Archive of Our Own ^beta

There were some days when sleep came easily for Izuku. 

Idyllic days, really. 

This usually happened after wearying exercise regimens with All Might where they pushed One for All to the limits that Izuku could handle, and then ever so slightly beyond. This, of course, was meant to build resistance and encourage growth in controlling the quirk’s power, allowing the boy to harness more and more of the energy over time. 

These were days when the boy felt like he was accomplishing something, making some sort of headway, becoming better than he was.

These were days when he didn’t feel like he was simply spinning his wheels or falling behind. Days where he felt like maybe, just maybe, he had a chance, that he could do this. This it was possible.

And so far, they were making pretty steady progress. Thirty percent was a decent number. 

It was.

Or that's what he kept trying to reassure himself anyway, despite the constant negative humming voice that sneered in the back of his mind asserting otherwise. 

‘Such a small number. Why so little? You’re not as strong as All Might. He could access that power immediately. Why can’t you?’

Why couldn’t he?

Izuku just didn’t know, though he had his fears. 

He always had his fears. He supposed he always would. That voice would always be there, taunting him.

Still, that number was a hard-fought percentage that often resulted in the kid shuffling, half dazed, and barely conscious to his room well after sunset. With fumbling fingers, and bleary eyes he’d sink from the waking world with barely a half-blink once his head hit the pillow or mattress of his bed.

It was worth it though, he always decided, with an exhausted sigh after each lesson and training as he dragged himself home.

The aching muscles, the dazed and delirious sluggishness he often felt after taxing himself to that brink of collapse, was worth it if he could harness just a bit more power, use just a bit more of One for All. 

Make the quirk his own. 

Be a hero. 

The exhaustion was worth it. 

Falling into bed, already asleep on his feet, was worth it.  

Didn’t even matter if he’d managed to get out of his gym clothes or not (though the drool dampening his pillow was a small deterrent).

Working himself to exhaustion meant he had a goal in mind. It meant he was making progress. 

It also meant he could also avoid nightmares (usually), which was an added bonus. 

Of course, then there were nights like tonight, where, despite the stillness, with the weather blustering with a soft downfall of snowy white, and a warmth encircling the boy from the heating and his own blanket, Izuku couldn’t quite get his mind to stop whirring and churning. 

Sleep was far from his mind, even with exhaustion lingering at the corners of his eyes and tugging at his senses.

With little time for exercise routines to keep up with, and with the holidays taking precedence for many–with All Might insisting that perhaps ‘we both need a small break, young Midoriya’--Izuku was left with far more time to think than to break himself down to utter exhaustion so that he could sleep without dreaming

That’s where Izuku was stuck, confused, and somewhat angry with himself. It's not that Aizawa-Sensei himself ever gave Izuku a reason to doubt what he was saying. 

He was a hero after all, and he'd been bluntly honest about what Izuku lacked and what he could and couldn't do.

'You'd be nothing but a liability in battle.'

The boy winced at that memory and scrubbed at his face as he kicked off his blankets, trying to get comfortable. 

Things felt too warm.

Flickers and sparks of green danced along his fingers. Those were becoming familiar fixtures, lately, especially when he was agitated, when his mind was thinking of too many things, when he couldn’t get things to settle.

It didn’t help that his bed felt too soft. 

‘You deserved better, Problem Child.’ 

The boy frowned at the thought, and the words the kept replaying.

Why should Aizawa-Sensei care at all? He was just Izuku’s teacher. He wasn’t paid to care for him beyond teaching him how to be a hero. 

And even that was pushing it, Izuku knew. Even that was asking more than the boy could have ever hoped for. 

Yet here he was, with a quirk gift from his idol, and with a teacher he probably didn’t deserve, who seemed far more patient with the boy than he ought to have been. 

When did he get so lucky? Or when did people get so blind to the truth of who Izuku really was?

Izuku had gotten so used to living with things unsaid, not willing to let things slip that he didn’t want others to know. 

Because when others knew, then they could hurt you. He’d learned that too well and too often. 

And now, here he was, with someone knowing the truth. 

Not just any someone either, but someone the boy admired. 

How the hell was he supposed to deal with that? 

He wanted to believe the man cared almost as much as he didn’t dare. Because it just…it didn’t make sense that Aizawa-Sensei would care. He wouldn’t get anything from it. 

Izuku was no one. 

He couldn’t promise to give his Sensei anything in return for showing him kindness. 

He couldn’t be anything more than he was. 

And that would never be enough, Izuku knew that. 

Slowly the boy rolled to his side before slipping his feet over the edge of the bed and swinging his feet to touch the carpet. Rocking himself upright, Izuku stared at the far wall and let out a small sigh as he continued to replay the evening, letting the words hum through him as he pondered where he stood with his Sensei. 

And where he stood with himself, really. 

‘You deserved better.’ 

Did he though? 

Was he really worth more than what he was used to being and seeing himself as? 

Izuku wasn’t…

He wasn’t so sure. 

What he was sure of though? 

He really, really wanted to run right now, press his feet into his sneakers, and push himself until his lungs were burning and eyes were blurring from the wind, and he could forget about everything for just a little while. He wanted to escape the weight of these feelings bearing down, and that weird ache that’d settled in his chest whenever he received a message from his mom about Christmas being so close and how excited she was for him despite the fact that she wasn’t going to see him. 

He want to run to forget about the fact that he felt so utterly confused about where he stood with those around him, with his Sensei knowing the truth about where he’d been a year ago, with no quirk to speak of and no prospect of a hope of being a hero except a foolish dream resting on the idea that All Might had all the answers and if he--Izuku–somehow proved himself worthy enough, he could manage to be a hero like his idol. 

Somehow, he’d managed to convince the number one hero that he could measure up (despite failing at that time and again) and somehow he’d still made it into UA, though sheer dumb luck. 

But he’d been floundering and falling short ever since. He’d been struggling and causing problems, especially lately. 

Especially with all the issues Aizawa-Sensei had to deal with right now because of him, because he was here, at this time of year, intruding on others’ personal time together, and especially with secrets coming out that Izuku wished would remain buried and silent.

The boy rubbed his hands together, trying to ease the ache he found that mixed with those small flickers and flares of power and considered what he could do to try to make the issue better, to temper the problems and provide those around him with some measure of relief from that hassle that was his chaotic intrusion. 

So far, he was coming up short. 

And wasn't that annoying.

Again, the urge to bolt for the wind and weather called to him, his room feeling a little too familiar and a little too small. 

With a wary glance towards the clock, and a reminder that it was only four thirty, and the longest night of the year (dammit all) Izuku knew that heading out so early for a run would only earn him the ire of his sleep deprived Sensei and the boy wasn't overly keen to deal with that. 

But at the same time, he knew that sitting here, in the warmth and silence of this room that felt both familiar and foreign, was only going to drive his thoughts further into a frenzy. 

He needed a distraction.

He needed an escape. 

He needed something to do other than think of himself. 

The prospect of sleep had eluded him, so what to do now? What could he do without disturbing others and drawing attention to himself?

The boy chewed his bottom lip and considered…

There were a few things he still had to do, a few presents that still needed his attention. 

The boy’s thoughts turned towards Aizawa-Sensei’s secret Santa gift, and he realized, somewhat morosely, that he hadn’t considered what type of paper he’d be wrapping that in, as much as he hadn’t considered many other things lately because he’d been too occupied with wallowing in self-pity. 

‘Time to stop that, Izuku,’ He chided silently, tapping his fingers before pushing himself to his feet, a bitter sort of smile on his face. 

‘Quit being so dramatic Midoriya…’ 

He was always such a crybaby like that.

To Hitoshi, Izuku would always remain somewhat of an oddity. 

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, though he'd originally seen it as such. 

When they'd first met at the Sports Festival, he'd seen the golden boy as nothing more than a glory chaser obstacle, another All Might wannabe in the hero course, and that had instantly made Hitoshi despise the other kid. 

Because most of the glory chasers were always snobbish, self-centered, and judgmental. 

Not to mention the fact that Izuku Midoriya was in class 1A–the limelight stealing rabble that’d already dealt with villains and had come out with nothing but boastful gossip to pad their egos. 

It made Hitoshi hate Izuku, and his ‘holier than thou’ mantra about friendship and conviction all the more. 

Then those thoughts and judgments about the kid had been literally thrown out of the ring when they squared off against one another…

Sort of. 

Rather, he’d been thrown right out of the ring and had to come to the realization that Izuku Midoriya wasn’t just talk. He was, actually, quite the capable fighter, and could back up those rumors with action when the need called for it. 

Frankly, the raw determination and the way Midoriya's expression twisted into something almost aggressive during their match, was somewhat terrifying. Hitoshi could admit to being somewhat off put by the glint in Midoriya’s eye when he’d been flipped onto his back, and left gasping for air. And he could admit to being just a little bit grateful he hadn’t had to face against the kid’s quirk when he actually watched the match between Midoriya and Todoroki that happened later that day.  

He was glad to not be a villain, on more than one occasion.

Who would want to face that? 

Hell, Hitoshi had only gotten a small taste of the boy's power during their team trials and he never really wanted to relive that again. Seeing the way the kid had grown in control and strength was, frankly, impressive and bizarre to witness, let alone experience. 

Hitoshi had faced Izuku twice now and been left with more questions and unease the answers about the kid. 

Like how someone could command so much power in a fight, could reinforce every rumor and idea about him actually being that golden boy with his power and prowess and  and yet remain so...docile and quiet in the day to day, as though he couldn’t force people to listen to him or care…

And for so long that’s what Hitoshi had expected other would-be hero students to act like. He’d certainly met enough of them to know that a lot of them did act that way, believing that their quirk, their power, was the end all be all, and they were the greatest, the brightest, and the best. They were judgmental, rude, sort of stupid really. 

And they pissed Hitoshi off, made it a little harder to want to even go into the hero course if he had to deal with those morons in his own quest to be a hero. 

I mean, why set himself up for something that annoying? Why bother trying to get into a future where he’d have those types as potential coworkers? 

Competition?

Because a lot of hero work was a popularity contest now, really. You had have your name rise in the polls. You had meet quotas and smile and look a certain way. 

You had to conform. You had to be what others expected. 

And then came Midoriya.

He just didn’t seem to fit into that description and Hitoshi didn’t know if that pissed him off more or confused him more. 

Which still pissed him off, true, but for a different reason. 

Golden boy acted so different than Hitoshi expected, so different than he’d initially judged him for. 

Midoriya acted as though he was where he was, in the class he was, doing what he was, becoming a hero…

He acted as though he wasn’t worth more than Hitoshi was in the hierarchy of quirks and powers, as though he didn’t have the right power to fight for better treatment than he sometimes received from others.

Like he said, an oddity. 

And that’s where Hitoshi was stuck, curious and somewhat confused by Midoriya’s actions, wondering why they were so…similar to his own. 

Because he wasn’t stupid. He could see the same signs and telltale signals that spoke of someone who had gone through something darker and had turned in on themselves. He knew what that felt like. 

He’d lived it. 

He’d seen it in himself for a long time, before Yamada and Aizawa had sort of coaxed him to be a little more open. 

But only a little. 

And he’d seen it in Yamada and Aizawa, though for different reasons, he was certain, though they’d never told him the full stories. Just murmurs of unsettled childhoods and a loss they’d never quite gotten over. Hitoshi knew not to push.  

He’d seen it in Eri too, and he’d tried to help, as he’d seen Midoriya and Aizawa, and Yamada and Mirio and others do, to get the girl to see brighter things, to be a kid and not have that baggage weighing her down. 

Hitoshi carefully stroked Nutmeg’s back as he watched, silently, as Izuku Midoriya slowly crept into through the long hall that connected the student dorms and common room to the teacher’s area, his hair mussed, and eyes bright, even in the dim light. It was only five thirty and Hitoshi had offered to get up to take care of the kittens this time around (though Aizawa had mentioned that they were getting old enough to not need as much care as frequently) and yet Midoriya was  up and dressed in warm sweats and a hoodie, with a slouchy black hat and gloves–the same ones he’d received from his Sensei–and slowly making his way towards the door, where his running shoes and sneakers were. 

With careful steps the boy moved through the living room, trying not to make noise, failing miserably to not crinkle or jostle his clothing or cause the floor to creak in any weird way when he walked.

“You know, you could just…walk normally,” Hitoshi drawled, earning a startled sort of squawk from the golden boy, who tripped on the small step up towards the shoes and the doorway. There was a brilliant flash of green, as Midoriya tumbled and tried to catch himself, failing miserably as he stumbled, instead, and knocked into the wall with a soft ‘thud’ his head bouncing against the plaster, making the picture frames rattle. 

Hitoshi snorted in amusement, a small (very small) twinge of guilt flashing through him as the other boy scrambled to his feet and hissed as he rubbed his sore head, while apologizing for the noise he was making. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Shinsou! I didn’t even see you,” Midoriya muttered, frowning, as he scrunched his brows together and turned more fully towards the amaranthine-haired boy still seated on the couch. “Was I too loud? I was just…heading out for a run.” 

Hitoshi resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the explanation of the obvious and merely shook his head towards the somewhat anxious boy across from him who continued to mutter an apology or two for his loud tromping through the living room during the early morning. 

There were a few meowing protests from the kittens to Midoriya’s commentary that had the verdant-haired boy quirking his head in lightly, a wry, embarrassed smile on his face as he laughed lightly at the reply he’d received from the other occupants awake at this hour. 

“Seems they agree that you weren’t any louder than normal,” Hitoshi noted evenly, watching as Midoriya balked at the comment, a warm heat coloring his cheeks as he sputtered lightly at the jibe leveled at him. 

At that, Hitoshi couldn’t resist the small grin this time. He knew that Midoriya wouldn’t take things personally and that Hitoshi was merely teasing him. 

A rarity, true, but still, the small uptick of the other boy’s mouth was the reassuring factor that set Hitoshi at ease enough to continue believing that he’d not offended with his comment. 

“You’re fine, Midoriya,” the boy remarked, continuing to stroke Nutmeg easily, feeling the warm blast of heat from the fireplace. “Everyone else is asleep. I was already awake, feeding the cats.”

The golden boy hesitated for a moment before he nodded briefly and continued towards his running shoes, sitting himself on the floor to get them on his feet with practiced ease and careful attention, that showed the familiarity of the activity. 

This, of course, gave Hitoshi a brief chance to observe the other who bent his head downward, green curls hiding his face from view. 

And wasn’t it odd, watching the way Midoriya moved, so self-assured in the care he put into tying the laces of his shoes, but with scarred hands nonetheless. There was a fluidity to the way his arms slowly eased the laces into their firm knots, but a soft muttering whisper and a shaking at the fingertips that belied the way the boy still seemed somewhat uncertain or…

Something else entirely. A distraction that held the other kid’s attention. 

And then, of course, there were the bits of…glue and…paper? 

And glitter? On the kid’s clothing. 

Hitoshi frowned at that, clearly confused by what he was seeing. 

That was odd. Certainly not something you’d see on someone’s clothes when they were getting ready to go running of all things. 

