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Izuku had been declared quirkless for over a year. A year of relentless bullying from his so-called friends and classmates. He’d started learning to hide his wounds from his mother. She usually just made things worse with the school, so he stayed quiet, put on a smile and acted like everything was fine. Just fine.

Everything was not fine. Inko watched as her son became more subdued over the coming months after his diagnosis. He stopped bringing friends over, and stopped mentioning kids from school. Her boy was so brave, smiling at her as he pulled down his sleeves to try hide his burns.

She scoured the internet for something–anything–that would tell her what to do. She read books like “How to encourage quirk appearance in children”, “Late Bloomer?”, “What to do if your child is quirkless?” and “So, your child is quirkless” to no avail. Hundreds of websites and forums from anguished parents to statistics about the quirkless population, until eventually, she found it.

There was a global organisation who worked to improve the lives of quirkless people. They mainly tackled human rights issues, but they also had a section of their website dedicated to connecting those who were quirkless with others like them. It was a pen pal program. The vetting was secure, and the organisation encouraged parents and guardians to monitor their child’s emails and communications with their pen pal. All in all, Inko thought it was a fantastic idea. She talked to Izuku about it the first chance she got. 

“Izuku, I found this organisation online! They can get you your own pen pal. So, you’d be able to talk with a little boy or girl around your age who’s also quirkless. What’d you say? I think it’s a great opportunity for you to make a friend.” Inko asked hopefully, crouching to his level.

At the mention of having a friend who was also quirkless, Izuku lit up like a christmas tree. “Yes! How does it work? When can I start messaging them? Do you know who my pen pal is going to be?” He asked excitedly.

“I haven’t signed you up yet, silly. As soon as I know, I’ll tell you, alright?” Inko chuckled fondly, ruffling Izuku’s hair. “Now off you go. You need to wash up before dinner.” She sent him on his way so she could finish dinner.

Inko spent the following week sending off documents and filling in forms for the organisation. A couple weeks after that, she received an email from them confirming a match for Izuku. She was so excited to tell him, she could hardly wait for him to get in the front door before telling him the good news.

“Izuku, honey, they’ve given you your pen pal!” She brought him over to the computer, showing him the emails. “His name is Aoyama Yuga and he lives in France. He’s six years old, same as you, and he speaks Japanese.” She explained as he read and reread the email.

She showed Izuku the new email address she made for him, explaining how it worked, when an email appeared in his inbox.

“He emailed me already!” Izuku said excitedly, clicking on the email immediately.

Izuku turns to Inko hurriedly. “How do I reply? I have so much to say!”

Inko took the mouse and clicked on the reply button. “You click this and then you type your reply in this box here.”

He immediately started typing.

Izuku talked to Aoyama more than anyone else his age for the next year. They confided in each other about difficulties at school and celebrated with each other when the occasion arose. No one got Izuku like Aoyama. They didn’t know what it was like to be quirkless, except Aoyama. He always understood. They soon became each other’s only friends. Izuku wished that Aoyama could just move to Japan and they could be friends in person, but Aoyama’s parents worked in France so there was no hope for him to meet his best friend any time soon.

It was easier to ignore the bullies when he knew Aoyama was an email away.

It was always a possibility. Inko had discussed that with Izuku. It didn’t make holding her son whilst he sobbed any easier.

Aoyama had gotten his quirk.

“Why does everyone else get a quirk but me?” Izuku asked between his shuddering gasps for breath.

Inko didn’t have an answer for her son. “I don’t know honey. I’m so sorry.” She pulled him away from her to wipe the tears and snot from his face. “You could still email him even though he got his quirk though, right? You were friends before he got his quirk. Why should it be any different now?”

Izuku sniffled.

“What about everyone at school then? What’s their excuse?” He asked sullenly.

“I–” Inko sighed. “I don’t know, honey. But it can’t hurt to try, can it?” She encouraged, not wanting Izuku to lose the one person that had made him so happy the past year.

“Okay, I’ll try.” Izuku whispered. He leaned into his mother, exhausted.

“Thank you.” She kissed the top of his head and stroked his hair. Before she knew it, Izuku was fast asleep.

He sent the email the following day before he left for school, knowing Aoyama would be fast sleep for hours. 

Izuku didn't want to open the email when Aoyama replied. 

Izuku cried himself to sleep after reading Aoyama’s reply. He spent the following week trying everything he could to get his quirk to no avail. After ignoring his inbox the whole week, he finally sat down to write a reply.

Katsuki and his bullies found Izuku’s camera whilst he was at school a few days ago and disintegrated it. Izuku hadn’t worked up the courage to tell his mother about it yet. He knew his mother could see the emails, so lying to Yuga it was.

