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Hitoshi doesn't sleep.
Which serves both as a generic summary of Hitoshi’s life in general (Hitoshi has an honorary degree in insomnia, sleep paralysis and night terrors, it’s true) and as an apt omen for what the rest of Hitoshi’s day will entail. Namely: A special kind of exhaustion, settled so deeply into his very bones it's inseparable from himself.
Okay, that’s already enough self-pitying nonsense for the day. He lies on his stomach in his bed as a very convincing impersonation of a corpse, mindlessly staring at the opposite wall and filtering out images from the TV-static of his vision through the darkness. Azuma-kun’s snoring—one of the four boys he shares a room with—swims through the air to play a backbeat on Hitoshi’s eardrum, despite the guy literally being in the furthest bed away from him.
But Hitoshi’s inherent sleep disturbances, and Azuma-kun’s continued crimes against everyone’s sense of hearing, are neither the reason Hitoshi lies with his thoughts swirling like oil churning through water instead of peacefully lying unconscious like the rest of his roommates. His eyes are glazed over and blink sluggishly with his mind stagnant like rancid pond water, because all sense of awareness has been forcefully rerouted to his lower half. Specifically, how it feels less like his hide has been tanned and more so still freshly flayed.
It—hurts.
Which is not a novel statement to make. If he were to lift his head and peer behind himself, he would not be surprised if he found a hawk picking at his flesh. A razor sharp beak lacerating his skin into ribbons, calling forth bright crimson to the surface, with talons that shred and the entirety of his butt—glutes peeled open with his musculature exposed to the air.
Okay, maybe that’s a little over dramatic. But it’s good to exercise one’s imagination, venerated old fart Aristotle has been quoted as saying that imagination is the foundation of all knowledge. So, really, Hitoshi is just doing the responsible thing by exercising his brain when he basically continues being allergic to sleep. How else is he expected to make up for the lost neurons or whatever it is that happens to his brain when it’s sleep deprived? Or, for that matter, pass the time when his bed acts more as a tomb than anything else?
Or…
…sufficiently distract himself from the constant, deep throbbing that pulsates in sync with his heartbeat like the clamor of a hammer striking steel.
It’s dreadfully effective in shrouding him completely in shame, ensuring that it is inescapable and forcing him to reflect. Replaying the previous day in unfortunate clarity and reminding him in full force like a speeding train that misbehaviour—no, that’s too soft of a word. That delinquency begets consequences.
(“The road you go on leads to a one-way trip to a detention center, Shinsou. Is that what you want? To be nothing more than a low-life criminal who can’t hold down a job and scrounge on the streets? What’s the use of going to that school if this is how you choose to act? Your teachers would be ashamed of you.”)
The sun has not yet peeked across the horizon as the morning hour is still far too early for any reasonable person to be up, but Hitoshi lives with thirty-four boys who would all stuff their faces at any given opportunity. As one of the eldest wards (that is most likely the only one awake and currently still in the throes of his penance), Hitoshi is obligated to actually be useful: it is he who is responsible for starting breakfast the majority of the time before the house-parent(s) on duty rouses the home awake.
To make the most of his wakefulness and likewise repaying his thanks to the house-parents who tirelessly tend to the home by helping shoulder some of their burden. A win-win. Logical.
(He gets the mother of all side-eyes and frustrated lectures if he sleeps in and wakes with the rest of the children, but he’s also not allowed an alarm as he could inadvertently wake his roommates too early.
“No one is going to respect you if you can’t stop thinking about yourself, Shinsou.”)
Unfortunately autopilot proves difficult to engage because as he cautiously slips out from his bed, it feels as though he’s been stung by a million murder hornets.
Hitoshi’s face automatically twists in a grimace that he is thankful no one witnesses. Under the cover of a muted darkness slowly being diluted by the vestiges of an early dawn, he shuffles like a frail, elderly person that’s a hundred years old. That is to say: slowly, and with measured movements, as to mitigate against the fire blazing across his backside that sears downwards his thighs while shooting sparks through his lower back.
The bright side is that this is a learning experience, in more ways than one. A correction for his idiocy, but also… training, in its own way. He would face much, much worse if he goes Underground. There are some universities that deliver special programs which give out lessons on withstanding various types of torture in Heroics, he’s looked it up! This is nothing.
He perseveres, because he’s not a loser. He stumbles out of the room and into the bathroom down the hall with his steps masked, just as Aizawa taught him how. He doesn’t switch on the lights because he has no need to look in the mirror. Or accidentally disturb anyone’s sleep, that too.
He tears a generous helping of toilet paper and turns the sink faucet slowly enough that the pipes do not rattle, lightly dampening the pad of tissues with warm water.
(Soaking the imposing rattan cane in warm water within the bathtub ensures that it is pliable and elastic, and ordering Hitoshi to be the one to prepare the cane forces the teen to face his mistakes directly head on.)
He almost applies liquid soap before remembering soap should be used to clean around the wound. And he really doesn’t have the energy, nor the time, to rinse any soap off afterwards.
(Wiping the cane down with antiseptic is done to prevent infection, and ordering Hitoshi to sanitize the implement that would soon be dappled with his blood emphasizes the severity of his actions, a numbing anticipation—dread—already formed.)
A hiss escapes through his teeth when he pulls down his pajama pants, the soft fabric grazing across his rear like it’s sandpaper instead. It bunches at his knees, and he bows his head as he leans against the counter to gently dab at the affected area.
Oh yeah. Ouch.
The skin is tender, swollen, emanating a certain heat and he feels his face flush uncomfortably. He keeps his gaze resolutely aimed at the sink’s countertop as he manually wills his thoughts to become occupied with discerning vague shapes against the laminate. Merely a moment of selfish respite, because he knows he’ll have plenty of time to self-reflect when he’ll be confined to a hard chair at school with the ache appropriately amplified and unavoidable.
So stupid. Just so fucking stupid. What is he, five years old? And still getting smacked.
(“This is my promise to you: I am here to keep you accountable, to offer guidance. I do not enjoy having to administer such severe consequences but I am here to ensure you succeed, Shinsou. Acting this way as an adult will land you in prison. And I am here to remind you of that.”)
Dejectedly, he wishes he could collect some gauze so he could have at least some peace of mind that he doesn’t accidentally stain his pants with blood or, gods forbid, his seat. But he needs explicit permission from a staff member to collect the first aid kit and a punishment is most effective when felt.
Well, it’s been hours since his…literal ass-beating (hah), it should all be scabbed up efficiently enough, and his boxers should provide enough as a protective barrier against any surprise blood trickles. Hopefully. He wonders if he should shoot out a quick prayer asking against any leaking.
Hitoshi gingerly wipes himself down with the tissues before wrapping the wet, used tissues with a strip of dry toilet paper, then subsequently hides it all underneath the scraps of rubbish in the bin beside the toilet. Flushing the tissues down the toilet would be too loud.
And it's then time for breakfast.
Movement rewards him with random levels of misery, seemingly so to keep him constantly vigilant; bending down to retrieve the dried kombu for the miso soup gives him only a small twinge, but standing still at the stove as he cooks the fish suddenly sends a spasm so great that he immediately swings his hands behind himself to caress his rear in a vain attempt to soothe the terrible ache, nearly dropping the pan and fish to the floor in the process.
