Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shota is a perceptive man. He has to be—he’s an underground hero, after all.
Every year, when he gets a new homeroom class, he studies them, spotting patterns—red flags, cracks in the mask—in his students. By the end of the first week of school, he usually understands their mindsets well enough to predict how they’ll handle the pressure ahead.

But this year? Something is off.
There are things that don’t line up. Things that bother him. And right now, the biggest one is Midoriya Izuku.

The kid’s an anomaly, plain and simple. He’s sharp—freakishly good at analyzing others’ quirks. But when it comes to his own? Abysmal. He’s destroying himself every time he uses it, like he’s never activated it before in his life.

Normally, Shota would chalk it up to another lazy brat trying to bluff their way through heroics. But Midoriya already disproved that—at least partially—during the Quirk Apprehension Test.

Then there’s how he acts. The kid doesn’t carry himself like someone with power.
Shota remembers being a teenager. Social status was all about quirks. You had power, you had presence. But Midoriya?

He flinches. Constantly.
The best way to describe him is scared. Of everything. Of everyone.
Even All Might.

Shota saw the footage from the Battle Trials. The kid flinched at All Might—the one person he actually seems to trust, at least on some level. They definitely have some form of relationship; the hero's favoritism for Midoriya was painfully obvious.

Which brings him to another issue.
Everything about the Battle Trial was wrong.

It was supposed to be the first day of costume analysis—walkthroughs, basic corrections, identifying weak spots. Instead, All Might—the damn buffoon—threw the first-years into a full-on combat trial.
No preparation. No real guidance. Just, “Go.”

Yaoyorozu was basically naked. Hagakure was naked. And All Might sent them into battle like that. No field experience. No safety net.
At least Nezu would handle that conversation.
Shota had other things to deal with.

With a sigh, Shota pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and opened his laptop. If something was off about Midoriya, it had to be in his records.
U.A. received full student files upon admission, but individual teachers only had access to an abridged version unless they formally requested more.

Nezu’s idea, probably. Not that Shota blamed him. Still, it made things harder.

The abridged file gave him just the essentials: academic grades, a behavioral summary from previous teachers, and for hero course students, a brief note from a quirk counselor.

Midoriya’s file still managed to set off alarm bells.

Grades: Barely passing across the board. Mostly D’s and a few C’s.
That didn’t make sense. Shota had seen the way the kid took notes—obsessive, detailed, insightful. His analysis during class discussions was sharp. Even in combat, he showed strategic instincts far beyond his experience level.

These weren’t the grades of someone scraping by. They were the grades of someone being held back.

He moved to the next section.

Teacher Statement:

“Izuku Midoriya is an erratic, disruptive presence in class. He refuses to follow directions, often inserts himself into matters that don’t concern him, and displays a fixation on heroics that borders on delusional. He has difficulty cooperating with peers and regularly disrupts the learning environment.”

Shota sat back.

What?

That didn’t line up with the anxious, soft-spoken student in his classroom. That kid apologized when someone bumped into him. He flinched when people raised their voices. He kept his head down and rarely spoke unless called on.

None of this matched.

He scrolled to the last section.

Quirk Counselor’s Notes:
...

Blank.

Not a placeholder. Not a redaction. Just... blank space.

Shota’s brows furrowed.
That wasn’t a U.A. mistake. That wasn’t even an oversight.

In general education, quirk counseling was mandatory from primary school onward. Students met regularly with licensed professionals to help them understand their quirks, manage growth, and cope with side effects.
And by the end of middle school, counselors were required to provide a final summary—something to help high schools assess risk, support needs, or unique accommodations.

Even students with weak quirks got notes.
Even students with no quirks had write-ups addressing developmental tracking.

But Midoriya?
Nothing. Just blank space where someone should have done their job.

Before he could dwell on it longer, the door creaked open.

“Hey, Sho,” Hizashi called.

Shota grunted in response, still staring at the screen.

“Something the matter?” Hizashi walked over, setting a hand lightly on Shota’s shoulder.

Shota leaned back slightly, letting his head rest against his husband’s chest.
“Look at this,” he said, gesturing to the screen.

Hizashi leaned in. “Is this one of your Listeners? How’d they even get into U.A.?”

“It’s Midoriya.”

“No way.” Hizashi blinked, then moved to sit on the edge of the desk. “The poor listener looks like he’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Shota had noticed that too. The way Midoriya’s shoulders never seemed to fully relax, how his eyes tracked every movement like he was expecting something to go wrong.
It wasn’t just nerves. It was learned behavior—and it worried him deeply.

“Exactly,” Aizawa muttered, still staring at the file like it had personally offended him. “None of this fits.”
Shota scrolled to the behavioral notes and let Hizashi read for himself.

Hizashi frowned. “This... isn’t right. This isn’t the same kid we’ve been teaching.”

“I know,” Shota muttered. “And look at this.”
He scrolled down to the bottom and pointed at the empty space beneath the counselor section.

Hizashi leaned in again. “Wait, what? It’s just... blank?”

“Exactly,” Shota said. “The kid’s quirk is so volatile, but there’s just nothing.”

“Isn’t that, like... against protocol?”

“It is. U.A. has the full record, but this is all I’m allowed to see. I’m going to request the full file. Something is off.”

Hizashi rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t Bakugou go to the same school as him? Maybe pull his file too. If it’s something systemic…”

Shota sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
Kami, it was only the first week.

“You’re probably right,” he muttered as he closed his computer. “Come on. Nezu won’t be thrilled if we’re late to another meeting. I’ll just finish it at home.”

That night, Aizawa was granted access to both Bakugou and Midoriya's full student files. Nezu also handed over Midoriya's medical file, as it would hold every note from all quirk counseling sessions, in and out of school.

Something was clearly wrong.

The boys’ files were so completely different. Midoriya's seemed like the school had it out for him—like he had personally offended the superintendent or some crap.

Bakugou’s, on the other hand, was… clean.
This may seem like a good thing, but it was utter bullshit, and Shota could tell.

His grades were accurate, from what he could tell. The teachers’ comments, however, were where he had a problem. It said shit like:

“A pleasure to have in class.”
“An upstanding student, truly kind and incredibly brilliant.”

It was clear to Shota the school was putting the boy on a pedestal, which actually explained a lot—especially since both boys had been in the Aldera school system since preschool.

However, this only made Midoriya's file make less and less sense.

Clearly, the staff were some level of quirkist. But why praise one powerful quirk and judge another?

None of this was making any form of sense, but he kept scrolling.

When Shota reached Midoriya's medical file, he paused.

It was practically empty… No quirk counseling. No hospital visits.
The regular checkups stopped at the age of four, right before—

Oh.

Suddenly, things seemed to make a little more sense.

At the age of four, Midoriya Izuku was diagnosed quirkless. Then, eleven years later—the week before U.A. acceptance letters were mailed out—there was an amendment. A quirk. “Super Power.”

This cleared up the files. Aizawa understood very well that the school was, in fact, quirkist—and that cleared up the school records, making it oh-so-very clear that they were likely entirely fabricated.

But still… it made no sense. Like, at all.
The latest a quirk had ever come in was, like, nine—not fucking fifteen.

Fifteen was insane.

No wonder the kid didn’t know how to use his quirk.
From the looks of it, he didn’t know he had one until the entrance exam.

Kami, it was probably the first time he had ever used it.

God. The poor kid.

Aizawa definitely needed to set up a few meetings.

Chapter Text

Izuku’s week was not going well.

The first day of U.A., Aizawa-sensei almost expelled him—which was just great. Now he had another teacher who hated him.

He couldn’t really blame the man. He knew it was his fault. His quirk was breaking him, and Aizawa-sensei was right anyway—Izuku would just be a liability out on the field.

Maybe if he weren’t so useless. If he weren’t a Deku.

Then on the second day of school, he went and disappointed both Aizawa-sensei and All Might when he got hurt during battle training.

And his mom—oh god, his mom. She was so upset he destroyed the costume she made him.

He wasn’t even sure why she made it in the first place. Maybe she was just being nice.
But that night, when she found out what happened, she was already so stressed about other things.

His hands hurt again, and he still couldn’t get his muscles to work properly.

He really hoped U.A. didn’t notice.

He didn’t want his mom getting in trouble.

It was his fault, really.

He knew she’d be upset about him ruining the costume.
And then he had to go and make matters worse by breaking the rules.

But it’s okay. That’s all behind him.

It’s the third day of school—his third day at U.A., his third step toward his dream.

And there’s that English saying, Third time’s the charm, right? So surely today would go better—

“Midoriya.”

A tired voice cut through the static in his head, and he flinched hard.

His pencil slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Aizawa stepped back a little and crouched down until he was eye-level with the trembling student.

He kept his voice even. Quiet.

“Midoriya, kid. I need you to come to my office during lunch. I want to talk about a few things.”

He watched closely for a reaction, but the kid was barely breathing.

Just his name made him flinch like he was about to get hit.

Kami. How bad were the teachers at his old school?

Izuku was spiraling.

He didn’t hear half of what was said in his next few classes. His ears were ringing anyway—though that might be from the explosion. Or the panic.

His heartbeat was too loud in his ears. His fingers were still numb. He gripped his pencil in a loose fist but couldn’t make it write.

It trembled against the page, useless. Like him.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

He wiped his palms on his pants and pressed them against his thighs, trying to keep them still.

Aizawa was going to expel him. It was the only explanation. He broke the rules. Got hurt. Got scolded. Made a scene. He’s a liability. A mistake. U.A. finally realized.

Maybe his acceptance was just a glitch in the system. Just like he is.

Yamada Hizashi might play the fool on the surface, but he didn’t get this far by being oblivious. He noticed things—especially when it came to his students.

And something was definitely off with Midoriya today.

