Chapter Text
Walking into UA the day after he'd effectively ended his only chance to become a hero, Hitoshi kept his head down as he walked the halls. Where before, there had been determination and a sense of purpose in the set of his shoulders — now, Hitoshi was sure that all he encapsulated was defeat.
Disappointment too, maybe. Then again, he mused to himself, he'd always given off the vibes of one big disappointment. Hitoshi kept his pale gaze on the floor as he walked, his steps dragging. He did not want to face his English teacher, especially now that he knew the man thought the same of him that everybody else did.
Despite the fact that he'd spent so much of his life telling himself over and over again not to get his hopes up, he had. He'd really thought that he'd finally had people in his corner. Had people that believed in him.
And. . . Well, Hitoshi being the sad, loser orphan he was, looked up to his teachers probably more than he should have. On his worst nights, Hitoshi had soothed himself to sleep through aching hunger pains to the thought of his Sensei saving him.
Like he was a helpless victim. A child.
(He was a child, he was.)
Hitoshi sighed to himself as he finally reached his English classroom, having been dreading the class since his first period. (Which was Art, held by Midnight-sensei. She had seemed to be looking at him strangely, but maybe he was just paranoid.)
He would just ignore the teacher. That was how he'd get through the next year — three years. Hopefully he'd have a different English teacher the next year and never have to worry about it again. But for now, he was forced to suck it up and slip inside the classroom.
Hitoshi kept his eyes firmly on the ground as he shuffled over to his seat, and already he could feel Yamada’s eyes burning holes into the side of his face. He refused to look back. In fact, he didn't look at the teacher once during the entire class. Instead, he feigned interest in his notebook, and only ever lifted his gaze to peer at the instructions on the board.
As the end of the period drew closer, and Hitoshi’s nerves began to settle, he was pretty sure that he'd gotten away with mouthing off to the man yesterday. When the bell finally rang, Hitoshi wasted no time to pack his things away and shrug his bag over his shoulder. He started for the door without a backwards glance, and he almost made it, too.
Then — “Shinsou? Can you hang back a bit, listener?”
He tensed, and the motion sent a dull wave of pain through his aching ribs. “I'm in trouble,” he responded, voice flat.
“W-What? No! No, I just wanted to chat for a minute, kid!”
His teeth ground together at the kind tone that he used to think meant the teacher cared. “Then no, thank you, sir.”
Hitoshi kept walking, right out the door and into the throng of students. He felt Yamada’s gaze on his back until he disappeared from view of the classroom. Something in his chest gave out when the voice hero did not come after him.
But, he hadn't expected him to. Hitoshi understood now.
Hitoshi managed to upkeep the same routine for almost two weeks. After the first couple of attempts to get him to stay behind, Yamada eventually gave up. And if Hitoshi thought he so much as heard Aizawa’s name, he turned around and walked the other way.
Avoidance was a probably not too healthy coping mechanism, but Hitoshi could be doing a lot worse. He could be out doing drugs, robbing people or hurting himself like so many of his past foster siblings.
Instead, he ignored all his problems, and it seemed to work out well for him. As well as it could.
He made it to the next Friday before he was finally cornered on his way out of the building. The tension had just leaked out of his posture as he'd silently congratulated himself for making it through another week. He wasn't looking forward to getting back to his foster home, but he sure as shit wasn't looking forward to another stressful week of avoiding his teacher — and former teacher.
He'd just made it to the front doors when a shadow blocked his path. Hitoshi halted suddenly, picking up his head and lifting his gaze from his ratty converse. In front of him stood none other than Eraserhead himself.
Hitoshi felt his heart drop. “Eraserhead,” he muttered, voice low. He kept a white knuckled grip on the strap of his bag.
His old mentor stared him down, face unreadable. “Shinsou,” he said. “Come with me.”
Hitoshi physically felt his heart skip a beat in his chest, and unbidden, he took a half step backwards. “I have to.” He prodded, once again very careful not to add a questioning inflection.
