Izuku hated going to bed. He absolutely loved every minute awake with his Dad and Papa in their brick townhouse. He loved elementary school, especially art class. Someday he wanted to become a comic book artist. It would be great if he could become a hero, but he’d figured out by kindergarten that heroes didn’t exist, so he’d settled for the next best thing. Izuku needed to work hard at drawing. Bedtimes were for children who lacked important career goals. Unfortunately, his parents did not agree.
Running up the stairs, Izuku shrieked, “Just five more minutes! I’m not done my painting yet.”
“You said that five minutes ago, you little menace.” His papa chased him up the stairs. Kaiji Kudou had red hair, impressive muscles despite his short height, and a giant scar across his face that scared all the other parents. He liked to dress in black leather jackets and went by his last name because he thought it sounded cooler. However, Izuku had identified him as the soft touch of his two fathers. Izuku had already gotten his papa to extend bedtime twice.
At the top of the stairs, Kudou scooped Izuku up. “You’ve been caught, hero. Time to go to bed.”
“I’m an artist,” Izuku insisted. He’d become a little embarrassed about his former career goal ever since the other children had teased him for thinking superpowers existed. “All great artists stay up late, painting until their hands fall off. Or their ears.” Izuku vaguely recalled that Vincent van Gogh’s ear had fallen off during a self-portrait.
“Let’s see if I can tickle you until your hands fall off.” Kudou tossed Izuku onto his bed and tickled his ribs.
Izuku shrieked and giggled. “They’re falling off! They’re falling off!”
“I suggest a truce.” Yoichi Shigaraki stood in the doorway, white hair falling over one green eye. He had a book tucked under his arm. “Izuku, I’ll read you a bedtime story if you go to sleep afterward.”
“Deal!” Izuku cried breathlessly. His dad had the best storytelling voice, always making everything sound very dramatic.
Kudou released his prisoner. Izuku sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. He had an entire bunkbed to himself, with stuffed animals occupying the upper half. The room also held a dresser and a small desk where he drew. The yellow walls were covered with Izuku’s artwork. Most of them featured his favorite superheroes from comics. He’d also designed his own heroes, including the giant All Might and the green-haired Deku who he imagined would be how he’d look when he grew up. A few rare landscapes were dotted with unicorns. His biggest picture of all showed his family: Izuku, Dad, and Papa standing smiling outside their home. Most of his drawings used crayon, colored pencil, or his set of watercolor paints. His parents paid for art classes on the weekends, where he’d also learned to make the pottery sitting on his dresser. Even more of Izuku’s drawings covered the fridge door, and his parents had framed several of their favorites in the hallway. His dad and papa were quite convinced he would be Japan’s next great artist.
Yoichi sat down on the bed next to Izuku and opened up Captain Hero. Once upon a time, it had been Yoichi’s favorite story as a child, and he’d read it to Izuku hundreds of times. Even so, Izuku eagerly listened to each one. Yoichi started out with Captain Hero as a poor orphan.
When they got to the Demon King’s first appearance, Kudou stepped in to read the dialogue, because he had the scariest demon voice. By now, he knew his lines by heart without looking at the book. He stalked around the room, fingers forming claws and growling. Izuku hid behind Yoichi, pretending to be scared.
After Captain Hero found his magic sword, the first volume ended. Yoichi closed the book. “Time for bed.”
“No! No! No!” Izuku wailed. “Read me another volume!” He rolled around on the bed, pounding his fists on the mattress. “No! No! No!”
Kudou said, “Well, maybe one more couldn’t hurt.”
Yoichi fixed his husband with a raised eyebrow, silencing him. Then Yoichi turned to Izuku. “We had a deal. That’s not polite behavior.”
Izuku considered this for a moment, then shouted even louder: “No, thank you! No, thank you!”
Kudou laughed. Yoichi cracked a small smile. Yet his tone remained stern. “Time to go to bed. You need your rest in order to produce more wonderful art tomorrow.”
Firmly, Yoichi tucked the covers over Izuku. Then he sang softly: “One for All, and All for One…” Those were the first lines of Izuku’s favorite lullaby. It was cheating. Izuku quickly found his eyelids slipping closed. Comforted by his fathers’ presence, he drifted off into dreams.
An indeterminate amount of time later, a sound against his window jolted Izuku awake. He ran over and pressed his nose up against the glass just in time to see an entire family of squirrels fleeing.
