Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started because of a surprise house visit from a social worker.

No—that wasn’t exactly correct.

It started because three days before Hitoshi and his mother were scheduled to visit his brother (he had reached a point in his sentence where he could receive visitors), a prison riot had erupted through the facility and Hitoshi’s brother lost the privilege to see them due to his part in the situation. His mother muttered something about it being expected from “those dirty genes of your fathers’” after they received the phone call and locked herself in the room for the rest of the evening, a bottle of wine in her hands.

The atmosphere changed after that; shifted in a direction Hitoshi couldn’t comprehend.

Not in the sense that his mother laid her hands on him—she’d actually have to interact with Hitoshi for that to happen—but in the sense that she had disappeared overnight. Like Hitoshi’s father. Like his brother.

(Hitoshi waited, breath in his throat, for Aizawa and Yamada to do the same. Everyone always left Hitoshi behind; it was a fact as simple and accepted as the sun was hot.)

Her presence existed in the house, still—in the way Hitoshi would wake to new items in the trash or the sound of her reversing out of the driveway or the clank of empty bottles as he dragged the trash to the curb on Thursdays—but she drifted through in a barely-there manner. Her responses to his messages, while before had been answered in brief emojis or short sentences, dwindled to the marker read at [time].

Hitoshi told himself he didn’t care. He insisted he was used to the behavior. Aizawa and Yamada tried to talk to him about his homelife, about why he’d stopped bringing lunch to school or why his stomach grumbled painfully during the days they had morning training. His friends asked why the circles around his eyes were so deep, so purplish, when Hitoshi insisted that he slept for at least seven hours a night.

Recovery Girl pulled him into the office to discuss the way his cheeks slowly sunk into his face. His mother had stopped leaving him money, and he didn’t think he was old enough for a bank account. “You’re not getting the nutrients that you need, as both a Little and a teenage boy, to survive,” she had said in a tone that was both gentle and blistering to Hitoshi’s ears. “Is there anything you’d like for me to know? Are you ill, Shinsou-kun?”

Their questions received the same answer: a smile and a, “I’m alright. Everything’s fine.”

Everything was fine.

(It wasn’t.)

The weeks trudged on as if they were unaware Hitoshi’s life crumbled to his ears. He lost sense of time as he tried to cope with his mothers’ biting absence. He knew she hadn’t completely abandoned him—rent and utilities were paid by the due date, and sometimes a container of her favorite foods ended up in the fridge; the liquor cabinet remained stocked—but it was if she were ghost.

Nonexistent.   

While she had always been distant, it’d never been to an extent like this. Hitoshi floated between unbothered by the turn of events or feeling as though he were about to burst (into sobs, into rage, he didn’t know) whenever her car failed to return each night. His mother wouldn’t spend her nights in a hotel. She was most likely sleeping in her office.

Hitoshi stared at an old family photo a month and a half into her behavior. He’d have to get ready for bed soon—midterm exams were around the corner, and Hitoshi heard murmurs of an exciting summer camp for the first years; he wanted to be rested enough that he didn’t fail immediately—but he’d paused when the blue of his fathers’ favorite sweater (at least, that’s what his mother told him) caught his eye.

He stared at the outline of his fathers’ face, at the shape of his eyes, at the curved cheekbones. Resemblance was there, easy to see for those who knew where to look—but Hitoshi also looked a fair bit like his mother. He wondered which parent his mother saw more whenever she’d stared at him. But—well. He’d never know.

His brother looked like their father. Maybe that was why he’d left Hitoshi alone so early in his life? The sharp cry of his ringtone floated in the air, pulling Hitoshi from his somber thoughts. He stared at the Caller ID with a blank expression.

Osaka Prison.

Hitoshi reached for the phone. His thumb hovered over the green answer button, but he paused. He didn’t know why.

