Beyond A Shadow Of A Doubt

by Poprock_Pandemonium

Summary:

A Future AU of My Hero Academia. (Inspired by various tiktok and tumblr AUs)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"you're a symptom" he mutters "an ugly scar. That's all"
The reflection looks almost pitying, knowingly the man stares at him. Shadowy figure reflected in the mirror.
"scars don’t speak Midoriya"
Izuku can't do anything besides feel that familiar sense of inferiority and guilt. "then what would you call it" Izuku says annoyed.
“A truth you refuse to name.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Izuku Midoriya is now a seasoned teacher at U.A. High, celebrated for his heroism but secretly haunted by the remnants of All For One. Though AFO is long dead, Izuku suffers vivid hallucinations that are his manifestations of survivors guilt, trauma, and unresolved fear. These visons intrude on his quiet moments and threaten his grip on reality. As he mentors a new generation of students, Izuku struggles to reconcile his public image with his private torment, questioning whether he truly left All For One behind.

 

Possibly out of character and heavy cannon divergence. Tags subject to change. I work and do college full time so please be patient with my updates!

Notes:

Posting on my actual acc this time instead of my throwaway ^_^
This fic is planned to be graphic. I plan to explore themes of PTSD, emotional isolation, and violence. If you are adverse to depictions of depression, death, and severe negative mental health episodes, this will not be the fic for you. (Read at your own risk.) Hints of BakuDeku for my own indulgence, with some EraserMic to ease my suffering. (might get silly and revive togachaco ^_^)

 

(Edit: Formatting should be fixed! Please let me know in the comments if it isn't. I mainly use PC, so it might not be the best.)

Chapter 1: In The Dark Of The Night ~ (introduction preface)

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft green glow of the digital clock on the nightstand: 4:17 AM. Izuku lay on his side, eyes wide open, staring at the wall. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. He hadn’t moved in hours; sleep felt like a distant victory. Silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. Outside, there was no wind or rain against the window, no traffic, just the busy streets that were now devoid of life. Only the low hum of the city echoed faintly far below.

Then he heard it. The same callous voice. An unsettling gravel that curled a shiver of fear down his spine. “You’re wasting their potential.”

Izuku didn’t flinch. He knew the voice. He recognized the cadence. It was smooth, cold, and familiar. All For One. He turned his head slowly. The corner of the room was empty. Of course it was. But his chest tightened nonetheless.


“You teach them to be brave,” the voice continued. “But you were never brave enough to confront me on your own.”

Izuku sat up, his breath shallow. His hands trembled as he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. It was empty. He stared into it, and for a moment, his reflection warped. A face. A grin. He dropped the glass. It shattered. The sound was sharp, real. Grounding him. He closed his eyes.

“You’re not real,” he whispered. But the voice lingered. “Then why are you so shaken?”

As Izuku turned his head, he saw the wispy, smoke-like figure of All For One sitting in the chair across the room, tucked into the corner. He’s not real. Izuku knew that. He wanted to believe it. That one thought provided little comfort as he was plagued by the continued hauntings.

“You thought killing me would silence me,” it said again, softer now. “But I’m part of you. You lost one power to inherit something else.”

Izuku’s fingers curled into fists. He stood barefoot; the apartment was still. Books were stacked neatly, hero memorabilia tucked into corners. A photo of Class 1-A sat on the shelf, capturing smiling faces and hope. He couldn’t look at it. His mind, distracted by the daunting figure in the corner of his eye, took a step toward the bathroom, only to meet the consequences of his earlier clumsiness. He winced as the sharp shards of glass from the cup he had dropped earlier pierced his foot.

He made his way to the bathroom to clean his feet, the pain a momentary distraction from his reality. In the bathroom, he flicked on the light. Harsh white light flooded the room. He leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain as if it might anchor him. His reflection stared back: pale, tired, older than his years.

Then, behind him in the mirror. All For One. He laughed once, bitterly. “You’re not real,” he said again, louder this time. “You’re not real.” But the reflection didn’t smile. It watched like a shadow, always following him, just behind his line of sight.

“And despite that lovely sentiment, here I am,” it replied.

Izuku gripped the edge of the sink, his nails digging into the porcelain counter harder now. The sting from the glass in his feet, the ache in his bones from the sleepless nights, and the weight of the past ten years pressed down on him like an anchor.

"You're a symptom," he muttered. "An ugly scar. That's all."

The reflection looked almost pityingly at the man staring back at it.

"Scars don’t speak, Midoriya."

Izuku couldn't do anything but feel that familiar sense of inferiority and guilt.

“Then what would you call it?” he said, annoyed.

“A truth you refuse to name.”

Izuku’s jaw clenched. He could feel the ache in his molars, the tension crawling up his neck. The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead, a sound that suddenly felt unbearable.

“You have no truth” he snapped. “You’re a parasite. A leftover. A shadow.”

The figure in the mirror didn’t flinch. It didn’t need to.

“And yet I remain. Even now. Even here.”

“You teach them to be strong. To be brave. But you still flinch when you see me. You still bleed when no one’s watching.”

Izuku looked away. Not at the towels, not at the door, but at the floor, where the blood from his foot began to pool, a thin red crescent staining the tile. He hadn’t even noticed.

“You don’t get to define me,” he whispered.

The reflection smiled.

“I don’t have to. You already did.”

Izuku turned off the light. Darkness swallowed the room, but the voice remained.

Izuku finishes cleaning his feet and makes his way back to bed, lights off, leaving the blood-stained carpet to be cleaned in the morning.

"You think the dark makes me disappear?" All for One's voice asks, almost amused, taunting. "I was born in it. You just visit".

The apartment felt colder now, the memory of that day heavy in his mind. The photo of 1-A is still harassing him. Their smiles frozen, locked in simpler times. Youthful and carefree. Others have moved on, but Izuku? He remembers how he could forget.

The more he tries to distance himself, the more vivid it becomes. His ceiling was turning into a smoke-filled sky, acrid and stinking of blood and rot. And like every other night, he's back again, a prisoner of his own memories.

The sky fractures, split as buildings crumble and civilians flee, trampling each other as terror sets in. Pro heroes shout orders while others take blows they can't withstand. The air is thick with dust and dread, choking him up.

And at the eye of the hurricane stands Izuku, panting with blood staining his cheek. He isn't sure if it's his own, a friend's, or someone else's entirely. His hero costume is in rough shape, torn and scorched, while his arms tremble with anticipation.

All For One hovers above the wreckage like a messiah of death. Messenger of destruction surveying the scene, he's artfully crafted.

"You've come so far," the deep voice says calmly. "So far, only to meet your end. Your precious hero's placing the fate of their world in the hands of a child," he scoffs.

Izuku doesn't respond, his lungs burning as bile rises up his throat. He slingshots forward up into the air. Black whip snaps from his arm, crackling into the air. Float lifts him up, holding him in position on an even level.

"So reactive and still so... afraid," All For One murmurs at him.

Izuku launches screaming, not out of fear but rage, desperation. Every hit felt like it had a cost. A memory. A breath. A piece of himself he could never get back.

His head is pounding as he hears a high-pitched buzzing. Like screaming as the sound penetrates into his spine.

"You can't save them, you can't even save yourself—"

All For One's voice fades out as Izuku's eyes snap open breathless. His alarm clock blaring beside him, shrill and unforgiving yet not unwelcome. It pierces through the smoke, the memories, the stench of the blood that had ingrained itself in his mind.

The ceiling is a plain, crisp white. No fire, no rubble, and no All For One.

Cold sweat clings to his skin as he sits up, wincing when his feet meet the floor, taking care this time to avoid the shards of glass from the previous night.

