Chapter Text
The inspector, one Miss Numata Azumi, doesn’t even make it past the genkan before Hitoshi has already mentally catalogued too many ways this could go terribly, irreversibly wrong.
For starters: her name doesn’t inspire any confidence in Hitoshi. Numa. Literally ‘swamp,’ and what is a swamp? Somewhere full of unseen dangers and leeches that would gladly suck a person dry, exactly like this surprise inspection. Only a government official who clearly feeds on adolescent anxiety would think 10AM on a Saturday is the ideal time to interrogate his domestic stability.
Numata, ugh. She probably has a quirk that detects unwashed dishes at a molecular level. A harbinger of doom that wears sensible shoes and wakes up in the mornings thinking, ‘how can I ruin a kid’s life today?’
Aizawa is currently wearing what appears to be a shirt that predates Hitoshi’s existence and socks that are not only mismatched, but texturally different. One’s wool, the other’s something that might be burlap, and he had been standing in the kitchen with all the grace of a man whose only culinary skill is boiling water when the inspector arrived.
And Yamada, who, thank whoever is in charge of fate, looks—well. Normal. Clean. Eager, and was the one who welcomed Numata in. He’s dressed like he just stepped away from a modelling shoot, and it’s honestly insulting how he manages to make a mustard-yellow cardigan look intentional.
Which leaves Hitoshi himself.
The repeatedly labelled moody teenager who looks like he was cursed by a shrine ghost for being too disrespectful during Obon. All black, all oversized, and suddenly deeply regretting the skeleton imagery of his pullover. Numata is already writing things down on her clipboard, and Hitoshi can already hear the unspoken concern. ‘Troubled youth. Possible spiritual unease. Signs of villainous tendencies: check, check, and double check.’
Hitoshi feels like he’s swallowed a whole swarm of bees. Not butterflies, that’s too graceful. This is panic with wings.
Because Numata will take one look at the lot of them and see: the man who at a glance doesn’t look like he knows what a shower is, the painfully stylish radio-host moonlighting as a home economics savant, and the expected delinquent who looks like he’s waiting for someone to ask about his tragic past so he can stare at the horizon and say, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’
Distantly, he understands that rationally, he shouldn’t be this nervous.
But he wants this.
Because this is home.
This isn’t just the place he sleeps at anymore. This is where he’s allowed to exhale, to kick off his shoes, and steal Yamada’s hoodies while arguing with Aizawa about curfew like someone who doesn't have to earn his place here every single day. Because maybe he’s finally safe enough to be a little difficult.
This is his, finally.
And if one loose floorboard or improperly labelled fire extinguisher costs him that, then he is going to projectile vomit.
The steady scratch of Numata’s pen on her clipboard drills into Hitoshi’s subconscious like an ice pick. Each scribble feels louder than the last, echoing in the silence of the home as if it’s being broadcast straight through his skull. Hitoshi keeps his spine straight, rigid as a steel beam, channeling the calm indifference Aizawa’s made into an art form. Totally unbothered. Completely composed.
But his fingers won’t stop twitching where they rest against his pants, the tremble of a nervous tick he can’t quite iron out. He presses the appendage flat against his thigh, willing the movement to stop, trying to force himself to stop thinking. About the paperwork. About the woman’s tight-lipped frown and whatever she’s writing. About whether the apartment looks lived-in or lived-in-enough or too lived-in.
“And this is his room?” Numata asks, clearly already coming to a conclusion as she drifts towards the half-open door of his room.
Hitoshi pinpoints the exact moment her gaze flicks at the sticker on his door, English text that says ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter ’ and he resists the urge to jump out of the window.
“You betcha, that’s his lair.” Yamada says brightly, taking the lead like he’s giving a tour on a game show. He enters Hitoshi’s room and welcomes the woman in. “Behold: Hitoshi’s stronghold! Every piece in here’s got his fingerprints on it, he picked everything out himself! That kind of comfort doesn’t come easy, so Shou and I don’t take it lightly. He’s carved out his space to stay, and we’re real proud of our little listener!”
Hitoshi feels heat instantly coalesce across his face as he hovers just behind the pair. He crosses his arms with his jaw tight enough to crack as Yamada gestures grandly about his room, like he was announcing a new stage debut.
Sure, yeah, Hitoshi is relieved the one and only Present Mic is doing the talking (Hitoshi doesn’t trust his own voice not to crack from sheer existential dread), but does the man really have to describe the blackout curtains as ‘Functional and fashion-forward. Keeps the room cool and the thoughts cooler—our boy’s a genius!’ ?
Hitoshi feels second-hand embarrassment climb up his spine like a cold lizard. The man is unbearable but likewise (totally unfairly ) kind of comforting. Like a really loud safety blanket.
Numata’s eyes sweep over his weighted pull up bar propped beside the door like it’s suspicious. Hitoshi is suddenly composed solely of regret, wishing he could’ve stowed it away alongside his hand wraps and weights and himself.
Yamada glances back at Hitoshi with a reassuring smile. The casual, warm one that says ‘you’re good, kid,’ and Hitoshi huffs an annoyed breath at how much he needed it. He plants himself at the door with Aizawa, and tries not to fidget as Numata takes stock of every nook and cranny.
The walls are painted a dusky, pale purple that is contrasted by the white ceiling and hardwood floors. It’s a colour he chose on purpose, wanting something dark but not completely suffocating. Posters neatly adorn the room showcasing his favourite shows: The Black Refrain, a psychological thriller about cursed music that drives people mad; Obsidian Howl, a crime anime featuring a vigilante detective with a voice-based quirk not unlike his own; Catacomb High, a gothic slice-of-life set in a haunted school full of monstrous students.
They’re a little intense, maybe. Okay, a lot intense. Hitoshi sees Numata’s eyes pause on the poster of Obsidian Howl, where the main character is holding a bloody crowbar. He instantly berates himself for not replacing it with the poster of Luna & Hex, the one where the magical girls are just holding hands under the moonlight.
Numata doesn’t write anything. But she doesn’t smile either.
His bed is low to the ground, and Hitoshi quietly thanks whichever god is listening that he thought ahead and made it before he went on his morning jog. It possesses black sheets, a threadbare purple throw pillow with an embroidered eye on it that he found at a secondhand shop, and a rumpled charcoal grey shirt he uses as pajamas that has text reading ‘Industrial Noise: Home Improvement and Construction Expo.’ Aizawa was the one who found it and gave it to Hitoshi, mistaking it for ‘one of those bands you like. The ones that sound like broken machinery screaming into a blender.’
“I see you have some exercise equipment, Shinsou.” Numata says, nodding at the corner where his set of adjustable dumbbells sits next to a rolled up yoga mat with his resistance band hanging off a hook near the window. Next to it is a small, open-shelved cabinet holding his cycling gloves, water bottle and a worn, dog-eared paperback copy of Becoming a Pro Hero: Mental Training and Resilience.
Hitoshi clears his throat awkwardly when he remembers it’s polite to respond when directly referred to. “Yeah. I—uh—I like to stay in shape. I do combat training mostly, but also boxing and urban traversal.” The latter being UA’s fancy-smucny title for parkour. Hitoshi rubs the back of his neck and continues. “The pull-up bar helps with grip strength and upper body stuff. The band’s for squats and leg lifts. The yoga mat’s for stretching, it keeps me from pulling muscles. And, well, I use the communal gym in the building too, this is just for… when I want to train at home or warm up.”
Hitoshi tries to casually lean against the wall as his pulse pounds through his ears.
Yamada beams. “He’s dedicated! Proud of his gains, too, he’s got a rhythm down that builds discipline and confidence. Plus, it keeps his mind sharp! Fit as a fiddle, this one.”
“He’s committed.” Aizawa adds with a flat tone. “Keeps to a consistent routine. It helps him manage stress, and we keep an eye on recovery too—no overdoing it.”
Yamada nods along. “Super self-motivated. He’s got goals.” A wink. “Hero goals.”
And people wonder how the men work so well together. Being a perfectly synchronized embarrassment duo is clearly the glue.
Numata nods once, jotting down notes. “Good to see balance. Equipment looks well maintained and safely stored.”
Hitoshi exhales quietly. Tension loosens, just a bit.
His desk is organized, almost obsessively so (he blames Iida’s influence): notebooks stacked by size, his mechanical pencils and highlighters aligned precisely, and his laptop closed and spotless. Next to it is a ceramic cat figurine with a chipped ear, painted black with tiny violet eyes, given to him by Jirou.
The figurine is his favourite thing on the desk. What isn’t, and what is currently making his eye twitch, is the collar.
The spiked collar.
That is laid bare for all to see because he wasn't prepared for a government official to waltz through his room.
Of course she sees it.
Numata tilts her head. “That looks a bit large for a cat,” she says, deceptively mildly.
And Hitoshi—
He dies a little.
“It’s—mine,” he says, his voice strained awkwardly like he’s gargling battery acid. “Not—for the cats. It’s… I wear it. Sometimes.”
Ever the hype man, Yamada’s grin blooms like sunlight on black velvet. “He’s got style, doesn’t he? It’s healthy to have such a strong sense of identity!”
“It’s decorative.” Aizawa dryly states. “We’ve talked about it. I still don’t really get it. But,” he shrugs. “He likes it.”
What a vote of confidence. Unbidden, Hitoshi is reminded of when he first pointed out the accessory while at a mall, and Aizawa’s subsequent dubious expression as he said ‘you’re not a dog.’
(“It looks heavy.” Is what Aizawa said the first time Hitoshi debuted it.
Hitoshi rolled his eyes. “It’s not.”
“Still seems like it could cause neck strain.” Was Aizawa’s parting remark when Hitoshi left for the mall where he would meet up with Jirou and Momo.)
Numata raises an eyebrow but makes no comment, simply writing something down on her clipboard. Hopefully ‘adolescent self-expression within acceptable bounds.’
“I don’t wear it to school or anything,” Hitoshi mumbles. “Just… when I want to.”
Yamada gives him a quiet thumbs up from behind the inspector’s back.
Which does little to settle his nerves, as every pause feels like an accusation and every scribble on that damn clipboard feels like a verdict. Numata’s eyes sweep through his desk again and— yeah, of course—the eyeliner is in full view. It’s just sitting there. Cheap stuff from the convenience store, the pencil blunt from use and sitting next to a small bottle of black nail polish like evidence of a crime.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. But she writes something.
Hitoshi’s skin itches.
It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be. It’s not even a statement, it just looks cool.
But the thought still worms its way in regardless, even though he knows it’s irrational; What if she thinks he’s unstable? Or confused? Trying to get attention? What if she’s able to spin this all into a red flag somehow?
Not because it’s wrong. But because it can be portrayed as different. And different gets scrutinized.
Hitoshi would know.
Numata’s pen pauses again. She’s looking at the open closet now, eyes flicking over the collage of dark colours, studded wristbands, sleeveless hoodies and the biker jacket with a flaming snake skeleton on the back. All stuff Hitoshi would have never been able to wear at the group home without getting pulled aside for ‘concerning expression.’
