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Chapter Text

Chuuya and Dazai were drunk. Not the kind of drunk where you get a little tipsy but are otherwise coherent. No — they were the type of drunk to make really stupid decisions and not remember them the next day. The type where you drink so much you can’t articulate sentences properly or form a clear thought.

About three and a half weeks ago, the dynamic duo came back from a long and tough mission that really tested the limits of their torture training and pain tolerances. And just a few hours ago, Dazai had returned from one of those weeks where he disappears and reappears without a word. Chuuya had tried to get him to talk once, the first time it happened after he joined the Mafia, but Dazai acted like those absences never happened. Eventually, Chuuya just accepted it as one of the brunette’s weird quirks.

Chuuya heard knocking at his penthouse door. Was the boss summoning him again? He changed out of his pajamas into his Mafia clothes and opened the door. There stood his very wet partner. He had noticed some rain earlier through the window.

Before Chuuya could yell at the mackerel for waking him in the middle of the night, Dazai grabbed his wrist and started dragging him somewhere.

“DAZAI!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF OF ME!!!”

“We’re going to get a drink,” the taller of the two boys said, still dragging a yelling Chuuya behind him.

“IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST ASK THOSE STUPID DRINKING BUDDIES OF YOURS!” the ginger dog yelled.

The two continued their back-and-forth until they got to the bar on the bottom floor of the building.

An hour later, they were drunk — so drunk that Dazai agreed to something he usually would never do outside of missions: get on the chibi’s motorbike.

It was a beautiful night in Yokohama. The clouds and rain had cleared up, and the starlight reflecting off the puddles and damp streets was dazzling. Drunk Chuuya wanted to take himself and his partner on a ride around the beautiful city. In their haze of intoxication, neither of them realized they had crossed the city borders. At some point, they ended up in the city of Musutafu — the hero capital of Japan, home to the best hero school in the country: U.A. High.

Dazai loudly complained to Chuuya, “THE CHIBI’S GOING TOO FAST, YOU—YOU’RE GONNA CRASH DA BIKE AND WE’LL BOTH DIE A SUPERDUPER SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH AND—AND—AND THEN WE’LL—”

Neither of them noticed the approaching wall, the old, super-blond stick of a man, or the curly, green-haired teenager in front of them.

The bike crashed, and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Izuku was having a great day. No villains attacked, the class had finally finished cleaning up from the concert 1A threw, and Eri had learned how to smile.

But thoughts of Nighteye's death and Mirio losing his quirk haunted him—stone spikes puncturing skin, tearing through clothes, ripping through flesh.

He shook his head. He should be happy. He was helping All Might, his hero, his mentor, his teacher, the former Symbol of Peace—the person who gave him a chance at being a hero—with groceries.

Since All Might retired and lost the use of One for All, Midoriya had been helping him once a week. He didn’t want to burden the former hero with his problems: the guilt, the endless nights lying awake thinking about scenarios where he could’ve saved Nighteye, stopped Lemillion from losing his quirk, or rescued Eri the day she bumped into him on patrol.

He pushed it down. He had important things to do—mainly carrying groceries.

A sudden thought popped into his head.
“Hey, All Might?”
“Yes, young Midoriya?”
“What would you have done if you had stayed quirkless?”

All Might paused mid-step. Silence spread. No one was around—they were walking in front of a tall brick wall. A thoughtful look crossed his face, like he was trying to recall something long forgotten.

The question hung in the air. Izuku realized how invasive it sounded, how insensitive. His face went pale.
“I-I’M SO SORRY! YOU DON’T HAVE TO ANSWER THAT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO, I JUST MEANT THAT—”

The former Number One cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“You don’t need to apologize. I’d be happy to answer your question. I just needed a second to recall the details. So—do you know the closed-off cities?”

“You mean the ones that used special technology to create impenetrable domes when quirks first appeared? The ones rumored to be ruled by villains?”

“So you know your history.” All Might ruffled his mentee’s hair. “Well, about three months before I first met Nana, I was considering where to go after junior high. My plan was to drop out, run away from home, and find a place with a high population of quirkless people so I’d fit in.

“After some digging on lesser-known websites, I found something that astonished me at the time. Every person in the closed-off cities is quirkless. They don’t have the quirk gene, and the barriers only let them through. Many quirkless people retreat to these cities. They trade with governments outside, defend themselves better than most heroes, and—most importantly—they don’t have heroes or villains.

“My dream was still to be a hero, a symbol, so I didn’t run away. But if I hadn’t been able to follow my dream, I had a backup plan. I chose Yokohama City. The pictures I found were beautiful—nothing like a place overrun by villains.

“Later, when I became important enough, I learned the HPSC was secretly hiring quirkless people, training them to infiltrate the cities. But the operatives never came back—because they liked it there. Why would they leave? In the cities, they’re treated like normal people. They aren’t discriminated against. They can get good-paying, respected jobs.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know this, young Midoriya. You were quirkless too. But you’re motivated, and you’re no pushover, so you never needed a backup plan. You’ll be an amazing hero one day—the best in the world. A new symbol of hope and peace.”

Izuku’s eyes sparkled. All Might always knew just what to say. Whole cities with no quirks, no heroes, no villains… it was incredible.
“I’ll do my best, sir. PLUS ULTRA!” He pumped his fist into the air.
“That’s the spirit.” All Might smiled. He didn’t have Muscle Form anymore, but it was still inspiring.

That’s when Midoriya heard it. An engine. Getting louder.

His instincts screamed. He dove at his mentor, pulling them both out of the way—

BOOM!!

A motorcycle slammed into the wall and exploded. Debris flew everywhere. Midoriya shielded All Might, eyes scanning him for injuries: a few scrapes, some cuts from flying rubble, but nothing major. Relief flooded him.

Then the thought hit: if that was a motorcycle, then at least one person had been on it.

“All Might! Call for help! At least one person was on that bike—I’ll look for survivors!”

All Might scrambled for his phone and called the first person he thought of: Shouta Aizawa.

