Chapter Text
Hizashi has misplaced his sunglasses for what feels like the hundredth time this week. He’s still recovering from a mild concussion and he’s thankful that his hero costume allows him the excuse to wear sunglasses indoors without appearing douchey.
Though, Shouta would probably argue that douchey is practically a Present Mic trademark.
Shaking his head fondly, Hizashi finds his glasses on Shouta’s desk. A pink sticky note with one of Shouta’s favourite emojis—“(눈_눈)”—is stuck on the right lens. Hizashi laughs softly, tucking the note into his pocket, and slides the sunglasses over his eyes with a sigh of relief.
He turns to leave, but pauses. Asleep at the desk, curled into a tiny ball, is the Green Bean.
Hizashi would never admit it, but Izuku is one of his favourite students. This kid, who bravely—and recklessly—threw himself into the fight during the USJ Incident, had saved Shouta’s life.
Quietly, Hizashi slips into the desk beside the kid. Izuku’s right cheek is smushed up against his knees, but Hizashi can see the dark shadows beneath the kid’s eyes and the tight hollows beneath his cheek bones. It’s clear to see Izuku hasn’t been eating or sleeping enough recently.
Hizashi frowns thoughtfully. He knows, through personal experience and as a teacher at UA, that this program is demanding and difficult, especially for his first year students. Some kids respond to the pressure by pushing themselves to the limit without taking the time to eat or sleep properly to regenerate their energy reserves.
Up close the kid looks absolutely exhausted, freckles stark against pale, waxy skin. His eyebrows are pinched, and his eyes are moving rapidly beneath his lids. Hizashi is close enough to hear soft, sad whimpers.
Hizashi reaches out to gently press his wrist against Izuku’s forehead. The child is running a low-grade fever.
“Hey Little Listener, you’re going to sleep right through lunch.” Hizashi drops his hand to the kid’s shoulder and squeezes gently.
Izuku jolts awake, eyes wide with panic. He backpedals with enough force to slam his knees up against the bottom of the desk, Hizashi winces at the thud of flesh hitting metal and wood. Izuku doesn’t react to the pain, his chest heaves frantically, fear etched across his face.
“Whoa, whoa,” Hizashi holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “You’re okay, Midoriya.”
“Sorry, S-Sensei,” Izuku mumbles, turning away momentarily to catch his breath.
“No need to apologize, Little Listener,” Hizashi gives him a moment to compose himself. “…Are you feeling alright?”
“Absolutely, Mic-sensei. I’m feeling great.”
Hizashi barely manages to keep the dubious look off his face. It’s astonishing how fast the child had put away his distress, a vacant smile now pasted on his face. “Did you already eat?”
“I forgot my lunch today, Sensei. But don’t worry, I had a big breakfast. Instead, I thought I would take a page out of your husband's book and grab a nap.”
Hizashi just snorts, placing his elbow on the table to prop his chin into his hand. “Smart Little Listener, when exactly did you figure out that Shouta and I were married?”
“You just confirmed it,” Izuku flashes him a more genuine smile. “But I’ve had my suspicions for a while. You two are really good at hiding it.”
“Well you’re right about more than one thing, Midoriya,” Hizashi begins pulling items out of his bag and placing them on the desk. “My husband is napping lunch away in his office. So you’ll have to do me a favour and eat lunch with me.”
There’s a flash of something across the kids face. Quick and fleeting but stark.
Hunger.
“I… couldn’t do that.”
“Well then, this sandwich is going to totally go to waste.”
The kid peeks up at him, a conflicted pinch between his brows, “...A-Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“But… I can’t take Aizawa-sensei’s lunch.”
“Your sensei is notorious for chugging a protein shake or a jelly pouch for lunch and then using the rest of the time to nap. I pack his food just in case most of the time,” Hizashi grumbles. “Please, otherwise, it’ll definitely go to waste.” He doesn’t mention that Nemuri, notorious for sleeping in, often ends up claiming Shouta’s uneaten lunch. Today, she’ll have to settle for snacks from the staff room.
“Thank you,” Izuku carefully takes the sandwich, cradling it in his scarred palms like something precious. “There’s another reason I suspected the two of you were married. You’re both very kind people. Two of my favourite heroes.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” Izuku makes a pleased noise around a mouthful of fluffy milk bread and tonkatsu. “I used to live in Eraserhead’s patrolling area—This is amazing, Sensei.”
“I’m glad you like it. So Shouta’s patrol route cuts through your old neighbourhood?” Hizashi prompts gently. Now that Izuku’s had a moment to calm down, Hizashi can see the signs of exhaustion written across the kid’s features. There’s a dazed quality to his gaze, and Hizashi ponders if the most reserved kid in 1-A would be this candid if it wasn’t for how worn down he seems.
