Chapter Text
Sunday, September 4th, 2005
“You are hereby expelled from Northstar Preparatory College.”
Izuku hears the words – his mother hears the words, evident from the way she gasps audibly – but the small-framed boy remains stiff as if nothing were said at all. Hiding behind long, curly hair that shields his eyes, he rivals the statues poised in the front garden of the prestigious high school that he, apparently, no longer attends.
“This is all a misunderstanding…” Izuku’s mother pleads, awkwardly dressed in the best finery she owns – an emerald green, ill-fitting dress that refuses to zip in the back.
The middle-aged principal of Northstar Prep levels her with a stern look, the lines of his face creasing considerably. In contrast to Izuku’s mother, the principal’s clothes are cleaned and pressed to perfection, despite the fact he was called into an “emergency meeting” on a late Sunday afternoon.
“But it’s not a misunderstanding, is it? Per the police report from last night, it is clear your son has been involved in the alleged illicit activities.”
Izuku flinches. His mother’s head snaps toward him.
“Why won’t you say anything?” She practically wails as moisture gathers in her eyes.
Izuku’s mouth can’t form words, though. Because he has no option but to lie. He sits, unmoving, ignoring a familiar ache in his sore fingers.
“See? His silence speaks loudly,” the principal says. “Look, we simply cannot have our school associated with these activities–” A cry from Izuku’s mother resounds throughout the principal’s office. The principal clears his throat. “Do not despair, Mrs. Midoriya, I have made a few calls and there is a public school willing to take him in.”
“Public school…public school…”
Izuku’s mother mutters the mantra as she drives Izuku back from the campus that he’ll never walk through again. His brain buzzes with static, unable to pinpoint the right signal. Meanwhile, a pit yawns open in his stomach, violently inhaling his ambitions and spitting simmering anger back out in its wake.
He blames himself. He blames the stupid school and its stupid principal. He blames that place. How could he be so stupid, so reckless? He conjured a stain that marred everyone within a five foot radius of himself.
“I just don’t understand…” his mother says minutes later as rain starts sliding down the windows.
Izuku gazes out through the rain-slicked glass, dreading where he knows this conversation is inevitably steering. He can’t explain what happened, not to her, not to anyone.
“Why were you there? Why won’t you say anything?”
“It’s … not what you think,” Izuku manages to murmur, his throat thick with lack of usage. The past twenty four hours have worn him into an empty husk.
“Then help me understand, Izuku,” his mother continues. “Just explain it clearly.”
Izuku turns further away, a twinge of guilt sluicing through him. His mother only acts in his best interest, especially after his father fled and left them penniless. Her efforts landed him in one of the most prestigious prep schools, and his reckless hobby burned it all to hell.
“I didn’t do anything illegal–”
“Then why were you there?”
“Just because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time does not mean I did bad things. And if you can’t understand that, then let’s end the conversation here, Mom.”
Though he’s never spoken to his mother this way, her disbelief borders on accusation, and his sleep deprived brain can’t manage to soothe his responses.
Not when the drum still reverberates in his chest. Not when screams still ring in his ears. The way Ida and Jiro froze, as if in a trance, eyes glistening with fear (or maybe that was the strobe lights).
How could he possibly relay this to his mother?
Monday, September 5th, 2005
It feels real when Izuku dresses himself in a nondescript outfit the next morning. He needs to retrieve his uniform early that morning from the administrative office of his new high school, and his mother wants him to look harmless (i.e., invisible).
The drive is silent, save for the occasional honk of a horn on the road. Throughout the twenty minute journey, Izuku’s eyes feel heavy with sleeplessness, and he rests his temple against the cool window. Rain again.
The entrance of the school, comical compared to Izuku’s previous institution, odiously blends in with the gray downpour. He feels a conflicting sense of both dread and hilarity upon this realization. This is where all my hard earned hours studying led me. What a joke. He can practically see his collegiate ambitions dissolve in the rain puddles littering the sidewalk.
The uniform is ugly – a boring black button-down that fits too loosely over Izuku’s gangly limbs. The short-haired, scrawny secretary hardly spares him a glance as she slides it over a tall counter in the administrative office.
His mother waits outside the boy’s bathroom while he shoves it over his head, ignoring the sour wafts of smoke clinging to the moist walls of the stall.