He busies himself with going through the motions of cleaning. As he passes by the photo of one, he turns it around, unable to bear the weight of their stares. He decides to scrub the carpet later, too exhausted to deal with his joints and kneeling.

Sighing, he gets dressed in his usual teacher outfit. A crisp white button-down and red tie with his All Might pin fastened securely to it. A memento he cherishes more than he'd admit to.

He vaguely remembers that today is a joint class with his senior, Shouta Aizawa. The thought brings a flicker of tension to his chest. Aizawa sees too much. He always has.

Izuku takes the time to methodically focus on the buttons of his shirt. Unconscious of the routine to soothe his anxiety. He checks the mirror, no blood, no shadow, just dead tired eyes and a hollow smile that doesn't quite reach them.

He gathers his coat and briefcase, stepping over the dried, smeared blood on the carpet. He continues on his way out while he forces himself to pretend that All For One isn't still sitting in that chair, in the corner of the room, waiting silently for him to break.

Chapter 2: He Watches And Waits ~ (Chapter 2)

Summary:

Izuku struggles to maintain composure while leading a training exercise, haunted by intrusive thoughts and the ever-present hallucination of All For One. After a panic attack in his office, Aizawa finds him and offers quiet support, though Izuku remains guarded and unable to speak the full truth. Later, alone at home, Izuku moves through his evening in silence, weighed down by exhaustion and self-doubt. Haunted, but still trying.

Notes:

~Welcome to chapter 2~
Thank you for all the love and support so far. I appreciate it!

Chapter two is the first real chapter, in short, Izuku goes to his job at U.A. and has a mini breakdown after being bullied by AFO as usual ^_^

I really want to focus more on Izuku's mental state before I dive deeper into his personal relationship with his friends, previous classmates, students, etc., so that I have a good foundation of backstory before I explore other parts of this AU.
(featuring mini bits of soft aizawa + a few self-indulgent things I snuck in.)

Update schedule: I think it will be once every week/week and a half. I want to keep pushing out updates, but I also have work and school that come before this.

I'm currently uploading on my computer. If the formatting does not translate well on mobile, just let me know down in the comments so I can address it

Thank you all for 200 hits!

 

Izuku closes the door of his apartment with deliberate care, locking it as if the deadbolt could hold back the rot inside. As if it could keep the hallucinations from bleeding through the walls.

The hallway is quiet, fluorescent hum, distant barking, the muffled shuffle of neighbors, but it feels too loud in his head. He steps into the elevator, selects the lobby, and leans against the wall, eyes closed in a moment of borrowed serenity.

It doesn’t last. The silence is never truly silent. All For One’s voice curls around the edges of his thoughts like smoke:

"You’re wasting your time. They’ll never be safe. Not from you."

Izuku doesn’t react. He’s learned not to. Reacting gives it power.

Outside, the city moves without him. He slips into its rhythm, walking the familiar path to the subway with mechanical precision. Each breath counted. Each step is measured. The smoke of memory clings to his heels, foggy and persistent.

He boards the train like always, a familiar face among salarymen and early risers. Head bowed, eyes averted from the harsh glow of screens. That’s one thing he appreciates about this part of the morning. No one notices him. No one asks questions. No one expects a performance.

But even here, he feels watched.

He gets off at the station. U.A. looms in the distance, its silhouette etched against the rising sun. Izuku checks his watch. Enough time for coffee.

He heads to the nearby café that students often frequent. The bell above the door chimes softly as he enters, the scent of espresso sharp and grounding. The space is warm, cluttered with hero merchandise and faded U.A. posters. Familiar. Safe. Or it should be.

He orders his usual: black coffee, no sugar, no milk, two pumps of caramel. A few students wait nearby, chatting over notebooks and tablets. They pay him no mind, and for that, he’s grateful.

His gaze drifts to a corner booth where a trio of first-years reenact hero poses, one tossing a napkin at another mid-pose. Izuku’s chest tightens. His heart clenches. He used to. They all used to look like that. For a moment, he feels warmer. A bit more… alive.

Then the warmth curdles.

"You think you’re helping them?" All For One’s voice again, low and amused.

"You’re grooming them for slaughter."

Izuku’s fingers twitch. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to breathe.

The coffee arrives. He nods his thanks, then hesitates. Against his better judgment, he orders a second cup: Black, no caramel for Aizawa.

His inner voice insists it’s just a kind gesture. Not a bribe. Not a buffer against the scrutiny of his former sensei.

His phone buzzes. Aizawa’s reminder about their joint lesson.

Izuku sighs, gathering himself, and walks with purpose toward the gates of U.A. They stand tall and familiar, the routine etched into his bones. He steps through them with the ease of repetition, each footfall a silent rehearsal of normalcy.

But the voice follows.

"You’re not a teacher. You’re a ticking bomb."

In the faculty lounge, Aizawa is where he always is, slouched on the worn couch, hair half-tied, eye sharp despite the exhaustion that clings to him like a second skin.

Izuku places the coffee on the table without a word. Aizawa glances at it, then at him.

“You’re early today.”

“Wanted to review the lesson plan,” Izuku replies, voice steady, casual. He sits at one of the desks, setting down the coffee and opening his briefcase with methodical care.

Aizawa hums, moving to the desk and taking a slow sip of the coffee. No comment.

Izuku pulls out the lesson plans, strategic sparring arrangements, drills, and emergency response theory. Each page is neatly printed, color-coded, and annotated. Logistics are easier than the cement lodged in his ribcage.

Aizawa scans the paperwork, then narrows his eye.

“You didn’t sleep.”

Izuku’s pen stills.


“I slept enough.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. He doesn’t mention the dreams. The chair in the corner. The voice that never stops.

Aizawa doesn’t push. He never does. But his gaze floods Izuku with memories, being a student, trying not to crumble under that stare.

The silence stretches as they flip through attendance sheets and reports.

Then Aizawa speaks again.

“You want to lead the first half today?”

Izuku nods, already standing, materials in hand.

“I’ve got the scenario prepped. Nothing too intense. Standard villain ambush, civilian rescue. Students rotate teams and roles.”

“Good.” Aizawa pauses at the door, hands in his pockets.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

Izuku offers a small smile, aware of his tendency to overexplain, to overcompensate. He waits until Aizawa leaves before letting his shoulders drop.

The mask slips just for a moment. Long enough for the tremor in his hand to return. Long enough for the phantom weight of All For One’s gaze to settle in front of his eyes.

He's leaning casually against the wall.

“You really think you can teach them to be heroes?”

The voice is amused, taunting.

“You’ll get them all killed soon enough.”

Izuku’s jaw tightens.

“Shut up.”

He folds the lesson plans with care, sets his face into something bright and familiar, and walks out the door.

Time to perform.

Izuku stepped into the training hall, the echo of his own footsteps swallowed by the reinforced walls. The students were already gathering. Some stretching, others chatting in clusters. Their voices formed a low hum of anticipation. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the mats. It was a scene he’d seen countless times, but today, it felt heavier.

He greeted them with a nod, voice calm and clear as he outlined the scenario.

“Villain ambush. Civilian rescue. Rotating roles. Focus on communication and response time, not just power.”

They nodded, some more seriously than others. He saw flashes of himself in their eagerness. In their uncertainty. 


"Today is about teamwork and trusting each other," Izuku explains to the eager students. 


Aizawa also gives his two cents: "You all are expected to try your best, and any slackers will be rewarded with extra training." His eye sweeps over the students to make sure they understand the seriousness of the day's training exercises.

The drill began with students splitting into groups and getting to work, putting out their best efforts. 

