Chapter Text
Izuku ends up pacing around the empty lot that his dad claimed as their unofficial dojo. Sometimes Izuku covers the cracked asphalt with ice to make a skating rink for the neighborhood kids. Last time, when he was five beers in, Tomura slipped and busted open his lip. Izuku laughed about it for weeks.
Stupid Tomura. The green-haired boy fingers the bruise on his jaw. It’s nothing new. Tomura hits everybody big enough to fight back—random drunks in bars, Izuku’s dad, Kurogiri, even Hitoshi. Mostly after he gets brainwashed.
Tomura knows not to act like that around Hisashi. Izuku’s dad is not really one to hit his kids outside of training, though training is his favorite response to whatever they do to piss him off. This new slew of cuts and bruises is sure to bring Hisashi’s hellfire–figurative and literal–down on him. So much for sleeping in on Saturday.
With not much else to do, Izuku sits cross-legged on the ground and scrolls through his phone. A notebook sits beside him. His messages are depressingly empty, except for one from Hitoshi that reads, “ denki told me about those bastards in your english class. you stupid fuck .”
Izuku grins. His thumbs fly across the screen.
Midoriya Izuku: ditch math im bored
Shinsou Hitoshi : no thanks. i value my life
Shinsou Hitoshi : and my education
Shinsou Hitoshi: i picked up the yuuei exam books from 4 years ago at the library. denkis coming over to study hisashi said it was fine
Midoriya Izuku liked the message.
With Hitoshi being no help, HeroTube keeps him occupied. His favorite quirk analysis channel released a compilation of All Might’s latest Kyoto patrol footage. He’s been hanging out there for a couple days. The local heroes needed assistance on some drug bust. The compilation is mostly blurry phone videos, since the HPSC frowns on businesses handing out security footage of heroes. Izuku nods along to the commentary while he scribbles his own analysis down.
His butt starts to hurt from sitting on the concrete for so long. Izuku shakes out the pins and needles in his limbs, then treks a couple blocks north, his All Might backpack bouncing behind him.
This part of their neighborhood is mostly squat apartments buildings, small businesses, and the occasional rundown house. He stops in front of a small house with a sagging front porch and chipped pink paint. A faded sign reads Little Moths Learning Center. The creaky stairs beneath his feet feel like coming home.
He presses the buzzer. An older woman with smile lines and moth’s wings opens the door. Her smile drops when she spies Izuku.
“Midoriya Izuku! What happened to your face, you reckless child?” she exclaims, tilting his chin back with her thumb. Her wings flap anxiously.
“Miss Harada, be gentle,” he whines. She urges him into the house. The front room is as colorful as the outside. The bright green walls are plastered with pictures of kids, hero posters, inspirational quotes, and messy drawings. The ground is covered with toys, soft rugs lined with train tracks, and plates from afternoon snack.
A dozen little kids are clustered in the corner with a red-haired caregiver and a portable radio. They sing along to the soundtrack from a popular kid’s movie.
Izuku toes off his soaked shoes right before someone throws their arms around his legs.
“Zuzu, Miss Harada said she’d make you do all the snacks dishes if you got in another fight,” a chiding voice says.
Izuku smiles down at the white-haired girl gripping his right leg with all the enthusiasm of a baby koala. She frowns at him.
Miss Harada props her hands on her hips. “You’re right, Eri. I did say that.”
“You told Hitoshi that. Not me,” Izuku says, holding his hands up in surrender.
“That was a blanket statement for all the troublemaking Midoriya boys who show up around here,” Miss Harada huffs.
Hitoshi might have something to say about that particular wording, but Izuku holds his tongue. Eri frowns, mulling over Miss Harada’s words herself. She finally asks, “Do Daddy and Kota have dishes, too?”
“I’m too short for dishes, Toshi says so!” comes the infuriated shout. Izuku reaches down to scoop up the spiky-haired boy before he can start wrestling his slightly bigger sister. Kota squirms in his grip.
“Where’s Toshi, Zuzu? He said , no dishes,” the little boy says with a pout.
“We can’t have you doing the dishes, Kota. I don’t think anyone is as good at matching socks and watering the plants as you are,” Izuku says, tweaking his little brother’s ear.