“We can order a new one soon. This one doesn’t quite fit right.”
“Does it even matter,” Izuku mutters to his mother, rolling up his sleeves with bandaged fingers.
“Now, that’s not–”
An upbeat, familiar tone echoes through the hallway, signaling the start of class. Izuku uses it as an excuse to shoulder his bag and bid his mother goodbye. She seems hesitant, and Izuku feels sorry for the way he curtly waves to her before pivoting around. Still, he doesn’t have time to worry about his behavior when it’s time to find classroom 2-D.
Minutes later, Izuku finds himself wandering down hallway after hallway, unable to locate his classroom. Slow, numbed steps bleed into an awkward shuffle. He’s never been late to class before. Even here, he couldn’t stand being late.
He eventually finds the classroom after frantically chasing a janitor into a broom closet. The poor man had started shaking before Izuku even opened his mouth, but he pointed the teenager into the right direction.
What the hell…
Izuku stands in front of – well, it looks like a classroom. Except graffiti covers several strips of the walls and a crack runs through the glass in the window. Despite the fact class has started, a loud chatter can be heard through the closed door and, as Izuku spies through the cracked window, no teacher has arrived yet.
Not a single student wears their uniform correctly, some completely ignoring their button-downs altogether to sport a simple t-shirt. Some t-shirts even lack proper sleeves. What fucking madhouse even is this?
He’s tempted to turn around and storm back into the administrative office because this must be a mistake. This hardly qualifies as a classroom. And yet, the sign above the door unmistakably reads ‘2-D’. This is his classroom now.
A mixture of regret and rage swirl through Izuku as he fingers fumble with the handle of the door. He doesn’t deserve this (yes I do).
Upon wrestling the door open, chatter in the room dissolves for a few anticipatory seconds.
“Yo, new student!”
“Who are you?”
“What did you do?”
Asked as if he’s entering a prison. Without responding, Izuku’s eyes flicker across the room, noting the wild hairstyle that compliments each student’s unique uniform decision. His gaze lingers at the front of the classroom, where the teacher should be...lingers perhaps too long.
“He quit,” someone snickers, a boy with a lanky frame and black hair.
Izuku averts his eyes and plops into an empty desk at the front. To his horror, the lanky teenager skips toward him eagerly, squatting in front of Izuku’s graffitied desk. Izuku’s initial shock melts into something that smells like fear and, unfortunately, he’s surrounded by hungry hounds.
“I asked you a question, didn’t I?” Lanky repeats.
Izuku peeks up through his bangs, and the person staring back at him doesn’t look malicious. Although, something in his curious stare reads unmistakingly cheshire, almost amused. Izuku is his entertainment.
“I got kicked out of my previous school.”
A whistle. Lanky stands again and rests his hands on his hips, the top of his uniform unbuttoned and halfway off his shoulder.
“Like I said before, what’d ya do?”
Irritation swells once more, and Izuku grits his teeth.
“That’s none of your business–”
“Yo, yo, newbie. Don’t be ballsy, coming in here with all that attitude.”
This time a straw-colored blonde peers around Izuku’s shoulder, nearly jolting him right out of his seat. The two students surround him like hyenas eagerly awaiting to play with their food. Izuku’s mind races with escape routes, but he can’t remember his way through the various hallways. It’s like this classroom is intentionally tucked away so everyone else can blissfully ignore it.
“Well, what did ya do? You won’t tell because you’re better than us?” The blonde challenges.
“Don’t make him shit his pants, Kaminari,” Lanky chuckles.
“What? Like you’re doing any better.”
“Whatever, he’s boring. Let’s get back to our card game. I’m gonna win so much you might have to give me your house”
Exhaling in relief, Izuku folds his arms over his desk and droops his head like a snail retracting into its shell.
“My old man would fucking disown me before that happened,” Kaminari replies, somewhat despondently, before groaning. “Yo, where is our man Bakubro? He owes me some coin from yesterday.”
“Probably napping in one of his spots. You know him.”
“I swear to God, he could sleep for a week straight and still nap during the day.”
“It is fucking boring without him and Kirishima here today.”
Like that, Izuku is left alone the rest of the day. A few curious students meander by his desk to take a good look at him (to confirm he’s not a threat), but no one else speaks to him. A tide of frustration builds beneath his skin as the clock ticks on with no word from any authority figure. He whips out a cheap pair of earbuds (standing in for the headphones his mother confiscated as punishment).
