Chapter Text
“We’re with you, kid,” the Fifth had promised, his voice nothing more than a gravelly echo lost within the misty landscape of One For All.
If that were true, Izuku wondered distantly, why did the silence of his bedroom feel so deafening? He lay flat on his back, arms splayed, half-expecting the mattress to give way beneath him. Sleep wasn’t coming, and the silence of his bedroom pressed against him like a weight. The mattress beneath him had lost its solidity, feeling less like a bed and more like a thin, temporary raft floating atop a vast, unknowable sea. He stayed perfectly still, half-expecting the fabric to give way and let him sink into the depths at any moment.
Above him, the ceiling served as a gallery for shifting shadows though they eventually landed on the familiar, frozen grin of All Might. The posters beamed down with a heroic triumph that was meant to inspire hope, but tonight, that unwavering confidence felt like pressure. Those painted eyes were fixed perpetually on a victorious future, while Izuku remained firmly anchored to a present that felt anything but certain.
Turning his head, he watched his own hands. His fingers were calloused now, mapped with scars that still ached whenever it rained or the Quirk was pushed too far. As he flexed them slowly, feeling the tight pull of healed skin over old damage.
He thought of his mother and the crushing weight of what he couldn't say. He could tell her, of course; she had always listened with a fierce love. But he could already see the transformation: her smile faltering, her eyes turning glassy and fearful, and that frantic tremor returning to her hands the moment she realized her son was carrying something heavier than just a physical wound. She wouldn't hear "duty" or "responsibility"—she would only hear "danger." To add another weight to her heart was a burden Izuku simply couldn't bring himself to impose.
His friends offered a different kind of complication. Uraraka would meet the news with earnest concern and a joke to lighten the mood, while Iida would grow rigid, immediately drafting the protocols and rules for a burden Izuku hadn't asked him to share. Then there was Todoroki, whose mismatched eyes would see too much and say too little. They were heroes in the making, yes, but this was a haunting embedded in his very bones. It was a war passed down through generations, a fairy tale gone wrong. Even if they believed him, the distance between them would change; he would stop being Midoriya Izuku, the classmate, and become abnormal.
He hated being abnormal.
Then there was Aizawa-sensei. Izuku let out a tired, breathless huff of laughter, staring at the ceiling until it blurred into a grey haze. His teacher already lived one inconvenience away from a migraine, and handing him the "mystery of the century" felt less like asking for help and more like courting disaster. At best, it would earn him another lecture on self-preservation he knew he couldn't follow. At worst... expulsion, probably expulsion. Or at least, an attempt at one.
Even with All Might and Kacchan in the inner circle, a chasm remained. All Might understood the power's purpose, but he hadn't lived with the voices or the memories of others pressing against his thoughts at odd moments. And while Kacchan knew the secret, knowing wasn't the same as understanding. Neither of them felt the hum of six other souls beneath their skin, nor did they wake with the phantom taste of smoke in their mouths or the residual chill of a hand brushing a shoulder when no one was there.
The predecessors were with him, certainly, tucked into the marrow of his bones and woven into his fibers, but as Izuku closed his eyes, the only heartbeat he could actually hear was his own.
So, yes, he was alone.
After four hours of staring at the ceiling, Izuku finally accepted that sleep wasn’t coming. His thoughts had wound themselves too tightly, looping endlessly through a labyrinth of worries, hypotheticals, and half-formed fears that felt more tangible in the dark.
"Tea," he decided, his voice a dry rasp in the quiet room.
The click of the door handle felt like a thunderclap rather than just a small sound.Izuku flinched, his hand lingering on the metal, half-expecting a door to fly open and a sleepy, disgruntled classmate to demand what he was doing. But the silence held, thick and undisturbed.
The corridor of the fifth floor was a tunnel of shadows, illuminated only by the faint light of the emergency exit signs. Green. Everything was tinted in a sickly, electronic green. It caught on the edges of the nameplates on each door, turning the familiar kanji into jagged, unrecognizable scratch marks.
