Chapter Text
Hitoshi wakes up slowly the next morning, feeling strangely rested for once, although there’s a slight crick in his neck from being sprawled out on his stomach. His mind is blissfully blank and bleary, and he lets his eyes fall shut briefly, content to just listen to the soft chattering in the kitchen. He can hear hushed voices, and a small smile slips onto his face.
It’s… strangely comforting, both the soft sunlight streaming through his blinds and the thoughtful way his foster parents whisper. It’s a nice feeling, and a part of him has trouble comprehending that they would keep their voices down just so he could sleep a little longer.
He’s lived in some of the more crowded homes, and while he’s learned to sleep in less-than-desirable places, his admittedly poor sleep schedule tends to keep him up much later than is considered healthy, especially with yelling adults or squealing little kids. Since his living situation was always changing, he never quite got used to the noise, considering he could also be left in cold, dead silence - depending on the week, of course.
Now, though, he almost never jolts awake to the sound of loud voices or crashing cutlery. It’s a much-appreciated change to his sleep routine, and at the very least, the circles under his eyes have begun fading.
He squints his eyes open, breathing deeply, and lets out a content sigh. He welcomes the strange, peacefully floaty feeling in his brain, and rubs his eyes as he moves to flip onto his back.
What’s not welcome, though, is the stinging pain that erupts from his ass the second it touches the bed.
Hitoshi yelps, and the fuzziness of the previous night clears into an awfully embarrassing picture, similarly to the way he leaps off the bed and stupidly doesn’t pay attention to the heavy blanket wrapped around his legs. The floor zooms toward his face, and the teen squeezes his eyes shut, arms trapped in front of him.
All things considered, Hitoshi would like to think his fall is fairly graceful, despite his elbow crashing into the floor and sending a jolt of pain down to his hand. He distantly feels his other shoulder knock against the dresser, making his plastic water bottle clatter down to join him and his blanket, and he watches detachedly as the contents spill onto the floor.
Hitoshi just lays there for a moment to let the cold feeling of shock drain out of him, legs crossed in the sheets and arms pinned beneath him, before he smacks his forehead against the hardwood, groaning out his misery.
HERE LIES DUMBASS, indeed.
Hearing hurried footsteps down the hallway, Hitoshi snaps his eyes open, and he somehow finds the motivation to start struggling, eyes wide as he recognizes Aizawa’s light strides alongside Yamada’s worried calls.
God fucking dammit.
He freezes when the door creaks open, holding his breath and clenching his eyes shut, slightly grateful that he’s turned toward the wall and doesn’t need to see their expressions. His face burns hot, and he wishes there was a wider gap under his bed so he could crawl under it and die. Fucking hell, this is like the binding cloth all over again.
And judging by Aizawa’s muted chuckle, he knows that, too.
Bastard.
“Welcome home, Dad,” he bites out sarcastically, squirming in his binds and trying to sound as threatening as possible, though it probably loses some of its effect when he inhales a bit of dust and sneezes out the last of his pride.
He’s sure his ears are burning brilliantly by now, and the soft mutter of “maybe he’s not a pomeranian, he sounds more like a kitten” takes his shredded pride and grinds it to dust, which floats down to his nose to make him sneeze again.
Dammit.
Hitoshi cranes his neck over his shoulder to glare at the man, but then Yamada joins in, and the teen turns vicious eyes toward him. “This is all your fault,” he hisses, though it’s difficult for his tone to contain as much malice as he’d like while his face is rapidly darkening and he’s in this… rather compromising position.
He just barely catches the amused twitch in Yamada’s lips, the way his eyebrows crinkle together, and his pout unwittingly lessens.
“How was this my fault, dear listener?” he questions, like he doesn’t know that Hitoshi’s ass has been rubbed raw with sandpaper and then hung over a hot flame, followed by a nice soak in bleach and a beautiful walk around town, where it’s been dragged over hot cement and left out to be clawed and pecked at by blood-thirsty hawks, which fed what was left of his flesh to their babies.
