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Izuku is tired. Okay, that's an understatement, but he's been stressed and overworked and so fucking anxious it's not even funny. It had started last week, with some challenging Heroics exercises combining with a few bad mental health days that he'd pushed through to make a pretty miserable school week. But their usual Saturday Heroics lesson had been cancelled because of some faculty meeting, which allowed Izuku to try and relax a bit. Of course, that didn't work out when the media on Saturday morning were practically screaming about a spate of Quirkless suicides. When Izuku was already on-edge, full of paranoia-itches and trembling fingers, hearing about this has something splintering through his chest. The jagged edges keep catching on his lungs.
That splintering, those sharp edges, they- they leak darkness throughout his weekend. He manages to work through it up to a point, getting his immediate deadlines done despite every single one taking thrice as long as usual, his mind screaming at him to do it again and do it better, and everything takes him too long to register, to process, let alone actually get done.
Which is probably why, on Tuesday night, something suddenly hits him: he still hasn't done his project for Law And Ethics. Which they're due to present Wednesday. Which is tomorrow. And sure, he has no less than four rough outlines for possible topics he could cover but none of them feel right. He cares about them up to a point, but the urge to talk about something else (about Quirkless discrimination, about the hatred the world feels yet ignores, unseen by all but those who suffer for it-) is lingering in the back of his mind, digging vicious claws in. Either way it's already nine o'clock at night, so he sits himself down at his desk, lamp and computer on, main light switched off because otherwise Aizawa-sensei might get curious in that furrowed-eyebrow, soft-scowl way of his, and the last thing Izuku needs is an interruption, particularly not a disappointed one.
And then he blinks, only to find himself getting up from his seat, scars skittering with spider-waltz aches, and his eyes burn, gritty with exhaustion, but he refuses to sway under it. No, he gathers his wan strength, and he checks the time - quarter to seven in the morning - before emailing his presentation to his teacher and going to shower. He's sacrificed his morning training time, but equally this is an important research project. He'll just have to do an extra-long workout tonight to make up for the loss.
Most of the day is a blur. He shovels in food that tastes like burnt caramel and dust-laden iron, ferrous and sickening against the back of his throat, but he breathes through it anyway, and keeps on eating until there's nothing else on his plate. He drifts then, loses the walk to class and the first two lessons, dips back into something saturated for third lesson with Mic-sensei, returns to grey and finger-aching for a while, and then he's in Heroic Law And Ethics, with Ashido at the front of the class talking about... something. The importance of dance and other recreational opportunities? That seems like the gist of it, if only from the pictures on her powerpoint. Did he ever email Sensei his slideshow? He must have. Hopefully. Maybe. He doesn't really have the energy to panic about it either way.
As it turns out, he has. His is the next slideshow pulled up on the projector, and then he's moving, turning beside the podium to face his friends (it's a classroom, nobody here is safe, you learnt this years ago Deku, so remember it now-) and trying to even remember what his presentation is about. The title screen mentions nothing but the assignment and his name.
His throat is tight, tongue dry as sun-baked soil, exposed to the heat of his daze, but he works his jaw for a moment, fingers tugging and twisting, and finds the words he needs floating through his mind, emerging from the shadows of his gone-back-again mind.
"Twenty percent of the global population is Quirkless." He clicks for the next slide, and a scientific definition is highlighted above several data representations. There are a few titters, low exclamations, through the room, but he barely even hears them,
"It's one of the few well-known facts about, supposedly, a fifth of our population. However, it isn't accurate. It's outdated by only five years, but when extrapolating from previous declination rates, it would appear that the true global Quirkless percentage would have to be between fifteen and eighteen percent. Within that, it seems evidenced that up to eighty nine one percent of those people are from the first five Quirk generations, which in current times translates almost solely to fourth and fifth generations. Typically these are our grandparents or the generation before. A further nine point five percent would be the sixth Quirk generation, therefore typically our parents, leaving only one point five percent of them as our age group, although some of us will be earlier generations, family-dependent. For clarity's purpose, I will be referring to our age group as seventh generation, those from around thirty to fifty five as sixth, and so on backwards." Izuku pauses, seems to wait for everyone to catch up although maybe he's just pausing, swaying slightly in place which isn't concerning at all, and once at least some of them look like they know what he's saying he ploughs on again.