Izuku walked as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet to minimize the friction against the carpet. Yet, even with all his training, his own breathing sounded like a gale in his ears. Every inhalation felt shallow, the air tasting of floor wax and the faint, lingering scent of Kacchan’s nitroglycerin-sweat that seemed to permeate the very drywall of the upper floors.
As he reached the stairs, the temperature seemed to drop.
The stairwell was a concrete throat, cold and echo-prone. Izuku gripped the railing, his palm sliding over the chilled steel. Step. Pivot. Step. He tracked the movement of his own shadow, which stretched and distorted against the cinderblock walls, mimicking the gait of something much larger—something older. Weird.
You’re losing it, Izuku.
He found himself counting the steps, a nervous habit that usually calmed him but tonight only served to highlight the repetition of his insomnia. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. At the landing of the fourth floor, he paused. A faint thumping came from behind one of the doors—someone’s white-noise machine, perhaps, or a restless sleeper kicking at their sheets.
It was a reminder that he was surrounded by friends, yet the "thin raft" feeling he’d felt in bed persisted. He was walking through a graveyard of the living, a place where dreams were being processed in the dark while he carried the waking nightmare of the predecessors’ ghosts in his marrow. Ghosts? Were they ghosts?
By the time he reached the second floor, the architectural scale of the common area began to open up. The ceiling vanished into a void of darkness where the mezzanine loomed. The large windows of the common room were slabs of obsidian, reflecting nothing but the tiny, blinking lights of the kitchen appliances.
The common room at night was too quiet, a sharp contrast to the day’s activities. A discarded hoodie draped over the back of a sofa looked like a slumped figure in the gloom. A forgotten book on the coffee table sat like someone had rearranged it to stand on its spine.
Izuku’s footsteps transitioned from the soft thud of carpet to the sharp, clinical tap of kitchen tile. The sound was lonely. It was a singular noise in a world meant for many.
He didn't turn on the overhead lights. The thought of that harsh, fluorescent glare was too violent for the current state of his mind. Instead, he relied on the moonlight spilling through the high windows, silvering the edges of the marble countertops and the stainless steel kettle.
He reached for the faucet, the cold water rushing into the kettle with a hollow, metallic roar that seemed loud enough to wake the entire building. Izuku cringed. Why did everything seem so much louder at night? He stared at the swirling water, his reflection caught in the chrome. He looked distorted in the kettle’s eyes, his own wide, and looking far younger than a "Symbol of Peace" should ever look.
He was no ninth wielder, no successor. He was just a boy in a dark kitchen, barefoot on cold tile, staring down at a kettle like it might explode if he blinked wrong, trying to find a way to stop his hands from shaking.
The water inside the kettle rolled and screamed, steam ghosting up toward the ceiling in thin, frantic curls. Izuku barely noticed. His thoughts were too loud, too tangled, spiraling inward until the world narrowed to heat and noise and the tight knot in his chest. He gripped the handle harder, knuckles pale.
“If the water boils for any longer, it’s gonna evaporate.”
The voice came from his right—easy, amused, threaded with a quiet laugh—and Izuku jolted like he’d been caught doing something wrong. His head snapped up, heart stuttering.
A boy was leaning casually against the counter by the sink.
He looked to be around Izuku’s age, maybe a year or two older at most. His posture was so loose, so unbothered, it gave the impression he belonged in the space, like the kitchen had simply grown around him. Light blue hair, airy and soft as a fading sky, curled and waved in every direction, stubborn tufts framing a face split by a wide, lived-in grin. Bright blue eyes crinkled with genuine amusement, and a small white bandage sat squarely across the bridge of his nose, as if it had been there long enough to be forgotten.
He didn’t look dangerous.
He didn’t look like a vestige.
A vestige wouldn’t look this real—not here, not in the warm hum of a dorm kitchen, not with the faint scent of instant noodles and cheap detergent lingering in the air. Vestiges were like– shadows, or misty images, and echoes and weight. This boy cast a presence, he wasn’t wrapped up in mist.
Izuku froze.