He only brought one raging grunge album, which is loaded into his CD player already. For the remainder of the day he blasts it on repeat. His fingers drum incessantly on the top of his desk.
Tuesday, September 6th, 2005
Izuku ignores his mother at home and grows uneasy at the thought of turning this behavior into a habit. But he’s not ready to talk about what happened over the weekend, and he’s certainly not willing to share details about his new school.
He ignores her pointed, sad look, aimed toward his baggy uniform, as he slides out the door the next morning, shutting it behind him.
The ride to school on the public bus is dreary as the weekend’s misty weather continues to persist.
When he arrives at school, Izuku does not head to the rundown classroom right away. Instead, he balls his fists and marches into the administrative office, standing in the doorway like an angry, wet puppy. The short-haired secretary from yesterday cautiously leans backwards.
“Yes, Midoriya?”
“Why doesn’t my classroom have a teacher?”
“Ah, that is a matter we are resolving as quickly as possible.”
“Is that even legal? How are we supposed to keep pace with other students in the country if we don’t have a teacher for days on end?”
The young woman adjusts her round glasses and narrows her eyes.
“Are you one to talk about what’s legal and illegal?” She questions, her tone low and even.
Izuku’s face falls but he quickly schools it into neutrality.
“This is not about me. It’s about all the students in that classroom who do not have a teacher,” he retorts, feeling somewhat clever for a moment.
The secretary tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear and begins typing rapidly on her computer, as if jotting down some long winded notes about Izuku’s outburst.
“Like I said, the matter is being resolved as quickly as possible. A teacher’s assistant comes by to check attendance soon, so I would return to your classroom if I were you.”
Izuku scoffs, having seen no such person doing rounds for his classroom.
“What’s the point in taking attendance if we’re not learning anything?” He grumbles, mostly to himself.
She hears him, and a quiet, condescending laugh escapes her lips.
“Oh, sweetie. We’re doing the community a service by keeping this class safely contained in school.”
What?
Izuku doesn’t turn back around but he’s halted in his tracks for a few moments processing her words. Sure teenagers are scary but they’re not animals.
The injustice of it all melts deep into his bones as he sulks through the long hallways, past students from other classrooms who seem blissfully unaware of it.
He needs to figure out a way to keep up with his studies in order to stand a chance at passing college entrance exams. Perhaps he’ll attend tutoring or purchase extra textbooks. Both require money that neither he nor his mother have. What a pity his scholarship wasted away with his expulsion.
Sliding the door to the classroom 2-D open, he groans quietly. The chatter, livelier than yesterday, borders shouting levels, and it only gets louder when he walks in.
“Hey, he’s back! The newbie didn’t flee. Imagine that..”
“We didn’t even do anything to him. Why the fuck would he flee?”
“Well, you know–”
“You’re such fucking idiots,” a voice drawls from the back of the classroom. “Can you shut the fuck up for once? Some of us are sleeping.”
Izuku halts in the doorway, skin prickling.
Some students cackle; others roll their eyes and continue talking. But Izuku’s own eyes trace the voice to the back of the room where an ashy haired teenager lounges, resting his chin in his arms. Red eyes peek out over his wrists.
For a heartbeat, Izuku convinces himself that a trick of the light cheats his vision. Yet, the familiar features of Bakugo Katsuki lay before him without question. As Izuku notes the unique differences of this grown Bakugo Katsuki (the scabbed knuckles, the long limbs and broad shoulders), those crimson eyes narrow with recognition. Katsuki lifts his head.
He says nothing but tilts his head like a predator evaluating its prey. Izuku’s heart stutters for a moment, long enough to remember the Katsuki from when they were children. The Katsuki who blindly inflicted hurt upon those around him.
However, Izuku can’t bring himself to put distance between himself and his childhood bully. He doesn’t even have the courage to tear his eyes away.
As seconds tick by and the staring contest elongates, others take notice. Loud conversations simmer into a chorus of mutters and prying eyes.
Katsuki eventually straightens, and the corners of his mouth twist into a frown.
“Well, well, well.” The blonde exhales as if facing a tedious chore.