Had Midoriya been up longer than Hitoshi realized? And if so, where the hell had he been and what the hell had he been doing up until now? 

“Hitoshi?”

The kid blinked and, lavender met forest as Midoriya furrowed his brows, studying him in that familiar way that made Hitoshi feel like he couldn’t quite hide anything, despite how good he’d gotten at lying to everyone else. 

Despite the desire to be seen, when it actually happened, when Midoriya actually looked and saw you, he never quite knew how to handle it, never quite knew how to feel. 

He sort of hated how good the kid was at doing that, whether he realized it or not. Hitoshi suspected it was just a natural part of what made Midoriya…Midoriya. 

“You okay, Shinsou?” 

Hitoshi nodded slowly, frown still in place as the two stared at one another, each studying for their own reasons it seemed, each trying to decipher something. 

Each trying to understand. 

“They were wrong you know.” It was Izuku’s turn to blink as Hitoshi spoke, the words falling slowly in the stillness of the morning, the wind whistling lightly out the windows. 

But silence wouldn’t help either of them understand one another or the situation. 

“The other day,” he continued, “With what happened. You didn’t deserve it.” 

At that, Midoriya averted his gaze, back towards his shoes, fingers fiddling, a little more clumsily, with his laces as he hummed softly. It was noncommittal, and showed just how awkward the conversation made Midoriya feel, but Hitoshi knew, at least from an insider perspective, what one person saying the truth could do. 

“People can be assholes” The Hitoshi muttered, almost bitterly, letting his own feelings color his words, his sentiments ringing as true for Midoriya as they did for himself. 

He blamed the early hour, and being too tired to care, for his lax attitude towards his own personal feelings. 

“You didn’t deserve it.” 

“You don’t either,” came the quiet reply, Midoriya’s voice carrying just enough to tickle at Hitoshi’s ears, striking him silent, “And I’m sorry if I ever judged you the way others have. You’ve never deserved that from me, or anyone else.” 

The boy blinked. 

And then blinked again. 

Wait, what? 

Hitoshi shook his head and leveled and straightened in his seat, watching as Midoriya rose to his feet, an apologetic smile on his lips as he nodded towards the kid still on the couch, the meowing cats circling in their little pen, Nutmeg still in his lap. 

“Midoriya, you never–” 

“I am sorry, Shinsou,” The kid remarked again, heading towards the door, “I promise I’ll work harder at being a better friend.”

Work harder at being a better…?

The doorway opened silently, a blast of frigid winter air battling against the warmth that enrobed the living room. A fluttering of snow followed the wind, fluttering in and dropping along the floor as Midoriya hastened out into the biting chill, casting a small smile back towards the couch, before he let the door click shut, leaving the Hitoshi with the distinct impression that this conversation hadn’t gone well at all. 

It’d gone rather shitty if he were honest. 

Because Midoriya seemed to think he was the problem…? 

It took a minute for Hitoshi’s brain to process what Midoriya had said, took him too long to actually formulate a proper reaction to the absurdity that’d fallen from the other kid’s mouth.

Because really…

What…the…hell? 

Why would he take the blame? 

Why did Midoriya feel it necessary to shoulder that responsibility and assume that it was his fault? 

‘Because he’d been trained to.’ 

The boy shook his head again and turned back towards the fire, listening to the wind mix with the crackling of the flames, the soft purring of the kitten in his lap a kind reminder that things weren’t completely screwed up. 

That there was still time to set things right. 

“As if he’d been anything like those judgmental morons,” the boy snorted with a sour grin. “What an idiot.”  

Now, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that Shouta Aizawa was not a perfectionist. 

He wasn’t.

And, truth be told, most people would agree to that assessment as well. You could tell, just by looking at him, that he wasn’t one who dabbled in the ideology of the pristine perfectionism that many others were beholden to. In fact, he was probably the furthest thing from it.

Especially when it came to heroes. 

For some odd reasons, the hero community seemed to find it even more necessary than most to uphold this image of being unblemished in image, appearance, and personality. 

Shouta, on the other hand, thought that was a somewhat shitty way to lose yourself, which was a big reason why he sort of hated the popular heroes, and the media clamoring for attention. 

He liked shadows much better. 

The man dressed for comfort. He didn’t usually care what his hair looked like, nor what others seemed to think of his appearance. It’s not like he was dressing to impress them anyway.

Apparently, though, according to ‘Zashi, he often appeared somewhat...grubby and rundown because of it. 

‘A real street hero, Shou.’ The man would tease. 

He certainly wasn’t like Tsunagu, with his perfectly coiffed hair and stylized image, whether dressed as a hero, or in his civilian clothing. 

But, so what if Shouta was a bit...scruffy by comparison. Did it really matter so much? 

He didn't really think so. He wasn’t here to impress people. He didn’t care what they thought or assumed. It wasn’t really a rational or practical concern to have. Not when he had other things to attend himself to. 

Where Hizashi was often the more image-conscious hero, especially given the nature of his job and appearance in the mainstream hero circuit, Shouta was more content for comfort and quiet of simply working from the rooftops, under the streetlights or in the shadows, and ignoring a camera flash. 

He preferred imperfection. 

He’d always prefer it. 

Most of the time that is. 

Yes, Shouta Aizawa was content for a little mess, and a bit of imperfection when it came to just about everything in his life, because that was the reality of how life could be: messy. It wasn’t pristine, nor was it so stylized and so exceptionally well put together. So, Shouta could accept the lack of precision and perfection.

Except when it came to wrapping presents. 

He couldn't tell you why, per se, the prospect of wrapping a gift elicited a finer attention to precision and detail on his part. Nevertheless, Shouta always found himself frowning and carefully folding and taping and creasing paper to make it fit, just so, around his gifts of choice. 

'Zashi called him 'persnickety' about the whole thing and found it hilarious that he 'cared more about a present's appearance than his own physical one', which was true, yes, but somewhat irrelevant. 

Perhaps, too, he supposed, it was because the gifts themselves weren’t for Shouta so the need for them to look…presentable...centered around a sort of consideration for how others may receive and perceive their presents. Perhaps Shouta wanted the recipients to understand that these gifts were given with some semblance of care. 

And that Shouta wasn’t as lax as some might like to assert or imply simply because he didn’t really care if he subscribed to the strictures and expectations of popular hero fashion. 

That didn’t really matter. 

What mattered was helping others, doing for others. 

Being a hero for others. 

And gift giving? 

Well, as sentimental as it may seem (and he would deny it to anyone–except ‘Zashi who was really just as bad) gift giving was sort of an opportunity to help someone too. It was a way to show someone you cared, right? A way to show that someone mattered.

A thoughtful endeavor, really. 

So, that’s why he was currently holed up in his office, just past the communal student kitchen of Height’s Alliance, with the stockpile of gifts he’d procured over the last several weeks, a stock of wrapping paper, scissors, and tape at the ready, his trademark frown in place, and a small pot of coffee brewing on the small table across the room. 

With a thoughtfulness that belied practiced precision, the man had taken the time to separate each recipient’s gifts into a small pile, with a coordinating tube of wrapping paper positioned nearby. 

He liked organization as much as he liked convenience and the more he could make this whole process a timely one the better for him.

The man’s expression shifted as he skipped through each pile of presents, thoughts straying towards the recipient as he idly noted the myriad of gifts that each sported, the differences that  made up the collective.

It'd made shopping for each of his intended giftees interesting (and a tad frustrating if he were honest) but it'd been a fascinating endeavor to say the least. 

Carefully the man's fingers ran along the box that contained 'Zashi's gift, the paper and wrapping already in place as the memory of  Problem Child’s thoughtful expression peeked through his mind's eye as he’d led Shouta to the stall that contained the Kintsugi kits. 

'He seemed the sentimental type.'

It'd always struck Shouta just how much Problem Child saw, the details he seemed to notice and take into account, his thoughtfulness stretching far beyond his proclivity for heroic stratagem. 

No, it seemed Izuku Midoriya tended to use his analysis to simply see the people around him and use his knowledge to extend care whenever possible.

Several instances sprang to mind, not least of all yesterday with a little girl and her birthday. The boy’s attention towards Eri, his careful time, attention, and dedication to ensuring that the girl had a wonderful day, that it centered on her and that she had reason to smile spoke volumes about what Problem Child tended to see in others that may not be so apparent on the surface, what may not be outwardly visible. 

It made Shouta wonder, briefly, as he pulled out Hizashi's designated wrapping paper (a mixture of blue and yellow stripes), just what the kid observed in him, what things he saw that Shouta hadn't spoken aloud. 

Shouta wondered if he was as good at schooling his thoughts as he'd originally supposed or if the kid picked him apart as he seemed to do everything else. 

What did Problem Child see when his Sensei spoke to him?

An interesting notion to consider. 

But, what was more interesting, and more worth the man’s time, he mulled and speculated–as he drew the scissors through the wrapping paper, portioning off a piece, readying to begin the folding and taping up of another of ‘Zashi’s gifts–were the manila envelopes waiting for him when he first made towards his office this morning. 

At just after six-thirty, with sleep still lingering at the edges of his consciousness, and barely in the mood to deal with anything other than what he’d originally planned and anticipated, Shouta wasn’t ready to face one Toshinori Yagi standing outside his office door, still dressed in his clothes from the day before, the long coat he’d worn to the temple hanging on his shoulders, wrinkled in some places, and damp, as though he’d just come in from the cold. 

And with bags marring the space beneath his eyes, shadowing the sapphire gaze even more so than normal, the former ‘Symbol of Peace’ look haggard. It tempered some of the agitation that Shouta felt for the man as he stepped down the hall and squared off against Yagi silently, waiting for the man to speak, what was on his mind, a deep-seeded agitation clearly eating at him as he fidgeted, feet shuffling, fingers dancing along the edges of the envelopes he held in his grip. 

Having taken stock of Shouta’s appearance in the hall–and who knows how long the man had been waiting there–Toshinori had pushed himself to stand straighter, and nodded to the underground hero, his movements stiff, a frown pinching at angular cheeks. 

“Aizawa,” he’d begun quietly, voice gruff and exhausted, “Nezu and…Tsukauchi asked that I bring a copy of this paperwork to you as soon as possible. There are a few…updates to things with Alderra that might be worth your time.” 

And that had been the vaguest way for All Might to intone that something serious had happened but they weren’t willing to go into further detail about it until after Shouta had looked through the files. And, given the somewhat hesitant nature of Toshinori’s attitude towards Shouta, there seemed to be something there that even Yagi didn’t want to get into. 

The underground hero could do nothing more than nod in agreement, a flare of concern sparking in him at the idea that this case they’d started, this investigation that they’d opened on Problem Child’s behalf, was growing to be far bigger than he’d anticipated. 

With a decided frown and a disapproving grumble, Shouta brought out the tape and carefully applied it to the corners of the paper, sealing the edges to Hizashi’s gift, before he let his attention shift towards his desk, and the stack of files waiting for his perusal, an itching curiosity flickering across his senses. 

‘A different type of gift,’ he mused sourly, memories of the last week playing and replaying in his head, as he continued to pull the wrapping paper carefully over ‘Zashi’s gift, pushing through to finish one task at a time, to work through things systematically and rationally. 

The manila envelopes would be there. 

And he had plenty of coffee to see him through what would inevitably be a shitshow of information, he was sure. 

But for now? 

Wrapping would commence. 

Briefly, the man turned towards Problem Child’s small stockpile of gifts, the bag of gifts he’d purchased on their outing still taunting him with uncertainty, as he considered what the next few days would bring for the kid. 

It’d be up and down, he was certain. Highs and lows, emotionally. Missing his mother, celebrating with friends…

Shouta, for his part, wanted to make sure that this present–for what it was worth–looked decent, was wrapped and ready, thoughtfully given time and attention so that the recipient, Problem Child might understand that he was…

That…

The man stopped briefly, hands hovering just above his work as he shook his head, certain he’d need to refill the coffee pot before too long. 

’Feelings, Shou…’

The man sighed. 

This was going to be a long day. 

It was like being slapped in the face. 

The wind was strong this morning, bitter in its chill as the snow pelted Izuku’s cheeks and spattered into his eyes. The hat he wore did little to stave off the cold that was seeping through his hoodie and snaking down his shirt as droplets of snow melted and mixed in with the sweat that collected there. 

His fingers, despite the gloves that Aizawa-Sensei had given him, were going a tad bit numb, the winter chill growing ever more fierce, a storm brewing on the horizon. The forecast had predicted it, Izuku knew, with the weather meant to be somewhat dismal for the remainder of the week, signaling they were well and truly within winter’s grip. 

Seems they’d have a white Christmas, with the blustering snowfall to look forward to. 

Which, of course, did nothing to deter Izuku from going on his morning run, though it really should have. But, he was considered somewhat stubborn according to some...even though he wasn't really. Not much anyway. 

Though it didn't matter regardless because, stubborn or no, so run he would. 

The boy focused on his footfalls and each slap of his sneakers through the slush, trying to avoid the icy patches that had already caused him to slip, more than once, in the early morning weather. He’d already been warned by Aizawa-Sensei to watch his footing, to take care of where he went and when he went out…to be mindful of the weather.

‘So why are you ignoring him then?’ 

The boy frowned, ignoring the silent question that sprang to mind, and continued to push through the wind, blinking a few times to clear his vision as more snow pelted his face, chilling his nose, numbing his cheeks. A beat pulsed in his ears to match the way the air around him rushed and the snowflakes spattered against his clothes. 

If the boy didn’t know the route as well as he did, he’d almost be worried for where he was going, with visibility as uncertain as it was. Buildings were reduced to shadowscapes, dawn’s light hidden behind dark grey clouds as flurries swirled, whipped by the wind that swayed the branches that dotted along the causeway at the park near the water, their dark edifices beginning to be swallowed up by the white. 

Soon enough, he was sure, everything would be blanketed. It was both enchanting and concerning. 

And it matched, to some degree, what Izuku seemed to feel within himself right now. 

Outwardly everything seemed perfect, idyllic, a true representation of the Christmas season. All the holiday cheer, with its blustery familiarity and beauty wrapped around Izuku and coated him so completely that he was often lost in the moment, swallowed up in the traditions and festivities and the scenery that surrounded. 

Lights and trees and carols and music. 

Food and laughter and family…

It was perfect. It was everything holidays were meant to be. 

And yet…

It still hurt. 

Just as the wind still bit at his cheeks, just as it slapped at him, numbed his fingers, made him ache. Everything perfect felt…painful. 

Even if it wasn’t meant to. 

The snow, while a representation of Christmas, was still a storm. It could still cause damage. 

And Izuku still had to be careful. 

He could still slip on those icy patches on the sidewalk. He could still lose track of where he was as visibility dimmed and the wind picked up. 

He could still trust the wrong people. 

He could still end up doing something stupid. 

He could still screw things up. 

Ruin his chances. 

Disappointing those he cared about. 

Not being strong enough. 

Not being good enough. 

Not doing enough.

Not caring enough. 

Not giving enough. 

Not pushing enough. 

