You Can Stand And Survive, Or Sit There And Fucking Die

Aizawa Shouta will die.

There's no going around it.

He knows he will. He knows the moment he accepted this mission and stepped out of the briefing room.

He's not coming back.

If he was, it would be inside a body bag or in pieces.

There was one rule every single student who's ever graduated from the Ninth Circle of Hell that was UA's A Class follows religiously. 

Specifically, the one rule their homeroom teacher— the school's very own walking nightmare and the man that wears the title of Demon-Sensei like a crown— drilled into their very skulls from the second they stepped foot onto school grounds until they left their careers for good.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

That was the one rule Eraserhead— Professional Wrangler of Overpowered Teenagers by day and The Japanese Underground's Resident Red-eyed Terror by night— expects his students (past, present and future) to follow to the letter.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

These eleven words were the only thing making sure every one of his graduates live past the average hero lifespan of twenty-seven years and make it to retirement.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

These eleven words were the stuff of horrors his mind made up in the months following one of his best friends’ perishment.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

He was such a hypocrite.

Shouta ensured every single one of his student's survival. He made sure they listened to their guts. He made sure they cared about their instincts, their health, their lives.

Shouta doesn't care about his.

Here is a thing that those close to Aizawa Shouta knows: He cares about anything and everything but himself.

Like how he ripped the limelight Sonder into a new one for insulting her intern, Hiraeth— who was actually a first year named Yamamoto Aikawa, and one of the only four graduates that made it through Shouta's first three years as the homeroom teacher for UA's Class A.

Like how Shouta kicked down a civilian's door, because his foreign exchange student, Lilith, sent out a distress signal from their homestay foster home.

Like how Eraserhead pulled a distressed child aside, cradling them carefully in his arms as Present Mic and Midnight arrest their abusive guardians. 

Like how he always came back inside hazard zones and burning buildings, ducking over debris and covering his mouth from smoke to make sure no one was left behind.

Like how Shouta sat beside people from all walks of life, listening and talking with them as both pairs of legs dangle from a rooftop, a bridge, or inside a room with a looped noose hanging from the ceiling.

Like how Eraserhead offered a hand to everyone— to those that were called monsters, to those that were chased by shadows, to those that wear bright-red shoes and to those that need it.

Here is another thing that they know: Aizawa Shouta will fight the sun and win, just so those he loves live.

Like how he fought tooth and nail to uncover his best friend's body, bloody hands never stopping until he was knocked out by a familiar gust of lilac gas.

Like how Shouta would stand beside Nemuri, flanking her back and showing her his, two friends guarding each other like twin menacing shadows during their nights out— both as heroes and civilians. 

Like how Eraserhead would check up on his regulars at night— shoving bags of convenience-store takeout into the hands of bruised runaways; dropping off STI medicine and packets of condoms to the sex workers, young and old; giving away boxes upon boxes of sweaters, blankets, scarves and mittens to the dirty-faced street children and ruffled homeless people during the winter months.

Like how heroes that graduated under the harsh glares of Eraserhead unconsciously shuffle behind him during joint operations— a habit leftover from their training days— like a child would behind their guardian. Or how the Pro himself instinctively covered his students like a phantom shadow— always there, proud and protective. Like how neither realized that they were doing it.

Here is the last thing among an alarming list of stuff they realized they should really give him extra therapy for: Aizawa Shouta would sacrifice himself, no questions asked, the moment anyone's needs were deemed above his.

Which was to say: every time. 

Like how he would set an alarm at three in the morning, just so Nedzu can call and check-in should the Principal feel anxious over the survival of his official-unofficial-official successor, mentee and son after his nightly patrols.

Like how Shouta would just sit beside Hizashi on his bad days, being quiet and there. How Emi would constantly seek him out, laughing with him about the most outrageous of jokes she told because she knew he wasn't bothered with her ‘annoying’ personality. How his co-workers would run their proposals through him first, because Nedzu was a sadistic rat when he wanted to be and Shouta wasn't fazed by his pseudo-dad-teacher-mentor's eccentricities.

Shouta was there for his people and his students every time. He's already an innately protective person, but it's safe to say that his latest batch of Problem Children are on the forefront of his mind constantly.

He put more emotional investment into this specific group of fifteen-year-olds than any other person in his life.

Eraserhead would bleed away to give space for Aizawa-sensei when Ochako knocked on his office, crying from the stress of her studies, training and financial situation. 

