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No one notices the change at first—because Tooru’s invisible and quiet when she’s not in the middle of a brewing chaos—until she gets over her shock with a quiet, shuddering breath and slams her hands down on the desk and shrieks, “You’re all BABIES, what the FUCK—!”
“Hagakure.” Aizawa’s eyes flash. “What are—?”
He stops, then, staring, much like the entire class, as it dawns on him that Tooru, one, sounds far, far older than the sixteen-year-old girl that she is supposed to be, and, two, isn’t wearing her school uniform but, in fact, an actual hero costume that flickers in visibility every couple of seconds. Because of said feature, they see the dust and grime on her costume, the soft rips and tears, and—
“Is that blood?” Ashido squawks, already half out of her seat. “OMG, you’re hurt, Tooru—!”
“Oh no,” Tooru says over the rising clamor of you’re hurt, where are you hurt, someone get Recovery Girl! “Fuck. Shinsou was right, why didn’t we listen to them.”
Said student in question balks when eyes and heads swivel in their direction, holding their palms up at the attention. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Shinsou rebuffs everyone’s silent questions.
“That villain did have a time travel quirk,” Tooru continues like no one spoke, and is far too frazzled to notice the sharp drop of quiet in the room. “Shit. Shit. Oh, god, please, tell me my sixteen-year-old self is not in the middle of—oh fuck.”
Tooru presses her hands together and, very slowly, takes a breath. She counts to ten in the silence of the classroom, then doubles back and counts her heartbeat until it calms, and exhales slowly. By the time she’s calmed herself and stopped her shaking fingers, Nezu and Recovery Girl are already in the classroom.
She wants to know how they figured out that they might be needed—but, well, it’s Nezu.
“Hagakure-san,” Recovery Girl starts, “Where are you—?”
“I don’t think you should heal me, Recovery Girl,” Tooru says. “I don’t know when – the quirk will end, and I’d rather not get dumped back into a fight exhausted like that.”
Recovery Girl purses her lips, but respects Hagakure’s decision. “As long as you don’t have any dangerous injuries?”
“Nope,” Tooru assures. “It’s all just some scratches and bruises!”
Recovery Girl hums, but after wrangling a promise from Tooru to visit her if she’s still here after school hours and leaves for the infirmary.
“Very intriguing,” Nezu smiles. Tooru tries not to shudder. “Was it only you who were hit by the villains’ quirk?”
“Memories a bit hazy from all the excitement,” Tooru taps her chin. “But I’m pretty sure . . . but I know, for sure, that some of us were hit—kinda unavoidable; it manifested as some sort of mist.”
Everyone goes quiet, drinking in the situation. Tooru can practically see Midoriya’s mind churning as he scribbles down ideas and the like from the villains’ quirk.
“You said – you said that I was the one who knew about their quirk?” Shinsou breaches the topic quietly, and Tooru wants to squeal and wrap them in blankets. “H-How?”
“Well. You hypothesized that they had a time travel quirk,” Tooru corrects herself, thinking back to the countless meetings they had; official ones in stuffy board rooms, and unofficial ones in Shinsou’s stuffy apartment. “But no one was entirely . . . sure. We were working on limited information.”
Yaoyorozu frowns slightly. “So . . . may I ask why you were pursuing this villain?”
“I’m sorry,” Tooru smiles, even though they can’t see her, because she is not about to tell a bunch of kids, younger versions of her friends or not, that she and their future selves were chasing down the leader of a child murdering faction. “But I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”
She can tell that they—her . . . classmates . . .— aren’t happy at that, but in the face of Tooru’s unrelenting quiet and the combined stern forces of Aizawa and Nezu, they don’t ask her questions about the mission or about the danger that her younger self (for Tooru’s continued sanity, she’ll just call her younger self Hagakure) is most definitely in right now. Who’s in a thrice-damned school uniform.
Almost with reluctance, class lessons continue, though absolutely no one except Tooru is paying attention, who takes notes for Hagakure. Nezu seems to have relayed the switch problem to the rest of the staff because none of the teachers bat an eye at Tooru’s appearance. During lunch and breaks, Tooru stays in the classroom but assures the others that she’s fine.
It’s with slight guilt that she chews her way through Hagakure’s packed lunch, but only a little. She knows her friends will make sure her younger self is safe and cared for until they swap back to their own time.
