Archive of Our Own

Hitoshi doesn’t know what it feels like to be under the influence of his quirk.

They tell him it doesn’t hurt, just ‘feels weird’, ‘seems like they're lost’, until they’re thrown back from the ‘void’ and the clock starts ticking again, the world bleeding back into their consciousness.  

Some people come back screaming though, and this confuses Hitoshi. If it doesn’t hurt, why do they do that? Does that mean they lie? Or is it something else, varying person to person, a deep internal thing that no one will ever understand but them?

When they scream he wants to scream too. He already hates—no. He doesn’t hate his quirk anymore, not since Aizawa sensei has helped him to train it and in so doing showed that he was not one to fear Hitoshi or what he could do. His power is only terrifying in the wrong hands, and Aizawa sensei thinks Hitoshi’s hands are kind and gentle...not villainous and cruel. The thought wars even now with everything Hitoshi has always been told about himself, from others and his own mind. 

Hitoshi’s own mind is a beast, always hungry, always harsh and clawing and aggressive. Just like a beast, it acts on instinct, all it knows is hatred and hurt, and like an abused animal that is all it gives in return. Hitoshi has friends now, 2-A has latched onto him like limpets beneath the waves and the beast told him to fight it, push them away you deserve none of this, and he had tried. He tried to tell them what he was, what he can do to them, they should be afraid they should run— but still they stayed.

His heart aches at the memory, at that newness, half of him craving the normality of friends and confidants, an entirely new experience—

But the other half is the beast. Snarling and scraping, so afraid that all it knows is anger. Hitoshi doesn’t scream though; inside of him is loud and violent but his anger is not, it is quiet and shy. It is leaving the room when there are too many bodies and voices, it is telling himself ‘no, he’s wrong’ when Aizawa compliments him on a successful maneuver. 

No, Hitoshi’s anger is not outward, it is turned in towards himself, a habit formed so long ago that now it is a comfort, a stronghold. A prison. A protection.

How can anyone hurt you if the hatred you have for yourself overpowers any and all another could have for you?

Hitoshi may not hate his quirk...but he does hate himself.

Pale eyes stare back at him in the mirror, still, as Hitoshi’s mind floats, untethered. He can’t feel his body though he knows he stands in his dorm room bathroom, half undressed as the shower runs behind him. Steam fills the air as his limbs feel far away, and yet still Hitoshi stares, unblinking, letting himself drift. Disassociating feels nice when it’s like this, Hitoshi thinks, the numb feeling overtaking him as his muscles relax into a state of nothing.

People scream when they come back to the world. They say his quirk isn’t so bad.

Steam swirls through the air and sticks to the glass where his face looks lax and expressionless, and suddenly Hitoshi can’t help but wonder what he would feel. Would he scream?

Or would he finally escape the rabid, hungry thing that claws at him always.

Would he finally be left alone.

Shouta isn’t ready for another Monday, too many hours on patrol and too little caffeine making him feel sluggish and slow. He’s heard that weekends are supposed to be refreshing and a time to recharge, but he honestly can’t remember a time outside of his teens where that has ever been the case. 

He trudges down the hall of UA, the largest travel mug full of black coffee that he owns in his right hand as he comes to a stop outside of the 2-A homeroom door. The bell rings, and just like always he slides the absurdly large barrier away as he steps inside, maintaining his perfect streak of timeliness. He doesn’t come in early like so many of his colleagues, he already spares enough of his time for his students, and while he cares for them, they can certainly wait on his schedule sometimes; this being one of them.

As he makes his way toward the podium where he will begin another day full of lectures and facts—information he tries his best to make his students understand in real world settings, tries to make them see that these things do apply to them— he lets his eyes roam the rows of children before him as is his habit.

A quick scan usually does the trick, making sure everyone is where they should be; who has sleepy eyes and hanging heads a factor he tries to pay attention to, as he will be making sure he involves them more than usual. No better way to wake up then to be forced to use your brain in complicated ways first thing in the morning. If that’s slightly sadistic, well...Shouta never claimed to be a nice teacher.

Up and down the rows his gaze travels, until it reaches Kaminari, the boy usually one of those he has to redirect and involve more than his other students. Shouta knows his struggle with ADHD and does his best to accommodate him, having had extensive discussions with how to best help the boy, whether that be different study methods or Shouta’s own ideas of actually calling on the boy more; the threat is usually enough to keep the boy a bit more attentive.

But today those thoughts do not occupy Shouta, the worried gaze Kaminari is shooting his direction taking up his mind instead. Shouta makes eye contact with the electric quirk user and furrows his brow at the same time Kaminari does, the boy appearing confused as his eyes dart back and forth between Shouta and the back of the room.

Shouta follows that gaze, to an empty desk that lays in the back corner, usually the first desk he checks but today just so happened to be different. Hitoshi’s seat. The thought automatically occurs to Shouta that the boy must not be feeling well, but he interrupts himself with another that pings with the idea that when that happens usually Hitoshi lets him know. Shouta is his mentor and homeroom teacher and while he wouldn’t say any other student would feel the need, Hitoshi and Shouta go a bit beyond the usual teacher-student relationship.

Training multiple days after school and having the boy over for dinner with Hizashi and himself tends to create a bit stronger bond than just seeing each other in a classroom five days a week. 

Shouta looks back to Kaminari. The boy just shakes his head and settles into his seat, probably hoping Shouta knows where the purple-haired boy is; too bad Shouta does not.

He moves the thought away as he greets his class and begins their lesson for the day, deciding that he will speak with Kaminari and try to get some answers when he’s done and the students work independently by themselves.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen him all weekend?”

