Chapter Text
“Shouta!”
A hand wiggles Shouta’s shoulder.
“Shouta!”
A rush of cold air thrusts into the space once covered by Shouta’s comforter.
“Shouta!”
Shouta groans.
“SHOUTA!”
Shouta’s left eyelid twitches open, and he activates his quirk with a sleep-deprived glare. Hizashi’s face hovers two inches away from his own, and Hizashi’s hands continue to pull at Shouta’s arms.
“It’s 7:30!” Hizashi yells in compensation for his lost quirk.
Shouta groans again.
Hizashi grins and tosses out a couple finger guns. “It’s . . . the first day of school!”
“Opening ceremony,” Shouta mutters. He blinks away his quirk and twists himself out from Hizashi’s grasp.
“All the more important to make sure you look your best!”
Shouta turns back toward Hizashi, narrowing his eyes. “It seems you’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a fuck.”
“Babe, there’s a difference between aesthetically dishevelled and dirty.”
“There’s literally nothing aesthetic about me.”
“You wear your capture weapon like a scarf. You’re all aesthetic.”
Shouta groans. “Will going into the shower make you stop?”
“Oh, my voice isn’t sexy enough for you?”
“At 7:30? Lecturing me about hygiene? No.”
Hizashi runs a finger through Shouta’s hair. Oh, nope; that’s a hairbrush. “I just want you to look hot for your new class.”
“That’s not a great sentence, Hizashi.”
Hizashi grins. Then he grabs Shouta’s wrist, and Shouta moans, relaxing himself into the mattress for one last moment of—
—and he’s on the floor. Time to be awake, it seems.
“So!” Hizashi exclaims, sliding open Eraserhead’s costume cabinet. “Which of your hero jumpsuits is best for meeting your son for the first time?”
“He’s not my son,” Shouta mumbles, shifting his arm under his head as a makeshift pillow.
“Why do you have this one with the urine stain?”
“It still works,” Shouta mutters into the floor.
Fabric shuffles around. “The left sleeve is a good twenty centimetres longer than the right.” More shuffling of fabric. “Is that hole from when you got stabbed like four years ago? Shouta why the hell do you still have these?”
“Don’ wanna be wasteful.”
Hizashi’s footsteps trail out of the room, and Shouta glances up to see him carrying an armful of black jumpsuits.
“Where're you going?” Shouta mumbles.
“Taking out the trash.”
Shouta watches as Hizashi steps around the corner. Then he silently peels himself off the floor and slides onto his feet, stifling his sleep-deprived urge to fall right back into bed.
He grabs the hairbrush and tiptoes into the bathroom. A grimy tangle of dishevelled hair glares at him from the mirror.
Shouta groans. He’s always trusted Hizashi with his image, and he can’t break character now if he wants to claim that he’s okay.
He is okay. He’s literally so fine. It takes so much more than . . . this . . . to make him not okay.
His hair isn’t okay. That knot needs an afternoon with a patient husband and a hairbrush—or a deft end with a pair of scissors.
So he tugs at the knot with a hairbrush, pulls the loose hair out of the way, and grabs a pair of clippers from Hizashi’s hair-dressing drawer.
He holds the knotted strands with one hand and chops with the other. Fantastic.
The knotted hair meets the trashcan, and Shouta starts brushing the rest of his hair over the shorter chunk.
See! Shouta knows how to use a hairbrush!
Then the squeaking floorboards beneath Hizashi’s strut echo back into the bedroom. He pokes his grinning face into the bathroom, locks eyes on Shouta's hair, and frowns. “Shouta!”
“Hizashi,” he mutters.
Hizashi purses his lips, furrowing his brow for several moments. Then he exhales and says, “Please . . . let me wash your hair.”
“I have to leave in twenty minutes.” Shouta places his now grime-coated hairbrush on the counter.
“I can do it in five.”
A cascade of warm water blasts Shouta in the head. He scrunches his eyes shut and turns his face away.
“Sit,” Hizashi commands, pulling out a stool.
Shouta wriggles out of his now drenched pyjamas (which are just a pair of underwear that happened to be nearby in the aftermath of the last time Hizashi got him naked) and plops down on the stool.
A glob of shampoo slaps him in the back of the head, and Hizashi starts massaging it into his hair.
Hizashi sorts out the newly shortened lock. “Babe, you know I will brush your hair literally any time. You do not need to resort to such barbarism.”
“We both work eighty hours a week. We don’t—”
Hizashi yanks on a clump of hair. “Shush. Hair emergencies take precedence over everything else.”
“Just what are you teaching your hero students?”
“Mostly how to form past-perfect-progressive sentences in English.” Hizashi turns the shower head on again and starts rinsing out the shampoo. “I wonder how Midoriya’s hair feels.”
Doused in water and shampoo, Shouta keeps his mouth shut but lets his nose crinkle.
“The kid, I mean. His hair is so fluffy I almost wish you—” Hizashi digs a finger into Shouta's scalp. “H’okay!” Hizashi turns off the showerhead. “Let’s get that conditioner in.”
