All mites bite.
After Hisashi's exit, life for Izuku settled into a quiet rhythm. His absence was hardly a presence at all. It was like there had never been a father to leave.
At first, there was a void. A silence where a person was supposed to be. His father had never been a huge part of his life anyway. Not even a tiny one, atually.
Yet, there was a hole, small and empty, that was more noticeable when it was just him and Inko. The house was quieter, with fewer words said - since Izuku at three years old barely wasted breath to talk with his mother about trivial stuff. He was on the quiet side.
He could almost physically feel Inko's attempts to mask the loneliness in her tired eyes. Dump and green and sad.
There was something about the way she would look at the living room or at the double bed. It was a look that lingered, a faraway gaze, as if she were seeing something that wasn't there. Then, just as easily, she would shift her focus, her hands gently adjusting the sheets, her mouth blabbering on deciding to transform it into a one-size bed.
The old furniture was hauled away with the help of a moving truck, and while it seemed like a small task, it somehow made her seem lighter, even if only for a moment.
Out of sight, out of mind. A year - or maybe two— passed in what seemed like perfect peace. Life became a routine. A quiet, almost unremarkable sort of normalcy.
The kind of normal where the absence of a father didn't seem so strange. There was a white fence in the front yard, gardenias that bloomed wildly in the garden, and noisy neighbours whose voices would occasionally spill into the house, but it wasn't anything that disrupted the flow. Not really.
That was until the announcement was made.
It was an ordinary day, much like any other. Izuku was sitting in front of the computer, tapping the foot of an All Might action figure against his lower lip as an habit. For the millionth time, he watched that famous video of All Might saving people from a burning building, eyes glued to the screen. He needed the background, after all.
Izuku never looked back. Life moved on, didn't it? Time, that constant companion, marched forward. And so did Izuku. He had more or less learned to keep up with the original Izuku's enthusiasm for heroes — well, the best he could. He had immersed himself in All Might's world, watching his videos and interviews until the screen became a second home. He didn't do it because he cared.
He just hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do with his life - again, just three years had passed. He didn't feel like the most selfless person in the world; yet, he still wanted the Hero Path available, just in case.
Every clip, every saving action, every bright smile from the hero made him feel like he was fitting in somehow, even though he wasn't really; at all. He kept studying all-All Might's heroics, his movements, the speeches-just to keep himself updated.
But no matter how much effort he put in, it felt artificial. His interest was almost clinical— he studied the world of heroes like a researcher, not a fan. The passion that the real Izuku had felt for them? It was missing. He didn't plaster his walls with posters like the other kids.
Instead, he had just the one action figure and a rolled-up poster hidden in a drawer.
Still, he clung to some of the original Izuku's habits —like watching that video over and over again, trying to capture even a glimpse of the enthusiasm he genuinely lacked.
It wasn't just about being part of the world. It was about survival. His mother was supposed to be in the kitchen preparing dinner. The sticky scent of rice lingered in the air, tickling his senses in the small, cozy room. Izuku wrinkled his nose slightly.
He was so sick of rice. But how could he possibly explain to his mother, with his three-year-old mouth and limited vocabulary, why he longed for the greasy, messy sandwich from the fast food joint down the street? It was impossible, of course.
His tiny world was so simple, yet so frustratingly complicated.
Inko, his mother, never seemed to tire of buying him those All Might-themed onesies. And though the canary yellow fabric with the bouncing bunny ears made him feel a little ridiculous, it was his constant companion. The hood, especially, was always a bit too big and blocked his vision. He tried to nudge it aside but it only made the ears bounce more.
The gentle hum of the computer screen was the only noise filling the room, aside from his small breaths. Izuku was absorbed in the video again, pausing it momentarily with the tap of his tiny index finger, his wide eyes glued to All Might saving those people from the burning building. It was something he did often, replaying the scene over and over as if trying to soak up some piece of All Might's spirit. They were such opposites.
At that moment, the quiet was broken by his mother's familiar knock, her soft presence filling the doorway. She leaned there, hands resting on the door frame, eyes sparkling but distant, as if lost in thought for a moment. Izuku turned his head slowly, meeting her gaze. He could feel the warmth in her eyes, even from across the room. He sighed.
Just then, she smiled, but it wasn't the usual, bubbly smile he'd grown accustomed to.
It was a smile that seemed to carry something heavier, a touch of worry that he couldn't quite understand.
"Dinner's almost ready," she said, her voice gentle, a little breathy. It was always kind, but there was something more in it. What?;
Izuku's tiny finger hovered above the computer's mouse, ready to start the video once more, but he didn't. He simply held his mother's gaze with numb eyes that seemed to scream "I'm not buying your shit, woman", Inko giggled nervously.
Since Hisashi had left, Inko had changed, though not drastically. Her features had softened over time, her cheeks fuller, her eyes rounder, and her skin had taken on a healthy, almost radiant glow. Izuku couldn't help but notice these changes — they were subtle, but they were there, and they reflected the quiet passage of time. And her mental state.
She pinched a lock of her soft, seawater-coloured hair between her fingers, the familiar habit behind it oddly comforting. "Anyway," she said, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "I signed you up for kindergarten, 'Zuku."
The words came out with that same forced cheerfulness she always wore. It was sensible, of course, perfectly normal; any responsible parent would have done it. Yet, her smile was warm, but there was something almost apologetic in her eyes, as though she was trying to convince herself as much as him. She was nothing like his real mother.
Izuku met her gaze, noting the slight edge of uncertainty beneath her words.
"Knowing peers will do you good," she added, almost hastily, as if to cover up any trace of doubt, like she was trying to reassure both herself and him. He wasn't reassured.
Izuku looked at her, his three-year-old body not yet able to fully process the emotions bubbling inside him. His mind, however, understood all too well. His mother, trying so hard to make things work, wanted him to have what he never had until then. A life with friends, with meaningful connections.
But to Izuku, the idea of having peers was impossible, anyway. After all, he was a traumatised teenager reincarnated in the body of a soon-to-be traumatised child.
He nodded quietly, though his eyes lingered on her, searching for answers he wasn't sure how to ask for. What would a child have said?;
Inko had soap bubbles between her fingers, the faint scent of dish soap lingering in the air as she tapped on the door frame. Izuku, with his tiny hands still clutching the edge of the desk, made a strangled sound of agreement — "Mf." Yeah, that was smart.