He suddenly wishes he was wearing something more cheerful, like his pink sweater. Then he remembers it has the phrase ‘Live, Laugh, Lobotomy’ on its front and immediately grimaces.
He should have something boring. Like blue. Or khakis. Or something that says safe, compliant, normal. But Hitoshi’s never been very good at being normal. Not for the group home. Not for the teachers who didn’t trust him. Not for the kids who flinched whenever he opened his mouth.
The inspector takes another glance around the room, eyes briefly scanning the bookcase. She skims over Villain Psychology: Case Studies in Quirk Misuse and a well-read copy of The Hero Analysis Compendium, Vol. 3 (Midoriya is borrowing volumes 1 and 2). Below them are a few worn paperbacks, none of which being any light rom-coms and there’s no slice-of-life fluff. Just bleak, dark stuff that broadcast far too loudly his interest in horror and psychological thriller.
Numata doesn’t comment.
Meanwhile, Hitoshi is sweating under his pullover. His stomach twists into a knot. He tries to meet Aizawa’s eyes, and gets a small, near-imperceptible nod in return. You’re okay, the man says without words. You’re fine.
Hitoshi exhales through his nose. But any relief is immediately obliterated once Numata takes notice of a rotund, silicone cat figure on his nightstand.
He instantly recites a prayer that she doesn’t realize what it is. But Hitoshi has rarely been favoured by the gods.
“A night light?” She asks, and Hitoshi feels his heart jump into his throat.
Everything crumbles. Hitoshi’s cheeks burn as if he dipped his head into open flames, and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck again with his nails creating indents in his skin.
“I—it’s not… I don’t use it every night.” He stammers with a wince, wrestling with the futile need to explain himself as his dignity is lowered into its grave. “Just sometimes. When… I have nightmares. Or, uh, if the dark feels too much.”
The silence stretches just long enough to make Hitoshi want to crawl under his bed and live there. Great. He’s just confessed to being scared of the dark in front of an official who is one of the people who will dictate the trajectory of his life. Maybe next he can read aloud from his therapy journal.
Numata just inclines her head in acknowledgment, and Yamada is quick to draw attention back to him.
“Everyone’s got a thing. ” He says breezily. “For Hito-chan, that little light helps him feel safe when his mind’s doing laps at 2AM. It’s smart. Means he has the courage to take care of himself. And it’s something we’re proud of.” His grin widens as he gestures to himself. “And me? I can’t sleep unless I’ve got some music playing. Like, real cheesy stuff. Power ballads from the ‘90s knock me out real cold real fast.”
“He sleeps better with it, when he needs it.” Aizawa adds in smoothly. “That’s what matters.”
Hitoshi bites the inside of his cheek and settles for staring down at his slippers. They’re black with a bat pattern, obviously.
But he raises his head when Numata speaks.
“Are the piercings recent?” She asks, pen poised and squinting at the silver, skull and crossbones studs in Hitoshi’s earlobes.
Hitoshi straightens, caught between defensiveness and pride. “Yeah. Just the lobes. I got them… this spring, with permission.”
Numata gives a curt nod. “Do you plan on more?”
He hesitates, wondering if the question is bait, but decides on being truthful. “Eventually. Maybe.”
Aizawa cuts in without missing a beat. “He knows the rule: nothing permanent until he’s legally an adult. Nothing more than the lobe, and definitely no ink. Not while he’s still in school.”
“Even then, we’ve talked about waiting,” Yamada adds with a gentler tone. “He’s got time to figure out what’ll feel right for the long term, not just in the moment.”
Hitoshi nods quickly to agree, so he doesn’t look like an aspiring yakuza member, but that’s just it. He likes tattoos. He has folders of references already saved on his laptop. Stylized fog, ghostly koi, and serpentine dragons weaving through smoke. But he also knows what people already see when they look at him. The voice. The scowl. The quirk. And if he added ink to that?
He can already hear the whispers.
“Besides,” Aizawa says, eyes on the inspector but voice just a little softer. “Anything permanent would affect his hero work. Tattoos are identifiable. Piercings can snag.”
“Not practical.” Numata notes in agreement.
“Exactly.”
“But the studs are fine?” She asks, flipping a page.
“They’re clean, simple, allowed at school and very cool.” Yamada coos.
Hitoshi feels his ears burn. But he also feels, for the first time since the inspection began, seen in a way that doesn’t make him want to rip his skin off.
Numata hasn’t said anything wrong. Not really. Not yet. Just looked at his earrings. At the collar. The room. Stared at his things like she was digging around in his ribcage. And maybe she doesn’t mean anything by her silence, but Hitoshi’s brain fills in the blanks anyway.
Delinquent, troubled, aggressive. Borderline villainous.
Hitoshi swallows hard. He likes his aesthetic. He likes black. He likes dark with pastel accents. He likes the edge, the sharp silhouettes, the way a layered mesh shirt or a heavy hoodie makes him feel like him.
With Aizawa and Yamada, he can breathe in it. With them, it wasn’t some costume. It was just clothes.
But Numata doesn’t know him.
All she sees is a teenager with half-lidded eyes and a voice that can strip people of their autonomy, dressed like he was about to loiter in front of a kombini and mutter about cigarettes.
She’s here to evaluate him. Not the cats. Him.
He watches her gaze sweep the room one more time, and hates how he can already imagine her and the cronies she works with easily connecting dots that don’t exist. Calling his interests a cry for help. Or worse, a symptom.
He doesn’t speak, but the words race behind his teeth like freight cars:
This doesn’t mean I’m dangerous. I like these things because they make sense. Because they’re honest. Because they don’t ask me to smile all the time. And just because I like the macabre doesn’t mean I want to be the villain in your report.
Hitoshi shifts his weight. The floor creaks.
Numata glances back at him with an unreadable expression. “You keep things tidy.” She says flatly while writing something down.
Hitoshi blinks stupidly as a response.
“Ms. Numata,” Yamada says lightly, moving closer and gesturing to the door. “Where to next? Kitchen? Balcony? Cat tower?”
“The kitchen next, please.”
Yamada gleefully takes the charge as he leads Numata out with a showman’s smile, and while Hitoshi exits, he lingers at the doorway. He stares at his room, at his colours, his clothes, and his cat figurine. He breathes in the faint scent of nail polish that still clings to the air.
He feels Aizawa’s presence settle beside him. It’s a warm, grounding weight.
“She didn’t say anything.” Hitoshi mutters.
“She didn’t need to.” Aizawa says. “You’re overthinking.”
Hitoshi nods. Somewhere in his mind, behind the smothering of his nerves, he knew that already, but… It’s soothing to have that reiterated by the no-nonsense tone of Aizawa.
“I know.” Hitoshi murmurs, making his way towards the kitchen with the man beside him.
When they approach, Hitoshi sees Numata apparently taking a detour to scratch the cheek of one of the four cats that also call this abode home. Yami, black like the rest of her kin, is perched on one of the cat trees that is conveniently placed near the threshold of the kitchen. The feline demands passersby to pay the toll by petting her, and Numata obliges.
Yamada takes the moment to rejoin and whisper conspiratorially. “Hey, you want us to distract her while you swap your wardrobe out for beige and replace the walls with inspirational cat posters?”
A tiny twitch of a smile tugs at Hitoshi’s mouth, despite himself.
“No,” he says. “I—” He hesitates, then whispers, “Do I look… like a problem?”
He winces at how small he sounds. But Aizawa meets his eyes, and the man’s voice continues to be steady. “You look like a teenager with interests. That’s not a problem.”
Yamada gives him one of his quiet smiles, the one that makes the world feel a little less chaotic. “You look cool as hell, sunshine. Which some naysayers might call a problem, but that’s only because they can’t hit your pitch of awesome.”
Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but the pressure in his chest loosens just a bit. He glances back at the direction of his room— his room—and reminds himself: no one here has ever asked him to shrink.
Even if the world still might.
Yamada continues with the tour.
“Et voilà!” He announces exuberantly, twirling with spread arms in the middle of the kitchen as Numata squints her gaze across the countertops and cabinets, Aizawa and Hitoshi once more positioned in the background. “Our humble culinary stage! Sleek, streamlined, and stocked with every tool a growing teen—or two overworked teachers—could need to cook up something hot and fresh! It’s the heart of the home, where all our meals hit the right note!”
The kitchen is spacious, with sleek countertops and a long island in the middle. There’s a section for chopping, a coffee station, and, most importantly: a stove surrounded by various jars of spices. Aizawa’s no chef, but Yamada is a borderline enthusiast. He’s even got a nice assortment of knives hanging neatly from a magnetic strip.
It still smells like freshly brewed coffee, the earthy richness mixing with the sharp scent of something distinctly more pungent, no matter how ventilated the kitchen is: the tangy, garlicky odour of Hitoshi’s little experiment last night.
Numata clocks it. A sealed glass jar sits nonchalantly on the countertop, and she zeroes onto it instantly. It’s fogged with condensation, and napa cabbage leaves with bits of garlic, ginger and scallions press up against the glass, peeking through the deep red-orange contents within. Bubbles form in the brine near the bottom like some sort of witch’s brew, and Hitoshi doesn’t have time to appreciate the sign of healthy fermentation, not when he’s too busy wondering if Numata assumes it’s a biological weapon.
“And this?” She asks with a raised brow, gesturing at the jar.
"I made it," Hitoshi says, almost defensively. "It’s kimchi, from last night." He shifts awkwardly, wondering if she’s going to call it ‘unfit for children’ or something. "It’s good for digestion." He tacks on lamely.
The stuff was an experiment. He’d made it after seeing an episode of Kitchen Creatures, a weirdly informative cooking anime about fusion foods.
Yamada leans forward. “Fermented with love and a little too much chili—like a good power ballad, it builds heat over time.” He puffs his chest out proudly. “Our kid’s got a real talent for this stuff. We’re planning on making bokkeumbap with it, all Hitoshi’s idea, of course!”
She stares at it for a moment longer. “Looks well-contained,” she says, scribbling something.
Which—okay. Not a compliment. But not a complaint either.
“Smells great, right?” Yamada chimes, grinning like he’s about to launch into a full commercial. “He’s been chopping and brining and sautéing like a pro lately. The kitchen’s basically a live concert of sizzling pans and spicy steam!”
Numata merely gives a noncommittal hum. Hitoshi tries to decide if that is worse than outright disapproval. She moves to the fridge and opens it.
“Your refrigerator,” she comments, voice flat. “Is well-organized.”
And it sure is. Each shelf is meticulously divided: Top is leftovers that are all neatly labelled by Yamada with dates. Middle is miso pastes, natto, umeboshi and containers of prepped vegetables. Lower shelf is tofu, a fresh fish wrapped in butcher paper meant for later tonight, and a tray of homemade onigiri. In the drawers are seasonal vegetables and the door is home to condiments galore, eggs, milk, yogurt and the pickles Hitoshi will snack on whenever he’s in a bad mood. He doesn’t even know when that started, but it’s a habit now, and it helps.
“We've got ourselves a growing boy with a vociferous appetite under this roof, we gotta keep things stocked!” Yamada chirps.
