Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku Aizawa never planned to become a vigilante.

Who knows what trouble his father would get into if he was caught. But he was weak. Incredibly so. 

It started when Inko dropped him off in the care of one Shouta Aizawa when he reached five years old and was deemed quirkless. He was the result of a one-night stand between the two when his father turned eighteen. 

He never received love or attention from the woman, and the pattern continued with the man. Sure, he fed him regularly and bought things when needed. But never did Izuku’s emotional need ever fill. 

And so he turned to the streets. 

If love was denied him, then saving others was his calling. 

And so he worked hard to save those around him while keeping his identity a secret. But everything came to a head when his father, Aizawa Shouta,  Eraserhead,  regularly began to look after him. He brought him food, offered to train him, and believed that he, Verdant, could become a hero. And Izuku bathed in it, soaking up every ounce of limited affection from the man, just his father who was acting this way to a strange vigilante kid on the street. 

He refused to question it. Refused to understand where he went wrong for the man to ignore him at home. He would accept what he could for now, and if he was ever found out, may the gods help him. 

. . .

It had been a long day, that rainy afternoon when Izuku decided to patrol. No sun peeked through the clouds as he scoured the streets for people to help. His father was at UA today, so a solo patrol it was, as his visor kept the rain off his eyes. He decided to go out a bit earlier today, seeing as though the entrance exams were in full effect. He wasn’t taking them. Any at all, and unsurprisingly, his father didn’t react one bit. 

And screw Izuku for not taking a hint that his father really didn’t give two shits about him. He’d gotten his hopes up because obviously, he would care for Verdant, his vigilante persona, but for plain, old, forgotten, useless, little Deku, he wasn’t afforded anything.

And so, he dealt with it how he always has, by saving.

It doesn't surprise him when he runs into a collapsing building to save a group of kids from dying. It doesn’t stop him from using his arm as a cushion, regardless of the  crunching, and snapping, and the breaking  to save a little girl‘s leg. It doesn’t stop the pleas for the children to leave and get out. It doesn’t stop the pounding of his head, the incessant thrum in his veins that kicked his adrenaline into overdrive. 

It doesn’t stop the concrete from dropping on his head.

It doesn’t stop crimson dripping out of his mask.

It doesn’t stop the smile on his face as he knows he did well.

It doesn’t stop the thought of how his father will be free of him.

It doesn’t stop.

Until his heart slows.

The color of his eyes fades.

And Izuku Aizawa dies. 

It’s all over the news.

Verdant, the up-and-coming vigilante, is dead.

Buried under the unforgiving stone.

And Shouta weeps.

The kid is dead, his vigilante is gone. The child he could look out without visions of blue and clouds is gone. The child, a replacement for the one he can’t stand to see because his heart breaks every single damn time. 

And he won’t ever get him back, but perhaps, Izuku, Izuku will take him back. The shitty father who did nothing but ignore his very existence. He’d get on his hands and knees to beg, he wouldn't be a coward anymore.

He will face green and hope to not envision blue. He'll try to salvage whatever is left.

Because that is what Verdant probably would have wanted him to do. 

To be a good father.

. . . 

When he got home, he called out to the boy for what was probably the first time but was met with absolute silence. He should have expected it, honestly. Has he even spoken in more than clipped speech to the child ever since the mother dropped him off? 

The conclusion he came to settled bitterly in his heart. 

The kid didn’t deserve what he did, and Shouta completely deserves whatever the kid has to say. 

And so he waits. He’ll let the kid come to him. Sure he calls out every hour to remind Izuku that he is present. But otherwise, quiet envelopes the house.

Until the phone sets off with a gentle ring.

One.

Two. 

“Hello? Aizawa speaking.”

“Aizawa… you need to come down to the station,  now.”

The line clicks dead.

And a cold dread enters his veins. 

Something was wrong. 

And it involved Shouta.

. . . 

He entered the precinct and numbly followed the detective, words floating through the air, refusing to penetrate the haze he was in. He could tell, however, that they were moving further into the center of the building close to the morgue. 

And his stomach  dropped . 