"Of the Quirkless groups, there is also a spatial disparity, not just generational. Much like how there is a distinct prevalence for Thre-" Fuck, he can't say that, can't give himself and his kind away,
"-for mutation over emitter Quirks - although, frankly, those terms are outdated and should be changed as Quirks have become more complex and secondary mutations more common - in the majority of African, South American and South-East Asian countries, there is a prevalence for Quirklessness in certain parts of the world. Japan, likely due to still being very ethnically pure and having exhibited an ageing population for centuries now, is a country with lower rates of Quirkless people than the global average. In fact, given Japan's current population of ninety-two million people, and the percentages I have extrapolated from previous studies, our country's Quirkless population would be more likely around the eight percent mark. That, admittedly, is still over seven million people."
A few of the class are exchanging glances, even shrugs, but Izuku's eyes are glazing over and he doesn't truly notice any of it. All he knows is that there's something solid behind him, a vent above him, and windows to his right that he can escape out of if he needs to-
He forces himself to focus then, gaze wavering back into faint colour as he centres himself upon the laptop in front of him,
"However, you then have to consider the age demographics of this, and even the regional variations. Looking at the latter, the majority of Laces-" a few people startle at that, Aizawa-sensei included, and share looks, because Izuku logically must be referring to Quirkless people but he just called them laces?
"-live in rural areas, or in smaller towns, certainly not cities like Musutafu. And of these L- Quirkless people, it's not eighty nine but rather ninety four percent from the fourth and fifth Quirk generations. From there, I was able to do multiple predictions, all of which were relatively close to each other, and gain a slightly more accurate mean prediction, wherein four point eight percent of Japan's Quirkless are sixth generation. This leaves only one point two percent as seventh generation, which the majority of us are. That's just over eighty-eight thousand people."
He takes another breath, air shattering through his lungs in spiral fractures, and the sting of it sends him another inch back out of his body, aching fingers gone numb.
"Returning to my earlier point about regional disparities, I've been able to cross-reference databases and previous studies to conclude that, despite the far higher populations of large cities, or even megacities like Tokyo, Osaka and Nagoya, at least forty to fifty thousand of these people live in the fringes of the suburbs at most, if not rural or island communities. The slums and low-class areas of the megacities, whilst harder to calculate due to lack of paperwork, are home to approximately another thirty to forty five thousand. Many large cities such as Musutafu might have a few hundred to a thousand Laces at most. In fact, Musutafu has just over six hundred. Of those, three hundred live in care homes, plus another two hundred and forty who are retired. Twenty seven are in palliative care."
That gives a sombre note to a room that, previously, had been caught in between curiosity and confusion. Izuku doesn't take an iota of notice, nails digging into his skin and usually it would bring him back but right now he's still spiralling. The words are only just there, toxic on the tip of his tongue, and letting them roll from his lips is both a relief and a risk.
"Death rates have increased since the birth of Quirks, and that accelerated even after the original Gemini Riots that were seen globally and the overall Quirked population began to succeed the Quirkless population. Quirks, particularly over a century or so ago when they were less understood scientifically, caused many health complications, cases of medical negligence or incompetence, and as we all know, villainy. More people had access to weapons of mass destruction, and whilst making a bomb in the pre-Quirk era had to be intentional, a single four year old can now level entire districts with a powerful enough Quirk and an accident. In fact, this is becoming more likely as more Perf- as we approach what some more extreme researchers call the Quirk Singularity. Even those who don't put stock in this more extreme theory can and will acknowledge the evidence that Quirks are becoming more powerful as they mutate within each of you." Aizawa is perhaps the only person to pick up on the use of 'you' there. Problem Child is separating himself from the rest of the room, whether consciously or not, and he does not like that fact.
"With the growing rates of Perf Quirks has come a growing societal expectation for them. A need, perpetuated by the media and the hero industry, for people to have strong Quirks or, failing that, simply useful ones. People with weaker Quirks, which frankly are normally just average transformation or emitter Quirks, are pushed to the fringes in childhood and adolescence, and are pushed to fall on either side of the tracks: become useful, or become useless. It's much the same with Threads, where their mutations either end up a hindrance or a help. Then the Laces fall through the cracks. Or rather, are pushed. Even those who find supportive people will often be discriminated against in daily life, and this is the focus of my presentation."
Aizawa goes to open his mouth, because the kid's already spoken for four minutes and it was meant to be a five minute presentation, but there's a fire in his Problem Child's eyes - bright and flaring underneath, smoking and hazy over the top of it - and he's not sure the kid is even entirely conscious of what he's doing, what he's saying. Whether that makes this better or worse, Aizawa really isn't sure.
