Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I looked at you and said, oh-oh-oh Don't hate me,

am I crazy? So tenderly you watch me burn,

you watch me burn, oh So tell me, am I crazy?

He learned the house by sound long before he learned to read its faces. At thirteen, Shouta Aizawa could get around the house by observing the patterns of anger: the staccato bursts of frustration that warned Hisashi had started and the quiet, muffled cries that meant Inko had broken down and was desperately trying to pull herself together.

He sat at his desk with a physics book open and a pencil in his fingers, listening to the dispute through the plaster. He heard muted vowels and the hollow thud of a door slamming and he kept his eyes on the page as if the ink alone could hold him together. Through the window, the city exhaled its usual routine; within the flat, however, permeated a heavy, smoky air that clung to him. He inhaled it, dry and unchanging, until it faded into mere silence.

The fighting had a rhythm, a predictability that was worse than surprise. It moved to the rhythms of overdue payments and unsettling timing, alongside men who did not find it in themselves to say they're sorry. Hisashi’s voice dripped with the confidence of someone who had never felt the need to shrink away; Inko’s was filled with the exhausted tenderness of someone who endured despite it all. Shouta realised exactly when he needed to let go of any hopes for change. He mastered the art of counting syllables, able to figure out from a single strong word whether the argument would burst out like a flood or fade away into tranquillity.

He mastered the art of remaining perfectly still, shrinking himself into a shadow, hoping that the storm outside would pass him by unnoticed. Mastering the art of invisibility turned into a true talent. So, too, did not intervene.

He convinced himself that it didn’t matter. That was the armour he wore for school, the expression fixed in place for teachers and strangers: flat, efficient, impenetrable. It was easier to pretend to be indifferent than to draw the features of his mother’s face after yet another fight, only to discover sorrow lurking where comfort should have been.

His gaze lingered on Inko’s hands rather than her eyes - roughened at the edges from hard work, knuckles occasionally coated with detergent, always shaking slightly when she used her quirk for a mug - and he silently noted the small lies. Every little bruise that went unnoticed in his home life added up until it seemed like a ledger he didn't owe. 

As the loud voices echoed into the night and the echoes of children's joy danced through the streets below, Shouta would set his book aside, allowing the city's distant noises to wrap around him like a bitter, detached tune. He found comfort in the usual forms of his room: the precise tilt of the desk lamp, the distinct creak of the chair by the entrance and the specific place where the sunlight would fade away by three in the afternoon. Everything was perfectly organised and quantifiable, but emotions were not.

There was an unsettling weight nestled within him, a lingering warmth from conflicts he didn't intend to engage in. He set them up meticulously, keeping them neat and contained – just enough to serve a purpose, but never enough to evoke a sense of warmth.

There were nights when the sounds wrapped around him, stirring emotions that felt long forgotten and beyond reason. He sat on the edge of his bed, hearing a faint echo of a newborn's wail drifting through the thin walls along with a weak cough, a fragile plea. An unexpected wave of tenderness washed over him, only to be quickly replaced by a growing grip of guilt. Tenderness was a gift for those whose fathers had not left them behind; shame was the burden carried by those unable to forgive their mothers for opting for a life that demanded so much yet gave so little in return.

He tucked those moments away like old, frayed sweaters: acknowledged, then hidden in the depths of the closet where they could no longer be embraced.

Still, even a vow of indifference leaves a shadow. The parts of him that noticed absorbed the details: the way Inko’s voice settled on a gentle tone when she thought she was alone, the subtle, ashamed quiver in Hisashi’s jaw after the forceful smack of a cupboard door. These were not signs of a marriage being rebuilt, but rather a reminder to what it once was

- two individuals who drifted apart and continued to do so until their mistakes became the only way they communicated.

For the moment, Shouta decided that the best option was to observe rather than get involved. He honed his decision into a matter of survival: he would graduate, move on and ensure that the chance of being hurt by them would never come up again.

The shouting never started loud. It started out as a thin conversation at the kitchen table, with words so frail that they slipped on the tongue.

Shouta heard the sound of ceramics scraping against wood, the loud clatter of chopsticks being set down too hard, and then the impending rise: Hisashi's voice booming like smoke and Inko's breaking like glass. They believed the walls would soften the edges, but every word flowed through, staining the flat until Shouta could taste the bitterness in his throat.

"You think you know what this family needs?" Hisashi's remarks hurt deeply and they weren't even meant for her ears alone. He wanted to be heard, even by the son he claimed to ignore.

"You made all the mistakes that made us this way." The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, leaving a silence that felt suffocating.

Shouta stayed still. He didn't open the textbook and rather stared at the lines in his notepad, even though his pen had stopped writing halfway through a word. His chest rose shallowly, as if even air could reveal his presence. He didn't want to see his mother's face, which was twisted in an apology she shouldn't have to make.

He didn't want to see the veins in his father's throat come out. That was the same throat that had held him on its shoulders when he was a child.

He didn't want to see the love that had once been there turn into a shell that neither of them had the courage to bury.

The arguments had a rhythm, and he could tell if they would happen: Hisashi would accuse Inko, Inko would deny it, there would be stillness, and then the explosion. It came now with the sound of a chair sliding across the floor. Shouta felt the tremors in his bones as Hisashi's voice grew louder. 

"You've messed up this house. Do you even realise what you did?”

And Inko's answer, which was low and shaky, was worse. “I tried. I tried to keep it together. I did everything I could for you. I tried for him. A pause, shaking. "I tried for Shouta."

His name sounded like a knife. It held him in place, as if his life was a weapon in a war he never intended on engaging in. He stared at the page until the letters started to blur, his jaw tightened and the moisture started to build up in the back of his eyes.

He hated that he was the reason, hated that his father's love for him was turned into a weapon and hated that his mother used it to show how weak she was. He felt less like a son and more like trash every time they said his name like that.