“Yeah,” Izuku pauses to swallow, his eyes flashing brilliant green with remembrance. “I was lucky enough to watch him fight a few times. He was the one that gave me the confidence to pursue being a hero.”
“Really? That’s wonderful!” Hizashi can’t wait to see the look on Shouta’s face when he relays that particular bit of information. “But you have a perfect quirk for heroics. What made you doubt yourself before?”
Izuku looks down, chewing slowly. “I… I don’t know.”
The kid has shut down. Clearly, Hizashi has said something wrong. He’ll have to tread carefully in the future, but for now, he knows pushing will get him nowhere during this conversation.
“Here,” Hizashi places the second half of his sandwich down on Izuku’s desk. “You’ve got Heroics after lunch with All Might. You need to make sure you have enough fuel to sustain yourself through a double period.”
“N-No, Sensei! I couldn’t take your lunch too!”
“Don’t be silly. Your sensei and I have a date with the yakiniku grill tonight, gotta save room for that.” Hizashi eyes the kid, knowing the gossipy nature of Shouta’s class, “Also, I would appreciate it if you kept the truth about our relationship to yourself.”
Izuku’s eyes widen and he waves his hands frantically in front of his face. “Of course, I would never say anything. But Sensei—“
“I really enjoyed our lunch together. Have a wonderful rest of your day, Midoriya. Make sure to get lots of sleep and eat a healthy dinner tonight.”
Hizashi waves on his way out, even while his brain plans another opportunity to sit down with the Green Bean again soon. The kid doesn’t look well. There are worrying signs that require more investigation.
However, Izuku seems to take every opportunity to avoid Hizashi in the coming week.
His English work is superb as usual, but the kid is looking worse by the day. Thinner and even more exhausted.
He’s careful to leave with the front of the crowd at the end of class before Hizashi can catch him and he’s never in the lunchroom when Hizashi peeks in.
He’s hiding something. It’s as clear as day. And the weight of whatever secret that kid is carrying is far too heavy for those young shoulders.
XXXXX
Izuku glances down to the contents of his shopping basket, calculating if he can afford to add a much-needed bar of soap to his haul.
Izuku has been homeless for a couple months, however, his life with his mother had taught him all the essential skills to survive on his own long before he lost his home. He’s been shopping for his own food since he was seven. He knows to go directly to the clearance aisle, to find high-calorie, low-cost items that can fill him up on his meagre budget.
He is well aware of the exact amount of yen in his pocket, however, he pulls out the battered notes to count through them carefully. He can afford both the food and the soap if he walks home instead of taking the train—a sacrifice he’ll have to make. The rules at UA are strict about maintaining a clean uniform.
The thought of trudging through the relentless rain for over an hour sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t have the energy to spare to utilise his quirk and Kacchan had destroyed his umbrella the previous week. Izuku tries to remind himself that he should be grateful Kacchan chose to wreck one of his belongings rather than inflict another burn, but as he looks out the grimy window of the rundown grocery store at the grey, miserable weather, a flicker of resentment remains.
He tamps the feeling down. He isn’t allowed to feel that way. He’s barely allowed to feel at all. Even if he has a quirk now, even as a student at the illustrious UA, he’s still essentially Quirkless. Without a parent or guardian to file the paperwork to update his quirk status, he is unable to do anything about it.
The cashier doesn’t even glance at him as she uses her long, lime-green nails to push the expiring bread, dented cans, and the single bar of cheap soap through the scanner.
She looks up briefly to scan his identification card, scowling at the large red ‘Q’ stamped next to his picture. It’s the best Izuku can hope for, passive disgust rather than outright hatred and violence. It’s the reason he makes the trek to this particular store, nestled in a crime-ridden area deep in the inner city, they serve the Quirkless community for purely business reasons.
Clutching the plastic bag to his chest, Izuku huddles over it to try to protect it from the torrential downpour. The wind cuts through the thin material of his hoodie. He tightens his grip on his meagre haul and begins the slow, daunting walk back to his shelter.
XXXXX
Izuku slips under the yellow barricade tape and through a window, barely visible through the dense weeds, into the basement of the old library. This place, once a public space, had been condemned a few months ago after a villain attack.
He only allows himself to relax once he’s inside and the window is securely shut and latched behind him.
Navigating through the basement, he passes rows of dusty bookshelves and ancient filing cabinets until he reaches the shadowed space between two particular bookshelves. He clicks on the light switch of an old lamp he salvaged from Dagoba Beach, sighing in relief as warm light spills into his small nook. The glow reveals his bed—a wooden pallet covered with old blankets and a flattened pillow—and the assortment of books scattered around the space.
