Chapter Text
Izuku’s hands tighten against the straps of his bright yellow backpack as he waits at the edge of the platform for the train. He’s grasping hard enough that his hands pale in complexion at the tense hold, his fingers have long since gone numb, chilly from the lack of circulation able to pass through his stiff muscles.
He glares down, eyes trained on the yellow line that the toes of his shoes are lined perfectly along. It’s the only means of warning the station offers; a strip of yellow paint that runs a good foot or so away from the edge of the platform. The only warning they get to keep back. That it’s dangerous.
The station is empty, as it usually is at this time in the evening.
The lights overhead flicker, and the only company Izuku has at this time of night are stray people walking past every now and then, usually donning either a security vest or a business suit. They don’t tend to pay him any mind.
It’s late—almost nine PM, at least the last time Izuku checked, at least.
This is one of the last trains heading towards his neighborhood, and despite the shitty day he’s had, he’s thankful that he managed to make it in time or he’d have a long walk home.
The train seems to be running late, delayed, and it’s just another force of the universe trying to kick Midoriya Izuku’s legs out from under him.
He sucks in a stuttered breath, fingers tightening on the straps of his backpack.
His whole body aches—his muscles taunt and tense from class—they'd done baseball in P.E., but Izuku hadn’t been allowed to participate in the game. Not that he usually was anyways.
Instead, the twelve-year-old had been made to run laps.
It was a cruel punishment for something so mundane—something so out of Izuku’s control, not that his teacher would even take a second to listen to his explanation. He’d simply been late to class. Not by much, ten or so minutes, but he was late enough that his classmates had already split into two teams and were warming up for the game.
That, of course, didn’t mean they didn’t pause in what they were doing to snicker at Izuku’s misfortune when it came to getting yelled at and having a punishment doled out. They always seemed far too pleased when he was in trouble.
It’s a good thing he’s used to cruelty.
Being late hadn’t been his fault.
Every student had one physical education uniform that they were to keep clean and in order, so when Izuku’s disappeared from his gym locker, what was he supposed to do? He’d searched the whole locker room, cheeks darkening as laughter from his changing classmates rang in his ears. It was only when Izuku was alone in the room that he found his missing clothes tucked in the far corner on top of the tallest set of lockers.
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that, Oshiro Haruto, his classmate with a self-levitation Quirk, had squished the uniform up and out of reach.
And only when he had the uniform in his hands did he notice the tiny holes of charred fabric.
Clearly Kacchan had played a part in this practical joke as well, not that Izuku expected anything less from his ex-childhood friend.
The holes were thankfully small enough that they probably wouldn’t be noticed, hadn’t today, at least, but he’d need to ask for a new one sooner or later, and he just knew it was an argument waiting to happen; especially since this would be his fourth time requesting a new one.
The punishment isn’t that bad, figuratively speaking, but it really weighs down on you when you’re forced to sprint for an hour. He’d thrown up twice, throat so dry he could hardly breathe. Coughing scratched at his dry throat, and he didn’t even entertain the idea of stopping to get some water.
Despite the way his body reacted to that, he still didn’t stop; couldn’t stop.
He’d learned from his mistakes, and he knew that if his teacher happened to glance over and had seen him jogging, or walking through his punishment, it would only make it worse. He knew by now that it was just easier to torture himself and be in control of it; to follow the orders his teachers spat at him directly than it was to have them catch him not following orders and be left in their mercy.
Izuku’s stomach lurches at the thought of how close to collapsing he’d been after finishing the running. Nearly an entire hour of pushing his body past the limit; trying not to let the fatigue, dizziness, or nausea cloud his mind.
He’d hardly been able to drag himself into the locker room after his peers, and his throat was so dry that the water he forced himself to chug physically burned.
That had been his first period of the day, and he should’ve known then that to was just the beginning of another awful day for the Quirkless kid.
In second period, they’d gotten an exam they’d taken a couple weeks prior back. Izuku was sure he’d done well—he'd studied, and felt confident in it. He’d looked at all the questions after he’d gotten the test, and been thrilled that he knew it all.
He clearly did not know it all.
The mark scrawled on the top of his paper had been a black inked, bolded and underlined, clearly very disappointed, 61%. And it just didn’t make sense—even looking at the paper after getting it handed back, face falling as he registers the number meaning he barely passed, trying to understand where he’d gone wrong, he can’t. He’s sure it’s all right, that he hadn’t made any mistakes.
He’d studied.
He’d been confident.
But it was in vain.
It’s just another awful grade he gets to present to his mother, another grade that’ll make her eyes water as she smiles through the distress.
He knows exactly what she’ll say: ‘I’m sure you tried your best, Baby...’. She’ll say that like she does every single time he brings home a grade drawing the line between failing and passing. Like almost every single test paper he’s brought home since starting Elementary school.
He’s just a stupid Deku after all, what did it matter?
He shoved the test in his bag, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he sunk down in his chair.
Izuku keeps himself small when walking through the hallways on his way to his next classes, but even doing so, he still gets found more often than not. None of his classmates are particularly nice. A few don’t care enough about him to do anything, but a lot of them seek him out. They try to corner him in hallways, or jump him when he turns a corner.
He’s an easy target.
He doesn’t have a Quirk to retaliate with, and news of his Quirklessnes had spread school wide within the first day of Junior High. That had put a target on his back. Of course, the word would get out; the majority of his Elementary class had graduated to Junior Hight with him.
The teachers don’t care what they do to him so long as it’s nothing major that will give Izuku’s mother reason to come into the school and demand to know about the treatment of her son.
Who cares what happens to the Quirkless kid so long as nothing gets reported, right?
