. I think he got the message.” And if he hasn’t, there are three, possibly four, Pro Heroes and two pissed off parents willing to go to jail on assault charges waiting for him.
“Mr. Yamada! We’re ready to run the tests!” Izuku called, now dripping wet and sporting professional hearing protection, courtesy of the Iida family. The others were also wearing theirs already.
Masaru pulled out his own pair from his pocket and grabbed his camera as Yamada made his way to the designated testing ground where Hashimoto was stretching. He didn’t really get what the kids were trying to accomplish with this, but they were having fun.
Izuku had his notebook out and an odd looking microphone hooked up via a long cord to a screen, presumably to measure Yamada and Hashimoto’s Quirks. Next to him, Katsuki gave the go ahead for the benchmark measures, tapping the screen.
Hashimoto went first, taking a deep breath and moving at though she was shouting at the microphone. A deep fuzzy something rattled in his bones, like the moment just before the sound of a jet engine reaches your ears. It built and trailed off, and Katsuki gave her a thumbs up, calling out a number that meant little to Masaru.
Then Yamada stepped up to the plate and screamed. The physical force of it shook the ground and knocked the microphone over and away.
“Did it work?” he asked, looking over at the boys.
Katsuki’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter, so Izuku looked up from his notes and answered, “It worked. She’s got just under a quarter of your power, which is actually better than we were expecting. So for the next test, dial it back about that far and we’ll record that as the benchmark for the face off.”
Tenya set the microphone back up and darted back to the group. Yamada did as instructed and the little whoop from Izuku said it worked.
From where she stood beside him, Mitsuki snorted and said, “Makes me wonder what kind of numbers they’ll get from the ‘bug test.’”
Ms. Kayama stilled beside them and glanced at Mitsuki. “What ‘bug test?’”
“They’re gonna dump some bugs on him and record how loud he gets.”
She burst into slightly demented laughter and clapped her hands together. “Oh, please send me the video later!”
Out on the field, Yamada and Hashimoto were standing on opposite ends, microphone in the middle, and Katsuki gave the go-ahead. Yamada’s Quirk carried a more visible effect, so even the adults could watch as the sound wave met some invisible wall. Hashimoto’s resistance lasted all of three seconds before Yamada’s voice broke through (fortunately, it only pushed her back a little without knocking her over).
The relative quiet that followed made the somewhat hysterical laughter from the boys all the louder.
“Three seconds!” Katsuki crowed. Behind him, Shinso was doubled over, face almost touching the ground and even Tenya’s shoulders were shaking. Masaru didn’t get it, maybe it was ‘meme-related’? Regardless, they were clearly having a good time, so far be it from him to ruin that.
Izuku ran up to his friend and cried, “Hashi-chan, that was amazing! We got some awesome readings too! How are your ears?” Hashimoto just flashed a thumbs-up and grinned at Yamada, who’d come trotting over to make sure everything was good.
“Mr. Yamada,” Izuku said, dropping his cheerful smile, “there is one more thing. . .”
Oblivious to the horror to come, Yamada grinned openly. “Yes? What do you need?”
“Oh, poor trusting man,” Mitsuki muttered.
On cue, Izuku and Hashimoto bolted for the safety of the shield glass Ms. Kayama had provided and Katsuki lobbed a ball of some kind at Yamada’s chest.
Where it burst open, spraying all manner of creepy crawlies over him.
“NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“So you’re still not going to tell me which hero Aizawa is?” Hitoshi asked, glaring at them out of the corner of his eye, and snapping Midoriya out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. The walk from school was usually enjoyable with them around, but today it was just infuriating.
Mostly because of Bakugou, who just snorted and offered only a smug smile.
“Sorry, Shinso,” Midoriya said. “He’s not into the whole spotlight thing, so we’ve all been pretty much sworn to secrecy.” Hashimoto and Nakamura burst into laughter at the outrage on Hitoshi’s face (sure it was fake, but he thought it would be more convincing than that).
“Okay,” Nakamura conceded, “then at least tell us which hero Ms. Kayama is.”
“Midnight.”
“WHAT?!” the three of them cried (or he and Nakamura did, Hashimoto opted for signing rapidly).
Bakugou just rolled his eyes. “You asked.”
When they’d met her for the first time, Hitoshi had just assumed, given her friends, that she was also a Pro. But there weren’t any obvious tells like there had been for Yamada that he could see, so he’d assumed she was like Aizawa, an underground hero. Now, nothing made sense. Thanks, Bakugou.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Nakamura said, holding up his hands in a sort of back up gesture, “you two basically grew up around four Pro Heroes, namely: Present Mic, Midnight, freaking Ingenium, and. . . Aizawa. Any others we should know about?”