Not fighting enough.

Izuku’s heart dropped in surprise as a misstep had the boy sliding, his feet moving one way, his hands flailing outwards as the world twisted and his vision blurred. The world around him distorted and wavered, and he ended up pitching forward, hands and knees slamming into concrete as he lost his balance and toppled to the ground. 

‘Dammit.’

The boy winced, but counted himself lucky that he’d fallen forward this time instead of backward. He didn’t know what Aizawa-Sensei would have said had he come back with another bump on his head. 

Recovery Girl, too, would have been…

The kid shuddered and picked himself up carefully, ignoring the small tears in the knees of his pants and the scuffs on his sneakers as he wrinkled his nose at his damp gloves, sniffling as his nose started to run. 

The wind continued to whistle shrilly, even through the music that played in his ear, and Izuku furrowed his brows as he peered out into the hazy mess of flurries around him, trying to get his bearings, and realizing that he’d gone a hell of a lot further than he’d anticipated, already three quarters of the way around the perimeter of the park, coming ever closer to looping back to his normal starting point that would lead towards the causeway that took him back home…back to UA. 

That had panic welling in the boy’s throat, agitation tickling his fingers and making him shudder again as he considered all the unanswered frustrations that kept eating at him, causing more restless nights, more worries and fears and concerns. 

More reasons to doubt himself. 

‘You’re not a worthy successor.’ 

‘Nothing but a liability in battle.’ 

The boy started up again, beginning to jog, moving himself forward, through the slogging snowstorm as the damp made goosebumps dance along his arms, even tucked beneath the hoodie and long sleeves he sported. He knew he’d have to turn back soon enough. 

He knew he’d have to face reality again. 

But just for a few more minutes…

He could just marvel at the snow and let himself feel it fall around him. 

He could concentrate on the way his shoes squelched through the slush and his socks felt damp as he splashed through a puddle, trying to avoid the ice beneath. 

He could try to memorize the beat of the music pulsing through his headphones, travelling to his ears and casting a theme to the day. 

Just for a few more minutes, as Izuku sucked in a deep breath, and clenched his hands into fists, trying to work some feeling back into his fingers, he supposed he could just stop thinking about all the looming worries that he’d left back at UA. 

He could just be for a moment. 

Maybe he could convince himself that everything was just okay. 

Just for a minute, here in the weather, where he was numbed and shaking and losing himself in the fray, feeling smaller and smaller by the minute, Izuku felt like he could breathe. 

Which was stupid, he knew. 

He knew he was overreacting. He knew he was being irrational and illogical and whining about stupid things that he should just let go of and move on from. 

There was so much more to care about, so many more things to worry over. 

All for One being a big issue that he really should tend to, focus on, care about. 

And he did. Really, he did. 

But for some damned reason…

The boy grimaced as he stepped into a deeper puddle than he expected, his sneaker sinking into the cold water, his sock absorbing the frigid liquid making him wrinkle his nose disdainfully as he shook off the excess in annoyance. More snow slipped down the back of his neck as he bent to adjust his laces and shake his foot out, all while muttering to himself. 

Why was he doing this again? 

Why was this so damned important? 

The song shifted as the boy squinted into the distance, spying the long line of barren trees, their branches dancing in the wind as the wind haze swirled around. Glints of silver signaled the lining of chain link fence that separated the sidewalk from the water, even if he couldn’t see the waves lapping against the rocks or the ducks quacking and bobbing along the shore. 

Of course, given the sort of terrible shape the weather was in, Izuku didn't blame the water fowl if they'd sought shelter. 

'As should you.' 

The chiding voice that echoed in his head sounded suspiciously like Aizawa-Sensei and it made him both want to smile and grimace as he considered the implications of what that meant. 

How much he cared about what Aizawa-Sensei thought of him, and how much it meant he had to lose when Aizawa-Sensei finally figured out the truth about what was actually going on. 

Because if things kept going as they were, if his teacher continued to push and ask questions as he did, then Izuku was sure he’d figure things out, he’d understand, he’d know that the boy was lying. 

That he’d always been lying. 

That he was a fraud. 

That this power was never his to begin with. 

That he was still quirkless. 

Still useless. 

Still the nobody he’d always been. 

And he would be someone Aizawa-Sensei would have no time to consider, no time to care about, no time…

The boy blinked rapidly and hastened his footsteps, determined to finish his run before he turned around and headed back. 

Or, rather he would have, had a hand not wrapped around his shoulder, halting his movements, making him jump in surprise as he nearly lost his footing.

‘Shit!’ 

The boy jerked and flailed, turning with wide eyes towards his assailant, quirk thrumming in his veins, sparks dancing, as he leveled a wary look behind him. 

The first thought he had was that it was a villain, because, naturally, that’s what he’d expected. And really, with his luck, it wouldn’t have been all that surprising. His class, his family, his friends, they’d faced so many villains now that it was almost run of the mill at this point. 

Honestly, it was almost weird that he hadn’t experienced a villain attack at this point, so he was ready to fight, ready to backpedal and prepare himself to go on the defense the minute someone laid a hand on him this early in the morning, here in the snowstorm. 

He started in shock as he peered into the face of Eiji, the pastry shop owner, peering towards him, bundled up in a heavy coat, with a large, brown wool hat, and umbrella, and a frown firmly in place. 

What the hell?

The man, not much taller than he was, shook his head towards Izuku, brows furrowed as the boy hastily reached in his pocket for his phone, turning off his music and removing his headphones from his ears. 

Into his pocket they went before he caught the distinct ‘tsk’ from the man before him. 

The headshaking continued as the boy stared confusedly back at the man. 

“Well then, young man,” Eiji noted evenly, his voice low as he looked Izuku up and down, seeming to study the boy, “Seems Haru was right. Again. Says you weren’t taking care of yourself and now, here you are out in this storm, running yourself ragged.” 

Izuku…was somewhat confused and it took him a full minute for his mind to comprehend what the man was saying to him.

Because he was trying to understand just how the man had caught up to him in the first place. 

‘Was it his quirk?’ The boy pondered silently, studying the man who stared back at him expectantly from beneath his umbrella, kind eyes flashing with a firmness he’d never seen the man sport before. 

Come to think of it, did Izuku even know Eiji’s quirk? He’d never really bothered to ask because…well because that was somewhat rude and Izuku wasn’t completely stupid. He knew how to interact with people from time to time. 

He’d assumed, initially, that the man’s quirk  had something to do with his profession, with the bakery and his ability to produce the pastries that he did. But he’d never actually questioned it. Mostly because he’d never had a reason to…

‘Huh, so what if it wasn’t anything to do with it. What if it was a speed quirk then? Why would he be working in a bakery? What advantage would that give him there? Perhaps it makes it easier to mix the batter and move around the kitchen. Or maybe it made him–’

“Young man.” 

Izuku’s thoughts screeched to a halt at the call and he let out a soft huff as he turned his full attention back to Eiji, embarrassment warming his neck as he watched the man’s concern grow as he peered back at the boy. 

Another ‘tsk’ followed another shake of the man’s head as he gestured for the boy to follow him. 

“Come on then, Haru’s waiting at the shop. Demanded I come out here and snatch you up to get you out of this weather,” The man groused lightly with a small smile, “Said you needed something warm to tide you over before you were to, and I quote, ‘take a basket of pastries back to the family’ at the school.’ since she thinks all you hero kids are working too hard.” 

Working too hard? 

The boy blinked but followed, unsure of what to say or how to combat the accusations thrown at him. 

What did Eiji mean that Izuku was running himself ragged? 

Not taking care of himself? 

The boy shook his head, feeling the wind spatter more snow into his face as the man continued to grumble about the horrid weather and ‘unruly youth who thought they were impervious to illness’ as the man brought the umbrella up and over Izuku’s head continuing the steer Izuku back towards the cafe, a solid five minute walk from where they’d been. 

And yeah, Izuku was certain that the man must have a speed quirk of some kind in order to have caught up to Izuku the way he had. How else could it have been possible? Izuku wasn’t as fast as Iida but he wasn’t slow either. Especially when he let himself put a boost into his running, using a little bit of One for All to push his footfalls to go just a little faster. 

So if someone like Eiji had caught up to him when he was doing that then the only probably explanation was that the man had to have some sort of quirk that enhanced his movements somehow, made him go faster, or...or something similar. 

That had to be it. 

Right? 

Eiji had always been fond of children. 

He and Haru both. 

Opening the shop when they were younger, they’d both taken delight in serving the younger faces in the crowd, watching innocent eyes light up each time Haru handed a small hand a cookie or a cupcake…

Or a cinnamon roll that seemed to rival the size of the cherubic faces as icing dribbled down chins and stuck to cheeks. 

Haru purposely made those cinnamon rolls that large for that very reason, enjoying the way those childlike gazes widened when offered the larger morsels, sparkles of pure amazement shining in their gazes as they were proffered the treat. 

Both of them reveled in the laughter of little voices, hiding their own smiles at the sticky handprints that marked the display cases as little fingers and faces pressed against the glass to try to peer in on the desserts. 

Both of them appreciated little smiles, the joviality and cheer, eager to keep things lively and light and bright for as long as they possibly could because it brought both Haru and Eiji as much joy to watch these children giggle and excitedly chomp through their gifted treats as it did those children. 

A win-win. 

Especially when the pair of them knew the hardships of the world, the darker clouds that hung on the future heroes as they grew and developed quirks and were pushed, ever-faster, down that track towards spotlight. 

Towards sacrifice. 

And that’s where it hurt them both. 

Eiji knew it was sort of a sore spot for Haru to observe each day as she prepped the store. He could see it in her eyes, as she wiped down the counters and tinkered with setting the cupcakes just so, watching as families passed by in the early mornings, here eyes straying to those little children with their backpacks and merchandise that spoke of their hopes and dreams for a future in hero world. 

A world filled with danger. 

A world that’d taken a great deal from both of them 

Eiji knew the weight his wife carried each day, as she baked and organized and set her pastries out, opening their shop and tending to customers. 

He knew the shadow that lurked beneath that smile, the sorrow that she kept tucked close, unwilling to share it with anyone. 

At least not in words of sorrow or grief. 

Not in a recounting of a sad story. 

No, she shared it in her gift of kindness, in her smiles and doting, and in the thoughtful way she tended to the children that entered her shop…

Or passed by her window. 

Like Izuku Midoriya had that very morning. 

When they’d first met the boy a few weeks prior, as he’d rushed to help Eiji with the lights and decorations outside the store, Haru had taken an instant liking to the boy, marveling at the gentle nature of the boy’s demeanor and speech. 

There was a softness in his actions, a quiet reserve to his regard as he observed those around him, his smile always light and comforting, setting the world at ease. 

Izuku Midoriya had a natural, hero’s charisma. 

And he’d endeared himself to the pair in short order. 

So really, it’d been a wonder that the woman hadn’t marched out there herself to fetch the boy who was running laps around the waterway, through the park, sparks of green flashing through the hazy snow storm. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times they’d watched the boy circle the perimeter, his head tucked down, as he moved through the storm, face barely visible through the blustering and snowfall. And, had they not been as attentive to knowing who passed by their window they wouldn't have understood it to be the very same boy, trudging through the haziness and snow, and would have let him continue on in his isolation, out in that weather, probably until he dropped. 

Eiji watched, through trips between the kitchen and the front counter, as Haru peered out the window, hands on her hips, staring after the boy with a decided frown on her face, a hum of disapproval that she only ever used when she was downright worried, whistling through her lips, as she watched the child stumble and slip on the icy pathway down towards the water. 

And that’d been the final straw really. Watching the boy falter and fall had had the woman nearly out the door, a strangled noise in her throat before Eiji had stopped her, his own coat in hand as he’d reached for his umbrella, determined to retrieve the wayward child before his wife could do it herself. 

‘He’s running himself ragged,’ she’d noted, her voice low. ‘This is unacceptable.’ 

And indeed it was. 

And he’d promised to remedy the issue. 

He’d promised to bring the wayward child back to the warmth of the bakery. 

It was the same promise he’d made a dozen times over, for a dozen or more children. 

But Izuku was just…a little different. 

Yes, every child mattered to Eiji and Haru. Every bright-eyed and laughing (or crying) kid that came through those doors meant something to them. They all held a tender place for the couple. 

But this was a little more personal. Izuku wasn’t just another face. It was a bit deeper than that. Ever since the kid had walked in, Eiji could see it was different. 

He could see it in Haru’s face. He could see it in her eyes. 

And he saw it each time Yamada and Aizawa frequented the store and spoke of that same boy, that same lost little ‘Problem Child’ (‘as if they weren’t the same sort of problem children themselves’, the man thought wryly). 

And each conversation, each interaction painted a familiar picture–a picture that spoke of a memory that they both wanted to cling to and forget. 

Each time Yamada let slip of Aizawa’s fondness for the child, the care and worry he felt for the kid he’d claimed as his own (though he seemed to deny it halfheartedly), as Haru packaged up those oversized cinnamon rolls (for the grown children she’d fussed over since their own school days), Eiji could see her own care and growing for that same boy, that same Problem Child. 

‘You’re too much alike, Yukimi,’ A lump had formed in Eiji’s throat and he blinked with a bitter sort of smile, recalling. 

It wasn’t just a smile they were trying to keep alight with the boy. 

“Oh my dear boy, what on earth were you thinking?”

‘Mama misses you.’ 

Haru’s voice carried and pitched as the bell jingled when they entered in from the fray and spatter outside. The woman took little time to wait for an answer. Nor did she wait for Eiji to collapse his damned umbrella before she tugged the wide-eyed child from beneath the safety of the  contraption and into a small embrace, her hands rubbing the child’s damp sleeves as she tutted and fussed over the boy’s red face and near blue lips. 

“Honestly, of all the silly things you could do,” The woman fussed, “What provoked you to go running out in that storm?”

‘Why would she go into that fight knowing she’d lose?’  

“That’s what I’d like to know” Eiji hummed as he hung up his coat, and let the water drip from his umbrella, shaking it lightly against the doormat before he set it against the doorframe to dry. 

Each turned to face the boy, eyes kind, smiles gentle, as they watched a flurry of emotions flicker across a tired face. 

Confusion. 

Curiosity. 

Worry. 

There was a small flare of fear there, briefly sparking for a moment, before it was overshadowed by a familiar softening of the boy’s gaze as he peered back at the pair. 

Care. 

A care they’d seen too many times before. 

A care from heroes. 

From Yamada. 

From Aizawa. 

From Yukimi. 

“I’m sorry to worry you,” The child murmured quietly, voice rough and gravelly from the weather. Haltingly, the boy cleared his throat and tried to smile as he straightened to a fuller height. 

A stronger height. 

“I was only out for my morning run,” The boy continued with a small laugh, trying to ease the tension and the disapproval that was leveled at him (even if it was well meant) “I didn’t realize that the weather was so bad. I only meant to do a lap before heading back to campus.” 

And here Eiji’s brows furrowed as he considered the boy’s words, watching the way the child grinned easily, his face light with amusement as he tried to downplay the severity of the situation, as he tried to settle the unease and the doting from Haru as she continued to frown at the boy before her. 