And there — something in Aizawa’s expression changed. His brows twitched like they wanted to draw together, and an unfamiliar look crossed his eyes. “No.” He said eventually. “But I would like to talk to you about your training.”
Hitoshi swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I'm not your student anymore, sir. You don't have to worry about it.” He said blankly. Then, while he was still feeling brave, he turned and made to walk away.
Aizawa grabbed his wrist gently, just enough to grab his attention.
But — that was the same wrist Hitoshi had sprained a couple weeks before. The second he felt the loose grip around the still bruised limb, he hissed, reflexively yanking his hand against his chest. Aizawa stilled, and Hitoshi’s chest filled with panic.
Fuck.
“I'm taking you to Recovery Girl, Shinsou, and then we're going to talk. I'm not letting you avoid this any longer.” Aizawa said with something like a sigh in his voice, and the man placed a hand carefully on his shoulder. He turned them around and began to lead them back into the school. Hitoshi couldn't say a word as his world crashed down around him.
He couldn't deny the relief he felt once the pain finally faded from his wrist and ribs, but it did nothing for the sheer anxiety swirling in his gut. His eyes were lidded, but he wasn't any more tired than he would be on a regular day, so he had no trouble staying awake.
Hitoshi almost wished he could use the excuse of passing out to get out of this conversation, though. He could feel Aizawa’s eyes on him the entire time Recovery Girl was examining him, and he'd never paid her so much attention in his life. Finally, after she'd deposited a handful of gummies into his hand, she shot a look at his former mentor and then fled the room. He slipped them into his pocket, unable to stomach anything at the moment.
Leaving Hitoshi alone with Aizawa. Fuck.
“Kid, are you going to tell me how you got those injuries? Or are you going to make me guess?” Aizawa said finally, sitting in a chair at his bedside. Hitoshi's heart rate kicked up a notch, and he flicked his gaze down to his hands. He wrung his fingers together in his lap to avoid looking at his ex-mentor.
“I got in a fight,” he said flatly. “With my siblings. It's not a big deal.”
“A fight. That ended with bruised ribs and a fractured wrist?” Aizawa shot right back, his face impassive.
“We were roughhousing. It's what siblings do.” He lied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, even as he pondered if what he was saying held any truth to it. He doubted regular kids got into brawls with their siblings. All his past foster siblings had either ignored him or avoided him at any cost. Except for the younger ones. The younger ones always looked so tearful when Hitoshi was limping back to his room or carefully adjusting the muzzle on his face.
“Mm. Maybe, so. But you don't have any foster siblings currently, Shinsou. The Kobayashis have only had one child in their care for the entire six months you've been there.” The teacher said quietly. Hitoshi could still feel the man’s gaze on the side of his face.
Hitoshi's breath hitched upon having the truth thrown in his face. “A-An old foster sibling, Sensei. I have a life that you don't know about,” he spat defensively, even as his palms began to sweat and his knee began to bounce nervously. He still avoided looking at him.
“I know you do.” Aizawa said with something like a sigh. “But it's not the picture you're trying to paint right now, and we both know that.”
God damnit. Hitoshi felt his stomach churning, and he struggled to keep his breaths even. How did he know?
“Are you fucking spying on me or something?” He snapped, finally lifting his head to glare up at the man. Aizawa’s expression remained the same, until Hitoshi abruptly realized he'd just asked a question.
And then the blood drained from the boy’s face, his eyes widening briefly before he immediately looked to the floor. He seemed to shrink in on himself, and that was the moment that something finally changed on Aizawa's face. Not that Hitoshi noticed, seeing as he was doing the best he could to fall through the floor and die, maybe.
“I read your file before I first approached you, kid.” Aizawa said gently, his voice much softer than Hitoshi was expecting. His lips twitched, but he didn't look up. “And then, when I started noticing the injuries you were trying so hard to hide, I looked deeper. Because, kid, Hitoshi, I —”
Hitoshi’s head whipped up, lavender eyes blown wide at the use of his given name, and furthered by the way Aizawa was hesitating. Never once in the entire time he'd known the man had the hero ever hesitated.