Luckily, Hitoshi’s tear ducts have long since dried and shriveled up into a husk when he was told to lay on his knees and bend over the bed. He’s pretty sure his bed actually has a stain in the shape of his face with how much fluids he expelled from his eyes, nose and mouth. So he only sucks in a sharp breath at sudden aches that accost him now, so score, really.
(He fists the bedsheets with his knuckles turned white, he bites down on the duvet until his jaw aches, because if he makes a sound it’ll all start over. His world, his entire existence, has condensed into the bright agony that eats him alive and he just needs to hold on, just needs to ride this out to the end—
—but it’s endless. The pain doesn’t stop. Even when the cane finishes slicing through the air.)
The home eventually stirs awake, just as Hitoshi collects bowls and plates from the cabinets and sets it on the countertop to start portioning the meals. Mindless chattering drifts through the air as a rush of shuffling footsteps enter the fray, a blend of prepubescent and adolescent male energy suddenly flaring within the home as if a bomb detonated.
He hears the voice of Toyoda-san, one of the two house-parents on overnight duty, herding the boys for breakfast. And…
…Heavy, lumbering footsteps. Familiar slippered footsteps that belong to a man with at least a full head of height on Hitoshi, possessing bone white skin and the quirk Phantom Limbs; enabling him to summon an extra pair of limbs that float alongside those attached to his body.
A convenient quirk to have, when needing to wrangle brats.
Kojiro-san finds his way beside Hitoshi at the counter, chalky white in the teen’s periphery as the boy firmly keeps his eyes down at the fish he portions for a long line of waiting plates.
“Thank you for starting breakfast, Shinsou-kun.” Kojiro-san states mildly. Mellow, and perhaps even genuine. A far cry from last night. Hitoshi keeps his shoulders lax, a conscious effort, as to not let them rise to his ears as his feet merge with the floor.
Hitoshi dips his head in acknowledgement, the corners of his lips twitching in the approximation of a small smile that may also charitable be called a grimace. His voice has dissipated entirely, with his larynx becoming nothing more than a useless rock.
Kojiro-san gives his own nod. He continues standing there as in the background Toyoda-san starts his headcount, a silent spectre in Hitoshi’s space. Meanwhile, Hitoshi shrinks to the size of an insect, an ant on the pavement that has a magnifying glass looming just above it, of which uses the concentrated power of the entire sun to vaporize his body into a mere stain.
Sweat does not start to accumulate upon Hitoshi’s back. Kojiro-san has no reason to drag him upstairs by his hair again. The room is not getting smaller.
A whirlpool of apologies already churn through his mind as his voice attempts to rebuild without a foundation, continuously crumbling over and over, but Kojiro-san must’ve found what he was looking for, must’ve found Hitoshi’s meekness to be satisfactory. He steps away, and Hitoshi’s ribcage rattles with the breath he takes.
Then, a moment later:
“Hey.” A small voice whispers at his side.
Hitoshi looks to his right, and then downwards, at ten-year-old Miyata-kun who has sidled up next to him for—whatever reason.
Hitoshi automatically turns his head to peek at Kojiro-san, who is tidying the bed hair of a ward with his back turned, before he finds his voice.
“I’m not giving you extra fish.” Hitoshi mutters lowly, because that has the potential to start a meltdown if the rationing is unequal.
Miyata wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want that. I…” he mumbles, then gnaws on his lip nervously before uttering: “...You're hurt.”
Being reminded that the entire house knows he got his ass smacked like a little kid is not very conducive to his health.
Hitoshi feels an eye twitch, scowling at the food he prepares in annoyance. “I’m not. I’m fine.”
It’s supposed to hurt, you stupid moron. But Hitoshi can’t exactly say that with two adults nearby.
“I want to help.” Miyata actually has some impressive doe-eyes. “I’ll be quick. He won’t even notice.”
Hitoshi suppresses a sigh. He’s too tired to even feel any sense of gratitude towards the kid, who actually possesses a useful quirk. A healing quirk with the caveat that Miyata himself gets queasy when he uses it, but it’s a wonder that a kid like him is even living in an institution to begin with. Hopefully he’ll have family collect him sooner rather than later so they can put that big, stupid heart of his to good use.
“Don’t worry about me.” Hitoshi attempts to reassure, although his voice feels too monotone for that. “I’m fine. And you’re not supposed to use your quirk without permission.”
He almost tacks on ‘remember?’ at the end, but no one likes it when he asks questions and it’s too early to have the quirk regulator (re: muzzle) brought out.
(No one really needs to know that under Aizawa’s tutelage, he’s discovered he can activate Brainwash when someone answers any statements of his. He’s already deemed enough as a ‘high risk’ as is.)
The throbbing has been a constant. It’s a struggle to even stand as he is, let alone walk or even act as a regular human, and Miyata is too young, too good to learn lessons the hard way. Not yet.
“If you want to help, help me set the table.” Hitoshi finishes, and with a huff, Miyata graciously does so.
Why must UA insist on chairs that are hard and without cushions.
He will never take sitting for granted ever again. The ability to comfortably sit is a gift from the gods. He will not cry. He is not going to cry just because sitting hurts so much, because that’s so unimaginably stupid and immature. It’s as if he sits on lit coals with his skin bubbling and melting away, and there better not be a red imprint of his cheeks left on the chair. He would have to drop out and change his name (or, better yet, jump in front of a train) if any redness peaked through, no other option.
Whatever. The pain is just as much a lesson as is Sensei’s lecture. It hurts now, but it’s for his betterment and he’ll be properly thankful later. He knows this.
His body, unfortunately, is a traitor. He wriggles and shifts in his seat without his permission, face twitching slightly as no position offers any sense of relief to the point he nearly seriously considers asking Sensei if he could instead stand for the lesson.
His movements do not go unnoticed, regrettably, despite being seated near the rear and having a cold enough exterior that his classmates tend to leave him alone. His desk neighbour, Tobe-kun, fashions himself something as a comedian and whispers to his goons (quiet enough Sensei doesn’t hear but of course loud enough that Hitoshi does) that ‘aw poor Shinny-kun got hemorrhoids from his night job.’
Hitoshi spares the peanut gallery no glance even as heat coalesces across his face.
They can wag their tongues all they like. It’s even marginally better than the rumour that the reason he lives in an institution is because he maliciously Brainwashed his parents to his whims until they went mad. See, he knows how to be an optimist.
(He was left in a car under no shade in the middle of summer and nearly succumbed to heat stroke when he was ten, ahctually.)
The day stretches to an eternity. Minutes meld into hours and either the clock is malfunctioning or someone has hit him with a time alteration quirk because yesterday didn’t feel this sluggish.
Luckily, Hitoshi passes as a ghost in the halls. He isn’t stopped when he hisses in a breath or has to pause in his step to collect himself. No giggles sprout or whispers uttered with unsubtle points directed his way (not that it would matter if any of that did happen because he doesn’t care) when he peeks behind himself to check if any new stains sprouted. He doesn’t exist when he retreats into a bathroom to lock himself in a stall and wipe himself down again.
The tissues come back spotted red. He flushes them down the toilet and decides it’s not really that bad.
It’s good not having friends. He doesn’t have any hindrances or interruptions as he disappears into the background. No one cares if he only eats half his lunch. He’s not heckled at all, it’s peaceful.
It takes a billion years and he practically retains nothing in any class because Kojiro-san did his weekly workout last night when he walloped Hitoshi’s hide, but the final bell does eventually ring, signalling his freedom.
Today is one of the designated three days per week where, instead of walking straight home, he changes course to tread further into UA’s campus and meet up with Aizawa, either in one of the gyms or the woods.
