Already Belonged

He wasn't even trying to sneak away. Just needed a moment. A breather.

So he slipped out to the courtyard—sunlight dappling through the trees, wind brushing soft against his hoodie. 

Denki leaned back against the bench, arms stretched along the top, eyes closed. His laugh from breakfast still echoed faintly in his ears, like a warm aftershock.

He was fine. 

Totally. 

So why did his chest still feel tight? 

"Thought I'd find you out here." 

His eyes snapped open. Jiro. 

She stood a few feet away, arms folded, watching him with that quietly observant look—the one that saw everything before he was ready to admit it. 

He offered her a crooked grin. "Just enjoying the air. You know. Post-toast reflection time."

She didn't smile back. Just walked over and sat beside him—close, but not too close. 

Silence lingered. Not awkward, but not peaceful either. 

Finally, Jiro spoke. "You slept, right?" 

Denki snorted. "You and Bakugo gotta stop asking me that like I'm five." 

"You didn't answer," she said softly. 

He glanced sideways. Her gaze didn't falter. 

Denki exhaled, slouching deeper into the bench. "I slept enough." 

A beat. 

"Denki." 

He glanced up—and the way she said his name nearly undid him. No teasing. No barrier. Just gentle concern wrapped in one word. 

"I'm fine, Jiro," he said quickly. Sharply. Too fast. 

She blinked. Then nodded once—slow, like she was pretending to buy it. 

But her hand slid next to his. Not grabbing. Not holding. Just there. Offering. 

And Denki didn't move. 

He didn't take it. 

He didn't pull away either. 

They just sat like that—two silhouettes in the late morning light, both carrying more than they said out loud. 

Suddenly…

"Training resumes in two days."

Denki didn't even flinch.

Aizawa's voice cut clean through the air—calm, low, like it had always been there, like he had materialized from the very shadows of the courtyard.

Denki blinked, slowly turning toward the source. Sure enough, there stood Aizawa, arms tucked into his capture weapon like he hadn't just crept up on them like some spectral dad-ninja.

Jiro sat up straighter beside Denki, suddenly a bit more alert.

Denki raised an eyebrow. "You always sneak up on your students like this, or am I just the lucky one?"

Aizawa's mouth twitched. Might've almost been a smile.

"Just making sure you haven't dissolved into a puddle of self-pity before we get back to work."

Denki opened his mouth to reply—probably something sarcastic—but stopped. Because when he really looked, Aizawa wasn't just saying it to push him. He was watching. *Really watching*—like every word out of Denki's mouth might confirm or shatter something important.

There was weight in that gaze. Not suspicion—awareness. Concern. Quiet and steady.

Denki swallowed. "Nah. Still solid. Mostly breakfast and grit at this point."

"Good," Aizawa said. And then, gentler, "You've come farther than most would in your place."

Denki's breath caught. He looked down at his hands—at the way they didn't shake.

"I had help."

Aizawa nodded once, like that was the answer he'd been waiting for. Then he stepped closer, gaze softening just a degree.

"You don't owe anyone strength, Denki. Least of all your friends. But you *do* owe yourself time."

That landed deep.

And Denki, for once, didn't joke it away. He just nodded, letting the silence stretch out comfortably.

Aizawa looked between him and Jiro for a beat, then flicked his hair over his shoulder.

"Don't be late in two days. And hydrate."

He walked off like nothing had happened—just another cryptic moment in a long line of them.

But Denki? 

He sat there for a while longer, chest a little looser, breath a little easier.

Because sometimes, a father figure doesn't need to say I'm proud of you.

Sometimes that is exactly what it sounds like.

(Two days later…)

The courtyard was buzzing. 

Two days had passed, and with it came the official return to training. The mood felt lighter, energized—even the birds seemed to have more swagger than usual. Everyone was gearing up, stretching, adjusting their gear, joking around like they hadn't been holding their collective breath for weeks. 

Denki stood just off to the side of the field, zipping up his jacket and pretending he wasn't internally checking every muscle for weakness. His body still ached in subtle ways—phantom pains, muscle memory twisted by trauma—but none of that mattered now. 