Hitoshi almost flinched at the intense look on the hero teacher’s face. Aizawa was leant forward with his elbows on his knees, dark eyes looking intently at the boy in front of him. And there was something unfamiliar swirling in his gaze. Something Hitoshi didn't know what to do with. Aizawa cleared his throat.
“I care, kid,” he said finally. “I care about your safety, I care about your well-being. And I know that something is wrong, but I can't do anything about it until you accept my help.”
Hitoshi froze. His mind blanked as he stared, wide-eyed at Aizawa. His teacher — the teacher was saying exactly what Hitoshi had dreamt of for months. He noticed, and he wanted to help him. But —
Hitoshi's trembling jaw clenched tight, his lips curling into a snarl. “Don't pretend like you care now,” he spat, almost proud of the way Aizawa’s eyes widened in shock. “I'm not an idiot, and it's pretty fucking obvious that you and Yamada-sensei are best buds. I know you think the same shit that everyone else does. I know both of you do. I'm just a trouble-making future villain with my evil quirk.” He rolled his eyes. “I'm not stupid, Sensei. So don't try to make me look like it.”
Hitoshi almost winced at his slip up but he kept his expression angry and defensive. He stared straight into the hero’s eyes despite how much he wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. (Gods, what the fuck was he doing?)
And then, something. . . shifted on the hero’s face. His eyes twitched, and his lips curled downward slightly, his brows pinching together. And then, instead of snapping back — instead of finally yelling or raising his hands to him, Aizawa’s shoulders slumped in something like defeat. Hitoshi blinked rapidly at the change, confusion flashing through his eyes.
And then, instead of reprimanding him for cursing and raising his voice at an adult, Aizawa turned his head towards the closed door. “Hizashi.”
The use of the English teacher’s given name sent a spike of panic through Hitoshi’s chest, and he inhaled sharply. There was a soft, warning knock on the door before the knob turned and Yamada poked his head inside. He offered Hitoshi a shaky smile first, before sharing a long glance with Aizawa as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
Hitoshi could feel his hands beginning to tremble as his muscles locked up. Yamada seemed to notice, as he slowed his pace before he reached him, instead dragging another chair forward to place at Aizawa’s side. The English teacher sat down and clasped his hands together.
Hitoshi focused on the man’s hands instead of his face, eyes flitting over the fingerless gloves and countless silver rings adorning the man’s long fingers. His nails were painted, he noticed. Yellow.
“Hey, listener,” Yamada said quietly. “I know you're having a hard time trusting either of us right now, and that's my fault.” He began. Hitoshi still refused to meet his eyes. Yamada shifted, releasing a small, shaky breath. That piqued his interest, and his eyes snapped up for a split-second to observe the man’s expression.
Hitoshi startled inwardly at the sadness(?) on his face, before quickly lowering his head again. He had nothing to say to him, so Hitoshi kept his jaw clamped shut. “I know that you think I reacted the way I did because of your quirk. Because you asked a question, right?”
He didn't think, he knew. Hitoshi wasn't an idiot.
“I should've explained myself immediately, I know. But I wasn't expecting to see —”
Aizawa’s hand dropped onto Yamada’s knee. Hitoshi stared at the point of contact in confusion. The blond patted Aizawa’s hand once, before he suddenly shifted, lowering himself out of the chair and onto one knee.
Hitoshi leaned backwards warily. “I had a pretty rough childhood, listener, and I let that get to me instead of being there for you like I should have been,” he said softly. “I promise you, kiddo, that I was not afraid of you asking questions or using your quirk on me. Have I ever hesitated to answer your questions before? Has Sh — Eraserhead, here?”
Hitoshi's first instinct was to argue, but he stopped himself. Frozen where he sat, Hitoshi combed through recent memory and realized that — no, they hadn't. Neither of them had ever hesitated to answer him before. Whether it be asking for help on an assignment or questioning his mentor on his capture weapon. They'd always answered without pause before. Always seemed to treat him like any other kid, ignoring his quirk entirely.
Hitoshi felt sick. “No,” he whispered meekly. And then the question escaped him without permission. “But, then, why?”