Questions flooded his mind all at once, overlapping and colliding. Who is this? He had to be an upperclassman, right? Maybe a second year who wandered into the wrong dorm? So why is he in a first-year kitchen? And why this late at night? Should Izuku say something? Ask him to leave? Say hello? Apologize? Do something?
Anything?
The boy, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice Izuku staring at him at all. He gazed somewhere over Izuku’s shoulder, fingers tapping idly against the counter as if keeping time with the tune he hummed under his breath. A song Izuku didn’t recognize.
Weird, Izuku thought distantly. Did he have an invisibility Quirk? And did he think it was turned on right now? If so, was it like Hagakure’s—constant—or something that depended on focus? Or maybe visualization. Light refraction? Perception-based activation? Could it—
Oh— the water!
In a sudden, panicked motion, Izuku lifted the kettle with one hand, nearly sloshing boiling water over the edge. He fumbled for his All Might Bronze Age Limited Edition mug with the other, relief flooding him when the water poured cleanly instead of spilling everywhere.
As steam curled up around his face, he glanced back at the boy. Still humming. Still not looking at him.
Say hello, Izuku told himself. Just say hello.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and spoke quietly, words tumbling over themselves.
“Uh— hey. Thanks for the reminder. To— you know. Pour the water. I would’ve completely forgotten. So, um. Thanks.”
No response.
The boy didn’t so much as glance in his direction.
Okay, Izuku thought, a flush creeping up his neck. That’s a little rude. Or maybe he didn’t hear me.
So Izuku cleared his throat again, louder this time, shoulders squaring as if that might help.
“Thank you, uh— sorry, I don’t know your name.”
That did it.
The boy’s head snapped up so quickly Izuku cringed from the pain it would cause. His grin faltered, replaced by something startled and uncertain. He straightened from the counter, bright eyes darting around the room as if searching for another person—anyone—who might explain what was happening.
“Are you—” he began, then stopped, blinking. “You can— are you talking to me?”
Izuku hesitated, confused by the question. “Uh— yeah? Am I not supposed to?”
The boy huffed with laughter, a short, disbelieving sound, then scrubbed a hand through his already-messy hair. "You’re looking right at me, right?” he said, eyes bright with something between hope and disbelief. “You can see me?”
Izuku tilted his head, uncertainty knitting his brows. The question itself was strange—why wouldn’t I be able to?—but he didn’t interrupt it. Instead, he turned back to the counter, reaching for one of Yaoyorozu’s neatly arranged tea bags, carefully plucking one from the box. He hesitated for half a second, a familiar stab of guilt flaring at the thought of wasting it, before deciding she probably wouldn’t mind.
“Uh—” he started, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Blue hair,” Izuku said slowly, as if double-checking his own senses. “Blue eyes. Bandage on your nose.”
He let the teabag fall into his ceramic mug with a soft plop, the string draping over the rim.
“Then yeah,” he finished, a little more confidently now, “I can see… you.”
The boy froze—only for a heartbeat—before his face split into a dazzling, unrestrained smile, the kind that felt too big to contain.
“Holy shit! You can see me!” he blurted, eyes lighting up as if he’d just won the lottery. “And hear me!”
He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately afterward, glancing around the empty kitchen like he expected a teacher to materialize out of thin air.
“Sorry,” he added, lowering his voice. “I shouldn’t swear in front of a kid.”
Kid? Izuku blinked. The guy couldn’t be more than a few years older than him—if that.
“It’s okay,” Izuku said quickly, instinctively mirroring the hushed tone. “Kacchan says much worse.”
The boy’s eyebrows shot up.
“That’s the angry, loud, blonde dude?” he asked, pointing vaguely with one finger, as if angry, loud, blonde was a category unto itself.
“The one and only,” Izuku confirmed.
The blue-haired boy laughed, bright and unrestrained, shoulders shaking.
“I knew a loud blonde,” he said, grin turning fond and crooked. “Though he was a little less—asshole-y.”
The word slipped out casually, without malice, and Izuku couldn’t help it—he snorted. The sound surprised him enough that he immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, cheeks heating as guilt followed close behind. He shouldn’t be laughing at that. Probably.
