Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things weren’t supposed to turn out like this. Or maybe they were. Maybe it mattered. Maybe it didn’t. All Jin knew was that he was annoyed—ecstatic—no irritated that it was his turn with Aizawa.

“I’m sick of this crap!” he complained in the common area of the temporary housing he was sharing with the other old League members. They hadn’t earned the right yet to live out in society freely, but it sure beat a prison cell. Plus, they had the chance to earn small freedoms through reformation and atonement, all thanks to the kind hearts of those heroes who rescued them—and all under the supervision of a certain pro retired hero and teacher.

“That’s too bad,” Touya said from the kitchen table where he was smoking a cigarette. “It’s your turn with Daddy.”

Himiko groaned and slouched against the table, digging the tip of a blade into the already abused wood. “No fair,” she pouted. “I want a turn with Daddy.”

Touya sighed and ran a hand through his white hair. “See, when I say it, I’m being sarcastic. When you say it, it’s creepy.”

Jin picked up the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be an apple on the counter, and threw it at the ashtray, scattering ash all over Touya’s white clothes.

“What the fuck ?!”

“If I have to quit smoking, then so do you!” Jin yelled. “And I agree with Touya, Himiko! Calling him daddy is creepy— no it’s not— because for one thing we’re the same age! Actually I’m a year older! If anything I’m the daddy here!”

Touya and Himiko both met him with looks so condescending that it actually hurt a little.

“Whatever, I don’t need to take this crap!” Jin huffed, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. He walked briskly, not because he was afraid of getting in trouble for being late or anything—definitely terrified—he just wanted to get away from his roommates as fast as possible—already missed them!

Aizawa had given him an address to meet up at, which was pretty cool since usually they weren’t allowed off the grounds without an escort. Not like their phones couldn’t be tracked, though. Or like they had anywhere else they could go. Or like they wanted to go anywhere else. Through thick and thin, despite all the crazy, the League wasn’t gonna abandon each other. Not ever.

The address was a suite in a weird little shopping outlet. Jin frowned as he walked past a window display of a bunch of crappy painted ceramic figurines, then a hippie-looking clothing store, and then some kind of antique shop maybe? At last, he came to a door with a whiteboard sign sitting out front, displaying gaudy bright marker doodles and times for…

“You gotta be kidding me!”

“It’s not a joke,” a familiar, monotone voice said from behind him. Jin jolted immediately, nearly knocking down the sign with the sudden motion. He found Aizawa standing there, his black hair in a half up-do, wearing an old t-shirt and some baggy jeans.

“An art class?” Jin said in distaste. “What am I, five?!”

“It’s important for all of you to have creative outlets. Let’s go.”

He didn’t give Jin the chance to argue, already heading inside without another glance in his direction.

Let’s get this over with—I love it!

They walked into a brightly lit room, small but with floor-to-ceiling windows that cast everything with warm sunlight. Art supplies lined shelves on every wall. A stool sat in the center of the room with a pink vase full of fresh roses situated on its surface. It was surrounded by chairs and canvases, and there were already people painting or sketching images of the still life object.

“Seriously, man?” Jin complained. “This could only be more cliché if we were supposed to paint a nude model—most original idea ever!”

“You still have trouble finding peace in your own mind, don’t you?” Aizawa asked as he rolled a tray of paints up to one of the canvases and tapped it.

“No,” he snapped instantly. “I’m fine—batshit crazy—dammit!” He shook his head, ignoring the few concerned looks he got from other quiet artists in the room. He dropped his voice lower the next time he spoke. “It’s been better…you know since the end of the war when all us villains got quirk-castrated. I know I won’t split, but…”

“But it’s still hard for you to find yourself,” Aizawa said, and it wasn’t a question at all. “Art is the best medium for self-expression. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Jin highly doubted it. He wasn’t some kid anymore, what was the point of learning a new skill? But hey, it was all part of the whole reformation act thing, so he had to grin and bear it until Aizawa gave him a good grade on his report card and sent him home.

The other man went to the canvas to Jin’s left, surprising him when he perused a shelf for supplies. “You’re painting, too?”

Aizawa’s brows furrowed when he looked at him. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something that I’m not willing to try myself.”

The answer probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. The guy had been a teacher for years, after all. He was a ‘lead by example’ type, and surprisingly empathetic given his stoic nature. Well…if he was gonna give this shitty art class a shot, then Jin really couldn’t say no.

