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There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk.

This is little more than harmless observation. “There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk” has about as much importance to the matter at hand as “Todoroki-kun had hot soba for the first time and hated it today” - that is to say, none at all. It’s not like Midoriya Izuku is looking for his homeroom teacher either - but All Might’s desk is right beside Aizawa-sensei’s, and so his nervous eyes (always darting around) inevitably drift to the unusable appliance in the upper right corner beside his computer. 

It’s a small, peculiar thing. The model suggests that it is old - it looks like something that heroes would use as a support item to project their voice, for those who don’t have vocal chords as… flexible… as Present Mic. It’s cracked - likely has been crushed - beyond repair. Nonetheless, there is no dust to speak of its age. Somehow, it seems that Aizawa-sensei keeps it clean and maintained. 

“If you have the time to stand around gawking, problem child,” Aizawa-sensei cuts into his thoughts with a dry tone rivaling Todoroki-kun’s own upon discovering hot soba, “then you have the time to finish your essay on quirk anatomy theory.”

Izuku flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry, Sensei. I’m just waiting for- for All-Might, Sensei.”

Aizawa-sensei raises an eyebrow, and Izuku gets the distinct feeling that he’s being observed like a particularly interesting specimen. 

Whatever silent test he has just been subjected to, he has passed, probably, because Aizawa-sensei grunts, gives him an offhand comment about All-Might’s tardiness and illogical scheduling and turns back to his work. Izuku recognizes the messy scrawl of Ashido-san’s writing and winces when Aizawa’s red pen circles an entire line of characters like a harbinger of judgement day. 

Harmless observation. There are no other teachers in the lounge right now, and the sound of Aizawa-sensei’s pen clicking is the only thing breaking their silence. Aizawa-sensei has a set of pens ranging from plain black to the dreaded red. Aizawa-sensei has an entire stash of eyedrops within reach, right beside his computer. Aizawa-sensei’s lamp is decorated with cat stickers, likely a gag gift from Present Mic. 

Aizawa-sensei has a broken and unusable speaker on his desk.

Izuku is saved from his own curiosity by the door creaking open and a gaunt man staring at him from the door. He takes the cue to leave, but his eyes still linger on the broken speaker.

It is quite the peculiar thing, after all.

For the lack of more fitting words, the 1-A dormitories have seen far, far better days.

Iida Tenya will be the first to admit that the holiday season brings with it several difficulties, one of which is keeping the walls of the dormitories intact. Yaoyozoru has been wheedled into providing heaps and heaps of tinsel and Sero has been put in charge of taping it to the walls. However, upon placing it just a little bit off center, they find that Sero’s tape can and will take off the paint. This leads to Uraraka taking it upon herself to repaint the walls, only to get startled when Bakugou storms in, yelling about the uncut chives and inadvertently causing Uraraka to release out of sheer surprise, and as fast as Midoriya is, he can only catch Uraraka as the rest of the paint cans and brushes splatter on the floor unceremoniously. Midoriya’s strength quirk also had the unintended consequence of a dent in the wall (he may have overcompensated) and now the rest of the class is in a panic as they try to figure out how to hide this from Aizawa-sensei, lest they risk expulsion.

(Well, after the Kamino incident, Tenya is less inclined to think that Aizawa-sensei will expel them over something as relatively insignificant as property damage. It should be expected, really - but Tenya does doubt that they’ll believe him.)

Their current solution is moving the couch. It is admittedly one of the better solutions that Kaminari has come up with, if only because the other ones involve the possibility of getting dry cement stuck on Yaoyozoru. 

This solution is, however, not the most inconspicuous. And as luck has it today, Aizawa-sensei is not late, but early.

In the silence that follows the creak of the door, no one needs Jirou’s Earphone Jacks to hear a pin drop.

Aizawa-sensei looks tired - which isn’t new, but something about this expression makes Tenya feel a lot more guilty about the mess they’ve made this time.

“We’re sorry!” Midoriya blurts out. “It’s just- well- I- might’ve overcompensated while catching Uraraka-san-”

“And, pray tell, why was she falling in the first place?” Aizawa-sensei asks, and Tenya has to admit it’s a completely fair question.

That doesn’t make it any less inconvenient, though.

Aizawa-sensei’s eyes roam the room, taking in their guilty expressions and the way they all seem to be clumped around one point in particular. Tenya sees the exact moment that he finds the dent in the wall - significantly bigger than the size of Midoriya’s fist and still flaking off paint as they stand in silence.

Aizawa-sensei sighs, and Tenya gulps.

“Alright. I suppose that this should’ve been expected.”

If Tenya had been running at the full speed of Reciproburst, he suspects that he would’ve crashed into a wall.

“...what?” Ojiro voices everyone’s confusion. 

“It is to be expected.” Aizawa-sensei reiterates, like he didn’t just imply that they’ve all worried for nothing. “We are a superhuman society. As miraculous as Cementoss’ work is, I highly doubted that this dormitory would last even a week without some form of property damage or another.” Aizawa-sensei blinks slowly. “You have all exceeded my expectations in that sense.”

“So we’re not in trouble?” Kirishima ventures, feeling particularly brave, and everyone holds their breath when their teacher gives no answer. 

Aizawa-sensei moves forward to assess the damage, and from where they have been trying their best to block evidence of the dent, Shouji and Kouda step aside to let their homeroom teacher through. As if on cue, another chunk of concrete loosens itself and falls to the hardwood floor with a dull thunk.