He wasn't much of a talker, especially when it came to those big, grand speeches that filled the pages of his favorite manga. The Japanese language, with all its subtleties and layers, made him hesitant, almost afraid. He didn't want to sound too polished, too sugar-coated, every time he opened his mouth.
His mother squeaked something about the rice cooker being on the brink of disaster, her voice filled with that usual energy, before darting back into the kitchen, leaving him in the quiet of his room again.
Without a doubt, Izuku and Inko shared a strange bond, one that was different from the typical mother-child relationship. In many ways, Izuku often felt like the tired one in their dynamic — as if, at times, he was the mother, looking after Inko, the calm and well-meaning eldest daughter waiting approval.
She was always so careful, so eager to do right, and even when she made mistakes, they were always with the best of intentions. Izuku couldn't bring himself to scold her, not really. How could he? She had been through so much, and even now, she still tried her best to make him feel at ease.
With a small sigh, he shook his head, the corner of his lips hitching; just the tiniest bit. The yellow All Might ears on his onesie wobbled slightly as he did, the movement making him amused despite himself.
He paused for a moment, then clicked the play button again on the video. All Might's heroic voice boomed from the speakers as the screen came alive once more. Izuku found himself drawn into the familiar scene again; it gave him a sense of longing.
As he watched, his tiny hands pressed to the keyboard, the weight of his thoughts heavy despite his small body. Being Izuku now was different. It was simpler, but there was a sense of depth that he wasn't sure how to navigate. Yet, here, in the quiet hum of his room, surrounded by his mother's care and All Might's video, it felt like he could understand everything.
Even if just for a moment.
In any case, it didn't take him long to realise he'd been wrong about kindergarten being a non-event. His first day started with a battle of wills — three brushes and a determined Inko versus the unruly curls on his head. The curls won. Seriously, was she eight?;
Inko had dressed him in the traditional tiny blue apron that seemed straight out of every kindergarten anime ever. The fabric was absurdly light, almost like tissue paper, and pooled awkwardly around his waist, gathering in loose folds that made him look even smaller than he already was. He couldn't help but run his tiny hands nervously over the sleeves, the texture brushing against his palms as though mocking his attempt to smooth out the creases.
She was tubing like crazy.
Everything about the outfit — its simplicity, its innocent charm — clashed with the teenager trapped in his mind. But this was part of the script, wasn't it? The beginning of canon, where young Izuku Midoriya's life would inevitably intertwine with other people's. Well, one in particular, if his speculations were correct. They most certainly were.
Inko — her mouth clamped around the handle of a comb and a bristle brush in each hand — knelt before him like a warrior preparing for battle. Izuku stood awkwardly on the wobbly bathroom stool, his tiny feet crammed into stiff moccasins that pinched just enough to add to his discomfort. His arms stretched out to the sides as if he were being fitted for a suit, and his face was turned firmly toward the bathroom wall, the empty tub below mocking his silent plea for drowning. Please, stop.
Inko's green eyes burned with an intensity he hadn't seen in years — or lifetimes, really. It was a look that radiated pure determination, like iron left too long in the sun, dry and unyielding. The comb between her pearl teeth didn't wobble even a millimetre under the granite grip of her jaw, and she wielded the brushes like an artist furiously sketching the masterpiece of her life.
It was endearing, honestly — if it weren't for the fact that he was the canvas. Izuku couldn't decide whether to laugh at her or let his toddler instincts win for the first time since he had reborn and just fucking cry. For now, he settled on slumping forward in surrender, the faint tickle of the brush bristles against his scalp his only consolation.
Inko finally snorted, abandoning the brushes on the sink with a clatter. Her hands smoothed over the folds in Izuku's apron, fussing over them until they blended seamlessly into the light blue t-shirt he wore underneath. "That's it," she said softly, her voice tinged with satisfaction. Flattening her palms against his tiny shoulders, she guided him into a slow turn, as if he were a clay pot spinning under her careful touch. "Look."
Izuku twisted reluctantly to face the mirror, his breath catching in his throat. He choked on the saliva he forgot to swallow, the sour taste of bile threatening to rise. His fingers twitched nervously, fumbling to pinch the pockets of his stiff khaki pants as a grimace spread across his face. What the hell?
Maybe it was a failing on his part. Someone else, in his position, might have confronted this reality much sooner. Yet, this was the first time he had truly looked at himself in the mirror since reincarnating as Izuku Midoriya. He had avoided it deliberately, postponing what he imagined would have been a profoundly unsettling moment.
After all, he already knew what he would have seen: a gnarled little boy with a mop of seaweed-coloured hair, a smattering of freckles, and wide, beady eyes.
Except — he was wrong.
The child staring back at him was undeniably Izuku Midoriya, but there was something different, something subtly unfamiliar. The known features were all there: the soft curl of his lips, poised for the kind of earnest smile only a hero-obsessed boy could summon; the still-rounded structure of his jaw and cheeks that hinted at youth and innocence.
But then there were the small surprises — the faintly arched lines of his eyebrows, sloping ever so slightly at the corners in a way that felt almost aristocratic, to begin with.
What changed were the colours.
It was like Horikoshi and Bones had decided to mess with the original Deku's palette, twisting it into something entirely off-model. His hair was still a tangled, chaotic mess, but the friendly green was almost gone, except for some hard to catch highlights.
In its place was black — dark and glossy, almost too sleek for someone like him. It looked like it belonged to a brooding antihero rather than a timid protagonist.
His skin was pale, smooth, and unblemished, devoid of the familiar dusting of freckles that should have given his face warmth and character. Instead, it made him look sterile, almost doll-like, as if someone had taken an eraser to the imperfections that made Izuku feel real. Made him quirky. But it was his eyes that caught him the most off guard; the furthest thing from the real Izuku. The irises felt incredibly unfamiliar.
They were flat. Dull. A washed-out gray that had no business being so lifeless, not in the face of a child. And yet, there they were, reflecting his own deadpan stare. Gray because, apparently, he'd inherited his father's worst feature. Just his luck.
If his expression had been brighter, more childlike—if the sun had caught them at just the right angle—maybe, maybe someone could have squinted and said, "Oh, your eyes aren't really that mud-shit colour! They're actually more green than grey."
Like something straight out of an anime or a sappy rom-com. A reborn baby can dream.
But no. Not with the look he was giving himself now. Grim, indifferent, as if he had already resigned himself to that face.
Izuku ran a hand through his hair, the dark strands sliding through his fingers like ribbons of ink. He tilted his head slightly, watching the unfamiliar boy in the mirror mimic his movements with perfect precision. It - that body - felt his for the first time in so long that he had forgotten the sensation.