He picked paint at random. Watercolors. That should be easy, right? It wouldn’t matter if he messed it up because it’d be a big splotchy puddle anyway. He’d just slap a shade of pink, some lines of green, and a few red blobs and call it good, then he could leave.

Thing was, after staring squinty-eyed at the gleam of sunlight on a pink vase for ten minutes and screwing around with how to make the paint even work, he felt this weird need to see it through to the end. Maybe he’d put in a little bit of effort. After all, Aizawa’s focus looked so serious. Maybe Jin wanted to be serious, too.

So, he tried.

And tried again.

And tried some more.

“ Dammit!” He finally threw his brush onto the floor, splattering Aizawa’s pants and making one lady leave abruptly. “This is pointless, Zawa! I can’t get it to look anything like that vase, I’m outta here!”

Aizawa didn’t glance away from his own canvas. “Who said you have to paint the vase?”

Jin’s temple pulsed with irritation. “You’re driving me crazy, man! That’s what we’re here for, right? To copy the subject?”

Aizawa shook his head, still not looking away. “We’re here to make art, which doesn’t have to conform to what we see. Your art can be as messy, unfocused, or off topic as you want.”

“That’s stupid,” Jin said, “you really want me to just throw whatever I want onto this thing and call it art?”

“I don’t care if you dip your face into a paint bucket and press it against the paper,” Aizawa said, his voice getting more stern. “Just make something.”

Just make something, huh?

Jin thought for a long time. He watched dewdrops drip from rose petals onto the glass of the vase and glide unevenly down to the stool. He watched the slow creep of the shadows across the dips and curves—studied the glint of the light on the arch of the glass. It was so… perfect.

Whoever set the vase there had taken great care with it. Every rose was perfectly trimmed, just the right length and position to give the bouquet an even, aesthetically appealing shape. The colors complimented each other, there was just the right amount of water inside.

Jin hated it.

He spent the next hour painting, focused on the gross feeling he got when he looked at the stupid, perfect flowers. Then, at last, he sat down his brush and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

He knew he wasn’t some great artist. Hell, he knew it wasn’t even good, yet the moment he was done he felt a strange sense of serenity wash over him, maybe even some pride.

“Let’s see how you did,” Aizawa said, stepping around to peer at the painting.

All of Jin’s bravado evaporated instantly. He tried to pull the canvas away, but Aizawa held the frame still as if he expected the response.

“Look, I know it’s messy!” Jin said in defense of his creation. “But you’re the one who thought this would be a good idea which it wasn’t—it was—so I don’t wanna hear anything about—”

“It is messy,” the other man said, sending a wave of hot embarrassment all the way into Jin’s gut. “It’s messy,” he continued, “and perfect.”

“See, I knew you were gonna—huh? Did you say ‘perfect?’”

Aizawa nodded, his expression absolutely serious, as if he wasn’t looking at a splotchy painting that any toddler could have done. “You decided not to paint the vase at all, just the flowers. Why?”

Jin shuffled uncomfortably. “I don’t know, I guess I just…I didn’t really get why they had to to be in there, y’know? They’re all thorny and dark and I felt like they needed to breathe. ”

It had to have been just his imagination, but he could have sworn that Aizawa’s lip twitched in an almost-smile.

“And I made half of the roses wilty because they were pissing me off, all green and healthy.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to explain his choices, he just…sort of liked the way Aizawa was studying every smudge of paint so intently, and with that whispery promise of a smile on his lips.

“See, Jin?” he said. “Art doesn’t have to conform to anyone’s standards. It doesn’t have to fit in. It’s whatever you want it to be.”

His words sounded a lot like they were taken out of some daily words of encouragement book, but…damn, alright, they were definitely hitting him somewhere in his chest. It sure sounded like he was saying…maybe implying that Jin could be whoever he wanted, express himself however he wanted, be a wilted flower outside of a broken vase, and that he’d still be…what? Good? No…that wasn’t the word Aizawa used.

Perfect.

“Shit, I’m gonna cry—already sobbing!” Jin covered his face with his hands, though there was no reason to shield his expression. Aizawa was already walking away. “Hey, wait! Where ya goin?!”

The man didn’t answer, just waved with his back still turned toward him.

“What about your painting?! You just gonna let them toss it out?”