But he follows his gut over his logic, because sometimes instincts really are the best thing to listen to, no less for an underground hero, so he doesn't say a word, and quells the hellspawn with a glare when it looks like one or two of them might be about to speak up. At least, as far as he can tell, all of the information so far seems well-researched and therefore probably correct. Not exactly surprising, considering that this is Midoriya, yet still a tad startling in that Aizawa wasn't expecting any of his kids to know, much less care about, the Quirkless statistics, let alone spend what clearly must be hours researching and collating and analysing the data.
Either way though, the kid has clicked onto his next presentation slide, so Aizawa forces himself to pay full attention.
"Discrimination is something that most people will experience in some form throughout their lives. This does not make it a truly universal experience. The severity, frequency and reasons behind discrimination influence its impact heavily. Some people might only be judged once or twice for some minor choice they have made - for example, being discriminated against for taking up a seemingly-lesser position within a company where they might be excluded from a single event that they rightfully should have been attending. In comparison, the discrimination that those with weak, so-called villainous or mutant Quirks face is often far more sustained. Going further again, the Quirkless are typically discriminated against constantly." A half-there breath, vision greying out, old scars solar-flaring, yet Izuku goes on,
"Some of the most significant discrimination is that seen in schools. This is experienced during a person's formative years and will therefore have continued impacts throughout their life, and Quirkless discrimination, whilst it often only starts small with some level of pity or additional caution - treating them like glass because they're apparently less evolved than their classmates, because they're weak and need protecting at best, according to far too many people, teachers included." There's a haunted edge creeping in, wavers and splinters around words that should be calm, and Aizawa wants to step in, yet he feels magnetised. Frozen. This- this is important.
"It goes on from there. Gets worse. Too much care typically turns to too little. Words start, little taunts and mean things, asking where someone's Quirk is, asking why they're useless, why are you even still here? Isn't there a special class for freaks like you? And it gets worse again. Shoving turns to punching turns to full-on beatings, quite often with Quirks involved and these things scar, you know? Leave starburst burns and little gouges here and there, never enough to be taken too much notice of, but always enough to haunt. And then the words get worse as well. Things like why are you here change to why don't you leave? Why don't you die?"
The room, perhaps ironically, is dead silent. Even the ever-loud figures are stony-shocked, excepting Bakugou who clenches the edges of his desk with for-once silent hands, head lowered in what could be shame or rage or both.
"One hundred percent of Quirkless people below the ages of thirty have been suicide-baited at least once in their life." It's almost sardonic, something bitter settling over the ragged edges of his voice, but it does nothing to soothe those listening,
"Approximately seventy eight percent consider committing suicide by the time they're twenty five. Thirty seven percent attempt it in some capacity. Twenty two percent of Laces succeed. That's nearly a quarter of the Quirkless population killing themselves by the time they're twenty five. An additional thirteen percent commit suicide within the next decade of their lives." The words are callous, brutally efficient, yet Izuku speaks them almost softly, holding every syllable with gentle, grief-stricken hands
"You've got to understand that Laces aren't weak for giving up or giving in. Suicide is an escape for them. The world is so fucking awful for them that it simply isn't worth it," he adds on, the beginnings of a snarl scraping his words rough once more. Aizawa doesn't even have the attention to correct the foul language.
"And of those who don't resort to this, another death awaits them: murder. Hate crimes resulting in death, in relation to Quirklessness, has increased by one hundred and forty percent in the last thirty years. This doesn't even consider the discrimination resulting in unemployment, homelessness, undereducation - the Sagittarius legislation mandates the disclosure of Quirk status when applying for jobs, housing, education, bank accounts, and other major life factors. For the very basic necessities of life."
Izuku falters then, seeming to twitch back into something slightly more alive, more aware. Eyelids, heavy and fluttering, hide his distant gaze for a long moment, and the rest of the class watch on, spellbound and horrified. There's no recourse from this conversation, no going back from the raw-nerved words frosting through the air, searing their throat's closed.
Izuku, despite how he is the one hurting the worst here, how his chest is tight with woes and wounds never quite gone, is the one to continue speaking,
"Quirkless people, in response to all of this, have developed what would most appropriately be called survival methods."
He clicks for the next slide. Freezes. Tongue gone leaden, toxic against his teeth. On the screen behind him, just like the smaller screen in from of him, is a picture of red shoes. His own, in fact, and currently featuring bright white laces. Next to it, in type that his vision has gone too blurry to read, is an explanation. A damnation.
