Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You remember that kid from the sports festival?” Shouta asks out of the blue, as he’s collapsing into bed next to Hizashi. It’s 3 a.m. on a Tuesday (or...it’s Wednesday now, Hizashi thinks through the fog of half-asleep), and Shouta hasn’t so much as said any kind of human greeting. Just goes straight to the point. It’s standard procedure, when talking to Shouta, and Hizashi is used to it, but is better at adapting to his rapid-fire conversation when he’s awake.

“Buh..whuh,” Hizashi supplies, slapping his bedside table until his fingertips catch on the little box where he keeps his hearing aids. He slides them in, and everything sounds less underwater. He doesn’t bother with his glasses. “Shouta..what?”

Shouta, in the meantime, has slid out of his jumpsuit and tugged a hasty hand through his hair -- his quick bedtime routine for the few hours they still have left to sleep. He looks unperturbed and unrepentant. “The kid from the sports festival,” he says again, turning so Hizashi can also read his lips, which would be considerate if Hizashi had bothered putting on his glasses. “Shinsou Hitoshi. Mind control quirk?”

“Sure,” HIzashi yawns. He doesn’t really. Or maybe he does, but he certainly doesn’t remember anything at 3 a.m. on one of the few nights he doesn’t have to work late.

Shouta curls up next to him, tucking his body in the tight, question-mark position he sleeps in. “He asked me to train him,” he says. “The other day. I said I’d think about it because...well, I don’t have a lot of time these days, and I can already tell this class is going to be a nightmare, but.” He stops himself, and Hizashi knows how to read the pauses just as clearly as the words.

“But he deserves it,” Hizashi says, waking up a little more. “No, that’s fair. I subbed for his English teacher for those two weeks when that flu was going around. I remember him now; he’s very smart. Keeps to himself, kind of a smartass to his peers.” Hizashi grins and pokes Shouta in the cheek when his husband refuses to look at him. “Kinda took me back a bit.”

Shouta huffs. “Do you think he’ll be able to handle the rigors of the hero program?” he asks, peering at Hizashi. The shadows always make Shouta’s eyes look darker, the dip under his eyes more hollow. Hizashi supposes it must make him look very intimidating to someone who doesn’t know Shouta. Must make him look otherworldly or maybe even powerful. Hizashi always sees a sullen teenage boy, vulnerable and suspicious, superimposed over Shouta’s face. He is sure that Shouta must always remember Hizashi as a young, insecure-and-trying-too-hard little asshole trying to be a hero as well.

“I think if he wants it bad enough to approach you,” Hizashi teases, “then he must be pretty serious about it. Though, I guess Vlad is more initially scary looking than you are, so maybe he was just hedging his bets--”

“Hizashi,” Shouta cuts in, sounding amused and tired in equal measures. “Just wanting it isn’t enough. Failure means--”

“Yeah,” Hizashi says. “I know. But, y’know, as cruel as it is to let a kid’s dream go on for too long before it has to end, I think it might be just as cruel to cut it off before it’s even had a chance.”

Shouta is quiet for a long while after that, and Hizashi thinks that maybe he’s gone to sleep. Figures. He is trying to figure out if he wants to bother taking out his hearing aids to sleep--they’ve only got about 4 hours before they have to be up for teaching--when Shouta scoots closer and headbutts Hizashi’s chest until Hizashi laughs and wraps his arms around him.

“Love you,” Shouta mutters into his collarbone.

Hizashi grins widely and kisses the top of Shouta’s head. “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa arranges their first training session to be the following week after he tracks Shinsou down again and agrees to help get him ready to reapply the hero course. They agree to meet after school three days a week, from four o’clock to six o’clock. He sends Shinsou home with a paper explaining the after school activities and tells Shinsou to have his foster parents call to set up a home visitation, since he wasn’t a teacher they would recognize.

His first red flag is when Shinsou came back with a signed paper and a sheepish explanation that his foster parents didn’t need to meet him. That they trusted UA staff. Aizawa supposes he understands the combination of a busy schedule and UA’s reputation, but it still seems irresponsible to not be interested in meeting the adult training your son after hours.

But Shinsou’s exhausted, hollow eyes are bright, and he stands meticulously straight in his gym clothes, and Aizawa shelves it for now.

“I have your scores from your middle school tests, and your physical education notes from this semester,” Aizawa says without much preamble. “What we’ll focus on for a while is honing your Quirkless fighting. With Quirks like ours, that don’t have an enhancement factor or any other physical side effect; our bodies are our first line of defense and our best weapon. Therefore, you’re going to be practicing being aware of your body at rest, then your body in fatigue.”

Shinsou is watching him intently, and Aizawa is amused to see a flash of confusion settle on his face. But to his credit, all he says is, “yes, Sensei.” And he waits.

Aizawa does not grin, but he sort of wants to. For all Hizashi ribs him about how similar Aizawa and Shinsou look, he is sure he was never this intense. “Good,” Aizawa says, and then crosses his legs under him, letting them take him to the floor. Shinsou watches dumbly, confusion more prominent in his features now. Aizawa lifts an eyebrow and nods at the ground in front of him before Shinsou gets the message, hastily dropping to the floor and crossing his legs.

“For the next half hour, you’re going to be meditating,” Aizawa says, and deeply treasures the look of bald shock that Shinsou gives him. “The first, best way to developing your body is to learn how to listen to it. Center yourself, monitor your breathing, and listen.”

“Uh, okay,” Shinsou says slowly. “How do I...do that?”

Aizawa shrugs one shoulder. “A good beginning trick is to consciously relax your muscles from the top of your head to the bottoms of your feet. Another way is to imagine your body sinking into the earth one inch at a time. Whatever works for you.” He feels a little bad; he isn’t one for intentionally vague instruction, but he doesn’t want to inform Shinsou’s meditation style. It’s his body, after all.

“For...half an hour, Sensei?” Shinsou asks, looking nervous for the first time. “Thirty minutes.”

Aizawa gives him a toothless glare and Shinsou ducks his head. Shinsou still looks dubious, but he straightens up, squares his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. His tired eyes slide closed and his face eventually goes lax. Satisfied, Aizawa tilts his head back slightly and closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of Shinsou breathing, the sound of his own breaths. The light buzz of electricity from the gym lights. He hears Shinsou shift and fidget across from him, but he doesn’t open his eyes. If Shinsou doesn’t want to meditate as such, he can at least sit quietly and learn some patience. Aizawa takes stock of his new normal since USJ: his itchy scar, the throbbing of his elbow, the slight tingle of nerve damage down that arm, his sore back, his mild tinnitus. It all until very recently felt overwhelming. Insurmountable. But he dealt with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and he can deal with this too. He’s dealt with far worse.

His phone vibrates. A half an hour is done.

He blinks his photosensitive eyes back into focus and is pleasantly surprised to see Shinsou blinking owlishly as well. The boy looks foggy, like he was on the verge of sleep, but Aizawa is fine with that. He supposes Shinsou must have sleeping problems as well.

He stands, carefully and stiffly, and stretches out his back. Shinsou springs to his feet and cracks his neck. Aizawa is a little jealous of the energy. Just a little.

“All right,” Aizawa says. “We’re going to test out your body’s limits as they are right now, then we’re going to meditate again after stretching out. See the difference. Are you familiar with line drills?”

“Uh,” Shinsou looks startled and stares across the gym, red and white lines painted across the hardwood. “Yeah. Start from the baseline, run to each line and back, getting farther and farther out, right?”

Aizawa nods once. “Go to the baseline and run that until I say stop.”

Shinsou looks apprehensive and excited all at once as he jogs to the other end of the gym. He takes one more bracing breath and then begins. He has fairly good running form, and he is a cautious runner, saving his energy and not blasting all out from the beginning. For the first few sets, Shinsou keeps casting nervous glances Aizawa’s way, as though he’s afraid Aizawa will stop the session and rescind his offer to train him. But after the five minute mark of running back and forth across the gym, Shinsou’s face is red and sweaty and he’s more focused on the ground beneath his feet than what Aizawa is doing.

“Keep your eyes up,” Aizawa instructs. “Keep your back straight and your rib cage open, so you breathe better.”

Shinsou almost falls over when Aizawa speaks, clearly not expecting him to do so, but Shinsou nods, sending sweat flying from his unruly hair, and does his best to comply. His ragged breathing fills the otherwise silent gym, and his face begins to screw up in exhausted pain. Aizawa calls for him to stop after 8 minutes, and Shinsou immediately drops to the ground, breathing hard but looking otherwise alert.

Aizawa huffs a laugh and taps Shinsou’s shoulder with his boot. “C’mon kid,” he says easily. “Up. You’re gonna get muscle cramps that way.”

“Nuh,” Shinsou pants, batting his hand in Aizawa’s direction. The fatigue clearly cutting through the initial awkward, almost formal politeness Shinsou has used so far. “Gimme...a sec, I’m dead.”

“You will be if your hamstrings tighten up,” Aizawa says dryly. “Up. C’mon, let’s go.”

Shinsou groans, but he rolls over and pushes himself up anyways. The redness is settling down into a faint ruddy shine on his face as they stretch, Aizawa stretching with him and making sure he stretches properly. When they’re through, Shinsou looks expectantly at him, and Aizawa gives him a toothy grin.

“You know what burpees are?”

Shinsou groans.

**

The air is cool on Aizawa’s face as he steps out of the gym, Shinsou at his heels. The kid did really well: he followed the exercises with no real complaints, did relatively well for a kid with only basic fitness knowledge, and at one point had even goaded Aizawa into doing pushups with him (“no one can do two hundred pushups, c’mon!”). Shinsou looks absolutely exhausted, but is smiling quietly to himself, and his eyes are shining in that bright, determined way that Aizawa sees in his students already.

“You did well,” Aizawa says, and Shinsou startles, looking up with something like awe for a split second before burying it with a crooked grin.

“You don’t need to feel sorry for me because you won at pushups,” he quips with a laugh. “I’ll get there.”

“You will,” Aizawa agrees easily. “That’s why I’m telling you that you did well. The next few weeks are going to be more of the same: a lot of monotonous physical activity that isn’t very exciting. Until I’m confident you know your body well enough that you won’t hurt yourself, and until I know you’re sufficiently fit to accomplish what you need to accomplish, we won’t be learning hand-to-hand combat.” He looks at Shinsou, who has fallen serious. “I want to make every step of this clear to you, so you know what you’re getting into. That way, if you want to back out at any point--”

“I don’t,” Shinsou says, and he meets Aizawa’s gaze steadily. Aizawa recognizes the hunger in his gaze and he knows he made the right decision. “So...same time in two days?”

Aizawa nods. “Don’t exercise tomorrow,” he adds sternly. “There is such a thing as overworking it, and if I find you’re doing work outs outside of what I’ve planned for you, we will stop instruction for a week or more, depending on how annoyed I am about it. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Shinsou looks...soft? Like there’s a tension in his jaw that Aizawa didn’t even notice until he lets it slip. In the dim streetlights, he looks more like a fifteen year old boy, and it only took a few kind words. Something curls up in Aizawa’s chest at the same time his head pings another red flag.