Training. Mentored by Eraserhead, also known as the single coolest Hero in existence and Hitoshi will not hear otherwise. The best part of the day and…
(It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.)
…surely to be hell on Earth. But, well. It’s called training. Soreness after a good workout is natural because it means the body is steadily getting stronger and stronger. A sign of progress.
Aizawa will appreciate perseverance. It’s a good trait to have as a Hero.
He shimmies into his PE uniform and dons his capture scarf without halting, he walks briskly without a single wince because he’s already faced the worst of it, it’s only up from here. The woods await him.
Aizawa, predictably, is sitting by a tree and sleeping when Hitoshi approaches. When the teen gets close enough, Aizawa comes back to life and rises like a zombie from the grave, complete with the appropriate sound effects as the man’s knees crack and he huffs out a breath.
They start with some stretches. Aizawa says he’ll then run a lap. Easy-peasy.
Except they do a runner’s stretch and Hitoshi suddenly decides Aizawa might be trying to kill him slowly, because he’s clearly summoned a dog to maul his ass when Hitoshi wasn’t looking.
He’s bent over with his right leg extended when he sucks in a breath and full-on grimaces.
“Are you alright?”
Hitoshi refuses to be done in by a stretch.
He keeps position and turns his head to meet the blank stare through the dark curtains of his mentor’s hair.
“Peachy, Sensei. Just a little headache.” Hitoshi musters a smile that’s either sleazy or communicates nonchalance. He decides to flourish the statement with a (double!) thumbs up so there isn’t any confusion.
It’s hardly even a lie, really. Hitoshi is a frequent flyer when it comes to headaches, so even if he doesn’t currently have one he’s bound to get one, so he’s not lying. Technically.
Aizawa hums and folds his arms, assessing Hitoshi’s form. “Tell me if you need some ibuprofen. Headache or otherwise.”
Hitoshi nods his thanks. They continue and Hitoshi learns new fun ways to level up his pain tolerance.
Then, because maybe Aizawa doesn’t actually like him, the man sits and beckons the teen to do the same for a seated back twist stretch.
Hitoshi doesn’t hesitate or gripe because it’s just a stretch. He’ll be fighting villains if (when?) he gets his license and goes Underground. Alongside Eraserhead. Hopefully. He’s fine. If he keeps repeating it, then it’s true.
…
It’s as if he sits on a pile of glass shards.
“Stop. Get up.” Aizawa lets out a sigh and stands, Hitoshi quickly stumbling likewise and resisting the urge to caress where it feels like lemon and salt is being poured into an open wound. “Don’t make me ask a third time, kid. Are you alright? You’re wincing, your movements are stilted and you can’t sit. What happened?”
Hitoshi can feel his face turn red as if it's the onset of a fever, a rock of shame sinking down his gut and making his stomach drop to his feet.
Training hasn’t even begun. This must be some kind of world record in incompetency.
In the single most pathetic attempt in conversing the remaining scraps of his dignity, Hitoshi sputters, “I’m fine.”
Aizawa levels him with such a deeply unimpressed glare that Hitoshi almost feels himself physically shrink.
Hitoshi averts his gaze and rubs the back of his neck, mourning the fact he never wrote a will. “I fell. Down the stairs.”
That’s believable. Over a million people get injured falling down the stairs globally per year, and Hitoshi just so happened to fall (pun intended, it is good to find the humour in situations, just like Yamada once said) into that statistic.
Hitoshi likes to count himself as being a pretty good liar. Unfortunately, this moment will not be giving him any awards for best actor, as Aizawa purposefully lets the silence stretch to such an uncomfortable degree Hitoshi wilts like a dying flower and peeks upwards.
Aizawa re-folds his arms across his chest, and his voice comes out so dry that the Sahara weeps, devoid of any courtesy to Hitoshi’s ongoing survival. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Shinsou. Especially when it concerns your health. Try again, this time the truth or we will stop training indefinitely.”
Hitoshi knows that’s not an empty threat.
He winces, this time not out of physical pain. “I have… a bruise.”
The slow rising of Aizawa’s brow rings like a death knell.
“On my butt.” Hitoshi forcefully blurts like pulling a long splinter out from underneath a nail, because otherwise he’d have to be waterboarded for him to say so. He coughs awkwardly. “It’s, uh, uncomfortable. I got it last night.”
If there is any god out there, they would hear Hitoshi’s prayers pleading for this to be enough. That Aizawa needs no more, surely. Hitoshi told the truth and the conversation is done, literally no one needs to talk about his ass.
Aizawa nods as if Hitoshi didn’t just say something completely mortifying. “Alright. That’s a start. Now explain to me the circumstances of how you acquired it.”
“Do you want that in interpretative dance or song?”
Hitoshi has a terminal illness called ‘foot in mouth syndrome.’
“Do you need me to make you sit to tell me?” Aizawa asks deceptively mildly.
“Sorry, Sensei. Uhm.”
Hitoshi awkwardly fidgets where he stands, mindlessly picking his pant leg and then immediately regretting any movement as a lightning bolt courses from his rear down his thighs.
Aizawa sighs, uncrossing his arms and relaxing his shoulders. Hitoshi idly wonders if he should be writing down notes on how the man lightens the weightiness of the air between them with a simple change of posture, because that’s obviously a useful skill to cultivate. Aizawa speaks next with words shaped gently, existing without any sharp edges.
“Your wellbeing is important to me, Shinsou. I need you to tell me of any physical injuries you might have in order to structure our training around it and, if severe enough, to help you properly recover. You look miserable, kid. It’s clearly not just any bruise as it appears to be hindering basic movement. Telling me the truth allows me to better help you.”
Words hide away from Hitoshi, burrowing into his throat and existing as a knot in his throat.
Generally, if he is under Aizawa’s attention, Hitoshi tends to preen silently—as completely embarrassing that is to admit, even to himself. But now, with the man’s gaze boring holes straight into his soul and underlined with something Hitoshi can’t quite properly discern (Concern? That can’t be right, but guilt spears through the teen regardless), Hitoshi wishes he could simply…disappear. To have the man’s eyes simply glide over him as if he doesn’t truly exist, just as his schoolmates, teachers, roommates and house-parents are content in doing.
Just as Hitoshi sprouts the thought of suddenly asserting he needs to use the bathroom in order to flee, like a coward, Aizawa brings a hand forward to caress one of Hitoshi’s shoulders.
The man squeezes reassuringly, an anchor in turbulent waters and his gaze resolute.
“I am the adult here Shinsou, you are under my care. It helps no one to hide an injury, and only hurts yourself. I can’t have you develop that as a habit, Mic would never forgive me.”
Well. Being a Hero isn’t always glamorous, and owning up to one’s mistakes is not only a fundamental part of life but also makes someone a good person.
“...I got in trouble. Last night, at home.”
Hitoshi allows himself to feel a morsel of pride at the fact he was able to maintain eye contact as he confesses to what feels like a crime.
Aizawa’s hand slips from his shoulder to stroke the boy’s bicep in encouragement. “By ‘trouble’ am I to infer you misbehaved in some way?”
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Did your misbehaviour include how you got your injury, or was your injury incurred afterwards?”
It’s really unfair that the ground hasn’t opened up to swallow Hitoshi whole yet.
“I was punished.” He grumbles.