One lap. 

The boy had only meant to do one lap. One lap in this weather, with this wind and the snow and slush and ice and freezing chill. 

Staring at the boy, whose clothes dripped with melted snow, a growing puddle of water on the floor at the entrance of the bakery. 

Eiji’s frown only grew. 

It matched Haru’s as they both seemed to come to a mutual realization and understanding of what the child had said. Haru’s expression shifted lightly, her eyes drifting towards Eiji for a moment as they shared a look of understanding, and concern, for the boy as he continued to justify his actions, unaware of what he, himself, had failed to realize. 

Izuku had said he’d intended to run only one lap, a singular jaunt. 

And yet he’d done three. 

Three laps through the cold weather, getting soaked through, and he’d not noticed?

Had he really been that distracted? That caught up in his own thoughts? 

Eiji had noticed the boy had been somewhat unaware of his surroundings, growing tense when the man had ventured to garner his attention. But, to be so wholly caught up within his thoughts that he didn’t realize he’d gone three times further than he’d intended? 

Was he really so consumed? Was something really bothering the boy so much?

Or had it been deliberate? Had the child made the decision to go further on a whim? 

Peering at the boy, gazing into the clouded, yet quiet green eyes, Eiji could never be certain. There was a sorrow the boy always sported, a tired sort of sadness he carried, but the man could never quite get at the root of that sadness. 

The boy was awfully good at masking his feelings. 

So Eiji was always left guessing. 

It was something he hated, that guessing game, and the feeling of uselessness that it evoked within him. He hated watching and not knowing how to help, seeing a child step into a storm, pass him by, in desperate need of help, and Eiji couldn’t, or didn’t know what help to give. 

“Well, then, young man,” Haru’s voice was softer than it’d been a moment ago as she gestured towards the boy’s hat, “Let’s get you dried off at least, then. Perhaps something warm to drink before you head back to UA?” 

The woman smiled kindly, turning her face up to meet the boy’s befuddled expression with a gentle one of her own, smartly choosing to overlook his comment in favor of tending to the more immediate needs–the physical care of the child before her.

The one who was trying to repress the soft shudders and shaking from being out of doors for too long. 

Izuku blinked owlishly at Haru, his red nose twitching before he slowly removed the hat from his head, and gently handed it over to the woman, who took the proffered garment, and managed to snake the boy’s gloves off the kid’s hands in the same movement. 

“Cocoa?” She queried with a smile as Eiji bit back a smile of his own, watching as the boy’s mouth fell open in surprise, before he caught himself and nodded mutely, seemingly unsure of how to respond to the woman except to agree. 

Which was wise, Eiji knew. He’d been married to Haru long enough to know that no one could match that woman when she set her mind to something. 

With a soft shake of his own head, the man shifted closer to the boy and clapped the child on the shoulder and gestured to the small corner where a few of the cafe tables were set up, ready to be used for when they officially opened in an hour’s time. 

“Alright then, kiddo,” He hummed evenly, with a soft nudge, to push the boy closer to the table that sat nearest the heater and the display case that sported their chocolate cupcakes, “Let’s get comfortable, eh?” 

“That sounds like a good plan!” Haru nodded in affirmation and she bustled away, behind the counter, her golden skirt whipping around the corner as she turned towards the kitchen. The long, silver braid of hair she often sported down her back jostled as she moved and Eiji couldn’t help the fond smile as he listened to the woman hum in the other room, a lightness in her tone as she prepped the treats and cocoa for her guest. 

For another child that she’d determined to care for. 

“And I’ll be sure to pack some cinnamon rolls for you to take back to the others. I know that Yamada-san and Aizawa-san are rather fond of them.” 

Again the boy halted and stiffened, his expression flickering towards uncertainty as he tried to dissuade from Haru doing anything unnecessary or overly attentive as packaging up pastries. 

“Oh no, that’s alright,” He remarked hastily, “You don’t need to go to all that trouble. I’m fine without the cocoa really. And your cinnamon rolls are delicious but you don’t need to go to the extra effort for–” 

“Oh I wouldn’t bother,” Eiji cut in, as they both slipped into their seats, the warmth of the heater blowing a gentle air over the man’s chilled arms and fingers, “When she sets her mind to something, Haru is hardly dissuaded.” 

“Precisely!” Came the call from the kitchen, making Eiji snort, and Midoriya balk and blink somewhat bashfully towards the doorway. The boy chewed on his bottom lip and hunched his shoulders as he seemed to consider something. 

“Well at least let me pay for the cinnamon rolls and cocoa–” 

“Not a chance, my dear boy,” Haru cut in brightly, her smile firmly stretched on her face as she eased back through the kitchen door and towards the counter, a small tray in her hands, three mugs steaming–prepped ridiculously quickly–with a small tasting of a few of their specials for the day dotting the plates accompanying their cocoa. “Consider this a gift and a favor for me.” 

Eiji watched the boy’s brows furrow, a frown tipping the child’s lips downward as he faced the woman, tilting his head towards her in confusion. 

The light caught the child’s freckles and Eiji had to swallow back that familiar emotion again. 

‘I want to be a hero and save others with a smile!’

‘You don’t have to worry, papa. I’m a hero, remember?’ 

No, she’d been just a kid. 

Just a freckle-faced kid, bright grey eyes shining, toothy grin wide, and pigtails bouncing as she pretended to fly. 

‘I’m a hero, remember?’ 

And of course the boy would seem confused by Haru’s comment, and the knowing look on her face. 

There was no way he would know what she did, no way he would understand what she meant. 

‘Consider this a gift and a favor.’ 

Eiji watched the woman’s eyes soften even more as they both watched the boy sort of struggle within himself, considering the woman’s request and his struggle to understand why this would be a favor of any kind. 

They were just cinnamon rolls. 

Nothing special really. 

Right? 

The man reached out and took the tray from his wife, hands curling around the edges with practiced eases, his fingers brushing against Haru’s with a light touch as he smiled towards the woman. 

Nothing special…

And yet they were. 

Something special to them, to her. 

Made for people she cared for, other children she’d watched running through the rain, on a cloudy day. 

Lost souls, fighting off grief, tragedy following like a shroud. 

She’d chased after them too, just as she’d done to Izuku (just as they were doing to their ‘Problem Child’ as well, go figure), never trying to change them, discourage or dissuade 

The cinnamon rolls had become their constant, a favorite thread that connected them. 

They’d been Yukimi’s favorite too.  

Even though the tray had been placed before him, the boy was wary of taking anything without probable cause to do so. 

He still felt so uncertain, unsure of himself and the reason why he was there, sitting with these people who acted so much like they cared.

It didn't make sense. 

“But I don’t have a gift for you” Izuku remarked quietly, his voice hesitant, almost sorrowed as he considered the tray before him and what Haru was suggesting. “You deserve something in…return for all…the kind things you’ve done.” 

The boy’s dark green gaze drifted to the table as his verdant curl, damp and mussed, flopped against his forehead obscuring his expression from Eiji’s view. A tentative hand rested atop the table as the boy traced circles across the wood grain, his scarred hand lightly tapping as he hummed thoughtfully. 

“You deserve more than…that.” 

There was a small pause, a quiet hesitation that let the sound of the wind trickle in through the silence as it rattled the windows and shook the door. Izuku could feel his heart beating in his ears and throat, a deep sense of embarrassment gnawing at him as he waited for the couple to respond to his rather, stupidly, bold confession. 

Despite the chill that still prickled along his arms and numbed his fingers, the boy could feel a warmth along his neck and curling around his ears. The scent of cinnamon and warm, melted chocolate wafted to his nose.

It made him think of the weekend afternoons on holiday when his mom would make breakfast with cocoa and pancakes and the pair of them would lounge and enjoy the morning in a lazy haze of contentment. 

Really, when did Izuku get so sensitive and open about his emotions like this? 

He needed to learn to control his thoughts better instead of blurting out the first thing that came to mind. He couldn’t keep dumping his worries and feelings on the first people who decided to show him some sort of–

“Izuku.” 

There was a soft hand on the boy’s arm, a gentle, wrinkled grip that softly encircled Izuku’s wrist as Haru called the boy’s name and brought the child’s attention towards the woman.  

Carefully Haru’s eyes crinkled around the edges, her wrinkled forehead furrowing as she smiled and leaned close, until the two of them were eye level, equal to one another. 

Her grip remained on his wrist. 

“You,” The woman hummed softly, “Are more than enough as you are, dear boy.” 

The smile widened marginally. Izuku found it hard to swallow, a heat rushing through him, and a weight resting on his chest as he blinked, uncomprehendingly back at the shop owner who seemed unruffled by his muted response. 

“No gift giving required.”

The soft shuffling of boots along the tile floor clacked and mixed with the whistling of the wind outside as Eiji came closer, easing himself into the seat across from Izuku, His expression, while more neutral than Haru’s was, still displayed a measure of kindness as he nodded briefly to the boy before gesturing to the tray.

“We better hurry before the cocoa gets cold,” The man intoned thoughtfully, “Otherwise Haru here will never let you leave without at least a dozen more treats and drinks to warm you up.” 

And just like that the emotional tension was broken, the dry response from Eiji earning him an indignant huff from Haru, eyes betraying her mirth as she gave a half-hearted glare towards her husband and eased herself into the third chair positioned between Izuku and Eiji. 

Her hold on the boy released, not without a soft pat of reassurance, before she busied herself with doling out the cocoa and confections, a clattering of plates softly striking against the small cafe table as a cupcake and a mug of cocoa nestled in front of Izuku, first, followed by Eiji, and finally Haru. 

The mugs themselves were simple, white ceramic, and brimming with rich, dark cocoa, a healthy dollop of whipped cream swirling atop the steaming warm drink. The heady scent of the chocolate tickled the boy’s nose and he couldn’t help the small trill of appreciation for Haru’s thoughtful gesture as he tentatively took the handle of his mug once he’d spied Eiji and Haru do the same. 

“It shouldn’t be too hot to burn your tongue,” The woman hummed softly, as she lifted her cup and smiled, inhaling deeply as she too seemed to revel in the delicious smell of chocolate, “But it’ll warm you up while we wait out this storm a bit.” 

The woman tilted the cup to her lips, her husband following suit, his balding head catching the overhead light as he gave a rumble of approval for the delicious beverage. 

Izuku still couldn't shake the guilt and the sense that he was overstepping or impeding even as he brought his own mug to his lips and took a tentative sip of his own. 

The care the woman always put into her baking was reflected in this cocoa as well, the steaming drink slipping over Izuku's tongue and down the boy's throat with ease. The taste of chocolate was deep, rich and creamy, a hint of cinnamon adding to the flavor. The boy felt his chest warm as he drank a little more deeply, savoring the way the cup’s heat warmed his fingers and the drink helped to still the aching in his joints from being outside too long. 

Outside trying to find a distraction, a way to forget why he felt so…

So inadequate. 

Unprepared. 

Unworthy. 

Unworthy for the kindness these people were bestowing on him now for instance. Because…

Well because they didn’t know the real Izuku, did they? They didn’t know the quirkless kid who was never going to be a hero. 

They didn’t know the powerless boy who had nothing to recommend himself, nothing to offer. 

Nothing to give back. 

The boy frowned into his mug as he considered that truth, keeping his focus trained on the way the cocoa swirled together with the whipped cream and the couple across from him murmured softly together, soft smiles directed towards each other. 

It warmed Izuku as much as the cocoa to see their goodness, to share this kindness.

But he desperately wanted to do for them what they’d done for him. He wanted them to know, to understand what it meant, how important it was.

(Even if they didn’t need to understand it, even if it wasn’t so important to them to know…) 

Before All Might, Izuku had nothing to give back, nothing to offer others.

He was nothing. Just a quirkless fanboy with too much time on his hands and far too little opportunity or means to actually do something useful. He could analyze, sure, but he couldn’t do anything with that analysis. He couldn’t offer anything to victims of villain attacks. He couldn’t use any sort of quirk or strategy to save others. 

He wasn’t anything important or special. 

He was just Izuku. 

Just like now. 

The boy took another sip of the cocoa before slowly setting the mug down as Haru gently nudged his plate with a large, chocolate cupcake towards him, a fork following along. 

“Never too early for a cupcake, my dear boy,” She remarked cheerily, her eyes shining with an emotion that the boy couldn’t quite understand, nor decipher. It was a mixture, almost, of cheer and grief and kindness all rolled into one. 

It made Izuku wonder why the woman would look at him like that. What had he done to deserve that look? 

And why did it hurt?

“This is Eiji’s favorite cupcake you know,” Haru remarked lightly, her face somewhat smug as she gently elbowed the grumbling man beside her,, “And my first cupcake. Took two years to perfect it so I’ll need your honest opinion about its taste.” 

The pair turned expectant eyes towards the boy and waited for Izuku to pick up his cupcake, on he’d–admittedly–eyed a few times in the shop as it seemed to be a popular choice. 

He always thought that Eri might like it. 

The outer wrapper was simple, much as most of Haru’s decorations were, with a delicate red parchment paper to contain the cupcake itself. Peeking out beneath rich, dark chocolate frosting, piped high in a dolloping circle, Izuku could make out a rick chocolate crumb. Smattered atop the frosting itself were sprinkles of dark blue and white, snowflake shapes speckles across the rich confection, to speak of the season and give the decadent dessert a little holiday cheer. 

Haru’s cupcake was decorated just a tad differently, with holly berries and leaves and Eiji’s sporting small Christmas tree sprinkles and ornaments. 

The boy couldn’t help the small smile that touched his mouth as he carefully brought the cupcake up and took a small nibble, his thoughts tugging in two directions. 

There was a soft gratitude for the obvious selflessness the pair doled out so generously in this moment. It sent a blaze of warmth through him that chased after the cocoa’s curling heat, lighting his chest and easing the ache there. 

And then there was the stupid reminder that, just like when he’d been younger, here he was now with nothing to give, nothing to offer to show his gratitude. 

Eiji and Haru deserved better, he decided as the cupcake’s flavor–a deep chocolate, buttery and dark–sang on his tongue and drew a surprised hum from him. 

This earned a wider smile from Haru and a smirk from Eiji who returned to his cocoa as Haru tapped her hands lightly against the table, clearly pleased with the reaction she’d witnessed. It seemed encouraging enough for the boy to keep eating. 

That and the cupcake was really that good…he wasn’t really ashamed to admit it. And his stomach was…sort of growling since he’d left the dorms without breakfast in him (too embarrassed after Hitoshi startling him and making a fool of himself), he’d not had a chance to really eat much in his haste to get to his run. 

The cupcake seemed to be filling that void nicely right now (even if it was a little early in the morning for a cupcake of all things), with the cocoa calling his name, making his mouth water just a little.

He really had to do something to try to show his appreciation–

“Tell me Izuku, if I might ask,” 

The boy blinked and turned his attention to Eiji whose face had taken on a more thoughtful expression, his dark eyes searching the boy’s as his lips drew into a thin line. The man rubbed one hand over the other, massaging his palm, as though it were aching, and leaned back in his chair to more fully peer at the boy. 

