In Need of a Hero by LowlyWriter

by alkhuzamaa

After a very bad day at school, Izuku makes a split-second decision to take matters into his own hands while waiting for his train. He feels like he's stuck in a tunnel of intrusive thoughts where there seems to be no light at the end— That is until he meets a strange man by the name of Aizawa Shota.

2. Ch 2

Izuku trails calmly behind the man, half beside and half falling behind. The man seems kind

enough, pausing when Izuku loses pace, but making no attempt at getting any closer to him.

A small part of his brain is screaming about the danger he's putting himself in—he doesn't know this man. He's following blindly to some café. Izuku likes to think he's a good judge of character, and the bigger part of his brain has deemed this man to be harmless, at least right now.

Still, he doesn't know anything about this man besides the fact that his name is Aizawa Shota, and that he's a high school teacher, which is odd. Teachers don't tend to like Izuku very much, but this man is pretty nice so far. But... then again, he doesn't know who Izuku is. What he is.

Izuku thinks he probably should be nervous, or even hesitant to follow this stranger, but he's not. He'd been honest when he'd mumbled a low, 'what have I got to lose?' under his breath, unsure if the man had even heard him.

If the man does hear him, he doesn't comment on it.

Aizawa-san leads him out of the train station, and true to the man's words, they follow a main sidewalk all the way to the café, almost exactly a block away from the station exit.

There's foot traffic, they pass by some people, but Izuku just curls into himself a little and grips at the straps of his backpack. Aizawa-san seems unbothered, and doesn't so much as bat an eyelash when Izuku all but pushes into his side to avoid running into a man in a hurry.

A few cars pass by, but it's not overly busy.

The café is small and almost hidden away. If he weren't following Aizawa-san he probably would've walked right past it.

It doesn't look like much from the outside, but the inside is bright and warm and it smells faintly of fresh roast coffee and baked goods. Izuku's stomach rumbles at the scent and he wants the world to swallow him up whole when Aizawa-san glances sideways at him.

"Sorry," Izuku ducks his head, hoping his hair will hide the warmth he feels heating through his cheeks.

"Aizawa-san!" One of the two baristas greets brightly before Aizawa-san can reply. She's looks fairly young— maybe a couple years older than Izuku himself. He'd guess she was around twenty, but it's hard to tell. "It's been a while since I've seen you around! It's pretty early for you to come in, you're usually one of my last customers of the night. Welcome back!"

Aizawa-san shifts where he's standing, regarding the barista with a plain expression. He doesn't smile, nor frown, but there's nothing about his expression that's any emotion besides neutral. Izuku wonders how he can do that without looking grumpy or annoyed.

The boy doesn't think the man beside him tends to smile all that much.

"Still not much of a talker," the woman muses with a laugh, unoffended, "I take it you want the usual? Black coffee?"

"Yes," the man finally speaks, eyes flicking over the chalkboard menu overhead before scanning the baked goods display case, "and a hot chocolate as well. I'd also like two..." the man pauses, nose wrinkling as he takes in the baked goods, "why don't you pick something from the case for us to try, Izuku-kun?"

"You got it!" The woman chirps, far to chipper for almost ten PM. "Let me know what you decide on, alright, Sweetheart?" she smiles widely at Izuku, gesturing to the display case before turning and starting on what looks to be his hot chocolate.

"Don't you need to pay?" Izuku asks in a tiny voice, eyeing the teacher as he turns to make his way towards one of the tables scattered along the open space of the floor. "And, um, y-you really want me to, um, to pick? F-for you as well? I mean, it's already kind enough for you to get me a hot chocolate you-you don't need to f-feed me too—"

"Don't worry about it," Aizawa-san flaps his hand dismissively, "I tend to come in and mark assignments here occasionally, and believe me when I say I need at least three coffees to get through that without losing my sanity. I'll also stop in, like we are now, on my way home. And, as I mentioned prior, my husband also likes coming here. We have a tab of sorts set up where we pay for our drinks and food before leaving."

The man pauses, seeming to think his next words over, "pick whatever you'd like, Izuku-kun. I insist. I've tried most of the baked goods and they're all very good. I'm sure there's something in that case that will go well with your hot chocolate."

Izuku hesitates as the man finally turns away, sitting at a table at the back of the cafe. He sinks into the chair, setting his shoulder bag at his side on the floor before crossing his arms over his chest and letting his eyes drift shut.

Izuku blinks in his direction for a long second, studying him, before glancing around the room. There're only three other patrons, one in line behind Izuku and two sharing one of the tables by the door.

"Nice guy, isn't he?" Izuku startles, turning towards the barista, "comes in a lot pretty late at night —or, that's usually when I see him. I only work the closing shift. He's definitely quiet, but he's always super courteous. Always makes sure to give us good tips, he and his husband both. Charming man, his husband."

She nods to herself, smiling at Izuku, "anyways, did you figure out what you'd like to try?"

"Um," Izuku scans the treats, eyes narrowing in on frosted cinnamon rolls. His mouth waters at the

sight, and his stomach gives another desperate growl. He'd eaten breakfast that morning, but had thrown it up before he could digest it. And he hadn't dared eat at lunch, and dinner... well, not much to eat in a supply closet.

"H-how are the cinnamon rolls?" he asks meekly.

"Delicious," the barista chirps, causing the second barista to chuckle, "they're baked fresh every morning! I'll tell ya what, why don't you go join Aizawa-san and I'll heat these up for you? They're so much better when they're all gooey inside! I'll bring them and your drinks to your table as soon as they're done."

"Thank you," Izuku bows his head, gripping his backpack straps like a lifeline. People being kind to him always put him on edge—even if this girl doesn't know him.

"Anything for you, cutie!"

Izuku shoots her a half smile, not giving back nearly as much as she's giving, but she doesn't seem bothered. He watches as she takes two cinnamon rolls from the case with a piece of wax paper before he turns and slowly walks towards Aizawa-san.

He sits slowly on the chair across from the man, stripping off his backpack and setting it on the floor between his feet. The man's eyes only sliver open when Izuku's shoulder sink in uncertainly, wincing as something in his shoulder grinds painfully.

"Pick something?" Aizawa-san asks calmly, eyes opening fully again as he drags his gaze across Izuku's shoulder. The boy's shoulders raise to his neck at the calm but calculating glance.

"U-um, cinnamon rolls?" the boy offers, wringing his hands together, "the lady said she... that she'll heat them up for us. I-I hope you, um, I hope you like cinnamon rolls..."

"Good choice," the man gives a nod. Izuku watches as he leans back further in his chair, eyes slipping closed again. He doesn't move until the barista is at their table side, placing two mugs of coffee and hot chocolate, as well as two small plates; each holding a steaming and frankly delicious smelling cinnamon roll.

