Archive of Our Own

i. ties

It was a given that Aizawa Souta was a perceptive man, he had to be. His eyes had to be keen, sharp, and most of all observant. After all, his Quirk depended on his ability of sight.

But as a teacher, he also must be aware of his students, their ticks, their habits, it was a part of the job.

It was his responsibility, as their homeroom teacher, to make sure his students left UA with not just the fundamental heroic techniques but also the essential life skills—things like tactical planning, time management, and maybe, just maybe, the ability to successfully navigate the mundane challenges of adulthood.

So imagine the quiet, internal surprise that pricked him—not annoyance, but a moment of genuine, low-level bewilderment—when he realized Midoriya Izuku could not tie a tie.

At first, Shouta merely thought the kid was always in too much of a hurry in the morning. Midoriya was a bundle of nervous energy and frantic over-preparation; it was easy to dismiss the perpetual looseness of the knot in the early hours rush. Surely, in his scramble to be punctual and mentally review twenty pages of hero analysis, the tie was the last thing he worried about.

But one day, early in the morning, while the rest of the class was settling in for homeroom, Shouta noticed Midoriya engaged in a silent, strangely focused struggle. The boy had the tie off, draped over his knee, his brows furrowed in intense frustration. His usually manicured notebook was forgotten on the desk as his fingers—fingers that belonged to scarred, overworked hands that look the age of a middle aged man—attempted to coerce the silk into a simple Windsor knot. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and the low, muttered sound of “nngh... no, that’s a half-hitch again...” betrayed his intense, yet completely futile, concentration.

Nobody else within the room seemed to notice their classmate's silent struggle. Shouta took a gambler's estimate: either Midoriya was operating with such focused subtlety that the others were truly oblivious, or those who did notice—perhaps a quieter student like Todoroki or Shoji—had simply decided it was not their problem to mention. He considered calling the boy out right then, but that would only embarrass him. Shouta preferred dealing with problems privately.

Midoriya continued to wrestle the stubborn fabric, muttering a string of syllables that sounded suspiciously like a formula, perhaps trying to mathematically solve the knot.

Lost in his concentration on the struggling student, Shouta almost didn’t catch the low, insistent ringing of the warning bell. Before he could issue a customary, world-weary scolding about getting situated, the students had already taken their seats, the sudden shift in atmosphere prompting Midoriya to finally give up. In a small burst of contained frustration, the boy decisively shoved the offending length of red silk into a side pocket of his bright yellow backpack, emulating Bakugo's defiant refusal to wear a tie at all.

Shouta cleared his throat, the dry sound cutting across the final, fading echoes of the bell. He finally averted his eyes from Midoriya and swept his gaze across the rest of the classroom, settling the class instantly.

“Alright. Although the majority of your day is mandated by the general curriculum, this afternoon we’ll be returning to heroics,” he announced, his voice flat. “We’ll be working at Ground Beta. It will be a complex mock simulation based on a heavily destroyed city site that was recently demolished by a villain with a gigantification quirk, similar to Mount Lady’s. Expect unstable debris, rescue scenarios, and poor visibility. The criteria for passing will be based on..”

Fifteen minutes later, the jarring, cheerful chime marking the end of the first homeroom period rang. All the students of 1-A, now fully energized by the promise of practical hero training, gathered their things and hurried off with varying degrees of enthusiasm to English class with Hizashi.

“Midoriya,” Shouta called out, just as the boy was slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Hang back for a moment, please.”

The teenager glanced up, his large, nervous green eyes widening slightly in surprise. He gripped his strap and nodded instantly. “Uh—sure, Aizawa-sensei.”

Uraraka paused at the door, giving a bright wave as she and Iida prepared to leave the room. “See you soon, Deku! We’ll let Present Mic know you’ll be there in a few minutes!”

The boy gave a quick, returning wave, his smile a little strained as he wished them well. The door clicked shut, leaving Midoriya standing alone by his desk, waiting, looking small and intensely worried, as if he expected a lecture about missing homework or a disciplinary write-up.

“You’re not in trouble, Midoriya,” Shouta assured him in a low, gravelly voice, though he noted the slight tremor in the boy’s shoulders. Paradoxically, the absence of a raised voice often seemed to set the kid’s nerves off even more.

“Oh, okay,” the teenager stammered, pulling himself straighter. “Then is it about a grade or— or something about the simulation?”

Shouta shook his head, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Where’s your tie?”

“Oh!” Midoriya exclaimed, his hands flying up defensively. “I’m sorry, Aizawa-sensei, am I breaking the dress code? I didn’t think the tie was strictly mandatory—and Kacchan never wears his, so I thought—”

Shouta cut his anxious rambling off with a subtle, sharp hand gesture. “It’s got nothing to do with the dress code, kid. I was just wondering why you weren’t wearing it like you usually do.”

Midoriya blinked, his expression moving from fear to genuine confusion. “You notice if I’m wearing a tie or not?”

“When it’s all sad-looking and boxy, perpetually crooked, yes, I tend to notice,” Shouta replied coolly, his gaze utterly steady. “Not to mention I saw you struggling with it prior to homeroom.”

Midoriya frowned, looking down at his worn out red shoes. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Shouta asked, allowing a sliver of exasperation to enter his tone. He needed the boy to stop defaulting to self-blame. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Midoriya looked up again, chewing lightly on his lower lip. “I am, it’s just… Uh—I never learned how to tie a tie. Properly, I mean.”

Shouta raised one sculpted brow. “Didn’t anyone offer to teach you?”

“Uh—my mom, well, she tried—but she never learned herself,” Midoriya explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “And there’s only so much YouTube videos can do to help when you can’t get the mirrors right, you know?”

Shouta, in fact, didn’t know. The way he learned was from his old man, a pragmatic man who had assured him that it was a necessary evil for the inevitable press conferences if he chose to be a front-line Pro. At that moment, Aizawa decided he’d much rather remain an Underground hero if it meant not feeling like he was wearing a leash every time he had to wear a suit.

The easy, obvious question was up on the tip of his tongue: Can’t your dad teach you? But he paused, swallowing the words. Midoriya had never mentioned his father in any direct context that Shouta could recall. He recalled an informal gathering where a group of students were sharing stories about their fathers taking them fishing, out for ice cream, or to the movies. Midoriya had been conspicuously silent. In fact, the one time Midoriya was directly asked about his father, someone asking what his profession was, Midoriya had simply shrugged and said, “I think he’s in California or something for work.”

It wasn’t meant to be such a cold answer, he thinks, more just said with a forced nonchalance that Shouta, the perceptive man that he was, hadn't missed. The kid was fine, but perhaps the lack of a tie was a symptom of something more than just poor dexterity.

Shouta then stuck out his hand, his expression entirely unreadable.

Midoriya tilted his head in confusion, his eyes flicking from the extended hand to his teacher’s impassive face. “Sensei?”

“The tie,” Shouta ordered, his voice still low, cutting through the silence of the empty room. “Let me see it.”

The teenager replied with a hurried yelp that sounded suspiciously similar to, “Of course!” He quickly dug into the pocket of his backpack and held out the sorry, rumpled pile of red silk to his teacher.

Shouta took the fabric, his long fingers already beginning to straighten the creases. He stepped closer to Midoriya, his proximity instantly causing the boy’s shoulders to stiffen further. Shouta reached out and used the pad of his thumb to flick up the collar of Midoriya’s shirt. The kid seemed to flinch when Shouta’s freezing cold fingers brushed his warm neck, and the man had to stifle a chuckle of amusement.

“I have a meeting with the principal and first-year teachers of Shiketsu the day after tomorrow,” Shouta stated, his eyes fixed on the developing knot, not the student's face. “Before I leave, I’ll show you this entire sequence one more time. After that, I expect you to be able to figure it out on your own. Understand?”

The boy’s voice was high-pitched and earnest, a stark contrast to the quiet focus in the room. “Yes, Sensei!”

With a final, smooth pull down on the wide end, Shouta cinched the knot up to the base of Midoriya’s throat. It was a perfect, neat, and surprisingly professional-looking four-in-hand. He adjusted the knot one last time, gently releasing the boy's collar and patting him on the shoulders.

“Good. Now, go. I’ll make sure your tardiness is excused.”

Midoriya didn't immediately move. He stared down at the finished product—a neat, balanced knot where only a crumpled mess had been before. He reached up, gently thumbing the smooth fabric of the tie where it met the collar. His expression was a confusing mixture of deep relief and profound gratitude, and when he finally looked up, his smile was slightly quivering.

“Thank you,” he whispered. It was a depth of emotion completely disproportionate to the simple task just performed.

Shouta wasn’t sure why the kid was getting so worked up. It was just a tie. It was a knot. Feeling suddenly and acutely uncomfortable with the wellspring of emotion directed his way, Shouta awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder in a quick gesture of condolence, as if he genuinely expected Midoriya to burst into tears over the perfection of his uniform accessory.

Midoriya seemed to snap out of his reverie. He quickly grabbed his backpack and headed for the door. “See you this afternoon, Sensei.”

“Bye, Midoriya. Try to keep it that way until I see you again,” Shouta replied, already settling back into the empty classroom.

