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Aizawa is near the end of one of his earlier patrol shifts, so it's coming close to two in the morning when he looks up to one of the few roofs higher than his current position, and watches as a pair of feet get swung over the ledge, the figure of a short torso and a messy head of hair perched above them, haloed by the starlight above and distant street lights below, and the pro can't help the cold, aching shudder that creeps down his spine.
A jumper.
Of course, he rushes to swing up to the roof, glad for how easy his capture weapon makes the otherwise very lengthy endeavour, coming up onto the adjacent side of the building, hopefully just to be in the corner of the person's eye and close enough that he'll be able to throw it his capture weapon to grab them if necessary. Upon popping over the ledge, crouching, his heart fractures, just a little, because this is one of the youngest people he's seen in a long, long time, and they always hurt the worst, whether they succeed or not.
They're a teenager, or maybe only just about to be, a pair of dark shoes, probably red or maybe purple, neatly placed a few metres back from the edge, and a mass of maybe-black curls turning to face him. But the eyes - a green that's clearly meant to be bright and vivid, should look like emeralds and sunlit canopies and auroras, is instead dull, barely reflecting the dim light of the night sky and far-down streets - don't look surprised or upset to see Aizawa appear. Only resigned.
"Hey there kid," he starts with. Maybe it seems too casual, too noncommittal, but it just stops him sounding judgemental or panicked, and that's the most important thing. And, hey, he gets a jerky nod in return, so it's a decent start.
"Mind if I sit near you?"
'Dont see why not Eraserhead,' is signed at him, and Aizawa nods silently in thanks. He doesn't show his shock at the finger-spelled hero name, nor his relief at the lack of hysterics, nor his gratitude for how the light is just enough for the sign to be clear and distinct. He'd hate to misread something the kid might say, particularly when he's probably not used to being heard and listened to in the first place.
Either way, the underground hero moves forwards, staying in at least the corner of the kid's vision, not wanting to startle them, and swings his own legs over the edge of the roof, takes a moment to consider how high up they are (it's so high, too high - zero chance of survival, he has no doubt, and neither does he doubt that this roof was so very carefully chosen for that exact reason) before he pushes the almost-panic away and focuses fully on the child.
"You don't have to say anything, but I'd rather you didn't answer than lied to me kid, understood?" Aizawa gets a nod after a fractional flinch. He doesn't have time to ponder it though, because he needs to continue speaking, keep them grounded and present,
"Is there anything you want to tell me? It can be minor or major, important or not, but anything you want to get off your chest? I'm here to listen, not judge." And his level tone, almost entirely neutral yet with a carefully cultivated smooth, soft undertone, hardly strong enough to be picked up on, is enough. It has the kid turning to him once again, eyes burning with so very much emotion.
'Can I ask a question instead?' That really shouldn't have surprised the hero, considering the child recognised him. They're clearly clever, or at least well-informed, and curiosity comes along with both,
"I don't see why not. But I'd hope to have the same no-lie, silence if needed, policy?" It's almost teasing, albeit still sincere, and luckily the man gets a dry, half-hearted snort to accompany the shrug of acquiescence.
Then the question comes, and maybe his heart shouldn't stutter and ache with the raw feeling behind the quiet words, for all that they have the weight of an entire human being, of a heart and soul and mind, behind them, but it does,
"Eraserhead, sir, do you think a Quirkless person could become a hero?" And oh, how so few words make everything ten times clearer. And more painful. His own answer eases his aching heart, and he hopes it will do the same for this strong, suffering kid,
"If you mean a certified pro, then not any Quirkless person. But someone with the right determination, training and intellect? Logically, yes."
Something shatters between them then, a quiet gasp wobbling out of the child's throat, sharp and jagged, and Aizawa doesn't do them the disservice of blatantly staring as too-thin shoulders hitch, a trembling little hand coming to muffle sobs that are already near-silent.
Instead, the hero waits, patient and enduring, glancing briefly at the child out of the corner of his eye but never moving to comfort them with more than his general presence. It's not his place unless- A long, keening whine escapes the kid, and that shaking hand from half a minute ago reaches out, scrabbling at the ledge between them, and Aizawa doesn't hesitate to place his own hand an inch away, an open invitation. It's taken. Bitten-short nails and a few plasters and dips or ridges of scars find his own calluses, latching on with a grip stronger than anyone so young should be capable of, the whimper fading back into silence, and the hero allows it all, oh-so carefully curling his own fingers around those clutching at his hand.
It takes a long time, Aizawa counting the kid's shuddering breaths the whole time, squeezing his hand occasionally, before that soft, scratchy voice speaks once more, stuttering now,
"C-can I ask-k another qu-question?"
"Of course."
"If I- If I ask-asked for a h-h-hug, w-would you h-hurt me?" Oh, and though it's such a difficult question, the answer is the easiest two words the man has ever let pass his lips,
"I wouldn't."
Silence follows. It's not quite painful, nor deafening with the faint bustle of the city far below, but it's tense all the same and this time the pro dares to be the one to break it.
"May I hug you?" Aizawa expects hesitance and fear and a too-small body freezing up, pulling away, yet he's nearly knocked back onto the roof proper by the chilly kid that shoves into his chest, trembling arms wrapping tightly around him, fingers twisting in his jumpsuit, curls brushing against the stubble under his jaw. Even better, there are hot breaths puffing against his collarbone. The kid is alive, in Aizawa's hold, and hopefully that means they will be on the way to being saved.
