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Aizawa may be the one perpetually exhausted, seemingly dull and monotonous teacher who always, without fail, lugs a sleeping bag around the school’s halls and sleeps wherever he pleases, as well as live off of jelly packets as his main source of nutrition, but despite what some people may think, he is not unaware of what goes on around him.
If there’s one thing he’s learned from an entire decade of being an underground hero, it’s how to carry himself without being conspicuous and how to be perceptive without showing it outwardly. Those who think he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings are the same ones who don’t know how to see past the shallow, superficial parts of him, and in turn, fail to discover his true nature as well.
Midoriya is not one of those people—in fact, Aizawa believes that the boy and himself are pretty similar, in a sense. The two of them are always diverting others’ attention to things other than themselves, or at least to the aspects of themselves that they want to be on display, and never anything past that.
It’s not something Aizawa would ever confront the boy about aloud, nor would he ever see it as wrong or something that Mirdoriya should change, because he’d be a hypocrite if that’s what he thought.
There’s absolutely no problem with it, and it shouldn’t be an issue to Aizawa. What Midoriya’s personality is like and how he chooses to carry himself is not something that the man should be preoccupied with, because it’s not in his power to tell his student otherwise.
So, all in all, that is not the real, direct issue in itself. No... it’s rather something else it causes that truly irks Aizawa.
He isn’t able to figure out what the teen is thinking at any given moment, even while his classmates are open books, able to be observed and analyzed with no difficulties. Aizawa can see the way Bakugou is logical and careful even as he masks it with anger and hostility, and how Uraraka is determined and filled to the brim with sheer willpower and resolve, despite the way she appears to have a carefree nature.
He can tell that Todoroki has opened up more to his newfound friends and has put his trust in his peers, even if he still has the lingering effects of many years of being closed off and cold toward the world.
He can see each and everyone of them as they grow and develop as people—as heroes-in-training. Things change over time, and nobody stays the same.
Midoriya, though, is subtle and nuanced. And Aizawa hates that—he hates that he can’t decipher the boy with ease like he can with everybody else. It’s frustrating, because he can’t help his student if he doesn’t know what to look for and where to start.
Ever since day one, there’s been something very off about the kid. He’s bright and is quick to pick up on things, always learning new techniques and acquiring different tactics, and while that’s the purpose of training sessions and practice missions, it’s almost as if he’s never been exposed to such experience before.
Most of Class 1-A started off with fairly basic, preliminary combat skills. Midoriya had no problem with that part; he wasn’t necessarily out of shape or unfit for the amount of exercise the hero course requires, although he did have to learn some moves for the first time, while his peers already knew how to perform them.
Still, that wasn’t the thing that stuck out to Aizawa, because it’s not the most unusual occurrence for someone to lack exposure to that, and general martial arts could be easily taught at any time.
It was rather the fact that Midoriya didn’t have good control over his quirk that worried Aizawa the most, because this is something that he should have been working on throughout the years. Even people who have no desire to become a hero or do anything major with their abilities are still practiced and familiar with what they are capable of. It’s something inevitable—if you have a quirk, you’re bound to learn how to manage it.
There are consequences for those who don’t hone their skills. Unintentional or careless activation can lead to paying a hefty price, especially if those quirks are particularly powerful ones.
Specifically one like Midoriya’s.
His quirk is listed as ‘Superpower’, and that’s hardly a term used to describe something ordinary and commonplace. He no doubt has a highly coveted and admirable quirk, and yet, he shatters his bones when he uses it, as if he’s a four-year-old just who has just received a confirmation from the doctor, stating that he’s received his ability.
Aizawa knows that the teen is not reckless, because he can see the amount of concentration and focus Midoriya pours into every move. During the quirk apprehension test, he channeled all of his strength to his fingertip to reduce the amount of surface area and increase the force. He was calm and calculated all the way through, and that is not the behavior of someone incautious.
It’s the behavior of someone giving it their all.
Midoriya doesn’t injure himself purposely due to being rash; he does it inadvertently, due to lack of practice.
And if he’s so adamant on being a hero, then… why? Why would his skills be so underdeveloped?
Aizawa can’t connect the dots. Nothing lines up.
He doesn’t have any other leads up until the joint training session.
Midoriya’s improved a lot in the few months since then. He’s been changing rapidly, at a near impossible rate.
Aizawa doesn’t know what to think when he initially sees the second quirk development. It happened all of sudden, out of nowhere, and Midoriya didn’t have it under control at all. It’s just like a repeat of the first day of school.
So Aizawa knows for sure that the boy didn’t somehow pull a Todoroki regarding the use of his quirk—Midoriya just didn’t have it at all before this.
Barely anyone has an ability as powerful as his, let alone two of them. This is something that Aizawa has never seen before, and it’s completely out of his knowledge. It doesn’t even vaguely resemble how regular people’s quirks undergo development and augmentation as they use it more often. It doesn’t make any sense.
Whatever that was, it was completely unrelated to what he had before.
And Aizawa hates that he can’t figure it out. He can never understand anything that goes on with that kid.
The first thing Midoriya does upon arriving in Aizawa’s office is give him that typical, wide-eyed stare, as if he’s anticipating something bad. As if he’ll be punished for a wrongdoing or called out on his work in the training session.
And although Midoriya really is his problem child, that’s not the issue on the table, this time. Aizawa doesn’t have anything to say to the teen; rather, he wants Midoriya to do the explaining.