“…You were punished.” Aizawa intones with his voice flat, revealing nothing as no sneer or displeasure becomes discernible as the man nods slowly. “Which resulted in injury so great you have difficulties with walking.”
Hitoshi shrugs helplessly, stepping back and dislodging Aizawa’s hand that was still upon his arm. He feels his face twist as he suddenly wishes to have a quirk that allows him to sprout quills from his skin instead.
(Well, anything would be better than Brainwash—)
It’s like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers.
“It’s only the day after. It’ll… get better. Gone in a week or two. It’s—” he huffs a breath and bows, “—I’m sorry, Sensei. It is not my intention to waste your time, I’ll do better, you have my word. I won’t let it get in the way of training, I promise.”
Hitoshi keeps his gaze pointed downwards at Aizawa’s boots even as the man responds.
“Your health is not a waste of time, Shinsou.” The man sighs. “Was an implement used?”
Fascinating that the man can speak so plainly despite giving Hitoshi heart palpitations.
Hitoshi jerks his head upwards and feels his discontent rise to morph his face. “Sensei…”
He’s not whining.
Aizawa raises a hand in a placating manner. “I do not ask to embarrass you, Shinsou. I am attempting to assess the severity of the damage.”
Unbidden, a spark of annoyance crackles like a split fuse. It’s irrational, but the feeling of redness polluting his face is still so strong, an uncomfortable glow as if his face is painted with a sheen of oil.
“What, are you going to ask me to drop my pants next?” He grouses as he places his hands on his hips, a paltry (and desperate) attempt to forge some stable ground as it feels like he walks on a tightrope hung across a deep cavern.
It doesn’t work, of course. Aizawa remains nonplussed. Hitoshi’s feet suddenly slips from that tightrope.
Hitoshi feels his shoulders begin to hike towards his ears. “Sorry—”
Aizawa raises a hand and Hitoshi’s words promptly die on his tongue.
“Your discomfort isn’t unwarranted, I understand that this concerns an intimate area. But,” with one word, the doom of Hitoshi’s dignity commences. “If you did allow me to observe, and only with your explicit permission, I would be able to assess your condition immediately. It would be easier and quicker for the both of us.”
It’s rational. He knows this. Completely logical to visually assess an injury. He trusts Aizawa implicitly, has had the man look him over after they sparred, and would readily allow the man to evaluate any damage if it were literally any part of his body.
Hitoshi has no idea when he became such a prude, but surely it isn’t unjustified that he doesn’t particularly want to moon his teacher in the woods.
But.
Training hasn’t even properly begun, and if Aizawa can appraise the…
‘Damage’ is too serious. Appraise the discomfort, then they can move on already, and get to what’s actually important. But regardless of this fact, knowing he encumbers Aizawa further by forcing the man to accommodate him because he got himself punished like a little kid last night is akin to swallowing down bile.
Hitoshi sighs, throwing his head back in just the right amount of theatrics. “Okay. Fine. I’ll, uh, turn around and let you see.”
“Only if you’re comfortable with it, kid. If you prefer, you can have this conversation with Recovery Girl instead.”
As if this needs to be dragged out more than it already has.
Hitoshi snorts. “And ruin this bonding moment we’re having? I would never, Sensei.”
Aizawa rolls his eyes. “Is that your way of saying you trust me enough to visually assess your injury, then?”
“Is that your way of telling me to hurry up?”
“Yes.”
And despite it all, Hitoshi actually finds himself with a small grin, the prior tenseness of his body slightly alleviated like a relieved muscle cramp.
But there’s literally nothing that could’ve been done that would have pacified all the awkwardness of the situation, with Hitoshi’s face quickly resembling a tomato as he turns on his heel.
He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his pants and underwear, allows himself not one second more of hesitation, and slips them down to mid-thigh. He presses his legs together as if his life depends on it.
Fabric grazing across his rear makes a hiss of discontent to form in his throat, and the cool air sprouting goose pimples across his skin reminds him distantly that he should probably apply ice. Kojiro-san should have switched with another house-parent by now, so Hitoshi should be able to garner permission to do so.
It cannot be more than a handful of seconds, certainly never reaching a minute, but there is something about baring his literal ass to an authority figure he actually respects that makes time slow to a crawl.
“Okay. Pull those up, I’ve seen enough.” Comes Aizawa’s gruff voice. Sanctuary is given and Hitoshi is quick to take it. When he turns with his pants where they should be, Aizawa is looking skyward as if pleading with the heavens to give him strength.
Which, fair.
“And this happened last night?” Aizawa eventually drawls, tipping his head forward to fix Hitoshi with a piercing gaze.
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Administered by a guardian?”
Hitoshi swallows down a disbelieving scoff. He almost points out how that’s such an illogical question to posit, because who else would have done it?
“Sure as hell wasn’t a roommate, I have some standards, y’know.” Hitoshi snarks out.
“Name?”
Hitoshi blinks. “Uh, Shinsou Hitoshi?”
“Not you, the name of the house-parent who did this to you.”
“Oh.” Obviously, duh, great job Hitoshi, you moron. “Kojiro Masanori-san, Sensei.”
“Done with a cane?”
Hitoshi knows he visibly cringes.
He wasn’t able to keep count. Kojiro-san thankfully didn’t order him to do so, as he lost count after only seven strokes because the man would fully wind back his arm the same way Hitoshi imagines an executioner would when beheading someone. Hitoshi knows he has a series of angry lines that mar his skin, he feels it all pulsate from underneath his pants as a constant reminder that make his knees weak and eyes dampen, with the phantom sounds of the implement carving through the air and the subsequent nausea-inducing ringing of his flesh being struck still very present in his ears.
(It’s sharp, as if he’s been stabbed instead, with each consecutive stroke acting like the knife twisting further. Shredding his skin like it’s wet tissue paper.
He receives a single, hard stroke to the small of his back. A penalty strike for his continued crying. It causes him to arch upwards with a shattered shout, activating the childish instinct to scramble that he is too weak to curb and too desperate to heed. But hands secure him where he is like manacles.
“You’ve brought this upon yourself, Shinsou. I don’t want to hear anything from you unless it’s an apology.”)
The lesson stuck.
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Are physical punishments the go-to means of discipline at home?”
Hitoshi’s skin crawls at that.
“I don’t try to get in trouble, Sensei.”
At an early age Hitoshi learned how to write his name with the Latin alphabet in English class. So he knows his first name shares the same beginning letter with ‘hypocrite,’ which is clearly some cosmic sign, because it was his deliberate actions that left him without the ability to sit. He chose this.
Aizawa’s face changes shape: the icy starkness thaws and something tender rises to the surface. It nearly startles Hitoshi into stumbling backwards and falling on his tattered rear end.
“I believe you.” The man says, conviction swaddled in the fleece of gentleness and so wholly bewildering.
Oh. Okay. Hitoshi can’t remember the last time an adult said they believed him. For anything. It’s—kinda nice.
And perhaps it is because it’s Aizawa (oh who is he kidding. It’s absolutely because it’s Aizawa), that something breaks. Some tenuous thread unraveling because it still feels like he’s standing precariously close to a fire but Aizawa doesn’t appear to have any intention of pushing him into it.
“I have a curfew, and I’m meant to go home straight after school. You already know that.” Hitoshi aimlessly kicks at a pebble on the ground. “Last night I… came home late, on purpose, for no good reason, other than I didn’t feel like doing what I'm supposed to do.”
