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Hitoshi knew his life ended that day, cramped in a plastic chair while he’d taken a computerized test with a screen that burned his eyes. Even before he’d walked into the building, Hitoshi knew he despised the system in place for Littles who fell in the infant-toddler category. It stripped them of their freedom immediately, and yet no one seemed to think twice about it.
He knew, even then, even as he confirmed the information on the screen was correct, that he’d be a Little who fell within that category. He bristled in the sharp quiet of the room, testing space shared with other anxious Littles.
They wouldn’t get the results yet as there was a “practical” session after lunch, but they were free to roam around until then. The building had canteen filled with “every food a Little could want!” as well as various playrooms. Hitoshi thought he spotted a nursery or two.
He bought strawberry milk from a vending machine and walked around, half in his mind and, therefore, not paying attention to his aimless drifting until he’d bumped into someone.
“S-Sorry, I, um, wasn’t watching,” Hitoshi apologized in a quiet mumble, and hoped whoever he bumped into wouldn’t scold him for it.
“It’s alright,” said the person. Hitoshi blinked at their voice, warm and butter soft yet held a hint of unyielding sternness. A caregiver, then. “Are you hurt?”
Hitoshi gave himself a brief overview, and grimaced slightly when he saw that he’d spilled some of the milk on his shirt. “Ah, I’m – I’m fine,” he looked up to give the caregiver a blank smile. “Sorry, again . . .”
He trailed off.
Pro Hero Eraserhead—even dressed in casual slacks and a button down, hair in a low bun, Hitoshi knew who it was—stood in front of him, and the man gave him a concerned look. “You sure you’re alright . . .?”
“Sh – Shinsou . . ..”
Eraserhead smiled. “Shinsou. What’s your first name?”
Hitoshi swallowed. “Um. It’s Hitoshi.”
“Cute name,” said Eraserhead, and he chuckled when Hitoshi flushed. “But I don’t think Littles are supposed to be around here.”
Hitoshi blinked and looked around. All the hallways seemed the same. “O-Oh.”
“Follow me.” Eraserhead led him through the halls by the hand. Hitoshi tried, very hard, not to think of how small and comfortable he felt by Eraserhead’s side. “Here we are.”
The canteen. Hitoshi was ushered inside and, though with a reluctance that Hitoshi found . . . interesting, Eraserhead let go of his hand. Hitoshi walked toward the food and grabbed the offered salad plates.
He hated salad, but he hated the other options they had even more.
When he plopped down at a random table, he’d gotten through a good third of the salad when his table had been crashed by a familiar face.
“Hitoshi,” hissed Midoriya Izuku, a friend of Hitoshi’s ever since the green-haired Little had all but curb-stomped someone for saying Hitoshi was on the path of villainy. It was a religious experience, and Hitoshi didn’t even mind the subsequent detention. “Hitoshi, I met Present Mic!”
“I met Eraserhead,” Hitoshi said in a daze, and they shared a look.
They couldn’t talk for more than five minutes as the practical exam would start, and a caregiver came to announce their groups. Hitoshi turned to Izuku.
“Rest in pieces,” he said.
Izuku snorted, but agreed. “Rest in pieces.”
Hitoshi wasn’t in Izuku’s group, unfortunately; they were ushered into a blue-themed playroom within minutes and told they had “free reign” by the exam proctor.
After staring at each other awkwardly, Hitoshi and the other five members of his group drifted toward what interested them. Hitoshi, much to his dismay, could see that his headspace was much, much smaller than his group members. To his untrained eye, he could see they existed around ages four to six—which, okay.
It just made it all the more . . . noticeable that Hitoshi didn’t.
He knew his headspace was young. The pacifiers and bottles littering his apartment already told him that. As did the softer blankets and clothes. The onesies. The teddy bears and the nightlight he literally wasn’t able to sleep without.
“Hey there~.”
Hitoshi blinked up from his impressive collection of soft blocks, and stared at a smiling man, blond hair in a plait. It looked soft, and Hitoshi . . . kind of wanted to touch it.