But the boy just grinned wider, clearly pleased.
Once the kettle was set down and the steam had thinned, Izuku wrapped both hands around his mug, blowing gently across the surface of the tea. The warmth seeped into his fingers, steadying him just enough to ask the question that had been hovering in the back of his mind.
“So,” Izuku said, peeking over the rim of his mug, steam fogging his vision just enough to blur the boy’s outline, “why’re you in our dorm?”
The boy shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulders that didn’t quite match the weight of the question.
“I dunno,” he said lightly. “Bored, I guess.” He tilted his head, grin softening. “Didn’t think anyone would be awake—or,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “that anyone would be able to see me. Y’know?”
Izuku did not know. The explanation was vague. Too vague. It slid around the edges of understanding without ever settling into something solid, and that alone made Izuku’s stomach twist. Still, he pushed the feeling down, straightening his posture like he’d been taught.
“I’m Midoriya Izuku,” he said, setting his mug carefully on the counter. He wiped his palm against his pajama pants out of habit before extending his hand. “By the way.”
The boy didn’t take it right away.
Instead, his gaze dropped to Izuku’s hand, lingering on the scars that crossed his knuckles and fingers—old fractures, healed wrong, a history written in pale lines. For a moment, his expression flickered with something Izuku couldn’t place. Hesitation. Fear.
Then, slowly, the boy lifted his own hand.
He reached out.
And passed straight through.
A sharp, electric chill tore up Izuku’s arm, pins and needles erupting where their hands should have met. The sensation was wrong—too cold, too empty—and Izuku gasped, yanking his arm back as if burned.
“What the f—”
He looked up, horror flooding his chest, green eyes blown wide.
The boy only smiled.
It wasn’t the dazzling grin from before. It was smaller. Sadder. Like he’d known this would happen and had been bracing for it all along.
The boy laughed softly, as he said, “Name’s Shirakumo Oboro,” he said. “And I’m— well. Not—”
The word landed fully formed in Izuku’s mind before it was ever spoken.
Ghost.
With a shriek torn straight from his throat, Izuku stumbled backward, heel catching on the edge of the rug. The world tilted, his mug clattered somewhere out of sight, and then he hit the floor hard, breath knocked from his lungs as the kitchen lights seemed to glare down at him.
He was on the ground.
And there was a ghost in his dorm’s common room.
Izuku was still on the floor when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
He sucked in a breath just as Iida appeared at the bottom, hair slightly mussed, posture rigid even in his sleepwear. His glasses were conspicuously absent, leaving his eyes narrowed as he squinted into the dim kitchen.
“Midoriya?” Iida asked, concern threading through his voice. “Are you alright? I heard a yell.”
Izuku’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
He looked at Iida—real, solid, normal—and then, against his better judgment, flicked his gaze toward the ghost.
No.
Toward Shirakumo.
The blue-haired boy hovered near the counter, arms folded loosely, expression curious and far too amused for the situation.
Izuku scrambled to his feet, movements stiff and clumsy.
“I—I’m fine, Iida,” he said quickly, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry, I—I dropped a spoon. On my—uh—foot.” He winced for emphasis. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”
From behind him, Shirakumo snorted.
“Nice save, kid.”
Izuku shot him a sharp glare that only earned him a grin in return.
Turning back to Iida, Izuku forced his mouth into something resembling a smile.
“Don’t worry,” he added, more steadily this time. “I’ll be up in a few minutes. Sorry to wake you.”
Iida visibly relaxed, shoulders lowering as he let out a small sigh.
“I am relieved to hear that,” he said. “However, you really should be asleep.” He gestured vaguely at Izuku’s pajamas. “And you must make sure you are properly bundled. It is freezing down here.”
“Wonder why,” Shirakumo remarked.
“Yes!” Izuku replied immediately. “I will. Sorry again.”
“Good night,” Iida nodded once, satisfied, and turned back toward the stairs.
Only when his footsteps faded did Izuku allow his shoulders to slump—just a little.