“He wouldn’t answer my texts and I mean, I never saw him downstairs during meal times or anything. Last time I saw him was Saturday afternoon when he came over to watch cat videos.”

Kaminari stands before Shouta in the hall, the classroom door closed to deter any eager eavesdroppers. The boy tips back and forth onto his toes and heels as he thinks, face pinched in thought.

Shouta knows that Kaminari has attached himself to his protege, much to Hitoshi’s consternation in the beginning. It’s pretty clear by now though that Hitoshi has accepted the boy’s company, spending the most time with him out of any of the other twenty students he lives with in the dorms. Shouta would almost call them inseparable, and the thought would threaten a smile across Shouta’s face if he were anyone else. Still, the situation does bring a sort of relief, Hitoshi’s ability to push away others and deny he wants anything, including the human desire of friends, a constant worry of Shouta’s.

Shouta knows his mentee has not had an easy life, often hurt and betrayed by those he should be able to trust. Shouta has worked hard over the last months to get the boy to open up; a task made monumentally more difficult due to the fact that Shouta sees so much of himself in the boy. The hero knows he is not a man who discusses things such as ‘feelings’ very often, and putting that aside in order to show Hitoshi that he doesn’t have to bottle up every emotion and turn it inwards by trying to model that behavior himself has been nothing short of exhausting.

But Shouta also thinks it has been worth it. Shouta may not like to share personal things about himself but that does not mean he’s entirely emotionally constipated. He’s been married for six years and one doesn’t make a success of that without finding ways to express oneself, even if talking it out isn’t always the vehicle to that end.

If just by showing a little bit of vulnerability and the inner workings of himself can get Hitoshi to realize that to feel is human and expected and ok... well, then he’ll put up with a little bit of discomfort.

Golden eyes stare into Shouta’s near-black, “I don’t know sensei...it’s kinda weird. Are you sure he’s ok? It’s really weird for me not to hear from him for more than a few hours…”

Shouta keeps his stoic expression firm but he can’t really deny that the kid is right. Hitoshi doesn’t just disappear off the face of the earth and cut off contact. A number of reasons why he might now pop into the hero’s head; sickness or a flare up of his diagnosed depression, that he is currently medicated for, are the first things to come to mind. Shouta pushes away the nervousness in his gut that it is too early to give into.

“My next period is free, I’ll go and check on him then. Don’t worry about it too much, kid, he’s probably just not feeling well.” Shouta deadpans. 

Shouta follows behind his student as they return to class, and the hero does his best not to watch the clock tick by as the minutes seem to drag far past what they physically should be able to do.

White.

All Hitoshi knows is white. There are no shadows, there is no space where the wall meets floor; no ceiling off in the distance to focus his eye on. His pupils pound in time with his heartbeat at the disorientation this brings. Where is he? Is this a dream?

‘ Hello…?’

He speaks softly, the space around him silent and peaceful; part of him thinks he shouldn’t break the seeming tranquility...but his curiosity is a burning thing. 

Hitoshi feels a tug at the forefront of his mind, and the feeling reminds him of when he puts someone under his quirk. An attachment, a grasping at the figurative string that is another’s consciousness. His stomach twists. He shouldn’t feel that...he’s not using his quirk.

“Hello…?”

Hitoshi’s mouth does not move this time. His spine stiffens, breath halting. He—with every fiber of his being Hitoshi knows that voice. Why wouldn’t he?

It is his own, after all.

Shouta clicks the ‘end call’ button for the second time in as many minutes, sighing. He turns in his office chair to face the windows behind him, a clear view of the dorms now visible across the expanse of green that makes up UA’s sprawling lawn. The 2-A building lies just there, off to the left, and it doesn't take much for Shouta to be able to picture Hitoshi somewhere in his room on the third floor.

With a grunt, he gets up and makes his way out of the teachers’ shared office space and begins his trek across campus, to check on the boy who’s uncharacteristic actions have Shouta walking perhaps slightly faster than he would usually put forth effort to.

Minutes later he’s pushing through the front doors of the dorms, an unsettling silence greeting him. Shouta is surprised at himself for this being the first descriptor to come to his mind, but he can’t deny that it feels right. Between being used to the voices of his students as they laugh and yell and generally cause a ruckus, and hearing the thick silence while still knowing there is a boy here, ‘unsettling’ just feels right. Shouta turns and makes his way up the stairs, foregoing the elevator, a sense of it being too slow creeping upon him. He talks that feeling down as he comes to stand before Hitoshi’s door, hand raised to knock.

The sound echoes out through the empty hall, and Shouta waits.

When no answer comes, he knocks once more, ridiculously loud and obnoxious; there is truly no excuse for Hitoshi to have not heard him, even if he is in the bathroom or sleeping. He waits.

The anxiousness in Shouta’s chest squeezes at his lungs, each passing second driving in the feeling of not right, he’s not alright, get inside—

Shouta knows Hitoshi values his privacy, and this is the last thought the hero has as he turns the handle and opens the door, stepping inside. 

Immediately Shouta finds it hard to breathe, a sickeningly thick cloud of humidity overwhelming his lungs and causing him to gasp in a breath. Shouta’s eyes widen at the realization as he takes a split second to look around, taking in his surroundings. Moisture clings to every surface, the small crack of light from the barely opened curtains making water droplets appear in the air, hanging on nothing like if one had kicked up dust in their place. The room is darkened otherwise but there is enough light to see Hitoshi’s math homework strewn across the desk to his left, done but now wrinkled by water damage. Like dew on a spring morning droplets cling to the desk, the bookshelf, the bed—and yet Shouta sees no Hitoshi.