The boy paused, halfway through the door frame, his hand resting on the metal handle. He turned back one last time, his green eyes bright and earnest. “Thank you again.” And with that final, unnecessary expression of thanks, he was gone, leaving the room in a hurry to make it to Hizashi’s class.

Shouta sighed, dropping his head back against the concrete wall. The kid was strange. But at least now, for a few hours, the uniform was correct.

ii. language

The first thing most people knew about Yamada Hizashi—better known by his hero alias, Present Mic—was the sound. Loud. His voice, his personality, his Quirk: everything was calibrated for maximum volume. Yet the irony of the whole shtick was that he, Yamada Hizashi, had poor hearing. It was the consequences of his actions at four years old, when his Quirk manifested as he was wailing and the sound bounced back and nearly blew out his ear drums. So, he decided that learning sign language was a must, in fact, it was a need. 

The thought of his current job still made him smile, a bright, genuine flash of teeth. Becoming a teacher, at his own alma mater, UA High, no less? Well, he wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told him that during his teenage years.

He would have dramatically waved a hand and scoffed, his teen voice already pushing the decibel limit: “Please! I’ll have my own radio show, baby!”

And, true to his teenage swagger, that dream did come true. He still had it: Put Your Hands Up Radio, hosted every Thursday from 7-9 PM (Which he vigorously recommends listening to—ya dig!).

But still, there was something about the academic aspect of language that caught his eye. He realized that communication didn't simply need to be spoken. It could be written into elegant script or kanji, read from the dusty spine of a book, taught with patience in a classroom, sung as a heartfelt ballad, or learned with the quiet, focused movement of hands.

Language, he believed, was not an exclusive club defined by sound. It was for anyone and everyone, a universal connector that he wished more people understood. 

It was during their regular English class—a loud, energetic affair—that Hizashi noticed it. He was perched dramatically atop his podium, his voice booming as he read off the vocabulary words from the first year’s textbook, English for the Young and the Beginners.

"Alright, listeners! Repeat after me! 'QUIRK.' Y-E-S, 'QUIRK!' You gotta project, ya dig?"

As the class dutifully shouted the word back, Hizashi's expert eye scanned the rows. He was used to catching students asleep, or maybe furtively passing a note. But then he noticed a familiar head of messy green curls—Midoriya Izuku—looking down at a textbook. But his hands weren't resting on the desk, nor were they scribbling notes.

Midoriya’s hands were beneath the desk, rapidly moving.

The man paused his reading mid-sentence, the single word 'Hero' hanging unfinished in the air. He glanced down, focusing his sharp gaze across the classroom. He could just make out the swift, compact motions. Midoriya’s fingers were blurring, his movements rapidly changing as his eyes shifted between the sign language dictionary resting on his lap and the frantic motion of his own hands. The boy was practicing, cycling through vocabulary at a speed that suggested intense, almost compulsive study.

Hizashi raised a brow in silent question, leaning slightly over the podium. He focused on the last, clearest sign the boy made before freezing up, realizing he was being watched.

The specific combination of the handshape moving to the mouth and then the stomach…

Hizashi bit back a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching behind his glasses.

Did the kid just say he was hungry?

Hizashi cleared his throat, pushing the mic closer to his lips and returning to his lesson with a theatrical flourish, pretending he hadn't noticed the silent slip-up.

"And next! 'LUNCH.' L-U-N-C-H! Because even heroes gotta fuel up, right?" he announced, making sure to wink directly at a very red-faced Midoriya Izuku.

Midoriya immediately brought his hands to cover his cheeks, he was just reading from the book! And yes, maybe he was hungry, but still! But even through the embarrassment, a tiny, thrilled realization sparked in his chest: Sensei understood.

“Speaking of which,” Hizashi said, pointing a finger toward the analog clock ticking above the door. “The bell’s gonna ring soon, signaling the start of the glorious lunch break, so how about ya’ll get a head start on the homework, coolio?”

A collective, relieved groan went through the class. Everyone, eager to escape the English lesson and the impending hunger, quickly nodded their agreement.

Midoriya, still slightly mortified, buried his head. He quickly flipped to a clean page of his notebook, his concentration laser-focused as he started copying down the list of irregular verbs Hizashi had assigned the class. He wanted to finish before the throng of students made their inevitable dash for the door.

Hizashi sat back down in his chair, beginning to grade the notoriously dramatic third-year essays. He pretended to be absorbed in the complicated syntax of an aspiring hero's justification for their late submission. But every so often, he glanced up at Midoriya.

Finally, the strident, loud BEEEEP of the lunch bell split the air.

Hizashi leapt to his feet, throwing his hands wide. “That’s lunch! Off you go, listeners! Go grab some grub and rest those brains, YEAH! Midoriya! I got a quick question for ya, hang back, if you don’t mind!”

A few chuckles from Uraraka came out as she asked Midroiya, “Again?” And Hizashi assumed Shouta made the kid stay back more than once. But the rest of the classroom erupted in a flurry of movement and chatter, notebooks slamming shut and chairs scraping back. Students—particularly Bakugo and Kaminari—made for the exit with crazy speed. Within moments, the noise faded down the hall, leaving the room quiet save for the ambient hum of the school's ventilation.

Only Midoriya remained, meticulously putting his stationary into his backpack, delaying his departure. Hizashi leaned back, resting his chin on his fist, his expression relaxed and patient. He let the silence hang, waiting for the listener to address the teacher.

Izuku finally zipped his bag and looked up, meeting his sensei's gaze.

"Sensei," Midoriya started, his voice a soft squeak. "I'm sorry about the... the distraction."

Hizashi just smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He lifted his hands and signed, slowly and clearly, the symbol for 'HUNGRY?'

Midoriya clutched his bright yellow bento box in his free hand, the plastic container suddenly feeling impossibly heavy and Hizashi chuckled, an easy sound. He stood up and pulled a spare chair from an adjacent desk, scooting it closer to his own. He patted the seat, signaling clearly for the kid to relax and take a load off. So the kid did, rigidly though.

Midoriya swallowed, his nervousness battling his intense curiosity. He carefully placed his backpack on the floor and sat down, his posture still stiffly respectful on the chair Hizashi had provided.

"Mic-sensei, I... I really am sorry," he repeated, fiddling anxiously with the lid of his bright yellow lunchbox.

“Eh, that’s okay, listener. I trust you’ll get those notes down before homeroom tomorrow, yeah?” Hizashi replied, giving a relaxed wave of his hand.

Midoriya nodded enthusiastically, the apology forgotten in the rush of relief. “Of course! I’ll start them right after lunch!”

Hizashi grinned widely, leaning his elbows on the desk. "Thanks, kiddo. Now, let's get down to the real reason I snagged you. Why're you learning sign, really?"

Midoriya immediately shifted in his seat, his gaze darting to the floor. He hunched his shoulders and offered the first, weakest excuse that came to mind. “Erm—no reason, sensei. Just, bored?”

Hizashi’s eyebrow arched dramatically over the rim of his glasses. “Try again, listener. You don’t put that much effort into 'bored,'" he encouraged gently.

Midoriya fiddled with his fingers, tugging at them mindlessly, and Hizashi could understand it was a  tell-tale sign of deep discomfort. It was as if the  truth felt too personal, too exposed, but he couldn't lie to the man who was offering to teach him. He took a shaky breath.

“Uh... my dad—he has a fire-breathing Quirk,” Midoriya mumbled, his voice sinking to an even softer pitch. “When he was little, it made it hard for him to—to talk sometimes. If he yelled or got upset, his throat would get raw. Turns out, he learned JSL with his mom, my grandma. It was their way to talk without making him feel strained.”

He picked at a loose thread on his uniform pants, the anxiety of his confession making him small. "By the time he grew up, he got his Quirk under control, and he uses his voice just fine now, but... I just wanted to... I dunno. Have something in common with him? A language that's just ours. And maybe, a way to communicate when I can’t use my own voice—it’s not—sorry for disrupting your class, sensei.”

Hizashi watched Midoriya. He looked so small when he hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself that way, folding into himself as if trying to disappear into his uniform. It reminded Hizashi painfully of his own fearful adolescence, struggling with a voice that was too loud for the world.

Hizashi reached over,  and gave the boy’s forearm a reassuring squeeze. "That is a very good reason, listener," Hizashi said, his voice low and genuine. He signed the words: ‘GOOD REASON.'

He wasn’t sure if the kid knew what he was saying, but Midoriya’s eyes immediately became glossy and wet. He sniffed, quickly wiping at his tears with the heel of his hand, clearly embarrassed by the display.

"It's just..." Midoriya started, trying to find his voice.

Hizashi cut him off gently before the self-deprecating apologies could start. "It's alright. No need to apologize for wanting a skill, especially one so useful, ya dig," he said, pulling back to lean against his desk once more. "Now, If we're doing this, we gotta do it right."

“You mean you’ll teach me?”

Hizashi grinned as he pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself and grabbed his yellow pen. "You betcha, kiddo! Now, how many signs do you actually know? I need to get a base level of where we're starting from. You seemed pretty fluent in 'hungry' earlier, but what else?"