It rang. Then: “What do you need, All Might?” Aizawa’s monotone, tired voice.

All Might’s reply was urgent: “Me and young Midoriya were nearly hit by a motorcycle—it exploded against the wall! Midoriya saved us, but there was at least one rider. We need medical attention, fast!”

“…I’ll be there shortly.”

“Thank you, Eraserhead.”

The call ended.

Izuku spotted movement. A long-haired ginger boy, about thirteen, floated above the ground in a faint red glow. Debris around him floated the same way. Probably his quirk. He was unconscious, but besides some scrapes and cuts, seemed stable.

Scanning again, Izuku spotted another figure buried in rubble. He rushed over.

A boy—fluffy chocolate-brown hair, maybe one or two years older than him. A bandage hung loose over his left eye; more bandages slipped from his arm. Blood seeped from the pile. His visible wrist bent at a wrong angle, and a massive head wound exposed part of his skull.

Izuku tore away rubble as fast as he could. Then he froze. Gagged.

It was bad. Worse than anything he’d ever seen—even compared to bloody battles and violent fights on TV. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just stared in horror at the boy bleeding out before him.

Aizawa arrived with UA staff, recovery teams, and paramedics. Chunks of brick wall littered the scene. They secured the unconscious ginger, quirk erased, stretchered, and stable.

Eraserhead searched for his student. Then—green hair. Izuku sat frozen, eyes locked forward in shock. Eraserhead followed his gaze. His stomach tightened.

It was bad. Really, really bad.

“Immediate medical attention! Now!”

The boy was loaded onto a stretcher. Aizawa placed a firm hand on his student’s shoulder and guided him away.
“Let’s get you back to the dorms.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa was worried.

Worried for his student who’d just witnessed the brunette’s gruesome injuries. Worried for the two kids they’d pulled from the crash site. Worried for his adoptive son and daughter at the park. Worried for his husband, sitting beside him, anxiety flickering behind his usual calm.

Aizawa wasn’t a worrier. Normally he didn’t care what happened to people. He taught, he patrolled, he saved who he had to — and moved on. But now? His mind overflowed with it.
Those kids looked so young. Almost the same age as his students. One was injured so badly he’d needed multiple emergency surgeries. And the smell when he’d arrived at the scene—
Blood and alcohol.

What were two teenagers doing with alcohol strong enough to hang in the air like that?

A day later, hours of digging had turned up nothing. No records. No IDs. It was like the boys didn’t exist. The only things that stood out were their clothes: exclusive designer brands, pieces worth millions of yen. They weren’t street kids. So how did they get a motorbike, let alone enough alcohol to reek of it?

His leg bounced. Chin propped in one hand, fingers drumming on his knee with the other. An old nervous tic from after Oboro died. Hizashi laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay, Shouta. They’re not gonna die.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “I know, ‘Zashi. But they’re just kids. How did they get a motorcycle, that much alcohol—and why don’t they exist on paper?”

“We don’t know. But when they wake up, we can ask.”

The door opened. Recovery Girl entered, clipboard in hand.

Hizashi dropped his façade immediately. “Are they okay? Are either of them—hurt?” His voice cracked on the word.

She raised a finger for patience. Aizawa braced himself.

“Both boys are seventeen,” she began. “The brunette is still in bad shape but stable. The ginger—road rash, cuts, otherwise uninjured. He should regain consciousness soon. But…” Her eyes flicked down at the clipboard. “Both of them show… concerning signs.”

A silence stretched.

Aizawa’s voice came out low. “Concerning how?”

She turned a page, her mouth tightening. “The brunette first. From the accident alone, we found five bruised ribs, three cracked, two broken. A punctured lung. A head injury that may cause permanent brain damage. Large gash on his torso, left arm broken, right wrist sprained, both legs broken, severe road rash and cuts.”
Hizashi let out a breath, hand pressed hard against his mouth.

Recovery Girl hesitated. “But that’s not all.”

Aizawa’s stomach dropped.

“His right eye was already missing—ripped out long before the accident. Under the bandages… scars everywhere. Wrists covered in self-inflicted cuts. Many infected. His neck—” she swallowed— “slashes angled like attempted suicide. His skin… scratch and bite marks. Some healed, some fresh. Too many to be coincidence. Dog attacks, more than once. His wrists and ankles show restraint scarring—ropes, chains.”

Hizashi’s chair scraped back as he half-stood, gagging.

She pushed on. “Surgical cuts across his torso unrelated to the crash. And bruising—severe bruising—around his thighs. Indicative of prolonged sexual assault. Likely years. He’s pale. Malnourished.” She lowered her voice. “We’re running a rape kit now, but… I doubt I’m wrong.”

Aizawa forced himself to stay still, every muscle tight.

Recovery Girl flipped another page quickly, as though speed could soften it. “There’s more. His body shows drug and poison resistance training. We’re keeping him under with the maximum legal sedative dose. It barely works. Painkillers flush straight out of his system.”

Hizashi covered his face entirely, fighting the urge to vomit. Aizawa stared ahead, mind racing. He couldn’t stop picturing his own kids, his students, in that hospital bed.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, deliberate. “When they’re discharged… we can offer guardianship. We know how to care for children who’ve lived through this. We’ve done it before.”

Recovery Girl sighed, heavy. “When one wakes, we can ask. But this must be their choice. They need control over something—anything. And if they do have parents… custody becomes complicated.” She glanced between them. “Don’t forget—they’re still criminals. Underage drinking. Illegal driving. They caused an accident.”
The weight settled in the room.

Aizawa rubbed his eyes, exhaustion settling like lead. “Fine. We’ll wait.”

Chapter Text

Okay, something was up, Katsuki thought.

Last night, when Deku came back to the dorms, he had a few visible scratches and road rash, some small blood spatters on his skin, and he wasn’t even wearing his uniform. Instead, he wore a clean white t-shirt and black sweatpants—the kind you get from the nurse’s office when your clothes are too ruined to wear. His face looked horrified, like he’d just seen something terrible, yet he didn’t react, didn’t move. Only a thin trickle of tears ran down his otherwise blank expression.

