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“His condition is unacceptable. He will be removed from that household immediately,” spoke an older man; voice deep with veiled rage and concern. Hitoshi had the vague thoughts of it being his homeroom teacher, but Yamada had never sounded like that before.
“P-Present Mic-san, that’s—we can’t simply remove him—!” Oh. Hitoshi knew that voice. His social worker. A rather spineless person who looked the other way whenever Hitoshi inevitably showed up bruised and blank-eyed at a checkup. “Th-There’s a, ah, pro-procedure in place—.”
“And it’s one that isn’t working anymore,” Yamada cut Matsumoto off, and then snorted. “If it ever worked in the first place.” His social worker made a sputtering noise. “I’m not asking, by the way. I’m telling you. My student will be removed from that environment by tonight. End. Of. Discussion.”
“M-Mic-san—!” Matsumoto started, sounding flustered and overwhelmed. Hitoshi wondered who they were talking about. “I can’t just—where would he go?! Please believe me when I say Shinsou-kun is—.”
“Is what?” snapped Yamada; cold fury rising in his chest. Oh. They were talking about him. “A traumatized child? An abused child who should’ve been protected by the adults around him, but had been failed, horrendously, over the years? Do remember I know how the foster system works, Matsumoto-san. I lived in it my entire life.”
“I—.”
“Shinsou-kun will stay with my pack and I,” Yamada steamrolled over Matsumoto with little care. Hitoshi would laugh if he were awake. “I know you’re able to do an emergency transferal of custody if the child in question is in danger. I, and Shinsou-kun, would appreciate it dearly if you do your job, Matsumoto-san.”
Quiet floated in the room. A terrible, stilted quiet.
“. . . I, I will bring the p-paperwork in the morning, s-sir . . ..”
Yamada’s scent brightened. Slivers of a summer day drifted across Hitoshi’s nose. “Wonderful,” Yamada cheered, clapping his hands. “Now, then . . . I believe our little meeting is finished. You know the way out, don’t you?”
“Y-Yes.”
Hitoshi drifted back under, lulled to a sea of unconsciousness. He roused again and had a better grasp on his surroundings. Sort of. He shifted minutely and noticed he was curled up on a bed, surrounded by a veritable mountain of pillows and blankets. Warmth pressed against his side as well; protectively wrapped around him.
Fingers splayed through fabric, gripping it tightly. His fingers. Something touched the back of his neck—but unlike previous times, Hitoshi didn’t feel cornered. His skin didn’t feel as though it were being peeled back with a rusted potato peeler.
Grounded.
He felt grounded. And safe. And warm.
“I don’t know why the signs weren’t noticed before,” said an elderly woman. Recovery Girl. “But appropriate steps will be put in place to make sure something of this scale never happens again. I’ll have one of my assistants look into trainings for both staff and students.”
“Thanks, Chiyo-baa-san.” Yamada, again. “How’s he lookin’ Iida-kun~?”
. . . Huh?
Was that green-haired kid in the nurses’ office again? Hitoshi couldn’t remember his name; only knew that, within three days of class, had gained a reputation of having visited Recovery Girl the most. Midori-something? Midorin?
No, Hitoshi thought next. That’s an anime character.
Whatever. He’d figure it out when they spoke again.
“Shinsou-kun looks a bit more present, Mic-sensei!” If not for his near boneless state, Hitoshi would’ve likely violently jolted at the voice beside his ear. A deep rumble curled down his spine as the teen, as Iida Tenya, apparently, spoke. Hitoshi was on his chest. Why the fuck—? “I do not believe he has left the nonverbal stage, however!”
“I see, I see.” A hand gently patted his foot. Something high-pitched floated from the back of his throat. Yamada’s soft chuckle made Hitoshi realize he . . . whined. Again: what. “Keep an eye on him, okay? I have to step out for a bit . . . but don’t be afraid to call for Recovery Girl if anything happens.”
“Understood!”
Hitoshi drifted again, unconcerned with his surroundings so long as he remained in that warmth. Something shifted beneath him at some point, and he almost trembled awake at the responding distressed whine he released into the air. His scent curdled; spoiled milk left out in the sun for days.
“My apologies, Shinsou-kun.” Hitoshi knew Iida didn’t know who the fuck he was, and yet Iida’s voice was warm, dripping in worry. Heat from his body seeped into Hitoshi’s; he purred in the back of his throat. A voice in his mind shouted in alarm at that. Hitoshi hadn’t purred (to another human, that is) in years. “It was not my intention to move and make you distressed.”