(He’s a long established resident of the children’s home. He knows well that this means he is an unwanted child who is predestined into becoming one of the forgotten dregs of society, a failure of a son that exists only as a stain in need of removal.
The home is not a small building, but there is no space to breathe. The walls echo an endless symphony of scorn and frustration directed towards him because Hitoshi knows he is too much, he understands that he is not easy to deal with. Each room possesses a mirror that reflects back to him every moment he’s been shaken, slapped and smacked with either a hairbrush or slipper or wooden spoon (or an extension cord, or a belt, or a flyswatter, or a spatula, or, or, or—), because Hitoshi knows he requires constant correction. He’s not like the other kids. He’s rotten. He wants to change, but he does not know how to change.
He needs help, and he understands that such a thing can sometimes leave a bruise.
Entering the age of majority is a daunting thing. He won’t have second chances, not like he does at the home.)
Hitoshi continues. “Kojiro-san works every other week and mostly does overnight shifts. He and I have never really… got along? He doesn’t like it when I talk, but a lot of people don’t, so, whatever. He’s what I would call, a real pain in the ass.”
Hitoshi swears he hears the sound of Yamada cackling like a hyena at that one. Making light of a situation helps manage stress, he read that somewhere.
Aizawa reacts with only a slight twitching of his lips that Hitoshi has the distinct impression of which is done out of pity.
Hitoshi coughs into his fist. “Yeah, anyway. I snuck back in. I wasn’t really thinking, I didn’t have a plan, I just wanted to hole up in my room and fast forward to tomorrow. Kojiro-san wasn’t too happy, but I guess who would be, if one of the runts under your charge just didn’t show up for hours. Yeah.”
(It was a fool’s gambit to assume he could quietly enter and sneak against the wall unnoticed. At this point, maybe he actually wanted to get smacked around, because his actions certainly implied as much.
He had no chance from the very beginning, but his grave was dug when a younger roommate quickly scattered in order to tattle.
Not that Hitoshi blames the brat, not really. He would’ve done the same at the kid’s age. It’s the fastest way to receive attention from an adult.
When heavy footsteps soon followed and his limbs suddenly locked in response, he quickly debated on throwing his school bag as a distraction to allow escape. But when a hand suddenly materialized to fist his hair, he knew it was hopeless, and so he instead bared teeth, just like a rabid dog that needs to be shot.)
His throat suddenly tightens, and Hitoshi brings a hand upwards to rub the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I used my quirk.” The words feel like rocks grinding upon his tongue, and once they float in the air does Hitoshi realize what a damnation that is. He quickly scrambles to explain, though he knows he isn’t justified. “He was, uhm, yelling—”
(and I got scared)
“—because we got into an argument and I called him a, uh, useless sack of shit.”
He almost expects the man to admonish him with a single ‘language,’ as he tends to do, but Aizawa merely nods to show that he is listening. Somehow, the single action emboldens Hitoshi enough to finish.
“I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t use my quirk out of anger, and I did release him and I didn’t argue about my punishment. I didn’t fight him.”
If there is one thing that can be said about Hitoshi: it’s that he knows when he’s trounced. He accepts his defeats. His—failures.
Hitoshi’s face is expertly blank. And he’ll also accept any dues Aizawa may feel like imposing after being subject to such word vomit.
Aizawa gazes back. He speaks, his words melded with a soft timbre like an extra blanket on a cold night.
“Thank you for telling me, Shinsou. Thank you for trusting me, it is not something I take lightly, kid. While your actions were… objectionable and I know you know better, I understand why you acted the way you did. It is clear to me, from what you just told me and the severity of your injury, that Kojiro-san, if not your home situation as a whole, has proven to be violent.”
Hitoshi has never taken Aizawa to be someone who was needlessly dramatic. Perhaps he took theatre when he was in school.
Aizawa continues. “You were not entirely without logic in your actions. It is reasonable to want to avoid a person or situation that you know could harm you. The marks currently on your body tell me that Kojiro-san has a very personal distaste for you. Your home environment should not leave you bleeding, Shinsou. You should be appropriately disciplined, not beaten by someone acting as your guardian.”
Hitoshi stares at the man like an idiot for a moment. His brain is then able to untangle Aizawa’s words a second later.
“What are you talking about?” Hitoshi scoffs with a mixture of bewilderment and offense. “I wasn’t beaten.”
What is he, some frail, feeble caricature of a human that sits prostrate on the floor while being whipped?
Hitoshi thinks his insides have all been scooped out with a rusty spoon. If Aizawa thinks that of him, then Hitoshi is going to break apart like shattered glass.
Aizawa sighs. “And what would you call it?"
“A—” Hitoshi nearly swallows his tongue, then wishes he had as he feels all his blood suddenly rush to his face. “—S-spanking.”
Forget swallowing his tongue, he needs to get a knife and cut it out, and hopefully choke to death in the process. Embarrassment rushes white-hot through his body as if he was struck by lightning. Now is the time to curl up into a tight ball and have wild dogs tear him apart.
The worst part being that it’s technically true. At sixteen, still needing to get his ass beat. He needs to disappear immediately.
“Shinsou.” Aizawa slices through Hitoshi’s embarrassment like a hot knife through butter, his voice level. “Corporal punishment of any form against children has been prohibited, by law, in this country long before quirks even existed. In school and at home. It has been proven time and time again to do more harm than good. It only fosters fear and resentment in the child, not good manners.”
Hitoshi stares.
Are they still speaking Japanese? Have Hitoshi’s ears spontaneously combusted? Has he slipped through reality and landed in some upside-down, alternate version of existence?
Somehow, the man still speaks without the weight of judgement despite the fact Hitoshi has done nothing but constantly humiliate himself in front of the man enough for a lifetime. Where there should be the thunderous clouds of denouncement looming across the horizon, there is instead only the light rustling of leaves overhead carried by a gentle breeze; Aizawa’s cadence is pleasant, despite his words feeling equivalent to running head-on into a brick wall.
“That’s… Pre-Quirk.” Hitoshi eventually musters.
“And?” Aizawa flatly asks. “We have plenty of laws that were enacted Pre-Quirk that are still in effect today.”
Hitoshi feels his face do a series of twitches, because it is unfathomable he has to explain this to the likes of Aizawa.
“I used my quirk.” He grounds out. “You know, Brainwash? The one that turns people into zombies? That I have to see a quirk counselor twice a week for? I should—” his throat bobs, his mouth suddenly dry, “—I should be arrested, Sensei.”
The fact that such laws have existed since Pre-Quirk is not an assurance: it merely means it hasn’t been properly modified to keep with the new age. It is obsolete in a time wherein a child can wield the power to make slaves at will.
It’s why he has a muzzle (it’s why Bakugou was chained and muzzled), his individual comfort cannot supersede the literal safety of others. It isn’t even ‘drastic times call for drastic measures,’ it’s simply common sense.
He needs to be set on the straight and narrow because if he stumbles, it’s dangerous. So what, so what if he can’t sit for like, a week? Better the lesson finally be cemented now, where he only gets a few strokes instead of a criminal record, or, or… he hurts someone.
(Because it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?
“You're just like a ticking time bomb, you know that?”)
A shadow flickers across Aizawa’s face. A crack revealing grief underneath.
The man’s voice is measured. Calm, steady as the ground they stand upon but shaking Hitoshi to his core like an earthquake.