“Thank you, Sensei,” Shinsou says, looking up at Aizawa with those shining eyes. “Uh, for everything. I won’t let you down, I promise. You are not wasting your time training me, I swear.”

“I didn’t think I was,” Aizawa replies, bemused. “Do you bus home?”

“Yup,” Shinsou nods easily, gesturing towards the lighted stop just ahead. “This is my stop. Do you?”

“No, I walk,” Aizawa replies. “Or I just...begin patrol early, whatever I feel like. Depends on the day.” Sometimes, after everything is terrible and he’s been out way too late on campus, he shelves the work he needs to do and takes to the skyline. He’s still learning his new limits, though, and his elbow is giving him shooting pains after the pushups he did. “Do you want me to wait with you? Til your bus gets here?”

Shinsou gives him another soft, almost-awed look before shaking his head. “Nah, I’m okay,” he smiles at Aizawa. “Thanks again, Sensei. See you tomorrow.”

Aizawa’s home is in the other direction, and he feels no small amount of trepidation leaving his student out at night. So he says, “if you’re all right with it, I’ll give you my cell number. Please don’t call unless there’s an emergency, but the rest of my class has it, and I’d just as soon know you got home all right.”

Shinsou is quiet, and Aizawa wonders if he’s made him uncomfortable. It’s not unusual for teachers to share their contact information with their students, but Aizawa isn’t technically Shinsou’s teacher, and Shinsou probably has his own homeroom teacher’s number. Perhaps Shinsou is the kind of teenager that sees the offer as a slight against his independence.

Instead, Shinsou nods and says, uncertainty plain in his tone, “if you’re sure, I don’t mind. I just don’t...uh, want you to feel obligated.”

Aizawa almost laughs. “You’re my student,” he says, and he feels like that should explain everything, but he adds, “I don’t feel obligated, but you shouldn’t feel obligated either.”

Shinsou shakes his head and painstakingly types in Aizawa’s number in his phone. The bus pulls up, and they part ways. Aizawa walks home in contemplative silence.

**

The silence clings to him when he comes home, sticks with him when he takes off his shoes and kisses Hizashi on the cheek and eats a late dinner. He’s been a teacher for a long enough time now that his instincts are good, but it’s difficult when he’s not sure what his instincts are noticing yet. He’s only worked with Shinsou for a little bit, but it doesn’t usually take much to tell what kind of life a child’s had. Not if you know what you’re looking for.

“Hey,” Hizashi brings him back to earth. He’s peering over the heavy rims of his glasses with an intent kind of analysis, a shrewd kind of evaluation like he’s putting together all the pieces of information and looking at the shape of the hole. Sometimes Hizashi is so smart it’s terrifying when all that energy is focused on him. “What’s on your mind?”

When they were both younger, maybe Aizawa would have deflected, or even lied. But lying to Hizashi has always been futile. He respects Hizashi too much to do that anymore anyways.

“Thinking about Shinsou,” Aizawa says slowly. “Has he...when you worked with his class, did he seem particularly...eager to please? From authority figures?”

Hizashi frowns, staring into middle distance as he thinks. “No,” he says slowly. “That is, not for me. Granted, I’m not his teacher, I was just a teacher. Definitely didn’t care about the opinions of his peers, but preferred to keep to himself. Didn’t seem skittish at all, that I could tell.” He chews on his lower lip. “But I could definitely see an aversion to attention, rather than a disdain for socialization. So it’s entirely possible that he can’t differentiate positive and negative attention.”

“So receiving positive attention seems...like an even bigger deal than it should to someone who, say, is used to receiving positive attention,” Aizawa says slowly, tapping his ring finger on his knee as he sinks deeper into the couch. “I mean, I dunno what I’m looking at right now, but I’m looking at something.”

Hizashi hums thoughtfully. “Does it seem like he’s in danger?” he asks.

Aizawa shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not immediately, I guess. I can’t tell if it’s just a sad kid, or if it’s something I should be worried about.”

“Well, you’re gonna be working with him for the foreseeable future,” Hizashi says, stretching. “You can keep an eye on him. I’ll look out for him too. Too bad he doesn’t come to Club. Or have any friends who do, as far as I know.”

Aizawa nods with a small, fond smile. It would be helpful. Hizashi’s once-a-week GSA is his husband’s little secret pride and joy. He lets the students run it, and claims that he was only a classroom and an adult, nothing more, but as a genderqueer adult who has made it as a professional hero, Hizashi has helped a good deal of students with gender and sexuality crises. In return, those students will tell him the world if he asks for it.

“It’s all right,” Aizawa sighs. “It’s entirely possible I’m just...being paranoid. What with...everything that’s happened.” Without thinking about it, he rubs at his elbow. Hizashi tracks the movement with his bright green eyes, but doesn’t otherwise comment on it.

“Well,” Hizashi says. “There’s nothing to do right now but wait and see.” Neither of them like that very much; it went against their instincts as heroes, and it was nervewracking as teachers.

Aizawa grunts. “I have papers to grade,” he sighs, staring at his work bag balefully. “I thought I was going to throw Nezu like a damn baseball when I saw I had to teach third year civics. God, these papers are going to be nightmarish.”

Hizashi snorts. “Well, your precious homeroom class is...earnest,” he says, holding up a thick essay. “This is supposed to be a two page essay about an event that defined you, practicing past tense English sentence structure. This fuckin kid--”

“Iida?” Aizawa guesses, and Hizashi laughs brightly.

“Got it in one! Four fucking pages! That’s twice as many pages as I want to read today,” Hizashi grouses. “I’m gonna go back in time and let Tenya eat glue that one time we had to babysit him. I’m gonna go to Tensei’s house and kick him in the shins by proxy. His English isn’t even good.”

They laugh together, and despite their best efforts, don’t get to go to bed early.

Chapter Text

Aizawa wasn’t lying when he said the first weeks would be monotonous and grueling. For the first month, he focused on Shinsou’s endurance and resistance training. Once he felt the boy was strong enough, he intended to transition to weight training and strength building, but he began to notice something worrying.

Shinsou was losing weight.

There was a difference, Aizawa knew, between trimming down and losing weight. Shinsou, at worst, should be only losing baby fat and was supposed to be bulking up, gaining weight in muscle mass and healthy fat. But after 3 weeks, he’s starting to get hollowed cheeks, and Aizawa knows he has to pull him back.

“Do you eat lunch every day?” Aizawa asks Shinsou as they both stand from meditation. Shinsou’s lax shoulders tense up, but he otherwise doesn’t react.

“Yup,” he says. “I get the stuff you tell me to, also. You were right, Lunch Rush didn’t mind at all.” He meets Aizawa’s eyes steadily, and it’s too smooth. Shinsou doesn’t feel the need to make eye contact with him anymore.

“What about dinner?” Aizawa presses. “I know that I told you to eat a certain amount of protein and carbohydrates, and if your foster family is having trouble with money--”

“They’re not,” Shinsou cuts in, his words starting to finally feel a little clipped. “It’s nothing like that, I promise. I just, uh, if I want to have anything specific for dinner, I have to make it myself. And I guess I’ve been too busy.”

Aizawa narrows his eyes. The letter he sent home with Shinsou, the letter Shinsou’s parents signed, detailed that the teenager would need help at home making dietary changes that will aid with the training. It seems they either didn’t read it, or didn’t care. But Aizawa can tell he’s been quiet for too long, because Shinsou is shifting from one foot to another, and his tired, guarded stare is turning more and more visibly anxious by the second.

“You need to find a way to eat a solid breakfast and lunch, then, if your dinner is going to be whatever your family makes,” Aizawa says, his voice calm and even. “If you lose too much weight, you’re going to end up having long term health problems. Does that make sense?”

Shinsou nods, still looking distressed. His thin face fills out with shadows, making his eyes look dull and distant; Aizawa knows he can’t train a student like this, in good conscience. But he also isn’t about to give up on this kid.

“We’re going to go for a jog,” he decides. “And then we’re going to go eat.”

Shinsou physically startles at Aizawa’s words, tripping over his own feet as he tries to follow Aizawa and stall at the same time. “I...I mean, you don’t--Sensei, I’m fine,” he stammers. “Really. It’s my fault anyways, I just--”

“There’s no fault involved, as far as I understood it,” Aizawa replies, eyeing Shinsou. “But you need to eat, and the plan I drafted for you tonight would seriously injure you. Frankly, I’m surprised that you haven’t been injured already.” There’s anger in his tone, but it’s all pointed inwards, a thousand knives of self-recrimination. How did he not notice this? This is his job, but between the internships his homeroom students are doing, and the workload he’s given his third year students--and by extension, himself--he’d not really looked at Shinsou in a while.

They exit the gym in silence, and the sun is just starting to set over the treeline. Most students have gone home, and fortunately the students that are still around are older, and wouldn’t notice or care about Shinsou or Aizawa. They walk to the sidewalk and Aizawa begins to jog, Shinsou at his heels. It’s an easy run, maybe a mile, and Aizawa takes it slow. He’s not particularly interested in breaking a sweat himself, and he especially doesn’t want to injure his student, but he also suspects that Shinsou wouldn’t have agreed to a meal if he didn’t “earn it” first.

Shinsou catches up with him easily, and after a few feet of matching his pace, speeds up to pass him. Aizawa laughs despite himself.

“This isn’t a race, you know,” he calls to Shinsou’s back, grinning and rolling his eyes.

Shinsou glances over his shoulder, grins, and says, “that’s because you’re afraid you’re gonna lose, old man!”

“You don’t even know where we’re going!”

Shinsou laughs, a loud and youthful sound, and says, “guess you’ll have to catch up, then!”

Aizawa grins widely and speeds up.

**

They’re out of breath and sweaty by the time they reach the little udon shop tucked between two larger buildings. It’s almost closet sized, with only a few limited seats at the bar that looks over the kitchen. Aizawa tells Shinsou to order whatever he wants, and when Shinsou balks at the instruction, Aizawa threatens to order for him, if he’s going to be like that. Fortunately, Shinsou seems to take his threat seriously, and orders something that counts as a whole meal.

They eat in silence for a while before Shinsou says, “Sensei? Uh. I just wanted to thank you. Not just for buying me food, but for, like...I dunno, I’m sure there are a lot better ways you can spend your time and--”

“If I thought there were better ways to spend my time, I would be doing them,” Aizawa says around a mouthful of food. “As it stands, even if you don’t trust your worth, at least trust my judgment.”

And he’s got that look on him again, the young, almost awed expression that makes Shinsou look even more like a child. Shinsou doesn’t say anything, just nods, cups his bowl close to his face, and inhales deeply, a content smile across his face.

“Where’d you learn all that stuff about, like, food and fitness?” he asks after a while, looking back up at Aizawa. “I mean, do they include that as part of your training for this position? Or do you just pick it up over time?”

Aizawa shrugs. “The licensure classes and exams touch on it a little,” he replies. “But I’ve always had to pay particular attention to all that since I started transitioning as a teenager. Going on HRT while being in a competitively athletic program, just at the tail end of first puberty, required more knowledge of hormones and nutrition and fitness health than I think the average person learns.”

Shinsou is quiet as he takes in this information, his eyes a little wide, as though he isn’t sure Aizawa meant to say all that to him. Aizawa huffs a laugh. “My gender identity isn’t classified information, kid,” he says with a slight grin. “Don’t look so stressed about it.”

