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Izuku’s hands hurt sometimes.
Not enough to stop him from doing what he needed to do—but enough to remind him that they’d never fully healed. The dull ache lived somewhere between his knuckles and elbows, flaring when the weather shifted or when he gripped a pen too long. He had gotten used to it years ago, the same way someone learns to live with an old scar. But today, the pain pulsed a little stronger than usual, a slow throb under his skin that made the paper in front of him blur.
Izuku rubbed his fingers together, the scarred skin rasping faintly, flexed his wrists, then tried again. The joints creaked, stubborn, like old hinges.
He exhaled through his nose. Not today, please.
He sat in the teachers’ lounge, hunched over his desk with the afternoon light spilling through the tall windows. The scent of chalk dust and coffee hung in the air, a familiar comfort after years of routine. His pen paused mid-stroke as he flexed his fingers, trying to ease the stiffness. His right hand trembled faintly when he stretched it open. Crooked fingers, uneven knuckles, pale scars running across old fractures. He rubbed his thumb over them, trying to will the ache away.
“Still at it, Midoriya?”
The voice came from across the room—Present Mic, already packing his things into a bright yellow messenger bag. His hair was tied back, sunglasses perched on his head instead of his face.
Izuku looked up and smiled faintly. “Just a few more essays.”
“Man, it’s Friday! You gotta let the kids’ grammar crimes rest till Monday.”
“I know, I know,” Izuku chuckled softly, closing a paper. “I just… wanted to get through Class 1-C’s reports before the weekend.”
Mic gave a knowing grin. “You always say that. You’ll be here till sundown again.”
Izuku didn’t argue. He gave a sheepish wave as the other teacher left, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft click. Silence settled again.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. The ache wasn’t going away. Fine. The papers could wait. He stacked them neatly, aligning the corners until the pile looked tidy—another small thing he could control.
On the corner of his desk sat a framed photograph. He reached for it almost absently, tracing the glass with his fingertip. It was taken right after the war, when they were still second-years— Still recovering from their injuries, but alive. Class 2 A crammed together, smiling through their bruises. Bakugou scowling in the corner. Shouto half-smiling, sunlight catching the scar on his face. Iida’s arm wrapped tightly around their shoulders. Even Aizawa was smiling.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
Izuku set the frame down gently and pulled out his phone. Maybe checking the news would distract him. It always did.
“Pro Hero Lemillion Tops Hero Rankings for Third Year in a Row.”
He smiled automatically. Mirio deserved it. He always had.
Scrolling down, more familiar names appeared.
“Pro hero Shoto clears Rampaging Wildfire in Under Three Minutes.”
“Dynamight Praised for Rescue Coordination in Nagoya.
“Ingenium Expands Hero Agency Network to the U.S.”
Izuku’s thumb hovered over each headline longer than he meant to. He’d gotten into the habit — checking on his friends, keeping track of where they were, what they were doing. It wasn’t envy, he told himself. It was pride. Pride and a little ache.
Maybe both.
The phone buzzed again — this time, a message.
Kacchan: You’re done working, nerd? Me and Icyhot found a new place near the station. Get your ass over here before it gets crowded.
Another line appeared seconds later:
Kacchan: Don’t make me drag you out again.
Izuku’s lips quirked upward despite himself.
Then a small sigh escaped him. He was tired. The ache in his hands had spread up to his elbows, and all he really wanted was to go home, maybe make some tea, let the silence settle. But he knew what would happen if he said no — Shouto would text next, polite but persistent, and Katsuki would show up outside UA like he had done before, scowling and threatening to “carry him out by the damn collar.”
They didn’t let him drift too far, those two. And he loved them for it.
Still, as he stared at the glowing screen, a small twist of guilt bloomed in his chest. They were both still active heroes — saving lives, building their own agencies, shaping the future. He was just teaching about it.
He typed out a short reply.
Izuku: Sure. I’ll be there soon.
He tucked the phone back into his pocket, gathered the loose papers into a single stack, slid them into a drawer, and shut it with a soft click. He reached for his jacket — the dark green one that made him look a little too formal for casual dinners — and shrugged it on. His shoulder cracked softly.
As he walked through the empty corridor, the echo of his footsteps filled the space. He passed bulletin boards plastered with posters of upcoming events and smiling faces of the next generation of heroes. They waved at him in the halls every day, called him sensei, looked at him with the same admiration he once had for All Might.
He wondered what they’d think if they knew the truth — that he hadn’t been a hero for almost a decade.
Outside, the air was cool. The city hummed faintly in the distance. Izuku adjusted his backpack strap and made his way toward the subway station. The streets were crowded — Friday evenings always were — and he slipped easily into the rhythm of the pedestrians, head down, lost in thought.