Whoa! It would have made Izuku’s night to see even one squirrel, much less so many. He had to tell his parents the exciting news. He flung open his door and ran down the stairs.
Yoichi and Kudou sat on the living room couch, kissing. Izuku cried, “Ew! Stop eating each other’s faces.”
The two sprang apart. Yoichi tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and straightened his shirt. Kudou asked, “What are you doing out of bed, little menace?”
“What are you doing?” Izuku giggled. “Am I going to get a new brother?” He’d wanted a sibling for a long time, and he had a very vague impression that the face-eating activities led to that.
Yoichi and Kudou exchanged glances. Slowly, Yoichi said, “Actually, now that we’ve moved to a larger house, we’ve talked about adopting another child.”
Izuku had always known he’d been adopted—his fathers had told him so from a young age. They’d been childhood friends turned husbands who had grown up in foster care and wanted to look after other children without parents. Because they’d always told him a story about how eager they had been to adopt, it had never occurred to him that they needed to. “Why don’t you just make a baby in your tummies?”
Kudou rubbed his forehead. “Because only women can do that.”
“Why?” Izuku asked.
Yoichi arched an eyebrow as if telling his husband that he’d started this line of conversation, so he needed to finish it. Kudou flushed even redder than his hair and stammered, “Uh…err…you see…”
Izuku sighed. “It’s okay if you don’t know the answer, Papa. Even grownups don’t know everything.” He patted his papa’s leg comfortingly.
Yoichi clutched his sides laughing.
Kudou glared at his husband. “You’re not too old to tickle, Yoichi.”
From Yoichi’s sheepish look, Izuku decided his dad didn’t know the answer either. “Can I have an older brother? They seem like more fun.” Some of his friends would play with their older brothers, but babies were useless and full of drool.
“We’ll have to see,” Yoichi said. “You’d be an amazing older or younger brother.” He ruffled Izuku’s hair. “Time to get you back to bed. What woke you up?”
Izuku remembered. “Oh! I saw a whole family of squirrels, running away. It was the coolest thing ever.”
Kudou frowned. “Odd animal behavior can be a sign of a natural disaster—”
The largest earthquake ever to hit Japan struck.
Later, Izuku would only remember flashes. His parents had thrown their bodies on top of him when the walls came down. He remembered darkness. He remembered pain. He remembered the bodies on top of him going cold. He remembered the smell. He remembered red stickiness covering his chest. At the time, he’d convinced himself that his parents’ blood was red paint. He’d gone off to a place inside his head where he was painting in a dark studio and everything was fine.
Izuku was buried inside his house with his parents’ corpses for a week. His therapist said that he’d forgotten most of it because of the trauma. It only came back to him in nightmares.
Awake or asleep, he never forgot the sensation of being alone.
Cameras flashed around Izuku. Despite the painful brightness, he kept his fake smile on his face. The reporters on the stage below shouted questions:
“How do you feel about being the youngest artist to ever win the prestigious Yuuei Award?”
Izuku said, “I’m greatly honored. The competition was very stiff this year. I had no expectations of winning.” Everyone said humble things like that to the press. In reality, Aizawa had told him that he would definitely win. Izuku was Japan’s darling, with people practically begging to throw money at him in exchange for his paintings. His former art teacher Aizawa had convinced him to enter the contest. Izuku didn’t care for fame, as long as his art paid his bills. Only the prize money had tempted him.
“Do you have any plans yet for your next artwork?”
“I do, but it’s currently a surprise.” Izuku winked. “I’ll only say that I want to create a tribute to some of my favorite artists.”
“Do you think your parents would be proud if they knew about your award? Do you miss them?”
The smile dropped off Izuku’s face. How dare some stranger bring up his parents? The slightest memory of them made Izuku struggle to breathe. Of course he missed them! That would never change, no matter how much time passed.
Both Yoichi and Kudou had been orphans with no other family, so after their deaths, Izuku had been sent to an overburdened orphanage. He’d suffered from severe anxiety and struggled to make friends. Drawing had become his only joy. An art school scholarship had been his one shot at a better life. He’d skipped several grades and graduated college early so he could start working sooner. His success as a painter had saved him from poverty. Yet Izuku would trade every last yen to have his fathers back again.