Aware now that Aizawa was gently mocking him, Shinsou relaxes, makes a face, and keeps eating. Aizawa lets Shinsou take control of the conversation, listening intently as the teenager talks about classes, about food and music and anything else that came to mind. Shinsou is talking in the rapid-fire, blissed out way of a kid reveling in the attention. This, in and of itself, isn’t unusual to see in a competitive environment; most students sacrifice a large amount of socializing in favor of excelling in their studies. But Aizawa notices a large hole in the conversation subjects and decides to press.

“Did your foster parents watch you at the Sports Festival?” he asks, a gentle and common question--everyone watches the Sports Festival.

Instead of answering or even deflecting, Shinsou’s face drains of color and his dark eyes grow wide with fear. “Oh sh--what time is it?” he asks frantically, whipping his head around, trying to find a clock. “I have to go. I forgot. I have to get home before seven.”

It’s 6:35, and Shinsou looks stricken when he finds out. He leaps out of the bar stool, his expression miserable. “I’m sorry Sensei, I gotta go, I can’t be late--”

“I can call, let them know it’s my fault you’re late,” Aizawa offers, rising to his feet as well, holding his hands out placatingly. “Or I can call someone to drive you--”

“No, it’s fine, it won’t matter, I can make it to the bus,” Shinsou babbles, running hands through his unruly hair. “I can make it, it’s fine--”

“Shinsou,” Aizawa cuts in, his tone firm enough to cut through Shinsou’s clear panic. “Are you okay?”

It’s a simple question, and maybe Aizawa shouldn’t have let some of his own alarm to leak into his words, but Shinsou looks afraid and his panic is causing others to glance their way. It’s a simple question, but Shinsou just looks at him, like he’s never been asked that in his life. Aizawa takes a step towards him, everything he’s been noticing about Shinsou for months starting to slide into place. Creating an ugly picture.

“Are you okay?” Aizawa asks again, but this time it breaks the spell, has Shinsou scrambling out the door.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Sensei,” Shinsou says before disappearing into the night.

**

Aizawa goes home, mechanically grades papers, and prepares for patrol. Before he goes out, he cleans out their office and tells himself it’s just nerves. Just paranoia. He keeps his eye on his phone while he’s out, but nobody texts him. There’s no calls either.

The next day, Shinsou doesn’t come to school. Hizashi asks his homeroom teacher about him, and she at least heard from him directly, that he called himself to say he was sick. But it doesn’t sit right to any of them.

Chapter Text

The Hero Killer, Stain, is apprehended and the involvement of several Nomu and his students is enough to send Shouta into a deep panic attack if they hadn’t asked him help assist in clean up. Hizashi doesn’t like it, but he knows that if Shouta doesn’t have something to do, he’ll go crazy. Unfortunately, one of those days overlaps with a day he spends training Shinsou. Hizashi is surprised, however, when Shouta tells him that Shinsou is okay with learning under Hizashi when Shouta offered.

“I should have asked you, I’m sorry,” Shouta says, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the crown. “I wasn’t thinking much about it beyond I wanted someone to keep an eye on him while I’m doing clean up.”

“It’s okay!” Hizashi says, gently untangling Shouta’s hands from his hair and holding them. “It’s okay. I’m surprised he wanted anyone else to teach him, is all. You two have really bonded.”

Shouta huffs. “He’s a good kid,” he says, like Hizashi had ever doubted otherwise. “He seems eager to do whatever it takes to get into the Hero Course. Also, I, uh...he might be curious to meet you, personally.”

Hizashi lights up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Shouta!” he intentionally pitches his voice just a hair too loud, just to see Shouta’s face scrunch. “Did you tell one of your students about us? The rumors are true! You are getting soft! You’re growing a heart somewhere in there!” He tackles his husband, and Shouta lets him scrub two hands through his hair and rough him up around his shoulders.

“All right, all right,” Shouta shoves him away. “Don’t get too excited, I can always just tell Shinsou you were too busy, if you’re going to be like this--”

“Don’t you dare,” Hizashi points a finger barely an inch from Shouta’s nose. “No, I’m going to meet your little prodigy! We are going to bond!”

Shouta gives him a flat look, but Hizashi has known him for long enough to see the amusement edging in around his mouth. Hizashi opens his mouth to tease him more, but Shouta gently cups Hizashi’s face in his hands and just...stares, dark eyes intense under his heavy fringe. A furrow between his brows and the way the hollows under his eyes are so, so dark is all it takes to fill Hizashi’s heart with great, pained affection.

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Shouta’s, “quit dwelling. We’re okay, I’m okay, everyone’s okay. I have work tonight, but I can cut it short if you need me. All you need to do is call.” He knows Shouta won’t, but he offers every time.

“Okay,” Shouta says, just as quiet. “Make sure Shinsou has water, he keeps forgetting to buy a water bottle, so I just let him use my spare one in my work locker. He’s working on fighting against a long-range fighter, hence you. Don’t let him overwork himself, though, because he will if--”

Hizashi pulls back to laugh. “Shouta! I promise I know how to be a teacher,” he says, thumbing Shouta’s cheekbone to soften his words. “I’ve been doing it a while.”

Shouta grimaces apologetically. “Right. Of course,” he says immediately. “Sorry. It’s not you.”

“I know,” Hizashi says, deciding to lighten the mood by leaning in and kissing him loudly and exaggeratedly on the cheek. “I love you! Be safe. I’ll text you after I have become Shinsou’s new favorite teacher.” He winks in the face of Shouta’s exasperated half-glare and ushers his husband out the door, trying to smile through the tightening in his chest that happens every time Shouta goes somewhere he can’t be.

He’ll be all right, Hizashi tells himself. For now, Hizashi has a student to officially meet.

**

Shinsou is meticulously polite as they stretch and meditate. Hizashi is immensely amused that Shouta teaches his kids mindfulness when he’s...the way he is, but Hizashi isn’t going to spoil the illusion quite yet.

“All right,” Hizashi says, rolling his shoulders as best he can under his directional speaker. “Eraser tells me that you’ve been doing some work on fighting a long range fighter? But you’ve not been to support about an assisting weapon?”

Shinsou nods. “Yeah, we’re working on my hand-to-hand skills before settling on a weapon. Aizawa-sensei suggested maybe a bo staff? But...I dunno,” he shrugs in that shifty way that says maybe he does know, but is a little too embarrassed to say it yet. That’s all right with Hizashi. He’s a professional at getting introverts to talk to him.

“Sounds good! Well, you’re going to need some stuff for me anyways,” he says, handing Shinsou a pair of specially designed ear plugs. “You’ll still be able to hear well enough, but there’s no chance of damage to your ear drums. That’s also why we’re outside on the sparring field today. The object of this lesson is to stay up.”

Shinsou’s eyes widen and he says, “what do you mean?”

And Hizashi almost falls for it, almost opens his mouth and answers, but he didn’t make pro hero for nothing. So he winks at Shinsou, rears back, and kicks Shinsou in the chest, sending him skidding back across the dirt of the track.

Shinsou corrects well, rolling back to his feet with a wide grin on his face. Hizashi laughs, shaking out his hands. “C’mon! I’ll give you two minutes Quirkless so you can have a chance!”

Shinsou brightens, clearly seeing this as his biggest opportunity to have a chance against Hizashi. Well, you had to love the optimism of the youth, Hizashi muses as Shinsou leaps for him with a feint that is so Shouta that Hizashi could have blocked it in his sleep. Shinsou barely wiggles out of his arm bar and tries to sweep his legs out from under him, but Hizashi dances away, grinning wide. Shinsou is starting to get frustrated, his lower lip sticking out in a pout that is extremely funny.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, lashing out with a tight right hook. It’s good form, he’s just not experienced enough to know where to use it. Hizashi raises an eyebrow and Shinsou huffs, “if you’re not going to use your Quirk, then I won’t either. Why are you laughing at me?”

“Oh, no,” Hizashi says, easily blocking Shinsou’s hit. “I’m not laughing at you at all. In fact,” he jabs at Shinsou, but the teenager recovers fast, scrambling away, “I’m deeply impressed at how far you’ve come since the Sports Festival. I can just tell Shouta’s been your only teacher.”

“And?” Shinsou asks, and it warms Hizashi’s heart to hear the defensiveness in Shinsou’s tone, as though Shinsou is ready to protect his teacher.

Instead Hizashi laughs again. “Well, who do you think taught Shouta?” Hizashi chirps before stepping back. “Two minutes are up.”

Instead of leaping back like most students do when confronted with Hizashi’s Quirk, Shinsou steps closer, tightening his defensive posture. Hizashi beams; smart boy, forcing Hizashi to limit his Quirk to avoid hurting himself as well. It’s a sound strategy, even though Shinsou is beginning to realize that just because Hizashi has a long range Quirk doesn’t mean he’s a complete slouch at close combat either.

“Shinsou, you are doing a really good job!” Hizashi praises, even though Shinsou is scowling now, sweat dripping down his flushed brow. “Shouta set you up for a sparring session you would lose, and you’re holding your own! But just so you know,” he lowers his voice a little, and Shinsou looks up curiously, “being loud isn’t all I can do.”

The trick with a Quirk like his, Hizashi thinks, is that it can so easily cause injury that it would be hard to spar with as an educator if Hizashi wasn’t very, very good at what he does. Fortunately, he is very, very good at what he does. Hizashi takes a theatrically large breath, giving Shinsou time to try and stop him (he fails) and instead of screaming loud, he sends vibrations down.

The earth is too large for him to do any real damage, even on packed land like a track. But he can move the topsoil below Shinsou’s feet enough to trap him shin-deep in the earth. Shinsou waves his hands, trying to keep his balance and leaves himself wide open. Hizashi grins and aims for a lazy roundhouse kick high to the shoulder, but Shinsou ducks low and fast, barely evading the hit. Hizashi spins, letting his momentum spin him around to kick lower, and Shinsou can’t avoid this one. He hits the ground hard, his forearms skidding in the dirt.

“Nice,” Hizashi says, “I call.” He reaches a hand down to help Shinsou up, but he just looks at him, awestruck.

“But...but I can still fight!” he protests, and Hizashi avoids rolling his eyes.

“Sure,” he says amiably. “But it’s getting late, and I don’t want to get too tired and accidentally hurt you.” Hizashi nods at Shinsou’s forearms, scraped up and bloody. “See?”

“Oh, this is nothing,” Shinsou says easily, and Hizashi really, really wants to believe that he’s just been injured in training before. Not that this familiarity with pain is something more distressing. “Really, don’t worry about it. But...what did you do, with your Quirk?” He shuffles out of the dirt, brushing off the hems of his pants. “I thought that you were only able to manipulate sound, not the earth.”

Hizashi helps him out of the hole he made and laughs, “I do only manipulate sound! Vibrations, compressed air, frequencies. Crazy high, crazy low, baby.” He shoots Shinsou a double finger guns, delighted when the teen rolls his eyes and stifles a grin. “I’m not very good at groundwork, but I can do enough to move some topsoil, and since the track is packed so hard, it’s easier to break it! Loose soil is my enemy.”