The hero pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, Kirishima. You are not in trouble.”

That causes a cheer to ripple through the class, as muted as it is. Aizawa-sensei mutters something under his breath, too quiet for Tenya to hear, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

With that, the dorm falls back into easy chatter. Uraraka gives a sheepish smile as she’s asked one more time if she’s alright. A silently fuming Mineta passes Todoroki one thousand yen. Tenya has half a mind to scold the duo for betting, but Todoroki meets his eyes blankly and Tenya has to admit that he is finding Mineta’s frustration rather amusing. 

Tenya is the only one who’s bothering to stand by and watch Aizawa-sensei work, as class representative, and thus he’s the only one who hears Yaoyozoru go up to their homeroom teacher and ask how he has experience with property damage and how to reinforce it.

He abandons all pretense of not listening and leans in, interested. 

Aizawa-sensei shoots them a flat look, but somehow it looks softer than expected. “Y- Present Mic has always wanted to start an agency. We spent a lot of time researching the structural integrity of a building that could house someone with a loud voice quirk.”

“Present Mic’s voice can blast through concrete?” Yaoyozoru can’t help but ask, and Tenya shares her sentiment. 

Aizawa-sensei lets out a huff of air. It can almost be interpreted as a chuckle.

“No, it wasn’t only him we were worried about.”

“In the beginning of the year, you were asked to note down why you want to be a hero.”

Todoroki Shouto is of the opinion that Principal Nedzu’s voice is pleasant to listen to. It does not have the same low and soothing quality that Aizawa-sensei’s does, nor does it have the same comfort that his mother’s does, but for a lecture in class, it is the perfect balance of easy to follow and slightly engaging.

Only slightly. Shouto sits at the very back corner of the classroom, and he intends to keep it that way. 

“As promised,” Nedzu’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, “we have kept these slips of paper in a box. These were not looked at or tempered with in any way. We will now distribute these slips randomly.”

The temperature of the room suddenly drops, and Shouto is only part of the reason why.

(A mind full of anger and resentment. He distinctly remembers writing down to spite my father in bold characters.)

“None of you are expected to claim your motive.” Aizawa-sensei speaks up from the corner, although being wrapped up in his yellow sleeping bag makes it a little harder for Shouto to take him seriously. “We will pass the slips around, so that everyone can take a look at the motives everyone has written down. If there has been a change - think of why. If someone’s motive does not make sense to you, think of why. If you completely disagree or agree with a motive you did not write down, think of why. Your reasons for being a hero are important, and they will determine what path you go down in the future.”

Shouto swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Aizawa is correct.” Nedzu says loftly. “There is no shame in anonymity. If you are ashamed of your motive, though, you must take that into consideration moving forward.”

From the back of the room, Shouto can clearly see every one of his classmates as they are handed slips of paper. He sees the exact moment that Bakugou opens his.

Bakugou glances back and makes direct eye contact with Shouto. 

Shouto’s heart pounds in his ears.

How does he know?

“Of course, discussion is encouraged.” Nedzu continues, after Aizawa-sensei has finished the distribution. “If any one of you is confused, do not hesitate to ask. I’m sure that there is someone in this room willing to answer.”

Bakugou crumples the note in his fist as the room dissolves into excited chatter and debate. Midoriya looks over with worry, but Shouto does not want to have this conversation right now.

When Shouto asks for leave, ostensibly to go to the washroom, Aizawa-sensei barely bats an eye - but he can feel his gaze trained on his back until he is out of sight. 

Snap.

Shinsou Hitoshi groans from where he is wrapped around his own capture weapon on the ground. He is not sure what he expected, when he first started lessons with Aizawa - now Aizawa-sensei, he supposes - but this was not it. 

“Are you able to get out?” The mentor in question asks him, and Hitoshi swallows the well of shame within him as he shakes his head. 

Aizawa-sensei moves with an efficiency that is startling and speaks of years of experience. Within seconds, the fabric around him slips away, forming a heap at his feet. Hitoshi picks up the ends and tries not to let the frustration show on his face. He’s been trying this move for days - not once has he managed to get the weapon wrapped securely around Aizawa-sensei, and he isn’t even moving. 

“Do not feel discouraged.” Aizawa-sensei tells him, motioning for him to sit down in the grass beside him and offering a bottle of water. Hitoshi gladly accepts. “It took me years to master the move you are practicing now.”

“You didn’t have a teacher, though.” Hitoshi points out.

(They do not waste time on formalities. Aizawa and Hitoshi both are heroes cut from the same cloth - ostracized, made out to be a villain, restrained in their own specific ways. Shinsou Hitoshi, at fifteen years old, is angry and spiteful of the world - when he confesses this to Aizawa, the pro hero tells him that he was the same.)

Aizawa-sensei nods grudgingly. “Still, it is objectively a difficult move to master. Powerful, certainly - and perhaps you will not need the same speed that I do, as there is not as constraining of a time limit on your Brainwashing compared to my Erasure - but it is still beneficial to be faster than your opponent can react.”

“I understand that part.” Hitoshi puts the cap on his bottle again and flops down on the grass, uncaring of the stains he’ll have to wash out later. “It’s not any less frustrating, though.”

“Don’t expect that it will be.” 

Hitoshi snorts. 

The sky is clearer than it has been in days. It is still overcast, the last remnant clouds of yesterday’s thunderstorm lingering in the air, but the sky is blue and wide and the world feels wide enough, in that moment, just wide enough for Hitoshi to feel like he has a place on this planet. 