Something was banged shut. A glass broke and the pieces flew across the kitchen floor. He pictured his mother kneeling down to pick up the pieces with shaky hands, which made her cut herself. He thought about how his dad would step over the debris without glancing down. Neither vision shocked him. Neither vision changed the persistent feeling in his chest that this was not a house but a stage for two people who were unwilling to leave and too exhausted to stay.

He wanted to be anywhere except here. He wanted to be out in the city streets, where strangers' voices carried amusement instead of anger or back at school, where stillness represented respect and not defeat.

He wanted walls that were thick enough to keep fights from waking him up. He wanted a place where his name was just a name, not something that hurt him every time.

But he stayed at his desk because he had learnt how to be a quiet listener and a cautious witness. He wrote things that he wouldn't remember on the paper again, as if writing could drown out the sound of his family falling apart. The words outside rose and fell, like a storm he had previously seen coming, a storm that never ceased hitting the same weak walls.

The fight in the kitchen faded into a memory of a different, long-past battle. The voices changed in his mind, not increasing in volume, but becoming more sharp like blades honing against one another.

At fifteen, he understood the gravity of the situation, yet he clung to the fragile hope that perhaps, just perhaps, they would find a way to put an end their demise before they shattered one another entirely.

He recalled Hisashi’s voice, a deep growl that resonated throughout the living room. “Do you really think I’ll buy into this?” That this child - this mistake - may have anything to do to me?”

Inko stood with her back against the counter, her hands pressed flat against her stomach, as if trying to shield her unborn child from the storm of his wrath. “Your beliefs hold no weight. He is real. I won't act like it's any different."

Shouta stood frozen in the hallway, clutching his notebook filled with half-finished thoughts, his heart racing as he teetered on the edge of retreat and the unknown. He ached to intervene, to utter a word - any word - but his voice betrayed him, caught in a silent struggle.

The air was dense and filled with unspoken tension and he felt deep down that his voice would fall on deaf ears. The air rumbled with his father's rage and his mother's despair, enveloping him like a thick fog; he felt utterly invisible in their storm.

The weeks that came after were quiet, yet not in the manner he craved. The stillness filled the house, transforming it into a realm where whispers lingered in the air. Hisashi went away for what felt like a lifetime, returning with the heavy scent of alcohol and a lingering bitterness that wrapped around him like a shroud.

Inko slipped through the rooms, a ghostly presence, her fingers swiftly folding laundry while soft lullabies escaped her lips, serenading a belly that swelled with expectation. Shouta's bitterness deepened during those long months. Every curve of her stomach carried the weight of a decision that drove them all to deeper misery. He understood it was unfair, yet the concept of justice had faded away in their home long ago.

In the hospital, soaking in the cold, sterile light of fluorescent lights, he found himself at the foot of the bed, watching as Inko held the baby in her arms. She glowed brightly, even through the tiredness, her cheeks glowing and her eyes shimmering with an emotion that was not despair for a change.

She gazed at the newborn, her expression softening as if her memories of past arguments and the sound of doors slamming had faded into nothingness. Shouta found himself utterly puzzled by that.

Hisashi was absent. His absence appeared in the space like an unfillable void and Shouta felt the heavy weight of it weighing down on him. A nurse lightly asked if he wished to cradle his brother in his arms. He shook his head with such force that it likely came off as impolite, but he was far from caring. The idea of holding out to him - the thought of allowing that fragile warmth to fill his heart - filled him with a fear greater than any of his father's terrifying words.

Connection was vulnerability. Love was a burden he could no longer bear.

As the night grew darker and Inko succumbed to slumber, the shadows in the room seemed to whisper secrets and Shouta found himself getting nearer. The baby moved in the cradle, delicate hands fluttering, lips parting with a gentle whimper.

He lingered there, longer than intended, his fingers clutching the edge of the cot with a mix of wonder and uncertainty.

He reassured himself that his only concern was to keep the noise from disturbing his mother’s slumber. He reassured himself it was small as he drew nearer, captivated by those large green eyes that gazed up at him with pure awe.

Yet anger gripped his insides, a feeling he suppressed swiftly and with force. That stare - that unwavering, innocent faith - was too much to bear. It filled him with a sense of responsibility and in this context, responsibility was merely a synonym for sorrow.

He withdrew, slumping into the chair in the corner, observing from afar until the baby's breaths became steady and calm.

In that moment, a sudden realisation washed over him, sharp and undeniable: he would keep his distance forever. He would endure this home, this family by keeping himself at a distance.

The baby would be cherished by their mother, overlooked by their father, while Shouta remained a constant presence, yet always out of reach.

He refused to give in to a bond that could be manipulated into a tool of destruction. He would be unbending, a force of nature, not merely a being of skin and bone.

And yet - he could still hear the haunting whisper of that delicate wail in the stillness of the night, the way his own hand had lingered above the crib before retreating into the shadows. He kept that sound in the depths of his mind, ensuring it could never find him again. At least that’s what he kept convincing himself.

"Izuku dear, can you see your brother here?

I think he was exhausted with all the hero stuff he had at school." Inko chuckled weakly as the little baby cries.

"Soon, he will be our hero dear."

Chapter Text

For how it seemed

I should've stayed and let you be

Run into my heart so carelessly

That's the reason I'm afraid

You're the thoughts that can't be tamed

And I'm trying to be sane

The first time Shouta found himself alone with the baby, he almost turned around and walked out.

Izuku’s wails cut through the paper-thin walls, raw and sharp, like the sound could split him open. His mother stood in the kitchen, her voice trembling as the argument escalated, while Hisashi's retort cut through the air with a biting edge. In the midst of their fierce battle, the sound of a baby's cries went unnoticed, drowned out by their relentless conflict. Without a doubt, they absolutely were.

Shouta lingered at the doorway, scowling. That's not something I need to deal with. He’s not my responsibility. That was the thought he held onto, yet Izuku’s cries intensified, reverberating through his chest until they became impossible to dismiss.

