Chapter Text
Shota wanted nothing more than to run straight back to his boy, but the haggard faces of his other students impaired him. Izuku was not his only ward, though he was the dearest, and Shota knew that the viridian-haired child would resent him greatly if he abandoned his classmates to struggle on their own. So he ushered the remaining heavy hitters towards the infirmary, hoping against all hope that his son could do what no one else had ever been able to.
“We have to go back,” Bakugou groaned weakly. Kirishima adjusted his grip on his friend again, eyes hollow. He had never seen such a face on the red-haired kid before. He had always been ready for anything, even when he was scared, and he definitely had never been so devoid of emotion. Something within him wanted to scream. Children.
They were children, and UA had already taught them how to die like soldiers.
“We can’t, Bakugou,” Todoroki’s soft tone carried none of its usual warmth. He stumbled and tightened his arm on his teacher’s shoulder to remain upright. His leg was bleeding extensively now. Worry continued to mount within Shota as the ice on the young hero’s form had reached his right cheek. If they didn’t get him to Recovery Girl soon… well.
“Fuck you, Half-n-Half,” Bakugou coughed, blood covering Kirishima’s shoulder as a consequence.
“Bakubro, calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick,” his companion shushed him as best he could.
Shota could see the deeper emotions behind Bakugou Katsuki’s anger. If one knew to look well, and he did, they would see the hot tears misting his red eyes. He was scared, terrified, that he would never see Izuku again. He was afraid that the next time he touched those messy curls, it would be from the inside of a casket.
The pro hero felt the same. He was trying not to think about it.
“Kirishima is right, Bakugou. All of you have already extended yourselves far beyond what should have been necessary.” Their teacher sighed gravely, and for a moment his shoulders felt like they bore the weight of the ancients.
“We had to Sensei,” Todoroki murmured, eyelids beginning to slowly blink as exhaustion finally hit him. It seemed they would all be experiencing the adrenaline crashes soon. Even if Izuku needed their help, they would be in no state to provide it. He had a feeling none of his students could run to his son’s aid now. “We knew that if we could just create more time for the others…”
“I’m not angry with you,” Shota shook his head, shocked to feel an unforeseen range of fondness in this dire situation. All three boys looked up at him, albeit Bakugou did so by barely lifting his heavy eyes. “I am proud of you.”
Kirishima choked on a sob, but for some reason, that simple phrase was the bomb that broke the dam. Tears began to slide down the hardening hero’s face like a torrent. Though his shoulders trembled, he never released his firm hold on Bakugou.
Shota gently placed a hand on the boy’s – man’s. They were all young men now. How had that happened? – face. Tears of his own pricked the corners of his eyes. “It’s alright, Eijiro. You did well.”
Red eyes overcast with tears met his.
“So well.”
At his side, Todoroki cried silently. In a childish show of seeking help, something that Shota was honored to receive, he turned his face into his teacher’s neck. Hoping to obtain some form of comfort that could chase away all the pain, the teen burrowed into the embrace his teacher had on him, nose buried in his capture weapon. Bakugou wailed into Kirishima’s back, angry tears of his own sliding down his face.
Thunder roared above them, and Shota forced his feet onward. Each step carried him further from his kid.
They managed to reach the infirmary quicker than he had hoped, but he never underestimated his class. Jirou and Kaminari were standing at the door, alert and wary of anything that moved. As soon as the straggling group came into view, the electric hero shouted, “Sensei!”
The pair sprinted towards them, helping carry the weight of their classmates as Jirou amplified her voice to inform Iida and Momo that they were back.
“Wait where’s…” Kaminari’s brow furrowed as he looked behind them, obviously searching for their final missing piece.
He met Shota’s gaze and his hopeful expression fell. “I’ll go back for-,”
“No,” their teacher choked on the word. “We can’t lose anyone else. My job is to protect you and that is what I will do.”
Kaminari blinked, face quickly becoming angry. “Izuku would not abandon us-!”
“Kami,” Kirishima shook his head. “I want to go back to but – but Izu knows what he’s doing and we can’t help him.”
“We’re heroes!” the blonde yelled, but no electricity could be seen. He too, was stretched too thin. “That’s what we do!”