“Huh,” Shinsou nods, taking in this information. “I…think I owe you an apology.” Shinsou looks up at him, tired eyes through heavy fringe, and Hizashi feels the same affection rise in his chest that he felt when Shouta stepped out the door this afternoon.

“I highly doubt that,” Hizashi replies with a quieter, gentler smile, “but go ahead.”

Shinsou shuffles his feet. “When Aizawa-sensei said that you were gonna help me train today, I thought...that maybe…” he loses his courage midway through, and Hizashi watches as shame crosses his young features. “I guess I bought into the persona. That you were just kinda...a pushover…” He mumbles the last words before bowing. “I’m sorry I didn’t respect you and your reputation as a pro hero.”

He’s so serious, Hizashi thinks as he taps Shinsou’s shoulders until he straightens up. “You’re supposed to buy into the persona, kid,” he says reassuringly. “That’s part of the point. And anyways, everyone knows that I’m the mean one between me and Eraser when you get to know us. It’s fine.”

Shinsou risks a nervous smile, but curiosity clearly wins him over enough to ask, “I thought Aizawa-sensei expelled those students? And he always seems so…”

Hizashi lifts a shoulder. “Well, I’m not going to undercut my own husband’s reputation of Most Scary Teacher At UA if that’s what makes him happy,” Hizashi says with a wink. Shinsou’s responding smile is less nervous and it makes Hizashi’s heart sing. However, Shinsou’s forearms are still an angry red and dripping and crusty with blood. Hizashi’s smile fades into something like regret, which Shinsou immediately notices.

“Oh, my arms,” he says waving his hands dismissively. “Really, Sensei, it’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

Hizashi just barely catches the microsecond of expression that passes over Shinsou’s face after his words. A fleeting glimpse of anxiety and regret, the slightest tensing of the shoulders as he clearly anticipates Hizashi questioning what he’s just said. Hizashi knows people very, very well. He can tell when someone is telling him the truth, he can also tell when someone is going to lie. Shinsou will not tell him the truth tonight.

“Well,” Hizashi says instead, smiling, “humor me for a second.” He jogs to the side where he put both their water bottles and a sports bag. Digging around inside, he grabs a box containing large, rectangular bandages and tosses two to Shinsou, who grabs them with a sheepish expression. Hizashi shrugs, “call it a force of habit. But put those on and change them when you get home after you wash, understand? You’re not going to die, but there’s still a moderate chance for infection, and I doubt anyone wants to bother Recovery Girl over some scrapes, yes?”

“Yessir,” Shinsou says, ducking his head. He looks up at Hizashi again, young and exhausted eyes under his bangs, and Hizashi is hit with the awful notion that if anything ever happened to this kid, it would break his heart.

“Lemme help,” Hizashi blurts out. Shinsou freezes halfway through the motions of struggling with the adhesive bandage and Hizashi forces a reassuring grin. “Sorry, I forgot that putting on bandages one-handed is an acquired skill. Here.”

Wounds cleaned as well as they can be, and bandaged with what Hizashi could offer on hand, Shinsou rewards Hizashi with a small, shy smile. “Thanks, Sensei,” he mumbles. “Um. Every time I tell Aizawa-sensei this, he scolds me, but I really am grateful for what he and you have done for me. I’m, uh, I’m gonna make you proud.” He stands up straighter, squaring his shoulders. He’s starting to gain weight again because he’s coming in early to eat school breakfasts and Shouta will shove a protein bar in his hands most nights after training. He looks like a young man. He looks like a breakable little boy. Hizashi wants to hug him so bad.

Instead he smiles wide at Shinsou and puts as much sincerity into his voice as he can when he says, “you already do make us proud.”

There’s a moment, a flash of stunned surprise across his face, that Hizashi thinks Shinsou is going to cry. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Shinsou cries; he is constitutionally unable to keep from crying if someone else starts it, but he doesn’t know if that will stress out Shinsou.

But the moment passes and Shinsou smiles, shaky and uncertain, and says, “I should go home. I don’t wanna be late.”

“I can drive you, if you want,” Hizashi offers, and notes how quickly the peaceful, happy expression slides off of Shinsou’s face in the process.

Shinsou is shaking his head before Hizashi even finishes his sentence, backing away like he’s expecting Hizashi to push him. “No, that’s okay, don’t trouble yourself,” he says quickly. “It’s just a short bus ride.”

“It’s an even shorter car ride,” Hizashi replies, keep his tone even and careful. He can’t push too hard, but he sees a small window of opportunity here, and he wants to take it before it closes.

Shinsou still shakes his head. “No, my...my foster parents don’t like if strangers show up or stop by the house,” he says, his voice thin and stressed. “They’ll get mad.”

Hizashi thinks very hard about what he’s going to say and then thinks fuck it. “Will they get mad at me,” he says carefully, “or get mad at you?”

Hizashi has made sort of a personal career dealing with skittish, introverted shutaways. Shouta was an equally heartbreaking case for Hizashi when they were teenagers, and he likes to think that he’s gained some subtlety over the years. Enough that this teenager, now, can sense that Hizashi isn’t there to harm him. Shinsou is standing before him, frozen, fear plain across his face and Hizashi doesn’t want him to go home.

“Shinsou,” he says, very slowly, very carefully, “it’s my job as your teacher to keep you safe and healthy. It’s something I want to do. It’s something Shouta wants to do. You know you can tell us if something isn’t right, and we can fix it.”

Shinsou closes his eyes, the shadows underneath darkening as he does so. When he opens them, he looks exhausted, down to his very core. “You can’t...really fix it,” Shinsou says, his voice heavy. “It doesn’t matter anyways. It’s nothing big. I just gotta get home soon. I’ll see you, Sensei, thanks.”

Hizashi’s words die on his tongue as he watches Shinsou shuffle away, his hands in his pockets, his bandages stark white in the nighttime. He can see that the right forearm’s wound is starting to bleed through the bandages. Shinsou’s gym uniform still has a line of dirt on the pantleg. He wants, he realizes, so very badly to protect this brittle boy. He wonders if this is how Shouta feels about all his students. It probably is.

**

Hizashi is halfway through his Friday night radio show when he gets the text from Shouta, telling him not to worry if he isn’t home by the time Hizashi is. That he’s going to pick up a few hours of patrol before going home. Hizashi is almost jealous; after the way his training session with Shinsou ended, Hizashi has felt antsy and aimless in turns, chewing on the situation mentally. He doesn’t usually patrol at night, but he kind of wants to right now, if only to burn off steam. He sends an affirmative text and turns back to his work, pushing Shinsou’s dirty gym uniform and bandaged forearms out of his mind.

Even going through the motions, Hizashi is fantastic at his job, and nobody at work even looks twice at him. It’s a kind of anonymity that the very public get to experience. Sometimes Hizashi thinks it’s kind of lonely, but he’s grateful for it now as he cheerfully bids everyone a good night and hops out of the studio with a calculated spring in his step. He doesn’t patrol, because that would be stupid, and he goes home instead. The night is starting to weigh on his bones.

Hizashi is balled up on the couch, chin on his knees, aimlessly flipping through worksheets he assigned the second years when Shouta comes home. Hizashi looks up, automatically taking in the sight of Shouta: exhausted and dirty, but overall just fine. He gives Shouta a tired smile and a little noise of welcome, but is too drained to do anything else. He catches Shouta’s double take, and watches out of his periphery as Shouta kicks off his shoes and makes his way to the couch. He sits in Hizashi’s space, pressing his forehead against Hizashi’s shoulder.

“You okay?” His voice is hoarse and rough, and Hizashi wonders if he’s been barking orders or spending too much time in silence. It’s almost impossible to tell.

Hizashi sighs. “I mean,” he shrugs. “Shinsou did really well today. He’s a good kid; he’s driven and focused and is just shocked into silence every time someone compliments or reassures him. He’s worried to the point of anxiety about disappointing us, his teachers, probably because we are the only adults in a while who have shown him any kind of positive attention. I was so close to getting him to tell me what was going on at home, Shouta, I…”

“I know,” Shouta murmurs against Hizashi’s shoulder. “I know.”

“I mean!” Hizashi gestures in frustration. “What has to happen before we’re allowed to intervene? Does he have to get seriously injured? Does he have to die? I know something’s going on with that house, but we aren’t his homeroom teachers, we don’t have a case or proof for this kind of allegation, we’re...useless.” Hizashi presses his head against his knees and digs his hands into his hair, blinking furiously against angry tears.

Shouta wraps an arm around him, tugging him close. “Hey,” he says gently. “Aren’t I supposed to be the dour, pessimistic one?”

Hizashi laughs, sniffling. “You can still be dour,” he says. “But it’s my turn on the pessimism.”

Shouta huffs a laugh. “Fine. We’re going to be there for him,” he promises. “And if there’s a situation that endangers him, we’ll be able to catch him before he falls too far. He’ll be okay, we’re gonna make sure he’s okay.”

Tears fall in earnest now, and Hizashi uncoils enough to hug Shouta, pressing his face into his neck. “You smell like dirt,” Hizashi says, laughing wetly against Shouta’s skin. “And B.O.”

“Well once you let me go, I’ll go shower,” Shouta murmurs into Hizashi’s skin.

“Okay,” Hizashi says. He doesn’t move.

Chapter Text

When they come back from the weekend, Shinsou is still wearing the bandages that Hizashi put on him that Friday, and when Aizawa demands to look at it at lunch, both forearms are reddish and inflamed. Forgetting himself for a moment, Aizawa glowers at Shinsou full force, who physically recoils in response.

Cursing his own stupidity, Aizawa smoothes out his stare. “I’m not mad at you, but I am disappointed you haven’t taken care of yourself,” he says. “If you needed supplies, both Mic and I teach half days on Saturday for the Hero courses. Could you not ask someone in your house to change these?” Didn’t your parents notice your injuries were infected when they sent you off to school today? Did they care?

Shinsou is staring in middle distance, visibly shutting down, growing distant. “Sorry, Sensei,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think that it would...be like this. It was my fault, I was careless.” His words are falling out like rocks dropped into a stream, heavy and dull.

There are many things Aizawa would like to say, but instead he touches Shinsou’s shoulder, feeling the teenager flinch slightly under the touch, and says, “let’s go see Recovery Girl.”

“Uh,” Shinsou ducks his head, his shoulders tense almost to his ears, “I...don’t think I have enough energy to go to Recovery Girl and finish out my classes. I just don’t feel very well.”

Aizawa has to lean down to get a good look at Shinsou’s face, and is immediately concerned by what he sees. Shinsou is flushed slightly, and his eyes are glassy and too bright and when he looks up to meet Aizawa’s gaze, it seems to take him a second to focus. Aizawa curses under his breath and his hand tightens a little on Shinsou’s shoulder.

“I am taking you to Recovery Girl,” Aizawa says simply. “You look like you may have a fever.” Shinsou’s eyes widen but he doesn’t put up any more of a fight as Aizawa sweeps him to Recovery Girl’s office.

He gave Shinsou space to talk with the nurse on his own, hovering uselessly outside the door. He’s well aware that he could go now, that Shinsou is in good hands here, but the idea of leaving Shinsou right now makes him genuinely anxious. So he waits, hands crossed over his chest, and stares at nothing. When Recovery Girl comes out, she doesn’t look at all surprised to see him still here.