Izuku knows that he could bring it up to his mother himself, but she’s already so busy—working two jobs to be able to support the two of them; slaving away so she’s able to afford rent, food, utilities and all the expenses that come with his school. He hardly sees her, and when he does, he doesn’t want to bother her with little things like the fact he’s getting picked on at school. It doesn’t matter, and... well, a small part of him thinks she already knows.
Today most of his classmates hadn’t used their Quirks, which was a small mercy in the scheme of things.
But just because they didn’t use their Quirks, didn’t mean they weren’t physical.
He’d been tripped, and shoved; shoulder-checked and pushed into lockers. This was usual stuff, everyday occurrences. Teachers saw, and looked the other way. Students uninvolved continued on with their day without a care.
Izuku’s not sure he’d ever walked peacefully to class without being tripped, or shoved at least once; and today was no different.
Someone, he hadn’t seen who, had grabbed his shoulder from behind.
He’d frozen in place, like he always did because he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
He tried to ignore the mocking laughter as they squeezed with some kind of strength enhancement Quirk, he’s sure, until his knees buckled beneath him. Someone had kneed him in the stomach when he was down, and when he’d flailed for stability, hands flattening on the ground for purchase, someone else had stepped on his hand and fingers.
He’d bitten his lip raw to keep from making any noises as the shoe pressing his fingers into the floor grinds down like the boy above him is trying to scuff out a cigarette butt or something. They laugh anyways as tear prick in the corners of Izuku’s eyes, and he’s quick to tug his bruising hand into his chest when the pressure lets up faintly.
He hadn’t even known those kids—he thinks they might’ve been from one of the grades above him. He’s seen them around, for sure, but he’s never interacted with them. He may not know them, but everyone knows him. The Quirkless kid. The Deku. Useless.
They lose interest pretty fast, not wanting to be late for classes. The one good thing about today’s society is everyone is striving for good grades, hanging onto the hope of getting into one of the good Heroics classes. That means no one wants to be tardy either.
Izuku stays down for a long second before finally lifting his hand from his chest to inspect the damage. He studies the discoloration on his hand before tucking it back against his chest. He can flex all his fingers, and nothing feels broken, so he just assumes it’s not.
Honestly, only one Quirk being used on him was a good change of pace, compared to the fact all three of the could’ve been using their Quirks. Plus, he doesn’t even know if the boy had been using a Quirk: he could’ve just been freakishly strong. He’d just assumed.
Izuku remembers taking a couple deep breaths as the group walked away, laughing at his expense, before finally finding the strength to push himself up and hurry along to class, lest he be late again.
He’d found some peace in the middle of the day.
The boy’s bathroom was usually a pretty safe place to find refuge. He’d spent his lunch hour perched on the toilet with his notebook flipped open on his knees. It was an obvious choice; hide away in the bathroom and starve, or face the humiliation and all that that entailed when he stepping into the cafeteria as the school Deku.
He’d instead scribbled away in his Quirk Analysis journal.
That morning he’d passed a Villain fight on his way to school, and had narrowly missed being late.
It was just so cool; how was he supposed to not stop and watch for a couple second? He’d noticed some cool Quirks, Quirks he’d heard about but never seen in action, and had been itching to write them all down in the book all day, but hadn’t had the time yet.
Afternoon classes go on without a hitch—they do classwork, partner work specifically, but Izuku ends up alone considering the class has an odd number of students. He actually prefers it to being stuck with someone who hates him, or worse, a partnership turned trio where two people hate him.
Of course the day can’t end on a high note. Not for him. Not for a Deku.
When he leaves the classroom, he all but runs into someone. Not just any someone, Kacchan.
“Watch where you’re fuckin’ going, Deku,” the name comes out venomously, and Izuku refrains from sinking in on himself. He bites back the need to remind Kacchan that he was stood facing the doorway, clearly waiting, and Izuku just hadn’t noticed him as he walked out.
That would’ve been a dangerous thing to say.
“K-Kacchan—” Izuku starts, and knows right then that that’s his first wrong move.
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that, you useless fucking Deku!” Kacchan’s hands grab at Izuku’s gakuran, palms cracking in threat. Izuku feels tiny bursts of sparks scorch through his clothes and burn into his chest. He tries not to wince. “Stay the hell outta my way, next time you walk into me I’ll blast your stupid ass into tomorrow, got it?”
Kacchan lets him go with a shove that has Izuku stumbling back into the classroom, but the teacher doesn’t even glance their way, let alone say anything.
Izuku’s freedom only lasts for a second before one of Kacchan’s friends is grabbing at his arm. “You’ve got a lotta nerve, Deku,” he hisses yanking Izuku along with them.
“Who do you think you are?” the other taunts harshly, keeping pace with the boy holding Izuku’s arm in a death grip. Kacchan follows a step behind, leisurely, hands tucked in his pockets.
“I-I—”
“Save it, Deku,” the one holding him snarls as he shoves the green-haired boy up against the wall, and hold him there. Fists grip his gakuran, twisting the material and pressing Izuku firmly against the wall. They taunt him, call him names and get in his face. He’s pretty thick-skinned to this by now—Kacchan and his two friends.
Kacchan doesn’t tend to do much to him, but he also doesn’t stop anything when it happens. He’ll say mean things, and taunt Izuku too. Sometimes he’ll use his Quirk, more or less, as a threat, but he hardly ever deliberately harms him. Physically, at least. Or... enough to actually hurt him.
Izuku lets it happen (how could he not? What's he supposed to do?); cowers under their hands and words. He looks around for any chance of help, or escape, but knows it’s a useless attempt. No one was going to help him. No one cares.
He does, however, spot the janitor’s closet.
It doesn’t help him in the least, in fact, it makes his heart drop into his stomach. Oh no.