Hitoshi didn’t give a rat’s ass about his distress. He wanted to know what the fuck was going on—and why was he cuddling with Class 1-A’s President? Scratch that, the fucking younger brother of Ingenium? If Hitoshi were attached to a heart monitor, it would be going wild.
Another purr wracked through his throat. Butter-soft and sweet. His mind returned to a pleasantly numbed state, drifting in and out. He was vaguely aware of other people—talking with Recovery Girl or Iida or amongst themselves. Hitoshi remained in the safety cocoon Iida wrapped him into, content to simply exist and drift as he pleased, soaking in the most positive attention he’d ever received in his—
Wait one fucking minute.
A disgruntled murmur slipped from his lips. Iida soothed it with a responding purr, likely assuming Hitoshi needed to be . . . grounded a bit more.
They weren’t cuddling.
Hitoshi recognized this position—the grounding hand on his neck, the arm wrapped around his waist, the way he curled small and vulnerable against Iida’s chest—and could scarcely believe what his life was turning out to be.
It was a position used . . . when an omega Dropped.
Oh, god.
According to Recovery Girl, Hitoshi had blacked out for most of the school day.
He had vague memories of what happened before he ended up on a makeshift nest in Recovery Girl’s office. Iida Tenya, one of the few alpha first years (just like how Hitoshi was one of the few omega first years; joy), had accidentally touched the back of Hitoshi’s neck. It was an innocent touch, an accident, but it had been enough for a severely neglected and touch-starved Hitoshi to pass out, Drop, and form a bond.
“A platonic bond,” she informed him, a pointed stare at the horror sprawling over his expression, and patted his knee. “Not to worry, my dear. Omegas are supposed to have healthy platonic bonds with other Dynamics. That’s what packs are for, after all.” Her expression became unreadable as she stared at him. “It’s . . . concerning . . . how little you have, Shinsou-kun.”
Read: you have none, you lonely bitch.
Hitoshi swallowed and averted his gaze. Just because Recovery Girl was an intimidating old woman did not mean Hitoshi would spill his trauma and sob story.
“I wasn’t surprised when the bond formed and settled,” she continued despite Hitoshi’s internal pleas to stop. “Of course, there will always be the option for you to let the bond fade, since it’s in the premature stages at the moment. However.” Hitoshi opened his mouth, but a stern glare quieted him. “It is something I do not recommend. At all. It’s not a path you wish to be on, Shinsou-kun—especially as a young omega. The health consequences alone . . .,” she trailed off and shook her head.
This was why Hitoshi didn’t touch anyone.
(And why no one touched him.)
Hitoshi chewed on his bottom lip. “What . . . happens now?” He had been out of it, but he knew he’d overheard Yamada steamrolling over his social worker. It was a reasonable question. It wasn’t like he could return to his foster home—speaking of, he hoped they hadn’t messed with his belongings. It was touch-and-go, really.
Most were warded off by Hitoshi’s hostile scent, but Hitoshi knew spite worked well in the foster care system. It had gotten him to where he was now, with that U.A. uniform pressed against his shoulders.
“Once I think you’re ready, Yamada-sensei will take you to your previous residence to collect your belongings,” Recovery Girl responded quietly. “I believe you should discuss what happens after with Yamada-sensei, seeing as you’ll be living with him and his pack from now on.”
Hitoshi hid his displeasure with a blank expression. “I see.”
“Don’t worry, Shinsou-kun.” Recovery Girl patted his knee once more, a gentle expression on her face. “I am familiar with Yamada-kun and his pack, and please be assured that they will take good care of you.” Hitoshi hummed in the back of his throat, scenting distrust and wariness. Recovery Girl chuckled and gave him a knowing look. “They have experience taking care of traumatized youth—omegas, especially,” Recovery Girl added at Hitoshi’s dubious look.
Hitoshi’s lips thinned. Trauma. He despised that word, especially when it was tacked as a descriptor to him. Before Recovery Girl could say anything else, the door to her office opened. Yamada’s scent drifted in the air, marking his presence first before his familiar footfalls. Hitoshi clenched his jaw and stared at his feet, not wanting to look his homeroom teacher in the eye right now. A storm of emotions fluttered inside of him, flooding his veins in emotional distress he wanted to pack away and never, ever think about again.