Midoriya laughed. “No, that’s all of them. Though Tenya and I met All Might the other day.”
Bakugou’s head whipped around, owl-style, and rasped out, “Fucking what.”
“I mean we didn’t really meet him, we got mildly scolded by him for whacking a criminal upside the head—er, I did, rather, Tenya was on crowd control,” Midoriya explained, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.
“When was this and why am I just now hearing about it?” Bakugou growled.
“Huh? Oh, right. It was the morning of the party, but with everything going on, I forgot to tell you.”
Hitoshi interrupted whatever Bakugou had been about to say to ask, “How did you not get arrested?”
“The fucking loophole, that’s how,” Bakugou said, like that explained anything.
Loophole? Hashimoto asked.
“To arrest someone for vigilantism, the person has to use their Quirk, even if it’s only a passive one.” Midoriya grinned. “The law doesn’t address Quirkless vigilantism, so technically, unless something goes really wrong, they can’t arrest me.”
Huh? Hitoshi glanced at Bakugou, who promptly added, “The police might not arrest you for it, but Aizawa will put you under house arrest if he finds out. You’re still on probation, nerd.”
The import of those words was still sinking into Hitoshi’s brain when a little girl ran up to them.
“Hello, have you seen a. . . um. . . what is it called?” she asked in decent Japanese, albeit with an accent Hitoshi didn’t recognize. She chewed on her lip and gestured with her hands indicating size and general shape. “It is a toy, that uh. . . flies?”
“No, I haven’t seen anything like that, sorry,” Midoriya told her and everyone else just shook their heads.
“I see. Thank you.”
“Hina! Don’t just run off like that!” called a deep voice from up ahead.
“Sorry, Dad,” the girl said, running back to the man. Her father apologized to them and took the girl’s hand. Then he blinked and looked again at them. Hitoshi might not have thought anything of it except for how still Midoriya was and the look of recognition on Bakugou’s face.
“Did you find her?” asked another voice, also with that strange accent. Hitoshi looked over Hina’s shoulder and spotted a woman who looked just like her, trailed by a young boy. “Oh, hello. Sorry for the trouble,” she said as she drew closer. “Hisashi, let’s—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The man, Hisashi turned to leave, and only then did Hitoshi realize that he looked a lot like Midoriya.
Your father came back.
One glance at Midoriya’s face said it all. So Hitoshi casually shrugged off his bag. Well, guess it’s time to kick a grown man in the balls.
“Hold it, you bastard,” Bakugou snarled, stepping forward, apparently with the same intentions. “Don’t you have anything to say—”
“Drop it, Katsuki.” Everyone looked back at Midoriya, and Hitoshi’s heart dropped into his stomach. His normally expressive face was carefully blank. “Let’s go.”
Bakugou reluctantly followed him down the sidewalk, glaring at the bastard all the while (Hitoshi did too, just on principle). Nakamura and Hashimoto swapped confused glances but followed them away from the little family.
“So,” Nakamura began, once they were well away from them. “What was all that about? Who was that?”
No one answered. Hitoshi wasn’t supposed to know, and Bakugou was trying to gauge where Midoriya was at.
Astute as ever, Hashimoto tapped Hitoshi’s arm and signed, Is this about the thing you overheard? You’ve got the same face.
He nodded and signed back, Sad history. It was the best hint he could give them.
The moment the door closed behind them, Izuku turned to him and said, “Sorry, I acted like that, Katsuki. I was just—”
“Really fucking mad? Yeah, can’t blame you.” He leaned against the wall and toed off his shoes. “And I’m glad you didn’t let me beat the shit out of him, cause I would’ve.”
Izuku huffed a mirthless laugh and went to his room.
Fucking deadbeat, just had to show up, didn’t you? Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek and followed, knocking softly on the door. “Make sure you talk to Aizawa about this, okay?”
“. . . You won’t tell him?”
“Not unless you clam up and try to hide it.”
“And about the vigilante thing. . .”
Katsuki bonked his head against the wall. “I won’t tell him about that either, but just this once. And I’ll swear the others to secrecy, too, though Stick Up His Ass might be difficult—”
“No, Tenya agreed to keep quiet so long as I never did it again.”
“Cool, same rules apply for my silence then.”
“Deal.”
Satisfied, he went to his own room and started on his homework, focusing through sheer force of will. If he could ignore Slimy Fucker in class, he sure as hell could ignore the Deadbeat Asshole.
Mitsuki leaned over the counter, fingers flying over the phone screen. Nemuri was trying to arrange a coffee date, but their schedules were so out of sync at the moment that it was going to take some serious doing.
A knock on the door brought Mitsuki out of her texting frenzy. She set her phone down and went over to the door. The woman on the other side was sharply dressed but, for all that she was a head taller than her, she seemed so very small.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ma’am, but are you Mitsuki Bakugou?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Margret Midoriya.”