Izuku doesn’t know why the janitor’s closet is open—the door is designed to only open with a key, from the inside and the outside. They’re never usually open so students can’t mess around with cleaning supplies, but the sight of it ajar sinks into Izuku’s stomach.
He quickly averts his gaze, but not fast enough.
The boy holding Izuku in spot glances the direction the smaller boy had just been looking when he tenses, eyes lighting up as a wicked smile curls onto his lips, and Izuku knows then the other boy had come to the same conclusion he had.
“Would’ya look at that, fellas?” he offers lightly, one hand lifting from Izuku’s uniform to gesture towards the open door a couple steps down the hallway, while the other tightens so there’s no chance of escape. “Deku wants to check out the closet.”
Kacchan and the other boy glance in the direction the boy gestures, and soon both of Kacchan’s friends have matching grins. The blonde eyes the closet distastefully, but doesn’t say anything.
“Well don’t keep him waiting then! Shove ‘im in!” the other friend howls back cruelly, grabbing Izuku’s arm while the first friend also shifts his hold so both of Izuku’s arms are restrained. “Don’t worry, Deku, I’m sure someone’ll let you out—and if they don’t, well, maybe you’ll be able to persuade us to do it after classes tomorrow, eh?”
Kacchan watches uninterestedly through narrowed eyes, hands still tucked in his pockets with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t help, doesn’t even touch Izuku, but he also doesn’t put a stop to it. That’s almost worse than the blonde helping his friends torture Izuku.
The blonde’s two friends manhandle Izuku into the closet, despite his pleas, and before he knows it, he’s locked in. The door clicks locked, and he knows there’s no chance at escape, but he still desperately turns the knob and prays. He pleads one last time, begs to be released, but it falls on deaf ears as the laughter fades away.
He’s alone.
He curls in on himself, pushing himself back against a shelving unit. The room smells of chemicals and dirty mop water. It’s dusty, and dark, and stuffy. It’s a good thing he’s not claustrophobic, but he still feels like the walls are closing in. He still feels like he can’t quite catch his breath.
He has half a mind to beg for help again, and pray someone walks by and hears him, but he doesn’t. The teachers would probably ignore him, and he knows the students clear out of the school with unmatched speed when that final bell rings. There’re no extracurricular activities in this end of the school either, so he’s genuinely screwed.
There’s no point in trying.
So he sits completely still, face buried in his knees.
Hours tick by and Izuku’s heart feels heavy knowing no one would even notice him missing until attendance tomorrow morning. His mother is working a late shift that starts around the time Izuku gets out of the school, and finishes in the early hours of the morning. That means that they don’t even cross paths in the morning either, because she’s getting a couple hours of sleep when Izuku wakes for school and leaves for the day.
When the door finally opens, Izuku has no idea how long he’d been in there.
He jumps to his feet as a pulse of fear chills through his heart, pushing back against the shelving unit, only to relax slightly when he takes note of a janitor’s uniform instead of a gakuran.
The janitor gives him a disapproving look of surprise— like Izuku chose to be trapped in a tiny supply closet for hours— but doesn’t say anything.
The man lets out a heavy sigh, and for a moment, Izuku thinks he’s about to get lectured, and he just knows he’ll start crying if he does, but to the boy’s surprise, the janitor simply steps to the side and let’s Izuku pass by, grunting at the boy’s spouting of strung together apologies and genuinely thankful ‘thank you’s’ as he scampers past.
The halls are barren now, and most of the lights are off. It’s late enough that he thinks extracurriculars are finished, and he’s now probably the only student—maybe even the only non-custodial person— in the entire school.
He makes his way to his locker, shaking out his stiff limbs from sitting on the floor in a cramped space for so long. Izuku makes a beeline for his locker, ready to get the hell out of school. He unlocks his locker with a couple fluid twists of his lock and freezes when something small flutters to the floor as his locker opens.
He stares down at it for a long second before finally crouching down to pick it up.
Curiosity tugs at him, so he slowly unfolds the paper before sucking in a breath. He scans the small paper a second time, eyes flicking over the words rapidly, almost expecting to have read it wrong, before he takes another fast, stuttered breath and jams it in his pocket.
His eyes well with tears as he fumbles with slipping his school shoes off. He ducks his head to wipe the wetness away on his aching shoulder, silently thankful that the school is vacant, or he’d be ridiculed for crying like the Deku he is. Useless crybaby Deku.
He doesn’t waste any time in swapping his shoes, and gathering all his belongings; rushing out the door and running towards the train station with a silent, hopeful prayer that he be on time falling from his lips.
The reminder of the note has Izuku stilling.
He’s not sure he even breathes as his pocket suddenly feels weighed down by stones. He hadn’t known a slip of ripped paper could feel so heavy.
Izuku slowly releases his hold on his backpack with one hand, blood rushes through his fingers, but he ignores it in favor of digging the note he’d shoved into his gakuran pants pocket.
The paper is crinkled, the messy scrawl almost illegible but completely legible all the same. He hasn’t the faintest idea who wrote it, doesn’t recognize the writing but despite the anonymity, the words still pierce through his heart. The words glare back at Izuku as he stares down at them.
Do us all a favor and kill urself, Deku.
Izuku stares down at the words as a slow breath stutters out of his lungs. He thumbs lightly over the ‘kill urself’ and tightens his hold on the paper as his eyes lock on the bolded, and underlined ‘all’. Izuku stares down at the word, taking it in. The markings are deep, and heavy, like whoever had written the note had retraced it multiple times to add emphasis.
Do them all a favor.
He tries to think of anyone the ‘all’ doesn’t apply to.
His first thought of his mother—she'd miss him, right?
