Archive of Our Own

Midoriya Izuku paired with drugs was nothing new.

He’s aware of his image, painfully so, and he knows that word, yes, that dreaded word drugs, doesn’t exactly look right next to his name. It clashes with the green curls, the earnest eyes, round, freckled cheeks, and the painfully simple boy-next-door look. People expect him to be clean, pure, untainted even. Not syringes. Not pill bottles. Not charts tracking dosages and side effects. 

But the truth is, he and pharmaceuticals were, in fact, inseparable.

And before anyone panics—relax. This is strictly medical. Well, unfortunately.

When you’ve broken as many bones as Midoriya Izuku has, when your body treats the concept of “limits” as more of a loose suggestion instead of a strict, drilled in rule, pharmaceuticals stop being taboo and start being more routine. Painkillers. Muscle relaxants. Anti-inflammatories. Recovery shots. Prescriptions with names too long to memorize and warnings he’s learned to skim by heart.

It’s the price of pushing himself past what a normal—Quirkless—body was ever meant to endure.

If anything, the strange part isn’t that Midoriya Izuku uses drugs.

It’s that anyone ever thought he wouldn’t.

Doctors especially.

It was a silly mistake he made. He was rushing down a flight on concrete stairs in a park, weightened ankle braces weighing his steps down so he could build up stamina, then, down Izuku fell, colliding face first into the rough pavement.

The impact was a dull, sickening thud that echoed in his ears, followed immediately by red drops on the ground.

Izuku didn't move for a moment, his cheek pressed against the grit of the sidewalk, counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. He waited for the familiar spike of adrenaline to mask the pain, but the ankle braces—those heavy, stupidly annoying, weights—felt like lead anchors pinning him to the earth. He groaned, pushing himself up onto trembling elbows. His vision swam, a cracked kaleidoscope of grey concrete and dizzying green park trees. He could already feel the heat blossoming across his nose and forehead, the skin puffing up in a rapid, angry protest against the physics of his descent.

"Stupid," he muttered, his voice thick as something metallic tasting spilled into his mouth. "---Should have thought of the, ow, shift in weight on the decline."

By the time he hobbled into the local clinic, he was a walking bruise. The receptionist asked for his name, but more out of simple courtesy, Izuku figured. She then sighed, pulled out a clipboard, and gestured toward what Izuku had dubbed the "Frequent Flyer" corner of the waiting room.

When the doctor finally entered the exam room, he didn't look at Izuku first. He looked at the chart. Then he looked at Izuku. Then back at the chart.

"Midoriya-kun," the doctor began, his tone a mix of concern and utter exhaustion, though Izuku couldn’t blame him. "Most teenagers come in here for a flu shot or maybe a sprained wrist from a soccer game. You, however, have enough scar tissue on your hands to baffle a forensic scientist, and now you’ve managed to give yourself a fractured nose because you were... running down stairs? With weights?"

"It’s for my, uh, conditioning," Izuku explained, trying to sound helpful despite the cotton balls stuffed up his nostrils.

The doctor sighed, clicking his pen. "Conditioning. Right. Well, your 'conditioning' requires a specific cocktail of anti-inflammatories today, unless you’d like your face to stay the size of a prize-winning melon for the next week. We have a healing Quirk, so her power isn’t like Recovery Girl’s, so you’ll have to keep the bandage we put on your nose for a few hours as well not overload your cognitive capabilities, just to be safe. You can see her and everything looked over when you head back to school.” 

He started scribbling on a prescription pad, the scratch of the pen the only sound in the room.

"You know," the doctor added, glancing up over his spectacles, "most people would be hesitant about taking this many prescriptions at your age. They worry about the toll on the liver, the grogginess, the 'unnatural' aspect of it."

Izuku reached out, taking the slip of paper with a scarred hand. He looked at the chemical name and saw them for what they were: tools. Just like the braces, just like his body, just like One For All. 

“Combined with what you’re already taking, you’ll be undergoing some side effects. Dizziness, nausea, potentially some vivid dreaming," the doctor continued, tapping his clipboard with a rhythmic, clinical thud. "And because of your unique metabolism, the 'crash' when the muscle relaxants wear off might feel like hitting that concrete all over again. You need to rest, Midoriya. Truly rest."

Izuku nodded, though they both knew, well, he figured the doctor knew, "rest" was a flexible concept for him. He tucked the prescription into his pocket, the paper crisp against his palm.

"I, um, understand," Izuku said, his voice sounding distant even to himself. "As long as it keeps the inflammation down. I, uh, can’t afford for my reaction times to be sluggish during my training tomorrow."

The doctor let out a sharp, cynical breath, was he laughing? What was so funny about that?” “Training? Son, you’re going to be lucky if you can walk in a straight line for the next twelve hours. These aren't vitamins. They’re for a body that you treat like a crash-test dummy."

Izuku didn't argue. He couldn't. Maybe it was because his head was swimming, his face hurt, his body ached or any other number of reasons he couldn’t remember. He just offered that polite, practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes when the topic turned to his health.

“You’ll need someone to pick you up. Do not even think about walking, understand?” The doctor gave a side-eye, reading Izuku’s face immediately. "We’ll first need to reset your nose, and I have your emergency contact list right here, Midoriya-kun. I can call UA, or I can call your mother. Which would you prefer?"

“Uh—”

Who could he call?

Well, All Might was out of the question. It’d be so embarrassing to tell his mentor, “Hey, I’m about to be super drugged up right now, mind giving me a lift?” All Might already worried about him enough; the man didn't need another reason to lose more sleep over Izuku's self-destructive streak.

The same went for his mother. Izuku knew, from the bottom of his heart, that Inko would drop everything to take care of him, but that was exactly the problem. He couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him like this, taped up, bruised, and chemically slowed, over something as trivial as a flight of stairs.

Aizawa was just so much easier.

It was a strange sort of comfort, really. Because Izuku ended up in the school’s infirmary so often, he had come to rely on his teacher's annoyance. Aizawa didn't offer the crushing weight of motherly worry or the high expectations of an idolized mentor. He offered a sharp sigh and a disappointing glare. And while others might find Aizawa’s constant state of disappointment intimidating, Izuku found it oddly comforting. It was a known variable. It was familiar. Aizawa wouldn't coddle him. To his teacher, Izuku was simply an annoying problem child who he could put out of his mind when he wasn’t looking.

Thankfully, it being a late Saturday afternoon, he wouldn't be missing any classes. Still, the irony wasn't lost on him: the one day he’d been granted permission to head off-campus for some solo conditioning, he’d managed to turn a flight of stairs into a medical emergency.

Gathering what remained of his dignity, Izuku reached for the glass of water provided by the doctor. He took the prescribed dose, the small pills sliding down easily—a practiced motion he barely had to think about anymore. With the medicine already beginning its work to dull the throb in his face, he steeled himself and pressed the call button on his phone.

It just had to be on date night, Aizawa Shouta thought, biting back a groan.

With the school festival coming to an end, it was a given that the students would head home for a few days to reset their mindsets. This year had required significantly more convincing given the League's recent activity, but the staff had finally relented.

Shouta and Hizashi had taken the opportunity to visit Eri, who was so tuckered out from the festivities that she was already fast asleep when they arrived.

“What a sweet listener, isn’t she?” Hizashi hummed, pulling Shouta in close. For once, Hizashi was out of costume, sporting his red-rimmed glasses and a casual half-up bun, paired with a simple jacket and jeans. Surprisingly, Shouta was also dressed down—though to the casual observer, his civilian clothes looked nearly identical to his hero gear, black pants with a black loose fitting sweater with rolled up sleeves.