The weight pressed down harder on Izuku’s chest. Tears threatened to overflow from his eyes. The cameras flashed again, eager to obtain color pictures of his breakdown. “The interview is over,” Izuku croaked, then fled the stage.
Alone in his art studio, Izuku tried to paint away his pain, as he always did.
His next exhibition had the theme of classical art and family. He’d painted Kaiji Kudou as Vincent van Gogh’s famous Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear. Next he’d painted Yoichi Shigaraki with an apple over his face, imitating The Son of Man by Magritte. Izuku had no intention of ever admitting to anyone that he’d decided to cover up his dad’s face partway through because it had become too painful for him to look at. He’d drawn himself in his old Deku superhero design, with his parents as ghosts over his shoulders, and he’d barely been able to complete their faces before breaking down sobbing.
Originally, Izuku had planned to devote his next exhibit to his fathers, who had believed in his dream and gotten him started on his path to become an artist. All of his paintings would have included them in different forms. But he’d found himself unable to continue drawing them. It simply hurt too much. So he’d switched to creating a fictional family for himself.
Izuku had painted the brother he wished he’d had in the style of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and named him Hikage Shinomori. His older brother looked like his dad, with the same white hair and kind eyes.
As a child, Izuku had never cared much about his birth family, quite happy with his loving fathers. After he’d been alone in the orphanage, he’d grown curious, but it had been a closed adoption so he’d never found any answers. He painted a fake mother for himself as Girl with a Pearl Earring by Vermeer. She had a beautiful smile. He’d named her Nana.
Here, Izuku’s imagination ran dry. He wanted at least a few more paintings for his next exhibition. He wanted to draw his fathers again. If he tried, he knew he’d have a panic attack before he could finish.
If Izuku had friends, he would have painted them. But his anxiety attacks made it difficult for him to even leave his house. He struggled to talk to people. All his time was consumed by his obsession with painting. The one and only time Izuku had thought he’d befriended a fellow artist, it turned out the other was only using him for connections, felt jealous of his fame, and secretly hated him. After that, Izuku had given up. He had food and painting supplies delivered so he didn’t have to go outside. The disastrous interview had been the first time he’d left his home in a year.
He used to take anxiety medication, but he kept forgetting it when caught up in painting. He’d spent years in therapy because he blamed himself for his parents’ deaths, believing if he’d just told them about the squirrels faster, then they might have gotten an advance warning about the earthquake and made it to the basem*nt in time. Nothing his therapist told him helped. He could not let go of his guilt, which he’d come to love like a pet. Eventually he quit going.
Sitting surrounded by his other paintings, Izuku uncapped his paint tube. He decided he would paint a father for himself. Not Yoichi or Kudou, but a new father to complete the fictional family he would never have. He gave his new dad Yoichi’s white hair and Kudou’s red eyes. His hands flew faster across the canvas. He imagined a loving father, who would be entirely devoted to him and never leave his side. Someone who would look after him and protect him. Someone strong, so that death could not take him away.
Finally finished, Izuku collapsed to the floor. His paint tube spilled from his hand. The window outside showed darkness, and his stomach growled. He’d been painting all day, without a single break or meal. No longer did he have anyone to tell him that he needed to get to bed.
With that unhappy thought, Izuku completely broke down. He sobbed until he had no tears left and exhaustion finally consumed him.
As Izuku collapsed with his head resting on his stool, he whispered, “Please, I need a family. I’ll do anything.”
An odd scent tickled his nose, like the blood he’d been covered in after the horrible earthquake so long ago. He would almost swear he felt a hand on his hair as he drifted off into slumber.
When Izuku woke up, he lay in his own bed. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Had he somehow sleepwalked over? Looking down at his hands, he found them scrubbed clean. When had he washed off the paint?
Izuku heard the sound of a lullaby drifting from his kitchen. A song he hadn’t heard since he’d been very young. “One for All and All for One…”
Someone had broken into his home?! His first reflex was to reach for the phone and call the police. But when he heard the lyrics, he suddenly doubted himself. Why would a burglar be singing his dad’s song? It seemed more likely this was all a dream.
Slipping on his house shoes, Izuku padded into the kitchen.
A tall man with curly white hair stood in front of the stove, singing.
Izuku stiffened, suddenly regretting not calling the police.
The man turned around, revealing the exact same handsome face that Izuku had painted yesterday. He smiled. “You’re awake, son! Please sit down, breakfast is ready.”