Well, on the way to beginning the process of being saved at least. Things that lead to rooftops and set-aside shoes are never so simple to fix, to truly save someone from, but Aizawa has the foundations of a plan already clawing at the back of his mind, sinking in with kitten-claws, all hesitant yet sharp, and he knows that this kid will be more than worth putting a plan into action. It would only be logical after all.
For now though, he offers low croons that rumble in his throat and chest, nonsensical but far from meaningless, rocking a little from side to side, with the kid curled awkwardly into his chest, kept close by their twin holds on each other, and there's no greater relief to be felt. So Aizawa tells the kid that. Tells them he's proud of them for surviving to now, of still fighting, of being so strong, and that he's very, very glad he found them before anything more happened because the kid deserves to live.
This time, the sobs aren't silent. No, they are more akin to wails, the hero's shoulder doing nothing to muffle the absolute heartache of a broken child, and Aizawa keeps up his reassurances and gratitude. When their chest hitches with more than just sobs, all irregular and shallow-deep-shallow-again, he sets to smoothing steady circles across the prominent ribs and spine, murmuring a matching breathing pattern, taking in the gasped half-words that interrupt the tears for later reference, and generally just tries to give the kid a safe space to let it all out. This awful mess of emotion has evidently been building up for some time, bubbling away like lava in the child's guts, acid in their lungs, and now that they have started to let some of it out? Well, all of it follows.
Aizawa doesn't mind, not in the slightest.
It takes a good while, his patrol shift most definitely over by now, but eventually the kid quietens again, staying slumped against the hero, every breath a shuddering, wounded thing. Still though, they're steady enough that Aizawa isn't too worried. He's got another question to ask.
"If you want it, I have a comfortable sofa and some blankets you can have for the night. And cats. No repercussions or payment needed either way." He doesn't know what this child may or may not have been through, and it's better to be crystal-clear either way. No logical ruses here. Nor mentions of beyond tonight. Sure, he'd be willing to take this kid in for an indefinite period of time, but mentioning that now will only put unnecessary pressure on an already fragile sense of balance. Although he does have to add on,
"But if you don't feel safe at home, then I'd have to insist we find you somewhere safe for the night kid, even if it isn't my place. You deserve that much."
Finally, the child draws back enough to look up at Aizawa with those eyes. And oh, the green is all sea glass and deep water currents now, so dark and layered, yet bright and sharp, and there's life there, full of will and ways about to be found. There's hope and faith and a heart so strong.
Aizawa wants to nurture that, wants to bring this spark into flame and then into a blaze fierce enough to always protect the kid, and maybe, just maybe, a blaze that will protect others too. The kid asked about being a hero after all. And what is Aizawa if not a teacher, striving to guide and shape the next generations that pass through his classroom?
"I- I- y-your h-h-home?" It comes out lilting, a question, but the hero doesn't miss the true inflection beneath, soft though it may be in the scant space between them.
"Sure kid. You're not allergic to cats, are you?" Aizawa asks, perfectly casual, even as he slowly moves to tuck the child even closer and then levers to his feet, keeping the groan in his throat silent as he properly settles them on his hip, arms looped low on the knobbly back. No need to make the kid feel guilty for something that's not his fault. And when a shake of green curls ends up with a still-damp face being shoved impossibly further against his shoulder, the hero certainly doesn't mind. Rather, it's reassuring to be able to feel the puffs of hot breath through his thick jumpsuit, the rise and fall of a too-thin chest against his own, little hands clutching at his capture weapon and the back of his top respectively. He saved the kid. They're in his arms, safe, and he doesn't even hesitate to scoop up the shoes, loop their laces securely through his utility belt, then ask another question.
"You alright with going over the rooftops, kiddo? It's easy enough to go down through the building instead, but this'll be-" he tries not to audibly pause here, even as he quickly runs through a mental list of adjectives that he should probably avoid in relationship to roofs,
"-more efficient."
Fortunately, he seems to have chosen well, or at least not too badly, as there is no flinch or whimper or tension, only a jerky nod and the kid shifting a little to hide their face in his capture weapon as much as his shoulder, the little body breathing deeply there. Good. And so the man shuffles them both round for a minute, ensuring that the kid is stable and secure against his chest, held with several loops of capture weapon and a strong arm, whilst the other halves of both are devoted to their travel. Then they're both in the air.
It's different from falling though. So very, very different, all wind in their hair and whistling in their ears, the safe pull of swinging on a strand of capture weapon, the warmth and solidity of another body.
It really is different. After all, this is flying.
The kid stays for a night, then two, then a week. The first morning of their stay finds a blond man peering over Eraserhead's shoulder at them, three blankets and two cats sprawled over the child where they're curled up on the sofa, the sweetest little half-snores escaping every few breaths. It's adorable. More than.
"Oh, Shou, they're so cute! Can I-"
"So long as you don't wake them up," Aizawa grumbles, knowing all too well that his husband wouldn't be able to resist taking a frankly ridiculous number of pictures either way. In the morning light of their apartment, the green curls are a delicate thing, spun of aurora-light in a dark sky, and the dozens of freckles on the moon-pale skin are constellations all of their own. The kid is cute, a night sky in their features, and both of the men love them already.