“Accidental quirk usage, especially those done under stressful circumstances or as an involuntary action, isn’t a criminal offence, kid. Likewise, self-defense isn’t considered morally corrupt. And I believe you when you say you released him once you realized what you had done. I know you too well to ever believe you would use your quirk maliciously, Shinsou.”
Hitoshi’s ribcage has been split open with his heart seized in a fist that squeezes.
Aizawa is an enigma, Hitoshi has come to understand. He realized as much the first time the man offered to take him to dinner after training, and then continued to do so even when Hitoshi politely declined three times in a row, only falling folly to the man’s hospitality when his stomach growled loud enough for both of them to hear and therefore could not logically decline. He’s a puzzle Hitoshi has yet to complete, never once reminding the teen of the certain debt he owes to him after they go get take-out together. Instead, the man is seemingly aways content to review Hitoshi’s homework and unfathomably willing to walk the teen to the train station home.
It should be patronizing and condescending. Hitoshi’s sixteen, he doesn’t even share any classes with Aizawa (yet?), and the man infringes without a care regardless, like a wandering bull knocking down shelves of ceramic. He imposes on Hitoshi’s life like he’s reaching his arm down Hitoshi’s throat to tear him apart inside out.
Despite all his touting about being rational and logical, Aizawa exists as a sphinx that only speaks in riddles because his words were borne with a confidence that could only suggest he believes what he says.
It makes Hitoshi’s skin feel too tight on his body. It makes his gut twist like a pile of snakes with a pressure building behind his eyes that causes him to blink dumbly at the man.
“...Thanks.” He rasps eventually, because he doesn’t know what else to say (what is there to say?), the word tasting like plastic. His mind whirs like a sputtering engine, desperate to cling onto the first lifebuoy, and so without any grace:
“Wait, it wasn’t self-defense—”
Appropriately, Aizawa now sounds tired. “We can argue the schematics all you like later, but as it stands: you have severe bruising, welts and open wounds which are actively bleeding on an area of your body meant to take your weight daily. It is something that can take upwards to six months or more to heal on its own.” He affixes Hitoshi with a look that communicates not to argue, but the man should know better by now. Hitoshi doesn’t know how to listen, non-verbal commands included. “We are going to Recovery Girl, even if that means I have to carry you kicking and screaming, kid.”
And that cannot… possibly be right.
Three weeks. Tops. Sure, Kojiro-san did his due diligence in creating a paradox: numbing Hitoshi’s body into a husk but also amplifying every nerve in the teen’s body to as if his flesh is sizzling like meat on a grill. But. It’s a bruise and some cuts. Aizawa cannot think so lowly of him. He can’t, please.
Contrary to popular belief, Hitoshi does in fact possess some self-preservation; he doesn’t attempt to contradict Aizawa’s statement, as he comes to the belated realization he hasn’t actually seen Kojiro-san’s magnum opus.
Hitoshi had been ordered to tidy his (and by extension, his roommates’) room directly after his caning.
(Ugh, his ‘caning.’ Somehow a ‘beating’ actually does sound better.)
His eyes were still puffy, nearly swollen shut, with his face tear-stained and breathing confined to his mouth as snot dripped with his nose. He choked down on his sniffles and piloted a body that could only burn, silently counting his blessings: at least he wasn’t told to sit on a hard chair and forced to stare at a wall for next three hours in order to ‘think about his actions,’ something Hitoshi lamentably has experience with. Instead, he shuffled about with his mind burrowed into itself like a snake swallowing itself from its tail, the trickling of blood weeping down his thighs hardly even registering as every occupant of the home pretended he didn’t exist. Then, he showered (watching a river of red go down the drain between his legs) and was sent to bed without dinner.
He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it well enough, chafing against the fabric of his underwear with the same stinging he imagines pouring hot sauce into his eyes would feel.
Aizawa just needs to visit an optometrist. His constant dry eye is not doing him any favours, clearly, if he can misjudge an injury that severely.
Six months. Please.
Hitoshi changes tactics. “I’m probably going to be actually beaten and stabbed and shot in the line of Hero work and this is what you’re worried about?”
And Aizawa continues being bullheaded. “And when you are conducting Hero work, those are all risks you understand and accept and are prepared for, you have training for such situations. You should not be afraid of going home, Shinsou.”
“I’m not scared.” He used to be so good at lying, he has no idea what happened. He blames the man in front of him. Before Aizawa can make a pick at his fib like a vulture, Hitoshi continues. “It was a punishment. I’m not supposed to like it.”
“I’m aware. The fact remains that this type of punishment is illegal and you need to be tended to.”
It’s like he’s playing the world’s worst mental chess game with the man, as Hitoshi fumbles with a defense.
“Well just because something is illegal doesn’t necessarily mean it’s wrong…”
“If you feel the need to get this out of your system, you are more than welcome to write me an essay on the definitions and particulars between legality, moralism and ethics, I would happily grade it, Shinsou.” Aizawa coolly drawls. “We’ve done enough talking. I’ve heard and seen enough, now let’s get you to Recovery Girl. You need to be healed.”
This is so stupid.
Arguing with a brick wall stupid. He feels his face become what some might say is a glare, but what Aizawa would title as a pout as the man is entirely untouched by Hitoshi’s plight, the heartless asshole.
Because Hitoshi clearly hasn’t suffered enough. He needs to bury himself; either in a pile of blankets never to resurface, or in a grave. Whichever comes first.
“I can still walk, I walked to school.” Hitoshi grouses. It lacks any venom, like an infant that’s teething with soft gums instead of sharp canines ready to rip and tear.
Just—
He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Aizawa feels the need to drag this out like he’s towing a body through hot coals when Hitoshi already gets it, he already understands he royally screwed up.
He wishes Aizawa would just smack him instead. A cuff upside his head or even—a punch to the jaw that would rattle his teeth and have him inadvertently bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Just like his middle school coach enthusiastically had done when Hitoshi tried to skip PE the one and only time.
Aizawa would instill his message faster that way, instead of trying to demonstrate to Hitoshi, in excruciating detail, how he wastes everyone’s time when he gets in trouble.
(‘Illegal,’ Aizawa had said. He has to be misinformed or even, paradoxically, too soft. Because surely, as one of the top Hero schools in the whole of Japan, UA has its own designated quarter or dungeons —Plus Ultra!—made to privately discipline students. Nothing of the sort was in the student handbook that Hitoshi received upon orientation, but surprises are always remembered better.)
It almost hurts more, to be spoken to like he’s a toddler whose yet to understand that his actions have consequences by the man. Especially by Aizawa. Hitoshi would prefer the punch, quick and easy and logical, letting the man vent out his frustrations and allowing Hitoshi to gauge the man’s true strength; none of that holding back Aizawa usually does during training.
“Then you can walk with me to Recovery Girl.” Aizawa dictates, his tone final. “Do not think I will not haul you on my shoulders, kid.”
Hitoshi huffs an irritated sigh as he shoves his fists into his pockets, muttering: “Whatever.”
The teen strides forward, a march that would have been so frigid and inhospitable that he could’ve parted a crowd like the Red Sea with ease—if not for the immediate wincing that accosts him when deep aches reverberate throughout his body with each step.
Aizawa falls into step beside him like his shadow. Silence becomes their third companion, as not even the woods dare to breathe, and Hitoshi doesn’t even have the energy to appreciate how he and Aizawa’s postures are mirrored.
It’s useless asking because he already knows the answer, but Hitoshi does so anyway.
“Are we… not training anymore…?”
The answer received is flat.
“Not today, no.”