His face was silent. There wasn't a better way to describe it, even for a child so young. It carried an unnatural stillness, one that didn't quite belong to someone with only three years of life behind them. If anything, he looked like the kind of rich, spoiled brat you'd see in a drama—a kid with polished shoes, absent business-tycoon parents, and a slight air of unearned superiority.
Izuku pressed his small palm against his cheek. His skin was soft, smooth, and unblemished, but it didn't stop him from scratching lightly at the surface with his fingertips, dragging them slowly down as though he were trying to scrub away some invisible grime. It wasn't dirt, nor a mask.
"Uh, yeah," Inko's voice broke through the quiet, a touch of awkward affection in her tone. She was used to his spacing out.
He flicked his gaze back to the mirror, catching the faint flush painting his rounded cheeks. Her hands were still resting on his tiny shoulders, warm and steady, grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.
"You're a sweetheart," she said softly, her smile tender and proud. Well, true.
The image in the glass could have been plucked straight out of a Hallmark movie—a mother kneeling behind her son, adjusting his clothes with gentle pats, her expression brimming with fondness. Her head tilted.
It should have been comforting. Instead, Izuku felt frozen. It felt pretty anime-style.
He couldn't shake the shock settling deep in his chest. Why did he look like this? Like the dead mouse version of Midoriya Izuku?
The darker hair, the lifeless eyes, the pale, porcelain skin. It all came together to create a face that felt foreign and yet so unnervingly familiar. That was something Shawn's.
He didn't have time to stop and think, not with Inko's constant fussing over his appearance and her murmured reassurances filling the air. Before he knew it, he was in the car, his legs swinging in the booster seat as he tried to ignore the creeping sense of unease bubbling in his chest. Was he doing right?
After about ten minutes of awkward silence and Inko, the car slowed to a stop next to a vibrant rhododendron bush, its pink blooms drooping slightly in the humid morning air. Inko turned off the engine, her hands lingering on the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary before she exhaled and offered him an encouraging smile.
Shizuoka Prefecture Kindergarten was spread out before them like a cheery pastel fortress. The building itself was flat and sprawling, designed with an almost exaggerated practicality. Its tapered shape stretched across a significant expanse, an unbroken line of wide windows glinting faintly in the sunlight. Still, the cold winter was there.
At the center of its elliptical structure was a carefully maintained patch of dewy grass, dotted with clusters of wildflowers and surrounded by miniature paths for small feet to run along. The distant hum of children's laughter echoed faintly, paired with the faint creak of a swing-set somewhere deeper inside the grounds. Heaven for kids.
Inside, Izuku imagined endless meters of polished parquet flooring, arranged in neat grids beneath tiny tables and chairs meant for a much simpler time of life. The thought was both oddly charming and completely unsettling. He had to actively pretend.
Izuku wrinkled his nose as he stepped through the wrought iron gate for the first time, its black bars rising tall and tapering into shimmering points against the overcast sky.
The cool morning air pressed insistently against his green jacket, which he clutched tightly to his small chest. He sniffed, his nose stinging from the chill, and his thin infant body shivered beneath its layers. His skin felt too fragile, stretched thin over bones that barely seemed to hold him together.
The cold slipped past his defences effortlessly, burrowing into his sternum until his breaths trembled, releasing wisps of pale condensation that floated in the air before dissolving. It was an icy January.
His nose dripped, no doubt reddened, and he couldn't help but glance up in annoyance at the pale little hand locked in Inko's firm grip. Izuku's immunity system was a fraud.
Inko's fingers were warm but slightly clammy, and he could feel her tension in the way her palm pressed tightly against his. Even through her turtleneck, he could see the faint sheen of sweat forming at the nape of her neck. She was really, really nervous.
Nervous enough that her normally gentle grip felt suffocating. Izuku exhaled slowly, the puff of condensed air a small, fleeting distraction from the unease that had settled low in his chest. Her fingers were trembling.
They walked along a winding path, its surface uneven and weathered, as if carved by years of footsteps and neglect. The cobblestones were mottled with faint green moss, their edges bordered by shallow grooves that seemed to ripple through the ground like quiet echoes of the past.
Tufts of shiny grass sprouted sporadically between the stones, glistening with dew that hovered just above freezing, promising slippery steps and cold, rigid, wet shoes.
Izuku craned his neck, the oversized hood of his jacket bobbing slightly with the movement. His sharp gray eyes flickered over his surroundings, desperately scanning for anything that might have grounded him, something familiar to tether that strange, foreign scene to his newly routine life.
The kindergarten courtyard felt alien, its manicured patches of lawn and scattered playground equipment starkly contrasting the untamed vibrancy of his usual walks through the neighborhood. The air carried a chill that seemed to accentuate the unnatural quiet, broken only by the occasional shout of a child from somewhere out of sight.
He adjusted his steps, the crunch of gravel beneath his feet punctuating his restless thoughts. Even the faint sound of the damp grass brushing against his moccasins felt invasive, a reminder of how far removed he was from the calm safety of home.
A young woman with voluminous brown hair and uneven bangs greeted them in the lobby, her smile wide and polished, like it had been practiced a hundred times in front of a mirror.
Her eyes, smooth and polished like marbles, rested on Izuku with a warmth that felt genuine at first glance — though to him, it carried the naive affection of someone who loved children only in theory, never having endured the reality of raising one.
She exchanged a few polite, reassuring words with Inko, her tone laced with professional cheer. Her hand briefly touched Inko's shoulder, a gesture meant to comfort, as she assured her, "He'll be just fine with us."
Then, with a quick shift, the young woman bent at the knees, lowering herself to Izuku's eye level. Her pink kindergarten teacher's coat rustled faintly, revealing a thin chain around her neck and a pendant tucked discreetly beneath the soft fabric.
Her hands gripped her thighs for balance as her smile widened further, her voice dipping into an exaggerated sing-song rhythm, the kind adults thought children found delightful.
"We're going to have so, so much fun together, Izuku-chan," she cooed, drawing out the syllables as though they were sprinkles on a delicious cupcake.
Izuku looked at her, his expression blank as he studied her face, trying to match her cheerful demeanour with the cold air that still clung to his jacket. He blinked slowly, feeling the weight of the moment bear down. This was it — the start of a chapter he hadn't signed up for but would have to live through nonetheless. Let the game begin.
