Chapter Text
Shouta woke up and knew it was going to be a shitty day. For one, the unmistakable scent of little rose in the air as he shut off his annoying alarm clock, and his limbs were suspiciously heavy and numb as he sat upright. When he managed to shuffle inside the bathroom, he reached for his pills and, immediately, grimaced.
Only two capsules remained in the bottle.
He sighed. He had been meaning to refill his prescription, but with the new security measures being implemented and his recovery from the USJ—well, it had honestly slipped his mind. Shouta barely had time to breathe, lately; let alone remember to head to the pharmacy.
His slight distress curled in the air, sour-sweet against the overall milky scent of baby. A part of him, an alarming part, wanted to start expressing his emotions at his frustrations (by crying), but that just wasn’t logical. Regardless of his classification, Shouta was logical and reasonable.
Two of his pills, let alone one, would never work. Shouta, unfortunately, built up a resistance of the blockers, considering he’s used them for almost seventeen years now, and he needed at least four of them to do what he wanted them to. Four lasted a good week and a half—he got a headache trying to calculate how long two would last him.
“Well,” Shouta said to his reflection; a man just as exhausted with the rest of the world. “I knew it wouldn’t last as long.”
With that said, he hopped in the shower and prepared for the day. He dressed in his typical jumpsuit, wrapping his capture weapon/scarf around his neck, stuffed his keys and wallet in his pockets, double-checking that he had his U.A. ID, and grabbed a granola bar and jelly packet for breakfast. If anyone were to see his morning routine, Shouta knew he’d be assigned a caregiver quicker than he could say problem child.
He swallowed both items by the time he reached the trains. More than a few heads turned in his direction as the wind made his scent drift through the morning crowd and hoped people would mind their own business this morning. Shouta was exhausted and in need of a decent cup of his favorite tea—a brand that Nezu stocked since he started working at U.A.
No one disturbed him while he waited for his train. Of course, things changed once he stepped onto his train. Shouta leaned against one of the poles and watched the scenery bypass, content as he stood, but he could tell that there were a handful of people who disagreed with his choice to stand when there were seating options available.
Ugh.
“Excuse me?” Shouta blinked at the kind-faced businessman. Even before Shouta smelled him, he could tell that the other was a caregiver. “I’m sorry to bother you, sweetheart,”—Shouta wanted to snap, say that he didn’t appreciate the nickname, but knew very well he’d be seen as a little having an impeding tantrum— “but . . . don’t you want to sit down?”
This was why Shouta wore blockers.
“I’m fine,” Shouta replied quietly, shifting in place.
“Are you sure?”
Shouta nodded again. Thankfully, the man nodded and left him to his devices. Shouta wished he had headphones so that he could block out the rest of the world, but he didn’t, just in case something happened, and thus Shouta’s ears prickled at the whispers floating through the train car.
“Where is his caregiver?”
“So brave~, taking the train by himself.”
“Wonder how old he is . . ..”
“I can’t imagine letting my little roam about by themselves!”
Shouta rolled his eyes and waited for his stop. A few more people stopped to ask if he was alright, if he knew where he was going, or just to have small talk. He could tell they were prying for information on his alleged caregiver, to see if he was homeless or something along those lines. Shouta knew the anxiety that snaked through his scent—and, therefore, the entire train car—wasn’t helping his situation.
Shouta had an anxiety disorder. He couldn’t just shut it off, however much he wished that he could. His general anxiety—over the train being stopped, over being late for his meeting, over something happening to his students, over just life in general—burrowed deep in his scent, and he could tell that there were a few caregivers getting ready to host an intervention for a little they barely knew.
His stop couldn’t come soon enough. He reached Musutafu within the hour and gladly escaped the suffocating train station. No one followed him, thankfully, but he still received turned heads and raised eyebrows. A few people made motions to stop him for a chat or subtle interrogation, but Shouta slipped by on cats’ feet.
U.A. rose into view, and Shouta slipped through the teachers’ entrance, far away from the growing crowd of the press. The last thing he wanted was for them to catch a whiff of his scent, and tell the entire world his classification before he wanted them to.
Shouta had the habit of showing up an hour or so early to staff meetings, despite the overall knowledge that he liked sleeping (despite being sleep deprived) and putting little effort into anything that wasn’t teaching or heroics, but—well. Anxiety was anxiety.