“I’m the best at sweeping and folding towels,” Eri brags.
“I make my bed better,” Kota says. Eri’s eyes narrow.
Izuku catches Miss Harada’s worried gaze. Making chores be a competition might not help this budding sibling rivalry. Though his parents having two kids a little over a year apart did not set Eri and Kota up for success, either. He’d call it a midlife crisis, except they had only been twenty-four.
“I need you guys to help me with dinner tonight. How does natto and rice sound?” Izuku asks.
Both kids perk up.
“Can I wash the rice?”
“I wanna crack the eggs.”
“I do it better.”
“Can I plug in the rice cooker, Zuzu?”
“Kota stole my cat bowl last night, I want it this time—”
Izuku looks to Miss Harada for help. She only laughs. Shooing the kids back to the other care worker, she pulls Izuku into the kitchen to clean his face up. She puts butterfly stitches on his cut and smears arnica cream on the bruises.
“You reckless child,” she scolds again and again.
“That’s Kota. He tried sledding down the stairs of our building with a couch cushion and a bike helmet. Then convinced Eri to roll him down the hallway in a Lincoln Log barrel.”
“You Midoriyas!” Miss Harada can’t hide her chuckle.
“How have they been? Is Kota still…” His voice cracks.
The hands wrapped around his thin shoulders are achingly familiar and not the ones he needs right now. Miss Harada enfolds him in her golden wings. She rocks him back and forth, just like she did when he was Eri and Kota’s age.
“You are doing a magnificent job, sweetheart. She would be so proud of you,” she says.
His mom’s old pet name makes him choke up. Miss Harada smooths down his green curls. The texture comes from his dad, but the color is Mom’s. His dad keeps a lock of her hair in a locket around his neck.
“Thank you,” he sobs. She hugs him for an embarrassingly long time. Miss Harada dries his tears with her wings and feeds him leftover katsudon. Once his hands stop shaking, she gives him one final hug and gently reminds him to bring a refill of Eri’s quirk suppressant pills. They ran out this morning.
“My dad didn’t drop them off yet?” Izuku says, not able to hide his scowl.
“He was in a hurry this morning. He has a lot on his plate,” Miss Harada says. “Just remind him tonight, sweetheart. It’s no biggie.”
I have a lot on my plate, too , Izuku thinks. But he forces a smile and promises to do so.
The front door slams open. Izuku is too busy stirring the eggs to see who is here. Everyone that stops by their apartment is so loud .
“Natto and rice. We’re having that again,” Hitoshi states with a groan. Eri jumps off the couch with a squeal.
“DENKI! You brought eggs!”
“Hey, small fry,” the blond kid says.
“I must be chopped liver.” Hitoshi takes the two steps it requires to go from the front door to the kitchen. Denki, who has Eri propped on his hip and an egg carton tucked under one arm, trots after him. They bunch behind Izuku. Apparently watching someone scramble eggs is the most fascinating thing to do. Izuku would prefer the All Might documentary Eri had been watching.
Izuku glances up from the pot. He says flatly, “You’re natto.”
Denki and Eri cackle. Hitoshi rolls his eyes. “It’s not a good joke if Denki and a five-year-old find it funny. Humor is a sophisticated art that—”
“Context is also relevant. Therefore, you’re natto.”
“Well, you are what you eat, and we eat this pretty freakin’ often,” Hitoshi says.
“I love natto,” Denki says.
“Thank you for the support, Denki. And the eggs. Just set those on the counter. The rest of you, go bother Kota or something. He’s reading in Dad’s room. I need space,” Izuku says.
Hitoshi sighs. He flops on the couch with Eri while Denki puts the eggs on the fridge. Every time, Izuku thinks. Apparently that’s an American thing. Rather than join Hitoshi and Eri, the blond hauls himself up on the counter.
“That Yuuei exam book is impossible,” Denki says.
“We won’t learn some of that stuff until next year. I know we still have a year and a half until the exam, but it’s still good to get ahead of the material,” Izuku assures him.
“The math parts are the worst .”
“We can review after dinner. I explain stuff better than Hitoshi, anyway.”
“Not true!” the violet-haired boy says.
“Kinda true,” Denki says. Then winces when Hitoshi gets up and smacks the back of his head. Hitoshi nearly trips when Eri whacks him with a pillow for attacking her favorite human being.
