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Chapter Text

Shouta Aizawa was too goddamn tired to deal with this shit. 

His stakeout had been going just fine. Just fucking fine, thank you, until the 24 hour convenience store he was watching got blown to smithereens. 

The force of the blast sent Shouta tumbling backwards from his perch on a nearby rooftop. He cursed as his shoulders slammed into the concrete—that was going to leave one nasty fucking bruise—then pushed himself to his feet, staring at the flaming wreckage. 

The convenience store was little more than a charred, blackened husk. Broken glass was scattered across the pavement, ash raining down like snow. If the stars had been out tonight, they would’ve been smothered by the smoke billowing into the open air—but the sky was black and silent. 

One second, Shouta was standing silent, staring. The next, he was moving, running towards the skeleton of the burning building. Goddammit, there were people in there—criminals, yes, but people all the same. The ash was thick under his feet as he raced forward, coughing on smoke that made his lungs seize and his eyes water. He kicked open the door.

The smoke was even thicker inside the store. In seconds, Shouta could feel sweat pooling underneath his clothes as a wave of heat slammed into him, so thick it was almost suffocating. 

Fuck. This was why Shouta wasn’t a rescue hero. 

“Hello?” he called hoarsely, covering his mouth with his elbow as he pushed deeper into the store. “My name is Eraserhead—I’m a pro hero. I’m here to save you!”

He was greeted by silence and crackling flames. 

Shouta doubled over in another fit of coughing, gritting his teeth to ward off the impending panic. What if the storekeeper was unconscious? What if he was already dead? 

The magnitude of that explosion… Shouta didn’t want to think about it. 

He stumbled further into the building, draping his capture weapon over his nose and mouth in an attempt to keep the worst of the smoke out. Nothing was moving but for the raging fire and billowing smoke. 

“Hello?” Shouta called out. “Please, tell me where you are!” 

The building groaned as the flames ate away at its support. The whole thing would collapse soon, and Shouta didn’t want to be there when it happened—but he didn’t want to leave anyone else to that fate, either. 

With another muffled curse, Shouta ran further into the building. The cashier had to be here, didn’t he? But there was the desk, engulfed in flame, and there was no one there, conscious or otherwise. 

A crack rang through the building, and a flaming support beam fell from the ceiling, blocking off the path to the rest of the store. Shouta whirled around, searching desperately for a way through—but he was surrounded by a wall of flame on three sides. There was only one way out. 

There was no one here. No one living, at least. 

Shouta had failed. 

Tears were stinging from his eyes, and he didn’t know if it was from his grief or the smoke. 

At the tender age of fourteen, Izuku Midoriya had already decided that all adults are stupid, including but not limited to: Tomura Shigaraki, who accidentally dissolved the bathroom door knob at least three times a week and thought the answer to everything lay in violence; Himiko Toga, who had once brought Izuku a severed hand in hopes of winning his love; Dabi, who occasionally shot fire when he sneezed; and Twice, who was… well, Twice. 

But currently breaching the top of Izuku’s list for Stupidest Person Alive was the black-clad man who ran straight into a burning building without a second thought. 

Izuku was a shitty person in general, but he typically drew the line at murder. Which was how Izuku found himself chasing a crazy man into the convenience store he had just blown up. 

The second he set foot in the charred remnants of the burning store, a wave of heat slammed into him, making his eyes tear and his throat sting. The filter in his mask kept him from inhaling the worst of the smoke, but it did nothing for the stifling heat as Izuku slipped silently through the inferno. Where the hell had that damned idiot gone? 

He darted through the maze of flame, weaving through wooden shelves were now alight and souvenirs that were little more than kindling. He tried calling out, but the crackling of the fire drowned out his voice. 

That was when he spotted him—a dark figure silhouetted against the flickering firelight, his form obscured by smoke. He had one arm over his mouth, but if he stayed in here much longer without proper protection, he’d pass out. And Izuku was not in the mood to drag a grown man through a burning building, thank you very much. 

Something above Izuku cracked. He started to run, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid the piece of falling rubble; his sleeve caught alight, scorching the fabric as well as the flesh underneath. 

The pain was immediate and white-hot, searing and blistering his tender skin. He hissed, eyes watering, but he refused to cry out—he had faced worse before. Nevertheless, the pain reminded him just how much it would suck to burn alive, and how badly he needed to get the fuck out of here. 

Izuku ran through the flames until he reached the man, then grabbed him by the wrist, flinching slightly when the man whirled around. His bloodshot eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?” He yelled over the crackling of the flames. “Get out while you still can!” 

“You need to come with me!” Izuku said. “The building is about to collapse.” 

The man grabbed Izuku by the shoulders. “There’s still time for you. Get to the door, and when you’re outside, call the fire department. The heroes should already be on their way.”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Izuku snarled. 

The man turned. From his stance, it looked like he was preparing to dash through the wall of flames surrounding them. “All heroes are either stupid or crazy, kid. Now go.” 

Izuku grabbed the man around the waist, hauling him back towards the door—but despite the older man’s coughing fit, he stood firm. “I can’t leave!” he roared. 

“You have to!” 

“There are people in here!” 

Izuku gritted his teeth. Either he revealed his identity, or both he and the man burned alive—and at the moment, both options seemed equally unappealing. “No, there aren’t!” Izuku called out after a moments’ hesitation, choking as the smoke billowed down his throat. “I told the cashier to evacuate before I blew up the store!”

The man went rigid. “You…” 

“Come on!” 

This time, the man didn’t fight him as Izuku grabbed his wrist and hauled him out of the store, dodging flames and burning rubble. Izuku was half-dragging the man, who was doubled over from coughing—he didn’t have anything close to adequate smoke protection, but he had run into the fire anyways. 

Idiot. 

The doorway was still clear, thank God, though the fire surrounded them on all sides. Izuku heaved the man through, pulling him out of the building and far enough away from the fire that the air was fresh and clean before releasing his hold. 

The older man fell to his knees on the rough pavement, heaving and choking with one hand around his throat. Izuku felt himself relax. He was going to be fine. 

And now he really needed to get the fuck out of here before the man decided to call the cops on him. If Izuku got himself arrested, Shigaraki was going to be pissed. He shuddered at the thought. 

But just as Izuku was melting into the shadows, something wrapped around his waist and pulled, yanking him back with enough force that he yelped. 

Izuku turned. The man was standing on shaky feet, face streaked with ash and soot, long black hair hanging heavy around his face. His bloodshot eyes were narrowed as they studied Izuku, the bags under them so dark it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The fabric he had been wearing around his neck—which Izuku had assumed, until now, was a harmless scarf—was wrapped around Izuku’s waist, pinning his arms to his sides. Izuku stumbled forward another step when the man gave it a hard yank. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” the man growled. 

Goddamn, he was kinda scary. Was the smoke making his voice that rough, or did he sound like that naturally? 

If he was being honest with himself, Izuku had assumed the man was homeless when he saw him running into the charred remains of the convenience store, but it was quickly becoming apparent that wasn’t the case. “You’re a hero, aren’t you?” Izuku asked. He couldn’t stop some of the awe from leaking into his voice. 

The man grunted. 

“That’s so cool!” Izuku’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “I’ve never heard of you before, and I know my stuff. What’s your hero name?” 

The man ignored the question, choosing instead to nod at Izuku’s old, dirty All Might hoodie. It was worn through and places, and the colors had long since faded, but the distinctive, rabbit-like hair pieces on the hood weren’t exactly subtle. “You an All Might fan?” the man asked. 

“Who isn’t?” 

The man scowled. “If you like heroes so much, why are you acting like a villain?” 

Something in Izuku’s chest thumped painfully, and the smile fell from his face. “Don’t you know, hero? Not all men are created equal.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Izuku didn’t answer. “You should really be thanking me,” he chirped instead. “That store was a money laundering front for the Yakuza.”
The man’s hands tightened around his capture weapon. “I know that. How do you?” 

“I have my ways.” 

The man growled low under his breath. “Listen, kid, whatever you’re caught up in, get out while you can. You’re too young for this shit.” 

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Do you need help? Is that it?” The man took a step forward, using his scarf to pull Izuku in closer. “Because it’s my job to help people. I can keep you safe.”

“I take care of myself,” Izuku snapped. 

“You shouldn’t have to.” The man’s eyes narrowed further. “Take your mask off.”

“Fuck no.”
“Hey,” the older man snapped. “Aren’t you a little young to be talking like that?” 

Izuku shrugged. “I’m old enough to save your ass from burning alive. A little gratitude is in order.” 

“You started the fire.” 

“And I had it under control.” Izuku rolled his eyes. “Adults think they know everything.” 

The man glowered. “I know that arson is generally frowned upon. Now take your mask off.” 

“No.” 

The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looked so tired that Izuku almost felt bad for him. Almost. “Listen, kid. You’re not getting away, but I can help you if you cooperate. Take off your mask, tell me your name, and I might be able to get you off easy.” 

“Hmm.” Izuku pretended to think it over. “Pass.” 

“Kid—”

“I’m into quirk analysis,” Izuku blurted, interrupting whatever pointless reassurance the pro hero was about to spew. “It’s a bit of a hobby of mine. Do you mind if I give you a pointer?” 

The man’s brows lowered over dark, bloodshot eyes. “What?” 

The capture weapon fluttered to the ground. Izuku saw the moment the man caught sight of the serrated knife in his palm, and he grinned. “Never take your eyes off your opponent’s hands.”

The pro hero swore. “How the fuck—” 

But Izuku was already running, darting through the alleys he knew like the back of his hand. The shadows did their part to cloak him, but he could hear the man behind him, giving chase. He was fast—faster than any hero Izuku had faced yet. 

Izuku laughed into the open air. This was going to be fun. 

Shouta stumbled into his apartment two hours later, aching all over and smelling like smoke. The police had sure taken their damn time getting his statement, and the paramedics had insisted on looking him over. He’d inhaled quite a bit of smoke and had a few minor burns, but considering the fact that he’d just run headfirst into a burning building, he’d made it out remarkably unscathed. 

But that’s sure as shit not what it felt like. Shouta’s entire body felt like it had been run over by a military grade armored car. And that wasn’t even the worst of it—he’d been kicking himself ever since his smoke-filled lungs had forced him to stop running after fifteen minutes of non-stop chase. 

Because he’d lost the kid. 

Shouta didn’t know exactly why he was so angry with himself. Sometimes being a hero meant failing, and it would be irrational for him to beat himself up over every little mishap. But there was something about the boy, something that made Shouta feel like there was more to his situation than met the eye. Maybe it was how shockingly thin he was, or how he managed to escape Shouta’s capture weapon in less than five minutes. Maybe it was how well he hid the pain from the rather expansive burn on his arm. Or maybe it was his words, still ringing in Shouta’s ears: Don’t you know, hero? Not all men are created equal.

His instincts told him the kid was in trouble. And Shouta had let him go. 

He felt infinitesimally better after a brief shower—though the hot water stung on his burns, it relaxed his tired muscles, and getting the soot out of hair was a step in the right direction. But the bone-deep exhaustion was still weighing heavy on him as he changed into sweats and climbed into bed. 

Hizashi stirred beside him. “Sho?” 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Shouta whispered. 

Hizashi ignored his words, instead inching closer and wrapping his arms around Shouta’s waist. Shouta immediately relaxed into the embrace. Hizashi was warm and soft, and the gentle tickle of his long blond hair against Shouta’s nose was familiar and welcome. “Why do you smell like smoke?” Hizashi asked. 

So one shower wasn’t enough. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” Shouta said, ghosting his lips over Hizashi’s forehead. 

His husband yawned. “I’m glad you’re okay, Sho.” 

Shouta said nothing.

Hizashi’s grip tightened around him, and when he tilted his face up, a small wrinkle had appeared between his brows. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

Shouta let out a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know.” 

“What happened?”

“I met a kid. A boy,” Shouta said. “He blew up a convenience store. Caused quite a bit of destruction for someone so small.” 

Hizashi hummed quietly under his breath. “Sounds like trouble.” 

“Yeah. Definitely trouble.” 

“I know that voice,” Hizashi said, burying his face in Shouta’s chest. “You’re about to get yourself involved in something you probably shouldn’t.” 

Shouta trailed his fingers up and down Hizashi’s arm. “Call it an instinct, but there’s something bigger here. Something I’m not seeing. I’m going to find out what it is.” 

“Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” Hizashi deadpanned. 

“Define stupid.” 

“Shouta.” 

“What if the kid’s in trouble?” Shouta said, his grip tightening on his husband’s shoulder. “He was really small. Too small, even for someone so young. And blowing up a convenience store seems like a cry for help. Not to mention, where did he even get the explosives?” 

Hizashi sighed. “You have a big heart, Sho. That’s why I love you.” He pressed his lips to Shouta’s cheek. “But please, just… be careful.” 

Shouta nodded, and Hizashi seemed content to let it go at that. Within minutes, his husband’s breathing had evened out where he was tucked against Shouta’s side. 

But sleep didn’t come quite so easily to Shouta. He stayed awake long into the night, thinking of a boy with wide green eyes and a dirty All Might hoodie. 

Izuku stepped into the bar, cringing as the little bell over the door rang—he didn’t want Shigaraki to know he was home—but after he paused for a second and heard no pounding footsteps, he deemed it safe to continue. He walked deeper into the bar, expertly dodging the creaky floorboards, silent as a ghost as he slipped into the dim, shadowy room. 

And there, sitting at the bar, was a familiar black-clad figure: tall and lean, with dark hair and purplish, discolored burns over his face and arms. He was, in a word, terrifying—but when Izuku saw him, he squealed with glee. “Dabi!” 

He launched himself at the figure, who turned around just in time to catch him in a sweeping hug. “Hey, squirt,” Dabi muttered, ruffling Izuku’s messy green curls. “Miss me?”

Izuku pulled back long enough to shove Dabi, pouting like a sullen child. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Language,” Dabi chided, but there was no real bite to his words. 

Izuku scowled.
Dabi heaved a heavy sigh. “Sorry, squirt—I had some business in Tokyo.” 

“It’s been months.” Izuku dropped heavily into one of the bar stools. “You’re always gone for a long time, but never that long.” 

Dabi winced. “How bad was it?”

“How bad do you think?” Izuku snapped. 

Dabi swirled the whiskey in his glass, taking a hearty sip before turning to face Izuku. “I’m sorry, squirt—I couldn’t miss this. How can I make it up to you?”

Izuku frowned, playing idly with one of his curls. “Was it about your father?”

Someone who didn’t know Dabi as well as Izuku did might not have noticed him tense, might not have seen the shadows that flickered through Dabi’s piercing blue eyes. But Izuku saw. Izuku noticed. “Yeah,” Dabi said eventually. 

Unless you had a death wish, it wasn’t smart to talk to Dabi about his past—Izuku had seen someone call Dabi “Touya” once, and that man now had burn scars worse than Dabi’s—but Izuku got a special sort of leeway with the eldest Todoroki. You remind me of my little brother, Dabi had said upon first meeting him. He’s shy, too. And the sadness that had flickered through Dabi’s eyes at the words… Izuku didn’t talk to Dabi about Shouto after that. 

“So how’ve you been, squirt?” Dabi asked, nudging Izuku with a shoulder. 

“Crappy,” Izuku deadpanned.

Dabi’s eyes fell. “I hope he didn’t hurt you too bad.”

“Then you don’t know Shigaraki. He broke my wrist.” Izuku dropped his chin into a scarred hand. “He even used his quirk on me once or twice.” 

Dabi hissed through his teeth. “Fucker. I’ll kill him.” 

(Dabi always said that. He never meant it, though.)

Izuku rolled his eyes. “If you kill him, the League won’t help you anymore, and you can kiss your revenge goodbye. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

(Izuku always said that, too. He never meant it, either.)

Dabi took another sip of his whiskey. “It kills me to see it,” Dabi murmured. “That crusty son of a bitch might treat you worse than my old man treated me.”

Then why don’t you do something? Izuku wanted to scream. But he didn’t say anything—he knew why. Because if Dabi lost the League, he was losing more than just his revenge. He was losing any chance he might’ve had getting his siblings out of that hellhole they called a home.
Izuku might have reminded Dabi of Shouto, but he couldn’t beat the real thing. 

Izuku swallowed down the lump in his throat. “It’s good to see you, Dabi.” He stood, holding his injured arm tenderly to his body. “Let’s catch up when I’m not burned worse than you.”

Dabi’s face tightened when his eyes fell on Izuku’s wound. “Woah, squirt, what the fuck happened?” 

Izuku winced. “Blew something up. Didn’t go as planned.” 

“Squirt, we’ve talked about this. Leave the arson to me.” 

“It’s sort of hard when Shigaraki throws a temper tantrum because the Yakuza pissed him off and none of us have heard from you for three months.” Izuku shrugged. “I do what he tells me to.” 

“I guess you have a point.” Dabi sighed. “Why do you listen to that crusty manchild?” 

“Because last time I didn’t listen to him, I was bedridden for three weeks,” Izuku grumbled. “I still have the scars to prove it.”

Dabi smiled, but it was strained. “Come on, squirt,” he said, downing the rest of his whiskey and standing from his spot at the bar. “I know better than anyone how to treat burns.” 

“Uh, if the scars on your face are any indication, you’re actually pretty crap at it.” 

Dabi snorted, cuffing him playfully across the back of the head. “Dick.”

“Midoriya!” 

Izuku cringed at the dry voice coming from the top of the stairs, raspy enough that it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Shigaraki was in a bad mood today, it seemed. 

Red eyes bored into Izuku as Shigaraki stormed down the stairs. “Tell me why the fuck there’s an APB out for the arrest of a boy between ages thirteen to fifteen with an All Might hoodie and green eyes.”

Everything inside Izuku went still and cold. 

The pro had ratted him out. Of course he had, but still he heard the man’s words ringing in his head: it’s my job to help people. I can keep you safe. Was it naive that Izuku had wanted to believe him? Was he an idiot for hoping that once—just once—someone had his best interests at heart? 

Izuku’s head whipped to the side as Shigaraki backhanded him across the face. The next second, there was a hand around this throat—four fingers squeezing his neck, the fifth hovering just above his skin. If that finger made contact, Izuku knew, he’d be in for a world of pain. He’d lived through it enough times to understand that much.

Dabi laid a hand on Shigaraki’s shoulder. “Hey, Shiggy, lay off him—” 

But Shigaraki smacked his hand away. “Stay out of this, Scarface,” he growled. “The kid knows what happens when he fucks up.” 

“So what, you’re gonna dissolve his fucking throat? He’ll die!” 

“Why the fuck should I keep him around?” Shigaraki snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. “He’s gonna bring the pro heroes down on us, good for nothing piece of shit—” 

Izuku cringed away from Shigaraki, closing his eyes so tightly he saw stars. Shigaraki wouldn’t kill him, he knew that much—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make him suffer. 

Shigaraki’s fingers tightened. “Look at him. Still wearing that fucking All Might hoodie. Do you still want to be a hero, Deku?” Shigaraki taunted. “Do you still think All Might is gonna come save you?” 

Izuku was shaking so hard his teth rattled. “N-no, I—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Shigaraki’s free hand closed around Izuku’s elbow, and in half a second, the whole sleeve of his hoodie was little more than dust. But Shigaraki didn’t stop there. His grip tightened around Izuku’s arm, dissolving the flesh underneath. 

And then all Izuku knew was pain. 

He could hear someone screaming, but through the agony, it took him a second to realize it was him. This—feeling his flesh dissolve bit by bit underneath Shigaraki’s touch—was a million times worse than the burn on his arm. It was white-hot and neverending, consuming him, searing and burning hot and icy cold all at once, and he bit down on his tongue so hard he thought he tasted blood, and all he wanted was to make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—

And then it did. Shigaraki’s hand fell away, and Izuku dropped to the floor, dry heaving and clutching his arm to his chest. His face was wet with tears. 

Shigaraki’s index finger found Izuku’s chin, forcing him to meet his captor’s eyes. “The heroes don’t care about you,” Shigaraki spat. “They don’t give a fuck about you. If they did, they would’ve found you by now. This pain that you feel now? This is what comes from idolizing idiots like All Might.” 

The last thing Izuku saw before the darkness claimed him was a pair of vicious crimson eyes.

Chapter Text

Shouta had barely gotten five hours of sleep by the time his phone buzzed with an incoming call, startling him awake. To say he was pissed when he picked up the phone would be an understatement. 

“What?” Shouta snapped, bringing the phone to his ear. 

“Aizawa? It’s Tsukauchi. I think I have information on that APB you put out.” 

At that, Shouta perked up. “What—the kid?” 

“The kid,” Tsukauchi confirmed. “If you can swing by the station today, I’ll show you what we have on him. He’s slippery, but with your reflexes and my resources, we might be able to catch him.” 

Shouta sat up, running a tired hand down his face. The other side of the bed was empty—Hizashi must have been awake already—and sunlight streamed in through the closed blinds. Everything ached, like he’d had a boxing match with All Might and lost. “How much do you know?” 

“Not enough, and not much I can tell you over the phone,” Tsukauchi said. “I’m free between ten and two. Be here.” 

“I’ll be there at noon,” Shouta said, then hung up. 

Shouta swung his legs out of bed and sat, head in his hands, thinking about all that had happened in the last twelve hours. He’d almost been burned alive, his best lead on the Yakuza had gone up in smoke—literally—and how he was stuck dealing with the kid who’s fault it all was. A kid who, apparently, was no stranger to the local law in forcement. Fuck. 

But he’d think about all that later. Right now, he wanted a second shower and a cup of coffee. 

When Shouta emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later with his damp hair thrown back into a messy bun, Hizashi was already in the kitchen, humming to himself as he cooked eggs just the way Shouta liked them. As beautiful as Hizashi could be sometimes, Shouta liked moments like these best: seeing his husband in flannel pajama bottoms and an old Put Your Hands Up Radio shirt that was at least two sizes too big, his long blond hair messy and tangled, eyes still bleary with sleep. Shouta’s heart squeezed. Mine. 

Shouta crept up behind Hizashi, slipping his arms around his husband’s waist and burying his face in his neck. “Morning, Zashi.”

Hizashi chuckled. “Easy, Sho—don’t make me mess up your eggs.” 

Shouta grumbled, but released his husband, slinking over to the coffee maker and pouring himself a steaming cup. 

“So are you going to tell me about last night?” Hizashi asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

“The store I was watching got blown up—there goes my best lead.” Shouta shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee and relishing in the bitter flavor. “And the kid who did it knew way too much. About the Yakuza, about me.”

Hizashi hummed. “This is the problem child you were talking about last night?” 

“The same.” Aizawa sighed. “Tsukauchi has something on him. I’m going down to the station at noon.” 

Hizashi scraped the eggs onto two plates and set one in front of Shouta. “Hmm. Are you going go looking for him tonight?”

“I’ll try, but I don’t know where to start.”

“Maybe he’ll revisit the scene of the crime,” Hizashi said. “It’s common for perpetrators of violent crimes like murder and arson.” 

Shouta took another sip of his coffee. “I thought of that, but I don’t think the kid did it for kicks. It was calculated. You should’ve heard the way he talked, Zashi. Like…” 

A little crease appeared between Hizashi’ brows. “Like what?”

“He was smart. Really smart. But there was a disconnect between the things he did and the things he said.” Shouta shook his head. “He said he admired heroes—so why would he do something like that? Why wouldn’t he let me help him?”

Hizashi bit his lip. “And you think he needs help?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s just some kid looking for trouble,” Shouta said. His throat worked. “But then again, maybe he’s not.”

Hizashi slung his arm around Shouta’s shoulders and planted a kiss on his husband’s cheek. “Then go find him. If anyone can help the kid, it’s you.” 

But Shouta thought of the kid’s dull, lifeless eyes, how exhausted he sounded when he said not all men are created equal —and he wasn’t so sure. 

Izuku awoke to darkness, and blood, and pain. 

He sat up gingerly, biting his tongue to keep from crying out as he jostled his wounded arm. Tears stung at his eyes, but he blinked them away. 

He was in his room, lying on his own bed—someone must’ve moved him. The walls were sparse, and besides the lamp in the corner and the bare mattress on the floor, the room was completely empty—but Izuku felt himself relax when he saw that he was in his space. The only place he’d felt safe for as long as he could remember. 

Bracing himself for the worst, he glanced down at his left arm. He was expecting to see dried blood and mangled, mutilated skin—but instead he found carefully wrapped linen bandages that wound around his elbow and forearm. 

Izuku felt himself holding back tears for a completely different reason this time. Dabi was the only person he’d ever met who knew pain like he did, and the only one who bothered to try and ease his. 

Izuku swung out of bed and forced himself to his feet, blinking back the stars that swirled in his vision. Whether the light-headedness was from blood loss or lack of food or both, he didn’t know—but blood was already spotting his bandages, and if he wanted to prevent infection, he’d have to clean the wound soon. 

He looked down at himself. He was still wearing his ruined, blood-stained All Might hoodie from last night, now burnt in multiple places and missing an arm. He wouldn’t have been able to wear it out anyway, not now that the pro hero from last night had reported him as wearing it, but for someone like Izuku who owned so little, losing something precious to him was a blow. 

In his state, shrugging off the scraps of his favorite hoodie and replacing it with a less memorable, pure-black sweatshirt was agonizing. He changed into a pair of loose cotton pants, then dragged himself to the bathroom, wincing with every step. 

When Izuku looked into the cracked bathroom mirror, he almost didn’t recognize the boy staring back at him: wild, tangled green hair that had gotten far too long in the months since he’d cut it; pale, freckled face, hollow cheeks, and dark bags under his dull green eyes. He’d gotten thinner—now the bones of his neck jutted sharply underneath his wan, sallow skin. His face was streaked with soot and ash. 

He couldn’t shower, not with his arm in the state it was in. Instead, he stuck his head under the faucet, scrubbing his good hand over his face and through his hair. The frigid water woke him up; his arm hurt all the worse now that the last remnants of sleep had been chased away. 

Once Izuku was finished, he limped down the stairs into the main area of the bar. 

He wasn’t alone. Shigaraki was already there, greasy blue-grey hair hanging in his eyes as he talked in hushed tones to his companions: a humanoid shape made of swirling purple mist with glowing eyes and an impeccable suit, and a blonde girl in pigtails wearing a school girl uniform. 

“Where’s Dabi?” Izuku croaked. His voice was hoarse from screaming. 

Toga’s wide golden eyes landed on him, and the smile that stretched across her face sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine. “Baby! You’re awake!” The older girl stood, prancing over to Izuku and pressing a wet kiss against his cheek. It was all Izuku could do not to flinch away. 

Shigaraki grunted. “Dabi is out.”

“When will he be back?” 

“Fuck if I know,” Shigaraki spat, drumming four of five fingers agains the table. His jaw tightened. “I swear, letting that brat into the League was the worst decision I ever made. Always running off to God-knows-where, strutting around like he owns the place…” 

“Calm yourself, Tomura Shigaraki,” Kurogiri said, voice deep and rumbling. “Dabi is an asset.” 

“Dabi is a fucking pain in my ass.” Shigaraki started obsessively scratching at his neck, flakes of dry, dead skin littering the table in front of him. “Kid, I have a list of targets for you. Make those Yakuza bastards hurt, and maybe I’ll forgive you for the shit you pulled yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Ooh, what happened yesterday? Is that why you’re all bandaged up?” Toga giggled, hanging off Izuku’s good arm. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I think you look better bloody, anyway.”

Izuku did his best not to flinch, even though everything inside him longed to cringe away. 

“Your little boyfriend almost got himself caught,” Shigaraki snapped. “Do you know what happens if the heroes catch you? You’re a villain. After the things you’ve done, they’d lock you up in Tartarus and throw away the key. You’d never see the light of day again.” 

“I know,” Izuku murmured. 

“I wonder how long you’d last before losing your mind.” Shigaraki cackled like the thought amused him. “I give you a year, maybe less, before you decide to end it all and string yourself up. The heroes wouldn’t do anything to stop you—they don’t care about you. If they did, don’t you think they would’ve saved you by now?” 

The words hit Izuku harder than a blow. He blinked back tears, digging his fingers into the soft skin of his palms. 

Shigaraki’s crimson eyes hardened when they met Izuku’s. “If you fuck up again, I’ll make that wound on your arm look like a fucking scratch. Do you understand me?” 

Izuku’s throat worked. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Now get out.” 

Tsukauchi was already waiting for him when Shouta pulled up at the police station five minutes before noon. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head towards the back of the station. “I’ve cleared a room for us.” 

Shouta trailed behind until they reached a conference room in the back. It wasn’t much to look at—plain grey walls, hard plastic chairs, and overhead lights that kept flickering like they were possessed—but as long as it was empty and quiet, it suited them just fine. 

“Take a seat,” Tsukauchi said. 

Shouta dropped heavily into a chair. “What do you have for me?” 

Tsukauchi sighed heavily, taking the seat across from Shouta, and pulled a file from his briefcase. “We’ve heard of a kid with a similar description to the one you gave—short, worryingly skinny, green eyes, typically spotted wearing an All Might hoodie. And if you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about, he’s been on our radar for quite some time.”

Shouta clenched his hands under the table. “Who is he?” 

“That’s the problem. We don’t know.” Tsukauchi pushed the file across the table towards Shouta. “We first got a report of him stirring up trouble about four years ago, but since then, the incidents have been piling up. Arson, petty theft, grand larceny, the list goes on. Whatever shit this kid’s gotten himself into, he’s in deep.”

“Four years?” Shouta’s estimations placed the boy at around fourteen years old, though he looked younger due to his size. He did the math in his head. “Fuck, the kid couldn’t have been more than ten four years ago.” 

Tsukauchi nodded. “That’s what caught our attention in the first place.”

Shouta sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He could feel a headache coming on. “What leads do we have?”

“Nothing concrete. Most people at the station think he might just be a delinquent on a rampage, but not me.” Tsukauchi flipped open the file, rifling through it until he produced a picture of a blue-haired man with what looked to be embalmed hands gripping tight to his body. “Do you recognize him?” 