With that realization comes the thought of where this has come from, how on earth his room would be in this state—and then the thought hits him. Shouta runs the two steps to the bathroom door.

“Hitoshi! Hitoshi!” If Shouta sounds panicked, he is, because none of this is normal, something is not right.

With no answer in return Shouta opens the door, accumulating water dripping from the flat pane of wood as he swings it open.

And there on the floor, lies his student, eyes open and limbs askew, a small pool of blood beneath his head. 

‘Wh-what is going on?’

Hitoshi holds his breath, waiting for that echo to come again, but he knows it was no echo. The sound did not reverberate through his head, no, it came from around him; like it originated from the very space he finds himself in. He feels the tug in his mind again.

“Wh-what is going on?” He winces when his voice breaks the second time around.

Hitoshi closes his eyes. The white and the sound is too much, where is he what is happening—

Slowly, he lifts his hands to intertwine in his hair, feeling the strands pull from his scalp as he holds tight, the pressure pleasant as he curls his knees in toward his body. He can feel as his heart beats fast, anxious waves tightening his stomach and making him feel ill. At the realization that he’s panting, he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needs to think rationally, logically, if he wants to get out of this place. He can almost hear sensei’s voice— panicking will do you no good, Hitoshi.

He takes a moment to readjust his thoughts and starts with the first thing Aizawa sensei taught him to do; take stock of his body. He starts at his head, feeling the pressure from his hands and, everything feels alright there, so he moves on. A slow descent down his frame reveals nothing out of the ordinary...other than his entire body trembling and the fact that he finds it hard to breathe.

With another deep inhale, he brings his hands down, absently looking at them, stretching his slender fingers—

Only for nothing but empty, white space to meet his eyes.

When he screams, the second time he hears it seems much louder. 

As if wrung out by strong hands, Shouta’s breath leaves him, jaw gaping and eyes wide.

Water drips from the ceiling onto the floor— onto Hitoshi— as the steam from the running shower rolls out through the now open door, escaping it’s prison of multiple days into the room behind Shouta. He pays it no mind, the pooling water beneath his kid spreading the red stain thin into pink beneath the boy, a head wound of some sort to blame, the shallow cut visible just within his hairline. Shouta swallows thickly. Hitoshi’s eyes are open, and Shouta cannot ignore that his student looks nothing short of dead inside this horror scene of a bathroom. The pink bleeds across the floor, under Hitoshi’s bare torso where his arms lay crumpled, folded up near his chest. He does not blink, even when Shouta comes close, kneeling with fingers finding the skin of Hitoshi’s neck and searching for a pulse.

Quickly Shouta’s greatest fear is dispelled, for not only does he find what he seeks but a too-warm heat licks against his skin at the touch; the boy is burning up. The feeling of fear towards finding his dead student upon the sopping tile floor leaving his body in such a rapid rush only to be replaced by a new fear, is almost dizzying to Shouta. If he weren’t so focused on his new task of removing Hitoshi from this room he’s sure it would send him to the floor.

The condensation that has collected into heavy droplets on every surface of the small room almost causes Shouta to stumble as he lifts his— limp, unresponsive— student into his arms against his chest. Still, the boy does not shut his eyes and swirling uncertainties as to how that could possibly be happening while he’s still breathing fill Shouta’s thoughts. Shouta takes comfort in those breaths now, as he can hear the low and heavy sounds easily with the child held so close. As he stands with little effort, being sure to not lose his footing, he can’t help but think they sound as if the boy is asleep, a constant rhythmic noise he’s heard enough times as the boy dozes on Shouta’s couch after training.

He walks through the doorway and back out through the boy’s room, some unwanted and unnecessary part of his brain reminding him to find someone to turn off the shower in his absence. 

He ignores it, as all he cares to focus on is getting his student— his kid— to the infirmary.

Hitoshi’s breath stutters, a small whine escaping him at the (lack of) sight of his body. He can feel , his chest taking heaving gasps inwards, his hands carding through his own hair again in search of comfort, but he cannot see the pale color of his skin or even the color of the clothes he must be wearing. He can feel the fabric of his sweatpants, grabbing at the threads with his fingertips repetitively, trying to ground himself from the strangeness overwhelming him.

‘What the hell is this place?!’ He yells, frustration overflowing into anger as he waits for the repetition of his own thoughts to be thrown back at him from the blank space around him. 

He waits. And waits. The static of his own blood pumping fills his head at the lack of noise, and Hitoshi is nothing but grateful, the lack of sound entirely would be maddening otherwise, he is sure. 

He waits.

And when the feeling of time passing--though how much can’t be guessed--drags on, Hitoshi isn’t sure if the echo is missed by him or not as he lays his head down upon his knees, feeling an unfamiliar discomfort behind his eyes in the silence.

Shouta runs, as fast as he can with a body trapped against his chest. He’s breathing heavily by the time he kicks open Chiyo’s door with one foot, chest heaving and looking like a rabid animal probably when she startles and looks in his direction. Two seconds is all it takes for her to point to an empty bed, saying sternly, “Put him there,” already collecting equipment from a rolling cart in a corner.

Shouta does as asked, quickly crossing the room to place a still-soaking Hitoshi upon the white sheets. The sterile space is cold against Shouta’s skin underneath his jumpsuit as it sticks against his chest. Recovery Girl’s thoughts must be similar to his own as she snaps, “Get those wet clothes off him and into this,” throwing a blue patterned gown into Shouta’s startled arms.

Shouta tries to ignore how Hitoshi doesn’t shiver, doesn’t do anything, as he places the gown around the boy’s neck, pulling it down to maintain Hitoshi’s dignity as he removes the kid’s soaked pants. Shouta averts his eyes when he can and quickly has the boy covered by blankets before the thought of what his temperature had been like strikes him.