Ah yes, Yamada Hizashi; he who gets offended by his own comments on Shouta’s behalf. According to Hizashi, “I’m fine” are the words of someone who isn’t fine. Shouta still hasn’t figured out what someone who is fine is supposed to say.
A chilled blob slaps into Shouta’s hair. Hizashi massages it in with deft fingers, and Shouta leans into his touch.
“I’m thrilled about your new class. Hope you don’t expel any of them.”
“If they don’t have potential—”
“I know; I know. But I can dream! Your class is jam-packed with interesting students.”
“Yep.”
“Endeavour’s son! UA’s first quirkless student! That angry explosion kid!” Hizashi gets a little too excited and splashes some stray conditioner on Shouta’s nose. “Midoriya fucking Izuku; he jumps into danger with no hesitation and then breaks all of his bones! And he’s your long lost son ! How wild is that?”
“He’s not my son.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Fretting over our common biology is a waste of time.”
Hizashi holds the showerhead over Shouta's hair. “It wasn’t a waste of time when you called Inko, eh?”
“That—” Watery conditioner runs into his mouth, and Shouta spits it out.
“Sorry!” Hizashi says like he doesn’t mean it at all. “Okay; you’re done. Just gotta blow-dry.”
“Mm,” Shouta rumbles.
Hizashi powers up the hairdryer and starts ruffling up Shouta’s hair. He pulls through a variety of combs and hairbrushes that Shouta isn’t allowed to touch on his own. Then he clicks off the hairdryer and Shouta’s hair is perfectly dishevelled.
“There ya’ go, babe! Your class will still think you’re a trash goblin, but a beautiful, respectable trash goblin.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m gonna put in an order to the support company for some fresh jumpsuits. You get dressed and scurry on to that bus.”
“Hn.” Shouta hops off the stool and steps back into the bedroom. Not a single stray pair of dry underwear lies about the floor, so Shouta pulls open some random drawers until he finds what he needs.
Then he slips into one of the surviving jumpsuits and plops his pre-coiled capture weapon around his neck. “I’m heading out. See you at school. Or at home. Somewhere. Love you.”
Aizawa slithers down to his classroom in his sleeping bag. Lo and behold, Midoriya stands in the doorway socializing with the gravity girl.
Aizawa lets out an inaudible sigh. “If you’re here to socialize, then get out.”
Both students jump and turn wide-eyed to face Aizawa as he pulls out a jelly packet.
“This is the hero course.” Aizawa stands and unzips his sleeping bag—in that order. “It took eight seconds for you to quiet down. Time is a precious resource. You lot aren’t very rational, are you?”
Midoriya starts muttering. Muttering .
Aizawa sighs, already tired. (Who’s he kidding; he’s
still
tried.
From being born.
) “I’m your homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shouta.” He barely pauses before adding, “Quickly now. Change into your gym clothes and head out to the grounds. We’ll be performing a quirk evaluation.”
“Die!” Bakugou Katsuki whips the softball into the air with the rebound of an explosion.
Aizawa holds up the tracker: 705.2 meters . “It’s important for us to know our limits. That’s the first rational step to figuring out what kind of heroes you’ll be.”
He scans the class for reactions. Many are enthused:
“Whoa! This is awesome!” the pink one cheers.
“So we can use our quirks for real!” shouts another. “Man, the hero course is great!”
Others are calm: the two recommendation students, naturally. The one with a bird head too seems the type to maintain a more serious demeanour. And then there’s the quirkless one with her vacant eyes. She’s smiling subtly and doesn’t seem worried at all.
A few are nervous: Midoriya, obviously, has already started to mutter. The shy kid with the animal quirk also seems jittery.
And one is Bakugou Katsuki. He’s got the smirk of a winner, the steadiness of a pro, and the twitching fingers of someone terrified to lose.
“Right,” Aizawa continues. “The one with the lowest score across all eight events will be judged hopeless . . . and will be expelled .”
Midoriya’s eyes tremble like a damn wave pool. The kid better not break now. Aizawa is ninety percent sure he will incur Inko’s wrath if he expels the kid on the first day.
Midoriya braces himself at the starting line, taking deep breaths as Yaoyorozu removes her shoes. And her socks. Then her feet glow, and when her quirk dissipates, they’re shrouded in sleek rollerblades.
And she holds a remote control in her hand.
Aizawa definitely likes this one.
“3, 2, 1, go!”
Yaoyorozu bends her legs, clicks the button on the controller, and zips forward in an electric nyoom .
Midoriya springs into a dash, left in the dust already.
Yaoyorozu blasts past the finish line a moment later and Aizawa’s tracker flashes with a 1.18 seconds . She clicks off her rollerblades and digs a heel in the ground to pull her to a stop.
“Wow!” Ashido pumps a fist in the air. “That was so cool!”
Six seconds later, Midoriya sprints past the finish line. Yaoyorozu sits on the ground, pulling her feet out of her rollerblades. Midoriya leans forward on his knees, taking in a deep couple of breaths.