Aizawa just mumbles something about problem children and should’ve expelled everyone when he trudges out of 1-A. Tooru can’t help the grin on her face.
Some people really don’t change.
In the morning, sixteen-year-old Hagakure stumbles downstairs, excitedly babbling about her time In The Future, with only the echoes of the hero she will become left behind.
Denki travels next.
One minute, the U.A. staff room listens to Aizawa go over one of Kaminari’s essays with him—and then there’s a considerably older (and by “considerably,” it’s a good ten or so years older) Denki blinking, dazed, at the room at large. He’s not dressed in his hero costume, not like Tooru, but wears a soft dark purple knitted sweater—that is actually a limited edition Siren Sweater that Shinsou begrudgingly signed for Denki’s birthday which means its worth is doubled if Denki ever wants to sell it which he never will—leggings he accidentally swiped from a photo shoot a few years back, and bright, highlighter green Froppy socks.
“At least,” he says into the quiet, hand curled around the white mug in his hands. Wrapped around the mug is a series of Froppy in the same bright green as his socks. “I wasn’t in the bathroom.”
Aizawa, despite himself, despite the situation, snorts.
Once the storm of questions from the other staff members cease, because it’s one thing to be told about what happened with Hagakure and it’s another thing entirely to actually see it happen, Denki looks at Aizawa, smiles, and says, “We made sure Hagakure was okay while she was with us, and I know they’ll do the same with – with Kaminari!”
Aizawa hums.
Considering Hagakure had practically latched onto Shinsou that morning, talking about how warm and comfortable and so soft and safe their apartment made her feel (“Though there was a bit of clutter,” she had added, oblivious, deliberate or otherwise, to Shinsou’s bewildered what the actual fuck expression. “And, ooh, you have really cute cats!”), he was aware that his future students made sure she was alright.
“Good.”
The door to the staff room slides open, and Kirishima pauses in the doorway. He stares at Denki for a moment. “Huh,” he says. “Well, you look comfortable!”
Denki just raises his mug to his mouth, whispering, “You’re so tiny,” before he takes a generous sip. Aizawa rolls his eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea for strength.
When he makes his way back to the common room, Hagakure takes one look at him before launching herself in his direction. Denki laughs, a little startled at the action, but gives her a little twirl when he catches her.
“So, I wasn’t hallucinating,” Hagakure claps once she’s back on the ground.
“Nope,” says Denki.
Jirou stares at him from the coffee table. “You got tall.”
Denki sticks his tongue out at her. “You got smaller.”
“. . . is that . . .?” Asui blinks at the mug in his hands. “Is that a mug with my hero name on it, kero?”
“It is,” Denki says, though he’s probably not supposed to. Preserving the timeline and whatever. “I’m wearing your socks, too.” And then, because he can, he looks at Shinsou and adds, “This is your sweater.”
“I have a sweater?” Shinsou repeats quietly. “Like . . . you bought a – a sweater?”
“Limited edition,” Denki nods. “I stayed up for two days because the website kept crashing.”
There’s a brief quiet before the common room erupts into a storm of questions and excited babbling of the idea of having their own merch in the future, and people actually buying them. Denki answers their questions as best as he can, but he does his best not to reveal too much information.
Unlike Tooru, however, Denki stays in the past for two days. As he, technically, already graduated high school, he doesn’t need to attend class, but he does take notes for Kaminari and help out during a rescue simulation.
Kaminari, much like Hagakure, wastes little time in pouncing on Shinsou when he returns to the right timeline. He doesn’t chat Shinsou’s ear off like Hagakure did, but he does say a simple, “You’re, like, extra nice in the future, Shinsou!”
Aizawa hides a grin at Shinsou’s look of blank dismay and their muttered, “I should’ve stayed in Gen. Ed.”
The next switch happens on a Saturday. A few students are scattered around the common room, relaxing from homework and studying. There’s a movie playing on the TV that no one pays attention to, and Shinsou listens to Kaminari recount something he and Sero did before they blink. And reappear someplace else to a familiar voice asking, “Hitoshi, do you want to get those pretzels now?”
“Can you pass me my phone charger, Izuku?” There’s a sharp silence that makes Hitoshi look up from their phone before they do a double-take, having the brief thought of please no villain attack right now, only to sigh, and say, “Well. You’re not my husband.”