Mitsuki’s world ground to a halt. It. . . couldn’t be. “Sorry, uh, what do you want?”
“I. . . I’m here for answers. Answers my husband won’t give me.” Her hands clenched around her handbag and her back straightened. “I believe you know Hisashi, and his former wife.”
Understanding settled in and she ushered Mrs. Midoriya (and oh didn’t that curdle her blood) inside. “I’ll tell you her story if you tell me yours, lady.”
“Of course.”
Mitsuki cleared her throat and began, “Mrs. Midoriya—”
“Peggy. Please call me Peggy.”
“Peggy then, I’m not sure where to start.” She looked at the picture, nestled in with the rest, of Inko with Izuku wrapped in her arms next to Mitsuki and a struggling Katsuki. “Well. I met Inko in middle school—”
Peggy listened quietly, absorbing all of it, eyes glistening with tears even as her face set in anger. When Mitsuki was done, she took a moment to settle herself, eyes fixed on some far off point. “So she knew. She knew about me, and I didn’t have a clue.”
“How did you find out about this?”
She dropped her gaze to her lap. “Two days ago, Hina—my daughter—lost her toy and ran off to look for it. We followed her and, when we found her she was asking for help from some students. Two of them recognized Hisashi. One was your son, I believe, and the other. . . well. He looked enough like Hisashi, and the animosity was so obvious that I asked. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”
Mitsuki thought back and, yeah, neither of them had been in a good mood when she’d come home but they wouldn’t tell her why. This explained it. “So, you didn’t know he’d been married?”
“He told me his first wife had died—years before she actually had. That was the lie he told the rest of his family, too. He never even mentioned having a son, and none of the others knew about that either.”
Mitsuki regarded her, world reorienting slightly. “How long ago did he marry you?”
“Four years ago. The legal process to get the paperwork took. . . nearly two years, because of complications which was probably just the fact Inko was still alive. And the years before that—” she chuckled wetly “—he said he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit, even after I’d given birth. It wasn’t until Hina was born that he ‘made his decision.’”
She pulled herself up and met Mitsuki’s eyes. “I met him at work, and he was charming and sweet, and I was stupid enough to believe it. I. . . now that I know, I intend to tell the rest of the family. They can make their own decisions about him, but I will divorce him as soon as we return to the States. I know this won’t make it right, won’t erase the hurt, but I don’t want any more to do with him.”
Mitsuki flashed a sharp grin at her. “Oh, I can forgive your ignorance, and Inko would too, but we’re not the ones you should be telling this to.”
Peggy nodded. “If it won’t cause him more hurt, I’d like to meet Izuku.”
She nodded and stood, stretching. The boys were both home, working on some project in Izuku’s room, so they likely hadn’t heard anything (which was just as well). She knocked and waited for them to open the door.
“What’s up?”
“There’s someone here to talk to you, Izuku, if you’re alright with it.” She locked eyes with him. He looked alright, but she was well aware that she couldn’t pick up on the truth of the matter as easily as Aizawa or Katsuki. “She’s Hisashi’s new wife. Soon to be ex-wife if she’s to be believed.”
Katsuki stiffened and glanced at Izuku, but he just stood and brushed himself off. “Why does she want to talk to me?”
“Apparently, she just found out that Inko died after she started seeing the bastard. He never told her about you.” That was the short of it anyway.
And there it was. He straightened up, the same way Inko would when she stepped between Mitsuki and whoever she’d been trying to fight. Both of them had always cried easily, but when it came down to it, there was steel in their bones, and it was fucking terrifying.
Jaw set for a fight, Izuku walked out to meet his step-mother Peggy.
(A week later, the rest of the family was introduced to Hisashi’s eldest son. Taro and Hina hated him for all of five minutes before covertly going up to their mother and asking if they could keep him. The family matriarch heard the story from Peggy and later Izuku himself, and promptly kicked Hisashi out of the house.)
Mr. Aizawa buried a laugh in his hand. Izuku walked beside him, recounting the results of the experiments and expounding on some theories on how to use the data and pointedly ignoring the mess that stemmed from Hisashi’s family drama.
“You know, putting bugs in his hero costume could technically count as torture, Izuku,” Mr. Aizawa said, schooling his expression into something serious, pretending he hadn’t just laughed at that exact mental image.
“Okay, yes, but he was also almost a full order of magnitude louder when the bugs were on him—” Izuku continued flailing and proposing alternatives, all of which Mr. Aizawa listened to even though Izuku’s brain was running a million possibilities per second. It was probably difficult to understand, but he never stopped Izuku or tuned him out (Izuku knew he didn’t, because Mr. Aizawa would always bring up the ideas later to discuss in depth).