The double doors opened, and on the cold metal bed was a head of green. A bush of curls noticeable from a mile away. The mottled skin was kissed with the paleness of death, the kid's freckles standing like constellations along a lifeless expanse. 

Step.

Step.

And then the fall.

Water breached wide eyes as hands crashed to the ground, body crawling back against the wall as he stared at the scene in front of him. Horror gripped his throat, squeezing down its acidic sap, the liquid sludging its way throughout his body. Hands grasped at his arms, but he flung them away. They were scorching him. Those hot iron fingers no doubt left burns littering their point of connection. 

And there was screaming, a horrible shrill sound saturating the entire room, ringing his ears. It continued for an eternity until the hoarseness let out croaks, an echo of the piercing cry from before. 

When it died and the world began its cycle of silent mourning, Shouta crept closer to the metal coffin. Weak legs were no help to him as he hauled his way to stand, to stare at the face he failed, the boy who was given to him, who he was supposed to  protect . And now, another corpse of a child lays in front of him. The body of  his  child. 

He grasps the cold hand, a gesture unworthy of him, bringing it to his chest as he surveys the face he refused to even glance at many times before. And he was met with so much innocence. 

The kid’s face still clung onto baby fat, and Izuku hadn’t even grown into himself yet. He was still a child, still so young.

And Shouta curses himself for ever seeing Oboro in him. Izuku was his own person, worthy of love, worthy of Shouta’s attention, worthy of everything Shouta could have provided, and more. 

And now, he is gone, and he can’t even attempt to repair the damage he caused. 

His head collapsed to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, willing the tears away before gazing back at the kid. 

But, something caught his eye.

A twisted scar, red and nasty, recent. A stab wound with a pattern. One with a jagged blade. 

Caused by a quirk months ago.

Then everything clicked. 

Izuku was Verdant. His kid was his vigilante. 

“Nonononono, Izuku, you didn’t know, you, I, I did this to you. I did this to you!” That was the only answer he could think of. His negligence, his neglect, and his inability to get over himself and take care of Izuku made Izuku go to the extremes. He encouraged Verdant to be heroic, not seeing the martyr behind the mask. He indulged his parental urges and gave repeatedly to Verdant while leaving Izuku with nothing at home. 

He was the kid’s origin story and his demise. 

A hand smacked his back in a manner that meant to be comforting but felt like a failure to the raven.

“Aizawa, I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize that you had become close with the vigilante, or else I would have waited. However, we need to find the next of kin to inform them, and you were the lead on the case. The kid, despite the legalities surronding his work, was a hero through and through. He got every single one of those kids out.”

Dead eyes stared through Tsukauchi as Shouta wished numbness would swallow him whole.

“He’s my son, Izuku Aizawa, and I failed him. Gods, have I failed him.”

Chapter Text

The funeral was a lonely one. 

Only a father, in one of the most decorated cemeteries, and it was one for fallen heroes, holding notables like the Water Hose duo on its grounds. Now it held Izuku Aizawa, the vigilante Verdant, savior of the Elementary Twelve. 

He was cremated on Wednesday afternoon and buried on a Friday. Shouta sent away some of the ashes to be created into jewelry, kept some in a small urn in thei- his home, and the rest surrounded by dirt underneath a tower of marble.

At least the rain joined him. The tears of the heavens sending their regards to a fallen one, the puddles formed its children, harboring reflections of the scene around them. 

But of flesh and blood, there was one.

How cruelly fitting that Izuku’s death mimicked his life.

Alone except for a father separated by a veil. 

A veil no longer of blue and friendship but of dirt and regret.

 He had requested the first week of classes off yet was denied so by Nezu. He gave no reason other than personal matters, but that seemed insufficient for the principal. 

So, he attended. He got his papers, acquired everything he needed, and waited in his classroom for once. 

One by one, twenty students shuffled in, and he couldn't help but flinch at their joy, especially after seeing a head of green (not the same shade- darker- not curly- doesn’t have his black mixed in- isn’t his).

Do they not understand what going into heroics means? Are they that naive to think this is fun and games? Why was he stuck with such children?