The sight of Bakugou stuttering a response makes the air much more amusement. Then, there’s a squeak of, “H-H-Husband?” from a very familiar, red-faced teen.
“Oops,” Hitoshi says, not looking apologetic at all, but they smile at everyone kindly. “Probably shouldn’t have said that—but in my defense, I wasn’t expecting . . . this.”
Aizawa shuffles into the common room to investigate the decrease of noise and stares at Hitoshi. Unlike Shinsou, who had worn in drawstring pajama pants and a sweater that had suspiciously faded letters spelling out Eraserhead, Hitoshi wears a black long sleeve v-neck, a brown block skater skirt with black buttons trailing down the center, and an oversized jacket with Entropy blazoned on the back in a style similar to letterman jackets.
He sighs.
Hitoshi tries their best not to laugh, but they probably fail.
“Entropy?” Asui tilts her head. “Who is that?”
Hitoshi coughs a little. “Um.”
“Is it someone we know?” Midoriya asks, taking the distraction for what it is. “Oh, wait—what are your pronouns?”
Hitoshi’s slightly panicked expression softens into a warmth that makes quite a few cheeks burn. “They-them. And . . . Entropy is a friend.”
“Another Pro?” Midoriya looks half a breath away from vibrating. “What’s their quirk?”
Hitoshi very deliberately keeps their gaze away from Todoroki, who’s doing that pensive eye-squint when there’s a Mystery to be solved and clears their throat. “You’ll find out soon enough.” When the room erupts into whines and heckling, Hitoshi only gives them amused smiles.
“You’re so small,” Hitoshi marvels quietly. So young. “Wish I could take some pictures.”
“Why can’t you?” Uraraka chimes in. “Does, like, your phone not work when you’re here?”
Hitoshi frowns at the blank screen of their phone. “Well—it’s only twenty percent right now. And I don’t have my charger with me.”
Kaminari waves his hand in the air and says, “I can charge it for you!”
Hitoshi smiles, grateful, and dutifully takes as many selfies as their friends want. They even take one with a disgruntled Aizawa (who wasn’t really disgruntled) and a Yamada who was ecstatic to witness how much they’ve grown. Kirishima manages to wrangle Bakugou into a couple of photos.
When Shinsou returns from the future, they spend the better half of the morning giving Midoriya and a few other classmates bewildered glances.
Aizawa really, really tries not to laugh.
The next switch happens during English in the following days. One moment, sixteen-year-old Yaoyorozu is dutifully reciting a passage for the class, and then Momo is there, dressed in a stylish pantsuit and holding a stack of papers, reaching for a phone that isn’t there as her eyes scan the meeting discussion points. Her hand smacks against Shinsou’s arm.
“Ow,” says Shinsou, more out of reflex than any actual pain.
Momo drops the papers. “Not now—I have a meeting in five minutes!”
“Is it an important meeting?” Ashido bounces in her seat. “Like, for hero stuff?”
“It’s for next years’ budget,” Momo purses her lips and pulls out her phone. “Is it possible for me to send a message . . . ?”
According to her phone, she does have reception, still, but would the message go through? She quickly wracks her brain over who’s currently at the agency and taps out a message to both her secretary and Kyouka. Her breath still, she watches her phone until there’s a small ‘delivered’ notification by her texts.
“It sent!”
Most of the class erupts into cheers.
Momo jolts at the realization that—well. She’s ten years in the past. “Oh dear,” she says, mostly to herself. “Well . . . it’s a good thing I bought my groceries already.”
Despite the fact that Momo hasn’t been in a classroom, save for the occasional guest appearances, in, well, a decade or so, she takes notes for her younger self, aware of the anxiety that’s undoubtedly being set off at the absence.
By the time classes end, she’s received responses from her secretary, Kyouka, and a group chat labeled time travel hoes, the name courtesy of Hitoshi. There’s a spam of photos involving a younger Yaoyorozu, now dressed in an adorable sundress and sunhat, gardening with Toshinori, helping Kyouka bake cookies, curled up on the couch with Kyouka and a few of their classmates, the glow of the television on her silhouette.
