Chapter Text
Hitoshi's hospital stay lasts three more days. During that time, he counts three nights with a quiet Aizawa next to his bedside, two visits from Yamada, who gets told off for yelling too loudly by the hospital staff, one kiss on the cheek from Shuuzenji, and about ten thousand texts from his old class. Apparently, Midoriya had found out Hitoshi was hospitalized, and they'd all joined together to send him countless well-wishes and get better soon messages. Hitoshi's grateful for the clear concern, but he still jams his phone in the drawer by his bed and slams it shut when the screen hasn't stopped lighting up for a full three minutes.
He, very carefully, doesn't think about the incident. When he woke back up from what the nurses told him was a severe panic attack, the pile in the corner of his room was gone. Aizawa doesn't tell him where it is, and Hitoshi doesn't ask. He doesn't need to use the capture weapon to do his job. He's a fine hero all on his own.
When he's released, red eye cleared and throat only a little sore on Monday afternoon, Aizawa offers to drive him home to his apartment. Hitoshi thinks about refusing, about trying to avoid causing his mentor more grief than he's already done over the last few days, but he lives tens of blocks away and it's an hour walk. He takes the offer, thanking Aizawa, and they walk over to his car after Hitoshi switches out his hospital gown for his slightly-battered hero costume.
Aizawa opens the back door once they get there, and rummages inside. "Here," he says, and retreats back out with something in his hands. He turns round; Hitoshi sees the flash of fabric and his familiar mask perched on top.
He fights the urge to recoil, and lets himself stiffen up instead. "I'll take the mask."
"You'll take the capture weapon, too," Aizawa tells him.
Hitoshi shakes his head. "I don't need it." I don't want it. "Keep it as a spare."
"You're taking it," Aizawa repeats. "You do need it."
"You think I can't fight without it?" Hitoshi asks, disbelieving.
"I think you're rejecting a weapon that's saved your life multiple times," Aizawa says harshly.
"It didn't save me this time," Hitoshi retorts, fighting off the image of fabric at his throat and a vacuum in his lungs. "It — it hurt me."
"Any weapon can be used against you with the right quirk. What happened to you is by no means a unique experience." Aizawa's voice is flat, and it makes Hitoshi feel ugly inside. "You have to get past what happened to keep being a safe, useful hero."
"I can hold my own by myself. I'm fine without it," Hitoshi argues.
"Hitoshi," says Aizawa, something tired in his eyes. "You're putting yourself in danger if you don't use everything available to you. Heroes with quirks like yours and mine don't have the luxury of rejecting tools that could help us."
"You are saying I'm not good enough without the capture weapon," Hitoshi says aloud, the realization stinging.
Aizawa shakes his head. "You're not. I'm not, either. Without support items, people like us can't hold up to the most powerful quirks."
Hitoshi works his jaw, and swallows down the feeling that tells him Aizawa's right. He draws on the little burning core of anger within him, letting it cloud his judgment and color his words. He doesn't want to need to use it, the thing that nearly killed him. "I can deal with them by myself just fine," he retorts.
"Hitoshi —"
"You know what," Hitoshi interrupts acidly, hating the look of angry worry that flits across Aizawa's face, "I think I feel like walking. Thanks for the offer."
"Hitoshi. You're being irrational. You're being reckless."
"See you, Aizawa," says Hitoshi, and then he balls his empty fist tightly and walks away.
An hour later, the soles of his feet are aching and his throat is dry. Hitoshi unlocks the door to his apartment with dull, rusting keys and pushes it open to the lights turned off and the bed unmade, setting his mask down on the sole free counter in his kitchenette and raising a hand to his face. He stands there, running through his interaction with Aizawa and not thinking about the capture weapon that's missing from the hook on the back of his door, for thirty minutes until the timer signaling the start of his nightly patrol. Taking a breath, Hitoshi looks to his window; he doesn't have the resources to get down from it safely. With only minor frustration, he locks his apartment door and hurries down the stairs leading to the ground floor.