Hitoshi reaches out a hand and closes it, as if he would be able to hold those clouds in the sky in his hands. 

When he turns over to Aizawa-sensei, he sees a complicated expression on his face that he can’t quite decipher. 

Hitoshi tilts his head. “Sensei?”

That seems to shake Eraserhead from his stupor. He clears his throat, and Hitoshi has never seen Aizawa look as uncomfortable - no, not uncomfortable. Reminiscent. Melancholic. 

Hitoshi has never seen Aizawa look as melancholic as he has now. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Aizawa-sensei tells him, and Hitoshi shrugs, turning his gaze back up to the blue sky. It’s nice here, he thinks. Him and his teacher, two people alike in more ways than one, staring up at the clouds as they drift lazily across the sky. 

Hitoshi points to a lump of condensation. “Look,” he says, “that one looks like it has cat ears.”

That draws a quiet laugh from Aizawa, and Hitoshi looks at him in surprise. 

He expects the classic “illogical” response from his teacher. Instead, all Hitoshi gets is-

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Jirou does not mean to stumble in on Aizawa-sensei in their dorm. It’s just that - well- ever since Kamino, she’s had a little bit of a hard time falling asleep, and there’s only so much that being cooped in her room, quietly strumming chords, can calm her down. 

She knows she isn’t the only one who likes to go down to the common room in the middle of the night. She just happens to be the only one for tonight. 

Stepping quietly is a habit for her, and it’s the only reason why she hears it when she does. 

The lights are already on. Aizawa-sensei is the only one in the common area, making coffee. 

He’s humming a melody that Jirou does not recognize. 

It sounds a little sad, she thinks. It’s lilting, soft - hummed in the memory of someone she does not know (and will likely never know). 

She thinks it’s beautiful anyway. 

There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk. 

This time, Midoriya Izuku is there to ask a question about the recent bit of quirk history they’ve done a lesson on. The room is not as empty as it was last time - Midnight is there, as is Cementoss, both of them talking idly as the time passes. Ectoplasm is grading - despite the mask, Izuku gets the impression that he is sulking. 

Despite the differences, he makes the same meaningless observation - there is an old, broken and unusable speaker in the corner of Aizawa-sensei’s desk, and it is otherwise as spotless as ever. 

Aizawa-sensei had left the office only minutes ago, telling him he’d come back soon. The lack of distractions puts Izuku’s attention on his teacher’s desk again - now complete with an entirely new set of stickers, this time with cats on various kinds of foods. Izuku is beginning to suspect that Aizawa-sensei likes going to cat cafés. 

Maybe he’ll fact-check that with Present Mic later. 

He has many, many questions. Midoriya Izuku is nothing if not an analyst, and he analyzes, inquisitive of anything and everything that goes around him. There is a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk, and it defies all logic that Aizawa-sensei operates on. 

It’s a peculiar, peculiar thing. 

Amajiki Tamaki has been told, several times, that he is not a people person.

Which he does not refute. He doesn’t! But he likes to think that he has some level of basic emotional competency. 

Pro heroes are taught to move on. It’s a brutal truth - one of the brutal bits of heroics that never makes it on the news, that children, young and innocent, never think of, that teachers painstakingly hammer into their students so that they will not be completely broken by the world at large when it becomes their turn to inherit the burden of humanity’s aegis. 

There is always time for grief. Tamaki understands that more than others might think - at the age of eighteen (so young and yet so, so very old) Mirio has lost more than anyone should ever lose. But it’s a risk of the field, inherently so - and Mirio tells him, night after night, that he does not regret his decisions, that Sir doesn’t either, and he is happy despite everything - to see Eri smile the way she does, and that is enough for Tamaki. 

It doesn’t lessen the sting, though. 

Tamaki is not close to Midoriya Izuku the same way Mirio is. He doesn’t need to be - Midoriya-kun wears his heart on his sleeve for all to see, the tears running freely, and Tamaki does not need to be a close friend of his to see that he, too, is greatly affected by Sir Nighteye’s untimely demise. 

He does not know Eraserhead well enough, either. Another risk of the profession - work with too many people, and you start forgetting those who stood by your side, through hell and back, names that by ordinary standards should be engraved into your heart. 

Tamaki hates that in a decade (if he even lives that long) he’ll likely forget about the teacher, who will then be nameless - just another underground hero with whom he fought to save lives. 

But that doesn’t matter. The point is- Eraserhead is a hero. A pro hero. An underground pro hero, who has no doubt had to resort to methods that limelight heroes can’t use for a variety of reasons - someone who has blood on his hands, who has most definitely mourned, who has taught himself to push on despite whatever is thrown in his way. 

The point is that Eraserhead, though he will spare well-meaning thoughts and condolences for Nighteye, should not look like he hurts for someone else the same way Tamaki does right now. 

Eraserhead is not callous. Far from it - Tamaki himself witnesses his comforting words when Uraraka-san asks if she could’ve done better. 

(And oh, isn’t that a question they ask themselves all the time?)

Eraserhead can be empathetic. He can be kind. He is both of those things when the time calls for it. But Eraserhead, a man who can never afford to blink, does not spare tears lightly. 

Tamaki curses his curiosity. 

“Who are you mourning?”

It’s only when the underground hero looks at him sharply that Tamaki realizes he’s spoken these words out loud.

Ah, shit.

“Sir Nighteye.” Eraserhead returns flatly. “Who else?”