Hypernalytical despite his own trepidation, Izuku notes the unusual, flat tone in Katsuki’s voice, mirrored by the expression on his face. Where Izuku would have expected a cruel smile, he finds a resigned grimace. Strange.
Katsuki shoves his chair back and stalks toward the front of the room. As he approaches, the students of class 2-D part and create a pathway between the two boys. In the corner of his eye, Izuku sees Lanky and his friend Kaminari approach from the far side of the classroom.
Izuku has two choices: double-down on his fear and bolt, or ignore it and face Katsuki. As far as he can tell, no authority figure cares about his well being anymore, so running will do no good. Katsuki, on the other hand, is more of an unknown to him now. He certainly doesn’t look friendlier, but something is eerily different about him. The excited glint that used to glimmer in his crimson eyes has dulled into something mild. No, something wearied.
Without thinking about it further, Izuku markedly steps forward and closes several feet of distance between them.
“Do you know him, Bakubro?” Kaminari pipes up nearby.
Katsuki ignores the comment and halts an arm’s length away from Izuku, looking him up and down, clinically. More seconds pass without him saying anything, and Izuku grows impatient, tired of waiting for others. Ready to act on his own time for once.
“Kacchan–”
Okay, that might have been too impertinent.
Riotous laughter erupts throughout the room, and Izuku regrets speaking first. Before anyone can squeeze in a joke loud enough to be heard over the crowd, Katsuki rapidly surges forward and twists a hand in the front of Izuku’s uniform.
A familiar anxiety crawls beneath Izuku’s skin, and he peers down his nose at his old friend’s scabbed knuckles, which are so close they nearly graze his cheek.
Katsuki’s grip tightens on Izuku’s shirt as he quietly demands, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“W-what?” The stuttering words tumble out of Izuku’s mouth, utterly betraying his plan to act unfazed. They’re so close that Izuku inhales Katsuki’s familiar, earthy scent with every breath. It renders Izuku speechless. And then, of course, there are Katsuki’s battered knuckles which could make contact with his cheek any moment now.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“At school?”
Someone laughs and Katsuki snaps his head in that direction, silencing the brave soul.
“At this school, nerd.”
Izuku stares until his eyes water. The truth of the matter isn’t his own truth, but he doesn’t know what to say instead.
“I messed up,” he admits, trying to smile and defuse the situation. He knows Katsuki likes to build on his anger before acting. Izuku doesn’t want to give him that chance.
Katsuki stares at him for a long, tense moment, as if funneling Izuku’s words through the model in his brain and calculating a response. Then he releases Izuku’s shirt abruptly.
“Tch.”
And just like that, the classroom blather bubbles up again, and Katsuki saunters back into his seat, plopping his head into his arms. A couple students try to pester him with details, but he silences them with a swift “I’ll kill you if you say one more word to me”.
Of course, that leaves only one other person to bother about the matter.
“You are so much more interesting than I thought,” Kaminari admits, slinging an arm around Izuku’s neck.
Izuku hunches beneath the weight of Kaminari’s arm, dreading whatever conversation he’s about to be pulled into. With Katsuki now a lurking presence in the classroom, Izuku’s ambition to embody incognito status renews. However, subtly isn’t easy with two chatty delinquents yapping in his ears.
Yet, he finds himself sitting in front of Lanky (whose name he learns is actually Sero) and Kaminari at a cluster of desks near the window. Nervously, Izuku peeks behind his shoulder, confirming that Katsuki hasn’t lifted his head.
“Dude, calm down. Your vibe is all over the place,” Kaminari says like a doctor delivering a prescription. “People here smell that shit a mile away.”
People here?
“Yeah, it’s not doing him any favors, is it?” Sero agrees, flashing a broad set of teeth at his friend while they exchange a few chuckles.
Izuku barely conceals his growing irritation. He’s not even supposed to be here. He could be studying right now.
“I am seriously dying to know – how do you know Bakubro?”
Izuku blinks back at them.
“Idiot, obviously he doesn’t know we call him that,” Kaminari scolds. “Bakugo.”
With practiced restraint, Izuku refrains from commenting on the ridiculously obvious nickname that anyone with two brain cells could put together. Still, for one millisecond, Izuku imagines these two knuckleheads calling Katsuki that name for the first time and amusement ripples through him, unabated.
“We’re friends from elementary school,” Izuku eventually replies.