"Here we are," she places the coffee, completely black, down first, and Aizawa-san wastes no time in opening his eyes and taking a sip. He bows his head gratefully, and Izuku does the same with a squeaked 't-thank you!' when his hot chocolate is slid before him. He just knows his cheeks darken with a flush, but the barista's smile just softens. "You're welcome, cutie! I'll be back in a bit to see if either of you need a refill, should I bring the pot like usual, Aizawa-san?"

The man across from Izuku give a gruff hum, and a light nod of his head. He's clutching at his coffee mug, seemingly savoring the warmth of it. Izuku wraps his own hands around his mug, and it feels like he deflates when the warmth absorbs into his hands.

The barista lets out a light laugh as she bows respectfully before stepping away and resuming her spot at the counter, cheerfully greeting the next customer in line.

"So," the man across from him finally speaks, and Izuku's attention jerks up from where he'd been staring into the foamy whipped cream sprinkles with tiny specks of grated chocolate, "how did you say you got hurt again?"

"I didn't," Izuku says through an inhale. He clenches his hands around the mug, heat seeping into his palms. He has half a mind to flip his hand and settle the bruise against the ceramic, but that would draw attention to it—not that he doesn't think Aizawa-san doesn't know exactly what he's

doing.

The man's lips twitch upwards before evening out again, "right."

The man across from Izuku is quiet for a second, staring down into his drink before he finally lifts his gaze again, "can you grip the handle of your mug with your bruised hand?"

Izuku startles for the second time in such a short amount of time, feeling silly for startling when he'd literally been watching the man. He drops his gaze down to where his hands are still cupped around the outside of his mug, frowning to himself.

Seemed simple enough.

He gives a nod, readjusting his hold only to wince when a sharp jolt of pain climbs up his hand when he goes to lift the mug up. The ceramic hardly lifts, but still clatters slightly when Izuku's grip gives out. He sucks in a breath and cradles the injury.

The man across from him makes a soft 'hum' noise as he leans forwards to wipe away the little bit of spilled hot chocolate with a napkin, "I doubt you broke anything in your hand; you can still move your fingers and nothing looks out of place," the man offers slowly, eyeing the bruised hand Izuku is holding tightly to his chest, "but you might've fractured a bone—I'd guess a hairline fracture. It got worse when you put that pressure on it, right?"

The boy nods slowly, eyeing the adult across from him.

Izuku watches cautiously as the man presses his own hand flat against the table, palm down, and it takes no longer than a second for Izuku to realize he's silently asking Izuku to do the same. The boy does as modelled, hand flattening towards the center of the table just an inch or so away from Aizawa-san's.

The man shifts a bit, leaning over the table to examine the dark bruises.

They're nearly black at the point where the older boy's shoes had ground down, with the edges an ugly yellow-green sort of colour. Izuku feels self-conscious as Aizawa-san's eyes flicker over the injury, mouth pulled taut in thought.

"I can't be sure either way if there is a fracture hidden, or if it's just bad bruising and irritation— I'm no doctor," the man finally says after taking a second to study the bruising, "first aid training doesn't make up for lack of x-rays. That's pretty bad bruising, an impact injury of some sort. If you were one of my students, I probably would've sent you to the nurse, so you should probably get it checked. You'll have trouble if it heals wrong or gets worse; you may need a brace, or a cast. You should have your guardian take you to the hospital just to be sure."

Izuku shakes his head, "my mom's a nurse, so I'll just ask her to bring a brace home and take a look at it tomorrow. But, ah, if it starts hurting more, or, um, or breaks any more I'll ask her to bring me to the doctors."

He'll shoot her a text when he's home, and she'll want to check on him—which will mean she'll either stay awake and wait for him to wake up, or set an alarm for the time he wakes up for school. Either way, she'll be losing sleep, and he'll be worrying her. Again.

The man observes Izuku intently, and the boy, for whatever reason, gets the feeling the teacher across from him is trying to gage the honesty in his words. Or, trying to decide if Izuku really will bring it up to his mother or not.

"I promise," Izuku adds carefully, to which the man cocks an eyebrow.

"You've been making a lot of promises," Aizawa-san frowns as he takes a sip of his coffee. He pauses for a moment, stares into his coffee before he's looking back at where Izuku is staring down at his own fingers, "your shoulder, can you lift your arm above your head?"

Izuku blinks before doing as asked blankly. It stings a bit, but not like when he'd followed Aizawa- san's first set of directions, "it, um, hurts a little—b-but I think it's just bruised?"

The man nods, eyeing Izuku's stiff shoulder. "Can you rotate it?" Izuku wrinkles his nose, but once again does as asked.

This hurts a little more, and it feels like the bones in his shoulder grind together. "Same thing, but... I think the muscles are just irritated—I mean, I was sore from P.E. and then he just— well—" the boy's jaw snaps shut, teeth catching on his lip.

"He?" the man prompts, and Izuku really doesn't know why this man is so preceptive. That was such a small, teeny-tiny slip of words. How had he zeroed in on it instantly?

"Um, j-just a... a friend at school," Izuku lifts his drink to take a sip, melting into the sweet chocolatey warmth of it.

"A friend?" Aizawa-san cocks an eyebrow, "a friend at school did that to your shoulder? You know, Kid, that injury of yours doesn't seem particularly friendly."

The man pauses, eyes blinking shut for a second before they're back on Izuku, "didn't you say both your injuries happened at the same time? I fail to see how a friend would accidentally injure your shoulder and damage your hand with some sort of blunt force."

"Okay," Izuku breathes out, and he's not panicking, "so, um, maybe we're not exactly friends, b-but I, they, ah, they didn't mean it?"

"They," Aizawa-san hums out, and Izuku shrinks in on himself. How does he keep saying the wrong thing? He's giving the man virtually nothing to work with, but he's still piecing things together. How? "So, there was more than one person? How exactly did you get these injuries?"

"He just," Izuku swallows, unsure why he feels compelled to tell the man, "pinched my shoulder a bit? And I... I- well, my knees just gave out a little, and then when I f-fell someone a-accidentally stepped on my hand? It was an accident! I think he just... grabbed a little too hard and I... don't know why my knees buckled."

Aizawa-san stares blankly at Izuku. He's silent for a second, then two, before he lets out an even sigh, "there's a trigger spot in the shoulder that can have that effect when you deliberately aim for it. It's a useful technique, but it should not be used on children. Your muscles are still growing, and fairly feeble—easily damaged."

Izuku winces lightly, rubbing at his shoulder. It throbs from irritation—not having liked the tests Aizawa-san put him through. Still, he doubts it's anything more than bruising—maybe even bruised bones if he's unlucky, but he honestly doesn't believe anything in his shoulder is broken.

"This doesn't sound like friendly school yard jokes," Izuku finds himself folding in on himself as he catches the man's eyes across the table, biting at the inside of his cheek as the man seems to slump a little, "Izuku-kun, are you really talking about friends here?"

Izuku sucks in a breath, head bowing as he manages a light shake of his head, "I'm not." "So, bullies then."

