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Blissful ignorance is God’s kindest blessing, one even the most diligent and observant people accept with open arms. A fear marries depth, and so comes an unwilling hand, barely nicking at the surface of the shallow truth; the hindrance of a deeper realisation met with superficial 'fact', and the eyes that look up to the sky in wilful oblivion—no person is innocent of these feelings or thoughts. It is a universal crime, something even the 'worthiest' of heroes plead guilty to.
If the truth is not bared before them, written in a universal font, legible, bold and black ink on clean white paper, raw and unfiltered, they will not seek it. If, what is written, is false print over honest scripture, than so they follow the lies easier to swallow. After all, who obligates that they investigate further? Why should they bear the responsibility?
Class 1-A are no strangers to the sin of ignorance. They are only sixteen, still young and naïve despite their trauma. Taking things at face value and believing what they see at first glance is only natural; after-all, the burden of inquiry is heavy to bear.
Like Izuku Midoriya. His smiles, his words, his easing touches and warm hugs...Midoriya is 1-A's hero among heroes, from his every gesture to the kind melody in his words, it is with gratitude that 1-A knows him as their friend. Midoriya's presence is like a silent reassurance that things will bound to be okay.
With victims like Shoto Todoroki, or Katsuki Bakugo, it's easy to read their deep pains, because they've never learnt how to mask their anger, whether it came with the winds of a blizzard or accompanying the sound of explosions set off. Smiley faces like Eijiro Kirishima's or Denki Kaminari's are a little more difficult to strip bare, but it's difficult to keep up a front at such a young age.
Besides Class 1-A are a trauma-ridden lot of twenty, carrying nightmares that latched onto them upon their entry into Yuuei and the first incident of too many at the USJ. (Some carrying those nightmares long before they walked through those gates, restless and ruined from as young as four-years-old.) Of course, it is impossible to deny their victimhood and claim ignorance to their suffering; it is impossible for them not to see at least whispers of that anxiety and hurt in each other.
Izuku Midoriya however...
He is just so unbelievably kind. With eyes, soft as feathers, and a smile bright as a rare gem; a rare, bleeding heart that cannot help but fight against the drag of blissful ignorance, knowing how much easier life would be if he just looked the other way. He's decorated with scars to prove it, a most glorious armour and evidence of his goodness.
He isn't like Todoroki, with a heart encased in ice to protect itself from knowing the pain of another bruise; isn't like Bakugo, with a fiery temper and hands so calloused his palms are numb. He'll shed tears when butterflies die, smile farewell to the fading moon on the nights where he's up until sunrise. His laugh chimes like heaven's belles, his nature sweeter than Katemfre fruit.
He's Class 1-A's caring, soulful hero. The epitome of sunshine, optimism and gentleness trapped in the small frame of Izuku Midoriya.
Oh, how lovely it is, to live in that blissful ignorance.
How devastating to know, it is inevitably, promised to shatter.
***
Class 1-A will never know an ordinary life. This will not change when they graduate to '2-A' then '3-A'; this will not change when they take over the hero charts in the following years.
Think of it as engraved for the facts of future history books that documented the lives of 'Japan's greatest legends before they came to be.'
Class 20XX will never know an ordinary life.
The reputation preceding them weeds from never-ending experiences that have left the students exhausted. Despite the vitriol Monoma from 1-B loves to spew, there is nothing 'glorious' about the spotlight that's been shone onto them to celebrate their survival. It's draining to be under the limelight so early on, and the hypervigilance the kids have leaves them feeling like sludge at the end of their best days. It's rare that they aren't dealing with some villainous ordeal or attempt on their livelihood, and though the real blame fall for their misfortune falls on the bastards who sought after them, it doesn't make their positions as hero all too enviable.
Currently, they're all in the common room, nineteen students studying diligently and quietly amongst each other in a comfortable almost-silence. (Mineta locked himself up in his dorm, and no one dared call him over in shuddering fear of what they may interrupt.)
They're sprawled across the room, sitting beside their friends with their textbooks and worksheets spread around them. Though it still was another month and a half to their exams, promoting early, collective studying kept students from procrastination and cramming while also being a (mostly) relaxing pass time for the students. The quiet sounds of pen scratching against paper, clicking computer keys, and quiet chatter foster a soothing environment where—aside from Bakugo's occasional explosive remark—tranquillity blankets the students.
They make the mistake of lowering their guard in the ambience.