Oh yeah, his painting. Jin had been so focused on his own sorry attempt at art that he forgot Aizawa was painting alongside him the whole time. Curious, he stepped over to his canvas, wondering just how much better he was at this than Jin. Maybe he’d get lucky and it would look even worse. Then he could laugh about it behind the guy’s back with the rest of the guys later.

He stopped in front of the canvas, and for a moment, he was confused. He couldn’t make sense of the lines and shapes, eyes scanning for the vase or roses. Weird, Aizawa hadn’t drawn the still life like he was supposed to, either. But what was…

Jin’s breath caught in his throat. The blobs and smudges took form and he realized that the darkish thing hunched in the picture in front of a white rectangle was… It was Jin.

He’d painted Jin .

And it sucked , like really he’d have done better with stick figures but that wasn’t the point, was it? There was no doubt he’d tried to recreate Jin painting on the canvas, and he’d surrounded him in some kind of warm yellow glow, and all of that meant that Shouta Aizawa had spent the last two hours not looking at the stool in the center of the room. He’d been looking at Jin.

“Dammit,” Jin said through a muffled sob. “I hate that dumb softie—nope, love him a lot!” He shook his head and took a seat in front of the painting because…well, it had to dry before he could bring it home.

Chapter Text

Atsuhiro tapped the end of his pencil in a rhythm on the paper in front of him. The table was strewn with various notebooks, brochures, and agendas, along with highliters, colored pens, and page markers. At the moment, he was so focused on writing something in elegant cursive, that he failed to notice Shuichi peering over his shoulder until the reptile spoke.

“What are you up to, Atsu? Studying?”

“Certainly not,” Atsuhiro said, resisting the urge to scoff. “As I’m sure you know, this week is—oh, how do you all refer to it?—my week with ‘Daddy.’”

“Did he give you homework or something?” Shuichi asked curiously, picking up a notebook with a scaly hand.

“Not at all,” Atsuhiro answered. “I’m creating an itinerary for the day. You see, there’s a comedy show here at lunch, and then a magic show nearby which we can reach in time by train, but then I’m stuck between the acrobat show here or the opera.”

Shuichi sat the notebook down. “Um…no offense, but…what makes you think Aizawa will let you make the plans? Isn’t Toga the only one who gets to do whatever she wants?” The bitterness in his tone reflected his feelings on the matter.

“Yes, but I’m sure I can talk him into it, given the opportunity. You must think big, Shuichi. Our time spent with Aizawa is one of our only chances to leave the compound. We need to learn to make the most of it.”

“Sure, I guess.” Shuichi shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

Atsuhiro was about to respond when the front door suddenly opened, announcing Aizawa’s presence. The man had a penchant for not knocking, though Atsuhiro suspected this was due in part to the fact that unexpected barge-ins gave him the opportunity to catch the old villains in the midst of any debauched activities.

“Ah! Aizawa, welcome!” he greeted, rising to his feet to bow. “Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps? I’d love to sit and chat with you.” He had planned the entire conversation and knew just the right tactics for tipping the scale in his direction. With social finesse, there was no doubt that Atsuhiro could use the power of suggestion to—

“Go change.”

Aizawa’s expression was…well, it was his normal expression. Rather unfeeling as he combed up Atsuhiro’s neatly pressed suit with his eye.

“This is one of my best shirts and vests, perhaps we can discuss outfit preferences after tea—”

“Change into something comfortable that can get dirty,” Aizawa interrupted again. “Something like this.” He gestured to his own attire, a simple white t-shirt with what looked to be coffee stains on the front, a pair of jeans, and tattered old boots.

Atsuhiro was stunned. He looked over at Shuichi, who shrugged and made a quick escape around the corner.

“I protest!” Atsuhiro argued. “I could never go out in public looking so underprivileged!”

Aizawa’s glare informed him that this was a rude statement, but the man chose not to address it. “We’re not going out. Now change and meet me in the backyard.” Atsuhiro opened his mouth but Aizawa’s glare cut deeper, robbing him of any further complaints. With a sigh, he relented and dragged his feet upstairs.

One glaring problem was that Atsuhiro simply didn’t own anything like that. Why would he? What task could possibly require him to wear tattered old clothes? Did Aizawa expect him to do manual labor?

He hesitated in front of a door with a sign taped to it which clearly read “Do Not Disturb EVER.” Ignoring the warning, he tested the handle and opened it without knocking. “Pardon me, Touya, I require your assistance.”