Numata moves on to the pantry. And the pantry looks fine. Better than fine, actually—neat, labelled, stocked like Yamada's preparing for the end times and a cooking competition. There's tofu pasta and soba and, like, four different kinds of rice. There’s enough spice to put someone into a coma. Still, Hitoshi watches her eyes sweep over the shelves like she’s about to judge them for keeping instant ramen next to protein powder. Which, okay, maybe isn’t the most aesthetic choice, but he needs quick carbs post-workout and Aizawa refuses to give up his ‘emergency food.’ There’s a whole basket of mixed nuts and dried edamame that probably screams ‘trying too hard,’ and somehow that makes it worse.
What if Numata thinks it’s performative? What if she clocks the unopened hot sauce Yamada impulse-bought and thinks they’re chaotic? Hitoshi shifts his weight and pretends he's just stretching, rather than silently begging the pantry to pass inspection.
“Do you both cook?” She asks glancing between Yamada and Hitoshi.
Yamada’s grin somehow still has room to widen as he leans against the counter. “Oh yeah, I love it. I could teach a class if I had the time.”
“I help out,” Hitoshi adds quietly, and he feels his cheeks flush at the comment. He likes cooking with Yamada, he enjoys the way the kitchen hums with energy when they prepare meals together. It’s calming. There’s an easy rhythm to it. Aizawa, though, only comes in when it’s time to complain about the noise.
“Honestly, it smells like a food show in here half the week,” Yamada continues. “Hitoshi’s got the timing of a snare drum and the knife skills of a sushi chef on tour.”
Numata tilts her head in consideration, and her next question comes with a calculated edge: “Do either of you have allergies? Or any dietary restrictions?”
“No allergies,” Aizawa answers before Yamada can launch into an answer about ‘balance,’ ‘micro-nutrients,’ or whatever else. "We’re fine with whatever's in the kitchen."
Numata nods, sharp eyes still scanning the kitchen like she’s trying to find a structural fault in the rice cooker, before narrowing her eyes in Hitoshi’s direction. On Hitoshi.
“That’s kitchen-related, I presume?” She asks with her tone neutral but eyes assessing, and Hitoshi looks down at the gauze still wrapped around his left index finger, a holdover from last night’s kimchi journey.
Hitoshi automatically tenses. “Uh, yeah. The knife slipped when I was chopping cabbage.” He says, then subsequently regrets, because that's just asking to be marked down as ‘unsanitary.’ “I’ve been… trying to cook more. It’s nice. Having stuff in the fridge and getting to pick what I want to eat. I didn’t always… get that before, so…”
He trails off with his voice thinning out like a candle being snuffed out. There’s a pause, just long enough for Hitoshi to start wishing he could take the words back and press them back down into his chest where they belong.
But another part of him, smaller and stubborn, holds its ground. Because it is nice, actually. Picking out his own ingredients, opening a fridge that doesn’t feel like someone else’s and allowed to eat until hunger no longer gnaws at him. That flicker of pride twists uncomfortably against something old and brittle inside him.
Then Yamada claps his hands. Once, like a cymbal crash at the end of a somber song.
“Three square meals, baby! And snacks! Our kitchen sees more action than a late-night ramen cart, he gets the full encore here.” Yamada stands straighter. “He’s even started teaching me stuff—can ya believe it?”
Numata raises an eyebrow.
Aizawa, still quiet, deadpans: “He eats at regular times, and always has a packed lunch. Never skips.”
Hitoshi doesn’t look up, but his shoulders relax just a little bit.
Numata doesn’t draw it out, simply giving a small nod, before returning her attention to the pantry. She opens the lower cabinet, and Hitoshi watches her eyebrows slightly rise when she spots the stash; at least eight jelly pouches lined up like soldiers beside the protein bars, most of them bright neon with words like ‘Energy’ and ‘Vitamin’ printed on them in aggressive katakana.
She picks one up and reads the label. “Sugary for a teenager’s diet, isn’t it?”
Before Hitoshi can open his mouth to protest—it’s not like he downs them every PE class, just the classes Aizawa deigns to actually share—the man in question clears his throat.
“Those are mine.” Aizawa drawls.
Numata blinks. “Oh.”
Aizawa doesn’t elaborate. She sets the pouch down with a thoughtful hum. “Well. Just be mindful of hydration. And maybe pair it with a real breakfast.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Yamada laughs, and Hitoshi bites back a smirk. Aizawa doesn’t say anything else, just leans against the wall with one leg crossed over an ankle like someone who’s won a petty battle. The blond continues, “They’re Shouta’s secret weapon for surviving our crazy schedules. Super condensed baby food, is what I call ‘em. Easy to carry, packed with vitamins, and a quick boost between classes or training. He’s basically our energy DJ on the go.”
Numata only nods, as she gives another sweeping look around the kitchen. The sink: clean. The counter: Clean. The stove: wiped down, a faint sheen still visible from someone (Aizawa) clearly scrubbing earlier this morning.
“Functional and well-stocked.” She mutters as she jots another note on his clipboard.
Hitoshi assumes that’s the end of it, but Numata then raises her head and pinpoints him with a curious stare.
“So, what’s your favourite food?”
Hitoshi’s neurons do a quick game of musical chairs and all lose. His brain does a sudden factory reset and very conveniently decides to draw a complete blank at that exact moment. Frankly, he’s lucky he even remembers how chewing works.
He blinks like an idiot and instinctively seeks safety in the gaze of Yamada, who stands just behind Numata.
Yamada’s lips move silently: ‘Katsudon.’
Oh, right. Hitoshi swallows, feeling his cheeks warm. “Uh, katsudon. I like katsudon.”
“Makes sense.” Numata nods. “Comfort food. Filling.”
Luckily, they all move on to the living room before Aizawa can do that thing with his eyebrows—the one that means he’s about to start teasing under the guise of ‘character building.’
The living room looks like it’s been decorated by someone with a flair for interior design and absolutely no fear of committing to the bit. Which, of course, was exactly the case.
The low kotatsu table in the centre is draped in a plaid blanket that somehow matches nothing and everything, surrounded by neatly mismatched floor cushions in jewel tones. Along the walls are framed posters from obscure bands and indie art festivals hung in asymmetrical clusters, balanced out by floating shelves full of odd little souvenirs: a tiny replica of Tokyo Tower carved from wood, a snow globe full of pink sand instead of snow, a porcelain fox mask with a mysteriously chipped snout. Every item had a story, and every story had been enthusiastically told by Yamada at least twice.
On the sideboard above the TV, sits a lovingly curated row of houseplants, each in a different brightly coloured pot: one shaped like a teacup, another like a rubber duck. In the centre of them, as if it belongs there, is a framed stock photo of two gold retrievers in a bathtub. Aizawa had bought it for the picture, not the frame; apparently, it had reminded him of Yamada, and that was the whole explanation. Yamada had just smiled, said ‘babe, I love it,’ and gave it a place of honour among the succulents.
And, of course, there are the cats.
Four of them, all black, all female, and Hitoshi’s pride and joy.
The aforementioned Yami, with her compatriots Kuroko, Sumire and Sable. They’re sprawled all over the room, one curled under the kotatsu with only the tip of her tail visible with Yami still perched on the cat tree. The remaining pair are curled together like one entity on the other cat tree near the balcony, peacefully grooming each other.
Numata considers the space, stepping forward to take in the gaming console hooked up to the TV and the rack of games that sits atop of it. Each one is labelled with bold, flashy titles and Hitoshi feels a slight twinge of discomfort at the sight.
Just like his books, his gaming interests aren’t exactly… low-key.
He can already envision her writing her condemnation: sentencing him as too much of a recluse that hides behind the digital world instead of socializing like an upstanding member of society. A hikikomori in the making.
His games consist of titles like Return to the Abyss, a dark, gritty RPG about thieves trying to steal ancient relics beneath a bustling metropolis, alongside Ashen Heart: Revenge of the Fallen, a thriller where the player takes on the role of a villain trying to bring about the end of the world.
Which, yeah, probably does not help his case at all. Doesn’t matter if they’re his way of unwinding after a long day or when he just needs to drown out the noise in his head, they’re damning. And they’re just out in the open!
Numata’s pen hovers over her clipboard, like she can feel the shift in the air. He wonders what appears in her mind’s eye, if she sees him spending too much time surrounded by darkness with only the flicker of the screen for company.
And Hitoshi—
Hitoshi does not look like a kid that needs comfort anymore.
He used to be all elbows and shadows, the kind of pipsqueak whose hoodie looked like it was wearing him. Back then, running for five minutes felt like a punishment, and he bruised like a banana. But now? Now it’s a different story. He can vault a six-foot wall without thinking, keep pace with Aizawa on a run, and hold his own in a spar without coughing up a lung afterward. Every ache in his shoulders, every scar on his knuckles, every new notch he adds to the pull-up bar: All proof. Of effort. Of him. Of them, the mentors who never gave up on him.
Hitoshi has built himself into someone solid. Someone capable.
But standing there while Numata pokes around, clipboard wielded like a weapon in her hands, every worst-case scenario blooms in Hitoshi’s head like mold.
Too weird. Too quiet. Too dark. Not normal enough. His mind is on a constant loop: what if she thinks the weights mean he has anger issues? What if she thinks his wardrobe means he’s too anti-social? What if she thinks his reading material and games means he’s violent? What if, what if, what if—
He shuffles beside Aizawa, the pair still existing as an audience standing at the periphery as Yamada chirps happily about rhythm games and feng shui to the inspector, and Hitoshi reaches out before he can stop himself.
A quick tug at Aizawa’s sleeve. Just once. And utterly— childish.
He regrets it instantly. But Aizawa doesn’t flinch, doesn’t glance down or raise an eyebrow.
He just shifts slightly closer. It feels like standing next to a wall that has always been there. The man doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t make it a moment. He just is.
And it helps. Not with the overthinking, but with the part of him that used to be a scared, sleepless mess of a kid in a home that wouldn’t notice if he’d gone missing. That part feels understood, and even—cradled.
Hitoshi lets go of the sleeve but doesn’t step away.
The sunlight filtering through the windows is aggressive, making the living room almost too bright. It practically feels judgement, like a spotlight on everything Hitoshi should have hidden, such as what sits on the kotatsu.
Because he left a CD on the kotatsu.
Hitoshi feels his eye twitch. He doesn’t remember which CD it is, only that the band name is totally subtle and innocent, like Dead Rites of the Skin Priest. Or maybe it was Ashes Feast Eternal. Maybe even Baptized in Tar. Y’know, something equally cheerful.
He watches Numata with the wide-eyed vigilance of a hunted animal. With her glasses, hair in a no-nonsense bun and appearing as if she lives in an office cubicle, she doesn’t exactly look like the type to appreciate brutal death metal.
Yamada laughs loudly, and Hitoshi only tunes back at the tail end of the joke. The man crows, “—so I said, ‘that’s not a quirk, that’s caffeine poisoning!’”
Numata chuckles lightly, which is a good sign, since at this point Hitoshi thought her incapable of human emotion. Unfortunately, her eyes drift downward regardless.