The number for his brothers’ prison called again. Guilt swallowed Hitoshi alive as he listened to the ringtone fade, an old song he remembered to be his brothers’ favorite. He was horrible. He was so, so horrible. Perhaps his mother had the better idea, one his brother would soon see. His father had received it first when he stepped out “for toilet paper” and hadn’t returned when he promised.

Everyone left Hitoshi.

It was only a matter of time.

A bubble of hysterical sobs (or was it laughter? He didn’t know) pressed against the column of his throat. His breath hitched and shivered as he crumbled the photo between his fingers. A part of him hissed to rip it to pieces, that happy family would never exist again. Another part murmured of how his mother would feel to see it destroyed.

Hitoshi didn’t care. He did. The photo fluttered to the ground, slightly mangled but whole, and Hitoshi wrapped his arms around his waist. He was on the floor. When had he slipped to the floor? His stomach clenched around his insides as his ribcage splintered in half. It felt as though someone carved him open and replaced his organs with rotten weeds.

Cheeks damp from the tears that fell, Hitoshi tried to breathe. At least, he consoled himself as sobs bubbled from his mouth, no one could hear him. He was alone. He could fall apart in the quiet of his house all he’d like, and not worry about bothering anyone with his noise.

(He knew it wasn’t right.)

He hiccupped around icy breaths and rose on wavering feet. His thoughts whirled as if they were a caged animal. Emotions flurried in what remained of his scattered lungs. He drifted toward the kitchen before he recognized he’d moved. He needed . . . He wanted . . .

To forget. To be numbed.

It was an easy task in his household. His mother would do it all the time. She used to get to such a state away from Hitoshi’s presence, but then the police had dragged his brother off in anti-quirk handcuffs, bearing a sickly green tattoo of a skeletal sun beneath the early morning sky, before Hitoshi could finish his breakfast.  

Hitoshi gave the row of alcohol a bleary stare. He hadn’t realized . . . how much alcohol his mother had collected over the years. He didn’t know where to begin. Most of them had names that wrapped around his tongue when he tried to pronounce them. Most weren’t even in Japanese.

He chose a bottle at random and stared at it. The label cheerfully explained its’ contents and alcoholic percentage. Most of the script was in English, but he knew what vodka was. He uncapped the bottle and brought it to his lips.

His mother wouldn’t care.

(your mothers’ scream of rage echoes down the hall as she argues with your father; you are two and tiny and your brothers’ hands are cold as they clamp around your ears. You tell him you are scared, he tells you it’ll be okay, because he was there. you ask where your father is, he tells you don’t worry about that piece of shit.)

It started when he—

(you are five and your quirk ripples off your tongue by accident. your brother buys you a piece of strawberry cake to celebrate even though you’ve ruined his uniform with your tears about how your classmates called you villain and kicked sand in your eyes at recess.)

It started when—

(you are seven and terrified and half-asleep, still, as men you don’t know force your enraged brother into metal bands. he screams at you to look away, to eat your food, but you stare wide-eyed at the procession leading to cars that flash bright, bright lights. a tattoo smiles at you from your brother’s lower arms; you will learn what it means from a gap-toothed bully who spits out that the police should’ve taken you, too.)

It started—

(you are nine. nine and blistering with a metaphorical muzzle on your mouth. you do not speak. you do not laugh. your peers have stamped out everything in you. your mother laughs over a cup of something that smells fruit and spoiled and rolls her eyes when you don’t go play with the others. something builds and presses inside of you as the adults’ usher you toward the playground and ignore the shakes of your head that no you don’t want to, but no one listens to you ever, and they won’t start now. a cloying, milky scent seeps from you as a girl who lives four doors down stomps and huffs and says i don’t wanna play with a villain and sobs burst from your chest. it is the beginning of an end.)

It—

(you are fifteen and a letter addressed to you comes in the mail. general education, it declares; only twenty villain points. not enough, but it’ll do. the sports festival is where you will shine and declare to the world that shinsou hitoshi will be a hero and will claw into the course with bloodied nails if you must. your brother is elated at the news, glad that you did not spiral down his path, and laughs warmly when you cry through the receiver and whine that it meant he couldn’t tease you anymore.)

