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The first time Eraserhead saw the mysterious vigilante, he thought he was seeing things. A flash of green caught his eye under a streetlamp, revealing a small figure moving quickly across the rooftops. The vigilante wore a scarf made from tattered gray fabric that fluttered behind him, looking more practical than heroic.
Aizawa Shota squinted his eyes from his spot on a nearby rooftop, his goggles reflecting the shiny wet streets of Musutafu. Below him, three men had trapped a teenage girl behind a closed convenience store. One of the men had a quirk that turned his fingers into sharp, claw-like hooks. Another crackled with a weak electrical charge, and the third, who didn’t show any visible powers, brandished a knife as if he knew exactly how to use it.
Just as Aizawa prepared to leap into action, the child made his move first. Not a teenager like he initially thought—this was a small child.
With surprising agility, the boy slid down a fire escape, landing behind the knife-wielding man. He quickly pulled out a canister of pepper spray.
Aizawa raised an eyebrow in surprise.
The boy sprayed the attacker right in the eyes, kicked his knee, and then ducked just in time as the man with claws swung at him. The boy rolled out of the way, scattered a handful of marbles on the wet ground, and watched the electrified man slip on them and fall hard.
“Run!” the boy shouted, his voice sounding young and urgent—maybe seven or eight years old.
The girl took off running.
But the clawed man lunged at the boy.
Aizawa’s capture weapon whipped out, and he dropped from the rooftop with purpose. In just three seconds, the men were all on the ground. In four seconds, the boy froze in place. In five seconds, Aizawa noticed the tiny vigilante staring at him wide-eyed, as if he had just encountered something terrifying.
“Don’t run,” Aizawa instructed.
But the boy did run.
Of course, he did.
Aizawa sighed and took off after him.
The kid darted away like he was driven by desperation. He wasn’t polished or trained, but he was quick and sharp, knowing all the shortcuts through the alleys, the gaps in fences, and which rooftops were safe to cross.
Despite the boy’s speed, Aizawa caught him. The capture cloth wrapped securely around the child’s waist, lifting him off the ground just before he could leap between buildings. The boy let out a surprised little squeak.
Aizawa touched down on the rooftop, making sure to lower the boy gently. The child squirmed, kicked, and tried to bite at the cloth that restrained him.
“Stop that,” Aizawa said firmly.
“I can’t go to jail!” the boy yelled, panic flooding his voice.
Aizawa paused. He saw the fear in the boy’s wide eyes, bright green and shimmering with tears under the moonlight.
“I’m not taking you to jail,” Aizawa assured him slowly.
The boy didn't seem convinced. Aizawa could see the doubt in his face. His small hands shook as they clutched the scarf around his shoulders. He looked too thin for his age, with soft cheeks that were unnaturally hollow. Freckles dotted his skin, and bruises marked his knees, while bandages peeked out from one of his sleeves.
Aizawa narrowed his eyes, feeling a growing concern. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The boy pressed his lips together, refusing to answer.
“What’s your quirk?” Aizawa pressed on.
At this, the boy's expression shifted. It was barely noticeable – a slight flinch, as if a curtain had fallen over his eyes.
“I don’t have one,” he whispered.
Aizawa went silent. The city buzzed around them—the distant wailing of sirens, rain pattering against metal surfaces. Below, the girl he had saved was crying to the police.
A quirkless child.
A seven-year-old out here at night, trying to take on criminals with just pepper spray and marbles.
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Problem child,” he muttered.
The boy blinked, looking taken aback. “I’m not a problem.”
“Oh, you’re definitely a problem,” Aizawa replied, exasperated.
The boy frowned, clearly offended. “I helped!”
“But you almost got hurt badly!”
“But I didn’t!” he insisted.
“That’s not a good argument,” Aizawa shot back.
The boy turned his gaze away, looking down. Aizawa crouched down to his level, trying to keep his movements slow and non-threatening. The boy watched him closely, like an animal that felt cornered.
“You’re too young to be out here all alone,” Aizawa said gently.
The boy's lips quivered, but he raised his chin defiantly.
“If heroes can’t get there fast enough, someone has to step in,” he declared.
Aizawa stared at him in disbelief. For a fleeting moment, he saw an unusual maturity in that small face—something deeper than just arrogance or foolishness.
It was a sense of purpose.
Aizawa felt a fire ignite within him at that thought, one he despised immediately.
