The nausea hits Izuku halfway through Aizawa’s lecture on quirk theory, a sudden, oily wave that has him swallowing convulsively against the sour taste flooding his mouth. He presses a hand to his stomach, his knuckles white against the fabric of his uniform. The classroom is too warm, the fluorescent lights too bright, and Aizawa’s monotone voice seems to warp and echo. He tries to breathe through his nose, but the smell of chalk dust and old wood is suddenly cloying, unbearable.

“Bakugou.” Aizawa’s voice cuts through the haze. “You’re green. Literally.”

Izuku shakes his head, a weak denial, but his throat is tightening. He lurches to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn’t make it to the door. He stumbles toward the small trash bin by the teacher’s desk, drops to his knees, and retches violently into it. The sound is raw and ugly in the silent classroom. He heaves until his stomach is empty, then dry heaves, tears stinging his eyes from the strain.

When he finally sags back, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he finds Aizawa standing over him. The man’s expression is unreadable, his black eyes flat. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks… resigned.

“Class dismissed early,” Aizawa says, his voice carrying to the other students who are frozen in their seats. “Go to the library. Quietly.”

The room empties in a hushed, hurried shuffle of feet. Izuku stays on the floor, shivering, the cold linoleum seeping through his pants. Aizawa waits until the door clicks shut. He doesn’t offer a hand up. He just looks down at him.

“How long?” Aizawa asks.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Izuku mumbles, pushing himself up to sit. His head is swimming. “I must have eaten something bad.”

“You didn’t.” Aizawa’s tone leaves no room for argument. He walks to his desk, pulls a small bottle of water from a drawer, and hands it to Izuku. “Rinse your mouth. Then tell me when your last period was.”

The words land like a physical blow. Izuku fumbles with the water cap, his fingers numb. He can’t look at his teacher. He takes a swish of water and spits it back into the bin. The metallic taste remains. “I… I don’t keep great track. Since I started testosterone, they’ve been irregular. It’s been… a while.”

“Months?”

Izuku’s silence is answer enough. He stares at the speckled pattern of the floor. The cabin. The bath. The hand on his stomach every morning since. The secret, hopeful pact whispered in the dark. It wasn’t just a fantasy. It was a plan.

Aizawa lets out a long, weary breath. It’s the sound of a man watching history repeat itself. “After the bell, you stay. We’re talking.”

“My dad—”

“Your father,” Aizawa interrupts, his voice hardening to flint, “is exactly who we need to talk about.”

Izuku pushes himself up from the floor. His legs feel weak, but he steadies himself against a desk. He doesn’t look at Aizawa as he walks to the chair directly in front of the teacher’s desk and sits down. He straightens his back, lifts his chin. He waits. His hands are clasped in his lap to hide their trembling, but his green eyes meet Aizawa’s black ones with a stubborn, quiet fire.

“You look like you’ve made up your mind,” Aizawa says, his voice a low monotone. He doesn’t sit behind the desk. He leans against its front edge, arms crossed, looking down at Izuku.

“I have,” Izuku says. The words don’t mumble. They’re clear. Solid.

“About what, exactly?”

“About my life. About who I want in it.”

Aizawa watches him for a long moment. The only sound is the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. “You’re pregnant, Bakugou.”

Izuku’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away. The word, spoken aloud in the empty classroom, is a seismic thing. It lands in his gut, a confirmation of every secret hope and fear since the cabin. “I know.”

“Do you?” Aizawa pushes off the desk, begins a slow pace. “Do you know what it means? The sickness is just the start. Your body will change in ways you can’t control. Your emotions will be a minefield. And then there’s the birth. The reality of a child that is also your sibling.”

“I’m not naive,” Izuku says, his voice tightening. “I’ve researched. Extensively.”

“Research.” Aizawa stops pacing. He turns, and his exhaustion is a palpable weight in the room. “I researched too. I knew every statistic, every possible complication. It doesn’t prepare you for the feeling of your own son pushing your grandson into your hands while you’re still inside him.”

The raw, graphic confession hangs in the air. Izuku flinches, but he doesn’t break. “That was your story. This is mine.”

“It’s the same story!” Aizawa’s voice cracks, a rare fissure in his monotone. He runs a hand over his face. “The obsession. The isolation. The world shrinking down to just the two of you in a room, building a cage out of love. He’s making you dependent, Izuku. He’s ensuring you never have a life outside of him.”

“I don’t want a life outside him!” Izuku’s voice cracks through the classroom, loud and raw. He’s on his feet, his chair shoved back. “He’s all I want! He’s all I ever wanted! Just because you regret your choices with your son doesn’t mean I need to regret mine with my father!”

Aizawa doesn’t flinch. He just watches, his black eyes absorbing the outburst like a void. “Sit down, Bakugou.”

“No.” Izuku’s hands are fists at his sides. The trembling is gone, burned away by a hot, defiant certainty. “You don’t get to make me feel bad for this. I already let my mother do that to me. I won’t let you.”

“This isn’t about shame.” Aizawa’s voice is low, gravelly with fatigue. “It’s about survival. What happens when his obsession isn’t enough? When the baby cries and you’re exhausted and the world feels three inches wide? He’s built a world where only he can give you what you need. That’s not love. It’s architecture.”