“I think he may have a fever, his skin felt hot when I searched for his pulse…” His voice trails off as the memory flashes through his mind. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Chiyo just hums in acknowledgement, coming forward towards the bed with the cart full of instruments and things that Shouta will never know the name of. She turns to him now, face as unbothered and professional as Shouta feels his own should probably be right now. Her eyes lock with his, “I need you to tell me everything you know before I can get started treating anything on this poor boy. Speak quickly.” In the interim between when she stops speaking and Shouta begins again, Chiyo places a thermometer beneath Hitoshi’s tongue. She calmly begins tending to the shallow headwound on Hitoshi’s forehead, wiping a red droplet away with gauze.

“I found him like this on his bathroom floor; his shower had been running for what seems like days and the steam had him and every surface soaked. He’s unresponsive, won’t even blink no matter what I do. I have no idea what could be the cause he doesn’t seem sick--”

“It’s far too soon to say he isn’t Shouta,” the old woman replies steadily as she finishes bandaging the boy’s cut. “I am relieved to find that this wound isn’t too deep. If it’s true that he has been like this over the weekend, had this been deeper, we would have been dealing with a whole other scenario.”

Chiyo’s words do nothing to allay the fears that Shouta attempts to swallow, only adding to the twist in his stomach. He keeps his voice steady however, “What’s wrong with him? Why does he look like this?”

At that moment the thermometer underneath Hitoshi’s tongue beeps. Chiyo hums as she removes it, “101.8, a fever but not too high. He would have been stuck in a room with large amounts of humidity if I am understanding you correctly; this could be from the inability of his body to sweat correctly. Being in temperate air now may bring that down; I will keep an eye on it.”

Shouta stands to the side, arms folded as he feels entirely out of place and his body tingles with the need for action, to help and assist, do anything other than stand here. Dark eyes find Hitoshi’s pale lilac, open and--Shouta furrows his brow--far more red than he remembers them being before. He steps closer, leaning in to get a better look. 

Sure enough, Hitoshi’s eyes are steadily growing more bloodshot, not unlike Shouta’s look after overuse of his quirk. He knows how uncomfortable dry-eye is, suffering through it chronically for as long as he can remember. Unknowingly the hero begins to finger the bottle of eyedrops through the fabric of his pocket.

“I’m going to run a few tests,” Chiyo interrupts him as she brings out a small, slender flashlight from her coat pocket, clicking it on and swaying it to and fro between Hitoshi’s eyes. Still he does not blink, “to get to the bottom of this. His pupils don’t even dilate from outside stimuli...that is incredibly strange…” The woman seems to talk to herself while Shouta looks on. “Anyway, stay out of my way while I do, please.” Her voice dismisses him and he goes back to staring at Hitoshi’s slack face, the visage more unnerving by the second.

Now that Shouta has a moment to think, he begins to analyze what this strange behavior could possibly be caused by. He speaks softly, more to himself than the nurse currently poking and prodding at his student, “I found him on the floor, and with a cut like that he may have fallen or...maybe the cut was the reason he fell unresponsive like this in the first place…”

Chiyo nods, “It’s possible, a brain scan will tell me if he has a concussion or not; though the open eyes are still a mystery.” 

The comment has Shouta looking into half-lidded lilac eyes again. “There’s no way that’s comfortable…” Shouta then reaches into his pocket, pulling out his eye drops and unscrewing the lid from the nearly-empty bottle. Shouta finds that the action comes easy when he tilts Hitoshi’s chin back just enough for his eyes to stare unseeing at the ceiling, before holding one eyelid open at a time to place one well aimed drop into them. Shouta then manually closes the boy’s eyes, hoping they will stay closed and prevent this from becoming a recurring issue. He breathes out a relieved sigh when they stay shut.

“The humidity from the bathroom must have kept his eyes from drying out. I don’t envy how that would have felt once he wakes up, otherwise,” Shouta comments as he places the drops back in his pocket. Chiyo continues to work, hooking Hitoshi up to an I.V. line as Shouta drags a chair near the head of the bed.

The man slumps into his seat, trying not to let his mind wander into dark places as he waits, unable to do anything other than hope Chiyo will soon have some answers for them both.

Hitoshi wipes the tears from his face after what feels to be a long while, hours at least he thinks, enough that he is sure his eyes would appear red and swollen...if they were visible at all, that is. Slowly, Hitoshi unfolds his legs from where he had drawn them near, body having been as small as possible as he tried to calm himself. Deciding he is done being still and useless upon the floor, he comes to standing, opening his eyes once more to the confusing white around him. 

He finds he can only take the blank space for a few seconds at a time, and since there seems to be no obstacles in his path he simply begins walking, eyes closed, as his legs shake and his fists clench tight. Each incomprehensible minute spent in this horrid, empty place sends Hitoshi spiraling further into dark thoughts...thoughts of never seeing his friends again, falling behind in school and being even more of a worthless loser than he already is. Never seeing Aizawa sensei again, or hearing his voice call out as he does something right in training, the praise an unfamiliar balm to Hitoshi’s unyielding anxiety. 

Hitoshi swallows thickly, feeling the sting of threatening tears once more. 

What is this place that denies physics, making rules only to break them once more? Where is everyone he knows and why can’t he see his own physical body but feel everything as if it was there? 

Why is he so alone?

Hitoshi raises his arms, walking slowly and willingly blind as he hugs them around himself. He finds a slow pace and keeps to it, rhythmic in the repetitive feeling of his footfalls. Slowly his thoughts ebb away into a pleasant buzz of nothingness as he begins to hum, a song that he can’t remember the name of filling his mind. 