Hitoshi shoots him a scathing glare in response, but instead of apologizing or dropping it like he used to, Yamada just covers his mouth, eyes twinkling with mirth.
Fuck, do they have no compassion?
“ You,” he bites, grunting as he flips himself over to face them, “are quite literally a pain in my ass.” Yamada finally drops his hand, laughter spilling from between his lips, and Hitoshi gives up on trying to conserve his dignity. There’s no point when he’s in this position, even if it gives a small blow to his ego.
And fine, maybe he deserved to get whooped, but he was not looking to fall face-first out of bed this morning, and he was definitely not looking to have both of his parents walk in and find him face-down in his own pile of stupidity.
“Toshi?” a quiet voice says from behind Aizawa’s leg, peering at him hesitantly, and Hitoshi’s face becomes a nice shade of tanned ass. Perfect. “You’re on the floor.”
The teen quirks a wordless brow in response, far cooler and more collected than the rest of his body, and he nods in acknowledgment. If she wants to point out the obvious, then she can point out the obvious, so long as she has that adorable little wrinkle on her forehead while she thinks about it.
...not that Hitoshi thinks she’s adorable or something. That’d just be lame.
“You’re not supposed to sleep on the floor,” she scolds, wagging her finger and all. Hitoshi feels his lips twitch, and he almost lets a laugh bubble out of him.
As much as he wants to whine about these circumstances, it feels good.
Being a big brother is… kind of nice. The kids he’d lived with before Aizawa and Yamada took him in usually avoided him and his quirk, and while there had been times where he needed to take care of the younger children, it’s never been the same with Eri.
Despite occasionally being put on babysitting duty, he’s never really been expected to look after her, and he’s never been haunted with the knowledge that she’d be neglected if he didn’t do something about it. Even when he does have to watch her for a few hours, it’s never been a burden, and he almost always enjoys hanging out with her, no matter how many times he has to play eye-spy.
...It’s not like he has a soft spot for her, though.
“Of course, Eri,” he says apologetically, sighing dramatically and casting his gaze to the side as much as he can in this position. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ll be sure to sleep in the bathtub next time.”
Despite the fact that he can feel Aizawa’s eye roll, the young girl’s giggle floating through the room makes it worth it. “Toshi,” she whines, but the bright smile on her face settles Hitoshi’s nerves before they can fully surface. “You’re not supposed to sleep in the bathtub, either.”
It’s nice to see her acting like a kid, too.
“Really?” he hums, squinting. “Not even with a whole bunch of blankets?” She shakes her head furiously as if the very notion of sleeping in a bathtub is unthinkable, and Hitoshi feels a smile pull at his lips, something strangely… warm tugging at his chest.
“Well,” he drawls, letting out a dejected sigh that ruffles his bedhead, “you know best. I’ll be sure to stick to the fridge from now on.”
She lets out an indignant noise of protest, but when Hitoshi keeps his deadpan expression, she narrows her eyes and approaches his spot on the floor, standing over him. Hitoshi promptly realizes that he’s stuck on the floor, completely at the mercy of his little sister.
Forget Yamada’s hairbrush, this is the most terrifying thing he will ever experience.
“Toshi,” she says, suddenly serious, a pout forming on her lips. She kneels down next to him and squishes his face between her hands, and the teen nearly yelps when he jolts in surprise, ass brushing against the unforgiving hardwood floor.
Eri stares him down, and if someone had asked him five minutes ago if he could ever be intimidated by a six-year-old, he would’ve laughed in their face and denied it.
He would have been lying.
“Are you done being a grumpy teenager?” she asks, and it almost feels like he’s being scolded. It’s more than a little ridiculous, and it’s really hard to take her seriously with her big eyes and the way she sucks on her top lip, but… he did drag Eri into this.
He really is a shitty older brother, isn’t he?