Even Aizawa, who usually looked half-dead, seemed almost concerned as he quietly led his shaken student back to his dorm room.

That was yesterday. Today, Bakugo noticed that Deku hadn’t left his room once. He hadn’t touched any of the food left outside his door.

Then, finally, the door opened.

Midoriya stepped out, his scrapes and scratches bandaged, clutching his phone in one hand but not looking at it. A bag hung from his shoulder, even though it was the weekend. Kacchan thought for a moment—maybe the nerd was going to visit that little horned kid, the one the work study students had rescued. No… the girl was doing fine, great even, from what he’d heard. Midoriya looked urgent.

So Bakugo did the logical thing: find out what the hell was going on. And in this case, that meant trailing him.

He followed him all the way to Recovery Girl’s office.

What the fuck was the nerd doing?

He heard a sigh. It was Aizawa.
“Bakugo. I know you’re here. Come out from wherever you’re hiding.”

Deku froze, stiff as a board. “K-Kacchan!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?”

This was pissing him off.
“Getting some fucking information! You’ve been holed up in your room all day, not eating shit, and last night you came back looking like you survived a goddamn war. Now tell me what the fuck happened, extra.”

“I-I, it’s j-just th-that—”

“Midoriya and All Might nearly got hit by a motorcycle last night,” Aizawa cut in, sparing him the stuttering. “They barely avoided the crash, but there were two boys on the bike. One of them was saved by his quirk before any serious injury could occur. The other… not so lucky. Midoriya happened to see his condition before paramedics could arrive.”

Izuku’s voice cracked into overdrive. “Are they okay? Whatamitalkingaboutofcoursetheyaren’tIsawtheinjuriesbutdotheyhaveanybrokenbonesorinternalbleedingor—”

“Stop your stupid yapping, nerd, and listen to what Sensei has to say,” Bakugo snapped.

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated with his two most exhausting students.
“The brown-haired boy is in serious condition but stable. The ginger is set to wake up soon.”

Suddenly, shouting erupted from the next room.
“WHERE THE FUCK AM I AND WHERE THE FUCK IS DAZAI!?”

---

Chuuya woke up with the worst headache he’d ever had. He must be hungover or some shit.

Chuuya was never a big drinker. He loved collecting and tasting expensive wines, but only on occasion. Dazai was the alcoholic—the one who couldn’t go a day without a drink, the one who went to the bar every night, the one who always tried to drag his dog down with him. Dazai was the one with zero control.

And if this pounding headache was what that damn mackerel lived with daily, Chuuya understood why he might want to kill himself.

He groaned. It hurt so much.

And then he realized—these weren’t his sheets. This wasn’t his bed.

He shot up. An IV was in his arm. The sheets, blankets, pillows—all white.

A hospital.

Why the hell was he in a hospital, of all places? And how did he even get here?

He could only remember fragments: drinking with his partner, something about his bike, pain, and the red glow of Corruption. His arms were bandaged.

Wait. Drinking with his partner meant… Dazai had something to do with this.

“WHERE THE FUCK AM I AND WHERE THE FUCK IS DAZAI!” he roared.

His ability flared, red energy filling the room as objects flew in every direction. He yanked the IV from his arm.

A nurse’s assistant rushed in, reaching for him—trying to pin him down. Is this an enemy of the port mafia? Was he about to be experimented on again? Maybe the scientists were finally finishing what they’d started.

“GET OFF OF ME!”

Corruption surged inside him, panic screaming through every nerve. He hadn’t felt this level of fear since discovering the truth about himself—since he learned he was a project, a manufactured weapon, maybe even a clone.

Arahabaki roared in his chest, one word clear in the chaos: Dazai. Over and over again. The god gravitated toward him, always toward him.

He was on the verge of losing control when suddenly, the glow vanished. Arahabaki still screamed inside his head, but it was locked away, unable to break free.

It wasn’t No Longer Human. Not exactly. It didn’t erase the power completely. Instead, it bound it—sealed it inside him.

A grey scarf wrapped tightly around his body, immobilizing him.

Chuuya whipped his head around, searching for whoever had done this.

At first glance, the man looked homeless: shaggy black hair, a ratty scarf, dark circles under his eyes, dressed in plain black clothes.

At second glance, Chuuya knew better. He’d been homeless. He knew what it really looked like—the stringbare clothes, shoes falling apart, the sharp edge of starvation.

This man’s clothes were worn but high quality, his scarf moving like an extension of his body, alive and deliberate.

Chuuya struggled against it. Even stripped of his ability, his physical strength was still immense.

“STOP,” the man barked.

Two teens rushed in behind him, both in school uniforms: one with green hair, the other blond and spiky.

The man spoke again, calm but firm. “Stop. I need you to answer some questions. We won’t harm you or your friend.”

Chuuya glared, teeth bared like a dog ready to bite. His voice was a low growl.
“What do you want from us? And where is that shitty mackerel?”

The man’s eyes softened, genuine concern behind the red glow of an ability. They reminded Chuuya of Adam—his old friend.

The man’s voice stayed steady. “First of all, what are your names?”

“Yours first, scumbag.”

“I am Aizawa Shouta. Underground pro hero, and a teacher at U.A. High.”

Hero?

Chuuya froze. There were no “heroes” in Yokohama. No way. Not possible.

He knew he got drunk. He knew Dazai got drunk. But neither of them would ever willingly leave the city—not without Mori’s direct orders. They would never throw themselves into “hero society.”

A system where being a hero was a profession, where powered people outnumbered the powerless, where all criminals were branded “villains,” no matter the reason. A system that glamorized violence, broadcast it on TV, where people with quirks looked down on those without. A system with all the power, but none of the responsibility.

His voice dropped low, dangerous.
“Where am I? What city is this? And where is he?”

“By ‘he,’ you mean your friend, correct?”

“Don’t call that bastard my friend.”

“Fine. We’re at the U.A. High infirmary, in Musutafu City. The person you were with is behind this curtain. You were in an accident. He sustained severe injuries and is currently in a medically induced coma. Now… can you tell me your names?”