Beams of sunlight seared holes in his mind when he woke. A pained groan slipped out of his mouth as his head felt as though one of the neighborhood children used it as a baseball. He opened a bleary eye and saw that he had three minutes before his alarm. He turned it off—he didn’t want to think about how it’d make his head feel—and stared at the ceiling.

His head ached. Cotton balls were perched in his mouth. He wanted to roll back over and sleep. His stomach rolled at the thought of having to go to school and interact with others—people who’d be concerned and worried and would pry if Hitoshi showed up looking even more like a zombie than he usually did.

A grimace danced on his lips, and he made an executive decision. He texted his mother that he’d woken up sick and would stay home. She read the message two minutes later and didn’t respond, but Hitoshi was in too much pain to care. He rolled out of his bed and plodded to the bathroom where he washed his face, used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then fell back into bed.

When he woke again, the sun rose higher in the sky and his grumbling stomach pulled him out of his covers. As he checked his phone, he saw it was almost two in the afternoon. He didn’t have any messages or warnings of alleged truancy, so he assumed his mother had called him in sick.

His feet didn’t make a sound as he padded to the kitchen.

He scowled as he surveyed his fridge. He’d needed to get groceries—in staggered increments, of course, so that he could say an excuse about “doing errands” to curious neighbors—but he’d forgotten, drowned in homework and training that he was, and didn’t want to explain to Aizawa or Yamada why he needed to stop at a grocery store.

At why his mother wasn’t the one buying groceries.

All he had in the fridge were eggs three days away from their expiration date, some milk, and his mothers’ cherries. He hummed in thought as he eyed the eggs and then his gaze drifted to the stove. His sigh floated in the air.

The thing was—Hitoshi hadn’t used the stove before.

When his brother was around, he’d utilized the device. He had vague memories of his mother cooking, but that ceased when she had gotten promoted, and now she ordered from a local restaurant whenever she bothered to show up for dinner, nose always crinkling at Hitoshi’s prepacked food. Hitoshi existed solely on store bought foods, and he couldn’t buy those in bulk.

Too many questions. Too many eyes.  

While he could try and use the stove, he didn’t want to risk it. The last thing he needed right now was to explain to a firefighter why he’d set his kitchen aflame at two in the afternoon when, technically, he was supposed to be in class.

He sighed and rifled through his bag for his wallet. He didn’t want to leave the house, but stomach twisted uncomfortably. If he didn’t eat something, he . . . he didn’t know what he’d do, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

People, aside from the elderly and unemployed, were cooped up at work or school at such a time, and Hitoshi barely saw anyone on his short trek to the a nearby store. The clerk rose an eyebrow at his presence—Hitoshi vaguely knew her as one of his seniors back when he was a first year in middle school, and vaguely remembered the rumors that talked about her dropping out mid-semester of high school—but didn’t comment as he bought the items he needed.

“Hey, kid?” she called to his back, and he turned with a blank expression. He wondered what she saw when she stared at him, when she thought of what she knew of the Shinsou household. “Take care, okay?”

What would you do, Hitoshi had once thought in response to another cashier’s expression. He didn’t know why those words floated through his mind now. If I said I wasn’t?

He nodded in response and made haste to get back to his house. He didn’t waste time in consuming the bento once he heated it in the microwave. He swallowed it down amid pleased hums. He chewed through majority of the meal, stomach satisfied now that there was something in it, and considered the merit of some formula.

Then he caught a whiff of his body odor grimaced. Actually, a shower—

A noise stopped him in his tracks. No. Not a noise.

A knock. On his front door.

While he was, at the very least, some degree of hungover. Another knock persisted. Hitoshi groaned in slight annoyance and shuffled to the front door. Was it the annoying soccer team of elementary kids across the street? The woman next door who always stared at Hitoshi whenever he grabbed the mail? Or was it—

A social worker.

It was a fucking social worker.