“Would you mind clarifying to me what that was?” Aizawa questions, keeping it concise and to the point.
They have no reason to beat around the bushes. It’s not going to do either of them any good if they don’t address the issue right away, because he knows that Midoriya is terrified of failure. He’s afraid to do or say the wrong thing, and stalling isn’t going to help that fear. He’s not at fault, so Aizawa doesn’t want him to think that he is, regardless of how many times he’s been called in here due to that being the case.
Midoriya bites his lip and shrinks back into his seat a little at that. He stares down at his hands, his shoes, the floor—anything that allows him to avoid the man’s gaze, because at least then he won’t see the disappointment or the judgment in his eyes.
“I—I don’t know. Aizawa-sensei, I didn’t know what was happening, I’m sorry—I’m—”
“Hey.” Aizawa cuts him off. “I’m not angry; I just need you to help me understand.”
The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how little he truly comprehends about Midoriya. He’s made of blinding smiles and positive energy, but he’s also so much more. There’s so much yet to be seen.
There’s so much Aizawa doesn’t know.
And he will continue to be left in the dark unless Midoriya trusts him.
Bright green eyes peer at him, and the boy looks somewhat comforted at his sensei’s reassurance.
“I don’t… really get it myself. It’s another part of my quirk—it’s… a new development.”
“Okay,” Aizawa says. “And what exactly is your quirk, in the first place?”
Midoriya looks confused at that, frowning. “It’s registered as a superpower. What—what do you need to know, sensei?”
“I need to know why,” Aizawa tells him. “Why this is….”
He takes a deep breath in and broaches a different part of the topic instead—a portion that he hopes will help him see things more clearly.
“When did your quirk come in?”
Midoriya startles a bit at the non sequitur.
“S—sorry?”
Aizawa repeats the question, softer and slower this time.
“At what age did your quirk manifest?”
Midoriya slinks even lower into the chair, his hair falling into his face.
“W—when I was fourteen, sir,” Midoriya stutters out, looking nervous all over again. “Why—how come you’re asking?”
Aizawa’s entire world tilts on its axis right then and there, and a thousand thoughts run through his mind simultaneously.
Fourteen.
God.
First year students are fifteen when they’re enrolled, and this kid got his quirk at fourteen.
A year—or possibly even less—is not an adequate amount of time to learn anything, much less how to keep a quirk in check. Midoriya’s classmates all had an entire decade to learn, and he was given barely even a tenth of that.
And yet.
And yet, and yet. He’s done so much. He’s gone headfirst into multiple fights and engaged in combat more times than Aizawa can count, and in every single instance, he’s made it out successfully.
Bruised and broken, but not in defeat.
Dammit.
“I… what?” he utters aloud, his mind still racing, and Midoriya frantically defends himself.
“Sensei! I got it really late; I swear! I’m not lying—this—”
“Midoriya.”
The teen stops talking and glances up with a terrified gaze.
“Hey,” Aizawa says, making sure that his student has his full attention. “I—God. I can’t even begin to imagine this. You got it last year?”
Midoriya nods vehemently in return. “Y—yes. It was in my last year of middle school.”
“Okay. Alright.”
And there’s so much that makes sense now.
It doesn’t piece everything together, per se, but it clarifies a big chunk of it. It fills in many gaps that Aizawa wasn’t able to for the longest time, and the puzzle pieces are beginning to draw closer to one another, and all the facts he’s observed throughout the school year are starting to be interconnected.
Oh, kiddo.
“I believe you,” Aizawa says, because he does. There really isn’t an explanation otherwise, and if this is as close as he’ll get, then he’ll gratefully accept it. If this is what Midoriya chooses to let him in on, even if it isn’t nearly the whole story, then who is he to decline?
He wants Midoriya to trust him, and in order for that to happen, this is the first stepping stone.
“I believe you, Midoriya.”
The boy nods once again, his lips quivering. He’s clearly unused to this.
If he’s gone through the majority of his life with a latent quirk, then he must’ve been perceived as quirkless.
It makes Aizawa feel vaguely upset.
Upset at the world.
There’s a reason why he didn’t know a single thing about the kid’s past until now, and he believes he has a pretty good idea of what it is.
It’s the same reason responsible for why the kid is meek and quiet most of the time.
Being at the bottom of the hierarchy couldn’t have been easy, and all those years… there are people who would’ve given him hell for that. He’s the outlier in a superhuman society, and he’s finally made his way up to one of the most prestigious schools in the nation. That kind of shift is sudden, and all of his mannerisms and idiosyncrasies—Aizawa can see the explanation behind them now.
“Midoriya. I need you to know that I’m sorry.”
“There’s—there’s nothing you need to be sorry for!” Midoriya counters, his voice breaking. “I—I’m sorry, for not telling you earlier. I’m so sorry, s-sensei.”
Aizawa knows that old habits are hard to break, and that Midoriya has spent a lifetime apologizing to people stronger than him, better than him.
Aizawa’s frustrated, and even though he’s angry at not having known this sooner, it’s not Midoriya’s fault.
In no way was the boy under any obligation to tell him anything.
“Midoriya. Hey. You don’t ever need to apologize to me. You’ve done more than enough—you’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”
And Midoriya really begins to cry at that. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it, and Aizawa doesn’t say a word; he simply waits.
There’s so much they still need to discuss, but Aizawa finally understands, and that’s all that matters for now.
He’ll be there for his student, moving forward.