“What do you mean ‘medically induced coma’? That fishy bastard can’t stay down with a tranquilizer dart made for elephants. Sedatives don’t work on him.”

Aizawa stared, unsettled. “…I asked for your names.”

“His name is Dazai. Mine’s Chuuya.”

“Full names.”

Chuuya sighed, irritated.
“Fine. My name is Chuuya Nakahara. The shitbag’s name is Osamu Dazai. Happy?”

Aizawa sighed too, like he was already tired of this conversation.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

Chapter Text

Chiyo Shuzenji has seen many injuries since she became Recovery Girl. She’s seen many on the verge of death, and countless die when she couldn’t save them. She’s been a nurse at UA since before Toshinori became the Symbol of Peace. She was there when Aizawa was severely injured after the USJ villain attack. She was the one healing Izuku every time he broke his bones.

The kids’ injuries were on the more severe side. She’s seen worse, but it was still bad. The injuries from the accident were substantial, of course—the head injury could cause serious brain damage, he won’t be able to use his legs or broken arm anytime soon, and his punctured lung will most likely cause him issues for the rest of his life. But she was more concerned with the injuries from before the accident. She downplayed it to Aizawa and Hizashi, but it was horrifying, if the multiple fractures and bruises covering his entire unexposed body had anything to say about it.

And his quirk… she’s never seen someone who has a quirk like that. Nullification quirks are rare—Aizawa is the only hero with one, and it has an activator like most quirks. But unlike most quirks, the boy’s quirk doesn’t, from what she could tell. As soon as her lips got near him for her to use her quirk, they dissipated in blue light. When she put her hands on him to remove his clothes to check his wounds, it felt like she was empty, like a hole in her heart—a longing pain in her chest.

After the examination, she put Complete Nullification on the paperwork as his quirk. It felt wrong to call it that for some reason, but it was the only name she could think of to fit that quirk. They cannot let the villains get their hands on that boy. Ever.

Same with the other one. She put his quirk down as Gravity Control, because she couldn’t think of anything else. But calling it that felt so… wrong. His quirk was terrifying. It seemed to be absolute control over gravity—basically telekinesis. It activated when she used her quirk on him; the moment she touched him, his quirk lashed out, sending her flying to the other side of the room and holding her there. After some time it deactivated, most likely because his body didn’t feel under threat anymore.

In all those years of being the nurse for previously injured heroes and students who broke their bones every time they used their powers, she had never been this scared of a quirk—let alone two. Under no circumstances can they allow these two boys to fall into dark hands.

She was also concerned for the ginger child. His body showed signs of repeated past internal bleeding. And under the choker that was on his neck was a tattoo: A-1518. It definitely didn’t look recent. It seemed to have been made 12–15 years ago. Twelve to fifteen years! He’s only seventeen. It was like a marker on a chemistry jar—a label, a classification. The kid also showed signs of previous severe malnutrition.

She has to consult Nezu before telling anyone any more information on these boys. Even the two willing to foster them.

She heard yelling and came over from the brunette’s room. She left Toshinori there, who was sitting next to the kid, holding his non-broken hand, crying. When she got there, Aizawa, the ginger, Izuku, and Bakugo were all there. Seems he woke up.

“Fine. My name is Chuuya Nakahara. The shitbag’s name is Osamu Dazai. Happy?” she heard the ginger say.

She heard a sigh from the sleep-deprived teacher across from the boy. Chuuya, her mind supplied. His name is Chuuya.

“Izuku and Katsuki, leave the room. Me and Aizawa need to talk to him alone.”

Aizawa nodded. “Yes. All Might is visiting Dazai at the moment. Why don’t you join him and tell him both the kids’ names?”

“Tch, fine, come on nerd.” He grabbed Deku’s wrist and dragged him out. He may be brash, but he does realize this is a sensitive situation. He’s not dumb.

Chuuya was glowering. An older lady had entered and sent the two kids away, citing that she wanted to talk to him privately with the scarf man. He felt cornered, like they were going to interrogate him.

Aizawa spoke. “While we don’t want to pressure you, you did commit a series of crimes. We have to ask you some questions. Deku and All Might will not be pressing charges for the accident per their own words, but you two were still drinking under the age limit, driving while drunk, and in illegal possession of a motorcycle. Are you willing to comply?”

“I guess,” he said, staring dead on at the man in front of him.

“Okay. Where do you and Mr. Dazai live?”

“We live in Yokohama, Japan.”

The room went silent—you could hear a pin drop. Chuuya knew what they were thinking. He had researched the outside world and how the sealed city borders worked when Kouyou was training him after he joined the Port Mafia. They were thinking, What does he mean Yokohama? One of the closed-off cities? Isn’t that city run by villains?

He was going to enjoy this—or so he thought.

Aizawa cleared his throat. “We don’t have much legal jurisdiction there, but they are still technically part of Japan, and we can act if we suspect crimes that are ongoing and require immediate intervention, such as domestic or sexual abuse.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN!?”

Recovery Girl jumped in. “Your friend shows signs of repeated sexual assault and severe child abuse. Do you know anyone who could have done this to him, such as a guardian or bully?”

What the fuck, no way. No one could do this. It has to have been some form of training. He knows it could be used as a form of torture—maybe it happened on missions. Or Mori ordered Dazai to do that thing where he sleeps with someone for information. Chuuya found him doing that a couple of times. Wait a moment. Mori. No… Mori couldn’t have done something like that. He was only creepy to younger girls, right?

Memories resurfaced. Dazai always standing behind Mori at meetings, or sitting cross-legged next to him, or sitting on his lap while Mori played with his hair or petted his head. Dazai never really seemed to mind, and both of them treated it as normal. Chuuya assumed it was some fucked-up father-son relationship the two had. But Mori was the only one who knew where Dazai was when he disappeared without a word. He said that Dazai was “dealing with his own issues,” that he “tried to commit,” that he was recovering from a mission, or that he’d gotten drunk and they couldn’t find him.