He stumbled away from the door, biting back a surprised gasp. A social worker had visited his house once, back when his brother had been arrested, and it was an experience he didn’t want to repeat. A glare of sunlight from the woman’s car poked through the curtain and whipped through his brain.

“Shinsou-kun? My name is Miya Aoi, and I’m a social worker assigned to students in accredited hero programs.” She knocked again. “I can hear you breathing, hon. Could you let me inside, please?”

Oh, god.

He was hungover and someone from social services (child services?) was at his front door.

Fuck.

He took a deep, grounding breath. His fingers trembled around the doorknob as he twisted it and opened the front door to a death sentence. He tried to smile. He knew he failed. “H-Hello,” he greeted the woman. 

Double fuck.

She gave him a kind smile as she stepped through the door. “It’ll be a simple walkthrough,” Miya assured him gently as she sensed (and smelled) his anxiety. “I’ll be out of your hair after I ask a few questions and walk around, okay?”

“O-Okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Everything was okay. Hitoshi was going to die.

The questions were started slow. Miya asked him about school and UA’s program, about his friends and his mentorship with Aizawa. Once Hitoshi relaxed, she began the serious questions: was his mother home? Was she out? Did he know how long she’d be gone? How long were her typical work hours? When was the last time he’d seen her?

Hitoshi, though uncomfortable, answered as honestly as he could. He knew it painted a terrible picture, but a part of him didn’t care. He didn’t know what her quirk was. He’d heard there was someone who worked close with the government that had a truth quirk; it could be hers, who knew. She walked around his house slowly, eyes observing every crevice.

She asked to open his fridge after she glanced at the bento on the table. Hitoshi didn’t want her to, but knew it’d look – not good if he said no. At the lack of food in the fridge, she asked him who was responsible for groceries. When was the last time he’d gone grocery shopping?

Stop talking. Please.

“Odd that your mother isn’t here,” Miya commented in a light tone. “Today’s her day off, correct?”

Hitoshi stayed quiet.

She asked to see the rest of the house, and Hitoshi gave her a tour and wished she’d leave. Was she looking for something specific? Blood stains? Crumbled bandages in the bathroom? They bypassed his bedroom, and she paused.

“. . . Are you comfortable with me looking inside your room?”

Hitoshi gave her the all clear. The sooner she finished her investigation, the quicker she’d leave him alone.

Her hand pressed against the door and opened it further. He hoped it’d be a cursory observance and knew, very well, that it wouldn’t be.

Wait.

Hitoshi had a heart attack at the ripe age of fifteen and two quarters. He had forgotten, momentarily, about the reason why he’d stayed home.

Her eyes trailed over his room, and he wondered what she thought about it. Did she see that it was lived in? Did she notice his poster and pictures of friends littering one wall in a collage? Did she see the laundry he’d yet to do (he needed to buy more soap)? His uniform crumbled on the floor. Hitoshi’s breath ghosted the air, anxiety rising, as she seemed intent on seeing how he lived.

And then—

“Oh.”

Her gaze landed on the bottle he couldn’t hide. His muscles seized with frazzled nerves. He couldn’t even think about the way his scent soured. He never bothered with scent patches at home, but he wished he’d slapped one on before he opened the door. “. . . That yours, Hitoshi-chan?”

Something told him it’d be unpleasant if he lied. In some form, she reminded him of Aizawa. “Y-Yes,” he responded quietly, but his voice ricocheted between them. “Um. I. Um.”

“Do you drink often?” Her gaze landed back on him. He wished to be a potted plant. “Does your mother provide you with alcohol?”

“I – this was my first time,” he mumbled out. “I—and she d-doesn’t.”

“Then. Where. Did you come across the alcohol?”

Is she related to sensei? Hitoshi wouldn’t be surprised if she was. He couldn’t smell her classification; his own senses were drowned in spoiled strawberries.

A whine pressed against his teeth. Hitoshi swallowed it down. “I . . .,” He pressed his toe against the floorboards. “. . . she drinks.”

