Izuku dreams.

It's not like the usual dreams, or even his usual dreams. He dreams distantly of a scale, metaphorical but seen. Of a quiet conversation. Measurement, balance.

"Strength is not so difficult to gain, however limited it will be at this stage. It is not the most important." Understanding. Acceptance. "Control is key to develop properly."

He is the one speaking, but not. It's his hand that gives, his that receives, but not.

He's both, but… Not.

(Push and pull, equilibrium. Neither here, nor there.)

(As it always is.)

Toshinori gives an easy wave as he slides the door to the joint office closed. He twists the fabric of an oversized cuff between his thumb and index finger as he makes his way down the hall, contemplative.

Midoriya Izuku is different. It's something Toshinori had picked up on the first day he exchanged brief words with a reckless bystander.

Toshinori's clock is ticking, his time as All Might diminishing as his health continues to fail him. He'd already been at the end of his rope that day. Overspent and exhausted. When he'd come upon that scene—a boy, a teenager, only a child—he had felt wretched, but decided there was nothing he could do. The other heroes would arrive eventually, he'd told himself; he could see the phones flashing and notifications being sent, and knew help would arrive eventually.

The surge of shame and anger that took hold of him as he watched yet another child dart towards the scene had been jarring. What are you doing, he'd wanted to shout, to chastise, but the words were not solely for the boy.

He managed to knock out one of the villains. Too careful to have been luck, but still too reckless to be acceptable. Then the heroes came and both villains were captured.

"Do you know who the boy is?" Toshinori had asked an officer, off to the side near the perimeter. "The one that charged in," he clarified.

The man shot him a sideways glance before returning his gaze to his notepad. "No. But the lady over there probably does." Toshinori's gaze followed the direction of his pen, eyes fixing on a woman—hair the same shade, face the same shape.

(A mother desperately clinging to her son's hand as she sat on the ground. Two other officers and a paramedic hovered as they spoke to her and she wordlessly shook her head. Her forehead, pressed to the small fingers entwined in her own. Like a prayer.)

"An idiot, really." Toshinori turned back to the officer next to him as the man spoke. "Everyone knows that unlicensed civilians aren't supposed to get involved, and people should be telling their kids about it. Just like looking both ways before crossing the street, or not following strangers. It just gets messy when people who aren't licensed and don't know better get involved."

Toshinori had hesitated, eyes drifting back to the still form lying on the ground several meters away.

(A tightness in his chest stifling his breath, and he knew it wasn't his usual affliction.)

"What that boy did was indeed reckless. But it made a difference." They were words that Toshinori couldn't quite bring himself to say in that moment, but he felt them all the same.

Coward, he'd called himself. Coward, fool.

He knows very well that it's more than that, as this is a topic he's revisited many times over the course of his lengthy career. Being All Might isn't simply saving lives or defeating evil doers, it's being a symbol, protecting the peace of the times and the minds of those who live it. He lives on a precarious balance of trying to save the world and keeping his secret. His time dwindles as All Might disappears, and his struggles do little to slow that eventuality.

But that's precisely why he needed to pass on the torch.

And Midoriya Izuku, a boy with a spark of his own, had shown that he had what it takes to be the next. Many times, in fact, but for Toshinori it had boiled down to two instances.

"... Couldn't just stand there," the boy had said, delirious and honest as the words left his mouth before succumbing to sleep.

"I'm going to be a hero," he'd said when he came to, uncalled for but somehow knowing, challenging, with a spark in his eyes that spoke volumes.

Toshinori had decided then, in all honesty. But Midoriya Izuku was young, and One for All was all too heavy a responsibility for any random child. He'd needed to be sure.

Midoriya's answer the third time, when he'd gone as Toshinori, was no less notable than the last. And Toshinori had his resolve.

(Nighteye had been predictably furious. But Gran Torino, his teacher, had simply held a static silence over the phone before voicing a single, quiet, "Ok."

They've known each other for years, but Toshinori still doesn't quite know what to make of the man at times.)