Mori is their boss. Why would Chuuya suspect him? He gave him Rimbaud’s hat—said that whoever brought someone into the mafia was in charge of their well-being and gave them a personal item. But Rimbaud didn’t bring him into the mafia. Mori didn’t bring him into the mafia. Dazai did.

Questions rushed into his head. Mori couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t, because if he did, then it was Chuuya’s fault—for not noticing, for not putting a stop to it, for blindly following the man who was doing that to his partner, for telling that mackerel to respect the boss when he badmouthed him.

It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened.

He broke through the silence, knowing a million different emotions had gone over his face in the past few seconds.

“We’re not going back. WE CAN’T GO BACK!” His head was clutched in his hands. “No no no no no—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“CHUUYA! YOU AREN’T GOING BACK!” the sleep-deprived man said.

“We have another option. Both Aizawa and his husband are pro heroes and have volunteered to take you in. They have two other kids they adopted who have been in abusive situations. After your friend wakes up, and if both of you agree to it, they would be happy to take you two in and protect you from any dangers. And once I talk to Principal Nezu, I believe he will gladly accept you two as students of UA.”

“…Fine. But we’re not going back.”

Chapter Text

Dazai couldn’t move.
He couldn’t talk, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t hear.

There was only darkness—thick, suffocating, endless. But this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t one of those fleeting fantasies where he imagined the most painless way to leave the world behind. This was different. This was memory.

Fragments of a life before Mori. Before scalpels. Before experiments. Before Chuuya. Before the idea of ending it all ever poisoned his mind.

Back when his name was still Shūji.

---

When he was four, Shūji began to notice the world wasn’t kind to him. His family made sure of it.

The Tsushima line had been part of the Port Mafia for generations, known for producing ability-users of terrifying power. His mother, however, hated it. She rejected the blood-soaked empire her father had built, but she hadn’t been given a choice. She was married off for convenience, paired with a man whose ability was weak but whose connections were valuable.

They had a daughter first—a perfect daughter. Black hair like her father, brown eyes like her mother. She was graceful, obedient, brilliant. She could summon star-like lights that dazzled when she danced. She was everything they wanted.

When Shūji was born, everything changed.

The moment his mother held him, her power disappeared—swallowed by the infant in her arms. When she let go, it returned. That was the nature of his ability, No Longer Human. To her, though, it wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. A disease.

From that day forward, he was never “Shūji.” Only it. Only demon. Only burden.

His father sneered, “Things like you don’t deserve love.” His mother recoiled whenever he came near. He was scolded for speaking out of turn, punished if he ate before being told, forced into silence and formality.

The only kindness he knew came from his sister. She clothed him, fed him, rocked him to sleep despite the way his ability drained her. She whispered stories when their parents weren’t listening. She was his only safe place.

Until she wasn’t.

When Shūji was seven, she was gone. She killed herself. The pressure was too much. Shuuji found her body hanging on a rope from one of the rafters.

Her absence taught him the cruelest lesson of all:
No matter how much you love someone, it doesn’t mean they’ll stay.

---

At eight years old, Shūji’s world collapsed further. His grandfather—the Port Mafia boss—took an interest in him. Where his parents saw a burden, the old man saw potential. He tested his intelligence, his ability, his limits. Eventually, his parents gave him away. Sold him.

His grandfather’s “training” was merciless. Poison, pain, restraint, conditioning—endless methods meant to harden a child into a weapon. Shūji coped by shutting himself down, disassociating, turning pain into numbness, numbness into grim humor.

By fourteen, he broke. A maid found him hanging limp from a noose in his bathroom.

That was when he met Mori.

Mori Ōgai, the bosses physician, and by extension, his heir's. The man who would declare Shūji dead to the world, and then rename him Dazai Osamu.

The rest blurred together. His grandfather died. Mori became boss. Dazai became Mori's heir, molded not with guidance but with manipulation. Everything was twisted into “life lessons.”

If he touched him somewhere inappropriate, it was to prepare him for discomfort in uncomfortable situations.

If he chained the boy in the mafia’s dog kennels and let the hounds tear at his flesh, it was to build pain tolerance.

If he forced him to live in a shipping container, it was to prepare him for extreme temperature torture.

If he gave him only a few thousand yen a month to survive, it was to teach budgeting.

If he pumped him full of experimental drugs, it was to build a resistance.

Through it all, he learned to laugh at pain, to mock death, to bury his true self under layers of cynicism. The dull emptiness covered in heaps of humor. Fleeting friendships with Oda and Ango gave him glimpses of light, but they never lasted. Nothing ever did. Except Chuuya, his dog, his partner, the pain in his ass. But that was the only exception.

And now—years later—he was back in darkness. Not by choice, but trapped, sinking into the coma that bound his broken body to a hospital bed. Machines hummed. Bandages and casts wrapped his limbs. His partner’s uncontrollable sobbing form lay close by, equally shattered.

And Dazai dreamed only of the past.

Chapter Text

Uraraka was worried about Deku.

The night before, he had come back looking traumatized, Aizawa leading him to his room. It scared her. He looked more wrecked than he did after he and Mirio found out that Eri was being abused and they hadn’t saved her when she first bumped into them.

No, this wasn’t a look of determination. It was a look of pure horror etched across his face.

Thirty minutes ago, she had seen him leaving, bag slung on his shoulder and clutching his phone. It looked like he was heading to class, but it was the weekend. Moments later, she saw Bakugo quietly following behind him, carefully trying to keep himself unnoticed by the green-haired boy in front of him.

She couldn’t blame him. Everyone in the common area had seen the look on his face, seen how he hadn’t left his room since the night before. It felt so wrong coming from him—staying in his room, not eating, not training. Stuff he would usually never do.

Izuku was so determined. He trained every day, worked as hard as he could, ate healthy meals, woke up early.

Now he was gone.

It was getting late, nearly time for dinner, and neither of the two were back yet. She grabbed her bag—she was going to go find them.

