Chapter Text
“Nemuri Kayama” is not a name that every boy aged 12 or higher is whispering in the locker rooms or at boys-only sleepovers.
Well. Not only boys. Considering her TA is anyone who reached puberty—as far as they’re open-minded and liberated, as Mme. Midnight says on her after-midnight talk show appearances.
“Midnight,” the R-rated hero, is a name everyone knows, for all the good and all the bad reasons.
She is free. She is bold. She is loved. She is adored. Simped upon. Objectified. Idolized. Name it.
Nemuri Kayama — pro-heroine “Midnight,” U.A. Modern Hero Art History teacher, 33-year-old mother of a 15-year-old son.
But the last fact is, of course, not official. For privacy reasons. And for PR reasons, too.
Also because Nemuri doesn’t want people to know she was pregnant before she graduated high school… and that the father of the child—her boyfriend—was a year junior. And that he died at 17, before he even found out he was going to be a father.
So Kumori Kayama just got used to playing along.
In public, he calls her “Nee-chan.” At home, it’s “Nemu.” He shares his vape pod with her, helps her pick her outfits for TV appearances. He knows she’s trying, so he’s being a perfect “little brother” for his own mother.
His sleeping schedule was never a mess.
It just didn’t exist in the first place.
As long as Kumori can remember, he went to sleep with the first beams of sun peeking out from the city skyline.
Maybe it started because Nemu was on overnight TV, especially before he even started primary school. Or maybe because she slept all day after coming home at sunrise—like it was the most normal thing that moms do after kicking criminals’ asses.
Not to mention, her main job often looked less like “arresting villains” and more like “pumping them full of sleeping gas while striking X-rated poses,” pushing the broadcast commission’s limits on live television ten years ago.
A lot has changed since then.
For example, censorship guidelines in the Federal Communication Act. And a few times, those guidelines changed thanks to Nemuri finding loopholes—like appearing on screen in a dress that was barely a dress by common sense standards.
And another time, with no dress whatsoever.
Both times, Kumori watched the broadcasts and tried to emulate Nemu’s looks—much to Shota’s disdain and Hizashi’s amusement. They took turns babysitting the little boy while Nemu was off at another pro-hero gala or social event that might bring a sponsorship or a collaboration.
So later, when Nemu came home tipsy, mascara a little smudged, lips red and eyes dreamy, and heard about Kumori’s latest “deed,” she’d chuckle and hiccup:
“Atta boy! That’s my little cloud…”
Reeking of wine and her omnipresent sweet trail that made others drowsy if they stood too close, she’d half-slumber on the mudroom bench, ruffle his white curls, and leave a red lipstick smear on his cheek.
She’d try to wipe it off, licking her thumb and rubbing at it.
Kumori liked when Nemu was like that—smiling stupidly wide, attention solely on him. If he ignored the alcoholic smell, he could get her to play with him for a few minutes before she dozed off still holding a Barbie in one hand and a toy train in the other.
Then Shota or Hizashi, whoever was on “duty” that night, would drag her to bed and say:
“Mom is tired. Let’s let her sleep.”
And Kumori would reply:
“Nemu is tired too. Let her sleep with ‘mom.’”
Kumori heard about that “mom” person quite a lot.
He saw “moms” on the screen. Even Nemo had a mom—once upon a time. For two solid intro minutes. Maybe.
But Kumori wasn’t jealous of Nemo, or Simba, or anyone who had a mom and dad and even siblings with an age gap of less than a decade.
He had Nemu. And that was enough.
She was better than all drawn moms combined… when she was around. Especially if she wasn’t passed out asleep after work.
And even when she wasn’t home, she was still on screen. He never skipped a single report or interview she did, because she was making a curving outline for him every single time.
People had theories. They said it was her trademark—like the purple fog she left at her work sites.
But Kumori knew. She drew a cloud for him because she knew he was watching.
Naturally, his favorite thing to draw was clouds. Purple. Red. Sometimes yellow or blue—whatever crayon looked the best.
But now Kumori is absent-mindedly sketching loops that are a far cry from clouds. He’s not four anymore—he’s in the middle of “Hero Society and Law” lecture.
Shota—Aizawa-sensei, Kumori reminded himself again.
Because he almost slipped in front of everyone before class even started.
Aizawa-sensei reads the introductory lecture: responsibility, order, justice, yadda-yadda.
Kumori has heard this kind of talk more times than “Welcome to the Black Parade.” And he’s listened to it… a lot of times.
Shota didn’t deliberately pick him out today, but Kumori still felt that infamous gaze linger a little longer than necessary on the first day of school—on a “random” student.