Patrol is uneventful. It's like the city is sleeping, the activity levels low, even compared to the usual relative peacefulness of this time of night. Maybe they're all affected by the same tiredness that's in Hitoshi's bones. His route feels wrong today, skewed sideways, and he tries to convince himself it's not because the weight that spends its days resting over Hitoshi's shoulders is missing. He's walking along the streets without something to pull him up to the rooftop, hands in his pockets, mask on his face. His eyes flick between the dark alleys framing the street. That's when he hears a noise from the left, down a path that shrinks into shadow, and frowns before moving over to the alley it originated from. Confined to the ground as he is at the moment, Hitoshi sticks his head around the corner and squints to see.
Three figures, dressed in balaclavas and black clothes, are arguing at the end of the alley. There's a door there, and as he watches the middle figure brandishes a long, iron crowbar that glints in the faint glow of the moon above. They jam it into the side of the door, angling their bodyweight, and start to pull with arms shaking in effort. The one on their left starts to join in, and the one by their right taps his foot and shifts from side to side. Hitoshi slinks in, taking a few steps closer, and then straightens up and clears his throat.
"What are you guys up to?" Hitoshi asks, leaning against the rough brick that forms the side of the alleyway.
The one on the right whips round, sneering. "Fuck off, dickhead —"
Hitoshi's grin goes sharp. The guy freezes.
"Hey, Kubo, ignore him and fucking help with this," one of the remaining two snaps. Kubo, predictably, does not respond. "Kubo! We can deal with him after!"
"Do you want me to help?" Hitoshi offers.
"Piss off!"
That's two out of three. The only one left is the one in the center, prying frustratedly at the door with a crowbar.
"Subdue your friend," Hitoshi says, commanding, under his breath.
Kubo lurches and his fist flashes up, out, and then he punches the middle person with a sound like clanging metal. They drops like a stone, sprawling graceless and loose on the floor. Hitoshi blinks in surprise; he'd expected it to take longer. He orders Kubo to knock his fellow brainwashee out, then himself, and then
"See?" Hitoshi murmurs to himself. "I can do this. It's fine."
"What the fuck?" comes a shout from behind him, and Hitoshi turns round to see another figure dressed identically to the ones he's just taken out. His stomach plummets into icy water.
"Oh, shit," says Hitoshi, faintly. "Uh, surprise?"
They let out a snarl, but don't vocalize a response. Hitoshi tenses up, bringing his hands closer to his face to defend himself, and the figure lunges.
Their fist streaks towards Hitoshi's head and he ducks, skirting round to their back and jabbing pointed fingers into the soft side of their torso. They stumble to the side, yelling, and then Hitoshi straightens and makes a fist and then they're swinging back round with their whole body, arm outstretched. Hitoshi's eyes widen. Their arm slams into the side of his head, knocking him bodily sideways. His ears whines and rings sharply as pain splits through it.
Hitoshi grunts and staggers to regain his balance, sending a kick lashing out to their knee. It connects. They howl in pain as Hitoshi bares his teeth, their leg twisting just slightly wrong. He sees the fist flying towards his face too late. Pain splinters through his nose with a crack that echoes through his skull, and a half-aborted cry rips free from his throat. Hitoshi stumbles back, and uncomfortable warmth spurts from his nose and floods down his face.
His opponent pushes forwards and Hitoshi ducks the swing and dodges the punch, and then he's returning fire with an uppercut to the jaw. They spit a vicious string of curses as their head snaps back, and Hitoshi capitalizes and brings his knee slamming up into their chin. They sway once, twice, and crumple to the ground. The breath leaves Hitoshi in a dizzying rush.
He stands there, blood coating his teeth, nose dripping freely, breathing heavily. His opponent is knocked out. All four of them are incapacitated. His face pulses and throbs, nose aching. He leans to the side and spits coppery blood to the ground.
This would never have happened with the capture weapon, he thinks, and then mentally scowls at the thought.
Hitoshi waits twenty minutes for the midnight police shift to arrive, and nods at an exhausted-looking Sansa, grateful his mask mostly hides the blood all over his face, before he slopes off back home. He spends another ten dabbing at his just-slightly-crooked nose, and then takes hold of it and wrenches it back into position with a sickening crack. Burning pain explodes outwards, and tears fill to his eyes. Hitoshi blinks them away viciously.