“Yeah, Eri,” he says softly, trying to sound as earnest as he can while wiggling around on the floor in frustration. He wants to put his hand on her head and physically reassure her, but he’s still fucking stuck. “I’m… I’m sorry if I made you upset.”
Eri’s pout lessens, and Hitoshi feels a sweeping burst of relief. He knows that Yamada and Aizawa won’t throw him away just because he doesn’t get along with his sister, who is technically their kid - well, their... other kid, but...
Right. He’s not leaving any time soon. Yamada has made that abundantly clear.
Either way, though, Eri is his sister, and he doesn’t want her to be upset - especially not because of him being… ‘grumpy’. He hadn’t even thought of hurting anyone’s feelings or making them worry when he’d left yesterday, least of all Eri, and now he just feels like shit. He is shit, because what kind of person lets their own little sister worry?
She must be able to read the regret in his gaze, or maybe she just trusts his word - and isn’t that thought fucking batshit - because in the next moment, her pout disappears completely, making way for a bright, adorable smile.
Fuck, why is she allowed to be this cute?
She giggles at him, and then her upside-down face pulls out of his view, and he cranes his neck to watch her skip to the door, attention easily diverted. He almost rolls his eyes. Nice to know she cares, huh? “C’mon, Yama! I want breakfast.” Yamada glances at Aizawa, then Hitoshi, then back again, and then he nods his head, slipping out the door while loudly proclaiming, “Let us go, young chef!” in English.
It… seems oddly domestic, and the warm feeling inside him surges forward, accompanied by a small, dumb smile slipping onto his face. It’s stupid, really - he shouldn’t be so ridiculously happy to know that Eri forgives him. He’s more thankful that she doesn’t seem to know he got his ass tanned last night, and at the very least, he’ll be forever grateful to Yamada for that.
However, when the door clicks shut, Hitoshi’s jubilant bubble of ecstasy is popped almost immediately.
It takes a split-second for him to realize that Aizawa is still in the room, and another moment for him to recognize the fact that he is tangled up on the floor, and he’s still vulnerable in just his underwear and a T-shirt.
Fuck.
He feels his face flush, now knowing that Aizawa knows, and his struggles increase when the man takes purposeful steps toward him.
“S-Sensei,” he stutters, staring up at his father and trying on his most sheepish, apologetic expression, but it’s not like he even has to fake it, a chill running down his spine at Aizawa’s crossed arms and raised brows.
Shit.
“Aizawa,” he tries again, but the man looks completely unmoved, and a cold, terrifying silence rings in his ears. God-fucking-dammit. “Uh - Dad? My loving father and mentor? You… you beautifully stoic man, you wonderful underground hero, you badass little-”
Aizawa clears his throat, narrowing his eyes, and Hitoshi backtracks.
“I mean, uh,” Hitoshi frantically scrambles for words that may appease him. His throat is suddenly dry, and he swallows around the lump. “I just - welcome… home?” His voice goes a bit too high, cracking slightly on the last word, and the teen wants to slap himself.
Aizawa wordlessly crouches next to him, elbows resting on his knees and brows drawn together, and Hitoshi nearly swallows his tongue when he reaches out to the blanket wrapped around him.
But then the man gives one strong, sturdy yank on the tail end of the fabric, and Hitoshi’s world spins. He tumbles out and onto the floor, the wind nearly knocked out of him as his chest smacks against the hardwood, and he lets out a whine between his teeth, though he really has no right to complain.
At least he hadn’t landed on his ass.
He turns his head to glare at Aizawa, but the man only quirks a brow, and the sick bastard has amusement dancing in his expression. “You were planning on getting out at some point, weren’t you? I don’t think Eri would be very happy if you spent another night on the floor.”
Hitoshi sputters indignantly. “I-I didn’t - that wasn’t what…!”