“What do people call you?” Aizawa asked.
The boy hesitated, looking a bit shy. “Deku,” he finally said.
Aizawa’s mood shifted.
The boy quickly continued, “It means someone who can’t do anything. But I thought if I used it, I could change what it means.”
Aizawa felt a strange tightness in his chest. He gazed at the boy standing in the rain, noticing the makeshift utility belt around his waist, the frayed scarf draped over his shoulders, and the shaky hands that tried so hard to appear brave.
“You’re going home,” Aizawa declared.
The boy turned pale. “No.”
“That wasn’t a question,” Aizawa insisted.
“Please. I can’t,” the boy begged, his voice breaking.
Aizawa paused, sensing something deeper behind the boy’s words. It wasn’t just stubbornness; it was fear.
Suddenly, the wailing of police sirens echoed below, and the boy’s panic surged. Aizawa felt it too, a tightness in his chest mirroring the boy's worry.
“Please,” Deku whispered, “Please don’t make them take me back yet.”
“Yet.” Aizawa noted the word carefully. He should have pressed for more information, should have taken the boy to the police station, called for child services, followed the rules. But when he looked at the small vigilante, he saw a child who expected adults to hurt him even when trying to help.
So Aizawa made a choice. Maybe it wasn’t the right one, but it felt human.
“You get three minutes,” he said.
Deku stared at him, confusion written all over his face. It seemed like kindness was a language he had never been taught. Then he whispered, “Thank you,” and disappeared into the rain.
Aizawa watched him leave, telling himself it wouldn’t be the last time they met. He reassured himself that this was just a temporary situation. He kept telling himself a lot of things. None of them explained what happened three nights later when he spotted the small shadow of the boy again. He helped Deku take down a mugger before even speaking a word.
None of it explained why he started carrying extra snacks in his coat for the boy.
Soon, Deku began leaving him notes. The writing was messy and full of observations: routes to patrol, dangers to civilians, patterns of villains.
“Mr. Eraserhead, I saw a man with a smoke ability near 3rd Street. He coughs before using it. Maybe he has asthma? Be careful.”
“Mr. Eraserhead, there’s a loose railing on the roof by the bakery. Watch your step.”
“Mr. Eraserhead, thank you for the protein bar. I’m sorry I ate it so quickly.”
Aizawa kept every single note. He didn’t know why, but something inside him recognized their importance. Not yet, at least.
For three months, Deku was a constant presence in Aizawa's life. A constant that was both reckless and brilliant. Aizawa never admitted it, but he couldn't deny that he was failing to keep Deku in check more often than not.
Deku had a special gift for understanding people. He could sense things—like when a villain was favoring one leg or when someone was pretending to be tougher than they really were. He knew how to find a safe route during a rescue and when a scared person needed directions instead of comfort.
At just seven years old, Deku showed a deeper understanding of being a hero than many adults did, which both infuriated and filled Aizawa with pride. Yet, it also terrified him.
Then, things began to change. Deku started to slow down. At first, it was minor; he missed a jump he normally would have made. Aizawa caught him just in time, preventing him from falling into the alley below. Deku hung there, breathing heavily, and apologized, saying he had miscalculated. Aizawa corrected him, saying his foot had slipped, but Deku just offered a weak smile and agreed.
As the week went on, Deku coughed during a stakeout and tried to hide the blood on his glove. Aizawa noticed, and their eyes met in a moment of shared concern. But then, in an instant, Deku ran away. Aizawa chased him harder than ever, but Deku vanished into the city.
After that, the updates from Deku stopped coming, and their patrols became infrequent.
When Aizawa finally saw Deku, he noticed that Deku was wearing much warmer clothes, even though it was a nice day. His face looked more angular, and his hands trembled whenever he reached for his things. Sometimes, he placed a hand on his ribs, as if trying to hold himself together.
One chilly Thursday night, Aizawa's patience wore thin. Deku had just saved a little boy from a drunk driver by pushing him out of the way. But afterward, Deku just collapsed.
It wasn’t a simple trip or stumble—he really fell down.
Aizawa rushed to him before the child could hit the ground.
“Deku,” he called out, and the boy’s eyes flickered open. For the first time, he looked his actual age—small, frightened, and completely exhausted.
“Sorry,” Deku mumbled softly.