"U-upperclassmen," Izuku corrects awkwardly. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't say they're bullies, exactly. It's okay, I mean, it's-it's normal, right?"

Aizawa-san eyes him with a look Izuku can't decipher, "no."

Izuku stills, hunching over his hot chocolate so he can glare down into it almost shamefully.

"You should eat your cinnamon roll," the man across from him says softly, and Izuku jolts up at the words. He eyes the now sort of cooled cinnamon roll, but his stomach churns in protest. "They really are better warm," the man offers.

Despite the acidic churn of his stomach, Izuku does lift the baked good to his mouth. He'd hate for it to go to waste—Aizawa-san had bought it for him, and he'd picked it out himself. And it does still smell really good.

After the first hesitant bite, Izuku's hunger hits him full force. He hadn't realized he was so hungry. The anxious curdle in his stomach shifts to a ravenous demand for more food, and Izuku startles at the realization that he'd been so hungry he felt sick.

He wolfs down his cinnamon roll, unsure if he's even really tasting it. He almost forgets Aizawa- san is here, and watching, until the second plate is slid towards him, untouched cinnamon roll and all.

Izuku freezes.

"I was going to bring it home for my husband, but I doubt it'll travel well after being reheated," the man shrugs, not even looking at Izuku's wide, startled eyes, "help yourself, Kid."

Izuku swallows, eyeing first the cinnamon roll, and then the man across from him, "you... you really don't want it?"

"I've got plans tonight," the man finally looks at Izuku, "sugar makes me tired. Hizashi all but runs on the stuff, but he'll be home long before me. It was a surprise anyways, he's none the wiser. You're hungry still, it's fine."

Izuku hesitates, leaning away from the cinnamon roll like it's some sort of a test. Aizawa-san makes no move to pull the plate back, or take back his words, so with a shaking, nervous hand, Izuku picks up the second baked good.

"Do they not feed you at school?" Izuku shakes his head as he swallows a bite of delicious treat. He's eating the second slower, savoring it. It tastes as good as it smells, and a small part of Izuku wishes he had of savored the first.

"No, they do," he shrugs, "I just don't... tend to go to the cafeteria."

The man lets out another quiet hum as Izuku distracts himself with taking another bite of the cinnamon roll. The icing melts on his tongue and the cinnamon-sugar filling is a perfect balance of warm cinnamon flavor and sweet but not overpowering sugar. Even the bread part of the cinnamon roll is perfect; faintly sweetened and light and fluffy inside while still being perfectly baked on the outside.

"Have you eaten at all today, Izuku-kun?"

"Breakfast," the teen frowns, setting the half-eaten roll down so he can sip at his hot chocolate that is now the perfect drinking temperature. Izuku thinks for a second before shaking his head, "I threw that up though, so I don't think it counts."

"You've thrown up today?" the man straightens a little from his slouch, eyes flickering faintly with worry, "are you unwell? You should probably eat something a bit more nutritious if you're sick."

"No," Izuku shakes his head, wiping melted whipped cream from his lips. He feels a lot better now than he had walking into the café. "I threw up in P.E. I was running, and... I don't know, just got kinda sick. I kept going, don't worry."

"You kept going?" the man blinks owlishly.

"I'd be in trouble if I didn't," Izuku offers with a small smile. "It was a punishment. I was late to class, so my teacher made me run. It's normal."

"What exactly was this punishment that made you vomit? How long were you supposed to run?" "Um," Izuku cocks his head to the side, scratching anxiously behind his ear, "the whole period?"

Izuku has noticed that Aizawa-san isn't very expressive. His eyes don't really change, and his mouth remains in a straight line for the most part. The most he'd gotten thus far is a twitch of a smile, and a cocked eyebrow, but now the man's face pinches into something of blunt anger now.

It's gone before Izuku can apologize for upsetting him, and it's gone fast enough the boy questions if he'd really seen it. The anger in the man's expression scuffs out to that impassive neutral so fast it almost gives Izuku whiplash.

"Did you alternate between running and walking to pace yourself? Cool down time? ...breaks?" Izuku fidgets uncertainly, "he gets mad when I do that."

The man's mouth pinches in a straight line, "you ran for an hour straight? Your teacher made you run for a whole hour? For being late? How late were you? Why were you late?"

The thought stirs something unpleasant in Shota's stomach.

Sure, he's assigned running to tardy students—and depending on the day and his patience, maybe even suicide sprints to really hammer the consequences of being tardy in a Heroics class into his thick-headed students, but this—this was verging on child abuse.

It was cruel to make someone, someone young and untrained, run for an hour straight without proper techniques. Without legit training on pacing and breathing patterns. To have a child run until they threw up, and then not only let the child keep going, but insist they do.

It was cruel to do that to an adult, who hasn't trained or was used to running for long periods of time.

Shota's own physical activity punishments had never made a single student throw up, because he assigned pacing techniques, and breaks. If students felt like they needed to stop and break for a second, he encouraged that. He let them follow some breathing techniques, and drink some water, and then ushered the back to finishing their punishment.

It wasn't supposed to be torture, it was supposed to be discipline.

"I lost my uniform," the boy's slow mumble snaps Shota from his thoughts. "I was only a little late because I had to find it in the changing room and then, um, put it on and catch up to my class, but... I was late enough that everyone was already on teams and warming up. I deserved it."

Shota is quiet for a second, picking apart everything the child was telling him. "You lost your uniform, or someone lost it for you?"

"Is there a difference?" the boy shakes his head, sighing into his drink. "It didn't matter to my teacher—he didn't even let me..." The kid blows out a second, more defeated sigh, looking up at the man with glossy eyes, "I was late and no one else was. I found my uniform in the end, but I was already late. I think my classmates just didn't want to have me on their team."

"So, they sabotaged you?"

"It was just a joke," Izuku's shoulders slump.

"It's not very funny," the teacher shoots back with an unamused look. "Yeah," Izuku bows his head until his curls hide his eyes, "guess not."

There's a moment where neither of them speak. Izuku wants to slump into his chair and hope the ground will split open and swallow him whole, but the chances of that happening are in the negatives. Aizawa-san on the other hand, looks thoughtful, hands clasped around a nearly empty coffee mug.

"What about dinner?" the man asks after another long second, "didn't you eat something between school being let out and now? It's almost ten PM."

"No," Izuku chokes out. "I wasn't— I-I didn't— I was... busy. Um, n-no time. To, uh, to eat."

The boy feels himself clam up as he thinks back to the supply closet.

That feeling of fear and isolation tugging at his lungs and making it hard to breathe. He's not sure how long he sits there silently under Aizawa-san's watchful eye—he's sure the man is picking him apart and dissecting his words, silence and his tense form.

Izuku offers no further explanation, and silently thanks whatever deity exists that the man across from him lets the halfhearted excuse slide. Aizawa-san's eyes narrow calculatingly, and he even opens his mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it, letting his mouth shut again as he sips at his coffee.