Because he was here. 

And he hadn't quit.

Across the field, Jiro gave him a thumbs-up from where she stood with Sero and Mina, her eyes flickering with quiet encouragement. Denki responded with a lopsided grin and a mock salute. 

Then— 

Aizawa appeared, clipboard in hand, eyes as tired and sharp as ever.

"Pair off," he said, no preamble. "New formations. New strategy drills. No coasting." 

Class 1-A scattered quickly, the usual chatter erupting around him. But Denki didn't move. Not yet. 

Because Aizawa's gaze locked on him. For just a second. 

It wasn't stern. 

Wasn't soft. 

Just steady. 

Denki straightened instinctively. A nod passed between them—unspoken understanding flowing in one glance. 

You ready? 

Yeah. 

I am. 

And that was enough. 

No drama. No big speech. But Denki felt it settle in his chest like armor. 

He wasn't just back. He was wanted back.

-——

"Wait—Bakugo?" 

Denki blinked, watching as Aizawa scribbled the pairings onto the board with his usual deadpan precision. 

"That's right," Aizawa said, not looking up. "You're with Bakugo today." 

"But... I usually train with Jiro." 

There wasn't bitterness in his voice—just surprise. Confusion. A flutter of... something else he couldn't quite name. 

Aizawa met his eyes. 

"Today's different." 

Denki opened his mouth to question it again, but something in Aizawa's expression shut it down. Not harsh. Just firm. Quiet. Like he needed Denki to trust him on this without asking why. 

So Denki nodded. Slowly. "Okay." 

(Aizawa POV)

He turned away before Denki could press further. If he kept looking at the boy too long, his concern would show. 

Aizawa didn't like unknowns. 

Didn't like the feeling twisting in his gut every time he imagined Denki overexerting himself, blinking out, collapsing on the field. 

He'd never tell him outright. But pairing Denki with Bakugo? 

That was insurance. 

Bakugo saw more than he let on. 

And when it came to Denki—Aizawa knew instinctively, he would not let that kid fall again.

(Bakugo POV)

Bakugo stared at the clipboard like it insulted his entire bloodline. 

Seriously? Him? Paired with Chargebolt?

But deep down—he didn't hate it. 

Not since that day. 

Not since he watched Denki go still in a puddle of blood, limbs twitching with residual electricity and breath barely there. 

He hadn't let Denki out of his peripheral since. 

Not once. 

So yeah. He'd train with him. 

He'd yell at him. 

He'd stop him if he had to. 

Because the thought of something like that happening again? 

Yeah. 

No thanks. 

—-

The training field was buzzing with motion—partnered drills already underway, bursts of light and wind crackling through the air like thunder just waiting to happen. 

Denki stood across from Bakugo, tightening his gloves, bouncing slightly on his heels to loosen up. 

Still, he kept glancing over toward where Jiro and Mina were working through their formations. He wasn't jealous exactly, just… confused. This wasn't how things usually went. 

Bakugo cracked his knuckles. "You ready or are we standing here until sunset, Sparky?" 

Denki blinked. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Totally. I'm good."

He wasn't, really. His side still twinged from the last round of rehab exercises, and his shoulder felt off—but nothing he couldn't handle.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes like he'd read every thought off Denki's face. 

"You overdo it, I'll knock you flat." 

Denki grinned, trying to brush it off. "Aw, you do care." 

Bakugo didn't smile. "Don't test me." 

And that was the signal. They moved. 

The first few clashes were fast, clean—Denki ducking low, arms crackling, firing off short bursts of electricity to keep Bakugo dodging. He was rusty, sure, but the rhythm was still there. His reflexes were sharp. 

What wasn't sharp? His endurance. 

By the fifth exchange, his knees wobbled. The air in his lungs felt thin.

"Keep going!" he told himself. 

He dove forward, pushing past the sting in his side, electricity surging at his fingertips— 

And then—boom.

Bakugo landed in front of him with a controlled blast, catching Denki's wrist before he could make contact. 

"No." 

Denki blinked up at him, breath ragged. "What—?" 

