Chapter Text
Hizashi had no idea how much time had passed when he finally blinked into wakefulness. Confusion coloured his memories, making his head feel fuzzy and not quite there. Everything hurt, he didn’t need to move to know that much, and he was absolutely freezing.
What had happened? He couldn’t quite remember, not sure what had brought him to wherever this was, not quite ready to open his eyes and find out. An attack? So many people, a train? There were villains?
It came back to him slowly; he had overslept, had been on his way to work to teach his first class of the day and had been running late. The train, the group of villains - he’d screwed up, had taken his eye off the ball so to speak, and one of them had managed to take him down. Take him down hard by how sore he was feeling. Hizashi cracked open one eye, taking in his surroundings as best he could without indicating that he had regained consciousness. He was alone, it seemed - good, that gave him the opportunity to properly check on his injuries and to see if there was much chance of finding a way out.
Stretching out all four limbs as best he could, Hizashi found that he was shackled, as he had expected, hands cuffed together and attached to a ring embedded into the floor. His legs were loose, at least, which gave him something to work with, and there was an odd weight around his head. The movement hurt though, the villains that had attacked him clearly hadn’t bothered stopping when he lost consciousness, and he was pretty sure he had at least a few cracked ribs. Curling back in on himself, Hizashi groaned-
What?
What the hell?
It would have come out as more of a whimper, had the sound been able to escape from the metal contraption pressing into his face and up around the back of his head. Reaching up with trembling hands, Hizashi pressed his fingertips into the cold metal, feeling along the edges where it bit into his skin. He pulled, pushed, tried to shift the mask even a little - but it wouldn’t budge. He might have thought it was made to fit his face, if not for the way it dug in under his cheekbones, pressed against his throat, made it difficult to swallow around his dry tongue.
They had gagged him.
He could feel the rising panic, bubbling in his chest, bitter and acidic as it threatened to consume him. He breathed in a deep breath through his nose, calming his frantic pulse as best he could, fixating on a spot across the room, eyes wide and staring as he tried to wrestle himself back under control.
It was working. Thankfully, blissfully it was working - right up until the moment he tried to let the breath out through his mouth on reflex.
Something inside Hizashi snapped.
Broke.
Shattered into a thousand pieces of sharpened glass and he thrashed against his restraints, pulling and tugging and wrenching at his abused limbs trying to break free. Desperate fingers clawed at the gag as Hizashi started to hyperventilate, nails breaking and bleeding as he tried to pull it free.
“Loud.”
He was starting to get light-headed, sharp shallow breaths not enough to fill his lungs in his panicked state, to give him the oxygen he needed. It hurt, but the pain was distant and Hizashi wasn’t certain if he was trying to scream or not.
It didn’t matter. No one could hear him anyway.
“Dangerous.”
He pulled back hard enough that his shoulder almost dislocated, the jolting pain along his arm not enough to ground him. His feet scraped across the dusty floor, shoes scuffing against the concrete and he whimpered again.
Shota.
He wanted Shota. Needed him, the ache in his chest intense enough to send hot tears spilling over his cheeks to spread out across the metal of the mask that kept his silence.
“-can’t be allowed to-”
“-nger to the rest of-”
“-oice but to muzzle him.”
The room was dark, small. Smaller even than his bedroom at home. It had been little more than a box room - tiny, holding a bed that spanned from one wall to the other and left very little space for a chest of drawers. But, it was his room - his! And that made it special. Made him a big boy - but that room was gone now.
This room was smaller. If he laid on his back and put his hands over his head, his feet could touch one wall and his hands the opposite. It smelt funny, too, and he didn’t want to be in there.
He hadn’t meant to do it.
Hizashi was four and a half years old. He was tall for his age, with messy blonde hair and a smile that never seemed to want to fade. That was before, though - before his quirk had manifested. Before everything had changed.
He hadn’t meant to.
He had fallen, scraped his knee and it was about the worst pain he had felt so far in his short life. He didn’t know, then, that there were worse agonies out there. That he would find out in short order what those felt like.
Hizashi had screamed. Screamed in the way he always did when he hurt himself, screamed for his mother who was sitting nearby, watching him play. It was nice out, no reason to stay indoors she had said. His father had come with them, for once, and Hizashi had been so, so happy.
Until that scream.
Until he was on the floor, hands that had shown such love trying to quiet him, over his nose, over his mouth, holding him down and Hizashi screamed louder.
He hadn’t meant to do it. Hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. He loved his parents more than anything and he hadn’t wanted to hurt them, not at all.
His father kicked him in the head until he was silent.
It still hurt, but Hizashi was trying not to think about it. He had been taken from them, from his parents, taken to somewhere he didn’t know and didn’t understand. That room had been large and bright. It smelt bad, but no one had hurt him and they gave him toys to play with, snacks to eat. Maybe it wasn’t so terrible, and he could go home after.
After.
There was no after.
“It’s only for a little bit.” They said, their smiles forced. “Just until you can control your quirk better.”
He hadn’t wanted to wear the gag. It was big, and scary, and he wanted his parents.
They hadn’t liked that.
He was to do as he was told, they said.
His parents didn’t want him any more, they said.
The gag didn’t fit right and it was too heavy and Hizashi’s head spun a little from where he had been cuffed around the head to force him to stay still long enough that they could lock it into place.
He was too little to understand what was happening.
He was too little to understand that they meant to leave him like that.
He was too little to comprehend what ‘a little bit’ might mean to frightened grown-ups.
“-shi? Hizashi!” Hands on his shoulders, his arms, his hip. They pulled at his head, at the metal that choked and silenced him. He didn’t understand what was happening, curling up further as green eyes stared, wide and unseeing.
“Shit!” Another voice. There was familiarity there, but it was faint, his mind not quite connecting with his reality.
“Get this thing off him, now!” It seemed louder, this time. There was panic there, not his own and the thick haze began to clear a little. Those hands were still on him, still touching wherever they could, a little bit frantic and so very warm.
Or, was he cold?
“Hizashi, can you hear me?” There was a sound by his ear, not a voice this time, a scrape of metal on metal and Hizashi flinched. The hands continued to touch, to hold, and cool air washed over his mouth and chin. “Please, look at me.”
He looked.
Blinked.
“Shota.” It was barely a whisper, the volume having been sapped from him. Throat raw, limbs cold. Strong arms pulled him up, up into an embrace that served to ground him, to pull him back.
“I’m here, Hizashi.” Shota smelt of lavender wash powder and the pine air conditioner that sat in the teacher’s lounge. He felt like warmth, and safety, and home. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Hizashi buried his face in Shota’s shoulder and cried.