Suddenly, a hand pressed against her shoulder. She turned around. Todoroki stood there, with Iida right behind him.

“Are you going to find Bakugo and Midoriya?” Todoroki asked.

“Yes… why are you asking?”

“Me and Iida were about to do the same thing. Do you want to join us?”

“Sure!”

The three set off.

---

Chuuya was a wreck.

A few minutes ago, he found out the man he swore his loyalty to was abusing Dazai—his Dazai.

How could he not have noticed? It was so obvious. The signs were all there.

He sat at the side of the mackerel’s bed, holding his hand. The old blond guy stood beside him, along with the blond-haired kid and the green-haired kid the nurse had sent out earlier. The skeleton had moved aside when Chuuya ran in. He started saying something like, “Your name is Chuuya, right?”—at least that’s what it sounded like before the ginger zoned him out.

His mind was racing, going over everything. Everything he had missed. Every detail he should have noticed.

Unexplained and untreated broken bones. Those weekends where Dazai would disappear. Blood soaking through bandages. Bullets grazing his cheek and him not giving a second glance. Him making comments about how slimy Mori was. The fact Chuuya had never seen where he lived. Him drinking only cheap alcohol. His 'habit' of not eating. Clothes he never changed out of. Him staying at Chuuya’s most nights. How he only acted like himself with Chuuya, those drinking buddies of his, or Mr Hirotsu around.

It was terrifying to realize all the signs had been there—and no one had connected the dots.

Chuuya couldn’t stop crying. Something he almost never did. Something he hadn’t remembered doing since the Flags died. Since he held Albatross as he bled out. Since the man gave him his motorcycle.

The motorcycle that exploded.

Holy shit, no… he destroyed the last gift he had ever received from his dying friend.

Three people entered the room. One boy with half-red, half-white hair. One boy with navy-blue hair. And a girl with short brown hair. The two-toned boy had a huge burn scar on his face.

The girl rushed over to the kid with green hair, concern evident in her eyes.

“Oh my gosh, Deku, what happened? Why is there a super injured boy here? Is he okay?”

“Umm… yesterday, me and All Might nearly got hit by a motorcycle. It crashed against a wall and exploded. The brown-haired boy got buried under debris. There was also a ginger boy, but his quirk saved him. He just woke up.”

Aizawa walked into the room with a blond man whose hair was so gelled it was practically a weapon. He radiated energy Chuuya was far too emotionally exhausted to deal with.

“ME AND SHOUTA ARE HERE TO HELP YOU FIND A PLACE TO SLEEP FOR THE NIGHT! ALSO, IT’S GETTING LATE, YOU KIDS NEED TO HEAD BACK TO THE DORMS!” he boomed.

The ginger automatically covered his ears. It was so fucking loud, and he was done with this shit.

“Can you shut the fuck up?”

“Oh—um, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Hizashi Yamada, better known as Present Mic. I’m this guy’s husband,” he said, pointing to Eraserhead.

The man sighed. “You’ll be staying with us and our daughter. Our son is staying at the class 1C dorms.”

The ginger didn’t want to agree, but he was so fucking tired.

“Let’s go. We’re coming back tomorrow, got it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I know. Now let’s go—because it’s too late for this bullshit.”

Chapter Text

Two of their teachers and the ginger boy had just walked out. Todoroki found himself unsettled.

He wasn’t one to show emotions often. He knew it wasn’t weakness—he’d accepted that much—but most of those childish feelings had been buried long ago. His emotions had never interfered with his training, with his hero work. For most of his life, that had been all there was.

But after the Sports Festival, things had changed.

His eyes shifted toward the broken boy on the bed, dressed in a loose hospital gown, hooked up to tubes and machines, covered in casts and bandages. From what Midoriya had said, both the ginger and brunette would’ve ended up like this if not for the ginger’s quirk.

All Might’s voice broke the silence.
“Present Mic is right. It’s time for you five to head back. Dinner will be soon—you don’t want to miss it.” He coughed into his fist before adding, “And tomorrow is a school day. We’ve got a lot planned. I’ll stay here and keep tabs on Dazai’s condition. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you, sir,” Izuku said quickly. “Is it okay if I come back during lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course, young Midoriya.”

Soon, the five students were leaving. It was Momo’s turn to bake tonight, and they didn’t want to miss it.

“So… what are their names?” Uraraka asked suddenly. “It feels weird just calling them ‘the ginger’ and ‘the brunette.’”

“Yes, that would be helpful,” Iida agreed, chopping the air with his hands in robotic motion.

“Umm… from what the ginger boy said, his name is Chuuya Nakahara. His friend’s name is Osamu Dazai,” Deku answered.

Todoroki listened, but most of his focus was elsewhere. He’d noticed something during the visit—a faint smell clinging to the air. Alcohol, sharp and bitter, mixed with the sterile tang of cleaning supplies. It was obvious that the two—Nakahara and Dazai—had been drinking before the crash. Strongly enough that the scent still lingered a day later, even after sanitization.

He knew that smell. His father had drilled it into him: how to recognize drunks, how to handle alcohol-related incidents and crimes.

Nakahara looked young, but he was clearly older than them. His body, his stance, his way of speaking—they were more mature. He was most likely just short, either from genes or maybe malnutrition. But he looked healthy now, so if it was malnutrition, it was in the past.

His classmates’ voices pulled him back. They’d shifted from talking about the boys to discussing shopping plans for next weekend.

Something felt wrong.

Then he realized: Bakugo wasn’t talking. That was unusual. Bakugo always shoved his way into conversations.

“Are you okay, Kacchan?” Deku asked.

“OF COURSE I AM, NERD! I’M ALWAYS OKAY!”

“Then why are you being so quiet?” Todoroki asked flatly.

“I’m just thinking, Icy Hot. Don’t tell me you weren’t doing the same thing.”

“About those two?” Iida asked stiffly.

“Yeah, four-eyes. It’s obvious they’re both criminals,” Bakugo said without hesitation.

“Hey, that was rude!” Uraraka snapped. “Why would you say that about two people who just got hurt?”