“Oh? You wanna play with my hair?” The man asked—wait, Hitoshi knew that voice . . . wasn’t that . . . ?— “I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t, okay?”
Hitoshi scrunched his nose at the denial, but got distracted when the man offered him a lilac colored pacifier.
He wasn’t in headspace yet—but it was a close thing. He floated gently and quietly, surrounded by attentive caregivers who were delighted to have him and the others (delighted to see a Little who was so small, no doubt).
“If he’s not a baby,” said one caregiver as Hitoshi chose a bottle out of the items laid out before him: sippy cup, bottle, and a small plastic cup. “Then, I’ll quit.”
He was so fucked.
The Department of Classification, Little Division
Tokyo Headquarters
Dear Shinsou Hitoshi,
Congratulations! You have been classified as a Little in the Infant-Toddler subcategory. Your headspace is approximately one to one and a half years of age. Your exam denotes that you are one of the few Littles who needs to be in headspace nearly 24/7. More information on your headspace can be found on page seventeen of the packet.
Enclosed are the profiles of your top ten matches. Please look through each one properly. Once you have decided on who you’d prefer to be your full-time caregiver, fill out the proper forms included in the packet by Friday, March 12th and send it to your local classification office.
Please remember that Littles within your headspace age range are required, by law, to be with a caregiver. You must fill out the proper forms with your local classification office, and you must move in with said caregiver within a week of processing times. If, and only if, you do not submit the proper forms, then the Department of Classification, Little Division, will choose the caregiver with the highest score.
If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to reach out to our contact information found in page twenty-three of the packet. The Department of Classification, Littles Division wishes you well . . .
<-> page six <->
Caregiver Matches for: Shinsou Hitoshi
- Headspace: 1 – 1½ (~24/7 headspace recommended)
- Physical Age: 19
- Quirk: Brainwashing
- Current Employment: Bookstore clerk
- Education: High School, College Sophomore
- Dietary Restrictions: Peanut allergen
~~
AIZAWA SHOUTA | SCORE: 94
- Physical Age: 33
- Quirk: Erasure
- Current Employment: Underground Pro Hero Eraserhead, UA Teacher of Foundational Heroics
YAMADA HIZASHI | SCORE: 89
- Physical Age: 33
- Quirk: Voice
- Current Employment: Pro Hero Present Mic, UA Teacher of English
BAKUGOU KATSUKI | SCORE: 87
- Physical Age: 19
- Quirk: Explosions
- Current Employment: Pro Hero Explosion King
KAMINARI DENKI | SCORE: 81
- Physical Age: 19
- Quirk: Electricity
- Current Employment: Pro Hero Chargebolt, Assistant Teacher at UA
Please turn the page for more . . .
Fuck.
Hitoshi was, quite frankly, in shock for two days. It felt like a dream. It felt like a nightmare. He knew, distantly, that he needed to pick a caregiver and send in the forms, but his limbs seized whenever he stared at the packet that contained his death sentence.
Izuku appeared on his doorstep on the third day, his own packet gripped tight. “I take it you didn’t get the news you wanted,” said Izuku as he toed his shoes off in the genkan. “Who’s your top match? Mine’s . . . Present Mic.”
Hitoshi, who was face down on the couch, absentmindedly waved in the general direction of where he’d thrown the packet. “Eraserhead.”
“Ooh.” Izuku walked further into the apartment. “Hey, do you have any juice.”
Hitoshi’s agreement was muffled by couch cushions. He heard the fridge open and close, heard the soft noise of Izuku poking a straw in the apple juice boxes he stocked as though they were going out of business.
“What’s your headspace?” Izuku questioned as he plopped down by the ends of Hitoshi’s feet. “Mine’s, uh, two.”
Hitoshi looked up with a squint. “1 to 1 ½ .”
Izuku whistled around the straw. “Shit. That’s — wow.”
Silence floated between them. At some point, Izuku turned on the TV and it switched to a news channel. It’d rain for a few more days in their area. “. . . And onto other news, it’s, as many of you are aware, match day for a number of Littles and Caregivers throughout the country,” the anchorwoman smiled brightly. “Packets of match information have started being sent out as early as last week . . .”