His quirk burst to life as he glared at every student one by one, hoping to instill a bit of fear into them.

“Silence, all of you, go out to field beta. Here are your uniforms, be quick or be expelled,” was all that was said before he left to the field himself, grasping the ring decorating his neck. 

. . .

Half of the class was late, and they were lucky that Shouta was feeling unforgiving. Punctuality was an important part of heroics, not to mention academics, and the lack of respect for these things shows how seriously some of his students would take heroics. 

“Mina Ashido expelled, Denki Kaminari expelled, Minoru Mineta expelled, Rikado Sato expelled, Hanta Sero expelled, Toru Hagakure expelled, Ochako Uraraka expelled, Mashirao Ojiro expelled, Yuuga Aoyama expelled, and Eijirou Kirishima expelled. You all have failed the most basic part of heroics, being on time. You are no longer in the heroics track. Tomorrow head to classroom 1-C and meet your new teacher then. Now leave, I have tests to conduct.”

Echoes of unfairness rang through his ears, some even from those he hadn’t even expelled yet. 

Oh,  they thought he was kidding? 

“Kyoka Jirou and Tenya Iida, you can join them. I am not here to coddle you. For three years I am here to make you into heroes, but I will not be the reason for your demise. Right now, I see no potential in many of you. Therefore, you are being booted. So, if we may continue, I would like the remaining students to participate in tests.” 

A bark of laughter and a pop of explosions, and Shouta knew who was to be expelled next.

“You heard the man, extras! Let those with real potential show what they’re made of!”

“Katsuki Bakugou, feel free to join them as well. Now-”

He could hear the incoherent yelling, the sound of a petulant child whose dream was being destroyed. 

Better now than on the field. 

He swiveled towards the child, who was charging toward him and wrapped him in his capture weapon. The blond looked feral, foaming at the mouth, eyes wide. Yes, Shouta was right to expel him from the hero course. 

“Bakugou, what you just tried, attacking me, solidified my decision to dismiss you from the hero course. You seem like nothing but an egotistical child who clearly, by your choice of words, doesn't care for others around you. At least Jirou and Iida wanted to help, yet they voiced against my final decision, hence their dismissal. You, on the other hand, would be a liability on the field. No one wants to work with someone who doesn’t play well with others. We do not need another Endeavor. Now, leave.”

. . .

He looked at the remaining seven, seeing fear in their eyes. So, perhaps he gave into compassion and granted them a choice. 

After all, to a point, they showed the minimum amount of promise. 

“Now, you all have a choice. Seeing as though thirteen of your fellow classmates have been moved to general education, you are far from a full class. You can either stay here, go through my quirk tests, and risk expulsion if you are last. Or, you move to class 1-B. Mind you, if only one stays, expulsion at any time stays. Consider this my mercy. If you wish to switch classes, go to the rest of orientation and request the change by Wednesday.”

One by one, the students left until Yaoyorozu was all that remained. A questioning eyebrow was raised. Was this girl really going to stay in this class? 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait for his answer.

“I’ll be requesting a change, Sensei, but I have to ask. Why did you expel them? I thought you were joking before, but you weren’t. So, I was wondering if you would clarify why.”

Shouta examined her. She had the guts to ask this after the showing today. He would applaud her if he had the energy to. 

“Because… There is nothing crueler than letting a dream end midway.”

With that he left, heading to the teachers' lounge to sleep. 

He had a grave to visit later.

He was in his sleeping bag when he was rudely awakened by Hizashi.

“Yo, how do you not have a class this year, Shouta? I heard from Nezu that I have thirteen new students and that Vlad got the remaining seven. What happened?”

Shouta didn’t have time for this. He should have already been home making a bento to bring. So, he ignored the man in favor of gathering his things and making his way to the door. It was only when he went to fiddle with the necklace that he realized- 

“When did you get this man? I didn’t think you were one for jewelry.”

Shouta saw red. 