By the time Hizashi is halfway through making some breakfast, a low humming resonating through the apartment that settles Aizawa more than he would ever admit, the green eyes blink open.
Then the child is scrambling off of the sofa, onto wobbly feet, the cats scattering and the blankets discarded. Their chest is heaving, a panic-attack staccato, and the underground hero is crouched in front of them within a moment, hands raised, palm-up, open and inviting even as he takes up a quiet counting, in and hold and out, until there's more coherency in the kid's eyes, the frosted glass clearing into something vivid and a little glossy.
"E-Era-" The word cuts off, fracturing around the edge with jagged shards like porcelain, and the man doesn't hesitate to speak up in the child's stead.
"Sign if you want kiddo. I will understand and so will my husband. He's deaf, although he does have hearing aids to help most of the time." The honesty in that seems to surprise the child, the unwarranted sharing of something personal and potentially dangerous, in the wrong situation, undoubtedly only furthering the shock, which is exactly why Aizawa did it. Offering his hand out first, both physically and metaphorically, then giving the kid the space and time to reciprocate as they might want, all at once or incrementally or even never at all, is the first step on a long road. A road well worth taking, the hero would wager.
'Eraserhead. I- I'm really with you?'
"Yes kid," he replies easily, signing along with himself all the while,
"You're safe, in my home. Would you like to go to the bathroom or have some water or something before my husband introduces himself?" There's a pause, then a hesitant shake of their head, curls bouncing adorably with the movement, and Aizawa beckons to Hizashi, who has been watching with wide eyes, part full of pride and affection, the other part worry. It much reflects Aizawa's own emotions right now.
Regardless, the blond rounds the sofa with telegraphed movements and a genuine grin, that little bit softer and smaller than Present Mic's because here he's just Hizashi, husband and cat-dad and music-lover, and nothing could be simpler.
'Hey there lil' one!' He signs, expression and movements managing to make the words chirpy despite the lack of audible tone,
'You feeling alright this morning? Bit of a rough night I guess, though Shou didn't tell me much.' The brief panic fades almost instantly when Hizashi adds that second part, and melts into confusion over Aizawa's sign name for a minute, before the child mimics it, then points to the underground hero.
'Shou?' The 'love' sign and first Hiragana of Shouta, then 'cat', both combined into a single two-part movement, the child hesitantly bringing his hands up and settling the edge of their four right fingers, thumb tucked in, vertically atop the back of their curled left hand, circling them there for a moment, before brushing a fist beside their right cheek for another.
'That's it! And I'm Hizashi,' the blond offers, demonstrating his own sign name, 'love' combining with 'Hi' and then moving straight into 'music'. They don't usually share their sign names, but neither do they usually share their sofa or relationship, so it's a bit late to care now.
'Kiddo, could you give us some pronouns for you? A name too if you want, but no pressure. Not misgendering you is more important.' And well, considering that Shouta has refrained from telling Hizashi exactly why he found the child on the roof, not wanting to break their trust beyond the necessary details, that's a pretty sensible question. And a decent one besides.
'He/him.' The kid- the boy offers, a shy little smile slipping into place.
'Coolio, thanks! I'm gonna get on with breakfast now, okay, but is there anything you want or need first?' But the kid only shakes their head, green gaze flickering between the two of them with too much emotion for any single one to be discernible.
And Hizashi, the magical sunshine wonder that is Shouta's husband, nods happily, reaching up with a telegraphed move to gently ruffle the child's hair, then backs away a little before bounding to his feet, humming once again. It's all easy, simple, and the men can see how it has the boy losing metric tonnes of tension. Good.
"Kiddo, is there anyone you want to contact? Family or otherwise, someone you want to talk to, or have me speak to?" He tries to keep the offer as open as possible, giving the boy as many options as he can rather than backing him into a metaphorical corner, and then there are small hands settling atop his own that are still outstretched, palms-up, and Aizawa waits until those shaking fingers have traced little patterns over his calluses for a few minutes before prompting him once more, tone still oh-so gentle,
"Kid?"
"M-mn." It's too neutral to be an answer, really, but the hero thinks he understands and it shoves another wedge into the chasm-cracks in his heart. This sweet boy really is alone, or feels it. Aizawa couldn't be more glad he found him.
"Alright then kid. One last thing before we go have some breakfast: do you have a name I can call you? It doesn't need to be a full name," he tacks on immediately, not yet giving the boy a chance to speak or worry,
"Or even your real name, but something you're comfortable with being called. Or I can just stick with kid." There's hesitation then, shadows and lights tumbling over each other in those green eyes, and Aizawa waits despite how his legs are starting to cramp from being crouched in front of him for so long.
"D-Deku?" And even if there's some kind of twisted positive connotations for the kid personally to that nickname, Aizawa will never choose to imply anything negative like useless about a child, because nobody is truly a 'dekunobou', let alone someone as bright and intelligent and achingly sweet as this boy.
"Kiddo, that sounds a bit too much like an insult for me to be comfortable calling you that. If it has a positive meaning for you then I apologise, but is it alright if I stick to kid for now?" And despite his expectations, those words have said kid both straightening up, chin up yet tears springing into his eyes even as his mouth crumples, a near-silent whine emanating and it's a confusing mix of reactions except it makes perfect sense.