“Never seen him before in my life,” Shouta said. 

“His name is Tomura Shigaraki,” Tsukauchi supplied. “He popped up a little while ago and started stirring up trouble in the criminal underground. We can’t say for sure, but we think he’s planning something big.” 

Shouta studied the picture. There was something disturbing about it, something that made Shouta’s insides crawl. The single crimson eye peeking out from the hand that served as a mask was seething with hatred, staring straight at whoever had taken the photo like he knew he was being watched. If the kid was caught up with people like this… no. He didn’t want to believe it. “And why do you think he’s connected to the kid?” 

“From what we can tell, Shigaraki is trying to assemble some sort of group. He’s been clashing with the Yakuza recently—they don’t want him recruiting on their turf, so Shigaraki basically threw a temper tantrum. Lo and behold, who has the kid been targeting recently but the fucking Yakuza.” Tsukauchi flipped to another page, this one detailing the kid’s crimes over the past four years. “If it was just that, it could easily be dismissed as a coincidence—but ever since the kid popped up for years ago, his targets have correlated with whoever is on Shigaraki’s shit list. And that’s not even the worst part.” 

Shouta’s mouth went dry. “What’s the worst part?” 

“Shigaraki’s quirk is called Decay. Anything he touches with all five fingers turns to dust. We’ve found a few of his victim’s, and its affect on the human body, is…” Tsukauchi’s eyes glazed. “Honestly, it’s beyond words.”

Shouta’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. 

Tsukauchi shook his head, snapping out of whatever daze had fallen over him at the thought of the horrors he’d undoubtedly seen. “But that’s not the point. The point is, Shigaraki’s quirk leaves distinctive marks. I’ve never seen anything like them before.” 

He pushed a photo across the table. It was a woman’s leg—or, what was left of one, at least. The skin was dull and greyed, oozing blood and pus, and fine, delicate cracks spiderwebbed over the entirety of the afflicted area. Shouta had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping aloud. 

“Anyways, the kid got in a fight with a pro hero a year or so ago. His sleeve tore, and the pro got a look at his scars.” 

Shouta really, really did not like where this was going. He forced himself to take long, steady breaths. If he didn’t, he might just break something, and that probably wouldn’t be very professional. 

“When we asked him what the scars looked like, he drew this.” Tsukauchi slid another page towards Shouta—a drawing this time, not a photograph. The hero had managed to capture the horror of the mottled, discolored skin and webbing cracks spreading over the boy’s forearm, so similar to the picture beside it that Shouta was left with no doubt they had come from the same source. 

Shouta dropped the picture with trembling hands, leaning back in his chair. “Fuck,” he whispered. 

Tsukauchi’s eyes looked haunted. “Yeah. Fuck.” 

Shouta shut his eyes, clenching the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Let’s review: we have a fourteen-year-old kid stuck under the thumb of a psychopath. Said psychopath is forcing him to fuck with the Yakuza, who are only one of the most powerful organized crime syndicates in Musutafu. Shigaraki likely tortures—” he stumbled over the word, “ tortures him if he doesn’t do as he’s told. The kid’s probably so skinny because they’re not fucking feeding him, and he’s probably afraid to go to the heroes for help because he thinks they’ll arrest him for his involvement with Shigaraki. Am I missing anything?” 

Tsukauchi’s shoulder slumped. “No, that about covers it.”

Not all men are created equal. Suddenly the boy’s words made a horrible sort of sense. 

He was a kid. Fourteen and frightened and horrifically scarred. Shouta had him in his grasp, but like an idiot, he let him get away. Who knew where the boy was now? Who new what kind of pain he was in? 

“So what do we do?” Shouta asked. There was an edge to his tone that hadn’t been there before. “There has to be something we can do.” 

Tsukauchi sighed. “Like I said before, the kid’s slippery. We’ve sent pros after him before, but somehow he manages to slip through the cracks.”

“We can’t just abandon him,” Shouta snapped. 

“Of course not. But think about it, Aizawa—the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. We need a new strategy.” 

“What’s your strategy, then?” Aizawa asked, burying his head in his hands. “What the fuck are we supposed to do? How are we supposed to make this okay?” 

Tsukauchi’s throat worked. “I don’t think the kid’s ever going to be okay, Aizawa. Not after what he’s been through. But if we can just get him out of there, maybe… maybe he has a shot at healing.”

“And you think you know how to do that?”

“Well…” Tsukauchi bit his lip. “I’ve been thinking. The kid runs away from heroes because he doesn’t trust them. It makes sense—he’s traumatized, he thinks they’re going to hurt him. But if a hero could get close to him, develop a relationship with him, maybe he’d be willing to accept help.” 

Shouta’s eyes narrowed. “Who do you have in mind?” 

“Before you say no, just think about it,” Tsukauchi blurted out. “You’re an underground hero, so he has no reason to be frightened of you. He’d be even more skittish if we sent someone well-known after him—your anonymity might work in our favor. Plus you work with kids, and you can pretend otherwise all you want, but you’re really, really good with them. You can be a bit rough around the edges, but from what we know about the kid, he might respond better to somebody who’s a bit tough—”

“I’ll do it,” Shouta said. 

“—and the most important thing is keeping the kid out of danger, which I know you’re capable of—wait.” Tsukauchi blinked. “Did you say you’d do it?” 

Shouta leaned forward, meeting Tsukauchi’s eyes across the table. “There’s a child who needs my help. If I turned away from him, I wouldn’t be able to call myself a hero.” He shook his head. “Scratch that—if I turned away from him, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. So yes, if you think I’m the right man for the job, I’ll do whatever I can to get that boy someplace safe.”

Tsukauchi closed his eyes and lean back, letting out a long, shuddering breath. His shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank God.” 

Shouta stood, grabbing the file folder off the surface of the table. “I’m taking this. I’ll read all I can before I go looking for him tonight.” 

Tsukauchi nodded. “Go easy on him. Make him feel safe. And whatever you do, don’t scare him off.” 

“I won’t.” Shouta turned to go—he had a lot of studying to do if he was going to succeed in tracking the kid down. 

“And Aizawa?” 

Shouta paused in the doorway.

Tsukauchi’s eyes filled with something like determination. “Bring him home.”

Chapter Text

Izuku walked through the aisles of the drug store with his good hand shoved into his pocket, scanning the shelves for the things he needed to treat his wound. Bandages, certainly, but what should he clean it with? Should he use a salve, or would that do more harm than good? 

He cast a surreptitious glance to the side as he slipped a roll of bandages into his pocket. He was just debating how to shoplift a bottle of rubbing alcohol when he heard a voice from behind him. 

“Are you going to pay for those?” 

Izuku jumped out of his skin, whirling around to find a man standing beside him. “Y-yes, sir, of course,” Izuku stuttered, dropping his eyes to the ground. 

The man was tall and gaunt, with wild yellow hair that stuck up in all directions and blue eyes cast so deeply in shadow they looked almost black. His clothes hung off his wizened frame, and his back was hunched, like his body was too tall and too thin to stand upright. 

He quirked an eyebrow at Izuku’s words. “Then why don’t you take them out of your pocket?” 

Izuku flushed, but did as the man said. 

“What do you need those for, my boy?” the man asked. 

“Does it matter?” Izuku grumbled, scuffing the floor with his shoe. 

The man’s brow pinched in concern. “It matters if you’re hurt.” 

Izuku stumbled back a step. “Listen, sir, I really should—uh, pay for these now.” He turned to bolt. 

The man grabbed him by the hood, yanking him back a step, and Izuku hissed as his arm was jostled. The bandages were plucked from his grip and neatly deposited into the man’s shopping basket. 

Izuku sputtered. “Sir, I need those!” 

“Call me Yagi, my boy,” the man said, humming as his eyes scanned the shelves. “You were looking at rubbing alcohol, weren’t you? That’ll be far too harsh to treat a wound—you should really be using soap and warm water.” 

“Sir—”

“Yagi,” the man corrected. 

“Yagi.” Izuku took a deep breath. “I appreciate your concern, but I need those bandages. Really need them. Could you give them back to me please?” 

“I can’t just let you steal them,” Yagi said, dropping a tube of antibiotic ointment into his basket. 

Izuku’s face went pink. “I wasn’t going to—”

Yagi silenced him with a look. “Don’t lie to me, my boy.” 

Izuku’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he said nothing. 

The man’s face softened. “Don’t worry, young man—I don’t plan on reporting you. Nobody should have to steal medical supplies.” 

Tears burned in Izuku’s eyes, but he blinked them away. “Sir, I… please. I can’t pay for them, but I—” He bit his lower lip to keep it from wobbling. “Couldn’t you let it slide? Just this once?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

Izuku’s shoulders slumped. 

“That’s why I’m buying them for you.” 

“What?” Izuku’s gaze shot up. The man wasn’t laughing—in fact, he looked completely serious. “Sir, please, I can’t accept that. Don’t spend your money on me.”

“Don’t be silly.” The man shook his head. “This is better than stealing, isn’t it? I’m giving them to you.” 

“That’s different—”

“Why is it different?” 

Izuku mumbled something under his breath. 

The man cocked his head. “I’m sorry, son, what was that?”
Izuku’s face was bright red, but he nevertheless spoke louder so that the man could hear him. “If it’s a chain, it’s free rein.” 

Yagi burst out laughing, and Izuku wanted to die. 

After far too much time, Yagi’s laughter fizzled out—but he was still grinning from ear to ear. “Please, my boy, let me do this for you,” he said, clapping a hand on Izuku’s shoulder. Instinctively, Izuku flinched away from the touch, and Yagi withdrew his hand like he had been burned. His eyes widened slightly. “Son, are you alright?” 

Izuku stumbled back, clutching at his chest as the breath hissed in and out of his lungs. He was okay, he was okay, he was okay—Yagi hadn’t hurt him. 

But Izuku knew he would. No matter how kind Yagi was being now, it wouldn’t last, and it would hurt that much more when it all came crashing down around him. 

“I’m sorry,” Izuku stuttered. Then he turned on his heel and ran.

When Toshinori bolted around the corner and into the nearby alley, he found the boy from the store curled up with his knees to his chest. He stiffened as Toshinori slowed to a walk, approaching him calmly so that he wouldn’t startle the boy again. 

Once he was only a few feet away, Toshinori crouched down, making sure all his movements were slow and controlled. “Son?” he said. “Are you alright?”

The boy nodded, but one look at his tearstreaked face told Toshinori that the boy was far from it. 

“I got the things you needed,” Toshinori continued. 

The boy hugged his knees tighter. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” 

The boy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t—I can’t pay you back.” 

Toshinori pretended to think on it. “Hmm. I think you can, actually.” 

The boy cringed. “How?” 

It was clear from the way he said it that he was expecting something awful. Toshinori felt sick. “I live all alone, and I get very lonely sometimes,” he said softly. “It would make me very happy if you would come to my home and eat dinner with me. While you’re there, I can even take a look at your wound for you.” 

The boy blinked up at him with wide, glass green eyes that held so much fear in them that Toshinori felt his heart breaking. “I—I don’t…” 

Toshinori forced a smile, hoping it might set the boy at ease. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you, young man.” 

The boy seemed to be holding back tears. But after a long, torturous second had passed, he nodded slowly. 

Toshinori allowed his grin to relax into something more genuine as relief flooded his body. “I’m glad to hear it, my boy,” he said, standing and offering a hand to the boy. He didn’t take it, instead scrambling to his feet on his own—but Toshinori couldn’t help but take note that he avoided using his left arm. His smile fell. “Come on, my apartment is this way.”

The boy followed without a word. 

Toshinori slowed his pace so that he and the boy were walking side by side. “Do you mind me asking for your name, my boy? If we’re going to eat together, I want to know what to call you.” 

“I’m Mikumo,” the boy said. “Er, Mikumo Akatani.” 

“Ah, young Akatani. It’s a pleasure.” He grinned. “Toshinori Yagi, at your service.”

The boy nodded, but said nothing. 

The short walk back to Toshinori’s apartment was quiet. Young Akatani didn’t seem like the talkative type, and as hard as Toshinori tried to fill the silence, the boy would only respond with one-word answers or a slow nod. Eventually, Toshinori let them fall into silence. The last thing he wanted was to make Akatani uncomfortable. 

When they finally made it to Toshinori’s building, Akatani’s jaw dropped. “This is where you live?” 

“Hm?” Toshinori looked up at the glistening high rise. “Well, yes—at least, this is my building.” 

“It’s huge.” 

Toshinori chuckled. “Come on inside.” 

The boy’s eyes were wide as Toshinori led him through the lobby and into the elevator. Akatani fidgeted nervously in the corner as they rode it to the top level, trailing after Toshinori when he disembarked. They walked down the hallway to the front door, which Toshinori carefully unlocked and pushed open, and the pair stepped inside. 

It had been awhile since Toshinori had had guests at his apartment—at least, guests who didn’t know Toshinori Yagi and All Might were one and the same—so when young Akatani set foot inside, Toshinori was forced to look at it from an outsider’s perspective for the first time. And it was… well, it was a lot to take in. 

The penthouse was large and luxurious, with smooth hardwood floors, granite countertops, and floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall overlooking the city. It cost a pretty penny, but with a long-running career as the number one hero, Toshinori could afford it. The furniture was plush and expensive, and the ceilings were so high that Toshinori couldn’t reach them even in his muscle form.

But the impressive thing about Toshinori’s apartment wasn’t how big or expensive everything was. It was the sheer amount of All Might merchandise crammed into every corner. 

There were All Might posters on the wall, All Might figurines on the bookshelves, an All Might blanket slung over the back of his chair. If the boy had bothered to look, he would’ve found an All Might spatula that Toshinori had received as a gag gift some years ago. To his friends, it made sense that Toshinori’s life’s work would mean so much to him, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it must look to a stranger. 

Toshinori clasped the back of his neck with his hand, a flush creeping into his gaunt cheeks. He was just starting to formulate an excuse for the excess of hero merchandise when Akatani turned around, eyes wide and awestruck, and said, “You like All Might, too?” 

Toshinori chuckled under his breath. “You could say that.” 

“You have a poster from his Silver Age? How did you get your hands on it? That’s limited edition, His new costume is crap in comparison—”

“Hey, it’s not that bad—”

“And holy shit, is that a Bronze Age Texas Smash: the Movie figurine? They don’t even make those anymore!” 

For the first time since Toshinori met him, the boy was smiling, and goddammit if it didn’t make something in Toshinori’s chest ache. “You certainly know your stuff, my boy,” he said with a laugh. “Come on inside, I’ll give you a tour.” 

But the boy was frozen on the threshold. 

Toshinori cast a glance over his shoulder. “Are you coming?” 

“I’m—it’s…” Akatani’s cheeks went pink. “It all just looks, um. Really expensive. And I don’t want to mess anything up.” 

And suddenly, Toshinori felt very small. Because here he was, in his expensive penthouse with his luxury furniture and his high quality merchandise, while the boy standing in his doorway couldn’t even afford to buy bandages. 

“Don’t worry about that, my boy,” Toshinori said gently. “Everything here is replaceable. There’s an extra pair of slippers by the door.” 

Akatani wouldn’t meet Toshinori’s eyes, but nevertheless did as he said—kicking off his shoes and sliding the spare slippers onto his feet before stepping hesitantly into the apartment. 

Toshinori drew a deep breath into his lungs. He didn’t quite know how to broach this subject, but he knew he had to ask if he had any hope of helping the boy before him. “Young Akatani.” He cleared his throat. “Before anything else, I’d like to take a look at whatever wound you’re hiding on your left arm.” 

The boy froze. “W-what?” 

“I only want to help,” Toshinori assured him. 

“You don’t have to,” Akatani hurried to reply. “I’m, um. I’m good at taking care of stuff like this, and you’ve already done too much for me. I can handle it on my own.” 

Toshinori chuckled softly. “I don’t mean to offend you, my boy, but given that you were about to treat your wound with rubbing alcohol, I have to disagree.” 

The boy bit his lip. 

“Come on, the bathroom is this way.” Toshinori started walking without checking to see that the boy would follow. Sure enough, after a moment’s hesitation, he heard light, timid footsteps behind him. 

Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom was large and opulent. Toshinori flicked on the lights and made his way to the sink, rummaging through the drawers underneath it until he produced some gentle hand soap, antibiotic ointment, and a washcloth. “You can take a seat,” Toshinori said. 

Akatani perched on the rim of the bathtub. His shoulders curled in on themselves, like he was trying as hard as he could to disappear. 

Toshinori crouched in front of him, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Alright, young Akatani. I’m ready when you are.” 

The boy reached down, tugging up the sleeve of his sweatshirt with slow, hesitant movements. As he revealed the wound he had been hiding all this time, Toshinori had to bite his lip to keep from gasping aloud. 

Bandages were wrapped around Akatani’s forearm from the elbow down, crusted with brownish dried blood. 

Toshinori swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Can I… can I take the bandages off?” 

Akatani nodded slowly. 

With shaking hands, Toshinori reached out, grasping at the end of the bandage and tugging gently. Immediately, Akatani doubled over in pain. 

“My boy, are you alright?” Toshinori asked, panicked. 

“The bandages. They’re… stuck.” Akatani looked up, meeting his eyes, and to Toshinori’s horror, he saw that the boy was fighting back tears. “It hurts.”

Of course—the dried blood was cementing the boy’s skin to the bandages, and any sort of pressure on the wound must’ve been agony. 

Toshinori ran a trembling hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to take a look at the wound.” 

“No, it’s okay.” The boy shook his head. “I’ve dealt with worse before.” 

That didn’t make Toshinori feel better. “Give me one second,” he said, then promptly walked out of the bathroom. 

When he returned, he was carrying a yellow bunny plushie dressed in an All Might costume. It was the sort of meaningless merchandise Toshinori had in abundance, but in this moment, it suddenly seemed of utmost importance. Toshinori would take anyything that could give the boy some sort of comfort. 

“Here,” he said, handing the plush to Akatani. “You can squeeze this—it might help with the pain.” 

Akatani reached out to take it, but hesitated. “I don’t want to get blood on it,” he muttered, looking down at his slippers. 

“Nonsense!” Toshinori shoved the rabbit into Akatani’s good arm, and reflexively, the boy grabbed it. He crouched down, eyeing the boy’s wound, before looking up to meet his eyes once more. “I’m going to try again, are you ready?” 

“Yes,” Akatani whispered. He was already squeezing the rabbit so hard that his knuckles were white. 

Removing the bandages from the boy’s arm was a slow, painstaking process. Akatani was trembling, tears in his eyes and dripping down his face, clutching onto the rabbit plush like his life depended on it—but throughout the whole process, he didn’t once cry out. It made Toshinori’s chest physically ache to see the boy in so much pain. 

But however horrible it had been to watch the boy suffer, the sight that awaited Toshinori was worse. 

The wound on Akatani’s arm was breathtaking. His skin was discolored, almost grey, with bloody cracks spiderwebbing over the surface like he was breaking apart. Flesh was peeling up and flaking off, revealing raw, weeping tissue underneath. More than that, the wound was huge: spanning the area from Akatani’s elbow to wrist without a single spot of unmarked skin between. 

Toshinori felt sick. “What happened?” he choked. 

“I, uh… fell.” The boy winced like he knew how pitiful his excuse sounded. 

“You fell.” 

“Yep.” 

“And that caused this?” 

The boy bit his lip. “... yes?” 

Toshinori buried his face in his hands. “My boy, this is…” He shook his head. “I’m going to call my friend. She’s a doctor, she’ll be able to help more than I can—”

“No!” Akatani shot to his feet. “No, you can’t call anyone!”

Toshinori’s brow furrowed. “Son—”

“No doctors,” the boy pleaded. His chest was heaving too fast, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. “I won’t stay if there are any doctors coming!” 

“Alright, alright.” Toshinori raised his hands before his face like he was trying to calm a cornered animal. “No doctors.” 

Akatani hesitated. “Do you promise?” 

“I promise,” Toshinori said. “Please, sit back down.” 

The boy dropped down onto the rim of the bath tub, wiping his nose with his sleeve. 

Toshinori let out a breath. “Young Akatani, this wound is… concerning, to say the least. I won’t call anybody here if you don’t want me to, but I need to know: are you okay? Do you need help?” 

Akatani’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “I’m okay,” he said. 

Toshinori knew he was lying. He just didn’t know what to do about it. 

Izuku had never met anyone like Toshinori Yagi before. 

He called Izuku things like ‘son’ and ‘my boy.’ He smiled wide and laughed easily. He did kind things, seemingly for no benefit to himself. 

It had been agonizing when Yagi peeled the soiled bandages from Izuku’s arm, but it was possibly even worse when the older man cleaned his wound with warm, soapy water. His touch was gentle, but the scraping of the washcloth against Izuku’s tender skin was one of the worst things he had ever felt. 

That being said, Izuku knew it would’ve been a million times worse if he’d had to do it himself. He didn’t know how he would’ve gotten through it there if it wasn’t for Yagi murmuring reassurances under his breath and the All Might plushie that he squeezed so tightly his hand went numb. So Izuku closed his eyes and focused all of his attention on trying not to scream. 

Finally, the man patted Izuku’s arm dry with a warm, soft towel. “The worst part is over, young Akatani. I’m going to put on some antibiotic ointment and wrap it back up, and then I’ll make us some dinner. Does that sound alright?” 

Izuku only nodded. Through the haze of pain that still obscured his vision, he couldn’t quite bring himself to speak. 

Yagi’s hands were gentle and practiced as they wound the bandages around Izuku’s arm. By the time he had finished, the pain had diminished enough that Izuku could think through it. “You’re not a doctor, are you?” he asked, playing idly with the ears of the rabbit plush in his hands. 

“No, I’m not,” Yagi said. “Why do you ask?” 

“You just seem like you’ve done this before.”

Yagi laughed softly under his breath. “Let’s just say I’m accident prone.” He stood, motioning for Izuku to follow him. “Come, my boy. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll heat something up for us.” 

Izuku tailed Yagi to the kitchen, sticking so close behind the man that he was practically stepping on his shoes. He couldn’t explain it, but Yagi made him feel safe, like as long as he was close enough to the older man, nothing bad was going to happen to him. He’d never felt that way before. 

Yagi had just started to heat up some frozen fried rice in a skillet when he spoke up. “So, my boy, you’re a fan of All Might’s?” 

Izuku flushed from where he sat at the island. “I’ve admired him since I was old enough to admire anything. He always saves people with a smile.” He bit his lip. “I know it sounds silly, but I… I’ve always felt like as long as All Might is smiling, things are going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.” 

Yagi’s smile was warm. “That’s good to hear, young Akatani.” 

“What about you?” Izuku asked. “I think you’re the only person I’ve met who likes All Might as much as I do.” 

One second, Yagi was standing in front of the stovetop, idly stirring the fried rice with an All Might spatula. The next, he was doubled over in the middle of the floor, coughing blood. Izuku leapt to his feet. “Yagi!” 

Yagi held up a hand, stopping Izuku in his tracks, and straightened. “Sorry, my boy. Your question surprised me, that’s all.” 

Izuku lowered his head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry!” Yagi laughed, wiping his face clean with a paper towel. “It’s a good question. If I had to give an answer, I’d say…” His eyes grew distant. “All Might does his best to help the people who need him. That’s admirable—isn’t it?” 

Izuku nodded enthusiastically. “I think he’s the coolest in the world.” 

Yagi’s smile grew. “What about you, my boy? Do you want to be a hero someday?” 

“More than anything,” Izuku said before he could think too hard about his answer. When he realized what he’d said, a stone settled in the pit of his stomach. “But I can’t.” 

Yagi’s brow furrowed. “Why not?” 

“To start with, I’m quirkless,” Izuku said, leaning his head on his hand. That, and he was already a villain—but Yagi didn’t need to know that. 

Yagi’s eyes glinted, and a tiny smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Don’t give up on yourself just yet, young Akatani,” he said. “You never know what might happen.”

The pair ate dinner in comfortable silence. It was all Izuku could do not to inhale his food—all he’d eaten today was a bag of hot Cheetos. When Yagi offered him seconds, Izuku guiltily accepted. 

All too soon, Izuku had to take his leave—he still had errands to run for Shigaraki, after all. Yagi offered to walk him home, but Izuku declined. He couldn’t very well explain to his new friend why he lived in a room above a bar. Shigaraki would likely gut him for leading someone to their hideout, anyways, even if that someone was skinny as a twig and started coughing blood when he got excited. 

Nevertheless, Yagi gave Izuku a slip of paper with his number on it and instructed him to call any time. Izuku didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t have a phone. 

Izuku didn’t realize he was still carrying the plushie Yagi had given him until he was just about to walk through the door. He flushed, shoving the rabbit into the man’s arms. “Uh, thanks for letting me borrow this,” he stuttered. 

Yagi looked at the plush, then back up at Izuku. “Don’t fret, my boy. You keep it,” he said fondly, ruffling Izuku’s curls. 

“Oh, I couldn’t—” 

“Please, I insist,” Yagi said. 

So Izuku left Yagi’s house fed, cared for, and clutching a brand new plushie in his arms, wondering if this was what happiness felt like.

Chapter Text

It was three days before Shouta saw the boy again. 

When he ran into him, it was more of an accident than anything. Shouta had been looking for the boy nonstop since his conversation with Tsukauchi, but he hadn’t expected to find him fleeing from another fire halfway across the city, and he certainly hadn’t expected the boy to be on the run from three very angry Yakuza thugs. 

Shouta leapt across the rooftops with the aid of his capture weapon, following the boy as he wove through the city streets as quickly as a rabbit being chased by a fox. He was fast, Shouta would give him that, but it was clear from the way he moved that he didn’t know this part of the city very well. Shouta knew the second the Yakuza thugs fanned out that it was over for the boy. 

They cornered him in an alley between a warehouse and an abandoned factory with a brick wall at his back. The boy backed up, and the Yakuza thugs stalked forward, keeping him pinned against the wall without any chance of escape. He chuckled nervously. “Hey, guys, can I help you?” 

Shouta crouched down low, watching. And if he could’ve stepped in sooner, sue him—he wanted to see what the boy would do. 

“So you’re the little shit who’s been fucking with us, huh?” one of the men demanded. He was a six-foot-three wall of muscle covered head to foot in tattoos. Shouta’s jaw clenched—this wasn’t looking good for the kid. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy said, flashing a cheeky grin. “I’m just a kid. You wouldn’t hit a kid, right?” 

The thug scoffed. “Yeah, right—a kid who’s burned down three of our buildings and interrupted our supply chain.” 

The second man cracked his knuckles menacingly. He was tall and thin, with an ugly, gap-toothed grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Personally, I can’t wait to beat the snot outta you.”

“Not too bad, remember.” The third man crossed his arms. From the waist up, he wasn’t much to look at—but below his belt, the man’s body morphed into that of a huge, hairy spider. “The boss wants him alive.” 

“Shit, kid.” The thin man bared his teeth. “You should really be scared if the boss wants you.” 

The kid retreated another step, pausing when his back hit the wall. “You’re really gonna torture a fourteen-year-old? We can all just pretend this didn’t happen. I won’t tell if you don’t—”

The tattooed pulled something from his coat pocket—something that glinted silver in the moonlight. 

He had a knife. 

Shit.

Shouta moved at the same second the kid did, launching himself off the roof with the help of his capture weapon and rolling into a crouch. To his credit, the kid was holding his own so far. He’d pulled out a switchblade from somewhere, and was now ducking the manic slashes of the tattooed man. In half a second, this back alley confrontation had devolved into a full-on knife fight. 

The kid really was fast. His technique was sloppy—obviously self-taught—but his moves were practiced and unpredictable. If it had been a one-on-one fight, he might’ve held his own, even against such a large opponent. 

But this wasn’t a one-on-one fight. The kid was hopelessly outmatched. To make matters worse, the way he was favoring his left arm suggested that he was injured. Before Shouta could rush them, the spider-person caught hold of his wrist and squeezed. 

The sound that came out of the boy’s mouth… it was a sound that Shouta never wanted to hear again. 

Shouta surged forward, capture weapon wrapping around the thin man’s neck. The man choked, clawing at his throat as his air was cut off. Souta didn’t relieve the pressure around his windpipe, not immediately. Whatever pain the thin man was currently experiencing, Shouta was sure he deserved it. 

It had been a long time since Shouta was this pissed off. 

He yanked the man forward, shoving his knee into his crotch and slamming an elbow into his face. From the crunching sound and the blood that spirted over Shouta’s costume, the man’s nose was broken. 

“Shit,” the spider-person murmured. “It’s Eraserhead.” 

Shouta didn’t have time to ponder how they knew his name. 

He dropped the thin man into a groaning, gasping mess on the ground, then flipped him over and dug a knee into his back, cuffing his hands behind him. Judging from the man’s pathetic whimpers, he wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile—but Shouta didn’t want to take chances. 

Shouta stood, blood on his clothes and fire in his eyes. He saw the moment the thugs realized they were screwed. 

“Grab the kid and run,” the tattooed man growled, pushing up his sleeves. “I’ll hold him off.” 

A bolt of panic shot down Shouta’s spine, and he stiffened. No, no, no, these men couldn’t capture the kid, not now. Not when Shouta had only just found him. Not when he’d already been through far too much. 

The tattooed man lunged for Shouta. He held his knife like he knew how to use it, but Shouta was faster, blocking the man’s blow before grabbing his wrist and twisting hard enough that his shoulder almost popped out of its socket. The man lost his balance; Shouta swept his feet out from under him, and he landed hard on the pavement. With one well-placed kick, Shouta snapped his arm at the elbow. The scream that came out of the man’s mouth was almost embarrassing. 

Shouta looked up, half afraid that the final thug would’ve already made his getaway with the kid in tow. But Shouta had underestimated him: the spider-person was bleeding from multiple gashes on his arms and chest, and the kid was still standing. 

The kid’s eyes flicked to the side when he heard the tattooed man screaming, and in the end, that mistake was what led to his downfall. The spider-person’s hand lashed out, grabbing the boy’s wrist and twisting until he was forced to drop the switchblade or break his arm. The knife clattered to the ground, and the boy was hauled up against the spider-person’s chest. 