“He’s sleeping now,” she says, her bright eyes almost uncharacteristically serious. “But if you can come inside, I want to make some observations for the record.”

Foreboding curls in Aizawa’s chest as he follows Recovery Girl into the infirmary. Shinsou is curled up on the nearest bed, hands in loose fists on the pillow by his head. Even in deep sleep, though, his brow is slightly furrowed and his shoulders are still tense. Something heavy drops in Aizawa’s gut, and he resists an insane urge to smooth back Shinsou’s hair. He takes a breath, reeling himself back in, and focuses again on Recovery Girl.

“I was able to heal the infection,” she reports, “but he’ll have to sleep off the fever. He hasn’t eaten much all weekend, it looks like. He’s dehydrated and his clothes are dirty and worn down.” She nods at Shinsou, and Aizawa follows her gaze to his socks, carefully and clumsily darned, but still dotted with holes.

“His foster family has money from the state for him,” Aizawa says slowly. “It should be enough to buy him new clothes when he needs it. And at any rate, to even qualify as a foster home, the heads of household have to be in a certain income bracket. What’s happening here? What am I seeing?”

Recovery Girl shakes her head. “My instinct is negligence, especially given he went to school with two dirty, open wounds and a fever,” she replies. “I know his homeroom teacher has started a file for him, so I can add my comments, and if you want to touch base with her also, I think she’ll appreciate your insight.”

Aizawa nods once, still looking at Shinsou’s darned socks, the frayed edges of his pants, his unbrushed hair. He feels an awful heaviness, a deep chasm opening in his chest at the knowledge that Shinsou has been hurting this whole time and he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. He taps his ring fingers against his pant legs, letting this intense new misery wash over him for a moment more before gathering himself back to the present. He turns to Recovery Girl.

“What can we do?”

**

Shinsou sleeps through his classes, and while he rests in the infirmary, Aizawa speaks to his homeroom teacher, Yamamoto Haruka, who has been gathering information on her own. Looking over her notes, it becomes a clearer picture of negligence: coming to school hungry or exhausted, multiple instances of coming to school with a flu or other fairly serious illness. Avoidance of peers, temper flare ups, morbid “jokes”, but a clear hunger for positive attention from authority, despite being unsure how to obtain it. Parent refusal to pick him up if he was sick, stating that UA has better facilities to take care of him until the work day was over anyways. Separate, all these things don’t mean much. All together, the issue becomes clear. These people aren’t taking care of Shinsou.

Although everyone acknowledges that Shinsou has bonded closest with Aizawa--a trust that Aizawa does not feel he’s earned--everyone also acknowledges that it would be best if Aizawa did not come along for the home visit. He supposes that is fair. He’s not...very diplomatic at the best of times. And while he always endeavors to be polite to his students’ caretakers, that only extends to those actually caring for his students. Shinsou’s safety is far more important than any selfish desire Aizawa has to put these people in their place. So they choose Hizashi to accompany Yamamoto instead, as Hizashi also has bonded with Shinsou and is very good at being personable, no matter his true feelings.

But he does want to be the one to tell Shinsou. So when school is let out for the day, Aizawa makes his way back to the infirmary, and is not surprised at all to find that Shinsou is still fast asleep. He sits down heavily in a chair next to the bed, rubbing his aching head. He’s furious, and he’s exhausted, and he’s full to the brim with the same jittery, anticipatory energy he gets before a patrol he knows will be hard. He wants to let Shinsou sleep, but he knows he can’t.

He gently touches Shinsou’s shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Shinsou, it’s time to wake up,” he murmurs, hoping not to startle him.

Shinsou’s eyes slide open, and there’s a moment of sleep-fuzzy confusion before his expression snaps to horror. He jolts upright so fast that Aizawa has to catch him by both shoulders so he doesn’t fall back down, clearly dizzy from sleep and his illness.

“What time is it? What...why did you let me sleep for so long?” Shinsou demands, looking at Aizawa with betrayed eyes. “It’s almost...I have to go home, I’m gonna be late, and I have to get all my work from my teachers, why didn’t anyone wake me up, what...what’s going on?”

“Breathe,” Aizawa tells him firmly as Shinsou’s panicked voice raises higher and higher. The teenager shakes under his hands, and every second that passes confirms that he’s making the right choice. “Take a breath, Shinsou, it’s going to be okay.”

Shinsou looks up at him, his eyes heavy lidded and hollow despite his long sleep. He looks miserable, incredulous. “You can’t say that, Sensei,” he says, pained. “You don’t know, I…”

“We need to know, Shinsou,” Aizawa says, his hands still resting on Shinsou’s shoulders. “You came to school with dirty bandages, cuts that should have closed in a day getting infected over a weekend. You had a low grade fever, kid, this isn’t something I can ignore.”

Shinsou looks like he’s going to cry. “It’s not so bad,” he says, his voice trembling along with his body. “As long as I come home on time and take care of the little kids, they leave me alone. That’s not so bad. Nobody, like, hits me or anything. That’s good, right?” He looks up at Aizawa, tearful and visibly begging for reassurance and guidance.

Aizawa wants….he doesn’t know what he wants. To kill something, probably. To hit something and not stop. Instead he takes a small breath and says, “that’s the bare minimum, Shinsou. And they’re not even reaching it. Not hitting you is a requirement, not an added bonus. You should not be grateful for that. You deserve better care.”

Shinsou doesn’t look like he’s hearing everything Aizawa is saying. He looks like he’s spiraling into panic, and Aizawa needs him to be present for what’s coming next. So he slowly and carefully moves to sit on the infirmary bed in front of him, catching Shinsou’s attention once again.

“Shinsou,” Aizawa says, pitching his voice to sound soothing. “You are not in trouble. This is not your fault. But I’d like you to tell me what you’re afraid of.”

Tears come then, silent and and fast, and Shinsou drops his head to the tops of his knees, sniffling. “I don’t want to move away from here,” he says, sounding frustrated, breakable. “I don’t...I worked so hard to get here, Sensei, don’t make me go.”

“Hey, hey,” Aizawa leans forward, touching his shoulder again. “Shinsou. You aren’t going to have to leave UA. We will figure something out. But you cannot stay where you are; you could get seriously ill. We’re all worried about you.”

Shinsou looks up, scrubbing the tears from his face. “What are you guys going to do?” he asks, tremulous.

“Well,” Aizawa sighs. “We are going to take you back to your foster home, but only for a little while. Your homeroom teacher is going to go with you. As will Mic, if you want. They’ll be conducting a home visit with your social worker present as well. Your foster family has not been notified of this.”

Shinsou pales, and is quiet as he digests this information. Aizawa lets him process this on his own time, content to wait quietly to see what Shinsou will say. He’s not prepared, however, for Shinsou to ask, “...you’re not coming?”

Aizawa blinks. “I’m not the most delicate of people,” he says. “We thought that it might be stressful to also have me present.”

“It won’t,” Shinsou says quickly, almost frantically. “I...I mean, I don’t...I’m not looking forward to this, I don’t think it’s gonna work. But...I really want you to be there, too. You don’t have to come in! You can just sit in the car if you want! I just know...nothing bad will happen if...yeah.”

If you’re there. The sentiment is unspoken, but the faith this boy has in him rings so loud it’s almost deafening. He wants nothing more, down to his very bones, than to be worthy of this trust.

“All right,” Aizawa says. “Okay.”

“And I won’t be moved far away from UA?” Shinsou asks, his fingers still twisting anxiously. “I don’t care what happens to me as long as I can still go to UA.”

“Well I care what’s going to happen to you,” Aizawa retorts, “and I promise you, you will still be able to go to UA.”

Shinsou looks dubious, but doesn’t put up any more arguments. Instead, he slides off the bed and pushes on his shoes, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Okay,” he says quietly, looking down at his feet. “Let’s go, I guess.”

Yamamoto and Hizashi are both waiting for them outside of the infirmary. Shinsou blinked, surprise written plain across his features at the sight of three entire adults who were invested in his well-being. Aizawa doesn’t miss the faint suspicion that edged across his face, however, and he doesn’t fault Shinsou for it. He supposes he can see Shinsou’s point of view: growing up in a neglectful household results in low self worth, difficulty trusting or bonding with adults and peers, and this all must seem rather sudden for Shinsou anyways. Ideally, this would be happening when Shinsou wasn’t just recovered from a low grade fever, but there wasn’t much to be done about that.

Shinsou was to ride with Yamamoto, who would be picking up the social worker on the way. Hizashi would drive himself and Aizawa. Shinsou looked alarmed for a moment, glancing between Aizawa and Yamamoto nervously before nodding in agreement. Yamamoto smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder, and while Shinsou doesn’t seem comforted by it, he doesn’t shake her off.

“You’ll be there, though,” Shinsou says to Aizawa and Hizashi before they part. The frantic, rolling fear in his eyes is starting to come back. “When we get there, we won’t do anything until you two show up at the house, right?”

“Absolutely,” Hizashi says, nodding firmly.

“Yes,” Aizawa echoes.

Shinsou takes a deep, bracing breath and nods. He gives them one last, lingering glance, like he expects them to disappear once he gets into Yamamoto’s car, and then he leaves. Hizashi lets out a long, low sigh and turns to Aizawa.

“We’re taking him,” he says to Aizawa firmly, his green eyes bright and determined. “That’s why you cleaned out our office, isn’t it?”

They’ve talked about this, off and on, nothing concrete, but to hear Hizashi say it like this--so sure and steady--fills Aizawa’s heart with overwhelming love. He takes both Hizashi’s hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over Hizashi’s knuckles. He presses small kisses to the back of Hizashi’s wrists.

“I want to take him so bad,” Aizawa murmurs against Hizashi’s skin, taken aback by how strongly he feels about this. “I love you.”

Hizashi grins, a little teary, and kisses Aizawa’s forehead. “I love you too,” he says. “Let’s go get our boy.”

**

When Aizawa and Hizashi get to the address Yamamoto gave them, the other car is already parked outside of a nondescript little house on a nondescript little street. There’s a child’s bike in the front yard. It’s strange, Aizawa muses through the buzzing in his head, how much it all looks ao normal, like it could just be anyone. It is just anyone.

Hizashi goes ahead, greeting Yamamoto and the social worker--a round faced, middle-aged woman who looks as tired as Aizawa feels. She introduces herself as Maruyama Rin and Aizawa tries to not bear her much ill-will. He knows all too well that people in her situation are similar to his: too many kids, not enough resources, tied up by bureaucracy. He is allowed more special privileges, in fact, as an instructor of such a prestigious school. It’s not her fault. Not any more or less than it’s also his.

Shinsou only leaves the car when he catches sight of Aizawa, climbing out of the backseat and hovering at his side, visibly shaking. He looks up at Aizawa and his face is pale and his eyes are frightened. Aizawa doesn’t know what to do, so he presses a hand on Shinsou’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to come in, if you don’t like,” he says gently. “Mic and the others can conduct the visit and you can wait out here with me.”

Shinsou looks tempted, but he sighs and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I...gotta do this. I can do this.”

