Chapter Text
“Hizashi, are you sure about this?”
“Yes, I am 100% sure about this, Shouta.”
“It’s one thing to adopt a cat, but fostering a kid? Let alone a teenage boy who’s quirkless?”
“Sho, you told me you didn’t have a problem with him being quirkless. So why are you acting like this now?”
Shouta sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s not it. It’s fine that he’s quirkless, it’s just… we’re pro heroes. We do dangerous work. What if that danger follows us home one day? He could get seriously hurt.”
Hizashi crossed his arms, unwavering. “Shouta, we’re pro heroes for a reason. If something happens, we’re more than equipped to handle it. And besides, we’re only fostering him for now—nothing’s permanent.”
Shouta gave him a long, knowing look. “Hizashi, I love you, but you get attached. Too attached. And fast.”
Hizashi scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. You see a stray cat on the street and basically fall in love on the spot.”
“That’s different!” Shouta shot back, frowning.
Hizashi just smirked. “Sure it is.”
Hizashi had always wanted to foster a child and he knew Shouta felt the same way. He’d brought it up a few times over the years, but with their demanding schedules as pro heroes and UA teachers, it was hard to find the right time to have a real conversation about it. Their lives were filled with training, missions, teaching, and barely any downtime. So, it always ended up on the backburner.
But then, one quiet evening, after a particularly long day of work, they found a moment. Him and his husband were sitting in their living room, a rare night where they didn’t have to rush off to handle a case or get back to the patrols. Hizashi had been holding onto this thought for months, and finally, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. And it was clear his husband was catching on.
“Hizashi,” Shouta began, leaning back in his chair, “you’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?”
Hizashi hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time we do this. You and me. We could foster a kid.”
Shouta raised an eyebrow but didn’t dismiss the idea. They had both talked about their wish to help kids before, but it had always seemed like a distant dream, something they'd discuss but never take action on. “Are you serious?” Shouta asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes softened just a little.
Yeah, they worked with kids nearly every day at UA, but it wasn’t the same. At UA, they were teachers. They helped students develop their quirks, trained them to be future heroes, and gave them the tools to survive in the world of pro-heroes. They had a set routine, clear boundaries, and weren’t responsible for anything outside of the classroom. The students came, they learned, and they left. Their involvement was structured, controlled.
Fostering a child? That was a different kind of responsibility altogether. There was no bell signaling the end of the day, no lesson plans to follow. It wasn’t just about guidance—it was about providing a home, being a constant in someone’s life, helping them heal. It would mean stepping into a space they weren’t used to, without the safety of routine or professional distance. They wouldn’t just be teachers anymore; they’d be parents, in a sense, dealing with the complexities of a child’s life far beyond academics or training.
This wasn’t about preparing a kid to be a hero. It was about making sure they had a place to belong.
“I am,” Hizashi finally answered, his voice full of excitement. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Maybe we can give a kid a shot at a better life, you know?”
To his relief, Shouta didn’t immediately shut him down. Instead, he was quiet for a long moment, weighing the idea. Finally, Shouta nodded, though there was a hint of hesitation. “Okay… but we need to be realistic about it. We’re not exactly your typical parents. This won’t be easy.”
Hizashi grinned. “I know. But I think we can handle it.”
They agreed to start looking into it, determined to make it work. After all, it was a huge step for them both, and Hizashi was thrilled. He had always wanted to give a child a chance at the love and stability he never had growing up. He was hopeful, more hopeful than he’d been in a long time.
But that hope would be tested the moment he came home after visiting the foster agency. Shouta was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him, his face unreadable as Hizashi walked in, his excitement barely contained.
“So, I went to the agency today,” Hizashi began, his voice bright. “I found someone. A boy. He’s 14 years old and his name’s Izuku Midoriya. He’s—”
A sharp silence cut him off as Shouta’s gaze turned colder. He set his cup down, the clink of ceramic echoing in the otherwise quiet room. “Wait… you picked a teenager?”
Hizashi’s smile faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “Yes. I know it wasn’t what we originally planned, but…” His voice softened. “Shouta, he’s been in the system for years. They keep passing him from foster home to foster home, and no one’s giving him a chance. He’s been through so much, and…” Hizashi’s voice wavered. “It broke my heart hearing how long he’s been waiting. He needs a home.”