And then he hissed under his breath, eyes snapping back to the ghost.
“You’re not helping.”
Shirakumo’s grin only widened.
“That’s the Class Rep, right?” Shirakumo said, watching the stairwell like he expected Iida to reappear at any second. He chuckled softly. “Man, he’s a bit of a stickler, isn’t he? Ours was way more laid back. A bit of resemblance between the two, can't imagine why.”
Izuku waved a hand, more to steady himself than to dismiss the comment. His heart was still racing, his nerves buzzing from the fall and—everything else.
“Who— why are—” He stopped, exhaling hard, then tried again. “How are you here? And why can I see you?”
Shirakumo hummed, rocking back on his heels.
“Beats me,” he said easily. “You’re the first.”
That did not make Izuku feel better.
“The first?” Izuku repeated, voice pitching just slightly higher.
Shirakumo tilted his head, studying him with open curiosity, as if Izuku were the strange one here.
“Yeah,” he said. “Most people walk right through me. Or don’t look my way at all.” He smiled, light and crooked. “You, though? You looked straight at me.”
Izuku swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. He had to get upstairs without drawing attention to the fact that a ghost was trailing him like an overenthusiastic stray.
He lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, rinsing out his mug twice, wiping down a counter that was already spotless, all the while listening to the silence. The dorm had settled again—the kind of silence that pressed on your ears, heavy and expectant.
“So,” Shirakumo said eventually, drifting a little closer, hands shoved casually into his pockets, “you heading to bed, or…?”
Izuku flinched.
“Y–yeah. I mean… I should. It’s late.”
“Cool,” Shirakumo said, voice easy. “I’ll come with.”
Izuku froze.
“No,” he said, a little too fast. “No, you—you can’t.”
Shirakumo blinked, curiosity flickering across his face.
“Why not?”
“Because—because that’s the dorms,” Izuku hissed, glancing nervously toward the stairwell as if Iida might appear at any second. “And Iida’s already suspicious, and if he sees me talking to myself in the hallway at—at God-knows-what time in the morning—”
“You won’t be,” Shirakumo said, already drifting toward the stairs. “You’ll just be walking.”
“That’s worse!”
But Shirakumo didn’t stop. He was already halfway up before realizing Izuku hadn’t followed.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “You thought I’d… what? Stay downstairs?”
“I was hoping,” Izuku admitted weakly, shoulders tensing.
Shirakumo tilted his head, then shrugged, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
“Guess your wish won’t come true.”
And just like that, he continued upward.
Izuku followed, heart in his throat, every step tight and careful. He half-expected something—resistance, a barrier, anything—but nothing happened. Shirakumo moved through the stairwell as if it were as ordinary as air, and the ease only made it worse.
The hallway lights flicked on automatically as Izuku passed, the motion sensors buzzing softly in response. Shirakumo didn’t trigger them. That… was notable. Izuku filed it away mentally, fingers tightening into fists at his sides as his brain frantically searched for patterns, for rules, for anything that could make sense of this.
Inside his room, Izuku shut the door quietly and leaned back against it, breathing out through his nose.
Shirakumo hovered near the center of the room, hands still tucked casually into his pockets, eyes bright with interest.
“Whoa. You guys get super nice dorms. Too bad we didn’t get any.”
“We?” Izuku echoed faintly, tension creeping back into his voice.
Shirakumo waved a hand, dismissive. “Later.”
Izuku sank onto his bed, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. He stared at the floor for a long moment, letting the quiet press against him before finally looking up.
“Okay,” he said, voice trembling despite himself. “Okay. We need to— to talk about this.”
“Yeah,” Shirakumo said readily, voice casual. “Figured.”
Izuku swallowed hard. “You’re… a ghost.”
“Last time I checked, yes,” Shirakumo said. His tone wasn’t upset, more curious, almost amused.
“And I can see you,” Izuku continued, voice rising slightly. “And hear you. And you can move around. And you… you passed through my hand.”
“Not my best first impression,” Shirakumo admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… is your Quirk, like—the ability to see ghosts?”