He often worries about what he’ll do when the power is eventually cut off. He’s unsure why the building still has electricity and water, but he’s not one to question a gift horse. Especially when he’s more accustomed to being kicked in the face by his own bad luck.
“Cat Mic, I’m home.”
A loud, yowling meow echoes through the cavernous basement before a large cat drops onto his shoulders from a higher shelf. Izuku flinches slightly as the weight twinges at the bruises across his upper chest.
The cat purrs loudly in his ear, a constant rumble that earned him his name. His volume and bright yellow fur have made “Cat Mic” an apt moniker.
Cat Mic had claimed the library as his territory before Izuku found it. As the resident deity of the space, Izuku makes sure to pay tribute with tuna. Having Cat Mic around makes the bleakness and loneliness a bit more bearable.
“I’ve got homework to do before work,” Izuku said softly, leaning into the cat’s warmth. “But I brought the tuna you like best. I got three cans on sale.”
Cat Mic nips gently at his ear before leaping down to eagerly anticipate his meal. Izuku carefully pours the tuna into a plastic bowl and sets it down. He smiles faintly as Cat Mic dives into the bowl, his primary diet consisting of the rodents that inhabit the building. Izuku makes sure to feed his friend a few times a week, sometimes more often than he feeds himself.
Izuku turns his attention to his homework. He only has a couple hours left before he needs to leave for his night shift, and while the Science application questions and English paragraph won’t take too long, the essay Aizawa-sensei assigned yesterday is the most interesting piece of work he’s been given yet. It centres on post-Quirk Era social policies that have led to those with quirks considered unfavourable being pushed into the margins of society. There’s an assigned reading he’s been putting off though, particularly because it focuses on ‘the Quirkless experience’.
Izuku powers on his ancient laptop and logs into the free wifi that leaks into the space from the nearby cafe. His mind wanders as he finishes the Physics equations on auto-pilot. Calculate the launch angle of a projectile based on initial velocity components, easy.
Aizawa-sensei is an incredible teacher; his lessons are interesting and multi-layered, requiring critical thinking skills that his previous teachers, who had focused on memorization, had never activated before. He’s strict but fair. Even Kacchan has never been brave enough to try to hurt Izuku in his class.
He doesn’t want to read the article, because if it’s the same right-wing vitriol about the uselessness and laziness of Quirkless individuals, it’ll hurt.
It’ll hurt so much.
And Izuku doesn’t want to disrupt the illusion of Aizawa as one of the few people in the world who wouldn’t think of him as worthless for being born Quirkless.
After completing his Science homework, Izuku turns his attention to English. Present Mic has always been one of his favourite heroes. But now that Present Mic is his teacher, Izuku is careful to keep his distance.
He doesn’t want to risk discovering that his hero isn’t as genuine as he seems.
(It doesn’t matter that Present Mic always has a smile ready for him, or that he leaves snacks on Izuku’s desk. It definitely doesn’t matter that Present Mic shared his lunch or rebuked Kacchan for tripping Izuku that one time in the hallway.)
Never meet your heroes.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Izuku does not think of All Might.
XXXXX
“Shou~” Hizashi flings himself onto the couch, covering Shouta in a blanket of loud and blond. “I’m so exhausted. I just marked over sixty essays and, seriously, some of those kids can barely write a sentence in English. What does ‘I like what you any money. I all your money’ even mean? My brain is goo.”
Shouta spits out a mouthful of gold hair, trying to stifle a sneeze. Hizashi must have already showered; his hair is damp and twisted into a loose braid.
Beneath the bright and animated tone, Hizashi is clinging to him deceptively tight. There’s something wrong. Though Hizashi is normally quite tactile and affectionate, his mouth is set in a grim, thoughtful line.
Shouta brings his own arms around his husband’s waist, squeezing tight in the way that he knows Hizashi finds grounding. Hizashi relaxes into his embrace, some of the tension leaking out of his taut form.
Shouta hates seeing his husband upset. Hizashi is like a burst of sunshine, radiant and brilliantly bright, and it feels wrong to see him so troubled. He knows Hizashi well enough to recognize that this isn’t just a passing mood.
While Present Mic embodies the loudest and brightest aspects of Hizashi’s personality, underneath it all, Hizashi is incredibly perceptive. Though both men excelled academically, Shouta has always been amazed by Hizashi’s intuitive grasp of people. His deep well of empathy is as much a hindrance as it is something Shouta loves deeply about his husband.
It’s up to him to put that bright smile back onto his husband’s face.
“Sweetheart, you’re insatiable,” his tone deadpan, “Stop, we’re in public.”
Hizashi bursts into laughter, before pushing up to straddle Shouta’s hips and whack him playfully across the chest. “Ridiculous man.”