It was not just his mother anymore. Inko could deal with his quirkiness; she wasn't a danger for him - well, when she wasn't trying to cook dinner. The outside world, instead, was more difficult to fool, to bend to his lies.
Too bad he wasn't really a child.
"You can call me Nei-chan," she said, her voice smooth but energetic, punctuating her words with an exaggerated cheeriness. Her hands fluttered in small welcoming gestures, her fingers splayed wide as though her warmth needed the extra space to breathe.
That smile of hers, impossibly wide and blinding, might as well have been carved from stone for how unyielding it was.
"Your new friends are already inside," she added, her tone shifting to something conspiratorial. "Today, we'll use crayons." She almost whispered the word crayons, her lips curling around it like it was a sacred secret meant only for him.
He wanted to laugh.
Then, she giggled—a light, airy sound that fizzled in the air, as if the mere thought of coloured wax sticks brought her uncontainable joy. Was she looking for a reaction?; it seemed like she was.
Izuku's tiny fingers twitched, curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. He tilted his head, the hood on his back bobbing slightly as he peered up at her, his expression somewhere between confused and unimpressed. Nei-chan, huh? It was such a harmless, sweet name, and somehow it rolled off her tongue like an invitation. She was an expert.
And yet, it didn't repulse him, not like he thought it would. Maybe it was her energy, the way she barrelled into his space like a cannonball, words jagged but never cutting, her wide eyes like beacons of genuine enthusiasm. Or maybe it was just his body — this unfamiliar, small body — reacting for him.
A reflex, perhaps, buried in the skin of a child too young to resist the pull of warmth and attention. It was a big possibility.
Whatever it was, it left him feeling something unfamiliar. He didn't exactly like her — he wasn't that far gone — but there was an unconscious flicker of approval, buried somewhere deep. A small part of him thought, maybe she's okay. And that wasn't a thought he had for just anybody, it was a death sentence for him. He didn't trust her.
Or, perhaps, it reminded him of one of the young nuns who had taken care of him during a reassignment to a new foster family in his old life. Neijire — that had been her name.
The resemblance was ironic enough to cement the association in his mind, and the thought teased at the edges of his composure.
He decided, then and there, that Nei-chan would be adopted in the same way Inko had been. If Inko was the eldest in his imagined hierarchy, Nei-chan could easily be the middle child.
Her energy was just chaotic enough to fit. Maybe she really was a middle child.
When the girl extended her hand — small, soft, and uncalloused — toward him, Izuku glanced at it for a brief moment, the corners of his mouth quirking up in quiet amusement. Without hesitation, he released his mother's hand, her warmth fading as he replaced it with Nei-chan's. His tiny fingers curled around her long, delicate one, and for the first time that life, his lips shifted into something that might have resembled a smile.
It was slow, subtle — a little too precise for a child of his age. There was a softness to it, but it was tinged with an unmistakable air of condescension, as if he were humouring her, indulging the little game she seemed so eager to play. She was really funny.
Nei-chan didn't seem to notice — or perhaps she simply chose not to. Her face lit up in return, her warmth spilling over like sunlight, too bright and blinding to be contained.
Inko crunched like a dry leaf underfoot; her whole frame seemed to fold inwards.
When he and Nei-chan turned to her, she was covering her mouth, stifling a gasp against her elbow. Tears brimmed at the edges of her green eyes, glistening like dew on a blade of grass, threatening to spill over at any second.
Before he could say anything, she threw a clumsy, exaggerated flying kiss in his direction, her lips trembling as she aimed it toward his cheek. "Mommy will be back for you soon, 'Zuku," she squeaked, her voice shaky, almost swallowed by the awkwardness of her attempt to keep her composure. Her shoulders quivered as if caught in a chill, and before he could roll his eyes, she spun on her heel with the urgency of someone fleeing the scene of a crime.
Gosh, usual Inko behaviour.
She practically bolted for the exit, her steps echoing faintly in the quiet lobby. It was like she feared even a moment's hesitation would undo her resolve. It was all so dramatic.
Seriously. Did every mother have to turn this into some kind of soap opera?
Izuku sighed softly, his tiny hand still clutching Nei-chan's finger. He could feel her glance down at him, her own smile faltering slightly at his nonchalance. He didn't bother looking up; he could already picture her puzzling over his lack of typical childlike distress. It was not like he wasn't trying.
But what was he supposed to do? Cry? Wail? Chase after Inko in some over-the-top display of longing? No, thanks. He had a reputation to maintain — even if it was entirely in his own head. Exactly for that reason, even.
Unexpectedly, Nei-chan laughed even harder, her head shaking. "You are such a sweet, smart and well behaved baby, aren't you, Izuku-chan?"; what?; was she on drugs?
Nei-chan and Izuku exchanged a quiet glance. For a moment, it felt like a shared understanding passed between them, though neither spoke. Finally, she straightened up, brushing her legs off with her free hand, and gave a small, encouraging tug to his arm. "Come on, Izuku-chan," she said softly, her voice still warm, still trying to coax out a reaction from him. She didn't manage to.
She led him down a long hallway adorned with gouache paintings and finger-paint masterpieces hanging from the walls, their colors smudged and chaotic in that way only a child's creativity could be. The faint scent of paint and glue lingered in the air. Their steps echoed faintly on the marble floor, a soft patter like the rhythmic tapping of rain. Izuku's small moccasins squeaked faintly, making him grit his teeth in irritation.
When they reached a wooden door, Nei-chan paused to open it, her hand resting briefly on the handle. As the door creaked inward, Izuku was hit with a sudden wave of warmth. The heat was heavy and humid, thick with the scent of crayons, construction paper, and the faint tang of sweat from so many tiny and fragile bodies crammed into one room.
It wasn't much different from what he had imagined. Tables and chairs were scattered neatly throughout the room, each child seated in their place, surrounded by their little groups of friends. The chatter was a soft murmur, punctuated by giggles and the occasional scrape of a chair leg against the floor that made his skin crawl.
About thirty small heads were bowed intently over sheets of paper, their crayons gripped tightly in pudgy fingers as they scrawled and scribbled with the kind of wild abandon only children could muster. The scene felt oddly surreal, like something out of a picture book he barely remembered from his first childhood. It had not been long.
When the door clicked softly shut behind them, about ten heads swiveled in their direction. Wide, curious eyes fixed on Izuku, their gazes heavy and unyielding. He felt their attention like a spotlight, and for a brief moment, his small body stiffened. His eyes were cold, almost smoky grey as his father's.