"Kid-" Izuku kicks back into gear, panic roaring to life, and he's slamming trembling fingers atop the keyboard, exiting the slideshow and closing it down, removing the evidence even though he knows, he knows, that it's too late. There's filth coating every inch of his skin and name and existence, and now they all know it, they've seen what a fucking freak he is, a Lace with too many problems to count and they're going to hate him too, it'll be like it used to be where he got more spiderlilies than hugs and more bruises than breaths and-
There are hands on him.
His breathing hitches then, his entire being flinching away from the heat of another person, away from hands that might burn or scratch or disintegrate, and there's a low voice trying to override the panic but it's not enough, not going to erase his actions or his words or his entire stupid, useless self, and Izuku forces his limbs to obey as he runs. Wobbly legs spark supernova bright, and he's moving, retreating. The person (Bakugou, Shigaraki, Tsubasa, Yamato-) is on his right, so he flees away from that, from the person who's going to hurt him-
"Kid!" One single word is clear in that voice, and it's one that's familiar, one that's safe something- something not completely awful, but he doesn't trust it, can't afford to trust it, and he's running because he needs to get safe-
Aizawa should have known. So often, too often, those he finds on tops of rooftops or bridges, or those he's too late to do anything for but slip their eyes shut, leave behind their shoes. Sometimes with a note, sometimes not. And of those shoes, it's not uncommon to find red high-tops, ones typically with white laces but sometimes grey, and sometimes he'll overhear people afterwards, police or passersby, who make little comments, give little looks. Snide implications of wastes of space, drains on society. Good riddance. It churns his stomach every time. But all he can do is punch anyone who says blatantly discriminatory things, and maybe follow anyone that isn't quite bad enough for publicly punching to do so in a back alley instead. He went through too much shit as a kid to be willing to ignore bigots - knows too many people who have been discriminated against, had too many students with no confidence or too much arrogance because of the way their shitty society raises its children. Its future.
And he's recognised the signs of a lot of this in several of his students, Bakugou and Midoriya more than any others, but there's been no time to do anything about it, beyond pushing the entire class into therapy for the constant villain attacks and scrutiny they've faced. That therapy won't have been going long enough for issues beyond those to be addressed, not in the last two months and with three more villain attacks in that time, two of which had been from the League themselves. These kids are going through a lot. And that's just on top of any childhood trauma and ongoing family issues.
He wishes, now that things are going so very wrong, that he'd interfered more earlier. Logically, he knows that he genuinely didn't have the time, that he'd prioritised their physical safety and getting Todoroki away from Endeavor because all of that was immediate danger, but to have never noticed the correlation between his Problem Child's shoes and so many other people's. And none of those people have ever seemed happy, even those that weren't roughed up or worse.
What has his kid really been going through?
That doesn't matter right now though. It can't. No, he has to shout over his shoulder for the class to stay where they are, and then he's running after his Problem Child. The kid needs him more than the class do right now, no matter how shell-shocked they all look. (He already dreads addressing this with them. The secrecy and tact and tears that are sure to follow will be a dreadful thing, but he can't think about that just yet, let alone begrudge it.)
Instead of splitting his attention, Aizawa races after Midoriya. The classroom door is completely off its hinges, abandoned on the floor, and the hero's glad that, if nothing else, some of the kid's Quirk-sparks have actually scorched the walls and floors of the corridor, which is weird because Aizawa doesn't think it's ever done that before, but for now he'll just be grateful for how easy it is to follow the kid. He'd noticed the text on the slideshow, had skim read the different lace meanings, and he knows his kid is wearing white laces because Aizawa is observant, trained, and little details that change catch his attention. And the fact that Midoriya's laces change colour semi-regularly hasn't gone amiss, but he's never been able to think of any significant reason behind him. (Why would he? There's an entire demographic of people who feel so hunted, so in danger, that they need secret codes and subtle tells, ways to identify themselves without any single other person knowing because they might be just another threat. They constructed it carefully, deliberately. Nobody else is meant to know, least of all someone with some sort of influence like a hero.)
Aizawa keeps on running though, still cursing himself despite the illogicality of it because dammit, he really should have known there was something more. He skids to a stop only a minute or two later though, because the scorched trail pauses, stutters out, yet Midoriya isn't in sight. His Quirk must have deactivated, whether intentionally or not. Which means that the trail the hero was following has gone cold, very literally so.