Just yesterday, the kid had been scribbling like a man possessed—rapid-fire notes with tight precision that made Mic wonder if the page could keep up.

But today? He was gripping his pencil like a toddler, full-fist and trembling, hunched over the paper like it might bite him.

His handwriting—when he even managed to write anything at all—was barely legible. Shaky lines. Uneven pressure. Whole letters missing like his hands weren’t keeping up with his brain.

Even more telling: every time Mic called on him from the right, the kid didn’t respond. Not a flinch, not a blink. But from the left? He startled like he’d been shocked.

Mic frowned.

It clicked then—didn’t Bakugo set off an explosion right next to him during training?

If Midoriya’s right side had been closest... Recovery Girl patched him up, but that didn’t mean the damage didn’t stick.

The energy drained from Hizashi’s face a little, and his voice lowered into his mic, quieter than usual. Almost gentle.

Half-deaf?

It was a guess—but a strong one.
And if he was right… and the kid hadn’t said anything…

It wasn’t just stubbornness. It was fear.

He got it. Hell, he remembered Sho shaking in their first year, afraid to tell anyone he was colorblind—afraid it would get him kicked from the program like a soldier unfit for duty.

But that wasn’t how U.A. worked. Not anymore. Not if they had anything to say about it.

Yeah. He’d talk to Shota at lunch. They’d get the kid help.

When lunch arrived, Shota saw Midoriya enter his office not even five minutes after the bell.
No way the kid ate. This was going to take too long for him to eat afterward.

“Kid, this might take a while. Go grab lunch—you can eat in here while we talk, I don’t mind,” Aizawa said firmly.

Midoriya, thankfully, didn’t put up a fight and left to get lunch.

A few minutes later, Hizashi stepped into the office.

“Hey Sho, you got a minute?” he asked, setting a bento box down in front of Aizawa.

“For now, but I asked Midoriya to speak with me. You’ve got until he comes back with his lunch.”

“Oh, actually, this is about your listener,” Hizashi said as he sat on the edge of Aizawa’s desk and opened his own bento. “I noticed something I thought you’d want to know.”

Aizawa didn’t respond right away, instead looking at the food his husband brought him.

“This morning he was really distracted,” Hizashi continued. “Now I’m guessing that was mostly because he was nervous about talking to you. But besides that, the poor kid couldn’t even hold his pencil properly. His hands were shaking, and he was gripping it like a toddler. His handwriting was barely legible—it looked like he was in pain.”

That got Aizawa’s attention.

“I’m also worried the battle trials might’ve caused more damage than we thought. When I called on him, if I was on his right, he didn’t respond—at least not right away. But if I was on his left, he gave his usual anxious little nod. Sho, I think he might have hearing loss. Probably from that explosion Bakugo set off near him.”

Aizawa set his chopsticks down, expression tightening with concern.

“…I noticed his hands this morning. They were trembling—barely steady enough to hold a pencil. His grip looked weak, like he didn’t have full control over his fingers.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing.

“If he’s trying to hide that kind of pain, there’s a reason. Either he’s afraid to say something, or… he’s used to no one listening.”

Another quiet breath, the kind that came more from concern than frustration.

“I’ll get Recovery Girl to take another look. And I’ll try to talk to him—carefully. I doubt he'll be willing to open up if he thinks he’s in trouble.”

Izuku knocked softly on the door with his elbow, bento box clutched awkwardly in his arms, like he was afraid to drop it—or more like his hands might fail him again.

The knock was so quiet it barely registered, but Aizawa was already keeping an eye out.

“Come in,” he called, voice low but even.

The door creaked open, and Izuku peeked in, green eyes flicking from Aizawa to—

Oh. Yamada-sensei was here too.

Izuku froze in the doorway, stomach flipping. He hadn’t expected two teachers. Did he do something wrong again? Was this about the battle trials? Or his quirk? Or—

“Hey there, little listener!” Yamada grinned, trying to ease the tension in the air. He waved cheerfully from where he was perched on the edge of Aizawa’s desk, chopsticks in hand and half a bento box already eaten. “Don’t mind me—I was just saying hi to your teacher.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “O-Oh… I, uh—” he hugged the bento tighter. “Sorry I’m late. I mean. I’m not—am I late? I came right away I just—it took a bit because of the line I didn’t wanna run or bump anyone and—”

“You’re fine, Midoriya,” Aizawa cut in gently, gesturing to the empty chair across from his own. “Sit. Eat.”

Yamada chuckled as he stood, brushing off his pants. “I’ll leave you guys to it. Catch you later, listener.”

He flashed Izuku a final peace sign before slipping out the door.

The room suddenly felt a lot quieter.

Izuku stepped in more fully, shoulders tight, and set his bento down carefully. His hands were shaking again. He lowered himself into the chair and started to eat, though his chopsticks fumbled more than once in his still-aching fingers.

Aizawa watched him silently for a moment, then leaned forward just slightly.

“I realized I made a mistake asking you to come here the way I did,” he said, voice low but steady. “I should’ve made it clear you’re not in trouble. For that, I’m sorry.”

Izuku froze mid-chew, blinking in surprise. He swallowed quickly, then shook his head.

“N-No, it’s okay!” he said, voice soft but rushed. “I—I mean… thank you, Aizawa-sensei. For saying that. I just… I didn’t know what to expect. I thought maybe—um—maybe I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” Aizawa said firmly. “You're fine, Midoriya. I just wanted to talk. That’s all.”

Izuku nodded again, slower this time. But the motion was hesitant. Skeptical. Teachers didn’t just talk to him—not without it meaning trouble. That’s never how it worked before.

Still… he nodded. Because even if he didn’t quite believe it yet, he wanted to.

“I was going through student files,” Aizawa started slowly. “I noticed some concerning things in yours.”

Izuku tensed.

Of course there were concerning things. That’s what teachers always found—things that made him a problem, a burden, a mistake.

Aizawa watched him for a moment, then said, “When exactly did your quirk first activate, Midoriya?”

Izuku fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Um… the day of the entrance exam. That… that was the first time it ever worked. Before that I didn’t—” He swallowed. “I didn’t have one.”

He didn’t say the word quirkless, but it hung there anyway.

Aizawa nodded slowly. “I was aware of that. But what I’d like to know is why you failed to mention it on the first day. That’s the kind of information I need to have—especially as your homeroom teacher.”

Izuku’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I… I didn’t think it was, um, important. At first. And—well, I wasn’t sure how to say it. I didn’t want to cause any trouble or anything…”

He glanced up, then quickly looked away again.

“I was going to expel you, problem child,” Aizawa said. “I was under the impression you waited ten years before deciding to work on your quirk. That kind of mentality is dangerous—it’ll get you killed out on the field.”

Izuku flinched.

Of course. He knew it. He was a mistake.

“Your situation, however, is entirely different,” Aizawa continued. “You need quirk counseling, Midoriya—not expulsion.”

Izuku’s heart pounded.

He… cared?

“I... I understand, sir,” Izuku said quietly, voice shaky but determined.

Aizawa sighed before slowly reaching over to ruffle Midoriya’s hair—giving him just enough space to pull away. When he didn’t, Aizawa continued,

“I’m not so sure you understand. I’ve seen your file, and I know the statistics. Your previous school was… neglectful. The way they treated you wasn’t okay. It wasn’t right—quirk or not.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. They never cared. Not really. But hearing it said out loud... it stung more than he expected.

He looked down, struggling to find words.

“After school, stay back,” Aizawa said. “There’s going to be a meeting with you, Bakugo, Nezu, and me. We’re going to discuss exactly what happened at Aldera.”

Midoriya’s chest tightened. What if they found out everything? What if this meeting only made things worse?

“Don’t worry too much, kid,” Aizawa said. “You’re not in any trouble—there are just some concerning discrepancies in your files that we need to sort out.”

He leaned back and waved him toward the door.

“Now get to class, Midoriya. I doubt Midnight will be appreciative of any tardiness.”

Chapter Text

Hero training that day had been led by Kayama-sensei, not All Might. She’d walked them through the basics of costume practicality—what worked, what didn’t, and why form should never come at the cost of function. Her feedback was blunt but fair, and even Bakugo hadn’t found much to argue with. Some students took notes eagerly; others just listened.

Midoriya had tried to jot a few things down early on, but it quickly became clear that wasn't going to happen. His fingers trembled the moment he gripped the pen, and even the small pressure made pain radiate up his arm. Frustrated, he'd eventually given up, cradling his hand in his lap and doing his best to mentally catalogue everything instead.

By the time the school day came to a close, the pain had dulled into something more tolerable, but his fingers still refused to cooperate. That was fine—he was fine little go away… eventually, hopefully.

By the time classes ended, the halls of U.A. were filled with the usual end-of-day chatter. Most were packing up and heading home, their first few days of high school behind them. But for Midoriya, the day wasn’t over.

Aizawa stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, watching as the last students trickled out. Midoriya and Bakugo stayed behind, like they'd been told. Neither said anything.

“Let’s go,” Aizawa said, turning toward the door.

Midoriya stood a little stiffly, one arm cradled close to his chest. His hand still throbbed faintly with nerve pain—not nearly as bad as it had been, but enough to remind him that everything inside still hadn’t fully settled. He followed silently. Bakugo trailed after, hands in his pockets, looking annoyed but not asking questions.

They walked through the quiet hallways in silence, the fluorescent lights above humming faintly. Midoriya’s mind spun faster with each step. He didn’t know what was waiting for them in that room. Just that Aizawa had mentioned “discrepancies” in their records. And Nezu would be there.

That alone made his stomach twist.

They stopped outside a small meeting room tucked away near the staff offices. Aizawa opened the door, letting them in.

Principal Nezu was already seated at the head of the table, paws folded neatly in front of him. A stack of manila folders sat nearby.

“Thank you, Aizawa-kun,” Nezu said. “Please, have a seat, boys.”