Aizawa's heart ached at those words. “For what?” he asked.
“I don’t think I can run tonight.”
It was an unsettling thing to hear—he sounded practiced, as if he had accepted this fate. Aizawa gently lifted him into his arms, and he felt alarmed at how light Deku was. It scared him even more than the sight of blood.
“Where do you need to go?” Aizawa asked.
Deku’s fingers gripped Aizawa's shirt weakly. “No police,” he insisted.
“No police,” Aizawa agreed.
“No child services.”
Aizawa paused, uncertainty creeping in. Deku’s breathing became shaky, and he added, “Please.”
Aizawa hated how that word affected him. “Then where?” he pressed.
Deku closed his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Musutafu General Hospital. They have a pediatric long-term care unit.”
In that moment, everything around them seemed to fall silent.
Aizawa stared down at him.
Long-term care.
Not an emergency.
Not a clinic.
Just long-term help.
The pieces clicked together in Aizawa’s mind, like the sound of something breaking.
The hospital room had dinosaur stickers on the door, something Aizawa didn't like.
Inside, the walls were a pale yellow. Machines surrounded the bed, and a small All Might figure sat on the windowsill. The sheets were decorated with tiny clouds.
A nurse gasped when she saw them. “Izuku!”
Aizawa glanced down.
The boy in his arms went completely still.
Izuku.
That was his name.
Not Deku.
Not a vigilante.
Izuku.
Just a child.
The nurse rushed towards them but stopped when she noticed Aizawa. “Are you family?” she asked.
The question hit Aizawa hard. “No,” he replied.
Izuku’s fingers clutched weakly at Aizawa’s shirt.
The nurse’s expression softened, almost with pity. “He doesn’t have anyone listed for overnight visits.”
Aizawa frowned. “What does that mean?”
The nurse glanced at Izuku, then back at him. “It means his mother comes when she can.”
“When she can?” Aizawa sensed too much was left unsaid.
A doctor arrived, followed by another one. They carefully took Izuku from Aizawa's arms. He had to fight the urge to snarl in protest.
He waited outside the room, his sleeves damp and his fists clenched.
An hour later, a woman in a white coat stepped out.
“Eraserhead?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Miyake. You brought Midoriya Izuku back?”
Aizawa nodded.
“How do you know him?”
Aizawa opened his mouth, then closed it again. “He’s been helping people.”
The doctor looked worn out. “Yes,” she replied softly. “That sounds like him.”
Aizawa's stomach dropped. “What’s wrong with him?”
Dr. Miyake looked through the glass window at the small boy sleeping under too many blankets. “His body is having serious problems.”
The words hit Aizawa hard.
He stayed frozen in place.
“It’s a rare condition,” she explained. “It gets worse quickly and is hard to treat. We’ve been managing his symptoms for years, but recently… it’s gotten worse.”
“How long does he have?”
Aizawa’s heart sank as he waited for her answer.
The doctor's face showed pain. “Less than six months, unless something changes.”
Aizawa felt the hallway tilt around him.
Less than six months to live.
Izuku, often called Deku, had once claimed he didn’t have time to waste. Aizawa had thought that sounded dramatic and childish. But now, he realized how wrong he was—so very wrong.
“His mother?” Aizawa asked Dr. Miyake.
The doctor's expression reflected deep concern. “She loves him,” she replied.
“That's not what I asked,” Aizawa pressed.
With a heavy sigh, she continued, “She struggled after his health worsened. Izuku's dad left when he was just four years old. His mother tried to cope for a while, but watching her son decline became too much for her... She hasn't legally abandoned him, but emotionally, Izuku has felt alone for a long time.”
Aizawa's hands clenched into fists as a painful image filled his mind. A child, dying in a hospital room, was out there saving strangers at night because he had no one to care for him. A child who felt worthless because the world had repeatedly told him he was.
He turned to the window and saw Izuku lying in the bed. He looked so small. His freckles stood out against his pale skin, and a breathing tube was placed under his nose. The boy’s hands were bandaged from his late-night patrols. Aizawa remembered the notes Izuku had written: “Please be careful.”
His jaw tightened with determination. “What has to change?” he asked.
Dr. Miyake blinked, taken aback. “I’m sorry?”
“You mentioned less than six months unless something changes. What kind of changes?”
The doctor hesitated. “There are experimental treatments, but they are costly, risky, and most of them are overseas or still being tested.”