Dad’s bedroom door slams open. Kota swarms to trouble like a moth. He has his own Mandalay pillow fisted in his chubby hands. Denki slides off the counter with an excited yelp. Him and Hitoshi grapple for a throw pillow. Izuku watches the chaos unfold for a moment before turning back to his eggs.
A pillow fight is not what he had in mind when he asked for space, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Once the kids fall asleep, Denki, Hitoshi, and Izuku spread their books out on the kitchen table. They tackle homework first. No hero school will take them if their grades suck. Denki’s math problems take him the longest.
“That’s 52, Denks, not 25,” Izuku reminds him.
“Oh yeah,” Denki says, furrowing his brow.
With math completed, they open up the practice exams. The pages are dog-eared and worn by countless Naboo students who have tried for Yuuei. Only a handful ever made it in the school. Framed pictures of those kids hang in the library, a silent reminder that even kids from their low-income district achieved their dreams.
There have never been three from the same year before. Izuku intends for them to be the first.
Denki writes Chargebolt on the name line. Hitoshi snorts.
“We’re still going with that one?” he asks.
“There’s no we in this, Spellbind. This is my hero name,” Denki says primly.
“Mine is a work in progress,” Hitoshi says, hunching his shoulders defensively. “Zuzu won’t even come up with one.”
“Bad luck,” Izuku quips, as always. “You know how Dad says—”
The key turns in the lock, and a dark-haired man with unruly black curls and dark burn scars pokes his head in the door. “What do I say?”
“ Don’t count your chickens before they hatch ,” the boys all recite in English. Izuku turns his face away and lays an arm over his exam book.
“There’s natto and rice in the fridge,” Hitoshi says, picking up his math homework and dropping it on his book
Midoriya Hisashi heads to the table rather than the kitchen. Denki, still engrossed in the math section, squawks when Hisashi snatches his exam book.
“Yu-uei?” he says, drawing out the syllables. Denki’s ears turn red.
“All the Shiketsu books were checked out. The librarian said the material is really similar, Uncle,” Denki says.
“It’s nice of my boys to help you study for the hero course. I know general studies and support have different materials. Isn’t it counterproductive to fill it out, Izuku? Surely that gets confusing.” Hisashi reaches over to ruffle Izuku’s hair, then slips one hand under his son’s jaw and jerks his head up
“Gotcha. Another fight?” Hisashi drawls. His nails dig into Izuku’s jaw.
“It wasn’t me this time,” Izuku blurts out.
“It never is,” Hisashi says. “I’ll see what the school says tomorrow. We can sort this out on Saturday.”
“Yeah, and you can get Eri more quirk suppressants, too.”
Hisashi drops Izuku’s jaw. Hitoshi tenses immediately, while Denki looks anywhere but Izuku.
“I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Tsubasa tomorrow. She’s due for more bloodwork, anyway,” Hisashi says with a sigh. He heads towards the kitchen. Izuku sags against the chair in relief.
“He always gets her in fast,” Hitoshi remarks.
“I’m grateful Tomura’s father has such generous friends,” Hisashi replies, yanking open the fridge.
Izuku sends Hitoshi a warning glare.
“I want to train on Saturday,” Hitoshi says.
“We’re doing quirk training. Do you want to get barbecued?”
“Just do hand-to-hand this time—”
“I think Izuku has done enough fighting this week.” Hisashi pulls out the whole Tupperware and snags a fork from the drawer. He walks past the table, not noticing how all three boys stiffen when he gets close. Hisashi continues towards his bedroom door.
“Boys?” he asks.
“Yes, Dad?” Izuku says hesitantly.
“Go to bed at a decent time. Denki, feel free to spend the night. Thank you for making dinner.”
“Thanks, Uncle,” Denki says.
The door shuts. Izuku’s jaw aches. Hitoshi looks at him for a long moment, then uncovers his exam book.
“Back to work?” he asks. His tone is soft, but each syllable is enunciated clearly. His violet eyes gleam with that daring glimmer he inherited from Hisashi. Perhaps not through genetics, but he’s been here long enough to pick up Midoriya mannerisms.
“Back to work,” Izuku says, gritting his bruised jaw.