He knows she loves him—he does. She’s a good mom; has stuck with him even though he’s a pain, and a disgrace, and he knows society is just as cruel to her for producing a Quirkless offspring, as it is to him for being said Quirkless offspring.
But she’d kept him, even when she and his father fought over surrendering him; yelled and screamed back and forth about ridding themselves of a Quirkless abomination (his father’s direct words that have haunted Izuku since he was four and a half years old).
She’d slaved hard over two jobs to be able to support them when his father packed up his stuff and left for America. She worked herself to the bone for him, and still managed to smile and be super mom when they happened to cross paths.
In a way she’s his Hero.
The thought strikes Izuku like a dagger through the heart.
Maybe...
Maybe it would be a favor to her if he did it...
How different would her life be if she didn’t have to worry about him? If she wasn’t tied down to him? She wouldn’t need to work two jobs. She wouldn’t be constantly exhausted. She could live her life like any other Quirked individual and not have to deal with discrimination. She wouldn’t be ridiculed for having him.
He was the one forcing her to do all this.
He was the one she was protecting—
He could probably argue that she’s doing it because she loves him, but he won’t because he’s the one breaking her; as unintentional as it is. She’ll always love him, but he won’t argue the fact that her life wouldn’t be easier without him—because it’s not true.
Her life would be easier without him.
He sucks in a stuttered breath, subconsciously shuffling closer to the yellow safety line. His toes settle over the line, heels hardly making any contact with it. The danger warning is easily overstepped. He’s closer to the edge, no train in sight.
He wants to let out a humorless laugh as he realizes that she’s the only one that that ‘all’ doesn’t apply to, but in a way, it still does apply to her. He reaches a bruised hand up to scrub at his face, shoulders slumping in defeat.
He knows no one at school will miss him. The teachers hate him, his classmates are unbothered by him either way. It’s nothing to them whether he shows up or not.
For a second, one fleeting second, he thinks maybe Kacchan might—but that bridge burned years ago. Kacchan doesn’t care about him; Kacchan doesn’t even like him anymore. He won’t care if Izuku pops a handful of pills, or if he slits his wrists, or takes a header off a tall building. It won’t matter to Kacchan.
Izuku tries to think of reasons not to kill himself, but nothing really comes to mind.
He’s nothing but a statistic, and the odds are not in his favor.
The majority of Quirkless people hardly make it to high school— let alone adulthood. It feels like every second week he’s seeing another suicide of a Quirkless kid on the news—why had he believed he could be anything else but another number?
It’s not like he can ever amount to anything anyways—his grades will be his downfall, and he knows—he knows that his disciplinary record is filled with false reports of starting fights, and attention seeking. Reports of antagonizing his peers, and being disrespectful to his teachers, and anything under the sun that could be pinned on him.
It’s a dirty record and he’s aware that school will take one glance and blacklist him.
No school in the entirety of Japan would take him, let alone a Hero school like Yuuei.
The only thing he’s ever wanted to be was a Hero. It was one of the only things keeping him going. He wanted to defy the odds. He wanted to amount to something—something great—but in reality... maybe it really was nothing but a dream. A childish dream that’s been slowly crashing and burning at his feet as the years tick on.
What’s the point?
His feet shuffle closer to the edge on instinct, hand shoving the note back into his pocket when he can’t bear to look down at it anymore. Maybe it’ll explain his motives after he’s gone—explain why he’d done as he felt was necessary. What everyone thought was necessary.
Just following orders.
He draws in slow breaths, but nothing can save him from the dread pooling in his chest. The hopelessness. The desperation. The quiet acceptance.
Maybe the note is right.
Maybe he should do the world a favor—it'll be easier now to kill himself then to wait until he’s at his wits end. He’s a statistic either way; why put himself through torment and pain when he’ll end up dead at some point or another?
Why wait for his life to completely fall to shambles before taking that final step?
After he’s applied to every High School in Japan and been rejected.
When he finally scuffs out the charred remains of his childhood dream.
When his mother finally realizes that she’d wasted her time and effort on raising a failure. When she finally sees him for what he is—nothing but a waste of space. A useless Deku.
Why would he subject himself to that when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel?
The train’s horn blares, announcing its arrival. It should jolt him from his thoughts, but it’s nothing but a nagging thought in the back of his mind. Instead, it’s an escape.
There are more tactful ways to go about this. He knows there are, he can list multiple, but none pan out as perfectly like this. This is an ending of convenience. It’s here, and it’s now, and it’ll be over.
Izuku feels the ground rattle and he hears the wheeze of breaks as the train approaches, but he knows it won’t stop until the cars line up with the platform, not the locomotive.
He takes two more tiny steps forwards, the caution line feeling worlds away behind him and completely out of mind. He pauses at the edge of the tracks, chin ducked so he can stare down into the hole housing the tracks, the barest bit of the toe of his shoes hang off the edge.
The train’s headlights shine, and the platform rumbles with vibrations as it wheezes closer and closer, and Izuku makes his decision, not second guessing. His body tenses up expectantly as he makes a move to step out; lets himself lean forwards, lets himself fall; accepts his fate and—
Nothing happens.
He’s leaning faintly over the edge, held up by a force that’s not himself.
The train whooshes past his face; bangs and curls ruffling at the wind. He sucks in a breath that tastes of hot steel and dirt as he’s pulled back until his heels are once again on the platform. A hand clamps around his arm tightly, protectively.
It takes a second for him to realize he’s still alive.
That there’s something, someone, clutching at both the handle of his backpack, as well as the scruff of his gakuran like they made a desperate grab for any part of Izuku. He takes note of the pale hand clutching his upper arm out of the corner of his eye, but can’t be bothered to care.
