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At first, Hitoshi isn’t thinking much of anything as he watches the grey material of his capture scarf dance back and forth in his vision, almost taunting in the way it slowly disappears into the growing darkness. Feeling only a sense of surreal disbelief that this is happening...this is real.
His fingers reach, so far and fast that they hurt, but want and wishes will not bring back the only thing keeping him safe as the wind whips past his body, eyes filling with liquid that he isn’t sure are tears or perhaps rather the rain that falls fast and heavy into his face.
He looks up at the sky, blurred vision making the expanse look like an abstract painting of greys mixed with the color blue that rain clouds can only achieve. His stomach flips in the way it does when one can’t find the ground, and Hitoshi certainly cannot.
Because he’s ten— nine, eight— stories high and his capture weapon, the thing he has worked so hard at mastering, knows better than to let slip through his fingers, is flapping through the air above him. As he drops, it disappears entirely, the heavy winds of the storm whipping it away into the endless grey above him.
Seven, six.
Aizawa sensei was behind him, he wasn’t far. Hitoshi had gone ahead, his comfort level with their shared support item having increased exponentially in the last few weeks. The boy can’t help but feel that his confidence was misplaced...now that he finds himself here.
Will sensei be disappointed in him? Spending so much time teaching him and they’ve practiced over and over...will he be angry?
Five, four, three—
Suddenly Hitoshi’s thoughts can do nothing else but go blank as his back and right side are slamming into something hard and sharp, a horrid metal clang deafening the boy as he lets out a sharp scream. He spins, rotating and he can’t find his bearings, where is the ground—
One.
Hitoshi knows nothing but pain.
Patiently, for weeks now, Aizawa has shown Hitoshi how to maneuver the cloth that lies lazily over both of their shoulders, warm afternoons spent beneath the trees covering the lawn of UA as the light spills in patchwork patterns around them.
So much trial and error, so much time spent getting it wrong as he entangles himself yet again, sensei seemingly never tiring of seeing him trussed by his own scarf, huffing a subdued laugh in his direction every time.
“It’s not funny, sensei…” Hitoshi says as he sulks. He can see the dark gleam in his mentor’s eye at that, as he comes nearer, crouching into a squat near his protege’s head.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Hitoshi groans, “You don’t have to...it’s written all over your face.” Or at least, what he can see from this angle on the ground.
Slowly and with deft fingers Aizawa begins unwrapping his charge, knowing just where to pull and pinch to let the fabric loosen. Hitoshi watches, not comfortable enough in his knowledge for this information to be unimportant. Gradually his hands that have been trapped in a tangle near his neck, come free and his bent and crumpled legs soon follow.
Hitoshi dusts himself off after rising, trying to contain his frustration as he glares daggers into the pile of grey that had fallen off of his body and onto the grass. He is startled out of his reverie by Aizawa’s deep voice, “Don’t worry, it happened to me plenty of times too. You’re making progress, but this isn’t an ordinary weapon with a straightforward formula of practice. A lot of this is just time spent with the cloth between your hands and finding out instinctually what to do,” his mentor deadpans as he leans against the tree nearest, arms folded. “You’re doing well, Hitoshi.”
Hitoshi feels a creeping blush make its way up his neck and over his cheeks, and he turns quickly to hide it. “...Doesn’t feel like it...feels like one step forward two steps back, all the time.” He drops his chin and stares at the ground.
The two are silent for a while, Hitoshi staring at the brilliant green blades of grass as they join together in the waving wind. A small rustle of clothing and crunch of flora beneath a boot alerts Hitoshi to his mentor drawing near, therefore he only jumps slightly when a hand weaves through gravity defying purple strands.
“Be patient with yourself. You’ve got time, kid.”
Somehow, along with the warm feeling that trickles down from Hitoshi’s scalp from Aizawa’s calloused hand through his hair, the creeping feeling of that not quite being true is felt. Hitoshi pushes it away, however; Aizawa sensei is probably right after all.