“I know you can,” Aizawa replies. “But you don’t have to. Not if you don’t feel safe.”

Shinsou looks at him for another long moment before he shakes his head. “No, I do,” he says, and he says it calmly enough that Aizawa believes him. “I don’t...think they’ll hurt me. I don’t want them to yell at you though. Or Mic-sensei.”

Aizawa snorts. “It’s not your job to worry about Mic,” he says, letting his amusement show. “He’ll be fine, trust me.”

As if on cue, Hizashi calls out, “Shinsou? You can stay back with Aizawa if you like, but we’re going to start our visitation soon.”

Shinsou startles under Aizawa’s hand and turns pale. But he takes a shaky breath and straightens his shoulders before walking over to stand with Hizashi and the other two adults. Aizawa is proud of him; he also just wishes it didn’t look like Shinsou felt like he was walking to his death. Aizawa leans against the car, crosses his arms over his chest, and prepares to settle in.

From across the yard, a front door opens, and a tall man with glasses and wiry hair and ill-fitting slacks emerges. A look of surprise and indignation flashes across his face, obvious enough for Aizawa to see it from where he’s standing. His attention turns to Shinsou, and he sighs.

“Oh no, has he gotten into trouble again?” his voice is almost cartoonish in insincerity, and Aizawa wonders if he just has gotten very good at recognizing a persona. He wonders, with a sort of dark amusement, what Hizashi must think of such a sloppy performance.

“No, no, quite the opposite,” Yamamoto says, and it’s hard to hear her soft, gentle tones from across the yard. “Shinsou here was sick, and we wanted to take him home and make sure he was being taken care of, Noguchi-san. I’m Yamamoto Haruka, his homeroom teacher.”

A flush is rising up Noguchi’s face and his grin becomes even more brittle as his watery gaze travels from Yamamoto, Shinsou, the social worker, Hizashi, and then catches sight of Aizawa, leaning against the car. Aizawa meets his gaze unblinkingly, and is gratified to see Noguchi flinch.

“And...he needs an entire entourage to take him home sick?” Noguchi asks, forcing a laugh. “Gosh, you know, I knew that UA was thorough, but you guys really do go all out for the kids.”

“We do!” Hizashi chirps. “So much so that this kind of thing necessitates a brief home visit. Just to make sure things are aaallll good.” Hizashi draws out his words, and Aizawa tries not to grin. Hizashi doesn’t talk like that around parents unless he’s mad. He’s furious.

Noguchi stalls out a little bit at that, staring at Hizashi dumbly for a moment before running his hand through thin, greying hair and saying, “well, I suppose I don’t have much of a choice then! Come on in, I guess.”

They all file in, Shinsou glancing over his shoulder at Aizawa briefly before he disappears into the house. And then the door closes.

**

Aizawa is glad he didn’t go inside--he’s not good at keeping his temper after a point, and he’s almost always reprimanded as “rude” no matter his actual intent--but after twenty minutes of waiting, he’s starting to get antsy. For lack of anything better to do, he sits crosslegged on the front of the car and leafs through Yamamoto’s files for Shinsou once more, trying to control the anger growing in his chest. Periodically, the curtains on the windows will move, and he’ll look up to see an unfamiliar young face peering out the window back at him, ducking away as soon as they realize he’s seen them. Aizawa knows that Shinsou has foster siblings, but that they haven’t really bonded as such. He also knows that Shinsou has been at this particular foster home since the start of middle school, and that it seems his grades, his socialization skills, and his behavior all started sliding all at once.

It’s exactly twenty-two minutes after the group went inside that Shinsou comes bursting back out, loud shouting following him. Aizawa is on his feet in an instant, stepping onto the lawn as Shinsou stumbles around, heavy breathing and erratic hands indicating a panic attack. Aizawa carefully steps into Shinsou’s space, not wanting to touch him just yet--he’s not even sure if Shinsou realizes who he is right now.

“Breathe, Shinsou, it’s okay,” he murmurs, hovering his hands around Shinsou’s shoulders, waiting until he knows it would be okay to touch. “It’s okay. Look at me, it’s okay.”

Shinsou drags his glazed over, panic-foggy eyes up to meet Aizawa’s, and there’s a moment of blank unrecognition before it clears. Shinsou’s face crumples, and he drags his hands over his face, like he’s trying to pull his expression away. “I couldn’t--I can’t--he--I,” Shinsou stammers, breath still coming out in choppy, violent bursts.

Behind him, the rest of the adults have filed out, Hizashi in the lead. But when Noguchi comes storming out, red faced and the very picture of wounded indignation, Hizashi stops and turns, a tall and looming barrier between Noguchi and Shinsou. Aizawa gently drops his hands onto Shinsou’s shoulders, keeping his focus away from the small gathering behind him.

“This is ridiculous!” Noguchi exclaims, a whine edging into his voice. Under his hands, Shinsou trembles, hard. “Like I told Hitoshi inside, if anything was making him unhappy, he could have just told me and my wife or I would have been happy to change things!”

“He’s lying, he’s lying, Sensei,” Shinsou looks up at Aizawa and grips Aizawa’s sleeves with a white-knuckled grip. “I swear I’m not making it up, I swear--”

“Well, kid,” Noguchi cuts in, an edge of almost-gloating cruelty on the edge of his words that only someone who knew what they were looking for would hear. “I still haven’t heard one wrong thing that I’ve done from you. Sure, I didn’t know about his injuries, but--”

Shinsou’s grip on Aizawa’s sleeves tightens and he chokes out, “the...hall closet. In the back of the house. It’s for, uh, like when we need to be put by ourselves.”

Noguchi’s face turns from red to white, then back to red, in an almost impressive cycle. “I--listen! They share rooms! I can’t send them to their rooms when they’re in trouble because there’s other kids! What are we supposed to do?”

Aizawa wants to say a thousand things. He wants to drive his fist right into Noguchi’s cowardly, disingenuous face. He wants to hit him and keep on hitting him until he’s not recognizable as human. He wants to do unspeakable things. The ends of his hair tickle his jaw as it rises up like hackles. Warning signs.

But Shinsou is still clinging to his arms and he has to be there for him. He has to calm down, say nothing, be someone actually worthy of Shinsou’s trust.

“Well, we’ll just check that out, and be right back,” says the social worker with a smile that barely covers her rage. Yamamoto is already back in the house. Hizashi, however, stays where he is in front of Noguchi.

“This is an outrage,” Noguchi snaps at Hizashi, glaring, before moving to sidestep him. “Hitoshi, you are--”

Aizawa stiffens, ready to defend Shinsou and ward off this man, but he doesn’t get the chance to move an inch. Hizashi straightens up to his full height--even taller than normal, since he’s in his hero outfit and hair--and looms over him. Aizawa doesn’t need to see his face to know that Hizashi’s baring his teeth, a snarling, toothy grin that’s worse than any face Aizawa could ever make.

“That’ll be enough of that, I think,” Hizashi says, and he’s not loud anymore, but clipped and low. “Interfering right now will look very bad for you, and like you said earlier, we are professional heroes who take our students very, very seriously.” The threat is clear, if unsaid. Aizawa has never loved Hizashi more.

Nobody gets a chance to say anything else, because the two women emerge, looking troubled. Shinsou scoots closer to Aizawa, who lets him cling without question.

“We’ve seen enough,” the social worker says, matter-of-factly. “Frankly, Noguchi-san, even without this troubling...discovery, you would have at least lost custody of Shinsou due to the long list of infractions revolving around him this school year and the general state of the home and the lack of hygiene all the children possess. As it stands, you’re probably going to lose all the children. Law enforcement will be here within the hour to make arrangements, but rest assured, they will already have my report and that of the teachers at UA.” She turns and takes in Shinsou--head bowed, gripping Aizawa’s sleeves, shaking--and says, “we should go. This is distressing our student.”

Whatever anyone else says is immediately irrelevant. Aizawa gently pries one of Shinsou’s hands off of his sleeve, soothing when Shinsou makes distressed noises. “It’s fine, Shinsou,” he murmurs. “We’re going to leave now, it’s done.”

He leads Shinsou to the car that Hizashi drove, but Shinsou stops halfway there, looking up at Aizawa. “Where...am I going to go?” he rasps, looking impossibly young.

“You can come home with us, if you like,” Aizawa says without hesitation. “Otherwise, Hizashi is going to work with the child services network to make sure you get placed somewhere appropriate, if you don’t want to--”

“No!” Shinsou blurts out, and then immediately winces. “I-I mean. I would like. To do that. Go with you guys. But, like, that’s not...I don’t want you to feel obligated, if…”

“I don’t do anything that I don’t want to do, Shinsou,” Aizawa says. “Nor would I make an offer I don’t mean. If you want to come home with us, we would like to have you home as well.”

Shinsou looks...like if someone handed an expensive artifact: awed, confused, overwhelmed. He looks like he doesn’t believe what he’s heard. Aizawa imagines that he’s never heard something like that before. Hizashi is crossing the street towards them, and his footsteps draw Shinsou’s attention. Before Hizashi can say anything, Shinsou turns to him and says, “do you...really want...me to come with you both?”

Hizashi smiles, not missing a beat, and cups Shinsou’s face in his hands. Aizawa wishes he was that easy with physical affection, less fettered by self-consciousness, because Shinsou almost melts into the touch, clearly starved for it. “Absolutely,” Hizashi says, warmth in every syllable. “I’ve talked to the social worker, and I’ve already started the paperwork. I’m very good at bureaucracy.” He grins, like he’s just shared a great secret. “If you want to, we can go home right now.”

Shinsou coughs out a sob. “Y-yeah. Okay. Yes, I would like that a lot.”

Hizashi’s smile widens, and he pulls Shinsou in for a brief hug. “Then let’s go home,” he says, releasing Shinsou and ushering them all into the car.

Shinsou falls asleep almost immediately on the way back, and Hizashi reaches across the console to hold Aizawa’s hand.

Chapter Text

There's no real guarantee this is permanent, Hitoshi reminds himself again and again when he wakes up in Mic--Yamada-san's--car, still on the way to wherever Yamada-san and Aizawa-sensei live. Hitoshi’s body had shut down the second his old house had disappeared from view, a combination of having cried more in one afternoon than he's cried in years and his body still recovering from his weekend-long fever. He cracks open his eyes, squinting from the light, to his teachers chatting quietly in the front seats, holding hands over the console.

It couldn't be permanent. They surely were going to be an emergency placement for a few days before they find somewhere else. They’re both teachers, there's no way they are gonna want to deal with him, some dumb teenager, after hours of dealing with other, better teenagers. And it's a testament to how tired he is that this just makes another round of fresh tears well up in his eyes. He blinks them away, irritated and embarrassed. He's not a stupid little kid, he can handle this. It's nice enough that they're even bothering doing this anyways. He should be grateful for what they have done instead of wishing for more. He slides his eyes shut and tunes in to their quiet conversation.

“...about dinner,” Yamada-san is saying. “Do you know if he has any favorites?” Aizawa-sensei murmurs a negative, shaking his head, but Yamada-san doesn’t seem perturbed. “That’s fine, we have plenty of time to figure it out.” He sounds...so joyful, and Hitoshi doesn’t dare try to read anything into what he’s saying.