Izuku shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No—well—wait—hold on.” He exhaled sharply, willing the Fifth, the universe, something, to explain. Why could he see him? Why now?
He pressed his palms into the mattress, staring at Shirakumo as if the boy’s casual hovering could somehow be erased by sheer will.
“Okay, listen,” he said, voice shaking a little. “You can’t just—float around my room whenever you feel like it. You have to… I don’t know, follow some… rules.”
Shirakumo tilted his head, chin resting on one hand. “Rules, huh? Like bedtime rules?”
“Yes!” Izuku snapped, then immediately quieted himself, cheeks heating. “Exactly! Like… like don’t wander into the hall at night, don’t touch things—” He hesitated, biting his lip. “Actually… can you touch things? Well, if you can, just… not in a way that alarms everyone.”
Shirakumo laughed, soft and unbothered, letting his weight shift from one foot to the other. “Relax, kid. I can’t exactly break anything like this.”
Izuku swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but his brain was short-circuiting. Instead, he sank lower onto the mattress, gripping the edge like it could anchor him.
“So… you’re a ghost,” he whispered. “But… you… have, I dunno, do you have a Quirk that acts as an energy stockpiler? Or something? That is released after death?"
Shirakumo shrugged again, smiling faintly. “‘Fraid not. But maybe this works something like that. I don’t really know the mechanics, either. I just… exist. Guess you’re the lucky one who can see me.”
Izuku’s head spun. Lucky? He didn’t feel lucky. He felt exhausted. And terrified.
“Can you… leave?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Shirakumo floated closer, tilting his head. “Sure. I can leave. But… why would I?”
Izuku groaned, burying his face in his hands. Why indeed.
They stayed like that for a long minute—the hum of the dorm quiet around them, the faint buzz of the hallway lights outside the door—and Izuku realized he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to sleep or just keep watching this impossible thing hover in front of him.
Finally, he forced himself upright. “Fine. One night. But… tomorrow, we need to figure out what this actually means. Why you exist. Why I can see you. All of it.”
Maybe it has something to do with One for All?
Shirakumo’s grin widened, sharp and mischievous. “Tomorrow, huh? Does that technically mean today? If so, looking forward to it. You seem pretty smart, so I’m not worried. Shouta thinks so too, you know.”
Shouta?
“You mean Aizawa?” Izuku asked, and Shirakumo nodded. “Yep!”
Izuku groaned again and flopped back onto the mattress, eyes shutting. The edges of fear and curiosity tangled together in a tight knot, just waiting for morning.
Izuku sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to ignore the lingering tension from the night before.
He was just about to swing his legs over the side when a familiar, airy voice floated through the room.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
Izuku froze.
Shirakumo hovered near the window, hair catching the light, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His grin was already in place, impossibly bright and calm, like floating around a first-year dorm room at sunrise was the most normal thing in the world.
“Shirakumo! What—why are you here?!” Izuku hissed, jumping out of bed.
Shirakumo tilted his head. “Where else would I be? You said we needed to figure things out, right? I’m being punctual.”
Izuku’s heart hammered. Punctual? You’re… a ghost. He ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to focus. “You can’t follow me around during the day! People will see—”
Shirakumo waved him off. “Relax. No one can see me but you. Like I said, you’re the lucky one.”
Lucky? Izuku repeated as his stomach tightened. He swallowed and tried to steady himself. “I—okay, fine. Just… don’t, like, distract me or hover too close in class, got it?”
Shirakumo floated a little closer, now he looked like a ghost, the once solid figure had shifted and taken on a more vestige-looking appearance, smirking. “Too late. You’re already distracted. Besides, I’m curious. I wanna see what a day in your life looks like. I usually hang around Shou or ‘Zashi, but now I’ve got someone else to bother, and i can actually bother you by doing something other than passing through people.”
Izuku groaned and pulled on his uniform hastily. This is going to be the longest day ever.
The green haired boy did his best to avoid conversation with his classmates, afraid that Shirakumo would make him laugh, or rile him up that he hisses at the boy to stop. That would be too embarrassing.