“Careful,” a deep voice rattles out, and then Izuku’s being tugged back a couple steps. He goes easily, letting himself be guided away from the edge even as the train slows faster, breaks squealing slightly. “The line’s there for a reason, Kid.”
The train’s breaks wheeze loudly as they strain against the railings, and soon it’s stopped before them, doors opening like normal. Like Izuku hadn’t just tried to step out in front of it; but he had. The hands on him haven’t let up, tensing cautiously like Izuku’s a flight risk.
“I know,” Izuku mumbles out in a devoid monotone, trying to grasp at any feeling he knows he should be feeling— mortification, embarrassment, guilt—but he can’t seem to find them. The lie is bland and emotionless on his tongue, and Izuku knows his rescuer doesn’t buy it. “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going, Sir. I’m very sorry for the trouble.”
There’s a soft exhale behind him, and the man’s hands tense slightly around the fabric in his hold before they loosen. He lets out a quiet hum, tugging Izuku back a couple steps until they’re a few steps behind the yellow warning line, even though the train has arrived and won’t bother waiting for them.
“The train will be leaving soon,” Izuku points out without so much as a glance back.
He does try to pull away from the man—has a feeling that this stranger might just tighten his hold if Izuku does that. The boy bows his head instead as the man’s grip loosens even more, hesitantly, before his fingers slowly untangle from the Izuku’s uniform.
“Yeah,” the man offers slowly, voice stiff and cautious, “let’s board then, before we miss it.”
Izuku gives a hardly there nod as he steps forwards through the open doors, followed by the man. Izuku sits first, and the man sits on the other side of the train. It’s just the two of them and an older man who appears to have fallen asleep on his voyage.
Izuku just tucks in on himself, eyes staring down at his hands in his lap.
Shota leans against a pillar at the train station, eyes shut as he enjoys the silence of the station. His hands are buried in his pockets, body slumped. He’s desperate for some sleep, has been looking forward to heading home and sleeping for a good couple hours— four, if he’s lucky, and he really hopes he is— before he’s due to be heading out on patrol.
His afternoon had been long, and tiring.
His class, down to thirteen students now, had really worked him to the bone today. He’d been seconds away from throwing in the towel and expelling the remaining lot of them before the dismissal bell sounded. It was wise of them to file out of the training gym without lingering leaving him to draw in some of those stupid calming breathes Hizashi swore by.
He’d somehow been hit by one of his student’s Quirks—nothing overly dangerous, but annoyingly inconvenient. He grumbled to himself as he walked through the hallway, jumpsuit and capture weapon stuck together with a bright pink chewing gum sort of residue.
The student in question could produce bubbles of the sticky residue from his palms and command them, theoretically, at will. He was working on the ability to guide them, but unfortunately Shota had gotten hit in the cross-fire when his student had lost control.
He should just be glad it was just on his clothes and capture weapon.
Hizashi had cackled to the point he’d almost fallen out of his chair when he’d seen Shota covered in pink residue. The rest of the staff had snickered as well, anyone in the room, but a glare from Shota had shut them up.
Unfortunately, Hizashi is immune to his glares.
“Oh God,” Hizashi had wheeze out in Japanese, followed by a sultry purr of: “you, sweetheart, always look absolutely delicious in pink...” close to Shota’s ear in English.
Shota has never wanted to punt his significant other more than he did in that moment, but instead he’d just huffed out a heavy sigh and slumped in his chair, careful not to get bubble gum on anything else.
Hizashi had been kind enough to lend him his spare clothes—a white button up and a pair of slacks.
The loud blonde took pride in always have a ‘rockin’ set of formal wear to spice up your appearance, yo. Ya never know when ya gotta look good, Sho!’ Or, so he said as he handed the spare clothes over with a bright grin, eyeing Shota with a crooked, softer smile.
Hizashi had brushed off the gratitude with a laugh, guiding him to the teacher’s office restroom with a cheerful reminder that he shouldn’t get the residue anywhere, but Shota knows his real intention is getting Shota into his clothes.
Hizashi has always loved when Shota wore his clothes.
When he finally exits the bathroom, changed and with a sticky mess of his costume and capture weapon stuck in a ball, he crosses the room and steals a hair tie from Hizashi’s wrist; putting his hair up in a half bun as he drops into his chair and heaves a heavy sigh.
He’d wanted then to go home, but he has a stack of assignments on his desk that he assured his students that they’d get back the following day. He’s not above telling them to wait again, but it was the third time he’d told them they’d be getting them back.
So, he’d hunched over his desk with his red marking pen in hand and gotten to work.
One by one the teacher’s left, one of the last being Hizashi who’s on his way to the radio station to do some planning with his producer. They’re trying to host an advertisement event for Put Your Hands Up radio—it's the only thing Shota had heard about for the past month.
That, of course, meant Hizashi had the car and Shota was left taking the train home because he couldn’t very well use his capture weapon when it was a solid ball of sticky residue. It’s a damn good thing he has extra capture weapons and costumes, or he’d be screwed. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to get the gum-like residue off, let alone be ready for patrol in a couple hours.
Shota blinks owlish eyes open, surveying over the empty station. Or, nearly empty.
The man has always liked this time of day, catching the last train he possibly can. There’re usually very few stragglers waiting to catch the last train out, which he’s always thankful for. The less human interaction he needs to do in his free time, the better. Plus, he absolutely loathes riding the train when everyone is crammed into the cars like sardines.
There’s only one other person here—a middle schooler, if the gakuran is anything to go by.
Shota can’t help but notice how late it is for a kid to be leaving school. He’s never heard of an extracurricular activity lasting more than an hour or two after school, but here the kid is at just after nine, clearly waiting for the last train as Shota is.