“Oh! You’re awake, Hitoshi-kun~.” Yamada greeted, quiet and gentle. Hitoshi pressed fists against his upper thighs, shoulders hunching slightly at the presence of the older alpha. He didn’t feel unsafe or unsettled, though, but displeased at his current situation. Despite his status, Hitoshi thought Yamada could never make him feel unsafe. Something about Yamada eased Hitoshi’s defense mechanisms, allowing the man to wiggle through Hitoshi’s walls over everyone else who’d tried. “How’re ya feelin’, Listener.”
Hitoshi half-expected Recovery Girl to speak for him, but the silence told him they wanted him to speak. “Fine.”
“Just ‘fine,’ hmm?” Yamada hummed in the back of his throat, but accepted Hitoshi’s statement despite his skepticism of its’ validity. “Chiyo-baa-san, were there any complications I should be aware of? Aside from Hitoshi-kun’s touch-starvation and everything else we’ve discussed.”
“I would recommend therapy,” Recovery Girl stated.
Hitoshi bristled at the mere suggestion. He didn’t need some stranger listing out his flaws and shortcomings when his mind pointed them out just as fine. “I don’t need therapy,” Hitoshi snapped out, just barely edging toward disrespectful. He (mostly) ignored the warning glance Yamada sent him, the clear disapproval in those green eyes. “There’s—look, I’ve managed this far without it. I’m fine.”
“Your coping mechanisms have treated you well enough for now. . . but that does not mean they are good—or healthy,” Recovery Girl said in a pointed, though gentle, still, manner. Fight bled out of Hitoshi’s shoulders. He was too tired for this, honestly, and wanted to sleep for a decade. That’s a coma, Hitoshi thought to himself in a bemused manner. “I believe therapy would be a benefit in your recovery.”
Hitoshi didn’t need to recover, and almost said so, but held his tongue. Last thing he wanted was for Yamada to scent him to calm him down. Hitoshi didn’t have any problems with scenting, so long as no one tried to overwhelm him to submit, and Yamada had scented him before (Hitoshi had a panic attack when the Board decided to muzzle and chain Bakugou on live TV, hiding small in a janitors’ closet until his distress caused a crowd of concerned bystanders (which hadn’t helped, either), and then he had another a few times triggered by his anxiety) and Hitoshi hadn’t had a problem before. That didn’t mean he liked it, however, when an alpha thought he needed to be calmed down and used their scents instead of their words.
“We’ll talk more about it later,” Yamada promised and reached over to gently squeeze the nape of Hitoshi’s neck. A soft whine slipped out of his mouth at the contact, and Hitoshi’s insides shriveled at the omegan noise. His previous foster parents had done their best to stomp out those noises, considering them to be “annoying” and proof of his “weakness.” His peers—those in elementary and middle school, that is—either mocked him as he was typically the only presented classmate or became overprotective whenever he acted more omegan than they expected. “Regardless, Hitoshi-kun can be discharged?”
“Yes,” said Recovery Girl, nodding. “I would like to have a follow-up within two weeks.”
Hitoshi grimaced, but hadn’t complained when they set up an appointment. Yamada filled out paperwork that flew over Hitoshi’s head—and he resolutely ignored the implications of Yamada filling out paperwork for him instead of his previous foster parent. Hitoshi said his goodbyes to Recovery Girl when the time came, thanking her for healing him, and walked out of the office, following Yamada’s lead. His teacher looked different out of uniform—softened, a bit, by the braid over his shoulder—dressed in comfortable jeans, shirt, and typical leather jacket. Out of the jewelry attempting to drown his hands, the silver glint of a wedding ring caught Hitoshi’s attention the most.
He didn’t know Yamada was married.
“Nem’ brought the car around,” Yamada was saying, and Hitoshi should really be paying attention to the name drops. “We’re going to make a quick stop at . . . your previous foster home for you to get your belongings,” Yamada explained, unknowingly echoing Recovery Girls’ words. “We’ll grab a bite to eat, too—something quick and easy, because I know how Chiyo-baa-san’s quirk makes people hungry—and head home. Any questions, Hitoshi-kun?”
Yes. “No.”
“Wonderful,” Yamada chirped. “Let’s get movin’, shall we?”
Hitoshi did not smile.
He did not.
(He did.)