Midoriya sat down across from him, careful not to jostle his hand. Bakugo flopped into the chair beside him with a scowl. Aizawa remained standing, arms crossed once again, near the door.

There was a pause. Nezu’s gaze swept over both of them—patient, calculating.

“I’d like to begin,” he said gently, “by asking you both a few questions about your previous school—Aldera.”

Midoriya tensed. His breath caught slightly, but he kept his eyes fixed on the table.

Nezu didn’t linger there. He opened one of the folders and slid two sheets forward—one toward Midoriya, one toward Bakugo.

“These are the behavioral notes we received in your files,” he said. “As you’ll see, there are some… striking discrepancies.”

Midoriya’s heart thudded. He read the words in his file slowly, even though he didn’t need to. He remembered every unfair comment, every time a teacher had looked at him with exasperation or impatience.

Disruptive. Argumentative. Struggles with authority. Frequently distracts classmates. Uncooperative.

It was surreal.
Izuku felt like he was staring at the profile of a complete stranger.

Beside him, Bakugo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. The sound was bitter.
“What the hell is this?” he snapped, shoving the paper back across the table like it had offended him. Without waiting, he reached over and snatched Izuku’s file next.
“This is bullshit.”

“Language, Bakugo,” Aizawa said firmly as he stepped up beside the table.

“Please do continue,” Nezu added, tone light and pleasant as he gathered the discarded papers. He tapped them into a neat stack and set them aside. “I’m quite curious to hear what you believe the truth is.”

Bakugo scoffed. “Aldera’s full of extras. Always kissing ass, trying to ride the coattails of the ‘future Number One’ for their fifteen minutes of fame.” His lip curled in disgust. “It’s a load of crap. I wasn’t helping anyone — especially not a bunch of extras. And shitty Deku? Too damn useless to even get in a fight.”

At the word Deku, Izuku flinched visibly, tensing like the sound had struck him. His throat tightened, and he quickly looked away. Aizawa’s eyes flicked to him.

Deku. The name lingered in Aizawa’s thoughts. He’d seen the way Midoriya reacted—like it was a personal attack. And maybe it was. There was no mistaking the venom in Bakugo’s voice when he said it.

Technically, Deku meant “wooden puppet” or “doll.” But Aizawa doubted that was the meaning Bakugo had in mind. No—there was more to it. That single word clearly carried weight, history.

Bakugo had the air of someone who believed himself above others. If Midoriya had been quirkless, even briefly, Aizawa could easily imagine Bakugo looking down on him for it. Maybe worse.

So the question was, just what did Deku mean between the two of them?

Aizawa’s voice cut through the tense moment as he straightened and addressed them both.

“Why deku?” he pause insuring the boys attention was on him “what dose it mean?”

Surprisingly, Midoriya was the one to answer.

“I-It’s… it’s my nickname. Kacchan—he… when we were little, he realized you could read the kanji in my name as Deku. Like dekunobou…”

Aizawa’s chest tightened. The way Midoriya spoke—quiet, hesitant, resigned—it was like he’d long accepted the name as truth. Good for nothing. Useless.
Quirkless.

That kind of belief didn’t form in a vacuum.

Aizawa stepped in before the boy could sink further into it. His voice was firm.

“A quirk doesn’t determine your worth. It’s just a tool—an ability of practicality, not a symbol of status. Clearly, that’s a lesson your teachers skipped. One that would do both of you some good to learn.”

There was a beat of silence.

Bakugo shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing. His hands clenched into fists on top of the table. “Tch. It’s just a name,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it. The defiance was there, but it sounded thin—like even he didn’t quite believe it anymore.

Aizawa watched him, gaze unreadable. “It doesn't sound like just a name.”

Bakugo looked away.

Nezu chirped in, voice far too cheerful for the tension in the room.
“Midoriya, as I understand it, you were bullied for your lack of a quirk, no?”

“Uh… well, I—I wouldn’t call it—” Midoriya tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat, slipping away as his voice failed him. His frustration was immediate. First his hands—still shaking, still weak and aching—and now this.

Bakugo scoffed, cutting in, though Midoriya’s own silence made it hard to call it an interruption.
“Tch. No one bullied him. He just needed to be taught his place.”

Aizawa practically growled, voice low and edged with warning.
“And what exactly would that be, Bakugo?”

He didn’t give the boy time to answer. Instead, he turned to Midoriya, his tone softer—but no less tight with controlled anger.

“Your hands, Problem Child. Let me see them.”

Midoriya blinked, clearly confused by the request and visibly uncertain. Still, slowly, he held them out.

His arms trembled mid-air, and Aizawa moved to kneel beside him. Carefully, he took Midoriya’s right arm and began wrapping his capture weapon around it—tight enough to serve as a makeshift compression sleeve. He wound the fabric from forearm to palm before cutting it cleanly and moving to the left hand to repeat the process.

“S-Sensei?” Midoriya said in disbelief. “Why would you—? You ruined your gear” why would the man do that. It definitely helped. Even with the compression, the dull ache didn’t vanish. But it was bearable now. Steady, but still why would the hero ruin his support weapon?

“It’s fine, kid,” Aizawa replied calmly as he finished securing the wrap. “It’s got self-replicating nanotech woven into the fibers. I cut it all the time—it’ll stitch itself back together later.”

Midoriya’s fingers twitched.

That… actually made a lot of sense. The support gear—it had to work that way, didn’t it? That would explain how Eraserhead could restrain multiple villains at once, how it branched off and—
Midoriya didn’t even realize he’d started talking aloud—his thoughts spilling over, dissolving into soft mutters.

“Oh my, how truly fascinating,” Nezu interrupted, his ears perking with interest at the boy’s apparent intelligence. “I would love to discuss your clear analytical skills with you at a later date, Midoriya. However, we still have the matter at hand.”

With that, Izuku’s hands flew up to cover his mouth.

Shit. He hadn’t realized he was muttering.
Kami, he really hoped they wouldn’t be too mad.
His hands still ached, the bandages stiff and itchy. His chest was tight.

“I’m sorry!” he cried out, voice cracking with panic. “I know it’s creepy—I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry!”

The words tumbled out before he could even think.

Aizawa placed a hand on Midoriya’s shoulder.

Izuku flinched hard—body going tense, eyes squeezed shut like he was bracing for a blow.

“Kid,” Aizawa said, his voice low, calm, and steady. “Calm down. We don’t mind your mumbling. It’s not creepy.”

Midoriya opened his eyes slowly, unsure. “R-right... sorry.”

He was still stiff beneath the teacher’s hand, jaw clenched and shoulders hunched.
Why is he being so nice?
Why does he care?

That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this is supposed to work.

Teachers don’t help him. They look the other way.
They laugh sometimes. Or they sigh and say it’s his fault.

What does Aizawa-sensei get from this?
Is it just because he has a quirk now?

That must be it...
But... Aizawa knows. He knows h used to be quirkless.
So why does he still care?

His thoughts were spiraling, faster and faster, all-consuming.
He didn’t get it. He couldn’t get it.
It didn’t make sense.

Nezu spoke again, and this time his tone was different. The cheer had drained from his voice. His smile was gone.

“Well,” Nezu began, measured and serious, “after Aizawa brought his concerns to my attention, I took the liberty of accessing Aldera’s security footage. There was quite a bit, so I ran it through a program designed to identify and isolate clips involving Midoriya.”

He placed a small laptop on the desk and turned it around to face them.

“What I found,” Nezu continued quietly, “was... unpleasant.”

He clicked play.

The screen lit up with silent footage:
Clips of Midoriya entering class, finding things left on his desk.
Words scrawled in bold marker, burning bright in the camera’s view:

“Quirkless.”
“Useless freak.”
“I would kill myself if I were you.”
“Contaminated.”
“Unevolved.”

Newspapers, opened to articles about suicide, violent accidents, or murders—some underlined, some defaced with cruel notes in the margins:

“Should’ve been you.”
“You should join them.”

And then—
The spider lilies.

The camera angle caught them clearly.
Crimson, delicate, strikingly beautiful. Tied together with twine or placed neatly on his seat.
Again and again.
They were always there.

Izuku watched, frozen.

He remembered every one of those clips.

It had been daily. Constant. Expected.

He’d gotten used to it. Sort of.
And honestly... the spider lilies were pretty.
He still had some in a mason jar on his windowsill at home.

He didn’t know why he’d kept them.
Maybe it was habit.
Maybe it was because... some part of him had started to believe it.

Next, the footage changed—showing his classmates:
Tripping him in the halls.
Ripping things from his hands.
Pulling at his bag.
Beatings behind the school building.
Shoves hard enough to bruise.

Then Nezu turned on the audio.

Now you could hear it—
The words, the voices, the cruel laughter.

Every clip after that had Bakugo’s voice in it.

Every insult.
Every pop of irritation.
Every threat crackling with sparks, promising pain after school.

And then—
The final clip.

The one Midoriya knew was coming.

Bakugo’s voice, sharper than glass:
“If you want a quirk so bad, go take a swan dive off the roof and pray for one in your next life.”

Midoriya felt his stomach twist.

That sentence had carved itself into his bones.

It still stung.
It always would.

Not when the sludge villain tried to kill him.
Not when All Might saved him.
Not when All Might left him alone on that rooftop, smiling and vanishing like none of it mattered.
Not when he started training.
Not when he finally activated his quirk.
Not when he got exempted from the entrance exam.

Not now.

Not ever.

Silence followed.

Aizawa’s jaw was tight, eyes flicking between the screen and Midoriya.

Bakugo didn’t say a word.

He didn’t look at the screen.
Didn’t look at Midoriya.
Didn’t look at anyone.

His jaw clenched.

His hands balled into fists at his sides.

Nezu closed the laptop slowly. The sound of the latch clicking shut felt loud in the heavy silence.