“Oh?” The social worker looked at him as though he were translucent wallpaper. Did those exist? Focus, Hitoshi! “And how . . . often does she drink, do you know?”

Hitoshi shrugged. “Not – Not really.”

A clicked tongue. “Can you remember a time your mother hadn’t drank? Or wasn't drunk?”

Hitoshi chewed on his bottom lip. He stared at a chipped piece of the wall. Suddenly, it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. “I . . . I don’t . . .?” He swallowed around a piece of glass in his throat. “I can’t.”

“I see.” She gave him a tight smile. His stomach gnawed his intestines. “Now, Shinsou-kun . . . do you think you could pack a bag for me?”

 Fuck.

“—had been doing what?”

Uh oh. Uh oh.

Too many things were happening at once. Hitoshi hadn’t even had a fucking shower yet, Christ. After he’d packed a duffel bag with items that he thought he’d need, laundry included, and made sure he had his school belongings, Miya had ushered him inside her car. She’d pulled up to the familiar sight of Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment within the hour.

It was an old law only taken advantage of when it was needed—and Hitoshi didn’t think about the implications that his circumstances called for it—but Littles could be removed from their current household and placed into the custody of a licensed caregiver if they were in an environment deemed unhealthy for their development.

Hitoshi . . . was tired. His phone buzzed in his pocket. The Bakusquad were wishing him a well recovery and informing him of “the funniest shit” that he’d missed during lunch. Bakugo, predictably, shouted at everyone to shut the hell up n stop blwing up my fucking phone.

The couple was home and while Yamada seemed surprised to see him, Aizawa . . . looked expectant. Hitoshi had a feeling the man knew about the surprise visit (he wouldn’t be surprised if he or Nezu pulled strings to make said visit take place). A part of Hitoshi wanted to scream as he and Miya huddled in the kitchen for a discussion that Yamada clearly thought he didn’t need to hear, pulling him into the living room to “watch some funky toons~, yeah?”

Hitoshi didn’t want to watch cartoons.

He wanted a shower. He wanted his mother to be a mother. He wanted his brother to be released from prison. He wanted to remember the sound of his fathers’ voice. He wanted—to stop fucking crying, goddamn. Ever since his mother dispersed as if she were a rare eclipse, his emotions stumbled out of control and he didn’t like it.

Maybe it was because Hitoshi was Little. Maybe the consequence of years of neglect reared its’ head when Hitoshi wanted otherwise.

“Aww, hey, it’s okay.” Yamada brushed light fingers against the curve of Hitoshi’s cheeks. “What’s with the tears, baby?”

Hitoshi hiccupped around another sob. He rubbed his eyes and sniffled. He didn’t care. (He did.) Everything was fine. (It wasn’t.) Yamada rubbed his back in a soothing manner, and Hitoshi melted against his side.

God. He wanted a nap.

(He wanted a funeral.)

Miya stepped out of the kitchen and gave Hitoshi a warm smile. A part of Hitoshi wanted to hate her existence. Most of Hitoshi was just – tired. “You’ll be in the custody of Aizawa-san and Yamada-san, Shinsou-kun,” she informed him, and he’d felt the smallest of jerks from Yamada as he digested the news. “I’ll let you know if anything new develops, okay?”

Hitoshi wanted to ask about his mother. About the things he’d left behind. “Alright,” he said instead. Hitoshi never said what he wanted.

Aizawa walked Miya to the door while Yamada carded fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. “You’ve been through quite a bit today, hmm?” Hitoshi let out a murmured hum as he pressed closer to Yamada’s warmth. How long had it been since he’d been held like this? A while.

It’d been a while.

Yamada sniffed once, twice. Hitoshi knew what the man would say even before he opened his eyes. The click of the front door did nothing to smother the disbelieving, “Are you drunk, Hitoshi?”

Hitoshi pressed hands against his temple as he heard Aizawa’s footsteps. “No, ‘m not drunk,” he insisted, and then burst into tears as the stress of his entire life, aggravated by the evening events, crashed down on his shoulders.