Shouta’s brow furrowed, his expression guarded. “A teenager? We were going to foster a kid, Hizashi. A child. Not a teenager.”
Hizashi’s heart sank, but he refused to back down. He had seen the pain in Izuku’s eyes, the years of neglect and loneliness. It had struck a chord in him that nothing else had. “I know, Sho. But he’s the one who needs help the most. He doesn’t have anyone else. I couldn’t walk away from that.”
Shouta’s sigh was heavy, his shoulders sagging as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew this would happen. You get attached so quickly. And now we’re talking about taking in a teenager who’s been abandoned by everyone else.”
“I’m not asking for your permission,” Hizashi said softly, but firmly. “I’m doing this. This kid needs us. And I’m not going to sit by and let him stay in the system any longer.”
Shouta shifted, his gaze sharpening as he met Hizashi’s eyes. “You know there’s more to this than just giving him a roof over his head. It’s not just about being a teenager, it’s about—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. “What’s his quirk?”
Hizashi hesitated for a moment before answering. “He’s actually quirkless.”
Shouta’s reaction was immediate—a flash of surprise, quickly followed by an undercurrent of disbelief. His face tightened, and his brow furrowed again as he processed the information. He didn’t voice the words out loud, but the unease was there, evident in the hard line of his mouth.
It wasn’t that Shouta didn’t care about quirkless people. They both did, deeply. But they lived in a society where quirklessness was often seen as a disadvantage—where people like Izuku were sometimes pushed aside, overlooked, or worse. It was a harsh world to survive in, and Shouta hated it.
Hizashi caught the look and smiled softly, understanding the silent concern in his husband’s eyes. “I know, Sho. I know how people are. But you’re not like them. Neither of us are. And this kid... he’s been through enough already. He deserves something better.”
For a long moment, the tension in the room thickened, both of them standing their ground. Then Shouta sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” Hizashi smiled, his heart swelling with determination. “You love me for it.”
Shouta’s lips twitched slightly, but there was a resigned look in his eyes. “Fine. But we’re in this together. I just want you to be sure.”
“I am,” Hizashi said, his voice full of conviction. “I’m sure.”
The two pro heroes currently sat together in their living room, waiting for the agency to drop Izuku off. Hizashi felt a rush of excitement building in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years. He and Shouta had spent the entire morning transforming their study into a proper bedroom for the kid. There were new sheets on the bed, fresh paint on the walls, and small touches that made it feel like a real home.
Shouta had grumbled the entire time, of course, complaining about the mess and the lack of time. But Hizashi knew better. He could tell by the way Shouta carefully arranged the books on the shelf, the way he added extra pillows to the bed, that his husband was secretly excited in his own, quiet way. It wasn’t that Shouta didn’t want this, it was just that he preferred to keep his emotions close to the chest. He'd been like that since high school.
“Everything’s set, right?” Hizashi asked, glancing over at Shouta with a grin.
Shouta gave a short nod, adjusting his scarf as if to distract himself from the feeling in the air. "Yeah. Just don’t go overboard." His eyes softened, though, betraying the calm exterior he put on. Hizashi’s heart rate increased. They had both been waiting for this moment for so long. He had always dreamed of giving a child a safe place, a real home—and now they were finally going to do it.
Just as Hizashi was about to double check that everything was in place for the fourth time that hour, a sharp knock echoed from the door. His heart skipped a beat, and he shot a glance at Shouta. “Here we go,” Hizashi murmured, his excitement barely contained.
Shouta gave him a look, a mix of scepticism and concern, but he said nothing as they both walked toward the door. Hizashi opened it with a wide smile, but it faltered slightly when he saw the teenager standing in front of him. He did not expect this.
Izuku Midoriya looked less than thrilled to be there. His posture was stiff, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his hair—wild and unruly—framed his face in an almost defiant way. He seemed to be mentally preparing himself for disappointment. His eyes flicked around the room—not in curiosity, but in calculation. The way he held himself, tense and coiled, made Hizashi’s chest ache.
Behind him stood a woman, dressed in professional attire, holding a clipboard. She smiled at them politely but with an air of professionalism. “Good afternoon Yamada-San, Aizawa-San, I trust everything’s ready?”
Hizashi nodded quickly. “Yeah, all set!”