Having your worldview shifted, piece by piece, is a painful experience, yet laced with joy and relief, as Aizawa should know. His situation wasn't the same as what he can parse about the kid's, but there are elements here and there, and unlearning structural negativity and self-loathing can take a long, long time. This is the first step.
"Want a hug kid?" He doesn't even nod before he collapses forwards to hide in Aizawa's chest once again, the man falling backwards, out of his crouch with his back crashing rather painfully into the coffee table but it doesn't matter, not when he's got a lapful of too-light child silently sobbing against his shoulder yet again. It's easy enough to fall into the same routine of quiet platitudes and smoothing circles over his back, and this time they're joined by two of their four cats, Cup and Mister Hosepipe both making a home pressed up against the kid's side, purring their furry little butts off.
It doesn't actually take too long until the silent sobs are reduced to far noisier sniffles, and the child pushes themselves back a bit, until he can look up into his hero's eyes and murmur something barely audible,
"Do- did y-y-you really m-mean that?"
"I did. I do. It's like what I said last night kid: you deserve to live, to find love and happiness, and you don't need to meet certain requirements to be worthy of any of that." Rather than tears or a smile or anything else overtly emotional, the boy only nods and then awkwardly starts to climb onto his feet. If, instead of holding him close and pressing a kiss to his forehead like he so badly wants to, Aizawa instead opts to scoop up Mister Hosepipe and practically throws the great purring lump at the kid who catches him easily, albeit with a flustered little squawk, then Hizashi's not paying enough attention to call him out on it.
"Good catch." With that admittedly soft quip, gentled even further by a tiny smirk that's far more smile than sneer, Aizawa begins to usher the kid towards the dining table.
It's good to know that the wannabe-hero kid has decent reflexes.
That evening the three settle on the sofa together after a lazy Sunday with no school or work obligations that has allowed the two heroes to carefully coax the boy out of his shell bit by bit. After both lunch and breakfast they accepted his help with washing up dirty plates after impressing that he didn't need to do anything to make feeding him and spending time with him more than worth the effort; Hizashi and the kid easily move around each other in the kitchen that night, making a simple dinner of teriyaki chicken, rice and steamed vegetable whilst Aizawa, seated at the counter with a truly massive stack of grading, marks essays and watches on.
He and Hizashi have emergency fostering licenses, sure, and they've housed the occasional teen or pre-teen for a day or a night or even three, but never have any of those kids fitted so seamlessly into their home. The greenette is nervous and skittish but he's also so very lovely, all wide-eyed awe after figuring out that they're both pro heroes within about five minutes of talking properly to Hizashi over breakfast, and soft contentment when one of the cats curl around his ankles or on his lap. And then they turn the news on in the afternoon and the kid mumbles. Or, no, he does, but it's more than that, beyond that. It's analysis. The two sentences that escape the boy before he clams up, lip bitten and shoulders hunched, fingers twisting and tugging, are already fairly astute and Aizawa likes where the train of thought seemed to be heading so, treading carefully around what is clearly a taught silence, he leans forward a bit to tap firmly on the back of one of the child's hands, not quite admonishing but close enough.
"Gentle on yourself kiddo. And you think that Fur Fiend's Quirk is part transformer and part emitter? Pretty interesting, I hadn't really considered that before, got any further points to make?" He keeps his tone noncommittal, curious but far from demanding, and is rewarded for it. With hands clutching, seemingly without thought, at his bony ankles from where he's curled up beside the hero, knees against his chest, chin atop them, leant against the arm of the sofa, but at least no longer at risk of hurting himself, the greenette hesitates visibly. Almost flinches in fact.
But then he glances up, looking at Aizawa through thick bangs and eyelashes, something akin to hope burning in those verdant depths, and then he takes a deep, shuddering breath and starts to speak.
"I- W-well, the whips of fur are- are effectively g-g-growths, right? It's only lik-like being a-able to- to extend your fingers or something, r-really, it just doesn't seem like it at- at a casual glance, s-s-so that infers at least a p-partial transformative ability, but then..." The kid goes on, at first simply theorising about the categorisation of the Quick in question. However, moment by moment, he seems to lose his anxiety and gains an ease, unlatching his own grip on his ankles to begin to gesture, hands waving and flapping in the air, expressive. Aizawa and Hizashi, quite unintentionally, share a fond smile, and then abruptly both realise exactly what they've just done. Just felt.
It's a matching pride and contentment, all domestic-sweet and family-warm, and oh. They don't want to let this kid go. Not ever.
For now, Aizawa makes do with simply listening to the pre-teen, nodding and offering the occasional question or agreement or challenge, and the kid rises to every single one, much to the hero's chaotic delight. Another point in favour of the kid being trained for a future career in heroism. The way that Hizashi elbows him, eyebrows wiggling, tells of exactly how aware the blond is of this thought pattern. Aizawa mock-glares in return. Honestly, how rude of his stupid sunshine husband to know him so well.
By the end of the week, Hizashi and Aizawa are already fed up with how the kid has come home- or rather, has wondered back to their apartment every evening - already out of a school uniform but with new bruises, bandages, and shadows in his eyes to show for having left.