Shouta doesn’t know anything but the inability to take in a breath, eyes wide as Hitoshi plummets out of his vision, dropping like a stone out of the air between buildings as they both rush through the skies.
This is not the first time Shouta has brought Hitoshi with him on patrol, and he can easily say he has felt more than comfortable doing so; the boy has shown endless potential and improvement. But a darkening night plagued by rainfall, cutting down visibility and grip was something that Shouta had not been prepared for, the storm coming out of nowhere and soaking the city around them quickly.
He had been trying to catch up to his protege as the boy absolutely flew before him, no doubt enjoying the feeling that Shouta himself knows all too well from when he began his training so many years ago. He knows the feeling of the wind on one’s skin and the silhouettes of buildings rapidly passing are hard to pass up.
But that sense of nostalgia is the furthest thing from Shouta’s mind as he loses sight of Hitoshi, the gaping maw of the alley swallowing him whole. Shouta doesn’t dare breathe as the fabric between his own hands is ripped backward, pushing him forward at an ever increasing pace.
He’s too far behind. Hitoshi is so far away . They’re at least ten stories high there’s no way he—he’ll—
Shouta lands on the rooftop that lies before the precipice he’d lost Hitoshi to and sprints across it, scarf coiling around his neck almost as if it lives and resides there of its own accord. He comes near to the edge and he can almost see over, the rain logging him down as it fills the fibers of his clothing. His eyes catch a glimpse of the far wall of the other building—he’s almost there he can jump he can get to his kid—
A loud thunk is heard below Shouta, a choked scream accompanying it through the growing darkness. He feels the air rush from his lungs as he hears a wet splash follow the clanging, echoing noise through the empty space below him. He comes to a stop at the edge, already grabbing at his scarf to begin his descent, when he sees him.
Hitoshi is still, limbs askew and oh so wrong at the bottom of the chasm. Shouta wastes no time, wrapping one end of his support gear around the fire escape that juts from the opposite building across the way. In one practiced move he's repelling down, feet splashing in the dirty, dank water of the trash-ridden alley.
Two, three, five steps and he’s there, “I’m here Hitoshi, Hitoshi, talk to me kid.”
But the boy does not. Not a single sound except for nearly nonexistent breathing, wet and ragged, forces its way from his kid’s lungs. Lanky limbs are folded unnaturally beneath Hitoshi as he lays face down in the brown water that pools quickly with the heavy rain that soaks them both. Shouta cannot see his face from this angle, as he looks at the shape Hitoshi’s neck takes and knowing that he easily could have snapped it from the height he had fallen— how did he not break his neck? How is he breathing?
More small, gasping, painful breaths leave Hitoshi’s mouth as Shouta moves to get a closer look at his protege. He finds himself hoping that Hitoshi is unconscious, not awake or aware to be suffering through this right now.
But by the way fluttering eyelids attempt to hide agony and fear in lilac irises, he knows they have not had such luck. Tears leak slowly and unbridled from the boy’s eyes, color shadowed by the glassiness of pain and suffering. The sight pierces Shouta through, physically overtaking him for a second as he gazes at his student.
Blood seeps from Hitoshi’s lax mouth, joining the rapidly growing puddle from his head that pools beneath pale skin. “Kid…” Shouta breathes the words, knowing no one but himself can hear it. Fumbling, shaking fingers reach into a zippered pocket and pull out Shouta’s phone. The hero swallows thickly as he dials the number, preparing himself for words that will haunt him for the rest of his days, he is sure.
A clear tone of voice, authoritative and calm meets the pounding in Shouta’s ears, his blood rushing through and mixing with the pouring rain around him as the woman speaks, “Hero Assistance, what’s your emergency?”
“Pro-hero Eraserhead, I.D. 47849 requesting immediate medical aid. Male, 16 years old, blunt force trauma to the head caused by a fall. Numerous unknown injuries. Conscious but bleeding out, in the alley between Cherry and 14th Street.” Shouta pauses finally to catch his breath, the false bravado he used to get the crucial information out immediately dropping away. He shakes underneath the torrential downpour.
“Copy that, medical has been contacted and is on their way. Do you require continued connection?”