Midoriya’s embarrassment was instantly replaced by his usual nervous eagerness to provide data. He wiped the last trace of moisture from his eyes and grabbed his textbook, already flipping to the dictionary section.

"Um! Well, I know the alphabet, mostly. I'm slow, though. And I know some basic phrases from the book, like 'Hero,' and 'Please,' and a couple of directional verbs, but I get the handshapes mixed up when I try to link them together in a sentence. My grammar is, uh, non-existent."

Hizashi chuckled, shaking his head. "Non-existent grammar, huh? Sounds like my radio show.” (This was a lie, of course, Hizashi would never have poor grammar when it comes to his passion for radio. But, he’ll choose his battles.) “That's fine, bud. We'll start with the fundamentals. The fingerspelling, the foundational verbs, and the grammar structure. How about we meet twice a week at lunch? Then I’ll give you stuff to learn over the weekend, ya dig?”

Midoriya’s face was alight with pure, unadulterated excitement. “Does that mean you’ll teach me?”

Hizashi’s grin was blinding. “Heck yeah, I will! But, how did you even figure out I know JSL? Most people don't catch that."

Izuku, now relaxed and then began to tick the points off on his fingers with rapid-fire speed.

“One time after I was in the conference room with All Might, I saw you and Aizawa-sensi speaking in sign behind the Principal’s back,” he started, his voice a quick rush. “Also, I took a guess and figured that because of the way your Quirk works, you could be hard of hearing, so learning sign would be a safety measure. Plus, your headphones have the same basic design as my neighbor’s hearing aids, which you did a sponsorship for one week on your radio show, Put Your Hands Up Radio—you talked about the noise-cancelling features and bone-conduction tech they use—so, I just... well, I assumed—”

Hizashi interrupted the barrage of observations by reaching over and playfully ruffling the kid’s chaotic green hair, messing it up even further.

“No wonder old Aizawa praises you, you smart cookie,” Hizashi exclaimed, genuinely impressed by the depth of Midoriya’s observational analysis.

Izuku froze, his eyes going wide. “He… he does?”

The blonde hero nodded, confirming the shocking news. “Yep! He says your analyses are some of the best he’s seen, and I gotta agree. Congrats on getting on that grump's good side, kiddo.”

The teen grinned the widest Hizashi had ever seen him, a pure, uninhibited display of joy that made his eyes crinkle and his cheeks flush. Hizashi leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping low, with a sly grin.

“Then, once you get good at JSL,” he promised, holding up a finger, “I’ll teach ya ASL—American Sign Language—that way we can really piss off Aizawa and make him think he forgot how to sign when we swap languages on him.”

Midoriya's laugh was a bright, nervous, and delighted sound as the two began to speak without words.

iii. scrapes

Shouta’s concern for Midoriya Izuku’s self-destructive tendencies had grown from a low hum to a persistent, grating anxiety. What made it worse was the boy’s baffling demeanor: he acted as if he had no clue what he was doing, despite wielding a Quirk of catastrophic power.

Shouta supposed it was expected, in a way. With a destructive, seemingly uncontrollable power like Midoriya’s, what other way could there be to use it? Except, logic dictated that Midoriya should have had at least a basic grasp on his abilities. Having a Quirk for nearly a decade meant he would have been exposed to some form of mandatory counseling. So, either he had somehow slipped through the cracks, or the kid was simply wildly lazy.

Neither possibility made sense, especially the latter. It was required by law for all Quirk users to undergo three consecutive years of Quirk counseling, typically spanning their middle school years. And while Midoriya had many quirks of his own, laziness was not one of them.

To discount the progress Midoriya had made in just three months at U.A. would be utterly illogical. The boy had come a significant way since the first Quirk apprehension test. Yet, this progress only served to amplify Shouta's central question: why had the student never felt inclined to hone this devastating power before now?

The thought was cut short as, in the periphery of his vision, Midoriya suddenly skidded across the unforgiving concrete. Trying to slow himself down, the boy reached out, mistakenly attempting to cushion his fall with his hands. It was the wrong decision. As Midoriya finally ground to a halt, Shouta was already sprinting toward him, his eyes fixated on the alarming trail of fresh, crimson blood rapidly pooling beneath the student.

The man knelt down quickly as Midoriya groaned, a low, pained sound. "Midoriya, can you hear me?"

The boy's blood-stained hand instinctively rose to rub his face, but Shouta intercepted it, grabbing his wrist gingerly to stop him from smearing the mess.

"Yeah, I'm okay, Sensei," Midoriya mumbled, trying to pull away.

Midoriya wobbled to his feet, and Shouta kept a firm, supporting grip on his wrist, scanning the vicinity for the source of the collision.

Todoroki Shoto jogged over, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes glossed over with concern. "Sorry, Sensei. Midoriya had an idea about using my ice as a ramp for rescue situations, and he wanted to see if it'd work, and, uh—"

"If this is the result of a rescue mission," Shouta interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous drawl, "I fear you failed."

"Yeah," Todoroki agreed flatly. "I figured so."

The rest of Class 1-A had clustered around, a chorus of worried questions chiming in about their classmate. Shouta ignored them, his gaze fixed on Midoriya's injuries. The boy's costume pants were shredded, coated in a sticky, bright red that indicated deep scrapes.

"I'm taking Midoriya to the nurse," Shouta announced to the class, his voice brooking no argument. "I'll send Ectoplasm in to watch you. I expect your best behavior."

A synchronized dozen "Yes, sirs!" answered him. Midoriya took a hesitant, hobbling step, and Shouta kept his grip as they started toward the main building.

"I don't need the nurse, sir. Honest." Midoriya insisted, his voice suddenly sharp. "I'd really rather not go."

Shouta kept walking, forcing Midoriya to keep pace despite his uneven gait. “Don’t be irrational, you’re bleeding all over the training ground. That’s more than a simple scrape.”

“Sir, please, I really don’t wanna bother her with this—it’s just a fall,” Midoriya pleaded, tightening his free fist. His head was bowed, hiding his expression.

“It’s not a bother, Midoriya. It’s what she’s there for. Besides, you know the policy on injuries requiring more than basic first aid.”

“Yes, it is,” Midoriya countered, his voice rising slightly, tinged with a desperation that finally made Shouta pause. “Look, I can wrap it, I have bandages in my dorm. It’s fine. I promise I won’t use my Quirk until I'm healed.”

Shouta stopped completely and turned, forcing Midoriya to face him. He didn’t release the boy’s wrist. “You are going to Recovery Girl. I’m not debating you on this. You’re injured, and I’m taking you. Why don’t you want to go?”

Midoriya shifted his weight uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. “Because... because she’ll yell at me.”

“She yells at everyone who breaks bones, Midoriya. It’s practically her whole spiel. You’re lucky this time it’s only skin.”

“No, not like that,” the boy muttered. “She'll... she’ll blame me. And it’s embarrassing.”

Shouta narrowed his eyes. “Blame you for what?”

Midoriya sighed, a breath that sounded far too weary for a fifteen-year-old. "She knows how many times I've been in there. And... she always reminds me of the energy drain her Quirk causes when she heals deep wounds. She'll... she’ll look at my chart, Sensei. She’ll see the count. And she’ll know I got hurt doing something stupid, when I should have learned better by now.”

Shouta’s grip on the boy's wrist tightened, though he still held it gently. The internal monologue flared again: A count? Midoriya’s known injuries involved massive bone breaks. Those weren’t just ‘stupid’ incidents—they were near-death experiences. Why is he minimizing this?

“We all get hurt doing stupid things, Midoriya. That’s why we train,” Shouta said, his voice level and low, but the underlying curiosity was steel-hard. “But this is skin, not bone. It won’t drain her, and it certainly won’t drain you like before. Now, stop making excuses. I need to know these scrapes are clean.”

He gave Midoriya a slight, firm tug toward the clinic. The boy stumbled, then relented, his shoulders slumping.

"Fine," Midoriya whispered, defeated. Shouta watched the boy’s shoulders slump. The last thing he needed was Recovery Girl launching into one of her full-scale, energy-draining lectures over a few deep scrapes. And more importantly, the sudden, desperate reluctance Midoriya showed spoke to a deeper insecurity, one that needed to be addressed privately, not in the school's nurse office.

Shouta stopped pulling. He turned, scanned the empty training ground, then changed direction, heading toward the maintenance tunnel that led to the staff dorms.

“Change of plans,” Shouta murmured, keeping his voice low and flat. “We’re not going to the clinic. We’re going to my dorm. I have a proper first-aid kit there. Let’s save Recovery Girl the trip.”

Midoriya looked up, surprised, relief flooding his expression before caution returned. “Y-your dorm, Sensei? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Now move.”

Midoriya hobbled along next to Shouta, the movement pulling at the raw, scraped skin of his legs. When they finally reached the spartan staff apartment, Midoriya looked around in curiosity. It was small, a kitchenette, living room, and a corner for weights and an exercise bike. Shouta continued to guide him to the small bathroom and motioned toward the closed toilet lid.

“Sit. Don’t touch anything.”