Hitoshi already knew that. Regardless, he’s tired (and sore enough) to mourn the loss all the same.
Not today. Specifically today. Aizawa didn’t say indefinitely or not anymore or don’t bother meeting with me after school because you’re expelled. Just today.
He waits before opening his mouth again, pausing for the air around them to decompress so as to not fray Aizawa’s last nerve.
Hitoshi picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “...Is it really that bad?” He ventures tentatively.
Aizawa scoffs. “What, your injury, Kojiro-san’s actions against you or your living situation? Because yes, all of those are that bad.”
Luckily, his brain doubles as a translator for Angry-Adult-to-Japanese: ‘You do everything wrong, you make everyone around you angry, and you shouldn’t have been born,’ is what is read between the lines.
Hitoshi blinks in rapid succession, because there’s suddenly dust in his eyes. “Oh. Okay. M’Sorry.”
To mumble at his feet is disrespectful, he knows this, but the sharpness of Aizawa’s voice cleaves him apart like a butchered animal that is strung up on a hook. When Aizawa comes to a halt beside him, Hitoshi automatically pauses in tandem, his body probably small enough to be crushed underneath the man’s heavy-looking boots.
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” Comes Aizawa’s gentle voice, coaxing the teen to look upwards at the man dazedly. “I am not mad at you. You are not in trouble, alright? What happened to you last night shouldn’t have been allowed to happen, kid. It was wrong.”
Aizawa may not fit the definition of needlessly cruel (key word being needlessly), but ‘brutal’ and ‘merciless’ are both titles anyone with half a brain would ascribe to the man. It's what Hitoshi quietly defines the man’s next action as, when Aizawa raises an arm to slowly (telegraphing his movement, Hitoshi peripherally acknowledges, because the man clearly knows Hitoshi is a flight risk) pat the teen’s shoulder.
At this point, Hitoshi has been taught that arguing is fruitless. He has no energy left to go around in circles endlessly (it’s a bone deep weariness, it’s a bone deep ache), and so instead he merely nods before the pair recontinue walking.
If Hitoshi knew he was gonna have to drop his pants twice for two separate adults to study his ass that feels like ground beef, he would not have gotten up this morning.
He expects Recovery Girl to cluck her tongue and wag her finger disapprovingly at him, then to step on her soapbox to go on a spiel about how bad boys only get what they deserve, or whatever.
But what would UA be, if not a constant flip on his expectations? It’s probably in their policy, written in the teacher manual and everything, to keep students on their toes. Contractually obligated to throw kids in for a loop, because Recovery Girl… repeats Aizawa’s sentiments. Twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern; if Yamada were to suddenly materialize, would the man echo it all back? It was wrong, it will take months to heal on its own, you were assaulted.
Perhaps that’s the disservice, because neither Aizawa nor Recovery Girl have gone quite so far, yet. Which is most likely strategic on their part, since if they were to assert as much, Hitoshi knows he would respond with…
He doesn’t know, actually. A scowl, an argument, both or lowering himself so deep into a pit he would fit the description of catatonic. Something ugly, either way. Because if it is (allegedly) illegal, then that’s what it would legally be defined as, wouldn’t it?
(And if it is—allegedly—illegal and objectively wrong and an affront to everyone’s morals, then why did it happen, over and over? Why can Hitoshi point to any part of his body and recount a moment someone hurt him there? Why can Hitoshi put multiple faces to the pain?)
Hitoshi doesn’t feel like he’s been assaulted.
He feels heavy, as if his feet have been trapped in a block of cement and then was subsequently thrown into the ocean to sink into the murky depths.
He feels tired, despite having done practically nothing the entire day. Perhaps his body is finally urging him to catch up on what must be weeks if not months worth of lost sleep.
He lays face down (obviously) on a cot, Recovery Girl content with her inspection and promising a restful slumber when she’ll administer her quirk—after Aizawa speaks with him.
Hitoshi’s mentor had stepped out (thank fuck) when the nurse got an eyeful of his ‘posterior,’ and now Aizawa and Recovery Girl trade places. He suspects the older woman does so to mentally prepare herself for having to kiss an injury of such unfortunate placement. Hitoshi’s pants are pooled mid thigh but a blanket is draped over him to conserve his modesty. He quietly laments that he still has to bare his ass at least one more time for when the nurse waddles back after whatever chat Aizawa needs to impart.
Aizawa pulls out a chair to sit beside the cot, showing no intention in ordering Hitoshi to sit as he settles in his seat with what looks to be a somber expression. The man’s perpetual eyebags appear to have grown, the portrait of a man overworked and underappreciated and Hitoshi sympathizes; discussing at length the state of his student’s rear could not have ever been something Aizawa could’ve foresaw in any circumstance or reality. He clearly does not get paid enough for this.
“I want to explain what happens next before you go under, Shinsou.” Aizawa states, remarkably similar to a doctor about to deliver devastating news like on those medical dramas.
Hitoshi snorts. “I don't think you could’ve phrased that any more ominously, Sensei.”
“Better now than let you wake with no bearings.” Aizawa’s lips quirk in a small smirk, one that quickly recedes with his next set of words. “I won’t beat around the bush: what happened to you was both illegal and appalling. It is my moral and legal responsibility to report it, as a teacher, as a Hero, but most importantly: as someone who cares about you.”
It’s devious, really. But Aizawa is known to use underhanded tactics, so it all tracks; employing some pretty words, asserting that he cares and making Hitoshi’s heart shrivel up like a dried prune, in order distract from the spiked pit he intends to throw the teen into with admission of reporting.
Cruel, yes. Aizawa can be cruel; when he orders extra laps or springs a surprise quiz on rescue methods or when he blithely told Hitoshi that giving up on Heroics was still an option when the teen kept mismanaging his capture scarf.
But surely this is a (traitorous) depth Aizawa would not stoop to. To leave Hitoshi in the dark abyss for him to disappear, condemning the teen to take his last breath where he will be cold and alone and forgotten, because the home is his last chance.
He’s Hitoshi’s mentor. He’s verbally described himself with the title so Aizawa can’t, he wouldn’t leave Hitoshi in pieces. He can’t.
And yet Hitoshi lies on a bed glass, shards skewering his flesh and ensuring it is impossible that he is made whole.
(Just—just thrash him, use him as a punching bag or garrote him with the capture scarf. Anything. It would be cathartic for the man, no doubt, to clear the air and then—maybe, hopefully, probably—bring Aizawa back to his senses.
But Hitoshi never gets what he wants.)
Hitoshi isn’t aware he is shaking his head until he sees Aizawa grimace.
The Earth rotates around the Sun and the sky is blue and grass is green; these are all indisputable facts of existence that a toddler can recite, just as is the stark truth that occurs here in this very room. A pattern, over and over, that Hitoshi can no longer ignore.
His parents, his middle school ‘friends’ and teachers, the house-parents—
And now Aizawa. Nothing is permanent. No one stays. Hitoshi is alone and now it’s Aizawa who will depart and leave a hole to gape in Hitoshi’s chest.
He had thought he’d since morphed his skin into armour after all these years (after all his fuck ups), a house of impenetrable steel but of course it all comes crumbling down into a pathetic heap (always fucking up, no longer a son, the Villain, a humiliating defeat in the Sports Festival, never a Hero), because he knows. He knows he can’t survive this.
Because now it’s Aizawa, please, not Aizawa—
“Hitoshi.”