Sure, he could have just asked for it back, could have explained, but he  couldn’t. I t was too soon. It's been acknowledged in passing, but he hasn’t faced the full truth. He grasped with all his might the cold hand on that metal bed yet, like the entirety of Izuku’s life, held the boy and his memory at arm's length to prevent the hurt further. 

“Give it back Hizashi,” he growled out, the sound so unlike him that Hizashi almost looked  scared . 

“Dude, are you ok? I was just asking about-”  “Give it to me, Yamada.”

The pain radiating off the man didn’t affect Shouta as much as it should have. He needed the necklace back, and if it meant hurting the man, the person who was his supposed best friend, well, to Shouta it was worth it. 

But the man still seemed undeterred, seeing as though he still wouldn’t give his son back.

“Shouta, what is wrong, you have never, ever, since the one and only time I have asked to come over years ago called me Yamada. I’ll give it back, but I can’t help you if you don’t give me something. ”

Help. Help? Shouta is far beyond help. There is nothing to help him, less someone has a resurrection quirk. Less someone can bring his green-haired child back from the dead. Less someone can loosen the knot of guilt in his chest or conduct a seance so he can apologize as much as he can to Izuku. Never once had the boy heard that he was loved by Shouta. Not once in life did Shouta hold the boy and whisper that everything would be ok. He gave no comfort, no visible declaration of his love. He gave nothing.

“I don’t need help, I need that ring, and I need to leave. If you don’t give it to me now. I will use my quirk. I know how much you hate it.”

He held out his hand for it, and the weight settled in his hand, causing the tightness in his stomach to loosen as he once more clutched at it, placing it back in its rightful place. 

Quietly he turned back to his possessions and left without another word, ignoring the questions from not only Hizashi, but from Nemuri as well. 

She must have come in without him knowing. Well as long as they don’t touch Izuku, they can question all they want.

He makes Katsudon as he prepares his cleaning supplies before grabbing the bouquet of flowers he had ordered. There were lilies, chrysanthemums, and purple hyacinths in a beautiful assortment, each petal perfect. 

Almost forgeting the incense, he tossed it in the bag last minute, and with everything in hand, he leaves, hands too full to remember to lock the door.

. . .

Upon reaching the stone, he gently placed the items down paying special attention not to damage the flowers. There wasn’t much to clean on the monolith, but Shouta did so anyway, going slow and steady, making sure to get every nook and cranny. Little weeds were sprouting, which he picked, and when he was done, he placed the bouquet in front of the stone before lighting the incense. 

Sitting cross-legged, he clasped his hands before saying a prayer. Sure he believed in no gods, but it felt like a disrespect to Izuku to not grant a prayer. When finished, he talked about everything and anything. Old missions that the kid might have enjoyed listening to and stories about the rooftop squad, plus Tensei and their adventures. 

It was probably the most he had ever spoken in a lifetime. 

But then, he remembered the meal he had brought, and eating was the last thing on Shouta's mind. He placed the food in front of the flowers instead, the bento closed to prevent wild animals from eating it, and just sat in silence, staring. 

It was absurdly peaceful for a reason unknown to Shouta. The air was still, and no animals chirped, howled, or anything of the sort. The cars that could usually be heard from this distance were nowhere to be found. And the chattering of others visiting loved ones refused to reach his ears. 

Part of him wanted to break it, yet another begged him to stay in solitude, in the silence. 

So, he did. 

He wasn’t sure how long it was when he returned to himself, but the sun was setting, and the time to go home was nearing. 

He gathered his things before planting a kiss on the stone.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I love you Izuku.”

And he departed, ignoring the weird coldness around his middle.

Immediately upon entering, he was on high alert. 

The sweet smell of incense flooded his senses, and he cursed himself for leaving his capture weapon in his room. He inched into the main area, keeping his feet light as he pulled out the chemical solution he had in his bag, arming himself.

Rounding the corner, he dropped everything to the ground. 

In front of the memorial he had set up for Izuku was freshly lit incense and a vase of higanbanas, spider lilies, and on the couch, a familiar array of dark blues and blond sat waiting.

Shouta felt a surge of panic, an undeniable urge to run away, perhaps back to Izuku’s grave. Would it be disrespectful to sleep there? He didn’t want to face  them , especially considering he hid a whole human being from them. 