The following months had shown sides to the boy that hadn't been revealed previously. Midoriya could be loud and excitable at times, but in a sense that he had too much nervous energy to contain. At others, he would go dead silent, his eyes fixed at a distance without truly seeing. He'd mumble seemingly nonsensical syllables under his breath while training, but if Toshinori paid attention, he could make out bits of trivia that had nothing to do with anything they'd discussed and knowledge that he wonders at being normal for kids this age or simply being yet another facet to paint the picture of Midoriya Izuku.

He has an ability to simply know things at times, and whether it is because he'd heard it before, or because of his power of deduction, it never failed to surprise Toshinori during that interim.

He finds it eerie, at times. "You're a creepy kid," he'd said once, immediately regretting the accidental slip of his musings, but Midoriya had just laughed.

But Toshinori doesn't think the boy is creepy, as he had carelessly said that day. He has his habits, his own thoughts, that distinguish him as an individual. Just like any other boy his age, any other person.

No matter the oddities and personality quirks, Midoriya Izuku is who he is.

And that's the person Toshinori chose as his successor.

Izuku wakes up to a white ceiling.

He realizes he's in the infirmary, remembers the test, and the faint sound of paper tells him that Recovery Girl is probably at her desk. He can't move, and when his mind catches up to the present he nearly screams.

All Might inherited One for All. One for All was the quirk he had passed on, placing his hope on future generations. Now it was with him again.

But that isn't what's important. All Might had One for All. All Might. The strongest, the number one hero, had the quirk he passed on.

ALL MIGHT.

The bed makes odd creaking sounds as metal scrapes against the floor. Izuku practically vibrates on the bed in restless energy, his teeth rattling.

That's…! That's so COOL—

Pain lances through his arm. Izuku clutches his shoulder with his uninjured hand as stars swim in his vision and he briefly wonders why the railings of the infirmary bed are made of bare metal, of all things, but—but—

ALL MIGHT HAD ONE FOR ALL!

"Well you're certainly energetic, aren't you?"

Izuku's head snaps up from where he's curled up on the bed, and he laughs, energy bleeding through each breath. "Oh! Hi Recovery Girl, sorry about the," he pauses, not really sure what he's apologizing about. His cheeks hurt from the near painful smile he can't force down. "The noise."

The healing hero waves a hand through the air. "No worries. How are you feeling?"

Izuku takes a moment to calm down and actually consider his answer so it isn't just a jumble of energy. He rolls his shoulders, stretches his legs and twists his torso to the sides. Other than the ache of his arm and the dizzying beat of his own heart, "I'm feeling okay."

"Good." Recovery Girl hops off of her swivel chair and walks over, her cane tapping a strangely soothing rhythm into the floor. "I'll heal your arm up the rest of the way, then."

Izuku never fails to marvel at her ability, and he watches in amazement as the mottled bruising along the edges of his bandages fades to nothing. He has his hand out and waiting before she pulls the familiar gummies out of her pocket.

Recovery Girl nods as he pops them into his mouth. "Be sure to hydrate yourself and eat a healthy meal when you get back home. Get plenty of rest, don't think you're invincible just because you're healed again, the usual."

Izuku is bobbing his head up and down in lethargic nods before she slaps a gloveless hand to his forehead. He blinks when she frowns, her hand moving after several quiet beats.

"... You still have a slight fever."

Izuku's frown mirrors her own as his fingers lightly brush his forehead. "A fever?"

She pulls her glove back onto her hand, the rubber snapping into place. "I don't think it's anything to be worried about. Cold-like symptoms are an occasional side effect when the damage healed is extensive." The last part is added with a stern look that has Izuku laughing weakly. She turns away and heads back to her desk. "It's a little odd that you're experiencing this now after I've healed you plenty of times already, but it should go away with some rest as well."

He thanks her for her help, and she gives him an amicable smile before kicking him out of her office. "You're not the only reckless teen that got hurt in this exam," she says, still smiling softly but with something hard underscoring her tone.

Izuku flees.

They'd been told that the letters would be arriving a week or two after the entrance exam.

It's now been a week, and Izuku is nervous.