Then, in that quiet, he spoke again—gentle, but firm.

“Now, I’m sure you’re both aware of U.A.'s no-bullying policies.”

Bakugo’s shoulders stiffened. He still wouldn’t look up.

Nezu folded his paws on the desk. “We take these matters very seriously. Emotional, physical, and psychological abuse—especially repeated, targeted behavior over the course of years—is unacceptable. It would be grounds for expulsion in most cases.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. His heart felt like it was trying to climb into his throat. Expulsion? No, no—Bakugo couldn’t get expelled. Not because of him. Not when he finally got into U.A. too. Even if—Even if—

He still remembered the words.
He still remembered every hit.
But—

He didn’t want it to end like that.

He didn’t want to be the reason Bakugo lost his future.

Before he could open his mouth, Nezu raised a paw—almost like he knew what Izuku was about to say.

“I’m not expelling anyone,” Nezu said softly. “Yet.”

Bakugo finally glanced up, just for a second. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful.

“Because we aren’t here just to punish,” Nezu continued. “We are here to teach. We are here to correct. And we are here to protect our students—all of our students.”

He looked directly at Bakugo.

“You have a choice, young man.”

Bakugo didn’t respond.

Aizawa crossed his arms. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he said gruffly. “But things can’t keep going the way they did at Aldera. You’re not going to intimidate or control anyone at this school. Not him, and not anyone else.”

Izuku blinked. They’re protecting me? The words didn’t feel real. They sounded like lines from someone else’s life.

Aizawa turned to him now, his voice lower. “Midoriya. You’re not in trouble. And you didn’t do anything wrong, Got it?”

Midoriya opened his mouth. No sound came out. He nodded.

Nezu gave him a small, almost sad smile. “You’ve been very strong, Midoriya. But strength doesn’t mean suffering alone. You have allies now. Please let us be some of them.”

He turned back to Bakugo.

“Your first choice starts with a formal apology. You’ll be placed in therapy. We’ll also implement a strict behavioral contract, and your teachers will be keeping a close eye on you moving forward. If we see any sign that this pattern is continuing—or escalating...” Nezu’s voice lowered, his gaze sharp, “...you will not be welcome here. Furthermore, you will be moved to the General Education course until you can prove to us that you are genuinely working toward change.”

Nezu’s expression didn’t shift as he added, “Your second option is quite simple. If you fail to change for the better, or refuse to cooperate with us, you will be expelled from U.A.—and blacklisted from every heroics course in the nation.”

Bakugo said nothing. If he spoke now, there was no telling if he’d be able to stop himself from blowing up.

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with your parents for this weekend, where we’ll discuss this further,” Nezu said calmly. “Until then, you are suspended for the remainder of the week. You may take your leave now—but I expect your answer by our next meeting.”

Bakugo stood up quietly, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t look at anyone as he left, jaw tight, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His footsteps echoed in the hallway before fading completely.

Midoriya stayed behind, stunned. The room felt oddly quiet, like he was underwater. He blinked slowly, struggling to process everything that had just happened. His legs felt unsteady, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the silence—gruff as always, but with none of the anger from earlier. If anything, it was...gentle.

“Midoriya, I’d like you to come with me to Recovery Girl’s office. I want to make sure you haven’t sustained any more permanent injuries during the battle trials.”

Izuku nodded silently and pushed himself to his feet. He gave Nezu a small, polite bow—more out of habit than clarity—then turned to follow Aizawa.

Aizawa waited by the door, glancing back to make sure the boy was coming. He didn’t rush him.

Chapter Text

The walk to Recovery Girl’s office was tense.
Izuku was confused.

The meeting with Nedzu hadn’t gone how he expected. He’d known his file was probably full of lies—he hadn’t realized the extent of it—but still. He had told All Might about his file likely not being the best after he finished cleaning the beach, before getting the Quirk. And All Might had told him, on the first day of school, that he’d managed to convince Nedzu to let him review the file himself—something about telling the principal he would needed practice, or training, or however he'd framed it.

So it made sense how he’d gotten into U.A., sure—but then, why had they gone over it again? Nedzu mentioned that Aizawa was the one who brought it up, but… that didn’t make sense.

The teacher himself didn’t make any sense to Midoriya.

He wasn’t like his past teachers. None of U.A. was, but that could be explained by the fact that Izuku had a Quirk now. That always changed how people looked at him.

Aizawa-sensei, though—he was different. He acted like it didn’t matter. That Izuku had been Quirkless before, that he technically still was—none of it seemed to change how the man looked at him. Not in a “you have a Quirk now so it’s fine” kind of way, but more like… it genuinely didn’t matter to him either way.

But why?

It did matter. He was—is—Quirkless. Worthless. Less than human.
Sure, he had a Quirk now, but it wasn’t his. He was just borrowing it.
He was still—

Shota could tell the kid was lost in thought.

Head down. Shoulders drawn in. Body tense.

He didn’t need to hear what was going through Midoriya’s head to know it wasn’t good. He’d worn that posture himself once—years ago, when the world had decided he wasn’t good enough before he ever had the chance to prove otherwise.

That kind of weight didn’t come from a single moment. It built up slowly, word by word, look by look, until even silence felt like judgment.

He’d know that kind of silence, that kind of shame.

He didn’t want to see it in this kid—not if he could help it.

They were still a few halls from Recovery Girl’s office.

Maybe he could help. figured now was as good a time as any to make sure the kid heard him— understood him. Trusted him.

“Midoriya.”

Aizawa’s tired voice cut through the spiral, and Izuku flinched. He lifted his head quickly, startled.

“Y-yes, Sensei?”

“I don’t lie,” Aizawa said plainly. He wasn’t even looking at him—just continuing to walk ahead, hands in his pockets.

“W-what?” Izuku blinked. “I—I don’t—I wouldn’t—”

“I’m not saying you think I’m a liar,” Aizawa interrupted. “I’m saying I meant what I said. I don’t say things just because.”

He paused, aizawa looked over at him. Meeting izuku's eyes before he continued.

“A Quirk is just a tool, it doesn't determine a person's worth. What happened to you was wrong. And I’m sorry it took this long for someone to step in. You didn’t deserve that.”

Izuku’s eyes started to sting, getting watery. He wanted to believe his sensei's words, but there was a part of him that just could and he didn't get it.

They were in front of the nurse’s office now, but Aizawa didn’t go in. He stopped just beside the door, his gaze fixed out the large floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hallway.

Izuku stepped up beside him, curious about what had caught his teacher’s attention.

The window overlooked the wide courtyard nestled between the four main campus buildings. Now that classes had ended for the day, the space was empty—quiet in a way that felt both peaceful and a little lonely. The concrete paths wove through neatly trimmed grass and flower beds that still held a bit of color, though the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky. Long shadows stretched across the courtyard, and the light had taken on a warm, golden hue.

But Aizawa didn’t seem to be looking at any of that. His eyes were fixed on the clouds—slowly drifting across the pale blue sky, soft and untouchable.

It wasn’t anything special, not really. But it was a nice view. Calming. Still.

“I went through something similar.”

Aizawa’s voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it cut through the silence all the same. The words pulled Midoriya’s attention sharply, his head lifting to look at his teacher.

Aizawa didn’t return the look. He stood still beside the window, eyes fixed on the drifting clouds outside. His expression didn’t shift much, but his shoulders seemed just slightly less squared than usual—his posture relaxed, but not at ease.

“It wasn’t the same of course.”

A pause. Just long enough to suggest he was choosing his words.

“The others didn’t hurt me.”

His fingers twitched once at his side, a motion so brief it might have been imagined.

“They wouldn’t. They were too scared of me.”

There was a stillness after that. One beat. Two. He blinked slowly.

“Other people don’t take kindly to the idea of losing their quirk.”

A small shift—his weight moved slightly from one foot to the other.

“They called me a villain. A thief.”

Another pause. A breath that was almost a sigh but caught before it could fully escape.
“Some of my foster homes… they would make me wear a blindfold.”

He tilted his head slightly, just a fraction, as if tracking something in the sky that wasn’t there. Still, he didn’t turn from the window.

Aizawa sighed—not the usual sigh of annoyance or exasperation Midoriya had grown used to, but a soft, tired one. It almost seemed to carry something quieter, heavier to it.

It did. It carried longing. Longing for a life missed out on—a life of a hero, of a boy with wild, wispy hair and a grin like the sun who had changed Aizawa’s life in ways he would never have hoped for.

But Midoriya couldn’t know that. He could feel it. Feel the vulnerability in his teacher's words. Could feel the truth behind them—the hurt.

At last, Aizawa turned to face him. His expression was unreadable again, but there was something different in his eyes. Something steadier. Calmer.

“I don’t expect you to trust me overnight,” he said, voice low but certain. “I know what it’s like to have to do everything on your own. To be let down by the people who were supposed to look out for you.”

He paused, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a card—it was simple. Black, with the U.A. logo on the back in dark gray. The front held Aizawa's information: his status as a U.A. teacher, his name, his hero name, and… his phone number.

“But I want you to know… you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

He held the card out toward Midoriya.

“If anything happens—or even if nothing happens and you just need someone to talk to—call me. Doesn’t matter what time it is. Doesn’t matter what it’s about.”

His gaze softened a fraction, though his tone didn’t waver.

“Anything. Anything at all. Got that, problem child?”

Midoriya stared at the card in his hands.

It felt heavier than it should have—like it meant something more than just paper and ink. His fingers curled around it carefully, as if afraid it might vanish if he held it too tightly.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His throat had gone tight, and the words just… wouldn’t come.

But his eyes said enough.

Aizawa watched him quietly, reading the silence the way only someone who had once stood in it could.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward and gently ruffled Midoriya’s hair. The touch was brief, almost awkward, like he wasn’t quite used to offering comfort that wasn’t blunt or practical—but it was real.