(. . . He was turning into Midoriya with all these tears.)

He received a lecture from Aizawa that still made his ears ring when he thought about it. They’d acknowledged his hangover (and Aizawa verbally raking him over hot coal) was a fitting enough punishment for his first (and last) bought of underage drinking, but Yamada made Hitoshi write a five-paragraph essay about why fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t drink away their problems.

In English.

Living with Aizawa and Yamada full-time was—interesting. A part of him loved it. Another was neutral. And the part of Hitoshi that hosted his smothered, festering anger loathed that he’d been taken away from the only place that he’d shared with his family, however shattered said unit might be.

No one explained what happened with his mother. Had she been arrested? Was she fined? Did Hitoshi’s insistence that she’d never laid a hand on him ease whatever sentence that incurred? Aizawa had explained they didn’t want to stress Hitoshi out (which stressed him out more), and Yamada would deflect his questions with either another question or a game or an activity that’d make him focus on something else.

They clearly handled him with baby gloves, and while he felt warm at being so cared for, indignation bubbled across his skin at every deflection. He wanted to know. He had the right to know what happened to his mother. His house.

Aside from that mess (and, really, it could only be called that), Aizawa had informed Hitoshi he’d see a therapist. Hitoshi didn’t want to do that—he barely talked about his problems enough as it was . . . how could he speak to a stranger?—but the man hadn’t budged. Hitoshi’s therapist was a kind doctoral student with an empathy quirk.  

. . . He liked him, and the sessions were nice, but it wasn’t the point.

The point was that Hitoshi didn’t need to be handled with children’s gloves. His classification was Little, yes—but Hitoshi barely sunk into his headspace. He existed firmly in the threshold of fifteen, and perhaps, there was a problem with that, but he didn’t care. The point was that Aizawa and Yamada made decisions for him and refused to see that Hitoshi didn’t need their stifling guidance.

(The point was that Hitoshi had people who cared about him, had people who waited for him to step through the door at the end of the day, who refused to see him spiral into places he couldn’t return from, and Hitoshi didn’t know how to handle that.)

The point was that Hitoshi was crackling at the seams, and he’d appreciate some space.

They had updated the house rules as Hitoshi was no longer under their care temporarily (and that stung, when his mentor had been given permanent custody of Hitoshi yet no one thought to ask him first or tell him about his mother), and established firm boundaries between each other as parent and child rather than hero and student.

Hitoshi loved it. He hated it. He couldn’t tell you what he’d felt even when he woke up to what he considered a “good day.”

He knew how Aizawa and Yamada existed as his teachers, his mentors, but he didn’t have a clue about them as parents. As his parents. He did what any Little (or teen, really) in his shoes would do—test the shit out of those boundaries.

He had the vague inkling they were aware of his actions, but as they’d yet to tell Hitoshi to stop his behavior, he’d drag his toes across that line as many times as he could. Most of the rules he’d broken were light, and the punishments that followed were understandable. Lines in English was Yamada’s favorite punishment; Aizawa liked to lecture and make sure he understood where his behavior went wayward.

There were a few times he’d receive warning swats. Hitoshi always pulled his behavior back before he’d done something to tip into a full spanking. He remembered his time over Aizawa’s lap during internships. He’d like to leave that memory in the past.

(Hitoshi was, he knew, an utter fool.)

The weekend approached with a flourish, and Hitoshi wanted to do nothing more than curl up in his covers and sleep. Aizawa, however, had other plans. Hitoshi woke on Saturday morning in a pleasant mood that plummeted when Aizawa informed him to work on his homework assignments after he ate and showered. Yamada had left before Hitoshi woke for an emergency PR meeting at his radio station, so it was just the two of them.

Hitoshi wanted to snarl that he didn’t need to be handheld through the day. He knew he had homework, so of course, he’d complete it, but now he wanted to wait until the last minute. Wanted to scribble his answers before the bell rang while Iida ranted about time management like he did whenever he’d see Kaminari or Ashido with incomplete worksheets.