The sound echoes around him, but he notices it doesn’t sound normal. It reminds him of how it resonates within his own head, muffled and changed but amplified around him still. Instead of this bothering him, he simply adds it to the mental list of everything wrong with this strange place, letting apathy be a numbing agent against his frayed nerves.

He used to want this. He used to want to be left alone, the sounds of his own thoughts overwhelming him but that would be ok, he can’t hurt anybody when he’s alone. 

This line of thought pushes Hitoshi backward, into the memories and mind scape where he would spend most of his lonely nights as a child, huddled close around himself as he ignored his own crying or those of the other children around him. Into the loneliness he willingly took upon his own shoulders because that was what was being offered anyway, from the people around him. Empty-smiled fosters and adults who lied through their teeth at him. He learned a long time ago to not be angry; or well, not at them anyway.

Pushing away the kids in 2-A was all he was ever really good at anyway, right? He shivers. How can he be cold in a place like this? His body isn't even real, a ghost in this purgatory--is that what this is...? 

Is he...dead? 

Hitoshi stops, seeing nothing but the blackness behind his closed eyelids. He hugs himself tighter. 

Did he finally do it? Is this the answer he finally came to after all these years of wondering if he could make it through another day? 

He feels his heart skip a beat, pounding against his ribcage. Is he stuck inside this blankness for the rest of his conscious existence? Hitoshi isn't sure if he believes in heaven but...even if he did, he's sure this isn't it. Good things are supposed to happen in heaven...right? This place is empty and quiet (except for the voice that has been suspiciously silent now) and there's no one else here…

Hitoshi has been alone for so much of his life. His parents died when he was little and he remembers the very first time feeling the sense of what he now knows to be abandonment; when he was four, he only knew it hurt when that sense of safety was pulled out from under him, unable to find another adult to take their place. Losing the guide he needed to learn who he was and what was expected of him as a human being. He can remember vividly reaching out his hand toward the people who were supposed to be his new parents--the people who were supposed to love him and care for him--and feeling, like a knife through the chest, when they pushed him away.

But that hurt didn’t stay long. Soon Hitoshi knew how to drown that pain. A mask of indifference on his face and apathy as a wall around his heart would keep him safe.

But then Aizawa sensei took his walls down. Brick by brick. And his classmates...they came to him with smiles that didn’t smack of insincerity and didn’t turn sharp behind his back. 

For once in his life, Hitoshi has started to feel as if he belongs…

And he realizes with a numbed awe, that he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. But does he even have the choice, now?

The thought only makes the silence and the isolation worse, regret and fear of never getting to tell any of them what their words had meant to him snaking its way up Hitoshi’s spine. 

His lip wobbles as he fumbles to a standstill. He’s tired of walking. He’s tired of wondering what this place is and why he is here. Slowly he sinks to the floor, laying down on his side, and with his arms still around his chest he loses himself in the swirling thoughts that haunt the blackness behind his eyelids.

Shouta’s neck hurts from the position he had decided to keep when he laid his head back. It feels like hours that Hitoshi has stayed entirely still, not a single flinch as Chiyo took blood samples and got readings on his blood pressure and other vitals. As Shouta raises his head, his eyes are closed, but he hears the woman’s small footsteps make their way towards his direction for the first time in what has felt like a while.

“No infections to be found and his temperature has dropped a bit. It seems like he’s hovering around a low grade fever though and I can't seem to find what could be causing this reaction, Shouta. When I can't find a physical cause, usually the next step is to consider the hand of a quirk.”

Shouta’s spine straightens with attention. Quirk use? As in, someone has done this to Hitoshi? He feels a chill through his body at the thought and a new worry fills his mind, easily mingling with the many that already keep home there.

“If that’s now a possibility Shouta, you know what you need to do.”

Shouta’s face is blank as he stares at the older woman with bloodshot eyes, blinking slowly. “Yes.”

With one quick look over his protege, Chiyo leaves him to his thoughts and the new mental list that he is currently making inside his mind. 

First, he needs to alert principal Nezu with this new possible theory, enlisting his help with security cameras and questioning. Next comes the grunt work of asking the people Shouta knows hang around Hitoshi the most, some very suspect questions while trying not to alert them that their friend is hurt in still unknown ways; Shouta knows this will both be time consuming and careful work. Also on the list is going over his own memories of Hitoshi previous to this. Shouta recalls Kaminari mentioning that the boys had been together on Saturday...so the last time he would have had time with Hitoshi was Friday night. They train on Fridays and for a long time now it has been tradition for the boy to come back to his and Hizashi’s place to join them for dinner.

Briefly Shouta feels his lip quirk at the memory of just a few days ago, Hitoshi comfortable enough to join Hizashi in the kitchen as music played from the radio, the blonde swaying his hips and playfully bumping into the boy. Shouta stood off to the side against the wall, nursing a cup of tea while the two entertained themselves and he can still feel the warmth that had radiated through him at seeing the person most important to him--and the other coming in at a close second--worried for nothing but how small they could chop the daikon. 

The small smile drops, however, at the memory of his husband. He hasn’t told Hizashi yet about the violet-haired boy. He can’t lie that he wants to put that towards the very bottom of the mental list, the look he knows will shape that bright gaze into something heart rending already visible in Shouta’s mind. 

The hero leans forward and buries his face into his hands, shoulders succumbing to gravity as he tries to release their tension. He scrubs at his days old stubble roughly before rising in one swift movement, dark eyes looking over Hitoshi once more himself before turning towards the door.

