Izuku's Point of View
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Warm sunlight pried at my eyelids. I stirred and blinked against the brightness, realizing I wasn't in bed at all. My cheek was stuck to something rough. I peeled back slowly—and laughed under my breath when I found notebook pages clinging to my face.
"Guess I passed out here…" I muttered, peeling one free. My handwriting stared back at me in messy strokes, bold across the top of the first page: THE AVENGERS INITIATIVE.
For a long second, I just stared at those words. My chest lifted with something halfway between disbelief and amusement.
"So last night really happened, huh?" I said softly, still smiling at the craziness of it all.
I stretched my stiff arms, pushed the chair back, and stood. The floorboards creaked under my small feet as I opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway.
The living room came into view—and so did the mess.
Hero and villain toys scattered like fallen soldiers across the carpet. Action figures toppled over, some mid-battle, others half-buried under food wrappers. Cups leaned precariously near the couch, and crumbs dotted the table.
I rubbed the back of my neck and sighed.
"…so the original me was a messy little kid, huh?"
The words came with a faint smile, but my chest tightened as well. Because now it wasn't just his mess. It was mine. I was Izuku Midoriya now. And if I was going to carry that name, I wasn't about to let my mother carry the weight of everything alone.
"I'll clean all of this to start…," I whispered.
I rolled up the sleeves of my too-big shirt and got to work. First the toys—heroes in one pile, villains in another, their battles postponed for later. Then the wrappers, cups, and clutter. One by one, the floor .
When the living room finally breathed again, I padded into the kitchen. The counters loomed higher than I remembered from last night. I eyed the fridge, then the chair.
"…this body's going to take some getting used to," I muttered.
Dragging a chair across the floor with a screech, I climbed up, reached for the handle, and fished out what I could. Eggs. Milk. A little rice from a container. I set everything on the counter carefully, climbing up and down like some kind of miniature commando raid. My soldier brain wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
But soon, rhythm took over. Crack an egg. Stir. Heat the pan. Add rice. Simple. My hands remembered motions from another lifetime, and the boy's small fingers followed suit. Before I knew it, I was humming—an old tune that slipped out without thought. A habit from my past life, something I'd done to keep calm during long watches or endless marches.
The scent of food spread through the kitchen, warm and steady. By the time I placed the finished plates on the table, I wiped sweat from my forehead and let out a satisfied breath.
"Not bad… not bad at all."
I left the food to cool and turned to the sink. Soap, rinse, repeat. Cleaning came easier now, the hum returning as if the tune itself was steering me along. The melody tugged at me, familiar yet distant, a piece of music from a place I couldn't name. Catchy. Comforting.
That's when I heard it—
"…Izuku?"
I turned.
Mom stood at the edge of the living room, eyes wide, hands frozen in the air as if she'd stumbled into the wrong home. She looked from the tidy floor to the steaming breakfast plates, to me standing on tiptoe at the sink with a dish towel in hand.
Shock broke across her face.
I turned to her with a grin that came almost instinctively, stretching wider than I expected.
"Hi, Mama. Good morning."
Her lips trembled. "Izuku…?" She blinked herself back to life and hurried over. "Baby, what are you doing?" She knelt until her eyes were level with mine, her voice soft but weighed down with worry.
The smile faltered. My head dipped. "I… I heard you yesterday."
Her expression shifted, confusion giving way to pain.
"I heard you crying, Mama." My chest clenched as the words came out. "You were blaming yourself… saying it was your fault I don't have a quirk."
Her eyes immediately shined with tears. "Izuku—"
Before she could go on, I reached up with my small hands and gently cupped her face. "Please don't cry anymore. I know… I know life's going to be hard without a quirk." The words stung, but I pressed on. "But as long as I have you, Mama, I'll be happy. So don't blame yourself. Please."
Her breath hitched. A sob tore free as she pulled me into her arms, holding me so tightly I thought she'd never let go. "I love you, Izuku. I love you so much."
Her lips pressed against my forehead, warm and trembling. A flood of something unfamiliar and overwhelming surged through me—soft, steady, unconditional. A mother's love. My chest ached, but in a way that felt whole instead of broken.
I held her just as tightly, whispering, "It'll be okay, Mama. I promise. I'm happy… as long as you're happy."
She leaned back, still crying, still smiling. Her eyes wandered around the room again—the cleared carpet, the tidy counters, the waiting plates of food.
"…Izuku, did you… do all this?"
I scratched my cheek and gave a sheepish grin. "Yep! I wanted to make your day better, so I cleaned up my mess and made breakfast. But—ugh—I'm so small!" I crossed my arms with a little huff, cheeks puffing up without me meaning to. "I had to climb up and down and up and down just to reach everything. It was so annoying!"
Mama laughed through her tears, wiping them away with the heel of her hand. "Oh, sweetheart… you still have plenty of time to grow big and strong."
I pouted harder at that, which only made her laugh more.
Then her smile softened into curiosity. "But where did you learn to cook? You're only four, Izuku. I don't remember teaching you."
I froze for a moment, then looked down shyly. "I just… watched you, Mama. I saw you cook a lot, so I tried to copy. I just… I hope it's good enough." My voice wavered. "It's the first time I ever made anything."
Her eyes softened. "Oh, baby…" She leaned forward, licked her thumb, and gently wiped at my nose, which—embarrassingly—had a dab of food stuck to it.
I giggled without meaning to, the sound higher and lighter than I'd expected. It startled me. Why am I… acting more and more like a child?
But Mama's smile only widened, as if that laugh was the most precious thing in the world.