A digital billboard flickered above one of the buildings, displaying a highlight reel of current heroes in action.
He caught a glimpse of Mirio, bright and effortless, followed by Shouto’s icy calm and Bakugou’s explosive grin.
His friends. His family. His reminders.
He smiled softly and kept walking.
The subway was crowded, all motion and chatter. Izuku found a spot near the door and gripped the metal pole loosely, his knuckles aching with the vibration. Bright screens lined the walls of the car, cycling through advertisements and news.He recognized every face.
Izuku’s reflection in the window looked pale under the fluorescent light. Ordinary suit, a backpack, dark circles under his eyes. No lightning scars anymore—those had faded when One For All left him for good. Just a faint outline on his forearms, where power used to burn.
His hands throbbed again, a dull echo of a time when pain had meant progress.
Now it just meant age.
He flexed his fingers once more and whispered, barely audible over the hum of the train, “Just a little longer.”
“Excuse me,” a small voice said beside him. A boy—maybe eight—stared up, clutching a hero trading card folder. His mother stood a step behind, smiling nervously. “Um… are you…the hero Deku?”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “Ah—yeah. I mean, I used to be.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Whoa! You’re the one who beat All For One! Can you—can you show me your quirk?”
The air in the subway car tightened a little. People nearby glanced over, curious, phones already half-raised. Izuku forced a gentle smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t have it anymore. I retired a while back.”
The boy’s face fell. “But… you saved everyone.”
Izuku hesitated, then crouched slightly so he was at the child’s level. “I did what I could. And now there are a lot of amazing heroes out there keeping you safe. Like Dynamight and Shoto and Mirio. You know them?”
The boy nodded, eyes brightening. “Yeah! They’re so cool!”
“They are,” Izuku agreed quietly. “You should cheer for them.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped, disappointment obvious. “But you’re still a hero, right?”
Izuku hesitated. “I—teach now. At U.A. Helping the next generation.”
The mother touched her son’s shoulder. “That’s still heroic, sweetheart.”
The boy nodded politely, though his gaze slid away. Izuku could feel the pity in it—the quiet kind, the kind that saw him as former.
He wanted to say something more, something hopeful—Being a hero isn’t just about quirks—but his throat felt tight.
The announcement chime broke the silence. “Next stop: Musutafu Central Station.”
Izuku flexed his fingers again, joints stiff. He stepped out into the flow of evening commuters, shoulders brushing past him, the city lights already glittering overhead. Billboards shone with faces he knew, his friends smiling down from ten-meter screens.
He tucked his hands into his pockets. The ache had faded to a dull pulse now, buried under the heavier weight in his chest.
By the time he reached the restaurant’s street, the sky had turned indigo. The neon sign flickered over the door—Ramen Gekka, Grand Opening. Laughter spilled from inside.
Izuku paused at the entrance, drew a slow breath, straightened his jacket, and tried to summon the easy grin he’d worn for years.
He could be tired later.
For now, he would be fine.
The door chimed softly as Izuku stepped into the restaurant. Warm light spilled across dark polished floors, the air rich with soy, grilled meat, and the faint sweetness of miso. Conversations hummed around him—soft laughter, the clatter of plates, the rhythm of life continuing at full speed.
He scanned the room. For a moment he didn’t see them; the place was full and dimly lit. Then he noticed a subtle wave from the far back, just beyond a wooden partition decorated with trailing ivy and paper lanterns. Trust Bakugou and Shouto to pick the most secluded spot—away from cameras, away from eyes that would recognize Japan’s top heroes instantly.
“Over here, nerd,” Bakugou’s voice called, low but unmistakable.
Izuku smiled, weaving through tables until he reached them. Shouto sat with quiet composure, his jacket draped neatly over the seat beside him, a glass of cold water sweating on the table. Bakugou had already torn into the appetizer menu, elbows on the table, an energy that always seemed to fill whatever space he occupied.
“Hey,” Izuku greeted, sliding into the empty chair opposite them. “Sorry if I’m late, the trains were packed.”
“You’re on time,” Shouto said, voice even as always. “We only just got here.”
Bakugou grunted, flipping a page. “You’re fine. The waiter’s slow anyway.”
The familiar rhythm fell easily between them. The hum of the restaurant blurred into background noise. Izuku let the warmth of it settle into his bones—the smell of good food, the way Shouto’s lips twitched when Bakugou grumbled, the comfort of belonging that still, somehow, hadn’t been taken from him.
They ordered their usuals—Shouto’s soba, Bakugou’s spicy noodles , and Izuku’s katsudon. The waiter bowed, recognizing Shouto a moment too late, eyes widening just slightly before he composed himself and hurried away.