The things he has to do linger at the forefront of his mind, purpose driving his feet forward, but he can’t help but feel the pull from behind him, knowing that regardless of where he is his thoughts will be here, beside Hitoshi. As the door closes behind him with a sort of finality, he tries to put the thought aside; he is hardly successful.

Two hours later Shouta returns frazzled and impatient to the infirmary, a shocked Recovery Girl startling at his loud entrance through the door. She stares at him wide-eyed but he hardly cares, frustration pouring off of him in waves as he addresses her.

“Nothing. Not one lead from the cameras, not one of his friends noticed anything out of the ordinary, no one saw anything and I’m still at square one.” Shouta sees the older woman narrow her eyes at him as he tells her this through gritted teeth.

“That is...not great news, Shouta. The boy is stable, I have kept an eye on him while you’ve been gone but the fact that there has been no change is disconcerting.” She purses her lips and glances at a chart in her hand, flipping over a page. “If this is indeed a quirk and we cannot find out what it is...we may be playing the waiting game; for either the time limit to be reached or something else.” 

Shouta’s gaze finds hers before he sighs heavily, irritation tensing his muscles throughout his body as he turns and makes his way back to the place that had not left his mind all day. He had hoped when he returned with no information there at least would be some sort of progress to be found here; but alas, as he rounds the bed to sit in the plastic covered chair alongside Hitoshi’s bedside once more, there is none. 

Hitoshi doesn’t think he can do this anymore. 

His body (if that’s what he can call it) shakes with cold and lingering distress, the fingers of something terrifying and harsh dipping through his translucent skin and taking hold of his innermost being. He doesn’t know if it is the fear or a result of this place that makes him feel this way--

But he is so over it. 

Stilling his chattering teeth, he rises from where he had collapsed in worry and defeat, pushing those things away with a strength that feels put-upon and fake; but he will gladly use it while it lasts. 

His knees shake and his lungs inhale shuddering breaths—but he doesn’t care. He can’t sit and do nothing any longer, and even if it will do no good whatsoever, he will try; he will try and find an exit or an answer to his unending confusion. 

He doesn’t want to be alone, anymore...he just wants to see them one last time—

Hitoshi runs. 

He runs and runs, legs aching with the strain but still he goes on, unending white having him unsure if he has moved a single step but still he doesn’t stop. Why should he? This place has supplied him with nothing but mental anguish since he first woke here and with no end in sight, he has to try something.

He feels a cold that shouldn’t be present creep through his body, yet he feels warm to the touch. His face burns, phantom sweat rolling down his temples but ice crawls up his spine. Even in his worry for what any of these things could mean, he goes on, breaths becoming labored and painful. He feels his bare feet slap against the hard surface below him but no sound rings out. He just has to keep going, something will happen soon he can feel it he knows—

A tug at the forefront of his mind unlike any he has ever known yanks him down painfully, as he cries out at the sensation. He tumbles over himself, unseen skin peeling off of his elbows, knees, and hands as he makes contact with the nonexistent floor. Hitoshi lets out a shaking sob at the sudden pain and shock, his mind being pulled mercilessly forward still, as if someone has wrapped a firm hand around it and is attempting to pull it through his skull. 

With each passing second the feeling increases and Hitoshi cries, placing both hands on his forehead almost in an attempt to keep his splitting mind inside. 

What is happening?!

As his vision blurs, part of him wonders if he’ll hear a voice echo back his desperate call.

He doesn’t get the chance to find out as, with one final tug at his breaking head, his world goes black.

Shouta thinks it has been hours that he has sat in this hard, unforgiving chair, letting his mind go round in circles with unsatisfactory answers. Waiting for something to give has him on edge, whether that be Hitoshi’s condition or, his most hopeful thought, Nezu contacting him with information that they can use to remove his student from his current state. Shouta has found himself staring daggers into the black screen of his phone far more times than he is comfortable admitting. 

The silence of the otherwise empty medical bay grates on the man’s nerves, the only balm being Hitoshi’s deep, smooth breaths. It is easy for Shouta to slip into the thought that the boy is merely sleeping, a frivolous idea that seeps into his bones and tries to soothe in some way. He is only a little ashamed that he lets it.

Shouta stands for the first time in too long, his knees cracking from too much abuse over the years. Slowly he stretches his spine with hands held aloft over his head, holding in a pleased grunt that automatically tries to escape him at the feeling. With a deep breath, he lets his eyes wander over to the woman that occupies her desk across the room, wrinkled hand sprinting across the paper as her pen translates something across it. Shouta briefly wonders what she writes but decides it does not matter, instead stepping forward towards her, wanting to discuss his student’s non-change (even if he knows the answers will remain the same).

But he doesn’t get the chance.

A small device upon Hitoshi’s finger has steadily kept track of his pulse and oxygen levels, and suddenly it screams, the boy’s heart rate rising to unsettling levels. Shouta is aware of the high pitched screeching but he hardly cares when Hitoshi has begun seizing, body rigid and spine arched as he shakes, every muscle tense with the episode. 

Shouta feels glued to the spot as Chiyo’s voice rises above the chaos, “Turn him on his side, Shouta!”

Like lightning has shocked his system her words have him moving, scrambling to do as she had instructed. Shouta grasps tensed shoulders, rolling the boy towards him on the bed, giving him a full view of Hitoshi’s face. Mouth slack and opened slightly, Shouta can hear how he doesn’t breathe, body so tight he cannot take a breath as his now fluttering eyelids show rolling pupils. Chiyo stands directly across from Shouta, helping him maintain the position they have Hitoshi in as the seizure continues, Shouta’s already bursting heart threatening to catapult its way out of his ribcage with anxiety.