Shoto feels his shoulders sag as he and Izuku review their maths worksheets side by side, his chest warm with content. Izuku's arm brushes against his, body leaning towards Shoto's left side like seeking some warmth as he gestures to where Shoto had strayed in the formula.
"What is—"
A sudden, strong breeze sweeps the room, chilling it into a swift, startled silence. Instinctually, all the students' heads turn to the draft, where one of the room windows have been latched open. A lady with tumbling, lavender hair and ebony skin is perched on the sill, a menacing gaze directed their way from pure white, void-like eyes, and blood red, close-lipped smile. Her hands are mutated, long, five-inch tails tapping at her side in a rhythmic counting: 'one, two-two, three; repeat, one, two-two-, three; repeat.' Shoto can't help grimacing at the sight of her nail beds, sinking deep into blushing crimson skin, lined with crusted blood.
...gross.
"Hello," she drawls, voice like velvet with a rural twang, crossing her bare legs over each other and cupping her knees, the tapping coming to a rest. "We haven't officially met. The name is Memoria Maesta, but most people know me as Memory.
"Who the fuck are you?" Bakugo growls, palms turned upright in waiting. Shoto notes how the rest of his classmates, too, are standing up, anticipating a fight. He's both proud and bitter to see how naturally they all fall into battle stances, fists raised and muscles rigid.
What does it say that children no older than 16 are so accustomed to fighting for their life?
Those terrifying eyes narrow at Bakugo, the scleras glowing for a flashing second his way. Bakugo winces, and the woman flashes her teeth in a predatory smile.
"Now that's no way to talk to a lady, Katsuki Bakugo."
"The hell are you saying—"
"Son of Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugo. Born April 20th, 20XX. Only child, though I don't think I need my quirk to tell me that." The lady tilts her head, scrutinising Bakugo as she starts to list more personal information. "Full of self-hatred, a putrid blend of resentment and love towards his mother, deep-rooted insecurity in his capabilities, and carrying a stench of inferiority that cannot be masked by façade of superiority he so skilfully wears. Especially towards a particular individual.
"Credits himself as the student who ended All Might's career. You must be proud."
What a wicked grin.
Bakugo pales. “What the fuck?”
"See what happens when you interrupt someone as refined as myself mid-introduction?" the villainess tuts, adjusting the sleeves of her sleek-black bodysuit. "I mean no physical harm."
Kirishima takes an impulsive step forward when Yaoyorozu's hand shoots out, holding him back.
"Don't engage," she orders sternly. "We have three alarm systems for emergencies like this. Even if they manage to stall the first alarm, breaching the window from the outside triggers the second one without our direct interference. And even if they manage to stall the second one, when both alarms experience some sort of malfunction or glitch, the third emergency system will be triggered. Someone will be here within the ten minutes."
Memory clicks her tongue.
"You're a smart little bitch aren't you?" she mocks. "You're right, I'm only here to mess around for a few minutes, right now. I made a promise that I wouldn't do more than have some fun." She leans back, everything about her demeanour setting alarm bells in Shoto's head about her ideas of 'fun.' "I suppose I have the time to tell you a little bit of my quirk. I used a fraction of it on your dearest Bakugo."
From Shoto’s left, Izuku mumbles, “An empath quirk?”
Memory must have the hearing of a bat, because despite how quiet Izuku was, that blank gaze immediately rests on him. His spine straightens when the lady claps his way, shooting him that wide, toothy smile.
"Sort of. My quirk is more specific in that it draws on the most tragic part of a person's psyche. The deeper the trauma, the deeper the pain. The deeper the pain, the more vivid the memory, or memories, that trauma has roots in." She laughs, voice rising in tone and cheeks colouring a deep ruby as she continues to lament, "He was right in directing me here. This room is drowning with despair, although that is to be expected considering how much the 1-A—"
"What do you want?" Jiro interrupts, steely.
Memory whips to glare at her.
"What is wrong with you kids and not letting a lady finish!" she yells, eyes flashing a second time. Jiro stumbles, eyes squeezing shut on what looks to Shoto like a wave of pain. Yaoyorozu and Kaminari crowd by her as she falls to her knees, moaning in tears.
"You all better watch yourselves, or I'll broadcast to everyone what failures you are while digging into your most painful memory and drawing out enough agony your tears will be blood," she threatens, eyes still focused on the whimpering Jiro, "like how you, Kyoka Jiro, are your parents most pathetic, indecisive disappointment with a hopeless future ahead of you after giving up on your ambitions to pursue music for this."