Hitoshi feels like a thousand internal warning sirens go off at once. He raises to his toes in order to glimpse at the cover and—Yup.
It’s the one with an angel vomiting up a pile of knives as the cover art. Of course.
Hitoshi braces for impact.
“‘ Shriek Mausoleum,’” Numata reads flatly. “Is that a band or a video game?”
Hitoshi coughs awkwardly. “Uh, band.”
She looks completely unfazed. But Hitoshi knows that means nothing.
Yamada perks up. “Oh yeah, that one’s got the tunes to remember! I can’t name a single track—I’m more of a disco-funk man myself—but screaming’s just singing with extra passion. Super cathartic stuff!”
Numata shrugs. “As long as it is not happening during quiet hours.”
“Only through headphones.” Aizawa drawls, glancing at Hitoshi through his periphery as the teen ignores the urge to hide behind the man.
Hitoshi doesn’t see it, but he feels it: a slight squeeze to his wrist. Soft, and gone in a blink, with Aizawa appearing he hasn’t moved at all. It’s a gesture that anyone could be convinced they’ve hallucinated, but Hitoshi hears it loud and clear: Stop spiralling. Breathe. You’re not on trial.
He tries to. Breathe, that is, like a normal person. In, then out, as if he is venting out the jitters.
Numata makes another note, then gestures lightly toward a scratching post tucked nearly near the sliding glass balcony door.
“They’re not declawed, I assume?”
“No,” Aizawa answers firmly. “Never.”
“We trim regularly,” Yamada adds. “They’ve got towers, toys, window hammocks. It’s a whole cat kingdom! They’re happy as can be.”
Numata glances at Hitoshi. “And you help with their care?”
He readily nods. “Yeah. I do litter box duty on weekends and feed them at night. I’ll brush them when they let me. They don't go on the counters,” he continues, probably unnecessarily but unable to stop himself. “They’re all clean, and they don’t ruin anything. They don’t even claw up the couch.”
Numata doesn’t respond. She does her nodding and writes something down and Hitoshi has to forcefully tell himself that’s a good thing so he doesn’t restart his motormouth.
One of the cats, Kuroko, pads silently out from under the kotatsu as if summoned. She sits at the threshold of the kitchen with her tail wrapped around her paws, simply observing the scene before her. Hitoshi wants to scoop her into his arms and evacuate to his room.
Yamada, ever the social buffer, steps in. “They’re all rescues, and they all follow Hito-chan around like he’s the big brother.”
The living room is finished with a quick look around the netted balcony. Numata decides it is ‘secure enough’ when Yamada makes a joke about making sure the cats don’t ’get any ideas’ and showing her photos of the cats on leashed walks. Subsequently, the inspector is led to the laundry nook.
It’s narrow and utilitarian with the machines seated snugly against each other. A wire basket sits before the dryer, half-full. Clean clothes that are mostly black and neatly folded, except—
Numata’s eyes land on the top item.
Fishnet.
A black mesh long-sleeve top, half-crumpled, and unmistakable.
Numata doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. She just needs to write down something along the lines of ‘at-risk due to moral decay’ and then it’s all downhill: there’ll be social services, sensitivity seminars, and a court-mandated makeover with the phrase ‘ward of the state’ being thrown around.
Hitoshi feels the blood drain from his face. Then it rushes right back, hotter.
“It’s a layering piece!” Hitoshi suddenly blurts, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t wear it on its own. It’s for, like… under stuff. Tank tops. Oversized shirts. Not… alone.”
Numata doesn’t even blink. Just tips her head half a degree in a way someone might react to seeing a dog do long division, like… recalibrating her understanding of the situation.
“Ah, it’s fashion, darling!” Yamada cheers as if at a runway, leaning against one of the machines with much unneeded flourish. “It shows confidence! Breathes! It’s honestly very practical.”
Aizawa is still leaning quietly at the doorway. He adds, “It’s clean and appropriate.”
Which is not a sentiment Aizawa has always held. He practically banned the shirt outright when he first saw it, not understanding that it was an accent piece. Hitoshi had to suffer a lecture on ‘public decency’ and ‘skin exposure’ and ‘UV protection’ before he was able to actually explain himself. Only when Hitoshi modelled the piece under a t-shirt did Aizawa finally huff out a single ‘fine.’
Numata says simply, “Laundry is well-managed. No concerns.”
Hitoshi feels like he suddenly deflates like a balloon. And because nothing is easy: just as the inspector scribbles something onto her clipboard with the clear intent of moving on, a soft thump sounds behind her.
One of the cats—Sumire, the smallest and fastest—had materialized from seemingly nowhere and leapt gracefully into the laundry basket like it was her personal throne. She curls into the warm mesh top like it had been left there just for her, blinking slowly at all the humans with that little smug cat expression that says, ‘What? I live here.’
Numata looks at the cat. Then at the basket.
Then at Hitoshi.
“It’s clean,” he says too quickly, echoing Aizawa. “The clothes. That’s clean laundry, and she doesn’t—like—go in either machine or whatever. We check. Every time. Before we run them, just in case. We check.”
The room holds still in the awkward way only a laundry nook full of people who’ve just watched a cat claim a fishnet shirt can.
“We keep the detergent out of reach,” Aizawa says matter-of-factly. “And the door is usually closed. The cats are fine.”
“She’s got a flair for the drama, that one,” Yamada adds with a grin. “Must be learning from me.”
Numata nods slowly. “No risk noted.”
Hitoshi doesn’t release a heavy breath, but it feels like something in his chest untangles a little.
Hitoshi had been ready to deliver a full legal defense of his wardrobe choices. Meanwhile, Aizawa and Yamada are just… functional. Unshakable. And annoyingly competent.
It’s stupid, how much it helps ease something inside him. But it does.
The bathroom is next. It’s clean. Of course it is. The tiles are scrubbed, the grout is white, and there’s a citrus-scented air freshener clipped discreetly near the vent. Nothing fancy, just functional. Yamada even folded the spare toilet paper into little triangles, which feels absurd until Hitoshi remembers he does vocal warm-ups while waiting for the oven to preheat.
Numata checks the medicine cabinet and finds it stocked with the basics: cold medicine, band-aids, antiseptic, a nail clipper. She doesn’t comment, only asks about hygiene routines and the presence of hazardous materials. Yamada says something about locking away bleach like it’s a contraband. Aizawa confirms without ceremony.
The last stop is the master bedroom.
It’s the one space in the home Hitoshi has never lingered in. He’s walked past with laundry or when the door was cracked open, but stepping inside now—even just on the threshold—feels like crossing some invisible boundary. He doesn't know if it’s respect or superstition that keeps him out. Maybe both.
It’s technically Yamada’s room, mostly. Not because Aizawa isn’t part of it, but because the room wears Yamada’s taste like a tailored suit.
The walls are warm; painted a soft ochre that glows in the sunlight, and half-covered in old concert flyers and framed magazine clippings. There’s a whole corner taken up by instruments: a keyboard on a stand, a bass guitar propped on a rack, and two amps stacked like bookends. A corkboard above the desk is pinned with what looks like lesson plans and sheet music annotated in neon gel pen. There’s even a vintage radio on the windowsill, painted pastel blue and surrounded by tiny, retro figurines from some old idol anime about werewolves.
The bed is low to the ground and piled with mismatched pillows in patterns so loud they might count as percussion. Aizawa’s blanket—dark grey—sits folded at the foot of the bed like a guest invited to stay.
The room should feel chaotic. It doesn’t.
The closet is next, which is a walk-in. Spacious, at that. And very obviously ruled (again) by Yamada. Rows upon rows of colour-coded outfits, jackets hung in a gradient, shoes arranged like they’re on display at a boutique. There are bracelets and necklaces. So many bracelets and necklaces. Aizawa has maybe half a shelf, total, and even that looks like Yamada organized it for him.
Hitoshi spots exactly three things on Aizawa’s side that suggest the man has any material preference at all:
A box containing spare hair ties and a back-up scarf, a lint roller (still in plastic), and a pair of perfectly folded, faded gym sweats that Hitoshi is fairly sure can be classified as a fossil.
And yet, there’s this small framed photo wedged beside Yamada’s cologne collection. It’s of Aizawa, asleep on the couch, curled slightly around one of the cats—Sable, maybe—who’s curled in his hoodie like it’s her throne. The photo’s a little crooked in the frame with a corner bent. Yamada must’ve put it there.
There’s a kind of quiet care to the room, once you look past the disco lamp and star-shaped string lights. Yamada’s energy fills the air like music. But Aizawa’s presence, quiet and solid, anchors it. Not balanced, but coexisting, the way two notes can share the same chord without clashing.
Numata inspects the ensuite bathroom. She mutters something about how surprisingly well-kept it is for being shared by two adults with a teenager in the house. There’s a wall-mounted mirror and sleek lighting, a drawer full of expensive-looking skin products that definitely aren’t Aizawa’s, and a bath mat shaped like a fried egg.
Yamada’s haircare collection lines one side of the vanity like a miniature salon display. Bottles of conditioner in pastel gradients, tubs of deep treatment masks, oils that smell faintly of rose or cedar or some citrus blend Hitoshi can never quite name. There’s a diffuser, a heat brush, something that looks vaguely weaponized but is apparently just a volumizing dryer. Several satin scrunchies are coiled like sleeping snails beside a container labelled ‘hair ties—do not steal, Shouta.’
Hitoshi has never once seen Yamada with a single hair out of place, but seeing the small army of products it takes to wage that war… It's oddly reassuring. Like discovering how a magician’s deck is stacked.
By contrast, Aizawa’s section of the bathroom is sparse, but telling. His razor is ancient, the kind that takes replacement blades rather than cartridges. His face wash is unscented and medical-grade. He keeps his toothbrush in a cup on the far right, separate from everything, as if he’s resisting even communal plaque politics. And yet: there’s a bottle of tiger balm tucked behind the mouthwash, almost hidden, and a small heating pad sits rolled up beneath the sink.
There’s also a handheld massager in the lower cabinet. It’s heavy-duty, industrial-looking, and clearly not purchased for aesthetics.
Hitoshi had never asked about it. Never needed to. Some things don’t just heal—they echo.
Numata asks about medication storage, and Aizawa answers plainly: locked drawer, top shelf. No narcotics. Nothing that can’t be tracked.
Yamada jokes about how Aizawa only ever uses one shampoo, and it’s whatever’s cheapest and doesn’t smell like candy. Aizawa grunts in what might be an agreement. Numata asks a question about water pressure. Yamada says, with full confidence, that it's ‘life-changing.’
Hitoshi remains quiet during the walkthrough.
And finally: Judgement.
They reconvene in the living room. Numata closes her clipboard with a deliberate snap, and the home holds its breath for a moment. Hitoshi's chest tightens again, and he swallows hard, because this is when she’s going to tell them something’s wrong. And it’ll be him. It always is.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and stands tall, with every occupant’s attention pinned to her like a bug to a board. Her voice is firm, brisk, and almost clinical.