Nemuri whistles at them saucily as she passes ‘Shouta’s couch’ to reach the coffee machine. “Ride ‘em, Cowboy.”
Hizashi shoots her a finger gun and a wink. “Yeehaw.”
Shouta snorts beneath him, before reaching up to tug Hizashi back into kissing distance. He doesn’t, kiss Hizashi that is, but gives in to his urge to tuck a stray strand of blond hair behind his ear. “Are you ready to go home?”
Hizashi nods and pulls him off the couch in one smooth motion. They bid Nemuri a good night and head down to the underground parking lot.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Shouta asks quietly when they’re alone in the elevator. It must be serious if Hizashi’s beaming grin had fallen right off his face as soon as they were out of the staff room.
Hizashi hums, his gaze downcast. Shouta waits patiently, understanding that Hizashi needs time to organise his thoughts before he speaks.
“There’s something off about our listener,” Hizashi finally says, his tone stripped of humour and filled with concern. “I’ve been looking into it this week, but his file is sealed—I’ve never seen that before, Shouta—and I’m really concerned that everything is not okay with his home life.”
Shouta raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know who Hizashi is referring to, they’re too far past that. It had taken him longer than Hizashi to see past Midoriya Izuku’s incredibly powerful quirk. The boy beneath the power is not arrogant or lazy as he first assumed. He’s kind, gentle, and the hardest worker Shouta has ever encountered. Which makes his quirk control all the more confusing. Izuku is a mystery wrapped in a puzzle tied together with a bow of constant surprises.
“He looked so tired today… someone could go on a month-long vacation with those eye bags.”
“Teenagers are known for staying up late,” Shouta reasons.
“I sense this is something more. Shouta, he hasn’t been eating lunch.”
“Have you tried contacting his family?”
“I’ve called three times this week and I’ve left messages each time. No return call yet.”
“...That is concerning.”
“That’s not all, he flinches when I come close, Shou, and the way his eyes track me at all times during class. It’s more than just a little concerning.”
Shouta tilts his head back against the head-rest and ponders his own experience with Izuku. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed anything particularly strange because of their differing teaching styles.
Hizashi is constantly on the move in his classroom, striding up and down the rows of desks to promote both engagement and relationship building with his students. In direct contrast, Shouta prefers to be at the front of his classroom where he can observe all of his students easily. (It also doesn’t hurt that he’s close to his sleeping bag for naps. Especially after the shit-fuckery that his schedule has been since the beginning of the school year).
But now that he thinks back, the behaviour that he’s been able to brush off as nervous, beginning-of-the-year jitters has only seemed to worsen as time passes.
The Problem Child has looked more worn down recently. And since All Might has been taking on the lion’s share of Heroics block lessons, Shouta hasn’t seen recently if Izuku’s physical form has declined as well. Not for the first time, he curses the current case he’s working on, one that has taken a lot of his time and focus away from his students.
“I’ve been leaving him snacks on his desk.”
“...Is that where my jelly pouches have been disappearing to?”
“Aren’t you always telling me how nutritionally complete they are?” A small smirk tugs at the corner of Hizashi’s lips as they make their way up to their apartment, “And besides, are you implying that you would prefer a pouch of glorified jello over the homemade snacks I pack you for your patrol?”
Shouta is far too seasoned a husband to fall into that particular trap. He consoles himself by grumbling about limited-edition flavours under his breath, too quietly for Hizashi to hear.
"I really think something is wrong here, Shou. I’m genuinely worried.”
“I’ll pay a visit to the address on his file tomorrow before class,” Shouta decides as they enter their apartment. He leans down to pet Princess Buttercup as she immediately comes up to twine her chubby body around his left leg.
“I can go,” Hizashi is giving him that soft, worried look that Shouta has seen all too often recently. “You’ve been so busy with the ‘Time Turner’ case. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”
“I’ll be fine, Sweetheart,” Shouta tugs Hizashi into a hug, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of the limelight hero’s citrus-vanilla shampoo. “I have a night off from patrol so I’ll be well-rested by tomorrow morning.”
Hizashi leans into the embrace, sighing against Shouta’s neck, before pressing a kiss right at the top of Shouta’s Adam's apple. “Well-rested,” he huffs in affectionate disbelief. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
XXXXX
Izuku arrives at work a few minutes before his nine p.m. shift begins. The warehouse is a cavernous space filled with the steady hum of workers and the clatter of metal carts. His coworkers, some with visibly tired eyes and slumped shoulders, offer him weary smiles as he passes. He returns their gestures with a warm, if somewhat strained, grin as he slips his bag into one of the old, battered lockers that line the break room.
