The first days back in school were a difficult time. For the first time in a long time, his phone remained quiet, his mind felt empty, and nothing felt good. Without any effort on his part, he arrived at school thirty minutes early. He walked into U.A.'s gates with a cold left shoulder.

His reunion with 1A was a mixed bag, at least for him. Most of his peers appeared to have corresponded with each other over their brief recess, so the tears and spastic greetings were minimal. He, however, only touched his phone once this week, and only then to call Nighteye. After he was sure 1A were all alright, he simply ignored the growing little number over his messages. Here, however, he could not let their questions pile up. Their attention pressed against his chest, as though he was some tube to dispense answers. It made him nauseous.

Izuku, by all accounts, was still nearly mute. He was limited to just a few words a day, and his discretion was sparing. He quieted his peer's questions with nods and shaken heads, with perhaps an occasional hand-gesture. Boys clapped his shoulder, to his dismay, and a few girls gave him shallow, quick bows. Any real attempts to "thank" him went dismissed, but he wasn't cruel. Though their appreciation made him sick to his stomach, he did not outright tell them off.

Like his voice, his gestures were quiet things. When they clapped his shoulder, he caught their hand and released them with easy grace. Each touch held fifty percent "It's alright," and "please stop," but the boys only seemed to see the first half. Their smiles would grow across their cheeks, and Izuku feared he gave off the wrong impression.

As for the bows, he would simply return them, but deeper. It was the more elegant solution—though when Toru passed by his desk, he bowed first. It was easier to keep his eyes on the floor rather than meet her suspicious gaze.

Everyone came back on the first day, to his surprise. Uraraka, though wobbly last week, strode through the doorway with purposeful steps. Likewise, Kirishima and Hitoshi followed—though each were more subdued than the soft-hearted girl. It wasn't a surprise for Hitoshi—he'd always had a more reserved personality. When he walked into the room, he only raised his chin from his chest to greet an excited Ashido. Izuku glimpsed pink, puckered lines dicing his adam's apple, but only for a moment before his head went down again. Izuku's own scar felt a little more prominent after that.

The real surprise was Kirishima. Even though he went down like a hero, when he got to homeroom, he seemed upset. His smile was artificial, and his bear-like warmth felt a tad melancholic. Like a hug from a grandparent, rather than from a radiant, excited young man. Izuku supposed that was to be expected. He'd just seen his first live combat—and PTSD was certainly not out of the question for him, let alone his peers…

Izuku slid into his desk and occupied himself. Such thoughts made for poor morning ponderings—especially when this should be a happy day.

Though the weight in his chest felt as though a twenty kilogram steel ball sat in his intestines, Izuku smiled. Everyone was alive.

For a few minutes, he just sat there, half listening to other people's conversations. They floated in one ear and out the other, each growing further away by the minute. A few people tried to make conversation with him, like the still-bubbly Ashido, a tired-looking Kaminari, and quite-normal appearing Reiko—but he made a show of tapping his throat and shaking his head. They understood, and left him be.

It was the way it should be. The last thing he noticed before the 1A door swung open was the way Tokoyami traded seats with Shoji, putting as much distance between himself and Uraraka as possible.

Aizawa did not walk into the room—he wheeled into it. By the time he rolled to his desk, 1A all found their desks. Before the obvious question even crossed his mind, the shaggy man spoke up.

"I'm not paralyzed. All my vital guts got nicked in a stab wound. I'll be riding around this thing for another week. Consequently, I'm not going to be doing as much teaching. Is anyone else still in recovery?"

A few hands went up. His joined them. Aizawa nodded.

"Alright, then you will be sitting out until you tell me you're alright. Intro to Heroics will be a slower experience this week while the recovered ease back into it. Any questions?"

Contrary to Izuku's expectations, not a single hand rose. Aizawa also seemed caught off guard, but nodded. There was a pregnant pause between that and his next statement—nearly thirty seconds. The class didn't fidget during that time. Instead, there was a certain impression of growing comfort. Not relaxed—Izuku doubted it would ever be as relaxed as it was during the first week—but comfortable. Like an invisible edge dulled a bit. Uraraka leaned back in her chair. Shoji's square shoulders rounded.