They weren’t saying much to each other, only speaking of a draft and the chilliness that came with it, but it was ignored in favor of Shouta trying to figure out his plan. 

To tell them or to avoid them.

Of course, it was taken out of his hands when Hizashi just had to glance over to the entrance with a questioning tilt prompting Tensei and Nemuri to do so also. He could feel the blood rise to his head as he shook it violently, moving back towards the door, but strong arms apprehended him, even as he thrashed and pleaded for them to let him go. He’s not ready, he can’t--won’t recall his failures. 

He was pushed to the couch, and his necklace, his son, was snatched from his neck by Hizashi, the man probably realizing that Shouta wouldn’t leave without it. Well, the voice hero didn’t account for Shouta’s emotional state, as the raven felt  bloodthirsty.  His brain was in a frenzy, and Hizashi made himself a target by stealing the only thing keeping Shouta sane. 

He launched himself at the blond, quirk activated, ignoring the choking sounds the man was making as he wrestled for what was taken. When the man wouldn’t budge even as he began to turn blue, the temptation to harm was so strong that Shouta was sure that he could kill the man in front of him. He didn’t want to, he didn’t, he just wanted his son back, and he keeps getting taken. He tries to force the hand holding it to open once more as tears drip onto the face below, but purple mist surrounds him, and he can only let a broken whine escape him as he falls over because why can’t they just give him back?! 

“Just give him back,”  he tried though it came out only a whisper as the darkness consumed him whole.

He shot up, hand feeling at his neck before a sigh of bittersweet relief dropped from his mouth. Was everything just a dream? Were his friends actually here?

He glanced around, meeting three pairs of eyes, each filled with caution as they watched him. He deserved that if what he remembers from before was to be believed. Neither moved for a while until Nemuri, the ever brave one, spoke for the group.

“Why?”

And that was a loaded question indeed. How was Shouta ever going to answer? Why was Izuku hidden from them? Why did he entertain thoughts of deeply hurting his best friend? Why, why, why, indeed.

His voice was gravelly, the tone melancholy, as he shot a question back at her.

“Why, what Nemuri? Your question begs a million answers, yet there are only a few you desire. Ask me straight, and I will answer. I promised to no longer be a coward, so ask me, and I will lay myself bare. I won't try to run anymore.” And in a more quiet tone, mainly to himself “you all will hate me for it, and for that I am grateful.”

They all eye him carefully, consideration dancing in their eyes before Nemuri once again takes the reigns.

“Who was he?”

Once more, a loaded question that he couldn’t even begin to answer, except with a simple fact he knows.

“He’s my son, Izuku.”

Faint gasps were heard, but he ignored them in favor of fiddling with the necklace. 

“But, why not tell us Sho? We could have helped with the little tyke. We could have been there with you when it all happened.”

Shouta wanted so violently to hook himself over a toilet and spew the acid brewing in his stomach. 

Because how is he supposed to tell them that the only picture he has of Izuku was from when he was  five?  How is he supposed to tell them that he never knew the kid? How was he supposed to tell them how he died, and how Shouta was the cause? How-?

His breath quickened, but he needed to spew it out, his heart demanding that he not hold it in any longer lest he explodes.

“Fifteen, he was fifteen, only picture, my fault, it was all my fault.”

It was when Tensei butted in that Shouta lost it.

“Surely it wasn’t your fault Shouta; accidents-“ “you aren’t understanding me, Tensei. If I would have actually been there for him, actually cared for him, he might have been in my class if he wanted to be. He’s fifteen, and yet, I only have a picture of him when he was five. Don’t you see!? That ten years without pictures, ten years without anything from me except food and anything he asked to buy. I did nothing, I said nothing, and I treated him like nothing.  I  ignored  him!  He never- never- I saw Oboro in him when I should have seen him! I couldn't bear to see him, and I can blame nothing but myself for it. He died by himself. He  saved  the elementary twelve. He was Verdant! And you want to know the funniest thing? The biggest slap in the face to my child I could have done? I  knew  his vigilante persona, and I treated him more like a son with his mask on than I ever did without. I gave him hugs and offered to train him. I had some great conversations with the kid! But I killed him!” Hysterical laughter bubbled from his throat as the acidic tears once more drifted down his face in fountains. His heart physically hurt as he thought back to the day in the morgue, the realizations striking him one after another.