He finally looked at them both, his eyes burning. “Why did you —?”
He cut himself off, realizing what he was doing. He had the displeasure of watching something like disappointment wash over both their faces. “Why did I panic?” Yamada continued for him, a sad smile on his lips. Hitoshi nodded, unable to form any more words.
Yamada pulled off his sunglasses and met his gaze despite how hard Hitoshi was trying to avoid it. He leant forward on his knees as he very pointedly scratched at the bridge of his nose — no, at a pale, white scar that arced over the cartilage and continued to wrap around the voice hero’s cheeks and jaw. “I saw something I recognized, Hitoshi.”
It took only one double take for Hitoshi to realize exactly what that scar was — exactly what it meant. And his heart sank as he realized just what had really happened that day. He barely recognized that his own hand was coming up to brush over the edge of his jaw, over the irritated scar tissue.
Scar tissue that Yamada had seen that day — that had made him react like that. Hitoshi’s stomach dropped to his feet, because he finally had realized just what an idiot he had been. So used to the way the world had always treated him, Hitoshi had jumped to conclusions before Yamada could even finish gasping in horror.
His teacher — who really cared(?) — had simply reacted to the horrifying realization that his student had gone through the same thing he had.
And. . . Hitoshi had immediately lost faith in him. Lost faith in his senseis when they. . . they really did care, didn't they? He hadn't been imagining it before? He hadn't just been hoping and praying for something he could never have? Hitoshi realized that he had lowered his eyes the moment he tore them away from Yamada.
He focused his gaze, and zeroed in on the trembling hands lying in his lap. His chest tightened with regret, with guilt. And then with horror, because what had he done? After everything they had done for him, Hitoshi had thrown it all away simply because he was too insecure?
He had thrown away his only chance to become a hero — had turned away and avoided the only adults who'd ever seen anything in him, all at the drop of a hat.
His breath hitched, his eyes blurred, and Hitoshi crumbled.
Dropping his head heavily into his hands, Hitoshi let out a stifled sob. His nails dug into the skin of his face as he bowed over, shoulders trembling. “I'm sorry,” he choked out through a wobbling voice. “I'm so sorry, Senseis, I thought — I'm so sorry.”
Hitoshi broke, falling apart in front of the only people he had ever let himself start to trust. Tears wet his hands, dripping between the cracks of his fingers as he finally realized how badly he'd fucked up. He had ruined his life, Hitoshi realized.
They knew. They knew and instead of trusting them to help him, Hitoshi had pushed them away at every turn. He deserved it.
He deserved whatever they threw at him next.
“Oh, kid,” Yamada breathed sadly.
And then, a hand settled on his shoulder. Not Yamada's, but his mentor’s. “Hitoshi, can I hug you?” He asked him quietly.
He didn't question it, only nodding mutely while small sobs continued to spill from his throat. And then he was being pulled forward into Aizawa’s arms, his ear to the man’s chest. And Hitoshi cried, shaking apart in his arms as Aizawa's heart thumped steadily beneath his ear.
Another hand placed itself on his back, and before he knew it there was a second pair of arms wrapping around him. Yamada’s hand rubbed soothing circles on his middle back, while Aizawa’s thumb rubbed back and forth at his shoulder blade.
He'd never felt this warm and this safe all at once. The thought made another muffled sob spill past his lips.
“Hitoshi, will you let us help you now?” Aizawa asked softly. “Please?”
And that was it — that one word. Because Aizawa had never asked for anything before, not like this. Had never cared like this. Had never said please.
So, Hitoshi lifted his blotchy face from where it had been buried in Aizawa’s chest, and he met their gazes.
Warm, hopeful, and pleading. He broke. “I need help,” he whispered, tears dripping from his chin. “Senseis, I need help.”
Relief. Pure, unadulterated relief crossed both of their faces before they drew him back into their arms. “We got you, kiddo,” Yamada sniffed.
“You're safe now,” Aizawa murmured.
Hitoshi wrapped his arms around the pair and he finally let go.