“What he means,” Todoroki said evenly, “is that they don’t seem old enough to legally own or operate a motorcycle. And I could smell alcohol. If the scent was strong enough to stick to them even after sanitization, then it’s proof they were intoxicated above the legal limit for driving. That’s underage drinking and reckless endangerment. They’ll still need to face some kind of consequence when they recover.”

“Half-and-half’s right,” Bakugo muttered.

“I… I see what you mean,” Midoriya said, scratching his cheek. “Eventhoughtheyweretheonesseriouslyharmedtheystillcommittedaseriesofcrimesbuthowdidtheygettheirhandsonsomuchalcoholandhowdidtheyeven—”

“Shut it, nerd,” Bakugo barked.

Midoriya blinked, realizing he’d been ranting again, and turned bright red. “S-sorry, guys.”

The conversation shifted back to lighter topics as they reached the dorms. Mina was waiting at the door.
“There you guys are! We were waiting forever. Now get inside—I’m starving,” Mina whined.

Chapter Text

Yamada, Aizawa, and Chuuya were fifteen minutes into the drive. Chuuya hadn’t spoken a single word since they left. He was staring out the window, scanning the surroundings, trying to commit the path to memory.

His mind kept wandering, circling the same thought over and over: he had left Dazai alone in the hospital. He told himself he wasn’t abandoning his unconscious partner—that he was gathering information on where they’d be staying. That this was necessary. Still, guilt gnawed at him, his leg bouncing up and down without pause.

“So, Nakahara, do you have any hobbies?” Mic tried, spotting the boy’s agitation.

There was a pause. “Don’t call me that. Just Chuuya. And… yeah, I guess I have a few.” His voice was low.

“Can you name… let’s say four hobbies?”

“Uh, I like to train, go to the arcade, collect fine wines, and… ride my bike around Yokohama…” His face soured at the last one. He’d lost the last gift his dying friend had given him.

“Train?” Aizawa asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I just like being able to defend myself,” he hissed.

He wasn’t about to tell them anything about the Port Mafia. Or about how he used to live on the streets. Or about how powerful his ability really was. His mind still grappled with the thought of betraying the Mafia at all. He had never once broken an oath of loyalty. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Dazai fall back into the hands of the man who had done something so atrocious to him.

The car pulled into a driveway. Finally, they were there.

The house was two stories tall, looking like any other normal suburban home. Aizawa put his key in the lock and opened the door.

The lights were on. A teenager with yellow hair and a little girl came running in, clearly in the middle of a game.

“Oh, Eraserhead, Present Mic, you’re back!” the boy bubbled. He looked only a year older than Chuuya. “Oh! Who’s this?”

“This is Chuuya Nakahara. He’s going to be living here from now on,” Mic said.

“But Eri just moved in a few days ago?”

“The situation called for immediate placement,” Aizawa explained. “Because of the circumstances, we can’t put him in foster care or an orphanage. We volunteered to take him and another boy named Osamu Dazai in. The other boy is currently in a coma. Now—introduce yourself.”

“Hi! My name is Mirio Togata, but you can call me Lemillion. I was here to look after Eri while Aizawa and Mic were gone. I’m a third-year at U.A.”

“Hi. Chuuya Nakahara. Just call me Chuuya.”

“Pardon, but I should be getting back to the dorms soon. Bye, Chuuya, bye, Eri!”

Chuuya looked down at the girl hiding behind his legs. She had long, light-blue hair and a small cream-colored horn. She looked six, maybe seven. A t-shirt and shorts hung loose on her, her arms and legs wrapped in bandages.

She reminded him of Dazai when Chuuya had forced him into casual clothes while he was sick. The posture, the facial expression—eerily similar.

The girl quickly ran behind Aizawa.

“ERI, THIS IS CHUUYA! HE’S GONNA BE LIVING HERE FROM NOW ON!” Hizashi boomed.

Both Chuuya’s and Eri’s hands shot to their ears.

“CAN YOU STOP FUCKING DOING THAT SHIT!?” Chuuya snapped.

Mic turned red from embarrassment. “I—I’m so sorry, Chuuya, Eri.”

Before anyone else could speak, Aizawa cut in. “Chuuya needs a tour if he’s going to be staying here.”

“Fine by me,” Chuuya muttered. He needed to check for cameras, listening devices, and escape routes if he was going to let himself—or Dazai—live here for any amount of time. He wouldn’t put it past these heroes to have recorders tucked in the walls.

They brought him upstairs first. Chuuya’s eyes darted across every inch of the scenery. He could see five bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living space at the center. Toys scattered across the floor, some still in boxes. A huge TV glowed with rainbow LED lights. A couch, beanbag chairs, and pillows crowded the room. Old DVDs, board games, and consoles lay around, cluttered but lived-in.

Nothing like his sterile, expensive penthouse he rarely used.

Two rooms had nameplates. One read Shinso, the other Eri.

“This is our son Shinso’s room,” Aizawa said, opening the door slightly. “Don’t go inside. He mostly stays in the 1-C dorms unless it’s a holiday.”

He gestured to the next. “This is Eri’s room. You’ve met her. She just moved in about a week ago, after she was discharged from the hospital. We’re still figuring out what she likes, so it’s bare for now.”

He pointed to the two other rooms. “These will be for you and Dazai. The last is a guest room. Since you’re here, you can choose first.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya said.

He looked in the first room: queen bed, desk, office chair, dresser, bookshelf, nightstand, closet, pegs for coats. Enough space for extras. The second was nearly identical. No sign of cameras. Windows could open and lock. Doors had locks, too. Escape and privacy: check.

Since they were basically the same, he picked the first.

“You do know I don’t have anything but the clothes on me, right? No shampoo, conditioner, nothing.”

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow after classes,” Aizawa said. “In the meantime, we have some you can use.”

“How would you have my size?” Chuuya asked, agitated.

“We have some of mine and hizashi's hero merch in all sizes. Or, our son’s clothes are only a little bigger than yours—we can ask him if you’d rather borrow some.”