Some part of Shouta doesn’t want to be alone right now but he summons the strength to say, “No,” before he adds, even quieter, “please hurry…”
The click of the call ending is heard and Shouta is shoved back into the juxtaposed silence of the alley and the roaring thoughts inside his mind. But he knows he doesn’t matter right now, it’s Hitoshi that matters most, and Shouta must ignore the terror that grips his body like a vice.
“Hitoshi, help is coming. Just a few more minutes, you can do it. I know you can.”
The boy doesn’t respond, but Shouta can see how he shakes, shock and pain taking control of his body. Without thought, Shouta lowers his own body to the ground next to Hitoshi, inches between them as he rests his head on the bare skin of his own hand that lays flat against the cold stone. At this angle, he stares directly into Hitoshi’s gaze, which looks further away by the second.
Shouta softens the worried pinch of his own face, not needing to add to Hitoshi’s distress right now as he takes a deep breath, feeling the stagnant water he now lies in soak through his clothes and drowning his skin.
“Kid, you know how much I like naps, but even I can’t dig this spot.”
Shouta doesn’t know where on earth the terrible attempt at a joke comes from, but he doesn’t hate his mind trying to supply him with something to distract the boy. As Shouta’s eyes catch sight of a river of blood making it’s way past the both of them, following gravity somewhere down towards their legs from the unidentified headwound Hitoshi is sporting, Shouta thinks he might not be imagining the tiny quirk of the corner of Hitoshi’s open and gasping mouth.
“Mmm, like that one, huh? Pretty sure if Mic were here he would hit me. Which is honestly ridiculous, since his are much worse.”
Hitoshi blinks in response as the seconds pass by, Shouta letting himself get lost in the plinking sounds of rain hitting metal and the soft taps of where it hits concrete. The tiny amount of peace does not last however, as Hitoshi’s breaths start changing, erratic inhales cutting off abruptly, the boy’s eyes going wide in terror. A wet, choking cough escapes the boy as his whole body jerks from the force, and Shouta knows that must hurt, broken bones and probable internal bleeding shifting and moving in ways the boy shouldn’t be moving right now—
Blood spills from Hitoshi’s mouth as Shouta leans up from his place on the ground and can only watch with horror gripping his chest. Quickly bringing his knees back beneath him, Shouta rises, placing hands gingerly, unsure, upon his student as Hitoshi convulses and continues to expel blood from his lungs. When Shouta can’t hear an equal inhale of breath after an especially gruesome coughing fit, he doesn’t hold himself back anymore, carefully supporting Hitoshi’s neck as he flips him best he can onto the boy’s back.
Hitoshi’s diaphragm spasms with lack of oxygen and his eyes leak a steady river of tears down his cheeks as he struggles to take another breath. A breath that just isn’t coming. Shouta stares at the boy in his arms, Hitoshi’s face draining of all color and fear slipping away too quickly into a forced calm. Shouta nearly shakes the boy as desperation floods his veins, “No no no, Hitoshi, stay with me—”
A thick dribble of red down Hitoshi’s chin is Shouta’s only answer.
The hero stills, not breathing, not even blinking as he just stares at the boy slipping away in his hands. He feels the rattling in Hitoshi’s chest fade, eyelids falling and gaze muting. He barely manages to whisper, “No…”
Shouta is unsure how long he is frozen there, unaware of anything but his vision that is full of his—his dead—
Eventually, the edges of his mind register flashing lights that bounce off of the walls around him and across white, lifeless skin that his shaking arms hold before him, against his chest, against his own still beating heart.
Gentle hands are on him now, on Hitoshi, and only the part of Shouta’s brain that knows instinctively from training and hero work that these people are here to help, allows his grasp to be loosened.
Time passes in flashes and Shouta thinks he might be in shock, as a blinding white light tries to pry him from the cold, empty place his body has gone. He doesn’t fight it and slowly the edges of his vision become less grey, people in colorful (well, not white anyway) clothing coming in and out of his peripherals.
But mostly what he sees is yellow.