They haven't pushed yet. Their unspoken arrangement might be odd but perhaps unsurprising with the boy - still no name, but that's okay, because he's already accumulated several nicknames, from Problem Child to Precious to Baby Broccoli - has left at seven every morning, presumably going to his house before school, and then at around five in the afternoon, just when the sun starts to dip, there will be an oh-so hesitant knock on their front door and the cats will go running, meowing and pawing until one of the two heroes scurries over too, and then they let in a trembling child and pull him into a careful hug without a word.
After nearly a full week of knowing the boy, five days of which they have to see this kid that they already adore coming back to them battered, inside and out, they've had enough.
So, once Izuku has settled in again Friday evening, dinner eaten with the crockery already clean and stacked away, Hizashi and the kid humming together as they had washed and dried, Aizawa tending to the cats, and now they're all piled on the sofa in a familiar pattern, little socked feet tucked beneath the underground hero's thigh where the greenette is curled with his back against the arm of the sofa, the two men settled against each other, the cats sprawling out however they might like across and between them. It's warm and sweet and home.
Which might be why the heroes feel comfortable enough to finally bring up the question,
"Kiddo, do you want to move in with us officially? You don't have to, but we'd like you to, and we want you to be safe. To let us care for you all the time rather than just some of it." It's true, every word of it, and there are even more words, more emotions, hanging unspoken between them all with the prettiness of fairy lights, guiding and gorgeous, that their boy clearly hears, even if none of them outwardly acknowledge it and maybe that's why Izuku doesn't immediately tear up or scramble away or panic. No, the kid tenses a little, eyes closing as he takes a deep breath, and when he reaches a hand out, trembling violently, Hizashi immediately leans over Shouta's lap to clasp it, pulling it a bit closer to press a lingering kiss there, and they wait for their kid to steady himself, to think.
And it takes a while, Cup and Moose purring furiously, the telly a low chatter in the background, but then those green eyes open again, thin fingers twitching in the blond's grip, and there's so much sheer hope there, faith and fear and such yearning, and then he speaks, but it's not quite the answer they're expecting,
"I... Izuku, m-my name is Izuku." They don't stop their surprise from showing, but neither do they mask their happiness at the trust, or the expectation of what else might be said,
"And you want to be called that name?"
"M-mhm. But- but not Midoriya. M-m-maybe Yamazawa?" Oh, isn't that just the perfect answer.
"Yamazawa Izuku. Not too bad at all," Aizawa drawls, a teasing lilt to the deadpan tone, before he turns enough to carefully pull the kid- Izuku closer, Hizashi leaning back again so that the insomniac can settle their boy in his lap, curling steady arms around him, and then they're just a tangle of limbs and soft laughs and delight in having their precious problem child decide to be theirs properly.
There's a lot to be sorted out, paperwork and legal stuff and retrieving the kid's stuff from wherever he might live, but all of that can be saved for another day. Right now, they just want to bask in the joy of each other.
Something about that joy suffers that night though. Izuku, in his customary blanket nest on the sofa, finds himself caught between dreams and coherency, a tangle of nasty questions in his head, so very unsure of his own worth and place. Surely he's just burdening his heroes? They can't actually want him, maybe he managed to manipulate them somehow, or they just feel sorry for him like some adults do at firs-
Barely even conscious of his own movements, Izuku staggers onto his feet, limbs static-distant, shedding blankets and Princess Fucker on the way, the cat briefly setting claws against his arm with an upset yowl but Izuku pulls away blindly, not really minding the vague pain or little beads of blood as he just needs to see his heroes- Then he's knocking on their bedroom door, the noise shocking him out of his own daze just enough to be horrified that he's disturbing them even though they've assured him that he could any time but what if they just said it to be nice, rather than really meaning it? What if he's bothering them-
"Kiddo?" No, no, no, Eraserhead is always tired he should be asleep why did Izuku wake him up this is all wrong everything feels bad and distant and he knows he belongs up in the clouds, falling, falling, not here, not in their apartment, not being-
Oh. Not being hugged tight and careful against a warm, solid chest that rises and falls in a rhythm that Izuku latches onto with every part of his being. There's a voice by his ear, quiet and soothing and so full of kindness that it burns, a blur of reassurances and platitudes and pleas, and the greenette only sags further into Aizawa's chest, hands scratching at his own arms behind the man's back, but then there are more hands, one for each of his own, and a second voice too, and it stops the scratching but not the itching, the spiders crawling along his arms and spine and skull, eight needles a piece to each of his awful thoughts and it hurts everything is wrong and he hates it hates it hates himself-
"Hey, hey, kid, stop it." The words are stern, just enough to startle Izuku out of his thoughts, and then his attention is caught by red-flaring eyes above him, somehow not a threat like crimson-blond-explosions, burning his skin in sugar-spun starbursts, but rather this is a promise of safety, a pledge of understanding, and it's an anchor in the tsunami of Izuku's emotions.
He latches on, unflinchingly.
Still staring up into those eyes that flicker between comforting abyss and fierce fire, Izuku lets the keen building in his throat escape, melding into a mess of words that are barely coherent but he needs to say them, needs to make sure these wonderful heroes aren't wasting their time on him, that he isn't being the burden he's so sure he must be, that he's been taught for almost ten years that he is and surely not everyone in his life can be wrong? But-
"They were kid. Anyone who told you that you were useless are wrong because you're brilliant, Quirk or no."