Bakugo didn't let go. 

"You're not there yet," he said, voice steady but tight. "I'm not letting you fry your nerves just to prove a point." 

Denki looked away, jaw clenched. "I'm fine." 

"No, you're not." 

Denki's fists trembled. Not from charge. Not from anger. Just the pressure. The effort of holding it together.

Bakugo let go of his wrist and stepped back. 

"You've got nothing to prove to me. Or anyone else." 

Denki stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, staring at the ground. Then—slowly—he nodded. 

Training paused. But not because he'd failed. 

Because Bakugo knew exactly where the line was. 

And for the first time in a while, Denki let someone else pull him back from it. 

He sat on the edge of the bench like it might give out underneath him, elbows resting on his knees, head down, hands trembling in front of his face.

They wouldn't stop.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, trying to hide it—even from himself—but the muscles wouldn't obey. His nerves were fried. Again.

"I could've gone longer…" he whispered, breath catching in his throat. "I should've."

The frustration simmered beneath his skin, humming beneath the ache in his arms. He wanted to move, to run back out there and prove he hadn't gotten weak, hadn't turned into some fragile version of himself.

But then-

That image. That moment. The flash of pain. The villain's blade, the shout of his name, the sound of Jiro screaming and the way the light flickered out of his own chest—

His hands shook harder.

Denki squeezed his eyes shut.

He wasn't there. 

He wasn't dying. 

He was sitting in the sun, on a bench at UA, after training that had only pushed him a little too far.

But try telling his body that. 

Try explaining it to the part of him that still jerked awake in the night with phantom electricity biting through his ribs.

He pulled in a breath through clenched teeth.

"Don't fall apart," he muttered to himself. "Not here. Not now."

Everyone thought he was okay. Smiling. Training. Standing on his own again.

And he would be. Eventually.

But right now, with his hands shaking like leaves and that memory ghosting behind his eyes… Denki sat alone.

Because the bravest thing he could do right now—was sit. 

Feel it. 

And keep going anyway.

The bench creaked faintly beneath him. The breeze tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.

Denki kept his head down. Eyes on the ground. Hands tucked into his pockets so deep his fingers ached from the pressure of holding still.

Then—he heard it. 

Soft footsteps. Steady. Familiar. 

And before he even looked up, he knew. 

"Aizawa," Denki said, forcing a lightness into his voice. "Hey. Out for a morning stroll? Got tired of watching Bakugo scream at people from the sidelines?"

Aizawa didn't answer right away. He stopped a few paces away, hands in his coat, hair slightly windblown, eyes calm but heavy with that same unreadable intensity Denki had seen since the hospital. 

"You left the field early." 

Denki shrugged, still looking straight ahead. "Legs got a little jelly. No big deal. Figured I'd sit for a bit before I ruin my record for 'most dramatic collapses.'"

A beat. Silence. Then—Aizawa moved closer.

Denki tensed. His fingers curled into fists deep in his pockets.

Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart. Not now. Not in front of him.

Aizawa stood beside the bench now. Not towering. Not looming. Just… there.

Denki turned slightly, smile tugging at his lips like it had been stapled in place. "I'm good. You don't have to check. Really."

He pushed himself up before the weight in his throat could rise too high. But as he turned—

"Hands."

Denki froze.

Aizawa's voice was quiet. Not commanding. Not cold. But sure. Like he already knew.

Denki chuckled nervously, starting to wave him off. "Come on, it's nothing. I just—"

Aizawa didn't say another word.

Denki swallowed.

Then, slowly, he pulled his hands from his pockets.

They were still trembling.

Small, constant. Enough to betray everything he hadn't said.

Aizawa's eyes softened. Barely. But Denki caught it.

And he hated it.

He pulled his arms back in and looked away. "I just needed air. That's all. I'm not... breaking or anything, I swear."

Aizawa didn't argue. He just stepped back.

"You don't have to break to be hurting, Denki."

Denki blinked. Denki stood frozen, hands exposed, trembling. 

He expected silence. 

Expected Aizawa to turn, to give him space the way he always did. 