Izuku moved along the perimeter, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp. He watched a student hesitate before shielding a teammate. Another misjudged a villain’s angle and stumbled. He noted it all, offered quiet corrections and encouragement. His voice was calm, but inside, the tension coiled tighter. He can't help but be reminded of when he was younger in the same spot as them, hungry to please and desperate to improve to become the best.

You’re teaching them to hesitate, the voice murmured. All For One lingered, hands clasped behind his back like it was nothing more than a morning stroll.

"You’re teaching them to die."

All For One’s figure walked in step with him, just out of reach, just out of sight.

Izuku didn’t react. Not outwardly. But his grip on the clipboard tightened. He knows ignoring him won't make All For One disappear however, he can't afford to drop his mask in an area this public.

The drill ended. Students regrouped, sweaty and flushed. While others were laughing or frustrated. Izuku led the debrief, highlighting strengths and pointing out areas for improvement. He was good at this. He knew that. But the voice didn’t care.

"You’re rehearsing their funerals".

He dismissed the students with a nod, watching them file out in pairs and trios for a well deserved break before Aizawa took over the next half of the class. The room emptied slowly. Aizawa approached, coffee from earlier still in hand, gaze unreadable.

“Good pacing,” he said, eye scanning the room. “They responded well.”

Izuku nodded. “They’re adapting faster than expected. I'm pretty impressed with them, actually."

Aizawa studied him. “And you?”

Izuku hesitated. “I'm the same as usual. I’m fine.” His voice came out more mature this time. Almost firm.

Aizawa didn’t push. He never did. But his silence was heavy. It lingered. His eye traces over the curves of his face, the light hollowing of his cheeks, and dark spots under Izuku's eyes that most would miss.

During the break, in the quiet of his office, Izuku reviewed the training footage. The screen flickered with moments, students shielding each other, reacting, hesitating, recovering. He paused on a frame: a student crouched over a civilian dummy, arms trembling, eyes wide. Protective. Terrified. Excited? 

He remembered that stance. He remembered the weight of it. How it feels to be excited to train as a group, yet terrified to imagine it as the reality they all might very well face someday. 

"You think you’re preparing them", the voice whispered.

"You’re just showing them how to break." All For One is leaning against the wall, intimidating, arms crossed.

Izuku shut the laptop. The room felt colder. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. No smoke. No blood. Just the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of students laughing in the hallway.

He breathed in. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

He was still here. Always just around the corner. In the corner of his eyes. Hell, even when he closed them.

Izuku remembered the first time the hallucinations began. The spine-chilling words, as All For One told him, he’d never know peace again.

It always started the same.

Sweaty palms. The tie that was suddenly tied just a bit too tightly. The feeling of the walls closing in, the room becoming stuffy as his head grew lighter. He didn’t even realize how his breathing had become quicker and shallower as he stewed.

Then it hit.

A sudden spike, sharp and electric, raced down his spine. His heart stuttered, then pounded, erratic and loud, like it was trying to escape his chest. The clipboard slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, but he didn’t hear it. Not really. Everything was muffled now, like he was underwater.

His vision narrowed. The edges blurred. The fluorescent lights overhead felt too bright, too white, stabbing into his skull. He gasped, but the air didn’t come. His lungs seized, shallow and frantic, like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself. But the desk felt far away. His body felt far away.

"You’ll never know peace."

The voice slithered in, low and cruel, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

"You’re broken. You’re dangerous. You’re their savior until you ruin them."

 
He's hit with flashbacks of that fight with All For One and various villains over the years. Each time he failed. Every person he lost along the way, heroes and villains alike, at the end of it all, nothing more than a corpse that littered the ground.

Izuku’s knees buckled. He collapsed into the chair in front of the desk, back hitting the padding with a thud. His tie felt like a noose. His shirt clung to his skin, damp and suffocating. He clawed at the knot, fingers trembling, breath hitching in short, useless bursts.

He wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But his eyes burned. His throat ached. His body shook with the effort of holding himself together.

He tried to count. One. Two. Three.

But the numbers slipped away, swallowed by the roar in his ears.

He tried to ground himself. The air was cold. The desk was real. The coffee cup lay tipped over, still mostly full.

But none of it mattered.

All he could feel was the crushing weight in his chest, the certainty that he was drowning in a room with no water.

A knock at the door.

He didn’t answer.

Another knock. Then the door creaked open.

 

Aizawa stepped in, eyes immediately scanning the room. He saw the clipboard on the floor. The coffee was untouched. Izuku curled up in the desk chair, pale and shaking.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask.

 

He just moved deliberately and knelt beside him. It wasn’t the first time.

 

Izuku flinched at the touch on his shoulder, but Aizawa didn’t pull away.

 

“Breathe,” he said softly. “Just breathe.”

 

Izuku shook his head, chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused.

 

“I can’t,” he rasped.

 

“You can,” Aizawa said. “You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again.”

 

He counted for him. Slow. Steady.

 

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

 

Izuku tried to follow. His breath stuttered, caught, then slowly began to sync with the rhythm.

 

“Five. Six. Seven. Eight.”

 

The room didn’t feel like it was spinning anymore. His vision began to clear. The lights dimmed in his mind. The roar faded.

 

He was still shaking. Still pale. But he was breathing.

 

Aizawa didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed beside him as a quiet presence in the storm.

 

Izuku closed his eyes, the tears finally spilling over. Silent. Relieved. Ashamed.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

Aizawa shook his head. “Don’t be.”

 

Izuku nodded, barely.

 

He was still here. Still haunted. Still breaking.

 

Aizawa couldn’t help the tug in his chest, seeing him like this. Still that scrappy, stubborn kid who used to push himself past the brink just to prove he belonged.

 

“Christ, kid,” Aizawa muttered, voice low, brows furrowed as he studied Izuku’s pale face. “How long has it been since you slept?”

Izuku didn’t answer.

 

The endearment makes Izuku feel watery and weak.

 

The dead-tired eyes, the clipped tone from earlier, the way he’d moved through the training session watching the students like a ghost, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Aizawa had seen this before. In students. In heroes. In himself.

 

Izuku turned his head slightly, just enough to avoid the question. Just enough to shut him out.

 

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. He crouched again, not to corner him, but to stay close. To stay present.

 

“You’re not fine,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating right. You’re barely holding it together.”

 

Izuku’s fingers twitched against his pant leg. He didn’t look up.

 

“I’m not asking for a confession,” Aizawa continued. “I’m asking you to stop pretending.” The no-nonsense tone was familiar yet unnerving to Izuku's frayed nerves.

 

Still, Izuku said nothing. His silence wasn’t outright defiant; it was protective. A shield. A wall built from years of surviving alone against the hallucinations that plague him day and night.

 

Aizawa exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to push harder. He knew better. Pressure cracked fragile things. And Izuku, for all his strength, looked fragile now.

 

“I’ve seen this before,” he said. “The way it creeps in. The way it convinces you that you’re safer if you don’t speak. That if you just keep moving, it’ll pass.”

 

Izuku’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t respond.

 

“It doesn’t pass,” Aizawa said. “It waits. It festers. It turns silence into poison. I have seen too many with that look.”

 

Izuku’s breath hitched, barely audible.

 

Aizawa didn’t move. Didn’t demand. He just stayed there, grounded and steady, letting the silence stretch between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed.

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said finally. “But don’t lie to me.”

 

Izuku’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second. Red-rimmed. Hollow. Grateful. Terrified.

 

Then he looked away again.

 

Aizawa stood slowly, placing a hand on the desk to steady himself. He glanced at the tipped-over coffee cup, the clipboard on the floor, the chair that still held the weight of a man unraveling.

 

“I’ll take the second half of class,” he said. “You stay here. Rest. No arguments.”

 

Izuku didn’t argue.

 

As Aizawa reached the door, he paused, hand on the frame.