At Ashido’s demand, Momo shows the rest of the class the pictures, even though she’s well-aware that she’s messing with some delicate time travel rules. When Uraraka and a few others coo over her wedding ring, Momo only smiles.
Momo goes through the motions like a hero accustomed to weird circumstances and changes of routine. Time travelling isn’t the weirdest thing she’s been involved in, given the outright shenanigans that Izuku and Shouto seemed to get into at times—and that’s not touching the chaos that was the self-proclaimed Bakusquad.
Yaoyorozu returns by lunch the next day and turns quite an interesting shade of red at the sight of Jirou, who raises an eyebrow.
When Kyouka switches, she’s wearing that fucking flower-print apron Denki bought her as a gag gift that she pretends she hates, but really doesn’t because it has pockets. She doesn’t realize she switched places just yet because she’s squinting down at the handwritten recipe and says, aloud, “Shinsou, your handwriting is shitty, who the fuck taught you to write—what does this even say?”
Shinsou sputters at the slight. “There’s nothing wrong with my handwriting!”
Aizawa, familiar with the scribble Shinsou called handwriting, snorts from his spot in the kitchen. Shinsou flushes.
“What the fuck—!” Kyouka whirls around because why does Shinsou sound like a pipsqueak and pauses. “You’re kidding me,” she says, finally, flatly, at the young faces and stares of her peers before she sighs. “At least it’s my day off.”
Damn.
She had plans to snuggle with Momo after they baked cookies, and time-travel wasn’t supposed to happen.
Ashido leans forward with a wild grin. “What was Shinsou doing at your place?”
“They were helping me figure out a new recipe,” Kyouka explains. Shinsou just looks bewildered, and Kyouka can relate. If she remembers her high school years correctly, this was still around the time Shinsou had their I don’t want friends stance—or as Hanta liked to say, their “earlyroki phase”—until the combined forces of Denki and Izuku whittled down his walls.
Kyouka still gets a laugh when she remembers Todoroki’s solemn expression as he rested a hand on Shinsou’s shoulder and said, “You never stood a chance. Press F.” and Ashido’s strangled, “You’re using the wrong meme!” from the living room.
“New recipe?”
“Ooh, what kind?”
“Were you baking cookies?”
“I love your apron!”
“I’m filing a complaint after this,” Kyouka mutters, mostly to herself, but Kaminari overhears and snorts. “I can’t believe . . .”
“I wonder when this quirk will fade,” she hears Midoriya murmur, followed by the familiar scratch of led against paper. “Perhaps the heightened emotions increased the time interval . . .? Maybe it dependent on how much of the – what did, uh, Tooru-san say . . . ? mist – touches you . . . does it have to be skin contact or will clothing obstruct it . . .?”
Bakugou twitches at Midoriya’s muttering. Kyouka hums and eyes the green-haired boy. “We still don’t know much about the guys’ quirk, unfortunately,” she answers, and Midoriya snaps to attention. He’s like a puppy. “While he’s in custody, he’s not talking just yet. But we have theorized that since we were in a small space, the . . . time trajectory of the quirk might be a bit longer before it completely fades.”
Aizawa leans against the podium. “How many of you were hit? Give me an estimate if you can’t give me specifics.”
“After me, there should be around three more to switch,” Kyouka informs after a quick recall. “If I remember right – well, it’s a bit hazy from the chaos, but I know that M – Izuku and Shouto were upfront when the quirk went off.”
Todoroki raises an eyebrow. Midoriya blinks.
Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not surprised,” he says under his breath. “It’s always the problem children, isn’t it?”
Kyouka’s lips curl in amusement. The rest of the class erupts into a scattering of whispers, exclamations, and overall speculation of what they’ll be getting into in the future.
Some people really don’t change, she thinks to herself as Aizawa regains control of the classroom. By the time lunch rolls around, Momo has sent her pictures of a younger Jirou wearing Hitoshi’s kitten-patterned oven mitts, face bright red as she stares at Momo’s smile.
Jirou returns sometime after dinner, flushes at the sight of Shinsou and turns bright red at the sight of Yaoyorozu, but remains tightlipped to Ashido’s heckling over the identity of her future wife.
Izuku and Shouto switch during math. Izuku is dressed in stylish, comfortable clothing that looked fresh out of a fashion magazine—courtesy of Hitoshi, who refused to watch Izuku buy shirts that said plaid shirt or suit and tie when they turned seventeen. Shouto, on the other hand, wears old, oversized clothing and is splattered with paint.
