Chapter Text
The first time Izuku Midoriya understood what it meant to be unwanted, he was four years old and sitting on a plastic chair that was just a little too big for him.
The room smelled like antiseptic and old paper. Adults spoke in low, careful voices around him, as if their words might shatter something fragile. Maybe him.
“Quirkless,” someone said again, softer this time.
Izuku stared down at his hands, small and freckled, curled tightly in his lap. He flexed his fingers, willing something—anything—to happen. A spark. A flicker. A sign that they were wrong.
Nothing came.
By the time he was six, Izuku had learned not to try anymore.
—
The system was not kind, but it was efficient. Homes came and went like seasons—some warm for a moment, most cold from the start. Izuku learned quickly how to take up as little space as possible. Speak only when spoken to. Smile when it was expected. Hide the notebooks.
The notebooks were his secret rebellion.
Even if he couldn’t have a quirk, he could still understand them. He filled page after page with observations, diagrams, theories scribbled in messy handwriting. Heroes fascinated him—not just their powers, but how they used them, how they thought, how they saved people.
Especially how they saved people.
“Still writing about that stuff?”
Izuku jolted, slamming the notebook shut. The foster mother—temporary, like all the others—stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly.
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push further. “Dinner’s in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When she left, Izuku exhaled shakily and pressed the notebook to his chest. His heart pounded like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
Maybe he had.
—
At twelve, Izuku stopped expecting anything good.
So when the social worker said, “We’ve found a placement for you,” he nodded politely and prepared himself for another temporary arrangement. Another house that wouldn’t quite feel like a home.
“They’re… a bit unconventional,” she added.
Izuku blinked. “Unconventional?”
She hesitated, then smiled in a way that suggested she wasn’t going to elaborate. “You’ll see.”
That didn’t help.
—
The house wasn’t what Izuku expected.
For one thing, it was loud.
Not chaotic loud—no shouting, no anger—but alive. Music drifted through the walls, upbeat and rhythmic, like the house itself had a heartbeat. It was… nice.
Izuku stood on the doorstep, clutching his worn backpack, as the social worker knocked.
The door swung open almost instantly.
“Hey there!”
The man who greeted them was tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair and a grin that felt too big for the space. He wore sunglasses indoors, which Izuku found confusing, but his energy was… warm. Overwhelming, but warm.
“You must be Izuku!” he said, crouching slightly to meet him at eye level. “I’m Hizashi Yamada—but you can call me Present Mic! Or just Mic, if that’s easier!”
Izuku blinked.
“Oh—uh—I—Midoriya Izuku, sir.”
“No ‘sir’ needed!” Mic said cheerfully. “We’re not that formal here.”
“We should be,” another voice cut in, dry and tired.
Izuku’s gaze shifted past Mic to the man standing in the hallway.
He looked… exhausted.
Messy black hair framed a face lined with permanent shadows, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue. He wore a loose black shirt and what looked suspiciously like a sleeping bag draped around his shoulders.
“Aizawa Shouta,” he said simply.
Izuku straightened instinctively. “N-nice to meet you!”
Aizawa studied him for a long moment, eyes flicking over his posture, his grip on the backpack, the way he avoided direct eye contact for too long.
“…You look like you’re about to bolt,” Aizawa said.
Izuku froze.
“I’m not,” he said quickly.
“Hm.”
Mic clapped his hands together. “Okay! Maybe let’s not interrogate him on the doorstep, yeah?”
“Wasn’t an interrogation.”
“Sounded like one!”
Izuku watched them bicker—light, familiar, easy—and something strange twisted in his chest.
They weren’t angry.
They weren’t pretending.
They were just… like that.
“Come on in, kiddo,” Mic said, stepping aside. “Make yourself at home!”
Home.
The word felt foreign.
Izuku hesitated, then stepped inside.
—
The house was cluttered, but not messy. Books lined the walls—actual books, not just decoration—and there were random objects scattered everywhere: a microphone stand in one corner, capture weapons neatly coiled on a shelf, mugs that didn’t match.
It felt lived in.
“Shoes off,” Aizawa said, already walking away.
“Right!” Izuku scrambled to comply, nearly tripping over himself.
Mic laughed—not mockingly, just amused—and guided him further inside. “You’ll get used to him. He sounds grumpy, but he’s basically a cat.”
“I am not a cat,” Aizawa called from another room.
“You literally sleep in a bag and glare at people!”
Izuku pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
“Your room’s upstairs,” Mic continued. “We didn’t know what you’d like, so it’s kind of plain, but you can decorate however you want! Posters, books, hero merch—whatever!”
Izuku’s heart skipped. “I can… decorate it?”
“Of course!” Mic said. “It’s your space.”
Your space.
Izuku wasn’t sure what to do with that.
—
That night, Izuku sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the blank walls.
His notebook rested in his lap.
He hadn’t unpacked it yet.
Downstairs, he could hear Mic’s voice—animated, lively—and Aizawa’s quieter responses. The sound drifted up like a lullaby he didn’t quite trust.
This wasn’t permanent.
It never was.
Still…
Izuku opened the notebook slowly, running his fingers over the familiar pages.
Maybe, just for a little while, he could pretend.
He picked up his pen.
And for the first time in a long time, when he started to write, his hands didn’t shake.
...
Izuku Midoriya woke up at 5:43 a.m. because he didn’t know what time he was supposed to wake up.
For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—smooth, pale, with a faint crack running across one corner. Not the same ceiling as before. Not the same house.
Right.
New placement.
Izuku sat up slowly, careful not to make noise, as if someone might come in and tell him he’d done something wrong just by existing too loudly.