The warehouse, operated by the largest online marketplace in Japan, is a hive of relentless activity. Izuku’s role involves a dual process: ‘picking’—where he fills worn-out shopping carts with items from the shelves to fulfil orders—and ‘shipping’—where he carefully packs boxes into trucks, arranging them to fit tetris-style.
“How is your back feeling tonight, Minoru-san?” Izuku asks, his voice full of genuine concern.
“Still a bit sore, Izuku-kun, but I’m on the mend,” Minoru-san replies with a warm smile, her purple hair balls bobbing slightly as she speaks.
Izuku nods, noticing the strain in her posture. “Please take care of yourself. You don’t want to make the injury worse.” He pulls his cart alongside hers and takes a quick glance at the list in Minoru-san’s hand. Her quirk allows her to retrieve items from the lower shelves effortlessly, but due to its limitations, she often has to climb the higher shelves. “Most of my higher-shelf items are close to yours. Let me get those for you.”
“You’re wonderful, Izuku-kun,” she gushes. “Your family must be so proud of you.”
Izuku manages a smile, though he keeps his eyes trained on the scuffed floor.
“Minoru-san is kind to say so.”
XXXXX
On Sunday mornings Izuku trains with All Might.
Izuku swallows the hot, sticky mouthful of blood, grimacing as he restrains the urge to cough. His mouth is so dry, his eyelids feel like crisp paper as he blinks against the glare of the rising sun. The sight of Dagoba Beach swims in front of his eyes, shimmering and swerving like he’s on an amusement park ride from Hell.
“You’ve been slacking recently, my boy.” The rail-thin, pointy version of All Might says behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku manages hazily. His words are thick with exhaustion, but he tries to push himself up, only to feel the ground tilt dangerously beneath him.
“Not as sorry as I am,” All Might’s voice is heavy with disappointment.
The sound of his voice crackles, as if he’s listening to a badly tuned radio. Izuku’s head swims as he shakes it, desperately trying to clear his senses, but the effort sends him sprawling forward, collapsing onto his knees. A wave of nausea crashes over him, relentless and overwhelming, and he sinks into the hot, gritty sand as though it might swallow him whole.
“—chose you because of your heroic spirit, but your performance recently worries me.”
Izuku squints up at All Might through the blinding sunlight, the sand scorching his cheek and clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
“If this laziness continues, I might have to find myself another successor, one worthy of All For One.”
Panic ignites in Izuku’s chest like a flare, bright and consuming. The thought of losing All Might’s quirk, of being deemed unworthy, stings sharper than any injury. It’s not just the fear of failure; it’s the dread of being left without purpose, without the single chance he has to prove himself.
The number one hero shakes his head one more time and shoves his hands into his pockets. He turns and without another word, walks away.
Izuku watches him go, unable to do anything more than lay in the dirty sand.
The beach, once pristine and gleaming with potential, now seems to mock him with its current state of disarray. He remembers how beautiful it had looked after he had finished cleaning it up before the entrance exam, how proud he had felt then. Back when he still had a home.
It’s dirty again now.
Maybe it would be better if All Might did find someone else, someone who could truly live up to the legacy of One For All. There are countless others who might be more deserving, more capable, more—everything Izuku feels he is not.
And Izuku is so, so tired.
It hurts to move. It hurts even more to think. So Izuku just lies there until the sun begins to set.
Like another piece of trash amongst the piles of refuse dotting the beach.
XXXXX
Izuku can’t find his phone.
“Cat Mic, did you hide my phone again?” he calls out, his voice edged with frustration as he glares up at the fluffy creature lounging regally on the second-highest shelf.
Cat Mic responds with his signature ear-splitting meow, tilting his head in an exaggerated show of innocence, as if asking, Who, me?
“You’re in trouble, mister!” Izuku grumbles, pulling on his worn yellow backpack with a sharp tug. The familiar weight against his bruised shoulders is a jarring reminder of All Might’s brutal training session yesterday. “I’m going to be late for school, so we’ll deal with this later.”
With a final, exasperated glance at Cat Mic, who has now leapt down onto the bed and settled comfortably on his front paws, Izuku scratches behind one perked fluffy ear.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
The cat blinks at him with serene disinterest, completely unfazed.
Izuku sneaks back out of the library, somehow managing not to trip as he shimmies out the window and fumbles with his tie at the same time.
He doesn’t have enough money for the train, but if he takes the journey at a steady jog he can cut down his commute to just over an hour and a half.
Izuku swings his backpack over to adjust the straps— the most annoying thing while running is dealing with his backpack slapping against his back—when an ear splitting scream shatters the early morning calm.
