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Aizawa jolts into consciousness, cheek pressed against cold and damp concrete. He breathes through his barely parted mouth, pressure in his nose hinting at congestion – though it’s likely not allergies. His breath is a wet sound, shallow and high, a relief that the wetness doesn’t live in his chest like a damaged lung.
The erasure hero keeps his eyes closed, assessing himself and his surroundings. The back of Aizawa’s neck is oddly cold, free of his hair and capture weapon. One arm is sprawled outstretched, the other tucked beneath him, his ankles pressed against one another. Nothing feels broken outright, though his head throbs.
Aizawa doesn’t sense a clear and present danger nearby. He doesn’t hear movement in his surroundings, suggesting relative isolation and safety. Distantly, he hears the muffled sound of a radio mixed with a running engine. Hizashi’s laugh breaks through the background noise.
Night time. Put Your Hands Up Radio is only ever on at night. What was Aizawa doing before this?
He’d been tailing a teen with electric green skin through the warehouse district as part of a case from Tsukauchi. It’s one of many the detective has dropped in Aizawa’s lap, cashing in the many favors he’s acquired helping the erasure hero with his kids. This one felt the most pressing, where children with passive quirks are being kidnapped left and right across the country. The case seems heavily tied to a sudden increase in Trigger on the streets, and if Aizawa finds one, he’s sure to find the other.
Vaguely, the erasure hero recalls following the teen into a warehouse, managing to listen in on some sort of trade from the upper floor, before a large tabby cat squeezed through a window and yowled for Aizawa’s attention. The sound blew his cover, and Aizawa leaped into a fight when the electric green teen shot black acidic liquid from their fingers.
Someone must have gotten a lucky hit and left Aizawa on the ground. Amateur criminals. Witnesses aren’t typically left alive.
The erasure hero sits up slowly, blinking into the darkened warehouse. He pulls a small flashlight from his belt, casting it over the area and double-checking his surroundings. His capture scarf is wound around his ankles, several meters lying loose on the floor. The scarf unravels at his touch, a sign the criminals didn’t even bother to knot.
Aizawa climbs to his feet, wrapping the scarf around his neck, checking the space for clues as he rubs at the dry blood around his mouth and nose. His nose doesn’t throb too painfully; it’s likely not broken, so Hizashi won’t scold him for breaking his nose for the dozenth time.
No clues, but the radio sounds closer.
“Good evening, Listeners! It’s time for the latest installment of Where in the World is Marigold? For those just tuning in, I have this beautiful black cat as independent as they come. No matter where I go, this black cat follows, and I’ve dubbed him Marigold for his gorgeous yellow eyes. For those who know, Marigold wanders off from time to time, and we speculate his exploits while he’s away. I like to think listener well-wishes encourage him to come back home.” Aizawa can hear the smile in Hizashi’s voice.
Aizawa is Marigold. It’s how Hizashi sends coded messages through his radio to Aizawa while the erasure hero is away on extended missions.
As young pro heroes, Hizashi created Where in the World is Marigold? as a periodic segment on his radio show. He spoke about a black cat, something that would definitely catch the erasure hero’s attention, and proceeded to describe Aizawa’s ridiculous high school antics. The voice hero would then talk about how much he missed his obnoxiously vocal cat, an indication Aizawa should call his then-boyfriend. Sometimes, Hizashi gives life updates like Sushi fathering a litter of kittens. Others, he’d disguise handler, hero, and police information within the segment.
Where in the World is Marigold? kept Aizawa from drifting too far from Hizashi as he struck out on his own. Hearing his husband on the radio keeps the erasure hero grounded when undercover work requires radio silence for weeks on end.
When Aizawa inquired why his code name was Marigold, Hizashi pressed kisses to the corners of the erasure hero’s eyes. His husband explained that his eyes used to be gold, like the flower when he activated Erasure. Aizawa hadn’t known. He never looked in mirrors, and cameras were rarely close enough to catch the color when his quirk was activated. Hizashi suspects his quirk evolved when Aizawa fought and won against that gigantic frog villain in their second year. Nemuri thinks losing Shirakumo was part of the change too. Logically, they’re both right, as neither incident can be separated from the other. Emotionally, Aizawa understands why Hizashi makes such a distinction.