Therefore, he wasn’t surprised at all that he was the only faculty member in the staff room when he entered. Sans Nezu, of course, but Shouta had long since accepted that his boss practically lived at the campus.
“Good morning, Aizawa-kun,” Nezu greeted where he sat, a pot of tea beside his stack of paperwork. His eyes were unreadable as always as he added, “I wondered when you’d stop using those scent blockers!”
Shouta wasn’t surprised that Nezu was aware of his classification. He’d probably kept a schedule of when Shouta had to go in for a refill. Therefore, he only hummed in agreement and shuffled toward his desk. His sleeping bag—well, the one he left at school for school—was rolled beneath his desk, and Shouta reached for it. No one would arrive before a good fifteen minutes before the meeting, which gave Shouta a good thirty minutes of sleep before he had to socialize.
“’M taking a nap,” Shouta grunted.
“Sleep well!” said Nezu, ever supportive of Shouta’s decisions.
With that being said, Shouta rolled out the sleeping bag and shimmied inside. Once he made himself comfortable, it took little more than a few minutes for him to drift off to a quiet sleep.
“—didn’t know he was little!”
Hizashi’s voice cut through the hazy fog of slumber, and Shouta frowned. A part of him, the small part, wanted to whine at the interruption of sleep, but he slowly gained awareness of his environment: there were more people (more caregivers) in the room, their scents and murmurs rising in the air. Someone, likely Hizashi, carded their fingers through Shouta’s hair.
“Don’t get me wrong, though,” Hizashi was saying. “I suspected—but, well, no scent, you hear?”
“That’s true . . .,” said another. Nemuri. “Still, though—oh! Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Shouta!” Hizashi greeted with his typical enthusiasm, unbothered by Shouta’s glower. “Had a nice nap, baby?”
Ignoring the warmth burrowing deep in his spine at the nicknames, Shouta sat upright. “Why are you all staring at me?” he said a moment later, noticing that literally everyone besides Nezu stared at him as if they’d never seen him before.
“You’re – you’re little,” said Ectoplasm. Shouta couldn’t really see his expression but knew he was surprised. They all were. U.A. staff and faculty were mostly caregivers with a sprinkle of neutral in there. Shouta was the only little.
Shouta’s glare deepened—but he knew it had zero effect given he currently smelled like a sleepy, content baby. He could kiss his reputation goodbye; heavens know that the likes of Hizashi and Nemuri couldn’t keep something like this a secret. “And?”
“Nothing, baby,” said Hizashi, smoothing Shouta’s hair. “Everyone’s just a bit – surprised.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Shouta muttered.
Nezu clapped his hands and gathered everyone’s attention, thankfully. “Now that everyone is here and awake, let’s begin today’s staff meeting!”
The meeting took thirty minutes like it always did—Shouta could always count on Nezu to keep things running on a schedule that rarely changed—and soon Shouta had a good hour before the school would be overwhelmed by pubescent teenagers. He knew, irritatingly enough, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore—Hizashi and Nemuri definitely wouldn’t be as lax with his sleep schedule now that they knew his classification.
Knowing that, he unzipped his sleeping bag and slipped out, despite his internal conflict at the actions, and made his way toward the coffee machine. No one said a word to him as he made his cup of coffee, but Shouta was well-aware of Hizashi’s eyes on him.
Here we go, Shouta thought to himself and barely stopped a sigh. His peace waved goodbye from the window and disappeared. No one would leave him alone, now. It practically went against caregivers' DNA.
“Hey, hey,” Hizashi said once Shouta slipped into his seat with his cup. Shouta resisted an urge to snap out a response and grunted instead. Last thing he wanted was for any of them to get ideas and put him in timeout or some bullshit like that. “I don’t think you should drink that, Shouta.”
Fuck. Shouta twitched, hand gripping the cup tighter. He wanted to say you can’t tell me what to do, but the last of his blockers were fading from his system. Out of everyone, sans Nezu, Shouta was well-aware he’d listen to Hizashi. He was extremely aware that if anyone asked him who he’d like to be his caregiver, the name Yamada Hizashi would drip from his lips.
“S’just coffee,” Shouta replied as he took a few sips.
The scalding liquid slid down his throat, and he made sure his expression remained blank as it did so. Spoiler alert: Shouta hated coffee. It was too bitter and caustic for his tastes, and he preferred soft brews of tea and honey milk—but it was an ingrained part of his reputation as the hardass, sleep-deprived underground pro hero who lived and breathed caffeine.