Without a second thought, Izuku changes direction, sprinting towards the source of the scream. The sheer desperation in the cry claws at his chest, spurring him on with a sense of urgency that overrides his fatigue.
He skids to a stop as he rounds the corner. Before him, a tall, masked man looms menacingly over a woman who stands paralyzed in front of the door to a jewelry shop. The man’s hand glows a sickly, noxious yellow, hovering inches from the woman’s terror-stricken face.
It’s so early, there’s no one else around. No one else who could help. No one but Izuku.
Izuku doesn’t think, he moves.
One For All crackles and hums beneath his skin, a familiar energy that flares to life as he intervenes. In a heartbeat, he’s between the woman and the danger. He shoves her aside with all the care he can muster, mindful of the raw, destructive power of his quirk. But he’s not fast enough to move himself out of the way.
The glowing hand slams into his sternum with a jarring impact.
Pain.
The world narrows to an unbearable intensity of sensation. Izuku’s scream—if it can be called that—is a ragged, hoarse sound that seems to echo from a great distance, lost amid the waves of excruciating agony crashing through every nerve in his body.
Izuku is no stranger to pain. He’s endured Katsuki’s explosions blistering his skin, the sickening crunch of his own bones shattering beneath the force of his quirk, the relentless physical toll of his training. But this pain is different. It is all-encompassing, a relentless storm that consumes him entirely. Each pulse of agony feels like a new wave, pulling him deeper into a void of suffering.
“Idiot kid,” a foot collides with his stomach and Izuku cries out. “Little Hero-wannabe,” a wad of spit hits the side of his cheek, followed by another direct kick, this time to the UA patch sewn on his uniform. Izuku curls himself into a little ball, still in too much pain to do much else. “It’s what you deserve for getting in my way.”
The man tugs him up carelessly by the hair, examining him in the way one would normally look at a trapped rodent.
Izuku squints up at the man’s shadowed face, his vision blurring. All For One barely sparks beneath his twitching fingertips, fading away like a wave pulling back to the ocean.
“You’ll die soon, kid. No one survives long after getting a full dose of my quirk.” The man drops him unceremoniously and looks off into the distance, in the direction the woman had disappeared. “But look at that, you get to die a hero.”
It’s cold.
Izuku uses the last of his strength to push his knees into his chest and curl his arms around them.
The man is gone.
He’s so, so cold.
XXXXX
“Shouta-kun, there’s been a recent development and I require your support.”
Shouta blinks hazily at the upside-down head gazing down at him from the popped-open ceiling vent. Even after a fairly decent five hours of sleep, he feels bone-tired. He wants to spend the last ten minutes before class chugging coffee and glaring at the wall, not deal with his infuriatingly chipper and omniscient Sensei.
It doesn’t help that he’s worried about Midoriya. He’d woken up early to pass by the address on Midoriya’s file on his way to work. However, he had found a completely different family living in the small apartment. No sign of Midoriya or his mother. Apparently, they hadn’t lived there for months. The weight of anxiety feels like a slow-burning coal in his gut. The kid’s safety is his number one priority, and he can’t afford to be distracted. The Problem Child is remarkably good at sidestepping difficult conversations.
“Nedzu-sensei, I’ve only had two cups of coffee,” he grumbles tiredly. “Come back after my fifth.” He needs about that much caffeine to face the conversation he’ll have to have with Midoriya later on in the day.
“I’m afraid this cannot wait,” Nedzu’s voice carries an edge of urgency that brooks no argument.
Sighing heavily, Shouta leans back in his comfy, ergonomic chair. “Fine, I’m listening.”
“‘Time Turner’ has been active again, but this time, the victim survived.”
Shouta cocks his head curiously, “While I’m not happy the bastard has hurt someone else, it’s a good thing they’re alive. I can go investigate after class.”
“No, Shouta-kun, you need to go now,” Nedzu’s tone is firm. “The victim was found in a UA uniform.” The weight of that information hits Shouta like a punch to the gut. “The hospital file indicates the victim has green hair and green eyes.”
Only one student matches that particular description.
“Does that mean…”
“Yes, the victim is alive but he’s been affected by Time Turner’s quirk.”
“I’m taking Hizashi with me,” Shouta says behind his shoulder as he gathers his items in a mad flurry.
“I’ve already spoken to Hizashi-kun. He should be waiting for you in the car.”
Shouta doesn’t say anything else, though he does take half a second to toss his lesson plans on his desk.
Hizashi is indeed already in the car when Shouta rushes out the door.
The blond hero’s face is set in a grim expression. “What are the chances it’s not Izuku,” Hizashi asks once they’ve been on the road for a few minutes, his calm voice directly contrasting the way the needle on the speedometer keeps climbing far past the legal limit.