 

“You’re not alone, Midoriya,” he said. “Even if you don’t want to talk. I’m still here.”

 

The door clicked shut behind Aizawa.

 

Izuku didn’t move.

 

The silence returned, thick and humming. The air conditioning buzzed overhead, but it felt distant now. The quiet wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

 

And then he was there.

 

All For One sat on the couch across the room, legs crossed, gloved hands resting casually on his knee. His presence didn’t make a sound, but it filled the space like smoke. Like something rotten. Something that had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to speak.

The door clicked shut behind Aizawa.

 

Izuku didn’t move.

 

The silence returned, thick and humming. The air conditioning hummed overhead, but it now felt distant. The quiet wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

 

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and amused. “That was touching. Really. Almost convincing.”

 

Izuku didn’t look at him. He stared at the desk instead, at the spilled coffee, at the clipboard still lying on the floor.

 

“You think he sees you?” All For One continued. “You think he understands. But he doesn’t. Not really. He sees a project. A broken tool with sentimental value.”

 

Izuku’s jaw clenched.

 

“You’re not a teacher,” the voice said, softer now, almost tender. “You’re a warning. A cautionary tale. A reminder of what happens when power meets desperation.”

 

Izuku’s breath hitched.

 

“You walk into classrooms like you belong there. Like you’re whole. But you’re not. You’re a patchwork of guilt and failure stitched together with caffeine and denial.”

 

He finally looked up.

 

All For One smiled.

 

“You think they don’t notice? The way your hands shake when you hold a pen. The way you flinch when someone raises their voice. The way you freeze when a student asks if you’re okay. Asks what you're looking at when you stare off into space?”

 

Izuku’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to scream, to banish the hallucination with logic and willpower. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

 

“You’re grooming them,” All For One said, leaning forward, voice low and intimate. “Not for heroism. For grief. For trauma. For the same hollow legacy you carry. You of all people know how it will end.”

 

Izuku stood abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor. His fists clenched at his sides.

 

“You don’t get to talk about them,” he said, voice shaking.

 

All For One tilted his head. “Oh, but I do. Because I know you. I know every crack in your armor. Every nightmare you bury. Every moment you wonder if they’d be better off without you.”

 

Izuku’s breath came fast now, shallow and sharp.

 

“You think you’re protecting them,” the voice whispered. “But you’re just delaying the inevitable. One day, you’ll freeze. You’ll falter. And they’ll pay for it.”

 

Izuku staggered back, hand gripping the edge of the desk.

 

“You’re not real,” he said. “You’re not real.”

 

All For One stood, slow and deliberate, and walked toward him. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just present. Inevitable.

 

“I’m as real as your guilt,” he said. “As your fear. As the part of you that still wonders if you were ever meant to be saved. Besides, you're nothing more than what you’ve always been.”

 

His hair stands up on the back of his neck, a more primal fear filling his bones as All For One finishes his mockery. "Just a quirkless, little wannabe trying to convince the world he's more than his worth."

 

Izuku’s knees buckled, but he didn’t fall. He held his ground, trembling, eyes locked on the space where the hallucination stood.

 

“You don’t get to win,” he whispered.

 

All For One smiled again, cruel and quiet.

 

“I already have.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

The room was empty again. Just the hum of the air conditioning and Izuku, standing alone, breath ragged, heart pounding.

 

Still haunted.

 

Still breaking.

 

After he collected himself, Izuku entered the classroom with the kind of mechanical focus that came from habit, not intention.

 

He set his bag down beside the desk, pulled out the stack of papers, a red pen, and the grading rubric he’d printed two days ago but hadn’t looked at since. The chair creaked as he sat. The desk was clean, wiped down twice this morning in a moment of restless compulsion. Everything was in order. Everything was ready.

 

He stared at the first page.

 

The handwriting was neat. The student had tried. He should have felt something pride, maybe, or encouragement, but all he felt was tired.

 

Outside the window, the training field was alive with movement. Aizawa stood at the center, directing the second half of the class with quiet authority. His gestures were sharp, his voice calm. Students moved around him like clockwork, adjusting stances, responding to commands, and learning.

 

Izuku watched them for a moment too long.

 

He should have been out there. Should have been leading. But instead, he was here, grading papers with fingers that still trembled if he didn’t concentrate. The red pen hovered over the page, unmoving.

 

He marked a sentence. Circled a missed point. Wrote a brief comment in the margin.

 

Then he stopped.

 

His eyes drifted back to the window.

 

Aizawa crouched beside a student who had fallen during a maneuver. He spoke quietly, gesturing with his hands, then helped the student up. The others waited, watching. Respectful. Patient.

 

Izuku’s chest tightened.

 

He used to be able to do that. To be that calm. That present. Now, even the sound of a chair scraping across the floor could send his heart racing.

 

He looked down at the paper again. A short essay on rescue strategy. The student had written about prioritizing civilians over combat, about emotional regulation in high-stress situations. It was good. Thoughtful. But all Izuku could see was the line near the end:

"Heroes must be calm under pressure, or they risk becoming part of the problem."

 

He stared at it.

 

The words blurred slightly.

 

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and moved on to the next paper.

 

But the line stuck.

 

He wasn’t calm under pressure. Not anymore. He was a liability with a clipboard. A man who taught drills and flinched at echoes. A man who saw ghosts in corners and heard voices in silence. He can't help but feel like a shell of the kid who recklessly charges forward or methodically analyzes every situation.

 

He marked another paper. His handwriting was neat, but the comments were shorter than usual. Less detailed. Less engaged.

He looked out the window again.

 

Aizawa glanced toward the building, just for a moment. Their eyes didn’t meet, but Izuku felt it anyway. That quiet awareness. That unspoken question.

 

Are you holding together?

 

Izuku looked away.

 

He wasn’t sure of the answer.

 

He set the pen down and pressed his palms to his eyes. The papers blurred beneath him. The classroom felt too quiet. Too still. Like it was waiting for something to crack.

 

He breathed in. Held it. Let it out slowly.

 

Then he picked up the next paper.

Because sometimes, pretending was the only way to survive.

The sun had dipped low behind the buildings by the time Izuku packed up for the day.

The classroom was dim now, lit only by the soft amber glow of the desk lamp. Papers were stacked neatly, graded and ungraded, separated with quiet precision. His red pen lay beside them, uncapped, a thin smear of ink staining the edge of his palm.

He hadn’t noticed.

Outside, the training field was empty. Aizawa had finished with the second half of the class and disappeared into the staff wing without a word. Izuku hadn’t gone to say goodbye. He hadn’t moved from his desk.

He stood slowly, joints stiff from sitting too long. His bag felt heavier than usual. The hallway was quiet as he walked through it. No students, no chatter, just the distant hum of the building settling into the evening.

He passed the framed photos again. Past classes. Past victories. Smiling faces frozen in time.

He didn’t look at them.

The train ride home was uneventful. He sat near the back, hood pulled up, eyes on the floor. The car was mostly empty. A few commuters. A couple of students from another school. No one looked at him. No one spoke.

He preferred it that way.

The city blurred past the window, lights flickering in streaks of gold and blue. His reflection stared back at him. Tired, pale, older than he remembered being (if you consider 25 old).

He got off two stops early.

He didn’t want to walk past the convenience store tonight. Didn’t want to see the clerk who always smiled too brightly. Didn’t want to hear the music they played that reminded him of better years. Didn’t want to see the younger kids running without a care to make him bitter.

The apartment was cold when he entered.

He didn’t turn on the lights right away. Just dropped his bag by the door and stood there, listening to the silence. It was different from the silence at school. This one was deeper. More honest. Letting out a deep sigh, his bones were hollow and sore.