Izuku runs his finger along the rim of his mug—hot chocolate cooled off now. The top of his drink is cloudy with melted whipped cream and specks of half-melted chocolate shavings. There's only one more mouthful left, maybe two.

Izuku stares down at his drink long enough that he startles abruptly when a second mug is set beside his hand. He jolts to attention, eyes shifting to the barista from earlier who gives him a sheepish look, hand still on the new mug by his current one, "Aizawa-san gestured for a second round."

Izuku's attention jumps to the man who's already sipping at a steaming refill of coffee. The man's eyebrow arches in reply to Izuku's questioning look.

"You don't have to drink it," Aizawa-san tells him seriously, "yours is cold, so I figured you might want another to sip at while we talk. I don't mind either way. No obligation."

"Oh," Izuku finally swallows down the shock from being startled, "um, thank you."

It's directed at both the barista and Aizawa-san. The man bows his head as he sips at his coffee, and the barista shoots Izuku a small smile as she gathers the empty plates and his nearly empty mug. Aizawa-san's mug had already been refilled with fresh coffee, so she didn't take his.

The man across from him is quiet for a long second as Izuku slurps at the fluffy whipped cream. "What else happened?"

Izuku jolts his attention up, jaw slack as he eyes the man sipping indifferently at his coffee, "w- what?"

"You said it was a very bad day," Aizawa-san regards the boy carefully, "and it certainly sounds like it was. You've had an awful day today; I was just wondering what else happened, if anything."

Izuku's brain blue-screens as tries to decide what he wants to let the teacher in on.

There's a small part of him that strongly believes all teachers are the same. Sure, Aizawa-san is kinda nice, but he doesn't know Izuku—he's never had him in a classroom; has never looked at the textbook sized file the Aldera office has on him documenting all his trouble making, and how he instigates his peers.

All teachers are the same. They're always the same.

Izuku clams up again when he thinks about revealing anything else, shrinking down in his seat. The boy sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and drops his attention away from the teacher across from him.

There's another lapse in conversation, this one entirely Izuku's doing. Aizawa-san sits quietly across from him for a while too, sipping calmly at his coffee. Izuku takes a couple sips of his own hot chocolate, but his brain is fuzzy with thoughts. Doubts.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Izuku-kun?"

The boy startles at the abrupt change in conversation. There's a big difference between 'what happened at school?' and 'what do you want to be when you grow up?'

"Um," Izuku flounders for a second before his shoulders lift in a dismissive shrug. "I wanted to be a hero when I was little but... that's—" the boy sucks in a breath, staring down at his shoes under the table, "that's unrealistic."

"Why?"

For a second, Izuku is shocked by the genuine question in the man's voice. His back goes ramrod as his head snaps up to stare in awe at the man across from him. Aizawa-san blinks owlishly in return, holding eye contact when Izuku's eyes catch his own.

It takes a second longer than it probably should for Izuku to remember that Aizawa-san doesn't know he's Quirkless. A Quirkless kid can't be a hero. That's impossible. If the man across from him knew, they wouldn't even be having this conversation.

"I just..." the boy's eyes are back in his lap, form slumping once more, this time in defeat, "I

can't."

"Who said?" Aizawa asks easily, eyebrow cocked in question.

"Who hasn't?" the boy quipped in return before jerking his head up apologetically, "s-sorry I just —"

"Anyone who told you that you couldn't be a hero is an idiot," Aizawa-san tells him bluntly. "It takes all kinds to be a hero, and sure, the schooling is intense, and rigorous. The training is grueling and can be brutal at times, and it's not for the faint of heart. It's dangerous, but anyone can be a hero if they're willing to really try. A lot of people are in it for the wrong reasons, which is why so many students are turned away from Heroics exams every year, but if you're serious, and if you're willing to work hard for it, I don't see any reason why you couldn't be a Hero."

"I can't," Izuku insists brokenly, heart squeezing in his chest.

How does he make this man understand without throwing himself under the bus? "I'm sure you can," the man returns instantly, almost encouragingly.

He takes a slow sip of his coffee, facial expression softening, "you know, Izuku-kun... a Quirk is just a tool. Though they're useful, and I can't argue that they aren't when it comes to being a Hero, they're not the only thing that matters out in the field. You could have the strongest Quirk in the world, but if you don't put in the time and effort in to strengthen it— if you don't want to be better — you won't."

Izuku's gaze crawls back up to the teacher across from him, eyes watering as listens.

The man continues casually, "Heroics isn't about having a flashy Quirk—it helps, don't get me wrong— but it isn't the only thing to take into account. It's what's in here," the man taps his fingers middle and index fingers against his temple, "and here," his hand moved to press over his heart, "that matter most."

"B-but—"

The man regards Izuku carefully as the boy tries to find words, any words at all, before sighing heavily.

"A Quirk is nothing but a tool; it's what you do with it that matters, not what it can do. There are lots of Heroes who don't have flashy Quirks, but have still made it in the big leagues. Maybe they're not limelight Heroes, but they do good work. Important work."

The man hesitates, "a few even fight Quirkless."

Quirkless.

The word rings in Izuku's head for a moment before his thoughts come to a screeching halt. Why would he feel the need to mention that?

Quirkless.

...he knows.

Aizawa-san knows.

"You- you know," the words leave Izuku's lungs before he even registers them. Registers the festering panic. He knows. Izuku wants to reach up and tug at his own hair, anxiety thrumming in his heart and buzzing across his skin. Aizawa-san knows. He knows.

The man blinks slowly, head bowing in a nod, "I noticed your shoes on the train."

"And you still—" Izuku cuts himself off by clamping his teeth down on his tongue. Aizawa-san

had known this whole time and he still... "Why?"

Aizawa-san sets his mug on the table with a soft clink of ceramic meeting hard wood. His hands lift off the mug for the first time since he'd gotten it, and his attention is solely on Izuku, "because you're not defined by a Quirk, or lack thereof, Izuku-kun."

Izuku opens his mouth to retort that, yeah, he kinda is, but he doesn't dare voice his words; not with the intense look the teacher across from him is studying him with.

"Not having a Quirk doesn't make you any less deserving of help. You're a human being, with or without a Quirk, and I'm sorry the world forgets that. I'm sorry people have their heads shoved so far up their asses that they forget that. You're important, Izuku-kun; and you deserve to be treated with common decency. With compassion."

Izuku feels tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't even think about looking away from the man across from him. Aizawa-san looks momentarily startled by the first tear that slips down Izuku's cheek, but he softens just as the wetness drips onto Izuku's bruised hand, where it's clenching around nothing, along with his other hand, on his thigh.

No one besides his mom had ever said anything like this before.

Izuku brings both hands up to drags the heels of his palms over his eyes, wiping away most of the wetness. He drags his hands over his thighs to get rid of the clinging tear streaks before sniffling, "thank you, Aizawa-san."

The man looks away briefly, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's really not something you thank someone for, Kid... Common decency should be a given."