The room was still mostly empty. A dresser, a desk, the bed he sat on. His backpack leaned against the wall where he’d left it last night.
Your space.
He swallowed.
“Don’t get used to it,” he whispered to himself.
Still, he stood and began unpacking.
—
By 6:10 a.m., Izuku had already organized everything he owned.
Which… wasn’t much.
Clothes folded neatly. Notebooks stacked with precise care. Pens lined up in a row. He hesitated before placing the hero analysis notebook on the desk, fingers lingering on the worn cover.
If they find it…
He shook his head.
“They didn’t say I couldn’t,” he murmured, though there was no one to hear it.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Izuku froze.
Footsteps passed his door, slow and uneven—like someone half-asleep and not bothering to hide it. A second later, a yawn echoed faintly.
Aizawa.
Izuku let out a quiet breath.
—
By 6:30, Izuku had made his bed twice.
By 6:45, he gave up pretending he could stay in the room all day and crept downstairs.
The house felt different in the morning. Quieter. Softer.
And then—
“GOOD MORNING!”
Izuku physically jumped.
Mic stood in the kitchen, already fully dressed, sunglasses on, holding what looked like a spatula like it was a microphone.
“Rise and shine, young listener!” Mic beamed. “Welcome to your first morning broadcast at Casa Yamada-Aizawa!”
“I—!” Izuku clutched his chest. “S-sorry—I mean—good morning!”
Mic paused, then winced slightly. “Okay, rule number one—we do not apologize for existing before breakfast. Or ever, really, but we’ll start small.”
Izuku blinked.
“…Okay,” he said uncertainly.
“Great! Progress already!” Mic turned back to the stove. “You like eggs?”
“Yes!”
“Awesome, because I already made some!”
“…Thank you.”
Izuku hovered awkwardly near the doorway, unsure where to stand or what to do with his hands.
“Sit, kiddo,” Mic said gently, nodding toward the table.
Izuku obeyed immediately.
—
Aizawa shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking exactly as tired as he had the day before—if not more.
His gaze landed on Izuku.
Paused.
“…You’re up early.”
“I—I didn’t know what time I was supposed to—”
“Whenever you want,” Aizawa interrupted, already reaching for coffee. “As long as you’re ready for school.”
School.
Right.
Izuku’s shoulders tensed.
Mic set a plate in front of him. “We’ll go over logistics later. No stress this morning, yeah?”
“No stress,” Izuku repeated quietly, though his chest didn’t quite get the message.
Aizawa took a long sip of coffee, then leaned against the counter, watching him again.
“You eat like you’re expecting someone to take it away,” he said.
Izuku’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.
“I’m not!” he said quickly, then lowered his gaze. “…Sorry.”
Mic sighed softly.
Aizawa didn’t respond right away.
“…No one’s taking your food,” he said finally, voice flat but not unkind. “Eat at a normal pace. You’ll make yourself sick.”
Izuku nodded, forcing himself to slow down.
It felt… wrong.
But also… safe?
He wasn’t sure which feeling scared him more.
—
After breakfast, Mic disappeared briefly and returned with a bright yellow backpack.
“We got you some basics!” he said, setting it down in front of Izuku. “Not sure what you already have, so consider it a starter pack!”
Izuku stared at it.
“You didn’t have to—”
“We wanted to,” Mic corrected gently.
Aizawa shrugged. “Consider it practical. You need supplies anyway.”
Izuku hesitated, then reached out and unzipped the bag.
Inside: notebooks, pens, a pencil case, even a neatly folded gym uniform.
New.
All of it.
For him.
“…Thank you,” he whispered.
Mic’s grin softened. “You’re welcome.”
—
School wasn’t for another few days—something about paperwork still processing—so the rest of the morning stretched open in a way Izuku wasn’t used to.
Free time.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
“Relax,” Mic suggested.
Izuku stared at him.
“I don’t… know how,” he admitted.
Aizawa, who had somehow relocated to the couch and wrapped himself in his sleeping bag, cracked one eye open.
“…Read a book. Watch TV. Exist quietly. It’s not complicated.”
Izuku considered that.
Then nodded.
“…Okay.”
—
He ended up in the living room, perched on the very edge of the couch like he might be asked to leave at any moment.
The TV played some hero rerun—background noise more than anything—but Izuku found himself watching anyway.
Analyzing.
Breaking down movements, timing, strategy—
“Pause it.”
Izuku flinched.
Aizawa was looking at him now, fully awake.
“What did the hero do wrong?” he asked.
Izuku blinked.
“…Wrong?”
Aizawa gestured lazily at the screen. “You’ve been muttering under your breath for the last five minutes. So. Say it out loud.”
Izuku’s face burned.
“I—I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
Mic leaned over the back of the couch, grinning. “C’mon, kiddo! Live analysis! I’m curious too!”
Izuku hesitated.
Then, slowly…
“Their timing is off,” he said, voice small but steady. “They’re using too much force too early. If the villain adapts, they won’t have anything left for defense.”
Silence.
Izuku’s stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“He’s right,” Aizawa said.
Izuku stopped.
“…What?”
Aizawa sat up slightly, eyes sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Mic let out a low whistle. “Dang. Called out.”
Izuku stared at them, heart pounding.
“They didn’t… get mad,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Why would we?” Mic asked.
Izuku didn’t have an answer.
—
Later that afternoon, Izuku returned to his room.
The walls were still blank.
But the space felt… different now.
He walked to the desk and opened his notebook.
Hesitated.
Then began to write.
Not in secret this time.
Not hidden under blankets or behind locked doors.
Just… writing.
Downstairs, voices drifted up again—easy, familiar, real.
Izuku paused, listening.
Then, quietly—
He left his door open.