“If this goes on much longer I will have to sedate him,” Chiyo nearly whispers between them; Shouta thinks he might be sick. A small bit of ease blankets him, however, at the small gasps of air that do make it into Hitoshi’s lungs as he continues to thrash in their hold. Shouta looks up from staring at his protege in an almost trance-like state when he notices Chiyo hold up her wrist, her watch ticking away. As she keeps her gaze on it, lips moving silently, he realizes she has been counting; keeping track of the time Hitoshi has been affected. He grimaces, not happy with the implications of her actions. 

A seizure out of nowhere like this is unsettling, and Shouta’s mind reels with possible causes, still grasping for answers like a man lost at sea, knowing land is out there but not having the ability to reach it. It is torturous.

Shouta’s heart hurts as he watches Hitoshi continue to shake, taking one hand away from holding the boy upright and instead threading it through damp locks, wishing he could take this away, wishing that Hitoshi would just wake .

Those frivolous thoughts go out the door however, as Shouta’s ears hear words he really doesn’t think he can handle right now.

“He’s bleeding.”

Chiyo’s voice shocks him into looking over Hitoshi’s face once more, and sure enough, blood has begun dripping from his boy’s nose, angled down and running across his cheek towards the pillow his head barely stays upon. 

Shouta should feel shock, but instead a memory comes crashing into his mind, overtaking his senses and stilling his panic.

He has seen this before.

It hadn’t been long after beginning their training together, weeks after Shouta had seen what Hitoshi had been capable of at the Sports Festival and subsequently approached him. They had begun slow, just getting Hitoshi’s underused muscles into a good starting position, strength training and stretching being their main focus. 

But then Shouta had brought up his quirk. He still remembers the look in Hitoshi’s eyes after even mentioning his Brainwashing quirk; terror. Shame. A hole in Shouta’s chest had opened at just the knowledge of the extent of Hitoshi’s fear and dislike of that part of himself. Immediately a new fire had been lit within him, to guide his kid away from this darkness that he had suffered in for much of his life, to make him see that his quirk was good. That he was good.

It had started off well, Hitoshi’s desire to please Shouta quickening the process of getting him to use his quirk against his mentor. The first sessions had been short and simple, but slowly they increased the challenge; upping the time and difficulty of tasks ordered every week.

One week Shouta had pushed too far.

Finding the limits of one’s quirk is important, but it didn’t make the instance any less harrowing. Hitoshi had been instructed to hold control as long as possible, even if that meant hours, all the while making Shouta do easy tasks; walking in circles, tapping his fingers, humming, etc. Eventually Shouta had come to, a little dazed from the prolonged exposure but that was quickly remedied by seeing Hitoshi on the floor, blood pouring from his nose while unconcious. A few minutes had brought him around and with no signs of a concussion, but a strong headache nonetheless, they had ended the training for the day. 

Shouta had gone home thankful, so relieved that nothing worse had come of the experience other than a bad nosebleed and some lingering pain.

So of course Hitoshi bleeding now, like this, would have him remembering; and an idea that scares him but also fills him with hope comes tumbling gladly along with the memory. 

“Chiyo,” his voice is strong, certain, “I think I might have an idea of how to help Hitoshi.” The old woman doesn’t speak, her eyebrows rising in question. “He has a history of nosebleeds after quirk overuse...I want to use mine on him.”

Hitoshi still seizes beneath their hands, blood now soaking into the threads of the pillow. Chiyo still is silent, but Shouta waits, unsure if he should do this at all. What if it causes some unknown complications if the boy truly is under a quirk? Could there be consequences with Hitoshi’s own quirk if he uses Erasure? There are so many variables and Shouta’s lack of medical knowledge only has him further in the dark. Chiyo sighs.

“There is a lot at risk with how much we do not know, Shouta...but,” she draws up to her full height, which of course still isn't much, “we also risk his health by standing by and doing nothing. I will stay close and try to mitigate any adverse effects, but, you are free to attempt this.”

Shouta thought he would be relieved with those words but instead his stomach drops further, unaware it could do so when it has made a new home so close to his feet already throughout this day. But he knows he can’t hold on for more time, Hitoshi suffering and time running out. So, with a final breath, he closes his eyes.

And when he opens them, he activates his quirk.

Hitoshi opens his eyes to white, but it is not the same. His head burns and his body aches and he can’t breathe —

Hands. He feels hands on his chest, his face. He tries to call out, lungs betraying him and making him cough, something cool and smooth coming across his nose and cheeks and he tries to take in oxygen into his shaking body . It’s dark now, are his eyes closed again? Once more he tries to see but shapes and colors— colors —blur in his vision and he closes them again. 

Is it done? Did he escape? 

Slowly his breathing calms, as much as he can allow it to with the spiking pain through his skull. Sounds begin to filter through, voices and footsteps; he doesn’t know how to describe the feeling of safety that brings, the lingering fear of that blankness around him holding him like a vice still. As if it isn’t really him feeling it, a ghost of a touch is felt upon his cheek, rubbing gently underneath his eye. He can feel a wetness there...had he been crying?

“...shi…” The sound is muffled, “Hitoshi…,” a whisper. “Hitoshi.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes, blinking away the blur in his vision and sees darkness ringed in light; a body, towering over him. He swallows, his throat feeling dry as he tries to recognize this person, another human being, something he was beginning to fear he would never see again. Suddenly his hand is rushing forward. He needs to touch, to feel the warmth of another person, he doesn’t want to be alone, he doesn’t want them to leave--

“Sshh, I’m not going anywhere Hitoshi.”