Shouta froze as the thug’s meaty arm wrapped around the kid’s throat. “One move and he’s dead.” 

Shouta forced his body to relax, even as the breath left his lungs in a rush. “What, you think I care if he dies?” he said, proud of how steady his voice sounded in the wake of his mounting panic. 

“You’re a hero,” the spider-person sneered. “Isn’t that your job? Saving people?” 

“My job is saving civilians,” Shouta deadpanned. “You’re holding a villain. If you kill him, you’re honestly doing my job for me.” 

“Is that so? Then you won’t mind if I finish him.” The thug’s arm tightened around the boy’s neck. The boy thrashed, clawing at the man’s arm, tiny body jerking in the air as he fought for breath. 

The image speared Shouta through the gut, but he forced himself not to flinch. “And then what?” Shouta asked. He sounded bored to his own ears. “I’ll be here waiting to fight you, and we both know I’ll win. I’ll bring you in with the rest of your buddies here. They might get ten years for gang involvement and attempted kidnapping, but you’ll be serving life for murder, and I’ll walk away completely unscathed.” Shouta shrugged. “Do what you will. It’s your neck on the line.” 

The boy was still choking, still clawing at the man’s arm with wide, tear-filled green eyes. Shouta wanted nothing more than to save him, but he couldn’t break eye contact with the spider-person. It was a game of chicken: would the thug really kill the kid? Would Shouta really let him? Who was going to break first? 

Shouta was just preparing to attack, consequences be damned, when the spider-person’s arm loosened. He shoved the kid to the side. The boy landed hard, dragging a choked, heaving breath into his lungs. 

The second the kid was out of danger, Shouta lunged. His capture weapon wrapped around the spider-person’s arm, and Shouta yanked him forward, slamming an elbow into the man’s windpipe. The man’s hands came up reflexively as he gagged and choked. 

That’s called karma, Shouta thought grimly. 

Behind him, the kid was crawling across the ground, reaching a hand towards his discarded switchblade. Something tight in Shouta’s chest eased. At least now, the kid would have a means of protecting himself. 

The spider-man took advantage of Shouta’s momentary distraction to bolt. His eight legs made him surprisingly fast as he dodged Shouta’s capture weapon, and if he had been running in the other direction, maybe Shouta wouldn’t have been able to catch him. But he wasn’t trying to escape, or even attack Shouta. 

He was still trying to get the boy. 

Shouta ran after him, pushing his legs harder than he had ever pushed them before. His capture weapon wrapped around a nearby lamp post, and he used it to propel himself forward, launching over the space separating him from the kid. He landed hard, just in time to intercept the spider-person as he reached for the boy. 

Shouta angled his body so that he was standing in front of the kid. He was breathing hard. “Run while you can, and I’ll give you a five minute head-start. If not, I’ll bring you in with the rest of your friends.” 

As badly as Shouta wanted this man to rot in Tartarus where he belonged, the kid’s safety was his priority. He’d do what he had to in order to keep the boy out of the Yakuza’s clutches. 

The spider-person’s gaze flicked to the boy, then back to Shouta’s face. Maybe he saw the cold fire in Shouta’s eyes, or the hard, angry line of his mouth, for he stumbled back a step before turning and breaking into a run. 

Shouta allowed himself one second to catch his breath—just one—before crouching down in front of the kid. He was still clutching his switchblade in one white-knuckled hand, and his face had gone as white as a sheet. He angled the left side of his body away from Shouta, like he was trying to protect it. 

“Hey, kid. You okay?” Shouta asked. His voice was gruff. 

With his hair hidden underneath a beanie and the bottom half of his face covered by a mask, all Shouta could see was the boy’s wide, distrustful green eyes blinking up at him. “Who are you?” 

“My name is Eraserhead. We, uh, met the other night.” 

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I remember you.” He moved so fast that Shouta could hardly track the movement. In half a second, the sharp point of the kid’s switchblade was pressing into the soft skin underneath Shouta’s chin, forcing his head up. “You’re here to arrest me, aren’t you?” 

Shouta rolled his eyes. “Are we really doing this?” 

“Doing what?” 

“Listen, I just saved your life, kid,” Shouta deadpanned. “Maybe you should try thanking me before threatening me.”

The kid snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“‘What, you think I care if he dies?’” the kid mimicked, dropping his voice low and flattening his tone to mimic Shouta’s. It was a poor, rather insulting imitation in Shouta’s opinion—but it nevertheless made his throat tighten. He hadn’t even thought of the effect his words would have on the kid when he said them. “‘If you kill him, you’re honestly doing my job for me.’”

Shouta winced. “I wouldn’t have let him hurt you. That was just a rational deception to get him to let you go.” 

“A rational deception,” the boy sneered. “Yeah, right. Pretend all you want, but heroes don’t care about people like me.” 

Shouta’s heart stuttered. “Listen, kid—”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you?” He still had his switchblade leveled at Shouta’s throat, but with his free hand he wiped his nose with his sleeve. To Shouta’s horror, he thought he saw tears in the boy’s eyes. Shouta knew that he was little more than a child—but he’d never looked like one until this moment. “You heroes. You talk about h-helping people, but when it comes down to it, you only really care about yourselves. And when there are people who really need help, you leave them to rot.” 

Shouta didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Because in a way, the kid was right. The heroes had failed him, let him slip through the cracks until he became the scared, broken thing staring up at Shouta with tearfilled green eyes. The heroes should’ve been there, but they weren’t. 

He was here now, Shouta reminded himself. He was here, and no matter what happened, he would make sure the boy got out of this alive. But only actions could convince the boy of that—actions, not words. 

So instead of replying, he disarmed the boy in an easy, practiced move, holding up the switchblade for him to see before tucking it into his belt. “I’ll give this back to you when I see fit.” 

The boy gaped at him. “Hey—you can’t just rob people!” 

“And you can’t just threaten people. Not to mention that it’s illegal in Japan for you to even own a switchblade.” Shouta stood. 

“Yeah, but you’re a hero. The rules are different for you.” 

Shouta snorted. “Trust me, confiscating dangerous goods is more than within my rights as a hero. I have a call to place, and then you and I are going to talk.” 

The boy frowned. “How do you know I won’t just run away?” 

“You won’t if you want your knife back.”

“I don’t need that one,” the boy said, looking down at his hands. “I have another just like it at home.” 

Shouta cast him a glance from the corner of his eye. “Kid, from the look of you, you can’t even afford to feed yourself, and these things don’t come cheap. I promise I won’t arrest you if you stick around for a second—and trust me, I don’t break my promises.”

It was a gamble to assume that the kid really didn’t have a second switchblade—hell, he was almost surprised the kid even had one—but as Shouta pulled out his phone to dial Tsukauchi’s number, the kid still hadn’t budged.

Tsukauchi picked up on the first ring. “Aizawa?” 

“I have two villains for you. They’re in an alley between the fifteenth and sixteenth block of the shipping district.” 

Shouta could hear something rustling on the other end of the line. “I’ll send someone to your location.”

“Get here fast,” Shouta grumbled. “I don’t know if I’ll be here to supervise them when you show up—I’m working on Project BHH.”

Project BHH— bring him home. The code name they had developed between them to talk about their confidential rescue mission around unauthorized individuals. And now, apparently, around the boy himself. 

For a moment, there was only dead silence. When Tsukauchi spoke again, his voice was hushed. “Shit, Aizawa. You found the kid?” 

“What do you think—hey, stop that,” Shouta said, swatting the kid’s hand away from where he was currently trying to steal the switchblade from his belt. 

“What’s happening?” Tsukauchi asked. He sounded frantic. “Is everything okay?” 

Shouta sighed. “It’s nothing. Some kid is just trying to rob me.” 

“I’m not stealing if it’s mine to begin with!” the kid protested. 

Tsukauchi’s voice dropped even lower. “Is that him? Oh my God, Aizawa, I’ve been looking for this kid for years—”

“I’m a bit busy right now, Tsukauchi,” Shouta growled. “Come get these guys before they escape.” 

“You’re calling me as soon as you’re done, do you hear me?” Tsukauchi demanded. “Aizawa, are you listening—”

Shouta promptly hung up the phone. 

The boy crossed his arms. “It’s been five minutes. It's time for you to give me back my knife and chase after that spider guy.”

Shouta shook his head. “I’m not going after him.” He thought of the way the thug’s arm had tightened around the kid’s throat, and his mood darkened. He scowled. “Not today, at least.” 

“Then why did you say you were giving him a head start?”

Because I wanted to get him as far away from you as possible, and this was the quickest way to do that. 

But Shouta didn’t think the kid would take kindly to that answer. “Because he was pissing me off and I didn’t want to deal with him,” Shouta said instead. 

“Well that’s just great.” The kid rolled his eyes. “You let the guy who just tried to kidnap me go, and now he’s going to report back to his scary Yakuza boss who apparently wants me dead. Some hero you are.” 

Shouta crossed his arms over his chest. “Relax, I’ll go after him tomorrow. Have you considered that if you don’t want to piss off the Yakuza, you should stop burning their shit?”

The kid scoffed. “Yeah, like it’s that easy.” 

“It is that easy,” Shouta said, studying the kid’s reaction. How much information could he bait him into giving up? 

The kid scowled. “You don’t know shit, Eraserhead.”  

“Hey.” Shouta frowned. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

“My mother is dead,” the boy snapped. Something like grief flashed through his eyes at the words, but he turned away before Shouta could get a good look. 

“Oh.” Shouta cleared his throat. He had suspected as much, but to hear the boy say it was something else entirely. “I’m… sorry to hear that.” 

The boy kicked a pebble on the ground and said nothing. 

“No All Might hoodie today?” Shouta asked. 

The kid scowled. “Why the fuck does it matter?”

Shouta leaned against the wall, studying the kid in front of him. His shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wouldn’t quite look Shouta in the eye. “I don’t know,” Shouta said. “The hair pieces remind me of rabbit ears, so that’s what I’ve been calling you in my head—Rabbit.” 

“That’s the lamest nickname I’ve ever heard.” 

“Are you gonna tell me your real name?” 

“No.”

“Then Rabbit it is.” 

Shouta smiled when the boy’s scowl deepened. “I have places to be, you know,” the newly christened Rabbit said. “If you want to discuss something with me, get it over with already.” 

Shouta’s smile fell away. He didn’t know how to broach this subject, didn’t know how the kid was going to react, and the last thing he wanted was to scare him away. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Listen, kid, I want to help you.”

“Why the hell would you want to help me?” Rabbit spat. He eyed Shouta with eyes that were too old, too jaded, to belong to someone so young. 

“Because I can tell something isn’t right.” Shouta sighed, running a tired hand through his hair. “You’re a kid, you’re on the streets, and apparently you’re on the run from the Yakuza.”

“And you think things will be better for me in Tartarus?” Rabbit’s throat worked. “Yeah, right.” 

Shouta’s brow furrowed. “Who said anything about Tartarus?” 

“That’s what you do to villains, isn’t it? You lock them up and throw them away.” The boy took a step back, like he was only just remembering to be wary of Shouta. 

Shouta let out a breath. “You’re not a villain, kid.” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“A few petty crimes don’t make you a villain.” Shouta locked eyes with the boy. “Especially if you felt like you didn’t have a choice.” 

“You don’t know what the fuck I’ve done or why I’ve done it, and you don’t want to know.” The boy’s voice was ragged, like he was holding back a sob. “Don’t pretend like you understand when you don’t.” 

“I want to understand. Help me understand.” 

“What, so you can arrest me the second I let my guard down?” Rabbit crossed his arms over his chest, and the gesture was so strangely vulnerable—almost like the boy was hugging himself. 

Shouta scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not going to arrest you, kid.” 

“Why not?” Rabbit demanded. “That would be easier, right?” 

“Frankly? Because I’m pretty sure you’ll get away, and then I will have lost my only chance with you.” 

The boy’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Stop pretending you want to help me,” he snapped. “I’m nothing but a villain to you—you said it yourself.”

“Kid, I told you that was—”

“A rational deception?” The kid’s laugh was low and humorless. “Yeah, right. I saw your face when you said it. There was nothing there. No regret, nothing. You were either lying then or you’re lying now, and I know pretty damn well what seems more likely to me.” 

Shouta’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. It seemed his strategy had backfired. Badly. This was a child who had been burned before—of course he was slow to trust someone like Shouta, to whom lies came as easily as breaths and emotions were little more than an inconvenience. Of course this wouldn't be as easy as Shouta had hoped. 

“Then let me prove it to you,” Shouta said, practically pleading with the boy—a last-ditch effort before Rabbit disappeared and Shouta never saw him again. “Let me earn your trust.” 

The boy’s wide green eyes narrowed. “How?” 

“Meet me here tomorrow,” Shouta said. “Same time, same place. I’ll bring you something to eat, and you won’t have to answer any questions you’re not comfortable with. I just want to be sure you’re okay.” 

The boy fidgeted where he stood. “How do I know you won't lead the heroes right to me?” 

He had nothing—no reason to give to Rabbit, a child who was so obviously hurting. If Shouta didn’t come up with something, and fast, he was going to lose his opportunity to save someone in need. His stomach turned. 

In all his years as a hero, Shouta didn’t think he’d ever encountered someone who needed him as badly as this boy. 

Shouta pulled the plain metal band from his ring finger, studying it as it laid in his open palm. If anything happened to this, Hizashi was going to kill him. 

He held it up so that the kid could see. “This ring is… very precious to me.”
The kid’s brow furrowed. “You’re married?”

“Yes, and my husband is going to be very upset with me for doing this.” He let out a breath, running a tired hand through his hair. “Hold on to this for me until tomorrow. If I betray you, you can do whatever you want with it—swallow it, throw it as far away as you can. Fuck, you can even drop it down the sewer.” 

Shouta cringed at the thought of his wedding ring winding up in the sewer of all places, but he had to trust that Hizashi would understand. And as long as Shouta kept his promise, he’d have the ring back by tomorrow. Right? 

Rabbit’s eyes narrowed further. “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?” 

“Is it so hard to believe that someone might just want to help you?” 

“Yes.” 

Shouta scowled. Once he got his hands on whoever put those shadows in Rabbit’s eyes, he was going to kill them—slowly. He didn’t care if it wasn’t heroic. “Listen, kid, are you going to take it or not?” 

The kid sighed. “Fine.” 

Shouta’s head shot up. That had actually worked?”

The kid scuffed the ground with his toe. “I’ll show up, but only if…” 

“Only if what?” Whatever it was, Shouta would do it. Fuck, he wasn’t letting this kid slip through his fingers. Not now. 

Rabbit wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You said. Um. You said you’d bring food?” 

The words were a punch in the gut. It was all Shouta could do not to wrap his capture weapon around the boy and drag him home, where he would be warm and fed and safe. Where he wouldn’t have to fight for his life on dirty streets. Where the bruises under his eyes might start to fade. Where Shouta could keep an eye on him and make sure that no one ever hurt him again, because damn if the kid hadn’t been through far too much already. 

“Yeah,” Shouta said, and his voice was hoarse. “I’ll bring food.” He’d bring a fucking feast. 

The boy nodded. “C-can I… can I have my knife back now?” 

Shouta started forward, pulling the switchblade out of his belt, but he paused when the boy flinched. “Hey, kid. You alright?” 

“Yeah.” The kid’s eyes flicked nervously over the ground. “Um, can I come up to you instead?” 

Shouta felt like an idiot. “Of course you can. Here.” He stretched out a hand. Resting on his palm was Rabbit’s folded switchblade and Shouta’s ring. 

The boy crept forward cautiously, like he was worried Shouta was going to snatch him at any moment. His fear wasn’t completely unfounded, given that Shouta had been given serious thought to dragging the boy back to his apartment only moments ago, but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. “I don’t bite, you know.”

The kid gestured to the prone, moaning body of the tattooed man, still lying on the ground. “Uh, I just saw you beat two guys to a pulp.” 

Shouta shrugged. “They deserved it.” 

With trembling hands, Rabbit snatched the blade and ring from Shouta’s palm, then quickly backed up so that he was out of reach. “I’ll, um. See you tomorrow, then,” he said, face going pink underneath his mask. 

“Don’t lose that ring,” Shouta warned. 

The kid rolled his eyes. “Or what, you’ll hunt me down?” His tone was light, but Shouta could hear real fear behind it. 

Shouta snorted. “Nah, I’ll just make you comfort my husband when he starts crying.” 

Rabbit’s eyes crinkled at the corners. If Shouta didn’t know better, he’d say the kid was smiling—actually smiling. The thought made something in Shouta’s chest ache. 

Shouta could hear sirens in the distance. No doubt Tsukauchi was on his way, desperate to hear any news Shouta had on the kid. 

“Go.” Shouta jerked his head. “Get out of here. The cops are on their way.” 

The boy started to turn, but paused long enough to meet Shouta’s eyes. “Thanks. For, um, beating those guys up for me.” 

Shouta rolled his eyes, even as he felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Go, problem child.” 

“Right.” With another backwards glance, Rabbit disappeared from view.

Chapter Text

Izuku avoided going through the front door today, instead climbing up the fire escape that led to his bedroom window and climbing inside. He’d have to deal with Shigaraki at some point, but not right now. Not when he had something to hide. 

He crept across the floor, avoiding the creaky floorboards like he always did. His heart was pounding in his chest. Moments like these were always the riskiest—there was no lock on his door, and if Shigaraki walked in on him, the wound on Izuku’s arm would be nothing compared to the pain he would rain down on him.

Izuku dropped to his knees next to his bed, prying up the loose floorboard underneath it. Inside was a simple shoebox. It was funny that something so small meant everything to Izuku, but the box, the items it contained… they were the only things in the world that Izuku had left. He lifted the lid. 

The first thing he saw was the rabbit plush Yagi had given him, safely tucked away from Shigaraki’s clutches. He stroked its soft ears with his good hand, lips quirking as he thought about Yagi, then about Eraserhead. The hair pieces remind me of rabbit ears, so that’s what I’ve been calling you in my head—Rabbit. What was it about strange men feeding him, and why did he seem to remind them all of such a harmless animal? Didn’t they realize how dangerous he was?

Izuku’s smile fell away at the thought. 

He put the plushie to the side. There were only three more things in the shoebox—Izuku’s notebook, where he detailed everybody he fought and every hero he saw on TV; an All-Might figurine that Kacchan had given him when they were kids; and an old, faded photograph, time-worn and tattered, with scuffed edges and a bent corner from where Izuku used to sleep with it under his pillow. With shaking hands, he pulled the photograph from the box. 

“Hey, Mom,” Izuku said, brushing his fingers over his mother’s young, smiling face. This was a picture from back when she was healthy, before the sickness had consumed her body and mind. Before the drugs they put her on made her sick and tired, before her green hair started falling out. 

Before the heart monitor had flatlined, and Izuku was dragged out of her hospital room, kicking and screaming. Before Izuku’s life had changed forever. 

In the picture, she was crouching next to a grinning Izuku. The toddler was wearing an All-Might onesie that was a favorite of his, hands thrust into the air like he was proudly exclaiming, I am here! The look on his mother’s face was pure adoration as she looked at the beaming boy. 

Izuku didn’t remember who had taken this picture. Maybe it had been Mitsuki—she and Kacchan were over at their house often enough. It certainly wasn’t Izuku’s father, who had left before Izuku could walk. Izuku’s chest tightened with the familiar grief of a child who’s all alone in the world. 

“I miss you,” Izuku whispered, feeling unshed tears burn in his eyes. He blinked fast, trying to keep them from falling. 

Izuku closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember what his mother's arms had felt like. How she’d smelled. How her voice sounded. If he was being honest with himself, he had forgotten what it felt like to be hugged or held. He had forgotten what it was to be touched gently, for the hands that reached for him to be used to help, not hurt. 

And oh, how Izuku missed it. How he craved the calm, quiet comfort of his mother’s touch. Sometimes his chest hurt so badly that it kept him awake at night, calling out for someone—anyone—to see him, save him, hold him. To soothe his fears and dry his eyes and tell him that everything was going to be alright. 

But that world—the world where Izuku was safe and cared for, the world where the scars on his body didn’t number in the triple digits, where he laughed easily and knew what it felt like to sleep through the night—that was not the world Izuku lived in. 

He tucked the picture away safely next to Eraserhead’s ring, in the shoebox that contained the fragments of his shattered heart. 

Hizashi was still sulking. 

Shouta knew this because despite the ridiculous Kiss the Chef apron he was currently wearing—which Hizashi had bought him as a joke several years ago—Hizashi had yet to so much as peck him on the cheek. 

Shouta sighed. “I’m sorry, Zashi,” he said for the millionth time, looking up from where he was dicing cilantro. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hizashi grumbled. “Y’know, maybe this could’ve been avoided if you didn’t tell the kid that you didn’t care if he died.” 

Shouta rolled his eyes. “I told you, it was—”

“A rational deception,” Hizashi said. “And it didn’t occur to you that it might not go over so well with a kid who’s been abused for his entire life?” 

Shouta opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. His shoulders sank. “I suck at this, don’t I?” 

Hizashi’s face softened. “That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Shouta scrubbed a hand down his face, leaning back against the countertop. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“You’re doing pretty well so far,” Hizashi said, reaching over the countertop to twine his fingers through Shouta’s. “You got the kid to agree to meet with you. That’s something, isn’t it?” 

“He might not even show up.”

Hizashi harrumphed. “He’s fucking showing up. And if he doesn’t, you’re going to track him down and get that ring back.” 

Shouta cracked a smile. “Or what?” 

“Or I’ll fucking kill you, that’s what.” 

Shouta chuckled. His husband was loud, and blond, and silly at times, but he could be scary when he wanted to be. Was it weird that it turned Shouta on? 

Still, it wasn’t long before Shouta’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, Zashi. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“I know.” He frowned at Shouta’s empty ring finger. “It was very noble that you’re trying so hard to help this kid. It’s just…”

“Just what?” 

Hizashi rested his chin on the countertop. “You don’t tell people at work that we’re married, and you gave away your wedding ring. You’re not… embarrassed of me, are you?”

“Embarrassed of you? Zashi, no.” Shouta set his knife down, walking over to the other side of the island and wrapping an arm around his husband’s shoulders. Hizashi leaned into the touch. “I don’t broadcast our relationship because you’re my weakness, and I don’t want anybody hurting you to get to me.” 

“Aww.” Hizashi sniffled. “That’s sort of sweet, in a weird, Shouta way.”

Shouta chuckled, resting his chin on his husband’s head. “I mean, you are loud.” 

Hizashi squawked. “Sho!” 

“And your hair looks pretty stupid when you spike it up in your hero costume—”

Hizashi scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in response to Shouta’s teasing, but Shouta didn’t miss the way his husband’s lips curled up at the corners. 

Shouta chuckled, pressing his lips to Hizashi’s cheek. “I love you, Zashi.” 

And Hizashi, for all that he pretended to be angry, melted into the touch. “I love you, too.” 

Shouta was just starting to nuzzle Hizashi’s neck in the way he knew he liked when someone knocked at the door. He ignored it. 

“You should probably get that,” Hizashi mumbled. 

Shouta growled into Hizashi’s neck, and his husband shivered. “I’m busy here,” Shouta said. 

The knock came again, louder this time. 

“Fuck.” Shouta straightened, pointing a finger in Hizashi’s face. “This isn’t over,” he said, noting with satisfaction the way his husband’s cheeks flushed pink, before stalking over to the door. 

Tsukauchi was standing on his doorstep, holding a stack of multicolored tupperwares in his arms. He blinked when he saw Shouta’s messy bun and ridiculous apron. “Um.” 

Shouta sighed. “What are you doing here?” 

“I made food. For the kid.” He looked Shouta up and down. “But I’m starting to realize that you might’ve made something, too.” 

Shouta rolled his eyes, holding the door open for the detective. “It’s fine. Maybe this way he’ll have left-overs.” 

Tsukauchi kicked off his shoes and stepped inside, nodding to Hizashi with a murmured, “Hey, Mic.” 

Hizashi grinned widely. “Hey there, listener!” he boomed. “It’s been a while! You miss me?” 

Shouta winced at his husband’s volume. “Tsukauchi, don’t rile him up, please.” 

“Don’t mind Sho’s rudeness,” Hizashi fired back. “He’s just grouchy because he only drank four cups of coffee today.” 

Shouta crossed his arms over his chest, obscuring the lettering of his ridiculously domestic apron. “No, I’m grouchy because you started talking in your sleep in the middle of the night. With your quirk activated.” 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Hizashi cocked his head. “It sounded like you were criticizing me after you gave your fucking wedding ring to a fourteen year old.” 

Tsukauchi ignored them, strolling farther into the kitchen and placing his tupperwares on the counter. He’d known the couple long enough to understand that this was just how they interacted. 

“Oh, how nice,” Hizashi cooed. “You made cookies! I told Sho to make cookies, but he said no.” 

“The kid needs nutrition, not empty calories.” 

“He needs any calories we can get into him,” Tsukauchi replied. 

Shouta grunted. “Well, you’re not wrong.” He surveyed the spread of tupperwares on the countertop. Between the two of them, Shouta and Tsukauchi had made enough food to last a few days. “You know I can’t tell him you made all of this, right? If he knew a cop was involved, he’d bolt.”

Tsukauchi looked affronted. “I’m not doing it for credit. I’m just… worried about the kid.” 

With a heavy sigh, Shouta sank onto a stool next to his husband. Hizashi reached out without a word, rubbing Shouta’s back with a hand and leaning his head on his shoulder. “Yeah. I think we’re all worried,” Shouta said. 

Hizashi tucked an errant curl behind Shouta’s ear. “Hey. He’s going to eat, now, right? That’s a step in the right direction. And as long as you keep building trust with him, he’s not alone anymore.” 

Shouta’s hands squeezed into fists. “Yeah, unless I fuck it all up.”

“You’re not going to fuck it all up,” Hizashi soothed. 

“How do you know?” 

“Because you’re dealing with a kid who’s never been treated with kindness in his life, and you have the biggest heart out of anyone I know.” He planted a kiss on Shouta’s cheek. “He’s not going to know what to do with himself.” 

Tsukauchi scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck. I wish I could go with you.” 

“The kid would flip,” Shouta deadpanned. 

“I know.” Tsukauchi sighed. “It’s still frustrating.” 

“He’s gonna be okay, you two,” Hizashi said. 

“I hope so—but it’s hard to be optimistic.” Tsukauchi braced his hands on the counter. “He’s a kid, and he has nobody.” 

“He has us.” 

Shouta’s eyes were empty. “And what if we’re too late?” 

Hizashi wrapped an arm around his husband’s shoulders and squeezed. “As long as he’s still breathing, we can save him.” 

The next day passed quickly. Shigaraki didn’t want anything with him, so Izuku stayed in his room, sleeping the day away so that he would have energy for his meeting tonight. He also might have been avoiding Toga, who’s manic cackle could be heard from all the way downstairs—not that Izuku could ever admit it. 

By the time night fell, Izuku was ready—dressed in all black with a beanie covering his hair and a mask covering the bottom half of his face. He left a note on his bed explaining that he was doing some recon for his next assignment in case Shigaraki came looking for him—not that the blue-haired man cared what he did in his spare time—and slipped through his bedroom window with Eraserhead’s ring clutched in his fist. 

The streets of Musutafu were dark as Izuku wound through them, keeping to the shadows as he made his way to the shipping district. He was early, but he wanted to scan the area before his meeting with Eraserhead. Despite the man’s words, despite the silver ring digging into his palm, Izuku couldn’t bring himself to trust the man. 

But as far as Izuku saw, their meeting place was empty. There were no policemen hiding on the rooftops, no heroes crouched in the shadows. 

Was it possible that Eraserhead hadn’t sold him out, after all? 

Izuku crouched on the rooftop next to the alley where he and Eraserhead were supposed to meet. It was a good vantage point: high enough that Izuku’s view was unobstructed, and dark enough that he wouldn’t be spotted from the ground. 

“You’re early.” 

Izuku spun around, instinctively flicking his switchblade open and aiming it towards the voice. His shoulders relaxed—barely—when he saw Eraserhead standing behind him, yellow goggles pushed onto his forehead, holding a plastic shopping bag in his hand. 

Izuku backed up a step. “So are you.” 

Eraserhead’s eyes were just a bit too keen as they studied Izuku, like he was checking him over for injury. “You’re okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Good.” Eraserhead folded his legs underneath him, nodding to the space a few feet away. “Sit. I brought you food.” 

Izuku’s hands clenched and unclenched by his sides. After a moment’s hesitation, he sank to the ground, making sure to stay far enough away that Eraserhead couldn’t reach him. 

The dark-haired man shoved the plastic shopping bag across the space between them. “There’s plenty in there. My husband went a bit overboard.” 

“Oh! Right.” Izuku unfolded his hand to reveal Eraserhead’s wedding band. He’d been clutching it so tightly that it had left a circular indent on the skin of his palm. “Um. I should give this back to you.” 

Eraserhead stretched out a hand, but didn’t make a move to grab the ring, instead letting Izuku place it gently in his open palm. “Thank you,” the man said, sliding the band onto his ring finger. “I’m glad to have this back.” 

Izuku’s face was burning under his mask. “Why did you give it to me in the first place?” 

“I told you. It was insurance so you could be sure I wouldn’t betray you.” 

“But I still don’t understand why.” Izuku fidgeted where he sat. “Why are you here if you don’t want to turn me in?” 

Eraserhead blinked. “Because I want to be sure you’re alright.”

“But why do you even care?” Izuku asked, feeling increasingly frustrated. He wasn’t sure if Eraserhead was being purposefully vague or if there was something obvious that Izuku wasn’t seeing. 

Eraserhead’s dark eyes were calm and steady. “Because you’re a kid, and you need help.” 

“I don’t need help,” Izuku snapped. He thought for a second. “And I’m not a kid, either.” 

“How old are you?” 

Izuku straightened to his full height. “Almost fifteen.” 