“I’m good. I’d rather not wear someone else’s clothes.”
…Unless it was Dazai’s. He crushed that thought immediately.

He changed into a plain black shirt, simple silhouette of Eraser Head with yellow goggles. Nothing too bright. Nothing screaming I love heroes.

The smell of chicken teriyaki drifted from the kitchen as Aizawa led him downstairs.

Besides the living room and kitchen, there were six more rooms: the master bedroom, Aizawa’s office, Mic’s podcast studio, a training room, a supply room, and… a cat room.

“Oh, I forgot to ask,” Aizawa said. “Are you or Dazai allergic to cats?”

“No.”

“Well, we have seven.”

The door opened. His eyes shifted around the room. The man pointed at each one and told Chuuya their names.

Kuro, a solid black kitten with golden-green eyes.

Yuki, pure white, pale green eyes.

Tora, orange tabby with amber eyes.

Fuku, silver-gray tabby with bright green eyes.

Maru, tuxedo with a sharp chest patch.

Sakura, brown-gray tabby with yellow-green eyes.

Momo, cream-colored kitten with hazel eyes.

The room was was like a cat paradise—robot litter boxes, cat trees, toy buckets, cabinets, feeders, a cat door on the rooms actual door, anything a cat could want.

A black kitten—Kuro—brushed against Chuuya’s leg. He scowled, but his hand twitched like it wanted to pet it.

Dinner came, as expected—chicken teriyaki.

They all talked while they ate. Hizashi rambled, Eri asked soft questions, Aizawa’s dry remarks cut through.

Chuuya didn’t share much—snapped a sarcastic response here, dodged a question there—but he found himself listening more than he thought he would.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Chapter Text

This was just fucking sad.

Aizawa stood in the doorway as the kid sat next to his comatose friend’s bed, head resting on the sheets, hand gripping his tightly, a broken look on his face.

They had arrived at the school about twenty minutes before the other teachers, since Hizashi needed to drop Eri off with Mirio. Aizawa had promised to bring Chuuya back to Recovery Girl’s office to visit Dazai.

The boy obviously didn’t trust him or his husband yet. They still had no personal information on him, and it was clear he had been through some kind of intense training. Recovery Girl herself had said Dazai showed signs of extreme poison and drug resistance conditioning. Chuuya was closed-off and emotionally distant, but his reflexes were also nothing you just pick up.

When Tora had pounced on him from behind, Chuuya’s arm shot out on instinct, barely touching the poor cat—but it was enough. His quirk activated and flung the kitty across the room. Chuuya immediately ran over to check on him, panicked, while Hizashi tried to calm down a freaked-out Eri, who had accidentally triggered her quirk and turned the chicken on her plate back into a live bird.

They’d had to call animal control to remove it. Chuuya apologized profusely.

Despite his hesitance around the two adults, he seemed a little more comfortable with Eri and the cats—especially Kuro, for some reason. But right now, looking at him was just a pitiful sight.

“Chuuya. You’re coming with me to my class.”

“WHAT?! You can’t do that!”

“You know Recovery Girl said Dazai isn’t set to wake up for at least a week. Do you think he’d want you to just sit here and rot all day?”

Silence filled the room as Chuuya thought it over, weighing pros and cons.

“…Fine. But I’m not doing any student shit, or wearing that shitty uniform like the blond guy.”

“Deal.”

Nezu had already said to keep an eye on the kid, but Aizawa still double-checked. The rodent principal not only approved—he even suggested asking Hound Dog for supplies to make Chuuya more comfortable.

So now here he was, dragging along a beanbag chair with his ability, plus a gaming console, snacks, and drinks. The classroom was still empty when he set up his little nook in the corner. Somehow—probably raided from Aizawa’s supplies—the boy had a basket of snacks and drinks, a small trash can, a fuzzy blanket, his phone charging, and headphones in.

He was still in his sleep clothes: the same Eraserhead shirt, camo sweatpants, and the dress shoes he’d been wearing during the crash. Aizawa ignored the set-up and turned to his agenda for class. All that was left was for the students to start coming in.

---

After last night, Deku felt lighter. The weight had lifted. He knew the brown-haired boy, Dazai, wasn’t going to die.

Of course, he was confused. Why was Nakahara staying with Aizawa? Didn’t he have parents? And was Dazai going to be living with Mic and Aizawa too? Still, as Tokoyami had called it, his “bout of depression” was over. He was back to his determined, cheerful self.

He walked into class with Todoroki, the two of them discussing training techniques. Shoto kept bringing up how he and Bakugo really needed to catch up and get their provisional licenses soon. All Might had said they had a lot planned for today—maybe a training exercise or surprise test.

Izuku’s plan was simple: get through class, visit the infirmary at lunch to check on Dazai, and after school, go see Eri and Mirio.

What he didn’t expect was Nakahara lounging in a beanbag chair in the corner of the classroom.

He ran over. “Hey, Nakahara-san, how are you feeling?”

“Stop treating me like a child. I’m seventeen,” Chuuya muttered, not looking up from his game. “And just call me Chuuya.”

Izuku froze. Seventeen? He… looked thirteen. Maybe younger.

“I—I’m so sorry, Chuuya.”

“Just leave me alone and we’ll be fine.”

“…Oh. Okay. Uh—bye, I guess.”

Chuuya didn’t look up, just gave a half-hearted thumbs-up.

For the rest of the school day, the ginger stayed buried in his games, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him.

That was definitely… something.

Chapter Text

I have grown really uncomfortable with writing this and it's not fun for me anymore. I am working on my own book and just want free time to myself. Honestly, writing this fic has made me pretty uncomfortable. I don't really like the Au and it just grosses me out to write about a lot of this stuff. I've gotten really burnt out and am drowning in school work, doctors appointments, and whatnot. I've also gotten a really disgusting list of request in the comments that I have already deleted. I am not getting any money from this and feel no obligation to continue. I have no plans for it and don't want to continue writing forever. Plz understand and don't ask me to continue in the comments. Bye everyone, I'm signing off.