“...Shou? Are you back with me?”
Hizashi’s voice is calming, a boon in the grey and muted chaos of Shouta’s mind. His thoughts lie on the other side of a great expanse, separate from his conscious self, as if the bridge between had fallen away. This confuses the hero, a frantic need to remedy the feeling overtaking him. Why does he feel this way? What happened?
“Hizashi...where are we…” Only now does he notice the warm and familiar hand in his.
“Hospital, Shou…” A pause. “Do—...do you remember anything?”
Shouta only barely recognizes the apprehension in his husband’s voice, too numb to catch his entire meaning.
“No, ‘Zashi, that’s why I asked you.” Shouta looks up from where his eyes had fallen to the old band t-shirt that his husband wears. He sees now that they’re sitting in a hallway, two chairs pulled to one side against the wall and just beside a closed door. The familiarity of the place is knocking around somewhere inside Shouta’s skull but like sand it sifts through his open hands, the answer still of why they are here, evading him.
His husband sighs and Shouta hears the groan of thick plastic covering the chairs as Hizashi turns to face him more. Shouta senses his husband’s bright green eyes upon him and turns to meet them while Hizashi grabs both of his hands, thumbs gently caressing the tops of his knuckles as the blonde’s face morphs into something of a grimace. Shouta’s gut responds in earnest, twisting, as the fog in his mind swirls and moves, but never lifts.
“The little listener, babe...Shinsou.”
All at once, like a bucket of cold water is thrown over his entire body, Shouta is jumping from his seat, turning one way and then the other in a frenzy, trying to ascertain where his kid could be, “Hitoshi– Hitoshi– ‘Zashi, where is he, what happened, he– he was–” The memories from the alley wash over Shouta like a tidal wave, the reddening water and the tears and the feeling of Hitoshi slipping away between his fingers slick with blood—
“Shou, baby, you gotta calm down. Baby—no, Shou, stop that.” Hizashi’s voice is firm but kind as Shouta is stilled in his pursuit of directions to his kid, as if just staring at every wall would give him some sort of indication. Hands hold Shouta at both elbows, a grounding force in his agitation. “That’s it, breathe, and come sit with me. I can tell you how he’s doing, no need to panic.”
Shouta feels the adrenaline that had flooded his system begins to subside and in its place the hero feels incredibly tired. Hizashi is in front of him, walking the two of them backwards towards the abandoned chairs. Slowly Shouta is lowered into one while Hizashi takes the other. Near-black irises rise from the floor between them to look into Hizashi’s worried gaze. A small smile lifts up his tiny mustache and Shouta feels lighter at the sight.
“He’s alive, Shou. He…” Hizashi runs a hand through his long hair that spills over his shoulders and back, a nervous habit that Shouta is all too familiar with, “It wasn’t good. They only told me anything because you were in shock and they knew you’d want some information when you came out of it. You’re his emergency contact and all, so, thank god for that.” He sighs and Shouta just stares, waiting for his husband to go on. “He was...he was dead babe. Six broken ribs and one or more of those punctured his lung. He drowned.” Shouta is sure the pain in Hizashi’s eyes when he says it must match his own at hearing it. His husband loves Hitoshi, even if they aren’t quite as close as the boy and Shouta. “The doc only gave me the vague stuff, multiple broken bones and fractures, major concussion and brain bleed...he—he was in surgery for two hours when you guys first arrived. You’ve been out of it for a while, baby. I’m your emergency contact so they called me in when you were unresponsive.”
Shouta feels a soft touch beneath his chin, lifting his head up from where it had dropped to look at his fingers as they twist in damp, dirty black threads. “But he made it. Against all odds they brought him back. One of the nurses said he must not have fallen the entire ten stories of the place they picked you guys up ‘cause there’s no way the little listener would have even had a chance to try; it would have been instantly over.”
