Chapter Text
Rain pattered softly against the concrete as the evening sun vanished behind thick gray clouds. The narrow back streets of Musutafu were quiet save for the occasional car passing by the main road. In a shadowed alley tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered restaurant, a small figure sat huddled against a wall, wrapped in a worn hoodie two sizes too big.
Izuku Midoriya—quirkless, fourteen, and very much alone—shivered as he pulled the hood tighter over his unruly green hair. His knees were pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around them, tail curled tightly around his ankles. His ears twitched under the hood at every noise—footsteps, wind, far-off sirens. His stomach growled, ignored.
He had lost track of how long he’d been living like this. A week? Two? Maybe more. Time blurred when each day was just a new struggle for safety, for warmth, for food.
The streets weren’t kind to kids like him—quirkless, unwanted, with cat ears and a tail that marked him as even more different. His father had disappeared years ago, and recently, his mother had finally snapped. Told him he was a burden. Said she couldn’t deal with a useless, freakish kid anymore. She'd kicked him out.
And so, he’d run. Found corners to sleep in. Learned which trash bins had edible leftovers. Tried to stay small, unnoticed.
A noise—closer this time. A bootstep. Heavy. Measured.
Izuku’s ears perked up beneath his hood, and he immediately tried to make himself even smaller. His instincts screamed: Hide. Don’t move. Don’t be seen.
But the steps stopped right outside the alley entrance.
A figure stood at the edge of the alley, backlit by the dim glow of a streetlamp. Long hair. Scarf. Trench coat that moved slightly in the wind.
Eraserhead.
Izuku's breath caught in his throat. A Pro Hero. Why was a Pro Hero here?
He ducked his head. Maybe if he stayed still, the man would go away.
But instead, the footsteps came closer.
“I can see your tail, kid,” the man said—his voice was rough but calm, not unkind.
Izuku curled tighter around himself, ears flattening against his head beneath the hood.
“Not gonna hurt you,” the man said again, closer now. “Just… noticed you’ve been here three nights in a row. You alright?”
Izuku didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was tight, chest burning.
He heard a sigh. Then the man crouched down beside him, keeping some distance.
“Name’s Shota Aizawa,” he said. “But you probably know me as Eraserhead.”
Still, Izuku didn’t speak. His fingers dug into his sleeves.
A pause. Then Aizawa placed something gently on the ground between them—a protein bar and a bottle of water.
“I’m not asking for anything. Just figured you might be hungry.”
Izuku’s nose twitched involuntarily. He was hungry. Desperately so. But still, he didn’t move.
Aizawa didn’t push. He stood after a few moments and took a few steps back.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he said simply. “Same time. You don’t have to talk. But I’ll be here.”
Then he was gone.
Izuku didn’t move for a long time.
But eventually—when the rain grew heavier and the wind colder—he reached out, hands trembling, and took the protein bar.
The next night, Aizawa came back.
And the next.
He never pried, never asked questions Izuku couldn’t answer. He just left food, sometimes a dry towel, sometimes a blanket. Izuku never spoke, but he started nodding, just a little, when Aizawa greeted him.
It wasn’t much. But it was the first kindness Izuku had known in a very long time.
And his tail, for the first time in days, gave a tentative little flick.