Eraserhead snorted. “Fifteen?” he deadpanned. “You’re practically fully grown.” 

Izuku couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. 

Maybe Eraserhead saw the confusion on his face, because he rolled his eyes a second later. “I’m joking, problem child. That’s about the age I thought you were. And even if you were older, I’d still want to help you.” 

Izuku’s shoulders curled inwards. “Why?” he whispered. 

“Because that’s what heroes do.” 

Izuku hugged his knees to his chest, heart squeezing painfully. “I used to want to be a hero, you know.” 

Eraserhead studied him. His gaze was unnerving—a bit too dark, a bit too keen, like he was trying to take Izuku apart with his eyes. “What changed?” he asked. 

“A lot of things.” Izuku shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now.” 

“It matters to me.” 

Izuku looked away. “If you’re a hero, why haven’t I heard of you before?” 

Eraserhead sighed, leaning back on his hands. “I’ll make you a deal, problem child: for every one of my questions you answer, I’ll answer one of yours.” 

Izuku stiffened. “You said I wouldn’t have to answer any questions I don’t want to,” he said. 

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Eraserhead said. “But if you want answers out of me, it’s only fair I get a few out of you.” 

Izuku bit his lip. It wouldn’t hurt to answer a few of the man’s questions, right? As long as he didn’t ask anything too sensitive, Eraserhead wouldn’t be able to track him, and it wasn’t like Shigaraki would ever find out. “Fine,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. 

An emotion that Izuku couldn’t identify flickered across Eraserhead’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Why can’t you be a hero?” the man asked. 

Izuku picked at a hangnail. “Well to start with, I’m quirkless,” he said, and the word tasted bitter on his tongue. “And I’m not exactly in control of my own destiny.” 

“What does that mean?” Eraserhead asked. 

Izuku scowled. “I answered your question. Now it’s my turn.”

Eraserhead looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented. “Fine. Ask away.” 

“I know a lot about heroes,” Izuku grumbled. “I probably know everything about most heroes. But I’ve never heard of you before. Why?” 

“I’m an underground hero,” Eraserhead answered easily. “It’s my job to handle covert missions and remain undetected. If my identity was well-known, it would make my job a lot harder.” 

Izuku nodded. The man’s answer made sense—he’d heard of underground heroes before. 

“What do you mean when you say you’re not in control of your own destiny?” Eraserhead asked. 

Izuku’s hands curled into fists. “I do what my master tells me to do, and if I don’t, I get punished. Don’t bother asking who my master is, because I won’t tell you.” 

Eraserhead was silent for a long, drawn-out moment. “Alright.” 

“Do you…” Izuku gnawed nervously on his bottom lip. “Do you know any other heroes? People I would’ve heard of?”

Eraserhead gunted in affirmation. “I know plenty of heroes. Present Mic, Midnight, Endeavor. I’ve even met All Might a couple of times.” 

Izuku’s head snapped up. “What—you’ve met All Might? Oh my God, what’s he like? Is he as amazing in person? Is he nice? Is he—”

“Slow down, problem child, it’s my turn to ask a question.” 

Izuku’s mouth closed with an audible snap. 

“That wound on your left arm,” Eraserhead said, eyes tightening as they darted over Izuku. “Did your master give that to you?” 

Izuku didn’t bother asking how the underground hero knew he was wounded. No doubt he’d known this entire time, and was only biding his time until he could ask about it. Izuku pretended not to be bothered by the question—how much had Eraserhead managed to learn about him, just by watching? 

“Yes,” Izuku said shortly. “Now tell me about All Might.” 

Eraserhead chuckled under his breath. “I don’t know what to tell you, kid. He’s loud, blond and obnoxious.” He rolled his eyes. “You’d be surprised at the amount of heroes who are loud, blond, and obnoxious. All Might and I don’t always get along—we have very different ways of doing things—but he’s not a bad guy. Just a bit… reckless. He tends to act without thinking, and then the rest of us are left to clean up his messes.” 

Izuku absorbed the information about his new hero, pointedly ignoring the criticisms. He still felt a bit star-struck to be in the presence of someone who had actually met All Might.  

“Can I see your wound?” Eraserhead asked. His voice was low and steady. 

Izuku stiffened. “No.” 

“I just want to help you, kid.” 

“I’m fine,” Izuku snapped. “You wouldn’t want to see it, anyway.” 

Eraserhead sighed, closing his eyes. “I’ll tell you more about All Might if you show me. Unlimited questions. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.” 

At that, Izuku perked up. “You… you will?” 

“As long as I know the answer to your question, yes, I will.” 

Izuku fidgeted. It couldn’t really hurt to show Eraserhead his arm, could it? He wouldn’t be able to trace it back to Shigaraki, and what would the man even do when he saw? Maybe he would be so disgusted that he’d stop trying to “help” Izuku—which would probably be for the best anyway—and Izuku would get to learn more about the man he’d spent his whole life admiring. 

With trembling hands, Izuku started rolling up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, revealing the blood-crusted bandages underneath. He’d only changed them once since meeting Yagi—the process hurt too badly, and supplies didn’t come cheap. He didn’t want to use up what Yagi had given him on this injury when he got himself hurt on a weekly basis. 

Eraserhead straightened up, looking surprised that Izuku had actually done what he asked—but when he saw the blood, his face went pale. “Kid…” 

“Is that enough for you, or do you want to see under the bandages, too?”

Eraserhead swallowed. “I asked to see the wound, not the bandages.”

Izuku winced. This was going to hurt. 

Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, Izuku started to tug at the end of the bandage, biting his tongue to keep from crying out at the way the dried blood pulled at his sensitive skin. It was less tender than before, but the process was by no means pleasant. 

“Shit, kid, wait,” Eraserhead said, eyes widening. He started to reach out, but paused when he saw the way Izuku flinched at the sudden movement. “There’s a water bottle in the bag,” he said instead. “If you get the bandages wet, they won’t cling so badly. You don’t want to hurt yourself worse.” 

Izuku turned his face away. “It stings when it gets wet. I’d rather do it this way.” 

“Water might sting for a little bit, but it’s not going to break the scabs back open. Tugging like that might.” 

Izuku rolled his eyes, but nevertheless did what Eraserhead said, digging through the bag of food the underground hero had brought until he produced a bottle of filtered water. He hissed through his teeth as he poured it over his wound—the cold temperature made the experience even less pleasant—but it softened the worst of the crusted blood. When Izuku started to tug again on the bandages, they came away without fuss. 

He studied the wound. “Hey, it looks better today!” he said brightly. The greyish skin was starting to regain some of its normal color, and the cracks spiderwebbing along the surface of Izuku’s arm were scabbed over—no longer raw, open cuts like they had been before. He looked up at Eraserhead. 

The underground hero’s face had gone dangerously blank. Izuku had seen that same expression on Shigaraki’s face sometimes—typically right before somebody died. 

Izuku cringed. “Um… Eraserhead-sensei?” 

Eraserhead’s head snapped up, meeting Izuku’s gaze. “Who the fuck did that to you?” he growled. 

“I—I told you, my master did it,” Izuku stuttered. “But I can’t tell you who my master is, or he’ll kill both of us.” 

Eraserhead pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck.” 

Izuku’s shoulders wilted. “Are you alright?” 

Eraserhead chuckled without humor. “Dammit, problem child, no, I’m not alright. Who the fuck does that to a kid?” 

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Izuku said, toying nervously with his hoodie strings. “Like I said, it looks better today.” 

“If that is ‘looking better,’ I really don’t want to know what it looked like before.” Eraserhead pulled his hands away from his face, locking eyes with Izuku. “I’m assuming you won’t let me take you to a hospital?”

Izuku shook his head vigorously. 

He leveled a finger at Izuku’s face. “Then you need to start taking care of that wound, problem child, before you get an infection. Clean it, change the bandages—I can tell those ones are old.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone assume I can afford bandages?” 

“If you can’t afford them, I’ll bring you some.” Eraserhead let out a breath, shoulders sinking. “Listen, kid. Don’t freak out, but it would be helpful if you’d let me take a picture of that.” 

Izuku stiffened. “What? Why?” 

“Relax, I’m not going to show it to anybody, but if I’m going to buy you supplies, I need to know what sort of wound I’m dealing with. Which means I need a reference photo.” 

“I didn’t ask you to buy me anything,” Izuku snapped. 

“I know, but I’m going anyway, because you clearly need it.” 

Izuku’s eyes narrowed. “And what, then I’ll be in your debt? I don’t think so.” 

Eraserhead sighed. “Kid, you don’t owe me anything. I’m doing this because I want to.” 

“I’m not stupid,” Izuku said, turning his face away. “That’s not how this works. If you do something for me, I owe you. I’m not going to agree to this now only for you to collect on the favor later.” 

“Fine.” Eraserhead’s jaw tightened. “You can repay me by using the shit I buy you to clean that wound. I promise, that’s the only thing I’m going to ask in return.” 

Izuku gnawed nervously on one of his hoodie strings. That didn’t seem to check out. Why would Eraserhead do something for nothing in return? 

What was it with strange men feeding him and helping him clean his wound? 

But Izuku couldn’t deny that he needed the help. He swallowed, refusing to meet the underground hero’s eyes. “Okay.” 

Eraserhead’s shoulders relaxed. “Can I take that picture, then?” 

“Yeah,” Izuku said. 

Eraserhead took the picture with flash on, then—as promised—answered every single question Izuku had about All Might. (How tall is he? Really tall. Is he nice? Yeah, he’s like a giant golden retriever of a man. Does he really say I am here? Yes, and it’s annoying.) At Eraserhead’s urging, Izuku turned around so that he could pull down his mask to eat without revealing his identity. 

And God, Izuku was starved. He didn’t even realize how hungry he was until he had devoured a turkey sandwich so fast he gave himself heartburn. The last time he’d had a proper meal was at Yagi’s house. 

When Izuku was finished, he pulled his mask over his face again and turned back to Eraserhead. “Um, thanks. For the sandwich.” 

Eraserhead grunted. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the rest, too—it should last you a few days.” 

Izuku flushed. “Yeah, okay.” 

“When are we meeting again?” Eraserhead asked. 

“A-again?” Izuku stuttered. He sort of thought this was a one-time thing. 

“Yes, again. I have to give you those bandages, don’t I?” 

“Oh. Right.” Izuku bit his lip. He could really use some bandages, and as gruff as the underground hero was, Izuku didn’t hate the company. “I have stuff to do for the next few days.” 

Eraserhead made a noncommittal noise. “What about on Tuesday night? That’s three days from now.” 

Izuku hesitated. Eraserhead hadn’t turned him in this time—but could he really trust the man?

As if he knew exactly what Izuku was thinking, Eraserhead reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long, thin chain. From it dangled another ring—this one smaller, thinner, with a tiny purple gemstones decorating the rim. “This belonged to my mother before she passed away,” Eraserhead said. “I’d like you to hold onto it for as long as we keep meeting up. Same deal as last time—if I betray you, you can do whatever you want with it.” 

Izuku’s mouth popped open into a tiny o . Somehow, this felt like a bigger deal than holding on to the underground hero’s wedding ring—maybe because he’d be keeping it for longer, or maybe because Izuku knew what it was like to lose a mother. 

Eraserhead reached out, stringing the chain around Izuku’s neck. “So do we have a deal, problem child?” he asked. 

Izuku hesitated for only a second before nodding shakily. “It’s a deal.” 

Aizawa stormed into the police station at three in the morning, brows lowered over dark, stormy eyes. 

Tsukauchi straightened when he saw the underground hero. “Is everything okay…?” 

Aizawa slammed his phone down onto Tsukauchi’s desk. It was opened to a photo of a child’s arm—too thin, with greyish, mottled skin, covered in scabs that looked like cracks spreading over the entirety of his forearm. 

Tsukauchi’s stomach dropped. “Oh my God.” 

“You were right,” Aizawa growled. “This is a picture of the kid’s arm—he said his master gave it to him. Tell me it doesn’t look exactly like Shigaraki’s work.” 

Tsukauchi felt sick. “That poor kid…” 

“From now on, Shigaraki is your number one priority,” Aizawa demanded. “Find him. I want him captured on sight. I don’t care what the fuck you have to do, but we’re getting that kid out of there.”

Chapter Text

Izuku was on his way home from a surveillance mission when he saw the commotion. 

Smoke was billowing up from a side street nearby. People were clustered at the mouth of the alley, yelling and waving their arms at some sort of disturbance that had caught their attention. 

Izuku bowed his head and kept walking. Shigaraki wouldn’t like it if he was late.

He used to love watching heroes work, so long ago it seemed like it was in another life. He used to seek them out, just to watch them fight, just to watch them win. He’d look up at them with wide, tear-filled green eyes, and he’d dream of the day they would save him. It was on those days, so long ago, that Izuku had felt it: weak, like a butterfly with damaged wings fluttering about in his chest, but still there, still present. 

He had felt hope. 

His hope was long gone now. Maybe he had realized help was never coming, that the heroes would never find him. That if they did, they’d be as likely to throw him in Tartarus as they were to reach out a hand in kindness. Maybe Izuku had realized he wasn’t worth saving. 

But at the sound of an explosion, he felt his head turn. What was going on? Even in the worst fights, something exploding in the streets this early in the morning couldn’t be good—was he in real danger? He started to pay attention. 

It was only then that the shouts reached his ears: the kid is suffocating! Can’t you help him? Why aren’t the heroes doing anything? 

And for whatever reason, the words hit Izuku like a punch in the gut. 

Because it felt like they were talking about him. 

Wasn’t that Izuku? Hadn’t he been suffocating for years, Shigaraki’s hand wrapped around his throat, hardly able to breathe? Hadn’t he been helpless? Hadn’t he been in pain? Hadn’t he trusted that the heroes would step in and save the day, only for his hopes to be smashed against the bitter, rocky shores of reality? 

Before he even knew what he was doing, Izuku was shoving his way through the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever commotion had caught his attention. For once, he was glad for how small he was: it made it easy to slip through the gaps between people until he was at the front of the crowd. 

You can’t be late, something screamed in the back of his head. Do you want to make Shigaraki angry? 

But Izuku couldn’t bring himself to listen to that voice. Not when he saw the scene spreading out before him. 

The street was on fire. Smoke clogged the air, so thick that it made Izuku’s eyes water as he stared up at the looming green creature standing in the middle of the street. It dripped sludge as it grinned out at the forming crowd, eyes narrowed with cruel malice. 

The villain was surrounded by heroes. Good heroes, famous heroes: Death Arms, Kamui Woods, Mount Lady, and more. Why were they just standing around? Why weren’t they doing anything? 

Another explosion went off, and Izuku’s head snapped towards the sound. That was when Izuku saw him. 

The boy was wrapped in the slick coils of the villain’s body, so immersed in the thick green sludge that Izuku almost hadn’t seen him. His mouth was covered, and he was choking, gagging as the villain tried to force putrid green slime down the boy’s throat. All Izuku could see of the boy was crimson eyes and ash-blond hair. As Izuku watched, another explosion went off, Izuku saw that it was the boy’s hands that had produced such a powerful blast. 

Izuku had only seen such a powerful quirk once before. 

But no. No, no, no, it couldn’t be. 

Tear-filled red eyes locked with green ones, and Izuku knew. The boy who was suffocating, the boy who was dying, was… Kacchan. 

For a moment—a terrible, heart-stopping moment—all Izuku could do was stare. Because it was Kacchan. Kacchan, his best friend. Kacchan, his greatest enemy. Kacchan, who had called him useless and quirkless and deku , who had hit him and belittled him, who had burned holes in his clothes with the same hands that now made such powerful blasts. Kacchan, who he hadn’t seen in six years. 

Kacchan’s eyes widened, and something like recognition flickered through them before they rolled back in his head and his body went limp. 

Izuku’s body moved without his brain’s permission. He was running before he even knew what was happening, tearing across the ground towards Kacchan as memories flickered through his mind. 

‘You’re just a useless deku!’ Laughter erupting as Kacchan shoved him to the ground. 

‘You’ll never be a hero, Deku.’ ‘Stop calling me that!’ ‘Or what? You’re gonna beat me up? How are you gonna do that, quirkless, useless, Deku!’ 

Hands fisted in his shirt, holding him up against the wall. ‘You’re such a crybaby. Why would someone like me ever be friends with you?’

Memories that made his eyes burn and his heart ache. Memories that he had tried to shove out of his head for six years now. 

But there were other memories, too: sweeter moments sprinkled throughout the onslaught of pain and fear and grief. 

‘Hey Deku—I mean, Izuku. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Izuku.’

Laughing so hard he cried while tiny hands tickled him all over. 

‘Kacchan, wait for me!’

Chubby fingers wiping away his tears. ‘You just skinned your knee, Deku, that’s all. You don’t have to be sad. Auntie Inko will make it better, and maybe she’ll give us popsicles!’

‘We’re going to be heroes together! We’ll be the greatest the world has ever seen, just you wait.’

Why am I running? Izuku thought desperately as he tore into the clearing. Why can’t I stop? 

He heard voices all around him, telling him to stop, to wait. To let the heroes handle it. Hands tried to grab him, but Izuku dodged them all. 

Because he’d waited for the heroes before. And all he got for it was blood and tears and six years of pain. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen to Kacchan. 

It was too late for Izuku, but Kacchan could still be saved. 

Before he knew it, Izuku was skidding to a stop in front of the sludge villain. It stared down at him with cruel, yellowed eyes and a sickeningly wide smile. Inside it’s embrace, Kacchan’s body was limp, his eyes closed as the villain siphoned itself into his open mouth. 

And at the sight of Kacchan so still, so silent… everything inside Izuku went cold. 

Roaring, Izuku slashed at the villain’s body with his switchblade, over and over again as green sludge spurted and coated his clothes. The villain frowned at him like he was little more than a pesky fly. Its body reformed as soon as Izuku’s knife passed through it. 

But it had stopped forcing itself into Kacchan’s mouth, and that was all Izuku could really hope for. Keep him alive, keep him alive, keep him alive. One minute, one second longer. It was a mantra in his head, an urge that kept him fighting even as Kacchan’s head lolled and the villain’s scowl deepened. 

“Get the boy!” yelled a voice from behind him. “It’ll kill him!” 

The sludge was so thick, so slippery. One moment, the switchblade was clutched tightly in Izuku’s hands, and the next, it was falling from his fingers, clattering against the pavement with a dull thud . 

Izuku’s chest seized. But he couldn’t stop fighting, not now. Not while Kacchan needed him. He started to claw at the slime, screaming until his throat was hoarse as he scratched uselessly against the villain’s thick, viscous body. 

Useless. Quirkless. Deku. Izuku choked on a sob.

Another voice startled him out of his despair, this one closer than the last had been: booming loud and so familiar that even Izuku’s panic-addled brain could place it. “I really am pathetic. But fear not, my boy. Because I am here!”

Izuku’s eyes widened as the weight of those words hit him. “All Mi—”

“Detroit, smash!” 

Everything stopped. 

Time stopped. The screaming stopped. It seemed that even Izuku’s heart stopped for half a second as All Might’s fist connected with the sludge villain. 

And then everything slammed into motion again, so fast it left Izuku reeling. The sludge villain was blown away by the force of the blast, scattering into pieces that fell to the ground of the flaming alleyway. Izuku’s body was jerked backwards as the force hit him square in the chest. He went tumbling across the floor, head slamming into the wall of the alley as he skidded to a stop, pain lancing through his skull at the impact.

Silence. 

Izuku looked up, wincing as pain drilled into his skull and his ears started ringing. His vision blurred as he looked around, but he wasn’t sure if it was from a concussion or from his tears. 

All Might was standing in the middle of the alleyway, breathing hard. His fist was still extended. The scattered pieces of the sludge villain were strewn across the ground, and Izuku yelped as an eye in a nearby puddle spun around to glare at him. 

But all of that was secondary—the eye, the villain, even Izuku’s possible concussion. Because that was All Might standing before him. 

Holy shit, that was All Might. 

As Izuku watched, the clouds above the alleyway started swirling, the sky growing darker by the second. A drop of rain splattered against the ground. Then another. Soon, it was pouring rain, where only moments ago there hadn’t been a cloud in sight. 

Izuku gawked. Had All Might done that? Had he— changed the weather? 

Any other day, Izuku would’ve started crying. He would’ve knelt at the man’s feet. He would’ve clung to him and begged for an autograph, because holy shit, it was All Might.  

But today wasn’t a normal day, and all Izuku could see was Kacchan’s limp, lifeless body lying motionless on the ground. 

Izuku ran past All Might without even sparing his savior a glance, dropping to his knees by Kacchan’s side. He rolled the boy over so that he was lying on his back, staring down at his pale, sleeping face. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku begged, voice cracking. “Kacchan!”

Something heavy dropped down beside him, and Izuku’s head snapped up. All Might was kneeling at his side, staring down at Kacchan with solemn eyes. “How is he?” 

Tears were streaming down Izuku’s face. He wiped his eyes with a sleeve, choking down a sob. “I—I don’t know—I don’t—”

“It’s alright, young man,” All Might soothed. “Let me take care of this.” His large, steady hand reached out, hovering above Kacchan’s face. 

All Might spun around so suddenly that Izuku flinched. “Medic! We need a medic over here—he’s not breathing!” 

“No—no. Kacchan!” Izuku grabbed Kacchan by the shoulders, shaking him with all the force he could muster. Tears and snot were streaming down his face, but he didn’t bother to wipe them away. All he knew was that Kacchan was hurt, Kacchan was dying, and as horrible as Kacchan had been to him, he was the only piece of his past that Izuku had left. “Kacchan, don’t you dare fucking die!” Izuku sobbed. “Do you hear me? It’s your fault what happened to me, it’s your fault that I’m in this mess, and you better not die before you have a chance to make it right!”

Izuku slammed down on Kacchan’s chest with both hands as hard as he could. Kacchan’s back arched off the ground, and he started to cough, green slime spewing out of his mouth as his eyes fluttered. He writhed, vomiting out the sludge that had been forced down his throat; he sucked in a breath. Then his eyes shut once again, and his body went still. 

For a moment, Izuku was frozen. But at the sight of Kacchan’s chest—now rising and falling steadily—Izuku burst into heaving, shuddering sobs. Kacchan was okay, Kacchan was alive. Kacchan wasn’t going to die. Izuku’s only link to his past hadn’t yet been severed. 

A heavy hand landed on Izuku’s back. “There, there, my boy, no need to cry. He’s going to be okay.”

Izuku looked up and found himself staring into a face that was almost as familiar to him as his own, a smile that he had seen so many times he had it memorized. All Might grinned as he looked down at Izuku, so familiar and so alien all at once. 

Was this… was this even real?

All of a sudden, reality slammed into Izuku, so intense it left him reeling. He was a criminal, a villain—and kneeling beside him was the number one hero in the country. 

The hero who Izuku had admired since he was old enough to admire anything. The hero who always saved people with a smile. The hero who Izuku had built his entire world around—his hopes, dreams, aspirations, everything. 

The hero who would throw him in Tartarus without a backwards glance if he found out who Izuku was. 

And then there was Kacchan, who was possibly the only person left alive who knew Izuku’s true identity, only feet away and bound to regain consciousness soon. If he woke up… if he told All Might who Izuku was… 

All of this was too much. It was somewhere between a dream and a nightmare, and Izuku had no fucking idea how to handle it. 

Izuku rose on trembling feet. Then turned on his heel and ran. 

Katsuki dreamed of Deku. 

It seemed he was always dreaming of Deku these days—and every day since the damn nerd had disappeared—but this time was different. The dream was so vivid he could’ve almost convinced himself it was real. 

He didn’t even realize he’d forgotten what Deku’s voice sounded like until he heard it again. 

When Katsuki’s eyes fluttered open, he was greeted by half a dozen concerned, unfamiliar faces staring down at him. Voices were swimming in his ears. He strained to find his voice amidst the clamor, half-convinced that he would actually be there—that after six long years, he’d see Deku again. The damn nerd’s smile would light up his face, just like it always did, and his wide, impossibly green eyes would twinkle when he looked down at Katsuki. Kacchan, he’d say. It’s about time you woke up, we were starting to worry! Or maybe he’d start crying—Deku always seemed to be crying in Katsuki’s scattered memories of the boy, and most of the time, it was Katsuki’s fault. Maybe he’d even scream at Katsuki—Lord knows he deserves it. 

But Deku wasn’t there, and even surrounded by heroes, Katsuki had never felt more alone. 

Katsuki’s head was swimming. He winced, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as the light drilled into his eyes, sending spikes of pain through his skull. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “W-what… what happened?”

A woman’s voice—soothing, if a bit cold. “You’re alright. You were attacked by a villain and you passed out, but you’re going to be fine.” 

“That’s quite a quirk you got there,” said another voice. “You’re going to make quite the hero someday.” 

‘We’re going to be heroes together! We’ll be the greatest the world has ever seen, just you wait.’

Katsuki flinched.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he snarled, pulling his hands away from his eyes just long enough to glare at the looming faces above him. “Would you extras give me some space? I can’t fucking breathe.” 

“Back up,” the woman’s voice commanded. “He’s right—we’re crowding him.” 

Katsuki pushed himself upright, screwing his face up as the dizziness hit him full-force. God, he was gonna fucking puke. 

“Take it easy,” the woman said. “You swallowed some of the sludge from that villain. With that boy’s help, you managed to cough most of it up, but you might still be feeling queasy.” 

“What fucking sludge?” Katsuki demanded. “What boy?” 

The woman sighed. “I understand that you’re frightened, but there’s really no need for such language.” 

Katsuki scowled, hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Fuck you. And I’m not frightened, I’m pissed. Where’s the fucker that did this to me, I’ll blow his ass up!”

“He’s being contained by the police as we speak.” 

“Good fucking riddance.” Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as the memories flooded him: sludge enveloping him, forcing itself down his throat. Heat from his explosions singing his sleeves. Wide green eyes staring at him from the crowd. 

Katsuki’s throat worked. That must’ve been it—that fuckers eyes. Belonging to some random civilian, no doubt, but six years later, green still reminded him of shitty Deku. And in Katsuki’s moment of vulnerability, his fragile mind had seen something that wasn’t there. He’d thought he was dying, so his brain had summoned his worst nightmare. His greatest regret. The one thing that he’d never be able to make right. 

When some people had near-death experiences, their life flashed before their eyes. But when Katsuki had one, all he saw was shitty fucking Deku. Even all these years later, the damn nerd still managed to drive him crazy. 

Katsuki snorted. Figures. 

“You’re really lucky All Might was here,” the woman continued. “If he hadn’t been nearby, you’d probably be dead right now.” 

Just like that, all traces of dizziness disappeared. Katsuki’s spine went ramrod straight. “Wait—All Might? All Might is here?” 

“Was here,” the woman corrected. “I’m pretty sure he went off after that boy.” 

“What boy?” Katsuki snapped, for what felt like the millionth time. 

The woman looked at him pityingly. “The boy who saved you. Or don’t you remember? The one with the green eyes.” 

And suddenly Katsuki felt like he’d been hit by a freight train.

Wait for me, Kacchan—

You’re so amazing, Kacchan—

Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan—

It wasn’t Deku, Katsuki reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of memory. Deku wasn’t the only person in the world with green eyes. Deku hadn’t saved him. 

Because Deku was dead. He’d been dead for a long time now. 

And it was all Katsuki’s fault. 

“I am here!” 

Izuku whirled around at the sound of the voice, eyes going wide as All Might skidded to a stop in front of him. The hero was in a plain white shirt and jeans, but even without his costume, it would’ve been impossible not to recognize him: his bulging muscles, square jaw, and wide, ever-present grin. 

Izuku’s heart very nearly stopped beating. Because Kacchan wasn’t here, Kacchan wasn’t dying, so Izuku had nothing to think about the fact that All Might was standing in front of him, hands on his hips, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a magazine. 

“Oh my God,” Izuku gushed, eyes going wide as saucers in his skull. “You’re All Might! You’re really him!” He flushed. “I mean, of course you’re really you, it would be silly to imply that you’re anyone else but you. Especially after seeing how you managed to change the weather with just one punch. Which is incredible, by the way, thank you for saving me, and um—that kid. But I just—I mean, I never thought I’d actually have the chance to meet you in real life—”

All Might laughed, loud and boisterous. “Woah, there, my boy. Slow down.” 

Izuku squeaked, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry!” Goddammit, was he really embarrassing himself in front of All Might? “I mean… what I mean to say is… you’re my hero.” 

Where were you?

Why didn’t you find me? 

Why didn’t you save me? 

“My boy, are you alright?” All Might’s voice was closer this time, and a heavy hand clapped on Izuku’s shoulder. 

Izuku’s head snapped up. All Might was touching him. “Alright? I’m—I’m amazing! Can I get your autograph? I mean, I understand that you have better things to do, but it would be my most prized possession. It would be a family heirloom—”

All Might chuckled again, quieter this time. “Of course I’d be happy to sign something for you.” 

“Really?” Izuku felt like he was going to burst into tears. “Thank you so much, All Might-sama!” His stomach dropped. “Wait—crap! I don’t have my notebook with me!” 

Dammit, dammit, dammit. Of course, the one day he met his hero, he had nothing for the man to sign. 

“Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. Here!” All Might reached into his back pocket, pulling out what looked like an old, crumpled receipt and a pen. He scrawled his signature messily across the back of the receipt and pressed it into Izuku’s hands. 

And all Izuku could do was stare. Because holy shit, that was All Might’s autograph. Holy shit, this was All Might—

Izuku started to bow frantically. “Sir, thank you, thank you so much—”

“Ah, it’s nothing!” All Might planted his hands on his hips and laughed. “What’s your name, my boy?” 

“Me? I—I’m Mikumo Akatani,” Izuku mumbled with numb lips. The fake name slid off his tongue with ease—he was used to giving it—but lying to All Might made his heart seize. 

“Young Akatani,” All Might said, and Izuku felt like crying all over again because All Might knew his name. “What you did today was very heroic. When nobody was willing to step up to save that boy, you ran in anyway, and it’s probably thanks to your bravery that he’s still breathing.”