The strangeness of it all kept Izuku from freaking out. It was simply not possible for a burglar to look exactly like his painting. Therefore, this had to be a dream.
Izuku sat down. The man placed a plate in front of him, containing an omelet. He also brought a fruit salad, toast, and orange juice. Izuku’s stomach growled. He felt oddly hungry for a dream.
In seconds, Izuku had devoured the omelet. “That was delicious, thank you.” His parents had raised him to have manners, even in dreams. He still felt hungry. He drank juice, then reached for the toast.
“I’ll make more toast for you. You shouldn’t skip meals, little one.” The man stood up and went to the counter.
Izuku blinked. No one had called him little since he’d graduated from college. Actually, it was possible no one had called him little since his parents died. He was definitely working out some issues with this dream.
When the man brought more toast, Izuku asked, “Aren’t you hungry, too? We can share the food.”
The man shook his head. “I’m a painting. I don’t eat…not human food, anyway.”
“Huh.” Izuku wasn’t sure what to think. “So you’re my painting.”
“Of course. You wished for a father, and here I am.” Chin propped up in his hand, the man smiled gently. “I think I’ll call myself Hisashi Shigaraki. You’ll call me Father, of course.”
The longer this dream went on, the more surreal it felt. Izuku nodded, not promising anything.
After Izuku finished eating, Hisashi cleaned the dishes. Izuku went to his studio to check on his artwork.
The picture of his imaginary father had a giant hole in the canvas. Black paint had dripped down the bottom, leaving stains on the floor.
Izuku walked over. He felt around the edges of the canvas, touching the dried paint. A bit flaked onto his finger. He licked it.
The astringent taste jolted him completely awake and finally convinced him that this was not a dream.
Izuku went back into the kitchen. “What are you?” he asked.
Hisashi turned around. “I’m your father.”
“Did you come from my painting?”
“Yes. You wished for me to come to life, so I did.”
“That’s not possible.”
Hisashi spread his arms wide. “Yet here I am. Didn’t you want a family, so much that you would do anything?”
Izuku gaped, wondering if he’d lost his mind. He’d become so lonely he’d hallucinated a dad. How pathetic.
The doorbell rang. Hisashi said, “That must be the groceries. You don’t have enough to eat, and certainly not enough fruits and vegetables, so I took the liberty of ordering more. I borrowed your phone and your credit card.”
“Gah,” Izuku said.
Hisashi walked past him to open the door. “Here’s a tip,” he told the delivery man.
Izuku turned around and asked the man, “You can see him?”
“Are you high?” the delivery man asked. Then he turned back to Hisashi. “Thanks,” he said as he tucked away the money, then left. Apparently other people could see Izuku’s hallucination. Therefore, it wasn’t a hallucination.
“I think I need to lie down,” Izuku said faintly, then headed for his bedroom.
Hisashi called after him, “Get plenty of rest! You have a lot of work before your next exhibition.”
With his bedroom door locked, Izuku researched spontaneously living paintings. The Greek sculptor Pygmalion had a statue come to life, not a painting. It didn’t seem to be a common occurrence, even in fiction. There were no known supernatural creatures who spawned from paintings. He couldn’t find any stories of it happening, even as urban legends.
Of course he couldn’t. This was completely insane.
Izuku made the mistake of seeing an article with his own name and clicking on it. Unfortunately, it was a gossip piece all about his failed interview. The article contained some extreme speculations about mental breakdowns and even drug use.
The comments were even more brutal. People mocked him. The word “retard” was used a couple times. Izuku also had fans fiercely defending him and calling out the reporter’s rudeness, but he fixated on all the negative comments. Aizawa had told him people were just jealous of his talent. Ever since he’d become successful, he’d been keenly aware of all the people lurking around just waiting to drag him down.
Izuku shuddered to imagine the headlines if he told anyone his painting had come to life. He feared being locked away in a mental hospital, unable to paint, denied his one joy in life. He did not have anyone he trusted enough to ask for help. Aizawa was the only teacher who he’d kept in contact with after graduation, but he didn’t want to become a burden by asking for too much. If he asked for too much, failed to know his place as a former student, he might get cut off. He’d ruined relationships before being a little too clingy too fast. Izuku simultaneously craved contact with other people and feared it. This peculiar magical miracle felt like something he needed to keep to himself, or else it might vanish like the morning dew evaporating under the sun.