“Damn it,” Shouta grumbled quietly, frustration lacing his words. He moved closer, lingering uncertainly beside the cot.

The baby was tiny - so tiny it felt almost like something out of imagination. His fists swung wildly, eyes tightly shut, cheeks flushed and stained from tears. For a second Shouta just stared, frozen. He had never cradled a tiny life in his arms before. He was hesitant because his heart not in it at all. Yet, his hands acted of their own accord, descending gently, despite his better judgement and lifting Izuku in a manner he felt was right.

The sobs gradually faded, becoming gentler over time. A hiccup. A soft, subtle sniffle echoed through the air. Then Izuku blinked at him, green eyes glassy but focused, like he was seeing Shouta and only Shouta.

“Tch.” Shouta averted his gaze, his jaw clenched in tension. “Stop giving me that look.” "You have no idea who I am."

But Izuku didn’t look away. He inhaled softly, each breath a soft sigh, gripping the fabric of Shouta’s sweatshirt with his small fingers, seeking comfort in the warmth it provided. The kid’s warmth bled straight through to his chest, unsettling in ways Shouta didn’t want to think about.

He sat down in the old chair by the crib, holding Izuku stiffly at first. Minutes passed, and his arms adjusted, the pressure easing against his will. The cry of the baby dwindled into nothingness, giving way to gentle, delicate breaths that brushed against his collarbone like a feather's caress.

Shouta gazed blankly at the wall, trying to suppress any emotions that were about to surface. This was just a brief moment. A twist of fate. He had no choice but to keep his heart at a distance. He couldn’t.

"Go to sleep, already," he muttered, despite the fact that Izuku had already done so.

As he gently placed him back down, ensuring the blanket was secure around him, Shouta's heart felt heavy, weighed down by an invincible heaviness. With a heavy heart, he buried his hands deep in his pockets, stepping away without a single glance over his shoulder.

But that night, lying in his bed, he could still feel the phantom weight of his brother in his arms. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it.

Shouta had just tossed his shoes aside when the noise hit him - piercing, intense, and relentless. Izuku's wails echoed through the corridor, loud and piercing, a haunting sound that could unravel even the strongest of wills.

Just as he was about to take a step, a voice came from the stairwell.

“Hey, kid!”

Shouta spun around, annoyance brewing within him and caught sight of their neighbour peering over the railing, worry carved into his features.

“That baby’s been at it for hours. Seriously, I was considering contacting child protective services. Can’t just leave him screaming like that.”

A wave of embarrassment rushed through Shouta, igniting a fire beneath his skin. His throat constricted, a wave of emotion washing over him.

“...I’ll handle it.”

The man shot him a doubtful glance, yet he nodded before retreating into the shadows of his flat.

Shouta shut the door harder than necessary, shoulders tense. Hours. Izuku's wails echoed through the empty room, an eerie sound of desperation that stretched on for what felt like forever, with no one to answer the call. Not Inko - she was at it again, pulling extra shifts. Not Hisashi, he hadn’t been around in days. Just Izuku, left to howl until his tiny body gave out.

When Shouta entered the bedroom, the sight of Izuku nearly knocked the air out of him. With cheeks flushed and drenched in tears, his hands balled into tight fists trembled with unspent emotion, his lips parted in a silent scream, the rawness of his throat rendering him voiceless. His gums were swollen - teething, probably but that knowledge didn’t make the image easier to bear.

“Damn it,” Shouta grumbled, frustration lacing his voice. With a determined stride, he walked through the room in three purposeful steps, effortlessly lifting the baby into his arms, a decision made with unwavering confidence. Izuku felt feverish with effort, clinging to Shouta’s shirt the instant he was lifted. The anguished wails dissolved into shaky sobs, stifled against his chest.

“Calm down. “I’m here,” he said, the words slipping from his lips before he could hold them back. They flowed effortlessly, as if he had been uttering them before.

Izuku calmed a bit, his breath still uneven but becoming more controlled. His wet cheek nestled against Shouta’s neck, his small hand gripping a handful of fabric as if terrified of disappearing. Shouta let out a soft sigh, cradling him tenderly, despite the inner turmoil urging him to resist this newfound vulnerability.

Don’t do this to yourself, he thought. He doesn’t belong to you to keep safe. He belongs to no one but himself.

But Izuku’s grip tightened, and the sting in Shouta’s chest told him it was already too late.

He cradled the baby in his arms, pacing the room in gentle loops, whispering sweet nothings to break the stillness. “You’re quite the loud one, aren’t you? Gonna scare the neighbors off. Almost got CPS on our doorstep.”

Izuku let out a soft, heart-wrenching sound, a delicate whimper that barely escaped his lips. Shouta's jaw tightened with a mix of frustration and determination. He leaned in, letting his cheek rest against the baby's delicate hair, savouring the fleeting moment as he shut his eyes.

“You can’t keep relying on me,” he murmured.

I just can’t... I can’t let you.

The constant pacing was beginning to take its toll on Shouta's arms, but Izuku's whimpers had only subsided, not disappeared. Now that the source of the pain was obvious, his small fists continued to press against his mouth. Teething. Feeling hungry. Both.

While digging through the bag of baby supplies that Inko had stashed behind the dresser, Shouta muttered, "Of course." He adjusted Izuku against one shoulder. After a bit of clumsy searching, he pulled out a half-prepared bottle, still clean, still sealed. He cursed under his breath, why the hell wasn’t this ready? Then filled it with formula the way he remembered watching his mother do.

He pressed the tip of the bottle to Izuku's lips, and the baby sucked desperately as it drank. The sound was loud in the quiet room, each swallow tugging something deeper inside Shouta than he wanted to name. As he carefully held the bottle in his hands and observed his tiny throat at work, he felt a knot of anxiety release in his chest as the sobbing finally ceased.