“You’re mourning on the behalf of someone else.” Tamaki blurts out before he can think, but the words are coming to him like they so seldomly do, and he’s the conductor of a train whose brakes have been broken by the cat prodding at the fragile wires of his rationality. “Like I am. For Mirio.”

The words are beginning to come out more haltingly, right now. Maybe the emergency brakes have been deployed. Or maybe he’s driven off the tracks completely - the bumpy stones would do the work for him. “It’s like the source of your grief isn’t - isn’t Nighteye himself, but the situation that it has created. You’re mourning for someone who can’t afford to mourn for themselves and what inherent part they have lost.”

Tamaki’s train skids to a halt, but it’s half a second too late. “You’re mourning for Midoriya-kun, aren’t you?”

The silence that follows is deathly. 

Eraserhead stares at him. Tamaki shrinks back, but the words have been said - whatever damage there was from the barrelling, out-of-control train, it has already been done. Shakily, he begins to reconnect the wires of his rationality, and his brain catches up with his mouth - realizes what he has insinuated, what he has done, what little respect Eraserhead might’ve had for him gone down the drain along with the heartbeat of the electrocuted cat. 

There is a startled laugh, and there is no humour in it. 

“Fatgum did say you were more observant than many people think.” Eraserhead acknowledges, if a little gruffly, then sighs. “Yes. The loss of Sir Nighteye is regrettable in more ways than one. Midoriya wasn’t even meant to be on a work study, this time.”

“Have you lost someone to work studies?” Tamaki asks, and damn it, he thought the train had stopped. 

There is a pause. 

Tamaki can hear nothing but the heartbeat in his ears (so unlike the heart machine that was by Nighteye’s bed because he is gone and dead and Mirio will have to live with that-) and the surprised, sharp inhale of a man who has seen too much - the kind that only comes out of pro heroes if it is an old, old wound that has never recovered. 

Tamaki is not a people person-

“He was a good hero.” Eraserhead says quietly.

-but he does not need to be one to recognize loss. 

One day, Aizawa-sensei stumbles into class, takes one look at them, and slips into his sleeping bag without another word.

The class is, understandably, extremely confused. They are no strangers to Aizawa-sensei’s sleeping habits, but he has never left them hanging before. 

Tenya is the class representative, but he has no idea what to do. 

He is saved from the awkward silence (five whole minutes - no one knows what they’re meant to be doing. Is this another situational awareness test? How long until someone cracks? What is Aizawa-sensei trying to do?) by Midnight - she all but breaks in, takes one look at Aizawa-sensei’s still form (not sleeping - he’s tense and coiled and ready to defend himself) and the rest of the class.

“Take this as a work period.” Midnight informs them, and Tenya has never heard her voice so soft. “I’ll watch over you guys for homeroom and answer any questions. Please don’t bother Shouta.”

No one needs to be told twice. Conversations start up, stilted and awkward (and so very painfully hesitant) - but Tenya’s eyes do not drift from their teacher’s still form.

It also means that he’s the only witness when a single tear tracks its way down his shadowed face. 

Rescue training is not avoidable.

It is an occupational hazard. You can not be a hero without knowing rescue, because you will be expected to be the rescuer - heroics have taken over every emergency response, and those who fight must also, at the very least, have fundamental rescue training.

UA is not known for holding back. Shouta does not know what will happen when he sends his students into the unstable underground mall that has presumably been wrecked - what he does know is that there are sensors on all of them, equipped with monitors and emergency cameras, and Recovery Girl is standing right beside him.

Aizawa Shouta has confidence in his students. They have seen hell. They have walked through it. They have overcome every challenge thrown their way with far more confidence and grit and passion and determination, the last of which Shouta has not seen in a very, very long time. He trusts them. 

There is still something clutching his chest when he tells them their objective, though.

Underground disasters are a minefield, and not always in the literal sense. At any moment, they have to be prepared to run out of light. At any second, they have to remember that collapse can and will happen, and they’ll have to learn to dig themselves out before oxygen begins to grow thin, too thin for them to save themselves. At any point, they have to remember that there is water underground. 

There can be floods.

There will be floods. 

If the ten students he’s sent today are unable to make it out of this training simulation and the accidents within expectations, then he’ll have no choice but to expel them. Shouta does not expel out of a twisted sense of authority and power - he does it because he does not want the world to cut short more young lives than it already has. 

“You’re worried.”

Shuzenji-san’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he hums - not confirmation, but not denial, either. 

The healer sighs. “You know that I think you push them too hard.”

“It will benefit them greatly in the future.” Shouta argues back easily, because they have had this conversation many, many times. UA prides itself in freedom, and Shouta uses it to its fullest extent. 

“Still.” Shuzenji-san shakes her head and sighs. “If even you are worried about them, I don’t want to think about what injuries they can get out of this.”

“Better now than later.”

“Shouta-”

“ Chiyo.” Shouta says, and it comes out as more of a plea than he would like. His hands are in his pockets out of habit - he never wants anyone to see them shake. “I have faith in my students.”

“You have no faith in their youth.”

“I am a teacher. My job is to guide them.”

“You’re only human.”

Unspoken: you cannot guide everyone.

(Unspoken: you cannot save everyone.)

Shouta does not reply to that, because one of the monitors cuts off. 

Chiyo’s head swivels, alarm in her eyes. “Shouta-”

“Fuck.” Shouta curses, and suddenly he isn’t thirty-one anymore - suddenly he’s sixteen all over again, he’s an intern at Purple Highness again, and suddenly the monitor whose connection has been cut off is a boy with blue hair and bright eyes and a quarterstaff around his shoulders, grinning at him without a care in the world. 