She turned to Izuku. “Alright, Midoriya, You know the drill, let’s go inside.” She turned to them. “I just need you to sign a few things, and then I’ll be on my way.”
Izuku didn’t move right away, his eyes scanning the house before finally landing on Hizashi and Shouta. He gave a small grunt, clearly uninterested. Hizashi smiled warmly, trying to put the boy at ease. “Hey, Izuku! Welcome to our apartment!”
Izuku glanced at him for a second, then rolled his eyes. His tone was thick with sarcasm. “Great. Another foster home. I’m sure this one will be just as different as the last one.” Hizashi’s smile faltered again, just a little, but he quickly tried to mask it. “No, really. We’re here to give you a fresh start.”
Izuku raised an eyebrow, his arms still tightly crossed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Every time they move me to another place, they say the same thing. 'We’ll take care of you,' 'You’re not a burden.' But it’s always the same thing. Once they realize I’m just a quirkless kid, I’m out the door faster than you can say ‘next.’”
Hizashi felt a tightness in his chest, but he kept his voice gentle. “Izuku, we—”
“Its Midoriya and I don’t want to hear it,” Midoriya cut him off. “It’s fine. I know how this works.” He scoffed, looking around the room with an almost bored expression. “You’re probably just here to make yourselves feel better, huh? You two look like the type who’d want to ‘save’ me.”
Hizashi blinked, surprised by the bitterness in the boy’s voice. Before he could respond, Midoriya’s eyes flicked over to Shouta. He’s eyes scanned Shouta up and down, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips. “And you?” Midoriya’s sneered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Are you even trying, or is ‘dishevelled’ your signature look?” His eyes glinted with mockery as he crossed his arms tighter over his chest. “Is that how you’re supposed to be ‘looking after’ me? If that’s your idea of being a ‘parent,’ I’d rather take my chances on my own.”
Hizashi’s jaw tightened at the insult, and before he could say anything, the woman beside him stepped forward, her voice firm. “Midoriya, knock it off.” She wasn’t rude, but the command was clear, and it had the intended effect. Midoriya fell silent, his eyes flicking to her before quickly darting away. She looked at him with a slight frown, a little disappointed by the remark. “That kind of attitude won’t be tolerated here. You’re not here to cause trouble.”
Izuku grumbled something under his breath, but he didn’t argue, his arms still crossed as he glared down at the floor.
Hizashi was about to speak up, but he caught the flicker of something in Midoriya’s eyes—something almost weary behind the sarcasm and bitterness. He was used to the sharp words and the guarded posture by being a teacher, but seeing how easily it came to Izuku made Hizashi pause. He glanced at Shouta, who stood there completely unshaken by the comment. As always, Shouta was unreadable, his posture the same as ever—calm, collected, and completely unaffected by the jab.
Hizashi couldn’t help but wonder when Izuku’s defenses had become so second nature. When had he learned to lash out like that? Was it just the system that had made him this way, or had something deeper been behind it all along? Hizashi felt the weight of those thoughts but quickly pushed them aside. He couldn’t focus on that now. They had to start somewhere.
“Alright, Iz—Midoriya…” Hizashi began, his voice warm but firm, trying to keep the mood light. “Listen up, we’re not here to play hero. We’re just two people who want to help you out. And whether you like it or not, this is your home now. You’re not going anywhere. We’re not gonna drop you like everyone else. Got it?”
His tone was bright, but there was an edge of determination that made it clear—Hizashi wasn’t going to let Izuku slip through the cracks again.
Midoriya didn’t respond. He just stood there, his defiant stance still in place, the edge of his words still lingering in the air. But for a moment, Hizashi could’ve sworn he saw something softer behind the walls Midoriya had built up. A flicker of uncertainty that only lasted a second before it was buried deep again.
The woman who had been standing off to the side cleared her throat, taking a few steps toward the table where the paperwork was laid out. “I’ll just need you both to sign these papers, and then I’ll be on my way. I trust you two can take it from here?” She turned to Midoriya, offering him one last polite smile. “You’re in good hands, okay?”
Midoriya didn’t answer, still standing by the door, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Hizashi quickly signed the forms and passed them over to Shouta, who signed them with his usual methodical precision. The woman glanced at both of them one last time before heading for the door, giving a slight nod.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it then, you have my number so call if you need anything.” she said, before stepping outside, leaving the three of them alone. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, the room felt heavy with the silence. Midoriya had still said nothing since his last comment, his eyes fixed on the ground as if trying to escape it all.