Izuku’s jaw dropped. Had All Might just called him heroic? This had to be a dream. 

“It was also very dangerous,” All Might said sternly. “If I hadn’t been there, you might’ve gotten yourself killed.” 

Izuku’s shoulders sank. “Oh. Right. I’m—I’m sorry for causing you trouble, All Might-sama.” 

“Don’t apologize. I just want to know why you did what you did.” 

Izuku’s face was flaming. He couldn’t bring himself to look All Might in the eye. “Um. I don’t know, exactly. One minute I was just standing there, and the next my feet were moving, and I just… couldn’t stop.” 

All Might was silent for so long that Izuku finally forced himself to look up. When the hero finally spoke, his voice was almost quiet. “There are stories about every hero,” he said. “Their bodies moved before they had a chance to think. Almost on their own.”

Izuku stopped breathing. “All… Might?” 

All Might’s hand landed once again on Izuku’s shoulder and squeezed. “Young Akatani, you showed the bravery of a true hero today. If you wish it, I would like to help you on your path to becoming one.” 

It was at that moment that Izuku finally burst into tears. 

All Might thought he was brave. All Might thought he could be a hero. All Might didn’t think he was evil, or villainous, or cruel. All Might wanted to… help him?
All Might’s brow furrowed. “My boy, are you alright?” 

Izuku sucked in a choked, shuddering breath. Don’t cry, he scolded himself. Don’t humiliate yourself. This is All Might we’re talking about. “All Might-sama,” he forced out. “I… you have no idea how much your words mean to me. But…” 

“But?” 

“I can’t be a hero.” The words sunk their claws into Izuku, sharp and terrible, reminding him that despite the heady, beautiful dream he had stumbled into, reality was a crueler place. 

The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “Why not?” 

Because I’m a villain. Because I’m a monster. Because it’s too late for me, because I’m not worth saving, because I’m a useless, worthless deku. 

“Because I’m quirkless,” Izuku whispered. 

All Might’s hand fell away, and Izuku’s heart sank. This was the moment All Might would realize he was worthless. This was the moment All Might would walk away. 

But All Might didn’t turn his back on him. “Young Akatani, the secret I’m about to share with you is dangerous,” he said. His voice was quieter than Izuku had ever heard it. “If it got into the wrong hands, it could spell disaster for society as we know it. Can I trust you with this secret?” 

Izuku wanted to say no. Izuku should have said no. But standing there, staring up into All Might’s eyes, he found he couldn’t bring this beautiful dream to an end just yet. “Yes,” he said instead. 

All Might’s hand closed into a fist, and Izuku could see the power dancing across his skin, yellow lightning crackling as his muscles tensed. “Listen well, Young Akatani. The true name of my power is One For All.”

Izuku’s heart hammered in his chest. “One… for… All?” he mumbled. 

“Yes. One person improves the power, then hands it off to another person. It continues to grow as it’s passed along. It is this cultivated power that allows me to save those who are in need of a hero.” All Might’s fist relaxed, and the power faded. “But as I grow old, my body grows weak. I am looking for a successor, someone who is truly worthy to bear this borrowed power after I can use it no longer.”

Izuku’s brain felt numb. Cultivated power? Successor? What was he talking about? “W-what?”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” All Might said. “But I was not born with this power. It was given to me, as it was given to my master before me. As it will be given to generations of young heroes after I retire.” 

Izuku’s stomach dropped. All Might, the Symbol of Peace, was… retiring? 

And he realized, in that moment, that he’d still had hope. Hope that All Might would find him, save him. Because when All Might told him his career was almost over, Izuku realized for the first time what it was like to be truly hopeless. 

That realization hit him so hard that he could barely process what All Might was saying. “I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Young Akatani, I want you to be my successor.” 

The world came to a screeching halt. 

And for the second time in as many minutes, Izuku burst into tears. 

All Might’s voice was gentle. “I apologize, my boy. I realize this must be difficult for you to grasp.”

Izuku felt like he was choking on nothing as his shoulders shook with heaving sobs. “Y-you want me—” 

And maybe Izuku really was a monster, a villain, a nightmare, because if All Might was serious, if he was really offering Izuku a chance to be a hero… Izuku didn’t think he’d be able to say no. 

Something strange flickered across All Might’s face—something not quite like pain, but almost like… strain. He gritted his teeth. 

“I apologize for my abruptness, but I need to go now. Take some time to think about it,” All Might said. “Do you know Dagobah Beach?” 

Izuku nodded shakily, tears still pouring down his face. “Y-yeah, but it’s c-covered in trash…” 

All Might grinned. “Exactly! If you can meet me there, I’ll tell you everything you need to know. And if you agree to become my successor, we can start your training.” His voice gentled. “Young Akatani, I truly believe that you can walk the path to greatness if you wish it.” 

It was all Izuku could do not to fall to his knees. 

“I’ll give you a few days to think it over,” All Might boomed. “Can you meet me at Dagobah Beach in a week’s time?” 

Izuku nodded frantically, clutching the receipt with All Might’s signature to his chest. This couldn’t be real, could it? “Y-yes, All Might. Yes, I’ll be there.” 

“Good. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Young Akatani.” And faster than Izuku could blink, All Might was gone. 

He might’ve thought the whole encounter was a dream if it wasn’t for the receipt clutched in his trembling hands.

Chapter Text

The TV was on when Izuku slipped into the bar. The room was dark and cast in shadows, with only the flickering light from the television providing any illumination as Izuku crept over the floor. He winced as a floorboard creaked under his foot. 

“Where have you been?” Shigaraki asked from his spot at the bar. His voice was calm, dangerously so. 

Izuku clenched his hands by his sides to hide the way they trembled. He knew Shigaraki well enough to understand that he never had more to fear from the man than when he was quiet. When Shigaraki screamed, when he yelled, when he threw things across the room that shattered inches from Izuku’s head, he tired himself out before he could do much damage. But when Shigaraki got quiet, Izuku knew that only pain would come. 

“I got held up,” Izuku said quietly. 

“Why do you smell like smoke?” 

Izuku let out a slow, shaking breath. “I ran into some trouble on the way home, but I took care of it.” 

Shigaraki reached out, holding the TV remote delicately in four fingers as he paused the news program he was watching. He nodded towards the screen. “Is that you?” 

Izuku’s eyes flicked to the television. When he saw what Shigaraki was looking at, it hit him like a punch in the gut. 

There fight with the sludge villain was blurry, like the footage had been captured from far away, but still Izuku saw it: the green, amorphous blob in the middle of the street, the fires from Kacchan’s explosive hands licking the buildings on either side, the crowd of heroes standing by, scared and useless. 

And there was Izuku, captured mid-run as he tore towards the sludge villain. With the hood over his head and his back turned, it was impossible to identify anything about him but for his diminutive size and sunken posture—but Shigaraki knew, of course he did, and now that Izuku had stumbled into the bar wearing the same clothes pictured in the clip, his suspicions were confirmed. 

“That’s twice this week that my secret weapon has found himself in the limelight.” Shigaraki started to scratch away at his neck again, flakes of dead skin drifting to the countertop. “Needless to say, I’m not pleased.” 

Izuku’s throat had gone completely dry. He swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and terrified. “No one can identify me from that clip.” 

Shigaraki slammed the remote into the bar, lips pulling back from his teeth in a savage snarl. “Maybe not, until fucking All Might saw your face.” 

Izuku’s heart was in his throat. All Might. He still hadn’t processed it—his conversation with the man that had turned everything Izuku knew upside down. “He doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m just some kid.” 

Listen well, Young Akatani. The true name of my power is One For All.

Izuku squeezed his hands into fists. He was standing in front of a man who wanted to kill All Might more than anything—and he might’ve been one of the only people in the world who knew All Might’s greatest secret. 

Shigaraki downed the rest of his whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat, and stood, staring down at Izuku with piercing crimson eyes. “You’re such a fucking brat. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve worked for, are you really so determined to ruin it all?” 

“I-I’m not trying to r-ruin anything—”

“You act all wide-eyed and innocent, as if I’d ever be stupid enough to fall for it,” Shigaraki snarled. He advanced, forcing Izuku to back away or else be cornered by the blue-haired man and his deadly hands. “If Sensei didn’t have a use for you, I would’ve killed you a long fucking time ago.”

Izuku turned on his heel and bolted towards the stairs, tears burning behind his eyes. Shigaraki’s hand snatched out, grabbing Izuku by the hood and yanking him backwards before he could escape. Izuku gagged as the neckline of his sweatshirt was pulled taught against his throat.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Shigaraki barked. His fingers came to rest against Izuku’s throat. 

Izuku went completely still. 

“When you fuck up, you get punished. That’s the way the world works.” His four fingers tightened, the fifth hovering just above the skin of Izuku’s neck. His breath was rancid as he whispered in Izuku’s ear. “You’re so fucking useless. My life would be easier if you just died.” 

Izuku was trembling in Shigaraki’s grip, eyes shut tight against the blue hair and red eyes swarming in his peripheral vision. 

“Unfortunately, I can't kill you. Not yet.” He chuckled hoarsely. “That doesn’t mean I can’t make you hurt.” He squeezed Izuku’s throat tighter. 

Shigaraki’s fingers brushed against the chain around Izuku’s neck, and Izuku’s heart plummeted. “What the fuck is this?” Shigaraki hissed. 

Izuku closed his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said, too fast. 

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Shigaraki yanked on the chain, and Izuku choked as it started to strangle him. “A—what, a ring? What do you need a ring for?” 

“It’s not important, I swear—I just thought it was pretty.” Izuku cringed away, bringing his hands up in front of his face like he was preparing for a blow. “Please, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I promise—”

“Where did you get this?” Shigaraki roared. He pulled the chain tighter. 

Izuku wheezed, clawing at his throat. “I—I stole it. I—”

Shigaraki clutched the ring with all five fingers. In half a second, it had turned to dust. 

Izuku dropped to the ground, choking and hacking as the thin metal chain around his throat decayed. He wrapped a hand around his throat.

Shigaraki fisted his hand in Izuku’s shirt and hauled him up so that they were at eye level. “Don’t lie to me again, Deku. I don’t know where the hell you got that or why you had it, but you Do you understand?”
Izuku blinked back tears.

“I said, do you understand?” Shigaraki’s hand whipped across his face, leaving a stinging, four-fingered handprint on his left cheek. 

“I understand,” Izuku sobbed, shoulders wilting as he realized exactly what that meant. 

No one was coming to help him. 

The ring had turned to dust, and whatever fragile hope Eraserhead offered him had vanished along with it. 

It was Tuesday, Shouta had been waiting for over an hour, and the kid still hadn’t shown up.

He paced back and forth over the rooftop where they’d last met, digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Anxiety writhed in the pit of his gut. Where the fuck was Rabbit? Why was he late? Was he alright? 

A breath hissed out from between his teeth. The kid had said Tuesday night, he was sure of it. The fact that he’d yet to show meant something had gone wrong. 

Shouta forced himself to breathe. He had to be logical, rational—that was the only way he was going to be of any help to the boy. Maybe he had a mission for his master, and he had no way to contact Shouta if he got held up. Maybe he decided not to come. Maybe he decided trusting Shouta was too great a risk. 

Or maybe he was miles away, dead in a ditch somewhere, and Shouta was just waiting for him to show up. 

Shouta’s phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out with a muffled swear and held it to his ear. “I’m a bit busy right now. Call back later.” 

“I thought you were supposed to be with the kid tonight,” Tsukauchi said. 

Shouta scowled. “How do you know I’m not?” 

“Cause he was just sighted robbing a gas station across town.” 

Shouta cursed again, squeezing his phone so hard he was surprised it didn’t shatter. Of course— of course Rabbit was in trouble again. Of course his problem child couldn’t stay safe for one fucking day. “I’m not sure whether to be glad that he’s alive or pissed that he didn’t show.” 

Tsukauchi heaved a heavy sigh. “With this kid, I think we take what we can get.” 

“Tell me where he is. I’m going to get him.” Shouta started to climb down the fire escape of the building he was standing on. He leapt when he was close enough to the ground and rolled into a somersault, breaking into a run as soon as he was on his feet again. If the kid was in trouble, time was of the essence. 

“He was last seen robbing a 7-Eleven in the fifth block of the West District,” Tsukauchi supplied. “Kid only took a sandwich and a bottle of water, but when he was caught, he pulled a knife. Now police are looking for him everywhere, so get to him before my men bring him in, got it?”

Shouta’s stomach clenched. “Can’t you call them off? He’s not a bad fucking kid—he’s just hungry.” 

Hungry, because no one was feeding him. Hungry, because he’d run out of the food Shouta had brought him. Hungry, because he didn’t trust Shouta enough to ask for a meal. 

There was a beat of silence from the other line. “Aizawa, standard protocol for something like this would be sending the force after him to try to catch him. Our little vigilante mission here is off the books. We’re not going through the right procedures here, and if we get caught, we’ll both be in deep shit. And if we’re off the case, who’s going to look out for Rabbit?” 

“Fuck.” Shouta wanted to strangle someone. Preferably Shigaraki. “I’m on my way. I’ll call back with updates until the situation is resolved. Until then, lead your men on a wild goose chase. Keep them off my trail and out of the way, got it?” Before Tsukauchi had a chance to respond, Shouta hung up the phone. 

It didn’t take him long to reach the West District. After that, finding the kid was only a matter of patience, discipline, and luck. Shouta slipped through the streets like a shadow, checking each offshoot and alleyway for a familiar masked and hooded figure, and prayed that Tsukauchi would be able to distract the police for a few minutes longer. 

Thank God, luck was on his side tonight. A half hour after reaching the West District, he found a small figure tucked beside a dumpster, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“Rabbit?” 

The boy’s head snapped up, eyes locking with Shouta’s. Panic flashed across Rabbit’s face, and Shouta had to resist the urge to swear. He’d thought they were past that. 

Shouta wrapped his capture weapon back around his neck, softening his voice as much as possible. “Kid, where were you? I was worried.” 

“I’m s-sorry,” Rabbit stuttered. His shoulders hunched, and his gaze fell to the ground. 

Shouta didn’t think he’d ever get used to a kid responding to him like that. “Hey, I’m not angry,” he murmured. “You know that, right? I just need to be sure you’re alright.” 

Rabbit shuddered, but said nothing.

“You are alright—aren’t you?” 

Rabbit was silent for so long that Shouta thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he did, his voice was rough and scratchy. “More or less.” 

“What’s wrong?” Shouta sank to the ground across from the boy, far enough away that Rabbit wouldn’t feel threatened. They really needed to get out of here before the police found them, but from the way Rabbit was looking at him, he wasn’t likely to follow if Shouta tried to move them. 

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing.” Shouta started forward, stretching a hand out to comfort the boy—

“Don’t touch me!” Rabbit flinched, retreating further against the wall. 

Immediately, Shouta drew back. “Hey, kid, I’m not going to hurt you. Okay? You’re safe.” 

Rabbit was trembling so hard that his teeth were chattering. “D-don’t touch me. Please.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

The boy sniffled, and either Shouta was hallucinating, or the kid was on the verge of tears. “I—um. I think I messed up.” 

“Why do you say that?” Shouta asked. 

The boy hesitated. 

Shouta held his hands out like he was taming a cornered animal. “Whatever it is, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise, I—” Shouta scrubbed a hand down his face. Jesus Christ, all he wanted was to help this kid, to keep him safe from the world that had treated him so cruelly, so the boy’s blatant terror ached more than Shouta wanted to admit. Rabi had been cut so deeply that he was convinced no one would be kind to him without an ulterior motive. Shouta let out a breath. “Kid. Your safety is my priority. Whatever it is, we’re going to handle it together. Okay?” 

Rabbit dug his fingers into his arms, staring pointed at the ground. “The… the ring you gave me. The one you said was your mother’s.” He pulled his knees closer to his chest. “It’s gone. My master found it. He… wasn’t happy.” 

Shouta’s stomach dropped at the mention of the boy’s master—a man who Shouta was absolutely convinced was Tomura Shigaraki. Had Shigaraki hurt him? Those wounds on Rabbit’s arm… was he bearing even  more now?

And suddenly, it all made sense. “That’s why you didn’t show up today,” Shouta said. “You were afraid.” 

You were afraid of me. 

Rabbit hugged himself tighter, like he was trying to protect himself. From what, Shouta didn’t want to know. “I’m sorry. I know it was expensive, I know it was important—”

“Kid, slow down.” 

“You trusted me, and you have a right to be angry.” Rabbit’s body was coiled tight, like he was bracing himself for a blow. “Whatever you’re going to do, just… get it over with, alright? I just—” 

“Kid, stop.” Shouta’s voice was gentle, yet firm, leaving no room for argument. 

The kid’s mouth snapped shut. 

Shouta sighed, running a tired hand down his face. “I got that ring from a corner store a week ago. It’s worth about fifteen dollars and has absolutely no sentimental value whatsoever.” 

For a second, Rabbit was stunned into silence. He gaped at Shouta, mumbling through numb lips, “You… you…”

“I’m sorry I lied.” Shouta wanted to break something. If his dishonesty had lost whatever trust he was trying to build with Rabbit, he’d never forgive himself. “I knew you wouldn’t come back without leverage, and I had to give you something. Please believe me when I tell you that everything I’ve done, I’ve been trying to help you.” 

But the kid didn’t seem to care about any of that. His brow furrowed, and he looked up at Shouta with eyes too guarded, too jaded, to belong to someone so young. “You’re not angry?” 

Shouta’s chest ached. “No. No, kid, I’m not angry.” 

Rabbit blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

“I’m worried about you, yeah. I wish you’d shown up to our meeting, because I was pretty sure you were dead.” Shouta ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m not angry. At the moment, I’m thanking my lucky stars that you’re in one piece.” 

The boy’s eyes were distant and full of tears. “When I fuck up, I get punished,” he whispered. “That’s the way the world works.” 

Shouta’s blood ran cold. “Who told you that?” 

“My… my master.” The boy sniffled again. 

Shouta’s jaw clenched. “Did he hurt you?” 

“What?” 

“Your master.” His hands twitched, itching to curl into fists at the thought of Shigaraki touching a hair on the kid’s head—but he held himself back. No doubt Rabbit would interpret it the wrong way. “Did he hurt you?” 

Slowly, Rabbit shook his head. “No—I mean, not badly.” 

Shouta wanted to push him on what ‘not badly’ meant, but he knew that Rabbit would clam up as soon as he started to pry. Instead, he settled back on his hands with a sigh, studying Rabbit’s lowered eyes and covered face. “He’s wrong, you know?”

Rabbit looked up. “Who is?”

“Your master. ‘When you fuck up, you get punished.’ That’s a shit moral.” Shouta shook his head. “Everyone messes up. Mistakes make us human. The best you can do is learn from them, grow from them, and try not to repeat the thing you did wrong. And the people who care about you understand that.” 

Rabbit shrunk further into himself. “No one cares about me.” 

“I do.” 

“You don’t even know me,” Rabbit whispered. 

Shouta held the boy’s gaze.“I guess not. But I’d like to.” 

“I don’t…” The kid fidgeted in place. “I don’t know you, either.” 

Shouta let out a long, slow breath. If he wanted to get to know Rabbit, Rabbit deserved to get to know him in return.“I own three cats. They’re bratty and spoiled and I love them dearly. My husband came up with my hero name—I think it’s ridiculous, personally. My favorite book is Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. I drink way too much coffee, and my perfect Friday night is sitting at home on my couch with a book in my hand. My husband’s name is Hizashi.” He hesitated for only a moment before continuing. “Better known as Present Mic.” 

The kid’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “You—you’re married to Present Mic?” 

Shouta grunted in reply. “Listen, kid, I’m telling you this because I trust you—if I’m asking you to trust me, it’s only fair that I return the favor. But… it would help if you didn’t tell your master about this. I don’t want to put my husband in danger.”

For a pro hero, having connections was dangerous. Publicizing those connections was even more so. But the kid would never open up unless Shouta did the same, and Shouta knew that Hizashi could take care of himself. 

“Yeah, I mean, s-sure, my master would kill me if he knew I was talking to a pro hero, anyways.” The kid was still staring at Shouta like he’d grown a second head. “I just can’t believe your husband is Present Mic. Like, the Present Mic. He’s one of my favorite heroes!” 

Shouta chuckled under his breath. “Is there anyone who isn’t one of your favorite heroes?”

The boy’s hand flew up to cover his (already masked) mouth. “You said your husband made the food you gave me last time.” Rabbit looked starstruck. “Present Mic made me a sandwich.”

Shouta snorted and chose not to reveal the fact that he and Tsukauchi had actually done the cooking. (He didn’t think Rabbit would take well to learning about the detective’s involvement, and… well. Nobody except for Hizashi knew that Shouta was actually the cook in their household.)

Shouta rolled his eyes. “Zashi’s a great hero, but he’s still just a person.”

“Do you think…” The boy trailed off, face flushing so pink that Shouta could see it under his mask. 

“What?” Shouta asked. 

Rabbit toyed absently with a pebble on the ground. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.” 

Shouta rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, kid.” 

Rabbit bit his lip. “Do you think you’d be able to get me his autograph?” 

Shouta couldn’t help it. He laughed. 

If possible, Rabbit’s face flamed even hotter as he pulled his knees closer to his chest and hid his face with a hand. “Nevermind,” he grumbled. “I knew it was stupid.” 

Shouta’s laughter tapered off as he saw the flush on Rabbit’s cheeks, though his smile lingered. “Not at all, kid. I’m sure he’d be flattered.”

The boy peeked out from between his fingers. “Really?” 

“Yeah. I’ll bring it to you next time we meet up. Speaking of…” Shouta reached over, pulling the medical supplies he’d brought from his bag. Bandages, gauze, medical tape, anything he could find that he thought the boy might need. “Do you need my help changing the bandages?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Thank you.” The boy took the items with trembling hands, tucking them into the pockets of his ragged hoodie. “I… um. I should probably go. My master will wonder where I am.” 

“When will you be free to meet again?” Shouta asked. 

“Um… Thursday, I think.” 

Shouta nodded. He technically had a meeting that night, but he’d push it back—Rabbit was the most important thing right now. “Okay, problem child. Thursday it is.” 

The kid’s throat worked. “Thanks. For the supplies.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

With a final glance over his shoulder, Rabbit darted into the shadows, silent as a ghost as he slipped out of view. 

Shouta let out a breath. The kid was okay. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t dead. Shouta felt the tight knot in his chest ease as Rabbit faded into the night.

Chapter Text

Izuku remembered when he first met Sensei. Back then, he had been handsome—in the way that old, bitter men could be handsome—with sleek white hair and laugh lines carved around his smiling mouth. He looked kind on the surface, but one look into his eyes revealed the truth of what was underneath his fatherly facade. No matter how wide his grin got, it never reached those slate-grey eyes. 

Now, Sensei had no eyes. His skin was rough and mottled with burns, and the mask over his mouth was the only thing that kept him breathing. Still, his smile was the same: so friendly it was almost wrong, doing nothing and everything to disguise the rot underneath it. 

“Ah, young Izuku!” Sensei’s horrible smile stretched wider. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” 

Izuku stumbled forward. He knew what was expected of him—he’d been here enough times. He pressed his lips to the man’s rough cheek, pulling back as quickly as he was able to kneel at Sensei’s feet. 

“Oh, my boy.” His hand reached out, carding through Izuku’s curls with horrific gentleness. Izuku wanted to cringe away, but he forced himself to stay still—stay strong. “Have you been good for Tomura?” 

“Yes, Sensei,” Izuku whispered. His voice was a hoarse croak. 

“Ah, good. Such an obedient child.” Sensei’s hand slipped beneath Izuku’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “I have another assignment for you.” 

Izuku cleared his throat. “A-an assignment?” 

“Yes, my boy. I’m counting on you to do something very important for me.” 

“Does this have to do with the Yazuka?” Izuku asked, digging his fingernails into his palms. He’d learned the hard way that getting on the Yakuza’s bad side was a death warrant. It was impossible not to remember his encounter last week, how he had clawed against the meaty arm squeezing his throat, how he was so sure he was going to black out then and there. If it wasn’t for Eraserhead, he’d be dead.

Sensei scoffed. “I don’t care about Tomura’s petty grudges. This is bigger than that.”

And Izuku didn’t know whether or not to be relieved. No Yakuza—that was good. But what was bigger than that?

“I’ve recently received some… sensitive information regarding the whereabouts of my nemesis, All Might.”

Izuku felt his limbs lock up. All Might. The hero who hadn’t helped him, hadn't saved him. 

A hero who wanted Izuku to be his successor, whatever that meant. 

Sensei hummed. “Is there something you want to tell me, my boy?” 

“What? N-no,” Izuku stuttered. His gaze shifted away from the empty sockets of Sensei’s eyes—even blind, Sensei had an uncanny ability to make Izuku feel more seen than he ever wanted to be. 

In a flash, Sensei’s smile disappeared. “Don’t lie to me, Izuku.” 

The pain was swift and sudden. Izuku dropped to his knees as it hit him all at once, devouring him whole, like the skin was being peeled off his whole body all at once. He was on fire, every nerve alight with agony, fingers clawing desperately at his own body in a futile attempt to make the pain stop. Oh, it was so much worse than the beatings, worse than Shigaraki’s Decay—this was pain itself. Izuku’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, the pain stopped. Izuku was left gasping and panting on his knees, cheeks wet with tears. 

It wasn’t real—just another one of Sensei’s quirks.

Izuku was shaking, sobbing. He wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing his shoulders so tightly his fingers went numb. “S-Sensei?” 

If Sensei’s smile was terrifying, his frown was even worse. “Shigaraki told me about the footage,” he said. “You ran in to rescue that boy, and when you left, All Might followed you. Tell me, Izuku, what did he say?” 

Izuku clapped a hand over his mouth to keep in his sob. He couldn’t tell Sensei All Might’s secret—he couldn’t. But if he didn’t, he would be tortured again. 

“I’m getting impatient—let’s speed things up.” Sensei drummed his fingers along the arm of his chair. “That boy you saved the other day, Katsuki Bakugo. He’s important to you, isn’t he?” 

Izuku’s heart plummeted. No, Kacchan—not Kacchan. 

Sensei continued on without waiting to hear Izuku’s response. His voice was so light, so pleasant, that he could’ve been discussing the weather. “Tell me everything, or the boy dies.” 

Izuku’s breath was coming fast, too fast. Betray his hero or his best friend. There were no options, no good choices, no path that Izuku could take and live with. 

But in the end, it wasn’t even really a choice. All Might had always been an unreachable goal, an unthinkable dream, something just ahead of him that kept him moving forward. But it was Kacchan who had been at his side—even if he left Izuku behind before long. 

Don’t cry, stupid Deku—I’ve got you, I promise. 

You’re an idiot. Why do you take on those guys when they’re so much bigger than you? Come on, I’ll patch you up. 

I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Ya hear me, Deku? 

And when Izuku dreamed of running away, when he let himself think about escaping the nightmare that had become his life, it was Kacchan he thought about. Would Izuku still feel as safe in his arms as he always had? He had protected Izuku from everything but Kacchan himself—and although Izuku had once feared the boy as much as he adored him, he had since learned that there were far greater monsters in this word. 

If he was going to break into pieces, he wanted it to be at Kacchan’s hand. 

“All Might told me about his quirk,” Izuku choked. “He said…”

Sensei leaned forward. The fatherly pleasantness had vanished from his face, leaving something desperate and feral in its place. “What did he say, my boy?” 

“He said it was called… One For All.” 

Sensei’s fingers clenched around his arm rests. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “He wants you to be his successor. Useless child that you are, why would he pick you?” 

Izuku bowed his head. The pain was coming, he knew it—maybe if he was lucky, Sensei would finally kill him. “I’m sorry if I have disappointed you, Sensei.” 

“Disappointed?” Sensei barked out an incredulous laugh. “My boy, I’m the farthest thing from disappointed.” 

Somehow, that made Izuku feel worse. 

“I have Shimura’s grandchild under my thumb, and now I have All Might’s successor, too? I’ll make him crumble before me.” Sensei bared his teeth in a feral grin. “That giant oaf. He couldn’t help but pass my brother’s quirk onto the first weak-minded child he saw.” 

Izuku’s mouth was gaping. All Might had told him he could pass on his quirk, but Izuku hadn’t believed it until this moment. “Sensei, I… I don’t understand.” 

“My boy.” Sensei’s hand landed on Izuku’s head, and he ruffled his hair almost fondly. “When All Might tries to give you One For All, you will accept it. When he pushes you towards Yuuei, you will attend. And when he begins his new life as a teacher, you will be there, watching him every step of the way.” 

A shudder passed through Izuku’s thin frame. “And then what?” 

“And then?” Sensei’s laugh was hard and cruel. “My boy, that is when you see to the downfall of the number one hero.” 

Dabi kicked the dumpster, once, then twice, running his hands through his spiky black hair. Steam hissed from his body. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs. 

God-fucking- dammit. How many years had it been? How long had he been trying to bring Endeavor down—how long had he been failing? This was just another disappointment in a long string of them, another name to cross off his list. 

He turned back to the charred, smoking body on the ground, lips twisting into a frown. The man hadn’t helped him, but he had other leads. 

Dabi was going to do whatever it took to get his revenge. 

Toshinori waited inside the pavilion on Dagobah Beach, scanning the sand for a mop of unruly green hair. The boy was supposed to meet him today, but Toshinori wasn’t completely convinced he would come. 

Maybe it was irresponsible to choose Akatani as his successor when he had a school full of young hopefuls just destined to be heroes. Nighteye and doubtlessly would’ve scolded him for the rash decision. 

But there was something about Akatani. From the first time he had met the boy stealing bandages from the drug store, there had been something about him, something… kind, and lost, and a little bit sad. Something that reminded Toshinori of himself. 

I know it sounds silly, but I… I’ve always felt like as long as All Might is smiling, things are going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.

What about you, my boy? Do you want to be a hero someday?

More than anything. But I can’t. 

