Chapter Text
It started with a box.
Not a fancy one, either. Just an old cardboard box, worn soft at the edges, tucked away in the hallway closet where it had lived quietly for years. Izuku’s fingers hesitated over the flaps before he opened it, as if lifting the lid would stir up dust from a whole other lifetime.
Inside were two things.
A thick, green scrapbook bulky with taped-in photos and crayon drawings.
And right beside it, his dog-eared childhood treasure:
“Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13”
“Wow,” he breathed. “I haven’t seen this in forever.”
His mom peeked over his shoulder. “Oh—look at that! You really used to carry that everywhere.”
“I thought if I took notes like a hero, I’d become one,” Izuku chuckled, rubbing the worn corner. “Even back then...”
Who would’ve guessed? That habit, the way he’d trained his brain to analyze everything, won real battles, ended up saving lives.
Inko sat beside him, already flipping through the scrapbook. “You still had that same serious little face when you were four,” she said, laughing as she turned to a photo of him in an All Might hoodie three sizes too big, arms raised dramatically.
Inko clasped her hands under her chin. “Awwww... just look at you in that All Might costume. Too cute!”
“That was my favorite one,” Izuku said, scratching his cheek, sheepish.
She turned the page. Elementary school admission day.
A bright-eyed boy, gripping his backpack straps like they were hero gauntlets. His smile a little nervous but proud.
Inko touched the edge of the photo. “That was such a special day... You walked into that classroom like you owned it.”
“I remember thinking maybe someone would ask what my Quirk was,” Izuku said, quieter now. “I had a whole answer planned.”
Another page– first day of middle school...
The photo was more plain. A group shot. Izuku in the back, eyes lowered, mouth pulled into a small line.
“That was a tougher time,” Inko said gently.
“Yeah,” he replied.
Neither of them filled the silence right away.
Flip. First day at U.A.
It was a picture he didn’t even remember being taken. He looked barely held together, gripping his bag with both hands, eyes wide with wonder and terror, but smiling. Just barely.
Inko laughed softly. “You were so nervous you almost forgot your lunchbox.”
“I almost threw up on the train,” he confessed.
“But you went anyway,” she said, proud. “You went anyway.”
Page after page of battle scars, dorm chaos, training camps, graduation. Kirishima lifting him in the air after a win. A blurry background shot of Ochako and Iida cheering like lunatics. So many memories, crammed between pages.
His throat tightened a little when they flipped to the next one.
First Day as a teacher.
There he was, standing in front of a whiteboard. Hair too neatly combed. Coat too stiff. Trying to look like he belonged. Underneath, in his mom’s handwriting:
“Our Teacher.”
Inko sniffled. “You really became this amazing grown-up, didn’t you?”
“Mom...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re gonna make me embarrassed.”
She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “Let me, just this once.”
He looked down at the page again.
He’d done it, hadn’t he?
He’d reached that finish line he’d drawn for himself a million times over in notebook margins. He’d walked the whole path: trembling, falling, rising , until he became someone he could maybe, possibly be proud of.
A story like that, if this was a comic, it would’ve ended here.
Hero achieves dream, becomes teacher, future secured. Fade out.
The "Final Chapter" would close on a soft smile and a quiet peace.
And yet, He wasn’t done. Not even close.
So now what?
Izuku tilted the album, noticing how the light hit the edge of the plastic. In this shot, he was the center of the frame, but his eyes drifted to the blurred figures in the background—the people the camera hadn't focused on. It was strange to think about it, how a single photo only tells the version of the story the photographer chooses to show.
It made his thoughts drift back, suddenly and sharply, to the heat of the final battle.
All For One’s voice had always been the same: heavy with the need for control, soaked in a singular, suffocating self-narrative.
“This is my story,” he had said, his voice like a king sealing fate with ink. “Everyone else is an extra.”
But right before the blast, just before the ending rewrote itself, another voice had shattered that lens.
It was Kacchan’s voice , cutting through chaos like a blade:
"No. This is our story!"
Izuku could still hear it—raw, furious, soaked in blood and sheer will. That moment had lodged itself deep within him. It was the moment the "Main Character" died and the world opened up
Because everyone sees themselves as the protagonists. Every tyrant, every outcast—they tell their story as if they’re the only one who matters. But the truth is, everyone has a version that feels "real" to them. Who gets to decide which panel counts as “canon”? Which side is “right”?
It all depends on the framing. The perspective. The lens.