Making his resolve, Izuku left his room. The air smelled like cleaning fluids. He sniffed.
Hisashi pulled out a vacuum. “Ah, good, you’re awake. I didn’t want to run the vacuum for fear of disturbing you.”
Izuku looked out the unusually clear windows. “You cleaned my house?”
“It’s my job as your father to look after you,” Hisashi said.
“You don’t have to…but thanks.” Izuku handed Hisashi a spare credit card. “You can have this. Order anything you like up to the limit.” He had plenty of money. “I purchased a phone for you online, with overnight shipping. I’m not sure how I created you. It was an accident. But I’ll provide for you. You’re my responsibility now.”
“I’m your family now,” Hisashi corrected.
Izuku liked the sound of that word. Even if he didn’t yet believe it.
Izuku never left his house anyway, so it took him months to realize Hisashi was keeping him inside.
Every morning, Hisashi picked out Izuku’s clothing. Before, Izuku often hadn’t bothered to change out of his pajamas since he never left his house. But Hisashi felt strongly about decorum. He insisted that Izuku get dressed before he would lay out his delicious breakfast. Izuku used to rely on frozen meals and restaurant delivery, until Hisashi started making him homecooked meals every day. For someone who didn’t eat, Hisashi was an amazing cook. He had a detailed meal chart to maximize nutrition.
Also, Hisashi enforced rigorous meal times. No longer did Izuku skip meals while painting. Every meal, Hisashi would ask about Izuku’s day with sincere interest even though he did nothing besides painting. At first, Izuku stumbled over his words a lot. He’d fallen out of the habit of talking to people. Hisashi was unfailing patient, waiting for him to finish his sentences. Izuku didn’t understand why Hisashi would show such great interest in someone as boring as him. When asked, Hisashi replied, “Because you’re my son. Everything about you is interesting. I love you.”
Those words sent a desperate thrill through Izuku. He hadn’t been loved since his fathers had died.
Hisashi gave Izuku a set bedtime. It felt a little odd. Izuku wasn’t a child any longer. But…it also felt nice, to have someone who cared so much. Whenever Izuku went along with the restrictions, Hisashi praised him, and it felt so good that he continued obeying. It surprised him how easily he adapted to living with a painting come to life. But then, he’d always had two fathers—why not three? Perhaps Hisashi had been an angel sent by his late parents to look after him. Izuku had no better explanation for why one of his paintings had turned into a person.
With more sleep and better food, Izuku had more energy. His paintings improved. It wasn’t just his opinion, Aizawa said so too. No other paintings came to life, although Izuku painted his fathers a dozen times with a desperate hope. At least he had plenty of material for his exhibition now.
Every night, Hisashi read Izuku a bedtime story. It was silly and childish. Izuku would have been mortified if anyone else found out. But he liked it. He even ordered Captain Hero so that he could request it for their next story. (It had been too painful for Izuku to read Captain Hero ever since his fathers had died.)
When the book arrived in the mail, Izuku waited eagerly to ask Hisashi to read it that night.
“Oh, your old favorite story,” Hisashi said. (How did he know that?) “Of course I’d be happy to read it.” He sat down on the side of the bed.
Hisashi’s demon king voice was so much like Kudou’s, it brought tears to Izuku’s eyes. He buried his face into the pillow to hide them.
But when Hisashi declared the demon king had beaten the hero, Izuku’s eyes snapped open. “That’s not how the story goes!”
“I prefer my version,” Hisashi said. “Maybe the Demon King can lock the hero up in his tower? What a happy ending.”
“That is not a happy ending,” Izuku insisted. “Tell the story properly.”
“Oh, fine. Anything for you, son.” Hisashi kissed Izuku on the forehead.
It had been a very long time since anyone had shown Izuku physical affection. The sign of parental love was enough to immediately appease his annoyance over the story. He huddled back under his covers, a little embarrassed at how happy he felt.
After Hisashi finished the first volume, he tucked Izuku into bed and kissed his forehead. “We’ll read the next one tomorrow. Good night, little painter. I love you.”
“You don’t have to tuck me in, Father,” Izuku mumbled, even though he liked it. “I’m not a baby.”
“You’ll always be my baby.” Hisashi smoothed back Izuku’s hair. “I’m your father. It’s completely normal for me to put you to bed every night. After all, I exist for your sake.”