“Hush,” Aizawa cuts in simply, settling a hand on top of his head, and the teen snaps his mouth shut, a glower etched onto his face. Damn this man and his ability to make people obey with one look. “I’m just teasing you. There’s no reason to get defensive.”
Hitoshi grumbles in reluctant agreement, then the hand is gone, and the teen is only mildly humiliated by the way he chases after the contact. He diverts his eyes as soon as his own action registers, face burning.
Aizawa gives him another amused smirk, shifting until he’s leaning against the bed and patting the space next to him, and Hitoshi follows the movements with narrowed, suspicious eyes, not moving from his dusty pile of self-pity.
“Come here, kid,” the man orders after a moment, squinting at him, and the teen rolls his eyes but complies quickly, knowing that his ass does not want to take a warning swat right now.
He tentatively perches next to him on the floor, shifting a little and suppressing a wince at the friction it causes on his backside, and he glances at Aizawa nervously. The man had told him in explicit terms that he needed to behave for Yamada, and even though his other foster parent had already punished him, there’s no doubt in the boy’s mind that they’ve already discussed his misdeeds.
Fantastic.
Hitoshi wonders if his poor butt - which is already out of commission, at this point - is going to be punished again. That would just suck ass, and not in a good way.
Maybe Aizawa is just going to ground him or take away his phone, but that wouldn’t be ideal, either. There’s still quite a few days of break left, and he doesn’t want to be without any way to contact the outside world.
He chews on his thumbnail, risking another glance at Aizawa as his mind flips through the possible outcomes of this ‘discussion’.
None of them are good.
Hitoshi jolts when a calloused hand grips his elbow, heart stuttering in his chest, and he stares at his foster father with wide eyes. He doesn’t answer the teen’s wordless question, instead tugging him closer, and the boy stiffens, struggling fruitlessly. His ass still stings horribly, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle going over Aizawa’s knees, too. Mind racing, Hitoshi feels humiliating tears prick his eyes.
But then he’s spun around to face the man, and his face collides with a warm, solid chest.
Hitoshi’s brain takes a solid seven seconds to catch up, and when he can finally process his teacher’s actions, his stupid tear ducts start working against him once again.
Fuck. Why can’t these people just be normal?
“I heard you had a rough couple of days, kid,” the man says sternly but still soft, a hand running through his unruly hair and sending a burst of warmth through his chest, and it suddenly hits Hitoshi that Aizawa purposely leaned him on his side and against the man’s thigh, expertly keeping his ass off the unforgiving floor.
Hitoshi blushes, pressing his face more firmly into Aizawa’s chest. They’d probably had an actual conversation about him getting his ass tanned, and isn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic? Did Yamada tell him about how he blubbered all over his lap for far longer than should be socially acceptable, too?
“I-I guess,” he mutters sulkily, still so disappointed in himself. He really thought he would get away from this completely scot-free? Now he has two parents that are now willing to whoop his ass if he steps out of line, and while that’s irritating and embarrassing, he can’t help but think back to Yamada’s reassuring words last night.
He’d worried his family - he has a family to worry, so… maybe a sore ass isn’t too bad.
“I’m sorry,” he tacks on for good measure, clutching Aizawa’s shirt a little tighter, and he means it. His ass definitely means it, but with the arm wrapped around him and the hand lightly massaging his scalp, it’s easy to forget that.
It’s easy to feel forgiven.
“Yeah, I bet you are,” Aizawa says monotonously, but behind his voice is just sick, sick mirth. Hitoshi flushes, unwittingly letting out a small groan, and smooshes his face into the cotton fabric of his dad’s shirt. The man smells clean, probably having showered recently, and a part of the teen wants to curl up and fall asleep in the warmth surrounding him.
...but that’s a very small part of him. He’s not that pathetic, right?
“It’s not funny,” he mumbles instead, trying not to sound too childish. His face burns hot, and he thanks any god above that Aizawa can’t see him. “He used a… He used a hairbrush,” he confides, nearly shuddering at the mere memory of its sting. Maybe he deserved it, but fuck, he never wants to feel that devil’s weapon again.