His scarf is off him in a flash and he jumps into the hole without a second thought, and-

There are few things that can terrify Tokoyami Fumikage, but this? This tops all of it. Trapped in Dark Shadow’s embrace, fighting to keep them under control and seeing Todoroki-kun slam against the wall (by his own doing, by his own lack of control-) with the concrete and dirt collapsing on them, his fault, is a new experience and it’s one that he never wants to have ever again.

“Dark Shadow!” Fumikage screams himself hoarse, but the shadow that lives within him refuses to listen, their eyes a bloody, bloody red and consumed with the desire to destroy, destroy, destroy, and for one split terrifying second he doesn’t know if he can make it out of here alive.

And suddenly, it isn’t so dark anymore. 

The control that Fumikage has been fighting for is suddenly so easily back in his hands, and Todoroki Shouto’s hands are wreathed in fire. Fumikage stares at him, eyes wide, and Todoroki-kun takes one, two, three deep breaths and slumps over, fire flickering out. 

Damn it.

“Damn it.” Fumikage hisses under his breath. “We need- we need to get out of this darkness. We need to-” His eyes scan the perimeter of the area they’re trapped in but there is no help coming and they are locked in, oxygen is running out and there is no light to keep Dark Shadow in check. 

Fumikage checks for a pulse on Todoroki’s wrists, and is thankful when he finds it - he is far less thankful when he finds that it is thready and weak.

There is blood running down the side of his head.

Shit.

“Okay. We need- Recovery Girl. We need Recovery Girl immediately. We need to get out. ”

Silence meets his words. 

“We really, really need help.”

Midoriya Izuku runs through collapsed hallways and flooded floors and tries not to think too hard about the people he left behind, telling them go, get Iida-kun help, Kacchan and I will find Tokoyami-kun and Todoroki-kun, and about the said childhood friend at his heels. 

He tries not to let the panic swallow him whole. 

“Not here.” Kacchan grunts, for once with a short and clipped tone, devoid of taunts and insults. “Half and half went to B4. If they got caved in-”

“B5.” Izuku understands immediately, runs for the steps of the broken escalator, Kacchan at his heels. 

Where are they where are they please don’t be late, not again, never again-

When help comes for Fumikage, it’s with green lightning and fiery red explosions. 

Midoriya makes a noise that sounds suspiciously close to a sob. 

“Shit, shit, how is he-”

“He got thrown against the wall. Dark Shadow…”

“Okay. That’s fine. This is fine. Kacchan-”

“Absolutely fucking not. Half and Half is up to you. I can’t carry people safely while blasting my way up.”

“The water is beginning to flood the entire place. We can’t- We don’t have a lot of time. Okay. Kacchan, just- focus on getting yourself out of there.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Deku.”

“Okay. I’ll get Todoroki-kun, and- Tokoyami-kun, you can manage with Dark Shadow, right?”

“Yes. I will be alright.”

“Okay. On the count of three-”

Shouta can hear the explosions from under him, and he thinks that maybe he didn’t have too much reason to worry after all. 

The four missing students - he can see them. Bakugou is propelling himself with his explosions, problem child is carrying Todoroki and making his way up, and Tokoyami-

Wait.

Shit.

Fumikage is a little bit of a liar, he thinks, but there isn’t enough light, and Dark Shadow would probably just leave him to die here anyway. 

At least this way, he doesn’t need to worry about compromising Midoriya, Bakugou and Todoroki’s escape any more than he already has. 

Shouta does not have a high school story about how his body moved before he could think.

Shouta has a high school story about loss and grief and a young hero that died before he should’ve. 

(He can only think: not again.)

This time, though, his capture weapon is already reaching down and wrapping around Tokoyami’s torso before he even processes what’s going on.

The world caves in around them.

Technically, the training exercise is a success. They rescued the objective. They all made it out alive. 

Somehow, to Katsuki, it doesn’t not at all feel like a fucking victory. 

Homeroom next day is tense. 

Well before the bell rings or even before Iida-kun waves around to warn them of class’ start time, everyone is already in their seats. The usual rowdy conversation is nothing more than murmurs and whispers. Izuku doesn’t know what to make of it.

No, he does. The bitter taste of yesterday’s exercise is still heavy in Izuku’s mouth. 

Seconds before Aizawa-sensei walks in the room, everyone falls silent. 

There is no bounce. No excitement.

“Today’s homeroom will be a little different.” Aizawa-sensei tells them. He doesn’t even bother to go up to the podium - he stands by the door, and he looks so very tired. 

Aizawa-sensei walks back out. “Follow me.”

Each student of the class allows themselves a heartbeat of confusion before doing as they’re told.

UA has a graveyard. 

This is neither well-known nor a secret. It is a plain, simple fact, like the broken speaker that sits in the corner of Shouta’s desk. 

He has made this walk several times. This is not new to him.

The shuffle of twenty students behind him is new. 

“Sensei?” Iida eventually takes it upon himself to ask the question that no one else dares to voice. “Where are we heading?”

UA has a graveyard. 

“You will find out.”

Midoriya Izuku looks at the stone hedges lined in rows. 

He suddenly feels very, very ill.

“This is the school graveyard.”

Shouta is not the person who speaks to graves. That is often Hizashi’s job. And yet right now, he can speak through the memories that flood him, because in front of him are twenty students who need to know, who need to know what they’re getting into.

“Every student who has died while at UA has a tombstone here.”