"There," he murmured gently. “Not so bad when you get what you want, huh?”

With his body resting against Shouta's chest, Izuku drank, his eyelids drooping. After the bottle was empty and Izuku had already begun to drift off, breathing steadily and warmly. Shouta gently removed it, using his sleeve to dab the corner of Izuku's mouth. He rocked him for a bit longer before lowering him back into the cot.

Following what he had seen nurses do, he wrapped the blanket around him. After a brief moment, Izuku sighed softly and then went silent once more.

Shouta stayed there longer than he meant to, leaning on the edge of the crib, eyes locked on the small rise and fall of his brother’s chest. He didn't want to hold onto anything fragile, but every calm breath was proof of life and trust.

At last, he retreated. He told himself he was only tired, only doing what anyone else would have done. He muttered it under his breath as if it were a spell.

"It's meaningless."

However, even after the room had grown dark and quiet, the ghostly warmth of Izuku's weight lingered with him as he finally fell into his own bed. His final, incontestable thought was as he slipped gently into sleep:

It already means too much.

Shouta hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He had just wanted to close his eyes for a few seconds, just a brief pause, after hauling himself back from yet another long day of work study that left his body fatigued and his thoughts weighed down.

The couch squeaked under the weight of time, its worn fabric a testament to countless stories. Yet, in that moment, fatigue enveloped him, and he surrendered to its embrace. His legs stretched out, head thrown back and suddenly, the gentle clack, clack of something against the floor stirred him from his slumber.

Blinking, Shouta glanced down.

Izuku sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an abundance of colourful blocks that lay scattered around him, each one a piece of his imaginative world. He was humming tunelessly, stacking the pieces into messy towers that collapsed with every other try. His small features twisted in deep focus, only to light up once more as he began anew.

Shouta remained motionless, his limbs becoming heavy, unwilling to disturb the delicate tranquilly surrounding him. If he moved, if he reminded Izuku he was awake, the spell might shatter. He remained in his spot, gaze soft and unfocused, observing his younger brother as he played, seemingly untouched by the chaos of their home.

The jangle of keys at the door pulled him from the depths of slumber, jolting him into full awareness. He tensed before the handle even turned. Both his mother and father showed up simultaneously

-definitely not a promising sign.

Voices floated in, cutting through the silence from the very beginning. Hisashi’s deep rumble, Inko’s tense responses. The whispered words danced around him, elusive and vague, but Shouta recognised the pattern all too well. The rhythm of a mess was steadily growing.

Beside his feet, Izuku paused. His tiny hand stilled on the block, his head tilting as he listened to the faint voices trickling in from outside. His emerald gaze darted to Shouta, filled with a mix of curiosity and doubt, silently seeking answers to unspoken questions.

Shouta’s chest tightened.

The argument grew loud enough now that Izuku could hear the venom in it, even if he didn’t understand the words. Shouta got up in a quick motion, crouching low as he quickly collected the blocks into a neat pile with his agile fingers.

“Come on,” he murmured, keeping his voice steady, calm. “Let’s play in my room.”

Izuku's eyes widened for a moment before he nodded, a spark of unwavering trust shining through his gaze. With determination, he held the two blocks tightly in his small hands and wobbled after Shouta, anticipation bubbling within him as he navigated the hallway.

The shouting grew louder behind them. Hisashi’s voice came with a loud crack, while Inko’s response was laced with a piercing sense of urgency. Shouta's jaw tightened in frustration. He closed his bedroom door with a strong thud, the sound muffled yet still lingering in the air.

“Here.” He laid the blocks across the floor, motioning for Izuku to take a seat. “Play here. Don’t worry about the noise.”

Izuku plopped down obediently, already stacking again, his little hums filling the space where the shouting leaked in. Shouta sank against the door, slowly sliding down until he found himself seated on the floor, his head tilted back and eyes gently closed.

He assured himself that he was just keeping the boy occupied and that this was the easiest way to tackle the situation at hand. But when Izuku glanced up once more, his small, hopeful smile shining through, eager to see if his brother would participate, Shouta felt a stirring deep within his chest.

He shouldn’t be looking at me like that, Shouta thought bitterly.

Not when I’m unable to give him with what he wants.

With a quiet resolve, he picked up one of the scattered blocks, examined it closely, and silently set it down at the base of Izuku’s towering creation. The little boy flashed a silly grin. Outside, the chaos erupted, but within the confines of the small bedroom, a fleeting peace filled the space.

The fight raged on, stretching endlessly, each moment feeling like an eternity. Shouta lingered in the dim corner of the living room, hidden in shadows as he observed the familiar scene unfold - Inko's voice trembling, Hisashi's words slurred, the bitter smell of alcohol thickening the atmosphere.

It ought to have become second nature by this point. The clash of voices, the welling of emotions, the shattering of something valuable. He had mastered the art of remaining motionless, of watching carefully, of pretending indifference to everything around him. But tonight, the sound of tiny footsteps trailing behind him sent a chill through his core.

“Izuku,” he murmured, his voice barely escaping as he turned, but it was already too late.

The tiny figure stood at the threshold of the hallway, tangled locks framing a face that glimmered with the remnants of dreams, eyes shimmering with innocence and wonder. His quiet voice trembled, gentle yet cutting through the turmoil around him. "... Mom?"

Inko's gaze shot towards him in an instant. “Izuku-” Her voice quivered, a delicate blend of caution and tenderness.

But Hisashi’s gaze landed on the boy instead and something dark lit up behind his eyes.

“So he finally wakes up," Hisashi said, taking a slow step forward. His lip curled in a way that hinted at mischief, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Always crying, always in the way."

Before Shouta could react, Hisashi's hand darted out, pulling Izuku closer by the arm. The child cried out, losing his balance, and then the man forcefully pushed him down, the small head hitting the ground with a disturbing thud. Izuku cried out, his voice trembling with fear, small hands pressed against his head as tears streamed down in a rush.