“You’re doing the same thing she did,” Izuku says, his voice dropping from a shout to something low and dangerous. “Just from a different angle. My mother tried to change my body. You’re trying to change my mind. You’re trying to take away the one person who makes me feel real. My whole support system. You think you’re saving me, but you’re just another person telling me I’m wrong about who I am.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightens. The bags under his eyes seem darker in the stark classroom light. “I am trying to give you a future that isn’t a prison.”

“This isn’t a prison!” Izuku’s hands fly out, gesturing to the empty room, to himself. “With him, I can be my whole self. Not just my gender. Everything. Who I love. What I want. This baby. This family. It’s mine. I want it.”

“You’re eighteen.”

“And I’ve made my choice.” Izuku takes a step toward the door. His legs feel steadier now, fueled by a righteous, burning clarity. “If you’re just going to stand there and tell me I’m a victim too stupid to know what’s good for me, then I’m leaving. Right now.”

A long, heavy silence stretches between them. Aizawa doesn’t move to block the exit. He just watches Izuku, his black eyes scanning the defiant set of his shoulders, the protective curl of his hand over his still-flat stomach. The resignation on his face deepens, etched with a grief that has nothing to do with Izuku.

“Sit down, Bakugou,” Aizawa says finally, the fight gone from his voice. It’s just tired. “Please.”

Izuku hesitates, his hand on the back of a chair. The command is gone, replaced by a request. It’s the ‘please’ that makes him pause. He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t leave either.

“What do you want from me?” Aizawa asks, the question directed at the floor between them. “You’ve made your declaration. You’ve rejected my warning. What is the point of this conversation?”

“I want you to stop,” Izuku says, the heat leaving his voice, leaving it raw. “I want you to see me. Not a reflection of your son. Not a problem to solve. Just me. A man who is pregnant with his father’s child because he chose to be. Because it makes him feel loved in a way nothing else ever has.”

Aizawa looks up at that. Really looks. He sees the freckles, the green eyes blazing with a conviction that is terrifying in its completeness. He sees the slight tremor in the kid’s lower lip, the way his other hand now rests, openly, over his abdomen. A claim. Not a shame.

“He does everything for me,” Izuku whispers, the confession filling the quiet room. “He makes my breakfast. He holds my hair back when I’m sick. He researched the safest binders for me when I started transitioning. He fought the world for me. You think that’s a cage? That’s the only place I’ve ever felt safe enough to breathe.”

Aizawa closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, something has shifted. The hard edge of the prophet is gone. Just a tired, broken man remains. “Then tell me what you need. From me. As your teacher.”

Izuku’s words hang in the chalk-dusted air, a quiet ultimatum. “I want you to see it as real.”

Aizawa’s gaze is a physical weight. He studies the hand on Izuku’s stomach, the defiant lift of his chin. “Real isn’t the same as right.”

“It is for me.” Izuku’s voice doesn’t waver. “You keep talking about cages and prisons. What’s the cage, sensei? The world that hated me for being trans? My mother who wanted to fix me? Or the one room with the one person who looked at me and said ‘you’re perfect’?”

Aizawa finally nods. It’s a slow, heavy motion, like a weight settling. “Alright.”

Izuku’s breath leaves him in a quiet rush. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding it.

“I can’t condone it,” Aizawa continues, his voice a low monotone scraped raw. “But I can see it’s real. And if it’s real, then the problems are real. The morning sickness today won’t be the last. You’ll need accommodations. Medical appointments. A plan for when you start to show.”

“I know,” Izuku says, but the defiance is gone, replaced by a wary hope.

“Do you have a doctor?”

Izuku shakes his head. “Not yet. He… we were going to figure it out. Privately.”

Aizawa’s mouth tightens. “Of course you were.” He turns, walks to his desk, and pulls a small notebook from a drawer. He scribbles something, tears the page out. “This is a clinic. Discreet. They’ve handled… unconventional situations before. The doctor owes me a favor. She won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.”

Izuku takes the slip of paper. The handwriting is sharp, precise. It feels like a lifeline, or a trap. He isn’t sure. “Why?”

"Because I failed my son," Aizawa says, the words flat and final. He doesn't look at Izuku. He stares at the chalkboard, at the ghost of old equations. "I let the obsession consume us until there was nothing left but the need. I didn't get him a doctor. I didn't make a plan. I just… took. And when the world closed in, it shattered him. I won't be the reason another kid shatters. Even if you're walking toward the same cliff."

Izuku’s fingers tighten around the slip of paper. The clinic’s name is a blur. He looks from it to Aizawa’s profile, etched in the dim classroom light. “What happened to him?” he asks, his voice quiet now. “Your son. After you sent him away.”

Aizawa doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he turns from the chalkboard, his black eyes meeting Izuku’s. They’re hollow. “He had the baby. A boy. He named him after me.”

“Is he… are they okay?”

“He’s alive.” Aizawa leans back against his desk, the wood creaking under his weight. “He lives in a city a few hours away. He has a job. An apartment. He sends pictures of the kid sometimes. He doesn’t call.”