Shouta retrieved a standard, comprehensive first-aid kit from the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. He set the kit on the counter, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and turned to Midoriya, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic.

“This is going to sting,” Shouta warned, his tone strictly professional. The boy nodded stiffly.

Midoriya tried and failed not to wince as the alcohol solution hit the open wound on his shin, the blood mixing instantly with the sharp, clear liquid. Shouta had seen the kid not even flinch when enduring massive bone breaks, and a pang of sadness found its way into the man’s heart. The minor pain was the only one Midoriya allowed himself to register.

Taking pity on the boy, Shouta paused the scrubbing. “Wanna hear something funny?”

Midoriya’s strained expression shifted into one of confused curiosity. “Uh—sure.”

“I had this friend when I was your age, and he had a knack for always hurting his nose.” Shouta began to clean the scrape on Midoriya’s knee, deliberately gentle.

“Just his nose?” Midoriya asked, momentarily forgetting the stinging sensation.

“Just his nose,” Shouta confirmed, securing the sterile gauze with medical tape. “His Quirk didn’t even relate to rocks or something like that, he actually had a cloud-based Quirk, so you’d think he’d be better at catching himself before he’d take a fall. So much so that he just decided to keep a band-aid on it permanently, and he’d say, ‘For future catastrophes!'"

Midoriya giggled, a small, genuine sound. “That’s… that’s ridiculous.”

“It was. Present Mic would just start calling him the name of that weird old reindeer movie, Rudolph or something like that.” Shouta finished wrapping the knee, then moved to the calf. The man reached out his hand, waiting for Midoriya to rest his own within Shouta’s palm. The kid did, carefully, as if he was about to feed a rabid animal.

The boy’s hand was small, deceptively slender given the force it was capable of wielding. As Shouta began to clean the deep abrasions scored across Midoriya’s palm, the silence in the small bathroom became thick again, pushing the brief, shared anecdote into the background. Shouta carefully removed a small shard of embedded gravel with a pair of sterile tweezers. Midoriya merely sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t complain.

“You said you’d wrap this yourself in the dorm,” Shouta finally broke the silence, his voice low, his focus still on the meticulous cleaning of the wound. “Is this a normal occurrence, Midoriya? Do you often suffer injuries you treat on your own to avoid Recovery Girl’s ‘count’?”

Midoriya flinched, the subtle movement of his hand momentarily resisting the gentle pressure of Shouta’s grip. “No, Sensei. Not… often. Just sometimes. When it’s not a major break.”

“Define ‘not a major break,’” Shouta instructed, applying a disinfectant ointment.

“Like… like this,” Midoriya mumbled, his gaze fixed on the bright white of the bathroom tiles. “Or a sprain. Or a bad bruise. Anything that doesn’t actually require her Quirk to fix immediately. The first aid kit in the dorm is pretty comprehensive.”

Shouta wrapped the hand in gauze, securing it with tape. He took a moment to look at the boy’s face, tracing the persistent worry in his features. “Why the secrecy, Midoriya? You are a student in a hero course. Injuries are a guaranteed part of the job.”

Midoriya sighed again, a sound of resignation. “It’s… it’s the ratio, Sensei. She told me once, right after the Sports Festival, that my chart was… statistically improbable. She said that the frequency and severity of my injuries, especially in such a short time, indicated either gross negligence or a profound psychological issue.” He bit his lip. “And honestly, I think she’s right on the negligence part. I keep pushing too far, and I don’t want to be constantly reminded that I’m the worst student in class when it comes to self-control.”

Shouta leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms. The gloves crinkled slightly. The anxiety that had been a grating hum was now a loud, focused roar in his mind. The “worst student in class”—the boy who had risked everything, time and again, to protect others—thought this was his biggest flaw.

“Midoriya,” Shouta said, his voice dropping to a gravelly seriousness. “We’ve been over this. Your issue is not negligence. It’s a lack of proper control over an immensely powerful Quirk that you only recently,” he emphasized the last word inwardly, “began to use.”

Midoriya shook his head, a gesture of profound self-doubt. “That’s what I tell myself, Sensei. But everyone else figured out their Quirk when they were four. Ten years of not using it—that’s not a lack of training, that’s just… I’m just.. not trying hard enough. I’ve gotta get a handle on my power, and fast.”

The words struck Shouta with the force of a punch, and the internal pieces he’d been trying to fit together suddenly snapped into a horrific alignment. Ten years of not using it. Slipped through the cracks. Wildly lazy. All the possibilities he’d cycled through, and he’d never considered the most improbable one.

He pulled off the gloves slowly, tossing them into the waste bin. His gaze locked onto Midoriya’s green eyes.

“Midoriya,” he began, carefully modulating his tone. “Did you… when exactly did you manifest your Quirk?”

The boy’s eyes went wide, the color draining from his face. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again in a soundless, panicked gasp. He looked like a small, terrified animal caught in a snare. His silence was the confirmation Shouta didn't want.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, Sensei,” Midoriya stammered, the lie utterly transparent.

Shouta didn’t press. Not yet. He stood up, walking to the bathroom door and closing it, the soft click echoing loudly in the small space. He knew, instinctively, that he had stumbled across the core secret, the underlying reason for all of Midoriya’s reckless, self-destructive behavior. The anxiety. The lack of basic control. The desperate need to catch up.

He turned back, his expression softening deliberately, losing the hard edge of the professional Hero. He knelt again, bringing himself to the boy’s level.

“You don't have to lie to me,” Shouta stated, his voice quiet. “I am your teacher. I need the truth to help you. Did your Quirk manifest late? When did you get it?”

Midoriya looked down at his bandaged hand, tears welling up in his eyes. A single drop rolled down his cheek and splattered on the knee of his tattered costume.

“Yes, Sensei,” he whispered, the sound barely audible. “I was… a late bloomer.”

“When?”

“Uh– the day of the entrance exam?”

For lack of a better word–

Shit.

“The day of the entrance exam,” Shouta repeated, his voice completely flat, devoid of anger, yet heavy with the weight of that impossible confession. He sat beside the boy for a long moment, allowing the truth to settle—a truth that shattered a decade of assumptions about Hero education and Quirk laws.

Shouta finally ran a hand through his hair, a rare, visible sign of professional exasperation. “Midoriya. Your records—the ones UA uses for medical and liability purposes—state that you have a documented Quirk, correct? That you went through the mandatory counseling program from ages 11 to 14?”

Midoriya, still slumped and defeated, nodded stiffly. “Yes, Sensei. My mom… she handled the paperwork. When it didn’t show up by age four, the initial diagnosis was that it was a delayed manifestation, maybe non-physical, and she submitted the standard forms for counseling when I turned eight, by then I was officially deemed Quirkless, even though there was nothing to counsel about yet.” He swallowed hard. “And then, just before the exam, when it… when it finally appeared, she went back in and had the original documentation revised. It just says ‘Energy Stockpiling Quirk, physical effects noted.’”

Shouta leaned forward, the small, enclosed bathroom suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “So, for ten years, you were technically categorized as a Quirkless child, and your mother then filed paperwork stating that your catastrophic, high-impact Quirk developed smoothly over a period of ten years, allowing you to bypass the legal requirement of mandatory, documented early manifestation counseling and training?”

“We… we didn’t bypass the counseling, Sensei,” Midoriya whispered, wringing his free, uninjured hand. “I went to every session. But the counselor—they focused on how to manage the emotional difficulty of being Quirkless, and then, after the paperwork change, uh– I already completed my sessions and couldn’t book any new ones. Nobody was trained for… for this.” He gestured vaguely at his bandaged limbs. “And the official documentation says I successfully completed the three years of basic Quirk-control education. It’s all certified.”

Shouta stared at him as the boy said, “But it’s all clear now! The principal knows, in fact, he was the one to sign off on all the papers, and All Might said we could change the papers no problem… because as you get older you figure out more about your Quirk, and can send in updated registration. So… all good.” Shouta frowned, this was all true. Technically, even by a slim margin, all of this was legal.

“It must’ve been tough growing up, Quirkless.” Shouta finally said, his voice softer than Midoriya had ever heard it. He didn't ask another question, simply stated the fact, allowing it to hang in the air like a profound, shared secret.

Midoriya’s face crumpled. He raised his free hand to cover his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent, suppressed emotion. Shouta waited. 

"It was... lonely," Midoriya managed, his voice thick. "I still wanted to be a hero, but... everyone knew I couldn't. Even the tests proved it. And now... now I have this power, and I'm still the one who needs the most help. I'm so far behind."

Shouta reached out, gently placing a hand on Midoriya's shoulder. The boy tensed, then slowly leaned into the touch, a shaky release of tension.

"Listen to me, Midoriya," Shouta commanded, his gaze firm and serious. "You are not 'the worst student in class.' You are the only student in class who has managed to control a Quirk of this magnitude, with zero prior training, in the space of three months. Everyone else had ten years. You had ninety days."

He paused, letting the magnitude of that sink in.

"This is not a deficit, Midoriya," Shouta continued, his voice gaining a new, focused intensity. "It's an accelerated miracle. And it changes everything. Your problem isn't lack of effort; it's a lack of fundamental physical conditioning and basic Quirk-control knowledge that should have been drilled into you years ago. That's my job now."