He turned on the lamp in the corner. The soft yellow glow spilled across the room, revealing the same things it always did.

The couch. The coffee table. The chair in the corner. Always somewhat reserved.

Empty.

But not.

He walked past it without looking.

Dinner was an afterthought. A reheated bowl of rice and vegetables he didn’t remember cooking. He ate slowly, mechanically, eyes fixed on the muted television screen. The news played without sound. He didn’t care what it said. The microwaved food was overcooked from reheating it in the same container each time he ate that week. He could almost scoff at himself. If only the others could see him now.

Afterward, he showered. The water was too hot. He didn’t adjust it as his skin went from its usual pale shade to a pinky red under the boiling jets that rained down on him.

Steam filled the bathroom, fogged the mirror, blurred his reflection.

He stared at it anyway. A distorted monument to his feelings.

The towel hung limp in his hands. His skin was now fully red from the heat. His eyes looked hollow. He touched the glass, watched the condensation smear beneath his fingers.

“I’m still here,” he whispered.

"Are you?" the voice echoes in his mind.

It didn’t feel like a victory.

He dressed in silence, pulled on a sweatshirt that smelled faintly of the staff lounge and burnt sugar, then sat on the edge of the bed. The room was dark again. The lamp had been turned off. The chair in the corner was still empty.

But not.

He didn’t look at it. He doesn’t like to look at it. 

He steps over the stain on the carpet he still hadn't cleaned from the previous night. He'd forgotten all about till until then, grateful he'd cleared the broken glass at least that morning. He decides he can let the blood rot on the carpet a bit longer.

He lay down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep wouldn’t come quickly. It never did.

But he was still here.

Still haunted.

Still breaking.

And tomorrow, he’d do it all over again. 

Chapter 3: For An Auspicious Encounter Or Trick Of The Light

Summary:

A special visitor shows up during Izuku's class, causing a storm of conflicting emotions that linger well after said visitor has left. (no spoilers)
Throughout the day, Izuku is haunted and warmed up by every touch and glance, unsure of what he wants them to mean. As the hours pass, he feels so high only to feel so low. It's unavoidable, really. By nightfall, he’s alone in his room, overwhelmed by exhaustion and self-doubt, replaying blurred memories and imagined futures.

 

Izuku shrugged, gaze fixed on the tea cooling in his hands. “It’s fine. I’m just… off. I’ll bounce back.”

"Are you handling it, Izuku?" He wanted to say that. To say more. To demand the truth. But something in Izuku’s posture. Closed off and brittle held him back.

And the voice whispered again, soft and cruel: "He’ll leave too, once he sees what you really are."

Notes:

Happy chapter three!

I'm a little nervous to post this one. I fully admit this is a tiny detour from the main storyline and purely self-indulgent with some fluff because my brainrot is flaring up. (I was listening to a lot of Radiohead and TV Girl, my apologies)
I wanted an excuse to write some loose BKDK and, of course, more angst. I saw my chance and took it because I'm the ~author~ and I can <3

AFO makes very minor appearances in this chapter, but fear not, in the next chapter, he will be very present.
A leading role, one might say ^_^

As always, thank you. Please enjoy that latest installment!
_________________________________________

I will update the tags again after chapter 4 before anyone comments on it. dw <3

 

As the week dragged on, Izuku couldn’t stop replaying the moment he broke.

 

The panic attack.

The way Aizawa had watched him unravel with eye(s) unreadable, but heavy with concern.

The shame of leaving.

Of walking out when his students needed him most.

Of being the one who couldn’t hold it together.

 

Today was like any other.

 

He stood in front of the mirror.

 

Shirt. Tie. Pants. Socks. Shoes. Coat.

The same order. The same ritual. The same refusal to look himself in the eye.

He focused on fabric, folds, and symmetry. Not the face staring back. Not the hollowed eyes, the faint tremor in his jaw, or the way his shoulders sagged before he straightened them again.
Not the voice that slithered through his thoughts like oil on water.

 

“Unruly hair. Missed button. You’re slipping,” All For One murmured, smug and quiet.

 

Izuku didn’t respond. He just smoothed his tie, fingers lingering on the knot, and headed out.

 

The train ride was uneventful. He stood, gripping the overhead rail, swaying with the motion. He ignored the glances when he muttered under his breath the soft, clipped words meant for no one but the hallucination riding shotgun in his mind.

On days like this, the voice was quieter. Not gone. Just... diluted. Less torment, more shadow.
A whisper of his own subconscious, echoing back at him with cruel familiarity.

He stopped at the coffee shop. Ordered the usual.

 

Black coffee. No sugar. No milk. Two pumps of caramel syrup.

 

It wasn’t indulgence. It was control. Every detail planned. No surprises. No alarms. No questions. Just structure. Just calm. Just enough to keep moving.

The barista didn’t ask his name anymore. She just handed him the cup with a quiet nod, eyes flicking to the dark circles under his own.

He drank it on the walk to campus. The syrup tasted off today. Too sharp, too artificial. He scrunched his nose and drank it anyway. The campus was quiet when he arrived. Early. Before the students. Before the noise.

 

He liked it that way. The silence felt earned. Like a breath held too long, finally released.

But when he unlocked his classroom and slung his bag onto the desk, he wasn’t prepared for the sight waiting for him.

 

Bakugo.

 

Feet kicked up. Muddy, scuffed boots, fresh from patrol, planted squarely on top of Izuku’s lesson plans. Arms crossed behind his head like he owned the place. His jacket was half-zipped, collar askew, and his expression was equal parts boredom and irritation.

 

“Bout time,” Bakugo grunted. “You look like hell.”

 

Izuku didn’t flinch. He peeled off his coat with mechanical precision, hung it neatly on the back of his chair, and smoothed his shirt. The crooked button remained. He didn’t fix it.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low, eyes fixed on the papers Bakugo was wrinkling.

 

“And must you put your boots on my desk, Kacchan?” Izuku said, tone clipped. “You’ve ruined my lesson plans.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “It’s comfy. Besides, do I need a reason to check in on my favorite quirkless teacher?”

 

Izuku’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

 

“You hate teachers.”

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo said, finally dropping his feet with a loud thud. “But I hate you less than most.”

 

Izuku turned away, pretending to organize his desk. His fingers straightened pens that didn’t need straightening. He stacked papers that were already stacked. He didn’t look up.

“You could’ve called.”

 

“I did. You didn’t answer.” Bakugo’s voice was flat, but not unkind. “Figured I’d come see if you’d finally snapped and turned into a villain or something.”

 

Izuku froze.

 

The word hit harder than it should.

All For One chuckled, low and oily, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

"He’s not wrong," the voice whispered. "You’re halfway there already."

 

Izuku’s breath caught. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the desk.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

 

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”

 

Izuku didn’t respond. He kept his back turned, posture rigid, movements precise. A mask of indifference. A performance honed by necessity.

 

But Bakugo didn’t move either. He just watched. Waiting. Not for the mask, but for the crack. The silence stretched, thick and brittle. The classroom felt colder in the early hours, the air thinning around them until Izuku had to swallow harshly just to breathe.

 

“Keep swallowing your guilt,” All For One goaded, voice slick and intimate. “It’ll choke you eventually.”

 

Bakugo’s gaze swept over him, sharp and calculating. He took in the hollowed cheeks, the crooked button, the way Izuku’s shoulders trembled just slightly before locking back into place.

 

“You look like shit,” he repeated, quieter this time. Less bite. More truth.

 

“Thanks,” Izuku muttered, huffing out a breath laced with annoyance. The words were automatic, but the edge was dulled. He was too tired to be angry.