"Everyone," Nei-chan said cheerfully, her voice breaking the silence like a burst of sunlight. "We have a new friend joining us today. This is Midoriya Izuku-chan. Say hello!"
That was it, the moment he had been waiting and preparing obsessively for. Izuku swallowed hard, his lips twitching in a futile attempt to form some kind of polite smile. Wide, curious eyes fixed on Izuku, their gazes heavy and unrelenting, as though sizing him up from head to toe.
Ew; so many kids.
He shuffled forward a step, released Nei-chan's hand, and bowed deeply at the waist, his small hands pressed together in front of him. "My name is Midoriya Izuku," he said in a maybe too steady voice, that carried just enough weight to seemsincere. "Please take good care of me.";
Typical Japanese greeting.
The murmurs that followed were soft and scattered, but friendly enough. A few of the children whispered among themselves, their giggles and hushed comments buzzing like bees in the warm, humid air. Izuku's eyes flicked up, catching the curious expressions of his new classmates. Some waved shyly, others just stared, their heads cocked slightly like inquisitive, curious puppies.
"Alright, everyone," Nei-chan said, clapping her hands once to draw attention back to herself. "Let's all make Midoriya-kun feel welcome. Izuku-chan, why don't you sit at that table over there?" She gestured toward a smaller table near the window, where some kids sat doodling on large sheets of paper.
Izuku nodded, bowing slightly again out of reflex, before making his way to the table, feeling the weight of their stares on his back the entire way. He was starting to get upset.
Great. He was already off to a textbook start, perfectly fitting the role of awkward new kid. Just what he'd hoped for. Great. This was going to be just as fun as he'd thought.
The walls were canary yellow — so bright it felt like they were trying to force cheerfulness into the room. That color seemed to haunt him, like the persistent hum of a fluorescent light. An orange fire crackled behind the glass of a mushroom-shaped stove in the corner, the warmth radiating outward in faint waves. Izuku's breath hitched.
Maybe it was because he hadn't been outside much — not at all, really — but the more he stared, the more surreal the scene became, like a distorted watercolour painting coming to life. It was upsetting and mesmerising.
He wasn't sure where to focus. There were plenty of adorable children, small and soft, their cheeks flushed with the heat of the room. But Izuku's eyes were inevitably drawn to the ones that weren't quite so adorable.
The opposite, actually. His gaze flickered to a boy covered in shimmering scales, his skin reflecting the firelight like a mosaic of tiny, iridescent tiles. Nearby, a girl with unnervingly long limbs — almost vine-like — scribbled intently on a sheet of paper, her elbows nearly brushing the floor as she worked, sticking out her purple tongue.
Another child had what looked like antennae poking out from the top of his head, twitching slightly as though detecting changes in the air. Izuku swallowed hard when his eyes landed on a kid whose hair and facial structure bore an unsettling resemblance to a monkey. He was hairy and huge.
It wasn't just the unnatural features, though. Some of the children moved in ways that were alien. Too fluid, too sharp, or too erratic, like they were operating on entirely different wavelengths from the human body he remembered. They had Quirks.
And yet, amidst all of that, there was one head of messy blond hair and a pair of sharp ruby-red eyes that stood out starkly against the chaos. He was tiny and cherubic. His rosy mouth was open wide as he yapped to all his table about something. He was puffing up his chest and he was standing with a foot on the small chair in a pose of victory as he moved his paper in the air like a giant flag.
Izuku tore his gaze away quickly, forcing himself to focus on the far wall instead. This wasn't the time to get caught up in familiar faces. Not yet. He needed to focus.
Izuku sat quietly at the rectangular, twelve-seat table, its plastic surface a muted straw-yellow that seemed to radiate an oddly clinical vibe. He lowered himself into the only empty chair at the far right corner, grateful for the solitude. The classroom buzzed with the chatter of children, their voices high-pitched and eager. The noise felt like a distant hum, muffled by his own, smashing thoughts.
A teacher, slightly older than Nei-chan, with a few gray strands woven into her tight bun, approached him. She placed a white sheet of paper and a small basket of crayons in front of him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Here, Izuku-chan", she said.
There was a gentle warmth in her manner, but Izuku couldn't help feeling like an outsider, caught between his adult mind and the child's body he inhabited. The crayon basket clinked as she nudged it closer, her hands still steady and practiced from years of guiding children.
As he stared at the colours — vivid reds, blues, and yellows — he wondered whether it was too late to go back to the familiarity cruelty of his old world. But that was an impossible wish, wasn't it?
Around him, the other children didn't seem to feel the weight of his disquiet. Their innocence made everything seem so simple.
Several of them leaned over the table, craning their necks with open curiosity to see what he would draw. Their wide eyes sparkled with that familiar, almost naive excitement, eager for his reaction, or perhaps just hoping to be a part of something. He wanted that too.
"Are you going to draw a hero?" one of them asked, her voice piping up over the table as she nudged another child aside to get a better look. It was always about heroes, uh?
Izuku blinked, his gaze shifting between the eager faces and the blank page in front of him. A hero? The question caught him off guard. His chest tightened slightly, but he forced his lips into something of a smile, trying to push down the unease that had begun to rise within him.
Meanwhile, others of the group seemed just as eager to introduce themselves, standing and giving overly formal little bows, their tiny heads tilted at perfect angles as if they'd rehearsed it in some old-fashioned etiquette book. They spoke in high-pitched voices, their sentences polite but stiff, as though they were following an invisible script.
Izuku's fingers hovered over the crayon basket. The world outside the classroom seemed to fade, but in this new, strange space, he couldn't help but feel like the awkward one — like he was standing still while everyone else moved forward. But for now, he could only try to move with them, sketching a smile on his face as best he could.
Izuku felt the crayon settle in his hand, the dark green tip pressing against the paper with a soft, reluctant squeak. He hadn't intended to draw at all, but it seemed like the only thing left to do. His mind wandered back to the question that still echoed in his thoughts — "Are you going to draw a hero?".
What did that even mean now?; His gaze drifted toward the table across the room, where a spiky-haired boy was happily focused on his own drawing. The kid's eyes sparkled with an energy Izuku couldn't quite place, and that slow burn of focus on his face reminded Izuku of what he would have become. Fierce, wild and almost fearless.
There was something about him, despite his three years, that radiated with an undeniable confidence. Izuku's hand hovered over the paper for a moment, the crayon tip barely touching the surface, before he let out a soft sigh. He understood the fandom now.