Shouta unwillingly thinks back to the few flashes he had seen of what happened. “It was pouring, ‘Zashi...Hitoshi is good with the capture weapon, you’ve seen it, but it was dark and the rain came out of nowhere,” he feels a hand rest, warm and comforting, along his cheek, looking up to see Hizashi with such a look of care that it makes his chest ache. “I was too far behind. He was flying, doing great, really...but he hasn’t had experience with it when it’s wet like that and that mixed with the dark—I didn’t catch him. I didn’t catch him and it’s my—”
Suddenly he’s being enveloped in a firm embrace. “Don’t finish that sentence. You know better than anyone you can’t prevent every accident. This one...was bad, but it doesn’t make it your fault.” Hizashi begins rubbing slow circles in between Shouta’s shoulder blades. “But he’s alive, Shou, they brought him back and got the brain bleed to taper off. He’s not out of the woods yet, but...they’re hopeful.”
Shouta feels his body flagging, shoulders slumping into the comfort that his husband is showering upon him as those words wrap around his addled brain. ‘Alive.’
Hizashi gradually loosens the hug and moves away, and after catching sight of Shouta’s face once more, a thumb softly touches the underground hero’s cheek, wetness spreading across dirty skin as Hizashi wipes away the tears that Shouta wasn’t even aware he had begun to shed. He tries to blink them away.
“Let’s go home, babe. Hitoshi is still in the ICU and they won’t allow visitors until he’s out. I know how much you wanna stay and be close but...Shou, you don’t look so hot either.” Hizashi raises his eyebrows.
As he should because the blonde idiot damn well knows Shouta won’t be going anywhere thank you very much—
“Hitoshi wouldn’t want you to put yourself out like this. He would expect you to rest and come back better the next day. There’s no point in running yourself into the ground, babe, we’ve had this conversation endless times.” The words are stern but the fond smile on his husband’s face has Shouta sure of what kind of conversation this is. Hizashi won’t force him to go, knowing how emotionally on edge he is under these circumstances, but he won’t go easy on him either.
Shouta sighs. “I know you’re right, ‘Zashi...doesn’t mean I like it any better.”
The brilliant smile that Shouta loves so much makes an appearance on tanned cheeks as Hizashi singlehandedly brightens up the immediate proximity with his joy. Shouta squints at him in return. With a hand out as he stands, Hizashi says, “Let’s go, Shou. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
And if Shouta falls asleep two minutes into the car ride back to their apartment, Hizashi is kind enough not to brag about the fact that he was right to drag Shouta from that hospital chair that night.
For two more days, Shouta is denied seeing Hitoshi. The nurses tell him that the swelling around Hitoshi’s brain is coming down nicely and most of his bones are setting as well. All internal tears were healed the first day and Shouta is told mostly they are just waiting on the things that the healing quirks can’t accomplish and that only time and rest can.
Those two days are agony.
Shouta rests when he can and eats when he’s reminded but otherwise he thinks. And wayward, aimless thoughts are a dangerous thing in the mind of Aizawa Shouta.
Blame and anger towards himself and his faulty abilities hold Shouta in their grip every spare minute of the day, to the point where even Hizashi points it out; noting his sour mood and lack of communication at a level that is even worse than his usual. The call-out hurts, but Shouta knows it won’t be changing until Hitoshi is in his sight again and he can be sure that the boy is truly alive.
His memories seem determined to convince him otherwise.
So when day three comes and Shouta trudges through the hospital doors just like he has been the last two, he shouldn’t be surprised that when the news comes to him from the nurse at the front desk that ‘yes, he can see’ Hitoshi today it nearly bowls him over.
Minutes later, as he sits near Hitoshi’s hospital bed, taking comfort in the steady beep of the heart monitor, he tries to put those intrusive, lying thoughts to rest. The boy is alive, he’s right here in front of him, worse for wear but it’s better than Shouta would have ever dared hope for in that alley as he heard that last wheeze leave Hitoshi’s chest—
Shouta shakes his head violently, ridding himself of that line of thought. These kinds of ideas will give him nothing but another panic attack.
He blames the distraction of his own thoughts as to why he misses two small, slitted lilac eyes at first, as they stare him down from the mounds of puffed fabrics and bandages upon Hitoshi’s bed. But when he does finally notice, he practically leaps forward. “Hitoshi.” He almost whispers and even that seems too loud.