 

Bakugo swung his legs down, muddy boots thudding against the tile. He glanced at the mess he’d made on the desk and looked, just for a moment, sheepish. He didn’t apologize. He never did. But he shifted the papers aside with one hand, smoothing them out like it might undo the damage as he swept a bit of the mud off.

 

“So,” he said, voice rough but casual, “when do your little rascals show up?”

 

Izuku blinked, the question catching him off guard. He glanced at the clock. Still early.

 

“Twenty minutes,” he said.

 

Bakugo nodded, leaning back in the chair. “You gonna be okay?”

 

Izuku hesitated. The voice in his head stirred, but didn’t speak.

 

“I’ll manage,” he said.

 

Bakugo didn’t push. He just sat there, boots planted, arms folded, eyes steady.

And for now, that was enough.

Bakugo, not one to shy away from things, leans forward a bit.

“You know, twenty minutes is a long ti—”

 

“Kacchan,” Izuku cut him off, voice firm. “I have to remake the lesson plans you ruined. There’s no time for whatever  idea you’re thinking of.”

 

Bakugo sulked immediately, shoulders dropping as he muttered, “I didn’t want to do anything for twenty minutes anyway.”

 

Izuku’s lips twitched. Just slightly. The corner of his mouth lifted in something close to amusement. It was fleeting, but real.

 

The clock ticked closer to class time.

 

“So,” Izuku said, keeping his tone casual, “I take it you’re staying?”

 

The question hung in the air. Thinly veiled nonchalance, but laced with something quieter. Hope. Desperation. A need for someone to stay, even if he couldn’t say it aloud.

 

Bakugo pretended not to notice. He always did.

 

“I can’t let your brats get any big ideas about showing me up,” he huffed, arms crossed, chin tilted in mock defiance.

 

Izuku laughed. Soft. Fond. The sound surprised even him.

 

And for the first time in a long time, the fog lifted.

 

The warmth of the sun pierced the barren wasteland in Izuku’s heart. The one left behind by All For One. He’d forgotten how easy it could be. How normal. The banter. The routine. Bakugo’s predictable competitiveness and explosive attitude. And the soft, tender side he kept buried beneath layers of pride and fire. Izuku's tender and fragile mind is enveloped by the light Bakugo brings with his voice, his face, and his presence. Like lying on soft grass in summer with the warmth of the sky beaming down and the fresh air permeating his lungs.

Katsuki, with his burnt caramel scent and strong words. An anchor in the turbulent seas Izuku is being drowned in.

He's staring again. Dammit.

Izuku blinked hard and turned back to the board, forcing his attention onto the lesson plans. Chalk in hand, he began outlining the day’s objectives, each line a tether to reality.

 

From the corner of the room, All For One leaned against the wall, arms folded, grin sharp.

 

“How sweet,” the voice drawled. “The quirkless school teacher with an affection for the pro hero who always tries to get himself killed.”

 

Izuku’s grip tightened around the chalk. The voice was louder today, more vivid. But Bakugo made it easier to ignore, like static fading beneath the hum of something real.

 

“How was patrol?” Izuku asked, voice steady, eyes still on the board.

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. He shifted in his seat, boots scuffing the tile, arms now resting on the desk he’d mucked up earlier.

 

“Fine,” he said. “A couple of idiots tried to rob a tech van. Got their asses handed to them.”

 

Izuku nodded, grateful for the distraction. For the normalcy.

 

“Any injuries?”

 

“Just bruises. Not mine.”

 

Izuku allowed himself a small smile. "That’s good."

The chalk squeaked against the board as he finished the last bullet point. Behind him, the hallucination faded into the wall, voice dissolving into silence. Peace couldn’t last forever. But for now, Bakugo made it easier to breathe.

The bell rang, sharp and familiar, signaling the start of the school day.

 

Izuku glanced at the clock, then at the door, just as the first wave of students began to trickle in. Some bright-eyed and chatty, others still half-asleep and dragging their feet. A few offered sleepy “Good morning, Sensei,” while others blinked in surprise at the figure seated at the front of the room.

 

Excitement rippled through the class.

 

Pro Hero Dynamite had returned.

 

Again.

 

Bakugo, of course, fed off the attention. He leaned back in his chair like he belonged there, arms crossed, boots planted wide, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a full circle, he remembered being in their shoes, the electric thrill of seeing a pro walk into the room. Now he was the one causing the stir.

 

Izuku cleared his throat and stepped to the front of the class, posture straight, voice firm.

 

“Yes, Dynamite is here to observe our class today,” he announced, tone clipped and authoritative. “I expect you all to be on your best behavior.”

 

A few students giggled. One whispered something that made another snort.

 

Izuku didn’t flinch. He’d learned to command a room. Eventually. (or at least he lets himself think that he does)

 

After becoming a teacher, he’d developed a deep and visceral sympathy for Aizawa. The exhaustion. The chaos. The constant low-level threat of mutiny, especially when there was a joint teaching day.

 

And “observe” usually meant Katsuki would sit at a desk like one of the kids, cause a bit of chaos, and loudly nag Izuku to join his agency for the millionth time just to annoy him.

 

Izuku sighed, already bracing for it.

 

Bakugo caught his eye and grinned, unrepentant.

"So, which one of you is going to convince your teacher for me? Maybe I'll even give you a free autograph," Bakugo loudly exclaims, causing a stir in the class.

The room explodes.

Not literally, but close. Students gasped, laughed, and scrambled for notebooks.

 

Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kacchan…”

 

Bakugo grinned. “What? I’m just giving the people what they want.”

 

“You’re giving me a headache.”

 

“Same thing.”

 

Izuku turned back to the board, trying to focus. But the warmth in his chest was undeniable. The banter. The noise. The way Bakugo’s presence filled the room was like sunlight through cracked blinds. It didn’t erase the voice in his head. All For One still lingered, curled in the corners of his mind like smoke. However, the affection he felt for Katsuki and the way he interacted with his class filled him up in a way he'd never admit.

Meanwhile, Katsuki uses it as an excuse to check up on him. The unanswered texts and the missed calls. He worries more than he'd ever care to acknowledge.  Sitting in one of the student desks, keeping his eyes on him, making jokes, and starting distractions was his way of saying "I'm here for you". Unspoken between them, yet mutual.

Izuku knew it, felt the connection. He lets it settle home in his chest as he continues the lesson. Izuku felt it again. His gaze. Low. Lingering. Unapologetic. He rolled his eyes, chalk tapping rhythmically against the board as he finished the equation. Bakugo wasn’t subtle, not that he ever tried to be. Izuku could feel the weight of his stare every time he turned his back on the class. It wasn’t lewd. Just… deliberate. Curious. Familiar. Unnoticed by anyone else.

 

He smirked to himself, a flicker of mischief breaking through the fog.

 

Fine.

 

If Bakugo wanted to stare so brazenly, he could participate.

Izuku turned suddenly, catching the blond mid-lounge, arms folded, legs stretched out like he had nowhere better to be.

 

“And let’s see who wants to provide us an answer for this,” Izuku said, voice smooth and smug. “How about Dynamite?”

 

The class gasped in delight. A few students turned to Bakugo with wide eyes, whispering excitedly to hear a pro Hero's "wisdom". Bakugo blinked, caught off guard. He sat up with a gruff huff, clearing his throat like he hadn’t just been zoning out (or zoning in).

 

“Tch. Fine,” he muttered, sitting upright in his chair with a loud huff. “You want just the answer or a full breakdown?”

 

Izuku raised an eyebrow. “Surprise me.”

 

Bakugo leaned over the desk, eyes scanning the board. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped but confident, his explanation precise, if slightly impatient. Izuku watched him, arms folded, lips twitching. Bakugo was floundering, but only for a second. Then he was back in his element, commanding attention, feeding off the energy in the room with his over-the-top explanations and fired-up attitude.