A tombstone. A hedge with their name engraved on it, proof that they are dead and gone and well and truly never coming back.

Izuku feels sick.

There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk.

“I need you all to understand that this could be one of you.”

The class probably knew that this was coming, but Shouta hears more than a few sharp inhales, and he goes on, relentlessly, because this needs to be said. “I need you all to know that at any point, one of your classmates could be joining this graveyard. The possibility of dying in the line of duty, even as young as you are, is a real, real risk.”

He learned this the hard way.

(Sixteen. He was sixteen. Shirakumo was seventeen. Shirakumo had so much more ahead of him than Shouta ever did.)

“None of you are acceptable sacrifices. None of you are acceptable casualties. A hero knows that they must survive to help others.”

Shouta is a teacher.

You cannot save everyone, the phantom of Chiyo’s voice whispers in his ear. 

Shirakumo Oboro. Age: 17. Quirk: Clouds. 

He had so much ahead of him.

“That is all.” Aizawa-sensei says to the quiet class. He has never commanded their attention more than this moment, Izuku thinks, and yet somehow he wishes that he didn’t. 

The sun is blocked by clouds. Izuku thinks that it might be raining soon.

“Are there any questions?”

One beat. Two.

Jirou raises her hand.

“Jirou.”

“Do you have a friend here, Sensei?” She asks, and her voice is wobbly.

Do you have a friend here?

Shouta does not want to lie today.

“Yes.” He admits. 

Shirakumo Oboro had so much ahead of him.

On the walk back, the class is still silent.

When the clouds open up far ahead and blanket the sky and rain comes pouring, pouring down, no one bothers to run.

Shouta almost wants to laugh at the painful, painful irony. 

The rain suits the mood, doesn’t it?

Lunch is a solemn affair. 

“I didn’t know.” Uraraka-san starts quietly. 

“I don’t think any of us did.” Iida-kun adds, and somehow that just makes Shouto feel worse. For once, he doesn’t have an appetite for cold soba, and a cursory glance shows untouched beef stew and katsudon beside him too. 

“That’s why he was so scared, right?” Midoriya-kun mutters. “At the USJ. He was so scared.”

There is the normal clatter of lunch all around them. Their table still feels eerily silent.

Shouto puts his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

For once, Iida-kun doesn’t reprimand him for his language. 

“You’re distracted, Sensei.”

“Am I?” 

The response is cool and levelheaded- cool enough that if it were anyone but Hitoshi, he’s pretty sure that they would’ve fallen for it.

Granted, he’s not sure that he has much leverage to be speaking right now. Aizawa-sensei has him bound in his capture weapon, and Hitoshi is definitely unable to break free, but…

“You took about three times as long as you usually do to sweep me off my feet.” Hitoshi deadpans. “It’s only about six seconds, but you’re the one who taught me how much of a difference six seconds can make.”

“It isn’t of your concern.” Aizawa-sensei replies curtly, loosening his grip on his capture weapon and allowing Hitoshi to wiggle free. “As far as I’m concerned, you are still unable to defeat me. That makes your skill insufficient and in need of more training.”

Hitoshi raises an eyebrow. “You’re distracted, Sensei.”

“Drop it.” Aizawa says sharply in a tone that brooks no argument. 

Hitoshi sighs and gets back into a ready position. He gets wrapped around in three seconds, this time.

He still can’t shake the feeling nagging at him that something is wrong.

Why do you want to be a hero?

Shouto realizes, in between one ignored text message from his father and the next, the true meaning why Aizawa-sensei gave them that question in the beginning of the year. 

He thinks of a graveyard of students who died too young and a name of a friend that they will never know. 

Oh, he thinks with startling clarity.

We wanted to start an agency. Mic wasn’t the only person we were worried about.

Tenya thinks of a brother who can never be a hero again, and tries not to cry - because he is lucky, very lucky that Stain decided Ingenium would be the one who could possibly walk out of this alive, and he’s lucky that he can still talk to his brother at all. 

He’s lucky in ways that Aizawa-sensei isn’t.

Tenya looks at a picture in his room of him and Tensei and tries not to cry.

One of your classmates could be joining this graveyard.

For the first time, Fumikage has increased the brightness of all his lights to the maximum. He doesn’t want to sit in the dark, right now. 

He doesn’t want to think about how scared Aizawa-sensei looked when he threw down the end of his capture weapon because he didn’t want to see another student die in circumstances where they shouldn’t have. 

A light flickers. Fumikage keeps it on. 

You are not acceptable casualties.

Izuku tries to sleep, but his mind always brings him to places where he doesn’t want to be - this time, it’s the first day of school. His quirk apprehension test goes poorly, and he places dead last - the ball throw, he nearly breaks his arm in the ball throw and Aizawa-sensei stops him- and Izuku knew, distantly, the rationale behind that, but it only becomes clear now.

Izuku feels sick. 

There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk, he thinks numbly. 

Jirou, as a musician, is always accustomed to music thrumming through her thoughts, no matter what time of the day it is.

Sitting in her room, staring at a blank score, all she can think of is a hummed melody ingrained in her memory in the earliest hours of the morning, from nothing but a name of nostalgia and reminiscent tunes. 

Jirou doubts that Aizawa-sensei even knew that he was humming it. 

Izuku is lying on the grass in the fields outside the main building when Amajiki-senpai finds him. 

He approaches silently. “Everything alright, Midoriya-kun?”

Izuku sighs. 