Hitoshi’s dark circles beneath his eyes have never looked worse and even now Shouta can tell the boy won’t be awake long. He only blinks slowly in response to Shouta’s call and really the hero isn’t sure the boy will remember this later. But he’s going to make this time count anyway.
Slowly Shouta takes the boy’s hand, trying not to flinch at how cold it is as he lets his other hand draw near to gently touch just the tips of violet hairs that sprout from the haphazard wrappings covering Hitoshi’s head. Shouta knows that the boy is too tired to interact, but the man is determined to let him know that he is safe, he is taken care of.
“You’re alright, kid. I’ve got you now…” Shouta nearly whispers.
And if he takes the way that Hitoshi immediately lets himself fall back into slumber at those words as a sign of trust that he lets ease the prickling thoughts in his mind, well, he’s alright with that.
A week later and Hitoshi is unbelievably relaxed, head tilted skyward as he lets the sun soak into his pale skin, the pleasant sounds of wind and birds chirping filling the air.
For the first time since he had woken days before he is able to ignore the persistent ache that comes with healing multiple ruptured organs and broken bones; letting it all slip into the back of his mind with the rest of the things he ignores in his life.
“One strawberry shake, incoming!”
Yamada’s voice shakes Shinsou from his catatonic stupor. A few months back the man’s general volume would frighten him, but time spent together has made him even fond of the slightly-more-than-normal intensity of the man. His voice means safety, means things are alright, and means usually someone else is nearby that makes Hitoshi feel all of these things and more.
“‘Zashi, he’s not a toddler, you don’t have to do the airplane thing into his mouth to get him to eat,” Aizawa drawls from somewhere further behind Hitoshi.
Yamada walks up from behind where Hitoshi sits in the half shade in the hospital courtyard, coming around to face the boy with an absolutely monstrous styrofoam cup full of the pink liquid outstretched in his hand. The wheelchair Hitoshi sits in wiggles slightly as Hitoshi reaches out for it with his good arm, lilac eyes meeting green, and the boy can’t help matching the small grin that the blonde wears. ”Ah, come on Shou, don’t be such a downer!”
Hitoshi huffs a laugh as Aizawa comes to sit next to him on the end of a bench that lies directly next to the boy’s seat. Hitoshi takes the first bite of his dessert and lets his eyes wander over to his mentor as the flavor lights up across his tongue.
Aizawa has a plain vanilla shake as the boy knew he would, preferring to stick to simple flavors in all things it seems. While Yamada tends to buy foods that contain crazy colors and all the bells and whistles, Aizawa appears to cut down on any extra anything, a purist of sorts. At least, that’s been Hitoshi’s observation; it seems right.
Aizawa must have felt him watching because soon dark eyes slowly turn to look right back at Hitoshi and the boy surprises himself by not quickly darting away.
The straw still lies between Aizawa’s lips as he lifts a hand and buries it in Hitoshi’s unruly locks, fluffing them a bit with no change in his expression.
Everytime he does it, no matter how often, something always tightens in Hitoshi’s chest with the thought of the heavy feelings that the simple gesture suggests; the closeness and the care that Aizawa has for him.
Hitoshi has never seen it more than this past week.
“They’re discharging you tomorrow, kid. You start physical therapy next week and your next doctor's appointment is in two. I’ve got it all written down so we don’t forget.”
‘We’.
Hitoshi’s foster parents had never shown up at the news of his accident, causing Aizawa to do what he had been insinuating he had wanted to do for a long while anyway; transferring Hitoshi’s primary custody over to his homeroom teacher as the boy lives on campus in the dorms anyway. It just so happens that his homeroom teacher is Aizawa, so it works out well.
Hitoshi takes another sip of his drink before speaking. “Ok. How many days a week am I doing therapy?”
“I think they’re aiming for four days, if that’s too much they’ll lessen it. You’re young so they’re hoping you can handle it.” The straw goes right back into Aizawa’s mouth when he’s done.