Quirk evolutions happen in times of extreme duress, often when emotions are running high. The villain would have killed dozens of people and toppled buildings. It was out of Aizawa’s league, yet he pushed himself past his limits for the greatest victory in his high school career.
But if Aizawa leans towards Nemuri’s line of thinking, then he knew Shirakumo died the moment he watched the rubble strike his friend’s head, and it was every stage of grief rolled into one while fighting that villain. If Nemuri is to be believed, Erasure dyed itself from gold to red with Shirakumo’s blood.
“During our rockin’ musical break, Listener Misa called in to let us know what she thinks. Well, little listener, what tune do you think our Marigold is jamming to?”
“Um, hi,” A high child’s voice comes through the distant radio tin. “I-I’m Misa. Momma said I could call this time, and um. I think Marigold got on a pirate ship and is searching for gold to bring to you!”
“The ultimate adventure!” Hizashi laughs. “I wish he told me; I would have loved to tag along. What do you Listeners think? Would I make a dashing pirate Present Mic sailing the seven seas? Arrrrrr, Matey!”
Aizawa smiles into his scarf, walking away from the radio to scour the upper floors of the warehouse. If there is pertinent information, he’ll catch up when the show is posted as a podcast in the morning.
“Listeners, I’m getting worried about our favorite black cat.” Hizashi sighs exaggeratedly. It’s filled with emotion, where dejection and worry is palpable on voice alone.
Aizawa leans against a wall outside a convenience store, alternating sips of terrible coffee and stale breakfast. He’s dressed in gray coveralls, mud-crusted boots, gloves sticking haphazardly out of one pocket, and a hard hat clipped to his belt. His phone is tucked into his chest pocket, a cord sticking out as it leads to an earphone in his left ear listening to Hizashi’s show from the night before.
A wave of longing washes over Aizawa as Hizashi continues speaking in his ear. He missed last night’s show staking out a possible Trigger source in Takamatsu.
After obtaining a list of addresses from the abandoned warehouse last week, the erasure hero has steadily drifted further and further west to cities along the Seto Inland Sea. Traveling under various covers leaves Aizawa on alert at all hours as he keeps an eye out for suspects and tails. Traveling to Osaka took far longer than the hour-long train as he implemented antisurveillance techniques, purposely backtracked, and stopped at random stations. He changed disguises from Naruto to Takamatsu, ditching obnoxious street advertising gear for a construction worker’s coveralls to avoid recognition.
It’s been three weeks since Aizawa has seen home, and he surprisingly misses the consistency of returning to the same location without looking over his shoulder. Cases like these are usually months in the making, but by the time Aizawa gets involved, he’s undercover for a few days to confirm the last bits of information before a raid.
While it isn’t the longest Aizawa has been away from Hizashi, like their early pro hero years, it’s certainly the longest he’s been away from their kids. Aizawa is no longer accustomed to sitting alone in his thoughts. He’s tired of the radio silence and being forced to communicate via dead drop. He hears Izuku mid-battle, analyzing criminal moves with excited fervor. He emulates Hitoshi, effortlessly picking apart flawed information. Even Katsuki takes a turn in Aizawa’s mind as he curses every day the mission drags.
“Is he getting enough to eat? Is he sleeping? Did he find a magic portal to a fantasy world, like Listener Riku suggested a few days ago? My youngest listener at home misses him dearly; they can hardly sleep at night. So, Marigold, if you’re listening, we’ve moved your favorite chair in the path of the sun. Let’s take a nap together soon, okay?”
Aizawa sighs, finishing his breakfast sandwich before running a hand through his shaggy and oily hair. That’s a lot to take in. Listener Riku is Aizawa’s coded handler, which means whatever evidence he found at the warehouse has the answers. He’ll need to scope out the locations as soon as he can ditch the construction worker disguise. Izuku hasn’t been sleeping, which is a surprise, as his training with All Might exhausts him so much that Katsuki or Shinsou practically force-feed the teen dinner as he dozes at the table.