It really wasn’t normal. Izuku knew that, despite his poor socialization. But he enjoyed it so much, he went along with the lie.
After that, Izuku became more unrestrained around Hisashi. He chattered freely at breakfast, no longer worrying that he talked too much. He initiated a hug every morning and every night. Before, he hadn’t realized how touch-starved he’d been. Having someone to hug felt like healing for his soul.
With Izuku no longer lonely, he didn’t feel the need to contact his former art teacher as frequently. After several days went by, Shouta Aizawa called him.
In his usual blunt way, Aizawa skipped straight to the point. “Your latest paintings are some of your best yet. I love the photos, can’t wait to see them in person. I didn’t think it was possible for you to impress me even more, but you keep managing it, kid. What inspired you?”
Izuku’s ears turned red. “I’ve been eating and sleeping better lately.”
“That’s great.” Aizawa had been acting as Izuku’s agent unofficially. After his last art agent had embezzled a huge portion of Izuku’s money, Aizawa had stepped in to help him sell his paintings. There had been no one else he felt like he could trust after the betrayal. Even though Izuku felt guilty about relying on his teacher even after graduation. Aizawa continued, “If you’re feeling better, what do you think about another interview?”
Flinching, Izuku gripped his phone tighter. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“The reporter last time was a jerk,” Aizawa said. “Don’t let him win by closing yourself off. It won’t be good for your career. What if I set up an interview with a friend of him? His name is Hizashi Yamada, and he hosts a radio show. He’s a great guy. He’ll share all the interview questions with you in advance and make it easy for you. He has a knack for making people comfortable around him.” Aizawa’s voice held genuine fondness for his friend.
Izuku hesitated. He didn’t want to disappoint the teacher who’d done so much for him. “Okay,” he whispered.
“You won’t regret it,” Aizawa promised. “I’ll go to the radio studio with you. We’ll make the interview fun this time.”
When Izuku hung up the phone, he saw Hisashi standing in the doorway. The former painting’s eyes seemed to glow redder than usual. “Who was that?” Hisashi demanded.
“My old college art teacher. He looks out for me.”
Hisashi clucked his tongue. “You don’t need him any longer. You have me.”
Izuku shrugged, not wanting to argue. He hated confrontation.
On the day of the interview, Izuku woke up to find no clothing laid out for him. Hisashi put a hand on Izuku’s forehead. “You feel feverish, little one. You’re clearly in no condition to go outside. I’ve already texted your teacher from your phone to cancel the interview.”
At that point, Izuku finally realized that Hisashi was keeping him inside. In fact, he remembered Hisashi had always been the one opening the front door for deliveries. He hadn’t let Izuku see another person in weeks.
Instead of anger or fear, Izuku felt a shameful relief. He hadn’t wanted to go to the interview. He’d tossed and turned all night from stress. What if it turned into another disaster like last time? What if he disappointed his teacher? Izuku secretly felt happy Hisashi had arranged an excuse for him.
“You’re right. I feel sick,” Izuku said, then he let Hisashi dote on him all day.
When Izuku came up with a new painting idea, he immediately ran to show Hisashi his sketch.
Hisashi sat in the living room, reading on his phone. Shyly, Izuku held out his paper, just like how he used to present his crayon drawings to his parents. “What do you think?” The sketch showed Izuku and Hisashi strolling through a field, with Hisashi carrying an umbrella.
“It’s the two of us as Monet’s Woman with a Parasol – Madame Monet and Her Son.” Hisashi’s eyebrows rose. “How lovely! I adore how you drew the clouds. It’s just perfect.”
Izuku flushed at the praise. He’d been starved for that as well. The newspapers couldn’t satisfy his need to hear kind words from people he cared about. He twiddled his thumbs. “You should be part of my family exhibition, because you’re my father now.”
“Oh, Izuku. That means the world to me.” Hisashi set down the drawing, then held out his arms for a hug.
Izuku melted into the embrace. They sat like that for a long time. Although Izuku ought to get back to painting, he couldn’t bring himself to be the first one to pull away. He’d needed this so badly, for so long—a simple platonic touch from someone who cared about him. Though he’d never realized it before, he’d been craving cuddles as much as food or water.
A sound against the window made both of them look up. A grinning man pressed his camera against the glass.