He’s met with laughter.
“He had friends? Can you imagine that, dude?”
“Literally, no, I cannot fathom it. I’m just picturing an angry, little Bakugo running around the playground shoving other children into the dirt.”
The imagery evokes war flashbacks in Izuku’s mind, which he shoves aside promptly. God, Katsuki was such a menace then. Still seems to be, according to the impressions of his two classmates.
“The word ‘friend’ is really just a courtesy. We were classmates,” Izuku corrects. Though not untrue, the explanation excludes some important context that Izuku is unwilling to give.
“So what was he like?” Sero asks, grinning devilishly.
Izuku glances sidelong toward the back of the classroom, noting Katsuki’s sullen presence. Alone. That’s another difference. Back in elementary school, Katsuki surrounded himself with a circle of other naughty boys who revelled in dishing out the same terror. Now, he’s a lone wolf at the edge of other packs.
“The same, more or less,” Izuku lies, returning his attention to the two in front of him.
Kaminari sighs with feigned exasperation.
“You’re not giving us very juicy details, are you? We might become bored of you.”
Please do.
“Well, we could…” Sero weaves in. “Play cards.”
“Oh fuck yes.”
Izuku’s protests die on his lips as Sero starts expertly shuffling his tattered pack of cards. He can’t even object when they inform him that money is on the line (literally what money does he even have?).
Katsuki’s presence has completely disarmed Izuku’s brain, which fogs when they explain the rules; he rapidly loses $23, which Kaminari adds to his “running tab”.
The rest of high school is beginning to look not only bleak but broke too.
After a dinner so awkward that it leaves Izuku’s skin crawling that night, he retreats into his bedroom. His mother can’t afford a large, fancy apartment but it doesn’t bother Izuku. He prefers cozy spaces to curl up in, like the bean bag chair he sinks into despondently.
If he puts on his thinking cap for just a moment, he’ll realize that his body and mind haven’t recovered from the shock of Saturday night. What he saw, and the chaotic panic that ensued. Now, if he shoves that thinking cap extra snug over his curls, he’ll realize that he internalized the blame for everything, and it’s consuming him from the inside out.
But Izuku is not willing to put that cap on yet,
His depressing thoughts act like a hot pair of tongs squeezing his head until his temples burn with agony.
What have I done?
Before he can stop himself, he clumsily thumbs through contacts in his flip phone and presses enter.
The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and — oh, God, what is he doing he needs to hang up immediately –
“Midoriya?” A warm, feminine voice answers. Trepidation dominates her tone.
“H-Hi, Uraraka.”
His heart threatens to leap out of his chest. He hasn’t seen (or heard) her since they parted ways, teary-eyed at the police station.
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“I know,” Izuku murmurs. “I just wanted to check if you were okay. I’ve been so anxious about everything –”
“My parents blame you for everything.”
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. This isn’t news but the reality splinters his chest anyway.
“I know,” Izuku repeats. “Look, I’m not trying to get you into trouble by talking to you. But we are not liable for everything. It’s all…” he struggles to find the right words. “Reputational.”
There’s a long pause, and Izuku worries his friend is fighting tears, but then she clears her throat.
“It’s not fair. You taking the fall is not fair at all.”
“It was either me or you guys. Speaking of which, how is…” Izuku trails off, scared to hear anything else heart shattering.
“Jiro is fine,” Uraraka says, a hint of amusement in her tone. “You know her. She’s up in arms about the whole thing… school is trying to restrain her from speaking out. It’s been a horrible school week so far.”
Izuku breathes out. Not great, but good to know Jiro refuses to tone down her usual self. Also, talking to Uraraka again eases some pressure in his chest that he didn’t know was threatening to cave in any moment.
“What about…Ida?”
Another pause. Izuku prepares himself.
“Ida is not okay. I wouldn’t reach out to him.”
That’s a blow that Izuku expects, but it still hurts nonetheless. As straight-laced as one can get, Ida would no doubt face the biggest identity crisis over this whole debacle. And Izuku drew him into all of it. That guilt will never just dissipate.
Izuku’s eyes flit to another corner of his room where the glittery, emerald electric guitar lay propped against the wall. Then his gaze travels back to his bandaged fingers.
“I understand. Don’t worry – unless something important comes up, I won’t reach out again.”