“No.” It was Todoroki this time, curt and pained and so horribly composed as if he was trying his hardest to shovel all his emotions behind the walls that so many of them had striven to crumble. “We are children.”
“So is he.”
Bakugou’s hoarse tone made the words all the more hurtful. Shota’s hand began to shake with phantom pain. Izuku had never been a normal kid. Even when he was adopted and became an Aizawa, he wasn’t normal. He was quirkless and then, as if his life wasn’t bad enough, he was thrown to the opposite side of the spectrum and given a Quirk designed to rival the most powerful supervillain the world had ever seen. He was being groomed to destroy All for One since he had met Yagi. He wasn’t just a kid.
He was the only way they won.
And Shota had let him believe that, had believed it himself. How often had Izuku wanted to just be normal, to just be with his friends or do his homework, and been overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was training for a suicide mission? How often had he wanted to be normal and Shota had encouraged the opposite?
“It doesn’t matter now,” Todoroki muttered, eyes downcast. “We’re already too late.”
Shota wished he was wrong, or at least wished he could lie to them and tell them that they had more time, that others were coming, that backup was almost here. But he couldn’t. He had nothing left to give. The thing that gave him hope was back there, in the USJ, defending them all with everything he had.
Shota had failed him.
They managed to stumble into the hospital wing, broken limbs and bloody bodies finally able to rest for a little while. Shota handed Todoroki off to Iida as he sprinted to them, normally calm face overrun by fear.
“Sensei-,”
Their teacher interrupted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done so well, Iida. Tensei would be very proud of you.”
The class president swallowed, tears stamped out before they could shed. He nodded curtly and took his friend. Mina came to grab Bakugou, and Sero and Kaminari helped Kirishima. The tired, beaten but not broken students hobbled their way to find Recovery Girl. Jirou sighed heavily and after receiving a similar pat on the back, called for Shoji to keep guard with her. They left Shota in the white hallways. His other students were lining the walls, some passed out in exhaustion, some speaking in hushed tones with their classmates as sounds of destruction and battle continued to surround the building.
He was suddenly overcome with bone-weary tiredness. He stumbled, kept from a broken nose only by a pair of skinny arms. “Careful, Aizawa. The last thing we need is for you to get a concussion.”
Yagi.
Yagi Toshinori.
Shota remembered in perfect definition the day that Izuku revealed the truth behind his quirk. He had been furious. Not with his kid, never with his kid, but at the sheer idiocy of the Number One Hero. The symbol of peace. Rubbish.
“You were supposed to protect him.”
Rage lined his veins like ice as he rose to meet Yagi’s gaze. “You were supposed to take care of him – train him. Make sure he was ready.”
Yagi’s piercing blue eyes widened, and his hands disappeared. “Izuku…”
“He’s going to-,” and he couldn’t finish, not like this. The words were so awful even without being uttered. “Why him? Yagi, why him? Why my kid? Why did you choose my kid?”
“Because,” his shaking tone betrayed the turmoil of emotions hidden behind his quivering frown. “Izuku was a hero before he had a Quirk. He was brave and strong and so much more than anyone thought he could be-,”
“You think I don’t know that?” Shota snapped, pushing the taller man in the chest. Anything would help now. Any form of retribution, of release, of reaction to all the horrible thoughts and feelings that had been building inside him since he saw that look in his kid’s eyes. Those green eyes, the ones that had once looked up at him with such awe and wonder, as if he’d hung the sun in the sky. Had that ever changed? Izuku still looked at him like that sometimes. When Shota would ruffle his hair with pride or smirk when he graced the top of his class. When he trundled downstairs and Izuku was already making breakfast, coffee on the counter hot and ready and waiting for him. When he threw blankets over his half-sleeping form on the couch after long patrols or when he coerced his kid out of panic attacks.
Izuku had never asked for anything. He felt astonished just to receive the meager love and adoration Shota could provide. Shota had never thought it was enough.
Izuku had.
Izuku had always thought he was enough.
“You – you think I don’t know that he was the greatest thing to ever happen to me? To the world? To you?” He stabbed Yagi’s chest with his finger. “He did everything right, Yagi. Everything. Why did we – we let him think this was his job?”