“Yeah,” Shouta nodded, his expression softening in a way he’d only ever admit to under duress, seeing the girl so at peace was a rare, hard-won victory.

“So, reservation’s at 4:30,” Hizashi noted, glancing up at the wall clock before offering a bright, toothy grin. “Ready to go, Sho?”

Shouta actually felt a rare spark of anticipation. No grading, no patrols, just a quiet dinner where he didn't have to keep one eye on a capture scarf. He reached for his phone to silence it, the universal signal for I am officially off the clock.

Then, the device buzzed.

And he saw the name Midoriya Izuku flashing on the screen.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, the light in his eyes dying a swift death. Shouta let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-growl, dropping his forehead against Hizashi’s shoulder. "I'm going to expel him," he muttered, though the lack of bite in his voice betrayed the lie. "I am going to expel him the moment I clean up whatever disaster he just caused." 

Hizashi’s grin faltered, leaning over to try and peek at the caller ID. 

Shouta let out a breath so long it was practically a whistle. "It’s Saturday. He had less than twenty-four hours of unsupervised free time. I should have known he’d find a way to break something."

“Oh, Midoriya,” Hizashi threw his head back, his posture slumping as he stepped back to give Shouta some space.

Shouta answered the call with a sharpness that could have cut glass. “You better have a gun to your head, Midoriya,” he led with, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

There was a pause on the other end—a beat too long—before a voice that was decidedly not Midoriya’s spoke up.

"Actually, this is Dr. Arisue from the West Musutafu Clinic," the man on the line said, sounding entirely too used to Aizawa's bedside manner. "And while there are no firearms involved, your student has had a small accident."

“What happened?" Shouta asked, grumbling.

“A flight of concrete stairs.”

‘...Beg your pardon?”

“He’s currently high-functioning, but we’ve had him orally take a fairly heavy sedative-analgesic cocktail for a bruise and some fracturing on his nose. He is in no condition to operate a bicycle, let alone his own legs."

Shouta closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He fell down the stairs? Stairs?"

"With weighted braces on, yes," the doctor added helpfully. "He’s getting himself checked over now, so they can set his nose and heal it. You need to come get him."

“Where’s his mother?"

“He said he wanted you.”

Now, that was a bit of a surprise.

Shouta felt the irritation drain out of him, replaced by a heavy, complicated sinking sensation in his chest. "He asked for me?"

"Specifically," the doctor confirmed. "He was quite adamant about not worrying his mother. Something about 'not wanting her to see the damage’ until the swelling goes down. He seems to think you're... uh, used to this. So, I hope to see you?”

“Uh—yes, I'll be there.” Shouta hung up the phone slowly, he was used to seeing Midoriya bruised, broken and bandanged. He looked at Hizashi, who was watching him with a softened expression, his usual loud-and-proud persona energy dialed down to a quiet hum.

"He asked for you, Sho," Hizashi repeated softly. "That’s pretty sweet.”

"It's a nuisance is what it is," Shouta muttered, though his hand lingered on his phone. He felt a sharp pang of something he refused to call affection. 

“Come on,” Hizashi nudged him, his tone light but knowing. “The sooner we get him, the better.”

The drive took about twenty minutes. The clinic was tucked away in a quieter part of Musutafu, far enough from the hospital where Eri was staying that the atmosphere felt less like a sterile emergency ward and more like a neighborhood repair shop. Shouta led the way inside, his boots clicking rhythmically on the linoleum. He approached the woman at the front desk, his posture radiating the weary energy of a man who had done this far too many times. Even though, technically, this specific errand was a first. Usually, the "Midoriya Maintenance" happened within the walls of UA under Recovery Girl’s eye. Being summoned to a public clinic felt like a strange expansion of his job description.

“I’m Aizawa Shouta,” he said, flashing his ID briefly. “Here to pick up Midoriya Izuku.”

The receptionist offered a look of pure, unadulterated sympathy. "Ah, yes." She typed away on her keyboard before spinning a clipboard over to him with a practiced flick of the wrist. “You’ll need to sign the release forms. We’ll forward a copy of the discharge papers to his mother.”

Shouta paused, pen hovering over the paper. “I thought he didn’t want his mother involved.”

“He’s a teenager; of course he doesn’t,” the woman laughed, though her eyes remained kind. “But as a clinic, we are legally required to notify the primary guardian, not to mention emailing her the bill and insurance details. We can keep the 'emergency' call to you, but the paperwork has to go home.”

Shouta sighed, scribbling his signature. He could already envision the frantic phone call from Midoriya Inko he’d have to field later.

“He’s in Exam Room Three,” she continued, her voice dropping a register. “The doctor administered a sedative to manage the pain while we set his nose, so he’s… well, he’s a bit out of it. Just make sure he gets his rest and finishes the full course of the anti-inflammatories.”

Shouta thanked the woman, his mind already shifting into the logistical nightmare of transporting a sedated teenager. Hizashi lingered by the entrance to the hallway, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. “Should I go wait in the car?” he whispered, glancing around the quiet lobby. “Think he’ll be wondering why we’re together? Might be a bit much for the kid to process on top of everything else.”

Shouta didn't even turn around. “Hizashi, I doubt it. Based on the doctor’s description, he currently has the mental processing power of the faculty room’s crappy toaster. Besides, I’m going to need your help getting him to the car if he’s as out of it as they say he is.”

He pushed open the door to Room Three, and the scene inside was almost theatrical.

Midoriya was sitting on the exam table, his back against the wall, staring intensely at a small, plastic anatomical model of a human ear on the side table. He wasn't crying or panicked, no, he was just... still. Unneveringly so. It wasn’t typical for the kid, who usually would talk a mile a minute with his knee bouncing or fingers tapping just as fast. A large white bandage was taped across the bridge of his nose, and his skin was pale, making the dark, blooming bruises on his cheek look like ink spilled on parchment. Ouch.

“Ah, Aizawa-san, glad you made it,” a voice came from the side. Shouta hadn’t even realized the doctor was still sitting at his desk, obscured by a mountain of charts and a computer monitor.

The doctor, Arisue, stood, clicking his pen and sliding a final document into a folder. “He’s been a very polite patient, though he was a bit chatty while we were trying to stop the nosebleed. Also, sorry for catching you off guard when I picked up the phone. The kid was adamant about calling you himself, but just as it started ringing, a nurse called him back for treatment and he practically shoved the phone into my hands. And, well, you know the rest.”

“Yes, I do recall,” Shouta replied, glancing at Midoriya who had not been paying a lick of attention to the conversation in front of him.

“Indeed.” Arisue hummed. “Now, as I mentioned, I’ve given him a sedative-strength analgesic. It’s necessary for the level of trauma to the facial tissue, but as you can see, it’s stripped away his usual filters,” the doctor warned, walking over to give Izuku one last look. “He shouldn’t be left alone for the next twelve hours. No training, no reading, and definitely no stairs. Keep him hydrated and make sure he’s had something to eat before you let him sleep it off for a while. He might experience some nausea, as well, cold sweats, vivid dreaming, that kind of thing. It’s probably rough after the initial dose was taken.”

“Okay, I understand.”

Midoriya, hearing words being spoken, let out a soft, dreamy huff. “I hate those things.”

“What?” Shouta turned slightly.

“Stairs.”

“Can’t blame you after today.”

“No! Be—um—fore fall. Freakin’ splat.”

“Yes, of course,” Shouta said, his tone expertly dry. He exchanged a look with Hizashi, who was currently doing a wonderful job of shaking silently in an attempt to suppress his laughter.