Izuku didn’t know how to reply to Yuga. He would never get to go to a quirk counsellor, or a sleepover, or get moved up at school. In fact, Izuku had been marked down today for something that he and Katsuki had written the same answer for on a test. The teacher corrected Izuku’s paper only after Katsuki complained that he didn’t need special treatment to be better than a ‘worthless, quirkless deku’. It hurt Izuku a lot to know that his voice wasn’t heard but someone else’s was because of their quirk.

A few weeks go by this time before Izuku worked up the courage to reply. He’d been ignoring the glaring email in his inbox until Yuga forwarded his email to Izuku again.

Yuga was kind, giving Izuku an excuse for not replying. He replied immediately, not wanting to put it off any longer.

The whole email was a lie and Izuku felt like a fraud hitting send. He’d seen over a dozen hero fights since his last email, but with no camera he continued to lie. The heroes weren’t patrolling more. They’d actually reduced their presence in Musutafu to divert forces to Kyoto for something they wouldn’t tell the public about. He was happy for Yuga, but that happiness was engulfed by grief for what Izuku could never have.

Over the coming weeks and months, each of Yuga’s emails were longer and more enthusiastic than the last. Izuku’s were shorter and contained more lies than truths. After a while, Izuku felt so sad and guilty, he stopped replying altogether. Everything was going so well for Yuga that Izuku just ran out of energy to feel happy for the other boy.

8 years later

The first day at UA was simultaneously the best and worst day of Izuku’s life.

It was great because he was finally here, at UA. His dream of becoming a hero was starting. His homeroom teacher was Eraserhead, which was just insane. All his teachers were heroes and his heroics teacher was All Might. The excitement of seeing All Might hadn’t diminished since they met last year.

Katsuki was in his class though, which was a downer; and Eraserhead seemed out to get him, but that’s not exactly new with teachers for him. But those weren’t the worst parts of the day.

No. That would be the blond boy in their class that felt vaguely familiar but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. What was it?

Izuku spent weeks sitting through classes with the boy named Aoyama Yuga before it clicked. He’d gathered the basic facts about the boy, jotted them down in his notebook when they came up. The key points stuck to his brain like tar, slowly etching its way across every crevice.

Navel Laser. Aoyama Yuga. French.

French. Navel Laser. Aoyama Yuga

Aoyama Yuga. French. Navel Laser.

Until it all fit together, slotting into place in memories that Izuku tried very hard to forget.

He didn’t have time to check his old email address until after the attack on the USJ. Laid in a hospital bed, phone cradled between his least broken hand and his bandaged chest, he logged back into the account. The dates stodd out starkly. A steady stream of declining replies. Izuku didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to think about it. Instead, he scrolled to the very first email.

My name is Aoyama Yuga and I’m six years old.

He spent hours remembering a buried friendship, scouring the messages for the information he needed. The sick, twisted coincidence that had, somehow, occurred. It didn’t take too long to find it. Izuku barely remembered the original email–just sobbing in his mother’s arms after reading it.

I got my quirk!! It’s called Navel Laser! I can’t believe I actually got one! It does as it says on the tin…

Tears tried very hard to escape as Izuku laid the phone face-down on his chest. He sniffled, swiped his eyes at the edges and took a deep breath.

Aoyama Yuga. French. Navel Laser.

Izuku returned to school pretending he hadn’t found his pen pal from when he was six in his class. It’s harder to ignore the looks he was receiving from Yuga Aoyama now that he’d put two and two together.

Aizawa-sensei looked like death rolled over, but that wasn’t new. The man looked one coffee away from a heart attack at all times. Eventually, Aizawa-sensei revealed the sports festival to them. It shocked Izuku, somehow. He watched the sports festival religiously every year before he got into UA. But between school and almost dying, time has slipped away from him like water between his fingertips.

The first stage of the sports festival was a rush of adrenaline Izuku hadn’t felt since the USJ. It made his legs move beneath him rapidly, his brain even faster. First place rewarded him with a target on his back he hadn’t felt since middle school.

The second round was, for lack of a better word, a clusterfuck. After the dust settled and the round drew to a close, Izuku noticed that Aoyama made it through to the third round too.

After his first match, against the purple haired boy who should be in the hero course, Izuku sat with his class in the bleachers to watch the other matches. He felt more than saw Aoyama sit next to him.

“Your shoes are from Motomoto ¹ , right mon ami?” Aoyama asked quietly.

Izuku stiffened, angling his body towards Aoyama. “And if they are?” Do we have a problem? Went unsaid.

Aoyama’s eyes went wide, shaking his hands in clear denial. “No, no, I–” He dropped his head in his hands with a groan. “I’m going to start again.”

“When you were younger, did you have a pen pal for a very specific ailment?” Aoyama asked in a hushed tone.