“Just give me the list,” Aizawa insisted.
“Eraserhead—”
“Give me the list,” he repeated firmly.
Dr. Miyake studied him carefully before finally nodding.
That night, Aizawa stayed by Izuku's bedside until dawn.
When Izuku finally woke up, he panicked.
Izuku looked up and spotted Aizawa. His eyes soon filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Aizawa leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“But you found out the truth,” Izuku said, glancing down at the blanket covering him.
“Of course I did,” Aizawa replied.
Izuku sighed, a small, weak laugh escaping him before he started to cough. Aizawa quickly offered him a cup of water before the nurse could arrive.
Izuku stared at the cup, then shifted his gaze to Aizawa. “So, you stayed with me?”
Aizawa felt a tightness in his chest. “Someone had to.”
Izuku’s lip quivered. He attempted to smile, even though it was clear he was struggling. It was one of the bravest things Aizawa had ever witnessed.
“I’m okay,” Izuku said, though it was a lie.
Aizawa studied him for a moment before responding softly, “No, you’re not.”
Izuku’s face fell. Instead of reacting loudly, he quietly curled in on himself, as if the truth had taken away his last bit of strength.
“I just wanted to be helpful,” he whispered. “Before... before I couldn't be anymore.”
Aizawa reached out his hand, hesitating for a moment, then gently placed it over Izuku's small, trembling fingers.
“You’re not valuable just because you save people,” Aizawa said gently.
Izuku looked up, and Aizawa continued, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re worth saving simply because you’re a child.”
At that moment, Izuku broke down. He cried as if he had been holding back for years, finally given permission to feel.
Aizawa stayed beside him, holding his hand through all the tears.
By the time dawn broke over Musutafu, Aizawa had made a crucial decision. Perhaps not the easiest one, but a permanent one. He promised himself he would never leave Izuku alone again.
The paperwork was overwhelming.
Aizawa struggled his way through it, feeling frustrated. Nezu got involved after just one phone call, but instead of helping, he made things even more complicated for everyone except Izuku. Yamada Hizashi found out about the situation and ended up crying in the hallway for twenty minutes before showing up at Izuku’s room with three stuffed cats, a portable radio, and an incredibly bright smile that could lift anyone's spirits.
Yagi Toshinori, known as All Might, visited in his slim form after Aizawa warned him not to overwhelm the young boy. Despite his efforts, Izuku fainted—with joy, no less.
When he regained consciousness, he found All Might sitting awkwardly in a chair nearby, looking guilty while Aizawa shot him a disapproving glare.
“I killed him,” Yagi whispered softly.
“You did not kill him,” Aizawa snapped back.
“I might have,” Yagi insisted.
Izuku stirred and whispered, “All Might?”
Yagi leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Yes, young Midoriya?”
Izuku’s face lit up, even if it was weak. He replied, “Cool,” before fainting again.
Aizawa rubbed his face in frustration, while Yamada started crying again.
Three days later, Aizawa signed papers to become Izuku’s temporary guardian. Izuku looked at the documents in shock, then glanced at Aizawa, then back at the papers.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Aizawa replied.
“I’m expensive,” Izuku pointed out.
“I noticed,” Aizawa said without missing a beat.
“I’m sick,” Izuku added softly.
“I also noticed,” Aizawa reiterated.
“I might not…” Izuku swallowed hard. “I might not get better.”
Aizawa crouched down beside Izuku’s hospital bed. The boy appeared small and fragile, surrounded by pillows, wires, and machines that weren’t really enough.
“I know,” Aizawa said gently.
Izuku’s eyes glistened with tears. “So why are you doing this?”
Aizawa struggled to find the words. He wasn’t great at expressing his feelings, but Izuku deserved the truth.
“Because you shouldn’t have to be alone,” Aizawa finally said.
Izuku stared at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But what if it hurts?”
Aizawa’s expression softened. For a moment, he appeared older and more human, as if the weight of his emotions was heavy.
“It will,” he answered honestly.
Izuku flinched at this, and Aizawa gently wiped a tear from his face.
“But you’re worth it,” Aizawa added.
Izuku made a tiny sound, almost too soft to hear. Then he reached out to Aizawa with both arms.
Aizawa hesitated for just a moment before pulling Izuku close. The boy clung to him with a mix of weakness and desperation, needing the comfort more than anything.