“Goodbye, Midoriya. Try to do what I asked you to, hm?” Arisue walked over, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“...Shoot up?”

“Rest,” the doctor corrected immediately, his eyebrows jumping toward his hairline.

Hizashi’s composure finally snapped, a sharp, wheezing laugh escaping him as he turned his face into his shoulder. Even Shouta felt a twitch at the corner of his eye—the kind of twitch that signaled a very long night ahead.

“Come on, buddy, ready to go?” Hizashi finally said, striding over to help support Midoriya’s other side. He scanned over the kid and his face contorted as if he wanted to both frown and smile. Huh.

“And you are?” Midoriya squinted, his head tilting so far back it was a wonder he didn’t tip over. He peered at Hizashi’s civilian clothes, his eyes widening in horror. “You were robbed!”

Arisue glanced over in confusion, his eyebrows raising up once again.

“Hero exercise,” Hizashi offered quickly, flashing a practiced, slightly strained grin at the doctor. “I once played the role of a victim in a robbery simulation for the students. He’s clearly... reliving the experience."

Shouta sighed deeply, putting a hand on Midoriya’s back to steady him. “Let’s go.”

“No, no, no, I got this one—” Midoriya waved a calloused hand dismissively, his fingers fluttering like a bird with a broken wing. He started to laugh—a light, bubbly sound that was entirely too cheerful for a boy with a fractured nose—as he promptly plummeted toward the floor.

The reaction was instantaneous. All three men lunged forward, a frantic tangle of arms reaching out to catch the falling student. Shouta’s reflexes, honed by years of catching falling civilians and reckless sidekicks, won out. He snagged Midoriya by the back of his zip-up hoodie just inches before his face could make a second acquaintance with the ground, this time the clinic’s. Hizashi caught his arm, and even Dr. Arisue managed to grab a handful of Izuku’s oversized t-shirt.

“Shit, I’m floating,” Midoriya whispered, his eyes wide as he stared at the linoleum tiles that had almost claimed him—again.

Hizashi blinked, his eyebrows raised in surprise as he huffed out, “Huh. I’ve never heard him swear before. That’s a new one for the record books.”

“I ought to give him detention,” Shouta muttered, though his grip remained tight. He hauled the boy back into a vertical position, effectively pinning him against his side to prevent further gravitational mishaps.“Language, Midoriya,” Shouta added, though there was more exhaustion than heat in his voice.

“Sorry,” Midoriya giggled, the sound light and airy. He leaned his head against Shouta’s shoulder, his curls tickling the man’s jaw. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Is that all, Doc?” Shouta asked, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the boy currently using his shoulder as a pillow. Arisue nodded, handing over a small white bag containing the rest of the prescription. “That’s it. Just keep an eye on his breathing while he sleeps. He’s on a high dose, so he might be out for a while once the initial euphoria wears off and the sedative really kicks in. He can check in with Recovery Girl when it wears off.”

“Understood,” Shouta said, signaling Hizashi to open the door. They waved both the doctor and receptionist off, got a few chuckles and stares as they moved into the parking lot. The transition from the artificial clinic lights to the hazy streetlamps seemed to trigger something in Izuku’s medicated brain. He squinted at the sky, his grip on Shouta’s sleeve tightening just a fraction.

“Sensei?”

“What now, Midoriya?” Shouta asked, his tone weary but his grip remaining steady.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Stairs.”

Hizashi laughed quietly, the sound muffled by his hand as they reached the edge of the parking lot. “Can’t blame you too much, kid. You didn't exactly build the things.”

“Maybe,” Midoriya muttered, his brow furrowing as he frowned.

They reached the car, and Shouta immediately bypassed the passenger side, his hand out for the keys. “I’m driving.”

“What? Why?” Hizashi protested, holding the keys just out of reach with a wounded expression. “I’m an excellent driver!”

“Because the school is forty minutes away, it’s about to be rush hour for people heading out for the night, and you,” Shouta pointed a finger at him while maneuvering Izuku toward the back door, “have absolutely atrocious road rage. I don't need you yelling at a sedan while the kid is hallucinating in the backseat.”

Hizashi opened his mouth to defend his honor, then glanced at Midoriya, who was currently trying to "high-five" the car’s side-mirror. He sighed and tossed the keys over. “Fine. But I’m in charge of the radio. We need some soothing tunes for the listener.”

“As long as it isn't your own show,” Shouta grunted, unbuckling the seatbelt as he helped Midoriya slide onto the seat.

“What do you think, Midoriya? Hm?” Hizashi asked, sliding into the back seat to sit beside him. He wasn't taking any chances; the kid was acting as flimsy as a ragdoll, and Hizashi didn't want him toppling into the window the second Shouta took a sharp turn. “You love my show, right, kiddo? What was that? You say it’s the only thing that’ll soothe your baked brain?”

“You’re horrible,” Shouta muttered, adjusting the rearview mirror just in time to see Midoriya’s head roll toward Hizashi.

“Your show?” Midoriya repeated, his eyes widening as a slow-motion realization dawned on him. He let out a sharp gasp. “Oh—you’re Present—cool! So stupid, I’m freaking stupid. So dumb. I am dumb, usel—ugh, useless.”

He sang that last word with a lilting, drug-induced cheerfulness that didn't quite hide the weight of the sentiment. Hizashi’s usual radio-host grin vanished instantly. He reached out, steadying the boy with a firm hand on his shoulder, and said simply, “You’re not useless.”

The sincerity in Hizashi's voice seemed to short-circuit Midoriya’s brain. He erupted into a laugh so sudden and startlingly loud that Shouta flinched, his foot slamming onto the gas pedal. The car shot out of the parking spot with a sharp jolt. Thankfully, the surrounding stalls were empty, and Shouta managed to stabilize the vehicle before they hit anything other than the open road.

“Shouta! Easy on the drag racing!” Hizashi yelped, bracing one hand against the front seat while keeping the other firmly on Midoriya’s shoulder to keep him from flying forward. 

“I’ve got it,” Shouta snapped, though his own heart was thudding against his ribs. He eased off the accelerator, steering them smoothly onto the main road. Thankfully, the parking lot had been mostly empty, or that sudden burst of speed would have ended in another trip back to Dr. Arisue’s exam table. “Sorry.”

“Woah, you’re a bad driver,” Midoriya hummed, his head swaying in time with the car's motion as he watched the streetlights blur past. He sounded more fascinated than judgmental. “Everything is... whoosh.”

“I’m a perfectly fine driver when I’m not being jump-scared by a cackling teenager,” Shouta muttered, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

“Where’re we going?” Midoriya asked, blinking slowly as he tried to focus on the back of Shouta’s head.

“School,” Shouta replied flatly.

Midoriya’s face fell, his brow furrowing in a look of profound betrayal. “No food?”

Hizashi let out a sympathetic aww, reaching over to ruffle Midoriya’s messy hair. “We’re headed back to the dorms, kiddo. You need to sleep off whatever you took, remember?”

“I took?” Midoiya paused, his head tilting so far to the side that it eventually just came to rest on Hizashi’s shoulder. “Shit, uh– take? I take someth—no, wait, it was took!”

He sounded genuinely panicked by the grammatical realization, his hands waving in small, jerky circles as he tried to reconcile his tenses. Hizashi bit his lip, his shoulders shaking as he fought the urge to howl with laughter. And once again, It was a losing battle. “Glad you’ve been focusing on your grammar, but no swearing, okay, hon?” Hizashi managed to choke out, giving the boy's knees a squeeze to keep him from hyperventilating over a verb. A verb.