“Stop!” Inko let out a piercing scream, dashing ahead with urgency. She dashed protectively over Izuku’s fragile form, but Hisashi only growled, lifting his leg menacingly. The impact struck her side with a brutal force. She gasped, clutching Izuku closer as his cries escalated, filled with fear and despair.

Shouta’s body moved before his mind caught up. In a split second, he was paralysed, but then, as if summoned by fate, he found himself in the midst of it all, pushing his father away with every ounce of power he could muster. His chest heaved, a wild rush of adrenaline ignited the usual numbness that kept him anchored.

“That’s enough,” he growled, his voice a tense grumble, trembling with barely contained fury. Every part of him was shaking, yet he stood firm, unwavering in the face of the storm.

Hisashi gazed at him, momentarily rendered speechless by the boldness of his son’s rebellion. Then he let out a laugh, sharp and filled with mockery.

“So the little hero wants to play savior now? Pathetic. You can't even protect your mother from me."

The words sank into his soul, yet Shouta remained still. He felt his words pierce through him, sharp and jagged like shards of glass, yet he stood firm, a protective barrier between Hisashi and the frightened souls hiding behind him.

Inko’s quiet sobs. Izuku's soft cries echoed in the silence. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, a fierce rhythm that felt as if it might shatter his ribs.

Hisashi shot a scowling glance, whispered a string of unintelligible words and then stumbled backward, making his way to the door. A loud slam boomed through the flat and just like that, he slipped into thin air.

The silence that followed was more unbearable than the chaos that had just erupted.

Shouta remained motionless, his fists tightly balled, fixated on the door as if waiting for Hisashi to walk back through it. He was engulfed in a wave of nausea, rage coursing through him like fire, yet underneath it all lay a more profound, crushing burden: the chilling, accusatory voice echoing in his mind.

What sort of hero are you if you can't protect your own mother?

Inko shifted behind him, holding Izuku tightly, swaying him gently even as she struggled with her own pain. The boy's cries turned into soft, hiccupping sobs, his tiny face nestled against her chest. Shouta turned, and for a fleeting instant, his gaze locked onto his little brother’s emerald, watery, brimming with confusion and pain.

The tension within him coiled stronger.

He wanted to say something. Everything. But the words wouldn’t come. He sank to the ground, his hand shaking as it found its way to Inko’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on the spot where Hisashi once stood.

rage ignited within him, a blazing fire fuelled not only by his father’s actions but also by his own failings. Because even though he had intervened this time, it was still too late.

And within him, the piercing sound of that harsh voice lingered: 

pathetic.

Chapter Text

She was crying on my shoulder
All I could do was hold her
Only made us closer
Until July

Now, I know that you love me
You don't need to remind me
I should put it all behind me
Shouldn't I?

Izuku's stomach growled again. This time it was louder, a long rumble that made him bend forward a little and put his small hands over it.

He had only eaten half of a cheese cracker that Mama had given him before she left for work that morning. She had already pulled her bag over her shoulder and said, "You're such a big boy now, Izuku, you'll be fine until I get back."

Izuku had nodded. Boys who were big didn't complain. Boys didn't cry.

The light streaming in through the window was fading, and the wall clock was moving at a glacial pace. Mama had not returned home yet. His stomach hurt.

"Niichan?" Izuku's voice was soft and hopeful.

Shouta was on the couch, leaning to the side with his arms crossed and hair in his face. When Izuku called, he didn't look up. It could be that he didn't hear him. Shouta was always so quiet, even when he was in the same room as me.

Izuku tried again, pulling on his brother's sleeve lightly. "Niichan, I'm hungry."

Nothing. Not even a grunt.

Izuku bit down on his lip. Shouta could have been sleeping. Or maybe he just didn't want to talk. Izuku didn't know which one was worse.

His stomach growled again, and it was so loud that his little body jumped. Okay, that's fine. He could be a big boy if Mama said he was. Big boys could get their own food.

He walked into the kitchen barefoot, dragging his hands along the wall as if it would help him find his way. It was hard to open the fridge; it was heavy, and he had to pull on the handle twice before it opened. He shivered as the cold air came out.

There wasn't much inside. A bottle of water. A few eggs. A box with pink things piled up inside and half-covered by loose plastic. Izuku turned his head.

Sausages.

Sometimes Mama made them. When they cooked in the pan, they smelt so good. They must be fine if Mama can cook them. They were food, right?

His stomach hurt again, and that was all it took. Izuku took the package, ripped the edge until the plastic broke, and pulled one of the slippery pieces out. It was cold and slimy between his fingers, but he still put it in his mouth.

The taste was weird, salty, and heavy, but his stomach didn't mind. He chewed quickly, swallowed, and then took another.

But by the time he ate the third one, his chest felt strange. His stomach didn't feel good anymore; it twisted wrong and felt heavy, hot, and cold all at the same time.

Izuku dropped the half-eaten sausage on the counter and swayed on his feet. The room moved.

And then it came up.

He gagged, and all of a sudden, there was puke all over the place - dripping down his chin, burning in his throat, and splattering on the linoleum. He cried and held his stomach as tears filled his eyes.

"Niichan—" He tried to say it, but it came out too late. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees in the middle of the mess.

His body shook, and another wave of vomit came out. Then he fell forward, too weak to hold himself up. His cheek was pressed against the cold floor, and the sour smell made his nose hurt. He was crying, but he didn't know why.

In the fog, footsteps moved quickly across the floor. The sound of Shouta's voice, sharp and shocked:

"…Izuku?"

Izuku tried to lift his head, but everything around him spun. He saw his brother's shape above him, with his hair falling into his face and his eyes wide. Shouta looked down at the mess, at him, and at the little hands that were weakly curled up against the tile.

Izuku opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just another weak sound, like a whimper, before the darkness pulled at him.