Moved your favorite chair in the path of the sun. The mission is almost over. Something big is happening, and soon.
The cram school in Akashi raises far too many red flags. Aizawa counts well over 200 civilians entering, though less than 150 leave. As a cram school fairly close to larger cities like Osaka, Akashi should serve no more than twenty to thirty different schools or uniforms. Aizawa counts fifty-six. He even sees a teen with wings wearing an Aldera uniform enter but never exit.
“You’re a long way from home,” The erasure hero mutters. Three and a half hours away from home, to be exact – not that Aizawa has mapped the shortest possible distance or anything.
“Eraser,” Detective Chizu calls on comms. “We’ve confirmed twelve students are Yakuza in disguise through facial recognition. Four are well-known distributors of Trigger. A handful of them have exited through the back.”
Predictable.
“Prepare to raid on my count.”
Hours later, Aizawa stares up at the multistory cram school with a frown. Police caught the Yakuza and passed down two new supply chains in Osaka other heroes are currently raiding. 120 actual cram students look bewildered under the flashing red lights as buses transport them to the local station for further questioning. Yakuza, teachers, and students combined, that’s 193 people.
193 people accounted for, and twenty-nine, including that Aldera kid, are still missing. Aizawa has scoured the school from top to bottom. No door is left unopened, no bookcase remains against a wall, and no rug is left unturned. Twenty-nine civilians can’t disappear, can they?
“It may not be the answer you want,” Detective Chizu steps beside the erasure hero, barely tall enough to reach the hero’s elbow. “but it’s the best we’ll get for now.”
“I’ll take another look. Civilians don’t disappear into thin air. There must be a logical explanation.” Aizawa crosses his arms firmly over his chest.
“Go home, Eraser. We’ve closed the Trigger case. We’ll contact you again if we receive more details about the missing kids.”
Aizawa can’t imagine going home when children are missing. The thought of giving up, of returning without results, is like opening the front door only to find out Izuku is gone.
“They have family looking for them,” Aizawa insists, taking a step forward only for a hand to firmly grasp his bicep. He turns, staring down at the small detective, her dark hair slicked back into a tight bun, large pink eyes filled with concern.
“Spoken like a true parent,” Detective Chizu offers with a comforting smile the hero has only ever seen on Recovery Girl. He vaguely wonders if that’s the trait with their similar names. “Go home,” She insists. “Tsukauchi will let you know if we need you. Let the police handle it for now. We’re stronger and smarter than you think.”
“Listeners! I have a rockin’ good feeling about today!” Hizashi cheers over the radio. Aizawa leans back in the hard plastic train seat, with one arm draped over a backpack filled with his hero uniform and a handful of default disguises. He closes his eyes to the sound of his husband’s voice as his phone streams the live radio show. The erasure hero all but dozes to the soothing back-and-forth sway of the train to Musutafu.
“Now, I know Marigold started his adventure a few weeks ago, the longest he’s ever been away, but I have a good feeling! And I know, dear listeners, I’ve said that the past couple of days, but I mean it! I think Marigold has sailed the seven seas and found the largest buried treasure known to man! I think he sniffed at it and huffed because all that gold is nothing compared to his favorite armchair, and he’s been tirelessly sailing back through monsoons and rough seas just to cuddle with me.”
Aizawa can’t help his lips tugging into a smile as he imagines a black cat in a feathered pirate’s hat and eye patch commanding a large wooden ship.
“Tonight on Put Your Hands Up Radio, we’ll spin tunes to the theme of home. Of course,” Hizashi laughs, “Home can be anything, anywhere, and anyone. So Listeners, call with a song that welcomes you home – wherever you may be tonight.”