Hizashi glanced at Shouta, a look of concern flickering across his face. Shouta’s gaze was steady, unwavering as always, though there was something in his eyes—a hint of understanding.
“Well,” Hizashi began, clapping his hands together in a somewhat exaggerated attempt to lighten the mood, “now that all the official stuff is out of the way, you’re free to make yourself at home.” He motioned around the apartment. “The kitchen’s stocked. Your room is down that way, feel free to explore! We’re not going anywhere, so feel free to take your time, alright?”
Midoriya didn’t respond, just stood there in the same position. His shoulders tensed, as if the weight of everything was too much for him. It was clear—he wasn’t ready to believe them, not yet. And with that attitude, it was obvious that he had been let down way too many times.
But Hizashi wasn’t going to give up. They were in this for the long haul, no matter how tough it was going to get.
“I’m going to settle into the guest room,” he muttered, his tone still distant, almost like he was talking to himself more than anyone else. He turned his back on them, heading toward the hallway with slow, deliberate steps.
Hizashi blinked, caught off guard by the way Midoriya said “guest room” rather than simply saying "my room." It was a subtle detail, but it felt... telling. It was as if he had already resigned himself to being a visitor in their space, never truly believing it was meant for him. Hizashi’s chest tightened, but he quickly masked the feeling, not wanting to let it show. “Hey, uh, Midoriya…” Hizashi called out softly, unsure of whether he should push or let it slide. “The room’s yours. You don’t need to call it the guest room. You’re staying here now. This is your home.”
Midoriya paused in the doorway, but he didn’t turn around. His voice floated back, low and flat. “Yeah, whatever.”
Hizashi’s smile wavered, but he kept it there, trying to stay hopeful despite the clear resistance in Midoriya’s tone. “Take your time. You need anything, we’re just in the living room.” He didn’t reply. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the hallway, and the house felt unnervingly quiet.
Hizashi exhaled, glancing at Shouta again. There was a heaviness in the air, a weight that had settled in since the boy stepped through their door. Shouta shifted slightly, his voice low but steady. “He’ll need time. Don’t take it personally.” His eyes met Hizashi’s, and though his face was neutral, there was an understanding in his gaze. “It’s not about us. It’s about him. He’s been let down too many times.”
Hizashi nodded, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. “Yeah. I just want him to feel like he belongs here.” Shouta’s expression softened just a fraction. “He will. It just won’t happen overnight.”
The silence lingered, but it felt a little less heavy now. Hizashi offered a small, hopeful smile. “I know. We’ll get there.”
With that, they both stood in the quiet of their home, feeling the weight of what was to come.
***
Izuku didn’t give it a week before they sent him back. If anything, he might make it a challenge—see how fast he could get returned this time. Maybe if he got sent back enough times, the orphanage would stop bothering and just let him stay. It wasn’t like it made a difference where he ended up.
In fact, the orphanage was easier. No fake smiles, no forced small talk, no pretending like he was some kid they actually wanted. It was just a place—a place where no one cared what he did, as long as he didn’t cause trouble. He could come and go without anyone noticing, slip through the cracks like he always had. But houses? Apartments? Foster families who thought they were doing something noble by taking him in? They always had rules. Curfews. Expectations. People who suddenly acted like they were responsible for him.
It was exhausting. And temporary. Always temporary.
So why bother playing along?
If these two were like all the others, then fine. He’d make it easy for them.
Izuku had already memorized the apartment’s layout. It wasn’t hard—just a habit he’d picked up over the years. There were two main exits: the front door and the balcony door, which led to a narrow fire escape. His room had a window, but they were on the fourth floor, which was going to be a nightmare when he decided to sneak out later. Not impossible, just… annoying. He’d figure it out. He always did.
He let his bag drop onto the floor with a dull thud and scanned the bedroom. The walls were freshly painted—he could still smell it, that sharp chemical scent that hadn’t quite faded yet. Probably a last-minute attempt to make the place feel more like his room instead of whatever it was before. A study, maybe. He could still see faint outlines where furniture must’ve pressed into the carpet for years before being shuffled out to make space for him.