It’s a rhetorical question but Shouta answers anyway, “Slim to none, you know that kid is a trouble magnet.”
“We’ll be there in fifteen,” Hizashi says tensely.
XXXXX
“—absolutely fine, we can do nothing else for him here—”
Hizashi pushes past Tsukauchi and the woman he assumes is a doctor, his urgency palpable. He strides into the hospital room, only to be met with the startling sight of an empty bed.
His heart skips a beat. Quickly but methodically, his eyes sweep over the room. They lock with Shouta’s, who is already scanning the space with a sharp, concerned gaze. Shouta’s eyes flicker towards the narrow gap between the bed and the wall, where a tiny tuft of green is just barely visible.
Shouta nods back at him, quietly agreeing to let him make first contact with the kid. The faint sound of chattering teeth and the rustle of clothing confirms the child’s presence, and Hizashi can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. The kid must be shivering something fierce.
Hizashi moves carefully around the bed, lowering himself to the floor and sliding forward on his knees. He keeps his voice as low and soothing as possible.
“Hey, Little Listener,” he calls gently, hoping to reassure the child.
The sight before him, even though he’d been bracing for it, takes his breath away.
A small child, no older than five, peeks out from his hiding spot with wide, terrified green eyes. The boy is huddled into a tight ball, the sight of him curled up in such a confined space is heart-wrenching.
There’s a hazy quality to his gaze. Drugged, but still terrified. Fighting the demands of unconsciousness.
“Shouta,” Hizashi breathes, his voice catching as he fights to steady his racing heart.
“Hello, Izuku,” Shouta says softly, evenly, kneeling down beside Hizashi.
“…Eraserhead?” It takes longer than a moment for recognition to spark in Izuku’s eyes. The fear leaks away from Izuku’s countenance and he wiggles his hands in front of him in excitement. “Is… it really you?”
“Yes?” Shouta replies, cocking his head thoughtfully. “You know who I am?”
“Uhhuh!” Izuku nods his head, the motion is slow and seems to make the child dizzy. “You’re a hero that fights villains in my neighbourhood! I have fifteen pages of notes on your fights! You’re… you’re one of my favourites!”
Is that a blush on Shouta’s cheeks? Hizashi manages to hold back a cooing ‘aw’, just barely. His husband rarely, if ever, gets this kind of attention, especially from children. Even considering the circumstances. It’s obvious that Izuku doesn’t remember that Shouta is one of his teachers.
“That’s… very nice.” Shouta clears his throat and avoids Hizashi’s eyes. “That can’t be very comfortable. Can we help you out from under there?”
This tiny version of Izuku shrinks shakily back into his huddled position and casts a fearful glance in the direction of the door, “I think I should hide until mama gets here to pick me up. The doctor doesn’t like me.”
“Oh honey, why would you think that?” Hizashi asks.
“Nobody likes me,” Izuku replies matter-of-factly, as though stating a simple, universal truth. His large green eyes study Hizashi with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “Are you Present Mic?”
“I am,” Hizashi replies, struggling to maintain his smile as he absorbs the heart-wrenching nature of Izuku’s statement. “You’re quite observant, little guy.”
“I try to be,” Izuku nods evenly, then he claps his hands over his mouth, his eyes growing even larger with dismay. “Mama says that I shouldn’t talk in public. People don’t like when I talk. Mama doesn’t like when I talk either.”
Hizashi and Shouta exchange confused and concerned glances. Hizashi opens his mouth to reply when the door slams open. The doctor from earlier strides into the room and marches around the bed to glare down at the child.
Izuku squeaks in alarm and scrambles behind Hizashi, pressing his tiny face into Hizashi’s back. Instinctively, Hizashi sweeps the child into his arms, tucking him securely into the crook of his shoulder with a protective hand resting on the back of Izuku’s head.
The two heroes rise to their feet. Shouta takes a protective stance in front of Hizashi and the child, his gaze steely and unwavering.
“We’ve done all we can for him, and we need the room. You should leave,” the doctor says sharply, her eyes fixed on Izuku’s trembling form.
“We passed the Emergency Department on the way in. It was far from crowded,” Shouta’s voice is cold, his eyes narrowing at the doctor. “What exactly is the problem here, Doctor?”
“You should leave,” The doctor repeats.
Hizashi’s eyes flash with the promise of violence. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Izuku whimpers and tucks himself further down into Hizashi’s neck.
“Let’s go, Hizashi,” Shouta doesn’t take his eyes off the doctor, gaze narrow and tinted red. “We can file a complaint against—” he pauses to eye the name tag pinned to the front of her white coat, “—Dr. Kato once we’re out of here.”