“The home is well-maintained. Secure. Clean. The environment is stable, the atmosphere warm. There are clear boundaries, shared responsibilities, and—” she glances briefly at Yamada, who’s probably about two seconds away from giving her an invitation to karaoke, “—an abundance of enthusiasm.”
Yamada gives a delighted, “Well, thank you!” with a little flourish, like he’s just accepted a trophy. Aizawa elbows him in the ribs. Gently. Probably.
Numata continues, unbothered. “I’ve observed evidence of healthy meal planning, regular routines, individual autonomy, and mutual respect between household members. There are no outstanding safety issues or concerns to report.”
Aizawa gives a slow, curt nod. “Good.”
“Very good,” she confirms, flipping her clipboard under her arm. “I’ll be filing my report today, and will be recommending this case to move forward. Barring any major issues, the adoption process may proceed to the next stage, which will include further interviews, additional forms, background checks, follow-ups, and final approval. It may still take some time, but you have a solid foundation.”
Hitoshi hears it, that qualifier: May proceed, may still take some time. Nothing is ever guaranteed, not really.
But.
“But,” Numata adds, looking straight at him now, her tone softening just slightly, “it’s clear that you all care for one another.”
Hitoshi blinks.
“You’re not just living under the same roof,” she says. “You’ve already built something, and that counts.”
The weight of those words lands in his stomach like a warm stone. He doesn’t know what to do with them. He gives a tiny, useless nod that probably looks more like a neck spasm than anything else. His throat’s tight again, but this time it’s different. Less like he’s about to be told to pack up and disappear. More like—
Like maybe he doesn’t have to hold his breath anymore.
Numata straightens her cuffs, looks around one last time, then says, “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
Yamada sees her out with his usual sunshine routine, and Aizawa murmurs something about following up with the agency. Hitoshi just—stumbles. Backwards. Onto the couch and stays there, trying to wrap his head around the fact that nothing terrible happened.
It’s not over. There’s still more hoops, more paperwork, more waiting. But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels… possible.
And for now, that’s enough.
“See?” Yamada says when he returns, ruffling Hitoshi’s hair with a wink. “Told you we had this in the bag.”
The fish from the fridge is flaked, grilled to perfection, and mixed into kimchi bokkeumbap, just as Hitoshi planned. Hizashi lets the teen take the lead, only stepping in to praise his seasoning and flick water at him when he forgets to turn the pan handle in. Shouta eventually returns from his nap in sweats and a t-shirt that says ‘I fight crime and my alarm clock’ in faded kanji, sits at the kotatsu, and does his solemn duty: quality control via side-eye and chopsticks.
They eat together, the three of them tucked around the kotatsu with plates full of spicy, sizzling comfort. One of the cats tries to mount a heist and is promptly relocated by Shouta, who doesn't break stride as he lists off a very dry retelling of his earlier years of teaching, wherein a student had accidentally phased his feet into the pavement via his quirk and had to be carved free. Hitoshi asks if Shouta was nicer back then. Shouta replies with a definitive ‘no.’
Hizashi, meanwhile, plays the emcee of the meal.
“Sunshine, this is the best batch yet! Seriously, if you opened a food truck, I’d be the loud guy outside doing the jingle.”
Hitoshi, who has half a mouthful of egg and rice, twitches just slightly at ‘sunshine.’ He doesn’t comment, nor does he even blink. But Hizashi, seasoned in emotional sleight of hand, notes the way his shoulders shift and how he chews a little slower. That’s all he needs.
“It’s not burnt.” Hitoshi mutters, which, in teenager-to-parent translation, is a heartfelt thank you.
“He’s learning modesty,” Hizashi coos to Shouta, who responds with a grunt that means he’s proud.
Conversation drifts as it always does, from half-made plans to whatever’s been lingering in the back of their minds. Shouta asks about studies, Hitoshi shrugs, mentions a quiz he nearly forgot and an essay that came out better than he expected. Shouta subsequently suggests they hang the essay on the fridge. ‘Next to the cats’ vaccination records,’ he adds. Hizashi pretends to be scandalized. ‘We should frame it. Our boy, out here turning in full paragraphs and everything.’ And, like a storm passing, Hitoshi’s shoulders quietly settle as his eyes become half-lidded in the picture of contentment. Hizashi sees it, and files it away as he ladles a little more rice into his bowl.
At some point, Hizashi casually says, “Our boy’s got taste and talent, huh?” while inhaling a mouthful of fish.
It’s totally on the nose, but that’s deliberate. Hizashi has never been one for subtlety, and he knows when his boy needs reassurance, even if Hitoshi would deny it under oath. Shouta, their captive audience, simply rolls his eyes.
He leans into it just a bit, just enough to make sure it sticks. Hitoshi might pretend not to hear it, but they all know he needs it. Hizashi has spent a career reading crowds and voices, but it's being his kid’s old man that’s taught him the subtler tells: the way Hitoshi’s chopsticks don’t pause, but his shoulders drop a millimeter, just a breath. No protest, and no deflection—just a kid needing a reminder he belongs.
Hizashi smiles into his bowl, heart quietly cracking open in that particular way it does every time he sees the edges of Hitoshi’s mask shift. One sentence at a time, he thinks. One meal. One quiet little ‘our.’
Later, when the dishes are washed and the cats are all accounted for (Sumire found herself on top of the fridge again), they settle into the end of the evening the same way they always do: calmly.
Hitoshi lingers for a bit before heading to his room, idling in the living and crouched down to pet Kuroko. Hizashi doesn’t call after him. He nurses a cup of tea and pretends to watch TV, then says, loud enough for anyone listening: “You did good today, Hitoshi.”
No answer. But Hitoshi rubs the back of his neck and nods in acknowledgment, biting the inside of his cheek as his lips attempt to curl upwards. And that tiny ghost of a smile? Always worth every bit of overacting.
Subject: Confirmation of Adoption Interview – Shinsou Hitoshi
Dear Mr. Aizawa and Mr. Yamada,
We are writing to confirm your scheduled adoption interview regarding the application for Shinsou Hitoshi. Your interview will be conducted by Family Services Officer, Tateoka Kinu.
Date: Wednesday
Time: 10:00 AM
Location: Tokyo Metropolitan Child Welfare Centre, 12F, 3-4-5 Kanda Sudacho, Chiyoda Ward, Tokyo
Please be advised that due to Shinsou Hitoshi’s previous history of placement in the Endra Care Centre and a recorded incident of unauthorised absence at age ten (Incident #1723-ECC), the Child Welfare Division recommends that Hitoshi accompany you during the interview process. This measure is intended to ensure his welfare and to facilitate any necessary discussions regarding his care. It is therefore highly recommended that he be present within the building for the duration of your attendance.
During the interview, Shinsou will be accommodated in a designated waiting room supervised by a qualified Child Welfare Officer. This room is equipped to ensure his comfort and safety, with access to reading materials and appropriate facilities.
Should you require further information regarding these arrangements, please do not hesitate to contact our office.
We understand that this may require adjustments to your professional and personal schedules, and appreciate your cooperation and commitment to the best interests of the child.
Should you require any further assistance or clarification, please reply to this email.
Kind regards,
Shoda Kameyo
Senior Officer, Child Welfare Division
Subject: Re: Confirmation of Adoption Interview – Shinsou Hitoshi
Dear Mrs. Shoda,
Thank you for your email and for confirming the details of our upcoming interview.
We acknowledge the recommendation that Hitoshi accompany us during the interview process due to his history. While we find the requirement somewhat inconvenient given his current age and level of responsibility, we understand and will comply with the mandate.
Please advise if there are any additional documents or preparations we should be aware of prior to the scheduled date.
Regards,
Aizawa Shouta
The email arrived last week, wrapped in the kind of bureaucratic formality that promised nothing but trouble. Shouta could already feel the migraine sharpening its knives the moment he read the subject line.
He resents the entire situation the morning of before he’s even had his morning coffee. Nothing says ‘productive morning’ quite like cramming into a two-hour train ride into the busiest city on the planet, on a weekday, with a half-asleep teenager and a full schedule of being scrutinized by strangers.
All for Hitoshi to sit around like a potted plant in the furthest, most inconvenient government building imaginable—despite his school attendance supposedly being a state-tracked priority—while Hizashi and he prove they’re fit to keep doing what they’ve already been doing for a year.
Because apparently, children don’t grow or change over the course of six years. Hitoshi ran away once— once— while institutionalized and that single decision has branded him a flight risk for life. Never mind the fact that he’s been left home alone plenty of times under their care without incident, something that’s been logged in Hizashi and his reports, and presumably read by someone with a functioning memory. No, logic isn’t part of the equation. There must be a quota to meet arbitrary obstacles.
Normally, Hizashi’s parents would be their first line of support for any impromptu trips to Tokyo, as they live in Nishi-Ogikubo, Suginami Ward. Utaha and Gentarou are by nature unfailingly gracious, impossibly competent, and somehow more organized in their semi-retirement than either Hizashi or himself have ever managed to be on their best days. In an ideal world, they would’ve kept Hitoshi company for the day, made sure he was fed, caffeinated and unbored out of his skull while the state got its fill of regulatory theatre.
But this week, they’re off hiking in Hokkaido and blissfully out of reach. Shouta doesn’t begrudge them, obviously. They’d more than earned the right to go off-grid in a mountain lodge with no signal. But the timing is, naturally, annoying. Which feels like the theme of the day.
‘At least we look good,’ is how Hizashi attempts to lighten the mood, with his suit a tailored blend of warm ambers and deep burgundy. The crisp lines of the jacket sit perfectly on his frame with his accessories (gold earrings, a slim chain, mic-shaped cufflinks, and stacked beaded bracelets) coordinated with such precision it’s borderline theatrical. His hair is pulled back into a high ponytail with not a strand out of place, and his moustache has clearly undergone its usual twenty-minute prep ritual. Shouta doesn’t need to ask; Hizashi only gets that meticulous when he wants to look harmless. Or charming. Same difference.
Meanwhile, Shouta is the picture of studied indifference. His suit is plain, black, and freshly pressed. His hair is brushed and tied back, revealing a clean-shaven jaw and tired eyes that betray his lack of interest in early morning government interviews.
Hitoshi wears an oversized crimson hoodie with an embroidered barbed wire pattern curling around the neck, his spiked hoop earrings, black jeans, black sneakers and a simple black choker while shouldering his (black) backpack. The backpack is lined with enough spikes that it could legally be classified as a mace, and from it dangles a charm of a grinning cat in a coffin.
The building feels like it was designed by a committee. Each floor is more bland and uninspired than the last; beige walls, vinyl flooring in scuffed grey, and fluorescent lighting that casts everything in a queasy, institutional glow. Signs point to ‘Child Welfare Division’ and ‘Family Registry & Legal Affairs,’ but they’re no help. The layout is a labyrinth, and Hizashi already has to stop twice to double-check the map printed from the website. Hitoshi says very little other than muttering words such as ‘soulless’ and ‘dull as dishwater.’
