Chapter Text
“And where do you think you’re going, young man?”
Izuku looked up at his mom from his seat at the kitchen table. She gestured with the spatula she was holding, her other hand resting on her hip. But Midoriya Inko wasn’t looking at him—she was looking at the shadowy figure in the hallway that was approaching the front door.
She continued. “Aizawa Shouta, I’m talking to you.”
The five-foot-ten pro hero turned around and looked at the short woman incredulously. He brought a hand up and pointed to his chest. “I’m an adult.”
“And I’ll treat you like an adult when you act like an adult. Adults don’t subsist on coffee and jelly packets. Now sit your butt down and have breakfast.”
Snickers erupted out of the green-haired boy as the man dropped into the seat next to him. Both were dressed already for their first day of the school year: Aizawa in his jumpsuit with goggles and scarf around his neck, Izuku in his new UA uniform.
Aizawa looked at the boy next to him as the woman resumed cooking. “Your mom’s bossy this morning.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and you need to be a good role model for Izuku.” Inko set down a mug of coffee in front of Aizawa—black and bitter. A mischievous grin quickly split her face. “After all, the boy looks up to you like you personally hung the stars in the sky.”
“Mom!” Izuku yelped, embarrassed. A faint pink flush rose to his otherwise ice-pale face. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
“I can and I will.” She plated up breakfast and placed it in front of both of them, before returning to the stove where she was cooking her own.
“Thanks Mrs. M,” Aizawa mumbled, looking down at his plate. Following the green-haired boy’s lead, he picked up his knife and began slicing into the nearly-raw beef. He swiped the meat through the thick blood-red sauce and popped it in his mouth.
“You’re welcome, dear.” Inko lowered herself into the remaining seat at the table, her own small portions of miso soup, rice, and salmon waiting.
Izuku looked over at her traditional breakfast meal and scrunched his nose. The fish was fried light enough that it didn’t smell too bad, but the miso was strong—salty and warm and herbal. It wasn’t bad, per se. Just unappetizing. And only one year earlier, it would have been his normal pre-school breakfast as well. How things had changed.
“Do you have anything scheduled for after school or will you be walking home together?” Inko asked Aizawa. “I know you normally patrol Monday nights, but I was hoping we could have a nice family dinner before you go out, to celebrate the first day of the school year.”
Having finished his meat, holding himself back from licking the remaining sauce from the plate, Izuku poked Aizawa’s side. “Hear that, nii-san, family dinner. That’s ‘cause you’re family.”
“Not your nii-san,” the pro hero said grumpily, finishing his own breakfast.
“Mom,” Izuku complained playfully. “Zawa-nii’s being mean to me.”
The woman rolled her eyes affectionately. “If you’re done teasing Shouta, why don’t you finish getting ready for school? There’s a new bottle of sunscreen on the bathroom counter.”
“Make sure to apply heavily,” Aizawa said to the boy’s retreating back. “We’re spending time outside today.”
Izuku grabbed the bottle of sunscreen and clicked the cap open. He looked in the mirror as he applied it, glad that the lack of a reflection was only a myth. Though the pallor of his skin, and gray-purple eyebags nearly as bad as Aizawa’s, were only made more stark with the pale sunscreen. Straightening his poorly-tied necktie, he took a steeling breath.
This was it. The first day of his hero education.
Only ten months ago it had seemed impossible, a childish pipe dream. And then he’d died, suffocated, murdered by a sludge-bodied villain. Died in Aizawa’s arms, who had shown up too late to save him, then still a stranger. Died with the pro hero’s blood forced through his lips, the man’s teeth clenched in the broken skin on his neck.
And then he’d woken up, power coursing through his veins. His senses were dialed up to eleven; he was stronger, faster, almost as if he had a quirk. He was…
“Hey, Problem Child, move your ass—”
“Shouta!”
“Sorry, Mrs. M. Move your butt—”
“—better—”
“—because I’ve got a staff meeting before class.”
“Coming,” Izuku shouted out. After futilely running his fingers through a mop of messy green hair, he rejoined his… mentor? Sire? Pseudo-brother, as his mom had practically adopted the man, forcing him to move in? All of the above, Izuku supposed.
“Don’t forget your lunches,” Inko said, handing the two homemade bentos to Aizawa and Izuku—the latter’s wrapped in an All Might cloth, the former’s in a cutesy cat pattern. A slight pink tint—possible only because of their recent, bloody breakfast—rose to Aizawa’s ice-pale cheeks.
“Thanks, mom,” Izuku said, tucking the bento into his yellow backpack. Aizawa muttered a similar sentiment as he placed his own lunch into the black messenger bag over his shoulder.
“My boy, so grown up,” Ink said abruptly, wetly, grabbing the green-haired teenager and pulling him close.
“Um, mom, we’ve got to go.”
“I know,” she sobbed out. “You’ve got to go to high school. My little boy’s in high school.”
Izuku patted her back awkwardly, looking at Aizawa with pleading eyes.
“We really have to get going,” Aizawa said.
He should have stayed silent and let the woman smother her son. Because the moment he spoke, Inko remembered his presence, and dragged him into the hug. She was startlingly strong for such a short woman.
With one final squeeze, she released the pair. “I expect a full report after school.”
“Yes, mom.” “Mmhmm.”
“Now shoo—you can’t be late on your first day!”
Izuku could see Aizawa clench his jaw, clearly holding back pointing out that, if they were, it would be Inko’s fault. Afterall, the pro hero not only respected the woman—he liked her, much more than he liked his own mother. And he would never say anything that could hurt her feelings.
“C’mon, Problem Child,” the man said, holding the door open for his young mentee. As they walked down the apartment building’s hallway, they both put on their cotton gloves—Aizawa’s black, Izuku’s green. And upon exiting the building, they both popped up their umbrellas.
After ten months of training together, and nine months living together, conversation between the pair was comfortable, even if Aizawa was terribly awkward.
“Are you looking forward to making friends?”
Izuku eyed his mentor suspiciously. “And here I thought you’d be the type of teacher who’d tell your students ‘you’re not here to make friends.’”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to say that,” Aizawa smirked. “Sometimes I need to remind you teenagers to take the hero course seriously. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least try.”
After skipping forward a few steps, the green-haired boy turned around and started walking backwards. “I’ll make friends if you make friends.”
“I have friends.”
“You have coworkers who used to be friends. I haven’t seen you hang out with a single person, get a single text or phone call, since you came to live with us.”
“Pot, kettle,” Aizawa grumbled.
“At least I acknowledge it.” Izuku turned back around and fell into step with his mentor. Over the ten months they’d worked together, Izuku had come to accept that Bakugo Katsuki wasn’t his friend.
“We were close in high school, but after I got bitten…” Aizawa mumbled.
“If you expect me to make friends after being bitten, then you’re being a hypocrite.”
Aizawa sighed, affection coming through in his tone, and ruffled the teenager’s already-messy hair. “If I say I’ll try, will you drop it?”
“Yep,” Izuku popped.
“Then fine.”
The green-haired boy cheered, skipping ahead again.