He couldn't read Shouta's face before he slipped under. It was a mix of shock and something else he couldn't put his finger on.

It was dark after that.

A year made a big difference.

Mama said that, at least. Izuku wasn't sure if it was true, but he did know that he was five now, and five felt older. Old enough to learn how to feed himself. Old enough to write letters without having to copy the whole alphabet chart. Old enough to be alone for hours without crying.

He had learnt his lesson about sausage. He still remembered being sick on the kitchen floor sometimes, especially when he opened the fridge and saw raw meat. It made his stomach turn in a way that wasn't hunger.

Izuku used the microwave now.

It was simple. He just had to peel back the corner of the frozen box which his mother usually stocked up, put it inside, and push random buttons until the machine made a humming sound. Izuku didn't mind that the food was sometimes too hot or still frozen cold in the middle. It was food. It was definitely a safe food now.

The stove top was not the same. He had tried it once, turning the knobs like Mama did, but nothing happened. Just a loud click, click, and then a strange smell that made his nose wrinkle. He had slammed the knob back off, his heart racing. Not yet. He told himself that it wasn't his time yet. Heroes also had to know when to wait.

The flat was mostly quiet. Not loud enough. The kind of quiet that made the walls feel heavy and close. So Izuku talked. He talked a lot.

He talked while he wrote in his notebook, whispering the words to himself. He talked to the TV while it was on, repeating the slogans of the heroes he heard. He talked to his action figures when he put them in messy lines and pretended they were on a mission.

"Okay, today's analysis," he mumbled one afternoon as he scratched his pencil across the page. "Kamui Woods." His quirk is Arbour, which means wood stuff, but it's more about range. He can fight from a distance, wrap people up, and keep civilians safe. It's great in cities because there are a lot of tall buildings he can use as anchors. Weakness... um... fire? Or if someone conveniently have an axe to cuts the wood. So, to counter, maybe team up with Backdraught and give them water support...

He muttered in a low, serious voice, like he had heard on the news: "Kamui Woods: mission successful."

He smiled and turned the page. "Okay! Next up is Mount Lady! She is very tall. That's great! Big size means a lot of strength, but... also big goals. And she breaks things a lot. Uh. That means she's good at rescuing people in open spaces, but not so good in cities. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

He wrote quickly, his lips moving faster than his pencil could keep up.

He would get so lost in his muttering that he wouldn't see the shadows.

The door would open lightly as a breath. A figure would slip through, moving too quietly for his tiny ears. Izuku would only see it when he looked up, stretched his back, or bit his pencil. It was the faint outline of his brother moving down the hall and into his room.

He never said hi. Never stopped. A shadow passed by, making the air feel colder.

Every time, Izuku blinked and his chest jumped a little. He whispered to himself, "Oh... Niichan's home."

The door had already closed by the time he said it.

He only noticed the shadow leaving when the door opened again later, and it did so as quietly as it had come. He thought it might be practice. Heroes had to be quiet, right? Like ninjas do. Like pros who work underground.

"Yeah..." Izuku nodded to himself once and tightened his grip on his notebook. "That's it. The training of Niichan. He's working on his hero character. Sometimes heroes need to hide so that villains don't see them coming. "He's really good at it if I don't see him!"

The thought made him smile, even though his chest hurt from being alone.

He tried to copy it once by sneaking down the hall, holding his breath, and not making a sound. But the floor creaked, and when he stubbed his toe against the wall, he yelled. The notebook he was using fell to the floor.

Izuku chuckled to himself, his cheeks turning pink. "Looks like I need more practice..."

That way, he filled up notebook pages after pages , with messy notes and doodles on the pages. He spoke to the paper as if it were his partner and only teammate.

"All Might," he whispered one night, running his finger over the big letters he had written. "Strength quirk." So strong. He can save everyone, no matter what. But he always has a smile on his face. That's important. People feel safe because he smiles. “Heroes... heroes make people feel safe.”

Izuku's pencil tapped against his lip as he thought. "Niichan doesn't smile much... maybe that's just how he is. Some heroes might not need to smile. They're, uh, shadows. Yes. Shadows that keep the light safe.

He smiled at the thought, the kind of smile he hoped his brother would return one day.

But the moment stayed still.

Mama would sometimes come home late, with frizzy hair, a greasy smell, and a tired look. She would kiss his cheek and pat his head. "You're such a big boy, Izuku," she would say. I knew you could handle it.

He would smile at her and hold his notebook close to his chest. "Mm-hm! Mama, I'm training too! Just like Niichan!

She never asked him what he meant.

So Izuku lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling. The rooms were dark, and even his muttering seemed too loud. His stomach was sometimes full and sometimes empty. The notebooks on the table kept getting thicker and thicker.

He still thought about the shadow that slipped past his door, the brother who was always there but never really there.

Izuku promised himself that one day his smile would reach him.

The screams had echoed through the night, a loud clash of voices that got louder and louder. Izuku crouched under the table, his small arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His heart raced as he waited for the storm to pass. But it didn't.

"Do you really want me to keep wasting my time here?" Hisashi's voice was sharp and broken, like pieces of broken glass. "A brat who can't even get a quirk and a wife who is never home?" What the hell am I doing here?

Izuku put his hands over his ears and squeezed them, but the voices got through and slipped under his skin.

Inko's voice shook with feeling. "He's still our son, Hisashi." He can still—

Hisashi snapped, "He's not mine." "He's not worth anything." No quirk! Just like you. You think I don't know? I'm done. "Let him cry all he wants. I'm not going to waste my life on a brat who will never be anything."

The word "quirkless" hit Izuku like an enormous stone, sinking deep into his heart. His heart pounded and a fire started in his throat. They had already seen the doctor. In the cold, clinical room, the man flipped through scans and shook his head in disbelief. He had said, in a clinical tone, "No quirk factor." "I'm sorry."