He had verbally decimated All Might, Nedzu, Recovery Girl and just about every single authoritative figure Izuku used to have growing up once the boy entrusted him with his secret. 

He'd sign off-campus permission slips for Tsuyu every weekend because she missed her siblings; Tenya would ask him to help clean his sensitive exhaust pipes; and Shoto had shied behind him while he stared down Endeavor when the man trespassed UA in an attempt to reach his ‘son’. 

(That man never touched Shoto again.)

Shouta would make an effort to make eye contact with Tooru, he helped Kyoka install the foam boards to sound-proof her room, and he'd assist Momo with her chemistry formulas for new materials.

He would pull Hanta and Denki aside, working through exercise after exercise with them to aid them in their studies as dyslexic and dyscalculic students. He'd supervise Eijiro and Yuuga's hair shenanigans, Mina would ask him to apply acid-neutralizing ointment on her hands when it's cold out and Shouta would splurge on specialty foods for his mutant-quirked students every grocery run. 

Shouta would untangle Hitoshi from his capture weapon after every training session, would toss sound-dampening headphones to Katsuki when the boy needed it, and would stay up all night taste testing Rikido's latest batch of confectioneries as he stress-baked. 

Koji would sit beside him when everything was too much, petting his rabbit and curling around Shouta's yellow-sleeping-bagged body like one would a security blanket. 

Shouta would spend hours teaching Mezo sign-language, smiling amusedly as the boy agonized over every finger placement his hands didn't get. 

Fumikage and Dark Shadow would seek him out on nights when the power flickered out, scared of the dark and scared to let go.

Mashirao would knock on his office after Foundational Heroics every period, asking for feedback and help with a new super move.

Shouta’s dark, dry heart bleeds for his kids, his students. He cares about them so much it hurts. 

That wasn't even counting his other children. 

Eri, his beautiful little girl, his baby Snowdrop. Kouta, his nephew in all but blood, the little spitfire. His third years: Mirio, Nejire and Tamaki— whose graduations were cut short because of this War. Then his graduates— strong and powerful heroes in their own rights, fighting and surviving to the very end.

He loves them all, there wasn’t a year since he started teaching that he hasn’t loved every single one of his kids.

And they love him too. Shouta wasn’t blind— he could see, could feel how much they loved him.

His death will break many people. 

Nedzu will tear the Hero Commission apart, once he finds just who assigned him this mission. Hizashi would scream himself hoarse, decimating armies upon armies of Nomus that decided to mess with a pissed-off Present Mic. Nemuri would come alive again just to kill him for dying on her. 

His people— they will avenge his death. Eraserhead protected them not because they need it, but because somebody should’ve. Someone should be looking over them, looking out for them, watching their backs when the goddamn world was so determined to hate them. Shouta was one of them, once, and if he could help, he would. What comes around goes around, and like magic— Eraserhead became their pro. And they are possessive. 

His students— they will fight in his memory. They will survive and thrive, they will live life to its fullest because that was what they promised him, swore to him. They will watch out for each other and his loved ones, fighting through their grief to live.

His children, however?

They won’t ever be the same. Shouta loathed himself for knowingly inflicting this upon them, for knowingly accepting this mission when he knew just who he was in the eyes of those steel-willed kids. His sons would break, his daughters would harden, and those caught in between their frozen wrath would be torn apart with no mercy.

Shouta knows they will hate him for this.

But better to hate the very thought of him and be alive then love his very being but dead.

It was a suicide mission. 

It should’ve required an elite team, filled with the best of the best, those whose potentials reached their peak in this War and were ripe for the picking. 

Shouta has eyes and ears everywhere, and he knew the powerhouses that the Commission wanted to send were his kids. 

They wanted his children to die for their War.

No. That won’t happen.

Because Shouta has swore to each and every one of them that they’d make it to graduation. That he would be there for them. That he would protect them, to the very end. 

That he would walk them down that red carpet towards their podium personally, that he would be the one to hand them their official licenses and certificates.

Shouta made his hellions three promises the day the War started. 

They will graduate.

They will survive. 

And he will be their homeroom teacher for their last years as trainees.

He already lost an eye and a leg to keep the first two promises, what’s more? Sure, Shouta would be breaking his third promise to his children, would be breaking the pinky-swear he made to teach Eri when she’s of age; but they will live.

Shouta can die in peace if they can live. His life is a rather cheap price for theirs.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

Thinking about those eleven words kept him going. That was the mark he left on this world— eleven words that, hopefully, will reach more people who want to make a difference.