The bed was neatly made, the sheets crisp and new, like they’d just been bought. There was a desk in the corner, a dresser against the wall, and a closet with sliding doors. It was… nice. Too nice. Like they were trying too hard.
Why had they bought all this new stuff for him?
At his previous houses, he always got whatever secondhand furniture was lying around, no matter the condition. At the last place, he hadn’t even been given a blanket until the fifth night. And when he finally got one, it was barely more than a rag, full of holes.
Izuku scoffed under his breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly as he tested the mattress. He had to admit—it was better than most of the places he’d been stuck in before. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t permanent. It never was.
He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. Might as well get comfortable while it lasts.
Izuku exhaled sharply through his nose, letting his gaze drift from the ceiling to the door. Yamada and Aizawa. That’s what Shimizu-San had called them. They were… different. Completely opposites.
Yamada was all loud energy and big smiles, acting like this whole situation was the best thing to ever happen. He had that kind of over-the-top enthusiasm that felt too forced to be real. People like him always tried too hard, always thought if they were nice enough, they could get you to trust them. Like trust was something you could just hand out. Izuku had met people like that before—foster parents who thought they could fix him with warmth alone. It never lasted.
And then there was Aizawa. The complete opposite. He barely spoke, barely reacted. He just stood there in his baggy clothes, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, like he didn’t care about any of this. Honestly, Izuku preferred that over Yamada’s endless optimism. At least Aizawa wasn’t pretending. He seemed indifferent—like he wouldn’t care if Izuku stayed or left.
Maybe that was better. Maybe it meant they wouldn’t be as disappointed when he was gone.
Izuku sighed, running a hand through his hair before flopping back against the mattress. The ceiling blurred slightly as he stared at it, his mind already working through his next steps.
If he was lucky, he could be out of here in a few days.
Izuku lost track of time staring at the ceiling, letting his thoughts drift in circles. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there—ten minutes? An hour? It didn’t matter. The room still smelled like fresh paint, the bed still felt too soft, and the walls were still too bare. Everything was unfamiliar, and he hated it.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. It was quiet but firm, no hesitation. “We made dinner,” Aizawa’s voice came through the door, as flat and tired as ever. “Come eat.”
Izuku debated ignoring him. But before he could make up his mind, Aizawa continued.
“We also need to go over some ground rules and some other important stuff.”
Great. Rules. Because if there was one thing foster homes loved, it was rules. Do this. Don’t do that. Be grateful. Don't be a problem. Don't make us regret taking you in.
Izuku sighed, sitting up. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with something else. Annoyance? Dread? He wasn’t sure. He already knew how this would go. They’d lay down their expectations, act like they were reasonable, and he’d pretend to listen while planning his next move.
Pushing himself off the bed, he ran a hand through his messy hair and made his way to the door. When he opened it, Aizawa was standing there, arms crossed, looking as uninterested as ever.
Izuku shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.”
Aizawa gave him a long look but didn’t comment. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the dining room. Izuku followed, already bracing himself for whatever rules they were about to throw at him.
As the pair entered the dining room, Midoriya watched Yamada place the last bowl of what looked to be ramen before sitting down at the table. He smiled warmly as they approached, and for some reason, it sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine.
He hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking to the food. The bowls were filled to the brim—steaming broth, thick noodles, perfectly sliced toppings. It smelled good. Better than anything he was used to.
Too good.
His stomach twisted. Not with hunger—well, maybe a little—but mostly with unease. This was… weird. He wasn’t used to food like this, to meals that looked like actual effort had been put into them. Foster homes usually meant microwave dinners or leftovers from whatever the family didn’t finish. And at the orphanage? If the food was warm, that was considered a lucky day.
This? This felt… off. Like a trap.
Still, he sat down, slowly, eyeing both of them as he pulled his bowl closer. He wasn’t stupid. People didn’t just do things like this. There was always an expectation, a price.
Izuku watched as Yamada and Aizawa exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations that adults seemed to have when they were debating how much to say. He narrowed his eyes slightly. What now?
Yamada leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Before we go over ground rules, we need to talk about something else first,” he said, his voice still warm but noticeably more serious. “Our jobs.”
Izuku raised an eyebrow. Their jobs? Why did that matter? He had been in and out of enough foster homes to know that most adults only cared if a kid followed their house rules—not whatever it was they did from nine to five. He didn’t see why this was important enough to delay the inevitable speech about rules.