But then Aizawa’s chest begins shaking against him, and Hitoshi pulls back to glare at the fucking traitor.
“Don’t you get it?” he hisses, a touch of betrayal coloring his tone, but Aizawa’s lips turn up slightly into an amused half-grin. Fucking bastard. “A hairbrush - a fucking wooden hairbrush on my bare ass. Do you know how much that shit sting- ”
Smack!
Hitoshi snaps his mouth shut, adding this to his long list of regrets. Shit, why hadn’t he put pants on last night?
The swat was relatively light, but on Hitoshi’s already-thoroughly-punished ass, it stings like someone viciously slapped fresh sunburn, and he would have leaped out of the teacher’s lap if it weren’t for the sturdy arm keeping him in place. He settles for a scarce whine, sending a glower toward his heartless father.
“I understand, kid, and I probably would have done the same,” he says lowly, and he runs a strong hand down the teen’s back, almost apologetically. Hitoshi gapes at him, hopefully conveying his own disbelief at this absolute bullshit, but all Aizawa does is lightly cuff the side of his head. “But you really have to watch your mouth when you’re talking to me. You know that I don’t appreciate disrespect. Got it?”
Hitoshi burns up to his ears and swallows tightly, but he nods silently, planting his face back into Aizawa’s chest with a shuddering sigh. For once, the man doesn’t ask for a verbal response, settling his hand back on his head, and the boy relaxes, clenching his eyes shut.
He’s honestly a little mortified that Aizawa knows he got his ass beat, and the man probably knows the reason behind it, too. The fact that he snuck out a window for something so mundane is really, really stupid, and the shame that Yamada had washed away the night before comes seeping back through Aizawa’s soft touches.
“Are you…” he trails off, swallowing again to get rid of the lump in his throat. He takes a deep breath, mumbling into the man’s chest. “Are you going to have another, uh… t-talk with me, or…?”
The words are like sandpaper on his tongue, but he has to know. He’d technically disobeyed Aizawa’s orders by being a jackass to Yamada, and if there’s one thing he knows about his foster parents, it’s that they’re extremely protective of each other.
Well... protective of their family, at least. Maybe… maybe that includes him now, too.
Aizawa hums, that same sound he makes when he’s peering at Hitoshi from the corner of his eye, and the teen tenses when his hand settles gently on his hip, far closer to his ass than he strictly appreciates. “Do you not consider this to be talking?” he asks, because of course he had to argue semantics, the fucking bastard.
The teen pulls back to glare at him, but before Hitoshi can properly flip his shit or spiral into a panic - it’s a toss-up, at this point - Aizawa cuts him off. “I don’t plan on punishing you further, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he says crisply, then he grins with that stupid Cheshire smirk that never fails to send chills down Hitoshi’s spine. “If you think you need some extra incentive, though, I’m sure Hizashi would be willing to-”
“No!” he yelps, pulling back completely and frantically, and he hardly has the mental capacity to acknowledge his voice coming out at the pitch of a newborn raccoon. “Y-You can punish me if you want, but not that. Please don’t tell Yamada.”
He’s not above begging at this point.
Aizawa raises a suspicious brow, eyeing him. “Are you questioning his authority, kid? Does he need to go another round with you?” His voice holds an odd lilt to it, and if Hitoshi’s brain could do more than blare warning sirens for the protection of his ass, he’d probably recognize the underlying note of teasing.
But at the moment, all Hitoshi can do is let his eyes bug out, and he nearly gives himself whiplash from how fast he shakes his head. “No, no, please. I’ve learned my lesson, I swear. I-I respect his authority - my ass really, really respects his authority, I-”
Aizawa’s chest starts shaking again, that quiet, low rumble of a laugh spilling out of him, and the teen’s mouth snaps shut, a scowl on his face. Does this man have no soul?