"Alright. I had one more announcement, but I figure Nedzu will mention it in the Assembly anyways, so whatever.." Aizawa said, his eyes parsing through the class. They settled on Izuku. When Izuku said nothing, Aizawa's attention wandered off, but the contact unsettled him.

At that, a hesitant hand rose. Aizawa's eyes flicked to it, and Izuku mimicked him.

"Assembly?" Shiozaki asked.

That steel ball in Izuku's gut ballooned outwards.

Aizawa nodded.

"Yeah. It started a few minutes ago."

Like connected by wire, Kirishima and Shiozaki shot to their feet in mechanical synchronization. They were a new weapon, Izuku saw, of organization. Their old disagreements seemed to fade away, and now they worked together to organize, line up, and lead 1A out the class in twenty seconds flat. Izuku was the last to stand, but his sluggish response to his class's sudden fervor went accepted and ignored. He supposed he disliked the special treatment, but being in a single file line was the last thing on his priorities.

Likewise, they disregarded Aizawa in all his wheelchair-bound glory. For a moment, they watched the tail end of 1A leave them behind together, before meeting one another's eyes.

All too quickly, Izuku felt a vulnerable shiver jump like an electric shock through his bones. Wanting to kill the awkward swell in his chest, he tilted his neck aside side and let a Blackwhip slither out.

Immediately, it flicked in wild, uncontrolled jerks. It managed to knock over a pencil bin before Izuku emitted some Smokescreen. Running the smoke up the whip's length, Izuku suppressed its violent urge. Aizawa did not activate his quirk, nor even question him. He only watched as Izuku guided the smoking whip around his wheelchair's left handle while Izuku took the right.

A few moments later, Izuku and Aizawa made their way down the hall, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of the occasional custodian. Besides them, however, not a single soul gave them notice. The halls were desolate.

Unease spread through his gut, but he did not truly understand his predicament's scope until they rolled through the U.A. auditorium's door.

The room was dead silent but for the shuffling footsteps of 1A.

That said, Izuku could not see a single chair outside the front row that wasn't filled.

With a glance, Aizawa dispersed Izuku's blackwhip, and Izuku understood his help was no longer welcome.

He stepped after 1A, and almost died on the spot. The sheer weight of U.A.'s stare was beyond titanic. Atlas himself might've crumbled beneath it. Hundreds—no, thousands of people watched him stumble his way to his classmates. Teachers, staff, and students of every class and every year made up the audience—hell, Izuku thought he even saw some alumni and some popular locals dotting the sidelines.

A minute later, Izuku felt like he was in a glass throne, viable to break any moment and with the whole room's attention on him. He was careful to not rest his elbow on the armrests, lest they shatter and everything crumble below him.

Izuku found himself in the second row, fourth column. Sero and Jirou sat by him on either side. Both stole several glances at him, but said nothing. Izuku kept his eyes carefully nowhere and pointed his chin towards the stage.

This was his first time in a school assembly since elementary school, and he hated it.

Throughout U.A.'s arrival, no one spoke a word—not even Nedzu, who stood behind a grand podium in the auditorium's forefront. After Izuku seated himself, however, that ceased.

An inconsistent crackle in Nedzu's microphone caught his ear. A moment later, a dull, droning speech spilled out of the mouse. It sounded like any other speech from Nedzu, though a tad more somber and a tad less personable. He recognized it for what it was—an official comment on the invasion—and wanted no part in it. Instead, he focused on his own frayed nerves.

A heart-aching shade of green caught his peripheral on his way to the front row.

The speech he'd tuned out slowly worked through his head and forced Izuku to submit.

"—and though what happened on this campus was an unacceptable violation of what we stand for, I can say I am proud. For if not for our young heroes' courage, the injuries they sustained might've become casualties. Allow me to highlight those brave actions."

With a raised paw, he gestured towards the segment behind 1A. Jirou craned her neck to see 1Z stand.

"Of course, 1Z, our newest addition, were first on the scene and helped when 1A needed it most. Truly, they represent an ideal all students—not just First-Years—can aspire to. I would like to highlight Mr. Yoarashi and Mr. Monoma for staying behind and helping the injured. Many young men would rather rush into the action, but these hot-headed youths stayed behind and took care of what mattered without complaint. Often, staying behind is harder than going in."