“Okay…?” he said slowly, eyeing them warily.
Yamada leaned forward slightly. “We’re teachers,” he said, his voice carrying an unusual weight. “Both of us work at U.A.” Izuku’s entire body tensed. He barely noticed the way his grip on his chopsticks tightened, pressing so hard against the wood that his fingers ached.
U.A.
As in U.A. High.
As in the most prestigious hero school in Japan. The place that molded future Pro Heroes, the same heroes he had stopped believing in years ago. The school he had once dreamed of attending, back when he was naïve enough to think effort alone could make up for what he lacked. Which was a quirk.
His mind stumbled over itself, scrambling to process the information. If they were teachers at U.A., that could only mean—
“We’re also Pro Heroes,” Aizawa added, his voice calm and indifferent, like he was stating the most unremarkable fact in the world.
Izuku’s heart skipped a beat.
No.
No, no, no.
What the fuck.
His stomach twisted violently, and it took every ounce of self-control not to visibly react. His brain was screaming at him to not freak out, to not let anything slip onto his face, but his chest felt tight, his breathing too shallow.
Pro Heroes.
Was this some kind of joke? Some cruel twist of fate? Of all the homes he could’ve ended up in, why this one? Why with them?
It felt like some cosmic punishment. A sick game played at his expense.
Had the universe really decided to dump him—Izuku fucking Midoriya—into the care of not just one but two Pro Heroes? The same kind of people who preached about saving others, yet turned their backs on the ones who needed them most?
His stomach churned. His head buzzed. His fingers twitched toward his chopsticks, but he forced himself to stay still.
He dropped the utensils into his bowl with a quiet clink and forced out a short, unimpressed laugh. “Huh. That’s… something.”
His voice came out steadier than he expected, but he could still hear the tightness in it. Izuku swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet their gazes. His ears rang, blood rushing in his head like static. Across the table, Aizawa studied him with those piercing, unreadable eyes, while Yamada still wore that same damn smile—though it was softer now, more careful.
What the hell have I just walked into?
Aizawa didn’t seem fazed by the shift in atmosphere. He took a slow bite of his ramen, chewing thoughtfully before speaking, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “I have to go out on patrol tonight around ten,” he said, his voice level, though there was an underlying weariness in his tone. “Yamada has patrol in the mornings around five. But one of us should always be in the house at some point.”
Izuku swallowed, his mind still reeling from the revelation. His gaze flickered between the two men before he finally forced himself to speak. “So… if you’re Pro Heroes, what are your hero names?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Midoriya watched as Yamada’s grin somehow grew even wider—he hadn’t thought that was possible. “I just realized we never actually introduced ourselves properly. Bit of an oversight, huh? You might’ve heard of me,” he said, practically beaming. “But if not, that’s okay! I’m Present Mic!”
Izuku felt his jaw go slack. “What…?” he blurted out dumbly.
Present Mic.
As in the Present Mic. The Pro Hero with a voice powerful enough to shatter concrete. The same guy who hosted U.A.’s sports festival every year and had an energy level so obnoxiously high that Izuku had always assumed it was just for show.
How had he not noticed? Sure, the man looked different—his hair pulled back into a low bun, and he wasn’t wearing his usual glasses. He looked more... casual, in simple clothes that didn’t scream "hero." But his voice—how had he not recognized it? That voice should have been a dead giveaway. Whatever the reason, Izuku couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together sooner.
His brain completely short-circuited. He had walked into this apartment expecting another temporary foster home, but instead, he was sitting across the table from a famous hero—no, two famous heroes.
A quiet snort pulled him out of his thoughts. Izuku’s eyes darted toward Aizawa, who was watching him with a look that was almost amused, though his perpetually tired expression didn’t shift much.
Izuku frowned. “And you?” he asked, hesitantly turning his attention to Aizawa.
The man simply blinked, then sighed. “Eraserhead.”
Izuku choked. You have got to be kidding me. He suddenly felt very sick. His foster parents weren’t just pro heroes—they were these pro heroes. One of them worked directly with the police, and the other was a damn public figure.
Izuku stared, his mind racing a mile a minute.
Could this get any worse.