He spends Tuesday and Wednesday lurking in his apartment, avoiding the texts still sitting unread on his phone and scowling through the sting of his injured nose. He goes on patrol every night, just like always, but none of them are as eventful as Monday; he prioritizes caution and rationality and avoids the confrontation where he can. Several times, he takes down two-bit criminals with his voice, and it's only in a few incidents that he has to devolve to fistfighting. Luckily, they never go for his nose. Hitoshi's grateful, even as he applies gauze and ointment to the scrapes and bruises he receives spattered across the rest of him. There's a distinct difference between the injuries he's gotten without his capture weapon compared to with it, even factoring in the Incident. Hitoshi's aware mentally capitalizing it in his head isn't helping him get over it, but he doesn't really care.
Thursday rolls around as one of Hitoshi's on-call days, so he fills up a backpack with his hero gear and clips the Commission-provided pager to the belt loop of his jeans. Then, he slips out of his apartment and starts to walk. Aizawa had told him, weeks ago, that he should come over to them to celebrate his birthday (no excuses, Hitoshi). He's not about to blow off whatever he predicts they've prepared, likely at Eri and Yamada's enthusiastic insistence, just because of his and Aizawa's argument when he got out of hospital. He supposes it's a kind of peace offering for him to show up, now that the fear masquerading as anger rooted deep in his chest has faded to dull, cold embers. He wouldn't want to miss seeing Eri, anyway. He still needs to ask her how her first year at middle school is going. He arrives only a few minutes past the assigned time to Aizawa and Yamada's apartment, and knocks loudly before shoving his hands back in his pockets and staring at the floor.
The door opens. Hitoshi looks up. Aizawa is standing there, long hair tangled up in a messy ponytail. Silence stretches between them for one long second.
"Hi," says Hitoshi.
Aizawa looks at him. "Hitoshi," he says, sounding far too relieved for Hitoshi's comfort. He imagines Aizawa, sitting up late at night and wondering if he's hurt without his — "Happy birthday."
He lets out a half-laugh. "Thanks," he says, and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck.
"Come in. It's been a stressful morning," Aizawa tells him, stepping aside and opening the door wider. Hitoshi follows him into the genkan and crouches down to take his shoes off. "What happened to your nose?"
Hitoshi goes still. Shit. "Just an accident," he lies, and then, "Why stressful?"
Aizawa rolls his eyes. "Eri's been going mad decorating for you. She'll be ecstatic you're here, actually. I'll call her down."
Aizawa opens his mouth to shout her name. Simultaneously, the pager on both of their belts starts going off, high-pitched and beeping. Hitoshi freezes.
"Shit," they both swear, at the same time.
"You're on call, too?" Hitoshi asks.
Aizawa grimaces. "Yes. Hizashi isn't — he can look after Eri. We have to go. You have your gear?"
"'Course I do," says Hitoshi, already tugging the folds of his suit out of his backpack. "Where's yours?"
"Upstairs. I'll be back in one minute," Aizawa tells him, and then vanishes.
Hitoshi pulls his costume on as fast as he can, strapping up his boots, securing the mask to his face with the solid clunk of metal settling around his mouth. Aizawa strides out from behind him, hard-eyed and stony-faced. His capture weapon is looped around his neck. Hitoshi takes a deep breath, pulling air into his lungs, and looks away.
"You ready?"
"Always," Hitoshi says, and Aizawa nods as they turn to sprint out the door.
They reach the emergency site in fifteen minutes, running across the streets and rounding corners at full tilt — or, at least, that's what Hitoshi's doing. Aizawa is flinging himself from building to building with his scarf, keeping pace with Hitoshi. He knows his mentor is purposefully slowing himself down to stay level with his speed, and it makes the little voice in the back of his head that says maybe you should have listened to him get even louder.
The area they've been called to is a small industrial area, not unlike the waterfront Hitoshi was at six days ago. This one has tiny storage houses lining its sides, and a group of amassed villains in the center. The area is alight, filled with color and flame and quirk-induced glow, and the villains are fighting tooth and nail against a collection of heroes that got there before Aizawa and Hitoshi. He breathes heavily, trying to regain his expended stamina, identifying heroes as they flash in and out of view. Midoriya's vivid lightning is there, Ashido's arcing acid, Kaminari's bright sparks. Shouts of battle fill the air, near-tangible with their volume, clustering together and sweeping each other up in the fray.