He couldn't help but think about that messy blond hair, as bright as the sun, and those sharp ruby eyes, jabbering away with a group of other children, his words coming out in a mixture of excited squeals and unintelligible shouts. He wanted to be seen, heard.
Izuku didn't know why, but the way his energy practically radiated from him made Izuku's mind go blank for a moment.
That loud, brash little kid was so unapologetically himself, his voice rising in volume like it was a challenge to everyone around him. Even at three years old, it seemed like he was already trying to carve out a space for himself, unwilling to be ignored.
The way the boy had pouted and crossed his arms after a particularly loud protest reminded Izuku of something — a small, spiky dog, one that yapped without any concern for whether anyone was listening. A Pomeranian, maybe, with its fluffy, over-the-top energy and its sharp little barks, always looking like it was ready to take on the world despite its tiny size.
He was similar to a landmine.
Izuku's fingers twitched, and before he could really think about it, he found himself sketching out two small v's at the top of the page, the crayon dragging over the smooth paper, outlining the soft, pointy ears of a small dog. He frowned, focused.
It was squat and lumpy, with exaggerated features that made it look like a cartoon. A Pomeranian, puffy and proud, its little snout pushed forward, as though it were sitting there, ready to bite. It was pretty.
It wasn't a hero, certainly not the symbol of justice that everyone expected. It was a silly little dog — rounded, a bit awkward, with oversized ears that flopped outward in a kind of exaggerated way and uncovered teeth.
Yet, it wasn't just a dog to him; it was a reflection of that loud, fiery energy he had just witnessed. The boy with the bright eyes and wild spirit reminded him of that dog, demanding attention, always full of life.
The Pomeranian, with its fluffy coat and proud little stance, was almost a metaphor for the boy — small but mighty, brash but undeniably full of heart. Izuku couldn't help but smile at the thought as he continued to outline the tiny dog on the paper. Maybe he didn't need to worry about drawing a hero just yet. Maybe, for now, that dog was enough.
It felt better to draw the dog, a quirky, soft thing, instead of trying to fit into the mold of something so heavy, so idealised. For the moment, the Pomeranian was his own little rebellion — a way to capture the energy of the tiny Bakugou Katsuki he had just seen, without the pressure of living up to the image of a hero. He had to become one, anyway.
Izuku flinched at the sudden shriek that came from the child sitting next to him. The sound was so loud, so high-pitched, it almost felt like it vibrated right through his bones. He could feel the reverberation in his eardrum, as though it had been magnified by the small room. The kid was practically vibrating with energy, and his whole body seemed to spill out onto the table, knocking it slightly off-balance as he leaned in closer to Izuku's drawing. Like - very, very, very close.
"Uaaaaaah!" The child's voice had a wild, uninhibited quality to it, like the kind of scream only a three-year-old could pull off — pure, unrestrained excitement. The black eyes that stared up at him were wide, shining with such eagerness it felt like they might pop right out of his head. Izuku blinked, momentarily distracted, before the kid's face appeared even closer to his, almost nose-to-nose with the sheet of smooth paper.
The little boy's hand shot out, placing his own paper right in front of Izuku's face, nearly blocking his view of his half-finished pomeranian. "Me too! Me too!" he chirped in an almost singsong voice, his round cheeks puffing out like ripe grapefruits. Izuku had to blink a few times, feeling the pressure as the child's eager face didn't pull away an inch.
The child's breath, warm and slightly damp, filled Izuku's senses, as he couldn't move.
"I'm Kentan," the boy added with a proud little smile, as though saying his name could somehow make everything about this moment more official. "Ken-tan, understand?". The way he enunciated each syllable with exaggerated emphasis only made him sound even younger, and Izuku nodded awkwardly, trying to figure out where to look with those wide, dark eyes fixed so intently on him.
Izuku, already flustered from the sudden attention, tried to focus on getting the drawing for Kentan quickly done, though his hand was beginning to tremble a little under the pressure. A neko-style cat — a cute, rounded face with oversized ears and a tiny triangle nose — was all he could manage in that moment. It wasn't the greatest, but it was a simple design, something easy for the child to recognise. What was that enthusiasm?;
His pencil hovered uncertainly over the page for a moment, but Izuku pushed through the discomfort, scratching a few lines.
The boy, Kentan, was still watching him, his eyes too close, as if expecting something magical to appear from Izuku's hands. There was no judgment in his gaze, no pressure to make the perfect drawing. It was just the overwhelming enthusiasm of a child who wanted to share the same joy that Izuku felt, even if he didn't entirely understand it.
Izuku carefully finished sketching the cat's little whiskers, his own mind still racing from the interaction, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for Kentan's unrestrained openness.
Despite his overwhelming enthusiasm, Kentan wasn't asking for anything complex — just something simple, something that Izuku could give.
Even a simple drawing was enough.
And just like that, Izuku found himself with trembling fingers, his hand sore from the cramps that had started to set in. His little fingers had lost count of how many drawings he had done by now.
Just too many.
The pile of crayons in front of him seemed to have multiplied to a ridiculous number—fourteen different colours, all scattered in every direction like a rainbow exploded across his desk. A small line of children had formed to his right, eagerly holding out more and more white paper to draw on for them.
He couldn't believe it. He felt like he'd drawn forty-five cats, twenty-seven rabbits, and fifty-two trees. Honestly, what was the obsession with trees? He could barely keep track anymore. He had been enslaved.
The request had started innocent enough, but the longer he sat there, the more repetitive it became. By now, he was practically sketching them out of reflex.
Was it just the simplicity of the shapes they asked for, or was it the strange satisfaction they got from his drawings? He couldn't tell anymore, but the pile of finished papers on his side was starting to feel like it could fill an entire filing cabinet.
Finally, he thought he'd satisfied the crowd. The little ones had all shuffled back to their seats, some already coloring in their own versions of his sketches. Izuku leaned back in his chair, hoping for a moment to catch his breath. But as he started to exhale, a small shadow stretched over his paper. He looked up slowly, feeling the weight of someone's presence suddenly hovering over him.
A familiar spike of dread rose in his chest, but he had no choice but to tilt his head upward, searching for the source of the shadow. When his eyes finally met the source, it made his throat tighten. Today wasn't his lucky day.
Ruby eyes stared at him with an intensity that made Izuku's heart race. The little boy in front of him looked almost fragile, with pale skin and soft cheeks, yet his gaze was anything but innocent. It was fierce, like a small fire burning too brightly for someone so young.