Irritation frothed in the back of his throat. A part of him was pissed. Another part of him was sad that he bottled such rage. Another part seemed terrified at the level of negativity Hitoshi festered in the dark corners of his mind.

His phone buzzed with a message. Kaminari wanted to hang out—but Aizawa had given him a no-nonsense look over his cup of coffee when he informed Hitoshi to complete his assignments. He would be checking soon, to make sure Hitoshi wasn’t distracting himself on his phone.

He tapped out a regretful cant aizawa wants me to do hw :/. Kaminari replied with a cheeky jump outta the window my dude!!!

Hitoshi chewed on his bottom lip. Was he actually considering it? He eyed the window. While he’d, like, die if he jumped out . . .

There was a fire escape . . .

His anxiety screamed that it was a terrible idea, that he’d be over Aizawa’s or Yamada’s lap faster than he could breathe. The rebellious part of him, that slow-burning rage over his hand at life, over being treated like an infant when he’d been independent (read: neglected, but they don’t talk about that) his entire life, encouraged him.

Live, it said. Go be a reckless teen for once in your life!

(Hitoshi ignored that he had acted like a reckless teenager once and received a vicious hangover for it. Some things just didn’t need to be pointed out in the heat of the moment.)

Decision made, Hitoshi took a few breaths and responded fine, b there soon. Kaminari immediately sent back an address and a flurry of heart emojis and a pls use fire escape dnt die. Hitoshi picked up his homework sheets and made his way to where Aizawa was, the man seated on the couch with a book. He looked up at the sound of Hitoshi’s feet.

“Need help?” Aizawa asked, his voice gentle and warm, but it made a part of Hitoshi bristle. God, that part of his mind seethed. Will they ever treat me like a teen?

“I’m finished,” Hitoshi responded and strove to ignore that part of mind for now. Those were thoughts to have when he wasn’t, you know, within five feet of his guardian. “Um. Can – Can I take a nap?”

Aizawa’s eyebrow rose, and he held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Hitoshi handed the papers over with little protest, but a cold rage settled deep in his bones. Why couldn’t they trust his word? Did they find Hitoshi so untrusting that they didn’t believe him over homework? Did they, like his mother, found him so unloving

“Looking good,” Aizawa commented as he sifted through Hitoshi’s homework. “I don’t see any mistakes . . . do you want a bottle?”

Hitoshi blinked. “What?”

“A bottle,” Aizawa echoed with a pinched brow. He set Hitoshi’s papers on the coffee table with a narrow-eyed gaze that made Hitoshi feel exposed. “Would you like one for your nap?”

“N-No, I’m okay,” Hitoshi smiled around the lie. His stomach squirmed. His anxiety begged to inform Aizawa of his plans the punishment would be lighter don’t you understand. God, he was an awful child. No wonder they didn’t trust him. “I’ll, uh. See you.”

He hid a wince at his awkwardness.

Aizawa stared.

“Hitoshi.” Fuck, FUCK. A squeak slipped out of Hitoshi’s mouth in response. Aizawa leaned his hands on his knees and tensed as if to stand. “What’s wrong?”

Hitoshi waved his hands in front of him. “N-Nothing, sensei. Really.”

Aizawa looked unimpressed at his deflection. Hitoshi wanted to burrow under the ground. “Very well,” his mentor said after a moment. “Enjoy your nap. I’m here if you need me, okay?”

Hitoshi nodded and almost broke his neck. He returned to his room amid the warm chuckles that floated from Aizawa’s mouth. He closed his door with a quiet click and breathed around the nerves wrapped tight in his throat. He double-checked that he had his phone and wallet (what if something happened, and they needed his ID to identify him?) before he reached for the window.

He almost tore through his bottom lip as he worried it. His fingers trembled on the clasp that would unlock the window. His breath fogged the glass. Kaminari sent another message—he was on the way and excited to see his “fam” over the weekend.