"Shou's right baby. You're intelligent and strong and beautiful inside-out, no two ways about it. You're amazing Izuku, really. We're so happy when you're with us and we think about you when you're not because we want you to be okay and happy and you can't be all the time but we want it to be as much of the time as possible, and it's even better if we're here with you to see that, ya know? We love having you with us baby."
Izuku knows empty words. He knows false promises and bland acknowledgements and how people see him but look straight past, offer him blank words that mean nothing and don't intend to, but what his heroes have just said? It was heart-felt, marrow-deep and something in his chest shakes apart with the realisation because the only genuine words he's been offered in years have been hatred.
This is love. Genuine love and care and affection and nothing has ever had Izuku so honoured.
He can believe them. So he pushes past the slowly-diminishing itch under his skin and simply nods in reply to them both, then lets himself be scooped up into strong arms and nuzzles into the solid shoulder that his cheek is pressed against, finding himself breathing more deeply again, chest rising more smoothly now, and he can hear a low, jagged humming and a few curious cat sounds, and then the two men are muttering to each other when a fine-fingered hand - Hizashi's, he idly acknowledges - covers his eyes before something brighter filters in around the edges, noise trickling in too, and then it dims a bit before the hand moves away completely.
"Not too bright?" Izuku gets out an affirmative murmur and the person holding him - Aizawa, Eraserhead, Shou - huffs but it's not an unkind sound and then he's sinking onto the sofa, the greenette still curled up in his arms, and Hizashi is fussing with the blankets around them, the pair of voices soothing, a balm on Izuku's fraying mind, and then the light and sound from what must be the telly starts to flicker and change, even whilst Hizashi perches beside them until he's apparently satisfied with whatever's on, before he bounds away again, brushing a gentle hand through Izuku's curls on the way past.
He returns not even a minute later and Izuku opens his eyes fully when there's a quiet request for the man to see his arms. Too tired and warm to really acknowledge the fear that tries to rear up in his mind, Izuku nods a little lopsidedly and shifts a bit to give Hizashi access. The antiseptic stings, but the pain is soothed by the embrace he's held in and the delicate treatment from the blond. Bandages are followed by kisses, one to each wrist and then a third to his forehead, before Hizashi shuffles away again. The heo is soon sitting down beside them again, wrapping up in blankets too, and then there are cats as well and it takes a minute for everything to settle down but then it does and Izuku opens his eyes up once more to find three gazes settled on him, one black, one red and one yellow which, wha- Oh. Moose.
"Does a nature documentary sound good kiddo? It's about... dolphins, apparently?" Aizawa offers, face blank but gaze warm and it's the perfect counterpart to Hizashi's energy as he slings an arm around his husband's shoulders and then buries fingers in amongst green curls, scratching and soothing against Izuku's scalp and nothing has ever felt more like home.
It comes as no surprise, given that, when all three of them fall asleep at various points, pressed into each other in amongst a mess of blankets and cats and it's a bit like earlier this evening, before Izuku let his doubts fester too deep, and that makes it even better because despite his meltdown nothing has changed. His heroes care about him, like him, want him, and he's never felt so blessed.
Aizawa, contrary to popular belief, rarely gets angry. Frustrated? Hell yes. Sleep-deprived grumpy? Eternally. But actual anger, let alone a fury boiling down to his marrow, is rare. And yet here he is, staring at a rundown apartment with broken locks and no food and nothing resembling a family atmosphere, and he wants to burn the place to the ground.
"A-ah, she w-w-won't-t-"
"Kiddo, sign if you want. I'm with you, you're safe, I understand." They're all simple words but together they mean the world and Izuku clearly takes them to heart as he chews on his lip for a few seconds, then nods decisively and raises his hands,
'She won't be hom- back until tomorrow morning, if her last note was right, so we- we've got the place to ourselves.'
The hero nods, but rather than turning to make his way further into the apartment, he instead steps closer to the greenette, arms raised a little.
The hug is a long one, lingering warmth even after they pull away, and if Aizawa transfers his capture weapon to the kid's neck, looping it carefully over and around his shoulders, then it's more than enough to watch Izuku bury his face in the soft-worn-rough fabric alloy and breathe, deep and steady, eyes closed, before offering the man a steeled gaze. There's still hurt there, of course there is, but it's tempered by the now-familiar hope and trust that the hero so treasures.
"Let's get you sorted kid, yeh?" And indeed they do. Izuku leads the way further into the dreary apartment and the hero can't help but notice the dust, the pale patches of wall where pictures once hung, the way that the kid doesn't look up from the floor except to very briefly meet Aizawa's eyes... It's sad. Not surprising, but it has the man's ribs too-tight around his heart and lungs all the same because there's a creature in his chest, hurt and angry and protective, and its claws dig into him with every step. Despite this, he makes sure to place a careful hand on the boy's shoulder that's not heavy or forceful. No, it's delicate and guiding. Letting Izuku know that he has someone with him, that he's not alone anymore, and that they'll be going home again soon. The way that the kid leans into it is very telling. Not to mention gratifying; the hero is more than glad that he can comfort their son-to-be.