“All right,” Aizawa says. “We’re moving on to the grip strength test.” He holds up the grip-meter. “Input your student number, then squeeze. Shouldn’t take more than two minutes.”
Aizawa idles while the kids retrieve the meters and waste seconds on socializing.
“Those roller blades were so rad!”
“Th-thanks. My name is Yaoyorozu . . .”
“. . . I wonder if it counts if I short-circuit it?”
“If that girl could grab onto me during the 50-meter dash, I’m sure anything is allowed . . .”
“. . . I’m going to score last in every single one of these tests. Invisibility is useless.”
“Hey! It’s okay! I don’t even have a quirk but I still got into the program, just like you! We’ve just gotta work extra hard!”
“What was your name again?”
“To—”
“Get to it,” Aizawa drones. “You aren’t going home today until we finish.”
Midoriya has yet to use his quirk. At least he’s smart enough not to break his legs for a standing long jump. But not breaking his legs isn’t enough to be a hero.
Then Midoriya steps up to do his softball throw, and Aizawa notes Bakugou grumbling, “Well duh, he’s fuckin’ quirkless.”
Aizawa catches the green glow in Midoriya’s throwing arm, and he sighs. It’s the moment of truth. Time to see if he can squeeze any potential out of the boy. Aizawa’s hair floats off his shoulders, and he erases Midoriya’s quirk.
Midoriya throws the softball and freezes when it lands a measly forty-six meters away.
“I erased your quirk.”
The boy turns to him, mouth slightly agape.
“That ridiculous entrance exam. Completely irrational when you consider someone like you got in.”
Midoriya starts mumbling, before dropping his jaw and exclaiming, “Eraserhead!”
The kid . . . knows who he is. In one aspect, at least.
Aizawa ignores the class’s whispering as he continues: “I saw it. How you can’t control your quirk. You’d just be incapacitated again. Were you hoping someone would step in to help afterward?”
“N-no, it’s not like that . . .” Midoriya stammers.
Aizawa loops the boy with his capture weapon and pulls him close. “Whatever you were planning . . . it would have inconvenienced those around you.”
Midoriya’s breath hitches.
Time to put on the pressure. “Your determination is admirable, but you’re reckless. You’re totally useless after saving just one person. Midoriya Izuku, you cannot become a hero with your self-destructive power. ”
Then Aizawa blinks.
“You’ve got your quirk back. . . . Give it another go. Let’s get this over with.”
Aizawa leans back to apply his eye drops, and he listens to the boy mutter. Midoriya’s determination is the only thing driving him forward right now. Hopefully it’s enough.
Midoriya leans back into his right foot, holding the softball by his shoulder. Then he shifts forward, and the green and red glow of his “super power” concentrates into a single finger.
Aizawa grins.
The boy throws the softball, and it disappears in the distance.
705.3 meters .
“Sensei.” The boy clenches his bruised broken finger into a fist. “I can still move!”
“This kid . . .” Aizawa whispers.
My son , he thinks.
Bakugou pales and his lip twitches. His body starts vibrating as he glares at Midoriya. Aizawa’s gonna have to keep an eye on this one.
“Moving on. Yaoyorozu, you’re up.”
Aizawa’s latest victims lay on the mats with their partners securing their feet.
In most students’ cases, this means that their partner is holding their feet with their hands. In Kaminari’s case, this means that Kirishima is holding his feet with his butt and has his legs wrapped around the backside of Kaminari's legs.
Well, whatever works.
“3, 2, 1, go!”
Midoriya grits his teeth and sits himself up and down, punctuated with grunts, while Kaminari pounds them out at a moderate rate. Hagakure on the other hand shakily pulls herself up at half the rate of the boys.
“You can do it Hagakure-chan! Just focus on your breathing!”
At about the fifteen second point, Kaminari glances at Midoriya and pushes himself to go faster, letting out a wince.
“Hey,” Kirishima says from his straddled position. “Don’t hurt yourself, okay!"
“Mm.” Kaminari slows back to his previous pace.
Midoriya’s eyes jam shut, and he mumbles incoherently as his sit-ups slow. The wheezing, however, definitely belongs to Hagakure.
Beep.
“Switch!” Aizawa calls.
“Great job Hagakure! Here’s your water bottle.”
Hagakure leans onto her side. “Thanks, Toga-kun.”
“Oh, you can call me Himiko-chan!”
“ Switch. ”
“Moving along,” Aizawa says. “Time for the results.”
Midoriya fiddles with his fingers and . . . whimpers.
“Also, I was lying about expelling someone.” He can feel most of the class’s jaws drop behind him, and he turns to face them. “That was a rational deception , meant to bring out the best in all of you.” He lets out a single snicker.
A handful of students scream.
“Midoriya. You will be training with me after class every day until your quirk is under control.” Aizawa passes Midoriya an excuse slip. “Go to Recovery Girl. This better be the last time you see her.”
“Ye-yes sir!”
Sir .
Oof .
“The rest of you are dismissed. We start in earnest tomorrow!”