The room was a disaster and smelled like last night’s Chinese take-out. Touya was leaning back in a computer chair with black headphones perched on his white hair, facing his laptop which currently had a window pulled up with a live chat featuring Shouto Todoroki.

Touya didn’t hear him walk in. It wasn’t until dual-colored eyes glanced curiously behind the young man that Touya tore off his headphones and turned a deadly snarl on Atsuhiro. “What the fuck did I say about coming into my room?! You know this is my day to talk to Shouto! Get out!” He looked furious, but the light coloring of his pale cheekbones suggested he still retained some insecurity about forming a new bond with his younger brother.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your precious sibling bonding time, but I need to borrow clothes, and you and I are similar in size, so I thought—”

“You came in here to borrow clothes? You? Mr. Compress? Really? You deign me worthy of lending you some of my commoner robes or what?”

Atsuhiro cleared his throat, bristling a bit at the heavy sarcasm. “Actually, no, I find the idea rather repulsive, however Aizawa is waiting outside for me and the dress-code is evidently…whatever it is that you’re wearing right now. Preferably with less holes.”

“That’s what this is about?” Touya scoffed. “All you freaks with your unresolved daddy issues projecting onto Aizawa are disgusting. God forbid you disobey daddy! Wouldn’t wanna disappoint him! I’m gonna barf.”

Atsuhiro was extremely tempted to point out that if anyone had unresolved “daddy issues,” it would have to be the man who murdered dozens of people in cold blood just to get his father’s attention. He really needed to borrow clothes though, so he kept his mouth shut.

“What are you still doing here?!” Touya snapped. “Get out! You’re not wearing my clothes, you bionic asshole.”

“If you lend me an outfit, then I’ll watch a movie with Himiko later,” Atsuhiro bargained.

“What the hell does that have to do with—”

“You’ll be able to smoke in peace.”

Touya bit his lip, narrowed his eyes, then finally huffed and pointed to the dresser. “Shirts are in the top, pants in the middle.” He put the headphones back on and slumped in his chair, listening to Shouto speak for a moment. “Yes, Shouto, I’m going to be smoking brisket later, that’s exactly what I meant.”

Atsuhiro rifled through the drawers while Touya muttered an affectionate “dumbass” under his breath. He selected a pair of jeans and a white shirt, of which there was a broad selection. It was rather jarring at times to remember “Dabi’s” dark fashion preferences in comparison to his now veritable obsession with the color white.

“You have my thanks,” he said as he departed, though if Touya heard him he made no indication.

The jeans were a bit short, but they were comfortable enough around the waist. The shirt was atrocious in its simplicity and smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke. Still, it would have to do, and Atsuhiro managed to grit his teeth and don some sneakers before making his way into the yard as he’d been directed.

To his shock and horror, Aizawa stood near the wooden fence, parking a wheelbarrow stocked to overflowing with bags of soil, shovels, gloves, and a plethora of other gardening tools.

“This must be a jest,” Atsuhiro said, bitterly.

“There a problem?” The other man asked as he wiped sweat from his brow. Yes, sweat, because it was already too bright and too hot to be digging around in the dirt.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” Atsuhiro said. Aizawa might have rolled his eyes but it was as he was turning his back on Atsuhiro to begin setting up wooden boards, so he couldn’t be sure. “I am not compatible with this type of outdoor activity. Of all the… Why subject me to this? I won’t do it.”

“Then don’t,” Aizawa said, as he hoisted a bag of soil from the wheelbarrow with some difficulty that almost made Atsuhiro feel guilty. “Go inside and relax. I’ll do it myself.”

Atsuhiro’s lips parted. He stayed rooted to the spot, immobile, not sure what to think now. That wasn’t the response he’d expected. “It’s ridiculous,” he finally sputtered out. “You can’t possibly expect me to do yard work with a prosthetic arm, can you?”

Aizawa glanced back at this, his expression absolutely condescending as he gestured to his own leg while glaring from the one eye not shielded by an eyepatch. He didn’t respond, however, just began setting up a frame for the garden he seemed keen on creating.

Atsuhiro clenched a fist. Although he’d been given permission to leave, he couldn’t…he couldn’t just walk away, could he? Not when Aizawa was being so stubborn. And anyway, this was meant to be his day with the retired hero. Was it really so awful that he wanted to spend it doing enjoyable activities? “At least tell me why,” he insisted.

