Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya learned very young that pretending was safer than telling the truth. Because the truth made adults trade looks over his head. The truth filled out the paperwork. The truth came with soft-voiced doc, and clipboards, and questions asked too slow as if like he might break if they spoke too fast. And sometimes— the truth came with a needle. So he learned to swallow it even when the ghosts didn’t.
The first time one touched him, he was four years old. He remembered the smell of antiseptic from earlier that week, Izuku's mother’s hopeful smile when the doctor had said, “Late bloomers aren’t uncommon.” He remembered gripping her hand too tightly on the walk home. He didn’t remember when the room got cold. But he remembered the hand. It wrapped around his wrist from behind—long fingers that felt wrong in every possible way. Too solid and not solid enough. Like being grabbed by fog that had bones inside it. Ice crawled up his arm. Something leaned close to his ear. The voice didn’t sound like words. It sounded like pressure. Like static filling his skull. He screamed. His mother ran in. There was nothing there. Nothing except her shaking son, clutching his arm like something had tried to pull him away.
After that, there were appointments. “Hallucinations,” one doctor said gently. “Stress response,” another offered. “Early onset psychosis is rare but not impossible.” Izuku sat very still in every office. Because the ghosts sat there too. Sometimes in chairs. Sometimes hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes crouched in corners with hollow, curious eyes. They watched him. They whispered. And every time he tried to explain, the ghosts got closer. So he stopped explaining.
He learned the rules quickly. Rule one: Don’t look at them. Rule two: Don’t react. Rule three: If they realize you can see them, they will not leave you alone. Because once they kne,— they wanted things. Attention. Acknowledgment. Help. Anger. Contact. Some of them were confused. Some were lonely. Some were furious. And some were bored. The bored ones were the worst.
By middle school, Izuku was good at pretending. He flinched less. He stopped screaming. He learned how to blink slowly and look “normal” when something drifted through a classroom wall. But ignoring them didn’t stop them from touching him. Ghosts could touch him. No one believed that part. A shove on the stairs. A yank on his backpack straps. Cold fingers dragging lightly across the back of his neck just to watch him twitch. Proof. Proof he wasn’t imagining it. Proof no one else would ever see it. He wondered sometimes if that was the cruelest part. Not the fear. Not the isolation. But the certainty that he would always look unstable to everyone else.
So when the acceptance letter to U.A. arrived, Izuku didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t collapse in relief the way he’d imagined as a child. He sat at his small kitchen table and stared at it. The paper trembled in his hands. Not from ghosts this time. From hope. Proof. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t useless. He wasn’t—
“…Midoriya Izuku. General Studies, Class 1-C.”
The words hit harder than he expected. Not a hero course. Not even close. But— still U.A. . Still proof.
“…I’ll take it,” he whispered.
“…still weird,” a voice said from the ceiling.
Izuku didn’t look up. A ghost hung upside down above him, blue hair brushing the air like it obeyed different gravity.
“Still weird,” the ghost repeated cheerfully.
Izuku folded the letter carefully.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You don’t have to.”
Izuku stood. Grabbed his bag. Left the apartment. If he moved fast enough, sometimes they didn’t follow. Sometimes.
U.A. was louder than the ghosts. And that was new. It was sunlight reflecting off polished floors. Students are laughing too loudly. Explosions echoing distantly from training grounds. Quirks that made sense. Fire. Ice. Strength. Speed. Abilities with visible cause and effect. Not whispers in the dark. Not hands that no one else could feel. He could breathe here.
Behind him, something hummed softly. The air shifted. He felt it before he saw it. A presence that felt differient. Not drifting. Not restless. Not hungry. Izuku looked up. And froze.
Standing beside the teacher was a ghost. Blue hair. Goggles resting on his head. A uniform that looked like U.A.’s—but older, the style outdated in subtle ways the ghost from the kitchen. He was leaning casually against the wall. Watching the teacher. The ghost turned. Their eyes met. And the ghost smiled. Slow. Curious. Interested.
Oh no.
In izuku minds
1 Why will no one believe me
2 grate the kitchen ghost is making fun of me
3. The kitchen ghost is watching my teacher and knows I have to deal with them at school