He threw his arm in the direction of the USJ, where he knew his kid was battling to the death. “We let him believe he was our first and last line of defense. He always runs in first, Yagi. You taught him that was a good thing, that laying his life out on the line was a noble quality-,”
“It is!” the man’s fuller tones reverberated off the walls around them, causing several of their students to raise their dull gazes in alarm. “It is a noble thing to be so selfless! Izuku is one of the few souls left on this earth so truly and wholly devoted to the good of others. He is the definition of noble, Aizawa.”
“I don’t want him to be noble,” Shota hissed. “I want him to be alive.”
“He will be,” Yagi tried to mellow out their conversation, glancing anxiously at the kids nearby. “Midoriya Hisashi won’t kill his own son.”
Ice flooded Shota’s body. His heart stopped beating.
“You knew?”
Yagi’s eyes widened in horror at what he had revealed. “I -,”
“You knew that All for One was Izuku’s biological father,” Shota growled, hot tears finally emerging in his eyes. They had been waiting, patiently stalling for the perfect moment to strike. “You knew that the man who tried to kill him when he was four, the man who abused him and hurt him and broke him, is the same villain who you couldn’t defeat?”
“Izuku is better than me-,”
Shota punched him in the face.
Suddenly, thunder rumbled across the sky. Everyone looked up. Green lightning crackled in the clouds and a voice boomed. It was Izuku’s but so much more. Voices piled upon one another, his son’s the loudest, multiplied to echo like a scream across a canyon. It filled the air so much that the sounds were almost palpable.
Shota’s stomach dropped.
“UNITED!”
“No,” he swallowed, stumbling towards the doors. No, no, no. He couldn’t let him do this. He wouldn’t let Izuku die alone.
“Aizawa, stop,” Yagi grabbed his shoulders.
“He can’t do this! He’s not strong enough!” the underground hero was struggling with all his waning strength. That was his kid. Did All Might not understand? That was the most precious thing in his entire life and if he – if the thought that he could just stand here and let that happen- “You were so much older when you did United States of Smash, Yagi! He’s not read-!”
“STATES!”
“You had so much more time,” Shota snarled, finally pushing away from the former Number One. He tripped, tumbling into the wall. Ignoring the blooming pain, the growing agony and exhaustion that soaked him to the bone, he persisted. “So much time.”
Not enough time. There wasn’t enough time.
Please, please don’t let him die alone.
He didn’t have any hope that Izuku would survive. It was awful and horrible to think so, but it was true. Izuku was barely seventeen. He wasn’t a pro; he was still a student! And he had left him, that wonderful, fantastic, selfless bundle of joy and courage to die.
Shota’s wonderful, fantastic, selfless bundle of joy. Because he was. He was Shota’s. He wasn’t Hisashi’s.
Izuku was his boy.
And he was going to die.
“Sho, Sho!” Hizashi’s voice was growing in volume, and distantly he thought that he should make him stop because he had already exerted his quirk like Todoroki and Baugou and Kirishima. “SHO!”
“OF!”
“No!” The dark-haired man was pulled back by his husband’s arms around his waist. The grip only tightened as he began to fight the embrace. “No, Zashi. Let me go!”
“You’ll die!”
“Izuku is dying!” the scream tore itself from his lips. He had always dreaded hearing those words. His nights were filled with terrors of it, his days were strewn with the possibility of it. He knew that Izuku was strong, God, he was strong, but he was still a child. More importantly, he was Shota’s child, and he was sacrificing everything for them. “We have to save him!”
More green lightning pierced the air. All the times that Shota had been filled with hope by that show of power came back to him, slamming into his heart like a tsunami.
“SMAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!” The bellow echoed louder than the thunder and the USJ exploded.
“NO!”
Izuku stumbled, the ghosts of the previous users disappearing as Midoriya Hisashi fell to the ground beside his successor.
Dead. He was dead. Finally, finally, All for One was gone.
His adrenaline had long ago left him. Perhaps it had already disappeared when Dad had arrived. He had nothing left. All his energy had been spent to keep fighting. He had none now to keep staying alive.
He fell, first to his knees and then to the ground. Smoke and dust filled his lungs and all around him was the scent of death. But he had done it.
A deep breath rattled his lungs. It was over.
His eyelids fluttered.
He hoped that Dad was proud of him.