His desperation quickly makes way for indignance, though, and Hitoshi can’t help but roll his eyes, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m glad my pain brings you amusement,” he grumbles, only mildly embarrassed.
Aizawa flicks his ear lightly, responding with his own eye-roll. “Don’t be so dramatic, brat. Hizashi already punished you, and I should hope that you won’t need to be spanked again any time soon.” Hitoshi blushes at the use of that word, trying to turn his head away, but Aizawa easily grasps his chin and forces him to look the man in the eyes.
“You are forgiven, kid,” he says, firmer than the hand on his face, and Hitoshi’s breath catches. “You know that, right?”
Aizawa’s eyes flick across his face, studying him, and the teen forces himself to nod. The man still looks skeptical, so Hitoshi nods again, more firmly this time, and then he’s nodding again and again and he can’t stop nodding. He must look like a shitty bobblehead with a few screws loose, and he probably does have a few screws loose, but he can’t help it.
There’s something choking him, tight in his throat and behind his eyes, and Hitoshi suddenly rips his chin out of the man’s grasp and dives back into his chest, desperately wanting to hide his face. “Y-Yeah,” he forces out, trying not to let any tears out. “I g-get it.”
And for once, he’s not lying.
He gasps in a shuddering breath, clenching his dad’s shirt tightly between his fingers as the realization hits him like a six-hundred-pound bat of be-gone-bullshit, and he releases it when the man’s large hand begins tracing a soothing figure on his back. It sends a burst of warmth to his face and down his spine, and he tries not to drown in the sensation.
“I’m glad,” Aizawa says quietly, voice surprisingly soft like he knows that Hitoshi knows, and the feeling of contentment that he’d woken up settles like a warm balm in his chest.
He fully relaxes, finally breathing out any of that remaining insecurity that keeps biting him in the ass, just letting his pathetic tears dry as his father holds him. “Thanks,” he mutters eventually, even though he doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for - luckily, Aizawa probably knows that, too.
“Come on, Hitoshi,” is all he mutters after a moment, ruffling the boy’s hair with a yawn. The teen pulls away, scrubbing away any evidence of weakness with the back of his hand, allowing himself to be pulled to standing. “I need to make sure your father doesn’t burn the house down, so put some pants on.”
Hitoshi nods tiredly, shoving on a comfortable pair of sweatpants as he follows his guardian to the door, but then his steps falter.
...his father, huh? His father.
Hitoshi should probably mind that word choice more than he does.
Shaking his head slightly, the teen slowly and awkwardly enters the kitchen, and if it weren’t for Aizawa’s steady hand on his shoulder, he’d probably turn around and bolt back to his room. He desperately hopes that there are no visible tears on his face.
The kitchen definitely isn’t burnt down, and if anything, it smells good. Between his parent’s five jobs and their scarce social lives, that is a very, very rare thing in the morning. Yamada almost always cooks dinner, but even when Hitoshi doesn’t eat at the dorms, their breakfasts typically consist of pre-packaged muffins or hastily scrambled eggs.
So he was definitely not expecting to see a fucking full-course meal set out on the table, complete with a plate and mug placed in front of his usual spot.
“Hey, Hitoshi!” Yamada exclaims, and the teen snaps his head up. He glances next to him, only mildly surprised to find Aizawa absent, instead chugging a cup of coffee as he meanders toward his typical seat. “Everything okay now, buddy?” Hitoshi blushes lightly, but he feels something warm in his chest.
Somehow, he knows that Yamada isn’t just talking about falling out of bed.
“Yeah,” he breathes, easing himself onto his padded chair with an ill-concealed wince. “I’m… good.”
A shy grin tugs at his lips, and he glances up at Yamada a little sheepishly, finally reaching out to start filling his plate. Yamada seems to get it, and he ruffles the boy’s hair as he walks toward his own seat, an unmistakably fond smile gracing his features. “I’m glad to hear it, kiddo,” he says softly, and Hitoshi nods awkwardly, ducking his head and popping a piece of fruit into his mouth.