"But it's not. Not for me," Izuku whispers, bowing his head so his curls cover his eyes again, "my mom is the only one who ever... so thank you. I... I think I really needed to hear that today..."

The man looks back towards the boy, expression softening once again, "you're welcome."

Izuku's eye water once again, but this time it's nothing but gratitude making him misty eyed. He lifts his mug of hot chocolate to his lips and takes a slow sip as he wills his eyes to dry up.

"I was serious about what I said, you know," the man mutters calmly, eyes focused on the kid. Izuku looks up with a quirked head, eyes meeting the man's. "About Heroes. It'll be hard, and you'll probably have to work harder than anyone else to do it; and I'm sure you'd face challenges that no one else will, but if you really want to be a hero, you can."

"I really can't," Izuku sighs heavily, eyes slipping shut in exhaustion. "Most hero school don't even accept Quirkless students. And I'd never be able to pass the entrance exam."

The man gives a hum of acknowledgment, "y'know, I heard a rumor that Yuuei and a few other schools will be allowing Quirkless admission soon. It's supposed to be instated next year."

"Really?" Izuku perks up a little, eyes shining with interest, "that soon?"

"That's what I've heard," the teacher shrugs. "As for any entrance exam: try hard, but don't be discouraged. Apply yourself to other areas as well; go into business, or support, or even general education. Show them you belong there, and maybe you could be transferred into the Hero course. It's happened before, it can happen again."

The more the teacher talks, the more Izuku gets his hopes up. The longer he spends with Aizawa- san, the more he's starting to think that... maybe it is possible.

But then he remembers why it's not going to happen. The interest drains out of him and it feels like he all but deflates in his chair. Aizawa-san frowns, "what's wrong, Izuku-kun?"

"I just..." the boy sighs scrubbing at his face, "doubt it'll happen. Not for me."

"Why's that, kid?" Aizawa-san asks quietly, but kindly, "what makes you think that?"

"I don't have very good grades," Izuku mumbles, picking at the skin around his nail. "I doubt I'll be able to get into any high school, least of all a Hero school—and especially not Yuuei. That's the number one Hero School in Japan!"

"What do you mean by bad grades?" Aizawa-san quirks an eyebrow.

"I hardly pass—lowest grade you can get without failing. Sometimes I'll make it as high as a seventy-percent, but not... not usually."

"Is your school work to hard?" the man tilts his head, genuinely thinking over the boy's words, "have your teachers not been trying to help you understand better? Have they not asked why you're not getting good marks?"

"Not really," Izuku lifts a shoulder into a shrug, "I study, and... think I understand it, but I never do. I was one mark away from failing the test I got back today, and I'd been so confident it was gonna be a good grade."

"Oh?" Aizawa-san rests his elbows on the table and leans forwards the slightest bit, "well, if you don't understand it, maybe I can help. Can I see your test?"

Izuku hesitates for a second before settling on 'what the hell?' as he unzips his bag and digs out the test paper. He frowns at the grade before setting the paper on the table and sliding it over, slumping back in his chair when the test is no longer in his reach, "that's the problem," he tells the teacher glumly, "I thought I did understand it."

Aizawa-san pauses as Izuku's words sink in, and then the man is picking the paper up, gaze first landing on the 61% eyesore at the top right corner of the paper. The corners of his mouth dip down faintly before pressing back into the straight line he'd worn all evening.

Izuku watches the man's eyes scan over his work, eyebrows furrowing the more he reads. The straight expression slowly morphs into something drawn between confusion and disbelief. The man sets the paper back on the tabletop, gaze lifting to an antsy Izuku.

"Do you know where I went wrong?" the boy asks as he pulls anxiously at his own fingers.

For a long second, the man doesn't say anything. He blinks at the boy, then his gaze drops to the paper, before he's looking back up at him, and then suddenly he's turning to his messenger bag and pulling out a red pen. Izuku spots papers in the man's bag with red writing scrawled on them, so he assumes Aizawa-san had been telling the truth about being a teacher.

Izuku is drawn from his thoughts as the man swiftly starts marking on his paper.

Izuku thinks he should probably be concerned there's a stranger drawing red lines all over the test he'll need to present to his mother later, but he can't be bothered to care.

The grade is the only thing she'll care about anyways. It's the only thing she ever takes notice of.

Aizawa-san flies through the questions, leaving streaks of red pen as he goes. Izuku ducks his head, sucking in calming breaths as he listens to the scratching of the pen. It's a lot of writing, he must've made more mistakes than he realized.

The sound of papers being flipped around fills Izuku's ears, followed by the man clearing his throat. Izuku still doesn't look up, even as the paper is slid back to him.

"Yeah," Aizawa-san finally answers Izuku's nervous question, "I think you read the twelfth question wrong."

"Huh?" Izuku finally looks up, at the teacher across from him, "oh, um, okay, but what about everything else—"

His words waver off as he finally glances down. His teacher's black marking glares up at him, but what's more surprising is the bright 98% scrawled neatly in red. Izuku blinks a couple times before flipping through the questions, all the wrong answers now remarked with red check marks—except the twelfth question, where part of it has been underlined in red.

"I... don't understand," Izuku mumbles absently.

"Neither do I, Kid, because that's all right."

Izuku scans over the paper as static rings in his ears, "it's all... right? Are you sure?"

"Well," the man shrugs, "math wasn't my strongest topic in school, but I had good enough grades, and this is, what, your first year of junior high? I did learn this very same concept years ago. I remember doing this sort of stuff."

Izuku's heart beats heavily, nervously, in his chest at how much the teacher across from him had deduced from glancing over a test, "how did you—"

"I could tell from the questions," Aizawa-san waves him off. "Point is," the man pokes the grade at the top of Izuku's paper, "you know the information, but received a barely passing mark. You were made to believe you hardly passed." A pause, where Aizawa-san glares intently down at the test paper like the general sight of it offends him, "Izuku-kun, how many tests have you almost failed this year?"

Izuku squints at the man before shaking his head, "all of them?"

The man gives a slow nod like he can't really believe it. "Did you ever ask your teacher about it?"

Izuku nods meekly, clearing his throat, "the, uh, the first test we did this year. I was two points off from failing, but I... I knew the material, so I asked why my grade was so low. He got mad and... and he said he saw me cheating on it—b-but I swear I didn't! I'd never cheat! He said he marked the answers that I didn't get from somewhere else; that I should be happy he didn't just give me a zero for cheating, and..."

"And?" Aizawa-san prompts, tone almost dark.

"And he told me that if I ever questioned his teaching ability or grading again, he'd bring the issue up with the principal. A lot of the time I don't even know what I'm doing wrong. I try to study, and I don't ever cheat, but I don't... my grades stay the same. I just always thought I didn't really understand, you know?"