Aizawa didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy hammering nails into the corner of the new flower bed frame. At last, he sat the hammer down and let out a slow sigh.

“Because you don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

“Ah yes, that makes sense. Punish me with the thing I detest, I’m sure—”

“I’m not done talking,” Aizawa interrupted curtly, his tone sapping the rest of the words from Atsuhiro’s mouth. “You never liked getting your hands dirty, and not for all superficial reasons and not always literally. Your quirk was suited for illusion, escape, and storage, not for destruction. Whenever possible, Mr. Compress avoided the violence of the front lines, focusing instead on supporting his comrades however they needed. Am I wrong?”

Atsuhiro swallowed uncomfortably. “Yes, so I was a coward. I fail to see your point, other than you trying to enforce a lesson upon me about the importance of diligence and hard work.”

Aizawa stood and turned to face him. His expression was strangely…confused? He was frowning, brows furrowed contemplatively as he studied Atsuhiro for a moment. “A coward?” he asked, as if the word had never occurred to him.

Now, Atsuhiro was confused. Had that not been the point of the spiel? Had he not been bringing light to Atsuhiro’s failures as Mr. Compress? He always knew he was of little help to the League, surely not one of the front runners like Shigaraki and Dabi. While he carried himself like the star of the show, he always knew he was actually backstage, behind the curtain, too insignificant to stand in the spotlight. So, why then was Aizawa looking at him with such a gentle, bemused expression? Why did he have the face of a mother attempting to puzzle together the ridiculous outburst of her child?

“Being averse to violence and wanting to support your friends aren’t the traits of a coward, Atsuhiro,” he said seriously. “In fact, those are heroic traits. I would say, more than anyone else in the League except for maybe Jin, your love and devotion to your friends defined your role.”

He reached into the wheelbarrow and withdrew a few packets of seeds. “I’m not doing this to punish you. I’m doing it because I think that nurturing and protecting something is what you were made for. I think you’ll find it rewarding, even if you do have to get your hands dirty.”

It was ridiculously sentimental, far too cringeworthy, and grossly optimistic. Yet…Atsuhiro’s chest felt strangely tight and his nose unusually itchy as he held out his hand, palm up and open. Aizawa gave a nod of approval, then placed the seed pouches in his hand. “Choose which ones you want to plant. Then help me with the soil.”

It took two weeks. Atsuhiro kept telling himself it was pointless.

It’s impractical. 

A waste of time.

They won’t grow.

If he was going to make me put effort into this, why not give me crop seeds? Tomatoes could be used in the kitchen, or herbs perhaps. Why flowers? A decoration, nothing more.

Yet, every day he returned to the flower beds. He watered them, checked for signs of birds or bugs, sprinkled fertilizer on the dark soil, and waited.

Until…

“ATSUUUUU,” a feminine voice echoed through the house. “Come outside, hurry! ”

His instinct was to be worried. It was a cat, it must have been. It had gotten into the flower bed and dug in the soil like he’d feared as soon as he saw the strays walking along the top of the fences a few days ago. Even though he swore he didn’t care about the seeds, he still felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut, a growing sense of dread as he pulled on his shoes and rushed to follow Himiko outside.

“Look!” she exclaimed, dancing around the yard like a fairy. “I knew it! I told you, didn’t I? I told you the Himiko would sprout first~”

His eyes widened as he looked at the flowerbeds, scanning over each sign he’d affixed to the plots. “Jin,” “Tenko,” “Touya,” “Shouta,” all the way to the bed he’d dubbed “Himiko.”

Sure enough, the tiny, green leaves of the yellow daisies he’d planted were just starting to emerge, stretching toward the morning sun.

They’re just flowers, he thought. See, Aizawa, I knew there was no point in this exercise. I couldn’t care less about a few leaves, I—

“Aw, there there, Atsu.” Himiko’s arms wrapped around him and she patted his hair. “You can cry on my shoulder if you want.”

“I’m not…” he said hoarsely. It was no use. He was sobbing, blubbering like a child as he squeezed Himiko tightly in his arms.

That bastard, Aizawa. He was right, as always. I get it. I understand.

Perhaps, from time to time, for the right reasons, it wasn’t so bad to get his hands dirty.