We sat down together at the table. She picked up her chopsticks, took a bite of the food, and stilled.
Her eyes lit up. "Izuku… this is wonderful! For your very first time, it's amazing."
Heat flooded my face, and I ducked my head. "…r-really?"
"Really," she said firmly, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "Anything you make with this much love will always taste good."
I couldn't help it—my lips curled into a wide, embarrassed smile.
We sat together at the little table, the morning light was still spilling across our plates while we ate and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't rushing a meal or wolfing it down between gunfire. I actually savored it. Mama ate slowly too, but what surprised me was how she couldn't stop smiling between bites.
"Mmm, this is so good," she said, her voice warm and playful. "Izuku, you might end up cooking better than me one day."
I nearly choked on my rice, my face going red again. "M-Mama…"
She laughed at my reaction, clearly enjoying herself. Every compliment made my chest feel lighter then it had been in years. "Maybe I should start teaching you how to cook more things," she teased. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner—you'll be my own personal little chef."
I groaned into my hands, but even that made her laugh harder. She was happy. And that made me happy, even as I noticed the flicker behind her eyes—her worry hadn't gone away. Deep down, she was still hurting over the fact I didn't have a quirk.
I clenched my chopsticks a little tighter. That won't matter later on ma I will not need a quirk to create my own future.
In a few years, once my training truly shows some fruit, and my Avengers Initiative takes proper shape, all of that will change. But to get there, I needed more than working hard and dreaming, I needed information about this world. I needed to understand it better than anyone else—and I needed cash. Quickly, effectively, and without relying on anyone. Every second wasted was one I could never get back. Every second… unless I was with Mama.
I paused, setting my chopsticks down, and sighed quietly. Being a child again—and having a mother this time—it's doing something to me. I could feel it in the way I smiled, the way I laughed so easily, the way "Mama" slipped out of my mouth naturally instead of "Mom." It wasn't bad. It was… grounding. But it was different from who I used to be. I'm still me… just more open, more childlike than I expect.
Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
Breakfast carried on, her laughter filling the apartment. She finished her last bite, checked the clock on the wall—and suddenly froze.
"Oh no…" She sprang up, panic flashing across her face.
"Mama?" My stomach tightened.
She looked down at me, flustered. "I—I'm going to be late for my shift at the clinic!"
I blinked. "But… don't you have today off? You said yesterday was your last shift for the week."
Her expression softened into apology. "I did, baby. But they called this morning and said they needed me to cover. I'm sorry."
The disappointment hit hard. I wanted to spend the day with her—to just enjoy this new life, this warmth I'd never had before. She must have noticed my sadness, because she crouched down and cupped my cheek.
"Hey, listen to me. We'll celebrate your birthday together tomorrow, just the two of us. Okay?" She kissed my forehead, gentle and quick, before hurrying off to gather her things.
While she moved around the apartment, she called out, "Would it be okay if you stayed with the Bakugos today?"
My face twisted immediately. "Do I have to?"
She peeked at me from the bedroom doorway. "Izuku…"
I crossed my arms. "I'm big!" I shot back automatically, puffing my chest out like I meant it. My voice sounded braver than I felt.
She hesitated, frowning. "Are you sure? Why don't you want to go to the Bakugos today? They're happy to have you over." Her tone was gentle but there was an edge of worry—like she was trying to read something I wasn't saying.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. I didn't answer. Instead I nodded once, loud and firm enough to sound convincing. She gave me a look that mixed suspicion and motherly resignation. "You can't stay home completely alone, Izuku. It's not safe." She slipped on her shoes and snagged her bag. "Aunty Mitsuki will come by to watch you, okay? Just for today."
I sighed, because arguing felt pointless. She'd made up her mind. "Alright," I said softly.
At the doorway she paused, then turned back. "I'll be quick. I'll be back later. I love you, Izuku."
"I love you too, Mama," I said, and just as I finished, she leaned back with a sly little grin.
"I love you more," she teased, sing-song in her tone, and before I could fire back, she slipped out the door.
I couldn't help but laugh, shaking my head. That's Mama for you.
The apartment grew quiet again once the latch clicked shut. My smile lingered, but so did the weight behind it. She must have thought I didn't want to go to the Bakugos because I wasn't ready to tell Katsuki the truth. Maybe that's what any mother would assume. But the real reason was not so complicated.
I pictured Katsuki's scowl, the way his voice snapped like an explosion. My temper stirred just imagining it. If I had to sit across from him now, after everything, the soldier in me would flare. I could see my hands curling into fists, my jaw locking, the urge to put him in his place spiking hotter than I wanted to admit.
I dragged a hand down my face and exhaled through my nose.
As I stood there I whispered to myself, "The faster I make money, the better. Then Mama won't have to keep running herself ragged."
Resolve settled in me like a familiar weight. If I wanted training, gear, prototypes—any of it—I needed resources. And if I wanted resources, I needed to start working now.
I walked down the hall to mom room and spotted it immediately: a laptop sitting neatly on the desk. I carried it back to the living room and set it down on the couch.
The TV remote was within reach. I clicked it on, flicking through channels until the news filled the screen. Some bright-eyed rookie hero was being paraded across headlines for taking down a petty villain. Useless for now, but I left it running—background chatter sometimes carried the details that mattered.
Sliding the laptop onto my lap, I cracked a grin. "Alright… time to get to work."
The machine hummed awake… and immediately flashed the dreaded prompt: System update required.
I groaned, letting my head fall back against the couch. "Of course. Laptops are the same everywhere—always needing updates."
A chuckle slipped out, exasperated but genuine. "Some things really don't change."