Haruto was one year old when he discovered that baby bodies were, in fact, capable of betrayal at the worst possible moments.
It started innocently enough. His mother had invited Inko over for lunch, which meant Izuku was coming too. Normal playdate stuff. Haruto had resigned himself to another afternoon of watching Izuku narrate elaborate hero battles while he played the role of enthusiastic audience.
What he hadn't factored in was the sweet potatoes.
His mother had been experimenting with new baby foods, and apparently today's experiment involved mashed sweet potatoes mixed with something she claimed was "nutritious and delicious." It was orange. It smelled weird. And Haruto's stomach, which had been perfectly fine up until that moment, took one look at the situation and decided to stage a rebellion.
"Just a few more bites, sweetie," his mother cooed, holding up another spoonful of orange mush.
Haruto's stomach gurgled ominously.
He tried to communicate his distress. Shook his head. Made a face. Even pushed the spoon away, which was usually his go-to method of saying "absolutely not."
His mother, bless her heart, thought he was just being fussy.
"Come on, Haru. It's good for you! Open wide!"
The doorbell rang.
"Oh! That must be them!" His mother set down the spoon—thank god—and went to answer the door.
Haruto slumped in his high chair, relief washing over him. Crisis averted. The sweet potatoes could stay where they were, which was preferably in the trash.
"Inko! Izuku! Come in!"
The usual greetings happened. Coats were hung. Shoes were removed. Izuku came barreling into the kitchen like a small green missile, as was his custom.
"Haru-kun!" He waved frantically, already talking. "Guess what? Guess what? I learned a new word! Mama taught me! It's 'plus ultra!' That's what All Might says! Plus ultra! Plus ultra!"
He chanted it like a war cry, pumping his little fists in the air.
Haruto would have responded, but his stomach chose that exact moment to remind him that it was still very much unhappy about the sweet potatoes.
The first cramp hit like a punch to the gut.
Haruto's eyes went wide. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" His mother leaned down, concerned. "You look a little—"
The second cramp hit harder.
There was a moment—a single, crystalline moment—where Haruto thought he might maintain some dignity. Where he thought maybe, just maybe, he could hold it together until the adults could take him somewhere private.
He was wrong.
What happened next would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The sound was apocalyptic. Like a small bomb had gone off in his diaper. The smell hit immediately after—sweet potatoes and regret and what Haruto could only describe as biological warfare.
Everyone froze.
Izuku's chanting died mid-"ultra." Inko's hand stopped halfway to her tea cup. His mother's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, realization, horror, and finally determination.
"Oh," she said weakly. "Oh my."
"Is he...?" Inko couldn't finish the sentence.
"Yes. Very much yes." His mother was already moving, scooping Haruto out of his high chair. "I am so, so sorry. Excuse us for just a moment."
She carried him toward the bathroom at speed, and Haruto caught one last glimpse of Izuku's face. The boy looked confused, curious, and slightly concerned all at once.
"What happened to Haru-kun?" he asked his mother.
"His tummy's upset, sweetie. He'll be okay."
The bathroom door closed, and Haruto's mother laid him on the changing mat with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for soldiers going into battle.
"Well," she said, surveying the damage. "That's... that's something."
It was, in fact, something. Something catastrophic. Something that required multiple wipes, a complete outfit change, and what Haruto suspected was a small prayer for strength.
"No more sweet potatoes for you," his mother muttered, working with practiced efficiency despite the carnage. "I don't care what the parenting book says. Some battles aren't worth fighting."
Haruto would have agreed if he'd been capable of speech beyond mortified baby sounds.
The cleanup took approximately ten years. Or fifteen minutes. Time had lost all meaning.
Finally—*finally*—his mother finished, dressed him in fresh clothes, and held him at arm's length to inspect her work.
"There. Good as new." She paused. "We're never speaking of this again, okay? This is between us."
Haruto nodded fervently. Oh yes. This was going in the vault. Deep in the vault. The vault would then be buried under concrete and thrown into the ocean.
They emerged from the bathroom to find Inko had already opened all the windows and was fanning the kitchen with a dish towel.
"I'm so sorry," Haruto's mother said again. "I tried a new food and—"
"Don't apologize!" Inko laughed, though it sounded a bit strained. "Trust me, I've been there. Last month, Izuku ate an entire container of prunes. I thought we'd have to evacuate the building."
"MAMA!" Izuku's face turned bright red.
"What? It's true!"
"Don't tell people!"
"I'm just saying, these things happen with babies."
Izuku crossed his arms, pouting. "Still don't tell people."
Haruto appreciated the solidarity, even if his own incident was roughly ten times worse than anything prunes could accomplish.
His mother set him down on his play mat, and he immediately made eye contact with Izuku. There was a moment of understanding between them—the kind of unspoken communication that only comes from shared humiliation.
Then Izuku scooted over and whispered, "Are you okay?"
Haruto nodded.
"Mama says tummy aches are the worst. Did it hurt?"
Another nod.
"Do you want to play? Playing makes everything better!"