Shouta gave his shoulder a small, firm squeeze. "The goal is no longer to 'catch up.' The goal is to train a Hero who accomplished in three months what others took a decade to learn. We are going to address this. Starting tomorrow, you and I have a new training regimen. We will build your body to withstand your Quirk, and we will find a way to make those scars stop accumulating. Understood?"

Midoriya sniffled, lifting his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, but the fear was slowly being replaced by a spark of hope. "Understood, Sensei."

"Good." Shouta stood up, dropping his professional persona entirely for a moment. "Now, let's get you something to drink, and then we're calling your mother. I want to assure her that we're addressing your injuries, and I need to review your academic and counseling file myself."

Midoriya’s eyes widened again. "My mom? Sensei, please don't tell her I... she worries enough."

"I'm not going to stress her out," Shouta assured him, already walking out of the bathroom and toward the kitchenette. "I'm going to tell her the truth: that you're an incredibly powerful late-bloomer who just needs specialized guidance. And she should be proud. Now, tea or juice?"

Midoriya did not answer, just staring at the man, wide-eyed and unblinking. When he finally did blink, it was as if the boy had seen someone else in place of Shouta. But then, with a sniffle and a blush, he mumbled, “Juice, please.”

iv. driving

Yagi Toshinori would never agree if someone suggested he was a poor driver.

Well, at least not to that person's face. In the safety of his own mind, a tiny, sheepish voice would instantly concur. His current driver’s license, that flimsy, laminated miracle, existed purely through the grace of All Might's overwhelming rising fame (he may or may not had received his license until his twenties) distracting the examiner—who spent more time breathlessly asking for an autograph than assessing Yagi’s shaky three-point turn. He drove, on his best days, like a startled cat trying to parallel park a tank. At his worst, well, he’d rather not go into it. 

Although he did improve, slightly, when Midoriya was in his lone gunslinger era, but still, the car was mostly self-driving.

So, imagine the sheer, unadulterated, life-flashing-before-his-eyes horror that seized him when his seventeen-year-old student, Midoriya Izuku, asked for a lesson.

“Dr-Driving?” The skeletal man, currently shrunken into his civilian form, stuttered. One pencil-thin eyebrow eased up towards his rapidly thinning hairline, a movement that felt dangerously close to a spasm. The word, with its crisp consonants and terrifying implication of speed and inertia, tasted like ash, burnt clutch fluid, and the inevitable crunch of bumper against utility pole.

Midoriya, whose freshly trimmed-but-already-growing-back hair was a riot of green curls, nodded with a terrifying intensity. The movement made his entire head bob, radiating a simple, pure hope that Yagi found physically impossible to shatter.

“Yes! I was hoping to get some practice in before my practical exam in a few weeks, so I was hoping you could, uh, teach me?” Izuku clasped his hands together in a gesture of fervent plea. His eyes, already wide, seemed to expand further, bright and brimming with an innocent, lethal trust. “I know the basics from my prep class! The teacher just recommended that I get some personal hours in with a licensed driver, you know, to build up confidence and road sense!”

Midoriya took a much-needed breath to regroup, the initial rush of asking having slightly overwhelmed him, only to plunge back in with renewed vigor.

“She also said to ask a parent, but my mom is working double shifts because of a big deadline at her company this month, so she’s been way too busy to take me out…” He trailed off, his hopeful gaze settling squarely on Yagi, as if he wanted to add more to that statement, but instead said, “I just… I really need to pass this.”

A cold bead of sweat, thick and viscous with pure dread, trickled down Yagi’s temple, carving a slow path past his bony cheekbone. This wasn't just a tough spot; this was a classic Catch-22 situation, only instead of a logical paradox, it involved him willingly entering an enclosed metal box with an inexperienced, soon-to-be-licensed time bomb behind the wheel. The sheer, crushing weight of the responsibility—not for the car, but for the surrounding civilian population, made his stomach clench violently.

“A license! He’s getting a license! He’s going to be driving… a literal vehicle! I’m so proud of him. A massive hunk of metal! I have to help him! I am his mentor! I am… the only one here… oh God. I am going to die in a preventable traffic accident, and my tombstone will read: ‘Died Teaching a Parallel Park.’ A disgrace!”

“A-Ah, well, that’s… that’s great, young Midoriya!” Yagi managed, pushing a thin, brittle smile onto his face that felt strained and slightly manic. His chest cavity, which currently housed more air than organs, felt tight. He knew he was already defeated, having agreed the moment he saw those hopeful eyes. Now he just had to figure out how to teach without causing a multi-car pile-up or revealing the deep-seated vehicular anxiety that haunted his every drive.

“We’ve gotta get you some practice hours! I would be delighted! It is a true honor to help my successor achieve this major milestone of… independent mobility!”
Midoriya’s face pulled back, as if he could tell Yagi hasn’t spoken with this much bravado since his muscle for,. He clapped his hands together weakly, the sound swallowed by the room. "However," he added, his voice dropping in a conspiratorial, yet desperate, tone. "Maybe we can start with... a closed course? Like... a very, very, very large and empty parking lot? Maybe one where the stripes haven't even been painted yet?"

Midoriya's face lit up regardless of his concern. "That sounds perfect, All Might! Thank you!"

Yagi could only nod, his inner sheepish voice now shrieking in silent panic. He knew, with terrifying certainty, that this would be the day he finally needed his backup emergency contact list.

The designated day arrived, bright and ominously clear. Yagi, having spent a sleepless night re-reading the Japanese Driver's Manual (a document he was fairly certain contained curses), was waiting by the entrance to UA High School. He wore his standard outfit—loose jeans and a too-big T-shirt—but today, he had added a ridiculous, oversized sun hat and dark sunglasses, hoping to achieve some sort of camouflage against the judging eyes of the sun, the students, and the highway patrol.

Izuku appeared promptly, beaming, carrying a clipboard that contained notes on Driving Best Practices and a diagram of the foot pedals labeled with bright Sharpie.

“Good morning, All Might! I researched a spot!” Izuku chirped, practically vibrating with nervous energy and excitement. “There’s a massive unused asphalt lot behind the old Mustafu Industrial Park. It’s completely fenced off and they haven’t started construction yet!”

Yagi felt a flicker of relief; at least the potential casualties would be limited to stray weeds and perhaps an unfortunate pigeon.

“Alright, young Midoriya! An excellent choice for a secluded… uh– training ground, we’ll call it!” Yagi tried to project his All Might voice—a deep, resonant sound designed to instill confidence—but it emerged as a thin, reedy squeak from his skeletal throat.

The next hurdle was the car. Yagi did own a car. But it was a piece of junk, and he prayed Midoriya wouldn’t judge. The boy did not, instead, he seemed to buzz with excitement.

They pulled up to the industrial lot (Yagi driving—a white-knuckled experience that involved him screaming internally for the duration), and Yagi slowly extracted himself from the driver’s seat.

“Alright, young Midoriya,” he said, forcing his hands to rest casually on his hips as if he were a seasoned race car coach. “It’s time to switch. Remember the core principles: safety first, situational awareness, and the constant, overwhelming need to avoid catastrophic collision.”

Midoriya nodded, his serious expression only slightly undermined by his jittery hands.

As Midoriya slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors and seatbelt with textbook precision, Yagi shuffled around to the passenger side, strapping himself in with almost suicidal intensity. He checked his own seatbelt three times, gripped the armrest, and surreptitiously located the emergency brake lever.

"Okay, All Might," Izuku said, taking a deep breath and placing his hands at the '10 and 2' positions on the steering wheel. "I'm ready."

Yagi swallowed a lump of pure, unadulterated fear. "Right. Now, engage the engine... Good. Now, apply the brake, shift the gear selector into 'Drive,' and then... very gently... release the brake and apply the slightest pressure to the accelerator."

Midoriya did all of this perfectly. The car began to roll forward, slow and steady.

Yagi let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. See? This is fine. He’s a smart boy. He’s careful. This is just like a low-speed parade float.

“Now, just drive straight for now,” Yagi instructed, trying to sound calm, though his voice was pitched a key higher than usual.

Suddenly, Midoriya’s head snapped to the side, his eyes wide. He had spotted a pothole—a minor divot in the old asphalt. The sight of it seemed to activate a panicked reflex.

"Oh, pothole! Okay, I got this." Izuku shouted, yanking the steering wheel violently to the left.

The sedan lurched, swinging sharply across the empty lot. Yagi's head snapped back against the headrest with a dull thunk.

“Gently, Young Midoriya! Gently!” Yagi shrieked, his voice abandoning all pretense of calm coaching and reverting to pure, terrified panic. He slammed his right foot down on the floorboard with useless force, searching for an imaginary brake pedal.

Midoriya immediately corrected, over-correcting to the right with equal violence. The car swayed like a distressed whale.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Midoriya gasped, his cheeks flushing crimson. He was trying to apply the lessons he'd learned about reaction time and power control—lessons better suited for a villain fight than a driving lesson.

