Chapter 3: Hallway Hunting
The hallway between Classes 1-A and the faculty lounge was a gauntlet Izuku Midoriya was failing to run. His heart wasn’t just pounding; it felt like a frantic bird trapped behind his ribs, its wings beating against his sternum. The cheerful din of student chatter, the slamming of lockers, the squeak of shoes on linoleum—it all blurred into a terrifying, indistinct roar. He’d done it. He’d finally, clearly, said the words.
“I’m sorry, Uraraka-san, I can’t go to the museum on Saturday. I have a prior commitment. It’s, um, non-negotiable.”
He’d even used Kaito’s phrase. He’d been firm. Ish.
Her face, round and bright as a harvest moon, had just crinkled into a softer, determined smile. “A prior commitment? Like what? We can reschedule the class outing! I’m sure everyone would understand!”
“It’s… classified,” he’d squeaked, immediately wanting to vanish into the floor. Classified? What was he, a spy?
Her smile didn’t falter. If anything, it gained wattage. “Ooh, secret hero work? That’s so cool, Midoriya-kun! Well, just let me know when you’re declassified!” She’d winked. She’d actually winked. Then she’d turned, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll catch up with you later! We’ll figure it out!”
That was the moment the animal part of his brain, the part that recognized a predator that simply did not comprehend the concept of ‘no,’ had taken over. He’d turned and walked, fast, then faster, until he was in a full, quiet sprint down the adjoining corridor, his long white hair streaming behind him like a banner.
He needed a hole. A closet. The sweet, dark oblivion of a supply cabinet.
What he saw instead were two tall, familiar silhouettes emerging from the faculty lounge, deep in a conversation that looked more like a silent exchange of suffering. Shouta Aizawa, a monument to exhaustion in a black capture weapon, and Hizashi Yamada, a splash of loud blond hair and citrus-scented pomade, pointing animatedly at a spreadsheet on a clipboard.
Without thought, only instinct, Izuku dove.
He slid to a stop just behind them, his back pressing against the cool, painted concrete of the wall, hidden in their twin shadows. “Please,” he whispered, the word a desperate puff of air. “Don’t move. Hide me.”
Aizawa didn’t jump. His eyes, baggy and perpetually unimpressed, merely slid sideways to take in the trembling, panicked form of his problem child trying to use him as a human shield. One eyebrow ascended a millimeter. Yamada, however, jolted, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Midoriya-kun? What’s the sitch, little listener? Is there a villain? Should I—?”
“Shh!” Izuku pleaded, pressing himself flatter. “Just… be a wall. For a second.”
The three of them stood there, frozen in a bizarre tableau. Aizawa sighed, a long-suffering sound that seemed to originate from the depths of his sleeping bag. He subtly shifted his stance, his broader shoulders squaring to better block the kid from view. Yamada, catching on with gleeful confusion, mimicked the posture, striking what he probably thought was a casual, ‘just-two-teachers-having-a-chat’ pose. It looked intensely suspicious.
Ochako Uraraka’s cheerful voice floated down the hall, growing closer. “Midoriya-kun? Hey, wait up! I just had another idea for Saturday!”
Izuku held his breath. He could smell the faint, clean scent of Aizawa’s laundry detergent and the zesty, over-application of Yamada’s hair product. He stared at the scuffed toes of his red sneakers.
Uraraka rounded the corner, her steps light and bouncing. She spotted the teachers and skidded to a polite halt. “Oh! Aizawa-sensei! Yamada-sensei! Good afternoon!”
Aizawa gave a grunt that might have been construed as a greeting. Yamada unleashed his full, radio-ready smile. “Uraraka-chan! What’s shaking? You look like you’re on a mission!”
“I’m looking for Midoriya-kun,” she said, peering around them with friendly curiosity. “He was just here, and then he totally vanished! You haven’t seen him, have you?”
From his hiding place, Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. Please. Please. I will analyze your Quirk usage in triplicate for a month. I will organize the entire training ground storage. Just lie.
Aizawa spoke, his voice a flat, gravelly plane of absolute truth. “No.”
It was technically correct. He hadn’t seen him; Izuku was behind him.
Yamada, however, was a performer. He leaned forward, hand cupped to his ear. “Midoriya? Nope! Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him! And that’s some distinctive hair, let me tell you!” He laughed, a bit too forcefully. Aizawa’s elbow, nearly imperceptibly, dug into his ribs.
“Oh,” Uraraka said, her smile dimming a fraction. She glanced down the empty hall past them. “Okay. Well, if you do see him, can you tell him I’m looking? It’s about the museum!”