All of 1Z sat except the two mentioned. Claps rang throughout the auditorium for a second before they lowered themselves and Nedzu continued.

"On the opposite spectrum, I nominate Ms. Tokage for spectacular dedication. She bore the worst brunt of action a hero may, and I am nothing but proud of her—but please don't make a habit of it, dear."

That received a few polite laughs. Ms. Tokage probably stood, and a strong applause pressed against Izuku's ears like molten clamps.

Izuku dutifully maintained his straight stare, and enjoyed the way dust fluttered past the overhead lamp. He felt eyes on him, but he strived to ignore them.

He could not entirely ignore the burning sear on his nape, however.

She hadn't taken her eyes off him since his arrival. A weak part of himself wanted to turn, to meet her gaze, but his self-control was a fierce beast. Theirs was an intense battle, one that only ended with the appearance of an old "friend."

In his peripheral vision, he more so felt than saw Five slide into existence. He looked far, far better—barely opaque, and his leather jacket filled out well—but he wasn't at 100%.

"What you're doing is right, kid. Ignore her. Just… listen to my voice… relax…"

"I'll kill you," Izuku muttered under his breath, deadpan. Beside him, Jirou's head turned on a slow swivel towards him. He made the mistake of meeting her wide, confused eyes. Instantly, her confusion evaporated and her eyebrows furrowed. She seemed to try to say something, but Nedzu's speech interrupted her.

"But while they are saviors, I would really like to congratulate our survivors. Several astounding acts of courage took place on this very campus, and I would be amiss to gloss them over. As I call your name, please stand."

Something ugly squeezed his major intestine. With a mental shove, Five faded away, indignant but silent. Izuku didn't need the distraction.

"1A's class president, Mr. Kirishima."

Kirishima rose to his full height, and a short, resounding applause followed. Izuku forced a smile on his face, but he did not clap. He could not.

Nedzu went over Kirishima's official account, to the pleasure of many. U.A. staff, hidden throughout the auditorium, nodded their respect his way alongside several un-blooded students, be them in the Hero Class or not. As for Kirishima himself, he accepted the applause with a subdued smile and a gentle wave.

Izuku's mind trailed back to the fear he'd felt, seeing him in that alleyway. Kirishima was a good soul, he knew, and he proved it in that dark place—but Izuku knew better than most. His red-headed friend was angry. Behind that tight little smile was a frustration Izuku saw clear as day. He was ashamed—upset that the villains took him out of the fight so early.

"And, of course, 1A's vice president, Ms. Shiozaki."

Like with Kirishima, Shiozaki stood at her name and weathered her celebration in silence—but she seemed less reserved, somehow. Whereas the extroverted boy was quiet, the introverted girl beamed, proud.

"These two have the makings of amazing leaders. They are hardy, good kids, and I hope we get to see them blossom in a more sterile environment moving forward. I commend your efforts. Allow me a few more apologies on U.A.'s behalf for allowing your plight to last as long as it did." Nedzu said, giving both students an appraising nod. Tilting his snout to the wider crowd, he continued. " …They are not the only worthy ones, however."

Nedzu proceeded to name the deeds of several more of Izuku's classmates—some of which he witnessed, some of which he did not. Jirou beside him nearly melted into a puddle when he called her name. Apparently, she'd cared for Aizawa alongside Thirteen after his near-fatal stabbing. Uraraka's name was next, followed by Shoji's, Sero's, Reiko's, and finally, Toru's. Each received a grand appreciation… except for Toru.

When she stood, the sounds of clapping and applause faded by a fraction. He wondered if the wider auditorium even noticed her floating uniform in the sea of students. His eyes traced her shoulders as they, almost immediately, deflated. The crowd that roared for Reiko mewled for Toru.

His glass throne almost cracked. Before he could stop himself, he acted. Pinching his thumb and forefinger together, he whistled with enough force to almost blow out his tender throat. It was a resolute, piercing sound, and it hailed forth a newfound energy in 1A.

