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One more class, one more year—that was what Shouta told himself. But Class 1A, like always, turned out to be anything but ordinary.
And what kind of man would he be if he left them behind after their first year, after everything they'd been through? Not the kind of man Shouta wanted to be. It wasn't because he'd miss their smiles. That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.
Because Class 1A had changed something fundamental inside of him, slipping into the hollow space in his chest that had been there for as long as he could remember.
They were graduates now, the professional heroes that Shouta had trained them to be—but he didn't like to dwell on his part in that. They'd worked hard, scraped by on grit and determination, and he'd just... pointed them in the right direction.
Now, they didn't need him—not like they used to.
One more year had turned into three. Three long years of dragging himself through the motions for everyone else, never for himself. Shouta thought—maybe hoped—that after finally coming to terms with Oboro's death fifteen years later, he'd move past it. That the dark cloud hanging over his head would finally dissolve. He was wrong.
Three years and six months of dragging himself forward became the end of next week.
The day before, a Friday, Shouta found himself genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. Found himself smiling so much that even Kan pulled him aside to ask if he was alright. Never better, he'd said, though he didn't miss the way Hizashi's fond smile faltered at the edges.
"Since you're in such a good mood, Aizawa-kun, we're having a get-together this evening. 1A will be there. Do you want to come?" Yagi asked, all good intentions and that earnest smile of his, and Shouta found himself nodding before he could think better of it.
"Sure. It'll be good to see them." One last time, he didn't say, the words settling heavy and unspoken in his chest.
The evening came quick, and Shouta found himself surrounded by familiar faces at a downtown izakaya. His former students laughed, trading stories about their hero work, their lives moving forward in ways he’d never quite managed. He watched them with something that felt… almost like peace, taking time to memorise the sound of Ashido’s bright laughter, the way Midoriya’s eyes still lit up when he talked about hero work, how Bakugou had mellowed just enough to let Kirishima sling an arm around his shoulder without exploding anything.
So when Hizashi caught his eye from across the table, concern swirling beneath an ever-present smile, Shouta raised his glass in a silent toast and let himself feel grateful. For this moment, for these people, and for the fact that he'd held on long enough to see them become everything he knew they could be.
Even if he wouldn’t be around to stay and watch.
"Another round? On me," he heard himself say, much to the joy of his former students.
Shouta pushed himself up from the table and made his way to the bar. He leaned against the counter, flagging down the bartender for another round, like he'd promised. His fingers dug through his wallet, thumbing past bills he wouldn't have any use for after tomorrow. Might as well put them toward something that mattered. Toward the people who mattered most.
"Aizawa-sensei?"
Shouta turned his head, blinking. Uraraka had appeared at his elbow, her expression soft but searching.
"You don't need to call me sensei anymore, you know?"
"I know," she said with a small smile, "but old habits die hard." She hesitated, then added, "Are you okay? You seem... different tonight."
Shouta felt his chest truly tighten for the first time that night, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "I'm fine, Uraraka. Just enjoying the evening. You should be too."
She nodded, but didn't leave. "I just… I don't mean to overstep, but I'm worried about you."
"Why—"
"You're looking at us like you're trying to memorise our faces. Like you won't see us again," Uraraka met his eye, and Shouta saw something achingly familiar staring back at him. Something that looked too much like understanding. "Are you going somewhere, Aizawa?"
Shouta's throat went dry. He should have known better, these kids had always been too perceptive for their own good. Especially when it came to reading the things he tried so hard to hide.
"I'm not going anywhere," he lied, the words tasting like venom on his tongue. He turned back to the bar, gripping the edge of the counter harder than necessary, enough to bleach his knuckles white. "Go back to the others, Uraraka. Don't waste your evening worrying about your old teacher."
"I’m going to worry if my old teacher is planning something he can’t take back."