Izuku relaxed, folding his notebook closed around his pen. “I may have been a pen pal to a French boy when I was younger.” He answered calmly, watching Aoyama closely for his reaction.

“It is you!” Aoyama celebrated, pulling Izuku in for a tight hug. “Mon ami, it has been too long. We have much to catch up on.”

As they came apart, Aoyama began to ramble.

“When did you get your quirk? I missed your replies, you know. You should have replied to me when your quirk came in. I guess you can understand how I felt when I was younger when mine came in since yours causes you so much pain–”

“I got my quirk the day of the entrance exam.” Izuku cut Aoyama short with a shrewd look. He glanced at the arena. “Looks like you’re up next.”

Izuku couldn’t empathise with Aoyama, not after everything he’d gone through both before and after he acquired his quirk. It was insulting that Aoyama thought their situations were in any way similar. Nearly ten years separated the two. They would never be able to go back to quirkless pen pals, as much as Izuku wished he could go back to being six years old–innocent and naive to the world.

When Aoyama returned to the bleachers, Izuku was studiously writing in his notebook again. The blond boy sat next to Izuku again, embarrassed at his fight.

“Here’s the difference between you and me.” Izuku began, not looking up from his notebook where he was outlining a drawing of Ashido. “Whilst you’ve spent your entire life since getting your quirk complaining about it, I’ve been training with mine.”

He rubbed out a part of Ashido’s curls with the back of his pencil, brushing away the rubbings as he looked up at his old friend. “I think you should evaluate why you’re really at UA. There’s no shame in transferring to general studies if you think your quirk puts you through too much pain. A diploma from UA will take you anywhere.” Izuku said plainly.

Aoyama’s smile tightened at the edges. “I have my own reasons for becoming a hero.” Aoyama replies

It felt as if Izuku was finally, really looking at Aoyama for the first time.

“Good. If you don’t keep those in mind, that purple haired kid will happily take your place instead.”

Izuku went back to watching the matches as if their conversation never happened. Aoyama felt like he was going to throw up, and it wasn’t because of his quirk.

Yuga spent the week they had to hand in their internship forms contemplating what Midoriya had said. The thought that he didn’t deserve to be in the hero course, that he’d taken one of the very valuable spots from someone else, consumed him. The guilt of the USJ ate away at him. Yuga knew that the information he wanted from him wouldn't just get his classmates and teacher hurt. Images of the USJ come to the forefront of his mind again unhindered and uninterrupted. No. He would get them killed.

He waited until the last day that they had to hand in their forms for the internship, clutching the blank papers as he waited for the class to leave at the end of the school day.

“Those for the internships?” Aizawa asked, taking them without looking up from a note he was making in his grade book. Yuga waited, feeling sicker than he ever had. It took Aizawa less than half a minute to realise the boy hadn’t filled them out. He looked up, taking in Yuga with analytical eyes.

Yuga swallowed his fear. “This isn’t about the internships.” He said shakily.

There was a noticeable change in Aizawa’s body language. It changed from tired and cagey to relaxed and open. His hands were visible. His face was calm and inviting. “Take your time, Aoyama-kun.” He invited his student to speak.

Yuga bowed a full ninety degrees at the waist.

“I have lied to you, and to my classmates. I don’t care what happens to me, Aizawa-sensei. But please, protect my parents. They are in danger.” Yuga took a shaky breath. “I am the reason the League of Villains knew to attack the USJ.”

A hand descended his head, ruffling his hair affectionately as Aizawa crouched into the space in front of Yuga.

“Thank you for telling me and for trusting me with this.” The man began. “I think we should go speak with Principal Nedzu, don’t you?”

Class 1-A returned from the internships without Aoyama. They pestered Aizawa relentlessly, but the man revealed nothing. A week later, the capture of many of the League of Villains was plastered all over the news. Shigaraki. Dabi. Toga. Twice. Compress. Spinner. All with the help of an undisclosed source.

Aizawa handed Izuku a sealed letter the same day the news broke within the privacy of the staff room.

“I need to burn this after you read it.” Aizawa said, an unreadable expression on his face.

Dear pen pal,

I am sorry that I did not say goodbye to you or our class, however my continued attendance at UA would have put you all in danger. Your words at the sports festival moved me to evaluate why I was at UA. What happened at the USJ was my fault. I’m not sure you’ll ever forgive me, but I’m truly very sorry. Make sure Shinsou Hitoshi makes it into the hero course for me, will you?

I also wanted to apologise if I made you uncomfortable with my previous emails. I hope we can make amends. Or perhaps, just start over. If you’d like to continue being penpals, contact me via [email protected]. Please use a non-descript email address not tied to your identity. It is imperative I am kept safe from our enemies.

Farewell mon ami,

Your pen pal