Several more reserved students among the first segment stood and clapped, whistling like Izuku and calling Toru's name. Uraraka, Sero, Ashido, and Tokoyami hollered and stomped and stirred a great ruckus for the girl. They made up for the greater crowd's lessened enthusiasm. 1A saw what she did—a nearly divine act of heroism. He doubted most of U.A. could even comprehend what she did, let alone recognize her for it.

He knew that hurt her, but he also knew she learned better. That knowledge was his only comfort when she turned, then, and looked straight at him. She beamed, and he wanted to die.

Sinking deep into his fragile chair, he enjoyed the linoleum floor.

"Yes, from all accounts, these six were wonderful, and their work transcended all expectations… But."

Izuku sank even lower into his seat, his slouch reaching legendary proportions. When Jirou sat down again, he was eye-level with the petite girl's collar. Squeezing his eyes shut, he prayed.

And the heavens did not answer.

"There was another among 1A that… didn't surprise me. A student who fought harder and longer than anyone—one who directly saved the lives of over four students, and the sole reason our Whirlwind is alive today."

Heads turned his way. He didn't much remember that last bit, and wished Nedzu wouldn't remind him.

"This young man did everything in his power to help his class escape. Though separated, he traversed through a monster-prowled city, fighting off abominations and carrying more injured students not once, not twice, and if all reports are accurate, not even three times. He directly engaged a high class terrorist, and did not flinch before jumping into the fray of Whirlwind's titanic battle with the Crow's leader. Be it from his apprenticeship under Nighteye, his persistent news station appearances, his stellar exam performances, or his crammed lunch table, this student is well-known across campus. Please stand, Izuku Midoriya, and join me on the stage."

The next few seconds were an awful blur. His embarrassment transcended physiological reactions—he did not blush, or stumble, or itch anywhere except his empty shoulder socket. As he awkwardly made his way through the aisle, he felt the burning on his nape evolve into a boiling, radiant attention. Several students clapped him on the back. Each hit, which should've infused him with unparalleled pride, only acted to suck the warmth from wherever they touched him. By the time he reached the stage's stairs, he felt cold and leeched of life.

Nedzu's gaze settled on him as Izuku took his place by his side. It wasn't by design that his stride was strong—every muscle in his body was taut.

With his tiny white paw, Nedzu reached up and covered his podium microphone. He leveled Izuku with a serious, animalistic stare, as though deciding how best Izuku might taste. Izuku remembered his revelation during their last private meeting, where Nedzu came off as an inhuman, heartless animal. For a brief moment, Izuku's mind went back down that frustrating rabbit hole—but then he caught something.

The spotlight that hovered some twelve meters above the stage turned towards them. He watched the large machine tilt for a good two seconds, but without turning his head a smidge. Light reflected perfectly in Nedzu's glossy black eyes. They were pea-sized mirrors.

"From every account, your actions were noble and well-coordinated despite your circumstances. I withdraw my doubts. You didn't just save Whirlwind or your friends—you saved the future. 1Z would be short a heroine if you weren't there. If you should want it, I can shred our contracts and have you moved into 1Z by sundown."

Izuku froze, his mind grinding to a sharp halt. His mouth formed the words before he thought them, but his throat constricted so tightly that no words could slip away. When he didn't reply within a few seconds, Nedzu cleared his throat and uncovered his microphone, the moment having passed.

"By all accounts, Mr. Midoriya is a champion of our school. He went far, far beyond all expectations. Please, give him his due gratitude—Plus Ultra!. I wish him, and everyone else, luck in the Sports Festival! No act of terrorism will cow U.A.'s traditions, nor will it sour our honor!"

He didn't know when he did it, but his singular, scarred fist rose towards the spotlight.

He could be in 1Z by tonight. He could join Setsuna, just like he'd promised. He could meet Shoto's stern expectations—hell, he could even meet Endeavor's. He could finally be somewhere he belonged. He could—

Izuku made the mistake of meeting her eyes.

She was clapping for him, but her eyes weren't in it.

Though her dimples were prominent and her smile wide, it was not deep. It was not eccentric and ethereal and otherworldly and dangerous. She stared at him with such innocent confusion and hurt that he wanted to leap off the stage and straight into a pit of razor sharp spikes. He could almost see the letter behind her eyes.