Yagi clamped both hands over the dashboard, his skeletal fingers digging into the vinyl. The sweat beading on his forehead was no longer cold; it was hot, the desperate moisture of a man staring down his own mortality.

“Remember, young man,” Yagi wheezed. “The steering wheel is not a joystick for an arcade game! Think of it... think of it as... a delicate suggestion to the front tires! Not a life-or-death wrestling match!

“Tha was, like, three different analogies!”

“I’d only need one if you could parallel park!”

“I’m not trying to parallel park!”

The decision was made. Braking. If Midoriya could handle a sudden stop, perhaps Yagi could begin to trust that the vehicle wouldn't simply become a high-velocity pinball in his successor's hands.

“Brake, young Midoriya, just brake” Yagi said, trying to steady his voice, which still felt like a piece of taut, frayed dental floss. He eased his grip on the dashboard, though his phantom-brake-foot was still vibrating on the floorboard. Midoriya nodded eagerly, his eyes glued to the vast expanse of empty asphalt ahead. The boy's intensity, usually a source of immense pride, was now terrifying when applied to a two-ton sedan.

“I know! Gradual pressure, gentle slowing, look far ahead to anticipate, use the mirrors—”

“Just like that!” Yagi interrupted, cutting him off before Midoriya could get into the physics of kinetic energy transfer. “Now, let’s apply it. When I say ‘Now,’ I want you to simply, slowly, and with the utmost delicacy, transition your right foot from the accelerator pedal to the brake pedal. Think of it as gently trying to get Aizawa to wake up from his nap.”

Midoriya blinked, tilting his head. “Uh… sure, okay, got it.”

Yagi waited until they had reached a section of the lot that was exceptionally flat and free of even the smallest pebble. The car was rolling at a terrifying 15 kilometers per hour.

“Now!” Yagi shrieked.

The word was a mistake. Yagi’s panicked yell did not convey 'gentle persuasion.' It conveyed 'imminent catastrophe.'

Midoriya, conditioned by years of hero training and sudden villain attacks, responded to the alarm in his mentor’s voice. Midroiya didn’t persuade Aizawa, he poked him and ended up being strangled by the man’s scarf.

KREE-EEEEEEEEECH!

The sedan did not slow down. It went from 15 km/h to absolute zero in a dizzying, physics-defying instant. The tires howled a song of pure mechanical distress, leaving two thick, black streaks of burnt rubber on the pristine asphalt.

Yagi Toshinori was thrown forward, his too-large sunglasses flying off his face and bouncing off the windshield. His seatbelt dug into his meager ribs with the focused intensity of a world-class wrestler. A thin, reedy "Augh!" escaped his lips as his bony body protested the sudden, crushing inertia.

Midoriya, still gripping the steering wheel like it was the last life raft in the Pacific, was similarly jolted. His clipboard of Driving Best Practices slid off the dashboard and smacked Yagi squarely in the temple.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the ticking sound of the cooling engine and Yagi’s ragged, wheezing breath.

Yagi, now slightly slumped against the seatbelt, slowly turned his head. His eyes, now squinted against the sun, settled on his student.

Midoriya’s face was pale, his eyes wide and shimmering with immediate, crushing regret.

"I… I used too much power," Midoriya whispered, the confession sounding like a profound, tragic failing, as if he’d accidentally shattered a national monument instead of merely achieving a four-G stop.

Yagi managed to inhale a lungful of air, which tasted faintly of vinyl, stale sweat, and impending doom.

“Too much power, you say, young Midoriya?” Yagi managed, his voice a strained croak. He reached up, feeling the faint bruise already forming on his temple where the clipboard had struck. “You just demonstrated a deceleration rate that would peel the paint off a fighter jet! We left a mural on the road!” He pointed a shaking, skeletal finger at the skid marks behind them. “That is not driving! That is an attempt to weaponize Newton’s First Law!”

“I’m sorry, All Might!” Midoriya wailed, burying his face in his hands. “I just panicked! I heard you shout and I put all my effort into it! I tried to be decisive!”

Yagi sighed, the sound long and dramatic. He reached out and retrieved his battered sunglasses.

“Kid,” Yagi said. “When driving, your greatest enemy is not a-- arampaging villain, and no, we’re not saving the world right now. We are trying to stop for a red light. The steering wheel and the pedals are not criminals that need to be punched. They are sensitive, highly-strung… choir…members! Treat them with respect!”

Midoriya slowly lifted his head. “So… less smash?”

“Significantly less smash,” Yagi confirmed, massaging his sternum. “Or I will be crushed into a fine, skeletal powder.”

Yagi watched Midoriya restart the engine, the low mechanical hum briefly swallowing the boy's strained voice. The admission, half-spoken and full of immediate self-recrimination, hung heavy in the air, thicker and more dangerous than any panic braking incident.

The boy frowned, “Sorry. I’ve kind of been snappy today.”

Yagi raised a thin, slightly shaky hand, dismissing the apology. “You haven’t. At least, not as much as I’ve been playing Number One Hero, which, I can assure you, is a role I am currently failing at spectacularly.” He gave a weak nod towards the fresh skid marks.

Midoriya started the car once more, the necessity of the task giving his hands something useful to do, a small anchor against the rush of his own anxious thoughts.

“It’s just… I know my mom’s busy, and… I know she’s there for me a lot of the times when I do need her, it’s just…” The boy paused, gripping the wheel at ten and two. The careful precision was back, but his eyes were far away, looking past the cracked asphalt.

“I kinda wish she wasn't the only one, y’know? It’s–-it’s silly, I know, I sometimes just hate knowing I’m only coming home to one parent instead of two.” The words were rushed, tumbling out as if he were trying to catch them before they could be heard. The feeling wasn't about the power of One For All fading, like Yagi has assumed would be plaguing the boy’s mind; it was about the quieter, yet more persistent kind of desire–the desire to have a normal family, for lack of better words. Even the lingering embers of the Quirk felt cold in the face of this very human loneliness.

Midoriya froze, his expression twisting into immediate distress. He started frantically backpedaling. “That sounded super childish and selfish! Uh– I know some people don’t even have people to come home to… I just… forget it, it’s stupid. I’m stupid.” He slumped slightly, the light going out of his focused gaze.

Yagi didn't panic-shriek this time. He didn't slam an imaginary brake pedal. He simply reached over and put one of his large, skeletal hands—the hand that used to crush villains but now struggled to open a jar—gently on Midoriya's forearm. The touch was light but firm, designed to stop the verbal flood.

“Midroiya,” Yagi said, his voice dropping to a low.“Let me tell you something, and pay attention. You are not selfish, and you are not stupid.”

He sighed, leaning back slightly, peering through his ridiculous sun hat at the deserted landscape. “Wishing for two people to come home to is not an insult to those who have none. It is simply wishing for more. It is a recognition that you value the presence of people who care about you.”

Yagi’s gaze softened, a hint of something distant and perhaps lonely in his own past reflecting in his deep-set eyes. “It is never childish to long for stability, for comfort, or for a full house. It is part of the human condition, which, despite all the power and muscles, is something that heroes sometimes neglect.”

He squeezed Midoriya's arm once, briefly, then pulled his hand back.

“Your mother is phenomenal, and you are right to be grateful for her,” Yagi conceded. “But feeling the lack of something, feeling the absence of a figure or a comfort you crave, does not diminish your gratitude. It just means you are human. A very perceptive human, in fact.”

He gave a small, genuine smile. “Now, I know I am no substitute for a paternal presence, young man. I am merely a retired, often-coughing mentor who drives like a frightened turtle and struggles to teach basic maneuvers. But I am here, right now, to help you achieve this milestone.”

Midoriya smiled. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to tell Yagi something more—perhaps another word of thanks, or maybe just a less anxious assessment of his progress—but clamped his mouth shut. He nodded firmly.

“Back to driving?”

Yagi, who had been observing the boy's subtle shift in focus, gave a dry cough. “I’m afraid you’re already doing so.”

Midoriya blinked, looking down at his hands, then forward through the windshield. He realized he had instinctively and smoothly reapplied gentle pressure to the accelerator, merging the car back onto the faint, cracked outline of the imaginary 'right lane' they had established in the empty lot.

He went, “Ha, I– I'm doing it– I’m driving, I can’t–can you even–?” He was starting to vibrate again, the initial nervousness replaced by a surge of pure, delighted realization.

“Green light, Midoriya, green light,” Yagi prompted.

“I mean– gonna be honest, I did not think I’d make it this far–” Midoriya started, his face lighting up with genuine pride.

“Green light, kid!” Yagi roared, his voice drowned out by the honking behind them, abandoning the calm mentorship voice completely in favor of pure, adrenaline-fueled, panicked urgency. He slammed his imaginary foot down again, just to feel the pressure. 

“Oh, shit! Sorry!”

The boy’s focus snapped back, and with a sudden, panicked jerk of the steering wheel, he over-corrected the gentle turn he should have been making. The car veered sharply, tires protesting slightly, and pulled into a section of the lot that was decidedly more "empty spot" than "moving lane." The car juddered to a complete, final stop.

The ensuing quiet was thick, punctured only by the gentle rattling of the steering column and the sound of Yagi trying to regain control of his breathing. Yagi slowly loosened his death grip on the armrest. They were still alive. The car was mostly intact. The world had not ended.