‘Me too’, he doesn’t say, because even if it’s true, he doesn’t want to get those looks of concern that he knows to expect. That’s just how these people tick, apparently.
Hitoshi should probably mind that more than he does.
As Aizawa idly slurps down an unhealthy amount of coffee at an ungodly pace, and Eri stacks a disgusting amount of toppings onto her waffles, Yamada chatters excitedly about what they can do for the rest of break, and a distant part of Hitoshi wonders if he didn’t get grounded for this very reason.
Surprisingly, that thought doesn’t anger him. It’s… nice to be included, sometimes.
It’s different. That's nice, too.
“Can I have the chocolate, please?” Eri questions suddenly, cutting Yamada off mid-gesture, an adorably determined furrow between her brows. She makes a grabbing motion toward the bottle of chocolate syrup in front of Hitoshi, but the teen hesitates, glancing at her waffle of many different jams, sugars, and syrups.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sis…” he mutters, nearly nauseous just at the sight of that heart attack on a plate. “You have enough sugar there to last you a month.” Eri’s bottom lip pokes out slowly, and Hitoshi swallows, praying that he didn't just trigger a tantrum.
“I think Toshi’s right, little bean. Extra chocolate wouldn’t even taste good with that little… concoction of flavors you’ve got there!” Yamada chimes in, and for a moment, Hitoshi breathes a sigh of relief.
But then the girl’s bottom lip covers her top one completely, a frown pulling her face down, and Hitoshi knows it’s over. He prepares himself for the crying, for the peaceful atmosphere being shattered with a meltdown-
“Go fuck yourself!”
-and Hitoshi feels a cold wave of pure shock wash over his body.
For a solid twelve seconds, the entire kitchen is frozen in place, but all Hitoshi can hear are those high-pitched words - words from a fucking baby’s mouth - play over and over again in his mind, a distant ringing in his ears. It’s ridiculous - so totally ridiculous coming from Eri, the sweet little angel who could do no wrong.
He should probably feel bad that he’s the one she learned those words from, but when his wide-eyed gaze finally zeroes in on the scene before him, he can’t even bring himself to correct her.
Eri stares the teen down, completely ignoring the fact that Aizawa looks like he wishes his coffee was poisoned and Yamada is opening and closing his mouth like the world’s most confused fucking fish, not breaking her steely gaze. There’s a soft hesitance behind her eyes, too, that old anxiety of getting in trouble or saying the wrong thing, and there’s no way Hitoshi can encourage that kind of fear.
Not to mention, he's never been prouder in his life.
“Fuckin’ badass,” he whispers, absentminded awe coloring his tone.
It’s enough for the kitchen to spin back into motion.
Eri’s pout is wiped clean, and she stares at him before letting out a small, adorable giggle. Yamada squawks out a garbled something that sounds like a reprimand, but immediately turns toward Eri to explain something about good words and bad words.
Aizawa, of course, snags Hitoshi by the ear, tugging him to the other side of the kitchen while he barks something about being a “good influence,” and all the teen can do is hiss out a quiet “ow, ow, ow” as he pulled closer to the living room for what’s sure to be a scathing lecture.
But then he glances over Aizawa’s shoulder and catches his sister’s gaze, and he sends her a wink, unable to stop himself. The bright look in her eyes that he gets in return makes it all worth it.
“ Hey,” Aizawa says sharply, giving him a light warning swat to the seat of his sweatpants, and Hitoshi winces at the way it smarts. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, tucking his other hand behind him and trying on his most apologetic grin.
His eyes unwittingly wander toward Yamada, who stares back at him with a small, exasperated smile on his lips, shaking his head.
Hitoshi looks back at his other foster parent, and his smile turns into more of a grimace at the sight of the man’s withering glare.
Well. At least they care, right?