It’s not that worrying—he doesn’t know this kid. He could’ve stuck around at school, or gone to the library, or even a friend's house after school.
The child’s shoulders are an interesting mix of squared up and slumped, head ducked as he fists at the straps of an obnoxiously yellow backpack. Shota supposes he has no right to judge considering the equally as bright and obnoxious sleeping bag folded under his desk at school right now, but it’s still an eyesore.
Still, all things considered, the thought of the child being here so late, waiting for the last train and still in his school uniform strikes Shota as odd. He’s got a bad feeling, but he can’t put his finger on why—but he knows better than to ignore a gut feeling.
So, he watches.
He watches as the teen rocks on his heels, hands squeezing around the straps of his bag. He watches the child’s shoulders rise and fall with irregular breathes.
He’s been a teacher for a lot of years, and he can spot the signs of a kid being lost in thought. Of a kid being anxious, and tired, and genuinely done with the day. It's body language he sees a lot, even with his Heroics students.
Shota studies the child as he suddenly stiffens suddenly, hand slowly releasing the straps to dig around in the pocket of his uniform pants, where he produces a small, crumbled up ball of paper. Curiosity tugs at Shota’s thoughts, but he focuses on the task at hand: unraveling the child in his view.
The kid seems to read the note over a couple time, body slumping lower by the second. There’s a tense moment where it doesn’t even look like the kid is breathing before he’s suddenly shoving the note back in his pocket and dragging his hand down his face.
The curiosity tugging at Shota’s thoughts turns icy. That’s not a good reaction.
The Hero straightens up as he eyes the child closer. The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even appear to notice when Shota takes a slow step out from behind the pillar and towards the kid. Shota’s body jolts when the kid inches forwards, and that feeling in his gut turns acidic.
The train announces its incoming with a roar of its horn, and Shota takes his eyes off the child for just a second to gage its arrival. When he looks back—the kid is closer to the edge. Fear claws at Shota’s chest as he takes a couple quick steps, the kid inches even closer to the edge.
Shota sees the headlights of the train, and he’s just—he's so far from the kid. He makes a desperate grab for his capture weapon around his neck and feels his body freeze when his hand grasps around nothing.
Fuck.
The kid’s even closer to the edge, and the train is coming, and Shota is jolting forwards as the kid is tipping forwards. Shota’s thoughts go all fuzzy as the kid tips, and tips, and tips, and it doesn’t feel like he’s moving fast enough. For the first time in a long time, Shota is doubting his ability to save someone.
He barely manages to grab at the handle of the child’s backpack, fingers accidentally closing around the scruff of his gakuran as well, but Shota’s just glad to have more stability. The kid can’t wiggle out of his backpack if Shota’s also holding his shirt as well.
The kid hangs from his grip like a kitten clutched by the scruff of their neck, the barest edge of the child’s shoes hardly touching the very edge of the platform. The train wooshes by without a care that a child had nearly sprung out in front of it, and Shota winces at the puff of air.
The kid sucks in a stuttered breath.
Shota’s mind whips back to the task at hand, and he’s quick to tug the boy back, second hand grabbing at the child’s arm to ease his own mind. Two points of contact are better than one.
That was to close.
Shota lets himself blow out a light breath, fingers tensing around the child in his grasp.
“Careful,” he finds himself mumbling out softly, almost dumbly. The thought of scolding the kid crosses him mind, that age-old panicked, exclamation of ‘what were you thinking?!’ sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. This is sensitive. This is a child. This is a child who feels like his only option is death. “The line’s there for a reason, Kid.”
Shota guides the child back a couple steps, desperate to put distance between him and the tracks. The boy puts up no resistance.
“I know,” the boy mumbles lightly, voice stiff and emotionless. Shota swallows at the dark, unwavering tone that he never wants to hear come from a child’s voice again, “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going, Sir. I’m very sorry for the trouble.”
The words are mumbles lowly, the boy not even trying to sell his excuse. Shota doesn’t buy it for even a second, and he thinks the boy might realize it if by the way his shoulders slump is anything to go off. Shota forces out another breath, panicked mind finally starting to clear.
He shouldn’t have felt as helpless as he had right then. He wonders how civilians can even stand that feeling. The thought frates at his mind, and his body subconsciously takes a couple more steps back, the boy following thoughtlessly.
The child doesn’t make any move to tug out of Shota’s grip and he won’t lie and say it doesn’t calm his hammering heart. It’s probably weird, him holding a child he doesn’t know—one he hasn’t even seen the face of—but he can’t seem to make his fingers release.
“The train will be leaving soon,” the boy whispers, voice suddenly sounding exhausted. He still doesn’t try to tug out of Shota’s grip, but the words register with the man, who forces his fingers to relax. He lets go even though the Hero in him is screaming not to.
“Yeah,” Shota blinks owlishly, pulling away from the child entirely, and instead tucks his hands into his—Hizashi's—pockets. His fingers itch to call someone. Tsukauchi, Hizashi, maybe even an ambulance, but he has a sinking feeling that that may do more harm than good.
He doesn’t know what this is, but the kid hadn’t looked like he’d planned to jump at first, not like other jumpers Shota had talked down on rooftop ledges. He looked like he’d... come to the conclusion of sorts due to circumstances; hadn’t thought it out completely, like it was a spur of the moment decision. Convenience. “Let’s... board then, before we miss it.”
The boy nods stiffly, stepping hurriedly into the train car like he’s fleeing a crime. Shota follows, but keeps his distance. Last thing he wants is to overcrowd the kid.
The child perches on one of the seats, and Shota takes the one across from him. He frowns to himself as the kid tucks in on himself, staring blankly down at his own lap with his face protected by a curtain of dark green curls.