Amajiki-senpai looks like he’s caught between a rock and a hard place. Izuku tries not to think about how amusing it would be for him - key word being would, because it feels terrible to be amused by anything right now. 

“Let me hazard a guess.” Amajiki-senpai offers, and Izuku nods jerkily. 

“It’s about Eraserhead, isn’t it?”

Izuku bluescreens. 

“How did you know?” He demands, sitting bolt right up. “He wasn’t-”

“I don’t know the specifics.” Amajiki-senpai amends, walking over to sit beside Izuku. “But Eraserhead has seemed distracted while talking about ethics recently. At least, that’s what Hado-san says.”

“Ah.” Izuku tries not to let his embarrassment show. Of course Aizawa-sensei has other classes. Other students, too. He’s so stupid. 

There is a pregnant pause.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.” Amajiki-senpai offers, and it’s an easy way out, an escape route. “We can just lie here on the grass. We can watch the clouds.”

“Watching the clouds sounds nice.” Izuku murmurs, and he lies back down, uncaring of the grass that he’ll have to wash out of his hair later. The shadow in his peripheral vision shifts as Amajiki-senpai presumably does the same. 

They lie like that in silence for a little while. 

It’s nice to run away, sometimes, even if he isn’t moving. 

Izuku reaches his hand up to the clouds and pretends that he can grasp them - fleeting things, of them substantial in any way.

Amajiki-senpai points to a clump. “Look,” he says. “That one looks like a cat.”

Izuku looks over to where he is pointing and chokes back a laugh. “Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?”

Aizawa Shouta awakens in the middle of his designated lunch period nap to a cat pawing insistently at his sleeping bag.

This would be normal, he thinks, if he weren’t currently under his desk at the UA teacher’s lounge.

Shouta blinks once, twice. “Sushi?”

“Thought you needed her for today.” Nemuri’s voice, though muffled by the sleeping bag still drawn over his shoulders and around his ears, is recognizable above the still-pawing cat’s meows. “She’s missed you.”

“I’m pretty sure pets aren’t allowed here at UA,” Shouta retorts, voice dry. 

“I got permission from Nedzu.”

“You did not.”

“She dEFINITELY DID!” Hizashi strides in, his voice loud as ever, and Shouta represses a wince that comes from years of practice. From where she’d been lying on Shouta’s stomach, Sushi startles and yowls as she runs away, finding somewhere to hide. The underground hero levels a glare at his friend - at least Present Mic has the decency to look abashed. 

Even after Shouta brings out a cat treat (no he does not keep them on his person at all times), Sushi does not come back to him, and he gives up the cat for a lost cause. He sighs, turning his gaze back up at Nemuri. “What do you want?”

Nemuri blinks, and her expression is far too innocent to be taken for face value. “Maybe I just want to drop Sushi in your lap once in a while.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Shouta accuses half-heartedly, slumping back against the back of his desk. Damn it. He has a lesson with the second-years after this, too. 

A beat. Two. Ectoplasm shuffles awkwardly behind them. 

“We’re worried,” Hizashi says, quietly, and Shouta cannot stop himself from looking up, surprise written all over his tired features. His attention emboldens Present Mic, evidently, because he barrels on, like a train whose brake wires have just been cut by the cat prowling around the perimeters. “Visiting Tartarus was hard on both of us. I… we heard about what happened at the rescue training simulation the other day.”

“And you’ve been tired. More tired than usual,” Nemuri adds. “The last time we saw you sulking like this was…”

None of them need to complete that sentence. 

(There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa Shouta’s desk, and sometimes he can swear that he still hears the phantom echoes of a friend long gone, who died heroically at an age too young because dying heroically doesn’t change the fact that they’re gone forever, right?)

Sushi meows. Hizashi doesn’t react when she curls herself around his legs. 

“I took the class to visit the graveyard.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. The implications, sickeningly bitter, swirl around in his friends’ eyes. He does not need to look past their goggles (Oboro was always the one who took the lead, who dragged them around and asserted himself in decisions even as simple as what Shouta would wear to protect his eyes-) to see the pain of a wound, decades old, that has never truly healed. 

There’s a broken speaker on Shouta’s desk.

Eraserhead curls into himself. “Fuck,” he rasps out. 

His eyes are still unbearably dry, because Eraserhead is a hero who can never afford to blink. 

“There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk,” Midoriya tells Hitoshi one day. 

Hitoshi blinks. “And this is relevant because…?”

“There’s a broken speaker on Aizawa-sensei’s desk,” Midoriya repeats, eyes burning with an intensity that Hitoshi has only seen a few times. “It’s well-maintained. It has no usage. It’s not a gag gift from Present Mic, and Mic himself has refused to answer any questions about it.”

Hitoshi has no idea where Midoriya is going with this-

“Aizawa-sensei has a friend who died during work studies.”

-but this is something that catches his attention.

“Does this have to do with the fact that he’s distracted during our lessons?”

Midoriya runs a nervous hand through his messy green curls. “Probably? I don’t know, Aizawa-sensei just… he’s always so steady. Calm. Practical. Logical. I didn’t know what was going on but now that I know it just makes so much sense and god. We’ve been-” Midoriya’s hands fist. “We’ve been throwing ourselves into danger, targeted by the League of Villains, attacked over and over again and Sensei has had to watch-”

“Midoriya.”

The rambling teenager stops. 

“Breathe.”

Midoriya exhales, forcefully. “I just- Sensei has done so much for us. I don’t- I don’t know how to help.”

“Midoriya, I’m giving you five seconds to calm down.”