Suddenly Hitoshi feels nervous. “I-I can handle it. I’ll do whatever it takes.” He looks earnestly at his mentor as he speaks. Aizawa stops drinking.
“I know, Hitoshi, I’m not worried about it. Don’t push yourself though, your body needs time to heal. It’s been through a lot...you’ve been through a lot.”
Aizawa’s eyes go dark at that and that just makes Hitoshi feel more frantic, “I’m fine, I won’t take too long to get back to where I was and–and then we can train again. I’m sorry I’m wasting your time right now, I know you’ve spent so much effort to help me and you taught me how to use the capture weapon and I failed, but I promise I’ll show you I can do it, I can—“
Every thought that had plagued Hitoshi during every waking moment he lied in bed, unable to move, comes crashing down on the boy.
The terror he had felt as he fell, the fear of rejection and disappointment as he failed to keep hold of his scarf; what Aizawa would say when he had the chance to scold Hitoshi. After all, it’s what Hitoshi deserves, he knew better, he knows better, he’s not a novice anymore and that was a rookie mistake. He’ll have to beg Aizawa to keep training with him, and honestly that’s fine. Hitoshi deserves that, it’s the least he can do when he’s wasted so much of Aizawa sensei’s time.
“Hitoshi, slow down, breathe.”
Aizawa has turned in his seat, leaning forward into Hitoshi’s space with drink forgotten somewhere on the bench.
“Your training is the thing I’m least concerned with right now. And you didn’t...you didn’t fail, Hitoshi. Is that what you think I feel about all this?” Dark eyes soften with a sort of sadness and Hitoshi feels his chest tighten.
“Y-you’ve always worked so hard to help me...and then I think I’m doing well but then—but then this happens...I feel like all I’ve done is waste your time, sensei…”
Hitoshi can’t bear to raise his eyes from where they watch his hands absently stir the milkshake. He doesn’t want to see Aizawa when he realizes Hitoshi is right, that he has been nothing but a burden and waste of space—
Two warm, calloused hands gently grip the boy’s cheeks, slowly tilting Hitoshi’s face up to look forward. Aizawa’s face is incredibly close and his eyes look steely, determined and vulnerable.
“You are not a ‘waste’, Hitoshi. And those words couldn’t be further from the way I feel about you…,” his eyes take a moment to roam around Hitoshi’s face before he continues, “The only thing I’ve been feeling is relief. Relief that you’re here, that you’re breathing. I—I watched you die in my arms, kid.” Two thumbs begin sliding back and forth across the boy’s cheeks. “You could never be a disappointment when you beat the odds like you have, when you’re here in front of me, now. You have time to get back to one hundred percent, Hitoshi. There’s no rush.”
Hitoshi can feel a wetness creeping into the corners of his eyes as Aizawa lets go, turning to his original position on the bench as he grabs up his cup once more. Yamada, with a soft smile on his face aimed toward his husband, comes around them both to sit next to Aizawa on the bench. With a wink towards the boy a hand comes up to pat Aizawa’s shoulder, and at that the three are silent, no sounds except for the whispers of nature filling the space.
Hitoshi brings his straw to his mouth, once again enjoying the slightly melting beverage as his thoughts calm, quieting as if underwater in a raging storm. Aizawa’s words act as a blanket, protecting him from the cold that is his own doubt and fear; his own nonexistent self esteem.
The warm wind wraps its way around the three as they sit in companionable silence, and Hitoshi enjoys it, soaking up every second of peace with the two people who have cared more for him in a few short months than anyone ever has in his entire sixteen years (barring the parents he can’t remember, probably).
Hitoshi closes his eyes, letting his worries drift away with the breeze as he tilts his head back once more, catching glimpses of blue between green leaves above him.
Aizawa sensei has never lied to him, and Hitoshi doubts he would start now. Believing kind words comes much harder than believing the cruel ones, but Hitoshi finds himself willing to try.
A small smile upturns his lips as, for the first time possibly ever, he discovers he actually looks forward to it.