“Sorry,” Midoriya whispered, sounding profoundly small. “The past tense is…uh, uh, it’s behind us. Like the stairs. They’re in the past tense now. They’re... stair-ed.”

“We’ll work on it,” Hizashi murmured, pulling Midoriya in closer to keep his head lolled securely against his shoulder. He adjusted his arm to act as a more stable cushion, watching as the boy’s eyes finally began to flutter shut for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Stair-ed,” Izuku repeated one last time, the word coming out as a faint, airy puff of air. His hands, which had been twitching with nervous energy since they left the clinic, finally went limp in his lap. Shouta watched the exchange in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw had visibly lessened. The silence in the car was heavy, filled only by the low hum of the heater and the occasional thud of tires over road seams.

“He’s out,” Hizashi whispered, barely audible over the car’s sounds. He looked down at the green curls messily pressed against his clothes. “Poor listener. He really did a number on himself today. How are we going to play this at the dorms?”

Shouta kept his eyes on the road, his grip on the wheel tightening. “I dunno. I doubt he wants to be seen like… this.”

Hizashi’s expression shifted, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Or, I’ve got an idea.”

“No,” Shouta said immediately.

“You didn’t even hear it yet!”

“I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”

“Oh, come on,” Hizashi whispered, glancing down at the sleeping boy. “If Eri’s gonna be staying with us when she's discharged from the hospital, we should get used to having a kid living with us. This is like… a trial run.”

“Eri is six years old, Midoriya is a licensed hero-in-training,” Shouta countered, though his gaze flickered to the rearview mirror. Midoriya was currently snoring softly, a tiny bit of drool threatening the sleeve of Hizashi’s jacket. “He’s not a toddler.”

Though, in his current mental state, that was a very debatable point.

“It’s not like he’d remember any of it anyway!” Hizashi argued, his voice hushed but energetic. “Think about it, Sho.”

“Even if we did bring him to our place,” Shouta countered, referring to their modest faculty apartments on campus, “someone will probably still see us. These kids—as much as I hate to admit it— have the situational awareness of a hawk when they want to be nosy.”

Hizashi leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial mumble.

“What?” Shouta asked, leaning back slightly to hear him.

“Bring him... back to... our real place,” Hizashi whispered, his eyes darting toward the sleeping boy.

Shouta nearly hit the brakes in the middle of the street. He cut the engine, the car being pulled onto the side of the road. He turned in his seat to stare at his husband, his expression flat and incredulous. “You want to bring a student to our actual home? Off-campus? The place we’ve spent years keeping entirely separate from our professional lives?”

“Hear me out!” Hizashi said, holding up a hand. “The doc said he needs twelve hours of rest and observation. If we bring him into the dorms, we can’t exactly just hang out in his bedroom and watch him.”

“We could make a student do that,” Shouta countered, though his heart wasn't in it.

“Do you seriously trust any of them to take care of a sedated teen? And no, Tenya went home for the weekend, so he’s off the list.”

Dammit. Shouta leaned his head back against the headrest. Without Iida there to enforce a 'no-questions' rule, the dorms would be a free-for-all of concern and chaos.

“Besides,” Hizashi continued, his voice slipping into that smooth, persuasive cadence he usually reserved for radio sponsors, “our place is quiet. We can actually keep an eye on him without almost two dozen teenagers hovering. And by the time he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll be well enough for us to drive him back before sunrise.” He flashed a wink. “But not so clear-headed that he remembers the specific details of our decor or, you know, the fact that we’re married.”

Something’s bothering him, Shouta thought. 

Hizashi prized his privacy, and despite his warmth—his instinctive tendency to comfort students in crisis—he rarely overstepped his role. He simply had a way of being pulled into it. Shouta wouldn’t press right now, no, he knew Hizashi would come to him when he was ready to talk about why he couldn't leave the kid alone in a dorm tonight.

Why can’t we bring him to his house? But Shouta already knew the answer to that too. He recalled that Midoriya Inko was a nurse, so she probably wouldn’t even be home until late, or even have her phone on her at all times. The black-haired man sighed deeply, already mentally rehearsing the headache of a conversation he was about to have with their colleague. 

“Fine. I’ll call Nemuri to feed the cat.”

Hizashi’s grin returned in full force, bright enough to rival the streetlamps. "Perfect! You’re great, Shou! The best!"

“Don't make me regret this,” Shouta grumbled, though he was already pulling out his phone to send the text. He knew Nemuri would have a field day with the implications of them skipping “town” as she put it, for the night, but it was a small price to pay for a quiet house and a safe place for their student to crash.

The drive to their private residence was quiet, the city lights fading into the softer glow of the suburbs. In the backseat, Midoriya was a dead weight against Hizashi, his breathing deep and even. When they pulled into their driveway, the house was dark but welcoming. Shouta killed the engine, letting the silence settle for a moment before they began the delicate operation of moving an unconscious teenager.

“You run inside, I’ll grab the kid,” Shouta muttered, already unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hizashi didn't argue. He hopped out and hurried to the front door, the jingle of the car keys the only sound in the quiet neighborhood. He punched in the security code and Shouta could see he was flicking on a few lights.

Back at the car, Shouta opened the rear door. Midoriya was a puddle of green curls and oversized limbs. As Shouta reached in, the boy’s eyes cracked open, unfocused and swimming.

“Midoriya, you with me?” Shouta murmured, his voice low as he reached in to unhook the seatbelt. “Come on. That can’t be comfortable for you. Plus, you need to eat. You wanted food, right?”

Midoriya blinked, his gaze drifting from Shouta’s face to the dark sky, then back again. He looked utterly disoriented, his usual sharp alertness replaced by a heavy, sluggish confusion. “Eat?” he repeated, the word slurred. “Did... did I miss training?”

“Training's over, kid. You’re done for the day,” Shouta said. He was about to make a reach for Midoriya and try to stand him up fully, but the boy held out a hand as a barrier between Shouta and himself, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned against the car door.

"I'm—" Midoriya swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the darkened driveway as he tried to force his brain to catch up with his surroundings. "I'm okay. I can... I can walk. I’m a— a, uh, uh hero—or something.”

Shouta stayed where he was, crouched by the car door, his expression unreadable but his posture relaxed to keep from spooking the disoriented boy. "Being a hero doesn't make you immune to a sedative, Midoriya. In fact, it just makes you more stubborn than usual."

“I’m not... stubborn,” Midoriya argued, though his voice lacked any real conviction. He tried to push himself off the seat, but his knees buckled almost instantly.

Shouta caught him before he could slide toward the pavement, his grip firm on the boy’s shoulders. “Enough. How many times are you gonna fall today before you give it a rest?”

He gently took one of the kid's arms and lifted it over his own shoulder, bracing Midoriya’s weight against his side. The boy was warm, radiating that post-medical lethargy that made him feel twice as heavy as he actually was.

“Sorry,” Midoriya hummed, his head lolling toward Shouta’s chest. He was trying to find his footing, his red sneakers scuffing weakly against the driveway. “I just... I can do it. I'm almost... I’m almost there.”

“You’re almost on the ground,” Shouta corrected flatly, though he kept his movements slow and deliberate to give Midoriya time to adjust. “Hizashi, get the door. I’m not playing the ‘will-he-or-won’t-he-faint’ game in the driveway.”

Hizashi, who had been hovering nearby with a look of pinched concern, nodded quickly and hurried ahead. “On it, Sho.”