He could almost imagine her smile slowly dampening as she read it. The pain it brought him was sharp, and brought him staggering back to reality. His fist, he realized, felt like a honeycomb without the honey—hollow and dried out. Letting it fall back to his side, he felt a wave of blood rush down it. How long did he hold that pose? Why did he?

Tearing his eyes from hers, they settled on the person next to her—and he almost collapsed, the strength in his knees gone. Katsuki wasn't applauding or smiling. He was studying Izuku. The heavy bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of an exhausted scientist nearing the end of an experiment.

Whereas Setsuna's quiet confusion sucked away all his warmth, the look in Katsuki's was the opposite. His quiet eyes expelled all his warmth with a singular great shove. There was a simmering behind his pupils—a cesspool of emotions Izuku didn't need more than a second to define.

Disdain. Blame. Shame.

Izuku's chin swiveled towards Nedzu, thinking of the offer.

He must join 1Z. Not joining was out of the question… but… right now?

The fierce beast of Izuku's determination sucked in an unsteady, thin breath. He spared a final glimpse towards the crowd. Applause was still going, but it was waning. Their eyes met a second time and his guts bottomed out, the steel ball falling away into an infinite, black void. Her hands slowly stopped coming together. Tearing his eyes from her took more strength, willpower, and dedication than fighting off six nomus at once. The warmth of her forehead felt seared into the flesh of his lips.

The gap between them couldn't have been more than twenty meters, but it felt larger. As though not just distance separated them, he felt years apart—miles and worlds and eras away. It happened. His possession of One for All came full circle. It… no. He—Izuku himself—created the man who hurt her. Not once, but twice, her gravest injuries lay at his feet.

It didn't just feel as though he'd betrayed her. Though he'd lied to her, led her on, and ultimately hurt her worse than any human should ever hurt another, there was more. He felt as though he'd betrayed himself, betrayed Eight, betrayed every single one of his predecessors. Izuku betrayed his mother and the years she spent supporting him. The only person he loved that he hadn't failed was Shoto, but that was only a matter of time with his track record.

Katsuki was right to blame him. He seemed to ruin every life he touched—and his touch was contagious. The lives those lives touched also seemed worse off. With Sashimi still free, and Eight gone…

Izuku might've ruined thousands—no, millions of lives.

…

Did he really deserve to be on this stage? Why was it he who faced the crowd and not anyone else?

Izuku must join 1Z, but to face Katsuki right now, let alone Setsuna, was too much. He thought of the letter he wrote her, the one he was too cowardly to even deliver himself. The goodbye letter.

Professionally, he would never be able to truly leave her behind—but his current situation was simple. Their proximity hurt her. He could not allow their friendship to continue—let alone blossom. He'd done enough damage, letting her into his circle—let alone without telling the truth.

Best to nip it in the bud before it became too difficult to bear.

Here, on the stage, where he was fighting back a breakdown, Izuku chortled.

Was One for All worth all of this… trouble? This pain? The ruin he seemed to spread wherever he went? Chaos and destruction infected whatever he desired least.

He didn't know. What he did know, however, was that knew he would spend the rest of his life paying back all the pain he inflicted. Even if he had to destroy himself to. It would be a fair bit harder without Gran Torino, but he would have to manage. Izuku would have to make it up with a more stern penance.

When the applause finally died, Nedzu closed out his speech with another call for the U.A. school motto. The energy in the auditorium shed its somber shell to truly break out into something energetic—something light. Something hopeful. Nedzu worked the crowd slowly, like a master puppeteer, until even the alumni were chanting like the young students. Once the whole crowd roared together, he glanced back at Izuku. While Izuku watched Nedzu bring the crowd together, he wondered if the offer was staged. Surely, it must benefit the rat primarily… but it didn't matter.

The repeated question jumped from Nedzu's brain to Izuku's without a word said. Perhaps it was a trick, or a test, or perhaps Nedzu truly made an honest, heartfelt offer—but it didn't matter.

Izuku's destroyed throat prevented him from explaining himself, but Nedzu understood when he shook his head.