He takes the time, after the doors have shut and they’re safe inside the train, to observe the kid. Try and understand. He can get a lot from observing people, it’s a knack that’s made him so good at his Underground Hero work.
The child definitely looks like he’s had a rough day, just by how he’s holding himself up. Or, how he’s hardly holding himself up. Sure, some of that could be fading adrenaline, but there’s a subtle difference between the two.
Shota eyes the teen’s gakuran—rumpled and wrinkled. He spots tiny holes that he hasn’t the faintest idea where they would’ve come from, but the speckled pattern is obviously not from overuse or aged fabric. They’re to spread, small and organized. Clustered together and... charred? The thought sinks in Shota’s stomach.
His attention shifts from the charred spots to his shoulder, where the boy is shifting and rolling the muscles. He tenses it up like he’s trying to relieve a pain Shota can’t see, and when the train jostles them, the child winces and draws his arm and shoulder tighter into his body.
Shota slumps back in his own seat faintly, gaze surveying over the child’s face.
He’s got dark, foresty green hair, and from what little of his eyes he can see, vibrant green eyes that look dulled. Shota can faintly make out freckles dusted over pale skin.
His eyes drift lower, catching on the kid’s hands. They’re laced together in his lap, but one of his hands is a discoloured—bruised and maybe even broken. Shota bites hard at the inside of his cheek as he wonders what happened. Nothing good, he’s sure.
Shota’s eyes drop down even lower, where they narrow in on dark red shoes. A breath gets caught in his lungs as he sees the shoes—bright red and easily recognize, but so very rare in today's society, especially on someone so young. This generation.
Everything is now starting to slot into place, and a flash of anger clouds Shota’s vision.
They sit in the silence of the train for three stops. One person gets on at the first, the man who’d been on the train when Shota had trailed in behind the child got off at the second, and the woman who’d gotten on at the first, gets off at the third.
The child stands to follow her, clutching at his backpack straps again.
Shota stands too, stepping off the train.
He’s two stops early for his own neighborhood, but there’s no way he’ll let this child, a child who’d just tried to jump in front a train, leave to try again somewhere else. Shota would never be able to forgive himself if he walked away now, and in a few days he saw bright green eyes and deep green hair on the news reporting another Quirkless suicide.
The teen seems to stiffen when Shota follows him a couple steps. The man is trying to work up what to say, how to go about this in a situation so different from what he’s used to. The platform they’re on is just as dead as all before; the woman who’d been on the train with them doesn’t even regard either of them as she leaves the platform.
“I won’t do it again,” the boy says quietly, pausing in his steps. Shota finds himself stopping too. “If that’s what you’re worried about, Sir. I really am very sorry to cause you trouble, but I won’t... um, yeah.”
“Kid...” Shota sighs heavily, scratching at his head. He’s mindful not to run his fingers through his hair in fear of knocking out the halfhearted messy bun he’d somehow managed to keep in place all evening. “You know I can’t just...”
“I wasn’t thinking,” the boy finally turns, and Shota’s surprised to see the dullness in his eyes has faded away to a chipper green. “Honest. I wasn’t... I didn’t plan it. I promise. I won’t do anything like that again, I just... It’s just been a bad day, y’know? R-really bad... but, uh, it’s fine! And I know I shouldn’t have even t-thought about d-doing something—something like that. I wasn’t t-thinking, and I didn’t mean to, it just... I don’t know. It was irrational, and I didn’t really w-want to— I-I mean, I have my mom to be thinking about, and I...”
The kid trails off, jaw clamping shut like he’d realized he rambled on. He sucks in a deep breath, glares down at his shoes before clearing his throat as he finally meets Shota’s eyes for the first time.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Shota tells him honestly, a softness to his voice he saves for Quirk accidents at school and for when students get overwhelmed.
“I am,” the boy tells him with a firm nod of his head, “I really am sorry, Sir. I just... I wasn’t thinking. I really didn’t intent to, um, do anything. I don’t even know where... where the thought came from. But I promise I’m thinking straight again! You shouldn’t concern yourself with... with me.”
“I am concerned,” Shota tells him slowly. “That’s not a healthy response, Kid. That’s not a healthy response to anything. A bad day shouldn’t make you think, even for a second, that you should jump in front of a train. That you should do anything harmful to yourself. I’m sorry I can’t just overlook this, Kid, it’s serious. You could’ve... you could've died. Or, at the very least been badly hurt.”
“It was a very bad day,” the child mutters out like that’ll excuse everything. “I promise I won’t try to jump in front of anymore trains— I r-really wasn’t thinking. I don’t, I-I don’t want to kill myself. I just...” The kid drags a bruised hand through his curls, wincing lightly.
He doesn’t say anything for a long second, before the child is suddenly looking up at Shota with wide, questioning eyes. “Why do... why do you even care, Sir?”
Shota himself bristles at the words, taking the boy in easily. It’s an innocent question, one that reminded Shota of how cruel the world truly is. What had to have happened to this boy to make him, a child, question basic compassion.
Shota sits on the question for a second, really thinks about it.
His knee-jerk response is ‘because I’m a Hero’ and it’s true. He’s not going to just sit back and watch as someone dives off a building, or in front of a train. If he can save someone’s life, he will. The second response to sit at the tip of his tongue is ‘because I’m a teacher’ also true. Shota is a teacher, and he cares about his students. This boy might not be one of his kids yet, but who’s to say in a couple years? This is a child who is hurting, and Shota doesn’t know a single teacher he personally knows who’d look the other direction.
The third response, however, is the one that Shota thinks the boy might need the most—
“Because I’m a decent human being.” He finds himself saying instead, staring down at the boy, “I’m a decent human being, and I can see you’re upset. That you’re hurting. I know something drove you to stand on that platform and contemplate taking your own life.”