Regardless of all this, Aizawa follows Izuku to a door with no nameplate or marks, plain wood, but when his kid pushes it open and then closes it again behind them, the hero doesn't fail to note that, at the kind of height that he can imagine Izuku a fair few years ago, at seven or eight, might be able to reach, there are scratch marks on the back of the bedroom door. Lots of scratch marks, badly covered up with a thin layer of varnish that doesn't actually match the rest of the door. This- fuck, this poor kid.
The hero can guess why or how those scratches got there - knows the panic of being locked out, away, in, left to fester in your own mind, in the darkness because his aggressors might have been limited to school when he was a child but there are store cupboards and cleaning closets galore in schools - but he doesn't ask, doesn't want to push Izuku further when the kid is already stressed and anxious. Instead, he shrugs off the duffel bag he brought and unzips it, leaving it on the bed for the boy and waits, taking in more of the room.
"I-" Izuku's words falter, falling flat over his tongue, but he has the man's full attention which is just fine,
'Could you please pack up my books? The textbooks and journals and things.' It's signed slowly, hesitantly, although Aizawa simply nods in return, easy and casual.
The books are one of very few things in the room. There's no toys from childhood; no heroics merch beyond a few tatty posters - one for Present Mic funnily enough, then one for Edgeshot and a third of some older hero that Aizawa barely recognises; no little trinkets picked up at arcades and holidays and fairs, and no pictures with friends or family or otherwise.
He isn't sure if it's worse than the scratches on the door or not.
Either way, it doesn't take long for the hero to pack away the few stacks of books, then to carefully unpin the three posters and roll them up, and despite it probably only having taken twenty minutes or so, Izuku is also finished with a neatly-folded pile of clothing and school uniform, although Aizawa resists the urge to tell him to leave said uniform because he and Zashi fully intend to pull their kid from whatever awful school it is that lets him get beaten down and beaten up every single day, that perpetuates his awful self-image, the discrimination that plagues their society, and oh how the hero's blood boils, molten lead in his limbs, pooling in his stomach with a sickening sort of rage that he knows won't fade fully until the kid's school is dragged through the mud and, possibly-maybe-probably burnt to the ground. If Aizawa gets any say, then there's no question about it. Ashes.
He's pulled from such thoughts by Izuku shuffling to lean against his arm and, unthinking, Aizawa raises said arm to tuck the child properly into his side. If he also ducks his head far enough to drop a brief kiss atop the curls that smell like Hizashi's lemon-lime shampoo, then nobody else is there to call him out, only a soon-to-be son who flushes as he tilts back to offer his hero a bright grin, head coming to rest on the man's shoulder.
It's adorable, and exactly the reassurance that Aizawa needed that Izuku will be okay, once given the space and time to heal. If he and Hizashi get to join the kid on that journey, then they're the lucky ones, and they certainly know it.
Aizawa and Hizashi walk either side of Izuku as they approach the police station and, as the kid's trembling grows more pronounced, the blond gently snatches up one of the kid's hands, interlacing their fingers and casually swings their joined hands, in almost perfect timing with Aizawa slipping an arm over Izuku's shoulders once again. The child lets out a long, wobbling breath but seems steadier for it. The two men exchange relieved glances.
"We're here for Detective Tsukauchi," Hizashi offers, flashing his hero ID card and a winning smile. The receptionist, taking a moment to sceptically check the card because Hizashi with his hair down and at-home glasses on, leather jacket or no, looks very different to Present Mic at a glance, waves them through, although Aizawa may or may not roll his eyes at her because, really, he comes through here often enough so he should be recognisable, even if his husband isn't.
"You still alright kiddo?" He asks, only a little bit to distract himself, mostly to make sure Izuku is ready. Or if not ready, then at least willing to let them know that he's not.
Yet the kid sets his shoulders, offers them both a sincere, shaky smile, and nods.
Within five minutes, they're all settled in the detective's office, greetings over with and Izuku silent again, albeit signing. It's alright though. Tsukauchi knows basic JSL and his Quirk works with both that and lip-reading, so long as it's direct conversation he'll be able to confirm the veracity of Izuku's story. This statement should be enough to at least get her into court. And convicted? Well, they also have a little folder of the notes where Inko says she won't be back for weeks or sometimes months, often with a distinct lack of care or attention in them, and no recognition of Izuku as a living, breathing child that has physical and emotional needs, let alone one that has bullies and discrimination and depression to fight on top of the usual growing pains.
No, Aizawa and Hizashi hadn't wanted to hunt down and hurt a certain woman very much upon first reading them, don't be absurd. Let alone still want to.
(If they ever meet her in private, neither know what they'll end up doing. In the last week since meeting Izuku, they've fallen hard for the sweet kid. The idea of ever leaving him to fend for himself, of letting him fall into depression deep enough that a hero has to talk him down from a rooftop... It's incomprehensible. It shouldn't happen to any child, let alone one so charming as their precious Problem Child.)
"Hi there Izuku-kun. It is alright if I call you that, isn't it? I can call you Yamazawa instead if you'd rather." And this, beyond the man's Quirk, is the reason they brought Izuku to detective Tsukauchi. He's a good man, a kind one, and a friend of sorts besides. They trust him. Hopefully that will mean that Izuku can too. And when the kid brings up his hands to sign an answer, he pauses, before lowering them once more to wring in his lap,
"I-Izuku's fine S-s-sir."