By the time he reached the classroom, Shirakumo had drifted just behind him, leaning over chairs, peeking at his notes, humming softly under his breath. Izuku tried to ignore him, lowering himself into his desk, but every now and then, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a flick of blue hair, a flash of those bright eyes.
Kacchab and Todoroki were already there, and Izuku was painfully aware of how normal everyone looked. No one else noticed the ghost drifting around him, commenting quietly, pointing out little details only he could see:
“Nice handwriting. You’ve been practicing, huh?”
“Do you really think we need that many pencils?”
“Class Rep’s strict today. Should be fun.”
Izuku clenched his fists under the desk. Fun? Fun? This isn’t fun! He tried to focus on Aizawa’s voice, on the whiteboard, on anything that would block out the impossible presence floating behind him.
Shirakumo, of course, didn’t sit still. By the end of the period, he was perched on the edge of Izuku’s desk, one leg dangling casually, like he’d always belonged there.
“You look tired, Midoriya,” Shirakumo said, frowning slightly. Then, his grin softened into something conspiratorial. “Hey! You can take a nap and I can just tell you what you missed. It’s just homeroom, so no worries—I used to do it all the time!”
“No,” Izuku muttered, rubbing his eyes as he groaned and lowered his face into his arms.
Shirakumo shrugged and began pacing around the classroom, his presence like a whisper in a room full of people who couldn’t notice him. He leaned slightly over Aizawa, poking at his hair and making exaggerated gestures, trying to provoke a reaction, all to make Izuku laugh.
And a part of Izuku—the part that had been staring at the ghost all night—couldn’t help but watch, curious despite himself.
Shirakumo, grinning that impossible grin, seemed to know it.
Izuku let out a soft snort of laughter before he realized it.
“Something funny, Midoriya?” a voice asked sharply.
Izuku jerked upright, ears flushing bright red. “Uh! Sorry—”
Shirakumo cringed, throwing his hands up in mock apology. “My bad!”
Izuku’s face heated further. “UH—no, sir! Sorry! I—I—” His words tumbled over themselves as he lowered his head again, muttering under his breath. Why does this keep happening?
Shirakumo simply leaned back on the desk, one hand dangling lazily, watching Izuku with an expression that was part amusement, part curiosity. “Relax, kid. You’re fine. No one saw anything… except me, but I’m… well, me.”
Izuku groaned into his arms, trying to steady his racing thoughts. Me? He didn’t even know what “me” was yet. A ghost? A leftover Quirk? And somehow, he was supposed to act normal while this impossible thing floated around his classroom?
The bell rang, slicing through the tension, and Izuku blinked, realizing he hadn’t been taking notes at all.
Shirakumo grinned wider, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Guess we’ll figure out the real fun after class.”
Izuku hurried out of the classroom, hoping that if he moved fast enough, Aizawa wouldn’t force him to stay behind.
“I really am sorry, Midoriya,” Shirakumo said, frowning slightly. “I just got super excited.”
Izuku shook his head, exhaling through his nose to calm himself. “No, it’s alright. I would’ve acted the same way, if I were you.” He meant it. Despite everything, he genuinely appreciated Oboro’s curiosity and energy.
“After school,” he added, determination creeping into his voice, “we’ll head to the library. We can look for any info—anything that might explain what’s going on.”
Oboro’s grin returned, bright and mischievous. “Sounds like a plan.”
Izuku hesitated for a moment, then said, “You can call me Izuku. No use in using last names, right?”
Oboro tilted his head, considering for a second, then nodded. “Alright, Izuku. Then call me Oboro.”
“Okay, Oboro,” Izuku said, letting the name settle. For the first time since this strange encounter began, he felt a small flicker of control—like maybe, just maybe, he could figure this out.
Oboro floated a little closer, leaning on the doorway as the other students filed past. “So, Izuku… be honest with me now… What do you think of ‘Za— Present Mic’s banana-ass looking hair?”
With a laugh and as they walked down the hall together, Izuku couldn’t help but notice—just for a moment—how normal it almost felt. Almost.