"I see," Aizawa-san's voice comes out low. His eyes are staring over Izuku's shoulder, and one finger taps a pattern on the side of his mug, "have you brought this up to your mother? It's obvious your teacher is either an incompetent moron, or he's marking your assignments incorrectly due to your Quirk status. Either way, letting the matter go is completely irrational. Falsified failing grades could disrupt your entire future, Izuku-kun."

"I can't do that!" Izuku yelps, shaking his head frantically, "I'm already a target, Aizawa-san! He already doesn't like me; I don't want to make it worse! And-and my mom's already super busy, I can't ask her to do that. It's... it's fine, I'll—" the boy swallows, throat feeling thick with emotion, "it... doesn't matter. I've accepted it already. I'm sure that... some high school will take me. P- probably..."

Izuku deliberately looks away, hoping it'll end the conversation.

He glares down into his mug of hot chocolate, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He worries his lip between his teeth until it's raw and that almost metallic taste settles on his tongue; a warning that he'll draw blood if he bites any harder.

The man lets out a slow breath before speaking, "I'm assuming nothing I say will persuade you, huh?"

Izuku doesn't even look up as he shakes his head, "sorry, Aizawa-san."

Out of the corner of his eye, Izuku sees the man give a nod.

He doesn't dare actually look up, but he's thankful that Aizawa-san isn't pushing it. Izuku's school life is already hell, what would happen if he made it worse? What was worse than hell?

"Izuku-kun," the man's voice tears Izuku away from his thoughts. The boy looks up at the man again, eyebrows drawn together in silent question, "I'm going to ask you a serious question, and I need you to answer honestly, alright?"

The boy swallows nervously, but nods nonetheless.

"Has your teacher ever physically put his hands on you? Has any teacher, or figure of higher authority in your school ever made you feel unsafe?"

Izuku is shaking his head as the teacher across from his speaks slowly and calmly—his teacher may be rude, and mean and just a genuinely not nice guy when it comes to Izuku, but he'd never physically hurt him. Nothing more than grabbing his shoulder and escorting him out of class when Izuku causes disruptions, or squeezing his forearm in threat when he gets in Izuku's face with the sole intention of making Izuku cower, but that was normal stuff.

Izuku shakes his head until he abruptly freezes as Aizawa-san expands on his question. Unsafe?

He always felt unsafe.

Unsafe is his general state of being at school—in life in general as a known Quirkless person.

They may not hurt him physically, but they ignore the ones who do. They ignored his pleading, and his begging. He's positive teachers had heard him being shoved into a storage closet and none had done a damn thing about it. They'd ignored him, and looked in the other direction. Leaving him to suffer in the hands of his classmates.

Izuku's thoughts drift back to the closet—the ingrained scent of chemical cleaners and dirty water pooling into his senses. How dark it had been. He subconsciously curls in tightly to himself like he'd sat for hours in that small closet. He'd been so scared—things had just escalated so suddenly.

It's the first time they'd left him somewhere.

"Can you take a breath for me, Izuku-kun?" the words are distant, and it takes a few seconds for Izuku to separate himself from the swirling memory of the storage closet and focus on that worried request. The voice is so soft across from him, and when his head finally clears a little, he realizes that it's just Aizawa-san.

He's no longer in the closet.

The boy sucks in a gulp of air, eyes squeezing shut. He's not stuck there.

He's out, and he's in a café, and there's something about Aizawa-san that makes him feel safe. He's got hot chocolate, and had been eating cinnamon rolls. He's not there anymore. He smells sweet baked goods, and fresh coffee despite the late hour, not dirty mop water and chemicals. The café is bright, and warm, and he's not alone.

"Sorry," Izuku gasps out when he finds his voice. He realizes abruptly that one of his hands, his bruised, dominant hand, is fisted in the gakuran over his chest. He tries to dislodge his tense fingers, but they just tighten more.

"It's fine," the man insists after Izuku's breathing has somewhat returned to normal, "you're alright now. You're safe."

"Yeah," Izuku croaks out, forcing his head to bow in a nod even though he doesn't feel alright. The memory is still sharp in his mind, and if he thinks about it too much, it's like he's transported back. "I'm okay."

"I really don't think you are, Kid," Aizawa-san shakes his head, hands tightening around his mug like he's resisting the urge to set a comforting hand on Izuku. Izuku's not sure if he's thankful the man's respectfully keeping his distance, or upset by it. "I need you to tell me what happened at school today, Izuku-kun. This is important."

Izuku's teeth clamp down on his bottom lip and this time he tastes blood. He sinks into his chair, shoulders slumping, refusing to make eye contact.

"Izuku-kun," Aizawa-san continues after Izuku doesn't mutter a word, "why were you so late leaving school today?"

Izuku doesn't mean to wince—he should be used to Aizawa-san reading him like an open book at this point. He'd hit the nail on the head yet again. Izuku's chin dips lower until it's digging into his own sternum, eyes focused on his knees.

The boy keeps his mouth shut until a quiet, pleading, "please," interrupts the buzzing silence and Izuku breaks.

"I... couldn't," the boy whispers weakly, wringing his hands together anxiously, "It-it just... I couldn't, Aizawa-san. I couldn't leave."

"Why couldn't you?"

Izuku almost wants to cry at how patient the man across from him sounds. He's being so nice, and kind and Izuku wants to tell him—after all, what can some high school teacher he'll probably never see again really be able to do?

"I was trapped," the boy mumbles under his breath, eyes locked on the table.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man lean closer, straining to hear the words, and when they finally seem to click, the man draws in a choked breath. "Trapped where?"

"A-a supply closet," Izuku whispers brokenly, the dark and dusty closet flashing in his mind again as fear squeezes at his heart. The boy feels terrified tears welling in his eyes, but he's quick to drag the heels of his palms over his eyes to wipe the wetness away, "they-they locked me in it after school, and I couldn't- I couldn't get out. I-I was so s-sc-scared, Aizawa-san."

"The teachers?" there's a tense, unrestrained anger in the man's voice, but Izuku shakes his head with a sniffle.

He scrubs at his face, "n-no. Kacchan and his... and his friends did it. The teachers did-did nothing, Aizawa-san. They didn't help. They didn't even care, and I-I— I was stuck there. All evening; until the janitor l-let me out."

Izuku fists tears away from his eyes again, lifting his gaze to the teacher across from him. Aizawa- san's eyes are glowing with a poorly concealed rage—Izuku might almost think his eye were nearly glowing red. The colour swirling in the teacher's eyes blinks out of existence as Aizawa-san heaves in a calming breath and squeezes his eyes shut, before reopening them and focusing on the child across from him.

"Thank you for telling me, Izuku-kun." Aizawa-san's voice is stiff, but calm and collected. "What your classmates did was cruel and illegal. That's assault, Izuku-kun. They could be charged."

"N-no!" Izuku protests instantly, straightening protectively, "you can't! T-they're just kids! It was... it was harmless. I didn't g-get hurt or anything. Besides, Kacchan is... he's going to be a Hero, Aizawa-san. The best Hero. If he gets charged with anything, he might not get accepted into the Hero course!"