Half the signage seems determined to lead them in circles. Arrows point in vague, opposing directions. Elevators don’t stop on the twelfth floor unless manually requested, which wouldn't be a problem, if it wasn’t the floor they needed to get to. The staircase is hidden behind a door labelled in kanji so faded it might as well say ‘Not Worth It.’
But they make it. With sanities mostly intact.
The front desk is staffed by a woman in her fifties with an immaculate bun and the kind of expression that suggests she has seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it.
"Name and appointment time?" she asks without looking up from her screen.
Hizashi offers all three with his usual radio-ready cheer, while Shouta scans the room for cameras or anything vaguely resembling a humanizing touch. There is none.
She clicks a few keys, nods once, and hands them each a visitor pass and a short form to confirm their presence. "Officer Tateoka will be with you shortly. The child may wait in the supervised room through there."
The door she points to is painted the same colour as the wall and has no label. Of course. Shouta finds calm by drafting an idea of a formal complaint in his head.
The air conditioning is a little too aggressive and the furniture is the colour of old chewing gum inside the waiting room. Vinyl-cushioned benches line the walls, interspersed with potted plants that are definitely plastic. A low coffee table is cluttered with months-old parenting magazines and a stack of government pamphlets in polite, pastel colors.
There’s a small play area in the corner with a shelf of battered children’s books and a toy bin that looks like it hasn’t been disinfected since before the Quirk Age.
Hitoshi trudges into the waiting room with no complaint and immediately retrieves his laptop from his bag. Without prompting, he plugs in his headphones, opens his study planner, and starts reviewing notes. Shouta gives a single, curt nod of approval in his direction. The kid's got homework to finish and, predictably, doesn’t need to be told. It’s not flashy, but it’s discipline. It’s effort. And for all his stoicism, Shouta feels the small, steady weight of pride settle somewhere within his chest.
“Looks like he’s making the best of it,” Hizashi says softly as the pair walk towards the gallows. “Better than sitting around twiddling thumbs.”
Shouta snorts. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the only one actually doing any work today.”
Hizashi chuckles. “If anyone here had half his focus, we’d be done already.”
They navigate the final corridor to the interview room. When they enter, it’s less intimidating than a courtroom, but only barely.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead in a steady rhythm that quickly grates on the nerves. A long laminate table dominates the center of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs: three black mesh, one office swivel, and one ancient wooden one that creaks threateningly when Hizashi sits down.
There’s a pitcher of water and some paper cups on a tray, as though the illusion of hospitality might distract them from the wall-mounted camera in the corner.
Shouta takes the chair nearest the door out of habit. Hizashi perches at his side, bouncing one leg in a silent rhythm. The room smells faintly of printer toner and whatever institutional-grade cleaner they use to keep things sanitary but impersonal.
“Ready to pretend this is a pleasant chat?” Hizashi asks, smoothing his own suit jacket.
“I’ll play nice. Just don’t expect me to enjoy it.” Shouta replies dryly.
Hizashi smiles, and reaches over to squeeze Shouta’s shoulder. “Leave the dramatics to me.”
To her credit, they are only waiting a minute before Ms. Tateoka arrives.
She is dressed in a sharply tailored navy suit that manages to look both timeless and impervious to wrinkles. Her dark hair is streak with silver and swept into a severe twist, and her glasses gleam with just enough reflection to obscure her eyes when she titles her head. She carries with her a laptop—sleek, and clearly to be used as a recording device. With it, a manila folder with ‘SHINSOU HITOSHI’ stamped neatly across the front in bold black ink.
Her quirk is a visible one. Fine lines of inky black thread drift from her fingertips whenever she gestures, coiling lightly in the air before evaporating like steam. Shouta immediately determines that it's also a dead giveaway of her mood: the straighter the lines, the more rigid her patience.
And with that, they finally begin.
Her voice is calm, measured, and clearly unwilling to entertain anything less than full cooperation.
“We’ve reviewed your home environment, and now, I have a few questions about your personal and professional lives.” She says curtly. “I need to ensure that your work as heroes won’t interfere with Hitoshi’s stability or well-being. Balancing family with hero duties is always a challenge, especially for someone in your position, Mr. Yamada.”
Hizashi doesn’t miss a beat.
“Of course,” he says brightly, the smile in his voice perfectly modulated. “We’ve had a lot of late-night debriefs about this. We’ve restructured our patrol schedules to minimize overlap and maximize home presence. When I’m working nights, Shouta’s home. When he’s on-call, I’m off-duty. We’ve fine-tuned the rhythm.” Hizashi lifts his hand in a half-gesture, like conducting an invisible orchestra. “It’s not perfect, but we’re not flying blind. Think of it as a duet; we’ve just had to rework the arrangement.”
Shouta isn’t looking at Tateoka, not exactly. His eyes are pointed in her direction, but his focus is on his periphery, on Hizashi, cataloguing the subtle shifts in his posture. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that means he’s self-monitoring. He’s carefully cheerful. Performing, but not lying.
Shouta adds, voice low and even, “My work is through a UA-affiliated agency. Controlled assignments. Mostly education-based or consultative, it allows for stability.”
Tateoka makes a small note, with her pen moving sparingly.
“And you, Mr. Yamada?” She asks. “Your role is… less contained.”
Hizashi nods easily. “I’m with Vox Nova—flashy name, flashier spotlight. Media darlings, high-visibility, the whole stereo setup. Concerts, live events, public safety outreach, rescue broadcasts, you name it. If there’s a mic, I’m probably on it.” He lets the grin linger for just a second, then reigns it in. “But we’ve drawn the line where it counts. No personal press, no uninvited cameos, and definitely no interviews about the man under the glorious hair. Hitoshi isn’t part of the act.”
Tateoka doesn’t react outwardly, not really. But Shouta catches it: a fractional tightening at the corners of her eyes. No disapproval.
But calculation. It lasts less than a second before her expression resets, perfectly neutral again. But it’s enough. He files it away.
“As a public hero with such a large fanbase,” Tateoka continues, flipping a page. “How do you ensure that Shinsou remains out of the public eye?”
“Like any good DJ, I’ve learned the value of controlling the volume. And when it comes to my family?” He flicks his wrist in a quick cut-off gesture. “I hit mute. As I said, Hitoshi isn’t part of the broadcast, and I intend to keep it that way. No photos, no tags, no backstage passes. Our private life stays off the airwaves.” His tone dips, just enough to let the weight come through. “If that means skipping an encore or dodging the spotlight now and then, so be it. Some things matter more than ratings.”
Shouta watches the shift. He feels it.
It’s subtle—barely a dip in volume, only a touch less reverb—but it’s real. Hizashi’s usual cadence softens, anchored by something solid beneath the flashiness. The smile is still there, but it’s quieter around the edges; controlled.
Shouta doesn’t speak, because the statement’s complete. Tateoka is already writing again, and faster now. She circles something on her notepad. Underlines it. The misty vapours trailing from her fingertips drift lazily in the air before disappearing, completely relaxed.
She looks up. “What steps do you take to manage your public persona, especially when it comes to keeping aspects of your personal life private?”
“The great mic check of life!” Hizashi declares with a broad grin and flick of the wrist like he’s cueing a soundboard. “Present Mic is a stage name and stage presence: he’s loud, he’s proud, and he always brings the beat. But when the mic’s off? I’m just Yamada Hizashi.” He shifts slightly, tone dialling down, not for effect, but because this part matters. “The trick is knowing where the stage ends. I’ve set clear boundaries between who I am in the booth and who I am at home. No selfies at the dinner table, no livestreams from the living room. My students and my family deserve the quiet parts too—and trust me, even a loud guy like me needs a little silence.”
There’s a beat of stillness after he finishes. Shouta fills it.
“He once turned down doing a televised New Year’s countdown because it fell on our weekend with Hitoshi.”
He says it flatly, and without emphasis. Just a fact.
Hizashi laughs under his breath. “The fanbase doesn’t even know I’m married. I don’t broadcast it. And if I can keep that off the radar from the Mic-Checkers, I’d say I’m doing a pretty decent job managing my persona.”
Tateoka’s pen is moving again. “How do you keep Shinsou shielded from the more dangerous aspects of your work?”
“He’s not involved in either of our hero duties outside of school.” Shouta answers. “He’s not brought into the field. My movements are compartmentalized and monitored. UA and the Commission have alert systems and protocols for emergencies, such as disengagement or separation, if it comes to that. And I don’t bring my work home, that’s by design.”
There’s nothing softened. It’s a truth he’s held close, carved into the architecture of his routine from the start. Hitoshi gets the version of him that teaches and naps on the couch, not the one who disables threats in alleyways at 2AM. That line isn’t blurred, and never will be.
Beside him, Hizashi shifts as he builds his own response.
“I’ve got a public voice, not a public life.” Hizashi says, tapping his chest lightly. “There’s a wall between the two, and I built it high for a reason. What the world hears is curated and not every beat’s meant for the dance floor. Some things? They don’t get played outside the booth.” He leans forward. “Any situation that even might pose a risk to Hitoshi’s safety or anonymity? It’s a no-go. Full stop. I’ve pulled out of events for less.”
His tone turns almost rueful for a moment. Quieter, but still with the undercurrent of finality. “I know how quickly things can spiral when someone decides a hero’s family is fair game. And I know I can be… well, loud. That’s why the wall is reinforced. Private addresses aren’t disclosed, and our security system is layered: physical, digital, and social.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “The world doesn’t get access to Hitoshi just because they get access to me.”
Shouta watches the expression settle on Hizashi’s face. Not the grin, but the muscle tension beneath it. The way his shoulders hold just a little tighter after speaking the word family out loud in a room that still, in part, holds the power to say no.
He doesn’t reach for his husband, not here. But the impulse flares in Shouta’s chest like a pulled thread.
This is the part of Hizashi people don’t always see. The precision under the volume. The calm hidden behind the spectacle.
Tateoka makes another mark—this time: a check, crisp and clean. She doesn’t comment.
She asks, “Have there been incidents where either of you have been targeted by villains? How do you protect your family?”
Shouta feels it thrum in his bones, then. The overwhelming urge to shield.
To make sure that every door is locked, every pathway cleared and every shadow watched. His finger tightens ever so slightly on the arm of the chair. He doesn’t want to answer—not because the question isn’t reasonable—but because the truth stings. He’s felt the weight of this responsibility since the day they took Hitoshi in. This life isn’t safe. It never has been.
But he made a promise the moment he agreed to let Hitoshi stay with them: no one touches what’s his.
“Yes. More than a few.” Shouta says simply. “I don’t advertise my face, my name, or my family. Hitoshi is not publicly connected to me, or Hizashi. He’s never been involved in any incidents. I’ve made sure of that, and I’ll continue to. It’s not a risk I take lightly.”
“Yeah, it’s happened.” Hizashi’s smile momentarily dims. “Heroes make themselves targets; that’s part of the gig. But there’s a big difference between being a target and being exposed. You don’t give anyone a clear shot if you keep things tight.” He leans back slightly, and his voice hardens. “We keep Hitoshi’s name out of the headlines and off the radar. His safety is non-negotiable.” He flashes a quick, almost wry grin. “Trust me, if anyone ever tries to get to us, they’re gonna have a hell of a time getting through all the layers we’ve built.”