It doesn't take another breath for him to be stilling, quieting his own breathing and pausing to truly assess his surroundings. It's a corridor like any other in UA - wide and tall, bright with floor-length windows along the outer wall, and there's a few classroom doors but all of them are occupied, judging by the low level of noise filtering through. The ground is clear, barring the remnants of a few sparks and above- Ah, there's a vent above his head, and the latch looks a bit mangled. That explains things.
Pulling himself up into the vents is an easy, familiar movement, and it settles the hero a little. He knows UA's vent systems better than anyone but Nedzu, and even if the kid somehow knows them up to a point, he won't have the same ease of movement as the teacher.
Indeed he doesn't, judging by how little time it takes Aizawa to follow the faint sounds of hitched breathing around a few corners, turning out in one of the large spaces beside UA's massive staircases. The almost-room is a junction of four ducts, and it's a solid few metres square. Perfect for napping, the hero knows. And curled up in one corner, tight-limbed and with those red shoes, is his Problem Child. Now comes the question of how to approach. He could go the same route as in the classroom, reaching out with calm words and slow-moving hands, but it hadn't worked last time and whilst they're not in the doubly-stressful environment of the classroom and its crowd, it seems foolish to try that approach again. Ergo, a change of tactics. Maybe if he...
"Midoriya, kiddo, it's Aizawa." No hero names here, no teacher honorifics. If the kid's presentation was any sort of clue, and Aizawa has no doubt that it was very much accurate, then harking back to either of those things might be the best way to make things go very wrong very quickly. Or even more wrong, rather. Either way, there's no reaction at all to him speaking so lowly, and trying again is the obvious option,
"I'm going to come closer now. If you don't want me to, just indicate so, alright? I'll listen. Whatever keeps you safe and comfortable, kid, no question about it."
With that warning, that promise, echoing dully through the metal room, the hero begins to inch forwards, trying to assess the student. Problem Child isn't breathing right, all caught up in thorns that make it ragged, not enough for actual oxygen intake, and it's verging on panic attack territory. Not to mention that he's curled so tightly into himself, all blood-bleached knuckles with how fiercely he's gripping at his own elbows, arms hooked around his pulled-up legs and head bent painfully low. The kid's melting down in front of him. Fuck.
"Midoriya- Izuku, kiddo, I'm going to come into the space with you, got that?" There's something then, maybe a keen or a whimper, maybe the beginnings of a word that just got too distorted along the way, and Aizawa can't tell what it was meant to be. What it was supposed to mean. And he can't act on it either. Accordingly, he waits. It only takes a count of fifteen breaths to get impatient in a certain sense - not with the kid, because this isn't the kid's fault, but very much frustrated with the situation, with his own inability to help - and because he still doesn't dare move further forwards, not when spooking the kid now will probably only make him flee again, and too much haste through the vents will only risk the kid hurting himself. But one thing Aizawa can do is start to rap his fingers against the floor of the psuedo-room that he doesn't dare enter. He settles the beat into a slow, settled breathing rhythm, matches his own breaths to it and then, just for good measure, starts to count as well. He keeps his voice low and coaxing, not too different to how he might approach a stray cat that's clearly half feral, and he simply counts. There's no expectation to it, no questions or demands or reprimands, only repetition and calm in the hope that it will give Izuku what he needs.
It does. Or at least, the teacher would like to think that it must have helped because whilst it takes several long minutes, ones that stretch into aeons, but finally something along the tense lines of Izuku's posture begin to sink, billowing into empty sails gone slack without tempestuous winds. His breathing is smoothing, slipping into something less painful, both to listen to and undoubtedly to experience. Aizawa is no stranger to panic attacks, he should know.
"Izuku, kid, you with me?" The teen flinches back into the metal walls, head crashing with an unpleasant clang, but Aizawa doesn't stop talking because he got a hint of green eyes then, and they were bright, if perhaps feverish with it.
"Kiddo, we're safe. We're at UA, somewhere private, and nobody can or will hurt you right now, understood? You're safe." Whether it's his tone or the words or both, maybe something else entirely, the teen relaxes further, huffing a deep breath, then a second, and unlatches his hands from his own arms. Aizawa fears that beneath the blazer there might well be bruises, but at least the thick fabric will have prevented any actual scratches. It's something. The man will take what he can get right now.
His attention is quickly drawn away from that fact to how the kid's fingers are spasming slightly, little involuntary curls and jerks even as he settles his hands atop his knees, not truly relaxed but certainly less concerning. (And how awful it is to see a kid, so young and bright, already so scarred, marring himself bone-deep for the sake of a classmate that needed help; how desperate must he have been to resort to breaking himself rather than trusting even a single adult with such a monumental problem?)