The thought stirred him. Dad. He had to go to his dad. And he had to find Katsuki. And Eijiro and Shoto and the rest. He had to make sure they were okay. He didn’t think that any of the villains, if they were still here, would try and fight now that their leaders were dead, but he had to be certain.
Izuku forced himself to his feet. One step. Another. And then another.
“Just one more, Izuku. Just one more…”
He staggered, pain consuming every part of his body. Was that his heartbeat he heard? God, why was it so loud and fast? That couldn’t be normal.
“IZUKU!”
And even then, amidst the fire and death, just hearing his dad’s voice made him smile. “Dad?”
Izuku could hardly hear himself. He tried to clear his throat, but it was no use. He lurched forward, trying desperately to get closer. His dad had always saved him, protected him. If he could just reach his dad.
Shota was running faster than he ever had before. He was sprinting, lungs aching and chest heaving but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have the luxury of time. They had wasted too much already. All the moments that he had already thrown away – the still evenings in the living room, the quiet bubbles of laughter around the kitchen table, watching Eri and Izuku careen down the beachline hand in hand. All the small pockets of goodness and memory that he had not learned to cherish. What if he never got any more?
And still, the prayer persisted.
Don’t let him die alone.
“IZUKU!” He screamed again, hoping against all hope that there would be an answer. Like all the other times, there was nothing. Shota shook his head, refusing to let the tears overwhelm him, and pushed onward.
He skidded around a corner of collapsed rubble and into the remnants of what used to be the USJ. “IZUK-,”
The name died on his lips. For there, standing on his own two legs, bloody and beaten and blissfully alive, was his son.
Viridian eyes searched and found. His lips formed the word, “Dad”, but no sound emerged. That didn’t matter. Shota didn’t care. He couldn’t give a single fuck. He raced forward just as Izuku began to collapse. Just like all the times before, when he tripped down the stairs at six, to when he fell into his arms during the training camp, to the second year's sports festival. Just like he always would.
“Izuku, oh God, Izuku.” He pressed trembling lips to those soft curls. He tasted blood on his tongue but didn’t care. He didn’t care. The whole world could end and he wouldn’t mind at all because he had his kid in his arms and he was happy. “You’re alive. Thank God, oh thank fuck.”
“Dad,” it was hardly more than a whisper, but Shota’s ears were always tuned to that word. He pulled back just far enough to meet those beautiful green orbs. “You came back.”
“Of course I came back, Green Bean,” the nickname rolled off his tongue sometimes easier than Izuku’s name. He stroked his forest locks gently, fingers ghosting over the freckles adorning his cheeks. There was so much blood, too much, but it didn’t matter. Not now. He had gotten this. He was making sure that Izuku did not die alone. “I could never leave you behind.”
“Are-,” he coughed, blood coating his teeth and spewing onto his chin. Shota whined in worry, using his capture weapon to wipe some of the crimson liquid away. “Are they safe?”
“Yeah, kiddo,” His father pulled him closer, unbearably and impossibly closer. Their shadows were one against the ground. Izuku’s head settled in the crook of his neck. It was his spot. It had always been his spot. “You saved them, Izu. You did it.”
“Did good?”
Shota sobbed brokenly. “Yes, Problem Child. So good. The best. You did the best, kid.”
That seemed to pacify him. Another fit of coughs overcame him, and Shota buried his nose into the kid’s hair.
“You did so well, Izuku. I’m so proud of you.”
He hummed in reply. It was all he could achieve.
Shota’s tears ran down his face like raindrops. A torrent of pain and care was swirling within his chest like a hurricane. “Shh, shh. I’m right here, Izu. I’m not leaving again.”
“’Missed you.”
He might as well have stabbed Shota through the chest. “I’m here now, Sprout. I’m here, okay? Don’t be scared.”
“m not,” Izuku croaked, weakly lacing his right hand through Shota’s.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” The teenager – god, he was a teenager, a baby. They’d let him do this. He couldn’t even drink yet – swallowed, but more blood still fell down his chin. It ran down his neck, soaking into the remains of his hero suit. “Can’t be. You’re here.”
And finally, finally, he broke. Shota sobbed and curled around his son as if he could protect him from death. As if he had any power now. As if he could cover his body enough to take some of the pain, to give his own life in exchange.