Oh, he had definitely heard of Eraserhead. An underground Pro Hero with a reputation for being ruthless when dealing with criminals—especially Vigilantes. He was the guy who worked in the shadows, the one who didn’t bother with flashy heroics or public recognition. The one who actually got things done.
Izuku knew of a few Vigilantes who had been caught by him. Some of them had managed to slip away before things got too bad, while others… well, they weren’t seen much after that. He had been careful. Very careful. He had made sure to stay under the radar, to never do anything big enough to catch the attention of someone like him.
Yet here he was, sitting across from the man, completely exposed. He needed to be careful. More careful than ever.
The irony of the situation made him want to laugh. He had spent so much time making sure he never crossed paths with Eraserhead as Ghost—and now he had walked right into his home as Izuku.
What were the fucking chances?
Still, this wasn’t how he expected the underground hero to look. He thought Eraserhead would be more… intimidating. But instead of a looming figure shrouded in mystery and menace, he was looking at a man who, quite frankly, looked dead inside.
His eyes were half-lidded, his posture lazy, and there was this perpetual air of exhaustion hanging around him, like he was a single inconvenience away from passing out on the table.
This was the guy Vigilantes were afraid of?
Izuku squinted at him, then risked a glance at Yamada, who was practically vibrating with energy in contrast. He had no idea how these two even functioned in the same space, let alone lived together.
Still, the knowledge that these were his foster parents now made something uneasy settle in his stomach.
This was bad.
Very, very bad
Aizawa let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temples as if he were already exhausted by the conversation. “Eat,” he said flatly. “The food’s getting cold.”
Izuku blinked, glancing down at the bowl of ramen in front of him. Right. Food. He hesitated for a second before picking up his chopsticks and taking a small bite. It was… good. Suspiciously good. His stomach twisted slightly. He wasn’t used to food like this.
Yamada, oblivious to the sheer panic clawing its way through Izuku’s chest, kept talking. “We get that it might be a little weird,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, hey, this doesn’t change anything about the house rules. They’re pretty simple.”
Here it was. The list of restrictions, the inevitable reminder that he was only here because the system had nowhere else to put him. He forced his face to stay neutral. “Go on,” he muttered.
“We don’t have many,” Aizawa said, watching him carefully. “Just two main ones. First, if you go out, tell one of us where you’re going. And second, be home by 9:30 PM.”
Izuku froze mid-bite, his eyes flicking between them in disbelief. That was it?
No curfews so strict he’d have to be in his room by sunset? No rules about speaking only when spoken to? His mind immediately went to the last few homes he had been in. He hadn’t been allowed to be in certain rooms in some places, hadn’t been allowed to eat until everyone else had finished in others. He had to earn simple things—hot meals, permission to go outside. Some foster parents treated him like a burden the second they found out he didn’t have a quirk, and the rules had reflected that.
His fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks. “That’s it?” he asked slowly, still half-expecting them to hit him with some sort of catch.
Aizawa gave him a look, eyes sharp despite his exhausted expression. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Izuku frowned. “No… other rules?” He hesitated before adding, “Nothing about—” He cut himself off, not sure if he actually wanted to finish that sentence. Yamada and Aizawa exchanged a glance. It was quick, but Izuku caught it immediately. It wasn’t annoyance or frustration—it was something else. Something that made his stomach clench uncomfortably.
Concern.
Izuku clenched his jaw and looked away. He hated that look. He hated when people acted like they cared when he knew it wouldn’t last.
“Kid,” Aizawa said, his voice quieter but firm this time. “What kind of rules are you used to?”
Izuku shrugged, keeping his gaze locked on his bowl. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, stuffing another bite of ramen into his mouth to avoid answering. Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the quiet tension stretched between them. Izuku could feel the weight of his gaze, the pressure behind it, but he kept his head down, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter?” Aizawa repeated, his voice softer now but no less insistent. “It matters to us.”
Izuku flinched, the words digging into him like an old wound. It wasn’t just the question—it was the genuineness in Aizawa’s tone. It wasn’t something Izuku was used to. Not at all. Why would they care about a quirkless orphan?
He wanted to snap back, to push them away, to shut them out, but his mouth felt dry. Instead, he pushed his chopsticks around in his bowl aimlessly, not really eating, just stalling. “It’s not important,” he muttered again, voice tight. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Yamada, sensing the growing discomfort, tried to intervene with his usual cheery tone. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. Just know we’re here for you, alright?” His smile was kind, but there was a touch of sadness behind it, something that made Izuku’s throat tighten.