The kid meets his eyes and stares, like he’s searching out dishonesty. He stares until Shota sees tears well in his eyes, and the man’s not quite sure what the child sees in his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” the boy whispers brokenly, head bowing as he palms at watering eyes. “I-I didn’t—”
“It’s alright,” Shota speaks softly. His hand twitches to pat the child’s head, but he keeps his distance. He sucks in a breath, watching as the boy dries at his eyes. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your hand?”
The child startles, pulling away from wet eyes to stare down at his own hand like he’d forgotten it was even injured. He frowns before subconsciously clapping his second hand over the bruised top of it, “oh, ah, n-nothing really. Just... an accident at school.”
“An accident,” Shota repeats lowly, unbelieving of the excuse, but hoping that doesn’t transfer into his tone, “have you gotten it looked at? It looks painful. There are a lot of small bones in your hand that could be fractured.”
“Ah...” the boy gives a sheepish smile, “no, but... it’s fine. I’ll just put some ice on it at home, and it’ll be, um, good as new.”
“And your shoulder?”
“M-my shoulder?”
Shota gives a hum, ignoring the boy’s surprise, “yes. The one you’ve been subconsciously supporting since we got off the train. I assume when you hold it to your body and ease the weight of your arm, it alleviates some of the pain, right?”
“Um,” the boy frowns. He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to be truthful, or to lie and make an escape. “I don’t... I just hurt it at school.”
“Same accident?” Shota quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” the boy blows out, playing with his own fingers. “I really am fine. It-it doesn’t even really hurt all that much.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at it?”
“L-Looked at it?” the boy squawks, jolting in surprise. “Here?”
“No,” Shota suppresses a light smile, “there’s a café about a block away from this station. It’s runs late hours, open until midnight. There’s good lighting, as well as good drinks. I can even get you a coffee, or tea, or... ah, a hot chocolate or something. A compensation for letting me check your injuries.”
Now the kid looks suspicious, which is something Shota does not want. He clears his throat, “I can search up the address for you to see the café for yourself before you agree, and I’ll encourage you to text a parent or guardian your whereabouts. This is a... frankly odd request, and I know it, but I’d just like to make sure you’re alright; in a public, populated area. If you have broken anything, it should be addressed.”
The boy hesitates, “what... what are you?”
“What am I?” Shota repeats, blinking in confusion.
“What do you do,” the boy reiterates, “as a, um, as a job?”
“Oh. I teach,” Shota answers honestly. “High school. But I took some first aid training as well as a precaution. You can never be too careful, especially with a room full of twenty bratty teenagers being absolute menaces in my classroom.”
For a split second, a humorous smile curls onto the boy’s lips, and Shota’s not sure what he said that was even remotely funny, but he’ll count it as a win. As fast as the smile appears, it’s gone.
“And you just want to... look at them? My, um, the injuries, I mean? Noth-n-nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” Shota gives a nod, “well, look over your injuries and offer you a warm drink; my treat. A hot drink always makes me feel better after a bad day. The hot chocolate is very nice, my husband adores it. Comes with whipped cream and shaved chocolate as a garnish.”
The kid studies Shota’s face again like he just can’t believe it. Shota doesn’t move, besides cocking his head to the side. The child’s eyes narrow before he seems to come to a conclusion, “what’s your name?”
“Aizawa,” Shota blinks once before hastily adding, “Aizawa Shota.”
“Izuku,” the boy offers almost shyly, “um, j-just Izuku. I-I don’t—”
“Izuku-kun it is,” Shota bows his head in a nod, “it’s wise not giving out your full name. You’re a smart kid.”
“It’s not wise to follow a stranger into the night,” the boy quips back softly, but Shota just feels his lips quirk up faintly into a smile. The kid seems to backtrack when he realizes what he’d said, “not that I-I think that anything will—”
“No,” Shota agrees lightly, “it’s not. You’re right. But, on that note, you should inform your guardian of your whereabouts. It’s fairly late. You mentioned your mother earlier.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the boy waves off the concern, toe of his shoe scuffing against the concrete below. “She’s at work anyways. She won’t notice if I’m a bit late. Not that I’m not already super late...”
Shota waits for the kid to continue, but he doesn’t. He bites back a sigh.
The child bites hard at his bottom lip before cocking his head in Shota’s direction, reminding the man of a puppy, “there’s no dark alleys or anything on the way, right?”
“No,” Shota snorts, grabbing the strap of his messenger bag, “all main road side walks. There will be cars passing, and it’s still early enough that there will be foot traffic. I’m also quite sure the café will have a few customers. The world doesn’t shut down after nine PM.”
“Okay,” the boy finally agrees, lifting his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. “I... I’ll believe you for now. But, um, just because I want to try that hot chocolate you were talking about. It sounded really good.”
“You’ll have to give me your review on it so I can pass it onto Hizashi,” Shota returns, eyebrows furrowing as the kid blinks in confusion. “That’s my husband, by the way. He swears it’s the best hot chocolate he’s ever had, but he’s the only one we know who’s tried it.”
Izuku lets out a light little ‘ah’ sort of noise, and the corner of Shota’s lip twitches up in an almost smile at the sound. It’s hard to believe this is the same child who, not even half an hour ago, was mere seconds away from jumping in front of a train.
Shota takes a couple steps towards the train station exit, slowing until he feels someone at his side. The kid falls into step with him, so Shota continues.
“You know, Izuku-kun, you really shouldn’t trust adults you don’t know,” Shota mutters lightly, only slightly disapproving.
The boy at his side shrugs, “what have I got to lose?”
And that... that’s worrisome.