As they moved toward the house, Midoriya steps were rhythmic but clumsy, relying entirely on Shouta to stay upright. By the time they cleared the threshold into the entryway, the boy’s eyes were drifting shut again. The sudden transition from the cool night air to the climate-controlled warmth of the house seemed to be the final straw for his consciousness.

“I know you’re tired, but you need to eat something,” Shouta repeated, his voice firm enough to cut through the haze. Midoriya's head lifted just an inch, his eyes struggling to focus on the hallway rug. “I’m not... hungry. Jus’ heavy.”

“You'll wake up feeling even worse if you don't get something into your system,” Shouta countered. He steered the boy toward the small breakfast nook, deciding the guest room could wait five more minutes. Hizashi was already a blur of motion in the kitchen. He had shed his leather jacket, revealing a soft, faded radio station t-shirt.

“I can make some miso soup real quick and some rice,” Hizashi said, his voice unusually gentle. He didn't click the overhead lights on, opting for the warm, amber glow of the stove-top lamp instead. “Think you can handle a few spoonfuls, kiddo?”

Shouta eased Midoriya onto one of the padded chairs, keeping a hand on the boy’s shoulder until he was sure he wouldn't slide right off. Midoriya looked around the kitchen, his eyes lingering on a stray mug on the counter and a magnet on the fridge that said 'World's Okayest Cat Dad.'

“This isn't... the dorms,” Midoriya whispered, the realization finally bubbling to the surface through the medicinal fog. He looked up at Shouta, his green eyes wide and searchingly honest. “Why are we... uh, wherever?”

Shouta pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, meeting that gaze head-on. “Because the dorms are loud, and you’ve had a long day. You’re staying here so we can keep an eye on you without your classmates making it a spectacle.”

The black-haired man watched as Midoriya’s tongue seemed to tangle in his own mouth, the boy’s frustration mounting as the syllables refused to cooperate.

“I wouldn’t be a spec–specta—spec, uh— that. Nobody'd be--ca--ugh." Midoriya huffed, his shoulders slumping as he gave up on the word. He looked down at the steaming bowl of miso soup, his reflection wobbling in the broth. “M’not... notice, no. No, ‘care’, shit!”

“Language,” Shouta corrected habitually, though his voice lacked any real bite. Shouta reached out, steadying the cup Hizashi put out as Midoriya hand hovered uncertainly over it. “And yes, they would.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Midoriya said slowly, his voice dropping into a new register of stubbornness that only the truly exhausted (or truly medicated) could achieve. “They wouldn’t.” He blinked, a single green curl falling over his eye. He looked like he wanted to cross his arms, but his motor functions decided that was too much work, so he just looked away.

Hizashi and Shouta shared a look over the kid's head, a glance that translated clearly: We are talking about this later. And we are talking to him about this when he’s sober.

“Uh—soup’s up,” Hizashi said, sliding the bowl over with a practiced smoothness to break the heavy silence.

Midoriya blinked down at the steam rising from the broth. He managed to get a shaky grip on the utensil, his movements clumsy and heavy-handed.

“Slowly,” Shouta reminded him, his hand still resting on the back of Midoriya’s chair just in case the boy decided to tilt to the side. Midoriya didn’t respond with words. Instead, he stared at the spoon with an intensity that suggested he was trying to use a telekinesis Quirk on it. When he finally managed to scoop up a small amount of broth, his hand trembled, the liquid splashing back into the bowl. He let out a frustrated, wet huff of air, his brow furrowing as he glared at his own disobedient fingers. He held up a hand, as if to stop Shouta from making any move closer.

“I can do it.” Midoriya’s voice was thick, Shouta already knew Midoriya had a stubborn streak of independence, but seriously, this was ridiculous. A streak that was flaring up even through the haze of the sedative. He held his shaking hand up like a shield, a clear boundary set between himself and his teacher’s hovering concern. “I’ve got this,” he insisted again, his gaze locked on the spoon with the kind of intensity that looked eerily familiar to when he first met the kid. That made Shouta pause. He didn't pull his hand away from the chair, but he didn't move closer either. He knew that for Midoriya, being able to do this one small thing was about more than just soup; it was about maintaining a shred of his own agency when his body and brain were betraying him.

“Fine,” Shouta said, his voice level and devoid of pity. “Then prove it. Eat.”

Hizashi leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked like he wanted to jump in and help—his fingers were literally twitching with the urge to reach out—but he followed Shouta’s lead. They both watched in a tense, supportive silence as Midoriya took a deep, shaky breath. It took another thirty seconds of pure, agonizing concentration, but Midoriya managed to guide the spoon to his mouth without spilling a drop. He swallowed, then leaned back slightly, a small, triumphant—if very tired—glint in his eyes.

“See?” Midoriya exhaled, though the effort of that one bite seemed to drain half the remaining color from his face. “I don’t need—uh—yo—uh.” He trailed off, his jaw hanging open slightly as the thought he was trying to form simply dissolved. The spoon remained gripped in his hand, but it began to tilt dangerously toward the table.

“Sure,” Shouta muttered, reaching out to gently pry the utensil from Midoriya’s weakening grasp before he could drop it.

“Well, I could—uh, he’s just so, ugh why is he making her do it all alone?” Izuku frowned, his gaze suddenly distant, fixed on a spot somewhere past the kitchen tiles. His brow pinched in a way that suggested a deep, old frustration. “I should give it to him. He’d agree. Even if he declined, he’d agree.”

The "hes" were two different people, the second one spoken with a different weight, but the logic was lost to the drugs. It was the kind of raw, unfiltered rambling that happened when you mixed up two different times, people, and lives. Shouta’s hand stilled on the table. He saw the shift in Midoriya’s expression—the way the stubbornness of a moment ago had turned into a heavy, untapped grief.

Hizashi opened his mouth, likely to ask for clarification, but Shouta caught his eye and gave a sharp, infinitesimal shake of his head. He didn't want Midoriya wandering down those mental paths when he was in no state to stop himself from falling in the thorns. It wouldn’t be right for him to use his student’s weakened mental state to peek behind the curtain. Even just a peek wouldn’t be fair. 

Shouta shushed him, his voice dropping into a low, grounding hum. “You must be tired, huh?” 

Shouta glanced up at the clock, it was barely 6:00 pm, but God, was he tired.

“But she’s...” Midoriya started, his voice cracking.

“She’s fine,” Shouta interrupted firmly, not knowing who 'she' was but knowing the kid needed a distraction. “Everyone is exactly where they need to be. Including you.”

He stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. He didn't give Midoriya time to spiral further into whatever memory was trying to claw its way to the surface. Midoriya managed a few more bites as Shouta stepped into the boy’s space, offering a steadying arm.

“Come on, let’s get you into something not stained with blood.”

Midoriya blinked, the haunted look in his eyes fading back into a simple, glazed exhaustion. He looked down to see the droplets of red on his shirt. Then he leaned into Shouta’s side, his weight sagging. “Okay,” he whispered, the fight finally, truly gone. “Okay, Sensei.”

Then a pause.

“You’re not as mean as I thought you’d be,” Midoriya muttered into the man’s side, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of Shouta’s shirt.

“Sure, kid,” Shouta murmured, though his eyebrows twitched upward. He tightened his grip on the boy’s waist, steering him down the hallway with the kind of practiced patience he usually reserved for field emergencies. “Don’t go spreading that around. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Hizashi followed a few steps behind, carrying the clean clothes he’d grabbed from the laundry room in a hurry. He bit his lip to keep from cooing at the sight, Shouta shot his husband a look, who smirked.