And then he had saved that boy from the sludge villain, rushing in with no regard for his own safety. He was quirkless, stick-thin, and he had no means of defending himself, but he hadn’t given it a second thought. That was the moment that Toshinori knew without a doubt that the boy in front of him would be a hero—a great one. 

One minute I was just standing there, and the next my feet were moving, and I just… couldn’t stop.

He didn’t regret choosing Akatani. He just hoped that the boy would show up. 

When Akatani finally showed his face, it took a moment for Toshinori to recognize him. His hair, which had been an unruly mop on top of his head the last time Toshinori saw him, had been buzzed on the sides, leaving only the top full and long. His oversized black hoodie and athletic mini shorts didn’t look warm enough for the current climate, and his red shoes were riddled with holes. Even his eyes had changed—where they had been electric green last week, now they were duller, almost brown.

Before Akatani caught sight of him, Toshinori inflated into his muscle form—the boy still didn’t know about his favorite hero’s injury, and Toshinori would like to keep it that way, at least for a little while. 

“I am here!” Toshinori leapt out of the pavilion, hands braced on his hips, to land in front of Akatani.

Akatani flinched at the sudden movement, reaching up to shield his face, but slowly lowered his hands once he saw All Might standing before him. 

Toshinori’s smile flickered before he remembered himself. A boy Akatani’s age shouldn’t be flinching like that—what had happened to make that reaction instinctual? 

Immediately, Akatani’s cheeks flared crimson. “All Might-sama!” 

Toshinori chuckled nervously, though in his muscle form, it sounded like a boisterous laugh. “No need for those formalities, my boy! We’re all equals here.” 

“R-right.” Akatani fidgeted where he stood. “Um. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” 

Toshinori’s heart rate picked up. “And?” 

“I’m still confused. But I want to know if you meant what you said.” Brownish-green eyes met his. “Do you really think I can be a hero?” 

Toshinori reached out, slowly enough that he wouldn’t startle the boy, and planted a hand on his shoulder. “Young Akatani. You have the heart of a true hero, and that’s what matters most.” 

Akatani blinked fast, and to his horror, Toshinori noticed that there were tears in his eyes. “No one’s ever said something like that to me.” 

Toshinori softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Thank you.” Akatani rubbed his eyes. “I really would like to be a hero. If you think I can.” 

Toshinori’s heart leapt. Yes, he’d done it—he’d found a successor. A skinny scrap of a boy with scars on his arm who flinched when Toshinori moved too fast, but he had a good heart, All Might could tell. 

“I’m glad to hear it, Young Akatani.” His hand squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “So do you agree to be my successor?” 

Akatani’s brownish-green eyes went wide. “A-are you sure you want… me?”

“Yes.” Toshinori had never been so sure about anything in his life.

Akatani straightened to his full height—which, admittedly, wasn’t very tall. But when he looked up at Toshinori, the expression on his face had given way to determination and something… harder. Darker. “Then I’ll do it. If you really want me to be your successor, I would be proud to follow in your footsteps.”

Chapter Text

Katsuki couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

He didn’t know what it was—why the grief would hit him like a freight train now, of all times. He still wasn’t over it, but he was managing. There were even nights he managed to wake up without Deku’s name on his lips.

Katuski’s mom blamed herself. His therapist said he had survivor’s guilt. Nobody knew the truth of what had happened to Deku, and Katsuki, coward that he was, had never told them. 

It was Katsuki’s fault that his best friend was dead, and he would take the secret to his grave. 

Izuku had called him ‘Kacchan’ for the first time when they were four years old. 

They had known each other since before they could walk—their moms were friends from college, so they saw each other almost every day while their moms split chores and watched the kids together. Their friendship was predetermined, and neither Katsuki nor Izuku had much say in the matter. But Mitsuki and Inko hadn’t quite anticipated how much the two boys would bond. 

Ever since he was little, Izuku had been timid. He was a fussy baby that grew into a whiny child, and he cried so much that his face was perpetually red and ruddy. Katsuki was, in every way, his opposite: he never cried, never fussed. Everyone joked about how much he took after his mother. 

And maybe it was because the two boys were so different that they fit together so perfectly. Katsuki took care of Izuku, and Izuku idolized Katsuki. For their first few years of life—their formative years—they were joined at the hip.

Izuku was trailing after Katsuki, like he always did. His green eyes were wide and glistening as he stared up at Katsuki, smiling so wide it hurt to look at him. 

(Six years later, Deku’s eyes were what Katsuki remembered best.)

“Wait up!” Izuku whined, snagging Katsuki by the wrist. “Katsuki-chan…” His tongue slipped over the syllables of Katsuki’s name, and he screwed his face up in frustration. “Ka… Ka-chan. Kacchan!”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “Kacchan? Are you dumb?” 

Izuku’s eyes twinkled as he stared up at Katsuki, giggling softly under his breath. “You don’t like it when I call you Kacchan, Kacchan?” 

“You little…” Katsuki dove forward, tackling Izuku to the ground. The smaller boy squealed as Katsuki pinned him, tickling him all over, but Katsuki didn’t let up. Izuku’s wide green eyes were squeezed shut, and he was laughing so hard his tiny body shook. Katsuki had always loved the sound of Izuku’s laugh. 

“My name isn’t Kacchan!” Katsuki said, a feral grin pulling at his lips as his fingers dug into Izuku’s side. 

Izuku was laughing so hard his face went red. “K-Kacchan, stop! I can’t breathe!” 

“That’s what you get for being such a nerd, stupid Izuku!” He pulled back long enough for Izuku to catch his breath, peering down into those green eyes, now glistening with tears. From the smile stretched across Izuku’s face, Katsuki knew he wasn’t upset—he’d laughed until he cried, and Katsuki found he wanted to be the reason for Izuku’s laughter every day for the rest of his life. 

Izuku was crying again. 

Fire seared through Katsuki’s veins. In moments like this, the rage inside him burned hot and searing—he almost thought anything he touched would be set alight. 

“What did those idiots say?” Katsuki demanded. “Izuku—did they hurt you?” 

Izuku said nothing, but there was a bruise swelling on his jaw. Izuku came home with more and more bruises these days—the boys at school saw him as an easy target, small as he was, and they liked to shove him around and laugh when he cried. 

Katsuki went still when he saw the mark—they really thought they could touch Izuku, his Izuku, and get away with it?

Katsuki snarled, whirling around to the boys laughing on the other side of the playground. “I’m gonna kill them!” 

“No, Kacchan!” Tiny fingers latched around Katsuki’s wrist, and he stilled. When Izuku spoke, his voice was so small, so broken. “Leave them alone. Please.” 

And oh, when Izuku looked up at him with those tear-filled green eyes, Katsuki couldn’t just walk away. Not when Izuku was hurting. Not when Izuku needed him. 

He dropped down on the step next to Izuku, pulling the smaller boy into his arms. “Don’t listen to them, Izuku,” he growled. “They’re stupid.” 

Izuku buried his face in Katsuki’s chest. “Why do they hurt me, Kacchan?” 

“Because you don’t fight back.” Katsuki clutched Izuku tighter. “Seriously, ‘Zuku, why don’t you fight back?” 

Izuku sniffled. “I don’t wanna h-hurt anybody…” 

Katsuki’s heart fractured. He didn’t understand what this was—why did he care so much? Why did seeing Izuku upset make him so angry? His pudgy fingers toyed with Izuku’s messy hair. “Fine—if you don’t wanna fight them, I’ll do it for you. I’ll protect you, idiot, ya hear?” 

Izuku pulled away, swiping under his eyes. “K-kacchan?” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Don’t be all weird about it. The only person who’s allowed to bully you is me.” He pulled Izuku into a headlock, grinding his knuckles into the smaller boy’s head and musing his mop of green hair. Izuku squealed, trying to pull away from Katsuki’s grip, but he was laughing, and the sound made the tight feeling in Katsuki’s chest ease. 

When Katsuki finally released him, Izuku was smiling. “Thank you, Kacchan,” he said, leaning against Katsuki’s shoulder. “You’re my hero.” 

Quirkless. 

It was such an ugly word, one that should never have been used to describe someone as beautiful as Izuku. He walked over to Katsuki and his friends with hunched shoulders, hands fisting nervously in the hem of his shirt. His eyes were trained on the ground. 

Izuku still hadn’t gotten over the disappointment of being born without a quirk. All his dreams of becoming a hero—vanished, in an instant. 

One of Katsuki’s new friends barked out a laugh when he saw Izuku approach. “Hey, look—it’s the quirkless kid!” 

“Ha, isn’t that the kid who wanted to be a hero?” another boy jeered. 

When Izuku spoke, his voice was shaking. “H-hey, Kacchan?” 

Katsuki’s shoulders went stiff. These boys—his new friends, the cool kids—only started hanging out with him once his quirk developed. As much as he cared about Izuku, he couldn’t help being embarrassed, just a little bit, that the quirkless boy insisted on calling him that in front of everyone. 

“Kacchan?” The first boy laughed again. “Do you really let him call you that, Kacchan?” 

Katsuki snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He came up with the nickname when we were little. I told him it was stupid—but he’s pretty stupid, too, so he didn’t care.” 

Izuku flinched. 

Katsuki’s heart plummeted. Had he said something wrong? He always called Izuku stupid, ever since they were little. Why was he deciding to be all sensitive now? 

The boys around him cackled and jeered, slapping Katsuki heartily on the back. 

Katsuki felt like he was going to be sick. “What do you want, Izuku?” 

Izuku worried nervously on his lower lip. “I—I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out after school. My mom said she’d make pizza rolls…” 

The tallest boy slung his arm around Katsuki’s shoulders. “Sorry, stupid Izuku—Bakubro is already hanging out with us after school. I’d invite you, but… well, I wouldn’t want the quirkless runt getting hurt.” 

Amidst the clamor of laughter and shouted insults, Katsuki met Izuku’s eyes. To his horror, they were filled with tears. “Another time, ‘Zuku.” 

Izuku took a stumbling step back, then another. He bit down hard on his trembling lower lip, then turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. 

Katsuki felt numb. Izuku was always crying—but this was the first time Katsuki had ever caused his tears. 

He didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. 

“Wow, you’re so cool, Kacchan!” Deku’s green eyes were round and awed as he watched Katsuki juggle the soccer ball, keeping it afloat with tiny, practiced kicks. 

“Whatever,” Katsuki scoffed, even as his little chest puffed out. “This is nothing!” 

Deku’s face screwed up in concentration. He looked down at the yellow ball in his hands, then back up at Katsuki, studying the larger boy’s movements. He tossed the ball into the air, aiming a poorly executed kick that sent it flying in the wrong direction. The ball hit him in the face. Deku toppled to the ground, rubbing the reddening spot on his forehead with a wince. “Ow,” he murmured. 

One of the other boys wandered over. “Look at stupid Izuku! He can’t even juggle a ball right.”

Katsuki snickered. “Jeez, Izuku. You really can’t do anything right, can you?” 

Katsuki’s gut tightened when he saw the look on Izuku’s face. He’d made jokes like that so many times when they were younger, and Izuku had always laughed them off. What had changed? Why was Izuku looking at him with tears swimming in his wide green eyes? 

But the other boys were laughing, and that made Katsuki feel… good. Happy. Wanted. Couldn’t Izuku stop being such a crybaby? Then they could all get along. 

Katsuki snatched Izuku’s yellow bucket from the sandbox. He’d been waiting to share this particular revelation for days now, waiting for the right moment. “Look!” He pointed to one of the kanji on the bucket. “You can read the last part of Izuku’s name as Deku.”  

Deku—a name for a type of wooden doll with no hands or feet. It meant worthless, useless. It was a mean name, but while the other boys in their class were getting more and more athletic, it seemed that Deku was only growing clumsier. Besides, the round face of the deku doll reminded him of Izuku’s freckled cheeks. Katsuki thought it suited him. 

One of the boys’ jaws dropped open. “Woah, so you can read that?” 

“Well, obviously,” Katsuki scoffed. “Deku—that must be what you call a helpless loser who’s completely useless.” 

Izuku’s eyes were swimming with tears, his shoulders curled in on themselves. “Why are you being so mean, Kacchan?” 

Katsuki’s skin was crawling. It was so strange—the mixture of pride and self-loathing that came when the boys laughed at Izuku’s pain. He’d apologize later, and Izuku would forgive him, and everything would be okay again. 

He knew Izuku would always come back. 

Izuku didn’t come around as much anymore. 

As Katsuki became more and more popular amongst the other boys in his class, the smaller stopped seeking him out, at least while they were at school—but it wasn’t Katsuki’s fault. If Izuku refused to stand up for himself, why should Katsuki have to do it for him? 

The turning point had been that day, weeks ago, when Katsuki had fallen into the river. Deku had offered him a hand like he needed it. Like he needed help. Like he was so much better than Katsuki. And Katsuki had exploded. 

Deku had stopped coming to see him after that. 

It was fine, Katsuki told himself. He didn’t need stupid, quirkless Deku. He was awesome—everyone told him so. 

(So why did it hurt so badly whenever he saw Deku sitting alone?)

Today, however, he mustered his fragile courage and wandered over to the spot on the playground where Katsuki and his new friends lounged. He was holding a large ceramic dish in his little hands. 

“Kacchan,” Deku whispered. 

Katsuki ignored him. 

“Kacchan.” Deku spoke louder this time, forcing Katsuki to look up and acknowledge him. His stupid red shoes scuffed the ground as he shifted from foot to foot, and he wouldn’t meet Katsuki’s eyes. 

Katsuki scowled at the smaller boy, explosions popping in his hands. “What do you want, Deku?”

Deku flinched at the nickname, and Katsuki pretended it didn’t hurt. He pretended the laughter of the other kids was worth the tears of the boy he cared about most. 

“M-my mom said to give this back to you,” Deku said, shoving the dish into Katsuki’s hands. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She said to thank Mrs. Bakugou for the casserole. It was really good.”

“Hah?” Katsuki scowled down at the smaller boy. “What’s the old hag doing cooking for a brat like you?” 

Deku’s shoulders curled inward. “You shouldn’t say that about your mom, Kacchan. It’s rude.” 

Typical—of course Deku would stand up for Katsuki’s mom, of all people, but he wouldn’t stand up for himself. Maybe if he would fight back, Katsuki wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of destroying someone who’d only ever been kind to him. 

Tch—not that it was Katsuki’s fault that Deku was a quirkless loser. 

“Whatever.” Katsuki snatched the dish from Deku’s hands. “I’ll deliver your shitty message. Now get lost.” 

Deku fled. 

Katsuki’s life could be divided into “before” and “after.” 

Before Deku had gone missing. Before the grief had set in. Before his life had fallen apart. Before, he’d been headed down a path of arrogance and rage—it was Katsuki’s cruelty that had driven Deku away in the first place. And it took losing the person he cared about most to realize that he didn’t recognize himself anymore. 

Deku— such a cruel nickname. Wasn’t it Katsuki who was worthless, useless? Wasn’t it Katsuki who had failed to save his best friend?

He was punishing himself. He had been punishing himself for years. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, he knew his everlasting grief wouldn’t bring Deku back—but maybe it was better to be alone than to heal. If he healed, it would mean Deku was forgotten. 

A commotion at the other end of the lunchroom drew Katsuki’s attention, and he looked up. A group of boys was clustered around something on the ground—boys Katsuki recognized. They belonged to the crowd he’d probably have fallen into if he hadn’t turned his life around at eight years old, a group of bullies and narcissists who preyed on those they saw as lesser. Just like Katsuki himself had once done. If Deku was still alive, there was little doubt he’d probably be amongst them, shoving the quirkless boy around and calling him names. 

Katsuki didn’t like to think about who he used to be. 

Katsuki stood and made his way over to the cluster of boys, sweat pooling in his palms. It was a girl they were crowded around—a petite little thing with purple hair and strange, elongated earlobes that she toyed with nervously, eyes trained on the ground. Her books were scattered across the floor. 

A bully picked up one of her books, paging through it with a smirk. “Ha—? You wanna be a hero, Jirou?” 

“Not with a lame quirk like that, she can’t,” another boy taunted. 

And suddenly, it wasn’t a purple haired girl in front of him, but a boy with green eyes and a dimpled smile. A boy who wanted to be a hero, but couldn’t—at least, so Katsuki told him. 

He gritted his teeth. Katsuki had a very low tolerance for quirk descrimination. 

Katsuki fired off a tiny explosion, just enough to make the boys jump. “Fuck off, extras. No one asked your opinion.” 

One the boys whirled, his eyes going wide when he saw Katsuki standing behind him. “W-who the hell are you?” 

“I’m the kid who’s gonna beat your ass if you don’t get lost,” Katsuki growled. “Now scram.” 

The boys exchanged a glance, then scattered—although one of them cast a glance over his shoulder that he probably thought was intimidating. Katsuki watched them leave with his arms folded over his chest. 

The girl scowled up at Katsuki. “I had it handled, you know.” 

He snorted. “Yeah, it sure looked like you had it handled.”

She rolled her eyes, starting to gather up the books that were strewn across the floor. “My earphone jacks let me amplify the sound of my own heartbeat—I was only waiting for the lunch lady to turn around so she wouldn’t see me use my quirk.” 

Katsuki studied her. Earphone jacks, huh? “Cool quirk,” he said after a moment. 

She blinked. “What?” 

“Cool. Quirk. You stupid?” He scoffed and turned away, starting to walk off in the opposite direction. “Fuckin’ extras.” 

“Hey, wait a second!” The girl scrambled to her feet, slinging her half-zipped bag over one shoulder. She chased after him, running a little to keep up with his long strides. “You wanna be a hero, too, don’t you?” 

“Hah?” Katsuki scowled at her. “Why the fuck does it matter what I wanna do with my life? Get lost.” 

“No.” The girl snagged his wrist, forcing him to come to a stop. “Are you trying out for Yuuei?” 

Yuuei—even the name made him feel sick to his stomach. “No,” Katsuki spat. 

She furrowed her brow. “What—why? It’s nearby, and it’s the best hero school in the country!” 

“Why the fuck do you care?” Katsuki snarled. 

The girl looked down at her shoes, cheeks going pink. “I was gonna suggest that we study together or something.” 

Tiny explosions popped in Katsuki’s palms. “You hitting on me or something, Ears?” 

“What? No!” Her eyes went wide. “I don’t even know you. Besides, I’m gay!” 

Katsuki glowered. “Then why do you want to study together?” 

“Because I want to do as well as I can in the entrance exam.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Forget I asked.” 

The silence stretched out between them, thick and suffocating. 

“So…” The girl scuffed her shoes against the tile. “Not gonna tell me why you’re not going for Yuuei, huh?” 

Katsuki huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I used to want to go there. When I was younger.” 

The girl quirked her head. “But not anymore?” 

“My friend and I wanted to go there together.” Katsuki clenched his jaw, turning his face away. “If he’s not going, then I ain’t, either.” 

“Why isn’t he going?” the girl asked. 

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists. “He’s dead.” 

The girl blinked. For a moment, she only stared at Katsuki, almost like she was expecting him to retract the statement. But when the seconds slipped by and Katsuki said nothing, her shoulders sank, and she bit her lip. “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry.” 

Katsuki grunted. “Whatever. I’m leaving now.” He started to walk away. 

The girl’s hand tightened around his wrist. “Wait!” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but turned to face the girl nevertheless. “What do you want, Ears.” 

“Thank you.” The girl’s face flamed. “Um. For saving me—even though I didn’t need it.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

The girl released his wrist. “And if you change your mind about Yuuei, let me know.”

Katsuki nodded, even though he knew that wouldn’t happen. It was his fault that Deku wouldn’t be trying out, his fault that Deku would never be a hero. His fault that Deku was dead. 

How could he ever call himself a hero when he’d already failed to protect the person he cared about most? 

Katsuki knew something was wrong as soon as he set foot in his house. Everything was silent—and things were never, ever quiet in the Bakugou household. 

Mitsuki Bakugou stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her eyes looked red. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve said she’d been crying—but Katsuki’s mother had a heart made of steel. She never cried. “Katsuki, can we talk for a second?” 

Katsuki scowled. “No, I’m going out.” He dropped his backpack by the door. 

His mother’s brows lowered, and Katsuki knew enough not to push her when she looked like that—not unless he wanted to be grounded for the next hundred years, anyway. She pulled out a chair at the table and sank into it. “Sit,” she said. 

Katsuki grumbled under his breath, but nevertheless dropped into the chair across from hers. 

Mitsuki’s throat worked. “You remember Auntie Inko, don’t you? Izuku’s mother?” 

“Of course I do.” Katsuki rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid.” 

“Don’t be a brat, Katsuki,” Mitsuki snapped, and she sounded harsher than usual. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, letting out a long breath through her nose. “Listen. A few weeks ago, Inko was diagnosed with cancer.” 

Katsuki froze. “What?” 

No wonder Deku had seemed so sad recently—more than usual. No wonder Katsuki’s mom had been bringing the Midoriyas dinner recently. No wonder Mitsuki had been grumpier than usual recently. 

God, how long had Deku been suffering? Why hadn’t Katsuki known? 

Katsuki felt sick. 

“We didn’t know how far along it was, but the results just came back, and it doesn’t look good.” Mitsuki closed her eyes. “As for Izuku… if the worst comes to pass, Izuku isn’t going to have anybody. His father is out of the picture, his grandparents disowned his mom after she got pregnant so young, and he has no aunts or uncles to speak of.” Her voice was choked, and Katsuki realized that he wasn’t hallucinating—she was holding back tears. “Inko asked, and after talking about it, Masaru and I agreed. If Inko doesn’t make it—” her breath hitched, “—we’ll be taking Izuku in.” 

The ground dropped out from underneath Katsuki’s feet. 

His mom didn’t know—he hadn’t told her. She didn’t know about the taunts, the nicknames. He didn’t know that his home was the last place Deku would feel safe. 

Mitsuki bit her lip. “I know this is a lot to ask of you, but Izuku is going through a lot right now. You’ve always been such a good friend to that boy. I need you to be there for him, Katsuki. He needs a friend.” 

Katsuki felt numb. “Me?” 

“Yes. You.” Mitsuki reached across the table, grasping Katsuki’s hand. “Inko’s worried about him. With everything going on with her health, he’s started withdrawing more and more, and Inko says he’s getting bullied at school.” 

Katsuki’s head snapped up. “He said that?”

“No. But he’s been coming home with bruises…” 

Katsuki stood up so fast his chair toppled over. Tears were burning behind his eyes. Deku—Izuku had been suffering silently, all this time, and Katsuki had only been making it worse. 

Fine—if you don’t wanna fight them, I’ll do it for you. 

What had happened to them? They’d been joined at the hip, once upon a time. Why had Katsuki shoved Deku away? Why had Katsuki turned into the very thing he’d promised to protect him from? 

I’ll protect you, idiot, ya hear?

I’ll protect you. 

Katsuki ran through the front door, ignoring the sound of his mother calling his name. 

Inko Midoriya died slowly. 

From the moment Mitsuki told Katsuki, he understood why Deku looked so pale, so drawn. He’d stopped trailing Katsuki around—he’d stopped talking to everyone. He didn’t carry around those stpuid notebooks anymore, and when he did talk, his voice was so quiet that Katsuki could hardly hear him. 

Deku was fading away before his very eyes. 

It was like that for six months. He didn’t try to talk to Deku—why would he want comfort from the same person who had made his life miserable? So he watched silently as Deku fell apart, and at night, he prayed to whatever God might be listening for it to end. 

He remembered the night when he finally got his wish. The phone was ringing, and Mitsuki was screaming for someone to pick it up. Katsuki, who was playing video games in the living room, screamed right back. Mitsuki stormed out of the kitchen with flour streaked on her face to grab the phone from its hook, glaring at her son as she brought it to her ear—but as soon as she heard whoever was on the other end, her face froze in horror.

The phone dropped from her hand and shattered into a million pieces. 

Mitsuki burst into tears, falling to her knees, and Katsuki… Katsuki could only stare. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to say or do. He’d never seen his mom like this before. 

Masaru pushed his way into the room, dropping down beside Mitsuki and wrapping his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest, balling her hands in the fabric of his shirt as he ran a smoothing hand down her back. 

“Mitsuki?” he whispered. 

“It’s Inko,” she choked. “She…” 

Masaru’s face fell. He pulled Mitsuki closer, pressing his lips to her temple. “Oh, honey. I’m so…. I’m so sorry.” 

“Izuku. We have to pick up Izuku.” Mitsuki spoke through her sobs, rubbing her face with the back of her hand. “She would… Inko. She wouldn’t want him to be alone.” 

Masaru’s eyes were grave when he turned to his son. “Stay here, Katsuki. Get a bed made for Izuku—something soft and comfortable with lots of blankets.”
Mitsuki swiped at her eyes. “Don’t you think he’d rather sleep with Katsuki? So he’s not alone?” 

“He might want his own space. It’s best to give him options.” Masaru squeezed Mitsuki gently. “Katsuki, if you have time, make some hot chocolate or tea. Something warm might calm him down. And when we get back, I expect you to be on your best behavior.” 

Masaru was never like this. He was the still, quiet river to Mitsuki’s raging inferno. But today, there was steel in his voice that Katsuki had never heard before. 

Katsuki’s hands were shaking where they clutched the video game controller. “I don’t understand. Dad, what’s happening?”

Masaru closed his eyes. “Katsuki, Izuku’s mother is dead.” 

They hadn’t drunk hot chocolate that night. Deku had sobbed, then screamed, then sobbed again. And even now, six years later, Katsuki woke up to the sounds of Izuku’s wails ringing in his ears. 

Katsuki’s door cracked open. 

He rolled over with a groan, scrubbing his eyes with his hands. It was still dark outside. How late was it?

At the sound of Katsuki moving, the door froze, only half-open. 

Katsuki squinted, trying to make out the shape in his doorway. For a moment, his thoughts blurred, and he couldn’t remember who was in his room and why. But then he made out messy green hair and a hunched, shaking form, and it all came rushing back. 

Deku. 

Katsuki sat up, scrubbing at his eyes with a hand. “Deku? What are you doing in here?” 

Deku shrunk back. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll go—”

“Stop talking, Deku.”
The green haired boy fell silent. 

Katsuki bit his lip, looking down at his hands. When it came to Izuku, he always seemed to say the wrong thing. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just asked what you were doing here.” 

Deku fidgeted. “I—um.” He swallowed. “I woke up with a nightmare, and I just… I didn’t want to be alone.”

For a long moment, the silence stretched out between them, thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a heavy sigh, Katsuki lifted the covers of his bed so that Deku could crawl inside. 

Deku blinked. “K-kacchan?” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Just get over here, nerd.” 

After a beat of shocked silence, Deku scrambled over, scooting underneath the covers and curling up in a fetal position by Katsuki’s side. He bit his lip, then nestled closer. “You’re really warm, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki scowled. “And you’re really cold. How long were you wandering the house in the middle of the night?” 

“Not long.” Deku shivered, unraveling slowly and pressing his cheek against Katsuki’s chest. His voice quieted, and he balled his fists in the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt. “It’s just… nighttime is harder sometimes.”

Katsuki grumbled, but draped his arm over Deku’s body, pulling the smaller boy closer. “What are you talking about?” 

Deku sniffled, wiping his nose with one tiny hand, and Katsuki fought the urge to blow something up. Dammit, he made Deku cry when he wasn’t even trying. 

“I just miss her,” Deku whimpered. 

Oh—of course he did. It had only been a month since Inko had died, and Deku still cried about it almost every day. 

Deku’s tears left damp stains on Katsuki’s t-shirt. “Why did she leave me alone, Kacchan? My dad is gone, and now Mommy is gone, too, and I have nobody…”

Katsuki’s heart cramped. “Hey. That’s not true.” 

Deku sniffled again. “But I—”

“You’re not alone, shitty Deku. You have me, and I’m gonna take care of you. Ya hear?” His fingers toyed with one of Deku’s curls. “I told you I was gonna protect you, remember? Do you really think I’m gonna break a promise?” 

Deku pulled away just enough to look up at Katsuki with tear-filled green eyes. “I… I thought you hated me, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki frowned. “Where do you get these stupid ideas, Deku?” 

“Y-you always make fun of me at school…” 

Katsuki pressed his eyes closed. It hurt, the reminder: that the boy in front of him, the boy he’d known since before he could walk, was afraid of him now. He still didn’t understand why he’d done all of it. And with everything that had been going on in Deku’s life… 

But that wasn’t his fault, was it? He hadn’t known , how was he supposed to guess that Deku’s mom was going to drop dead? 

The apology turned sour on his tongue. Heroes didn’t apologize, because hero’s never made mistakes, and Katsuki was going to be the best of them all. Didn’t Deku see that it was all for him, so that Katsuki could protect him? Deku was quirkless—he could never be a hero. Katsuki was trying to make that dream come true for the both of them. 

“Don’t be wimpy, Deku,” Katsuki said. “I’m mean to everyone, not just you.”

Deku worried on his lower lip. “So… you still wanna be my friend?” 

Katsuki scoffed. “Of course we’re friends, shitty Deku. If we weren’t friends I wouldn’t let you sleep in my bed.” He curled his body a little tighter around Deku’s—the smaller boy was still cold, and with his quirk, Katsuki was like a space heater. “Now go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“Okay, Kacchan.” Deku smiled against Katsuki’s chest. 

Katsuki was almost asleep when Deku spoke again. “Kacchan?” he murmured. 

“What?” 

“You smell like caramel,” Deku mumbled, just before he drifted off to sleep. 

It was like that for another three months. During the school day, Izuku and Katsuki kept to their own separate worlds—but at home, everything was like it had been. They played together, ate together, slept in the same bed together. The shadows in Deku’s eyes were so dark, so impenetrable, that Katsuki could hardly penetrate them. Still, he did everything he could to make Deku laugh.

It was a Sunday in autumn, and it was cold. Mitsuki shooed them out of the house bundled up against the frigid winter wind—she said it would be good for them to play outside—and Katsuki couldn’t help but think that Izuku looked so small in his tiny mittens and down jacket. 

