Work Text:
It begins with a card.
A blank card in a pale blue envelope. Sealed and stamped, no return address—only her name, written in familiar handwriting.
More important than the card is the photo it contains.
Fuyumi, Natsuo, and Shouto sit on the mats around the chabudai. The date is penciled on the back.
They're having breakfast. Still in their pajamas. It's casual. They look relaxed. Happy. Plates nearly empty. That quiet moment just before everyone stands to clean up and head into the day.
The boys are leaning toward one another. The picture only captures their profiles—Natsuo's intent, teasing expression. Shouto's blank rebuttal. Fuyumi holds her hand over her mouth, laughter unmistakable even without sound.
It's mundane. Simple. Unremarkable.
A moment that plays out in households all over the world every morning—especially on weekends, when school and work don't cut the early hours short.
She sits on her bed, ignoring the tears that run down her cheeks.
She can't remember a time when any of them looked like this. Certainly not together.
Shouto's red hair is nearly hidden by the angle. So is the scar she knows she left him with.
A second card arrives the following week.
Same blue envelope, addressed in the same familiar handwriting.
This photo is taken from the doorway to the kitchen. Fuyumi wears her old apron, reaching out to take a bowl from Shouto. Between them, a small green-haired boy looks up with a wide smile, a small bowl and whisk in his hands.
Rei doesn't know who he is, but her lips curve in response to his smile anyway.
She doesn't know what they're making—only that the boys are clearly happy to help.
A few short sentences accompanied the image:
Midoriya Izuku was taken from a poor situation.
He is months older than Shouto.
They get along well.
Fear crawls along her spine.
How poor? Poor in what way?
Is he safer with Enji?
The boy's pleased, freckled face says yes.
Shouto's relaxed shoulders—how closely they stand—say the words are true. They do get along well.
She feels happy and angry. Bitter, jealous, relieved.
The emotions roll through her, molten, sticky, and insistent.
She props the photo up beside her bed so she can still see it as she dries her eyes.
One week later, the third arrives.
Shouto carries the smaller boy on his back. Both are scuffed and dirty. Shouto looks amused—not tired, not frightened. The smaller boy has a raw, bloody scrape on his arm and one bare foot already bruising. He uses the shoe to gesture toward Burnin, wide-eyed and enthusiastic.
Burnin looks unimpressed, hands on her hips.
Behind her, Kido turns away, his expression hidden by more than his costume. Onima is bent over, clutching his stomach and howling with laughter.
Rei isn't sure where they are. Outdoors, somewhere. The back of the photo holds only a date, but the card carries a short note:
Midoriya can be reckless and prone to an overabundance of enthusiasm.
Shouto enjoys his company.
There is a gap. The slant of the letters shifts, as though the lines below had been added later.
I do not know how often the children visit or write.
I do not know if the pictures bring you comfort or pain.
If you tell me to stop, I will.
She says nothing.
The cards continue.
Weekly.
Candid moments. Stolen glances. Brief notes.
No requests. No conditions. No expectations.
Fuyumi and Natsuo playing shogi late at night, legs wrapped in blankets, tea cooling beside the board.
Shouto and the green-haired boy in the garden—Shouto slipping, startled. His hands lifted to block a water balloon coming toward him. The smaller boy has dodged, a balloon exploding at his feet. He wears a gleeful smile, a second balloon at the ready.
All four children asleep on the couch after a movie. Snack bowls tipped but empty. Faces washed in blue TV light. Shouto and his friend slumped together—the smaller boy's head on his shoulder, Shouto's cheek pressed into green curls.
It's the first photo that shows his scar clearly.
The one she gave him.
She spends the night drowning in guilt.
Each picture soothes an ache and reopens old wounds. Reassurance tangles with doubt. Hope scrapes against fear.
Shouto and the others are well.
Without her.
Fuyumi visits.
Lighter in spirit than Rei remembers her. Happy with her work. She speaks of less tension in the house. Enji is more distant—but not cold. Pensive, she says, searching for the right word.
Rei can't hide her surprise when she learns the boy is quirkless.