They reached the guest room, and Shouta eased Midoriya onto the edge of the bed. The boy sat there, swaying slightly, looking down at his hands as if he’d never seen them before.

“Alright, let's get this over with,” Shouta said, his tone turning to its usual cadence to keep things from getting too sentimental. He reached for the hem of Midoriya’s blood-stained shirt. “Arms up, Midoriya. Focus.”

Midoriya obeyed with the slow-motion grace of a sloth, lifting his arms just enough for Shouta to tug the ruined garment over his head. Underneath, he was wearing a black compression sleeve, hiding one of his nastiest looking scars, but the boy still looked gaunt in the dim light.

Hizashi stepped forward, handing over a soft, oversized gray sweatshirt. “Here, use this one. It’s one of mine, so it’ll probably be a bit big, but it’s comfortable.”

As Shouta helped him into the clean shirt, Midoriya’s head popped through the neck hole, his hair a chaotic green nest. He looked up at the two of them, the oversized sleeves hanging past his fingertips. “‘S soft,” Midoriya whispered, rubbing the fabric against his cheek. He looked at Hizashi, then back to Shouta, a spark of confused realization trying to ignite in his fogged brain. “Why do you… have the same, uh, laundry soap?”

Shouta froze for a fraction of a second, his hand mid-air.

“It was on sale,” Shouta said flatly, his voice echoing with a finality that brooked no further questions. “Bulk buy. Logic, Midoriya. Go to sleep.”

He needn't have bothered with the stern tone. By the time the word logic left his lips, Midoriya’s head had already hit the pillow, thankfully not planting face first. The boy was out, his breathing deepening into the heaviness of a true medicinal stupor. One arm was then flung over his head, the oversized sleeve of Hizashi’s sweatshirt swallowing his hand entirely.

Shouta stood over the bed for a moment, the silence of the room amplified by the soft hum of the house. He reached down and pulled a blanket that had been at the foot of the bed up to Midoriya’s chin, tucking the edge in with a brisk, efficient motion that he would never admit was gentle.

Hizashi leaned against the doorframe, a small smile forming that didn't quite reach his eyes. “And they say I’m the softie.”

“You’re the one who wanted him here,” Shouta reminded him, his voice a low thrum in the quiet hall.

“And you’re the one who tucked him in,” Hizashi countered. Shouta rolled his eyes, but the movement was half-hearted. His expression quickly flattened into a frown as he looked at his husband.

“You want to tell me why?”

Hizashi blinked slowly, as if playing for time. “Why what?”

“Why you wanted him here.” Shouta had told himself he wouldn't push—that he’d let Hizashi find his own way to the words—but the sight of Midoriya in Hizashi’s clothes, combined with the boy's strange, fractured rambling, had stripped away Shouta's patience.

“I don’t know.” Hizashi’s voice was suddenly thin. He looked away, turning his back and starting to walk down the hall toward the living room, his posture uncharacteristically stiff.

Shouta didn't let him get far. He stepped forward, reaching out to catch Hizashi’s hand. The contact was enough to make the taller man pause. Shouta moved into his space, his touch firm but grounding as he cupped Hizashi's face, forcing him to stop and look at him.

Hizashi didn’t pull away, but he didn't meet Shouta's eyes immediately either. He leaned into the palm of Shouta's hand, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.

“Hizashi,” Shouta murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of a jawline that was tight with tension. "You can tell me.”

The blonde finally looked down, his voice barely a breath. “I was thinking about—him. Because of the festival. And then, seeing that—goddamn, stupid bandage on Midoriya’s nose.”

The air in the hallway seemed to vanish. Shouta’s hand didn't move, but his heart hit a heavy, uneven rhythm.

Oboro.

It was the specific detail that did it. Midoriya and their dead friend shared no physical similarities, and they weren’t all that similar in character. But in some moments—when Midoriya grinned so wide all his teeth showed, when he got excited and leaned in close to the person he was talking to—there was that same glint in their eyes, despite the different colors.

It was the energy of a person who didn't know how to do anything halfway. It was the terrifying, beautiful spark that not many people ever possess. Shouta tightened his grip on the back of Hizashi’s neck, his thumb pressing into the hairline. He didn't need to ask for clarification. He could see it now, too, but still—

“Midoriya is not Oboro.”

“I know.”

“Midoriya is not Oboro, ‘Zashi.”

Hizashi’s breath hitched at the repetition, but he didn't pull away.

“Hizashi, look at me,” Shouta ordered. His grip became firm, his fingers framing Hizashi's face, squishing his cheeks just enough to force him to focus on the present. "He is not Oboro."

Hizashi’s eyes were glassy, reflecting the dim hallway light. A single, jagged sniffle escaped him, and the persona he had spent thirteen years crafting began to slip.

"I'm—I just miss him so, so much," Hizashi whispered, the confession tumbling out raw and unvarnished.

The weight of it hung in the air. It had been years, but some wounds didn't heal; they just became part of the architecture of who you were. Grief doesn’t take up empty space. It simply just seeps into what already was there. Seeing a boy with the same stubborn spark and a white bandage on his nose had simply knocked a hole in the wall Hizashi had built around said grief. Shouta’s expression softened, the sternness in his gaze melting into something deeply weary but incredibly tender. He leaned forward, having to rise up on his tiptoes to rest his forehead against Hizashi’s.

"I know," Shouta murmured, his voice barely audible. "I miss him, too. Every day."

He let his hands slide from Hizashi’s cheeks to the back of his head, pulling him into a solid, anchoring embrace. Hizashi buried his face in Shouta’s shoulder, his hands clutching the back of Shouta’s shirt as he took a few shaky, stabilizing breaths.

They stood there for a long time, two men holding onto each other in the quiet of a house that felt far too large for just the two of them. But, for once, saying there were only two of them inside would be a lie— the presence of the sleeping boy made it three.

"Okay," Hizashi finally breathed, pulling back just enough to wipe his eyes with his palms. He gave a small, fragile nod, the tension in his jaw finally relenting. "Okay. I've got it. Thank you, Sho."

Shouta let his hands linger on Hizashi's shoulders for a beat longer, ensuring his husband was truly back on solid ground. "Don't thank me, ‘Zashi. Let’s just eat something."

“Can I at least say how dearly I love you?”

Shouta paused, his hands still resting on Hizashi’s shoulders. The weight of the night, the exhaustion, the worry for their student, and the sudden, sharp ache of old memories, seemed to settle into the floorboards beneath them.

He looked at Hizashi, really looked at him. The blonde’s eyes were still a bit puffy, and his hair was starting to escape its usual impeccable styling, but the warmth that always defined him was beginning to radiate back out.

“You just did,” Shouta murmured. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a brief, firm kiss to Hizashi’s lips, his eyes closing for a second. “And the feeling is mutual. Now, stop being so sentimental and help me find something in the kitchen that doesn't require a lick of effort. I’m starving. And then I have to call Midoriya-san."

Hizashi's cheeks reddened and he let out a genuine, soft, almost elated kind of laugh, the kind that finally reached his eyes. He leaned his head against Shouta’s shoulder for one last lingering second before straightening up.

“Right away, my dear.”

“You’re so corny.”

“You love me for it.”

And Shouta would not admit he wasn't wrong. He simply grunted—a sound that served as his universal "yes"—and began rummaging through the pantry for a box of rice.

Oh, God, the cat is throwing up, was the first thing that came to Shouta’s mind when he woke up on the couch. 