 

And Izuku felt it again. That warmth. That strange, steady comfort that came from Katsuki’s presence. Loud. Competitive. Loyal. He turned back to the board, the ghost of a smile still on his face. All For One didn’t comment.

The lunch bell rings, signaling the break of the class and Bakugo's safety from answering more questions while he's caught off guard. With a gruff grunt, Katsuki places his hands behind his back, reclining as the students filter out, wishing they could have had lunch with a pro hero instead. The students funnel out after packing up their things, and a few linger to sneak a few last questions and autographs.

"You're not going to join your fan club?" Izuku asks, fondly amused.

"All those wannabes aren't worthy of having lunch with me," Bakugo claims boldly as usual.

 

Izuku cleans the chalkboard with slow, deliberate strokes. His hand ached from how tightly he’d gripped the chalk during the lesson, the tension still coiled in his shoulders. Heavy, habitual. The performance of normalcy was exhausting.

 

But with Katsuki, it was less of an act. He moved back to his desk, fingers brushing over the edge before pulling out his lunch. Bakugou strolled over, bento in hand, his gait casual but purposeful. They didn’t speak as they left the classroom, just walked side by side in a silence that felt earned.

The teachers’ lounge was quiet, dimly lit by the afternoon sun filtering through dusty blinds. They took turns heating their lunches in the old microwave. (the same one that had been there when they were students). It groaned and whirred like it resented still being alive.

 

Izuku sat at the circular break room table, exhaling as he peeled back the lid of his bento. Week-old vegetables. Rice. Some kind of meat he couldn’t quite identify. The days blurred together, meal prep reduced to muscle memory and vague intention.

 

Bakugou sat across from him, eyeing the contents with a grimace.

 

“That’s what you’re eating?” he asked, nose wrinkling.

 

Izuku shrugged. “It’s food.”

 

“Barely.”

 

Bakugou cracked open his own bento. Perfectly packed, of course. Steamed chicken, sautéed greens, a soft-boiled egg nestled beside pickled daikon.

Izuku stared at it for a moment, then looked away.

 

“You always cook like you’re trying to impress someone,” he muttered.

 

Bakugou snorted. “I cook like I give a damn.”

 

Izuku didn’t respond. He took a bite of his rice, chewing slowly, the texture dry and slightly sour. He didn’t really notice the taste much anymore. Not really.

Bakugou watched him for a moment, then reached into his bento and pulled out the egg with his chopsticks,icks slinging it ono izukus meal.

 

“Eat something that won’t kill you.”

 

Izuku blinked. “You’re giving me your egg?”

 

“Don’t make it weird.”

 

Izuku smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

 

They ate in silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. The microwave clicked off in the background. A clock ticked somewhere behind them. The world outside kept moving.

 

"Jesus, really, you can't eat like that," Bakugo says after looking at the dubious concoction Izuku had packed.

 

“You’re gonna owe me,” Bakugo muttered.

 

“I already do.”

 

Bakugo grunted. “Next time you pack that sludge, I’m cooking for you. And I swear to god, you’ll eat every damn bite.”

 

Izuku didn’t laugh. But he looked up. And stayed there as they made eye contact. It wasn’t a joke or a threat. It was a reality that Katsuki was going to force him to accept. Bakugo makes sure to maintain eye contact as he eats his next bite.

"You don’t need to do that, Kaachan," Izuku says, feeling like a kid again. Sheepish, flustered, from the intensely serious look Bakugo fixed him with.

"Coward," he can hear All For One's voice in his head.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please, nerd," Bakugo says, fired up.

Nostalgia. That was the feeling. It washes over both of them unspoken. Like a warm, gentle blanket. They eat in silence, carefully and methodically chewing their bites as they enjoy the calm of the deserted staff lounge.

"Thank you, Katsuki," Izuku's soft voice rings out.

Bakugo doesn’t respond as he continues chewing his bite, feeling vulnerable. His jaw was tense, and his eyes pointed down at the table. A heavy silence, many things unsaid with the heavy weight of years of chasing one another, fighting, and surviving.  He sets his chopsticks down and hands them in his lap, still avoiding eye contact.

"You shouldn’t thank me for basic decency, idiot," he mutters, but his voice lacks his usual bite, the derogatory edge soft and fragile. He's quieter than usual. Instead of a raging wildfire, he was a warm ember flickering subtly.

"I mean it," Izuku says, looking away as well, the silence now tense.

Bakugo leans back in his chair as he crosses his arms. The best defense against the complicated storm of emotions he felt brewing in his chest. "You always mean it. That’s the problem," his gaze flicks to the other man before looking away again. Pushing those feelings down and out of the way.

Izuku laughs softly, almost resigned. "Is it?" his well-hidden exhaustion finally slips through as he rubs his face softly.

Bakugo doesn’t answer. He looks at him, studying every part of his face as if memorizing where each weary muscle contorted or vein twitched under his skin. The soft lines that were created when he smiled and the freckles that dotted his cheeks. He silently takes in the differences between the little boy he used to bully and push away out of fear, versus the man in front of him who never stopped believing. Whose faith in him doesn’t waver. Quietly, he reconciles both of those images.

Bakugo’s throat tightened. He hated this. How easily Izuku could unravel him without trying. Just by sitting there, tired and kind and still looking at him like he mattered. Like he was worth something. The way he's so easily disarmed.

 

“Izuku,” he said, voice low. A crack.

 

Izuku’s hand paused mid-rub, fingers resting against his cheek. He turned, eyes meeting Bakugo’s.

 

“I don’t know what the hell you see in me,” Bakugo continued, each word pulled from somewhere raw. “But you never stop seeing it. Even when I’m a bastard. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

 

Izuku blinked, surprised by the honesty. Then he smiled, small, sad, and real. “I see someone who tries. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

 

Bakugo scoffed, but it came out more like a breath. “You’re such a damn nerd.”

 

“I know.”

 

They sat there, the silence no longer tense but tentative. Like something fragile had been placed between them, waiting to be held or broken.

 

Bakugo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I’m not good at this.”

 

“I know,” Izuku said again, softer this time. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away either. He had come to check in and comfort the green-haired man. And instead, Izuku had turned it around, ending up comforting him.

The door creaks open, suddenly loud rambunctious ramblings, and a gruff, uninterested voice.

Both men flinch as they instinctively sit up and fix their posture from how they had been leaning forward towards each other. A quiet closeness they had settled into. Bakugo's chair creaks from the force of his actions, and Izuku's hands fold diligently in his lap like he's a school kid in trouble all over again.

Mic crashes forward, his normal loud, energetic personality as Aizawa follows tired yet amused eyes. (dare I say fond).

"Yo Yo Yo, what's up, listeners didn’t know this lounge w-w-w-was O-o-occupied whoop whoop! Hope we aren't interrupting anything~" Mic's greeting floods into the room from the hallway bordering on obnoxious.

Bakugo bristled. “Shut up, Mic,” he snapped, voice sharp but not quite convincing. His ears tinting pink.

 

Izuku laughed too quickly, too loudly. “We were just uh, eating and talking! Nothing crazy!”

 

But even as he spoke, Izuku felt the familiar chill crawl up his spine. "Coward as if they don’t know," the voice hissed, smoky and low. All For One’s voice. Not real. Not here. But still there. Always there.

 

He blinked hard, willing the hallucination away, grounding himself in the mundane. Mic’s teasing, Bakugo’s flustered glare, the scrape of Aizawa’s boots on tile.

 

Aizawa raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but too tired to care. “We’re just grabbing some files. Don’t mind us.”

 

Mic winked and made a show of tiptoeing toward the cabinet. “Don’t worry, lovebirds, we’ll be out of your hair in a sec.”