Midoriya was the first to speak, his voice soft and slightly sheepish, the intensity completely drained from him. He rested his head back against the seat.

“Wanna get food?”

Yagi considered the proposition. He was sweating profusely, his nerves were shot, and he was fairly certain he'd aged five years in the past hour. He needed several thousand calories, possibly in liquid form, and at least twenty minutes where he was not responsible for the kinetic energy of a large metal object.

He reached over, released his own seatbelt with a weary sigh, and managed a genuine, albeit wobbly, smile.

“My treat.”

v. wishes

Yagi was in a rush, a state of being that had become chronically uncomfortable since his permanent shift to his skeletal form. He clutched his trench coat tighter, his shoulders aching from the unnatural tension of hunching over. For the past two hours, he’d spent his afternoon downtown, scouring the streets for the perfect gift for young Midoriya.

It had to be perfect; it was the kid’s eighteenth birthday! This wasn't just another birthday cake and congratulations. This was a major milestone, a true transition from boy to man, and it marked Midoriya's final year of high school. The gift needed to be an anchor, something solid to hold onto as the world shifted beneath his feet.

He needed the perfect gift for a pretty damn close-to-perfect kid. The boy was a Hero, a true Symbol of Hope in his own right, and he had come so far. Yagi felt a familiar, deep swell of pride—a pride that bordered on parental—which was immediately undercut by a sharp, physical pain in his side, a constant, visceral reminder of his own failures.

The only problem—the massive, elephant-in-the-room problem that made his chest feel hollow—was the slow, inevitable reality of their shared Quirk. One For All was fading. The embers of the great power that had defined Midoriya’s destiny for the past few years dwindled each and every day, a slow-motion sunset of a phenomenal career.

How do you celebrate the transition into adulthood of the person who is losing the one thing that defined his entire journey?

The question was a hammer blow to Yagi's conscience. His first thought had been practical, adult, and utterly lacking in soul. He could get something that spoke to his new reality. A card that read, "Happy birthday, even despite the fact you'll never be a Pro, hope you have a good one!" Not only was that cruel, but it wasn't strictly true anymore. Midoriya was determined to stay in the Hero game, power or no power. The kid was already talking about support courses and agency management, his mind endlessly spinning with ways to stay involved, scribbling notes into burned notebooks. The energy Midoriya usually poured into training, he was now funneling into strategy.

Yagi knew the logical, adult thing to do would be to get something practical. Maybe a high-end fountain pen for signing future contracts—a symbol of the bureaucracy he’d have to master. Or a new pair of noise-canceling headphones for studying in an office instead of training on a field. But Midoriya wasn’t practical; he was passion. He deserved something that reflected the sheer, unbridled light of his dedication, not his eventual desk job.

He looked down at his watch and cursed under his breath. He had to wrap this up. He couldn't be late for the boy’s party.

He spotted a corner shop specializing in high-end, limited-edition Hero merchandise—The Collector's Corner. He ducked inside, the overly loud chime of the door announcing his presence and making him flinch. He was still in his more skeletal form, wearing a large trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low, hoping his gaunt silhouette wouldn't attract too much attention from the young shoppers.

He spent ten minutes browsing the aisles, his eyes scanning for something unique to All Might, feeling increasingly desperate. Midoriya already had every conceivable piece of All Might merchandise—the figurines, the posters, the blankets, even the All Might toothbrush that sang the theme song. No, it had to be something that connected to their shared history, something private, an artifact of the passing of the torch.

A small, nondescript item on the back shelf caught his eye: a vintage-era tin lunch box featuring the original, slightly dated logo of All Might. The color was muted, the design blocky and simple. It was the same design that Yagi himself remembered seeing on shelves when he first debuted, a tangible link to his own youth. It wasn't flashy or expensive; it was nostalgic and utterly unsuited for a modern Hero student, which somehow made it perfect. It was a reminder that even the Symbol of Peace started somewhere small and simple.

He bought it, along with a thick, beautifully bound journal—the kind you could sketch or write in, pages heavy enough to hold secrets—and found a nearby café to sit down and attempt to craft a message. The clock in his mind was ticking down on his remaining muscle time, but the message was more important.

He pulled out his pen and opened the blank card. The pressure of getting the tone right—to celebrate a beginning while acknowledging a profound, heartbreaking end—was immense.

He started:

My boy, Izuku,

Eighteen years old. A true milestone. I still remember the day we met, a little over three years ago. You were a nervous, trembling child full of impossible dreams.

He paused, crossing out 'trembling child.' Too sad. Too much focus on the past weakness, not the current strength. Because, God, that kid was strong, so, so strong.

My boy, Izuku,

Eighteen years old. A true milestone. I still remember the day we met, a little over three years ago. You were a nervous boy full of impossible dreams. You’ve grown into a young man who has accomplished the impossible. You have saved others, you have inspired me, and you have, quite simply, made this old Symbol of Peace the proudest teacher in the world.

As the embers continue to fade, I want you to know something critical: The power of One For All did not make you a Hero. It only gave you the tools. Your true strength was, and always will be, your heart and your incredible mind. The age of symbols might be over, but the age of true Heroes—the age of Midoriya Izuku (So cheesy, Gran Torino would laugh)—is just beginning. Find your new path, and know that you will always shine brighter than anyone.

Happy Birthday. Go Beyond. Plus Ultra, All Might.

Yagi leaned back, a small, tired smile gracing his face. That was it. It honored their past, acknowledged their present, and, most importantly, pointed toward Midoriya’s future. It was a message of unconditional endorsement, not a commiseration of loss. And also, it was a little corny. It was perfect.

He placed the card in the lunch box along with the journal, feeling a profound sense of closure as he made his way to the party.

Later that evening, in the UA. Heights Alliance common room, the party was in full swing. Class 3-A had gone all out, their collective, creative energy pouring into the celebration. The room was decked with banners that read "PLUS ULTRA BIRTHDAY!" and "EIGHTEEN: GO BEYOND." A towering cake sat precariously on the kitchen counter, featuring a somewhat lopsided edible figurine of Midoriya in his current Hero costume. Midoriya, looking overwhelmed but utterly delighted, was surrounded by his classmates—a noisy, warm circle of friends who were now his true peers.

Yagi, smiling, made his way toward Midoriya, drawing a flurry of excited whispers.

“Happy birthday, young Midoriyam” Yagi’s voice was laced with fondness. He clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture firm and solid, presenting the small, rectangular box wrapped in simple blue paper. “A little something from your old mentor.”

Midoriya’s eyes, already bright with the joy of the party, widened further upon seeing the towering figure of All Might presenting a gift personally. He accepted it carefully, handling the small weight as if it contained the secret to the universe. Once a fanboy, always a fanboy, Yagi supposed.

He swiftly pulled off the wrapping and first saw the thick, beautifully bound journal. He ran a thumb over the cover, his mind immediately cataloging its potential uses. Then, he lifted the card.

Midoriya stepped slightly aside from the noise, his face transforming into one of quiet, intense focus as he read the message. The boisterous chatter of the party faded away. He internalized every sentence, every comma, every carefully chosen word. When he reached the part about "the embers continue to fade," his lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. But the final sentences—“Your true strength was, and always will be, your heart and your incredible mind. The age of symbols might be over, but the age of true Heroes... is just beginning”—hit him with the force of a final, necessary lesson.

As he reached the end, Midoriya blinked rapidly, fighting back the powerful surge of tears. It wasn't the pity or commiseration he sometimes expected when the topic of One For All’s fate came up. It was pure, unadulterated belief in him.

“All Might…” Midoriya whispered, clutching the card like a lifeline against his chest. It was the most important document he had ever read.

He then lifted the last item nestled in the box: the vintage tin lunch box. His eyes, seconds ago swimming with emotion, snapped wide open, filling with the blinding, geeky delight that was so intrinsically Midoriya Izuku.

“No way,” he breathed, carefully examining the slightly raised texture of the tin. “Is this… is this the original ‘Smash Hero’ model from…no way. Seriously? The color palette is perfect! It’s impossible to find one this clean!”

Yagi felt a powerful sense of relief. The sheer, unadulterated fanboy excitement was the perfect chaser to the profound emotion of the card. He grinned, feeling the muscles in his jaw strain with the effort of holding his powered form.

“I had a little help from a friend in the antiques business,” Yagi lied smoothly, unwilling to mention his fifteen minutes of frantic negotiation with a stubborn shop owner who insisted it was worth twice the price. “Use it wisely, young man. Perhaps for planning your new career path.”

Midoriya nodded enthusiastically, reverently tucking the card into the journal and placing both inside the vintage lunch box. He knew the true message behind the gift: the power was a tool, but the container—his own heart, mind, and history—was the treasure. You will always be a hero, even when the power is gone.

As the party began to wind down and Yagi felt the familiar ache of old wounds, but they felt less when he watched Midoriya laughing with Uraraka and Iida. Midoriya was gesturing wildly, likely explaining the rarity of the lunch box, his smile genuine and blinding. He was eighteen, full of hope, and surrounded by people who adored him.