She finally takes her attention of Jiro and directs her gaze back to the whole room, who've fallen into a cautious silence save for the two who are still helping Jiro to her feet.
"Much better," Memory says, clapping once satisfactorily. "Anyway, seeing as you're all so impatient, let's move on to the main act."
She hops off the window, the class flinching, taking a collective step backwards. Shoto's body temperature fluctuates, nerves alight, refusing to take his eyes off the intruder who casually leans against the wall, making no move to approach them—yet.
"I came here after I was told you'd all make the perfect playhouse. Now, my usually style is tearing into the minds of every person I've laid my eyes on in the room until I've successfully made a mess of them." Again, a blush is raised on her face, like the thought of ruining them was arousing. "Unfortunately, I don't have the time. So I'm settling for one of you, instead. After all, it is too, devastating, to see someone you love fall apart and know there's nothing you can do to stop it. Especially if I snag someone whose always desperate to prove that they're 'fine'."
Shoto's heart stutters. Who is she feeling drawn too? Him? Bakugo (though she's already revealed a little bit)? Hadn't Kirishima mentioned being subjected to scrutiny in middle school? Uraraka's been struggling with poverty her entire life, doesn't something like that leave its mark?
His classmates and friends, thinking along the same lines as him, subtly shift closer to those they know who deal with worse hardships.
When Memory giggles, it's too late to realise their mistakes.
"Oh, how beautifully oblivious."
In between two blinks, the lady had damn-near transported to Izuku, nails wrapped around his biceps, and transported back by the window, creating a distance between them and everyone else. Some students move forward, Shoto being one of them, eyes wide with alarm. They all freeze, and Izuku stops struggling, when those knives-for-nails are pressed against his neck, a thin line of blood beading around it, a single drop falling down his shirt.
"One more step forward and I slit his throat. My nails are sharper than Grade A daggers."
In warning, she presses her nail deeper against the skin, drawing more blood. Izuku doesn't even hiss.
"Now, Sweetheart," she coos, something ugly and clawing in Shoto protesting at the nickname, "ready to have me wrangle out all your secrets in front of your dearest friends?"
Izuku's eyes widen comically, the situation dawning on him.
"Wait, what?"
Scared, Uraraka asks, soft-spoken, "What's she talking about, Deku-kun?"
Memory's smile starts to look more like she's just baring her teeth, over-joyed to read the genuine confusion dawning on so many of their faces. Without warning, she takes the nail off his throat to jam her index fingers into Izuku's ears, drawing a pinched, pained expression.
Shoto can't help the way he moves, his soul screaming at him to get her off Izuku and protect the boy he loves.
“A slight jostle of my wrist and your friend is as good as dead," she turns to him with a sharp look. "Don’t try anything.”
Reluctantly, he steps back.
"Good. Now, get ready to watch the show.”
Before anyone can ask what she means, her scleras glow white again, a light shy of blinding. Images in the form of static-ridden holograms start to formulate before them, like her eyes were 3D projectors. Shoto looks back at Izuku, stomach sinking when he sees that, instead of that beautiful viridian gaze he knows so intimately, like Memory, his eyes are a blank, milky white.
"Oh? What's this? Is it possible for a hero student to be be diagnosed Quirkless at the age of four?"
Her voice sees to echo like spoken by a thousand souls, surrounding the room like a vibrating speaker. A deeper confusion overcomes the students, mingling with their fear, anger and worry.
'How is it possible that she's talking about Izuku?'
She is, though. The static starts to merge to form a more vivid, clear images until standing between them and the villain are life-sized holograms, so realistic Shoto's convinced if he reached out, he could touch them. There's a vague background of the doctor's office, a plump man in a white coat looking down at a much younger Izuku and his mum with an apathetic expression.
***
‘It’s unusual to see nowadays, but these X-rays are proof that your son has no quirk.’
Izuku’s mum, startled, brings a hand to cup her face.
Izuku’s body freezes, eyes glossing over blankly.
'He's quirkless.'
***
Shoto barely has the time to think, 'well what about his current quirk?' before the images come apart to reform into something new.
“An arguably well-intentioned but fragile mother who wound up using her son like an emotional tissue.”
It's of a young Izuku, again, looking no older than he'd been at the doctor's office. He's watching a familiar video of All Might that'd garnered world-wide fame, one Shoto had similarly obsessed over as a kid. Tears are welling from his eyes, big and wet and shiny, mouth quivering in an effort not to cry. He's looking at his mother, pointy a shaky finger at the screen.