Midoriya blinked, startled. No one had done that in years.

Aizawa gave a quiet grunt, the closest he’d get to a chuckle, and turned toward the office door.

“Come on,” he said. “Recovery Girl’s probably waiting.”

Midoriya followed.

Still clutching the card.

Recovery Girl’s office was warm—a little too warm—and filled with the faint, sharp scent of antiseptic and old tea. Midoriya hesitated just inside the door, eyes flicking toward the padded cot and the medical equipment along the back wall.

She was already waiting for them, seated behind her desk and typing quietly on a small computer terminal. A folder labeled “1-A: Medical Updates” sat open beside her, a stack of neatly sorted charts tucked just beneath.

She looked up when they entered, adjusting her glasses with a gentle smile.

“Well now, back again already, dearie?”

Midoriya nodded once, uncertain. He still wasn’t sure what exactly he was here for. Aizawa had said something about wanting a few things “looked at,” but hadn’t explained more than that.

Aizawa stepped in behind him and gave the door a quiet push to close it. “I’d like you to run a quick scan on his ears. Mic thinks there may be some hearing loss from the Battle Trial.”

Recovery Girl hummed thoughtfully, her expression shifting toward concern. “Of course. Sit down, dearie—just there.”

Midoriya did as instructed, perching nervously on the exam bench. Aizawa remained nearby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and gaze steady.

“Now,” Recovery Girl said as she rose and opened a cabinet. “Let’s check that hearing. This won’t take long.”

She returned with a small case of old-fashioned audiometry tools—headphones, a tuning fork, and a handheld device that looked like it belonged more in a private clinic than a school nurse’s office. No high-tech equipment. Just skill and routine.

“Put these on for me,” she said, slipping the headphones gently over his ears.

Midoriya complied, heart picking up pace. The world became a little quieter beneath the muffling cups.

“Raise your hand when you hear a tone, darling,” Recovery Girl instructed.

The test moved steadily. Tones at different frequencies and volumes buzzed through the left ear—some barely perceptible. Others clear. When they moved to the right side, though, nothing came.

No high tone.
No low.
No vibration.
Just silence.

Midoriya's stomach twisted, his chest tightening.

When Recovery Girl gently removed the headphones, she gave a small sigh. “Well… it’s a good thing you came back.”

Midoriya blinked at her, tense.

“You’re completely deaf in your right ear,” she said gently. “Likely permanent, I’m afraid. There’s also some temporary sensitivity loss in the left—most likely trauma from the explosion’s proximity.”

Midoriya’s mouth opened, then closed again.

He hadn’t known.

Not really.

Sure, things had been muffled—especially after loud blasts. He’d gotten used to adjusting, to missing pieces of what people said when Bakugo let off an explosion too close to his face. It had just become background noise. Part of his life.

He swallowed hard and nodded.

Recovery Girl offered a sympathetic look before jotting a few notes into the folder on her desk

She glanced up at Aizawa, her tone still kind but turning brisk and professional.
“Anything else you’d like me to check while he’s here?”

Aizawa gave a quiet nod. “His hands. He’s been having issues since the Battle Trial. I noticed it yesterday but didn’t push him. This morning it was worse—he couldn’t even hold a pen. I wrapped them up to stabilize the tremors.”

Recovery Girl’s eyes narrowed faintly in concern. “Show me, dearie.”

Midoriya obediently lifted his hands, letting her unwind the wraps. She worked gently, careful not to tug. Beneath the cloth, his fingers looked a little stiff, his hands shaky.

“Let’s try a few things,” she said softly. “Touch your thumb to each finger, one at a time.”

He did—but the movements were slow. Jerky. His pinky trembled when he tried to connect it, and his ring finger lagged just a little behind the rest.

“Okay. Now make a fist. As tight as you can.”

Midoriya tried. The shape was there, but the strength wasn’t. His knuckles didn’t press evenly, and he couldn’t hold the position for long before his fingers began to twitch and loosen.

“Now press your palms flat on your thighs.”

He obeyed again, and she ran her fingers over the tops of his hands—pressing gently near the wrist, tapping the tendons and lightly brushing his fingertips with a cotton swab.

She gave a low hum.

“Sensation’s inconsistent. Pressure response is delayed in a few fingers. Tremors are obvious under strain. Motor control’s patchy—fine coordination is especially impaired.”

Aizawa’s frown deepened.

She glanced back at him. “This isn’t what I’d expect from first-degree burns.”

“You treated those yesterday?” Aizawa asked.

“I did,” she said. “No sign of deeper damage then. And even if I’d missed something—which I didn’t—this level of nerve disruption doesn’t come from surface burns. Not without more trauma involved.”

Her gaze returned to Midoriya—concerned but careful not to alarm. “This is showing signs of nerve involvement. Possibly compression or prolonged strain I'm not quite sure. Could be temporary… but we’ll have to monitor it.”

She looked at Aizawa again. “The wrapping helped, but I’d recommend proper compression. The best option would likely need to be custom-made—something sturdier. Half-fingered gloves that go past the wrist to mid-forearm. UA will cover the costs—for a hearing aid too. He just needs to fill out some forms.”

“We’ll take the forms,” Aizawa said calmly, though his concern was evident.

Recovery Girl gave a small nod and gently took Midoriya’s hands again, this time just holding them.

“You didn’t tell anyone these were hurting, did you?” she asked softly.

Midoriya shook his head, ashamed.

Recovery girl made a small tsk, bating at him lightly for his behavior “Next time, speak up,” she said firmly, though not unkindly. “Hiding pain only makes it worse, dearie.”

Chapter Text

Izuku picked at his hands nervously as he looked out the window at the scenery passing by. It was later now, around dinnertime.

After the meeting with Nezu and the check-up with Recovery Girl, Aizawa had taken him to Nezu again to get the forms. While they were in the principal’s office, they somehow ended up having another meeting, and now Izuku was set to have after-school quirk training sessions with Aizawa and Hound Dog—who was apparently a trained quirk counselor.

After that, Aizawa had insisted on driving Izuku home. Izuku tried to protest, not wanting to be a burden, but his teacher just mentioned how he wouldn’t be able to make the current train and how he needed to speak with his mother about his injuries and the new training schedule anyway. So now he was in his teacher’s car, on the way to his apartment.

The car wasn’t what he expected. It was… a lot fancier than Izuku would’ve thought. He imagined Aizawa would go for something simple and practical. This car, though—it was sleek, definitely expensive. The outside was a polished black, and the interior was black with warm, burnt-orange accents.

What was even odder were the little details Izuku kept spotting. There was a scent clip in the air vent—not too strange, just unexpected—and a tiny “Put Your Hands Up!!” radio keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. Neither was especially out of the ordinary on its own, but together they felt... not like Aizawa. Then there were the small electronics tucked behind the seats, the kind of portable gear that looked like it belonged at a radio station.

Honestly, the whole car felt flashier, louder, more alive than he would expect from his teacher. If anything, it reminded him more of Present Mic—like it fit him better. It almost felt borrowed.

Izuku was pulled out of his thoughts when the car came to a stop and Aizawa spoke.

“This is your building, right?”

Izuku looked out the window to find that they were, in fact, in front of his apartment.

He nodded quickly, speaking up. “Y-yeah, b-but I’m not c-certain my m-mom will be h-home.”

His teacher nodded in response. “No harm in checking.”

As Izuku led the way toward the apartment, he couldn’t help the nerves twisting in his stomach. Honestly, he hoped his mom wasn’t home. It wasn’t like she was bad or anything—just really overprotective. And Izuku didn’t really like it when she found out he’d gotten hurt.

Reaching his apartment, he pulled out his key and opened the door, allowing his teacher in. Izuku took his shoes off at the genkan. He noticed his mother’s shoes and swallowed before calling out, “M-mother, I’m home.” Izuku waited for his teacher before stepping further into his home.

As he led his teacher into the living room, Izuku heard his mother call out, “It’s late—where have you been all day? You know I don’t like it when you’re—oh.”

She stopped as she stepped out of the kitchen, eyes widening at the sight of the man behind him.

“Hello sir? Is there something I can help you with?”

Izuku felt his teacher bow beside him in greeting.

“Pardon my intrusion, Midoriya-san. My name is Shota Aizawa, also known as the pro hero Eraserhead. I’m your son’s homeroom teacher, and I’d like to discuss Izuku-kun and the training incident you were notified about yesterday.”

Inko blinked, then offered a quick, polite smile—tight at the edges.

“Oh—of course, come in.” Her voice softened, but there was a slight edge to it. “I wasn’t told you’d be visiting. Izuku didn’t mention anything.”

She stepped aside, eyes flicking briefly to her son before returning to Aizawa with that same pleasant tone.

“I assume this is about how he got hurt?” She gave a light, strained laugh. “I’m still trying to understand how something like that was allowed to happen in the first place.”

“Yes. My apologies—the meeting was a last-minute decision,” Aizawa said evenly, bowing his head slightly as he stepped further into the room. “I felt it would be best to speak with you in person, given the recent developments.”

His tone remained neutral, but as he followed her into the living room, his eyes swept the space with quiet precision. Every detail was mentally cataloged: the fading wallpaper, the worn edges of the furniture, the way Izuku flinched when his mother raised her voice—even just slightly. Aizawa wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but the injuries to Izuku’s hands didn’t quite match what had been reported. There was always a chance things at home weren’t as they should be.

He sat down on the floor at the low coffee table, his student and Inko seated across from him. Izuku stayed quiet, shoulders tight and eyes downcast.

“You see,” Aizawa began carefully, folding his hands, “another teacher and I noticed some concerning signs earlier today. Because of that, I decided to bring Izuku to Recovery Girl after school for a check-up.”