“How dare you,” Hisashi shouted, springing to his feet.
“You’re trespassing,” Izuku said dumbly. He thought he recognized this man, a paparazzi who had lurked around his house before. He’d even had to call the police once because he caught the man rooting through his trash.
Though slightly muffled through the glass, the paparazzi’s shouted reply could be heard: “Sorry, but this is just too good a scoop to resist. Japan’s artistic darling, living with an older man? The story about you and your sugar daddy practically writes itself.” Then the paparazzi turned and ran.
Hisashi growled, then pursued, phasing through the window like a ghost. Izuku gaped. Until now, he’d never seen any evidence of Hisashi being a supernatural creature. Besides Hisashi not eating.
What if the two got into a fight? How would the police react to Hisashi’s lack of identification papers? With a strong impulse to do something, Izuku ran to the front door. But the door had a new padlock, and he didn’t know the combo. When had Hisashi added that?
Izuku tried the windows. They were also locked…from the outside. Next, he attempted to make a phone call. But something had been done to his phone, so he could no longer make any outgoing calls or send texts. He wondered if this was why he hadn’t heard from Aizawa lately.
Everything was happening too fast. Izuku didn’t know when his dream had turned into a nightmare. In the midst of his turmoil, he feared the new rumors from the press more than anything. He already could barely leave the house, how could he possibly show his face in public with people saying such twisted things about him and Hisashi?
Suddenly Izuku’s breathing became loud and ragged. He doubled over. The room spun. Panic consumed his mind. It felt as if time and space had faded away. He was trapped in the darkness. Just like that horrible day when his house had fallen down on him and his entire world had been destroyed.
Hisashi returned to find Izuku curled up on the floor, sobbing and struggling to breath. “My poor boy.” Hisashi knelt down and hugged Izuku. “Everything is all right. You’re safe. You’re loved. I’m here.”
Izuku clung to Hisashi’s shirt and wept. The large, warm hand stroking his head slowly helped ground him. He let Hisashi carry him to his room and tuck him into bed.
Pressing a kiss against Izuku’s forehead, Hisashi murmured, “That horrible man will never bother you again.”
Izuku nearly asked about the lock on the front door. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words that would break his beautiful illusion. He held his mysterious father’s hand until he fell asleep.
Although Izuku feared people talking badly about him to an almost pathological extent, he had to know. As soon as he woke up, he checked the news.
There were absolutely no recent stories about him. How odd. Had Hisashi, strange being that he was, somehow saved Izuku again?
Izuku dug deeper. He found a minor news story about a paparazzi who had gone missing. A familiar face stared back at him from the article.
Heart hammering and palms sweaty, Izuku stepped outside his room.
The sound of a fan and a gas fireplace crackling came from the kitchen. Hisashi called, “You slept until dinnertime. I’m preparing spaghetti and meatballs. It will be ready in about twenty minutes.”
Izuku said, “You’re not a painting. I don’t have the power to bring my pictures to life, or I would have used it before now. I’ve been lonely for a long time. Besides, you’re too powerful to be my creation. You possessed my painting. Did you come in response to my wish?”
“Does it matter?” Hisashi asked, back turned and facing the stove. “I’m here now. I’m your father. I love you.”
“You killed that paparazzi, didn’t you?”
Slowly, Hisashi turned around. Dark amusem*nt filled his face. “I would have rather you never found out, my dear little painter. I’m afraid it can’t be helped. I need to eat. I can feed off your emotions to some extent, but I need a kill to satiate me. And I can’t bring myself to eat you, because then you’ll be gone. That annoying man came just went I’d started to get hungry.”
Izuku cried, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hisashi stalked over. He gripped Izuku’s face. Glowing red eyes gazed down. His pupils had become slitted and his fingers clawed. Snakelike, Hisashi hissed, “It doesn’t matter. You can’t run from me. I’ve already sealed this place away. No one will ever trace the paparazzi’s death back to me, because I used illusions to make it seem like he died elsewhere. I’ve already pretended to be you, in order to send away every meddler who tried to contact you. There’s no one left to notice your disappearance. Even if the humans came with an army, I would destroy them before I’d let them take you away. You’re mine!”
Izuku shouted, “I meant, why didn’t you tell me that you needed to kill to live? I could have helped you!”
“Helped me?” Hisashi released his grip.