“I don’t know who you think you are—“
“Pro Hero: Present Mic,” Hizashi cuts in, his voice dripping with venom. “And believe me, I’ll be discussing this appalling experience on air and filing that complaint.”
“Noted,” Tsukauchi intones tiredly from the doorway. “Let’s talk at the precinct.”
Hizashi throws a look of derision back at the doctor as he brushes past her, noting the look of muted fear on her face with cold satisfaction.
The ride to the station is silent but tense. Shouta drives while Hizashi sits in the backseat, holding Izuku close. The child remains still, his breathing barely audible as he clings to Hizashi, obviously fighting the drug induced exhaustion.
“It’s okay, Honey, you can sleep,” he brushes long, curling strands out of Izuku’s fluttering eyes. “It’s okay.”
The gentle touch seems to lull the child to sleep, so Hizashi continues to card his fingers through Izuku’s tangled hair and hum a soft lullaby under his breath. All while seething in anger.
“We can talk in my office,” Tsukauchi says, a cup of sludge-like coffee already gripped tightly in one hand. He glances at the child with concern, “Perhaps Midoriya should stay here with one of the officers.”
“He’s asleep,” Hizashi says tersely, “And he’s got quite a strong grip on my shirt.” Truly, he doesn’t want to let the kid out of his arms or his sight. Shouta shoots him a knowing look which he outright ignores.
“We’ll just have to be quiet then,” Tsukauchi nods as he allows them into his messy office.
“So Midoriya is the first person to survive the use of Time Turner’s quirk. He must have also received quite a concentrated blast. We’ve never had a victim revert back by more than five years.”
Hizashi adjusts his grip to cuddle the child closer, taking comfort in the tiny breaths fanning across his neck. “Shouta’s told me a little about this case, and of course I’ve been following the news. But details would be helpful here.”
“Time Turner can revert anything he touches, organic or inorganic, back to a previous state in time. He has much more precision and range with inorganic materials. He has used his quirk to break into buildings by turning walls back to wet plaster and bank vault doors back to their molten metal state. However, on the occasion he’s been faced with officers or innocent bystanders, he hasn’t hesitated to use his quirk on them. The quirk does end up de-aging them, but they die from the strain on their bodies and not specifically the direct effects of the quirk,” Tsukauchi pauses to rub at the dark circles under his eyes. “Izuku seems to have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. A witness told us that she had returned early to retrieve an item she had forgotten at her jewellery store when she saw Time Turner using his quirk on the door. Izuku intervened and saved her life.”
“Why was he even in that area?” Shouta’s voice is sharp with confusion. “It’s so far from the address on his file, and at 4:30 in the morning.”
“That we don’t know, and unfortunately, it seems Izuku’s memories have also reverted back to match his current body. He’s seven years old, physically and mentally.”
“Seven?” Hizashi exclaims, “But he’s so small!”
Tsukauchi shrugs helplessly. “Yes, the child is definitely underweight for his age. But it could have been worse. His current form may be true to his health and appearance at this age, or this may be another effect of the quirk. As the first person to survive, we can’t make any assumptions. The de-aging process is extremely taxing on the human body, and previous victims have either died at the scene or on the way to the hospital.”
“Except for Izuku,” Hizashi fights against the urge to tighten his grip further on the sleeping child.
“Why exactly do you think that is, Naomasa?” Shouta asks mildly, however his eyes are sharp.
“We have a theory but… I can’t share at this time. Unfortunately, you don’t have the clearance,” Tsuakauchi shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. “You’ll have to ask Nedzu for that information.”
Hizashi notes with interest that the answers seem to rest with Nedzu, not with the higher-ups in the police department.
“Where’s Izuku’s mother?” Hizashi asks while Shouta continues to eye Tsukauchi with that narrowed, sharp gaze, giving voice to the question that has been plaguing him since the hospital.
“We haven’t been able to find her. Phone numbers have all been disconnected and the address on file attached to her driver’s licence has another family living inside.”
“Where does that leave us?” Hizashi demands, “What’s going to happen to Izuku now?”
“Well,” Tsukauchi grimaces, “We’ll keep searching for his mother. The father signed away his rights when the kid was four, so that means he’ll need to be matched with a foster family in the meantime.”
“No,” Shouta beats Hizashi to the punch, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ll take him home with us.”
“That’s a relief, Eraser. We don’t know how long the quirk effects will last, considering that the effect on inorganic materials usually lasts around a week. Not to mention it's even more complicated than usual finding a home for a kid like Izuku.”
“And why is that?” Hizashi narrows his eyes.
Tsukauchi opens his mouth to answer but seems unsure of how to proceed.
The answer comes unexpectedly from the small, still figure nestled in Hizashi’s arms.
“Because I’m Quirkless.”
XXXXX