 

Bakugo looked like he might combust. “We’re not! It’s not like that!”

 

Izuku waved his hands, flustered. “It’s not like that! We were j-just talking!”

 

Aizawa sighed. “Mic, stop antagonizing them.”

 

Mic chuckled, rifling through a drawer. “Can’t help it. They’re cute when they panic.”

 

Bakugo muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll kill him,” while Izuku tried to disappear into his tea, the warmth grounding him against the phantom chill of All For One’s voice.

 

Aizawa narrows his eye, silently looking sideways at Izuku, knowing something was still bothering him. Always bothering him, just like the other day when he had his panic attack. He's seen that same look. Dissociative and not grounded in reality for split seconds at a time.

He made a mental note to check in later. Quietly. Privately. Izuku was good at hiding things, but Aizawa had learned to see through the cracks.

 

Mic, oblivious, continued humming as he flipped through folders. Bakugo had gone rigid again, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like it might offer him an escape.

 

The moment had passed. The fragile thing between them was tucked away, masked by banter and the presence of others. But it lingered, like the echo of a voice that wasn’t supposed to be there. Bakugo and Aizawa share a brief look. Their eyes exchanged a silent conversation.

 

Mic, still humming, finally found the folder he was looking for. “Alright, mission accomplished!” he chirped, oblivious to the tension he’d walked through like a gust of wind through a paper house.

 

“Let’s go,” Aizawa said, voice low, exhausted from mic's over the top personality. He turned toward the door but gave Izuku one last glance that was soft, concerned, unreadable.

 

Izuku didn’t meet his eyes. He was staring into his tea again, as if it could drown the voice. As if it could anchor him to the present.

 

The door shut behind them.

 

Bakugo exhaled slowly. “You okay?”

 

Izuku nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t mean yes. Just not now.

 

“I think- I’m just tired lately,” he said, voice thin. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. He couldn’t admit it. Not out loud. And certainly not to Bakugo." Coward. Liar", the voice hissed again, curling around his ribs like smoke. "You’re weak. You always were".

 

“I guess I’m a bit of a coward lately,” Izuku added, smiling bitterly. It was the kind of smile that hurt to look at. Tight, heart-wrenching, like it was holding back a scream.

 

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call yourself that.”

 

Izuku shrugged, gaze fixed on the tea cooling in his hands. “It’s fine. I’m just… off. I’ll bounce back.”

 

Bakugo leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again. “You keep saying that. You’ve been off for weeks. Hell months.”

 

Izuku’s grip tightened around the cup. “I’m handling it.”

 

Bakugo didn’t push, but his silence was heavy. "Are you handling it, Izuku?" He wanted to say that. To say more. To demand the truth. But something in Izuku’s posture. Closed off and brittle held him back. Instead, he sighs before saying,

“Whatever,” Bakugo muttered, sitting back. “Just don’t let it eat you alive.”

 

His eyes lingered on Izuku a moment longer. Watching. Waiting.

Izuku didn’t meet his gaze.

 

And the voice whispered again, soft and cruel: "He’ll leave too, once he sees what you really are.

---

Later, the day had ended, but Izuku didn’t feel it. Not in the way most people did. There was no sense of closure, no soft exhale. Just the same dull ache, stretching from sunrise to dusk like a bruise that never faded. He sat at the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows on knees, as if the weight in his chest might spill out if he didn’t hold himself together. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the window, but even that felt distant. It belonged to someone else’s life. A backing track where he was only a side character, existing for nothing more than someone’s sick amusement.

 

He replayed the day in his mind. Every look, every touch with Katsuki. It made his chest ache and his stomach twist.

 

Inside, the sorrow had filled him. It wasn’t sharp or dramatic. It was slow. Fungal. The kind of grief that rots from the inside out. He felt it in his joints, in the way his breath caught for no reason, in the way his thoughts curled in on themselves like damp paper left to dry on a hot summer's day. There was no anger left. No fight. Just the soft, sickening sense that something vital had decayed and no one had noticed. Not even him. Not until it was too late.

 

The day was over, and he was still here. But he didn’t feel alive. Not really. Just... inhabited. Like a forest corpse covered in spores and small scavenging insects, still dressed in the shape of a boy who used to dream. A boy who once longed to play hero. To be something more than he was.

 

Now, there was only melancholy for the past, and bitterness for what could have been. He wasn’t sure when his feelings had grown so complicated. When the seeds of doubt had taken root and bloomed into weeds. His heart, he kept it locked in a cage, hoping the rot couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t pollute him more than he already had been. But the maggots of self-doubt gnaw at his marrow, making him feel like he was nothing more than empty bones and hollow lies.

 

Katsuki was so... good. so different. so..... Special. Izuku didn’t want him to catch the rot. To become infected by association. And it killed him inside. To see him so often, yet never be anything more than what? Rivals? Friends? Something more? Something less? He didn’t even know anymore. The lines had blurred, and his exhaustion made it hard to think.

He felt sick again as he lay in bed, the room spinning around him as he sank deeper into the stew of his thoughts.

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Only the moment he woke up with eyes open, lungs tight, body heavy with the same ache that had followed him into dreams. If he dreamed at all. It was hard to tell. Everything felt like static now. Like he was tuned to the wrong frequency, and the world kept moving without him.

 

The light through the window was pale and indifferent. Morning, probably. Or close enough. He didn’t check. What did it matter? Time had stopped meaning anything. It just passed, like water over stone. The slow erosion. 

 

Izuku sat up, not because he wanted to, but because his body remembered the motion. Habit. Ritual. Muscle memory. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to scrub away the weight behind his eyes. It didn’t work. It never did. The ache stayed. The rot stayed.

 

He thought about Katsuki again. Of course he did. It was impossible not to. Katsuki was everywhere. In the way the air felt charged, in the memory of a glance held too long, in the echo of words that weren’t quite enough. Izuku didn’t know what they were anymore. Didn’t know what he wanted them to be. Only that he wanted. And that wanting felt dangerous.

 

Katsuki was fire. Sharp edges and heat, and brilliance. Izuku was... something else. Something quieter. Something broken and fragile. He didn’t want to pull Katsuki into that. Didn’t want to stain him with the black mold growing in his chest that threatened to leech its pores onto any willing victim. But he also didn’t know how to let go. How to stop hoping. How to stop hurting.

He stood, legs trembling slightly, and crossed the room to the window. The city was waking up. Lights flickering on. Cars moving. People living. He watched them like a ghost. Like someone who used to belong.

 

His reflection stared back at him in the glass. He's pale, hollow-eyed, mouth drawn tight. A boy dressed in the shape of a hero. A boy who had once believed in something. He touched the glass, fingertips meeting their mirror image. It was cold.

“I’m still here,” he whispered. It wasn’t a declaration. More of a question. A plea.

And somewhere, beneath all the rot and ruin, something stirred. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe the memory of it. Maybe the shape of a dream, buried deep, waiting to be unearthed.

"Despite it all, I'm still me, aren't I?" he questions to the glass, taking in his image. Voice cracking, but there's no response to his desperation. Not even from the hallucination that shadowed him. The cold, deliberate silence was a bigger knife than the usual cruel remark All For One had to offer.

He was utterly alone.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Summary:

Hi, I promise this fic is not dead!! I got a promotion at work, I am taking additional courses at my college (I have a 3.889!!!), and I have been preparing my cosplays for some conventions. Thank you all for the support. I will make a real update as soon as I can!

Hi, I promise this fic is not dead!! I got a promotion at work, I am taking additional courses at my college (I have a 3.889!!!), and I have been preparing my cosplays for some conventions. Thank you all for the support. I will make a real update as soon as I can!