Tateoka types something on her laptop. She looks at Hizashi from over her glasses.
“Do you feel like your fans have ever crossed boundaries when it comes to your private life?”
“Most fans are awesome. Really supportive, respectful and full of love for the work. But yeah, once in a while, someone tries to change the station. There’ve been a few cases where lines got crossed; letters to UA, people trying to figure out where I live. That’s when I make sure the volume gets cut completely.” He takes on a more serious edge. “I work with the proper authorities and make it very clear: the music is for everyone, but the man behind the mic? That’s private property and trespassers will be prosecuted.”
Shouta doesn’t have fans. No hordes of people crowding his name and no paparazzi trailing his every move. His work stays underground, where it belongs. The ability Hizashi has to navigate public scrutiny with the grace that he does is itself a quirk on its own. Even when the man moans an entire soliloquy lamenting the burden he carries every time he resists the urge to smash the cameras of every nosy ‘vulture ’ trying to force a story.
Still, Shouta understands the unspoken weight in Hizashi’s words: the danger of being too visible. The way every bit of attention can become a liability, not just for him, but for their family.
“Do you worry your fame could put Shinsou at risk?” Tateoka asks.
“Absolutely.” Like someone flipping a switch, the performer dims and the professional steps forward as Hizashi doesn’t hesitate. “And that’s not just the paranoid parent talking. That’s the hero in me doing risk assessment.” He gives a quick, casual wave, as if it’s self-explanatory. “Fame’s like a spotlight: it’s loud, bright, and it draws attention whether you want it or not. I stay in it so Hitoshi doesn’t have to. That light hits me first, and I make damn sure it doesn’t spill over. I take the noise and the attention. We’ve remixed layers of protection around him: coded routines, secure routes, locked-down contact info. UA’s been solid. The staff knows the line, and they help us hold it.”
Hizashi slips on an easy grin. “And most importantly, Hitoshi knows how to stay grounded. He’s sharp, cautious, and—unlike his old man—he couldn’t care less about attention.”
It’s a simple phrase. ‘Old man.’ Objectively not true since they’re only in their thirties but.
‘—the paranoid parent talking—’
It stirs something in Shouta’s chest. He’s never needed Hitoshi to call him dad or any other variation thereof, neither of them do. But hearing it like that, so easily, slipping from his husband’s lips as if it’s always been true, it's a quiet confirmation.
The thought of being Hitoshi’s father … it hits him softly, almost like a fleeting shadow in the corner of his mind. Because once the adoption goes through (and it will), it won’t just be a feeling. It’ll be a legal reality. He’ll be Hitoshi’s parent, his old man, in every sense. And Hitoshi doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t need to.
Because Shouta can already see it in the way the kid has made himself part of their home, the way Hitoshi comes home from school, puts his shoes in the exact same spot by the door, and heads straight for the kitchen to steal a snack. The way he doesn’t hesitate to seek them out for comfort, whether it’s to talk or to just be near them. How his shoulders relax the second they walk into the room, like he’s been holding his breath until they show up. Or the quiet way Hitoshi will ask, ‘You two good?’ as if checking on them too—because somehow, even at sixteen, he knows it’s not just about him. It’s about the three of them. He knows he’s part of something bigger, and there’s already a language between them.
Shouta envisions the smile Hitoshi gives when he shares his latest project with them or subjects them to his ‘music’ in his mind’s eye. How the kid looks out for the two of them in his own way by keeping an eye on their schedules. When he tries to be subtle when he makes sure Hizashi and he eat something decent if they get home late.
Hitoshi never has to say it. Hizashi and Shouta already hear him.
Tateoka scribbles down some more notes with her expression a canvas of neutrality. She says flatly, “That’s reassuring to hear. It sounds like you’ve taken all the necessary precautions.”
“Hitoshi is not just smart.” Shouta drawls. “He’s resilient. And if something’s off, he’ll notice it before we do.”
Shouta remembers the time when he never thought he’d be a father. It hadn’t ever felt like an option, not when he was younger, not when he was living alone, not when he was still wrapped up in the solo world of a hero who had little care for anything outside his job. But then he reconnected with Hizashi. Then he married Hizashi. And then… then Hitoshi came into their lives.
A year with the kid, a year of quiet moments and rewriting wrongs and small victories, of watching Hitoshi grow and them all becoming one—and in that time, something undeniably shifted. Something real. Shouta never thought he’d have a family. And now, here it was, simply his reality. The word ‘parent’ doesn’t feel as foreign as it once did. It feels earned.
His throat tightens just the tiniest fraction. He won’t let it show. But he feels it.
Tateoka’s quirk settles at the corners of her laptop like frost. She adjusts her glasses with strings of ink curling in the air from her fingertips. “Your security system is layered, you said. Could you elaborate on what that entails, Mr. Yamada?”
Hizashi nods readily. “Oh, absolutely. Let’s break it down.” He raises his hand to count off his fingers. “First, physical security. We’ve got the usual: reinforced doors, cameras, sensors all around. But it’s not just about deterrents. It’s about monitoring and rapid response. We’ve got a direct line to private security teams, plus I’ve had our home’s entry points rigged with multiple fail-safes. We’ve got backups in place, too. Just in case. And backups for the backups.”
The corners of Hizashi’s mouth ease down, and the brightness in his tone dulls by a degree. Just enough to mean he’s not joking.
“I’m not just about the flashy life.” Hizashi continues. “I’ve got plans in place if things go south, when I’m away on a tour or even just working late, there’s always someone on standby watching the perimeter. And we’re connected to a city-wide security network for quick alerts. Basically? We don’t just rely on the standard ‘hero’ protection—this is more personal.”
Hizashi pauses for a moment, turning his attention to Shouta as if for emphasis, and the tone shifts slightly as he jabs his thumb in the Erasure hero’s direction.
“Shouta’s also got some contingency plans of his own. He’s... well, he’s got an eye for making sure that nothing unexpected gets past us.”
“I’m trained in surveillance.” Shouta says. “Covert ops, pattern tracking, counter-monitoring—the kind of work that doesn’t make headlines. I know how to spot a tail, flag a bug, and recognize when something’s off before it escalates. We’ve got encrypted channels for all sensitive comms. No unsecured devices, no traceable links. But most of all: Hitoshi’s safety isn’t about just building walls. It’s about staying invisible. No exposure and no access. His name doesn’t surface. That’s the point.”
Hizashi leans back with a wry grin. “We keep a very strict policy when it comes to privacy, but I’m sure you already know that by now. If someone slips through the cracks—whether it’s a fan or an uninvited guest—we make sure to hit the killswitch on that. We’ll turn a situation around before it even hits the airwaves.”
Shouta’s voice is low, even, and with a hard edge. What comes from him next is not a threat, but a promise carved in stone.
“Anyone who threatens Hitoshi’s safety will find that there’s no room for negotiation. No compromise.”
Hizashi’s grin grows teeth at the statement, and the pair share a glance in mutual agreement.
Tateoka doesn’t react outright. She doesn’t nod and she doesn’t blink. But her pen stills for a half-second above the page. Just long enough for Shouta to catch it. A small tell, one that says her neutrality has been momentarily punctured.
She sets the pen down and folds her hands. “How do you handle the emotional toll of your work? Do you discuss the stress with your family?”
Shouta answers first.
“I deal with it. It’s part of the job.” Not cold, just honest. “I don’t vent to Hitoshi. That’s not his burden to carry, he has his own life to live, and he doesn’t need mine weighing down on it. I’ve got colleagues I trust when I need to talk. I have Hizashi.” And he feels Hizashi’s megawatt smile in his periphery. “ My husband balances it better than I do.”
He doesn’t look over when he says it, but the weight in the statement is deliberate. An acknowledgement, and Hizashi picks it up smoothly, his voice warm and clear.
“It’s a lot. No use sugarcoating it. It’s high-volume, high-stakes, and the margin for error’s razor thin. But I’m lucky.” There it is. Shouta knows that tone. The syrupy one Hizashi slips into when he’s being sentimental on purpose. Like he’s trying to melt hearts one earnest metaphor at a time. “I’ve got a partner who keeps me grounded, a kid who reminds me why it matters, and a job that, for all its noise, still feels worth it. So yeah: it takes a toll. But when I think about Hitoshi, and what we’re trying to build for him?” Hizashi’s voice softens into the particular brand of open-hearted earnestness he never tries to hide. The kind that makes strangers smile and students trust him without knowing why.
He says, “Even the static starts to sound like part of the song.”
And Shouta resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s so Hizashi. Unabashedly sappy, the emotional equivalent of an acoustic guitar being strummed in golden-hour lighting.
But underneath the fond exasperation, the truth lands sharp and clear: Hizashi is the perfect partner for this life. For him. For Hitoshi.
And damn it, he’s a really good father.
The rest of the interview blurs into a slow-motion marathon of perfectly reasonable questions delivered with the urgency of a hostage negotiation.
Where do you store your gear?
Is it accessible in a crisis?
Do you label your knives?
And so on. And so forth.
Shouta answers each one with his usual precision: succinct, direct, and mildly irritated by the implication that he’d ever leave a capture weapon under the couch cushions. His responses are clinical, shaped by years of form-filling and Commission briefings. He walks Tateoka through the riveting world of biometric seals, motion-locked cases, and off-site containment protocols. It’s the kind of conversation that really gets the blood pumping. Hitoshi isn’t even interested in his gear anyway; the kid has his own. Legally authorized and properly stored—and he’s too busy surviving midterms, hitting his deadlift personal record, and pretending protein powder counts as a vegetable to want to snoop around in Shouta’s things anyway.
Tateoka, to her credit, never repeats herself, but she does know how to phrase a question like she’s cross-examining a corpse.
‘How does teaching impact your work-life balance?’
It doesn’t. There is no balance. There is a see-saw made of caffeine and paperwork.
‘How do you stay connected with Hitoshi when work pulls you away?’
Cue Hizashi lighting up like he’s just found an unmanned DJ table. He launches into a detailed breakdown of emotional availability via themed playlists, complete with genre notes and likely BPMs. Shouta does not visibly sigh. The worst part? It works. It always works. Tateoka actually nods, like she’s taking notes for her own potential parenting future.
The minutes stretch into an hour. Possibly two. Time becomes a flexible concept.
Eventually, Shouta stops tracking the questions and starts cataloguing the number of pens Tateoka has clipped inside her notebook.
(Four. Two black, one red, one blue. All perfectly aligned.)
By the time the final round of queries hits the table, Shouta has mentally rewritten the floor plan of their apartment, drafted a week’s worth of lesson plans, and decided that the fluorescent buzz overhead is definitely tuned to a frequency designed to erode willpower.
Still, they hold the line.
Because for all the tedium and bureaucracy, this matters. It matters more than the sting in his eyes or the headache pressing behind them.
And when Hizashi gives another too-honest answer about what it means to stay connected, and Tateoka marks her page with the smallest twitch of a smile, Shouta thinks:
Fine. Ask ten more. We’ll answer them all.