Twisting a rebar inside the brain of another berserk Nomu, Shouta jumped towards the dead computer. 

The data is corrupted, wiped and destroyed a million times over— but then again, nothing ever truly leaves this world without a mark.

I only need the chip.

Securing and retrieving the information within it was more than enough to turn the tide of this War. The tiny, mangled piece of metal was nothing more than shiny garbage— but that didn't matter. There was a child on their base that had the ability to reverse this damage, and could give the Heroes an edge to win.

Aizawa Eri.

His daughter.

The HPSC will stop at nothing to take her once this chip reaches their hands, and Eraserhead knows with every fiber of his being that the Commission won’t use this information as intended. 

Too bad, so sad— Shouta never had the intention of giving to them in the first place.

Some time ago, Momo and Hatsume Mei shut themselves inside the heavy-duty 1A-proof support labs for an entire week, running on nothing but Death Wish Coffee and pure adrenaline. When they emerged over seven days later, with twin maniac smiles and two similar exhausted figures, they both presented an unamused Shouta and a less-than-enthused Majima with a device that creates portals— similar to Kurogiri's quirk.

It was easy to nick it on his way out of the base, it was even easier to operate and type in the exact coordinates of Nedzu's tea room. 

Activating the device, a teal cloud-like portal opened. Shouta threw in the chip and multiple other documents he found, aware that they will be found by his Principal the moment the rat's alarms go off.

Just as the final remnants of the glowing teal mist flickered away, the sound of explosions hit his ears.

“As soon as you enter, the failsafes will activate. You need to get in and get the chip into the drone before the explosions hit.”

“And after?”

“If you're lucky, we'll be able to find chunks of you to cremate.”

Shouta smiled, slumping against the broken walls of the abandoned compound. The drone had long made off with multiple flinty rocks he picked up outside the door. He barked a laugh at the facial image the agent that received it would make.

He lost his left arm to a trap just outside the gates of the compound. His ribs were surely broken, his ears were ringing and his every breath caused pain now that the adrenaline wore off. 

As the ‘BOOM!’s grew closer, Shouta closed his eyes and breathed out.

“You can stand and survive, or sit there and fucking die.”

Well, he's sitting now, waiting for his death.

As the first balls of embers entered his field of vision, and the heat licked his skin painfully, Shouta was blessedly granted the mercy of blacking out.

He never expected to wake up again, way too small with his only communication method being crying.

The Tomioka's youngest boy was a bright and kind child.

That was simply a fact.

He learned his characters faster than any other student the village scholar had taken. He can count and calculate his numbers quicker than the wind can fly. He was mature, level-headed, and spoke with more rationality than many adults around the region.

The boy was blunt and mischievous, certainly, but he was a soft-hearted person. Villagers would often find him sharing part of his meals with the dirtied street children, stuffing mountain herbs into the hands of the girls working in the run-down brothel houses on the outskirts of town, or running errands for local shopkeepers well into the night in an effort to support his family.

His sister, Tsutako, was not far behind in terms of town gossip. Tomioka Tsutako was a graceful girl, already so elegant and beautiful despite her young age. She has a keen mind and a way with words— paired with deft and skillful hands that made the most intricate works of embroidery, it was no wonder that she was the best apprentice the town's seamstress could ever dream to have.

Between the two, the late Tomioka couple would surely be proud. 

A gorgeous daughter in terms of looks, skill and class; and a handsome son who was smart, capable and strong. The siblings were the village's golden children— always ready to lend a hand, always grateful for the help they received. 

As humble as their living situation was, they won't hesitate to take in those in need. Neither of them were pushovers either— no freeloaders have ever dared to step foot back inside the Tomioka household after the beatdown the siblings delivered to the disgraced Yoshida-san.

The street children knew where to go for a warm meal and a roof above their heads, for the low, low price of helping with house chores.

The working girls knew who to go to for help when they felt sick, when they needed refuge from a particularly stubborn client— all they needed to give was lend a hand during harvests and their aid in the kitchen.

The stray dogs and cats never bothered the local restaurant owners, not here, because off to the side at the end of the street was a family that would feed and love them with all the heart they could muster. 

This is where our story actually starts. 

In a little village, off to the most unremarkable side of a mountain valley, just a few hills away from the nearest town. 

In a cozy house, at the offshoot from the main street— near a stream and close to the woods. 

About a boy, whose ocean eyes carry the loveliest shades of blues, the very same eyes that seemed to flicker crimson once and a while.

A boy whose name is Tomioka Giyuu.