This time, the silence lasts much longer. Hitoshi tries not to curse. Damn it, he’s not good at this. 

“Okay.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about how he’s seen Aizawa do the same thing several times. “Okay. Have you considered, Midoriya - not breaking any more bones?”

Midoriya splutters, but before he can get a nervous word of refutation in, Hitoshi holds up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, I know, it's not your fault that you guys are getting targeted everywhere you go. God knows that Shigaraki’s a crazy bastard that probably needs to relearn what it means to keep his hands to himself - not in the Mineta way.”

The teenager across from him snorts. 

“But that’s not the point. You know what’s bothering him. You can’t stop villains from attacking you, sure, but not throwing yourselves into danger? That’s something well within your parameters.”

Midoriya bites his lip. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

“Nobody has to die,” Hitoshi says firmly, and he doesn’t know why Midoriya jerks at that, but he does. “Nobody has to die this year, or the next, or the ones after that. If Aizawa is scared that he’ll have to watch one of your vitals go flat, then don’t let it happen.”

“We’re trying.”

“Get better at it.” Hitoshi flicks the capture-weapon-turned-scarf around to wrap around a heavy stone, which he flings at Midoriya. Midoriya doesn’t even flinch when he blasts it to pieces in a measured control of his power. “See? Ten months ago, you would’ve broken your hand. Keep walking, Midoriya. Run, if you need to.”

His capture scarf comes back to wrap around his neck. “Plus Ultra and all that, right?”

Midoriya doesn’t meet his gaze. Hitoshi can’t see his expression - it’s turned up to the sky and its clouds, after all, but he gets the impression that there’s a smile.

“Plus Ultra,” Midoriya echoes. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

On a Thursday morning unlike many others, Hizashi accompanies Shouta to Oboro’s grave.

It’s still spotless, still clean. They always make sure that it stays that way- it feels like a crime, somehow, to ignore Oboro for too long. He’s always commanded their attention, after all.

Shouta does not indulge in speaking to the dead. That is Hizashi’s job. This time, Shouta is only there to hold Sushi and place down offerings. There’s a cup of sake- Oboro used to talk about how his coming-of-age party would have all the sake they could drink, despite the fact that both Shouta and Hizashi were younger than he was. 

Grief is cruel, Shouta thinks. It makes you see things that aren’t really there. It deceives you into keeping things of no other value. Some days, Shouta still hears Oboro’s voice through the broken speaker, still sees his grit in Shinsou’s posture, still feels the ghost of condensation when his hand reaches up to touch the clouds. 

Eri likes to go cloud-seeing, as she calls it.

Sushi meows. Shouta bats her away from the cup of sake. 

There won’t be rain today, Hizashi says. The sky is devoid of clouds - it’s a vast and clear blue, and for a moment, when Shouta looks up at it, he’s deluded into thinking that maybe the world would’ve been wide enough for the three of them - the three of them in their own agency building with its reinforced concrete walls and Sushi darting around as she pleases, with their own little speakers in their belts and their goggles covering their eyes. Shouta imagines a quarterstaff in their armory. 

Underneath the quiet and hesitant tones of Hizashi’s voice, Shouta can still delude himself into hearing the echoes of a melody he has half-forgotten. 

Somehow, though, this form of pareidolia does not make him feel as weak as it used to.

Midoriya Izuku walks into the teachers’ lounge, and the first thing he notices is that Aizawa-sensei is now in possession of another sheet of cat stickers. 

Izuku would chalk it down to another gag gift from Present Mic, except for the fact that the note on it, with neat script, clearly says Shinsou Hitoshi.

There’s more, he notices. There’s a stack of sheet music that Izuku can barely read. It’s currently in Aizawa-sensei’s hands right now, and he clearly recognizes it, if the way he clutches the paper is any indication. Izuku makes a mental note to ask Jirou about that later.

There’s a small set of cat toys. Attached to it is another note in equally neat but distinctly different writing.

Right, he realizes. Todoroki-kun loves cats too.

There’s a couple more. Izuku can recognize the scrawl of Eri’s unpracticed handwriting anywhere. She’s also likely the only one who can work up any nerve to give Aizawa-sensei a hand-drawn card. Iida-kun has simply left a small note with a thank you for their newly reinforced concrete walls, with a bottle of eyedrops to go with it. Tokoyami-kun has left a pack of pens - they’re all black and blue, as per Tokoyami-kun’s very nature, but the thought is there. Even Amajiki-senpai has left something - or more accurately, the Big Three has left something, but Izuku knows them well enough to recognize that Amajiki-senpai would only ever agree to Nejire-senpai’s suggestion of coupons to a cat café if he knew who it was for. 

Aizawa-sensei notices him. “Midoriya. Is there anything you need?”

No, he thinks. You’ve already given us enough.

Instead, he says, “I- I just wanted to give something to you, Aizawa-sensei.”

A beat.

He drops off the bag before he can lose the nerve and bows hastily. “Thank you for your time, Sensei! I really need to go meet with - er, meet with All-Might! Thank you, Sensei!”

Izuku bolts.

There’s a broken speaker on Shouta’s desk. 

He stares at the bag that Midoriya has unceremoniously dropped off. Curiosity compels him to open it, even as Sushi is, once again, curled up around his legs and demanding attention. 

He pulls out a speaker.

It’s untouched, still boxed and wrapped. Shouta’s eyes scan over the familiar, old model with a new level of incredulity. 

He startles himself by laughing. 

Shouta’s students truly are problem children.