Aizawa held him like he was something incredibly important. Like something that could slip away at any moment. Like a promise he was willing to fight against everything, even death, to keep.
From that day on, Izuku’s hospital room felt different. The All Might action figure remained on the windowsill, but now there were also books, cozy blankets from Aizawa’s home, and a bright yellow sleeping bag that Yamada had jokingly bought but which Izuku instantly adored. A whiteboard was filled with treatment schedules, patrol stories, and notes about heroes.
Aizawa began to take fewer night patrols. When he did go out, he returned to the hospital afterward. Sometimes, Izuku was awake, waiting with tired eyes and a notebook on his lap.
“Did you catch the guy on the roof?” Izuku asked.
“Yes,” Aizawa replied.
“Did he use the smoke quirk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he cough first?”
Aizawa gave him a teasing look.
“Yes, problem child.”
Izuku smiled, although his smile was smaller than before, it was genuine.
The search for a cure became Aizawa’s main focus. He reached out to experts: doctors who studied villains, underground specialists, even international agencies and scientists who understood quirks. He sought anyone who could look at Izuku’s situation and see a boy with potential instead of just a countdown to tragedy.
Some of them said no. Some called it impossible. Others believed it was too late. Aizawa pushed those thoughts aside and kept searching.
Izuku noticed Aizawa’s determination. He noticed everything, as he always did. One rainy night, while the raindrops tapped gently against the window, Izuku looked up from his hero notebook and called out, “Dad?”
Aizawa’s pen froze mid-sentence, and the room fell silent. Izuku suddenly looked frightened. “I—I mean—sorry, I didn’t—Mr. Aizawa, I—”
Aizawa put down his pen and moved closer. Izuku seemed ready to sink beneath the blankets in embarrassment. Aizawa spoke softly, “You can call me that.”
Izuku’s expression shifted, and he asked, “Really?” Aizawa nodded. “If you want to.”
Izuku covered his mouth with both hands, a sound escaping that was part sob, part laugh. “I want,” he said quietly. “I really want.”
Aizawa pulled him close, and Izuku buried his face in Aizawa’s shirt, letting his tears flow. Aizawa rested a hand gently on the back of his head. “Okay,” he whispered.
It didn’t seem like enough, yet it felt like everything at the same time. “Okay, kid.”
Outside, life in Musutafu continued on — heroes were fighting, villains were running, and the rain kept falling. But in that small hospital room, with its cheerful cloud-patterned sheets, a little boy who was sick found someone he could finally call Dad.
Six months transformed Aizawa Shota in ways he never thought possible.
Before Izuku came into his life, his apartment was quiet and practical—a place to sleep between working as a hero and dealing with endless paperwork. It was a space that felt more like a bare necessity than a home.
After Izuku, everything changed. The kitchen cabinets filled with All Might mugs, small shoes found their way to the door, and notebooks about hero work cluttered the coffee table. A cozy green blanket became a permanent fixture on the couch. Medicine charts adorned the fridge in Aizawa’s neat handwriting, with small, shaky star drawings from Izuku at the corners.
Everywhere he looked were constant reminders that a child lived—and thrived—there. Laughter echoed through the rooms, and somehow, Aizawa’s house felt like a real home.
But now, everything felt too empty. Each room seemed to stretch out, quiet and waiting, as though it was preparing to be empty again.
Aizawa sat next to his son’s hospital bed, listening to the soft, fragile sounds of Izuku’s breathing. This wasn’t the same cheerful pediatric wing with colorful sheets and playful stickers; it felt quieter and gentler.
The doctors had stopped offering hope. They no longer spoke of cures or trials. Now, their words were focused on comfort and giving time—urging families to be close. Aizawa resented them for it. He hated the soft-spoken voices, the sympathetic glances, the hands on his shoulder, and the endless apologies that couldn’t save his son.
His son. Just six months ago, those words seemed unthinkable. Now, they were everything.
Izuku Midoriya was his son, not by blood or time, but through countless sleepless nights, shared moments of tenderness, whispered promises, and the small smiles that Izuku gave him even when he was in pain.
Aizawa had come to know the exact feel of Izuku’s hand in his, how he preferred his soup when he could still eat, and which All Might videos always brought out his laughter, even on hard days. He knew how Izuku hated being called brave, responding, “I’m scared all the time, Dad. Being called brave feels fake.”