Izuku’s chest tightened. He’d seen that reaction a thousand times. Recognition, awe, respect. It wasn’t for him anymore.
“So, how was your week?” Shouto asked once the waiter left.
Izuku smiled, grateful for the attention and simultaneously uneasy with it. “It was good. Midterms for Class 1-C went well. Most of them did better than last term.”
“That’s because you’re a good teacher,” Shouto said simply.
Izuku ducked his head, pretending to study the condensation on his glass. “They’re hardworking kids. It’s all them, really.”
“Bullshit,” Bakugou cut in. “You actually give a damn, that’s why they don’t flunk out.” He leaned back in his chair, eyeing him. “Heard that brat with the acid quirk tried to use her costume in class again?”
Izuku groaned, covering his face. “Don’t remind me. The cleanup took hours.”
Bakugou barked a laugh, sharp and genuine. “Serves you right for letting ‘em practice that crap indoors.”
“I thought she was using the non-reactive version,” Izuku protested, smiling despite himself. “It’s fine now. No one got hurt. I was thinking about asking Mina for advice, she would do great.”
“You sound like your damn principal,” Bakugou muttered, sipping his drink.
Their banter carried on easily; the old comfort was there, untouched by years. Yet under it all, Izuku felt that creeping pressure behind his ribs again, like something fragile cracking slowly.
Because he’d seen the headlines—had read them just an hour ago.
They were heroes. Still saving people. Still building the world he once dreamed of protecting.
“And you?” Izuku asked, keeping his tone light. “How’s the agency, Shouto?”
Shouto’s expression softened just enough to show a flicker of pride. “Busy. We’ve been handling a lot of environmental containment cases lately. Some areas are still unstable after the northern storms.”
“That’s amazing,” Izuku said, genuinely but a little too quickly. “You’ve always been good with large-scale response work.”
Bakugou snorted. “’Course he is. He’s got half the Commission drooling over him.”
Shouto ignored him, sipping his tea. “It’s not that impressive. We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Still,” Izuku insisted, “it’s important work. You’re—” He cut himself off before the word heroes slipped out.
They were.
He wasn’t.
Shouto looked at him for a second longer, gaze unreadable. “And you, Midoriya? How’s teaching feeling lately?”
Izuku hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “It’s… good. The students are bright. They keep me busy.”
Bakugou raised a brow. “That all?”
Izuku forced a small laugh. “Well, yeah. I like it.”
It wasn’t a lie. He did like it. But as he spoke, he couldn’t stop thinking of the wildfire article, the images of Shouto standing in the smoke and flame, calm and capable. He couldn’t stop remembering what it felt like to move faster than thought, to feel the charge of One For All crackling under his skin.
Now his body only ached, his fingers trembling slightly when he reached for his spoon.
He tried to focus on the food when it arrived. The Katsudon smelled wonderful—rich, spiced, familiar—but he barely tasted it. Shouto spoke about new hero regulations; Bakugou ranted about undertrained sidekicks. Izuku nodded in the right places, smiled where he should, but it all felt distant, like watching through fog.
At one point Bakugou leaned closer, frowning. “The hell’s up with you tonight? You look like you’re half asleep.”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? Oh—no, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. Long week.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “Tired my ass. You’ve had that same damn face since you sat down.”
Shouto glanced between them. “You do look a little off.”
Izuku chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I promise, it’s nothing serious. I’m just worn out from grading papers.”
Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Yeah, sure. Papers.” He sat back, crossing his arms. “If you’re overworking again, I’m gonna—”
“I’m not,” Izuku interrupted gently. “Really, Kacchan. I’m okay.”
He smiled, hoping it reached his eyes. Hoping they couldn’t see through it.
Shouto watched him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly, choosing not to press. “You should rest this weekend,” he said. “We can plan something lighter next time.”
Izuku’s chest twisted. They’re worried about me. Even now.
He forced a grin. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”
The conversation shifted, as it always did. Bakugou started arguing with Shouto over some recent mission, their voices rising and falling like a rhythm Izuku had memorized long ago. He laughed when they glared at each other, laughed because it felt right, because it made them relax again.
But underneath, that bitterness coiled tighter, quieter.
They still see me as part of them, he thought. They treat me the same. But I’m not one of them anymore. Not really.
He watched them—Bakugou’s hands moving animatedly as he spoke, Shouto’s calm retorts, their easy confidence born of experience and success. He remembered being their equal once. Remembered believing he would stand beside them forever.
Now he spent his days correcting essays and his nights pretending that was enough.
He smiled again when Bakugou cracked another joke. He reached for his glass, ignored the ache in his fingers, and told himself it was fine.
Because if he stopped pretending—just for a second—he wasn’t sure what would be left.