***
‘Can I be a hero too?’
The woman collapses, falls to her knees and clutches his shirt, her tears spilling over. Young Izuku takes it in. ‘I’m sorry,’ she cries, over and over and over again. The child cards his fingers through her hair, and Shoto sees him fight back his tears, consoling the woman who was supposed to be his strongest support.
She continues to cry. He takes it in.
***
“That…,” Mina trails off, at a loss for words.
“Ooh,” the lady croons, her excitement growing.
'How disgusting,' Shoto thinks, curling his lip. 'To treat this like a game; like embarrassing Midoriya by exposing all these vulnerable parts of him is fun.'
“A father who abandoned him sometime after.”
The images change again. Izuku looks older, perhaps by a year or two. He's sporting a bright red mark on his cheek in the shape of a giant handprint, pressing against it with his pudgy fingers, sniffling with teary eyes. It's then that Shoto realises that they've yet to come across a memory of him crying; the unabashed weeping that Shoto and 1-A are used to. Despite being so young, he's been holding back.
...does he still do that nowadays? Hold back when crying mattered; when it reflected a real, raw pain as opposed to the passing grief of seeing ink bleed from a fallen butterfly's wings?
There's a man towering over Izuku, almost six-feet-tall, with lanky limbs, unruly black hair in Izuku's curl pattern, and freckles slighter than Izuku's. His eyes remain pixelated, a tell that Izuku'd forgotten what they looked like. The man's hand is raised, and he's snarling, smoke curling at the edges of his mouth and from his nose.
***
‘What a disgrace.’ The man seethes. ‘Both you and your mother. Pathetic.’
‘I’m sorry, Daddy,’ young Izuku blubbers, ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Sorry fixes nothing.’ His father’s face hardens. ‘I’m leaving and never setting foot here again.’
‘No, please Daddy!’ Izuku catches the fabric of his pant leg. ‘Please, please stay. Mama needs you.’
His father kicks him off, just about smirking when Izuku whimpers in pain. With a short, humourless chuckle, he walks out the door while Izuku's still crouched in pain. The young child braces himself, heaving himself up while clutching his stomach, scrambling to the door as it's slammed shut. He struggles to turn the handle when it's shown that his fingernails are mangled, bitten damn-near past the bone and slippery with blood. It takes him four attempts to finally twist it open, greeted with the empty hallway he fruitlessly sprints down searching for his father.
'Daddy!' he cries, to no response. 'Daddy!'
***
“What the fuck?” Sero whispers.
Memory cackles.
"This is far from his only interaction with pain or abandonment, though. Care for a look?"
Bakugo’s face falls.
The pixels scatter and move, faster than before.
The memories are shorter.
***
‘Useless Deku,’ a snotty-nosed kid taunts, kicking five-year-old Izuku, who’s already on the ground, ‘give up, already.’
***
They're given no time to compose themselves. The next memory builds instantaneously.
***
‘What are you going to do?’ Someone slams his food tray on a six, maybe seven-year-old Izuku’s head. He yelps, hurt, but otherwise remains subdued. ‘That’s right,’ the kid sneers. ‘Nothing. Bakugo is right. You’re really a fucking deku.’
***
Some eyes turn to the blonde, outraged, but Bakugo's entirely absorbed into the replaying memories. When the pixels scatter and shape to make a vision of him, over half a decade younger, his expression morphs into one of unadulterated horror.
The next memory plays.
***
‘Get out of the way, Deku,’ the young Bakugo growls, sounding ten times angrier than the self Shoto's more familiar with. Izuku stands protectively in front of a pixelated boy who’s quivering just as badly as he is. ‘You're still trying to play the hero? Huh?!’
He smirks and steps forward. Despite his obvious fear, Izuku doesn’t falter.
‘K-Kacchan if you d-don’t stop, I’ll be m-mad at you,’ he trembles. 'This isn't what heroes do.'
Young Bakugo’s nostrils flare.
'Who are you to lecture me?! You're below the rejects! You're a Quirkless! Do you think your opinion matters? Do you think you can stand in the same ring as me?'
His palms spark menacingly.
***
A minute of grey and black static with brief flashes of primary colours follows, like Izuku's memories of the time are going in and out.