Worse, All Might hasn't been answering calls or messages, and he's left to his thoughts. What if he doesn't get accepted? He'd been so excited over his revelation regarding One for All that he forgot to consider that he scored a big, fat, zero on the practical. What if that's a deal-breaker? What if All Might decides that he's a waste of the quirk, and asks him to give it back? What if—

Izuku falls face down onto his bed, the air forced out of his lungs. He's nervous, and his mind reels with all the not-so-positive possibilities, but this… None of this is what's important.

He's certain All Might wouldn't really ask him to return One for All. He'd felt the hero's resolve in his decision when he'd chosen Izuku—never mind the fact that it's still hard to comprehend—and Izuku wouldn't insult the man by thinking he'd retract his words with a single uncertainty.

Izuku had gone into the U.A. entrance exam prepared to do his best, but also with insurance in place. He had looked into other hero schools as well. Kengen high's exam had been before U.A.'s, Shiketsu's hero course has some interesting prospects, and Monoyuu's only had a written portion that Izuku is sure he did fine on. The others, he'll think about another time.

The point is that he doesn't need to get into the best hero school, and he still likely has the trust of the number one hero he's idolized for most of his life. It's fine. As long as he gains the certification for hero work, it's fine.

Izuku deeply considers a piece of lint that sits inches from his face. It sways with each small breath he takes.

… Yeah, no. I'm still really nervous.

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back and splays his hands above him, silhouetted against the ceiling light. His thoughts drift to the past months.

All Might has explained it to him, answered every question as best he could, and his memories give an added comprehension to understanding One for All. But thinking back to the exam to try and dissect exactly what occurred only leaves him with unanswered questions.

Up until then he'd only managed small victories in learning to use One for All. He'd displayed very little control if any at all, hence his acquaintance with Recovery Girl. The most he'd been able to achieve was an infinitesimal fraction of the full power—crushing a can with his pinky, creating small spiderwebbing cracks through the pavement when he stumbled, or denting All Might's car with his forehead when he focused so hard that he missed that wayward brick and tripped. It had seemed that anything beyond small applications were not possible for him, not without landing him back in Recovery Girl's exasperated care.

But the exam.

His arm had been blown out with the unrestrained force of One for All, without a doubt. But prior to that he'd also used its full power in his legs, and… nothing had happened.

Or, no. That's not exactly right either.

He'd felt the usual surge of electrifying energy from the rush in his ears through the tips of his toes. But it'd been without that tentative, unfamiliar feeling he associates with the quirk itself.

Izuku closes his eyes and tries to recall that moment of instinctual familiarity.

It'd been like homecoming. A breath of fresh air, breaching the surface of water. An automatic, trained response. A warm hum dancing on the surface of his fingertips like sun-heated sand trailing over his skin.

It had been a force, sensation, propelling him forward as though he knew the quirk from the very core of his soul. A connection belying the short amount of time he's truly used the quirk, a perfect harmony—not just as the one who had held the first iteration, but as though—

(As though he'd been the one carrying One for All throughout all these years.)

Izuku jolts up from his bed and darts out of his room, stopping only to grab a jacket and his running sneakers. He absently notes the the numbers on the clock and the apparent hours that have passed.

How dumb, he thinks, laughing through the tight sensation in his chest, the chill of the evening air on feverish skin as he forces each breath out in a mimicry of ease. His skin crawls with a hot clamminess that seems to seep into his muscles. It's been years but it's still familiar, something he's learned to adjust to with time and practice and acceptance.

Nothing new.

He recognizes the concern turned acknowledgement in his mother's eyes as he passes, and he finds comfort in it. Her inobtrusive understanding. A part of him considers talking to her about it—he wants to talk to someone, he realizes, even though the other part definitely doesn't want to talk at all—but he shakes his head. All Might and his mom, both with pieces of knowledge but not the full picture that he'd rather not have.

He doesn't want to think about it.

"Stay safe," she calls out to him as he makes his way down the balcony hall of the complex, and he rounds the corner assured that she knows this routine.