Honestly, Haruto just wanted to curl up and die of embarrassment, but Izuku was already pulling out action figures, so he didn't have much choice.
"We can make All Might fight the Stomach Villain!" Izuku declared, holding up his prized All Might figure. "The Stomach Villain who makes people have tummy aches! And All Might defeats him and everyone feels better!"
It was such a ridiculous, childish way of processing what just happened, but somehow it worked. Haruto found himself actually relaxing as Izuku narrated an increasingly elaborate battle between All Might and the "evil Stomach Villain who smells bad."
"—and then All Might goes PLUS ULTRA STOMACH PUNCH!" Izuku made explosion noises. "And the villain is defeated! And everyone's tummies feel good again! The end!"
"That was very creative, Izuku," Inko said, trying not to laugh.
"I made it up myself!" Izuku beamed with pride.
The rest of the playdate passed without further incident, though Haruto's mother kept shooting him worried glances and his stomach made occasional threatening noises that kept everyone on edge.
When the Midoriyas finally left, Inko paused at the door.
"You know," she said to Haruto's mother, "I think this means our boys are really friends now. They've survived their first disaster together."
"I suppose you're right." His mother laughed, though she still looked a bit traumatized. "Nothing bonds people quite like shared catastrophe."
After they left, his mother picked Haruto up and looked him dead in the eye.
"We're throwing out the sweet potatoes."
Haruto had never agreed with anything more in either of his lives.
---
That night, after dinner (definitely no sweet potatoes), Haruto's father came home from work earlier than usual.
"How was your day?" he called out, setting down his briefcase.
There was a very long pause.
"Eventful," his mother said finally.
"Eventful good or eventful bad?"
"Yes."
His father blinked. "That's not—"
"Trust me. Just 'yes.'"
Haruto, currently on the floor playing with blocks, decided this was the perfect time to be very interested in stacking them. Very, very interested. So interested that he definitely couldn't hear his parents talking.
"Did something happen?" his father asked, concerned now.
"Nothing we need to discuss. Ever. In detail. Let's just say we learned that Haruto has a sensitive stomach and leave it at that."
"Oh." His father looked at Haruto, who was still very focused on his blocks. "OH. I see."
"You don't see. You weren't here. But let's pretend you do see and move on with our lives."
"Right. Yes. Moving on." His father cleared his throat. "So, uh, other than... that... how was the playdate?"
"Actually quite nice once we... recovered. Izuku's such a sweet boy. He made up a whole story to make Haruto feel better."
"That's good. That's really good." His father sat on the couch, loosening his tie. "I'm glad he has a friend. It's important, having someone your own age to bond with."
Haruto carefully placed another block on his tower. It was getting impressively tall—five blocks high. His fine motor control was improving.
The tower wobbled.
Haruto held his breath.
It held.
He reached for a sixth block.
"Careful, Haru," his mother called. "Don't make it too tall or it'll—"
The tower collapsed, blocks scattering across the floor.
Haruto stared at the wreckage of his architectural achievement, and for some reason, it was this—this stupid pile of blocks—that finally broke through his carefully maintained composure.
He started crying.
Not the fake baby crying his body did automatically when he was hungry or tired. Real crying. The kind that came from genuine frustration and exhaustion and the overwhelming absurdity of being a grown man trapped in a one-year-old's body that had just committed crimes against nature via sweet potato.
"Oh, sweetie!" His mother was there instantly, scooping him up. "It's okay! It's just blocks! We can rebuild it!"
But that wasn't why he was crying, and Haruto couldn't explain that. Couldn't explain that he was crying because he was tired of pretending. Tired of planning. Tired of carrying the weight of knowledge that didn't belong in a child's mind.
Tired of being so utterly, completely alone in a room full of people who loved a version of him that didn't exist.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," his mother rocked him gently. "You're just tired. It's been a long day, hasn't it? Let's get you ready for bed early tonight."
His father was already gathering the blocks, setting them aside. "Poor little guy. Today really did a number on him."
They had no idea.
The bedtime routine happened faster than usual. His mother seemed to sense that he needed quiet, needed simplicity. She skipped the story, just laid him in his crib with his favorite blanket and turned on the star projector.
"Tomorrow will be better," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "I promise. Tomorrow will be a good day."
Haruto wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that any day would be good, that things would get easier, that he'd somehow find a way to balance who he was with who everyone thought he was.
But belief was a luxury he'd given up the moment he'd decided to change this world.
Still, as his mother's footsteps faded and the fake stars spun overhead, Haruto found himself hoping.
Maybe tomorrow would be better.
Maybe he wouldn't have to pretend quite so hard.
Maybe being one year old would get easier.
Probably not, though.
Probably tomorrow would bring new challenges, new humiliations, new reasons to question every decision that had led him to this point.
But at least there wouldn't be sweet potatoes.
Small victories.
Haruto closed his eyes and let sleep take him, his last conscious thought being a sincere prayer to whatever deity controlled reincarnation that tomorrow's playdate would involve less biological warfare and more normal baby activities.
Though knowing his luck, probably not.
---