Worry spiked in Izuku who noted the familiarity of that look, recognizing it as the same one the man had given when they’d been out in the snow. It’d been a serious look, one that spoke of deeper thoughts, concerns that tempered the light mood that the man had managed to provoke only a short time prior. 

And really, Izuku could deny the request, refuse to even entertain the idea of the man asking the question in the first place… 

“Okay…”       

But really, the boy wasn’t that mean. He couldn’t do that, not after the kindness he’d been afforded–well even before then really. He’d never had a desire to be cruel to someone, to deny them so rudely. 

Izuku blinked again and swallowed, straightening in his chair as he waited for the question, feeling the way his heart started hammering against his chest, a nervous warmth washing along his neck and across his cheeks. 

If Eiji or Haru noticed his face turning a startling shade of red, they chose to say nothing. Instead, the man cleared his throat and shifted, continuing to rub his hand lightly as he seemed to consider his words. 

“Why do you want to be a hero?”

The question surprised the boy and he froze, hands stilling, with the cupcake hovering near his mouth as Eiji’s gaze zeroed in on him, firm but not unkind, expectant but not demanding as he waited for the boy to consider his words. 

And really the question itself wasn’t wholly unusual. Loads of people had been asked it. Future heroes had had to recount their own goals and ideals of why they became heroes in the first place. You had to have a purpose, a drive, a reason for pursuing this goal. 

Hell, even Aizawa-Sensei had asked the same question of Izuku just a few days ago. And he’d answered then. He’d been honest in his commentary. 

It was just odd to the boy that Eiji was asking it now, this morning, of him of all people. Yeah, Izuku wanted to be like All Might and Aizawa-Sensei and Mic-Sensei and even Yamada-Sensei. He wanted to save others and bring peace if he could. 

But he’d never really…mentioned it before, at least not in front of Eiji and Haru. Sure they knew he was a hero student at UA and he was training in Class 1A so that meant he was on the track towards the professional hero route. But they’d never asked about it before and he’d never really brought it up. It’d been a topic that hadn’t seemed so important. 

Of course he’d only really known them for a few weeks as well so…

Hmm…

He’d never really given it much thought before, had he?

Eiji was certain Haru understood why he was asking this question he was, just as she was, undoubtedly certain of the fact that he knew why she made those cinnamon rolls as often as she did.

The boy, however, would remain oblivious, and rightfully so, though the secondary motive for asking the question centered around helping him just as much. Because there was something in the boy’s expression this morning that left Eiji unsettled and he wasn’t going to be content until he could just…nudge things a little. 

Fatherly instinct, he supposed. 

Old habits, Haru called them. 

And as he watched the boy before him set his cupcake down (and hadn’t it been a feat to get him to even attempt to eat the treat in the first place), he genuinely wondered what the child’s motivation was for wanting to be a hero after all. He knew it had to be more than some of the others that’d walked through and by his shop, the fame-chasers, popularity hunters, and those who desired prestige. 

Admirable traits, sure. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to be wanted. Everyone had a need for being needed. Eiji couldn’t blame someone for that desire. 

But with the boy before him he suspected the motivation was something else, something different.

And he knew there had to be some sort of motivation. No one fought this hard to become a hero simply on a whim either. There had to be something driving you to put your life on the line, something deeper than just a surface infatuation. 

He was certain of it. 

And watching the way the boy’s eyes softened, a faraway look sparking in that green gaze, it only confirmed what Eiji knew to be true. 

The boy did have a purpose for his goal. 

Izuku Midoriya slowly set down his cupcake, head tilting towards the table as his hands slipped towards his lap, out of sight from Eiji’s inquiring gaze, as a soft smile flickered on the boy’s face, almost bittersweet in its appearance. 

“I want to save people,” The boy remarked simply, after a moment, “Like All Might, and Aizawa-Sensei and…others. I want to give people a reason to smile and know they’re safe. I want to save everyone and show them they don’t have a reason to fear.” 

The boy peered up, quickly, towards Eiji and Haru, his eyes betraying the conviction that swirled in his gaze, the depth of his feelings on the subject, even as his voice remained soft.

‘I want to save everyone.’ 

Yep. The man felt the ache in his chest even as he felt a smile tugging at his lips at the comment the boy gave. 

It'd been one he was expecting. Since he'd met the kid that first day, with the boy approaching him, offering assistance with something as menial as lights and decorations, he'd seen a familiar spark, a familiar air surrounding the child. 

Then to learn he'd known Yamada and Aizawa? Better still that they were somewhat protective of the child, directly influencing the boy's welfare and learning as a UA student?

Seemed fitting the kid would come out with the response he had, hold the same beliefs about heroism. 

Childlike wonder. 

Childlike determination. 

Eiji could feel his wife shift next to him. He felt the soft weight of her hand as it brushed against his own as she also seemed to register the familiarity of the words and their meaning. 

“I’m sure that you will too,”  Haru remarked softly, after a moment blinking a few times in a way that she did when she was trying to steady her emotions, the man knew. “Just don’t forget us small folk when you make it to All Might status, my dear boy.” 

The woman gave a soft laugh as Midoriya sputtered in surprise, her comment offsetting the gentle awkwardness of the moment. It was another deliberate move, something she did when she could see the discomfort in those she talked to. 

It was her way to silence the concern. 

And Eiji could see the relief in the boy’s face, brief flickers of gratitude filtering through Midoriya’s eyes even as embarrassment still colored his cheeks. 

Still it was enough to ease the tension, to make the feeling around them lighter, more content and blissful.

He hoped it was enough of a reminder that despite the boy’s aspirations for herodom–and Eiji had no doubt the child would become a hero one day–that he would also take time to just be a kid. 

He was a stubborn one, that was for certain. One only had to see the glint in the boy’s eyes to understand that. 

It seemed when Midoriya set his mind to something, he’d do anything to get it. 

But right now, watching as Haru continued doting on the boy, insisting that at least a dozen cinnamon rolls would do well for Yamada and Aizawa and Eri (the little darling, as she called her) and Shinsou, he hoped that chocolate cupcakes, and hot cocoa could be enough.

Quietly, the man excused himself from the table, gaze straying to stare out at the wind-whipped snowfall that struck his door and windows, knowing that even in this weather there would be customers coming soon. 

They’d have to be ready. 

“Eiji-San, can I…” The voice was soft, hesitant and uncertain, “Can I ask you something?” 

Tired eyes trailed to a small shelf, tucked tenderly in the corner, where a framed photo sat, bright lavender eyes twinkling, freckled face grinning. 

Braided pigtails that always came undone. 

Eiji smiled fondly, eyes sweeping over the small kamidana, Yukimi’s photo the central focus, though a smaller newspaper clipping remained tucked there as well. 

A reminder of why another boy, running laps around the lake, through the park, had sparked Haru to reach out to that child in the rain and offer him, and Yamada a cinnamon roll.  

He turned back towards the boy and his wife, his eyes shining.

“Of course, young man,” He replied, his voice rough, “What’s your question?”

The running gag that Izuku Midoriya wasn’t known for his stealth was mostly true. 

Except for when it wasn’t. 

Generally, Midoriya could be loud and rather obvious in his movements. He wasn’t known for subtlety or going unnoticed and usually that was a conscious decision on the other kid’s part. Midoriya was the one who usually sought others out, provoked conversation, tried to befriend and include everyone he thought needed a friend. 

As though he could see the loneliness that others carried or something of that nature. 

Which was probably true. 

Maybe it was another fucking quirk of his or something.

Friendship no Jutsu. 

At the same time, though, the boy did know how to go unnoticed if he wanted. Midoriya was pretty good at observing others, analyzing situations, and simply watching things unfold. Usually scared the shit out of people who weren’t paying attention and had that cheerful kid just…pop up behind them with a comment or thought or…smile with his friendship quirk on full display…

But that seemed to be a rarity, at least from what Hitoshi had observed. Midoriya was a bit more straightforward and apparent in his actions and thoughts, at least those that focused on others that is. From what Hitoshi could see, Midoriya was better at seeing and speaking about others than he was about himself and he made that apparent when he talked to you, asking questions, observing things about you that you may or may not want seen…but he never quite let himself be so picked apart. 

A weird sort of split in personality, honestly, but…frankly, Midoriya was just kind of a weird kid. 

Though, all of that was beside the point. 

Because, despite his rather apparent nature, and ability to be somewhat…blatant in his actions, Hitoshi was still rather surprised to find a small (and by small he meant rather large) plate of cinnamon rolls sitting atop the counter when he came out of the shower at ten-thirty, hunting for the orange juice that Yamada always restocked every week, knowing it was one of Hitoshi’s favorites (not that the kid would ever admit that out loud). 

Boxed neatly, in familiar yellow packaging (from Eiji and Haru’s pastry shop), sitting in the middle of the counter in the kitchen, Hitoshi knew these cinnamon rolls had to have come from Midoriya. 

He didn’t need to look at the note to that fact. 

Yet, the boy picked up the small folded piece of paper anyway, quickly peering at the hasty scrawling message with a mixture of curiosity and understanding as Midoriya’s writing greeted him. 

Curiosity shifted to amusement and Hitoshi shook his head and rolled his eyes before setting the note down, before heading towards the cupboard to retrieve another plate to use to divvy out the cinnamon rolls that were left. Seems that Yamada may have–probably--already gotten to them. 

And knowing that Aizawa had been holed up in his office all morning, only having stumbled out just after Midoriya had left for his run, Shinsou surmised that maybe he ought to take a page from the golden boy’s book and offer their teacher some food before Yamada pilfered all the sweets. 

The man really did have a wicked sweet tooth. 

Eri did too. 

But really, Shinsou took a bite of his own cinnamon roll–savoring the sticky, sugary goodness as it coated his tongue–these were some of the best cinnamon rolls out there so why not eat them when they were available? 

So, with that thought in mind–or rather using that as a distraction and a justification really–the boy put a few of the cinnamon rolls on the plate and carefully made his way through the connective hallway that led towards the student section of Heights Alliance, where Aizawa’s office was.

Where the man had mentioned he’d be wrapping gifts and finishing up some paperwork. 

Still clad in his loose sweats and dark hoodie (and with no intention of dressing up any differently, thank you) the boy was glad he’d at least remembered to put socks on before slipping down the hallway. 

However, even with the warmth afforded the soles of his feet, he couldn’t quite stave off the chill that came with the silence of the darkened hallway and the stillness of the student lounge.

It was weird. Way too weird. Though there were decorations, ribbons, and signs of a bright holiday just days away, things still felt muted and dark. Though there were a few strings of lights twinkling on the trees they’d decorated a few weeks prior, and strung up along the walls and around the doors, the stillness and calm offset any sort of holiday cheer they might have afforded because there was no one there to appreciate them. 

It made Hitoshi just a tad uncomfortable and somewhat nervous, reminding him–almost unwillingly–of his own isolation. 

He’d spent so long being separated from others, standing just on the other side. Here in the quiet, it almost felt not different. 

Even though he knew it was and in a few short weeks, that’d be all the more apparent when he officially started in the hero course as a 1A student. 

The boy smiled somewhat bitterly as he made the short trip through the communal kitchen and towards Aizawa’s office just down the hall, his feet shuffling silently across the carpet. 

Still, he couldn’t quite forget the feelings, couldn’t completely let go of the past. 

‘Makes sense that Midoriya can’t either.’ 

The boy knocked quietly on the teacher’s door, noting the small thread of sunlight that streaked across the carpet and brightened the chilled hall, and waited, listening to the soft rifling of paper and the quiet murmuring of the grouchy teacher through the barrier. There was a soft clattering, and a creaking of the man’s chair before a firm ‘come in’ resounded. 

And it was a funny thing, really, standing here. 

Hesitating. 

Hitoshi didn’t know why he was stalling there at the door, hand hovering over the knob as he considered turning around and backpedaling his way towards the kitchen once more, back to his solitude and the singularity of his own thoughts. 

Back to thinking of himself rather than this…this idea that he needed to even open his mouth about someone else, ask about or care about another person that had nothing to do with him in the slightest. 

When did he start caring? When did that ever become his thing? 

Midoriya? 

Aizawa? 

Yamada?

Eri?

When did he let them…

‘Fuck it.’  

Letting his eyes slipped closed, the boy sucked in a small breath, grit his teeth, and eased the knob around and quickly let the door open as he stepped into the, surprisingly, well lit office. The smell of coffee greeted Hitoshi and he bit back a small grin at the pilfered coffee pot that sat in the corner on a little desk, a warm pot waiting to be drunk, small blue mug at the ready. 

‘So that’s where it went to,’ he noted wryly, holding back a snort at the memory of Yamada scouring the kitchen for their spare coffee pot after the first had broken, ‘No wonder he couldn’t find it.’ 

“Shinsou?” The boy turned towards the desk across the room, spying the stack of presents in the corner–which isn’t where he’d anticipated them to be honestly–and a stack of manila folders on Aizawa’s desk as the man leaned his elbows on the papers scattered in front of him and frowned at Hitoshi, a questioning look shining behind his glasses. 

“Is something wrong?” 

At the, Hitoshi only shook his head and stepped forward, lifting the plate of cinnamon rolls up as a peace offering towards the man. 

“Midoriya brought cinnamon rolls back from his run,” At the mention of a run, Aizawa straightened in his chair, eyes narrowing and a frown tilting the man’s mouth downward as he peered at Hitoshi thoughtfully.

“A run,” He murmured, “Another one? In this storm?” There was a mild, gruff sigh and Hitoshi tensed as the man removed his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes, tilting his head towards his desk. 

“That kid will never learn,” there was a brief flicker of a dark gaze towards the boy before the man tilted his face towards his desk again, tucking his nose into his capture weapon, expression returning to one unreadable as he gestured the amaranthine boy to come forward, closer to the desk. 

Hitoshi was certain that Aizawa meant for him to hear the comment, just as much as he was certain that it was directed at more than just Midoriya. 

Why did Hitoshi think that Aizawa meant to remind him that he shouldn’t act so…rashly either? 

Not that Hitoshi disagreed with the man about Midoriya really because who, in their right mind, would want to go for a run out in this type of weather, where the snow and wind were blowing and blustering, biting through your jacket the minute you stepped out of doors? 

The kid had only had to look outside to see that it was a nasty sort of day with the weather. He had zero desire to be out there in the weather. So why the hell would Midoriya want to go out there and run? Why would he want to deliberately put himself in that sort of cold and wind biting chill? 

“Do you know when he came back then?” 

The boy shook his head lightly at the question knowing where it trended, seeing the spark of concern in his Sensei’s eyes, and understanding just why Aizawa cared so much for Midoriya’s welfare. 

He’d seen the haphazard sort of way Midoriya tended to consider himself and his safety, always jumping into the middle of things when he really didn’t need to, running into a storm when he could stay where it was calm and warm…,

Lost in his thoughts when he could talk to someone. 

The boy frowned. 