Yagi allowed his shoulders to slump just slightly before he excused himself. 

The embers of One For All might be fading, but the flame Midoriya had ignited in the world—and in Yagi’s heart—would never go out.

Yagi allowed himself a brief, melancholy thought before turning to leave: Midoriya Izuku’s wish came true. He became the greatest Hero.

The only wish left was Yagi's own: that the boy he loved like a son would find happiness on whatever path he chose next.

vi. gifted

Midoriya Izuku gripped his diploma, the navy folder in his hand, a radiant smile stretching across his face. 

How could he not be ecstatic?

He had done it—he had graduated from UA. High School, the finest institution for heroes in all of Japan, the very alma mater of his mentor, All Might. It was the culmination of years of relentless effort, broken bones, and unshakable determination. 

What possible reason was there not to smile about?

The formal ceremony was now a joyful, chaotic memory. Following the tradition that was both terrifying and utterly fitting for UA, Iida, Kacchan, and Monoma had, for some inexplicable reason, been chosen to participate in the "yearly traditional explosion"—a spectacle involving highly regulated but nevertheless ear-splitting detonations meant to symbolize the explosive potential of the graduating class.

As the last remnants of the confetti settled and his classmates and peers began walking through the school gates framed by the delicate, falling cherry blossoms, Izuku paused, a sudden thought arresting his steps.

Uraraka, already a short distance ahead, turned, her cheerful voice cutting through the soft murmur of the departing crowd. “Deku! Aren’t you coming to dinner? Jirou made reservations at that new katsu place.”

“Yeah! I just need to do something really quick,” Izuku called back, adjusting the strap of his backpack. “I’ll meet you guys there. Promise!”

Kaminari, slinging an arm over Sero’s shoulders, grinned cheekily. “Let me guess, Mr. License will drive right over, huh? Gotta show off that perfect driving record.”

A familiar, low growl interrupted the teasing. “Just because the nerd was able to get his license without failing on his first try doesn’t mean you gotta be salty, Sparky.” Kacchan deadpanned, his expression a familiar mix of pride and irritation, clearly still smarting from Kaminari’s earlier jab about his own near-failure on the parallel parking section.

Izuku chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll see you all soon.”

“Bye!” and "See you!" The chorus of goodbyes followed him as the group continued toward the main road.

The young man spun on his heels and jogged back toward the vast, open space where the graduation ceremony had been held. The area was quiet now, feeling strangely hollow without the throngs of students and proud parents. Most of the underclassmen had departed, and so had many of the faculty.

However, a small cluster of familiar figures remained near the podium, chatting in the golden afternoon light: Eraser Head, Aizawa-sensei, his black hair looking slightly less sleep-deprived than usual; Present Mic, striking a dramatic pose as he recounted an anecdote with a booming laugh; and All Might, looking robust in a sharp suit, though still noticeably slighter than his days as the Symbol of Peace.

Izuku drew in a deep breath, the diploma still clutched tightly. This was it. This was the moment he had to do this.

“Aizawa-sensei! Present Mic-sensei! All Might!” The green-haired boy called out, his voice ringing with both excitement and a touch of nervous energy. They all turned, their conversation immediately ceasing, their expressions shifting to welcome.

Aizawa-sensei raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Midoriya? You aren’t supposed to be here. Go celebrate. Did you drop something?”

Izuku could hear his homeroom teacher’s dry, perpetual smirk, followed immediately by the scolding voice of the English teacher. “Shouta, quit it, ya dig? Let the kid be emotional!”

Okay, Izuku, he breathed. Just like you rehearsed.

“Thank you, all three of you, for everything,” Izuku murmured into the silence, his voice barely steady.

“Huh?” Present Mic leaned forward, genuinely confused by the sudden formality.

Midoriya straightened, taking a shaky breath, and started with his former homeroom teacher. “Thank you, Aizawa-sensei, for always putting up with me and the messes I caused. You… I’ve never had a teacher like you before.”

Aizawa’s usually weary expression softened almost imperceptibly. He grunted, a sound that might have been approval. “Just… stop breaking your bones now that you’re done with school. It gives me too many gray hairs."

Midoriya’s lip trembled with a grateful smile, then he shifted his focus to face the blonde English teacher, and his hands began to move in fluid, expressive motions.

In Japanese Sign Language (JSL), Izuku signed: “Sensei, I always loved our lunches together. Thank you for teaching me not just English, but sign as well. It’s given me a way to connect with people I never could have reached otherwise.”

Present Mic immediately brought his hand up to cover his eyes, dramatically sniffing. “No problem, kiddo.” He then responded in ASL, signing with practiced speed: “Does that make me your favorite teacher, even above Shouta?”

Midoriya laughed, and the sound was immediately joined by a deep, resonant chuckle. All Might was grinning hugely, much to the horror that flashed across both Midoriya’s and Mic’s faces. They had forgotten the former Symbol of Peace was there.

“Do you know how much time I spent in America?” All Might chuckled, holding up one finger to his lips. “Of course I know a bit of sign. Don’t worry, Young Midoriya, I won’t tell him.”

“Are you talking about me?” Aizawa asked, eyes narrowed, already sensing a conspiracy.

Midoriya ignored him, his focus now solely on the man who had changed his life. “And All Might,” he continued, ignoring Aizawa’s muttered “You little—” which was promptly cut off by Present Mic’s hand clamping over his mouth. “Thank you for giving me my dream, even for a short while.”

The boy sniffled, wiping at his eyes quickly with the back of his hand before the tears could escape.

“I know you know from my file… Well, I never really got to have a dad in my life. And by the time, I was, like, eight, I kind of just expected the fact… knowing I’d never figure out how to tie a tie properly, or learn a new language, or even learn how to drive a stick shift, or anything like that. And I thought I was okay with that. I thought I had resigned myself to a life of just figuring things out alone. But… uh, then you three showed up.”

Midoriya gave a wet, choked laugh, the emotion overwhelming. “And I got to have those experiences anyway! I got to learn about responsibility from Aizawa-sensei, about communication and confidence from Mic-sensei, and about sacrifice and heroism from you, All Might.”

He spread his arms slightly, encompassing the whole space, the whole journey.

“I got to feel what it was like to be supported and guided, to be believed in. So, from the bottom of my heart,” he finished, his voice strong and clear despite the tremor, “thank you. Thank you for filling in the blanks. I am so lucky.”

Present Mic immediately leaned in, ruffling Midoriya’s already messy hair, effectively destroying any semblance of professionalism he had managed to enforce. “You’re a damn good kid, Midoriya, ya dig? Now, seriously, go get that food!”

Aizawa then spoke, using the same dry, authoritative tone he had used countless times in the classroom. “Midoriya.”

Izuku looked at him, slightly startled. Aizawa stepped close, his tired eyes focused intently on the knot of the tie Izuku was wearing—a stiff, dark green relic of his U.A. uniform.

Without a word, Aizawa reached out and carefully undid the knot, pulling the tie loose.

“I thought I did it okay!” Izuku protested, embarrassed.

Aizawa chuckled, a rare, soft sound that made both Mic and All Might raise an eyebrow. “You did. It’s perfect. I just… wanted to do it. Just once more.”

It was a small, quiet gesture, a final act of domestic instruction. He slowly and meticulously re-tied the tie, smoothing the silk and making the final knot clean, crisp, and flawlessly placed, just like the few times he’d had to adjust it before important events like the Hero Licensing Exam, even all the way back to the first few weeks of school. That was so long ago. It was a tangible piece of the fatherly guidance Izuku had just thanked him for.

The man slid the final knot into place, tapping the fabric once before stepping back to rejoin Mic and All Might. The three mentors stood side-by-side, a formidable trio of the most wonderful teachers Izuku had ever known.

Before anyone could say another word, the dam of Izuku’s carefully contained emotion broke. The finality of the tie, the immense weight of gratitude, and the simple, profound love he felt for these three men overwhelmed him.

He didn't speak. He didn't think. He simply launched forward, tackling the three grown men into a giant, all-encompassing hug.

The sound was a confused jumble:

“Oof!” All Might grunted, trying to brace himself for the force of the younger man.

“Hey! Lil’ Listener, careful with the spikes—YEAH!” Present Mic yelped, though his arms immediately wrapped tightly around Izuku.

For a long, silent moment, they just held the hug. It was messy, slightly awkward, and completely genuine. Izuku breathed in the scent of All Might’s crisp cologne, Mic’s distinctive hairspray and leather, and Aizawa’s perpetually faint smell of coffee and dust.

He was truly one of the lucky ones, gifted, he realized, closing his eyes against the warmth of the embrace. And he hoped that one day, each and every person would get to be as lucky as him—to find love that transcended things such as blood, or family trees, or anything of the sort. This was his family, everyone in his class was his family. His mother was his family. Not another man’s name that was stated on his certificate of birth.

He felt the three pairs of arms encircling him tighten with even more firmness, a final, unspoken blessing and acknowledgement of his gratitude. The boy laughed, a clear, happy sound, into one of the men’s shoulders.

It was the perfect, final, messy farewell.

Finis.