That was the first time anyone had said it out loud—displayed the truth to the open air where it couldn't be ignored. Shouta went stiff, his shoulders climbing up toward his ears in a way he couldn't quite control.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Shouta said, but his voice came out hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, couldn't, or wouldn’t, face the concern he knew would be written across her features.
"Aizawa-sensei, please." Uraraka's hand found his arm, gentle but insistent. "Whatever you're planning—don't. We still need you."
Shouta's silence said everything his voice couldn't, bleeding out the truth in a way words never would have managed. He knew with a sinking, heavy certainty that he wasn't getting away from them tonight. Not anymore. If he tried to slip out now, Uraraka would tell the others, and it would spiral into something far bigger than it needed to be.
He exhaled slowly, finally turning to face her. "You should enjoy your night, Uraraka. That's all I want. For all of you to be happy."
"We can't be happy if you're not here." she said quietly, her grip on his arm tightening just slightly.
"Why not?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, raw and unguarded, and the wounded look that flashed across her face hit him harder than he thought it would.
"Because you taught us that heroes don't give up," Uraraka insisted, steady despite the way her eyes were starting to glisten. "You taught us to keep fighting, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
"Do as I say, not as I do," Shouta murmured, barely audible over the noise around them as he turned to gather the freshly poured drinks from the counter.
"That’s not fair—"
"A lot of things aren't." The words came out sharper than he meant them to. He didn't look back at her as he turned away, drinks balanced in his hands, and made his way back to the table. "Drinks are served."
The evening continued, laughter and chatter filling the space around him, but Shouta felt detached from it all now in a way that was familiar—safe. He caught Uraraka's attention on him more than once, and each time he looked away, focusing on conversations he was only half-listening to.
When Hizashi leaned in close, asking if he was sure he was alright, Shouta just nodded and forced another smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
By the time the night started winding down, leaving just their group at the bar, Shouta felt something close to satisfaction settle in his chest. This was a good way for things to end. His students and friends would carry this last memory of him—smiling, present, content—rather than witness the rot that had been eating at him from the inside out.
He was gathering his things, ready to slip away quietly, when Uraraka’s voice cut through the din.
"Sensei."
Shit.
Shouta's hand froze on his jacket, every muscle in his body tensing. The table fell quiet, conversations dying mid-sentence as heads turned toward Uraraka, then toward him.
"You know I can’t let you leave."
The words hung in the air, a challenge, and Shouta felt the weight of every pair of eyes on him tenfold. Hizashi straightened in his seat, smile finally fading as understanding dawned across his features. Midoriya's hand had stilled mid-reach for his glass, and even Bakugou had gone unnaturally quiet, red eyes narrowed and assessing.
"Uraraka," Shouta said her name carefully, low and controlled despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. "What are you doing?"
"What a hero would do. What I need to do to make sure we don’t lose our teacher."
Shouta's jaw tightened enough to hurt. He could feel the shift in the room—the way everyone was starting to piece together what Uraraka wasn't saying outright, the way the easy atmosphere warped into something more desperate—scared.
"Uraraka, this isn't the time or place—" he started, but Midoriya was already on his feet.
"Sensei, what is she talking about?" The question was just a courtesy, Shouta could see the answer written all over Midoriya’s face.
Shouta exhaled slowly, feeling the trap close around him with no easy way out. He could see it with startling clarity—the concern, the determination, the stubborn refusal to let him slip away into the night like he'd planned. They weren't going to let this go.
Let him go.
"Shouta, I think you should sit down," Hizashi said gently, but his fingers wrapped tight around Shouta's wrist.
Shouta didn't sit. He continued to stand there, caught between the door and the table, between escape and confession, feeling the walls close in with every passing second. His students—former, he reminded himself uselessly—were watching him with expressions that made his chest ache in ways he'd spent years trying to avoid and ignore.
"You were supposed to be my last class," the words came loose before he could stop them. "I still don't know why you turned out different. But you did. Even now. Damn problem children."
But maybe that wasn't the problem at all. Maybe it was a reason to stay—because no matter what Shouta chose tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.