Katsuki nudged Izuku towards a cluster kids on the other end of the street. “Go play tag or something.” 

Izuku pouted. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to hang out with my friends,” Katsuki said. 

Izuku’s green eyes were wide and innocent. “Can I come with you, Kacchan?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” Izuku whined. 

“Because…” Katsuki bit his lower lip. If he told the truth, it would hurt Izuku—but if he didn’t, he knew Izuku would spend the whole day trailing after him like a mewling puppy. “Listen, Deku, I’m just trying to keep you from getting made fun of, okay? My friends don’t wanna hang out with someone quirkless.” 

Izuku’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. He toed the sidewalk with his boot, refusing to meet Katsuki’s eyes. “Is that what you want, Kacchan?” 

A spear of ice pierced Katsuki’s heart, but he pushed the guilt away. “Yes.” 

“Okay, then. I’ll see you later, I guess.” Deku shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step back, watching Katsuki with wide, pleading eyes. When Katsuki didn’t say anything else, he turned and ran. 

It was two hours later when someone grabbed Katsuki’s hand from behind. He whirled, scowling, but his face softened when he saw Izuku standing behind him, green eyes swimming with tears. 

“Deku?” Katsuki demanded. “What’s wrong?” 

“T-they pushed me. I h-hurt my knees…” 

Katsuki looked down. Sure enough, Izuku was bleeding from two skinned knees. The fabric of his jeans had been ripped through, and his hands were all scraped up, like he had tried to break his fall. 

One of Katsuki’s new friends walked up behind him, slinging his arm over Katsuki’s shoulder. “Ha, look, it’s stupid Deku. What’s he doing here?” 

Izuku’s lower lip trembled, eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

“Hey, dipshit.” The boy snapped his fingers in front of Deku’s face. “I asked you a question. Why are you here?” 

“Because Kacchan is my best friend,” Izuku murmured. 

One of the boys barked a laugh. “Bakugou doesn’t give a shit about a quirkless loser like you. Right, Bakugou?” 

Katsuki didn’t say anything. His eyes were locked on Deku’s. 

“Kacchan cares about me,” Deku said. His tiny hands clenched into fists at his sides. “When I’m sad he makes me feel better, and he makes me laugh, and he lets me sleep in his bed…” 

Katsuki stiffened. 

All of Katsuki’s new friends were clustering around now, jeering at Deku. A few of them were casting glances towards Katsuki, too, now that Deku had decided to open his stupid mouth. Explosive sweat started to pool in his palms. 

“That doesn’t sound like Bakubro,” one of the boys said, crossing his arms. “It sounds kinda faggoty, actually.” 

“Totally faggoty,” another kid scoffed. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Izuku murmured, shifting back and forth on his feet. 

“Faggot. That’s what you are, shitty Deku.” The boy shoved Izuku in the chest. “You’re a quirkless, ugly queer, and it’s fucking gross that you trail after Bakubro like a fucking kitten.” 

Izuku turned pleading eyes on Katsuki. “Kacchan, that isn’t true. Tell them they’re wrong, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki said nothing, but he felt something in his chest boiling over. He didn’t know what it was: pain? Fear? Shame? 

“Kacchan is my friend,” Deku said, standing up a little straighter. “We’ve always been friends, and we always will be. Right, Kacchan?” 

The laughter of the boys swirled around him, ugly and cruel, and all he could see was Deku. Deku, green hair covered by a knitted cap, Deku, cheeks pink with winter chill, Deku, with eyes so big they didn’t seem real. And since he couldn’t name the emotion searing in his veins, he took it out the only way he knew how. 

He raged. 

“Shut up, Deku! We aren’t friends. I just tolerate you because your shitty mom died and no one else would hang out with a quirkless loser like you!” 

Izuku stumbled back a step, eyes widening like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His lower lip started to wobble. “Kacchan?” he whispered. 

“Are you ignoring me, or are you too stupid to understand?” Explosions popped in Katsuki’s palms. “Go away, shitnerd, I don’t want you here!”

Izuku’s tears finally spilled over. He turned and ran, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from Katsuki, and even as Katsuki’s friends cheered him on, he’d never felt more hollow than he did in that moment. 

Izuku never came back home. 

It was raining outside, and Katsuki was in the garden with a shovel in his hand. 

His suit and tie were soaked through; his spiky blond hair was plastered to his forehead. There was a cardboard box sitting on the ground next to him. 

If you’d asked if he was crying, he’d have denied it—the raindrops were dripping down his face, and if his eyes looked red and puffy, it was because he’d had to wake up too early to get ready for the funeral. 

Deku’s funeral. 

They’d never found a body, but his case remained unsolved, and he was presumed dead. His empty casket was buried next to his mother’s. 

And Katsuki… Katsuki couldn’t fucking stand it. How impersonal it was. There wasn’t a body to bury, no family to mourn. Just Katsuki and his parents standing in the rain, staring at a picture of a smiling face they’d never see again. 

And then Katsuki had come back home to an empty house and an empty bed and a room that smelled like Izuku. He looked at the All Might figurines on his shelves, the posters on the walls, and he had broken down. 

He had torn it all down. The figures, the posters. He had torn the case off the pillow where Izuku had slept and taken Izuku’s slippers by their spot at the door. Everything that was Izuku’s—everything that even reminded him of Izuku—he’d shoved into a cardboard box and carried into the backyard. 

Katsuki was having a funeral of his own, he supposed. The rain soaked through the box and turned the cardboard to mush. 

“Katsuki?” 

Katsuki whirled. His mother was standing in the doorway, looking down at him with red, swollen eyes. She was still wearing the black dress she’d put on for the funeral, and her makeup streamed messily down her cheeks. 

She stepped out into the rain, ignoring the way it soaked through her silk gown, and sank to her knees beside her son. She carded her fingers softly through his rain-soaked hair. “Katsuki, what are you doing?”

Katsuki bit his lip to keep it from wobbling. “That was a shitty funeral,” he snapped. “It was shitty and I don’t want all this stuff in my room anymore. It’s his and he left me and I don’t want to keep it anymore.” 

Mitsuki’s face cracked. “Katsuki…” 

“I don’t want it, okay?” Katsuki yelled, voice choked. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “He doesn’t need it, and every time I see it, it makes me think of him—”

Mitsuki reached out, pulling Katsuki to her chest. The second her arms wrapped around him, Katsuki broke. Heaving, shuddering sobs shook his shoulders; his lungs ached with the force of his sobs.

“It’s my fault,” he choked. “It’s all my fault!” 

“It’s not your fault, baby,” Mitsuki cooed. “You couldn’t have done anything. What happened to Izuku…” Her voice cracked. “Baby, you were such a good friend to him. In the end, that’s all you could’ve done.” 

That only made Katsuki cry harder. Didn’t she see how dark—how awful—how evil he was? Didn’t she see that it was his fault Izuku had run away? 

Mitsuki pulled back, pressing her lips to his forehead. “Katsuki, I know it hurts now. I think it’ll always hurt a little bit. But in a few years, maybe…” She closed her eyes. “I think maybe you’ll want to take out his things and remember him. Remember how much he meant to you.” 

“I don’t want to remember!” Katsuki cried, balling his tiny fists in the fabric of her dress. “I want to forget it all!” 

“I know, baby.” She tucked him back against her chest, rocking them gently as the rain fell around them . “I know.” 

Mitsuki tucked the box of Izuku’s things under Katsuki’s bed, and there it stayed for six long years. 

It was these memories that ran on a constant loop through Katsuki’s head. 

There were so many things he wished he could take back, so many moments he wished he could change. He’d been a stupid kid, so convinced that what others thought of him mattered more than anything else. When he fucked up, someone had died for it. 

Katsuki had made the worst mistake imaginable, and he’d be paying for it every day for the rest of his life. 

He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to be a hero anymore. But… maybe helping others, maybe saving them the way he hadn’t saved Deku, would win him some modicum of absolution. Maybe then he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror without hating what he saw. 

It was the idea of attending Yuuei that gave him pause. Could he really go to a school with such a shining reputation, a school for the best of the best, when he himself was so damaged? Could he really walk the halls haunted by the ghost of the boy he had practically killed?

No, he’d go to Shiketsu instead. At least there, he could start fresh. 

Katsuki walked home immediately after school, just like he always did. He didn’t have many friends anymore. He couldn’t stand to be around the people who only liked him for his quirk, and the rest… well, they thought he was too abrasive. And maybe he was. But the walls he built so high around him were the only thing that kept them from seeing the cracked, twisted remains of his heart. 

He heard his mother’s voice from the living room as soon as he closed the door behind him. “Katsuki! Get in here, I wanna show you something!” 

Katsuki scowled, kicking off his shoes. “Shut up, Hag. I have homework.” 

“You’re such a brat,” Mitsuki grumbled, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. “I’m serious.”

With a groan, Katsuki sauntered into the living rooms, hands shoved into his pockets. “Whatever this is, it had better be good.”

Mitsuki was sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table, rifling through an old, battered cardboard box. When Katsuki stepped inside, she grinned—though the expression still managed to seem brutal on her sharp, angular face. Katsuki had inherited that signature Bakugou grin. “Look what I found,” she said. 

“What is all this shit?” Katsuki asked, dropping down on the other side of the coffee table. 

“Watch your fuckin’ language,” Mitsuki scolded, rolling her eyes. “It’s from when you were young—pictures and essays and shit.” She pushed a picture across the table towards him: a crude, childlike crayon drawing of a blond-haired boy in an All Might costume. Mitsuki smiled fondly. “Even back then, you knew you wanted to be a hero.” 

Katsuki’s heart twisted. He clenched his jaw, tearing his eyes away from the picture. “What the hell. You called me in here to look at this shit?” 

Mitsuki cuffed him over the head. “Shut up, you brat. It’s cute!”

“I don’t even like All Might anymore,” Katsuki grumbled. 

“Yeah, right,” Mitsuki scoffed. A flicker of pain passed over her face. “You and Izuku used to love the guy. Don’t you remember playing heroes together?” 

Katsuki’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Whatever,” he said. “I’m gonna go do homework.” He started to stand. 

“I thought you might want to have this one,” Mitsuki blurted. 

Katsuki turned. She was holding another piece of paper in her hands, staring down at it with a look on her face that was almost… sad. She only ever looked like that when she thought of Izuku, he’d learned. 

Six years later, and the shitty nerd was still a scar on his whole family. Figures.

Katsuki plucked the paper out of his mother’s hands, wrinkling the page, and Mitsuki yelped. “Careful with that!” 

It was another drawing. Katsuki hadn’t made this one, he could tell—he’d never had much patience for drawing, so he’d never developed much of a skill for it. Izuku, on the other hand, was nothing but patience, and it showed.

The drawing was undoubtedly of Katsuki—the blond hair and red eyes were unmistakable—but the look on his face was… soft. Gentle. Kind. Words that no one else would’ve used to describe the most explosive boy in Japan. 

This was how Katsuki had looked through Izuku’s eyes. 

The Katsuki in the picture was wearing a green-and-orange costume with spiky accent pieces in his hair and thick gauntlets around his wrists. Izuku had labeled everything in his hurried, messy scrawl: These gauntlets store up your sweat for bigger blasts! Explosive headpieces for an explosive hero!

It was a decent design, all things considered. Even at eight years old, Izuku had shined so bright—constantly thinking, working, innovating, mumbling under his breath in words that were too fast and too quiet to make out. Everything had always come so naturally to Katsuki, but everything Izuku had, he worked for. 

There were kanji scrawled at the bottom of the drawing in a child’s messy writing: For Kacchan. You’re my hero!

Mitsuki sniffled, dragging Katsuki out of his whirling thoughts. “That boy really looked up to you, Katsuki. I thought you might want to keep it, as a reminder. To motivate you when you try out for Yuuei.” 

Katsuki’s breath hitched. Didn’t she realize that he didn’t need a reminder? Didn’t she realize that the stupid fucking nerd was always on his mind? 

“I’m not trying out for Yuuei,” Katsuki grumbled. 

“So you say.” Mitsuki leaned her head on her fist. “I know that Izuku will always be in your heart, but… it doesn’t make you a bad person to move on, Katsuki.” 

Sweat started pooling in Katsuki’s hands. If he didn’t calm down soon, he was bound to blow something up—and if he destroyed the drawing in his hands, he’d never forgive himself. Katsuki held onto these pieces, these reminders that Izuku had existed, because he didn’t deserve to forget. He didn’t deserve to move on. “Shut up, you hag,” Katsuki barked. His left hand balled into a fist. “What do you know?” 

“He wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life grieving,” Mitsuki said gently. 

“You don’t know what the fuck he would want, because he’s fucking dead.” Katsuki stormed over to the door, pulling deep breaths into his lungs to keep from exploding. Not here. Not now. Maybe up in his room, he’d let loose—after he tucked this picture into the little box he still kept under his bed, filled with pictures and notes and all the All Might figurines that Mitsuki had kept so many years ago. 

“If you won’t do it for yourself,” Mitsuki blurted, “do it for him. Become the hero he always wanted you to be.” 

Katsuki walked out. 

Chapter Text

Ten months. 

The Yuuei entrance exam was in ten months. 

And if Izuku failed… he didn’t know what would happen to him. He didn’t know if he would even survive. 

Izuku’s whole body hurt all the time. All Might had him on a strict diet and exercise regimen—one that Izuku found he couldn’t quite keep up with, given his meager food budget—and Sensei had him doing extra training with Shigaraki, which usually ended with Izuku being beaten to hell. His eyes were constantly dry from the colored contacts he was forced to wear—Sensei didn’t want anyone recognizing him as the kid that went missing six years ago—and between it all, Shigaraki was still sending him on hits against the Yakuza. 

To put it shortly, Izuku was exhausted. 

“Once more, with feeling, Young Akatani!” All Might boomed. “You’re not sweating! You can go faster than that!”

Izuku pushed his legs to move faster, farther, even as his lungs burned and his muscles ached. Just a little more. A little longer, and then he could rest. His clunky shoes sunk into the sand with every step, one after the other, as his knees wobbled and trembled with the strain of his own body. Izuku’s head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, a low buzzing reverberating through his skull and static penetrating his ears. His vision was swirling with colors, blurring together into a canvas of nothingness as blackness consumed him.

Awareness came to Izuku in waves, and the world around him was a disjointed haze. His body felt heavy, his limbs tingling with a familiar numbness. Muffled words cut through his thoughts, the voice sounding like gibberish to his ears, and he forced himself to blink back the grogginess that clung to his senses. 

Tilting his head up, forcing down the nausea that coiled in his gut, Izuku saw All Might’s face leaning over him, his eyebrows pinched with a frown tugging at his lips. “Young Akatani, are you alright, my boy?”

Izuku sat bolt-upright, wincing as the dizziness flared. “I’m so sorry, All Might-sensei!” 

All Might’s brow pinched. “My boy, the plan I designed for you has your body in mind. You’re following it, aren’t you?” 

“Y-yes!” Izuku’s shoulders sank. “I mean, I’m trying to.” 

“What do you mean trying?” All Might asked. The perpetual smile was missing from his face. 

Izuku’s face went pink. “I just, um. I want to work harder, you know? So that I can be the best.” 

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. Lying to All Might, to his personal idol… it felt wrong. But how could he tell the man that Izuku couldn’t afford the fancy meal plan he’d laid out, that some days, he barely had enough to buy a McDonald’s burger? How ungrateful he would seem. 

Worse, if All Might knew something was wrong in Izuku’s life, Izuku knew that the man wouldn’t hesitate to get himself involved. If he ever learned about Izuku’s true master, this whole beautiful dream would fade, and Sensei would have his head. 

“I admire your drive, Young Akatani, but you need to take care of yourself.” All Might was sterner than Izuku had ever seen him. “If you tire yourself out, you aren’t going to make the entrance exam.”
“O-of course.” Izuku’s gaze dropped. 

All Might studied him. “If you like, I can modify your plan to include more intense workouts, but you’ll need to augment it with extra meals.” 

Izuku worried on his lower lip, feeling his heart drop into his stomach. Of course he didn’t realize that would only make the problem worse. “Y-yeah, okay.” 

“Is that a problem, Young Akatani?” 

“No,” Izuku said, too quickly.

“If money is an issue, I can help you out,” All Might said, voice grave.

Izuku flinched. “No! I can’t take your money!” Not ever, but especially not now, when Izuku knew that he was betraying the man. His idol. His hero. Izuku couldn’t take advantage of All Might’s kindness, not when Izuku was only biding his time. He was getting the knife into position so that Sensei could shove it into his mentor’s heart. 

But All Might’s frown only deepened. “Yes, you can. As your mentor, it’s my job to see to your well-being, and as a hero, I have more money than I need.” 

“I can’t, I can’t do that.” Izuku was shaking his head, half-panicked at the thought. 

“Alright! Alright.” All Might held his hands up placatingly. “You’d tell me if you were struggling, wouldn’t you, son?” 

Izuku sucked in a breath, blinking back the tears that burned behind his eyes. “I’m, um. I’m okay, All Might-sensei, I promise.” 

From the way All Might’s gaze lingered on his face, the man knew he was lying. 

***

Sensei summoned Izuku as soon as his training was over. 

Izuku couldn’t stop fidgeting as he stood before Sensei. It was eerie to see his smile, so wide and bright, yet it didn’t reach his nonexistent eyes. That smile was so different from All Might’s ever-present grin, which never stopped seeming genuine, no matter how many times Izuku saw it.

There was a woman standing in the back of the room. She was tall and thin, beautiful upon first glance, but the longer Izuku’s gaze lingered on her, the more she unnerved him. There was something… off about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Izuku bowed his head, clasping his hands together to hide the way they trembled. “You asked for me, Sensei?” 

“Ah, Young Izuku.” Sensei’s grin widened. “Thank you for coming.” 

Izuku bit his lip, but said nothing. 

“It’s come to my attention that, even with your haircut and contacts, you might be… recognizable … to Young Bakugou.” Sensei drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “We need to come up with a way for you to infiltrate Yuuei without getting caught.” 

Izuku clenched his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms hard enough to break the skin. He couldn’t help the nausea coiling in his gut. They’d already taken everything from him—his friends, his family, his name, his dream—and now they wanted to take his face away, too. There was nothing left of him. 

“This is Glamour,” Sensei continued, without waiting for a response. He raised a hand, and the thin woman stepped forward, eyeing Izuku like he was a bug she’d had the misfortune of stepping on. “As her name suggests, she can create intricate illusions to mask your identity—something that can keep you from being recognized from everyone who doesn’t know of its existence.” 

“This is the boy?” Glamour’s lip curled. “He doesn’t look like much.” 

“Izuku won’t let us down,” Sensei said. His voice was so smooth, so horrifically friendly. “He knows what will happen to him if he does.” 

Izuku had to clasp his hands together to hide the way they trembled, ducking his head down lower. “What about All Might? He needs to be able to recognize me…” 

Glamour sucked her teeth at him. “I’m not an amateur, boy.”  

Sensei held up a hand, and the woman fell silent. “Glamour will not change your appearance—she will only trick the mind into believing you are someone else. Since All Might already knows of your identity as Mikumo Akatani, it shouldn’t affect him.”

Izuku’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Sensei, but I don’t understand… 

Sensei sighed. When he spoke again, he sounded tired, and he drew out his words like he was talking to a young child. “To put it simply, your identities as Izuku Midoriya and Mikumo Akatani will become distinct. As long as somebody knows you as one, you won’t be recognizable as the other.” 

Izuku swallowed, forcing his shoulders back. Maybe this was for the best—if his identity was protected, that was one less thing to worry about. 

 Because Kacchan would be at Yuuei. Izuku knew he would. There was no way someone as amazing as Kacchan wouldn’t get into the school of his dreams. And if Kacchan was there, if Kacchan recognized him, it would all be over. 

“Alright,” Izuku said. 

“Good. One thing you should know about Glamour’s quirk, my boy.” Sensei’s lips twisted up into a mockery of a smile, wide and cruel and terrible. “No one ever said it was comfortable.” 

Glamour seized Izuku’s face in her hand, and as the white-hot pain seared his skin, all Izuku could do was scream. 

***

It was Shouta’s day off, and he wasn’t asleep. He considered this a tragedy. 

“Stop sulking.” Hizashi nudged him with a shoulder. “It’s Saturday—that means it’s date night.”

“It’s not even night,” Shouta grumbled. 

“I’m taking you to lunch so you can get an early bedtime.” Hizashi slung his arm around Shouta’s neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “You work too hard, but you still have to make time for me.” 

Shouta turned his head, capturing Hizashi’s lips with his own. “I’ll always make time for you,” he mumbled.

Hizashi grinned against his mouth. “Then you can show me how much you love me by paying for lunch.”

Shouta rolled his eyes, but snagged Hizashi’s hand in his own. “You’re spoiled.”

“You love me.” 

“What do you want to eat?” Shouta asked, pointedly ignoring his husband’s statement. They were next in line to order, after the boy with the green hair, and they hadn’t discussed their plans yet—not that there were many menu options at a hole-in-the-wall burger joint. It might not have been the nicest venue for Saturday date night, but hey, Shouta really wanted a fucking burger. 

Hizashi grinned, bouncing on the balls of his toes. “A milkshake with two straws.”

“Oh my god.” 

“It’s romantic!” Hizashi whined, twining their fingers together. “We can be like a couple from a 50’s movie.” 

Shouta heaved a sigh. “What do you want to eat, ‘Zashi?” 

Hizashi chuckled, but relented. “Two burgers and a large fry. Plus the milkshake.” 

“You eat like a bear,” Shouta grumbled. 

“It’s all that hero-ing! It takes it out of me,” Hizashi said brightly. 

“What is taking so long?” Shouta asked, glaring up at the green-haired boy who had been holding up the line for several minutes now. His stomach cramped again—he really needed to eat, now, or his hanger was going to kick in.

Hizashi poked his chest with a finger. “Don’t be so grumpy, Sho, you’ll get wrinkles.”

“I’m hungry,” Shouta grumbled. 

Hizashi tugged on Shouta’s arm, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from that green-haired kid standing in front of them. His eyes narrowed. The boy’s shoulders were slumped and his clothes were grungy. Something about him seemed familiar, but Shouta couldn’t quite put his finger on how. 

The cashier was shaking his head. “Sorry, but I can’t give a kids’ meal to anyone under ten.”

“But it’s all I can afford,” the green haired boy was begging. “Can’t you make an exception?” 

“I wish I could help you out, man, but I don’t want to lose my job. I need to eat, too.” 

The boy’s shoulders slumped. “R-right. Sure. Okay. I guess I’ll just… g-go.”

“Hey, wait,” Shouta said, before he could stop himself. There was something about the kid, something about his voice that was… familiar. He almost reminded Shouta of Rabbit—although Shouta was sure the similarities were superficial, given that he was tone deaf and thought all adolescent boys sounded pretty much the same. 

The kid’s whole body went still. 

He turned around slowly, like he was afraid of what he would see standing behind him. When he saw Shouta and Hizashi, his muddy eyes widened, and his eyes popped open in a startled O. 

Shouta rolled his eyes inwardly. Probably another hero fanboy who recognized his husband. 

“What do you want, kid?” Shouta asked. 

The boy blinked. “W-what?” 

“To eat,” Shouta clarified. 

The boy was frozen in place, eyes darting anxiously between Shouta and Hizashi at his side. “Um, n-nothing, I’m just going to g-go now…” He started backing away. 

“Kid, I can’t let you go hungry.” Shouta crossed his arms over his chest. The boy was way too skinny, and his dirty clothes hung from his body. He couldn't help the way his gut twisted at the sight of a child so obviously abandoned and underfed. 

“I’m fine!” the boy hurried to say. “I just… forgot my wallet. Yeah, it’s at home. I’ll just go get it, and then…” 

Hizashi and Shouta exchanged a glance. They’d been heroes for long enough to know when something was wrong. 

Hizashi—undoubtedly the gentler of the two—spoke up, softening his voice enough not to startle the kid. “Hey, little listener, don’t worry about it. It would be a shame to make you walk all the way back home when you’re already here!” 

The kid’s eyes widened, and he shook his head a bit frantically. “N-no it’s okay, I don’t want to impose…” 

“It’s not an imposition!” Hizashi chuckled, the sound unconcerned and friendly, but Shouta could see the tightness in his eyes. “I got a giftcard to this place a while back, and Sho and I can’t spend it all by ourselves. We have money to spare.” 

The boy bit his lip. “I couldn’t—” 

Shouta didn’t let him finish. “A cheeseburger and fries for the kid. My husband wants two burgers, a large fry, and a milkshake.” 

“With two straws!” Hizashi piped up. 

Shouta sighed. “I’ll just have a grilled cheese.” 

Hizashi smiled at the kid with a gentleness in his eyes that Shouta recognized. He usually reserved it for trauma victims. “Why don’t you sit down, yeah? We’ll meet you when the food is out.” 

Shouta watched the kid’s shoulders drop, resigned. His eyes flicked back and forth between Hizashi and himself before he gave a timid nod in agreement. “Y-yeah, okay.”

The kid scurried passed them further into the restaurant, searching for a seat. He seemed eager to get as far away from them as he could. Once out of ear shot, Hizashi turned to Shouta with a pout on his lips. “ Sho .” 

Shouta let out a long sigh, a dull thumping in the back of his head warning him of an oncoming headache. “I know—I know, but you and I both know we can’t rush things. He agreed to stay and eat with us. Let's start with that, okay?”

The pout was still persistent, and Shouta’s heart squeezed. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss against Hizashi’s cheek and brushed a strand of blonde hair out of his husband's face. ”Why don’t you go find him and talk with him—we both know you're the one better with kids. I’ll wait here for the food.”

Hizashi perked up at that, giving him one of his signature blinding smiles. “Alright, you got me—but this still doesn't mean you can escape our romantic 50’s milkshake!”

Shouta chuckled at his husband’s antictics, watching as he waltzed towards the seating area—but he couldn’t help the worry that twisted in his gut. There was something wrong here, about the boy, something that Shouta couldn’t put his finger on. It itched at the back of his head. Where had he seen the boy before? 

Shouta practically darted to the table as soon as their food was out. The boy and Hizashi were sitting at a booth towards the back of the restaurant, tucked into a dark corner that the light didn’t quite reach. The boy’s shoulders were curled inwards, like he was trying his hardest to disappear, and Hizashi was murmuring something to him in low tones. 

Shouta’s heart softened. Hizashi was as loud and obnoxious as anyone Shouta had ever met, but he had another side—a softer side that very few people got to see. 

Shouta slid into the booth, gluing himself to Hizashi’s side. The boy froze like a deer caught in the headlights.

Hizashi flashed Shouta a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. His face was tight, his worry clear in the swirling depths of his gaze. “Hey, Sho. Is the food ready?” 

Shouta nodded absently before turning expectantly towards the boy. “Hey, kid. I’m Shouta Aizawa, and this is my husband, Hizashi Yamada. What can I call you?” 

The boy’s eyes darted back and forth between Shouta and Hizashi. He cleared his throat. “Mikumo Akatani.” 

“Akatani.” Shouta and Hizashi exchanged a glance. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The boy said nothing. 

Hizashi cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry! Let’s eat.” 

Shouta distributed the food around the table, trying not to stare at the near-silent boy staring at him with wide eyes across the table. Even after Shouta had handed the kid his cheeseburger and fries, Akatani made no move to touch his meal. 

Shouta took a bite of his grilled cheese. “It’s not poisoned, you know,” he said. 

Akatani shrunk back. “I… I just…” 

“He’s only kidding,” Hizashi assured him, elbowing Shouta sharply in the side. “But you should eat! You must be hungry.” 

“No, I just, um. Feel bad.” The boy picked at a hangnail, refusing to meet their eyes. “You shouldn’t have spent money on me.” 

“It was no problem, little listener!” Hizashi said. “It’s nice to have a little bit of company.” 

“I c-can pay you back later…” Akatani offered. 

Shouta scoffed. “Kid, relax. That burger was, like, two dollars.” 

The kid worried on his lower lip. “Yeah. I just, uh, left my wallet at home. So… thanks.” 

“Don’t even worry about it.” Hizashi’s crooked smile was soothing. “How old are you, kid?” 

Akatani shifted nervously in his seat. “Fourteen,” he whispered. 

Hizashi caught Aizawa’s hand under the table and squeezed. Fourteen—much too young to be struggling to feed himself. But his relaxed smile didn’t fade. “Hey, that’s cool! Are you applying to high schools soon?” 

“Yeah.” The boy tugged his sleeves over his hands. “I want to go to Yuuei High. I mean, um. If I can get in.” 

Hizashi perked up. “Yuuei, no way! That’s where Shouta and I—”

Shouta elbowed Hizashi in the side, cutting him off. “We watch the sports festival there every year,” he finished. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Akatani to know they taught there just yet. Call it instinct, but Shouta knew that would only scare the kid off. 

As hesitant as the kid had been about eating his food, he practically devoured it once he started. Shouta tried not to watch. He couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since the kid had eaten. 

All too soon, the food was gone, and even Hizashi had run out of things to say. Akatani bit his lip. “Um. Thank you, for the food. I should, uh. I should go now.” 

Hizashi stood. “Let us walk you home.” 

“No!” Akatani said, too loud and too fast. His eyes were as wide as saucers. He let out a breath, shoulders sinking again as the panic in his eyes dimmed. “I mean. I’d rather if you didn’t.” 

“Alright,” Hizashi said gently, settling back down next to Shouta. His eyes were tight. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“Yeah,” the boy murmured. “Thanks again.” 

Hizashi’s smile was strained. “Anytime, little listener.” 

Akatani offered a thin, wan smile before he practically fled, darting out of the restaurant 

Shouta squeezed Hizashi’s hand. They’d see this kid again, they knew, at the Yuuei entrance exams. Whether or not he passed, Shouta didn’t plan to let him slip through the cracks. He’d seen what happened to boys like Akatani when they were left on the street too long, and Shouta couldn’t bear to think of Akatani suffering the same fate as Rabbit. It seemed there were two  problem children Shouta had to save now.

Shouta sighed. Figures.