He glanced at the boy beside him, but Izuku didn’t lift his head.

“Your son’s injuries were more serious than we initially believed,” Aizawa continued. “As for how the incident occurred—we recently received a new heroics teacher who chose to ignore the established lesson plans and instead placed the class into battle trials.”

Inko’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I can assure you the teacher is being dealt with accordingly,” Aizawa said. “However, during the exercise, one of your son’s classmates disobeyed direct orders and used his quirk recklessly. He set off an explosion at close range that resulted in severe injuries to your son.”

“Yes, yes, I was already informed about what Katsuki did,” Inko interrupted, her voice sharper this time, tinged with ice. “I’m sure that’s not why you’re here.”

Aizawa didn’t flinch. He nodded once, accepting the rebuke.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “There’s more.”

He took a slow breath before continuing.

“When I brought Izuku to the nurse, we discovered two additional concerns. First, he sustained significant damage to his ears. He’s now completely deaf in his right ear, and his left ear is experiencing temporary hearing loss. That should improve in the next couple of days, but the right ear... the damage is permanent.”

Inko blinked, her expression tightening.

“And second,” Aizawa said, “he appears to have suffered nerve damage to his hands. This injury does not appear to be from the explosion. While we aren’t entirely sure of the cause, we believe it may be related to strain from his quirk. He reported a recent onset of symptoms—pain, difficulty gripping, and stiffness.”

A tense silence settled over the room. Aizawa continued.

“U.A. will be covering all medical expenses related to this. We’ll be providing him with custom compression gloves and a hearing aid. All we need is your signature on a few forms.”

He reached into his bag and placed a small stack of neatly clipped papers on the table.

“In addition to that,” he added, “Izuku has been enrolled in after-school quirk counseling sessions—both for safety and emotional support. It’s come to our attention that his quirk manifested recently, and he’s been using it without proper guidance. These sessions will help prevent further injury and ensure he’s not pushing himself beyond safe limits.”

He stopped, finally looking up at Inko again.

Inko stared at the paperwork without touching it, her fingers curling slightly in her lap. Her eyes moved between the documents and her son, who was still hunched over, barely breathing.

“I see,” she said finally, her voice cool and controlled. “So he’s going to need a hearing aid. Compression gloves. Counseling. And none of this would have happened if someone had been following the lesson plan, is that correct?”

She turned her eyes on Aizawa—polite, but sharp. “It’s good that you’re doing something now. But honestly, all of this should have been prevented.”

There was a pause. Her tone softened, but only slightly. “He’s always been sensitive. And now this. I hope this counseling helps him—he doesn’t always say when something’s wrong. But he tries so hard... Too hard, sometimes.”

That sent alarms through Aizawa. He wasn’t sure why—the sentence was completely normal—but something about her felt... off. Not hostile, not uncaring—but the moment she’d seen him, something in her shifted. She was polite, but guarded. Her reactions didn’t always match her words.

He had no solid proof. Nothing he could file. But he’d long since learned to trust his instincts—and they were telling him to pay very close attention.

Inko reached for the papers and signed them without a word, not even glancing at her son.

Then she turned back to Aizawa. Her smile was tight, voice pointed and clipped.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“There is one more matter,” Aizawa said, letting out a quiet sigh.
He knew the kid wouldn’t want to hear this—but it needed to be said.

“U.A. is obligated in this kind of situation—where a student deliberately disobeys orders and causes injury to another—to offer the injured party the option of pursuing legal action. Would you like to press charges against Bakugo Katsuki, the student responsible for your son’s injuries?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aizawa saw Izuku tense, his hands curling slightly in his lap.

The kid was too forgiving—far too forgiving.

This wasn’t some minor accident. It was a serious offense, one that by all rights should have ended in expulsion. But without formal charges, all U.A. could do was issue detention and document the violation. Aizawa hated that—hated the way the system bent backward to protect potential. If it wasn't for the damn hpsc presence on UA’s board Aizawa would have already expelled Bakugou. Well that and he would actually have some success in changing the damned biased entrance exam.

He kept his eyes on Inko, waiting for her answer.

Inko was quiet for a moment. Her gaze drifted toward Izuku—who still hadn’t looked up—then back to Aizawa. Her smile returned, brittle and polite.

“No. No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she said lightly, folding her hands in her lap. "Katuski's always had a bit of a temper, but he’s a good boy. He’s going to be a great hero one day—this kind of thing could ruin his future.”

Aizawa didn’t respond, but his expression cooled.

Inko continued, her voice softening just slightly as if to cushion the blow. “And, well… Izuku can be a little dramatic when he’s under pressure. He tends to panic and push himself too hard. I’m sure it wasn’t all Katuski’s fault. Accidents happen.”

Izuku flinched like he’d been struck. He still didn’t speak, didn’t move—just kept his eyes fixed somewhere around his knees, shoulders curled inward.

Aizawa watched him carefully. That reaction wasn’t guilt—it was familiarity. He’d heard words like that before.

“Besides,” Inko added, with a small chuckle that didn’t reach her eyes, “the school’s already doing so much for him. Counseling, equipment, all of that. I don’t want to make things worse by dragging someone else down.”

There it was.

She didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Not even the boy who’d maimed her son.

Aizawa leaned back slightly. “Understood,” he said evenly, making a note of her decision. “We’ll proceed accordingly.”

But he wasn’t dropping this. Not by a long shot.
Izuku showed his teacher out while his mother returned to the kitchen.

After slipping back into his shoes, Aizawa turned to him. “Tomorrow, go to Majima’s office before school. He’ll take the measurements needed for your custom comparison gloves.”
Izuku nodded. “R-right. Thanks, sensei.”

Aizawa lifted his hand, starting to place it on Izuku’s head, but paused when the boy flinched.
“Can I ruffle your hair, kid?”

Izuku tensed but gave a small nod. Aizawa sighed and gently ruffled his hair.
“You’re not alone. Call me if you need anything, alright?”

Izuku stood there, watching his teacher leave.
A part of him really wished the man hadn’t.
He was sure his mom wasn’t happy. And really, it was his fault. He deserved any punishment for being so reckless. But… he just really didn’t want to be around her right now.

And didn’t that just prove what kind of son he was?
He should be grateful—his mom was taking the time to teach him. She cared.
He knew he was difficult.

He silently entered the dining room and sat down. Moments later, his mother walked in carrying only one plate of food.

Oh.

No dinner.
That’s… fine. He was reckless. He got hurt. He nearly ruined Kacchan’s future. Of course he wouldn’t get dinner.

His mother sighed as she sat down across from him. “Honestly, Izuku, I just don’t understand why you insist on pursuing such a dangerous career.”

She took a bite of her food. Izuku didn’t respond. He knew better. She wasn’t finished.

“You know I just get so worried. You’re so fragile, but you keep insisting on playing rough with the others. Now look at you—you’re deaf in one ear and can’t even use your hands properly.”

Izuku kept his head down. His shoulders were tense, fists clenched in his lap. His eyes were starting to burn, a hot pressure building behind them like steam trapped in a kettle. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, trying to stay quiet.

“I think it’d be best if I pulled you out of the hero course,” she said, her voice cold and final.

“No!” Izuku blurted out, panic rising like bile in his throat. He slammed his hands on the table, pain shooting through his palms. “I’m sorry! Please, Mother, I—I won’t— It won’t happen again! Just—please—I’ll be better! I’m sorry! Please don’t pull me out!”

Inko’s eyes flared with anger. She activated her quirk, yanking harshly on his ear.

Izuku cried out as the sharp pain pierced through his skull and down his neck. A high ringing filled his damaged ear, and the world tilted as he slammed forward against the table. The wood was cold against his forehead.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking, Izuku. Honestly, you need to work on your manners.”

His eyes stung, hot tears rising faster now. His chest hurt—tight and burning, like he couldn’t breathe deep enough. “I-I’m s-sorry, p-please d-don’t p-pull me out. I-I have a q-quirk now... I-I’m strong now…”

She released him with a huff, and Izuku slumped back into his seat, a hand pressed to the side of his face. The ear she pulled throbbed, radiating heat.

“Fine. Since you’re so determined.” She crossed her arms. “I’m feeling generous. You may continue in the hero course. But—the next time you get hurt, I’m pulling you out.”

Inko stood and walked over to her son who was now crying silently. She knelt beside him, pulling his head into her stomach, stroking his curls with slow, repetitive motions.

She had mumbled something Izuku couldn't make out with her covering his good ear before speaking up again.
“It’s for the best, Izuku. You need to understand that you’re just not as strong as your peers. You have to be more careful. And you just can’t do that as a hero.”

He stayed still, trying not to sniffle, even as her hand brushed through the curls now damp from his tears. The touch should’ve been comforting. It just made his stomach hurt worse.

Eventually, she let him go and returned to her seat to resume her dinner.

“Now go to your room. After that little outburst, you won’t be eating until you’ve learned your manners. You should know better by now than to interrupt me while I’m speaking. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood—I’m being rather lenient tonight.”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Izuku murmured, keeping his head down as he stood and walked slowly to his bedroom. His hands still stung from hitting the table. His ear pulsed with a dull ache. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it.

He could almost hear Aizawa’s voice in his head, reminding him he wasn’t alone.

But right now… he didn’t feel like that was true.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Izuku was violently jerked awake by a sharp, intense, blinding pain shooting through the left side of his face. Instinctively, he curled his arm around his head to protect himself as his jaw clenched shut, his eye squeezing closed, muscles spasming uncontrollably. It was a useless gesture—he knew exactly what had happened.

He looked over with his right eye, and there in the doorway stood his mother, her face calm.

“Izuku,” she said, her voice smooth and sickeningly sweet. “You really should stop being so lazy. You're going to be late for school.”

Izuku just nodded, uncurling as she walked away.