Izuku swallows. The image forms, sharp and painful: a younger Aizawa, a son, a baby born from a secret just like this one. “Do you see them?”

“No.” The word is final. “The condition was a clean break. For his sake. My presence… it triggers him. The obsession. The need. He’d fall right back into it, and I’d let him. So I stay away.”

“That sounds like the prison you’ve been talking about.”

Aizawa stares at him. The hollows in his cheeks seem deeper in the dim light. “What?”

“You heard me.” Izuku’s hand finally leaves the chair. He tucks the clinic referral into his pocket, the paper crisp against his thigh. “You built your own prison. You decided what was best for him, what he needed to be safe from, and you locked yourself in it. I bet he misses you. Maybe you should ask him what he really wants instead of assuming what’s best for him.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns, walks to the classroom door, and pulls it open. The hallway fluorescents are a harsh, blinding shock after the dim room.

Aizawa doesn’t call him back. The silence behind Izuku is total, a vacuum.

The door clicks shut.

Alone, Aizawa sags against the desk. The wood groans. Izuku’s words echo, not in the room, but in the hollowed-out place behind his ribs. *I bet he misses you.* The arrogance of it. The terrifying, naive hope of it. He closes his eyes, but all he sees is Hitoshi at seventeen, eyes dark with a need that mirrored his own, whispering *don’t stop* against his throat.

His hand is in his pocket before he’s made a decision. His fingers find the cracked case of his phone. He pulls it out, the screen lighting his weathered face. The background is a photo from three years ago: Hitoshi, holding a squirming, silver-haired toddler—Eri—both of them caught in a rare, genuine laugh. Hitoshi’s eyes are crinkled at the corners. He looks young. He looks happy.

Aizawa’s thumb hovers over the contacts. His call log with Hitoshi is a barren wasteland of missed birthdays, single-text acknowledgments of photo updates, silence. The last call was fourteen months ago. Hitoshi’s voice had been flat. *She’s fine. We’re fine. Don’t.*

Izuku’s voice, raw and certain, cuts through the memory. *Ask him what he really wants.*

His thumb shakes. Just a tremor. He presses the call button before he can think. Before he can remember all the reasons this is a betrayal of the very break he engineered.

The line rings. Once. Twice. The sound is obscenely loud in the empty classroom. On the third ring, it connects. There’s no voice. Just the faint, staticky sound of breathing.

Aizawa’s own breath locks in his chest. “Hitoshi.” The name is gravel.

A beat of silence. Then, a voice, deeper than he remembers, weary in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” The lie is automatic. Everything is wrong. “I just… I wanted to hear your voice.”

Another silence. Longer this time. He can hear a cartoon jingle in the background, distant. Eri. “That’s a first,” Hitoshi says, the words devoid of inflection. “Did you get drunk?”

“No.” Aizawa’s eyes are burning. He stares at the chalkboard, unseeing. “A student said something to me today. It made me think of you.”

“Must’ve been some student.” A cupboard closes on Hitoshi’s end. The domestic sound is a knife twist. “What did they say?”

Aizawa opens his mouth. The truth—*he’s pregnant by his father, he defended it like a holy war, he told me I’m in a cage of my own making*—catches in his throat, barbed and impossible. “He said I should ask you what you want,” he manages, the words stripped bare.

The line goes so quiet he thinks the call dropped. Then Hitoshi lets out a slow, controlled breath. “What I want.” It’s not a question. It’s a tired repetition. “You know what I want, Dad. You’ve always known. You just decided it was poison.”

The word *Dad* hangs between them, a landmine. Aizawa’s fist clenches on the desk edge. “Is it?” he whispers. “Poison?”

Hitoshi doesn’t answer. The cartoon jingle gets louder, then muffled, as if a door is being closed. “Eri’s asking for a story,” he says, his voice shifting, retreating behind a wall of parenthood. “Was that all?”

“No.” The word is ripped out of him. “I miss you.”

The silence stretches, thin and brittle. Then Aizawa hears it—a wet, choked inhale on the other end of the line. Hitoshi is crying. Quietly. Trying to hide it.

“Do you?” Hitoshi’s voice is thick, cracked open. “Miss me enough to come see me?”

The question is a direct hit. Aizawa closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“When?”

“You tell me. I’ll be there.”

Another shaky breath. Hitoshi’s composure is gone, stripped away by three words. “This weekend. Saturday. Eri has a ballet recital in the afternoon. You could… you could come to that. Then… come over after. For dinner.”

“Okay.” Aizawa’s throat is tight. “Text me the details. The address. The time.”

“I will.” Hitoshi pauses. The cartoon jingle is gone. It’s just his breathing, uneven in Aizawa’s ear. “Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t… don’t change your mind.”

The raw fear in his son’s voice is a physical pain. “I won’t,” Aizawa says, the promise carving itself into his ribs. “I’ll be there.”

He waits for Hitoshi to hang up first. The soft click is both a severance and a tether. He lowers the phone, his hand trembling. The screen goes dark, leaving him in the classroom’s gloom. Izuku’s defiant green eyes seem to hang in the air before him. *Ask him what he really wants.*

The problem child was right.