“I never got to know him, and he never knew I did care. I just- how fucked is this?! I don’t have a right to feel this way. I shouldn’t get to feel a damn thing! I didn’t know him! I didn’t know him, still won’t, and never will! But… but I wanted to. I did. But visions and flashbacks were all that crowded my mind, and all I could do when I was home was stay in my room. But that’s not an excuse, Shouta! That’s no excuse, and you know it! This is one thing you can’t absolve yourself of, the one thing, you-I can’t allow it. I will forever, till the day I die, beg for forgiveness, ask for a pardon, and hope that whatever is after death will allow me to repeat every single one of those apologies. And you know,” he paused, looking at the shocked and bewildered features of the group, “I hope he doesn’t forgive me, and to be honest, I hope none of you forgive me as well. ”

Being done with outward speech, he laid on the floor, letting the ruminations in his head run rampant as his breathing labored. He heard doors slam, hushed yells from another part of his home, kissed his ears, but it was easy to ignore. 

Ignore.

Hah. 

Ha hah. 

A grin formed on his face as he twisted his hand in the carpet. He hit the floor,

Once.

Twice.

 It didn’t hurt. It needed to hurt. Why didn’t it hurt? Hands clawed at his arms, leaving welts. Now that hurt, it felt… good, right, deserved. 

So he did so repeatedly, not caring for the now weeping scratches that got bigger and bigger each once over. They burned, yet his arms felt frigid, even until his last pass over. It was only when it felt like too much that he stopped, though that didn’t stop the threading of his hands through his hair and the harsh tugs that followed after. 

But that even lost its interest, so he let himself drift into slumber, however fitful he knew it would be.

. . .

He awoke to the smell of food cooking yet stayed prone on the floor, wishing it would swallow him whole. Every minute movement stung, and he hated how he reveled in it. He should get up, tend to the wounds he inflicted, but he doesn’t.

He refuses to move when Nemuri calls to him; refuses to move as Hizashi tries to drag him from the ground; refuses to eat when Hizashi and Tensei plant him in the dining room chair in front of a simple fish meal. 

He barely hears the requests to eat as he stares down at the steaming food. 

That’s right, he never did cook for the boy, did he? He rarely had fresh groceries on hand, and before he made that katsudon, he didn’t have more than a pan that everything stuck to. 

Even as his stomach growled. As his body gave him the signal needed to consume what was in front of him. He felt nauseous, the feeling once more dancing in the back of his throat the longer he stared. 

And so, he looked away, pushing it far from him towards the middle of the table. He crowded his elbows near his head as he lay on the table, cheek resting on the rapidly cooling surface. A part of him was furious that it wasn’t scalding, that he wouldn’t be left with burns. Another part of him wondered why his friends were still there, why they were trying to feed him, help him. 

But the remaining piece of him was the loudest out of them all. But also the most terrifying. Yet, at that moment, it was the most favorable thought to ever cross the realm of his mind.

What would happen… 

What would… 

What…

Visions of his friends’ faces flashed into his mind, and he tried to shake them. Tried to banish the thought but failed miserably as his mind planted every possible way into his hand’s grasp. 

No, he wouldn’t.

Not now. 

. . .

He expected berating, expected to get tossed around, expected to have every one of them storm out. But was met with disappointment and compassion unworthy of him.

He never deserved them, but for now, they’ll keep him tethered to earth. He knows those thoughts will never leave him, will never rid them of himself, but he doesn’t want to. He needs the reminder, craves it. He’ll work towards repentance. Work towards being better, and if that meant taking up the mantle of Verdant, becoming Kurai, the successor, instead of Eraserhead, the pro-hero. 

Well, perhaps that will allow him to save more kids like Izuku.

And that is all he hopes for. 

~fin