It's a routine. There's something to be said about the pattern of school that gives a sense of monotonous grounding, keeping him occupied with little chance of slipping into that area of uncertainty. A controlled, structured environment.

A controlled routine, Izuku thinks as he jogs, pace steady. The world comes into sharper focus with every step. One foot after the other.

(Equilibrium. Balance.)

It'll be a long, nervous wait, so he may as well make something of it.

Izuku stares out the train's windows relieved and thoughtful.

He'd been accepted. The workings of the exam had been more than collecting points via robot-destruction—and in hindsight, it makes enough sense that Izuku thinks he should've known there was a hidden point system with a focus on the rescue aspect of heroism, separate from calculated destruction.

(Something tells him that Kacchan scored highest in the latter.)

Stepping onto U.A.'s campus for the second time for his first day is exciting, without the fear and apprehension he'd felt before. It's a new school, a new direction to his life, and he finds himself looking forward to everything the day represents.

Then he trips on a dead body.

He distantly recognizes the sound of Uraraka's and the stern boy's shouts, eyes glued to the prone form, and then the dead body moves.

Oh, he thinks, a little relieved but also a little faint. Not a dead body.

Stubble that looks like the man hasn't shaved in days, bloodshot eyes, and hair almost as wild as Izuku's own, is what he makes of the not-dead body as it—he—moves to his feet. Izuku isn't sure what to make of the eye-searingly yellow sleeping bag.

Half-lidded eyes survey the classroom in a slow sweep. The man introduces himself as their homeroom teacher—"Aizawa Shouta," said with the least amount of inflection that Izuku's ever heard in this lifetime—before climbing out of his sleeping bag to leave them with gym clothes he pulled out of said bag and instructions to head to the field.

Izuku isn't sure what to make of their homeroom teacher at all.

His feet still carry him to and through the door as his classmates start funneling out of the classroom to look for the lockers, following Aizawa's steps.

The man turns to him with an expectant look, and Izuku's mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. A question sits on the tip of his tongue but he can't find the words to it, only a jumble of half-formed feeling and hazy thoughts that refuse to translate.

After a few beats of silence, Izuku shakes his head. He bows a quick apology for holding Aizawa up for nothing and darts back in the other direction to join his classmates.

Aizawa finally tells them what's going on once they've all gathered outside. A quirk apprehension test, he calls it, a way to measure everyone's quirks and usage through exercises they're all familiar with but were prohibited from performing with their abilities. Kacchan's demonstration is as explosive as could be expected, and the others grow excited.

Izuku's stomach only drops from where it had been steadily sinking. A test.

He hasn't made it yet. Of course he hasn't. U.A. is the very best of the best, and this is the heroics department, so of course it wouldn't be that easy to secure his stay here.

Izuku takes a gulp, flexing his fingers out of tight fists. Maybe it won't be so bad. He's done gym tests before, and even if he isn't able to use One for All, he's here to learn now. The entrance exam had been stressful and terrifying and all-too uncertain but surely this wouldn't be so pressured—

The words fall out of his mouth before he can further convince himself.

"Are we actually U.A. students, or is this something else to determine that?"

Aizawa slants a look in his direction, unreadable, before turning back to the rest of the now-silent class. "... Yes," he says eventually. "Very perceptive."

Izuku can't tell by the naturally dry tone of voice whether he's being serious or sarcastic.

"The hero course isn't all fun and games, and this test is no different. If any of you don't score exceptionally well in at least one activity, you will be expelled."

Protests and disbelief rise immediately, and Aizawa suddenly goes from their questionable homeroom teacher to a pro hero in an instant. "As hero potentials, you will need to adapt to any given situation. Hero work demands more than just your best—if you aren't up to the challenge, I suggest you start looking into other options for careers."

Dangerous, Izuku's mind tells him, formidable. Aizawa Shouta is the Erasure Hero "Eraserhead," he realizes, and it's in those suddenly-sharp eyes and that heavy presence that he knows for certain. Eraserhead is a top hero in his own right, staying away from the mainstream media to focus more on the active aspect of heroics rather than morale, and he does his job exceptionally well. He's a man of steel tempered by the harsh realities of the society they live in.