“Will do, little listener!” Yamada chirped, giving her a thumbs-up.
With a final, puzzled shrug, Uraraka trotted off, her footsteps fading around the far corner.
The silence she left behind was thick. Izuku let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping in profound relief. He peeled himself off the wall. “Thank you,” he mumbled, bowing deeply. “I am so sorry. I just… needed a moment.”
Aizawa turned slowly, his dark eyes boring into Izuku. “Midoriya.”
“Yes, sensei?”
“Explain. Without the dramatics.”
Yamada was less restrained. He swooped in, his expression a cartoonish mask of concern. “Yeah, kiddo! What was that? You looked like you were fleeing a natural disaster! And since when do you run from friends? I thought you had a little crush on Uraraka-chan!” He waggled his eyebrows. “Playing hard to get, eh? Classic move!”
Izuku’s face, which had been pale with panic, flooded with a deep, mortified crimson. It clashed spectacularly with his wine-red eyes. “What? No! No, I don’t—it’s not like that at all!”
“It’s painfully obvious she’s interested,” Aizawa stated, his arms crossing. “Your inability to navigate this social interaction is creating hallway disturbances. And wasting my time.”
“I’ve tried to navigate it!” The words burst out of Izuku, louder than he intended, fueled by weeks of accumulated stress. “I’ve told her I’m busy! I’ve said I’m not interested! I’ve tried to be subtle! She doesn’t listen! She thinks it’s a game, or… or that I’m just shy! I don’t know what else to do!”
The two teachers stared at him. Yamada’s grin had vanished, replaced by genuine confusion. “Wait, wait, rewind. You’re not interested? But you’re always so nice to her. You blush!”
“I blush when anyone pays me direct attention!” Izuku cried, throwing his hands up. “I blushed when Lunch Rush asked if I wanted extra ginger on my salmon last week! It’s a systemic issue!”
Aizawa’s head tilted. “So your avoidance strategy is to treat a classmate like a hostile reconnaissance target and use your teachers as tactical cover.”
“…Yes?”
“Inelegant. But marginally better than leading her on.” Aizawa’s gaze was assessing, sharp. “Your ‘prior commitment.’ The ‘classified’ one. Is it legitimate, or are you constructing an elaborate lie to escape a social engagement?”
Izuku’s mouth went dry. This was it. The precipice. He looked at Aizawa’s stern, unreadable face, then at Yamada’s open, curious one. These were his teachers. Heroes. Aizawa, who trusted him with so much, who saw potential in him where others saw a reckless kid. The secret, which he and Kaito and Katsuki had kept so carefully for three years, felt like a live wire in his throat.
Kaito’s text flashed in his mind. I’ll be waiting.
He couldn’t lie. Not to them.
“It’s legitimate,” Izuku said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He looked at the floor, at the checkerboard pattern of the tiles. “I… I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together for three years. He doesn’t go here. Saturday is our first full day together in a month. That’s my prior commitment.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Down the hall, a vending machine hummed and dispensed a can with a loud clunk.
Yamada was the first to move. He made a small, choked sound. Then his hands flew to his mouth. His eyes, visible over the rims of his glasses, went impossibly wide. He looked at Aizawa, then back at Izuku, then back at Aizawa, as if watching a tennis match of profound revelation.
Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. He simply blinked, once, very slowly. “I see.”
That was all. I see.
But Yamada could not be contained. The sound in his throat escalated into a high-pitched, strangled squeal. He lunged forward, not at Izuku, but into Aizawa’s personal space, grabbing fistfuls of his capture weapon. “Sho. Sho. Did you hear that? A boyfriend. Three years.”
“I have ears, Hizashi,” Aizawa said dryly, though he didn’t shrug him off.
Yamada whirled back to Izuku, his hands now floating in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Then they darted out, landing on Izuku’s cheeks. He didn’t just pinch them; he held his face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his vibrating energy. “A boyfriend!” he whisper-yelled, his voice cracking with emotion. “Oh, my little listener! My sweet, problem-solving, hallway-fleeing baby! A baby-gay! Out here having a whole, secret, three-year relationship! The drama! The romance! I’m gonna cry!”
Izuku was frozen, his face still captured in Yamada’s hands, his own eyes wide with shock. This was… not the reaction he’d braced for. Disappointment, maybe. Stern advice about propriety. Not… this.
“Yamada-sensei,” he squeaked, his lips mashed slightly.