Put Your Hands Up Radio is over by the time Aizawa steps foot in Musutafu. It’s the last train of the night, and he’s the only one who steps off into a sleepy city. He stretches out the aches of sitting in a stiff chair for hours, purposely lunging through the turnstiles to get his blood flowing. The erasure hero stops once at a convenience store to pick up a late dinner of jelly pouches. At the register, he sees a keychain of a black cat wearing a red collar with a large gold tag – a gold doubloon – and adds it to his purchase.
Aizawa sips on a pouch as he treks home, sticking close to the shadows as he mulls over the next steps for the case. He’ll have a tome of paperwork to fill out in the morning, half of it consisting of redundant bureaucracy for operating as a hero in seven different cities. He has a stack of reimbursements not included in his per diem, and then he needs to schedule debriefs with Tsukauchi and Chizu and –
Good Heavens, Aizawa wants to sleep in his bed. He wants Hizashi to scold him for not washing his hair because – ow – the amount of oil buildup is painful when his hair lifts with Erasure. He wants Izuku to ask endless questions, even though nearly all the answers will be classified. He wants Hitoshi to dump Jelly into his lap and say something illogical in an apathetic tone. He wants Katsuki’s home cooking, though it’s not a night the explosive teen stays at the house.
The porch light is on when Aizawa keys open the gate, where every visible window stands dark. His kids are sleeping, presumably. Hopefully, Izuku managed to rest tonight. The erasure hero enters the house quietly, removing his shoes and opting to remain in his socks instead of scrounging for his slippers. The hallway and living room are dark, save for the warm glow emanating from the archway leading to the dining room. It’s not unusual for the light to be on. Hitoshi studies at the table or Hizashi plans shows if he can’t sleep. Before Izuku began training with All Might, the kid could be found writing analyses or chatting with his mother.
Which is it this time?
The first thing Aizawa notices is Izuku asleep at the dining table, head pillowed in his arms with a mug at his elbow nearly pushed off the table. The second is Katsuki, looking irritated at the late hour, frozen mid-reach for Izuku’s mug. Next, Aizawa notes Hizashi and Hitoshi in the kitchen. The purple-haired teen carefully sets a lid over a decorative cake – likely homemade – while Hizashi stares at Aizawa, blindly putting Tupperware into an open fridge.
“You’re HOME!” Hizashi’s voice rattles the windows and the dining room chandelier as he activates his quirk. He slams the fridge shut, running to greet Aizawa at the archway. Hands all but slap the hero as Hizashi pulls him into a kiss. He spins the erasure hero around, removing the backpack and convenience store purchases in a dizzying motion; Aizawa immediately feels dazed, any thoughts of paperwork gone.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” The windows shake again and Izuku jolts upright, nearly toppling his seat backward if not for Katsuki bracing the chair.
“H-H-Happy Birthday!” Izuku slurs, throwing his arms out wide and blinking rapidly to push the sleep from his eyes. Hizashi mimics the gesture towards a large banner against the wall proclaiming the very words stated.
Birthday?
“Shouta,” Hizashi chides, approaching Aizawa once more. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”
“Deku wanted to wait up when he heard you’d be coming back today,” Katsuki glares at the green-haired teen, snatching the mug still miraculously on the table before turning towards the kitchen.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes left,” Hitoshi says, passing the angry blond as he carries the uncovered cake into the dining area. “You gotta make a wish.”
Aizawa looks at the dark roll cake decorated with glossy slices of persimmons and five thin candles standing in a neat row on top.
“Hurry up; the nerd’s got to get to bed.” Katsuki scowls, reemerging in the dining room with small plates, forks, and a cake server.
Aizawa turns, glancing at the calendar near the entryway where a single-digit day in November is circled. He checks his phone, confirming the date and late hour.
November 8. Aizawa’s birthday.
Hizashi seems to notice the moment it clicks in the erasure hero’s head. “That’s right,” The blond throws his arms around the shorter hero’s waist, resting his chin on Aizawa’s shoulder. “You’re old, now.”
“Thirty isn’t old,” Aizawa rolls his eyes. Thirty is absurdly young to have three fourteen-year-olds in his house.