Izuku held back his tears at that moment. Not in front of Mom. He held her hand gently, and when she tightened her grip, he nodded to show that he agreed without saying anything. He had told himself that heroes don't cry.

But hearing Hisashi say it now, with a look of disgust on his face, made Izuku's small hands shake.

He wanted to scream, fight, and show that he was not worthless at all. To yell that being quirkless didn't mean being worthless. But the moment was full of silence. He held back a whimper by swallowing hard.

Mama cried, but she didn't move. She didn't move any closer to Izuku, she was there, she stood her ground. She stayed there for a while, tears in her eyes, torn between him and Hisashi.

He left. Just like that.

The door slammed shut, and the noise went right through Izuku.

Mama completed her shift the next morning. She smiled weakly as she patted his hair. "Stay strong, Izuku." "I promise to bring you a little treat later."

Izuku nodded and smiled back, even though his stomach hurt and that smile felt like glass in his mouth. He wanted to spare her any more trouble.

But even at the young age of five, Izuku understood a deep truth: smiles couldn't stop the people he loved from leaving.

The memory stayed with him, like a shadow that never left the edges of his mind, much like the dust that settled in the flat's forgotten corners. It came back every time the voices got louder or the doors slammed shut with a loud bang.

And now, standing in the corner of the living room, Izuku sensed it awakening once more.

Shouta was carefully making his way through a maze of boxes, each one hiding its own secrets.

Izuku had seen those shows on TV about cleaning up. The atmosphere was full of joy as lively music played and people laughed and cleaned up the shelves. This was a whole new thing. Shouta moved with a quiet determination, each action planned and measured. His face was calm as he methodically filled bags and boxes with the things he had left behind.

Izuku held his notebook close to his heart and nervously chewed on the cuff of his sleeve. He was very curious about what Niichan was doing. Could it have been a way to get ready? Was it the work of a hero? Maybe this is how heroes prepared for their missions: they gathered their tools and moved forward in silence.

But seeing the boxes stacked up by the door made him feel uneasy.

One box. Two. Three. Shouta quietly led them away, and the door creaked open and shut, making a rhythmic sound of leaving. The flat seemed to get colder with each passing moment.

Izuku's throat felt dry. He wanted to ask, "Niichan, will you come back to us?" He wanted to say, "Is there anything I can do to help?" But the words hurt like pieces of wood. His voice sounded so weak and unimportant.

He stayed there, quiet and watching, taking it all in.

The mood changed when the shelves in Shouta's room were empty. The corners of the hallway seemed to get bigger and bigger, and they echoed with emptiness. In the quiet, the clock's constant ticking echoed, and each second seemed to last forever. Izuku's pencil hung in the air over his notebook, not knowing what to do. He couldn't write down any analysis notes because of the weight in his chest.

It felt like the memories of that night with Hisashi were coming back to him, wrapping around like a hug. The containers were all different shapes and sizes, but the stillness around them stayed the same. The leaving felt familiar.

Izuku held his notebook tightly and the notebook cover gave a little wrinkle when he did. Please stay. Don't go like he did.

Shouta, on the other hand, stayed strong and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

When the last box in his hand, Shouta stood in the doorway for a moment, feeling both excited and unsure. His shadow was very big on the floor, and it brushed against the edges of Izuku's socks. In that brief moment, their eyes met - one pair was tired and dark, and the other was bright and longing.

Then Shouta's eyes looked off into the distance. His voice was flat and uninterested, as if he didn't care.

"Watch the house"

That was all.

There was no explanation. There was no goodbye.

As Shouta turned and carried the last box into the open air, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The door closed softly, but to Izuku, it sounded like a storm was coming.

He stayed still, gripping his notebook so tightly that his fingers hurt. His chest hurt in a way that was hard to put into words, a feeling that was both new and old.

Watch the house.

What could that mean? Did Niichan give him important mission? Was it a sign that he was finally becoming someone people could trust? Or was it just another way of telling someone to stay here and stay hidden?

Izuku muttered the words softly, enjoying them and turning them into a sign of hope. "I'll definitely find it out." "I'll keep an eye on the house, Niichan."

He got up and walked around the flat, moving carefully and watching everything like a guard on duty. He looked around the room, quickly closing the curtains and tapping the lock on the door with his small hand. He carefully looked into the kitchen, the bathroom and Shouta's empty room, each of which held its own secrets.

He talked softly, "The house is safe," his voice shaking but firm. "I swear to keep it safe." Like heroes would.

He went back to the living room and sat by the door with his back straight and a notebook on his lap, ready to write down what had occurred as it happened. The hour markers of the clock moved steadily, and each tick echoed in the quiet. The shadows grew longer and darker, making the landscape seem more mysterious. He promised himself that he would stay awake through the night, no matter what. He would keep watch.

But he had to carry the weight of his tiredness on his head. His eyesight became hazy. But even as sleep called to him, he muttered a last promise into the silence:

"…I will do it it. I will keep a close eye on the house."

He was curled up against the door, his chin on his knees, a small person lost in his own thoughts.

When Mama finally got back, she found him there, asleep in the middle of his messy notes and a worn pencil, keeping watch over the quiet, empty house.

Chapter Text

You haven't been good for long

Is it the sound of your own thoughts

That always keeps you up at night?

Maybe it's time to say goodbye

'Cause I'm getting pretty fucking tired

Izuku’s feet dragged a little as he climbed the last steps to their apartment, his schoolbag bumping against his side. The strap always dug into his shoulder no matter how he adjusted it, but he didn’t complain. Big boys didn’t complain.

He was still mumbling to himself as he read the notes he had written on his way home. 

" Power Loader's quirk is Iron Claws, which are great for rescuing people from construction sites but not so great for fighting in the open. The most important thing is probably support gear..." He still had his pencil behind his ear and his notebook close to his chest like a second heart.

He halted when he got to the door.