Aizawa reassured him, his voice rough, that feeling scared was precisely why bravery mattered.
Izuku had smiled so brightly that day, a smile that seemed to linger in Aizawa’s memory. It was brighter than the overhead hospital lights, brighter than the start of a new day, and brighter than anything the world could have wished for from a seven-year-old boy who was fighting for his life.
Now, Izuku lay under a soft green blanket, too weak to move even a finger. His messy curls rested against the pillow, and his freckles were striking against his pale, thin skin. The machines beside him made slow beeping sounds, almost as if time was dragging on.
Aizawa had turned off the bright lights above because Izuku had said they hurt his eyes. Only a small All Might nightlight remained, casting a gentle golden glow from the bedside table. Yamada had brought it three weeks ago, and Izuku had hugged it so tightly that Yamada ended up in tears.
Earlier that morning, Yagi had come to visit. He knelt by the bed, holding both of Izuku’s small hands in his much larger ones. “Young Midoriya,” he had said, his voice shaky, “you were an incredible hero.”
Izuku had given a smile then—not a big one, not his strongest, but a genuine one. “Really?” he had asked.
At that moment, Yagi had broken down completely, the tears overwhelming him. “Yes,” he whispered, “one of the best.”
After that, Izuku had drifted off to sleep. Aizawa watched as All Might left the room, his hand covering his mouth and shoulders shaking. Now, it was just the two of them—father and son—sharing this quiet moment together.
Aizawa leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gently holding Izuku's small hand in his. It didn’t grasp back anymore, and that hurt more than anything else could.
For months, Izuku had tried his best to keep holding on. He fought through his weakness, pouring all his strength into that small gesture. He would wrap a finger around Aizawa's hand and smile like he had achieved a great victory. But now, his hand lay limply in Aizawa's palm—warm but lifeless. For now, he was still here.
Aizawa lowered his head, speaking softly, "I’m here."
Izuku’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to breathe. Aizawa straightened up immediately when he saw the boy's eyes open just a little—cloudy from exhaustion, but still a bright green.
Aizawa swallowed hard. "Hey, problem child," he said, trying to bring some lightness to the moment. For a brief moment, Izuku just looked at him, and then the faintest smile appeared on his lips. It was small, but it was still Izuku.
“Dad,” he whispered, and Aizawa's heart ached at the sound. He leaned closer, brushing the curls away from Izuku’s forehead.
"Yeah," he managed to reply, his voice shaking despite his best efforts to stay strong. “I’m here.”
Izuku’s gaze searched Aizawa’s face as if he were trying to remember every detail—maybe thinking there was something to take with him. Aizawa pressed his lips together tightly, knowing this was a moment he would never forget.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he urged softly. “Just rest.”
Izuku frowned slightly, showing his stubbornness even now. Aizawa almost chuckled at the familiar spirit.
"I..." Izuku's lips moved, but no sound came out. Aizawa leaned in closer, feeling the light warmth of Izuku's breath. "Say it again, kid."
Izuku’s mouth quivered. “I… I’m… sorry.”
Aizawa closed his eyes, feeling a tear slip down his cheek before he could stop it. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Izuku. You don't need to apologize. Not for this. Not to me.”
Izuku blinked slowly, tears welling up in his eyes too. Aizawa gently cupped his face with one hand, holding him with care. “You hear me?” he whispered. “You gave me six months that I didn’t deserve. Six months of being your dad. That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
Izuku’s breath hitched, and a tiny tear rolled into his curls.
Aizawa gently wiped away a tear with his thumb.
“You’ve made my life better,” he said, his voice filled with raw emotion. “It’s more chaotic, louder, and definitely more frustrating.”
Izuku couldn’t help but smile slightly at that.
Aizawa’s expression shifted, filled with a mix of feelings. “And better,” he added softly.
The beeping of the machine was slow and steady, an unyielding reminder of the situation.
Izuku looked up at him, uncertainty in his eyes. “Did I…?” His voice trailed off.
Aizawa leaned in closer. “Did I… save people?”
Aizawa squeezed his hand tightly. “Yes.”
Izuku’s eyes fluttered as if he were fighting to stay awake. “Was it enough?”
That question hit Aizawa hard, as if it broke something deep within him. Enough. As if Izuku had been keeping track of lives saved, believing that it could somehow balance out the pain he had endured. As if he felt he had to do something to deserve love.