To be honest, it sort of made Hitoshi a little wary too, to see the way Midoriya was so inconsiderate with his own welfare. It was a stark contrast in comparison to the care he took towards others like Eri, and him. 

But  Hitoshi understood it. 

He just…

“Shinsou?” 

He just never thought that Golden Boy of all people would deal with that same problem too. 

With a small flickering of a smile that trended towards bitter, the boy nodded towards Aizawa, watching the way the man’s expression turned curious as he watched the boy before him, waiting silently for Hitoshi to speak. 

Carefully Hitoshi set the cinnamon rolls on the desk in front of his teacher–the weird father-figure that had sort of, kind of adopted him, he supposed–and swallowed back that weird lump that had formed in his throat as he considered his words. 

“You know,” He muttered, “It fucking sucks, middle school. People don’t give a shit about you.” 

This wasn’t a new story by any stretch. He was certain Aizawa had been over his case a dozen or so times early on, well aware of the issues plaguing the boy when they’d first crossed paths. 

Well, that is after a little bit of prodding front he man to get the kid to open up after a rather nasty training session turned into an impromptu visit to recovery girl for treatment for injuries that hadn’t been sustained because of their sparring…

But that was besides the point. 

“You attended Nabu Middle School” The man intoned evenly, not really posing a question so much as furthering the conversation, trying to nudge Hitoshi over the nerves he seemed to sense within he boy. 

Maybe he spied the way the kid’s hands were shaking? And dammit, Hitoshi thought he’d been better at hiding that. 

Either way, the boy nodded his head and slowly let his hand rest on the back of the chair that Aizawa had signaled he might sit in. 

The boy wouldn’t sit…he wasn’t that helpless with his feelings.

Not really. 

Maybe.

And really he wasn’t sure if he did sit he could get the words out any better than if he were standing. 

Plus standing meant that…he could get out of here faster if this was all fucked up because it sure felt like was going south quickly. Hitoshi was shit at explaining things and he’d already screwed things up once before this morning with Midoriya and here was, standing in Aizawa’s office, trying to do the same damned thing…

God, he was a moron. 

“Nabu, for all its focus on heroes, was shit if you didn’t have the right family name or quirk.” The boy continued softly. “Hazing, abuse, the usual. But,” and here the boy felt his hands tremble as a trill of unease worked through him. 

“But it wasn’t just the students responsible.” 

Again the boy nodded his head and made a step backwards, meeting Aizawa’s confused expression with a hard look of his own, trying to convey the message in as few words as possible. 

He needed the man to understand the suspicion he had, without outright stating it because he didn’t…

He really didn’t want to look like a fucking idiot and he didn’t want to make Midoriya feel even more of an outsider than he already seemed to feel. 

Because that fucking sucked. 

He’d know better than anyone. 

“I hear,” he reached for the doorknob, fingers curling around the cool, brass, “Alderra has a pretty shitty reputation with its teachers.” 

The boy slipped out the door and let it click close before Aizawa could say anything in reply, letting out a soft breath. 

‘Yeah, that was a fucking trainwreck.’ 

He shuffled down the hall and made a point to return to his room and avoid all contact with the rest of the family until lunch. 

Shouta found it interesting, to say the least, that Hitoshi would seek him out to talk about Problem Child. 

It was a good sign, he supposed, that the kid was finally starting to open up about his feelings, to let his concerns show in ways that were more than shadowed looks and disaffected scowls directed towards the floor. 

Even if those concerns were somewhat cryptic and vaguely articulated. 

It was progress, the man knew. Small progress, but progress nonetheless. And Shouta would take what he could get. 

But–and here the man paused to consider his thoughts and think through what the boy had said as he rifled through the first manila envelope that Toshinori had handed off to him, looking closely at Nezu’s notations, frown firmly in place as the smell of coffee tickled his nose and made his fingers twitch–wasn’t it odd that Shinsou seemed to see something in Midoriya without the full picture…

Without the provocation of evidence...at least in the tangible way, to support him. 

Hitoshi was going off a hunch, a gut feeling. 

He was going off the look in the other’s eye, the way the other acted or reacted to certain things. 

He was going off experience. 

‘Because he’d lived it. Because he knows what it feels like to go through it.’ 

And really, that was a more damning piece of evidence for Shouta than anything else so far. When one fractured soul could see the same cracks in another and express concern, then you knew something was wrong. 

Then you knew…the hurt was real. 

And that made it all the worse.

Shouta sighed and returned to his files, peering closely at the sticky note attached to the corner, hasty, scrawl that had come from someone new, as he reached for his mug of coffee, Midoriya’s name flashing through the words on the page as he read the account of September 2nd, of the boy’s first year of junior high, during homeroom. 

‘Altercation. Property damage. Theft. Cheating.’ 

‘People just don’t give a shit about you there’ Shinsou had muttered. ‘It fucking sucks.’ 

Pity, the boy had been right. 

For both he and Midoriya.

Ironically enough, despite the early  hour, it’d already been a long day for Izuku. Though he’d willing gotten up early, the kid’s energy was starting to wane, his reserves beginning to falter.

There was a weariness eating at the boy, burning around his eyes, tugging at his senses and pulling his thoughts in a multitude of directions as he sat in his dorm room, lights turned low, silence eeking around him as he stared at his clock pondering.

It wasn’t a physical exhaustion, or that is to say it wasn’t just physical exhaustion, though one could argue the running did have something to do with the tiredness the boy felt. The lack of sleep, too, could be a contributing factor. They certainly didn’t do him any favors really. He knew that.

But Izuku was certain it was something else that provoked the yawns and aching behind his eyes, and the call to doze. There was more to it than just the early start and pushing himself too far in his run.

In truth, he knew part of the reason he felt the mental exhaustion, and a bone-aching weariness eating at him. He knew what was lurking just beyond the door of his dorm, down the elevator in the teacher’s wing of Height’s Alliance, with Aizawa-Sensei and his ever-knowing inquiries, and Yamada-Sensei with his kind, thoughtfulness. He knew the exhaustion that was provoked from All Might’s expectations and his failures and the realization that he’s probably been the wrong choice. 

But there were no better choices right now to go with so they were stuck with someone as incapable as he was. 

‘They take pity on you, appeal to you and are kind to you because they have no one better.’ 

Izuku shook his head, trying to dispel the unpleasant feeling, the emotions that continued to rise with startling frequency lately, pressed closer to the surface than he’d ever wanted them to be. 

He’d been so good at pushing them away. He’d been so good at giving up on them…

‘Liar…’ 

The boy tapped his hands against his desk, letting a small, steady breath fall from his lips as he tried to ease the frustration that was thrumming through his veins, and the anxiety that made his heart pound roughly against his chest. 

Why hadn’t things eased up since this morning, since his run? 

Why hadn’t it gotten better? 

“Because you’re thinking too much,” He bit out, with a frown, staring up and across the room, doing a mental tally of the All Might posters, in their familiar positions on his walls, framing his bookshelf that held the few manga and textbooks for school, along with his analysis journals he’d collected prior to as well as during his time here at UA. 

He’d not been here for a few days now. Well, at least not long enough to do much more than gather a few articles of clothing. Spending the majority of his time downstairs, in the teacher’s wing (and really it was more a parental wing, as Shinsou called it), in his temporary, makeshift room, Izuku hadn’t had time to work on projects or find comfort in familiarity of the belongings and space that was wholly his own. 

Sitting here now? Well, everything felt sort of muted, foreign, and far too still and…odd. It wasn’t completely pleasant even if it wasn’t altogether unpleasant either. 

It simply was a place for Izuku to sit and mull and brood and…pout, he supposed. No longer a refuge away from his thoughts. No longer an escape. 

So, he needed to change that. He needed to do something. 

The boy tapped again on his desk, gaze shifting, towards the corner, towards his basket, towards his supplies. 

‘Right.’

Once again, distractions seemed to be something Izuku seemed to need to find comfort in. As pathetic as it was for some, for him, they were, once again, a good thing, something he could fall back on when things felt just a little too tiring to deal with. Like right now.

The run, clearly, hadn’t worked in his favor, despite leaving him exhausted to the point of pondering falling into his bed for a nap (though he knew that might end in a nightmare and wasn’t overly keen on such a scenario).  

No, the run, for all intents and purposes, hadn’t quite left him feeling tired enough to escape his thoughts but awake enough to evade the darker call of dreaming, unfortunately. Eiji and Haru, for all the good they’d done to drag him in from the cold, had cut the run short and taken him away from his solitude. They’d brought him out of his thoughts and pushed him towards socialization. They’d made him feel welcome, encouraged him, helped him to know that he wasn’t alone. 

They’d made him feel seen. 

That terrified him as much as it brought some sense of comfort. He’d thrived, felt warm and accepted as much as he’d felt uncomfortable in his own skin, and like an imposter.

Because if they saw him…if they understood and knew him…then they knew…or they could know that…that he was…

‘And we can’t have that now can we, Izuku…’ a sinister voice hissed lowly, making the boy wince as he shook his head again, willing the darker thoughts away, hoping that he could just tamp things down for just a little while, pushing things back and keep his focus on more important concerns. 

Just for a moment. 

Really, too, it wasn’t so important to remember the hurt. Izuku knew that. He knew that even if others knew about it, if they saw or even got a hint of it, that it wasn’t so big a deal. It wasn’t that important if Izuku made sure it wasn’t. 

Because it wasn’t. Not really. 

He could and would get over it. He could and would let it go.

‘But you’ll never be worthy.’ 

Again the boy winced, fingers curling into his jeans as he turned away, swiveling into his chair as he pushed off and stood with a huff, frown in place. 

‘This is stupid, Izuku’ he chided silently. ‘Quit complaining-.’  

He ought to care about something else, he decided, shuffling across the room, towards the corner, his chest thumping with the heavy beating of an anxious heart as he stared at the nearly completed gifts waiting for his final inspections, the last touches of details before he wrapped the gifts up and set things where they needed to be.

His recipients wouldn’t be here, true, but at least…at least he could make sure the gifts were ready for when they came back. 

Even if he was warring with himself about whether or not these damned gifts were too cheesy, juvenile…

Sentimental.

Izuku chewed on his bottom lip, eyes narrowing. 

Admittedly, there was a deep sense of satisfaction as he stared at the pile before him, seeing papers carefully folded, cut and glued. Layer by layer, he’d outlined and drawn and measured and pieced together each gift to represent its recipient, trying to match how he saw them, to bring that perception of who they were to life. 

And, yeah, maybe it was really stupid of him to do this. 

And maybe his giftees would hate their gifts and toss them out when they saw them after break. 

But for Izuku? 

The boy drew closer to the basket of items, and carefully reached for Eri's gift, a small grin working onto his face as he considered the little girl and her reaction to the hair pin yesterday, the way her eyes had lit up, the hug… 

For Izuku, the idea of giving a gift meant more than just a throwaway action. He wanted to do something special. He wanted to show he cared. 

Something that said that those receiving the gift mattered. 

Even if it was sentimental.

"Better get started then," the boy murmured quietly, hoisting the box up onto the desk, next to his other gifts, already wrapped and ready. 

He wasn't really certain why he was speaking aloud.

There was no one here to listen to him.

'There never was.'

It wasn’t often that Shouta lost track of time this badly. 

There were rare occasions, however, when time slipped away from the man, when he forwent checking his clock, caught up in his work and incapable to stepping away from that perspective.

Like now, it seemed.

And wasn't that fucking annoying. 

Interestingly, it was the buzzing of his phone and the soft knock on his door that alerted the man to the lateness of the hour as he peered up from the files on his desk, glasses perched on his nose, ever-present frown tugging down further as he groused about the interruption, his fingers reaching across the mess of papers to grasp at his cell. 

Ah, but which to answer first? The door or the damned phone? 

Rubbing his tired eyes (and really when did they get so tired?) the underground hero removed his reading glasses and peered down at the buzzing device, squinting at the digits on the front, brows furrowing in confusion as reality set in and the man realized where he was and what was actually happening. 

Shouta straightened in his chair, swearing as he realized that it was five thirty, in the afternoon. 

’Fuck’

It was two hours later than he promised Hizashi he’d be. 

And half an hour later than he was supposed to be for dinner. 

But really–the man’s gaze returned to the pile of files on his desk, a flurry of black and white–new notations of red and blue in the margins thanks to Nezu, Tsukauchi, and even All Might–remained a contrast to the brighter piece of wrapping paper and ribbon that glinted in the corner of the room. 

Those were hallmarks of the season, of what Christmas ought to represent while what was before Shouta? The files and details thereon? 

Those were reminders of a past he was certain one particular child would like to forget. 

There was another knock, this one a bit firmer, a little more persistent and harried in its approach.  

“Shou?” Hizashi’s voice carried through the thick door, a titch of concern in the timbre. “Are you in there?” 

Shit.

It would help if he responded wouldn’t it.

Fuck it all, Shouta was getting lost in his thoughts a little too frequently lately.

“Yeah. Sorry, ‘Zashi.” 

Hearing the affirming comment, the door opened and the blonde, voice hero stepped into the office, head peeking around the door, summer gaze landing on Shouta, who’d risen from his chair and was slowly collecting the files, a thoughtful frown still in place, thoughts whirring with more questions than he’d like and fewer answers than he was comfortable with. 

“Shou? Dinner’s getting cold. I tried messaging earlier but I figured your phone was on silent.” 

The man’s dark gaze lifted and he gave a small apologetic smile in return to the inquiry, a small nod of his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Shouta murmured, “I was…distracted studying these files and missed my alarm and the notifications for dinner. I didn’t realize…how late it’d gotten.” 

That was no excuse of course, but he was certain that Hizashi wasn’t upset with him over something like this. 

It rarely happened that Shouta was late. And when he was, it was usually for a good reason. And judging by the way that ‘Zashi closed the door behind him, and carefully moved closer to the desk, he understood the sensitive nature of the issue on display, and what’d drawn the man’s attention far away from other matters. 

“Alderra?” Hizashi murmured, peering down on the topmost paper, spying a familiar, scrawling hand. “More files?” 

Shouta nodded, unsure of how far to take the discussion, how much to give up and let the other in on. There were a few, pressing details that ‘Zashi was unaware of, despite knowing the generalities of the concerns surrounding Midoriya’s case. 

He knew of the clear targeting, the bullying, the neglect…

But he didn’t know of the quirklessness until the entrance exams. 

He didn’t know that the kid had been of the select minority until the fucking day he’d stepped foot on UA’s campus to try his hand at shooting for the hero course.

And that was an oddity in and of itself. The fact that the kid was still deemed ‘quirkless’ and determined to ‘be a hero’ despite that diagnosis spoke volumes about his sheer determination towards that goal and dream, as well as his hinted at his lack of self-preservation considering he seemed to feel he had nothing left to lose.

‘Or there’s something else at work,’ another voice, the rational voice that ever-lurked somewhere within Shouta’s consciousness piped up softly, a reminder of the unanswered curiosities that still irked the man, especially in relation to the ‘All Might’ question. 

It was too convenient a thing…

“Shou?”