“I’s okay, Dad,” Izuku slurred. “It’s okay.”
It was so wrong for Izuku to be the one comforting him. It was so, so wrong.
“I love you, Dad,” his precious son breathed sweetly. “I love you.”
“There must be something I can do to save you-,”
“You already saved me, Dad,” he interrupted softly. His shaking hand squeezed his father’s. “You made me feel loved.”
And that was enough. For Izuku, that had always and would always be enough.
Shota rocked back and forth, holding him even tighter. Blood seeped into his hero uniform. It was covering the rocks and earth beneath them. Izuku was practically bathed in it. Only Recovery Girl could save him now, and she was a mile away with his classmates, Quirk already overused and exhausted.
“Dad?”
He groaned. “Yeah, kid?”
“’m tired.”
And it was the hardest thing that Shota had ever had to do, but he said, “You can rest Izuku. If you’re tired, then you can rest.”
“’m safe?” each syllable grew softer, weaker. Faded.
“You’re safe.” It was a promise.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” was this all he could do? Wait and suffer. Where was the comforting words of Izuku’s youth? When he’d stubbed his toe or cut his finger? Where were the gentle reassurances and the playful jokes to get him to smile? Why now, when it mattered most, could he say nothing?
“Thank you.”
Izuku grew lax in his hold.
“No, wait,” Shota pulled back. His son’s eyes were closed. “No. No, no. Wait. Izuku, come back. Don’t – don’t – I can’t-,”
He heard Hizashi calling his name through a fog. He paid no attention.
He reached up and pushed a stray curl back into place. “Izuku? Izu, baby, precious, can you hear me? Don’t go.”
Horror seized him. Oh, God. “I love you too, Izu. I love you too, Green Bean. I love you. I love you, Izuku!”
The declarations grew more desperate. He hadn’t said it back. He hadn’t said it back and now Izuku was … he was.
He was being shoved. He detangled from his son by force, crying out in confusion and anger. In the frenzy, he saw Recovery Girl kneeling next to his kid, already beginning to try as much as possible to heal him. Hizashi and Yagi were there, Snipe too. People were shouting, his husband was wrapping his arms around Shota’s shoulders. And yet, out of all the sounds and sensations he was feeling, there was a slight tickle between his fingers. Eyes glazed with tears, face wet with them, entire world hazy and unfocused, he looked down.
There, in the middle of his palm, were two green hairs.
Izuku Aizawa had prioritized One for All, had spent precious energy tearing out his own hair and putting it in Shota’s hand, over keeping himself alive.
He was going to kill Yagi. Shaking with fury, he rose, pushing off Hizashi’s firm hold. He marched up to the former hero. Every fiber in his being wanted to kill him. Was it this easy to become a villain?
He held the soft locks in his fist and shoved them in Yagi’s face. “Look. Look, Yagi. Look here, here is your precious Quirk. Here is the reason. Here is what my son chose to give me with his last remnants of strength. That’s all he thinks he is, Yagi. A vessel. A carrier of this stupid fucking Quirk until the next reckless, stupid, wonderful, amazing and selfless kid comes along to shoulder its burden.”
Yagi swallowed, eyes darting to the side.
“Here,” Shota faltered, tears beginning anew. Perhaps they had never stopped. “Here is the reason my son is dead.”
“He’s not dead,” Recovery Girl intervened quietly.
The world jolted back into focus.
“What?”
And suddenly it was like he could breathe again. Colors seeped back into the world. The smell of smoke burned his nostrils. He turned, clutching those precious hairs, to look at the person they belonged to.
Sure enough, Izuku’s chest rose. It fell. And it rose again.
Days later, Shota would wake up to a scarred hand circling his own. He would open bleary eyes to meet a set of bright green ones, weary and exhausted and pained, but alive. Wonderfully, beautifully, miraculously alive.
And when that happened, he would lean forward in his chair next to that cursed hospital bed, and ruffle his precious son’s hair.
The boy will laugh softly, freckles tilting with his cheeks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says.
Shota simply looks at him, all fondness and adoration, fingers tender as they comb through his unruly curls.
Izuku’s gaze turns soft, so warm. “I love you, Dad.”
And this time, Shota will lean forward and place a kiss to his precious son’s forehead and say, “I love you too.”