Aizawa mutters, "This is chaos."
Hitoshi swallows. "Guess we better jump in, then."
He moves to enter the fray, then, but Aizawa catches his arm. "Hitoshi. Be careful. Your nose wasn't an accident," he says, and Hitoshi swears internally at the fact that he managed to see through the lie — though he shouldn't be surprised, really, because he's always had a knack for reading Hitoshi's expression like a book spelled out in ten-foot-tall letters. "Don't get hurt."
Hitoshi takes a breath. "I won't."
Aizawa lets go. Hitoshi runs forward.
Straight away, he's faced with a villain with a sharp scar down the side of his face. Scar lunges for him, fingers elongating and growing sharp, and Hitoshi throws himself backwards just in time to avoid the blades that slash at him viciously. He ducks under and wraps his arms around Scar's torso, hurling his weight forward, and then Scar topples backwards straight into another figure. There's a shout of exclamation that Hitoshi recognizes, and then Scar is on the ground and someone familiar is standing in front of him.
"Ah! Happy birthday, Shinsou-kun!" Iida yells at him, and Hitoshi manages a grimace.
"Thanks, Iida, but now's not really the — oof!"
Something slams into the back of him. Hitoshi goes sprawling in freefall, the sky wheeling above as the floor rushes up to his face, and out of instinct loosens his shoulders and lets himself fall on his relaxed forearms. He hits the ground with a thump and rolls sideways, shoving himself upwards onto his feet to see a woman in green prowling towards him with huge, stag-like horns curling out of her forehead.
"Wow, must be hard to find hats for that, right?" Hitoshi asks hurriedly.
Horns stares at him. "What —"
Gotcha.
"Go there and knock yourself out. Safely," he tacks on, pointing towards the edge of the area as he stares at her. Dazed, Horns wanders off, and Hitoshi spins round.
A superpowered kick flies past his face, barely missing him. He hears the rush of power as it passes, dropping to the ground out of reflex and swearing loudly.
"Sorry!" hollers a voice above the din. It sounds like Midoriya.
"It's — fine!" says Hitoshi, grunting as he twists to the side to avoid someone else's punch.
He's not locked in combat right now, not anymore, but there are bodies moving and dodging and fighting all around him. Hitoshi can't move without knocking into someone, without catching a blow or a kick meant for someone else. His breath speeds up, just slightly.
Here's the thing: Hitoshi fights alone. He does stakeouts with the other newer underground heroes sometimes, and he's called for emergency missions like these every so often while he's on call, but for the most part he works by himself. His quirk works infinitely better if there aren't others around to confuse or get in the way. He's not a combative fighter, especially not without his scarf, and he's nowhere near as able to keep up as straight brawlers like Kirishima, like Shouji. In a fray like this, Hitoshi's going to get hurt, and it's going to be sooner rather than later.
Lost in his thoughts, Hitoshi doesn't notice the blast until it's right in front of his face. He catches a glimpse of red, sparking energy, crackling with power and exuding heat that burns his face, and then suddenly there's pressure around his waist and he's flying through the air. His head jerks down to see cream wrapped around his waist, fabric, that's Aizawa's scarf —
"Hitoshi!"
Hitoshi forces himself to take a breath, in, out, steady, mentally thrashing against the feeling of the pressure of nothingness in his lungs as he shoves the thought away. He locks eyes with Aizawa. Through the bright goggles, his eyes are wide and piercing. Hitoshi inhales sharply, and that's when Aizawa's opponent strikes.
The hulking villain opposite him grins like a knife's been slashed across his face, grabs the fabric connecting him and Hitoshi with two hands and wrenches. With the terrible sound of ripping fabric, somehow rising above the clangs and grunts surrounding them, the capture weapon tears in two. Aizawa swears loudly, the tiny section of scarf that's left hanging around his neck fluttering to the ground. Hitoshi's caught between two loose bits of fabric now, both long and ripped at the edges. The villain's chest glows, then, a deep orange that makes Hitoshi's gut lurch, and he reaches forward and grabs Aizawa's body with both huge hands, gripping his torso. That's bad, that's bad — and Aizawa sends a balled fist hurling into his jaw, but he barely flinches. The grin widens. Aizawa struggles in his two-handed grip. The glow travels up the villain's neck, curling and twisting and funneling upwards. He opens his mouth.