He knew what was happening. It had happened before.

It started when he was six—whenever he overslept, he would wake to that blinding pain that left half his face spasming. It became hard to talk, hard to eat, and hard to open one eye. The migraines that followed lasted for hours. At first, he was confused, scared; he started to struggle with sleep. Then he did some research on what could cause it, and learned the pain was linked to the “trigeminal nerves.”

That was when he realized: it was his mom’s quirk. She was pulling on his nerve to get him up. To punish him.

It hurt. But it was his fault. He just needed to be a better kid. Just needed to stop being such a useless, lazy, worthless, stupid deku.

Izuku got up and dressed before checking his alarm clock. After he’d figured out what was going on, he’d started setting extra alarms just in case. But now, the outlet near his nightstand was empty—his alarm clock had been unplugged.

He checked his phone next. It was dead.

That was strange. He could have sworn he’d plugged it in last night.

His mom definitely wasn’t going to be happy about this. She’d probably prolong his fasting again.
Still—anything was better than being pulled from the hero course.

Izuku made his way to the bathroom and splashed his face with cool water. His cheek was still spasming from his mom’s quirk, but he hoped to get it under control before anyone had the chance to notice. He didn’t want anyone worrying, and honestly, it was embarrassing—having it so obvious that he was a lazy, difficult child.

Taking slow, controlled breaths, he began gently massaging his cheek. A trick he learned to help sooth the nerve quicker.

Before he left for school, his mom made him weigh himself. She always weighed him before school and again at the end of the day, just to make sure he wasn’t sneaking food during his punishment.

By the time Izuku made it onto his train, the spasms had mostly stopped. He still felt the occasional twitch in his cheek, and the whole area—from his jaw to the corner of his eye on the left side—ached sharply. But it wasn’t anything new. Not really.

At five he’d given his mom the idea that her quirk could be trained to be so precise as to pull on things like nerves to paralyze a villain if she was a hero during one of his endless quirk-rambles. She must have started to train it because at six and ever since, pain had been a constant in his life.

When the train pulled into his stop, his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that his last meal had been lunch the day before. He pulled out his water bottle and drank as he walked, hoping to hold off the hunger a little longer.

As he made his way out of the station, a muffled voice called out he couldn't understand but was able to make out one word. One painful searing word “Deku”

Izuku flinched, turning to see Uraraka jogging up to him, her words becoming easier to understand as he came closer.

“Hey! We should start walking to and from school together—maybe Iida too! That’d be super cool, right? We’re classmates, so we should get to know each other better. Right, Deku-kun?”

Izuku just shrugged slightly, eyes downcast.

She was nice. Most of 1-A was, honestly. Probably because he had a quirk now. But still... he couldn’t bring himself to trust any of them. Especially not when they called him “Deku.”

He knew she didn’t mean it to be cruel—she said she thought it sounded cute or encouraging, like “dekiru.”But Izuku couldn’t hear it that way. Not when every time he had heard that name growing up, it had been followed by searing pain.

When they reached U.A. and Izuku started to turn down toward the Support Course classrooms, Uraraka called out to him, reaching out instinctively.

“Deku-kun, where are you going? Class is this way.”

Izuku flinched, stepping away from her. His voice stumbled with rising panic. “I-I h-have a m-m-meet-meeting w-with P-PowerLoader s-sensei.” He curled in on himself, arms wrapping tightly around his stomach like he was trying to hold himself together. “S-sorry,” he whispered as he quickly turned away, hurrying toward the teachers' offices.

His meeting with PowerLoader went quickly. The teacher confirmed the measurements Izuku had submitted before school started, then explained they’d be making two pairs of gloves for him. One pair would be for everyday use—basically a standard pair of compression gloves, though designed to extend further down the forearm than usual.

The second pair—the real reason for the meeting—was for his hero costume. PowerLoader explained what they would be doing to it. Things like adding special supports. Making it tear, cut, and fire resistant, things good for any costume. Then Powerloader asked Izuku for any requests.

Afterward, Izuku made his way back to class, the smell of grease, hot metal, and whatever caused the explosion near the end of his meeting clinging on to his clothes from the proximity to the first year labs. Homeroom had already ended, so when he stepped into the room, he wasn’t surprised to see Present Mic already in the middle of teaching English.

“Hey, Little Listener!” his teacher greeted in his usual bright, booming voice. “Glad you could join us!”

Izuku tried to return a small smile, though he was sure it came out more like a grimace. He was still having some trouble controlling the right side of his face—and besides, he wasn’t exactly feeling happy. Still, he was definitely glad Mic-sensei didn’t seem mad at him.

He turned toward his seat… and paused, his stomach twisting in his chest.

Aoyama was sitting in it.

Why was Aoyama in his seat? What happened? Did Aizawa change his mind? Was he getting expelled? Were they just going to push him out slowly? Taking away his spot little by little until— izukus chest tightened his head swimming with all the possibilities swirling through his head.

“Oh yeah, totally forgot, listener!” Present Mic cut through his thoughts , clearly noticing the confusion on his face. “Eraserhead swapped your seat so you won’t have to strain to listen in class.”

The grin didn’t fade, but the volume dropped just slightly, his voice becoming softer—enough for Izuku to notice. “Gotcha a great one—front row, all the way to the right! That way, your teachers will never be on your bad side, ya dig?”

Oh…izuku relaxed slightly at that. As he took his new seat

It actually probably made more sense that way. If Aizawa sensei isn't just pretending or something then the man seems to… care. It was an odd thought, it really didn't make sense. Why would anyone care about him? He's just a stupid, unless Deku who's more trouble then he's worth.

***

Izuku had an easier time listening in class that day, although he still struggled to focus or take notes because of the lingering pain in his hands and face.

At lunch, he managed to avoid his classmates, slipping away to a hidden corner of the school courtyard. He suspected that if he had gone to the cafeteria, Ochako would have dragged him to sit with her, Iida, and Asui. They were a loud group. They seemed nice, but also the type to push, and Izuku would much rather avoid dealing with anyone at all.

Heroics class that day was taught by Aizawa along with a hero from the Business Course. They were covering the basics of proper fighting and exploring ways to incorporate quirks into different combat styles. Students were shown examples of various martial arts and got to experiment with blending their quirks into those styles. Students like Ojiro, who already had martial arts training, helped by giving tips and demonstrations.

Izuku was told that he would do better focusing on speed and agility. Despite his quirk, his body was small and flexible, so it would suit him better to fight in a style closer to Midnight or Eraserhead than All Might.

This was something Izuku had never considered. His quirk was All Might’s—so surely, the best way to use it would be the same way All Might did. He had never thought of deviating from being anything other than like All Might. After all, he was All Might’s successor. Surely it would be best to be just like him.

After class, Aizawa told him to stay behind and led him to Gym Gamma, where Hound Dog was waiting.

“This is where we’ll meet for your quirk counseling,” Aizawa explained as they approached. “For now, it’ll take place every day after school with both me and Hound Dog. Once you’ve gotten a better basic grasp of your quirk and you’re not constantly breaking your bones, it’ll drop to three days a week, and you’ll just be with me.”

Izuku simply nodded, watching as Aizawa and Hound Dog sat on the floor. Izuku followed their actions before turning his head to focus on the new teacher.

“It’s nice to meet you, Midoriya. You can call me Hound Dog or Inui-sensei,” the hero greeted. Izuku bowed his head slightly in return.

“Today, we’re going to start off simple—just the basics.”

Izuku nodded. Honestly, he was glad to hear that. He was still hungry and didn’t want to make things worse by overexerting himself.

“To start,” Hound Dog said, “I’d like you to tell us everything you know about your quirk so far.”

Izuku nodded and began speaking quietly. “I-It’s a s-stockpiling q-quirk. I-It c-can e-enhance m-my a-abilities.”

“What exactly does it stockpile? From what I’ve seen, you don’t seem to have much of a limit, and it seems rather powerful.” Hound Dog’s question made Aizawa glance over, a faint curiosity in his expression that made Izuku uneasy.

“Uh… e-energy, I-I think. B-but it’s r-really powerful. I-I was t-told that i-if I h-had any less m-muscle mass, i-it would’ve b-blown o-off m-my limbs u-upon a-activation.”

Izuku fidgeted as he spoke, avoiding eye contact. He took his time, carefully making sure not to say anything that might raise too many questions—or upset All Might.

“Ahh, I see. That must be why it manifested so late,” Hound Dog mused.

Izuku tilted his head at that. He knew that whatever Hound Dog meant wasn’t true, but maybe it could help him maintain a consistent story.

Noticing Izuku’s confusion, Hound Dog continued, “Well, if your quirk is truly that volatile, then it’s possible you developed it at the normal age, but your body imposed a limit—a requirement you had to meet before you could actually access your power. This would explain the delay if you needed to reach a certain mass first. Tell me, Midoriya—how did you prepare for the entrance exam?”

Oh. He could work with this—it could explain a lot.

“I c-cleaned the beach” Izuku answered.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, but Izuku went on. “I-I was q-quirkless. E-Everyone said I c-couldn’t b-be a h-hero, but I w-wanted to t-try. I k-knew I w-would n-never p-pass w-without s-some sort of a-advantage, so I w-wanted to g-get strong…”

He paused, thinking carefully about his next words. “N-No one l-likes the q-quirkless, so I w-wasn’t a-allowed in a-any gyms…”

Aizawa scoffed but didn’t comment, even when Izuku glanced at him in question.

“S-So, ten months b-before the e-entrance e-exam, I f-found a b-beach. It w-was c-covered in t-trash, s-so I f-figured if I c-cleaned it, it w-would s-slowly b-build my s-strength. I f-finished c-cleaning it the m-morning of the e-exam.”