His bottom lip was hooked over his top in a grimace, and his little fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that the edges of his blue apron wrinkled under the pressure.
Izuku's breath caught. He might have thought the boy was about to cry, but there was no mistaking the fierce determination that radiated from him. The intensity was palpable, even if his small form made him look almost comically out of place with such a grown-up expression. Bakugou looked delicate.
The child's wide ruby eyes narrowed as they stared directly at Izuku, sizing him up with a confidence that didn't match his age. He stood there, stock-still, as if daring Izuku to say something, to react. The pressure of the stare was strong and suffocating, like the boy was trying to push something onto him — expectation, anger, or maybe both.
Izuku, a bit frozen and surprised by the unspoken challenge, slowly met the boy's gaze. He wasn't sure what to do with the look, so he just stared back. The kid's small fists didn't loosen, his shoulders tense as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment.
For a moment, Izuku just looked at him, unsure of how to respond to this unrelenting stare. Was Bakugou angry? Upset? Or was it something deeper? He felt the weight of the silence, broken only by the rhythmic sound of crayons scraping on paper from the other children around them.
For a brief moment, Izuku was caught between sympathy and confusion. It was clear that Katsuki had a kind of raw, untamed energy, but it wasn't the kind of energy that Izuku was used to seeing in children. It was as if he already knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to demand it; it was already his.
The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, but then, without warning, the boy dropped the grimace for a fraction of a second. His tiny hands opened and his fingers curled into the air, as if trying to make an invisible connection. He stepped closer to Izuku, his eyes still sharp and searching.
And in that moment, it was clear—despite the fierceness of his gaze, this boy, with all his bravado, was still just a kid. A pretty one, too.
"Oi," his voice was high-pitched, with just a hint of scratchiness, almost a mutter that Izuku felt deep in his chest. It was a voice that would have surely grown into a roar someday, but for now, it was a sharp challenge that made the whole room comically pause.
The children, who had been excitedly chattering and playing just moments ago, suddenly fell silent. Their little eyes grew wide, and the atmosphere shifted in an instant. Some dropped their crayons with a soft clink, others stared at the boy who was, in their eyes, the center of attention. It was clear — this was a rite of passage.
Izuku felt the weight of every set of eyes on him as they exchanged worried glances, knowing instinctively that the next few moments would set the tone.
"What the hell are you doing?" The words came out with an edge, sharp and demanding. The young Bakugou Katsuki stood in front of him, cheeks flushed and ruby eyes burning with intensity.
His small body was coiled tight with energy, like a spring ready to snap.
They were waiting for him. Would he pass or fail? Would he get approval from the small boy with the fierce eyes, the one who radiated a power that seemed to defy his size? Izuku's fingers tightened around his crayon, the weight of the moment pressing in on him.
Izuku hooked his elbow on the back of his small chair, slipping his legs out from under the table. He turned his torso fully toward the other boy, meeting his gaze head-on.
"Drawing," he said, his voice steady and deliberate, though his grip on the crayon betrayed a hint of tension.
A little girl with pigtails sitting across from him eagerly held up the bunny drawing Izuku had made for her. "Mh, mh," she muttered in proud confirmation, her braids bouncing as she nodded enthusiastically.
Katsuki's frown deepened. He barely spared her a glare, the intensity of which was enough to freeze her in place. "Shut up," he muttered sharply, his voice high-pitched but firm. The little girl deflated immediately, sinking back into her small yellow chair like a balloon losing air. Such a troublesome child.
Satisfied with her silence, Katsuki turned his fiery ruby eyes back to Izuku. The room felt even quieter now, the air thick with unspoken tension. Izuku didn't flinch, though his fingers flexed slightly against his knee.
He tilted his head, waiting, while Katsuki seemed to size him up, his small fists still clenched at his sides. He was so tiny, yet eager to intimidate.
Katsuki's small arm shot out with the precision of a predator, snatching the paper in front of Izuku with an aggressive tug.
The very drawing that had, for some reason, sparked this entire chaotic scene. Izuku's fingers twitched at the sudden loss, but he didn't reach out to reclaim it. Instead, he stared up at the blond boy, baffled by the sheer intensity radiating off his tiny frame.
What was his problem? Didn't Bakugou always have some emotional complex bubbling beneath his every action? - How had Izuku landed in that funny child-play of stubbornness?; He was irritated.
Katsuki held the drawing up high, his small finger jabbing at the crayon lines with the force of a nail being hammered. The paper crumpled slightly under the impact, the Pomeranian's face becoming more distorted with every tap. "What's so funny to all of you about a nerd drawing these horrible squiggles?" he barked, his voice shrill but carrying enough authority to make the other kids shrink in their seats.
Behind him, a child from Katsuki's table — a boy with flat black hair and a nose smudged with dirt — nodded in agreement. "Yeah!" the boy chimed, his voice raspy with unearned confidence. "Katsuki can already write his name!". With that, he waved a piece of paper as if it was proof in a courtroom, his lips curling into a smug smirk.
In bold, bright orange characters scrawled unevenly across the paper, the name Bakugou Katsuki flashed proudly. The strokes were shaky, the angles imperfect, but for a three-year-old, it was undeniably impressive. Katsuki's friend held it high above his head like a banner of victory, his smirk widening with every passing second.
A collective chorus of "ooooooh" and "aaaaaah" rippled through the room as children craned their necks and shuffled closer to get a better look at the sacred sheet. Even the little girl with pigtails who had been deflated moments earlier perked up again, her wide eyes sparkling with awe.
Izuku pressed his lips together so hard they almost fused, trying to stifle the bubble of laughter rising in his chest. His gums ached as he bit down to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He couldn't help it. — it was so Katsuki to demand praise like this, even as a toddler. It really was kind of cute.
And honestly? He had to admit: for a three-year-old, it really was pretty good work.
Katsuki's crimson eyes locked onto Izuku again, gleaming with that same fiery determination. His ruby-red eyes darted back and forth from the Pomeranian, the paper with his name that his friend was holding and Izuku's face, waiting for some sort of reaction, some sign of defeat.
Instead, Izuku tilted his head slightly, almost comically not getting at all what Katsuki wanted from him, his face still unreadable, while his fingers flexed once against his knee as if testing his own patience.