Izuku grimaces. Thank god I cancelled that appointment.
Shouto looks unbothered by the change—and no one else has noticed, too busy either napping (Aizawa), grading worksheets (Ectoplasm), or taking the exam (re: everyone else). He picks up the pencil and starts where Todoroki had left off.
Izuku stares at the math problems on his desk and grimaces again. It’s on the quadratic formula. Izuku hasn’t had to do algebra in – years. After a small sigh, he picks up the pencil and tries to remember what the hell was going on.
When Ectoplasm manages to look up and see two fully grown adults taking an exam for a subject they haven’t had to think about in years, says a succinct, “What.”
Shouto puts his pencil down with a deliberate flourish. Izuku presses his forehead against the paper and silently groans with muted anguish. The rest of the class either ignore what’s going on or are simply accustomed to the random fuckery that comes with being in Class A.
Ectoplasm takes the quizzes when the timer goes off amidst minor groans and mutters. He does, however, mention that when Todoroki and Midoriya return from the future, they’ll have the opportunity for a retake. It dawns on the rest of the class of who is now there, and there’s a stilled quiet before Sero blinks at Izuku.
“You got tall,” he comments.
Izuku gives a sheepish smile. “I – I guess so.”
“He’s over six feet,” adds Shouto.
Nothing gets complete for the rest of the class period—or day, really. The teachers only laugh and smile in amusement as their classmates try to pry information of the future out of them. Shouto remains tightlipped. Izuku hides in his old dorm room, knowing full well that he’d let something slip.
“No fair!” he hears Kaminari whine out.
“Tell us our rankings, cowards!” shouts Ashido.
Izuku pulls out his phone and looks at videos of Hitoshi and his cats, instead. Shouto, at some point, acquired cold soba and ignores everyone.
It takes everyone a good hour or so to realize Shouta had been switched. Overall, he looks the same—slightly older, with a little grayer in his hair, and there are laugh lines around his mouth. He dresses the same, black jumpsuit and yellow sleeping bag tucked under his arm. It’s not until he stares at his homeroom class, blinking slowly, and says, “Either I’ve hallucinated the last ten years or I’m in the past,” that everyone realizes the switch took place.
Predictably, Class A goes wild.
Shouta calms them down like he would any class making a ruckus: flash his quirk. They quiet in less than a minute, and he huffs, amused, at the way they all look like they’re about to fall out of their seats in anticipation. Shouta can see the storm of muttered questions floating around Midoriya.
Despite the switch, the rest of the day goes on like normal. Shouta reviews his lecture notes and continues where Aizawa left off. He collects homework. He attends the staff meeting that takes place at the second half of lunch—and dutifully fends off questions and enthusiasm from his coworkers who’re overgrown children. He grades.
The only difference is that—well, everyone is ten years younger. Hizashi marvels at the laugh lines around Shouta’s mouth.
(And there are less footsteps padding about his apartment. He almost asks Hizashi why Eri and Hitoshi’s rooms look so – empty and impersonal. Things take time, and Shouta’s aware they were beginning to discuss taking Hitoshi in.
It’ll happen.)
Nemuri calls him a “silver fox” at some point. Shouta only rolls his eyes.
Aizawa returns while in the living room of his suite. His older self, thankfully, had finished most of his grading. Aizawa only needed to input the grades into U.A.’s computer system. The smell of cooking food floats in the air. Yamada is cooking – something, for dinner. His stomach grumbles.
When he shuffles inside the small kitchenette, Yamada sends him a grin. “The prodigy returns!”
“Ha, ha,” Aizawa rolls his eyes and looks for a jelly packet. “How’d everyone take . . . me?”
“Well,” Yamada replies. Aizawa thinks he’s making a noodle dish. “The kids were as chaotic as usual.”
Aizawa snorts. “They don’t change.”
Neither of them point out the fondness (or relief) in his voice.
“Did you have fun from the future?” Yamada asks over the sizzle of the pan. Aizawa hums quietly as he wraps arms around Yamada’s waist. “Come on, tell me—do I have wrinkles?”
Aizawa snorts. “I’m not answering that.”
“Shouta!”