The fingers upon his cheek turn into a palm, cupping his face and Hitoshi doesn’t even feel shame as he feels more tears slip free.

This is Aizawa, he knows, his voice a low rumble through Hitoshi’s aching head and the man’s signature black giving him away; he knows the way this calloused hand feels on his skin...Hitoshi knows who this is. As the last of the fuzziness fades away, Hitoshi finds his mentor’s eyes, concern etched into them in a way that he has never seen. 

“...zawa…” His voice is scratchy. “Wha’ ‘appened?” The hand moves into his hair as he tries to follow the man with his eyes, Aizawa throwing his body down into a chair beside the bed--he must be in the infirmary. Aizawa lets out a deep sigh.

“We can get to that later, how do you feel?”

Another voice surprises Hitoshi from his right and his eyes are unfocused as he tries to find its source, “Yes, young man, that is what’s most important now, the other things can wait.” Recovery Girl sidles up to the right side of the bed, head barely peeking over the edge of the mattress; he could almost find it comical if he wasn’t so out of it.

Hitoshi takes stock of his body again, no longer because he’s trapped in that never ending white. His body feels shaky and weak, small tremors running down his frame as his head spikes with pain. He realizes now that he is cold, as well, a shiver responding to the thought. An oxygen mask lies upon his face.

“Mmm...not good. Head ‘urts, cold…”

She nods, “I’ll get you some medicine for that headache, and you were damp for quite a while with a low fever so it’s not unexpected that you’re cold. I’ll get you another blanket. You suffered a seizure and your body will need a while to recover from that, so give yourself some time.” Her voice is stern, but not unkind as she walks away, no doubt to grab his medication. Hitoshi feels the hand in his hair move down to his left hand, Hitoshi’s eyes finding Aizawa’s looking at him with drawn features.

Hitoshi’s chest unclenches at the sight of him. He’s so happy Aizawa is here.

“You gave us quite a scare, kid.” Hitoshi doesn’t speak, unsure what to say to that. “I found you on your bathroom floor, shower still running after you must have started it. You had fallen, splitting open your head. Kaminari hadn’t heard from you since Saturday and so I went looking...you were unresponsive but breathing. We couldn’t figure out what could be the cause...until just now, when you had the seizure and your nose began to bleed.” Hitoshi feels Aizawa grip his hand tighter, eyes cast down to look at the connection. “Hitoshi, is there any way you put yourself under your own quirk?”

The words don’t register at first, so foreign an idea, but slowly what he had been through bleeds into the present. The unforgiving white, the panic turned unsurety turned cold acceptance he had felt. His invisible body and yet very physical sensations. He doesn’t know what it feels like to be under his quirk, but he remembers his own voice sounding back at him, both within his head and not. He remembers the sickening pull at his mind, not unlike the feeling of his quirk activating but much, much stronger.

More rushes back, the time before ‘the white’. Aizawa had said he found him in his bathroom, shower running. Hitoshi furrows his brow as his aching mind searches back, trying to piece together what he had done, what he had been thinking--

At once, he knows.

The loneliness had been too much, that fog that blankets him sometimes, the one he welcomes, swirling through his brain as he had stood there looking at himself in the mirror almost from another point of view, somewhere above himself. That day had been a bad day, and just like too many others, he couldn’t pinpoint a cause, simply waking with a weight on his heart that he couldn't roll away, but one that he wasn’t unfamiliar with. His self-hatred had clawed its way into the morning he had spent with Kaminari, ending in him getting impatient with the boy and snapping at him while they watched cat videos. Even as he had risen from the bed they had been lying on together in comfort not a minute before, angry tears aimed towards himself had pooled above his lower lashes as he had closed the door with a sharp snap behind him, fleeing to his room. 

The mirror and his feelings are overwhelming even now in this infirmary bed and a whimper escapes him before he can keep it back. He feels the pressure around his hand again.

“Hey, you’re alright. You don’t have to remember everything now. Take it easy.”

Hitoshi looks up into Aizawa’s continually soft gaze and feels the words fall from his lips with no barrier to stop them. “I think...I think I was under my quirk,” Aizawa sits a little straighter at this, “but I didn’t try to be.” He realizes how much stranger the mask around his face makes him sound and with the trembling hand that isn’t within his mentor’s grasp, shakily removes it from his face to sit atop his head. The small pressure adds to the pain there. “I was upset...and just looking at myself. I was gonna shower, sometimes it helps me calm down...but I guess I never got that far…,” he whispers, “I don’t even know how I did it…”

And the thing is he really doesn’t. He doesn’t remember activating it--did he ask himself a question? Or because it was himself did he not require such a thing? Was the experience more intense because he was practically doubling the effects of the quirk? He has so many questions and so little energy to figure them out. 

“Regardless, I think it’s safe to say we shouldn’t do it again, Hitoshi. Too many unknown issues could arise, especially if it happens while you are alone again. I only realized this as a possibility because of your nosebleed...I didn’t know to use Erasure on you until then. I…” Aizawa looks away, towards the foot of the bed, “You really had me scared, kid.”

A crashing wave of guilt mixed with sadness, anger, relief, overtakes Hitoshi and he can’t hold back the stinging emotion it brings to his face, features screwing up and tears falling fast and heavy. “I was s-so sc-cared.”

This is all he has time to say, as two arms clothed in black are wrapping themselves around and beneath him, Hitoshi’s face buried into Aizawa’s shoulder as he sobs, the touch almost too much after not knowing if he would ever feel something like this again.

“Don’t be scared anymore, Hitoshi. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And really, truly, Hitoshi doesn’t want him to. If he is never alone again, he thinks he’d be ok with that.