This time, Bakugou's lips stretched into a smug, satisfied smile, smugly tucked in by the chorus of praise still buzzing around him. "So?" he asked, voice sharp and expectant, a huff of air puffing through his nose. "Don't tell me you actually like this crappy thing better."
Before Izuku could respond, Katsuki snatched an orange crayon from the table, his small fingers gripping it like a weapon. He slammed the paper down, leaning over it with all the focus and intensity of someone preparing for battle.
His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips — his skin felt dry today, though his palms hadn't stopped sweating since morning, the tool almost slipped from his hand.
The crayon scratched loudly against the paper, quick and jagged, as if Katsuki's hand couldn't keep up with his thoughts. When he finally finished with a triumphant grunt, Izuku leaned forward and saw it: Bakugou Katsuki scrawled in bold, uneven letters, right next to the little Pomeranian he had drawn.
The sight of those flickering, childlike characters — messy but undeniably Katsuki's — next to his silly doodle made something inexplicable twist in Izuku's chest. It wasn't pride or admiration, not really, but something softer, warmer, like the tiniest flicker of respect for the tiny force of nature standing before him. He was something.
That was the moment Izuku's brain stopped working. His gaze glued to the smoky, uneven letters Katsuki had scrawled next to the Pomeranian, he blurted out, "Crappy?". His tongue curled behind his teeth, the word dripping with incredulity. A beat passed before he added, almost too casually, "It actually looks like you."
For a moment, there was silence. Then—
BOOM. Bakugou had taken it the wrong way. Apparently. He was mad.
The sound rang out sharp and sudden, rattling the air. The children screamed, chairs scraped against the floor, and the table jerked under Izuku's arms.
His crayon rolled off the edge and clattered to the ground. Katsuki stood there, his tiny hand clenched into a trembling fist, wisps of smoke curling from his palm. The crayon he had been holding just seconds before was now an oozing puddle of steaming orange wax through his fingers. His ruby eyes were wide, lips parted, as if even he couldn't believe what had just happened. Up close was crazy.
Izuku blinked at the molten mess, then at Katsuki, and back again. "Be careful," he murmured, his voice low and steady, though his heart hammered like a drum. "You could burn yourself with the wax, wait—."
Izuku's fingers hovered near Katsuki's wrist, concern flickering in his greenish eyes, his voice soft and measured despite the chaos.
But the absolute shit par excellence, Bakugou Katsuki, had no intention of listening. As if discovering his Quirk had filled him with untouchable bravado, he wasn't shocked, immobile, or speechless. Oh, no.
Katsuki did what Katsuki always did: escalated.
His wax-stained hand shot out, seizing Izuku's wrist with a grip far too strong for his tiny frame. The heat from the molten crayon dug into Izuku's skin, and in an instant, a sharp, searing pain spiralled up his arm in concentric circles, coiling around his elbow.
The scream came before he could stop it—a raw, instinctive sound ripped from his throat. His body tensed, overwhelmed by the sudden burn. He wasn't used to this kind of pain, not in this fragile, childlike form. Tears blurred his vision. Son of a bitch.
Izuku barely had time to process what was happening before Katsuki's violent tug sent him stumbling forward.
They collided awkwardly, tiny limbs tangling as they both tumbled to the ground, Izuku over the other.
The impact knocked the air out of Izuku's lungs, and for a split second, he tasted nothing but fabric-the rough material of Katsuki's sleeve jammed into his mouth. Izuku felt small fists tugging brutally at his hair, and the pain ignited something deep and instinctual within him. He didn't think.
He reacted. He never had been the calm one.
Years of Shawn's survival tactics on the streets kicked in. Something all stray animals and desperate mites knew: when cornered, you bite. Izuku bit down on Katsuki's forearm, teeth sinking into soft, fleshy skin through the fabric of his light blue apron.
Katsuki grunted in pain, his body jerking as if electrocuted, but it didn't deter him. His free fist yanked harder at Izuku's hair, eliciting a sharp yelp from the boy beneath him. "You nerd!", Katsuki growled, voice cracking with the effort of holding back tears as he wrestled against the sharp sting in his arm.
"Let go!" Izuku shot back, muffled by fabric and flesh, his own voice edged with defiance and frustration. Around them, the room had descended into chaos. Children scattered in every direction, some running for safety while others yelled for the teacher, their high-pitched cries bouncing off the yellow walls.
A few brave - or foolish- kids stood frozen, wide-eyed spectators to the miniature brawl unfolding before them.
It was messy, clumsy, and undignified. But for both of them, it was a battle of wills neither wanted to lose. Katsuki was all sharp kicks and wild flailing, his screams blending with the wails of frightened children and the distant, panicked cries for a teacher.
Katsuki's face twisted, and Izuku, despite the agony, couldn't help but think: This is how it begins. Well, he had just made a mistake. He had reached for Katsuki just how Deku did in that damn river in canon. He had thought that he was smarter, or at least more selfish.
Tears streaked both of their flushed faces, turning their screeches into warbled gasps as they struggled against each other. By the time help finally arrived — Nei-chan and the other teacher whose name Izuku still didn't know — chaos had fully consumed the room.
Nei-chan grabbed Izuku under one arm, while the other teacher hauled Katsuki in the opposite direction. But even with their combined effort, the two three-year-olds refused to let go. Izuku's teeth remained firmly clamped on Katsuki's arm, and Katsuki's little fists stayed tangled in Izuku's hair and searing red wrist.
It wasn't until a nursery male teacher from the neighbouring classroom joined the fray that they managed to separate the two.
Izuku's jaw ached as it was forcibly pried open, releasing a wet, indented bite mark on Katsuki's arm, which had already begun to bruise. Meanwhile, Katsuki's grip on Izuku's hair was only undone after much coaxing and a few firm tugs that left strands hanging limply from his small, trembling hands.
The two were finally wrenched apart, both panting and red-faced, one with a bloody arm and the other with a burned wrist. Izuku's hair stuck up at odd angles, and Katsuki's apron had a tear that hadn't been there before. The teachers exchanged exasperated glances, their voices sharp but calm as they tried to scold and soothe the boys at the same time.
Well, Izuku thought as he rubbed his sore wrist, sneaking a glance at Katsuki, who was still glaring at him with watery, furious eyes, a fantastic first day.
And yet, as Nei-chan gently scolded him while wiping his face with a tissue, Izuku realized something strange.
Beneath the aching bruises and singed skin, he couldn't stop the small, quiet laugh bubbling up inside him.
Because, somehow, just as Nei-chan had said, he'd had so, so much fun.