Mom was like that too, his traitor brain reminded him. He shoved the thought away and returned to his theories.
“We’re here. Are you ready?”
He looked up at the enormous building that was UA—he was about to just walk into his dream school and meet the principal holy FUCK he was so nervous—and back at Mr. Aizawa. He put on a shaky smile and said, “Yup.”
Mr. Aizawa didn’t look even remotely convinced but he opened the doors and walked in anyway.
Just follow him, don’t think about it.
UA was a maze, upon first impression, but Mr. Aizawa pointed out relevant landmarks that he could find no matter where he started from. He tried to focus on those details, instead of the whispers (I should be used to this, like sure it’s been a couple months but come on) that followed them.
Mr. Aizawa dropped back and set a hand on his shoulder. “They’re just interested in the fact you’re a middle schooler. They’re not trying to be mean.”
With that hand on his shoulder, he relaxed slowly and started listening to the actual voices. True to Mr. Aizawa’s reassurance, it was all about whether or not they’d be seeing him next year or if he was a teacher’s son—or if he was Mr. Aizawa’s son, for that matter, and that made him remember the embarrassing slip up from the phone call a week ago that they still hadn’t talked about. Ugh.
As soon as they hit the administrative hallway it got quiet.
“That’s a big door,” was all he could think to say, staring at the monstrosity that was Principal Nezu’s office door. Mr. Aizawa snorted right as said doors opened on their own (presumably a remote controlled hinge of some sort so cool).
“Welcome, Mr. Midoriya. I’m glad you could join us!”
Izuku had to physically clamp his jaw shut before he utterly embarrassed himself by word vomiting. He managed a smile and a nod that he hoped didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He sat next to Mr. Aizawa, across from the furry white unnamable animal in a suit.
“So, first question: would you like tea?”
The sun was just beginning to start on its downward arc when they got to the beach where Izuku liked to jog with Tenya. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way place as beaches went, but it was also cleaner than most of the isolated ones, so there were people about. Today, for example, there was a large family group playing down by the edge of the water.
Mr. Aizawa steered them away from the group and began stretching. Izuku followed along, mind abuzz.
The meeting with the principal of UA (!!!!!) had been informative and he itched to write even just some of it down. But he also wanted to spend time with his mentor. There. . . was a lot they needed to talk about. And not just about UA.
“So, Shinso mentioned he wanted to get into UA?” Mr. Aizawa prompted, returning to their earlier discussion of the birthday party’s antics.
“Mm.” It wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted to discuss, but close enough. “Tenya and I invited him to train with us. Katsuki even said he’d run with us if Shinso agreed, something about us talking too much too early in the morning and how it’d be nice to have someone to ignore us with.”
He snorted and started running along the beach, Izuku barely two steps behind. “Does he know about us working there?”
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you about that first. He knows all three of you are Pros, but he only knows who Mr. Yamada is.”
“Ah.”
“He was very jealous of my birthday present though, so I think I might have to tell him who you are at least,” Izuku added, remembering the look of shock he’d flung at Katsuki.
Mr. Aizawa raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, right! Katsuki got me a hoodie—” a smug smile eased onto his face “—an Eraserhead hoodie.”
(Shouta would later deny the sound he made in response to that information, but the laugh it got out of Izuku made it almost worth it. Almost.)
After some silent running, Mr. Aizawa cleared his throat and continued. “What did you think of Nezu’s suggestion?”
And there it was. The all-important question.
The Support Course caters to both those looking to create gear and those who support heroes with their analytical skills. I have absolutely no doubt you would excel in such an environment.
“I—” he paused to swallow the lump in his throat “—I think I want to hone my skills, I mean that’s always been the aim with the notebooks, but I don’t—I don’t want to give up on the Hero Course.” The bone deep ache that always accompanied those words settled in again. But while Nezu hadn’t said as much, he’d made it pretty clear that Izuku didn’t have a good chance at actually doing it.
“I’m glad.”
He slowed to a stop. “What?”
Mr. Aizawa turned and jogged back to him. “I’m glad you’re not giving up. I expect to see all four of you in my class or in class B, you hear?”
He believes in me.
He realized belatedly that his face was wet, and he scrubbed at it furiously, but to no avail. The tears just kept coming and then Mr. Aizawa was there, kneeling on the sand with him. Izuku had always cried easily, just like Mom, but this was just ridiculous. (He trained you, helped you, and stood by through everything else, why not this too?)
But this had always felt too big, too impossible. Even Mom—
I’m sorry, Izuku.
Stop. She didn’t mean it like that, you know she didn’t. He took a deep breath, and though it didn’t quite stop the tears, the ache started to fade. “Thank you.”