"A Hero?" Aizawa-san scoffs, and it's probably the most emotion Izuku has seen from the man. "Izuku-kun, locking someone in a supply closet is not heroic. Is that really the kind of Hero you want to see in the world?"

"He didn't do it though," Izuku insists stubbornly, "Kacchan is mean, but not that mean. He's a good person— ah, mostly. He just... watched? He didn't put me in the closet; his friends did."

"Watching and doing nothing to help is almost as bad as actually doing it."

"He doesn't know any better," Izuku insists once again, leaning on the table, closer to the man with protective intensity sparkling in his eyes, "the teachers encourage it, really, and no one tells him what he's doing is wrong. He's got a good Quirk for heroics, and he really is a nice guy under all the... uh, intensity. We used to be friends so I would know... t-trust me."

The man across from him deflates slightly, sinking back into the chair like Izuku's words had

stolen all the energy from his body, "I'll take your word for it now, but just know that this kid is gonna have a rude awakening if he's planning on trying to be a Hero with a bad attitude and an obvious discriminatory mindset."

"If he ruins his own future, that's on him," Izuku says softly, "I refuse to ruin it for him."

Something in Shota's heart seizes at this kid. Broken down by school and society for something he can't even change about himself, something that should be trivial but clearly is not—minutes after a panic attack and still protecting others. Still protecting someone who'd hurt him.

There's not a doubt in Shota's mind that this child will make a fine Hero someday.

Shota is quiet as he thinks. He drains the last of his coffee and entertains the thought of asking for a third, but it's already late. It's getting close to midnight, and the thought that this child, in his first year at junior high, probably no older than twelve, is sitting in a café with a stranger. That's worrying.

He's been in the café with Izuku for a little over two hours now, and at this point, he's not even sure he'll have a second to even greet his husband before changing into his spare costume and heading out on patrol.

He already knows Hizashi is worried—his phone had been vibrating in his pocket every half an hour. Shota feels bad for ignoring his husband, of course he does, but he knows Hizashi will forgive as soon as he hears why.

Izuku needed his attention.

This Quirkless child needed someone to listen to him. He needed someone to show him he's not alone in this world, and Shota's just glad he managed to get to the kid in time. He's such a nice, put together child. Calm, clever, respectful. The world would be a darker place without this boy.

The reminder of how he'd found the kid drops like a brick in his thoughts. Izuku had been seconds away from jumping in front of a train. Literal seconds.

Honestly, that child he'd encountered at the station platform is not the child sitting across from him now, and he's so incredibly worried. What had the child read on the slip of paper that had forced Izuku into such a state? That had pushed him over the edge?

He couldn't leave without having all the information. He'd never leave a child with a hallow look in their eyes, like Izuku had had when Shota had first looked at him before they got on the train. What kind of a Hero—no a person—would he be if he just walked away from this now?

"Back at the station..." the man corners of the man's lips pull downward slightly as he pauses, like he's trying to figure out how to word something, "you pulled something out of your pocket, read it, and then something in you—your body language— shifted, right before you..." the man frowns, straightening up as he clears his throat. He keeps his voice low as he continues, aware that they're not alone in the café, "tried to take your own life. What was on that paper?"

Izuku sucks in a startled gasp of air, the reminder of the note in his pocket suddenly weighing him down like a brick. His hand twitches to pull the note out, to read it over again and again and again, but he flattens his hand on the table instead, trying to ignore how heavy it feels.

"It was nothing," the boy mumbles, hoping his words come out convincing even though he's sure the static playing in his head and his sudden breathlessness impedes in his voice, "just a... stupid

note. B-but, um, how long were you... at the station?" "You arrived after I did, Kid," Aizawa-san tells him softly.

"Oh." Izuku swallows, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, "I didn't even notice. I thought I was... alone."

"I don't..." the man's voice comes out almost strangled, "I don't believe that that note was nothing."

Izuku's hands tighten nervously, squeezing his own interlaced fingers nervously until his skin is a pale bone-white, and then—then the man's hand, big and calloused but soft and delicate, is carefully settling over Izuku's two—his small hands are blanketed by a bigger one that grounds him.

Aizawa-san gives a light squeeze and Izuku feels the tension drain from his hands, grip loosening under the gentle squeeze.

"It really was just a dumb note," Izuku finds himself saying almost robotically. His eyes are focused on Aizawa-san's hand on his, his chest heaving with a foreign feeling of comfort. "I found it in my locker after school and I... I don't know. I guess it was just the last straw."

"What did it say?" the soft tone has tears misting in Izuku's eyes.

His eyes water, but he's not crying. He's already cried too much; isn't even sure he reallycould cry anymore at this point, which is surprising considering his inherited inability to keep the waterworks to a minimum.

He's feeling pretty numb now anyways. He feels blah, and stupid for letting a little note drive him to the edge of the train tracks. He honestly doesn't know what he'd been thinking.

Izuku's thoughts circle back to Aizawa-san's question.

Izuku slips a hand out from under Aizawa-san's and digs through his pocket. His fingertips feel over the note before he finally pulls it out with a sigh. Aizawa-san's hand hasn't pulled back, and he doesn't so much a lift that hand when Izuku offers the crumpled ball of bullying, lifting his second hand off his mug to take the paper.

Izuku carefully pulls his other hand out from under Aizawa-san, even though his mind protests. The weight of it had been grounding, and the careful squeezes reminded Izuku he wasn't alone. Aizawa-san's hand remains in the center of the table for a second before, he finally pulls it back.

With his newly freed hand, Aizawa-san unballs the note and freezes.

Izuku's nose wrinkles as the man across from him stops breathing all together, mouth agape as his chest stutters to a halt as he scans the words a couple times.

"This is suicide-baiting," the man whispers after another long second.

Izuku nods without saying a word. He drops his hands back into his lap, and resists the urge to curl into himself again.

"Who the hell would leave something like this in your locker?" that anger is back in the man's voice, except this time, he's not even trying to contain it.

His eyes flicker red, and Izuku can't help but think it's a Quirk of some sort. The man's hair lifts weightlessly overhead, and if Izuku weren't so emotionally exhausted, he would've been asking questions about his Quirk.

"I don't know who left it," Izuku offers quietly, "I didn't recognize the writing. It could've been anyone—it's common knowledge I'm Quirkless; the entire school knows."

This is that final puzzle piece Shota needed to understand the boy in front of him.

He's seeing everything in a new light—why the boy's body language had flipped so suddenly, that driving force that pushed him to stand brokenly at the edge of those tracks.

He understands completely why Izuku would consider taking his own life, and the grim reality of it makes Shota feel like he can't breathe.

Izuku had had a shitty day, in every sense of the word.

He'd been bullied; by teachers and students alike. He'd been forced into a supply closet and left for hours, had starved most of the day. He'd been hurt, and belittled, led to believe he was stupid by someone who's supposed to teach and protect him. And to finish the day off, he'd found a note that suicide-baited him hours after he was supposed to be home.