He’s forcefully pulled back into the present. The wind is knocked out of him, despite having been sinking into the mattress of the cot. He blinks. Then must blink again, as the man’s image is blurred at the edges.
He must’ve misheard or simply had an audial hallucination, because Aizawa speaking his name with such softness that it borders on the edge of tenderness has only ever been something that existed in his sporadic dreams.
“I understand. I do.” Aizawa says, the words laboured. “I’m sorry that I have to intrude, I’m sorry I have to cross this line without your permission, but I need you safe. And if that means I have to interfere with your personal life, then so be it. If you hate me for it, that’s fine, but I promise you it's for the best. I promise you I will do everything in my power to help you and ensure your safety.”
The thing is, Hitoshi would love to hate the man, and maybe he will after Recovery Girl knocks him out because then he’ll be well rested enough to fan the flames and try to drag Aizawa into the pyre with him.
As it stands, it feels as though he is descending in quicksand.
Then Aizawa reaches forward, his calloused palm finding Hitoshi’s limp hand and blanketing it gently.
And people call Hitoshi manipulative.
“If all goes well, you’re going to be staying with me for the foreseeable future.” Aizawa says, he just says, like that makes any sense whatsoever, like he didn’t just blitz all of Hitoshi’s sense of awareness. And then he just continues saying things. “Well, myself and Hizashi, as we live together. We’re both licensed carers, and we have the law on our side concerning emergency custody over you due to the severity of the situation and our positions as Heroes. I know it’s sudden and I know it’s confusing, but he and I both have your back. We’re here for you, kid.”
This is a lot of information to deal with all at once. His head is starting to ring like the onset of tinnitus. Hitoshi thinks he might actually just black out by himself as a survival mechanism. Assuming he isn’t already dreaming.
Aizawa’s hand is still miraculously set upon Hitoshi’s own, he can see it, he can feel it, he apparently didn’t just fantasize that little moment. It’s a reassuring warmth that almost relieves the persistent ache of his bruised and battered behind.
His head doesn’t feel properly screwed on, as if it’s instead a rock that’s tumbling down a mountain and ready to squash an unsuspecting bystander, so he latches onto the first thing he can in order to reel it all back into focus.
“You live with Mic-sensei?”
Somehow, that’s both the most surprising and unsurprising part of Aizawa’s spiel.
“Yes.” Aizawa says, lips turning upwards in a small but significant smile, which instantly tells Hitoshi the pair might be a little more than just roommates. “We have three cats as well.”
Well, that just brings Hitoshi’s previous thought to a neat close, all tied together with a pretty bow, because owning cats together is definitely, unequivocally—ob-vi-ou-sly—some married people shit.
“Woah.” Hitoshi blinks, thinking of contented purrs and soft fur to distract himself how utterly delusional everything has suddenly become. “Cool. That almost makes uprooting my entire life worth it, Sensei.”
Aizawa sighs. “It will be. It may not feel… agreeable at the moment, but think rationally: Hizashi and I have the means and the willingness to care for you, you have an established rapport with us and we will guarantee all your needs are sufficiently met. We purchased an apartment with two extra bedrooms for the express purpose of one day housing children. These are not ideal circumstances, but this is the most ideal solution.”
‘One day housing children,’ okay. Oh-kay. Hitoshi can’t quite figure out if this moment feels like he’s won the world’s biggest lottery, or if he’s just been run over by a train.
(It’s not fucking permament, it doesn’t mean anything, Hitoshi is quick to internally berate himself, before it can bloom into something terrible.)
“And you have cats.” Hitoshi says in monotone as the world slowly tilts off his axis and it feels as though he is onboard a ship that staggers through hazardous waters.
“And we have cats. And…” Aizawa’s face twitches, the man licking his lips as if priming himself for his next set of words. “...I may not have been in your exact shoes, but when I was your age my… own home situation reached its peak. It was also reported. By Hizashi, no less, and—another friend of ours.”
Yamada, because he is intimately aware how much it embarrasses Hitoshi, will sometimes call the teen ‘mini-Eraserhead.’ Hitoshi understands there are superficial similarities between him and his mentor, but this is getting a little—uncanny, now. This is ridiculous.
(Surely—hopefully—Aizawa has enough shame not to lie about something like this. To spin some tall tale specifically in order to worm his way under Hitoshi’s defenses, so as to curb any potential protests the teen may have, by fabricating something so, so…
…Visceral. As if they could share the same casket as they’re buried six feet under.)
Hitoshi is mumbling pathetically before he is aware of it. “Were you scared?”
He’s not panic-stricken. But he does think he may understand the word ‘petrified’ now.
Aizawa nods. “Yes. Angry too, I refused to speak with Hizashi for weeks. I decided our friendship was over, because he betrayed my trust. I told him never to tell anyone, and yet he still did. I hated him for a while. But obviously our friendship stood strong despite it, even grew stronger because of it.”
Hitoshi shifts slightly where he still lays on the cot, wincing slightly at the throbbing of his pertinent wound that is still demanding his attention.
There’s too many directions this path splits into. Were you taken away, were you put into an institution, were you put under the care of a teacher and now attempt to repeat the past, do I remind you too much of your younger self—
Instead, he is reminded of the concerned gaze of a nosy, but well-meaning, ten-year-old anklebiter peering up at him as he readies breakfast. Miyata-kun was sincere in his worry and innocent in his offer, which takes Hitoshi back further to recall the fog of unease that permeated throughout the home like a house fire directly after his disciplining. It was he alone who was caned but every resident of the home was affected, and that is Hitoshi’s burden to carry.
“What about the other kids…?” Hitoshi hesitantly asks.
He knows he should say more, to emphasize that getting smacked around isn’t a daily occurrence nor is it something that just spontaneously erupts. It’s always preceded by a cause. Misbehaviour. It’s a correction, an incentive to act correctly and the instilling of manners. Perhaps Aizawa forgets that Hitoshi literally lives in an institution. That the teen, and the boys he lives with, exist without a stable source of guidance and… need this. There’s a high turnover with regards to the house-parents—who are already understaffed—so to have one that takes the initiative to go that extra mile to ensure good behaviour is—
Good. It’s supposed to be good. But apparently not.
“I’ll make sure they’re safe. I’ll personally make sure of it. Just let yourself be taken care of, alright?” Aizawa squeezes his hand, because he’s really a villain in disguise. “Do you trust me?”
It’s a big ask. Like being told to jump off an airplane without a parachute and hope he doesn’t splatter on the ground.
Aizawa must know this, because the expression he wears softens as he brushes his thumb across Hitoshi’s knuckles.
Hitoshi acquiesces. What else can he do?
“Yes.” The word exits his mouth thickly, and it’s the truth. It is. He tells himself this.
“It’s going to be okay, Hitoshi. Things are going to be alright, I promise. It won’t be easy, but you have people in your corner.” Aizawa soothes, and really, it’s very weird hearing his voice pitched in such a way because it doesn’t feel as though it should belong to Eraserhead, resolute and courageous Eraserhead. All directed at Hitoshi, as if he’s done anything to warrant it.
This whole day has been an exercise in misery.
Hitoshi lets out a shaky breath, just wishing to sleep. “Will you be here when I wake up?” He asks, because he’s about to step into a tornado and be flung across the mountains, so he might as well try to reap some benefit.
Aizawa smiles. It looks genuine. “Sure, kid."
No one is guaranteed a future, but maybe—
Maybe he can believe Aizawa, just for now.