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Shōta bowed to Uraraka-san and her parents. They were the last to leave for the summer break. He walked back into Heights Alliance to do the routine final checks that all lights and faucets were off. His discomfort grew as he checked each corridor. Upon returning to the common area, he huffed.
The building isn't meant to be this empty.
He shook his head to dislodge the thought. They'd be back in about a month.
They're halfway through. They'll graduate in about a year and a half.
He rubbed at his chest, trying to take a deep enough breath for that thought.
Just over a year and a half before they leave forever.
His breathing came more quickly and he lowered to the floor.
As long as they make it to graduation.
He covered his face to block out the emptiness of the common room around him.
They're all fine. It's empty because they're home, not because they're dead.
Shōta curled into himself as his wheezing turned into a whine.
They're not dead. I didn't fail them again.
Time warped around him as he clung to those repeating thoughts. He mumbled them to himself, hoping hearing it too would help.
They're not dead. I didn't fail them again.
They're not dead. I didn't fail them again.
They're not dead. I didn't fail them again.
Shōta was vaguely aware of someone's hands on his own.
There's so much they don't know and there's not enough time to teach it to them.
His hands were slowly lowered from his face. He realized they were wet. Then his eye met green.
“Problem child,” Shōta rasped.
Midoriya smiled at him. “That's me.”
I'm having a mental breakdown. In front of a student. Fuck.
He straightened up and cleared his throat. He tried to assume his indifferent expression.
“You don't have to do that, sensei,” Midoriya said, holding his hands tighter. “You've helped all of us when we fell apart. We were starting to worry that you'd never let yourself fall apart too.”
Shōta stopped trying to put on the mask. “You all…all of you...have discussed this?”
“Sure have!” chirped Uraraka.
He turned his head towards the entryway, where all of 1-A was gathered.
Shōta hiccuped and covered his mouth. “You're supposed to be –.”
“Everybody agreed to stay close by for an extra hour or two,” Kaminari spoke up. “It just felt like we should somehow?”
“I wasn't trying to listen or anything, but I was training at Gym Beta until my parents finished a gig tonight. And I could…um…” Jiro twisted one earphone jack around her finger. “I could hear you? And it seemed super uncool to not do something. So I tried to text Midoriya.”
“But she texted the group chat instead,” Kirishima jumped in. "And it wouldn't be manly to let you be this upset all alone, ya know?”
Shōta curled back up on himself, interlocking his fingers around the back of his neck.
Correction. I’m having a mental breakdown in front of my whole class. Because they could see it coming. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What he should have expected, but didn't, was to be suddenly trapped in a cuddle pile with 20 students.
I can't do this, he thought, stiffening.
“Don't make it fuckin’ weird, teach,” Bakugo growled. “You say it yourself all the time. This is ‘normal’ and ‘to be expected’ or whatever.”
At Katsuku's mocking monotone, he chuckled to himself.
Uraraka was alarmed. “Is he crying again?”
“I think he's laughing?” Shoji replied.
“Is that better or worse?” Todoroki inquired.
“He never shows shit,” Bakugo snapped, "so anything is probably good.”
Shōta lifted his head as he barked out a full laugh. “Why is Bakugo the one making the most sense right now? I thought his only emotions were hunger and anger.”
“At least I express something.” Bakugo sounded sullen now. “I thought you had the same capacity for emotional expression as a god damned potato.”
Shōta fell into uncontrollable laughter at that, and his students giggled along.
Shōta entered the office the next morning, directly after patrol.
Nezu looked up at him. “Aizawa-kun, you are bleeding. And you're getting mud all over my rug.”
Shōta looked down at himself and shrugged.
Nezu's nose twitched. “Also, you smell like an actual sewer.”
“There was a chase,” Shōta dismissed. “I'll get your rug cleaned.”
Nezu jumped down from his chair to pour two cups of tea. “To what do I owe this unusually early and odiferous visit?”
“I want to completely redesign the applied heroics curriculum,” Shōta replied flatly, ignoring the tea.
“For the remainder of your current class’ tenure?” Nezu inquired as he stirred his cup.
“For all three years. Permanently.”
Nezu's sharp eyes fixed on him. Shōta maintained his blank stare, not looking away from the principal's eyes.
“That's quite ambitious, Shōta,” Nezu stated.
Through sheer force of will, he refused to be ruffled by Nezu's use of his first name.
“Yes.”
“Our current curriculum has been updated periodically, but has maintained the same basic contours for many years,” Nezu continued, taking a small sip of tea but maintaining eye contact.
“Yes,” Shōta agreed.
“Any proposals for curriculum changes would need to be approved by the entire UA staff, then myself, and then the school's board,” Nezu said, returning the teacup to its saucer. “That is exceedingly difficult, even for minor updates.”
Shōta crossed his arms. “I'm aware.”
Nezu leaned forward over his desk. “You're undeterred.”
Shōta nodded.
Nezu hummed in thought. “The current curriculum was informed by years of practical experience and scientific research. What is your counter-argument?”
Shōta had thought about this his entire patrol the night before. Anticipated the many challenges Nezu might bring. “Things have changed. The students’ experiences will be radically different. We need to anticipate those needs and conduct new research. Otherwise, we will fail them as educators.”
Nezu let the corner of his lip lift the smallest amount.
“I'll need additional credentials,” Shōta went on. “Psychology, sociology. They'll help in creating the new curriculum and justifying the changes.”