But Midoriya Izuku remembers being quirkless, of being powerless in all the ways that mattered, of logical reasoning that beat down on his own fires of hope and justice no matter how well-meaning or right, of being a child with dreams facing these ills both in his mind and out—

—And Midoriya Izuku decides he doesn't like this man much.

From there, there's only the focused goal of scoring well. Aizawa explains how the test will go with his tone even, and they all pay rapt attention.

The 50-meter dash, grip strength, standing long jump, side-stepping—it's all a hazy blur as he goes through the motions, something he distantly recognizes as something to be worried about but all his attention is on the fact that his scoring is far from exceptional.

His heart palpitates in his chest hard enough that he hears it in his ears despite knowing that he isn't at his physical limit, spots dance across his vision blurring at the edges. The score counter Aizawa holds in his hand grips what little focus he has left, and the glowing numbers that flash across its screen taunt him.

He can't tell if he's using One for All. He thought he was, he thought he'd mastered using at least a fraction of it without blasting his limbs, but he isn't, his scores are barely scraping the line of above-average and that's not enough to solidify his presence in U.A. It's not enough to give him the reasoning, the weight to his words, I belong here.

I can't give up here.

He's hyperventilating—he feels like something is about to snap but he doesn't know what—as he walks up to the circle, determination writ on his features with a dull, rushing roar in his ears. His eyes focus on a point in the horizon.

He feels sick.

His fingertips smooth over the roughened surface of the ball before gripping into it, muscles tense. More, he thinks, grasping at mere wisps of One for All's potential.

Something snags. A feeling both exhilarating and terrifying floods him, dancing over the surface of his skin and seeping into his very bones. More, he thinks again, desperate, his arm winding up to pitch, I need more power, I can't fail here when I'm so close, his heel digs into the dirt and he leans forward into the motion, I'm too weak without it, I can't stop here, even if I break my arm again I need more power—

("Control is key.")

—the ball falls to the ground with a pitiful bounce.

He feels sick. It only takes him a moment of stuttered breaths and confusion before clarity fills his mind.

Revulsion. Self disgust.

Disappointment.

The near-blind search for power, no matter the reason, isn't a path he wants to take. Isn't a path he will ever condone. Especially because he has that power, now, but to think for even a moment—even if it was temporary, even if it wasn't for something that had nothing more than enrollment to a school on the line—for him to believe with every ounce of his life, that power could solve everything else—

Izuku clenches his fist, his eyes already pinched closed. He thinks of the vague silhouette of a brother not his own, from a time long passed.

He takes a breath, comfort in the fact that he knows most of his reaction was internalized. He turns to his classmates with a sheepish smile that is mostly true.

(The torch is passed, and a deal is set. Two with a unified goal stand as one as they look towards the future.)

("There's more to being a hero than just raw power.")

At the end of it all, Shouta lets them know that they passed.

"It was a logical ruse," he says with marginally more cheer to his tone than usual. The kids react in varying, colorful ways that let him know exactly who the troublemakers will be.

He dismisses the class, and it's Tenya and Yaoyorozu that bid him goodbye as the others quickly fall into conversation.

The day had ended with significantly less injuries than he thought it would—considering the added dangers of quirk use—in that there were none. This was unexpected to him, especially when he knows very well just how the entrance exam had turned out for a handful of students, and yet, none of the office slips he had prepared needed to be used.

He needs to go deliver them back to Recovery Girl and put together the rest of the semester's curriculum, now that he's made the decision to keep this class.

But he doesn't turn to leave just, yet, because…

"Um, Aizawa-sensei?"

Midoriya jogs up to him, the same glint in his eyes from earlier that told Shouta he had something to say. He wonders what's on his mind this time. He tilts his head forward when Midoriya hesitates, either waiting for acknowledgement or considering his words.

"This... might seem weird to ask, but there's a lot I don't know about U.A. because of how careful the faculty is with information and the media, and even though I'm a student now I didn't have a lot of time to research it and—what I mean to say," he cuts himself off, visibly pulling away from his rambling. "Am I a student now?"