If Izuku jumped into 1Z this very night, he would crumble like dust in the wind. He needed something that 1Z couldn't provide him—the freedom to be by himself for a little bit longer. He still had over a month until the Sports Festival.

And by the heavens, he would make use of that time. Even if it was lonely.

[x]

He looked unwell.

Setsuna was vaguely aware of the crowd's applause drying up. Her hands lowered to her lap by instinct and little else. It was there they found purchase around the crinkled corners of his letter.

Perhaps anyone else might've thought otherwise. Izuku strode up the stage with an unparalleled stride, seemingly unbothered by the aggressive boyish congratulations. His shoulders pulled back, his chin was high, and his eyes swiveled towards the crowd with a natural confidence she was sure might've won him another admirer. When Nedzu, that manipulative little critter, stoked the crowd's flames, Izuku played along perfectly. With his fist high in the air, even she couldn't resist the urge to clap.

He had, after all, saved her again. Maybe she it should've annoyed her—finally, after years of lying in wait, she finally saved him back—and then he turns around and saves her again. She failed to close the gap even a little, and he didn't even seem sorry. Vaguely, she remembered the moments before she fell unconscious—and remembered thinking about all the complaint's she'd file against him. It shouldn't be allowed for him to save her so much, and she'd make sure he knew it…

Then one of his friends—Toru, if she remembered properly, meandered into her hospital room. At first, her heart swelled, because she liked Toru. She was a sweetheart and a gentle soul. They had common ground, too, which made it even easier to like her—but it didn't take Setsuna long to notice the yellow folded paper hovering next to her.

She hadn't said anything besides a customary greeting and goodbye, but that alone almost sent her into cardiac arrest. Setsuna took that neat, folded piece of paper from her and hadn't let it go since. It followed her everywhere. Even in U.A.'s auditorium, she had a firm grasp of it.

Her thumb brushed her own name in the address, but she didn't dare look away from the stage.

Though on the surface, her boy looked like the epitome of confidence and ease, she knew better. He looked unwell—from his taut posture, his mechanical steps, and his shifty glances, he'd rarely looked more uncomfortable. To her, it was as blatant as the sun shining sky-high. Soon, however, she began to realize she was alone in that opinion. Whispers, said between claps and hollers and stamps, circulated throughout the auditorium.

Some were the obligatory confusion—Izuku was lopsided, after all. No matter where he went, it would always be notable. For once, however, those comments were in the minority. He impressed them—by his deeds and presentation and surprising stature. In the eyes of her peers, he seemed to be like a true hero—the gilded, untouchable kind. Of course, to some, he truly was—he had saved several lives in the USJ—but… this went beyond that.

Izuku seemed to shrink as the crowd's applause died down. It didn't get better once Nedzu riled up the crowd again, and then seemed to ask Izuku a private question. He stood there, shell shocked—and their eyes met, and her heart fluttered—before he looked back at Nedzu. With three sluggish turns, he shook his head.

Something sad squeezed in her gut. He hadn't answered his texts, or his calls. Izuku was hurting, for some reason, and she didn't know why. It was unfamiliar territory.

When Nedzu dismissed the assembly, she shot to her feet, eyeing the stage. Izuku was still up there, silently listening as Nedzu gestured at him wildly. What they could be talking about, she couldn't say—but she was determined to learn. The moment she got to the auditorium's wide aisle, she made straight for Izuku.

His letter remained a crinkled, heavy weight in her hands as she took one step in his direction—but she did not take another. A rough, warm hand hooked her bicep and held her back. Spinning on her heel, she swung on whoever dared touch her there—but her fist stopped an inch short of Bakugo's nose. Bakugo did not flinch.

She weathered a few flabbergasted looks, but her knuckles only lowered once he released her.

"If he broke up with you, don't go after him."

Setsuna couldn't help the undignified way her jaw fell open. People began to shuffle around them, but she didn't budge an inch as Bakugo continued leveling her with his understanding glare. She wanted to rebuke him, but she found she could not. When she failed to say anything at all, he took a step past her and gave her a second glance over his shoulder.