When the image is whole and viable, again, Izuku is lying on his back, covered in burns, scrapes and bruises. He groans, uselessly smearing the blood leaking from his nose down his cheek, turning his eyes to the clouds.
***
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers to the sky.
***
Bakugo flinches under the intensity of everyone’s glares.
The villain, who Shoto's confidently deeming as batshit insane, glows despite (or, likely, because of) the growing hostility, continuing to cackle like a witch.
"Oh, I have a lot more of memories with that one, trapped in here. Let me show you one of the most emotionally charged ones."
The pixels scatter to come into the picture of an older Bakugo, dressed in an unfamiliar middle-school uniform. His eyes are wicked with anger, smirk bitter and revolted.
***
‘You know, if you wanna be a hero that badly, there’s always the quick way to do it." He pauses, eyes lightning up like having come up with the funniest joke in the world. His words are anything but. ‘Believe that you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life, and take a swan dive off the roof of the building.’
***
Kirishima can't help his gasp.
“I know it seems pretty bad, but it really wasn’t unusual. Maybe Bakugo’s words hurt more, there seems to be a feeling of sentiment buried under all that hatred, but your precious friend has been dealt with worse. Care for a glimpse?"
Shoto knows he has no choice. It's a rhetorical question. Still, he barely holds back a demanding shout of 'No!'
The next memories play successively, each no more than a few seconds long, and yet still no less devastating to be a witness to.
***
Spider Lilies sitting in a vase on a desk, dark brown where words had been singed into the wood, others carved into it. Ugly, ugly words.
Quirks of all kinds being practised on Izuku, who takes it as quietly as he can. Some wounds so deep Shoto thinks they need stitches, some bruises so dark they remind Shoto of the night sky.
Hands pulling his hair and forcing him into the toilet bowl, laughing as Izuku drowns.
***
That clip plays long enough that Shoto’s breath hitches.
‘Get him out! Stop it,’ he thinks. ‘Get him out he’s going to die!’
***
Teachers instigating fights, slipping in insults, egging students on or turning a blind eye.
Razor-blades stuffed in scuffed shoes, cutting the tips of Izuku’s fingers as he pulls them out of the rack.
Insults of all kinds being whispered, yelled at, and told to, him. Some of the worst vitriol Shoto's ever heard. Over, and over and over again.
***
“Holy shit.” Even Bakugo's astonished. “Holy shit.”
“I bet you all are impressed,” Memory quips, “at his perseverance.”
Shoto hates her, hates what she’s saying and hates how he’s overcome by dread.
"But he isn't the Man Made of Steel."
The upcoming memory features the oldest version of Izuku yet. He's in the same uniform Bakugo wore earlier, except his was torn, filthy, and covered in what looks like chunks of sludge. All Might's featured in the memory, and though it's clearly before his retirement, he's gaunt to the bone. The setting is sunset on a rooftop, and Izuku, despite what they've all just been privy too, despite the hardships he's endured, still has sparkles in his eyes as he speaks to the hero. He asks a desperate question, and even if it placating, even if it is a lie, Shoto knows what All Might has to say.
Except, for the first time, the 'everyone's hero' he's admired all his life proves to be a disappointment. In a fit of self-pity, he tells Izuku to give up. It isn't realistic, and dreams shouldn't be so grand. Never mind Izuku cannot be older than 13, maybe just shy of 14, at the time. Never mind what it'd mean to hear a simple 'yes', even if it comes from promises of pity. Never mind that All Might, in his journey to become a symbol, took on the responsibility of being a pillar of hope, too.
***
‘Oh.’
Izuku stares blankly at where All Might stood. He looks past that, starts walking to the edge of the building, and stares at the ground.
He whispers it again.
‘Oh.’
He slips off his shoes, sheds his blazer and tie and places them to the side. His arms look like paper, scarred and bruised and cut. He graces the edge, and dances along it, humming nonsensical tunes, swaying like a drunk.
One wrong step and he plummets.
There’s a sound of an explosion. Izuku startles, faltering where he holds his leg out in the air. Tears sting Shoto's eyes, heart in his throat.
Blessedly, he steps away after a moment of hesitation.
‘Maybe another time,’ he says, like a promise.
***
“What the—”
“Oh, no, no.” Memory interrupts Kaminari with a vigorous shake of her head. “We’ve yet to see the other time, though it was before this one. He really is a rather sad, pathetic person.”
And if Shoto thought the previous memory was harrowing, it's nothing compared to the next scene displayed.