“That certainly took dedication,” Hound Dog said. “If I’m right, you must have been the one who cleaned Takoba Beach. Ten months… that can’t have been easy, especially alone. It does explain the late development. Now—how do you actually use your quirk?”

“I… uh… I j-just k-kind of d-direct it to w-where I w-want it and, uh… smash?” Izuku stammered.

“Just smash?” Aizawa asked in a tired deadpan, arms crossed as he stared at Izuku.

Izuku flinched, hunching his shoulders. “Y-Yeah?”

Aizawa sighed, his eyes still on Izuku. Izuku couldn’t tell if his teacher was mad or just tired. The uncertainty made him squirm.

“This breaks your bones, correct?” Hound Dog interrupted, breaking the tense silence.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Have you tried controlling the amount of power you output?”

“A b-bit, but i-it’s h-hard.”

Hound Dog nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever tried spreading it throughout your body?”

Izuku tilted his head slightly and shook it.

“Well,” Hound Dog continued, “if you’re struggling to control the output and it’s putting too much strain on one limb, it might help to spread it out. That way, you’d be improving more than just one muscle group, and in theory, it should distribute the strain so your body can better absorb the impact. There’s also a chance this would let you fine-tune your output more easily.”

“Oh… I– I n-never thought of that. I-It makes a l-lot of sense, actually. S-Since all the p-power’s in one s-spot, i-it’s a l-lot to handle, b-but when y-you spread it out, i-it’s distributed m-more evenly. I-If my p-power has a cap and I’ve only been u-using it at m-max, then the strain on my arm is w-worse when it’s compressed i-into one area. I-I actually noticed that the damage to my finger was worse than when I used my whole arm… and the same when I used just one arm versus both legs—”

Izuku’s stutter vanished as he slipped into rapid muttering, speaking faster and quieter until neither teacher could follow his train of thought.

Shota sighed lightly before cutting him off. “Hey, kid.”

Midoriya’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Realizing what he’d been doing, he flinched and seemed to shrink in on himself. It made Shota’s chest tighten—watching the kid react like he was about to be hit just for talking.

“Why don’t you try it out?” Shota spoke calmly. Redirecting the kid. Even with how little he knew the kid he still knew that his little muttering rants could go one for an hour, and they didn't really have the time, even if Shota truly wanted to let the kid be happy. “Don’t punch or anything — just try spreading it out and holding it.”

Determination flashed in Izuku’s eyes as he nodded. For a while they all sat there; Izuku’s eyes closed and his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to concentrate. A few times the quirk sparked in a limb or around his chest before quickly dying off.

It frustrated Izuku. He had no problem turning the quirk on in a specific spot, but the moment he tried activating it all over, he was stuck doing nothing. He was upset — he wanted to prove his worth, that he belonged in the hero course, that he could be a hero. In one last desperate attempt to prove himself, he decided to try focusing first, then spreading out.

For a few minutes, the quirk just glowed through his chest like veins, lighting up his shirt in a faint red glow, but after a while, something happened — the red veins began to spread and green lightning arced across Izuku’s body.

Izuku's eyes flew open the second he felt the searing pain that usually follows his quirk’s activation spread out and dull itself. He wanted to see, to prove that his feeling was real and that he had actually done it, but the moment his eyes opened, his concentration slipped and his quirk deactivated.

In his frustration and disappointment, he threw himself back, his legs unraveling and his head hitting the concrete with a loud THUNK, as his hands came up covering his face. He let out a loud groan as he started digging his nails into his hair, trying to think of how he could get it to work.

He just wanted it to work. He needed it to work. And it was frustrating — it felt impossible. It took him basically an hour to actually be able to just do it, and he wasn’t even able to hold it. The little he did manage left him so incredibly tired, and hungry.

Izuku lay on the ground, his palms pressed firmly into his eyes and his finger digging and pulling at his hair. Slow tears of frustration began to stream down his face. His breath was shallow and trembling, each sob catching painfully in his throat. He was so close. So close. But he couldn’t do it. He made no progress. It took so much out of him for nothing. His body felt heavy, muscles aching, and his mouth was dry and bitter. He was so tired, hungry, and hurt. His ear was still ringing, and anger simmered beneath his exhaustion.

***

Shota was tempted to cut the lesson short.

The kid was clearly trying hard, but he wasn’t getting very far. He hadn’t managed to activate the quirk across his body once this whole time, and it was clearly affecting him.

The kid was frustrated. He huffed in annoyance and grumbled under his breath with every failed attempt. He was also clearly tired. He must not have gotten much sleep or something, because he looked exhausted.

Right as Shota was about to stop the kid and end the session, Inui stopped him. Shota turned to look at him with a questioning glare, but Inui just pointed back at Midoriya.

When Shota turned around to look back at his student, he was surprised. Inui must have seen a shift in the kid when Shota went to stop him, because the moment he turned back, he watched
as the power spread from his chest throughout the rest of his body. The kid was alight from head to toe with green lightning and red veins glowing under his skin.

This only lasted a moment, though, as the second the kid opened his eyes, the power dropped. Shota was again about to speak when suddenly the kid threw himself back and started to cry, his breaths ragged and shaking.

Shota froze for a moment. He had never seen the kid break down like this. Not from training. His student was analytical, determined, and competitive. He never backed down.

Hell, the kid stepped up and challenged Shota on the first day. The kid took Shota’s observations as a challenge and proved him wrong. The kid improved himself the first day just to prove a point.

That was exactly why it was so jarring to see the kid get so frustrated with himself that he broke down so openly. The kid looked wrecked. It clearly took a lot out of him to be pushing the quirk the way he was.

Shota hesitated, swallowing the lump in his throat as he watched the kid’s ragged breaths and trembling limbs. For a moment, he debated whether to step in or let him keep trying, but the second he saw the kid start to pull at his hair, his worry won out. He wasn’t going to let Midoriya beat himself up and hurt himself just because he didn’t complete a goal the day they set it.

“Hey.” Shota shifted closer to the kid, his voice gentle as he slowly and carefully placed his hands over Midoriya’s. Midoriya flinched at the touch; Shota knew he would, but that was less of a concern when his student was about to hurt himself. Sweat dampened Midoriya’s forehead, and his chest rose and fell unevenly with exhaustion. “Hey, you’re alright. You did good, kid.” Shota was gentle as he tried to pull the kid’s hands away from his face.

“I-I didn’t… I c-couldn’t, I—” It pulled at Shota’s heart to hear the frustration and loathing mixed into the kid’s exhausted cries.

“Izuku, kid, listen to me.” Shota didn’t make it a habit to call his students by their first names, but he needed to ground the kid, and shota knew a person even just hearing their name could help. At least a bit.

Shota could have used Midoriya, but he wasn’t stupid. The kid tensed at that name. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as when he was called Deku, but it was still there. It was small, but it was still present, and if Shota’s gut was right, it likely had something to do with his home life.

His personal name, however, did work, as the kid loosened his grip slightly. “Hey Izuku, I need you to let go, alright? You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep pulling.”

Thankfully, Midoriya’s fingers relaxed and he let Shota pull his hands away from his face. Soft afternoon light filtered through the training room’s high windows, casting gentle patterns across the floor. The quiet hum of the ventilation was the only sound besides their breathing. Gently, Shota continued to pull the kid’s arms until he was completely sitting up and facing Shota.

“Talk to me.” Shota kept his tone soft. He could tell the kid was frustrated with himself and didn’t want to add anything to overwhelm his student more than he already was. “What’s going on?”

Izuku’s face furrowed more as he pulled his legs to his chest, hiding his face with his forehead resting on his knees while Shota continued to hold his hands. His breath came in short, shaky gasps, and a light sheen of sweat dampened his forehead. His student muttered something, the only word Shota caught being “useless,” before Midoriya spoke more clearly: “I c-couldn’t do it. I tried s-so hard. I tried, sensei I just c-couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Shota sighed softly, rubbing the back of the kid’s hands with his thumbs to comfort him. “Problem child, you aren’t useless, and it’s alright you couldn’t hold it.” Shota paused, making sure his student was listening.

He continued when he saw Midoriya’s head lift slightly. “You did good today, kid. You were able to figure out how to spread it out. Even if you can’t hold it yet, that’s still progress. You got this quirk like a month ago. Nobody’s expecting you to master it in a day of guidance—that’s illogical.”

Midoriya lifted his head more, and Shota listened as his student spoke quietly, “B-but I couldn’t even hold it for a second. I wasn’t even doing anything, and I couldn’t hold it.”

“You can still do it though. That’s more than you could have said yesterday. That’s progress, kiddo—even if it’s small. Today you figured out how to get it to flow through your body. Tomorrow we can figure out how to hold it. And if you can’t hold it for at least five seconds tomorrow, then I’ll come in on Saturday and we can work for as long as you need, alright?” Normally, Shota would never sacrifice his sleep, but this was clearly important to the kid. And honestly, knowing Midoriya, he’d probably figure it out by tomorrow anyway.

The kid looked into Shota’s eyes at that and sniffled. “R-really?”

“Really, kid. I promise.” He watched Midoriya perk up at that and duck his head into his capture scarf as Shota couldn’t help but smile slightly at his student’s wide eyes. They looked like a kitten’s.

He watched as his student nodded his head before speaking again. “O-okay… s-sorry.”

Shota sighed as he brought one of his hands up to ruffle Midoriya’s hair, stopping above the kid’s head. Once he received a small nod, he gently placed his hand down, ruffling the kid’s hair, receiving a small shy smile as he spoke, “No need to apologize. Now go get showered and changed. We’re done for the day.”

Chapter Text

Alright so I'm like really struggling on like how I want this fiction to go and like how I've been going about it so it might be a little while befor I am able to put out the seventh chapter and I just wanted to let you guys know that and thar I'm not abandoning the fix I've just kinda hit a wall were I'm like second guessing the way I've written things and like some of the characters so far.