“Uh-huh.” Hizashi sounded unimpressed. Shouta wanted to curl up in his sleeping bag and die. “Well. I think it’s a bit too mature for littles, no?”
“You didn’t have a problem with me drinking it before,” Shouta spat.
“Shouta.” Hizashi frowned, a stern look in his eyes. It took all his years of training that Shouta didn’t curl up and become smaller at the tone. “Watch your tone, please—and I never liked you drinking so much caffeine before.”
“It’s true,” added Vlad King, the traitor. “Mic always complained about your coffee intake.”
Not my problem, Shouta wanted to say. “Don’t care.”
“Hmm, someone’s cranky today,” Nemuri purred out. Shouta had half a mind to grab his coffee, his papers he still had to grade, and sequester himself in Nezu’s office where he’d then dump out the coffee and enjoy the offered tea. “Had an argument with your caregiver, sweetie?”
I don’t have one, Shouta nearly said—but as socially oblivious as he could be, he knew the utter minefield he’d be stepping on if he admitted that he didn’t have a caregiver. He rolled his eyes instead and took a few more sips of his coffee. If there weren’t so many eyes on him, he’d grimace.
He really hated coffee.
Class was a disaster.
Shouta didn’t know why he bothered showing up to work—but he knew the consequences that would’ve come. It was something like a double-edged sword: Shouta rarely took days off, only if he was practically forced to, so he accumulated a significant amount of sick days. However. Because Shouta didn’t take days off, it’d raise alarm bells if he did. The last thing he needed was a bunch of overprotective doms kicking his door down and disrupting his peace.
Regardless, he showed up for work and, therefore, had classes to teach. His third and second-year courses, no one bothered him about his scent, the very obvious baby that floated in the air as he gave lecture—but the real challenge arose when he had to teach his group of problem children: Class 1-A.
Shouta had half a mind to expel them all, but he knew of the dangers that awaited when U.A. closed for the day. When he stepped through the doors, he heard a squawk of: “Sensei, you’re little?” which, of course, set off a wave of murmurs and questions.
“Be. Quiet.” Shouta flashed his quirk, bleeding red eyes and floating hair, for good measure. They all shut up quickly, which was great because Shouta truly was not in the mood. At all. “Now. To answer your questions. Yes, I’m classified as a little. No, I will not explain why you’ve never smelled me before. No, I will not tell you who my caregiver is. No, I will not tell you my age range, either.” There were many disappointed faces at that, but Shouta honestly ran out of fucks to give the minute he ran out of blockers. “But I will tell you this—the hero world is . . . insular, for lack of a better word, and it’s overrun with protective caregivers, so if you find yourself being classified as something else, be prepared.”
Shouta noticed quite a few faces swallowing at that—namely Todoroki, Kaminari, and Shinsou, whom Shouta suspected already received a classification and was on blockers for it—and added, much gentler, “Keep in mind, however, that while your classification is a major part of your life, it doesn’t define you nor your career. While caregivers naturally dominate this line of work, there are a number of neutral and-or little heroes that I can gladly get you in contact with.”
At that, a burst of whispers flooded the room. A sheen of relief crawled over Shinsou’s face, though he quickly hid it behind an impassive expression. Shouta almost smiled.
“Now—let’s get to today’s lesson . . ..”
The day ended with little more interruptions, thankfully. Besides a few curious glances and people obviously brimming with questions, no one interrogated Shouta—but he knew it was coming, namely from his fellow coworkers, who were sometimes the mere definition of overprotective. Shouta double-checked that he had everyone’s homework and gathered his things, ready to head to the staff room.
“Sensei?”
Shouta rose an eyebrow at the way Shinsou fidgeted before him. “Yes?”
“You – um. Earlier, you said . . .,” Shinsou stared before he swallowed, flushing lightly and staring down at his feet. His hands twisted into his shirt. “Could I – get into contact with, with, with other heroes who’re . . .,” he swallowed, again, before he added, quietly, “Little?”
“Of course,” Shouta said. “Come by the staff room tomorrow during lunch, and I’ll hand you—.”
“—Um! Could I just . . . couldIjusthaveyourinfoactually?” Shinsou rushed out, words slurred together Shouta almost thought his student was dropping into his headspace a bit. Then he parsed through Shinsou’s words and decoded it.