Chapter Text

Of things Izuku had expected from tonight, running into Eraserhead wasn’t one of them—but there the hero was, sitting on the rooftop like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

Izuku still ran into Eraserhead every now and then, but their scheduled meetings had come to an abrupt end as soon as Sensei had given him his new mission. It felt wrong to rely on the hero’s kindness, only to turn around and betray him. Besides, Izuku knew Eraserhead had some sort of connection with Yuuei—he just didn’t know what it was yet. If Izuku succeeded in Sensei’s mission, he needed to have as little to do with Eraserhead as possible. And if Izuku failed… well, if he failed, Izuku would be dead. 

But say what you would about Eraserhead, the man didn’t give up easily. Izuku ran into him more than he reasonably should’ve. It seemed like the hero was purposefully keeping tabs on him, though for what reason, Izuku couldn’t figure out. 

Izuku approached slowly. He still wasn’t entirely sure how the glamour worked, and if Eraserhead— Aizawa —recognized him as the same Mikumo Akatani from the restaurant, it wouldn’t be good. 

Their surprise encounter in the diner had been a shock. He’d have to be more careful from now on. If anyone discovered his double identity, everything would be over. 

Luckily, when Eraserhead looked up, there was nothing but bland recognition on his face. “Rabbit,” he deadpanned. 

“Eraserhead.” Izuku took a seat on the ground across from the underground hero, biting his lower lip beneath his mask. Maybe he should’ve run away, but he didn’t want to make Eraserhead even more suspicious. 

From what Izuku understood of Glamour’s quirk, it didn’t disguise him so much as it caused cognitive dissonance in the people who perceived him. Depending on the context of when they were seeing him, the quirk prevented them from recognizing him as the same person. It was a confusing concept, and Izuku was having a hard time wrapping his mind around it—but the important part was that it seemed to be working. 

Eraserhead cleared his throat. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you around.”

Izuku picked idly at a thread hanging from his worn sweatshirt. “Been busy.” 

“Care to share?” Eraser drawled. 

Izuku’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “You know I can’t do that.” 

For just a moment, it was quiet. Then: “Your master is forcing you not to tell, isn’t he?” 

“Quit trying to get information out of me,” Izuku said. He tried to sound angry—but he was tired, and he was hungry, and his whole body ached from the beating Shigaraki had given him, and he just didn’t have it in him to be frustrated right now. “You know it’s not going to work.” 

Eraserhead’s throat worked. “At least tell me that you’re doing alright,” he said, and if Izuku wasn’t imagining it, the underground hero’s voice sounded a bit hoarse. 

“I’m fine.” 

Eraser turned, his flat black eyes burning holes in Izuku’s masked face. “You’re lying, aren’t you?” 

Izuku said nothing. 

Eraser sighed—a drawn-out, tired sound that had become familiar in the last few months—and dragged a hand down his face. “Listen, kid. I know I fucked this up a couple of months ago—I shouldn’t have lied to you. But the whole ‘you avoiding me’ thing can’t keep going on like this.”

“It can, actually,” Izuku countered. 

Eraserhead quirked a brow. “So you admit you’ve been avoiding me?” 

Izuku shrugged. “It really wasn’t a secret.” 

Eraserhead’s jaw flexed as his jaw clenched, clear frustration shining through his usually-calm facade, and Izuku scooted away from him as quietly as possible. He knew it wasn’t a good thing when adults got mad. “I understand that I broke your trust,” Eraser said. “I get it. And I’m sorry. But could you give me another chance? Please?”

“This isn’t about you, Eraserhead.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Talking to you is stupid,” Izuku replied, chewing at his lower lip. “If anyone ever finds me out, I’m dead.” 

“You can always come with me,” Eraser said. Izuku could tell he was trying to sound casual, but his voice seemed strained. “Leave this life behind. You’ll be safe, I promise you.” 

“You can’t promise me anything.” 

“Yes, I can.” 

Izuku rolled his eyes, leaning back on his hands. “Let’s say I do come with you. Best case scenario, they stick me in a foster home, where my master would find me in a heartbeat. Worst case, they throw me in prison—y’know, a prison filled with Yakuza members that I’ve been systematically pissing off for the past three years.” Izuku’s voice quieted, and he looked down at his lap. “There’s no way this ends well for me. You get that, don’t you?” 

“Those aren’t your only options—”

“But they actually kind of are,” Izuku said. “Face it, Eraserhead. You can’t help me.” 

Eraser spun around, attention locked on Izuku instead of the sleeping city. “And what if you had another choice?” he asked. “What if you found someone who was willing to take you in and also able to protect you? Would that change your mind?” 

“On the off chance that such a person even exists at all?” Izuku snorted. “No. It wouldn’t change anything.” 

And when Eraserhead spoke again, the gruff, emotionless hero sounded almost… sad . “You really don’t believe there’s anyone out there who wants to help you?” 

“It’s been fourteen years, and no one has so far,” Izuku said, plucking a pebble from the roof of the building and throwing it, watching as it disappeared into the inky black night. 

“I want to help you,” Eraser said.

Izuku shrugged. “You’re a hero. It’s your job to help me. But as soon as that job is finished, I’ll probably never see you again.” He tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he said it. In these few months, Eraserhead had shown Izuku more kindness than anyone had in years—and Izuku had spent the better part of that time running from him. “It’s better this way, Eraser.”

Eraserhead sighed. “Kid…” 

“Fine,” Izuku snapped. “You don’t believe me? Who in their right mind would want a fucked-up kid like me?” He paused for just one moment. “You?” 

Eraserhead opened his mouth, and for a second, Izuku thought he would say yes. Yes, I want to help you. Yes, I want to care for you. Yes, I think there’s more for you in this world than blood and pain and misery. 

But Eraserhead said nothing, and Izuku’s hopes plummeted as fast as they’d risen. “That’s what I thought,” Izuku said. 

“At least… at least eat something,” Eraser said, and Izuku thought that a pleading note had entered the man’s voice. “Okay, kid? You’re not allowed to starve.” 

And oh, Izuku hated the way his heart leapt at even the mention of food. “You have… something to eat?” he asked, and his voice sounded quiet—sheepish, pathetic—even to his own ears.

“Yeah, kid,” Eraserhead murmured. “I brought it for you.” 

Izuku gnawed nervously on his lower lip. “How did you know you’d run into me?” 

Eraser was quiet for so long that Izuku almost thought he wouldn’t answer. “I pack stuff for you every night,” he said finally. “Just in case.”

Izuku’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “That’s stupid. And a waste.” 

“No, it’s not. Not to me.” He took a deep breath, shoulders raising and falling with the force of his sigh. “Y’know, there’s a boxing gym not far from here—nothing fancy, but they have a bunch of lockers in the back that they rent out. Sometimes I stash my stuff there on long shifts—instant coffee, a change of clothes. Extra food.” 

Izuku could tell the man was trying to sound casual, but it wasn’t working. “What are you getting at, Eraser?” 

“Locker 340 at Gunhead Martial Arts Training Gym. The code is 8179,” Eraserhead said. “Next time you’re hungry, swing by. I’ll make sure there’s something fresh for you.” 

And Izuku didn’t know what the fuck to say to that. 

Why was Eraserhead doing this? Why was he going this far? As far as Izuku knew, he had no professional obligation as a hero to help some boy he found on the streets. But here he was anyways, feeding Izuku, trying keep him fed and healthy and safe —or at least, as safe as he could be. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Izuku croaked, his throat suddenly dry. 

“No, I don’t,” Eraser agreed. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

“But—”

Eraserhead didn’t let him finish. “Listen, there’s food there with your name on it, and I’m not touching it. Like you said, it’s a waste if it doesn’t get eaten.” The man’s lips twisted up into a lopsided grin, but he didn’t look happy. Not at all. “It’s only logical.”

And suddenly, there were tears in Izuku’s eyes, and he had to blink fast to keep the from falling. Why —after everything, why did Eraserhead care so much? “You could just spare yourself the trouble,” Izuku said, his voice hoarse. “You could stop looking for me, stop caring about me. You could just let me go. It would probably be easier for both of us.” 

“I could.” Eraserhead shrugged. “But I won’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Eraserhead’s flat black eyes met Izuku’s, and the intensity in them made Izuku tremble. “Because if I give up on you, I wouldn’t be able to call myself a hero.”

Chapter Text

Shouta wanted to punch something. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Rabbit—how small he looked sitting on the rooftop with his knees curled to his chest. Since their regular meetings had started to decline, the kid was always on Shouta’s mind. Was he hurt? Was he hungry? Was he even alive? 

Seeing the kid should’ve put Shouta’s mind at ease, but it didn’t. It only made everything worse. Because dammit, in all his years of teaching, he’d never seen a child who needed help as desperately as this one did—or one who was more determined to refuse when it was offered. 

You have… something to eat?

You could just spare yourself the trouble. You could stop looking for me, stop caring about me. You could just let me go. It would probably be easier for both of us.

You don’t believe me? Who in their right mind would want a fucked-up kid like me? You? 

It hurt. All of it hurt—realizing how badly the kid was suffering, how long it had probably been since he’d eaten a proper meal. It hurt even more to hear the pain in Rabbit’s voice when he asked whether Shouta wanted him. 

In that moment, Shouta realized that he wanted to say yes. Yes, he wanted to take the kid home, to feed him and wrap him in blankets, sandwich the boy between Hizashi’s body and Shouta’s own. He wanted to see what the kid looked like when he smiled—a real smile, one unhindered by pain or fear or uncertainty. He wanted to hear him laugh. He wanted to keep him safe. 

And yes, Shouta had always known that his mission was to save Rabbit. What he hadn’t expected was how attached he would get. He’d intended to help the kid, but only until he was safe enough to have a real family. 

Suddenly, finding the kid a family wasn’t enough. He wanted to be that family. 

And that… surprised Shouta, to say the least. Shouta was not an overly paternal man at the best of times. He liked kids well enough, being a teacher, but he’d never wanted children of his own—not when he knew that his lifestyle was hardly conducive to raising a baby. But Rabbit was different. 

He wasn’t a baby, for one. He was fourteen—the same age as Shouta’s students. That wasn’t to say he was grown, though. Not only was Rabbit a child, he was a deeply traumatized child—no doubt caring for him would be difficult. Just from what Shouta had seen, the kid clearly suffered from some form of PTSD, and he showed plenty of symptoms of depression, anxiety, touch starvation, and attachment issues. 

More than that, though, there was just something about Rabbit. He was so bright—Shouta could tell, even though his education had been neglected. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it crinkled his wide green eyes, making him look impossibly younger and more innocent. He had a dry sense of humor that complimented Shouta’s own, even though at his age, the kid had no reason to be so cynical. Maybe it was one of those things, or the combination of all three, that made Shouta feel so protective over the kid. Maybe it was something intangible—something about the kid that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

The only problem was, Shouta had a husband. A husband who worked three jobs and had been fully on-board the child-free train for the entirety of their marriage. 

So yes, Shouta did want Izuku—wanted to take care of him so badly that it hurt. But he couldn’t say it. Not yet, anyway. 

Shouta unlocked the door and stepped into his apartment, collapsing onto the couch the second he was within range. God, he didn’t think he’d ever felt so tired—a sense of exhaustion that permeated his bones. 

“Shou?”

Hizashi stepped out from the kitchen, holding a steaming mug in his hands. He was wearing a Put Your Hands Up Radio shirt that was at least a double XL, despite Hizashi’s wire-thin frame, and his hair hung long and tangled down his back. His eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed beneath his glasses. 

“You’re back late,” Hizashi murmured. “Were you working all night?” 

“Yeah.” Shouta sighed, running a hand down his face. “It was a long night. I would’ve thought you’d still be in bed.”

Hizashi shrugged. “I never sleep as well when you’re working. You know that.” 

And Shouta did know. It was the nature of being a hero. It was a dangerous profession, and having a loved one willingly put themselves in that situation was hard. Shouta couldn’t count the number of times he’d gotten a call that Hizashi was in the hospital. He was sure Hizashi felt the same way about him. 

Hizashi wandered over, settling next to Shouta on the couch and tucking his legs underneath his body. “Wanna talk about it?” 

Shouta couldn’t meet his husband’s eyes. “Rabbit made another appearance.” 

Hizashi fell still. “Oh.” He bit his lip. “Was he… I mean, how was he?”

Shouta dragged a tired hand down his face. “He’s been better. He’s been worse.” 

“Was he hurt?” Hizashi asked. His voice was quiet—barely louder than a whisper. 

“No,” Shouta said. “At least, not visibly, but the kid has an insane pain tolerance. He might’ve just been hiding it. But fuck, the kid is tiny.” Shouta buried his face in his hands, the image of an emaciated figure with knees curled to its chest burned into his mind. “He’s probably even skinnier than the first time I saw him. It’s like he’s burning through hundreds of calories and has no way to replenish them. He’s definitely overworking himself.” 

“Shit.” Hizashi’s eyes fluttered closed. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Shouta sighed. “No. I don’t know.”

Hizashi reached out, wrapping an arm around Shouta and stroking long, soothing lines down his husband’s back. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“How do you know there’s something I’m not telling you?” Shouta asked. 

Hizashi snorted. “I’ve known you since I was fourteen, Shou. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” 

The words bubbled up in Shouta’s chest, and suddenly, he couldn’t keep them in anymore. Everytime he closed his eyes, Rabbit was there—scared and small and so, so hurt. “Zashi, I… I know we had an agreement when we got married. Life was so busy for us—it still is, frankly. At the time, I couldn’t picture it any other way. And these past few years have been the happiest of my life.”

Hizashi’s hand stilled on Shouta’s back. “This is about Rabbit, isn’t it?” 

“I just…” Shouta shook his head, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “God, Zashi, if you’d heard the way he talked today. He doesn’t think he has any options. He thinks that nobody can help him—that nobody would want to help him. But I… I do.” Shouta’s voice was hoarse. He forced himself to swallow down the emotion that threatened to choke him, rising like acid in his throat. I want to help him, Zashi. I can’t just leave him alone. And I know it’s not what we planned on, and I know it’s not want you wanted, but…” 

“But what, Shou?” Hizashi asked. 

Shouta’s voice cracked. “But it’s Rabbit.”  

“Oh, Shouta. Baby,” Hizashi cooed. His swirling green eyes softened, and he leaned into his husband’s shoulder. “You’re right—I never really wanted kids. Growing up, I thought they’d get in the way of my hero work.” 

“Zashi—”

“I’m not done yet.” Hizashi cut him off. “I never wanted kids back then. But then we got married.” Hizashi grinned, but there were tears lining his eyes, and he blinked fast to keep them from falling. “We grew together—changed together. I don't remember when, exactly, but I saw you playing with the cats awhile back. I couldn’t help but imagine you playing with our child.” He laughed, but the sound was choked. “And when I started teaching? God, I think that was the first time I really realized that I love kids. I’d pick my teaching job over my hero work any day, because seeing those kids smile, helping them learn and grow… damn, that does more for my heart than anything else ever could.” 

Hizashi reached up, smoothing Shouta’s hair away from his face. “I didn’t want to bring it up,” he said. “I never thought that was something you’d want, and you mean more to me than anything. But Shouta.” His grin widened, tears finally breaking free to slip down his cheeks. “Bringing a child into our life, our home… it’s the only thing that could make my life any greater than it already is.” 

To his horror, Shouta realized his lip was trembling, and he bit down hard enough to leave teeth marks in his flesh. “What are you saying?” he breathed.

Hizashi laughed, cupping Shouta’s face in his hands. “I’m saying yes,” he replied. “Bring him home, baby—he’ll have a family waiting for him when you do.”

Chapter Text

Part II

Ten months later

When Izuku had agreed to become his idol’s successor, he hadn’t anticipated that eating hair would be part of the gig. He could still taste the two-in-one shampoo lingering on the back of his tongue. Gross . 

He also hadn’t thought that, even after ten months of rigorous training, his inherited quirk would break his limbs the first time he tried to use it. Maybe he should’ve guessed it—nothing could ever just be easy, not for Izuku. He must’ve been born under some ill-fated star: if he’d been a gambling man, he was convinced he’d roll snake-eyes every time he picked up the dice. He wasn’t just unlucky. Luck fled from him like a hare flees from a fox with blood on its gullet. 

Izuku giggled to himself as he plummeted out of the air, more than a little delirious from the pain. Record scratch, freeze frame. Yeah, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. 

He was going to splatter like an egg on the pavement. Of all the ways to go, it wasn’t the most glamorous—but at least it would be quick, and if he was lucky, painless. It was certainly better than melting from the outside in under Shigaraki’s grip. All in all, he’d had a pretty good run of things. He got to meet his idol, fight a giant robot, and rescue a pretty girl from imminent destruction. 

Of course, this was when the third unexpected thing happened: a comet smelling like motor oil and burnt caramel came barrelling into him, knocking him free from his collision course with the asphalt. 

The impact almost definitely bruised Izuku’s ribs, which— ow —was an extra injury he definitely did not need. The flaring pain was too intense for him to be grateful about avoiding his imminent death. He hit the ground a second later, softer than he might have otherwise, but hard enough to earn him a mean case of road rash anyway. Groaning, Izuku flopped onto his back, feeling like one giant bruise. 

There was a hand cradling the back of his head, keeping his skull from colliding with the road. He tilted his face up to thank his savior—

Only for his heart to stop dead in his chest. 

The hand tightened on the back of his neck as two crimson eyes glared down at him. 

Katsuki’s body had moved on its own. 

He saw a flash of green plummeting out of the sky, curls buffeted by the wind, limbs already purple with how hard they’d broken, and—

Oh. 

If Deku had ever had the chance to become a hero, that’s how Katsuki imagined he might have looked: green lightning flickering over his skin like he was some ancient God, breaking his body over and over and over again to save someone who probably didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t a choice to intercept his rapid descent. One moment, Katsuki was lording over another smoking robot, reveling in his kill. The next, the green idiot was in his arms, and they were both plummeting towards the cold, hard ground. 

The landing was hard. Katsuki curled his body around the boy in his arms, but couldn’t help the way they both skidded across the asphalt. Katsuki tasted old pennies burning acrid on the back of his tongue. His fingers were tangled in viridian curls. He forced himself up on one shaking arm, staring down at the green-haired boy with his heart in his throat. 

It couldn’t be Deku. It couldn’t be. And yet—

He looked wrong, wrong, all wrong. The green eyes blinking up at him were dull and flat, not bright and glittering like he remembered. His face was gaunt, sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones, and the scattered freckles were faded, like they hadn’t seen the sun in months. His hair was shorter—styled in an undercut, shorter underneath, with the fluffy curls left long on top—and his skin was still flickering with green lightning from a quirk that Deku definitely didn’t have. More than that, there was something incessant pushing at the back of his mind, some strange impulse that was hard to ignore. It whispered in his ear: not him, not him. You’ve never met this boy before. 

But the boy had green eyes, and green hair, and his lips were parted slightly as he looked up at Katsuki, and goddammit, Katsuki couldn’t fucking breathe. 

Katsuki’s hand tightened where it cradled the boy’s head, bloodred eyes flickering over the face that was so familiar and so foreign all at once. When Katsuki spoke, his voice was hoarse—barely louder than a whisper. “Deku?”

The boy underneath him flinched—actually flinched , like the name hurt him as much to hear as it hurt Katsuki to say. At that motion, any doubt fled Katsuki’s mind. He didn’t care how impossible it was, he didn’t care how that instinct in the back of his mind itched and itched and itched . He would have known Deku blind, deaf, and mute. He would have known him in different lifetimes, different galaxies. When the sun exploded and the world crumbled to ash, Katsuki would still know Izuku. He had spent too many years dreaming about him for it to be otherwise. 

There came the sound of footsteps slapping against the asphalt, and then there were hands on his shoulders, ripping him away from the boy, even as he fought against them, even as he clawed —

There was a voice in his ear, deep and a little gruff, like its owner had gravel in his throat. “It’s okay, kid. Let Recovery Girl work.” 

“You don’t understand,” Katsuki snapped. “That’s my—”

“I don’t care who he is to you. He’s hurt, and he needs medical care.” Katsuki found himself face-to-face with a man whose eye bags were so dark they looked like bruises. If Katsuki had seen him on the street, he might have honestly assumed the man was homeless. The man kept his hand planted in the center of Katsuki’s chest, as though he knew that without it Katsuki would fight like hell to get back to Deku’s side. “What the hell just happened? You’ve seen this quirk in action before?”

“No,” Katsuki croaked. His throat felt dry. He could barely see Deku’s silhouette past the small group that had clustered around him. “The quirk is new.” 

“What do you mean it’s new?” 

“He didn’t have a quirk the last time I saw him.” 

“And when was that?” 

Katsuki’s throat worked. “About six years ago.” 

“Six years ?” The man quirked one thick, supremely judgemental eyebrow. Skepticism was rolling off him in waves, and frankly, Katsuki resented that. “Are you sure this is the same kid?” 

“He—he looks different, but I—” The words stalled on Katsuki’s tongue. He didn’t know how to describe it. Every sense was screaming at him that this kid wasn’t Deku, but he knew it. He knew . 

The homeless (?) man heaved a long, heavy sigh. “Alright, kid. Let’s get you some water and then we’ll have a chat, alright?” 

Katsuki hugged himself, clutching onto his arms so hard the flesh blanched and dimpled under his fingers. “But Deku—I—”

“Your friend is going to be fine,” the man said. “The best you can do for him right now is let Recovery Girl work.” 

Katsuki let the man lead him away, even as he couldn’t tear his gaze away entirely from the green-haired boy laying prone on the asphalt. He didn’t know how to tell the man that he wasn’t worried about Deku’s broken arm. He was worried the boy would disappear once again, like so much smoke, with nothing but the memories to remind Katsuki he had ever existed at all. 

Shouta wanted to go to sleep for about sixteen years. 

Something always went wrong with Nezu’s stupid entrance exam. In Shouta’s opinion, it was completely irrational—fighting robots favored students with flashy quirks, and the lack of opportunity to strategize meant Shouta always ended up with more than a few students who couldn’t tell their ass from their big toe. Broken bones were common; head injuries were even more so. 

Even with all that said, this situation was somewhat unprecedented. 

There were two kids currently under supervision in their infirmary. The first, one Mikumo Akatani, had been admitted with no fewer than three broken limbs. The second, Bakugo Katsuki, swore up and down that Akatani was lying about his identity, and was, in fact, a quirkless boy who had gone missing some six years earlier. 

Shouta had spoken to Bakugo’s parents on the phone. Apparently, such issues weren’t uncommon—his mother apologetically explained that he’d been working with his therapist not to see his dead best friend in every green-haired boy wandering down the streets of Musutafu. It should’ve been easy to dismiss Bakugo’s concerns as those of a paranoid, traumatized young man who had just been through the shock of his life. 

Except. 

There was something in the back of Shouta’s mind, some niggling sense that something was wrong . So Shouta did what he always did when the facts weren’t adding up: he made a list. 

1. Midoriya Izuku had been missing for over half a decade. 
2. Mikumo Akatani’s records were spotless—a little too spotless for someone who’s quirk was apparently destructive enough to break several of his bones in the time it took Shouta to sneeze. 
3. Despite several instances during which Bakugo thought he saw Midoriya walking down the street, he always realized his error once he saw the face of the person in question. 
4. All Might was involved in this somehow—Shouta just couldn’t figure out how he fit into it all. He’d been hovering outside of Akatani’s infirmary room like a mother hen ever since Recovery Girl had announced where he was being held. 
5. It had been almost nine months, but Shouta still recognized Akatani as the green-haired kid he'd bought a burger all those months ago. Apparently, the kid was physically incapable of keeping himself out of trouble. 
6. ‘Mikumo Akatani’ was an incredibly poor liar. 

He hadn’t met Shouta’s gaze once in the entire time since he’d entered the infirmary room where Akatani was being kept. 

Akatani’s eyes had gone momentarily wide when Shouta walked through the door, only for him to adopt a posture of the most forced nonchalance Shouta had ever seen seconds later. He seemed determined to pretend the two of them had never met, and Shouta was content to let him continue with his little charade as long as it kept him comfortable. Shouta was half-convinced the kid would bolt if he so much as mentioned their first meeting all those months ago. 

“I keep telling you I’m fine to walk home,” Akatani grumbled, picking absently at a loose thread in the sheets. 

“And I keep telling you, we’re not allowed to release you until a parent or guardian signs you out.” Shouta sighed, leaning back in his metal folding chair. “Recovery Girl’s quirk drains your energy. With injuries this extensive, we can’t be sure you wouldn’t pass out on the way home.” 

“My mom is a nurse. She works late.” 

This, at least, was in line with what was listed on Akatani’s profile. On paper, his story was squeaky clean. 

And yet, the itch remained. 

Akatani’s appearance didn’t help matters: the boy looked almost dangerously underweight, with sunken cheekbones and hollows like craters around his lifeless eyes. His hair was long and unkempt, like it hadn’t been trimmed in some time, and the shirt he was wearing under his Yuuei-issued uniform had holes in the sleeves. If possible, he looked even worse than he had nine months ago—and even then, the kid had looked like he would disintegrate the moment he sneezed too hard. Maybe it was no surprise he'd managed to break about a dozen bones in as many minutes. 

“I’m happy to stay late,” Shouta said. 

Akatani slouched lower in his bed and sulked.

“While we wait, tell me more about this quirk of yours,” Shouta said. “Your file says it manifested when you were four, as expected. Yet you exhibit remarkably little control. Didn’t you ever go to quirk counseling?” 

The boy shrugged one shoulder, still refusing to meet Shouta’s eye. “If I hadn’t gone to quirk counseling, my limbs would have exploded off my body when I tried to use it.” 

“So this is what control looks like for you?” 

Akatani’s cheeks went pink. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“And you think you can be a hero when your quirk entails breaking your body the moment you use it?” Shouta asked, cocking a brow. 

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to teach me?” 

“I’m supposed to teach you strategy,” Shouta corrected, rolling out a kink in his shoulder. Maybe Hizashi was onto something when he complained about Shouta’s posture. “Teamwork. How to think like a hero. I’m teaching high school. You’re still in kindergarten.” 

Akatani’s jaw flexed. “Would you quit it?” 

“I’m just telling it like it is.” 

“Lay off it already, Eraser,” Akatani snapped. 

The room fell silent but for the beeping of the heart monitor and Akatani’s heavy breathing. 

Shouta leaned forward, the metal chair squealing under his shifting weight. The tension in the room had descended so thick and sudden Shouta felt like he could cut it with a knife. “How did you know my hero name?” 

A long, pregnant pause. Akatani’s knuckles were white where he fisted them in the sheets. “I’m a big fan of heroes,” he said. “Even underground ones.” 

“Not many people recognize me out of costume,” Shouta said. 

Akatani rolled his eyes. “Putting on a pair of obnoxious yellow goggles doesn’t count as a costume.” 

Shouta snorted, resting his chin on a fist. “You know, most prospective Yuuei students try to get on my good side.” 

“I figured I was already disqualified.” 

Shouta shrugged. “I don’t make that call. Nezu does, and the way the rat’s brain works is beyond me.” 

Just like that, the light reentered Akatani’s eyes. He met Shouta’s gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. Shouta’s heart squeezed—Akatani looked suddenly, impossibly young. “So you’re telling me I still have a shot?” 

“I’m telling you I don’t know what your chances are,” Shouta said. He hated the way Akatani’s shoulders deflated at his words, but he wouldn’t give the kid false hope now, only to snatch it away later. “What I do know is that you’re going to get yourself killed if you keep going like this.” 

“That’s why I’m here!” Akatani burst out. 

Shouta folded his arms across his chest. “Pardon?” 

“You’re right, I don’t know what I’m doing.” Akatani’s fists were flexing and unflexing in his lap. “I have power I don’t know how to control. Nobody else knows what to do with me. Are you going to sit here telling me things I already know, or are you going to teach me?” 

Shouta blinked. And blinked again. 

It was… logical. The kid had power, certainly. Warning the kid about the dangers of his power wouldn’t hurt him—control would, and control had to be learned. Clearly, whoever had been training the boy before this was the worst sort of incompetent. 

More than that, though, Shouta couldn’t help wanting to keep an eye on the kid. There was something going on here, something more than what Shouta could see. If Akatani didn’t get into Yuuei, Shouta would never see him again. He needed to figure out a way to keep Akatani within reach, close enough to figure out what, exactly, had his instincts going so haywire—plus, training was a decent opportunity to get some extra calories into the kid, which clearly Akatani needed. 

“Alright, fine,” Shouta agreed, regretting the words as soon as he spoke them. “I’ll teach you.” 

“You’ll—what?” 

“You’re right. You’re clueless.” Shouta ran a hand over the scruff on his chin. He was regretting this already. “But we have four months before the start of term. Whether or not Nezu lets you into the hero course, you can always advance through general studies at the sports festival. Best to start now—you need all the help you can get.” 

Akatani’s eyes had gone as wide as dinner plates. “And you—you’re going to teach me?” 

“I’m going to try. If I see improvement, I can put in a good word for you. If not…” 

“If not, I have to give up on my dream?” Akatani asked. His voice was so small, Shouta could barely hear it. 

“It’s the best offer you’re gonna get, kid. Take it or leave it.” 

Akatani’s spine straightened. Shouta could see the resolve settling over him like a well-loved blanket. “Fine. I’ll take it.” 

“Good.” Shouta stood, the legs of the metal chair squealing over the linoleum floor. “I’ll see you at eight AM Tuesday morning.” 

A little wrinkle appeared on the bridge of Akatani’s nose. “What if I’m not free then?” 

“This isn’t an opportunity that comes knocking on your door every day, Akatani. If you don’t have time, make time,” Shouta said, strolling over to the half-open door. He paused to look over his shoulder just before walking through it. “Tuesday. Don’t be late.” 

“Does this mean I can go home now?” Akatani asked. 

Shouta turned to go. “If your parents aren’t here before the school closes, I imagine Recovery Girl will keep you here until morning.” 

Akatani’s answering groan followed Shouta all the way out into the hall.