"Brilliant, thank you. I've got two more requests if that's alright - or three, actually. Firstly, don't worry about calling me Sir, bit stuffy and formal, so just go with Tsukauchi, kay kid?" The greenette nods, and the man goes on,
"I'm sure Aizawa and Yamada have already told you that my Quirk is Lie Detector: are you comfortable with talking to me all the same?"
"Y-yessir- I-! I m-mean Tsukauchi-s-san."
"No worries. And good to hear, saves me dragging another officer in instead," the detective replies, grinning for a moment, flickering an understanding gaze to the two heroes. Ah, another one to fall to Izuku's charms already.
"Finally, do you consent to having this recorded? Preferably with video as well as audio due to the chance of sign language being used, although in that case all faces in the video are automatically blurred beyond recognition, and it isn't necessary in the first place. It's your choice Izuku-kun."
"Both's o-okay." Hizashi and Shouta immediately share a look over the green curls, worried that Izuku is pushing himself too far, but they won't take that choice away from him. Not when he's alright for now at least. And if it helps get his so-called mother out of his life permanently, then they can't help but approve. Because every fibre of their beings wants this kid to be theirs in every way, not just emotionally. Their son.
"I'll just set that up quickly then." And indeed, it doesn't even take another minute before Tsukauchi is settling back into his office chair, pulled around the desk to be closer to the slightly too-small sofa where they're all sat, pressed into each others' sides, although they certainly don't mind, particularly when Izuku seems to be drawing strength from their proximity.
"Alright. The time is ten thirty-seven am, the twelfth of March, present are Detective Tsukauchi of Musutafu Police force, precinct three, pro heroes Eraserhead and Present Mic, and witness Midoriya Izuku, to be referred to as Izuku throughout this process. Everyone ready to start? Good. First, Izuku-kun, could you please tell me your legal name?"
"M-Midoriya Izuku."
"True. And your preferred name?" The kid stutters in place for a heartbeat, but doesn't truly hesitate to offer up his answer,
"Y-Y-Yam-mazawa Izuku."
"True. What are the names of your biological parents?"
"M-Midoriya Inko and H-Hisashi."
"True. When was the last time you saw either of them, together or..."
And so on the questions go. Tsukauchi eases Izuku in, giving him time to get the words out over a stone tongue and ivy-choked lungs, never once commenting on how he stumbles over syllables or pauses to lean further into the two heroes. It's going fairly well, even, despite the kid's nerves. There's certainly enough evidence to charge Inko with child neglect at the least, which is a relief for everyone involved because the child deserves to be away from her, to find a family and home of his own to be cherished in. A chance to pursue his own dreams and goals with the support that when he falls, he can get up again. The opportunity to fly, free.
It's the next day, and now almost exactly a week since Aizawa first found the kid, when a social worker, accompanied by Tsukauchi, turns up at their apartment with a thick folder in hand. Part of that folder is adoption papers. Between Izuku's testimony, the letters, and their status as pro heroes with a history of taking in the occasional kid for a day or two, it's easy enough to have the process expediated to this point and, after having emptied out the storage room-slash-second bedroom yesterday afternoon together, putting fresh bedsheets out and properly setting up what belongings the kid wanted to bring with him, they have a decent room to show the man, along with their research so far into a school transferral, self-defence classes and their plans to take Izuku to the closest shopping centre after their work tomorrow. The social worker seems satisfied, despite commenting that they may need to cut down their busy schedule a bit more, and he signs the paperwork with them, Izuku and Tsukauchi, before the two leave.
And if the first thing that happens upon the door closing is the kid bursting into tears? Well, his now-official dads simply enclose him between them in the middle of the living area, cats twining around their ankles and their son held close and careful in their combined embrace, and none of them could be more thankful that Izuku didn't fall.
"Y-you two, c-can I-" The words dissolve into his hitching sobs, but the kid tries again a minute later, when they pull away a little to both be able to look at him together, to show they're listening, taking him seriously,
"C-Can I c-c-call you D-Dad a-and Pops?" Oh, never has a question been such a heavy weight and light note for their hearts because it's loaded, so very important, but it brings them so much joy it seems surreal, moreso even than Shouta's proposal, or from accepting their hero licenses officially. Because this is their son.
"Of course you can kiddo. Your ours now, so it's only logical that we're yours too." It's spoken in a level tone, serious, but it's not sombre. No, Aizawa lets the genuine joy pulsing in his chest radiate through his words, blatant for his most precious people to see and hear. To agree with.
"Shou said it, baby. We're all a family, so you can call us whatever you're comfortable with. Got that lil' one?" And somehow Izuku really does understand, can comprehend and accept that his heroes are both that and more - are his dads now - and despite every dark moment and thought he has had and will have, he can trust in that to stay the same. He can trust them.
So Izuku steps over the ledge of his own insecurities and trauma, and opens wide wings made of golden light and hair and goggles, and he flies on a wind of hope, held in the arms of his family the whole time. He's home, in a sky so wide and bright and beautiful that even when clouds might make it dreary or dull for a time, there will always be a promise of a better day tomorrow and, before, then and after, people to be by his side throughout it all. So yes, Izuku flies, and his Dad and Pops fly with him.