“Do you want to kill my former art agent? He still thinks I’m a huge sucker who believes everything he says. If I tell him I’ve forgiven him for the embezzlement and want to hire him again, he’ll come running.” Izuku bit his lip as he thought. “I’ve also got a former friend turned enemy, if you prefer someone younger.”
Hisashi admitted, “This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting to you learning that I’m a monster.”
“I don’t care what you are. I don’t need to know anything, except that you’re my father.” Izuku grabbed the front of Hisashi’s coat. “Our family might be crazy and dysfunctional, but I need it to survive. Please, I can’t be alone any longer. I’ll do anything you want. Just please stay by my side. Tell me that you love me, even if you’re lying.”
A huge smile spread across Hisashi’s face as he pulled Izuku into a hug. “You’re adorable, my little painter. I’ll never, ever leave you. I love you. My love might not be a human love, but it is so much deeper and permanent. You belong to me, and I’ll never let go.”
Izuku clung to his father. It didn’t matter if this family was fake. Izuku had decided to believe in the lie. What else was art anyway, except a lie to make people happy? After so long alone, Izuku had found his happiness. He’d do whatever it took to prevent anyone from taking his family away again.
OMAKE TIME!
Omake: The Painter is Colorblind to Red Flags
Izuku: Hisashi must be an angel sent by my late parents.
Yoichi: Don’t pin this on me! Also your “angel” put a lock on your door.
Izuku: My new father cares about my security so much.
Hisashi: Hey, is it okay if I move some of your painting supplies so I can stash this corpse in the closet?
Izuku: Sure! I appreciate how you respect my boundaries and ask for permission. That’s what I call a green flag.
Yoichi: I’m wondering how you became a famous painter when you clearly suffer from red-green colorblindness. Or are you completely blind since you can’t see the corpse?
Izuku: As long as he sticks to killing people who have harmed or threatened me, I can tolerate it. I’m not exactly happy about it, but I can justify it enough to live with it.
Hisashi: And as long as you’re being so cooperative, I’m happy to limit my victims to bad people. Or people you won’t find out about. That’s the same thing.
Izuku: Yup, the exact same thing!
Yoichi: You failed to notice the most important red flag of all, Hisashi changing the ending of Captain Hero so the Demon King won.
Kudou: …That’s about the only thing he did that wasn’t a red flag. I take it that our son got his colorblindness from your side of the family, dear.
#
Omake: The All for Ones Club
Canon All for One: I can’t believe you read the end of Captain Hero. That alone is instant grounds for removal from the club.
Pygmalion Hisashi: It made my son happy. I’m not sure why you all care about that old comic so much, besides the hero being very annoying.
Canon All for One: However, we are all desperate to find out how you got Izuku to willingly let you vault him.
Pygmalion Hisashi: Everyone else around him was dead so he needed me.
Canon All for One: I tried that! The insects kept refusing to die.
#
Omake: A Gift for an Obedient Child
Izuku: Psst, can you bring my paintings of my fathers alive too?
Hisashi: Maybe. I always wanted a little brother.
Yoichi: Please leave me alone! I was so happy to be an only child for at least one AU.
Hisashi: Oh, it wouldn’t be you as you were when you lived. More like an obedient shadow.
Yoichi: Author, please, leave me out of this one. I don’t wanna be your fave any longer.
Izuku: I’d like a large family, please. Let’s bring all the vestiges to life!
#
Omake: Becoming Even More Famous
Aizawa: Your paintings have gotten even better. I love the vivid shade of red that you use.
Izuku: Thanks, I have a new supplier.
Aizawa: I would swear this painting looks like it might come to life.
Izuku: My dad assures me that won’t happen unless I wish for it and he supplies the magic.
Aizawa: What?
Izuku: I said thank you for the compliment.
#
Omake: A Loose Thread
Aizawa: Izuku might not have any other friends, but I’m not going to give up on him just because you stole his phone and sent me a mean text.
Hisashi: Ugh, what an enormous pain in my ass. You’re probably the only person whose death might turn Izuku against me and whose death he might actually notice. Eating you isn’t worth ruining my great relationship with my son. Do you have any dead loved ones in your life?
Aizawa: I lost my friend Oboro Shirakumo, why?
Hisashi: Because I’m putting a living painting named Kurogiri in charge of distracting you and keeping you out of my business.