Nezu tilted his head in thought.
“Most importantly, our combined reputations and qualifications will make the board look ridiculous if they resist.” Shōta's wildest smile spread across his face, appearing even more unhinged than usual because of the half-dried blood running from one temple to his chin. “They'll be forced to approve it.”
“How delightful,” Nezu said with his own animalistic smile. “Do get started immediately.”
20 months later, he stood in the rear of his classroom. While they had yet to notice him, this new class 1-A settled into their seats before the bell had even rung.
As expected, they behaved very differently than the hell class on their first day.
His hair, still short, tickled a bit as it lifted. He directed the chalk's movement to write his name. He smirked to himself as several students startled.
“Welcome to UA. My name is Dr. Aizawa Shōta. I'll be your homeroom teacher.”
Most of the students had startled at his voice, especially coming from behind them.
As he walked towards the front, Shōta stopped next to a desk. The student had a stiff posture and a carefully pressed uniform. Their supplies were precisely arranged on their desk.
“Akane-san. You did a lot of research on UA based on the written portion of your exam,” he said coolly.
Akane nodded.
“Tell your classmates what you learned about what to expect from me on your first day.”
Akane squirmed, and Shōta pinned him with a raised eyebrow. Akane nodded curtly in reply.
“In the past, you've expelled at least one student on the first day, excepting the class that just graduated.” Akane glanced at Shōta quickly, then looked away again. “Usually more than one student is expelled. In two instances, you expelled your entire homeroom class.”
Excellent.
He reached the front of the room and leaned against the podium. “Why do you think I did so?”
A girl with a fox mutation quirk raised her hand hesitantly. He nodded at her. “Upperclassmen told me that it was because ‘they had no potential.’ But that doesn't sound right. They already got through the entrance exam.”
“Correct, Yoshikawa-kun,” Shōta answered. “In the pre-war period, there was one important facet of potential that the entrance exams could not assess.”
A determined looking boy practically stared Shōta down as he lifted his hand.
“Asato-san?”
“Work ethic!”
Shōta smiled. “On brand, but not quite.”
Akane caught Shōta's eye again.
Solemnly, Akane said, “Informed commitment.”
“Yes. You all experienced the war first- or second-hand. Accordingly, none of you will be expelled today,” Shota said firmly.
The students reacted with a mix of confusion and relief.
“You already understand that hero work can be fatal, and you're here anyway. Half of your applied heroics classes will focus on acquiring related skills. These will give you the best possible chance of survival in crisis. In the past, this has been primarily focused on combat and rescue. The new curriculum this year will also include building community connections, resource referral, information gathering, and de-escalating conflict.”
A student in the back was so musclebound that it was amazing they'd found a uniform that fit at all. He sounded a little disappointed. “So less fighting?”
Shōta nodded. “Heroes need to create relationships and a sense of belonging to something more. They help people meet their own needs, and diffuse conflicts. If you're doing all that right, there's fewer petty criminals and villains. Fewer villains mean fewer attacks. That's less combat and related rescues. Rescue missions are more likely to come out of accidents and natural disasters.”
A visibly bright girl in the back with crystals for hair practically leapt up. “What's the other half of the class about?”
“Good question, Sugimoto,” Shōta replied steadily. “Half of your applied heroics classes will teach you how to stay alive.”
He looked to the board briefly, directing the chalk with his quirk. It wrote, “stay alive.”
"I'll answer Sugimoto's question with more questions." He looked over the class, who were listening intently. “What changed during and after the war? Don't bother raising your hands, just don't talk over each other.”
He listed what they said on the board as they spoke.
“Homelessness.”
“Hunger.”
“Injuries.”
“Hero retirements”
“Protests.”
Gradually, they became more personal.
“My best friend died.”
“My whole town was abandoned because it was so destroyed. Eventually we had to move too.”
“When it was all over, regular life didn't feel real anymore.”
“My neighbor is disabled now. It's hard for them to get the help they need, but they're embarrassed. So we all pitch in. Secretly.”
When the contributions slowed to a trickle, Shōta spoke again. “How have people dealt with these changes?”
“My aunt became a nurse.”
“My cousin quit being one.”
“Activism?”
“Drugs. Or alcohol. Or both.”
“Trying to ignore it.”
“Trying to ignore people they love.”
“Blaming other countries for not helping.”
“I heard on the news that there's more suicides and homicides because people snap.”
The room sure got quiet after that one.
“I don't want you to answer this question out loud. I want you to just think for a few minutes,” Shōta said softly. “How are you dealing with it, or not dealing with it?”
He made eye contact with each student for a second or two.
“The world changed after the war, and we changed. Our struggles were all different, but the fact remains that we all struggled.”
The students’ eyes shifted from him to the words “stay alive” on the board.
“The other half of your applied heroics lessons will focus on who you are and who you want to be. What you've experienced. What you're going to experience while at UA and beyond.” Shōta moved to sit on the edge of his desk. “You need to be able to absorb the emotional effects of this career. You need to be more than this career.”
He smiled, a truly warm smile. Definitely not an expression he'd have shown students on their first day, and probably not in their first year. Maybe not ever.
The chalk drew an arrow and wrote three new words as he said them.
“I want each one of you to be amazing heroes. I want you to do more than stay alive while you do it. I want you to know how to live.”