Tateoka glances at her notes with a pen paused above the page. She raises her brow at him. “You’ve been a hero for some time. How long have you been going by ‘Eraserhead ’? I haven’t seen much about you in the media.”
There’s a beat of silence. Hizashi lets out the faintest ahem and quickly schools his expression into something neutral, but only just. The corner of his mouth twitches like a radio trying to hold in static.
Shouta doesn’t blink. “About fifteen years,” he says flatly. “Give or take.”
Tateoka’s other brow is lifted alongside its kin. “Ah. I see. So you’re more of a support hero, then? Or—sidekick, perhaps?”
Shouta pauses. Hizashi makes a quiet noise that might be a cough or possibly laughter being smothered by one. Shouta cuts him a look that says: ‘don’t.’
“No,” Shouta drawls as if the word is being pulled out by rusty pliers. “I’m classified as a Tier 1 Pro by the Public Safety Commission. I’ve led multiple joint task forces, teach at the top hero training institution in the country, and am authorized for solo black-ops missions without media oversight.”
A long pause.
“Oh,” Tateoka says, blinking.
Shouta takes a slow sip of room-temperature water held in a paper cup. “I don’t do interviews,” he adds. “Or cameras. Or fan clubs.”
“Or marketing,” Hizashi adds helpfully, and immediately receives a deadpan stare for his trouble.
Tateoka clears her throat, adjusting her glasses as if to buy herself time. “I see. My apologies… I wasn’t aware.”
“Good.” Shouta quips. “That means I’ve done my job right.”
Hizashi, clearly, can’t hold back anymore. He lets out a small laugh and pats Shouta’s knee. “Don’t worry,” he tells Tateoka, grinning wide. “He likes it that way.”
Shouta doesn’t argue.
Because he does.
Tateoka nods and quickly returns to her laptop. She finishes typing something with a few sharp clicks, then begins to gather her things. Her files are stacked in precise order, her pens gathered, and laptop stowed away in its case. She moves methodically, but her body language has softened, ever so slightly, with her shoulders loosened and less guarded. She pauses to smooth a crease in one of the documents, then looks up.
Her gaze flicks between them. At Hizashi’s open, still a little too ready with a smile, and Shouta’s measured expression. And, evidently, Tateoka sees enough. She nods, more to herself than to them.
There’s approval in that nod. Quiet, definitely professional, but unmistakable.
They’ve done well. Shouta didn’t expect otherwise. But there’s always a risk when dealing with a system that can write its own conclusions before anyone’s said a word.
Things are moving forward.
And then she speaks again.
“Well,” she says briskly, tone unchanged from the rest of the interview. “Assuming no major delays in processing, we’ll move into the next phase.”
Shouta already feels something wilt inside him, because of course. He already expected a ‘next phase,’ but the verbal confirmation of such only twists the knife of inevitability. Like hearing a train whistle just before it barrels through.
“There will be a second home inspection, this time scheduled rather than surprise,” she continues, sorting one folder into another. “It will include full walkthrough documentation—safety protocols, accessibility, sleeping arrangements, hygiene accommodations, and environmental triggers, if any.”
Hizashi sits up a little straighter. “Do we, uh, both need to be present?”
“Yes,” Tateoka replies without looking up. “Both guardians must be present. It will be conducted during business hours.”
Meaning: yes, you will take time off work again whether you like it or not.
“And Hitoshi?” Shouta asks. “He’s already missed class for this. I’d prefer he didn’t miss more unless it’s necessary.”
“That’s understood. However, for the purposes of procedural compliance, we will require documentation of regular attendance, such as a printed record, as well as verification of attendance the day of inspection. The inspector may request to contact the school directly at the time of visit, which may include a real-time confirmation by phone.” She flips another document and Shouta feels something twitch in his jaw at the statement. “You’ll also be scheduled for an interview to discuss your reasons for pursuing adoption. It will cover topics including parenting styles, approaches to adolescent development, and specifically: why you’ve chosen to adopt a teenager with Hitoshi’s background.”
That part hangs in the air for a moment. It’s not accusatory, but Shouta isn’t a fan of the implications.
“Psyche evaluations will be required for each of you individually, as standard. As is documentation of income and employment stability. Transcripts, licenses, UA affiliation statements. Three letters of reference: one professional, one personal, and one neutral third party. I’ve noted that Principal Nezu has offered a statement, which will fulfill the professional category. Your personal references will be from Mr. Yamada’s parents. And your third will need to come from one of Hitoshi’s teachers—someone outside your immediate circle.”
Shouta makes a small sound signalling the world’s faintest exhale. It’s resignation, not reluctance. Ectoplasm or Hound Dog, he surmises, whoever agrees first.
She continues. “We will also be conducting an interview with Mr. Yamada’s parents, as they are poised to become the primary extended family to an unrelated adolescent. It’s standard procedure to assess their perspective on the adoption, their preparedness for a grandparent role, and—frankly—whether they have an established rapport with the child.”
“Oh, they adore Hitoshi.” Hizashi replies immediately. “My mom calls him every other week just to ask if he’s eating enough, so you won’t get any resistance there.” A sigh, and then sagging in his seat in acquiescence. “But yeah, I get it. Process is process. Just brace yourself, they might bring the photo album of when they took Hitoshi to the cheese theme park.”
Tateoka doesn’t slow. “There will also be an independent interview conducted with Shinsou. It will assess his understanding of the process, his feelings toward the placement, and his stated desires for long-term guardianship. He’ll be interviewed independently, but you will also be scheduled for an interview all together.”
Both men nod. Hizashi has started bouncing his leg. Tateoka pushes her glasses up her nose, posture perfectly composed, and quirk swaying in the air beside her.
“And lastly,” she adds. “As part of the Division’s updated adolescent adoption protocol, both prospective guardians will be required to attend a certified parenting seminar. It’s a weekend-long intensive course hosted in Meguro Ward, focused on trauma-informed care, adolescent development, and attachment frameworks. The seminar is mandatory regardless of existing professional background. Attendance will be logged. You’ll receive materials in advance, including preparatory reading and reflection worksheets."
Shouta blinks slowly. The kind of blink that, if weaponized, could peel paint from the walls. Beside him, Hizashi lets out a low, strangled noise that could be mistaken for a laugh if one were feeling generous.
Undeterred, Tateoka merely continues.
"Additionally—due to past incident reports and the nature of his quirk—Hitoshi will need to complete a course of structured quirk counselling. This will focus on ethical quirk use, situational regulation, and boundary-setting in interpersonal contexts. UA’s guidance annex has been approved to facilitate."
Shouta’s lips purse into a thin line. He can already hear Hitoshi’s reaction in his head: equal parts sarcastic and brittle. Something along the line of, ‘Cool, glad to know I’m still on the villain watchlist.’
Shouta just nods. The barest tilt of his chin. A gesture that says, ‘Noted. And also: get bent.’
"As before, we appreciate your cooperation. While the process may feel exhaustive, it’s designed to serve the child’s long-term welfare. You will receive a full summary of these next steps in your confirmation packet by early next week."
Tateoka shutters all her items into neat stacks and, for one glorious second, it feels like the end of the meeting.
Then she reaches down beside her chair.
From her satchel, she produces a stack of paper thick enough to qualify as a structural threat. Folders, printed packets, manila envelopes with plastic tabs, and various loose documents all clearly deliberately chosen to ruin he and Hizashi’s whole week.
She sets them down on the edge of the table with a muted thunk. The pile wobbles ominously.
Then she produces another stack. Slightly thinner. Slightly.
Another thunk echoes in the room.
“Here’s the preliminary documentation,” she says crisply. “Review, sign, and return within ten business days. Some forms require notarization. Others need duplicate copies submitted to both the Musutafu and Tokyo offices.”
She slides a stapled checklist across the table. Both men stare at it blankly.
Shouta is already mapping out a timetable in his head that involves a spreadsheet, a colour-coded folder system, and some emotional detachment to survive it all.
Hizashi inhales like he’s about to say something hopeful—and immediately gives up halfway through the breath. So instead, he bumps his knee lightly against Shouta’s under the table. It’s not much, barely a nudge, but it’s enough to say: we’re in this together.
Shouta exhales through his nose. He doesn’t look over, he just taps his foot once against Hizashi’s in return. A Morse code for: we’ll survive this.
Shouta flips open the first packet with the solemn focus of a man reading his own autopsy report.
“The checklist is itemized by urgency,” Tateoka offers helpfully. “Page thirty-seven outlines the documentation required to secure authorization for secondary background checks, as well as the consent forms for psychological assessments and ongoing behavioural evaluations.”
Hizashi looks down at the stack again, then up at Tateoka.
“Coolcoolcool,” he says, with the haunted tone of someone who just bore witness to a trainwreck. “So, uh, is there a reward if we finish it all without crying?”
Tateoka doesn’t answer. She’s already packing her bag.
Outside the interview room, the corridor is too bright. Shouta blinks once, adjusts the folder under his arm (the one threatening to dislocate his shoulder with sheer red tape), and heads for the waiting area where Hitoshi’s been parked for the last two hours.
The kid’s laying on his side on the couch, his belongings already packed and evidently finished with his homework. Shouta would like to think Hitoshi has only just drifted off which is why he stirs as soon as they arrive, but he understands: Hitoshi is a light sleeper, the kind who could wake at a pin drop, a habit carved into him by years of being too aware of every sound. Hitoshi straightens without making a big deal of it, scratching his arms behind his head like he’s been awake the whole time.
“You survived, huh?” Hitoshi says, tone casual. Cool, even. But his eyes flick to the mountain of paperwork Hizashi is carrying, then to Shouta’s folder stack, and back again. He doesn’t ask.
“Just barely.” Hizashi responds, with the hoarse enthusiasm of a man who’s forgotten what joy feels like. “We danced with scrutiny, tangoed with tedium, and dropped the hottest comeback track.”
Shouta exhales. “Don’t touch anything with tabs. They’ll multiply.”
Hitoshi snorts. Just once, but it’s genuine amusement and Shouta feels the corner of his mouth tip upward as he stows away the paperwork to be safely ignored in a briefcase, just for the time being.
They stop for food before heading to the station. Yakisoba, grilled squid on sticks, and cold bottled tea. The streets and crowds blur around them as they wander, and Hitoshi eats fast and says little, but he doesn’t wander. He stays close, shoulder occasionally brushing their own and always orbiting.
The train home is long, but quiet. Two hours of track clicks and overhead announcements. Hitoshi dozes off again, his arms folded and head rested against Hizashi’s shoulder. Hizashi is snoring lightly by the time they hit Kanagawa.
Shouta watches the city lights recede into the distance and thinks, briefly, of the journey ahead.
But then he looks at his kid, asleep with his mouth slightly open, hoodie pulled over his head like a helmet and curled against his other parent. His gaze drifts naturally to his husband, slumped in the seat with his cheek settled against Hitoshi’s hair. A flyer for the parenting seminar is half-crushed in his fist.
And it all feels worth it.