It really is no surprise that this kid, a literal child, had a lapse in mental health.

"I really won't try to do it again, Aizawa-san," the child, this little kid, offers softly, like he's consoling Shota. There's sharp honesty in the child's voice, calm and levelheaded. "I don't want to die."

Shota's standing at an impasse of sorts.

This isn't something he can just forget. Logically, he knows he needs to contact the police department. He needs to contact the hospital, and this child's guardian—he'd been seconds away from ending his own life. Izuku needs therapy. He needs help—

—but this also isn't normal circumstances.

Quirk discrimination is a real problem. Quirkless are denied medical care, and they're denied mental health resources. Hell, the news only ever covers Quirkless deaths and suicides out of obligation. The world simply does not care for those deemed lesser due to Quirk status.

As is, there are so few people Shota would actually trust with this kid who's seen more than his fair share of how awful the world can be.

He also truly doesn't think the kid will make another attempt at his own life. He doesn't even think the kid was really thinking when he made the first attempt—he's so young. He's young, and impressionable, and took an absolute beating of a day. One thing after another was piled on the poor kid's shoulder—honestly, it's surprising he's still as quick-witted as he is.

No one's completely immune to cruel words and suicide-baiting.

Shota shakes himself from his thoughts, "let me walk you home."

It comes out more like a demand than a question, but he really is asking. The boy could say no, and Shota would respect that—he'd already trusted him enough to follow him to some café, but this is a whole new level of trust.

That said, the child isn't off scot-free. If he doesn't want Shota's help, the man will be forced to report an attempted suicide to the police. He has enough information at this point that he's sure Tsukauchi and the police will be able to find the kid's full identity, and address and get him help.

Help he can't quite walk away from.

The boy's nose scrunches up as he mulls over the question. For a second, Shota thinks he really might say no, but then the boy's shoulders droop and he gives a faint nod, "okay."

Shota returns his own relieved nod, standing up and grabbing his messenger bag. The boy follows suit, and swings his monstrosity of a yellow backpack over his shoulder and falls into step with Shota.

The man pays for their drinks and cinnamon rolls, and the barista, tired smile and all, offers the both of them some left over baked treats that will be thrown away anyways.

It's then that Shota realize that the entire café is empty besides the two of them and the barista, and that it's past midnight. The café was supposed to have closed over fifteen minutes ago. He bows in apology, but is waved off, the barista's smile waning as she lets out a tired laugh.

He tips double what he usually would in an attempt to make up for keeping her late, and makes sure to bow gratefully as Izuku clutches two paper bags to his chest, one with a cinnamon roll that the kid insists Shota take home for his husband, and the other containing three different varieties of muffins.

The two of them leave the café with the barista following them to the door to lock it up since they are officially closed for the night.

Izuku leads Shota down the dark, now vacant streets until they arrive at an apartment complex. He pauses, and Shota is torn between being anxious the kid isn't showing him exactly where he lives, but also proud the kid has at least some stranger-danger sense.

Izuku pauses by the door, shuffling his feet anxiously, "I don't know if you wanted to talk to my mom but she... um—"

"I thought you said she wasn't home?" Shota cocks his head to the side.

Izuku gives a hurried nod that knocks dark curls into his eyes, "she isn't, I just... you're not going to tell her, right? That I... I don't want to worry her, and she's already so busy. She won't even be home for a couple hours at least, and she'll... she'll cry if she knows. I don't want to make my

mum cry, Aizawa-san."

"I'll tell you what," Shota offers him softly, grabbing a sticky note and his red pen from his messenger bag pocket, "I'm going to give you my number and you're going to check in with me. Every day. Just a simple text. I'm not supposed to do this—I should be bringing you to the hospital and getting in contact with your mother, or the police station— reporting this and getting you help now, but I know it's different for you."

Shota pauses as Izuku grows paler by the second. Shota offers the scribbled on sticky note, and Izuku takes it with a limp hand.

"You're a smart kid, you should know that I can't just walk away, even if I don't think you're a danger to yourself; I think you know you made a big mistake today that could've ended badly, and I think you regret it. Just... do me the favor of letting me know you're alive, alright? I can't promise I won't need to tell others at some point, but for now, until you give me reason to question

your safety again, just keep me informed. I don't care what you text, just let me know you're safe." The boy hesitates, looking at the slip of paper held in his hand.

Shota doesn't often give out his phone number often, and never to people he's just met— few people actually have it, let alone use it. Hizashi being one of the only people, for obvious reason. But this whole situation is a bit unorthodox.

"I want to help you if you'll let me, Izuku-kun," Shota tells him honestly, settling his hands on the boy's shoulders, mindful of the injury when he gives a light, grounding squeeze with both hands.

Izuku is quiet, eyes staring intently up at Shota's. He sucks in a breath through his nose and gives a light nod, "okay."

Unknown Number 12:51AM

I'm safe inside.

Shota squints at the text as he walks. He knows instantly that it's the kid talking to him—he's the only one he'd given his number out to in the past couple years and the message itself is very telling, even if Izuku doesn't identify himself.

Shota is honestly a bit surprised. He hadn't expected Izuku to listen—or, at least contact him so soon. He'd only just walked away from Izuku's apartment complex.

Shota huffs out a breath, a small smile lifting onto his lips as he changes the boy's contact name before replying.

Aizawa Shota 12:53AM

Good. Have a good night, Izuku. Stay safe, please.

Izuku 12:54AM

Oh

Wow

you actually responded??

Aizawa Shota 12:57AM

Why wouldn't I? I asked you to text me. Izuku 12:58AM

Yeah.

But people don't usually mean it.

I half expected this to be a random number. But anyways.

Thank you.

For... not being a random number? Or, for not giving out a random number. That would've sucked.

Oh

I just sounded so rude.

I'm so sorry.

I never doubted you, Aizawa-san.

I should really stop talking now.

Texting. This is not talking, it's texting.

Izuku 1:05AM

Good night, Aizawa-san.

Aizawa Shota 1:06AM

Good night, kid.

Shota pauses in his walking, rolling his shoulder as he hesitates. He scrolls through his phone, selecting a contact and staring at the blank text bar for a second.

Aizawa Shota 1:30AM

I need your help with something.

He doesn't wait long for a reply— not that he was expecting to.

Nezu 1:30AM

Ah, good morning, Aizawa-kun! It must be quite pressing if you're requesting help so early in the morning, and on a patrol night as well. You never cease to surprise me! What can I do for you? :)

Shota bites his lip, leaning his shoulder against the side of the building he's standing beside. He's already late for patrol— what's a couple more minutes? He's doing just as much Hero work now as he will be after he's changed and on patrol. He will be helping Izuku, because if anyone deserves some help, it's that little boy who'd taken the world's shit alone for far to long.

He meant what he said when he said he wanted to help.