Hitoshi seizes one of the halves of Aizawa's scarf in both hands, and flings it towards the villain's head.
It loops round his chin and Hitoshi pulls as hard as he can, and the villain stumbles backwards as his mouth lets loose a beam of virulent energy straight to the sky. Hitoshi's eyes go wide, flaring. Aizawa lets out a shout of exertion and kicks upwards, slamming his knee into the man's chin — Hitoshi freezes, because he'd used that move, he knows that move, just like Aizawa taught him — and the villain's skull snaps back and forth again violently. His grip loosens. Aizawa twists free.
"Scarf!" he yells.
Hitoshi lets go of the capture weapon. Aizawa grabs it without looking as it streaks past, the tension released, and then Hitoshi is snatching up the other half without even thinking about it. He throws it at the villain's arm, restraining it back as Aizawa leaps into the air, eyes burning bright through the goggles, and loops the scarf expertly around his head. He jumps up and over, flipping mid-air. Hitoshi yanks on his scarf. The villain goes stumbling, off-balanced, eyes widening in fury, and then Aizawa tugs backwards and he goes sprawling to the ground. Hitoshi watches the gargantuan man fall like a goliath, slamming into the floor. Aizawa stands over him, chest heaving as he looks down, scarf in hands.
Hitoshi looks down at the fabric between his fingers, one end ripped and frayed, and tightens his fists around it.
After that, the fight winds down. The majority of the fights resolve at the same time as Hitoshi and Aizawa's, the Pro Heroes clearing out those who are left. The police are on scene; Hitoshi sees Sansa and Tsukauchi pulling up in their car, both looking slightly ruffled, and knows they're in good hands. Hitoshi turns away from the emergency site.
Aizawa had saved him, with the scarf. He'd almost got seriously hurt by his opponent doing it, just because Hitoshi was fighting badly — because he didn't have his capture weapon.
"Hitoshi? Everything alright?" Aizawa asks, looking him up and down intensely. He's standing near to the hulking man's unconscious form, arms folded as two uniformed officers try to drag the villain away.
He takes a breath.
"I'm sorry," says Hitoshi, and wraps his arms around Aizawa in a tight hug. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't have to clarify what the apology's for. Aizawa just shakes his head, pulling Hitoshi closer. "Don't apologize. You were scared. Everybody is, after something like that."
"I should have listened to you," Hitoshi mutters, muffled by Aizawa's shoulder.
Aizawa lets out a laugh, a deep noise that vibrates through him. "You should have. But you're alright. That's what I care about. I don't care that you — I know you thought you ruined the operation I was on, that you helped me with, but that doesn't matter nearly as much to me as your safety."
Hitoshi grits his teeth. "I know," he says, and he does. This isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened. He thinks back to when he entered Class 1-A, determined to push ahead and not make friends, and the way Aizawa had pulled him up and told him to let his classmates in. He'd been right then, and he was right now. Hitoshi never seems to learn, never seems to listen. Every time is just different enough that, this time, he convinces himself he's right.
"Do you?" asks Aizawa. Hitoshi swallows. "I care about you, Hitoshi. Let what I do for you do the talking, if you don't believe my words."
Hitoshi snorts into his chest. "Yeah. Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good."
"I'm, uh…" Hitoshi hesitates. "I get what you meant. About not being good enough without the capture weapon."
Aizawa's face softens. "I never meant you weren't incredibly skilled at what you do, Hitoshi. It's just luck of the draw. We can't compete against some people with only our quirks, but you're naturally skilled enough with that weapon you balance the scales. Your ability is unquestionable with that in your hands. It's an extension of how incredibly fast, intelligent, you are when you fight. It's not that you're not good enough — it's that your potential is increased so exponentially highly when you're using the capture weapon."
