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Logically, Hitoshi knows the support device built for him will be incredibly helpful. Being able to mimic voices will make it so more people respond to him and end up falling prey to his quirk. Hell, he’s the one that came up with the idea. A contraption that would trick villains into obedience by disguising his voice was just what he asked for. He just didn’t realize how akin to the muzzle it would look. The logical part of his brain knows it’s perfect, exactly what he needed, but the traumatized part of his brain disagrees vehemently with the design.
The mask would cover half his face- if he were to put it on, that is- fitting over his nose, mouth, and chin. The knobs on the side would allow him to manipulate the plates that mimic human vocal cords, which would in turn change how his voice sounded coming out of the device. The design allowed it so he could easily push it down if needed, and yet, just thinking about putting it on sends him right back to the days of his foster care experience, where they would strap a muzzle on his face and call it a day.
It’s different from the muzzle. He knows this. There is padding on the edges, stopping it from potentially cutting into his skin. The inside is wide enough to give him room to move his mouth. It doesn’t lock his jaw together, nor does it prevent him from opening his mouth. The device only covers, not restrains.
And yet, despite all the differences, his teeth still ache. There’s a phantom pain present in the thin scar that runs across his cheeks and nose. For a moment, he thinks he feels blood dripping down his face, but he breathes in sharply and realizes it isn’t there. His jawbone cracks when he opens his mouth, and locks even without him meaning to. He feels as though if he closes his mouth, it’ll never open again.
He is afraid.
All of class 1-A received various support tech today in class. It was their lesson that afternoon- practice with the gear, see how they can use it to their advantage in a situation. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see his classmates all showing off their special gear, making motions towards invisible targets. Everyone is fully engaged, testing out the equipment, and yet, Hitoshi can’t move.
He just stares at the mask clutched in his hands, barely daring to breathe. The ache he feels is bone deep.
At the edge of his awareness, he can hear footsteps approach him.
Hitoshi tenses involuntarily. His mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking painfully.
For a moment, Hitoshi is back in the cold basement of his childhood, his old foster parent coming to spit venomous words at his cowering form, to silence him. He must have done something wrong again, not done his chores or spoken without permission. Stupid! He’s terrified of the figure above him, shoving him down, ready to punish him and-
He blinks and Aizawa is suddenly before him. He isn’t on the concrete floor of the house. Hitoshi isn’t back there, but the fear thundering in his heart still remains.
“You okay?” Aizawa asks, peering into his eyes. Hitoshi lowers his own, unable to bear looking at the authority figure in front him. He can’t respond. He isn’t- wasn’t?- supposed to talk. The idea of speaking physically pains him. If he speaks, he’ll be muzzled, and he doesn’t want that anymore. He’s tired of it. So tired .
Moments pass, the basement blurring in and out of his mind. He stares at the mask. The dirt of the training ground starts looking more and more monochrome in the corner of his eye. Aizawa is still before him, waiting for him to answer.
A hand lands on his shoulder and his whole body flinches, recoiling from the touch. His nerves feel like they were set on fire, and the panic slowly coursing through his veins ignites. He trips over his feet trying to get away from his foster parent, crying out wordlessly as he lands harshly on the ground. Hitoshi is afraid.
He curls into himself, covers his head with his arms, and loses time.
In what feels both like a blink and a decade, he’s in the nurse's office. A heavy blanket is wrapped around him, the weight tethering him back to the world. His hands are empty and his mouth is uncovered. He can breathe again, he notes, relief washing over him.
“Shinsou?” Despite his head feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds, he lifts it to find his teacher standing in front of him. “You with me?”
Hitoshi hums, unwilling to give any words a voice. He can’t meet Aizawa’s eyes. His body is shaking under the blanket, trembling like a newborn kitten. Embarrassment makes his face flush, and he wonders bitterly if his mentor is now regretting helping him transfer into the hero course. He feels weak. What kind of hero is afraid of a mask?
“Hitoshi,” Aizawa says, his voice not unkind, “I need you to look at me.”
Hitoshi’s breath hitches for a second, before he swallows down his panging fear and meets his mentor’s gaze. Aizawa is crouched before him, keeping level with him. With the way Hitoshi is sitting cocooned on the bed of the nurse’s office, if the older man were to stand, he would have towered over him. He’s suddenly incredibly grateful for his sensei’s thoughtfulness.
“I don’t know what set you off back there, but you had a pretty bad panic attack.” Aizawa tells him, “You’re in the nurse’s office now, if you hadn’t already figured that out. Class ended about half an hour ago.”
That means he was out of it for over an hour. What happened to him? He doesn’t think he passed out or anything, but Hitoshi cannot for the life of him remember what happened after he fell to the ground of the training field.
“Could you tell me why this happened?” Aizawa asks him, his face softer than normal.
Hitoshi opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He swallows, closing his mouth and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. How could he even begin to explain it when the idea of speaking still made his chest feel tight?
“Remember kid, I know JSL, so don’t push yourself. And if you don’t feel like signing, we could get some pencil and paper.”
Right. Stupid . He had forgotten. With his husband, Present Mic, being hard of hearing, Aizawa was fluent in JSL. He didn’t have to speak.
Hitoshi slowly lifts his hands, and after a few moments of hesitation, begins to sign, “The mask reminded me of a muzzle.”
“A muz-” Aizawa starts, his face darkening, before he shakes it off, “Were you muzzled in the past?”
A pause, then Hitoshi nods. He feels embarrassed, his face flushing and his hands gripping the plush blanket on top of him. He takes a few shaking breaths, before relaxing his grip and instead petting the soft material. It’s soothing, and he continues to do so, trying not to worry about what his mentor must think of him right now.
“Have you told anyone about this?”
Hitoshi can’t read Aizawa’s face. He shakes his head, but is quick to add on in sign, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not with someone who does that right now. I got moved from that home a few years ago.”
Aizawa stays silent for a few moments, just staring into Hitoshi’s face. His eyebrows furrow, before he speaks again, “Hitoshi, as your mentor and teacher, I really think you should get professional help. Therapy.”
Hitoshi jerks back slightly, his hands coming up quickly to sign, “Therapy? I’m fine, I’m not hurt. Besides, they were just protecting themselves from my quirk. I couldn’t control it as well when I was a kid.”
Aizawa shakes his head, “No, Hitoshi. What they did to you wasn’t right. Devices like muzzles are cruel and illegal . They’ve been illegal for over a decade.”
Hitoshi’s mouth drops open, but he closes it almost instantly. He doesn’t say anything. Doubt and confusion clouds his mind, his feelings all mixed up inside of him.
“As you live in the dorms, I have partial custody over you. I can get you an appointment with a therapist.” His mentor tells him. His voice softens once again when he speaks, “It’s okay to not be okay, Hitoshi. It’s okay.”
With those words, tears well up in his eyes. Hitoshi chokes up, and his trembling starts up again as the dam holding back his tears gives out. It feels as if the walls surrounding his heart have been finally chipped away. It’s overwhelming.
“Can I hug you?” Aizawa asks, and when Hitoshi nods, winds his arms around him and holds. They stay like that for a while, Hitoshi sobbing and clinging to him as Aizawa hugs him firmly, rubbing his back. It hurts, but the pain won’t last.
“Thank you.” Hitoshi whispers out, voice barely there. Aizawa just hums, still holding him.
He’ll be okay.