“If he wants to,” Aizawa-sensei adds quietly. “I don’t want him to feel pressured. I’d like for him to feel like he has agency for once.”

Yamada-san hums before saying, “I will say, love, that you do tend to...give too much distance than not enough. I think maybe he could use some encouragement.”

Aizawa-sensei doesn’t reply, and when Hitoshi chances a peek through his eyelashes, both teachers are staring through the windshield, conversation apparently over. They’re still holding hands.

After a long moment, almost long enough for Hitoshi to fall back asleep, Yamada-san murmurs, “I’ll go get food and you help him settle in?”

“Sounds fine. Maruyama-san should be around tomorrow with the rest of his things. Or if the police are feeling particularly motivated, he might get them tonight.”

“I wish I had thought to grab him some of his things, but honestly…” Yamada-san trails off for a moment before sighing, “it wasn’t great. I doubt he has a lot of stuff, anyways.”

A beat of silence, then Aizawa-sensei asks, “how bad?” And he sounds...different than Hitoshi’s ever heard him. Tense. A certain kind of quiet, dangerous anger. Hitoshi flinches a little despite himself. Fortunately, they don’t seem to notice.

Yamada-san sighs, rough. “Just...dirty,” he says, and Hitoshi realizes they’re talking about the house. “Full of trash and old food and shit. Hitoshi’s the oldest so he had to come home, take care of the baby, clean up after dinner, then do his homework and help with their homework. Then he shares a room with three of them, the baby gets her own room that is also a storage room full of, I dunno, garbage, basically. The wife has hoarder tendencies, and the stupid bastard just...walks us through. Like this is fine. He saw absolutely nothing wrong with anything that was going on. At least two of those other kids were sick--”

“Hizashi,” Aizawa-sensei’s quiet voice is a soothing wave over Yamada-san’s rising volume. “He’s still asleep.”

Yamada-san curses. “Sorry. Sorry, it was just,” he lets out a bitter laugh, “fucking galling. He looked Hitoshi in the eyes and was like ‘oh, I don’t know why he’s acting like this, some foster parents beat their kids and I’ve never done anything bad to him’, and that’s what sent Hitoshi into that panic attack. Just right in front of my whole ass face thought he could tell that boy we wouldn’t believe him. Like I’m just some kind of idiot.”

“Hitoshi said something like that to me before,” Aizawa-sensei says, like he’s realized something. “I think that’s why this went on for so long.”

Yamada-san makes a sharp, angry noise. There is a long, heavy pause before he says, quietly, “I didn’t get to see the closet. It sounded bad.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Aizawa-sensei says gently. “We’re going to focus on moving forward. If Hitoshi wants to talk about it, then we’re here. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t have to. If he wants to see a therapist, we’ll find him one.”

“One day at a time,” Yamada-san says, and it sounds like agreement, like one half of a call-and-response.

And then Aizawa-sensei huffs a laugh and says, “together or not at all.”

Hitoshi’s chest feels tight and he feels a little ashamed, like he’s witnessed something private and personal that he shouldn’t have. They probably only talked to each other like this because they think he’s asleep, and he feels like a liar. So he counts to twenty, and then he opens his eyes for real, sitting up slowly. Yamada-san’s eyes find his through the rearview mirror, and Hitoshi can see the smile in them, and something a little more conspiratorial, like maybe he wasn’t pretending as well as he had hoped.

“Welcome back, Shinsou,” Yamada-san says cheerfully. “We were just talking about dinner. Do you have any preferences?”

Hitoshi shakes his head before remembering his manners. “Um, no, I’m good with whatever,” he says, coughing in the middle of his words, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” Yamada-san replies. “Shouta is going to help you settle in while I go out, so if something sounds good, just have him text me. Here we are!”

The car settles to a stop on the curb of a tall apartment complex, one of a million erected in the city. The anonymity is somehow soothing to Hitoshi, the idea that he can live in one of these rooms, one of hundreds, and that nobody will notice him. Nobody can hurt him.

You’re only living here for a while, Hitoshi reminds himself as he exits the car and follows Aizawa-sensei into the apartment, through a clean, well-lit lobby, up a floor, and to one of the rooms lining a warm, brightly lit hallway. This isn’t forever, don’t get your hopes up, he thinks, over and over as Aizawa opens the door to a orderly little apartment.

He toes off his shoes next to Aizawa-sensei and looks around while trying not to look like he’s staring. He can see the whole space in one look, and it soothes his anxiety instantly. The hardwood floors are swept and clean, and the little kitchen immediately to the left has a few dishes in it, but the stove isn’t crusted with food, the counters aren’t full of stains and the sink isn’t full of mould. It smells a little like laundry detergent and vanilla and leftover coffee, and nothing like food or diapers or vomit.

“You can go ahead and look around,” Aizawa-sensei says, looking amused. Hitoshi feels a little embarrassed, but it’s not like Aizawa-sensei is laughing at him. “The only two things you can’t see from the door are the bedrooms.” He points to where the little hallway splits at the bathroom. “The room on the left is cleared out for you. There’s not much there yet, but we’ll get ahold of your things and can go pick up some more for you soon. Maybe this weekend, depending on how you feel.”

Hitoshi blinks, trying to regain his footing. He’s trying not to be let down, he’s trying not to get his hopes up, but it’s difficult when he can’t figure out why they would be putting so much effort into someone they’re not going to keep. He’s been in emergency foster homes before; they’ve never been like this. It’s never felt like this.

“I’m going to change,” Aizawa-sensei says, brushing past Hitoshi and heading to the room on the right. “I’ll be out soon, feel free to make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you think of something in particular you’d like for dinner so I can let Hizashi know.”

Hizashi. Hitoshi watches as Aizawa-sensei pulls off his scarf and wanders away, his posture relaxing into something more casual. He’s no longer calling Yamada-san Mic, he’s piled his capture weapon--his defense and protection--on the hardwood floor. It’s safe.

Hitoshi carefully tiptoes out of the entryway, passing a worn, plush couch and an armchair, a tall, wire rack full of plants, and a television set. He peers into the room Aizawa-sensei designated as his (for a while). It’s bare, but clean and free of dust and grime. There’s a futon for him, with a sheet and two blankets folded at the base. Two clean, white pillows at the head. He’s struck with the urge to run across the room and jump onto the futon, to roll in the clean sheets like he’s a little kid. But he doesn’t, because he’s trying not to get his heart broken. He’s afraid, though, that it’s a little too late.

All he has to his name is his backpack, but it strangely doesn’t bother him. Yamada-san is right--Hitoshi doesn’t have a lot of belongings. He has some clothes he likes that will almost certainly “go missing” between now and whenever they get his things, but he’ll survive without them. He can handle not having his favorite hoodie anymore. He doesn’t know if he can handle knowing what it’s like to live with Yamada-san and Aizawa-sensei and then having to leave them.

He walks back to the living room, his head feeling fuzzy and a little too warm. He gingerly sits down on the couch and sighs, letting himself sink into the soft cushion. He’s looking at his knees, his eyes feeling heavy with sleep, when he hears a small chirping sound. He leans over the arm of the couch to see a small cat with green eyes peering back at him. Hitoshi gasps quietly, sliding off the couch and onto the floor, reaching out slowly with one hand for the cat to sniff. Apparently satisfied with whatever it smells, the cat chirps again and rubs its chin against Hitoshi’s hand until he scratches. It’s a little cat, but as far as Hitoshi can tell, it’s full grown, with mottled grey and brown fur. It’s friendly, also, as it presses its cold nose to Hitoshi’s wrist and stepping onto his legs, continuing it’s chirruping conversation.

“That’s Mikan,” a familiar voice says over him, but Hitoshi jumps anyways, startling the cat, who trots away with a reproachful huff. Aizawa-sensei is leaning with his forearms against the back of the couch, his hair pulled back into a knot on the back of his head. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and he looks almost unrecognizable. “She’s friendly, as you can see, but if she bothers you at all, just pick her up and put her somewhere else. She’ll get the message.”

“No, it’s okay,” Hitoshi says. “I like cats.” As if summoned, Mikan peers around the couch again, purring. Hitoshi smiles, feeling a little more like himself for the first time all day. He reaches out for her, and the cat snuffles into his arm once more. Hitoshi stifles a yawn and a rush of dizziness washes over him, and a flash of warmth blooms across his face. He wobbles where he sits, and rights himself carefully, hoping that Aizawa-sensei won’t notice.

No such luck. Aizawa-sensei walks around the couch and sits down next to him on the floor. “Are you still feeling sick?” he asks, peering into Hitoshi’s face.

The idea of lying seems imminently exhausting, so Hitoshi shakes his head. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “But it’s fine. I can handle it.”

Aizawa-sensei huffs. “You don’t have to handle it,” he says gently. “Let us handle it. I know we didn’t pick up any clothes or belongings for you, but I think I can find something for you to sleep in. In the meantime,” Aizawa-sensei pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen. Hitoshi idly pets Mikan and feels himself wilting, his muscles and joints feeling weak like he’s just worked out for a half an hour too long. Eventually, Aizawa-sensei returns, and presses a glass of water into Hitoshi’s hands, “here. Drink all of this. I think you’ll be better off just eating some rice tonight, and we’ll try something more substantial tomorrow. Once I find you some clothes, please take a shower if you feel up to it and go to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Hitoshi murmurs, taking the water and sipping it. Aizawa-sensei huffs.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he says firmly. “Let me find you clothes.”

Things kind of blur after that. He remembers taking a shower and stumbling into the secondhand clothes. He remembers trying to tell Aizawa-sensei...something about wanting to stay up for Yamada-san. Maybe to apologize for making him go out to the store only to fall asleep before dinner. He remembers collapsing into bed, reveling in the cool, clean-smelling blankets. He thinks maybe he feels a hand card through his hair, pressing against his forehead, but he can’t be sure. It seems too fantastical to be real.

He drifts.

**

Hitoshi wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later covered in sweat, horrifically thirsty, with hunger gnawing in his gut. It takes him a second to understand where he is, why it’s so quiet, why the air smells so clean. Memory rushes back to him and he slowly sits up, almost afraid to move too fast lest the spell be broken and he wakes up for real back at his old foster home.

His old home. It feels strange to think about it like that. He wonders how long Aizawa-sensei and Yamada-san will let him stay here before they have to go. They don’t have his stuff yet, and usually they wait at least until he gets his stuff before they send him to another house. Maybe they’ll let him stay til the end of the school year, he lets himself think. He knows he shouldn’t do this to himself, but it’s late (or early) and he remembers Yamada-san cupping his face and hugging him. Remembers Aizawa-sensei immediately reaching for him when Noguchi tried to follow him out of the house. They both believed him, even though Noguchi had never hit him or did anything inappropriate. They still took him away from the stinking, claustrophobic house full of dirty looks and passive-aggressive statements.

His stomach growls and Hitoshi wonders if it would be all right to get any food. He swallows, anxiety spiking in his chest. Maybe he’ll just go get some water. That’s surely allowed.