How can someone so powerless have such an impact?
Has Enji's obsession with strength only ever applied to their children?
She has questions—but she doesn't ask. Fuyumi is still telling her story.
Her breath freezes in her lungs at the next photo.
Then she's warm and weeping. Relief and grief tangled.
In someone's room, on tatami mats, Shouto and Midoriya sit facing each other, knees nearly touching. The smaller boy is animated, talking over a phone on the ground between them, a notebook in his lap. Shouto is listening, with a small, genuine smile.
Without thinking, Rei brushes her fingertips across the photo.
His smile.
She’d forgotten what that looked like.
The words that accompany the image alter her world:
The house is different. I will not claim credit for that.
If you choose not to return, I will respect your decision.
If you do, I will not interfere with your space.
The choices are yours alone.
It takes weeks to consider what choosing means—she has lived for years without making any choices at all.
She reads the letter again.
The words are plain. Careful.
Instead of the ease of having someone tell her what to do, freedom is implicit. Overwhelming. Terrifying.
The cards keep coming as she wrestles with hope and fear, old demons and new ones. She wavers, stalls, starts over.
She forfeited the right to comfort. Guilt tells her so every day. The children are better off without her presence complicating what little peace they have found.
Then Shouto arrives, standing shyly at her door. Uncertain.
Her apologies spill out in a rush. The horror of what she’s done to him was written plainly on his face.
He apologizes for not visiting sooner. She denies that need as quickly as she can. After what she's done, she is grateful he came to visit at all.
But if he needs her forgiveness, he has it.
Like Fuyumi, he says things are different. He credits Midoriya without hesitation. Izuku, he calls him. Fond of the boy he calls his friend.
She holds the latest photo.
This one isn't candid.
Shouto and Izuku face the camera. Freckled cheeks lifted in a radiant smile as Izuku holds up a UA letter. Shouto stands beside him, arm draped over his shoulders—not looking at the camera, but at his friend. The ghost of a smile lingers there.
The boys have earned their place at UA.
The implication settles heavily.
The boys.
As if they're both his.
Before, the pictures were stolen moments. Intimate because the children didn't know they were being seen. Somewhere along the way, this boy has moved in. Has rooted himself in her children's lives.
Somehow, he has altered everything.
Without meeting, he's changed her life, too.
With the photo in her hands, Rei decides she's ready to ask the questions that will lead her back to them. To meet this vibrant child who works miracles simply by being.
She tells Fuyumi quietly during her next visit.
She isn't certain she can return to the house. It’s haunted by too many painful memories, and she fears getting lost in them. But with nothing except her own demons to stop her, she's ready to step foot into the world again.
Shouto comes to visit again.
This time, he has an anxious green shadow.
The subject of her newest doubts, curiosity, and jealousy.
She schools her expression. The boy deserves only her gratitude.
Izuku stands in the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes darting between her and Shouto. Cautious. Waiting for permission. His smile is small and uncertain—so different from the radiant grins in the photos.
"It's nice to meet you, Todoroki-san," he says quietly, bowing deeper than necessary.
"Midoriya-kun." Her voice comes out softer than she intended. "Please, come in."
The visit is pleasant. Their newly rebuilt connection is fragile. She and Shouto are hesitant and awkward, afraid of damaging it. His friend fills the silences with soft smiles and eager stories of school and friends.
With his kind energy and effort, silence flutters butterfly-light and cannot land heavily.
When Izuku excuses himself to the restroom, Shouto leans forward.
"He was nervous," he says. "He wanted to make a good impression."
Rei's throat tightens.
"He did."
The boys return another day with a small green-haired woman.
There's an English saying about apples not falling far from their trees. Looking at Midoriya Inko, Rei understands it completely.
Warm. Unguarded. Kind.
Just like her son.
The small woman lingers after the boys have gone.
She becomes Inko.
She visits again. Alone.
And Rei gathers the courage to move forward.
For the first time, no one is telling her what must happen next, but she's bolstered by the promise that she won't take the next steps alone.