Especially when they both have an unspoken agreement to pretend Shota didn’t use to change his diapers, give him baths, and that Kumori totally doesn’t know about his addiction to energy gels… or that sometimes, Shota adds something stronger than coffee into his thermos.
But yes. They are strangers. Kind of. Trying to be.
So Kumori looks around, trying to recall names.
Loud—not necessarily unfunny—blonde with bad hair, who greeted him the second he walked in.
Overzealous, goofy-looking guy with even worse red hair, whose fashion choices should be interrogated.
Too-cool-for-school angry boy—the one who landed first in the practice exam. Maybe not ignorant. Just obnoxious.
The guy in front of him with freckles and a stutter. And the one who walked in last and acted like a chaste virgin when a girl recognized him.
There were some he’d seen before.
Like Iida Tenya—what was it? The 5th or 6th Ingenium. Iida had officially greeted him as “Kayama-kun,” and a few people turned to look, maybe recognizing the name.
Yaoyorozu Momo—whose grandparents owned half of Ginza and maybe half of Tokyo. He was probably at her birthday parties at least four times before.
And Todoroki Shoto. Yes, that Todoroki. Endeavor’s son.
They never talked, but Kumori had seen him once or twice at some social event where both clearly didn’t want to be—sitting across from each other, eating sundaes.
The rest of the class was new. He hadn’t seen them in the exam or after. But if they made it into U.A.’s hero course, it meant their quirks were combat-related—offense or defense—because this year’s entrance exam was all about sheer force.
Kind of odd for a school that’s supposed to be training kids to beat bad guys, but okay. This is U.A. And U.A. plays by its own rules.
So when Shota announces “Quirk Apprehension Test” on the first day of school—right after making the whole class excited about heroics and carrying the burden of other people’s lives—some of them groaned, someone gasped, and some just started gathering things in anticipation of finally using their quirks.
But it wasn’t right.
“Um—Sho—sorry! Aizawa-sensei. But… what about the Opening Ceremony?”
Kumori was more than sure Nemuri was in the Grand Hall right now, about to read her congratulatory speech to all first-years.
Shota didn’t even turn. “No Opening Ceremony for hero course. It’s Quirk Test day.”
Which was—respectfully, and Kumori knew it from the source—bullshit.
“And those who come last will be expelled.”
Brilliant.
Stupid U.A. and their make-it-up-on-the-way rules.
He knew there was no such thing as a “Quirk Apprehension Test” on the first day of school. Shota made it up for his own class without asking the principal.
And one thing was certain: if Aizawa Shota wanted to get rid of someone in the hero department, he would.
And wouldn’t Kumori—the son of his dead friend—make a perfect candidate?
Cool.
Neat.
Perfect.
And if he gets expelled by Shota, he’s blaming Nemuri.
Because she made fun of Shota’s hair just yesterday. And Shota Aizawa, despite what he claims, is a petty bastard. So Kumori doesn’t wait for the others—he just stands there, glaring at his homeroom teacher with a sharp, irritated scowl.
“Yes. Sensei. Understood.”
“Good. See you on the training field in ten.”
Kumori could have sworn he saw the faintest smirk. They both knew it was a ten-minute walk from this classroom if they left immediately, marching there like a brood of ducklings—and that’s without even changing into their tracksuits.
Shota leaves. Kumori glances at the clock.
“We’re gonna be late no matter what,” he says aloud. “Don’t bother with your P.E. sets—just move if you want to stay in this school.”
Tenya gawks at him and starts, “But—”
Momo asks, “Are you sure, Kayama-kun?”
Todoroki just stands there, expression unreadable.
Then a tall guy—taller than Kumori—suddenly says, “And who are you, exactly, to tell us what to do?”
Tenya steps in to back him up. “Kayama-kun’s older sister is a teacher here.”
“Really? Who?”
“Midnight.”
And just like that, every head turns toward him—even the ones who had been pretending not to listen. Because “Midnight” is a magic word. Especially for the boys.
Some stare. Some smirk. Kumori just says, “Follow me. And maybe—just maybe—Aizawa won’t kick you out before lunch.”
They follow him. Because he knows the shortcut. And if they make it faster to the training ground than Aizawa he’ll brag about it for a week in teacher's lounge.
So when they took staff stairs and a turn in the corridor which cleaning bots or janitors only used, no one doubted him and just a few asked if this is allowed, and Kumori just said " As long as we are not caught." Which did rash the other 19 students not to fall behind and Kumori just smirked, because if Shota is not going by book, why they should.