He pushes himself up and creeps to the bedroom door. When he opens it, the door exactly across from him is closed and Hitoshi remembers that it’s Aizawa-sensei and Yamada-san’s room. To the left is the bathroom. And he could just drink from the bathroom faucet, but it’s so close to their bedroom that he might wake them up.

The light in the living room is on, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone around. So they must be asleep. Hitoshi walks quietly across the hardwood floor towards the kitchen, stopping in his tracks when he sees a plastic container on the counter. There’s an electric green sticky note on the top that says:

Shinsou -- I’m glad you went to sleep! I have work tonight til early morning, but I’ll see you tomorrow! The food is for you, please eat! - Mic

The food is for him. Sat out for when he woke up, for him to eat whenever. No punishment for not being awake for dinner, no being accused of laziness. Dinner for him. Hitoshi takes the note with gentle fingers and steps back into the living room light, reading it again.

“You are obligated to eat or Hizashi will pout.”

Hitoshi yelps, leaping a foot in the air, and turns in the direction of the sound: Aizawa-sensei laying on the couch, a book in his hand and a cat on his chest. Heart pounding, Hitoshi clutches his chest and takes a loud sigh. He’s feeling less sick and although his anxiety is kicking the back of his mind, it’s Aizawa-sensei. He’s safe.

“Wait til Yamada-san finds out you murdered me,” Hitoshi grumbles, leaning against a cabinet.

Aizawa-sensei smirks. “Next week, we’re working on situational awareness. All you kids are incandescently bad at that,” he retorts, slowly sitting up and arching his back. His spine cracks audibly, and he winces. Hitoshi’s noticed that before -- Aizawa-sensei’s back seems to hurt a lot. And he favors his right arm. Hitoshi’s never asked, and he probably never will, but it is a little jarring to see how breakable his teacher can seem.

“Thanks for setting out food for me,” Hitoshi says instead, gesturing with the note. “Or...tell Yamada-san thanks for me.”

“You can thank him tomorrow,” Aizawa-sensei says, stretching his arms gingerly. “He’s staying home with you tomorrow if you still have a fever.”

Hitoshi blinks, completely shocked. “Wh..why?” he asks. “I mean. I don’t--it’s okay, I’m fine. I’m feeling better anyways, and I already missed so much school as is--”

“Shinsou,” Aizawa-sensei cuts in, sounding amused. “You missed half a day sleeping. If you miss tomorrow, you’ll survive. It’s only if you still have a fever, don’t worry.”

Hitoshi nods once, idly reaching for the food for lack of a better response. There’s rice inside, still warm and fluffy, and what looks like beef and vegetables. The smell hits him immediately, and his mouth waters and he almost trips over himself tracking down chopsticks and sitting at one of the two chairs at the small table across from the kitchen. The food tastes as good as it looks -- lightly spicy and tender -- and Hitoshi has to force himself to slow down so he doesn’t get sick.

“Thursdays to Fridays are difficult schedule-wise for Hizashi,” Aizawa-sensei says, seemingly out of nowhere, “because he goes from school to afterschool program to his radio show until 5 o’clock Friday morning. Then he teaches and then comes home and sleeps more or less til Saturday morning. But if you’re all right with waiting that long to get some furniture, I know he would like to be included in that shopping.”

“Uh,” Hitoshi says, taking in all this information all at once. He had no idea that Yamada-san went with so little sleep. He doesn’t understand why, then, either of them would want to waste their hard-earned downtime on him. “I...I mean, it sounds like Yamada-san could use the rest. And, like...I dunno. I…” He ducks his head, pushing around the remnants of rice in the bowl. The silence stretches and in his periphery he sees Aizawa-sensei tilt his head to one side in a gesture Hitoshi has learned to interpret as analyzing.

“You can say what you need to say,” he says finally, his voice low and patient. “You won’t get in trouble. I’ll take your words at face value, you’ve never been anything but honest to me. I have no reason to expect that’ll change.”

It’s strange, Hitoshi thinks, how Aizawa-sensei seems to always be able to pinpoint the heart of Hitoshi’s worries. He does the same when they’re training as well. Hitoshi wants very much to believe him, so he takes a breath and tries again.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” Hitoshi says. “I appreciate...you guys defending me and believing me. But this seems like an awful lot of work for an interim situation. Y’know. Furniture and stuff.” He loses courage by the end of his small, rambling speech, and wilts in his chair. It feels...worse than he thought it would. He blinks the stinging from his tired eyes and clenches his jaw determinedly. Aizawa-sensei is still quiet.

Finally, Aizawa-sensei crosses his legs and rests his arms on his knees. “There is an option for this to be a long-term arrangement,” he says. “If you are comfortable with that.”

Just like that. In the middle of a Monday night, his teacher casually offers something Hitoshi has never allowed himself to wish for. Hitoshi doesn’t dare to look at Aizawa-sensei, for fear that the older man will see his expression and know everything about him.

“If not, then we can find another, safer family for you,” Aizawa-sensei continues. “Hizashi does a lot of work with the foster system and child services that he’s familiar with many places you could go--”

“Do you mean it?” Hitoshi interrupts, his chest tight. “I--I mean, have...does Yamada-san also...I mean, all at once?” He’s not making any sense and he’s pretty sure he’s going into shock, but he knows he cannot handle having this offered to him only to have it snatched away because of a misunderstanding. Yamada-san isn’t even here, how can Aizawa-sensei offer this without talking to his husband?

Aizawa-sensei doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says. “I do mean it. And yes, Hizashi also means it. We’ve spoken about this at length multiple times. We’ve planned for it, although I admittedly wanted to wait til you were feeling better to ask you this. But…” Aizawa-sensei’s dark eyes focus on Hitoshi’s face, “it seems like this is causing you some anxiety, and I would rather you feel better. More secure, at least.”

“You guys...have talked about fostering me?” Hitoshi asks, willing his voice not to waver.

“We have. We’ve also spoken about adopting you, if that is something you’d like to discuss.”

It feels like a dream, but sharper. Hyperreal. Hitoshi looks at Aizawa-sensei and knows, suddenly, that he means everything he’s saying. Aizawa-sensei has never let him down before, has never lied to him before, and has never hurt him. He’s trained him, watched out for him, bought him food and encouraged him. Yamada-san stood between Hitoshi and his old foster father without hesitation.

“Holy shit,” Hitoshi replies, his voice an awed whisper. “You guys...really mean it.”

“We do,” Aizawa-sensei says, with a crooked, soft smile. “I’m willing to say it as many times as you need to hear. But I also reserve the right to tease you about your listening skills.”

“Shut up,” Hitoshi says, a wide smile spreading uncontrollably across his face. “I’ll start my teen rebellion phase right now, just you wait.” Despite his words, Hitoshi is standing, is walking, is reaching for Aizawa-sensei, who has pushed himself up off the couch to meet him.

Hitoshi would be lying if he said he’d never thought about hugging his teacher before. Aizawa-sensei has given him one armed hugs and has ruffled his hair before, and Hitoshi had absorbed those touches with an almost mindless desperation. But now things are different, everything is standing on its head. Aizawa-sensei is holding his arms out and Hitoshi buries his head into his chest and clings. He gets to do this now, Hitoshi thinks to himself with something like giddiness. He thinks he might cry again, but he’s still exhausted.

Hitoshi feels Aizawa-sensei press his cheek against his forehead and hum. “You still feel warm,” he reports, pulling back and pressing the back of his hand to Hitoshi’s forehead, squinting. “Go back to bed. I’ll dig up the thermometer again and then you need to go to sleep.”

Hitoshi lets himself cling for a second longer before he nods and complies. He walks, a little dazed, back to the room--his room--and waits for Aizawa-sensei to come back with a thermometer. He still has a small fever, according to Aizawa-sensei, and is reminded that if he’s still feverish tomorrow, he will have to stay home. Hitoshi mumbles a reluctant, sleepy agreement and turns over to sleep, snuggling into his blankets. His eyes shoot open when he realizes what he’s forgotten.

“Sensei!” he calls, sitting bolt upright. Aizawa-sensei pauses mid-way through closing the door. Hitoshi can’t stop the smile that’s spreading across his face. “I, uh, also want. That. Adoption. I want to be adopted by you two.”

Aizawa-sensei smiles as well, soft and genuinely happy, and the idea that it’s Hitoshi who’s making his teacher look so happy is almost unreal. Aizawa-sensei nods once and says, “good night, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi falls back into his covers and lets his eyes slide close. He’s safe. He can sleep.

**
Hitoshi wakes up the next morning with no fever, so he’s allowed to go to school. He feels like everything should be different, somehow, because it is. His entire life has been changed in a way he never could have dreamed of in a million years. It’s almost mindblowing that the rest of the world is just going on as always. The few students who noticed he was gone ask him if he’s feeling better, and he doesn’t really know what to say. Doesn’t know how to explain that he’s feeling better than he’s ever felt in his life.

The first time he sees Aizawa-sensei and Mic-sensei in the halls, it draws him up to a stuttering halt. He asked them to not treat him any different, and they agreed that this was the best and only option. But it’s so strange--they’re his teachers still, but they’re also his parents. His new parents.

Aizawa-sensei only nods as he passes by Hitoshi, not pausing from his discussion with Mic-sensei. Mic, however, flashes him a small smile and a wink and Hitoshi can’t help but grin back, almost giddy.

He gets his belongings back from his social worker after school and he isn’t surprised at all to find many things missing. He gets his hoodie back, though, and some smaller keepsakes that mean a lot to him. It all doesn’t really matter, though. He would be content to have only the clothes on his back if the exchange was this new reality.

“We can go get you some more clothes, at least,” Aizawa-sensei says, not bothering to keep the dismay out of his voice. Hitoshi is sort of glad Yamada-san is already at his radio station, otherwise Hitoshi gets the feeling he would be actively distraught. “I’m going to make a call, see if someone can cover my patrol tonight--”

“No, it’s okay,” Hitoshi says instantly. “I’ve got enough clean clothes til the weekend and I honestly don’t really care.” He zips up his hoodie and pulls the hood over his unruly hair. It feels doubly reassuring in this safe place. “Also, I feel like you and me clothes shopping would be the worst experience on the planet.” He stares pointedly at Aizawa-sensei’s pink track pants.

Aizawa-sensei rolls his eyes. “Fine, but when we’re at our fifth store in as many hours because we waited for Hizashi, I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

“All I do is complain,” Hitoshi shoots back, looking up at Aizawa-sensei under the hem of the hood, “you should have thought about that before you let me in your house.”

It’s a joke, one Hitoshi makes without really thinking about it. He’s already comfortable here, and he’s always been pretty comfortable with Aizawa-sensei, so his stupid sense of humor comes back sooner than he thought it would. However, the second the joke leaves his mouth, he feels awkward about it. He can hear the insecurity behind his words, even though he hadn’t really meant it like that. He twists his fingers around the worn material of the sleeves and tries to think of something else to say.

Before he can speak, Aizawa-sensei tugs at his hood, pulling it over his eyes entirely for a moment. “I did,” he says simply.

Hitoshi’s heart swells and he wants, for a second, to hug Aizawa-sensei again, like he did the first night. But instead he pushes up his hood and smiles at him, wide and genuine and hopefully as happy as he feels.

“Okay,” he replies. “Good. That’s good.”