He bolted upright, eyes bleary and hair a tangled nest even when now tied up into a ponytail, listening for the telltale thwack-hic-thwack of a feline stomach in distress. Instead, he heard a sharp, panicked gasp and the sound of someone nearly tripping over their own feet and barreling into the washroom.

Wait, the cat wasn’t here.

Oh, shit.

Shouta glanced at the clock, it was midnight, so they two teachers fell asleep two hours ago give or take. He carefully disentangled himself from Hizashi’s limbs. His husband was a sprawl of limbs and heavy breathing, fast asleep after the emotional drain of the evening. Shouta moved with urgency to the bathroom door.

Midoriya’s head was resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat, his shoulders heaving as he panted softly. The bathroom was dim, lit only by the weak glow of the hallway light, making the scene look even more sad in the exhaustion of the night.

The kid glanced up in surprise, squinting through the haze to make out Shouta’s figure in the doorway.

“Aizawa—uh—where—? I’m sorry, I just—uh, woke up and then, I didn’t even think, I just saw the bathroom and uh—” Midoriya’s voice broke off as he made an awful, wet gagging sound, his hands white-knuckled as they gripped the rim of the bowl. “Oh, shit—” Midoriya began to say, but Shouta supposed he could give the kid some grace. Who knew he swore as much as Bakugo when high and/or sick?

He didn't actually get sick, though—his stomach was mostly empty besides the broth—but the dry heaves were violent enough to make his whole frame shudder. Shouta was across the small room in two strides. He didn't hesitate, dropping to one knee on the tile and placing a firm, steadying hand on Izuku’s back. He could feel the boy’s heart racing through the fabric of the borrowed sweatshirt.

Shouta sat back on his heels, watching the way Midoriya’s knuckles remained white against the porcelain. The kid might not have been throwing anything up, but the phantom anticipation of it—the raw, physical strain of gagging—was often just as exhausting as the act itself. Shouta vaguely wondered if this was as much about anxiety as it was about the medication.

“Who’s—” Midoriya coughed, his voice sounding scraped thin. “There was someone else. A blonde guy.”

Shouta’s hand stilled on Midoriya’s back. The hallway light cast long shadows, obscuring the kitchen where Hizashi was still likely passed out on the sofa.

“Uh—what do you remember?” Shouta asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Midoriya squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to pull fragments of glass from a carnival hall full of them. “Uh—the doctor’s office, eating something hot... and waking up, I guess?”

So, Midoriya didn’t remember anything specific. No “useless” comments, no Shouta almost hitting a pole, and—most importantly—no realization that his homeroom teacher and the English teacher shared a mortgage. Hell, Shouta wasn’t even sure if the kid would remember this conversation by the time the sun came up.

“The blonde was Present Mic,” Shouta said, opting for the professional truth. “He helped get you settled. Don’t worry about it right now.”

Midoriya let out a long, shaky sigh, finally slumping back against the wall. He looked small in the oversized sweatshirt, his green curls matted with sweat. “I feel like I’m forgetting something important,” he whispered, his eyes unfocused as if searching the air for the missing piece of his memory.

He looked as if he was trying to say more—maybe to ask about the "blonde guy" again or to apologize for the hundredth time—but another round of gagging cut him off.

Shouta’s hand was back on Midoriya’s shoulder in an instant, grounding him. He didn't pull away, even as the boy’s frame tensed with the violent strain of the dry heaves. It was painful to watch; the kid was clearly exhausted, and his body was stuck in a loop of stress and physical reaction.

"Shh, don't talk," Shouta murmured, his voice firm but dropping into a lower, more soothing register. He didn’t even realize his hand had moved from a steadying grip to rubbing slow, warm circles into the boy’s back. “You’re exhausted, and you’re working yourself up.”

“I hate stupid drugs. I wish I didn't mess up so much,” the boy mumbled, his voice thick with a mix of fatigue and a very familiar, deep-seated guilt. He looked miserable, hunched over and shivering in the drafty bathroom air. Shouta’s hand paused for a second before resuming the motion. “You didn't mess up, Midoriya. You had a physical reaction to medication. That’s not something you get to blame yourself for.”

“If I didn’t get hurt, I wouldn’t have to take them.” And to Shouta’s concern and surprise, he began listing off names. Shouta’s hand went still, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of the boy’s sweatshirt. The list was rattling off Izuku’s tongue with an uncomfortable, detached familiarity that sent a chill down Shouta’s spine.

“Oxycodone, hydrocodone...”

“Kid,” Shouta interrupted, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the boy’s feverish mumble. “Stop.”

Izuku blinked, his eyes unfocused as they darted to the corner of the room. “Acetaminophen... Ibuprofen 800... morphine after the training camp...” He let out a dry, jagged laugh that turned into another cough. 

“That’s enough, Midoriya.”

Midoriya blinked, his pupils blown wide and glassy. He looked startled, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been speaking aloud. The guilt in his expression deepened, turning into something much too raw. “I just... I’ve had to take a-a lot of them. Different kinds. Uh—since the entrance exam. Recovery Girl says my tolerance for pain... it's not a good thing," Midoriya finished, his voice trailing off into a hollow whisper. He looked down at his scarred hands, the skin pale and trembling against the dark fabric of the borrowed sweatshirt. "She says I've seen the inside of a bottle more than some pro-heroes do in their entire careers.”

Shouta sat in the silence of the bathroom, the only sound being the ragged, wet hitch of Midoriya’s breathing. He watched the way the kid’s fingers curled into the fabric of the sweatshirt—Hizashi’s sweatshirt—shaking that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Funny, huh?" Midoriya rasped, his eyes fixed on the tile.

It was the farthest thing from funny Shouta had ever heard. The kid’s face was a mess of spit, sweat and exhaustion, but his eyes were bone-dry. The lack of tears felt worse; it felt like a boy who had simply run out of the energy required to weep for himself.

Shouta’s jaw tightened until it ached. Every instinct he had as a teacher screamed at him, to lecture, to point out the catastrophic lack of self-preservation, to explain that this was exactly why he pushed the kid so hard. But as Midoriya retched once more into the toilet, the universe seemed to concur: now was not the time for a lecture.

"It’s not funny, Midoriya," Shouta said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly frequency. He didn't pull his hand away from the boy’s back. Instead, he let the weight of it be a constant, grounding presence. "And it’s not something you should be proud of 'handling.'"

Midoriya leaned his forehead back against the rim, his breathing coming in shallow, jagged hitches. "I'm not proud," he whispered so softly Shouta almost missed it. "I'm just... used to it. Is that worse?"

Shouta didn't answer. The question was a heavy thing that didn't have a clean solution, and Midoriya was in no state to process the real answer: Yes, it is infinitely worse.

Instead, Shouta stood up and moved to the rack. He grabbed a fresh washcloth, soaked it under the warm tap, and wrung it out. He kneeled back down on the tile, his knees popping in the quiet room. Before Midoriya could duck away or mumble another apology, Shouta reached out and cupped the boy's jaw.

He held him firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough so the kid couldn't squirm—and began to wipe the grime and sweat from his face with steady strokes.

“Stay still, kiddo,” Shouta murmured. The rare endearment slipped out before he could stop it. Maybe, just this once, he could afford to be, as Hizashi put it, a softie.

Midoriya went rigid for a second, and Shouta was terrified for a moment that the kid had fully stopped breathing. His eyes went wide and glassy, fixed on Shouta with a deer-in-the-headlights intensity as if he were waiting for a blow to come. Then finally, Midoriya seemed to realize, Oh, I’m not being suffocated. He let out a shaky, shuddering exhale, his body finally sagging into Shouta's support.