“Hizashi, you’re terrifyinging him,” Aizawa stated, reaching out and prying his husband’s hands off Izuku’s face. “Calm down. You’re having a sensory event.”
“But it’s a secret boyfriend, Shouta!” Yamada’s hands now clutched his own chest. “From another school! It’s like a drama! Does Micchan know? Of course Bakugo knows, that little punk knows everything, doesn’t he? He’s been covering for you! Oh, it all makes sense now! The scowling! The territorial kitchen behavior! He’s been your guard dog!”
Izuku could only nod mutely, rubbing his cheeks where they’d been pinched.
Aizawa focused back on him. “Your secret is safe with us, Midoriya. Provided this relationship isn’t interfering with your studies or your safety.”
“It’s not!” Izuku said quickly, finding his voice. “He… he helps me. He’s at Shiketsu. He wants to be a hero, too. We train together sometimes. He’s… really good for me.”
The ghost of something that wasn’t quite a smile touched Aizawa’s lips. It was gone in an instant. “Good. Then my only concern is your current subterfuge. Hiding behind faculty is a short-term solution with a high risk of collateral embarrassment. Primarily for me.”
“I’m sorry, sensei.”
“You need a definitive solution. One clear, unambiguous statement. Delivered when you are not actively fleeing.”
“I tried ‘I’m not interested’!”
“To someone in Uraraka’s state of optimistic denial, that is ambiguity. It means ‘not interested right now.’ You need an immovable object.” Aizawa’s eyes glinted. “You have one. Use it.”
Izuku blinked. “You mean… tell her I have a boyfriend?”
“It is a fact. It is non-negotiable. It is classified, as you so hilariously put it. It ends the discussion. Permanently.”
Yamada, who had been clutching his heart dramatically, nodded with vigorous enthusiasm. “Yes! Claim your truth, little listener! Wave that rainbow flag! Well, discreetly, if you want! But firmly! No more museum for you! You’ve got a big, muscular Shiketsu boy to—mmph!”
Aizawa had reached out and placed a hand over Yamada’s mouth. “What he is inelegantly trying to say is that honesty, while initially difficult, is more efficient. It protects your time, your relationship, and, frankly, Uraraka’s from further wasted investment.”
Izuku took a deep, steadying breath. The initial terror was receding, replaced by a shaky sense of relief. They knew. They didn’t care. Well, Aizawa-sensei didn’t seem to care. Yamada-sensei cared a bewildering, overwhelming amount. But it was okay. It was safe.
“Thank you,” he said again, meaning it more deeply this time. “For… for hiding me. And for the advice.”
“Don’t make a habit of either,” Aizawa grumbled, finally removing his hand from a pouting Yamada’s face. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a budget meeting that promises to be a unique form of torture. Try to get to your next class without initiating any more covert operations.”
Izuku bowed again, a quick, grateful jerk of his head, and hurried down the hall in the opposite direction Uraraka had gone. His steps felt lighter. The secret, which had been a weight solely between him, Kaito, and Katsuki, now had two more bearers. And they hadn’t even stumbled.
Back in the hallway, Yamada was vibrating, his eyes shining. He hooked his arm through Aizawa’s. “A boyfriend, Sho. Three years. Our little Midoriya! All grown up and gay! I’m so proud!”
“He was gay three years ago when it started, Hizashi. You’re just late to the party.”
“But it’s a party now! We’re in the know! We’re confidants!” He leaned his head on Aizawa’s shoulder as they walked. “We have to be supportive. But subtle. Cool. Like you.”
“I am neither cool nor subtle. I am tired.”
“You’re the coolest. And you were subtle! ‘Use the immovable object.’ That was good! Dadzawa as heck.” Yamada sighed, a happy, wistful sound. “A Shiketsu boy, huh? I hope he’s good enough. We should run a background check.”
“We will do no such thing. Unless he gives me a reason to.”
“You’re already in protective mode! I knew it!” Yamada giggled, the sound echoing softly in the now-empty corridor. “This is the best budget meeting lead-up ever.”
Aizawa just sighed again, deeper this time, but allowed himself to be dragged along, the faintest trace of something resembling fondness in the set of his mouth. In the quiet of his own mind, he filed the information away: Midoriya, Izuku. In a long-term, cross-school relationship. Handle with discretion. Potential future source of interpersonal conflict. Resolved by firm application of truth.
It was, he supposed, a problem neatly identified. And for once, the solution wasn’t his responsibility. It was Midoriya’s. He had a feeling, watching the kid’s retreating back, that he might just be ready to handle it.