***
A 12-year-old Izuku sits fully clothed in an overflowing bathtub. The water is tinged a soft pink, deeper shades of the colour wafting like smoke closer to where Izuku is. His arms hang over the tub limply, deep vertical lines bleeding sluggishly from each wrist to half-way before the bend of his elbow.
His eyes droop in an effort to stay lucid, and it seems that the little fight left in Izuku wills what little hasn't been killed of his survival instinct.
'N-Not,' he whispers to himself, clumsily turning off the tap, 'not yet.'
He manages to sit up, the blood from his arms seeping through his clothes, making the scene look like a a worse massacre.
‘Not yet.’
***
Someone throws up,
“So many fears, so much self-hate, and such a kind, broken heart.”
The pixels move to make mimics of the 1-A students. After that, mirrors of themselves should be no work to look at.
Except these aren't exact replicas of these heroes-to-be. Instead, they are mangled; broken and bleeding and literally falling apart. This version of Shoto is on his knees, charred flesh on his left side blackening by the second, eating through him to show flesh and bone. There's a long, silver knife twisted into his heart, blood leaking past lips drawn in a dead scowl.
There are titles bannered over each person.
‘Broken Lover’ is Shoto’s.
Someone sobs.
"Poor boy, always afraid, always paranoid."
And sobs. (Is Shoto sobbing, too? He might be. He isn't sure. It's hard to think straight.)
"Well, it seems like my time is up. I've done enough." Carelessly, Memory pulls out the nails, the glow in her eyes disappearing along with the pixels and static. Before anyone can regain their composure, she's disappeared, leaving them in a state of despair and chaos.
Izuku falls to his knees, hands pressed hard against his bleeding ears. Shoto's the first to rush towards him, the rest of the students remaining in a state of shock.
"Izu, Izu, Izu," he repeats, trying to sound gentle and mask his franticness. "Izuku, are you there?"
Izuku looks up at him eyes viridian once again, and his hands fall limply to his sides. Shoto uses the sleeves of his shirt to clean up some of the blood leaking into his hair, or drying on his neck, unsure of how to treat Izuku as anything but fragile, as of this moment.
“I—” His breathing is laboured. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
A broken repetition, like a mantra. Shoto's knees buckle, then, too, and without thinking he falls in front of Izuku, pulling him in a for a hug.
Although he initially flinches at the contact, it isn't long before Izuku melts into his boyfriend's embrace. His body racks with broken sobs, and continued 'I'm sorrys', like he bared any responsibility for what he endured. Shoto can't help his own tears, agonising over how much such a golden heart was subjected to, and how, up to this point, he knew damn near nothing of it.
How could the world be so cruel to a heart so kind?
It is then that Aizawa comes barrelling in, capture weapon at the ready.
“Is everything alright? The alarm triggered, and—” his words come to a pause as he looks around. All his students are either frazzled, pallor, crying or some combination of the three. There's what he thinks is vomit by Kaminari, and some of the students have yet to realise he barged in at all. Eventually, his eyes turn to Izuku, still sobbing a similarly teary-eyed Shoto whispers reassuring words to him over and over again.
The underground hero has saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives his over a decade of being in the profession. He's guided and taught classes and classes of students, mentoring some of the strongest fresh names on the hero charts.
Never did he think he could feel so helpless.
“What happened?” he asks, tone hard, edging on worried.
“U-Um,” Iida starts, his voice shaky, “there was this villain, s-she came and...” His breathing is laboured, words falling flat.
“She showed us what happened to D- Midoriya before Yuuei,” Bakugo continues for him. "What—" His voice softens... “What he went through and what he did.”
Aizawa looks at his students again, stomach coiling because what...what did his problem child go through that warranted such reactions?
“Everyone but Todoroki and Midoriya to their rooms, we’ll talk more about this later.”
They all nod absentmindedly and walk off, most of theme still dazed or in tears.
He walks over to Izuku and Shoto, the former having gone quiet, but his hold on Shoto iron-tight.
“What happened?”
Izuku startles and Shoto rubs his back soothingly. “It’s just Aizawa-Sensei,” he whispers, “I promise it’s just Aizawa-Sensei.”
Shoto looks at Aizawa with red-rimmed eyes.
“Izuku is not okay.”
***
Oh, how lovely it is, to live in that blissful ignorance...
...so long as you brace yourself for what is to come.
And how devastating it is to know, it is inevitably, promised to shatter.