Shouta didn't want to think about the implications of that reaction—the way the boy’s first instinct to being held was to brace for a lack of air or a lack of safety. He shoved that thought into a dark corner of his mind to be dissected later during a much-needed drink with Hizashi.

“Better?” Shouta asked, his voice low as he finished cleaning the boy’s face.

Midoriya gave a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod. The wild, panicked light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a heavy, drugged-out exhaustion.

Shouta didn’t really want to deal with the boy’s expected protests, so he simply took Midoriya under both arms and lifted him up. The kid was heavier than most would expect—solid muscle and the dense weight of a student who trained far too much—but Midoriya still seemed startled by how light Shouta made him feel.

Midoriya’s eyes flew open for a split second, a soft "oh" of surprise escaping him as his feet left the floor. His head lolled back against Shouta’s shoulder, the last of his resistance evaporating. He was too tired to be embarrassed, too drained to fight the help he so clearly needed. Shouta didn't carry him the whole way, no, once the boy's feet were steady enough, he set him down and kept a firm, guiding hand on his arm, essentially dragging him along the short distance to the guest room.

"Bed. Now," Shouta muttered as they reached the mattress.

Midoriya crashed into it, sighing deeply into the pillow as the last of his adrenaline abandoned him. Shouta stood over the bed for a moment, listening to the kid’s breathing immediately shift into a deep slumber.

Just for good measure, Shouta glanced at the door to check if Hizashi was near. Even though he knew the blonde was likely still dead to the world on the sofa, he didn't want to risk his husband catching him in a moment of uncharacteristic softness, well, another one—Hizashi would never let him hear the end of it. Satisfied that the coast was clear, Shouta leaned in, his rough hand surprisingly gentle as he smoothed out Midoriya’s sweat-matted curls.

Shouta pulled the door shut with a quiet, final click, and despite what the doctor had said, he left the boy to the first dreamless sleep he’d probably had in months.

A FEW DAYS LATER

Izuku was not avoiding Aizawa-sensei. He was just super, totally, existentially embarrassed.

No, he wasn't avoiding Aizawa-sensei, exactly—he just happened to find very important things to look at on the floor whenever his teacher walked by. He also happened to be the first one out of the classroom the moment the bell rang, moving with a speed that almost rivaled Iida’s.

His memories of that night were like a corrupted video file: grainy, glitchy, and missing large chunks of data. He had vague, hazy flashes of a warm kitchen, a blonde man who was surprisingly good at making soup, and the terrifyingly soft sensation of a hand smoothing back his hair.

Honesty, despite the embarrassment. Izuku was glad Aizawa wasn't alone. He was glad he was hanging out with Present Mic. He learned they went to school together from Miss Midnight, so it made sense that they were hanging out on a Saturday night. It was actually kind of nice to think of his stoic homeroom teacher having a social life that involved more than just cats and sleeping.

He shifted his backpack, feeling the phantom weight of that charcoal-grey sweatshirt. He had washed it, dried it, and folded it perfectly before returning it in a plain paper bag left on Aizawa's desk with a note that simply said: "THANK YOU. SO SORRY."

As Izuku sat in the back of the cafeteria, picking at his rice, he ran through the thoughts he'd compiled to keep his sanity:

I was heavily medicated. Anything I said doesn't count.

I think I didn’t throw up, more so just gag. So, sort of fine.

I am pretty sure I talked about my medical history. That... is less fine.

Across the room, at the teachers' table, Shouta watched the boy nearly jump out of his skin as Todoroki muttered something to him. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing. Beside him, Hizashi was humming a tune, looking far too cheerful for a man who had been up half the night two days ago.

"The kid is going to never speak to you again if you keep staring at him, Shou," Hizashi murmured under his breath, not breaking his smile.

"He's avoidant," Shouta rasped. "It’s illogical. He needs to realize that 'thank you' notes don't cut it.”

"Give him a minute," Hizashi countered, glancing at the kid. "He's sixteen. Let him be embarrassed for a week. Then we hit him with the 'self-care is mandatory' lecture."

“Uh—one second.” Shouta pushed himself up.

Hizashi blinked, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Shou?”

Shouta didn’t answer. He just grunted, set his coffee down with a decisive clack, and stood up. He didn't head for the exit to escape the lunchroom noise as he usually did. Instead, he marched with terrifying purpose toward the Class 1-A table.

The chatter at the table died a sudden, painful death as the shadow of their homeroom teacher loomed over them. Todoroki, who was halfway through a strand of soba, looked up, processed his homeroom teacher’s presence, and silently slid six inches to the left. He turned his attention to a very intense conversation about strawberry milk happening on the other side of the table, effectively making himself invisible.

Thump.

A thick, yellow spiral notebook hit the table directly in front of Izuku.

“A-Aizawa-sensei!” Izuku squeaked, his posture becoming so rigid he looked like a statue. “I—the note! I left the note and the sweatshirt, I am so sorry for the intrusion and the—”

“Open it,” Shouta rasped, his arms crossing over his chest.

With trembling fingers, Izuku opened the cover. He expected a list of his failures or perhaps a formal reprimand for his behavior while medicated. Instead, his eyes widened as he began flipping through page after page of meticulous, handwritten notes.  

He flipped to the first page where the words, “NOTES FOR MIDORIYA” were scribed.

Izuku’s fingers traced the edge of the page, his voice dropping into that familiar, rapid-fire speed as his brain tried to digest years of Aizawa’s accumulated experience in a single sitting.

"Section one focuses on the physiological distinction between muscular adaptation and structural failure, okay, so he’s saying if the pain is sharp and localized I have to stop immediately because that’s ligament damage but if it’s a dull ache it’s just hypertrophy," Izuku whispered, his eyes darting across the kanji. "Holy woah, there’s a whole subsection on anti-inflammatory dietary adjustments, he even listed the specific—wait, that means he’s been tracking my recovery speed relative to my caloric intake—and page eight, oh wow, page eight is a graph showing the exact point where my Quirk strain becomes a permanent disability risk, he must have calculated that based on my medical files from the Sports Fest and the training camp..."

He flipped another page, his muttering getting even faster and higher-pitched, causing Uraraka to glance over slightly.

"Then there’s the sensory overload protocols for the post-Quirk feeling in my nerves—suggests weighted pressure and grounding exercises instead of—instead of the other stuff—and he noted that my pain tolerance is actually a liability because it masks internal hemorrhaging, so I have to report anything above a four? And he even wrote out a schedule for cold-compression that aligns with my class breaks..."

“Uh—Deku? You okay?” Uraraka asked. Izuku clutched the notebook to his chest like it was gold. “I… I—thank you, Sensei. Truly.”

Shouta gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod and turned on his heel, scarf fluttering as he headed back to the teachers’ table. Hizashi leaned back, a smug grin spreading. “Thought I said give him a week, Shou.”

“Change of plans,” Shouta grumbled, reaching for his coffee. “Kid’s a fast learner. No point in waiting.”

“You so—”

“Don’t even,” Shouta snapped before the word soft could escape.

He took a long, defensive pull of his lukewarm coffee, staring straight ahead as if he could ignore the fact that he had spent twelve hours of his own time cross-referencing medical journals and nutrition guides. It was a self-imposed crash course in pediatric pharmacology and sports medicine, all just to keep one green-haired teenager from downing more pills. He knew exactly what Hizashi saw—the same thing that was reflected in the final note he’d tucked into the back of the notebook. 

Written in a hand slightly less cold, slightly more hurried:

To my student Midoriya,

Don't make me write a second volume.

Please take care of yourself.

— Aizawa