The channel changed to an old episode of some cartoon, a show that ran when they were in elementary. Oh, what Hitoshi would give to be in elementary school again . . .
“This sucks,” he said, again, into the couch cushion.
Izuku heard him perfectly. “It does . . . but let’s look on the bright side? I mean – we don’t have to pay rent anymore!”
“I liked being an adult.” Hitoshi made a face. “Ugh—there’s no way he’ll let me stay in school or keep my job . . .”
Izuku blinked. “I mean . . . I don’t see why he wouldn’t?” Hitoshi gave it a minute. “Wait! You have to be in headspace, like . . . for a while, don’t you?”
“Packet said almost twenty-four hours,” Hitoshi sighed out. “The packet talked about traumatic backgrounds or whatever, but I – you know – threw it on the ground.”
Izuku snorted.
The cartoon switched to a pre-quirk show, something about moomins and little my’s, Hitoshi wasn’t paying attention. Quiet descended once more. Sounds of life from the outside world could be heard, untouched by the life-altering news inside Hitoshi’s apartment.
“. . . So, I guess we have to submit those forms,” Hitoshi grumbled once a commercial started. He didn’t move from his spot, though; he was too comfortable.
“Well . . . we don’t have to,” Izuku said after a deliberate pause.
Hitoshi rose an eyebrow. “Uh . . . we do, though? By Friday—at least, for me.”
A smile settled across Izuku’s face, slow and calculating. Hitoshi didn’t know what was about to happen, but he was intrigued.
Running away was surprisingly easy—for a couple of Little’s that is. Izuku knew someone, apparently, who could give them a car “under the table,” so to speak. It was a nondescript vehicle, an old model but not too old. It rattled a bit, and Hitoshi was a bit afraid whenever they hit a bump or turned too sharply, but it worked, and it worked well.
They left Musutafu post haste, once they stuffed two bags full of items they needed as well as nonperishable food items and money. Hitoshi drained most of his accounts, an act that made him wince and nearly cry, and they had cash stuffed in various places inside the car. Izuku had done the same. They were cruising down the highway, on their way to the Tottori prefecture.
Hitoshi placed his feet on the dashboard, a map sprawled open on his lap. “Let me know when you wanna switch, kay?”
Izuku took another sip of the bottle of apple juice in the cup holders. “Kay.”
It was Sunday. They’d driven most of the week and only stopped at gas stations or small motels that no one would look twice at. He stared at the distant outline of the sea and hummed around the two fingers he’d absentmindedly placed in his mouth. He wondered what they’d think of the little message he’d left in his apartment.
Hitoshi, ever the dramatic, had scrawled NO on his packet, and then placed it on his kitchen table. He knew that the department would have Eraserhead—or, well, Aizawa Shouta—be his caregiver as he hadn’t submitted the paperwork, and that when Aizawa would come to collect him from his apartment, his landlord would give him the spare key.
It’s just how those things worked.
‘Tottori has a lot of small towns,” Izuku said over the hum of noise from the highway. “Do you have a specific one?”
“Mm . . . maybe near the ocean?” Hitoshi said after a moment of thought. “It’s hit or miss with small towns, though. People gossip.”
Izuku huffed a laugh. “People always gossip.”
They decided to head to a beach town that, while beautiful, wasn’t considered a tourist hotspot. The name wrapped around Hitoshi’s tongue as he tried to pronounce it, and he tried not to be so rattled at his mispronunciation. It was normal—once Littles became aware of their official headspace, rather than what they did to momentarily calm down, it was normal to slowly sink into it and adjust.
Hitoshi hoped they were somewhere stationary before either of them dropped fully into their headspace. Muscle memory or no, no one needed a two or a one-year-old behind the wheel. On the highway.
He eyed the gas meter. “We should stop at the next exit.”
“Mmkay.”
They pulled up into a slightly abandoned looking gas station moments later. Izuku grabbed his wallet and said, “I’m going to pay and get some more snacks. Want anything?”
Hitoshi tapped his bottom lip. “Cheeto puffs.”
“Alright!”