There were a pair of shoes at the door.

Not his. Not his brother's. Not guests; they never had guests.

Mama's shoes for work.

Izuku's heart jumped and a sudden light filled his chest. She was home again. She got home early. That almost never happened.

He carefully took off his own shoes and put them right next to hers. She always did it this way: heel to heel, neat and precise. He smoothed down his socks with his hands, feeling nervous energy buzzing through him. If Mama was home, maybe they could eat together tonight. She might listen when he told her about the new hero he wrote down in his notebook. She might even smile along!

The flat was quiet, though, the kind of quiet that made the walls feel heavy. Izuku walked in quietly, and the straps on his bag slipped. He opened his mouth to say, "Mama, I'm home!" but stopped.

There was a voice.

Not his own mumbling. Not the TV. But a low, tired whisper coming from the kitchen.

Mama's.

Izuku stopped moving because the noise was pulling at him. His bag slid down his arm and landed softly on the floor. His heart whirled and his ears strained as he crept forward.

"Yes, I'm doing fine." Her voice was low and rough around the edges.“He’s growing, but it’s so hard when he’s quirkless…”

Izuku's breath stopped. The word hurt, like a sharp, cold knife.

"…I really wish you would come by, even just once. He still asks about you, Shouta.”

The name hit harder than the others. His chest was so tight that he thought he might drop his notebook.

Niichan.

Mama was talking to Niichan.

Izuku's brother. The one who left years ago with just three words. The one who never called, never wrote, or looked back.

But he did call Mama. He still called her Mama.

Izuku's feet felt like they were stuck to the floor, and his fingers were gripping the notebook so tightly that the corners bent.

"No, no, I'm not angry," Mama said, but her voice shook even though she tried to keep it steady. "I just—he needs you too."

Izuku pressed his lips together to keep from asking the question that was burning in his chest. Why not me? Why won't he talk to me?

He wanted to go into the kitchen and ask Mama to let him talk to Niichan just once. But her voice broke on the phone, and the sound of it—weak, breaking that made him stop in his tracks.

Would she think he was selfish if he asked now? Would she cry more? Would she look at him again with that sad face that always made him feel like he was wrong for being alive?

Izuku's throat ached. The words got stuck there and tried to get out, but he swallowed them. Heroes didn’t make people cry.

He stepped back, making sure his feet didn't squeak on the floor. His bag hit his leg, but Mama didn't see it. Her voice stayed low, soft, and broken.

He slipped down the hall to his room, and with each step, he felt heavier. His heart pounded as if it wanted to jump out of his chest and chase her words back, demanding answers. But his feet kept going. He couldn't let her see.

The call stopped. Then there was a soft click.

Izuku stopped in the middle of the hall as Mama's footsteps got closer.

He heard her tiredly say, "Izuku."

Then, louder: "Izuku, you're home."

He turned around quickly, holding his notebook close to his chest, and forced himself to smile as big as he could. "Mm-hm! I'll clean up, okay, Mama? You can take a break!" His voice was too high and too loud, but she didn't notice.

She smiled back, weak and thin, and patted his hair as she walked by. "Thanks, honey."

That was it.

Izuku was busy doing chores for the rest of the night. He wiped down the counters until his arms hurt, folded laundry that was still wrinkled, and lined up dishes so carefully that his hands shook. He thought that if everything was perfect, Mama wouldn't cry on the phone again.

And all the time, he was talking to himself.

“Did you see the news today? All Might hasn’t appeared in a week. They said he might be taking a break after the Chainsaw fight. Makes sense, right? Villain like that, so brutal, it must’ve taken a lot out of him. Even the Symbol of Peace needs rest sometimes…”

He stacked the plates too high, and the noise echoed, but he didn't stop.

"...but he will come back. Heroes always return. It's just a break. Heroes don't really leave for good. They can't."

The words shaken. His throat got tight. He forced himself to smile anyway.

"Don't worry, Mama. I am sure he will come back. Heroes don't go away."

He scrubbed the table until it shone, saying it over and over in his head like a prayer.

Izuku could sense it, even though no one said it out loud. His mother was getting weaker and weaker. He could tell by the way she walked more slowly, the way she stopped laughing, and how the house itself seemed to lose colour. The curtains hung heavier now, and the wallpaper was more grey than cream. The smell of dinner was  rarer, thinner, as if the walls themselves had forgotten what warmth was.

That went on for years. He didn't know who to point the finger at anymore. He thought about Hisashi, the husband who left and Shouta, the brother who gave up at them.

But most of the times, he pointed the finger at himself. 

'Maybe I did something wrong. I might have made her feel so tired.' He never said it out loud, but the thought made his stomach hurt. So he kept the house clean instead. It was the only thing he could do.

He always picked up after his mother. The plates, the kitchen counters, and the folded laundry. And the pills. There were always so many of pills now. There were little white pills in half-empty bottles or blue ones on the floor near the sink. He didn't really know what they were for. Is she having headaches? Sleep? Something worse? But he carefully put them all back in one place so Mama could easily find them. He would organise her things like a nice heroes do.

Her voice was no longer warm. It wasn't angry, it was just... lifeless. As if she had to pull each word out of herself. She used to call his name in the mornings or hum under her breath while making tea. But the flat was quiet now, except for the occasional sigh, which sounded like the wind rustling through an empty house.

The phone didn't serve any purpose anymore. It would ring, sometimes two or three times in a row, and she wouldn't pick up.

Izuku had picked it up once, but there was only silence on the other end, followed by a soft click. He didn't try again after that.

He filled the silence with his own voice, mumbling facts about heroes under his breath and writing notes in the margins of his notebooks. He talked to himself so he wouldn't disappear into the silence.

"Heroes don't make people sad," he said quietly one night as he lined up Mama's pill bottles. "If I don't ask for too much and keep the house clean, maybe she'll feel better. She might smile again."

Chapter Text