"Complimenting yourself today, are we?" Hitoshi shoots back, but he's smiling. The words warm something inside his chest, the tiny rock of cold that's been nestling, hidden inside, for the past few days. It's only now that he recognizes it for what it is, at is disappears under the comforting weight of his mentor's words.
Aizawa rolls his eyes. "You know what I'm doing, Hitoshi. Take the words on board. I promise, every word is true."
Hitoshi grins at him, and knocks their shoulders together. Aizawa lets out a laugh.
They walk back to Aizawa's apartment together after the short-term briefing is done and Hitoshi's been swarmed by several of his old classmates all wishing him a happy birthday, talking inanely on the way. They don't do small talk, usually, but today is different — they haven't been keeping up their texting schedule well since they argued. Aizawa tells him all about Eri's unflattering drawing of Yamada she decided to bring home, and in return Hitoshi swaps the story Monoma shared with him about Class 1-B's current whereabouts.
"Good," says Aizawa in response. "Setsuna deserves an increase in ranks."
When they reach the house, Aizawa enters first and pauses.
"It's safe to come in," he says. "No hyperactive children in sight."
"Shouta!" yells a voice from inside, and Hitoshi hears Aizawa sigh as they step into the genkan.
"Correction," he mutters.
Hitoshi slips off his shoes and detaches his mask, and steps into the kitchen to see Eri and Yamada standing there. When she sees him, Eri comes pelting towards him at full speed and slams into Hitoshi's torso.
"Hitoshi!" yells Eri, beaming. "You're back!"
"We've been eagerly awaiting you, little listener!" Yamada shouts, an equally large grin on his face.
Aizawa snorts, moving further into the kitchen. "He's not so little anymore."
"Yeah," Hitoshi agrees, mock-frowning at Yamada as he wraps his arms around Eri. "Show some respect to a Pro Hero."
"But — I'm —"
"You should do what he says, Hizashi."
"Hey!"
As it turns out, Eri and Yamada have indeed spent hours decorating. Their cozy kitchen has transformed into a colorful spectacle, glitter and shine covering every surface. Aizawa looks mildly disgruntled in the corner, a dark anomaly pouring out coffee into a chipped mug, in the middle of the festivities.
"Do you like it?" shouts Eri.
Hitoshi grins. "I love it," he says, and looks directly at Aizawa. He gets a mock-pouting frown in response, and his grin only grows wider.
They spend hours there, exchanging stories and smiles. Eri pulls out a box bigger than her head and presents it to Hitoshi. He unwraps it to find a plush Eraserhead toy with a head that flops sideways unsteadily.
"It's her favorite toy," Aizawa says when he opens it, by way of defense. "She wanted you to have something with meaning."
When it starts to get dark outside their window, the sun setting and the night beginning to seep back in, Hitoshi goes to leave after several rounds of tight hugs and promises to visit again soon. Aizawa walks him to the door.
"Here's your scarf back, by the way," Hitoshi says, and extracts the ripped half. "Are you going to get it fixed?"
Aizawa nods. "I don't have a spare, after all. This will have to be repaired."
Hitoshi raises an eyebrow. "You don't…?"
Aizawa reaches into his own costume, then, and draws out an identical capture weapon. It's the same in every way save for the fact it's intact, and save for the tiny marking on the end of it. Embroidered on, courtesy of Yamada, are his initials. Hitoshi takes a breath.
"This was never, and will never be, my spare," Aizawa tells him. "It's always yours."
Hitoshi nods, and runs his hand over the material. His throat feels tight. Hitoshi catches the feeling as it swirls up, and tells it to go fuck itself as he takes the scarf in both hands. "Thank you," he says, voice choked for an entirely different reason.
Aizawa smiles at him. "Happy birthday."
Hitoshi hugs him, again.
Later that night, it's patrol once again. Hitoshi dons his costume and attaches his mask and scoops up the loops of fabric hanging off the back of his door.
"You were very missed. Trust me," Hitoshi murmurs, weighing the fabric in his hands. "Let's go jump on rooftops, huh?"
His scarf says nothing, just like always. He finds comfort in the continuation of its silence.
"Alright, then," he says, and launches out of his window with his weapon streaking out ahead to catch him as he falls.