The underground hero let out a long huff and shook his head again to tamp down the agitation that flared whenever that sore spot was provoked and, instead, focused on what he felt comfortable telling Hizashi. 

What he knew wouldn’t betray Midoriya’s trust more than he knew the boy comfortable with (he hoped). 

“There’s just more to the case than we were originally expecting,” The man murmured, slipping a file towards Hizashi, watching as the voice hero tilted his head in surprise at the heft of the file before him, as he gently rolled up the sleeves to his worn, blue sweater (the same one he’d worn every year since that first Christmas together in college) and adjusted his glasses to sit more precisely on the bridge of his nose as he started to scan the notes on the topmost sheet. 

Shouta watched silently as kind eyes widened, then narrowed, a sharpness taking over as a frown shifted to a scowl as the man read  the first page, before quickly flipping to the second, and then the third in quick succession. 

“Fuck.” 

Again Shouta nodded, sharing the same sentiment and the same apparent anger as Hizashi quickly returned the file and glared at the man’s desk, eyes scanning the small pile of files thereon. 

“And there’s more of that scattered in this mess,” He noted evenly, “More of that…shit to go through.” 

Again Shouta nodded, not willing to give much away, but not wanting to be dishonest with Hizashi either. He knew how the voice hero cared for Izuku as well. 

There was a tenderness the man held for the boy, a soft comparison that the man always seemed to make between himself and Problem Child that spoke of an ache that Hizashi carried and rarely showed, but could see weighing down on the would-be, future hero. 

‘Uneasy roads’ the man’s thoughts strayed, his thoughts turning somewhat bitter as he considered just how…unfair it’d been for those two…and Shinsou…and Eri…

Broken children.

And how, just like ‘Zashi, Shouta has compared the voice hero and Problem Child, marking the softness in the expressions, the gentleness in tone and action. 

Kind heroes, the pair of them were. 

How unfair was it that the kindest should be the ones to walk the hardest roads. 

Problem Child had been walking it alone. 

Sentimental the notion may be, and perhaps it was Hizashi’s doing, he supposed, as he watched the man before him seemed to weigh the severity of the issue, the weight of the trauma the boy experience, the repercussions of those moments painting a clearer picture for them as to why the child acted the way he did. 

At least partially. 

‘He’d been quirkless. Until the entrance exam…’ 

“So what’s the next step then?” Hizashi’s voice had gone low, a dangerous lilt to it, one that rarely pitched unless he was truly angry. “What’s Nezu’s plan for handling the issue? I’m assuming he has one?” 

There was a brief flicker of glee at the prospect of Nezu getting involved, at what UA’s principal was capable of doing and Shouta had to admit his own curiosity at what Nezu was planning, where this investigation was going, and what the new year would hold for UA and Alderra. 

And Izuku Midoriya in the middle of it all…

“We can’t do anything until we know more,” He muttered quietly, slowly shuffling papers, piecing the folders back together to go over later, to add a few more notations of his own, a few questions he had that needed answering. 

He had a few requests for footage that he’d like to review personally, and a few names he’d like to run through the database and research if possible. 

Especially those from the Christmas Market a few days ago…

“Nothing will be decided until the new year, as far as I’m aware,” He groused, a twinge of frustration in his voice, “But Alderra may try to hush things up to save face.” 

The man cast a glance towards Hizashi, watching the way the other’s normally light expression darkened to match his own unkind and unhappy thoughts. 

“Then again, Nezu may not let them.” 

At that the voice hero grinned, and gently moved the last few files over, handing them to Shouta to place in the folders for safe keeping. The ticking of the clock on the wall reminded Shouta just how silent things could go between the pair as they tidied up the underground hero’s desk and made to leave the office to finally head to dinner. 

“Well that’s one down,” The man mused evenly, “Now to find the other wayward soul in this rabble.” 

Shouta turned from his office door, key in hand and brows furrowed in questioning as Hizashi made down the hall towards the common room of the student section, a light tapping shuffle in his step, as though he were dancing. 

“The other…? ‘Zashi?” The man queried after his companion, his movements stiff from sitting so long, as he made to follow after the comment and the man who’d spoken. 

What did he mean by the other…?

“I swear, Shou, you and Midoriya are more alike than you realize. Always hiding away and refusing to answer your phones,” Hizashi snorted lightly at his own joke, “Been searching everywhere for him, so I figured I’d come find you first after I insisted that Eri and Hitoshi finally eat something.”  

Shouta froze.

Problem Child was…missing?

“He’s gone?” 

The man’s voice had gone low as he stopped in the hall, hand curling around the phone in his pocket as he drew the device out, searching for the number to the kid’s cell. 

“And no one knew when he left? You haven’t been able to get a hold of him?”

He dialed. 

It rang. 

And rang. 

And rang. 

And repeated the ringing until the voicemail changed over. 

A dark gaze settled on green as Hizashi and Shouta stared at one another with the voice hero raising his hands in a defensive position, a soft, comforting smile on his lips as he seemed to try to assuage the obvious concern that’d flared in Shouta’s chest at the suggestion that Problem Child had just up and left and no one could get a hold of him. 

Why hadn’t they told him sooner? 

“He’ somewhere in the building Shou, we’re certain of it,” Hizashi murmured evenly, voice soft. “Shoes are still by the door, and the security system hasn’t logged anyone leaving. We even checked the cameras to make sure. He’s here, but I just don’t know where. Kid’s awful good at not being found when he doesn’t want to be.” 

Shouta blinked and frowned, the grip on his phone loosening…

‘Oh.’  

The man’s expression shifted, thoughts churning as he considered the best course of action, the methods they might take to locate the boy. 

‘If he’s in the building…’ 

What might he be doing? 

Where might he have gone? 

They were limited in their perusal space, so it’d be important to be systematic in their search, deliberate in understanding how and what Midoriya might do and where he might go. What would or could be driving the boy.

“We should start from his dorm,” The man murmured, “And head out from there. Floor by floor.”  

And really, the logical formula should be that they would find Midoriya in short order by starting from familiar locations and panning out from there.

Not that ‘Zashi hadn’t done that. And, in fact, as they rode the elevator up towards Problem Child’s room, the voice hero confessed that’d been the first place he’d looked, having knocked on the door a few times, finding the light off and the door itself locked.

No sign of the boy, no hint of his whereabouts from the first known area that he could or would be in.

Nevertheless, the pair tried again, with Shouta leading the way, his movements firm and precise, agitation in his footfalls as he made his way to Midoriya’s room, ready to figure out where the kid had gone off to.

But knocking on the boy’s door proved just as fruitless for Shouta as it had for Hizashi.

As did another round of dialing the boy’s phone.

Silence greeted them. And that was the first serious frustration the man felt as he paced the hall of the boy’s dorm floor, searching for a hint of the kid, as Hizashi made to go and check the computer and cameras, to see if there’d been any other hint as to where the kid might have scurried off to.

Shouta carefully swept over the area, searching the hall, eyes scanning the floor, the walls, and the doors, for some hint that the kid had been there.

He went upstairs next, closer to the roof, trying the stairwell instead of the elevator, his concern growing as he waited for ‘Zashi’s call to provide clues as to Problem Child’s whereabouts, the memory of the boy’s file replaying in his head as he considered all the frustration the boy must be feeling and had been feeling since he’d set foot on this campus, surrounded by all these people with these quirks they’d had since birth.

And he’d struggled.

Been marginalized.

Cast off.

It had to have been a harsh blow, and a lonely feeling.

The man carefully and quietly eased the stairwell door open to the upper floor, searching the silent, dark hall for a familiar mop of verdant curls, feeling his worry growing as he slowly crept through the, scanning the doors, looking for some sign of life.

“Where are you, kid?”

He didn’t want the kid to feel that same loneliness again. Not if he could help it.  

It was taking a bit longer than he originally thought it would, to set things up, to load the supplies and set out from his dorm without dropping anything. 

Not that Izuku minded. 

He’d wanted a distraction and this was proving to be just that. 

With his headphones firmly in each ear and his attention centered on finally giving out these gifts (though the recipients wouldn’t be here to receive them just yet), the boy had loaded his basket with his supplies and made to the furthest room from himself and got to work. 

Wire and hooks were essential components. They’d been the last piece he’d needed to complete this whole endeavor and now, standing before the fifth or sixth door, Izuku was finally getting the hang (literally) of setting things up and situating and positioning things how he liked them. 

It took a bit of practice, and Izuku was sort of...fickle with how he liked things to look, so he was sort of glad no one was here to see him fiddle with things and maybe look a little stupid with what he was doing. 

But maybe they'd think that later on anyway. Honestly, Izuku couldn't be certain anyone would even like this, what he was doing…

And he wasn't even sure if he was allowed to mess with the doors by poking hooks into them…

'Shit…' 

The word kept repeating in his head as he continued to work, wariness and determination fluctuating together as the wire went through the two holes he'd fixed at the top of the gift before he maneuvered the piece to set at the center of the door.

Ironically enough, he’d finally made it to Kacchan’s door, the sign he’d taken the better part of three days to complete still in his grip even as it sat perched on the wire and hook that held it aloft on his childhood friend’s door. 

A hero’s moniker flashed across the woodwork that had once remained barren, bright oranges and reds, framed with black–Kacchan’s hero colors–contrast the dots of green interspersed throughout the sign that the boy had spent time constructing. 

A hero’s sign. 

For a future hero. 

And yeah…yeah he knew it was probably stupid. 

Yeah he knew it was probably something that would get torn down when the others got back and actually saw the things, but…

Sometimes it was nice to see your name, your hero name at that, standing out, bright and apparent, highlighted for the rest of the world–or in this case the rest of the dorm–to appreciate. 

Heroes needed names. They needed their names to be remembered. 

And if nothing else, Izuku just wanted the others to know that he would remember their names. 

Their real names and their hero names. 

Yeah he was sentimental. Stupidly so, sometimes, as he was often reminded. 

But…

It was still a nice thought, one he’d enjoy while it was his to enjoy, while the others weren’t there to mock, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He trusted that it wouldn’t…sort of…at least enough to continue to put the signs up, to let them remain on display. 

So, he’d keep going–

A weight landing on his shoulder, however, had the boy seriously reconsidering his plans altogether as his quirk flared, and his hand flew away from the door, as the boy spun on his heel and backpedaled away from the enemy…

Or away from Aizawa-Sensei rather, who stood, looking rather nonplussed, brow quirked in questioning as he let his own quirk flare, golden eyes flashing as he held his hands up to signal  he wasn’t going to step closer towards the boy. 

Izuku felt his quirk sputter to silence for a full thirty seconds as the man held his own power alight the pair staring at one another in the silence as music continued to blare in the boy’s ear, offsetting the tension between the boy and his Sensei in the strangest way. 

It was only when Aizawa-Sensei blinked that Izuku hastened to remove his headphones, a hasty, stuttering apology falling from his lips as he sidestepped his basket of hero signs to come closer to his teacher. 

“I’m sorry, Sensei. I-I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t realize that you…were standing there and I–”

“Easy, Problem Child, it’s alright,” The man remarked lowly, waving his hand before setting them into his pockets, turning to inspect the floor, where the basket sat, “The only issue we have is you not answering your phone.” 

At that comment the man cast a sharp look towards the boy who had the good graces to feel a bit…stupid for having forgotten to take his phone off of ‘silent’ before heading to his dorm room to finish up his presents and wrapping. 

‘Ah, whoops.’ 

With a small, undignified squawk the boy hastily reached for his phone and checked the time, noting that it was both well into the evening, past dinner, and there were…ten missed calls from Mic-Sensei and Aizawa-Sensei…

And Shinsou had messaged to ask where he’d gotten off to as well. 

‘Eri’s wondering if you’re going to read her a story tonight…’ 

‘Oh, oh shit.’ Izuku straightened, fingers twitching, leg shaking slightly in response to the sudden anxiety that coursed through him. 

The urge to run sparked in his soles. 

“Ah, I’m sorry Sensei. I’m so sorry” The boy murmured, setting his phone back onto catch calls, before turning to face the punishment he realized he probably deserved. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I was just…I was just trying to finish up the…the–” the boy gestured to the basket and the gifts, embarrassment eating at him, a warmth encircling his neck and wrapping around his ears. “these.”

“So these are the gifts you’ve been making.” 

Izuku could only nod at the comment, his gaze focused on a small scratch in Kacchan’s door just about Aizawa-Sensei’s ear. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what his Sensei really thought of his work, his attempt at capturing the heroes in class 1A. 

There was an awkward pause. Izuku shuffled his feet, fingers twitching.  

“You’ve spent a great deal of time on these,” The man’s voice was quiet, almost thoughtful as he gently let a hand glide over Bakugou’s sign, gaze turning critical as he assessed the details, seeming to judge the quality. 

The boy’s voice faltered and failed altogether as he watched his teacher carefully lean forward and look towards the sign the boy had taken the time to hang on Kacchan’s door, though it was still crooked. With nose nearly touching the handmade gift, the man frowned at the detailed miniature grenades that’d been fashioned and glued haphazardly along the edges of the nameplate, and ran a finger along the ridge of the lettering that jutted out through the center of the sign. 

“You’ve copied his hero design well enough,” Aizawa-Sensei peered down on Izuku expression neutral, “No doubt taken notes from your analysis notebooks, I’m assuming.” 

Izuku’s brows rose at the comment and the idea that Aizawa-Sensei knew that much about Izuku’s notebooks to even ask that question. He nodded haltingly the warmth that’d been a constant on his neck now blossoming on his cheeks as he considered just how much his teacher actually knew about him. 

How much he’d paid attention to. 

A spark of warmth flickered in the boy’s chest, though worry followed swiftly afterwards because…

What if he thought that Izuku was…

‘You’re not a worthy successor.’ 

The boy bit back a wince at the thought and tried to school his expression to not let it slip that his thoughts had turned darker and bit more self-loathing as his Sensei continued to hum thoughtful, carefully observing the basket of signs now, hands still in his pockets and nose tucked into his capture weapon. 

For a moment Izuku wondered if Aizawa-Sensei would call this stupid, if he’d criticize his craftsmanship or tell him that this was childish, that real heroes or even hero students shouldn’t care about irrational things like petty signs and gifts like this. 

For a moment he worried that maybe this was a mistake and he’d be chastised for, not only missing dinner and failing to inform his guardians of where he’d be, but damaging multiple doors in the dorms in the process. 

Perhaps he’d be yelled at. Perhaps he’d be chastised for his thoughtlessness, his selfishness, his lack of consideration or care. 

Perhaps–

"And what about yours then, Problem Child?" The underground hero rumbled softly, as he peered down at the boy, the question falling easily. 

Startled, the boy peered up at the man wide-eyed and confused. Aizawa-Sensei merely blinked back slowly, his gaze giving nothing away. 

"Don't you have one?" 

That hadn’t been the question Izuku was expecting. The calm consideration and thoughtful commentary and care  hadn’t been what he’d been anticipating at all. 