"If he's the one to screw up, he'll need time to figure himself out," Bakugo said, his gruff cadence softening ever-so-slightly before hardening again. "If you're the one who fucked up… well… I haven't figured that out yet. But if it's both? It's a good rule of thumb to give him space anyways."

Setsuna wet her lips before chancing a glance towards the stage. She caught a final glimpse of Izuku before he walked off stage and a mob swarmed him. If she really pushed herself, she might be able to dive into the crowd and reach him… but Bakugo's words cut down that idea.

"...And… h-how… how long have you been… giving him space?"

Bakugo scowled at her question before turning away. Shoving his fists in his pockets, he slouched and began walking away.

"None of your fuckin' business, girl." Bakugo said. She watched him take two more steps before his angry march faltered. His cheek tilted her way, and she became privy to a deep, pinched frown. He muttered something bitter and resumed his march.

…Six years?

The thought made her want to vomit—a sensation she struggled with for the rest of the day.

Even when she joined 1Z for their partner-based training, his letter remained close by. When it wasn't in her sweats, it was tucked in her bag's crevice. When it wasn't in her hands, it was tucked within her blazer. When it wasn't spread amongst her schoolwork, it sat in her lap.

When the day's last bells rang, it was in her hands.

It was in her hands when she walked to U.A.'s gates. It was in her hands when she crossed the property line and her shoes met public sidewalks. She wasn't the only one with a letter in her hands, however.

Gran Torino had one when she spotted him—same careful creases, same messy handwriting. She joined him on the bench he sat upon, not fifty meters from U.A.'s entrance. They spent a good few minutes watching other students file out before he said anything.

"We're going to Dagobah."

She startled, thinking of the secret training grounds Izuku and herself used to share.

"...Why?"

"Because while I understand the brat's conundrum, I think it's crap."

Something fluttered in her chest; a small, quiet warmth she'd been lacking since Toru delivered the letter in her lap.

"You… know why he wants to part ways?" Setsuna asked, doing her best to restrain any hint of desperation. She failed miserably.

"Sure do, and I think he's good for it—but I also think he's a damn moron."

The question jumped to her lips, but before she could embarrass herself, she clamped her jaw shut. If the old fart wanted her to know, he would've opened up with that.

"The little bastard fired me," Gran Torino said, before shoving his own crumbled letter in her lap. "Said that while he couldn't stomach being around you anymore, it wasn't fair that you would lose out on whatever crap I have to offer."

She pursed her lips. It wasn't hard to withhold her laugh, but she couldn't help how she smiled and rolled her eyes. Of course he said that.

"I agreed 'cause he's correct in that it ain't fair—problem being, he fancies himself a martyr. Aint a snowball's chance in hail his ass can survive without you. His guilt is screwing his common sense. Little bugger is more punishing himself than protecting you, and now you're both getting shortstocked because of it. 'Course, you don't know what he's protecting you from, which, yeah, complicates things, but he's young. He doesn't realize that the kind've dedication you have goes beyond honesty and whatnot."

Setsuna let his gravelly voice fall over her ears. It was rare to hear the old man monologue like this, and rarer still was it in any other context than criticizing her—but for once, it was a comfort. He tapped his cane against the ground as he spoke, emphasizing each word. When his speech slowed to crawl, he raised a square, bushy eyebrow in her direction.

"You are dedicated, right?"

It wasn't in question, and he knew it. So, instead of answering, she asked her own question.

"Why Dagobah?"

He tapped his cane against the ground and let out an ancient gurgle—a sort of laugh exclusive for senior citizens.

"Where else am I gonna teach you how to knock some sense into him? We got a month before the Sports Festival, girlie, and I don't plan on wasting it. So," Gran Torino said, before tapping his cane and rising to his full stature. Though he barely came up to her ribs, he gave off a sturdy impression—like a brick house. A wide, wrinkled hand reached towards her. "You with me? You wanna fix our boy?"

It wasn't in question, and he knew it.

She shook his hand.

[x]

AN: Next couple of chapters are more or less going to be one mega chapter split up into two or three parts. This is the first part. Tomorrow, I'm beginning the first Sports Festival event. Feck. pressure n stuff.

review!~