Aizawa remained silent for a moment, but his gaze was steady, not pushing, just observing. He finally spoke, his voice quieter but still firm. “We’re not asking you to talk about anything you’re not ready to. But we’d like to know if there’s anything we should be aware of. Just in case.”
Izuku’s stomach twisted again. He could feel the ball of frustration rise in his chest. He hated that tone. The way they spoke like they genuinely cared. He didn’t want their pity. They didn’t know him. They didn’t know what he’d been through. No one did.
He forced himself to meet their eyes, but his gaze was sharp, defensive. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion he didn’t want to deal with. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Aizawa didn’t press, but he raised an eyebrow, as if he could see through the lie. Yamada just nodded, his smile fading slightly.
“That’s okay, kid,” Yamada said gently, “We’re here when you’re ready. But, for now, you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
Izuku didn’t respond. Instead, he stared down at his half-empty bowl of ramen, pushing the noodles around aimlessly. The weight of their attention was suffocating, but he couldn’t escape it—not without risking their concern getting worse. And that’s exactly what he didn’t need. He didn’t want to be a burden to them, didn’t want to be another sad, broken kid they tried to 'save.' He was used to being alone. He was fine that way.
After a long silence, Izuku stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back a little too forcefully. He didn’t look at either of them as he muttered, “I’m done eating, I'm going to bed” and turned toward the door.
He could feel their gazes on his back as he walked toward the guest room, a weight pressing against him that he couldn’t shake off. It felt too much like... concern. But that didn’t make sense. Not with him.
As he reached the door, he heard Yamada’s voice, gentle and warm, “Goodnight, Midoriya.”
Izuku’s steps faltered for a split second. The words sounded sincere, too sincere. Why does he care so much?
He quickly shook the thought away, gripping the doorknob and pulling it open. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. As the door clicked shut behind him, Izuku leaned against it, exhaling deeply. Tomorrow will be different, he told himself. They’ll be different. They’ll act like everyone else. This is temporary. Don’t let it get to you.
But despite the harsh thoughts he tried to block it away, there was a gnawing feeling in his chest. Something about tonight felt different. Something about them felt different. Izuku stood there in the quiet of his room for a long moment, just staring at the door. He could hear the two heroes chatting, but he wasn’t sure what about—he could probably guess it though.
He quickly got to work, setting the thoughts aside, focusing on what needed to be done. He walked over to the small bag he had hidden in the corner of the room, pulling out the familiar black hoodie and mask. He wasn’t about to let tonight be any different than the others. The weight of the city’s streets called to him like a siren’s song.
Neither of them would come check on him. That much he knew. Aizawa would be heading out on patrol soon, keeping an eye on the darker corners of the city, and Yamada would likely be getting some rest before his early patrol. They both had their routines. Izuku had his, too.
He threw the hoodie over his head, slipping into his familiar, ghostly attire. The mask went on last, his face hidden, his true identity swallowed by the darkness. Ghost. That was who he was now. Not Izuku. Not that quirkless orphan. Just Ghost, the one who moved unseen in the shadows, who struck when no one was watching.
Once dressed, he stood in front of the small mirror in the corner of his room, staring at his reflection—or the lack of one. It was almost funny, how easy it was to leave Izuku behind when he was in the mask.
His hands moved quickly, checking his equipment: throwing knives, smoke bombs, rope, and a few other things he’d picked up over time. He had to be prepared. The city didn’t care about him. It never had. Izuku glanced at the clock. It was just past ten, which meant Aizawa would be gone. Yamada would most likely be asleep by now, which meant he had a window to slip out unnoticed. He checked the window. His escape route. Slipping out would be easy. Getting back? That was going to be a nightmare to parkour up later.
He took one last look around the room, his gaze briefly landing on the bed, still unmade and the blankets twisted from his earlier frustration. It wasn’t a home, just a place to exist. He reminded himself again—he wasn’t staying long. They wouldn’t keep him here, not when they figured out who he really was. They wouldn’t care when they realized what kind of kid they’d brought in.
With a final, steady breath, he pushed the window open. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the distant hum of the city. But no matter how loud the world outside was, his thoughts were louder.
His foster parents were heroes.
And he was so, so screwed.