But this time—he didn't walk away. 

Instead, Aizawa moved closer. Just a step. No pressure. No demand. 

"I've seen your file," he said quietly. "I've read the charts. I know the limits they gave you."

Denki forced a weak grin. "Then you also know I'm stubborn as hell."

"I do." Aizawa's tone didn't change. But he stayed.

The quiet stretched—not uncomfortable, but weighty. Like the air between them was thick with everything Denki wasn't saying. 

Then—something shifted. 

Aizawa sighed, and for the first time, he didn't stand like a teacher. 

He sat. Beside him. On the bench. 

Denki glanced over, startled. He wasn't used to Aizawa staying.

"You're not weak for taking a minute," Aizawa said.

Denki stared down at his hands. The trembling had slowed—but it was still there.Like the memory of that day was hardwired into his bones. 

"I just… I didn't want you to think I wasn't ready." His voice cracked halfway through. He coughed, looked away. "I didn't want them to think that either."

A beat passed. 

"I don't care about what they think," Aizawa said plainly. "I care that you're still here. And that you stay that way."

Denki blinked fast. His throat felt tight again. But somehow, in a different way now.

"I see more than your output and training metrics," Aizawa continued. "I see the kid who made it through something that should've ended him. Who still shows up. Who still laughs when he could've shut down."

Denki laughed, but it sounded like a breath. "You're really bad at pep talks."

Aizawa looked straight ahead, eyes half-lidded. "Good thing this isn't one."

They sat in quiet again. No pressure. No lectures. Just presence.

Denki didn't speak. But he didn't need to.

Because Aizawa hadn't left. 

He had stayed. 

And sometimes, that said more than anything else ever could. The silence wrapped around them—not like absence, but like shelter. It buzzed gently with everything unspoken, aching to be acknowledged.

Denki sat still, shoulders hunched forward, hands curled in tight fists between his knees. His fingers weren't just trembling from strain anymore—they were trying to hold something in.

The breeze shifted. Leaves whispered. A breath deeper than the wind came from beside him.

Aizawa sighed.

Not exasperated. Not distant.

Just... weighted. Human.

"I wasn't sure if I should say anything," Aizawa began, voice low and steady, like pulling a thread he couldn't drop now. "Didn't want to step on something personal that you hadn't offered up yourself."

Denki tilted his head slightly, the motion small, guarded. His gaze stayed forward.

"But I know," Aizawa continued. "I know you're an orphan, Denki."

The words didn't crash like a wave—they landed slow and heavy, like rainfall on old stone. Denki didn't move, didn't speak, but the tightness in his jaw drew inward. Subtle. But there.

Aizawa waited. Then:

"I looked into your file after the hospital. Not just your recovery charts. Everything." A pause. "There wasn't much to read. And that's what told me everything."

Denki's breath hitched, barely audible. His shoulders curled in an inch tighter.

Aizawa didn't fill the quiet with noise. Just truth.

"I know what it's like," he said, softer now. "To grow up without anyone promising they'll stay. To feel like love has a condition—that your worth is something you constantly have to prove. Like the only way to be kept is to never need anything."

Denki blinked hard, chest rising with a shaky inhale. He wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now.

But it hurt—how right Aizawa was.

"I'm not your father," Aizawa said, his tone barely above a whisper now, "but I am your teacher. And more than that—if you'll let me be—I'm someone who gives a damn. Not for what you can do. Not for how loud you laugh when you're scared. Just… because you're you."

Denki turned, blinking fast, heart slamming against his ribs. And for once, the laughter didn't come. No sarcasm. No joke. Just that ache—that fragile ache in his chest that someone had seen him and stayed anyway.

"You don't have to carry it all," Aizawa murmured. "Not alone."

Denki looked at him, finally. Really looked.

The wind caught in his throat, and his voice cracked as he whispered, "Thank you... for saying it out loud."

Aizawa nodded once, gaze unwavering. No pity. No pressure. Just presence.

And Denki—tired, hurting, still piecing himself back together—realized something he'd never dared to believe.

He didn't have to earn everything. 

He already belonged.