“Ah.” Shouta said, and when Shinsou blanched, expecting the worst, and god, it’s like Shouta’s looking in a mirror ten years ago, added, “I don’t see a problem with that. Most little heroes are underground, but there are a couple who work above. You already have my number—and I won’t be upset if you ask me questions, okay?”
Shinsou nodded, fast enough that Shouta’s own neck hurt just by the sight of it, and rushed out of the classroom with a sputtered “thank you, sensei.” Shouta snorted lightly before he went back to his task of homework.
When he slipped inside the staff room, conversation dimmed slightly. It seemed they still weren’t over the reveal of his classification.
“Eraser,” Nemuri greeted. “I’m surprised you’re in here so late.”
Fucking nosy caregivers.
Thirteen tilted their head. “What kept you?”
“I gave . . . a student some resources for their classification,” Shouta explained, though that was more to Kaminari’s essay than to his coworker.
“That was sweet of you!”
Shouta nearly slashed a red line through Kaminari’s paragraph. “I suppose.” He hoped his anxiety was quiet but knew very well he smelled like an anxious infant at the moment. It certainly wasn’t helping his coworker’s caregiver instincts at all.
“You okay?” Hizashi touched his elbow gently. Shouta didn’t really like to be touched, especially on his elbows ever since the U.S.J—but, well. Hizashi had always been different than the others. “You’re smellin’ mighty anxious, baby.”
“I have an anxiety disorder,” Shouta explained even though his anxiety clamped cold hands around his jaw, a soft voice begging him to stay quiet, be quiet (no one can hurt you if you don’t speak—). He told it to shut the hell up. “I’m always anxious,” he added, hidden amusement in his voice at an inside joke only he was aware of.
“You know,” Nemuri started, slowly, quietly, and dread rose in Shouta’s throat. “I never really knew how – anxious you were until now.”
Shouta hummed in response. He delved back into the steady monotone of grading essays, everyone’s conversation washing over him—until he nor anyone, really, could ignore the way his stomach growled for attention.
Oh yeah. Shouta blinked as he shuffled the essays back into their folder, jotting down the last grade. I forgot I skipped lunch.
Not really skipped; more like, Shouta didn’t want to deal with fretful coworkers hovering over him about his chosen meal. While they were vocal about his eating habits before, Shouta knew they’d be absolutely insufferable now at the knowledge that he really only ate jelly packets and granola bars. Maybe he’d have some formula here and there, but they were a pain to prepare and, really, jelly packets were just convenient.
“Someone’s hungry,” Hizashi teased, but Shouta sensed the underlying worry in his tone. “What? Did you just eat a jelly packet for lunch?”
Hizashi was clearly joking—too bad he was, in fact, correct. Shouta stayed quiet and reached for another stack of ungraded homework. Worksheets he’d given his second-year class a few days ago. it wasn’t until he reached the third student that he realized how . . . quiet the staffroom had gotten.
Everyone was staring at him. Even Yagi--and the man was notoriously more oblivious than Shouta was--when it came to social situations. “. . . Yes?”
“Shouta,” Hizashi said—and Shouta did not tremble or stiffen or drop his gaze to his worksheets—and didn’t bother hiding the rising overprotective caregiver scent. Shouta should’ve done his work in Nezu’s office. “Did you have a jelly packet for lunch?”
“I always eat that for lunch,” Shouta responded and turned back to his work, thinking the conversation was over but of course, it wasn’t because the day was shitty and out to get him.
“Was that all you ate?” asked Nemuri, voice tense.
Shouta tightened his grip around his pen. He didn’t mean to sound as defensive as he did when he snapped out, “So, what if it was?”
“Attitude check, baby, we’re just a little concerned, yeah?” Hizashi slid into the conversation effortlessly, and Shouta had an urge to raise his shoulders to his ears—but, thankfully, did not. “Did your caregiver not make you lunch today?”
Shouta didn’t respond, because he knew what would happen if he did, and continued marking up the worksheet for wrong answers. The tension didn’t leave his shoulders, and he breathed shakily when Hizashi rested his hand, warm and grounding, between Shouta’s shoulder blades.
“Shouta, you don’t have a caregiver, do you?”
The world halted as it waited for Shouta’s response. He breathed through his nose. He’s gone seventeen years without an official caregiver. He’s too old now. “I don’t,” Shouta replied quietly, but it was like he shouted, voice ricocheting throughout the staffroom.
It was quiet for a few moments—so, of course, everything went to hell once the shock faded. Shouta, once again, wished he called in sick.