Shouta slowly blinks as he parses all the words just thrown at him. He begins to nod, an affirmative on his tongue, when Midoriya barrels on.

"I wanted to know for certain because I actually—before today I also applied to other schools, just in case I didn't, you know. In case I wasn't accepted." A breath, "But if I'm definitely a student here then I can stop looking for other possibilities and I need to get back to the other schools soon."

… Huh. Shouta looks at Midoriya a little more keenly than before. "How many schools? Were they heroics-targeted?"

"... Nine," Midoriya answers, even through the confusion writ plainly on his face at the question. "And… yes?"

He easily lists the names and Shouta narrows his eyes. That's more than the usual amount a middle schooler would consider total, whether specialty or general education. And Midoriya had only applied for hero schools.

"I know it's a lot, and it's not really considered a good thing to apply for so many." He seems to pick up on Shouta's thoughts, however slight. "It's just—my goal is to become a hero. Someone that makes a difference."

"U.A. is known for its popularity and publicity for up-and-coming heroes." The words are echoed from others, because Shouta knows what the majority of U.A.'s applicants are after.

Midoriya shakes his head. "I don't care about that. And you—you're Eraserhead, so you know that that isn't completely necessary. As long as I can save people in the end, the school doesn't matter."

He visibly backtracks, eyes going wide. "Ah, I mean, the education at U.A. is a lot better and would definitely help me to become a better hero! I'm not saying that U.A. isn't exceptional and that it doesn't expect a lot from its students, I don't mean to imply that it isn't good enough, I'm just—in the grand scheme, going here isn't as—well it's not completely necessary for my, uh… That is…"

His words trail off, eyes darting to Shouta's. Shouta only lifts an eyebrow. Midoriya drops his hands and slumps. "... Never mind."

Shouta shakes his head when he looks back up. "It doesn't matter. Just focus on preparing for what we'll be throwing at you, because even though you've made it through the doors, it's not going to be easy."

Midoriya instantly brightens at the answer. "Right!"

The others call out to him, drawing his attention to the crowd. He sketches a quick bow before darting away all-too-eagerly, joining the loud chatter that fills this side of the field.

Shouta watches their antics with a sigh.

He'd already done quick mental evaluations of most of the others for the sake of figuring the best way to prepare for the coming year, and saved one of the most potentially troubling ones for last.

Midoriya Izuku. Just a hair shy from being as loud in presence as the other applicant from that school, if not literally.

Shouta doesn't know the full story of what's going on there. A quirk that has such little control it's as if the kid had never used it before in his life, and a personality at odds with the destructive force of his ability. He's a strange kid—not by a wide margin considering the personality quirks of the others, but enough of one to be noteworthy.

Shouta had kept a keen eye on Midoriya during the ball throw. He'd been prepared to watch the kid throw all caution to the wind in an attempt to give a boost to his score, and erasing his quirk at the last moment would have been a good wake-up call on exactly why that sort of mindset isn't acceptable in a hero.

But, whether it's because he could tell something had cut off access to his quirk, or he had a change of heart… He didn't follow through with that throw.

Shouta had his suspicions about him using his ability a bit more wisely, more controlled than in the exam. Erasing the kid's quirk would've given him the chance to really gauge for himself if there was a difference in his performance, along with stopping him from doing something stupid. Him not following through with the throw was unexpected.

Though, Shouta thinks after a beat, maybe not so much.

Midoriya Izuku's decision to punch upwards through the Gimmick's underside had limited damage to the city, as the robot caved in on itself and collapsed where it stood. However, he had been right under it with no way out—and Uraraka had gone and saved him, darting in with a floating scrap piece and managing to keep them both from being flattened by the metal monstrosity. In that, she had earned herself 50 rescue points for her quick thinking while injured and looking after an unconscious charge, and Midoriya had earned himself 70, for blowing through the piece of concrete that had her pinned, eliminating a threat that wouldn't benefit him in the exam, and keeping from adding to the overall damage at the scene.