Not that Aizawa-Sensei was ever really mean to Izuku (intentionally), it was just…it was just…

Fuck it, it was just Izuku never knew where he stood with anything anymore. He never understood where the line was, what the boundary was, and what he was allowed to do and what he wasn’t. 

He didn’t know what to trust anymore because what he was used to wasn’t what was the norm for him anymore. People…

Were different. 

Aizawa-Sensei was different. 

And it was…

The boy swallowed and blinked, feeling the warmth in his chest grow, the confusion and frustration growing with it.

He didn’t know what to make of it anymore. 

‘You’re not a worthy successor.’ 

‘You deserved better, kid.’ 

He didn’t know if he deserved better. He didn’t know if he was a worthy successor, a good enough would-be hero, a good enough wielder of One for All. 

He didn’t know much of anything right now. 

But…

Izuku only shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips as stepped forward and concentrated on centering the piece just right, ensuring that nothing would fall off. 

He did know something.

"It wasn't about me," He remarked simply.

It wasn’t about him. 

It was about them. 

“You don’t…you don’t give a gift for yourself. You give it for…others to enjoy.” 

Shouta had to hand it to the kid. 

Despite the clear doubt he carried, the hesitation and wariness that he bore, brought on by a great deal of mistreatment no doubt, there always remained in him a firm conviction when it came to the care he placed for others. 

‘You don’t give a gift for yourself.’ 

The man watched the shift in the boy’s expression as he spoke those words, watched the way in which his eyes lit up, a firmness settling in the mire of green as he stepped closer to the door and smiled towards the name emblazoned on the sign he’d obviously spent a great deal of time manufacturing. 

A gift he was giving with no expectation of receiving anything in return. 

A gift he gave simply because he wanted to, to show he cared about the other person. 

Because it was who Problem Child was. 

And yet…for him to not think of himself in that moment? 

To not see the need for his own sign and title? 

He was certain the boy understood the real question Shouta had asked, just as he was certain the boy had answered it the same way for a reason. 

‘He doesn’t see himself as a hero like the rest.’ 

Izuku Midoriya saw himself as something lesser. 

There in the hallway of Heights Alliance, standing among all the doors to all these future heroes, one boy saw himself very much as an outsider, an analyzer and supporter. 

A sign-maker. 

But never a hero himself. 

Never someone worthy of having a sign posted on his behalf. 

And that, Shouta knew, was a pity. 

“Did you know,” The boy murmured, hand raised to Bakugou’s door, as he adjusted the sign carefully, fingers running along the small figurines of grenades he’d fashioned to the fixture with his rival’s hero name emblazoned on it. That very name was lettered carefully, with blocked, dark red and orange and grey characters to contrast the black background, layered with several sheets of the cardstock, to create a pop-out effect that matched the 3D designed miniature grenades and flames. 

The level of detail that the boy paid to each component held Shouta’s attention, drawing his eye as his ears strained to listen for the boy to continue to speak, knowing that, in his own way, Izuku Midoriya was trying to say something important. 

“Eiji-San has a quirk that lets him manipulate air.” 

Shouta made a careful sweep of the situation, watching as Midoriya attended to the signpost before him, frowning as he tried to adjust the tilted gift that leaned too far left. Seemed the weight distribution, with the decorations the boy had carefully crafted and placed on the layered cardstock, wasn’t weighted as perfectly as Problem Child would like. 

It was clear that precision and detail mattered to the kid as he maneuvered things and shifted the door sign carefully, determined not to jostle the piece too much.

He was fussing, as Hizashi always called it, both in his words and in his actions, as though he were trying to say or do something specific, understand something complicated or frustrating, by piecing together the smaller details, straighten things out and organize his level of understanding through conversation. 

The sign adjustment and the question were one and the same really, Shouta knew, each drawing the boy’s attention, provoking him to scrutinize and consider…

‘And perhaps…’ 

Shouta let out a soft, non-committal hum as he shook his head, leaning against the wall. 

“I didn’t,” He murmured after a moment, catching the boy’s brief glance towards the man before he returned to securing the sign to Bakugou’s door, fingers shaking slightly as he gently maneuvered the thin wire along the hook that held the sign on the door. 

“Though it seems an apt quirk for someone like him.” 

Problem Child hesitated at that comment, blinking a few times as he frowned at Bakugou’s door. The kid sighed for a second as he let his hands fall, his head tilting towards his basket, where the other, unhung signs still sat, ready to be placed on each door. 

“It’s…a good hero quirk,” The boy hedged softly, his voice betraying him, betraying the deeper feelings that lurked there. 

‘Why didn’t he want to be a hero with a quirk like that?’ 

It was such a rare thing for Shouta to see in Izuku, that vulnerability. Not that he hadn’t been privy to it before, but for the kid to willingly (sort of) admit it to him and peer at the man with that question, with those eyes that betrayed that worry, that concern and fear that lingered because the boy now knew that Shouta knew his secret…

This was Problem Child stepping into the unknown and trying to trust his Sensei. 

And Shouta was fucked if he screwed this up now. 

The man pushed off from the wall an gestured silently for the boy to hand him the basket, to which there was little resistance, though it seemed that Problem Child warred with himself for a moment, eyes betraying that inner conflict. 

Still,  with trembling hands, the child released the rest of the signs the boy had spent weeks creating into the care of his Sensei and turned to move down the hall, towards the next door. 

Towards the next recipient of his time and attention. 

‘I wonder if they’ll understand’ the man mused to himself as he stared after the boy, deliberately moving slower to give the child a chance to lead, direct, and take charge. 

‘I wonder if he’ll understand…’ 

“Not everyone dreams of being a hero, Problem Child” Shouta remarked carefully, as they stopped at Kirishima’s door, the underground hero’s gaze spying the soft stiffening of the boy’s shoulders as he turned to face the doorway, before the man set the basket down and peered at the contents, searching for the ‘Red Riot’ moniker. 

There it sat, tucked beneath the Tokoyami’s, with crimson and silver details peeking out beneath the dark shadow caricature that the boy had carefully crafted and positioned to weave across the name placard for the future hero ‘Tsukuyomi’. 

And really, the man shouldn’t be surprised at the quality of work and the level of craftsmanship that went into each of these makeshift hero signs. Shouta knew Izuku was a keen analyst, and a hero enthusiast (to put it mildly) and Shouta had had a few opportunities to peek into those hero journals the boy kept on hand during class. 

He’d seen the kid’s sketches and notations, the strategies  he’d come up with.

This seemed par for the course for the boy’s ingenuity. 

Shouta was impressed. 

Carefully, the man reached into the basket to retrieve the wire and hook that would secure the handmade sign to the door and watched as the boy knelt down and hesitantly rifled through the homemade gifts to pick out Kirishima’s sign, removing the delicate creation with both hands carefully gripping the edges, so as not to jostle the jutting pieces that represented the spikes from the boy’s hair and mouth and face guard on his hero costume. The edges of the sign itself were jagged and misaligned–and intentional move–colored with deep reds and outlined in black with the boy’s hero name centered with bold lettering that popped out with a textured effect. 

Shouta watched the boy carefully bring the sign up and towards himself as he stood, gaze briefly traveling towards his Sensei, an unspoken question lingering in that look before the boy turned away, towards the door, and towards his task of doling out the gifts he’d spent so long making. 

It’d been a brief moment, that look, that  hesitation, that questioning.

But it was enough for Shouta, who carefully positioned the anchor hook to the door, screwing in the small object as Problem Child stood silently next to him, both facing the woodgrain and stillness that surrounded the darkened hall. 

The man swallowed and blinking slowly, slowly filling his lungs, as his hands continued to move to adjust the hook. 

“I’ve come to find, Problem Child,” he began softly, concentrating on his task, “that heroism has a lot less to do about a quirk than it does about the person pursuing the goal. Anyone can be a hero if they wish to.” 

‘Even you, kid.’ 

“He would have made a good hero” The boy remarked softly, his tone thoughtful as he mused about the ‘what ifs’ “With a quirk like that.” 

“And he makes an excellent baker,” Shouta countered, “Which is just as honorable. And neither has anything to do with his quirk status.” 

At this, Shouta turned towards Problem Child, catching the boy’s confused gaze with a patient one of his own, hoping to convey some semblance of understanding for the boy, to try to get him to see. 

“A quirk can be useful,” The man admitted after a moment of the pair of them staring at one another, the weight of the silence bearing down on them as they stood in darkened hall, “But it’s not the only thing that defines a person.”

'You are more than that, Izuku. More than that power.'

The boy faltered in his movements of trying to thread the wire through the small loops along the top of Kirishima’s sign, eyes narrowing at the gift in his hands as he listened to his Sensei speak. 

Shouta wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad reaction, honestly, but continued to speak regardless. 

“You are gifted in many ways, Problem Child," God Shouta sounded so stupid. He knew he did. But he didn't know how to phrase this any better. "Your quirk is just another gift, not your defining gift."

'No matter when or how you got it.' 

And here, Shouta could see they were at an impasse as the boy remained turned away from Shouta, breathing slightly hitched eyes blinking more than a little rapidly as he attempted to focus on his project of hanging the sign on the door.

They were stuck. 

At least Shouta was. He didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t provoke the boy from shutting down. 

Every file he’d read today, every notation that he’d come across, painted a pretty stark picture of the boy’s time at Alderra, both in regards to the treatment he experienced at the hands of his classmates as well as his teachers. 

To provoke that line of questioning, especially as an authority figure himself? That was grounds for Shouta having the proverbial door slammed in his face. He knew that. One wrong move, one wrong step and all the trust they’d built would be gone. 

He’d be fucked. 

And Problem Child would retreat further in on himself. 

So, Shouta had to wait, learn to be patient, and let the boy come to him, to speak when he felt himself capable of doing so.

Let Izuku reach out. 

For now though? 

The man bit back a small sigh as he watched scarred hands–hands that’d been shattered over and again–steady the ‘Red Riot’ sign on the door frame, carefully adjusting it one way and then the other as the boy concentrated on the positioning, and the delicate pieces that jutted out from the main body of the sign itself.

Lips remained unmoving, words unspoken, tension pooling at their feet. Shouta was certain that silence would remain a firm fixture between them, a constant barrier that separated progress and growth from the stilted frustration and emotional turmoil that resided along the two halves each of them presented. 

But the man could see the flickers in the boy’s eyes, the search for relief there in that tired gaze, even as Problem Child fought against reaching out for help, like he’d been trained to keep silent. 

‘Like his hurts weren’t important enough to warrant seeking help from someone like you, Shou.’ 

The voice that lingered in Shouta’s mind always sounded like Hizashi, wiser, and far calmer than Shouta ever was. It was also so gentle, so thoughtful and considerate towards the situation and it frustrated the underground hero because he knew, deep down, that it was his own observations too, that he was seeing these things, understanding these details.

Yet, he was one who couldn’t make it better. He was merely an observer, incapable of reaching out to Problem Child, getting through to the kid to get him to hear and understand–

“That first day, during the quirk assessment,” Midoriya’s voice was quiet, so much so that Shouta nearly missed what the boy was saying at first. Blinking in surprise, the man turned his full attention to the boy who took a step back to scrutinize Kirishima’s new sign, the pair of them taking note of the way in which the sign itself seemed to deliberately appear as though it were tilting to one side, the miniature tumbling blocks that popped out from the signpost itself appearing as though they were falling to one side and down along the boy’s hero name. 

A clever design. 

A clever kid.

“Why did you let me stay, Sensei?” 

Shouta’s brows rose at the question. 

Apparently he was wrong that Problem Child would never be so straightforward with him. But he suspected–as he cast a sidelong glance at the boy, not wanting to face the kid head on, lest he frighten the boy into recanting on the inquiry–that this was probably the result of a wound that’d been left to fester too long and had finally burbled to the surface, the question falling out before Midoriya could stop himself. 

‘Much like he’d done yesterday.’ 

Cracks were forming. 

The dam was breaking. 

Somewhere along the line Izuku was fracturing and for better or worse Shouta was witness to it. 

The real test now, would be in how he handled the break and burst. 

And if he’d be able to show Izuku how to patch himself back together. 

Because it was going to take time. 

And it was going to be messy. 

And they were just beginning. 

Shouta carefully curled his hands into his pockets and leaned his chin down as he hummed softly, considering Midoriya’s question, the candor of it, and how best to respond. 

He wanted to be honest.

He needed to be honest. 

‘You deserve that much, Problem Child.’ 

“At first,” The man began, “I wasn’t sure you were cut out for the hero course. You lacked control over your quirk.” 

He made sure to emphasize the word Problem Child, himself, seemed hesitant to subscribe to the power he wielded. 

“And I admit I was ready to sign off on letting you go. But, as I said, kid, your quirk isn’t your only gift.” The man sighed. “And it wasn’t the reason I decided to keep you in the hero course.” 

‘You’re more than that power’

Problem Child turned, more fully to face his Sensei and Shouta met his gaze, tilting his head and peering down on the boy who stared back with earthen eyes shining, confusion swirling, questions unspoken. 

It was clear he wanted Shouta to continue, to explain, even if he dared not speak the request. 

Even if the hesitation remained written on his face. 

Shouta would meet him halfway. 

“You have a keen eye for analysis, kid,” The man remarked after a moment, speaking slow, letting them sink in, hoping they’d stick, “You’re remarkably good at adjusting in the moment, strategizing and finding a solution in high-stress situations. Not everyone can boast that. The ball throw wasn’t nearly as impressive to me as the methodology that led to it.” 

Izuku blinked and Shouta snorted as the utter confusion that flared on the kid’s face. 

He looked positively flummoxed. 

Which seemed fair enough because when one was comparing a, frankly, astronomical throw like the one Midoriya had exhibited during the quirk assessment, to his muttering thoughts, one wouldn’t normally conclude that the muttering had been the more interesting or valuable observation to make about the boy. 

And yet, for Shouta it had been. 

To watch the way the kid had taken criticism (being written off for something that, frankly, wasn’t his fault), shifted his approach, and strategized a new, more successful approach that led to his success over the exercise, all in the space of thirty seconds? 

It was terrifying and fascinating to observe. 

It was something that Nezu had been keenly interested in as well (which was concerning in its own right, really). 

And it’d been the gift that’d stilled Shouta’s grumbling long enough to get him to really look at the boy in front of him and see the potential, to see the gifts lurking there, the grit, the determination. 

And to see where he had been wrong. 

Idly the man nodded towards Izuku hand coming towards the kid, ruffling his hair lightly before he leaned down to retrieve the basket so they could head to the next door. 

“You’re more than just a quirk, no matter when it came in,” He remarked evenly. “I may not have seen it at first, but when I did, I made sure to keep you where you belonged.” 

With a tilt of his head, he gestured towards the hall, towards the next door, towards the next gift set-up. 

There was a small ghost of a smile that shadowed Problem Child’s lips as he returned the nod and fell into step beside his Sensei a soft ‘thank you’ murmured in the darkness of the hallway. 

The man made a note to pick up the art supplies later that evening, an additional gift on his register to finalize before the week was through, as they moved down the hall together. 

‘You belong here, Problem Child.’ 

He belonged here.