"Izuku?" The use of the kid's name finally has him looking up from where he had re-buried his face in his knees, and those eyes are definitely bright, present, for all that they shine with something awful.
"Laces've been white for a week, Sensei." Oh. Oh. Poor kid, poor fucking kid. How has he missed all of this?
"That's not good, kid, but we can work with it," he pauses, weighting his words,
"Together." The teen's next breath shudders again, but his next is steady once more, eyes glinting shard-sharp,
"Why?"
"Because you deserve it, kid. Even if you used to be Quirkless, and no matter why you aren't Quirkless any more, that doesn't encompass you. It's part of you, I don't doubt that, but there's more to you, Izuku. You've got so much heart and determination and intelligence, understood? That has nothing to do with whether you're Quirkless or not. A Lace," he hedges, hoping against hope that he's used that term correctly, that it won't offend or scare the kid.
It must work because Izuku finally meets his eyes properly.
There's depth there. Light and shadows tumbling and twisting, folding into fractals and reflecting off of each other, and so much lingering hurts that it pains the teacher to see. There's no haze here, nor a façade, only char-bitter clarity. But there's hope too. Something found in light that isn't feverish or manic but rather sedate, candle-light flickering and it could be extinguished so easily, except for the fact that Aizawa has zero intentions of doing that. No, he wants to prove the kid's courage right. To cultivate and reassure and nurture that hope.
"Want a hug, kiddo? We can deal with everything else later. We've got time." Despite the hero's expectations, one of those scarred, jerking hands extends towards him, all bitten fingernails and little spasms, but it's oh-so precious all the same.
He returns the gesture with an upturned palm of his own, still in mid-air, and gives the kid that final choice, that final movement. Izuku takes it, settling his hand atop Aizawa's (his teacher's, his hero's-) and attempts to curl his fingers in. It barely works, his hand clearly not willing to truly obey, but the intention is there, and the man doesn't hesitate any more, immediately twisting slightly to hold the kid's hand properly. It's small for all that it's broad and callused, gentle despite its trembling, and the man knows with every fibre of his being that this is the hand of a hero.
But also the hand of a scared, hurting child. It doesn't take him another thought to tug very carefully on the kid's hand, an open invitation. And it takes a few breaths, ones that fortunately aren't erratic, aren't pained, before Izuku nods, biting his lip and eyes hazing over that tiniest bit, mist descending over a forest, and that latter fact, more than anything else, has Aizawa almost hurrying to truly come into the pseudo-room, settling against the wall to one side of his student, still holding his hand but with his other arm - the one on his right, where the kid is - slightly raised and it takes a long few seconds of Izuku staring at him, blatantly confused, until something clicks, and he tucking himself into Aizawa's side, curling up against him, body heat branding a long line of warmth that soothes right through to his shaking heart-soul, and then the man's arm is dropping to lay across his shoulders, callused fingertips coming to rest low on his bicep, and oh. Izuku feels safe.
Maybe that won't be enough later, when they have to emerge back into the real world, where people know he was Quirkless, will know that he's been fighting so desperately to keep up with his classmates, so many of them with Perf quirks, the rest all Threads and Cuffs and Tracks, because being a Lace means being alone except maybe, just maybe, he won't be alone any more. Maybe his hero will hold him close for as long as he needs, and will help him get therapy and support, and will always have a door open for Izuku to slip through should he need. Maybe Sensei will become a safe title again, heroes won't be people that only fail him, and he might even get a decent father figure out of it all. Maybe Izuku will be happy.
(Izuku does get all of these things, and more. He gets a class that love him just the same, but know how better to help him, to not necessarily understand him but at least see him for all of his parts. He gets help, but more than that he gets support.
And in the future, when they all graduate in a blaze of bloody glory and flying colours, the League of Villains gone and only the class' smiles left in the wake of it all, it won't only be Izuku that gets support. The class, twenty heroes alongside their once-teacher, will know to look out for Laces and offer whatever help they can, whether it's arresting bigots or offering up a free food shop for the week or raising awareness of discrimination. It won't only be Laces that benefit for the Hell Class though, oh no. It will be the Cuffs and Tracks and Threads and even the Perfs. These twenty children-soldiers-heroes charge into society with grins made of iron and hearts of gold, and they change things. It takes time and work and so much sheer tenacity that they ache with it, but they manage.
It all started with a single presentation, a single change. There's nothing more powerful than a butterfly's wings after all, particularly when that butterfly is so dearly loved. The world is a better place for it.)