Shouta had pointedly kept to his vote of "2" despite the others' confidence in the teen's foresight because of the disregard for his own wellbeing, and Shouta's skepticism that the boy had really put so much thought into his actions added weight to his decision.

After today, it's clear that Midoriya Izuku does have a sharp mind. And he uses it, which is more than what could be said about a good chunk of the heroes these days. But no matter how good the intention, or how lucky the result, what good is a hero that nearly kills himself the first time he saves someone?

Shouta observes the boy with a slanted gaze, his eyes watching the crowd of excitable teens—and he sighs.

Ultimately, decent potential, a good quirk and a mindset that isn't too bad. It's just a matter of what he does—or doesn't do—with what he has. The same goes for all of Shouta's students, and it's just as well.

He has a long road ahead of him in the coming year, he knows, already feeling the slow crawl of exhaustion through his body. But it's not a bad batch of kids this year.

Not bad at all.

Izuku sighs through the happy, jittery nerves he feels, his grin stretching his face so wide it's near painful.

"Okay but, that was nerve-wracking!" The pink-haired girl—Ashido—says, stretching her arms above her head. "I was worried that I was gonna get kicked out on the first day. U.A. really doesn't hold back at all, huh?"

The boy with a black streak through his hair, Kaminari, nods. "Yeah. But if we're gonna show 'em that we're the best, then we'll just have to take everything they throw at us, and throw it right back!"

"It's a mad banquet of darkness." Izuku nods a little uncertainly at Tokoyami's quiet comment, but laughs when he gets a nod in return.

Iida cuts in, literally, arms gesticulating sharply. "It's only expected that U.A.'s curriculum would push its students! It is the top heroics school with a record of graduating the best of the best, and therefore we must not grow lax in our training—"

Uraraka laughs. "Iida-kun, you're funny."

"I thought it was fun, actually," Kirishima pipes in. "It'll be challenging, yeah, but we're gonna be pros! Even though sensei seems a little scary, I think he just wants to prepare us for the future."

Izuku continues grinning as the others maintain conversation. He'd worry about how strange he probably looks, silently grinning through the whole thing, but he's too comfortable to really care.

He likes this class. When he'd been pulled into conversation with them, he'd been excited but hesitant, too used to being an outlier amongst his peers—Kacchan being a somewhat unwilling acquaintance was a factor, but it was mostly his own acknowledged oddities that came along with his memories and condition—and he'd been ready to fade into the background again, not necessarily being excluded but not being part of the group. Like an outsider looking in, separated by a thin but ever-present wall that could not be passed.

But his worries had been in vain. Uraraka and—surprisingly—Iida had been quick to pull him into the group, with the others eagerly accepting him into the fold as well. "You're Midoriya, right?" "What's your quirk?" "Were you the one that destroyed the Gimmick at the other site?" "What do you think of Aizawa-sensei?" "God, wasn't today's test scary!?"

Izuku remembers a life that wasn't quite living. In these memories, he'd had friends, he'd had people he cared for, but his life had been dedicated towards a task—unrecognized, over-looked—to counter the evil he knew existed by his side, shadowing the brother he once knew. Things like personal relationships had fallen to the wayside when he'd realized the enormity of that brother's influence and power, because he knew that nothing short of his everything would even begin to chip away at the roots his brother had implanted in the world.

Lonely, was the word Izuku had once placed to those memories, of the man who had lived that life. Driven, but terribly lonely. Only through One for All had that man found a lasting connection to others.

He's not that man, though. And as Iida turns to him in the hopes of having backup for an argument he isn't following, as Uraraka laughs loudly and happily, as Ashido and Sero and Kaminari share middle school stories, as they all shout and laugh and cheer—he thinks that he will never have to be.

Split conversations continue all the way into the classroom, laughter and smiles as everyone bids farewell, "see you guys tomorrow," and something not unlike contentment unfurls through the tight ball of fear and anxiety and foreboding that usually rests at the forefront of Izuku's mind—

—and he thinks to himself, confident:

It'll all be okay.