From one angle, heroes look like saviors. From another, they’re the ones who never showed up. To one person, a villain is a monster; to another, they’re just someone who broke first. Who gets to be viewed as the center? Of what kind of story? Sometimes… it’s just a matter of where you’re standing when the shutter clicks.
And sometimes, he was simply the one standing off to the side, holding the camera—making sure other people could step fully into their own stories and move forward, supported but uninterrupted.
He reached for the next page of the album. This one was different.
A class photo from U.A. Not from his own time.
It was from his class, his students: bright-eyed, goofy, confident, nervous. So many faces looking forward, just like he once did. A younger him might’ve worried whether they had enough talent. Now? He just believed.
The first quirk assessments had been a mess. Some kids cocky, others terrified. But every one of them tried. Every one of them shone. He saw what they could be. He trusted them to get there.
He remembered the first school festival. Sugary apple candy. Laughter. One kid nearly dropped the whole tray. He'd laughed so hard his ribs ached for days.
By the time of the sports festival, they teased him without fear. Called him “Deku-sensei” when they wanted to push his buttons. Slapped his back. Asked real questions. Shared their lives.
He really, really loved being a teacher.
Not because he was good at it.
But because it meant he got to see them, his students, grow into themselves.
The photos told the rest of the story.
He flipped through the next album, one of the newer ones.
Inside were faces, laughter, moments. People he’d once fought beside. People he’d only recently come to know.
Yes, he’d gotten into photography.
Not long ago, really.
It started almost by accident, with a colleague’s old DSLR he’d borrowed for a school event.
But the click of the shutter stayed with him.
At first, he was hopeless; the settings were a blur, the framing was messy, and he’d forget the battery more often than not.
But one day, right at the UA Cultural Festival, when a stray gust of wind plastered a giant cloud of cotton candy onto a stoic student’s face. She let out a rare, wheezing laugh, and Izuku caught the shutter just as her eyes crinkled with pure joy. It was tilted and blurry, but it was the first time a photo felt like it had a heartbeat.
And he couldn’t stop after that.
More snapshots followed.
One showed him, Kacchan, and All Might up on a mountain trail.
All Might had joked, “It’s like hiking with my two sons.”
They’d laughed. Even Kacchan, though he tried to hide it.
Another photo: Tsuyu and Ochako at a lakeside, both in casual clothes, mid-laugh.
He’d felt a little guilty tagging along, he knew it was a girls’ outing, but Ochako had insisted.
Later, she whispered she was glad he came.
There was one from a ramen shop: Todoroki, Kacchan, and him out for dinner.
Todoroki had blinked right as the shutter clicked.
Kacchan scowled like usual, but didn’t stop him.
Jirou and Yaoyorozu being ridiculous backstage, Jirou mid-pose doing Kaminari’s “cool guy” face while Momo laughed too hard to stand straight.
A quiet night on the balcony: Tokoyami talking about “the eternal mystery of shadow,” while Hawks leaned on the railing, smirking, pretending to take him seriously.
There was one of Nagant, now quietly finding joy in digital painting. He visited sometimes. She’d let him see her sketches. One of them looked like a hero from a children’s book.
And many, many more.
They were all still heroes. But more importantly, they were human. And he just wanted to remember them that way.
He picked up a brand-new album.
Soft. Unused. Still smelling faintly of paper and possibility.
He slid a polaroid into the first page.
Him and Ochako.
His heart fluttered. His cheeks burned a little just looking at it.
She was smiling with her eyes closed, tilting her face toward the light. He was beside her, a half-laugh frozen on his lips. There was a kind of stunned joy in his expression, like he’d just realized: I get to have this.
Maybe that was the point.
Maybe he wasn’t just stepping away from the lens anymore. Perhaps, he was the one holding it. Framing the story. Choosing the angle.
And if he was being honest with himself, maybe he could be in the frame too.
He looked down at the picture again, at the way her shoulder tilted naturally toward his. Like it was always meant to fit there.
He reached across the shelf and placed the album beside the others.
The “Hero Analysis for the Future” notebooks. His thick childhood photo book, full of All Might clippings and dreams. The UA album, snapshots of adrenaline and firsts.
They were all part of his story.
But now...
Now, he wanted to be part of hers.
He almost laughed at himself.
Cheesy. So cheesy.
But he wasn’t letting go.
He sat back, fingers resting lightly on the new album cover, trembling just slightly.
His voice, when it came, was bashful but steady.
“If it’s okay... then maybe, from here on out...”
A smile tugged at his lips.
“...this is our story.”