Aizawa lowered his forehead to Izuku's hand. “No,” he whispered.
Izuku looked confused, trying to grasp what was happening. Aizawa lifted his head, tears now freely falling down his face. “Because you were never meant to be the one saving anyone. We were supposed to save you.”
Izuku stared at him silently for a long time. Then, with the last bit of strength he could muster, he moved one finger. It brushed weakly against Aizawa’s hand.
Aizawa froze, taken aback.
Izuku smiled—a soft, bright smile that, despite the pain, radiated warmth. “I was saved,” he whispered.
Aizawa found it hard to breathe.
Izuku’s eyes remained fixed on him. “You came.”
Aizawa let out a sound that was half a sob and tried to hold it back.
Izuku’s smile wavered. “You stayed.”
Aizawa pressed Izuku’s hand against his cheek. “I’ll stay,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Izuku’s gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, dawn was breaking over Musutafu. Soft golden light spilled between the buildings, warming the hospital room.
Izuku had always loved sunrises. He used to say they made the city feel like it was getting a fresh start.
Aizawa watched as the light touched Izuku’s face. For an incredible moment, Izuku looked healthy, as if he might sit up and ask for pancakes, or reach for his notebook to talk about patrol routes. It felt like, just for a second, Aizawa might have a little more time.
The world can be harsh.
Time moved on, and in that moment, Izuku’s breaths became shallow. Aizawa quickly sat at the edge of the bed, being cautious of the wires and the fragile figure tucked under the blanket. He slid one arm behind Izuku’s shoulders and lifted him gently, just enough to hold him close.
Izuku felt safe in his embrace.
He was so light, almost too light.
Aizawa tucked Izuku's head under his chin, his hand cradling the soft curls. “I’m here for you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, kid.” It was a term of endearment he'd never used before, and it slipped out before he could stop it.
Izuku made a small sound, one that expressed happiness, exhaustion, and a sense of safety all at once. Aizawa began to rock him gently, the way he had during long nights when the pain was unbearable or when Izuku awoke in tears from nightmares of being alone. He had promised to hold him as long as he needed, even if it felt like the world was ending.
“I’m scared,” Izuku whispered.
Aizawa tightened his grip. “I know.”
“Will it hurt?”
Aizawa looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, tears sliding down his face. “No,” he lied softly. “No, kid. Not anymore.”
Izuku relaxed just a bit, and Aizawa felt guilty for lying. He would have said anything to give Izuku some peace.
The boy’s breath was soft against Aizawa’s shirt. “Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“I love you.”
Aizawa broke down completely, silently overwhelmed. He pressed his face into Izuku’s hair. “I love you too,” he whispered, “so much. So much, Izuku.”
Izuku smiled gently, the kind of smile that would stay in Aizawa’s heart forever. “Thank you… for being my dad.”
Aizawa couldn't find the words to respond. If he spoke, he might beg, and he couldn’t let Izuku leave with that on his mind. So he just held him.
As dawn light filled the room, he held Izuku while the beeping monitor gradually slowed down. He held him as he took a small breath, then another, and one more.
Izuku’s fingers twitched lightly against Aizawa’s shirt. His eyes drifted shut, his face calming. With one last faint whisper, he said, “Dad…”
Then everything went still.
The monitor let out a long, harsh tone. Aizawa didn't move. The door swung open, and someone gasped. A nurse began to cry, and a doctor murmured Izuku’s name. But Aizawa remained there, clutching Izuku tighter, gently rocking him with one hand buried in his green curls.
“No,” he whispered, softly, broken. “Not yet.”
But there was no reply, no small hand reaching out for him, no voice reassuring him. Only silence. Only dawn. Only the overwhelming weight of a child who once felt so light but now seemed heavier than everything in the world.
Aizawa pressed a kiss to Izuku’s forehead, his voice cracking in the stillness. “You did good, my little hero.” A sob escaped him. “You did so well.”
For the first time in years, he didn't care who saw him cry.
Aizawa stayed.
He had promised.
He remembered Izuku once asking if he would be there at the very end, and Aizawa had said yes. Because that’s what fathers do. They stay, even when it tears them apart. Especially then.
Outside, the sun rose over Musutafu, marking the beginning of a new day. In Aizawa’s arms, the smallest yet bravest hero finally found peace.