Hitoshi stepped out of the car to stretch his legs as Izuku bounded up to the store portion of the station. He pulled out his phone and opened up a rhythm game as he waited; the cool breeze of the morning air curled around him; a bit wilder as they were getting closer to the ocean. Time escaped him briefly as he flew through two levels, and then he paused.
Because Izuku was taking way, way too long.
Hitoshi looked up—and nearly ascended into the afterlife within those few, precious seconds, at the sight of Eraserhead . . . no, of his caregiver . . . leaning against the car. Staring at him. How did Hitoshi not notice? The faint music of the level cut through the tension almost comically.
Oh, yeah.
Hitoshi got very into his rhythm games—enough so that he tended to block out his surroundings. “Um . . .,” He said after a moment, because Aizawa was just staring, arms crossed over his chest. “Can I . . .help you . . .?”
“You can,” Aizawa said and then, much to Hitoshi’s dismay, walked until he towered over Hitoshi, who hunched his shoulders and looked every except the mans’ eyes. “Start by explaining your reasonings for running away.”
Hitoshi shifted in place. “How’d . . . How’d you find me?”
“That’s not what I asked, Hitoshi,” Aizawa scolded; Hitoshi bit back a whine at the tone. “Do you understand how reckless you and Izuku were? What if one of you had dropped into your headspace while behind the wheel? You could’ve crashed.”
Hitoshi hunched into himself more, feeling small and properly scolded. “I – b-but we didn’t . . .”
“Not the point.” Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, as if to re-center himself, and then gently carded his fingers through Hitoshi’s hair. “I am glad, however, that you are both unharmed and safe, now—but I reiterate: what were you thinking?”
Hitoshi’s bottom lip threatened to wobble. He regretted asking to stop at the gas station. They should’ve hightailed it to Tottori and never looked back. “I just – we just . . .,” Hitoshi trailed off and sniffled, fingers curled tight around his phone. “Sorry. . ..”
“There will be no more running away, understand?” Aizawa waited for Hitoshi’s nod. Aizawa hummed and then, before Hitoshi could even breathe, picked him up. He was unbothered by the way Hitoshi squirmed. “Let’s get you in the car.”
“But . . .,” Hitoshi looked back at the car with a frown. “Our . . . our stuff . . .?”
“A friend of ours will drive it back.”
Said friend turned out to be a woman named Kayama Nemuri—or Midnight, as was her hero persona. She pinched Hitoshi’s cheeks lightly and cooed over how “small sweet he is.” “I’ll take good care of your car, don’t worry, honey,” Kayama winked.
Aizawa’s car looked sleek and modern—a model Hitoshi had never really cared to find out. He wasn’t that into cars, if he were honest. It was dark with tinted windows, though there was a sticker of a cat on the back windshield that Hitoshi appreciated. Aizawa opened the door, arm still wrapped firmly around Hitoshi’s waist, and—
There was Izuku, sniffling. In a car seat.
Hitoshi squirmed. “I don’ – I don’ need a . . .,” He closed his mouth at the sight of Aizawa’s stern expression.
“You’re going in the car seat, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said. “No exceptions.”
Hitoshi shared a dismayed look with Izuku as he got buckled in. Aizawa allowed him to keep his phone, but the man wouldn’t budge nor compromise when Hitoshi insisted that he didn’t need the pacifier. “I noticed that you like to suck on your fingers, and they have germs,” the man had said. “You’re using the pacifier.”
Hitoshi pouted around the bulb. Aizawa looked unimpressed, but Hitoshi was beginning to think that was his normal expression.
“Well~, is that our littlest listener?”
Hitoshi looked in the other direction of Present Mic’s—Yamada’s—smiling face. His favorite heroes were on thin ice. Yamada only chuckled warmly at the reception and plopped the plastic bag of items on the passenger side seat. That was another thing: Aizawa sat in between Hitoshi and Izuku.
“Now then~!” Yamada turned on the car. The radio flicked on to some generic pop song. “Let’s head home, yeah? Buckle in, babies, it’ll take a bit before we reach the home studio~.”
Hitoshi shared another glance with Izuku.
Oh, joy.