“Tell that to our aching bones.” The voice hero hums.
“That’s more of a fighting villains issue than an age issue.” Aizawa huffs.
“Less chatting, more wishing.” Hitoshi raises a brow, gesturing at the cake sitting in front of Aizawa’s seat, its candles half burned. Hizashi releases his husband, letting the dark-haired hero stand behind his chair to watch the flames dance. Five candles for the five people in this room. Five candles burning golden yellow, like his eyes did half a lifetime ago. Five candles to wish for a lifetime more.
Aizawa lifts his gaze, slowly considering every member of a family he couldn’t even begin to wish for, picks up a placemat, and waves away the flame.
“Did you make a wish?” Izuku asks with a yawn, rubbing one eye with a loose fist.
“Yeah,” The erasure hero ruffles curly green hair as Katsuki takes point on the cake, serving neat slices onto small gray plates. Aizawa feels marginally guilty for the lie because he doesn’t wholly believe in wishing. Hard work and perseverance will make any dream come true. Wishing can trap people in inaction. Wishing can close one off to opportunity.
Aizawa did not dream of this family, this house, or life. He couldn’t wish for something so impossible. It seems selfish to ask for more.
“It’s a coffee, black sesame, and persimmon cake,” Hitoshi says when Aizawa receives his slice. “Since your favorite candy is licorice, Izuku and I thought a savory cake was the way to go. The cake is coffee with black sesame cream filling, with candied persimmons to balance out the flavors.”
The first bite is incredible; something Hizashi voices only a moment later. “With Katsuki’s meals and your desserts, we could open our very own café!” Katsuki seems to grunt a compliment to Hitoshi, eyes staring at the cake as if analyzing it like a battle move. Is the blond trying to dissect the recipe on looks alone?
Izuku manages two bites before leaning into Aizawa’s side with a soft smile. “Welcome home,” He mumbles as his eyes flutter shut. Hizashi coos across the table while Katsuki clicks his tongue in annoyance. Hitoshi leans across the table, snatching Izuku’s cake and eating the remnants in three large bites.
Yes, it seems very selfish to wish for more.
But – Aizawa drifts his gaze to the empty sixth seat at the table – if wishes can be granted, then he hopes he can share this moment with Shirakumo someday.
BONUS:
“What am I looking at?” Aizawa stares at eight different illustrations of a black cat with yellow eyes displayed on his desk. One matches his imagination, wearing a gold eyepatch and feathered pirate hat. Another floats in a space suit with earth down below, while a third in the bottom corner wears a yellow raincoat and boots.
“The Adventures of Marigold!” Hizashi beams as he leans against a desk divider. Aizawa can’t even see his computer under these poster-sized illustrations. “Apparently, the station is getting nonstop calls for more Marigold adventures, and a children’s book illustrator was so inspired that she wants to work with me to make a series!”
“About Marigold,” Aizawa states flatly, crossing his arms over his chest and raising a brow. “About me.”
Nemuri, who stood a desk away talking with Cementoss, bursts into laughter, slapping her desk so hard a cracking sound reverberates throughout the room.
“Marigold and the Lost Treasure! Marigold and the Missing Sock!” Hizashi lifts the poster with the black cat wearing a Sherlock Holmes-styled cloak and hat with its tail holding a magnifying glass. “Marigold and the Search for Spring! Marigold Goes to Hokkaido!”
“Eraserhead and the Search for Spring!” Nemuri wheezes. “Eraserhead and the Missing Sock!” Cementoss chuckles along with the heroine.
“What do you think?” Hizashi’s eyes twinkle red and green, a sign of unadulterated happiness. “I talked with the illustrator, and I’ll work with an editor. Any profits that come my way will go to animal rescue and shelters. C’mon, Eraser, for all the kittens you want to save.”
It’s a low blow, bringing up Sushi, the cat Aizawa couldn’t save and now resides in Nemuri’s care.
“Fine.” Aizawa looks at the illustrations anew. His code name can be a hero, too. “Marigold Goes Plus Ultra.”