“You can do this,” Hitoshi murmured. “Just—for an hour, tops, and then come back.” That said, he nodded, pumped his fist, and opened the window. His heart yanked at his ribcage at the creak that cracked through the room like a gunshot. His breath paused as he listened for Aizawa’s voice or feet. Neither came forth. He opened the window the rest of the way.

Vigorous energy rippled through his veins as he slipped onto the fire escape. He had six flights to walk down, and he couldn’t waste any second. He closed the window nearly all the way, making sure there was just enough space left for him to comfortably put his hands, and made his way down the fire escape.

Oh, god, Hitoshi thought as he stepped out on the sidewalk. Oh, god, I should – I should . . . He should turn around and go back up the fire escape. He should call Aizawa and apologize. He should—

His phone pinged. Kaminari.

u on th way?

Hitoshi’s breath crawled with nerves as he forced his feet to move. He responded that he had just left his house and was a few short minutes away. Can’t stay long, he added after a pause. Only for like an hour, I think.

no problemo, Kaminari responded.

The address Kaminari gave him led to a retro-themed diner. As he entered, the bright flash of Kaminari’s hair grasped his attention. He was nestled in a corner booth and furiously tapping away at a rhythm game as he waited for Hitoshi’s appearance. Hitoshi thought he’d appreciate the cutely decorated diner a bit more if his anxiety weren’t currently stringing his organs off the Eiffel tower.

“Hey.”

“Shinbro~!” Kaminari grinned, and then, snickering: “How was the fire escape?”

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.”

“I do my best—anyway, you gotta try their milkshakes,” Kaminari insisted as Hitoshi slid into the booth in front of him. “I’d live on them, if I could.”

“There’s nothing stopping you,” Hitoshi pointed out as his eyes scanned the menu. Most of the food items were adorable puns. Cute.

“Please.” Kaminari snorted. “Bakugo would, like, kill me.”

Hitoshi opened his mouth to rebuff the statement, considered what he knew to be true as Bakugo settled into his classification and narrowed in on Kaminari with a laser-eyed focus, and said, “Yeah . . . he would.”

“And then he’d go after you for putting the idea in my mind,” Kaminari teased and then laughed at the grimace on Hitoshi’s lips. “So! Besides your little rebellion, what’ve you been up to?”

Conversated halted as a waitress appeared to take their order. Kaminari asked for a chocolate milkshake and a plate of fries. Hitoshi ordered their strawberry milkshake. He wasn’t sure if he could stomach actual food at the moment.

“Oh, you know,” he responded to the question and shredded a napkin into long stripes. “This and that.”

“Oh?” Kaminari leaned forward. “Tell your big brother all about it!”

His heart panged. He through a few napkin bits at Kaminari. “You’re a real comedian, aren’t you?” He rolled his eyes and chuckled at the burst of Kaminari’s snickers. “What about you? Why’d you call me out?”

“Because I haven’t seen you in, like forever,” Kaminari explained with a quiet huff. “I was getting withdrawal, dude!”

Hitoshi stared. “. . . I’m not responding to that.”

“Rude!”

Their milkshakes (and Kaminari’s fries that he immediately drowned in ketchup and mayo, like the uncultured heathen that he was) arrived quickly. Hitoshi took a hesitant sip and made a surprised noise at the taste.

“Told you!” Kaminari slapped the tabletop lightly. “Amazing, right?”

Hitoshi didn’t regret sneaking out.

His anxiety said something about the calm before the storm, but the pleasant mood he’d fallen back into ignored it. Conversation was light and humorful between them. Kaminari showed him some memes, a few of them about cats, from his phone, and ranted about a few things his “asshole sister” had done a few days ago while Hitoshi nodded and hummed around the straw in his mouth.

(His phone buzzed once, buzzed twice. He pretended he couldn’t hear it over the chatter of the diner.)

There was a brief pause, and Kaminari gave Hitoshi a gaze that wouldn’t look out of place on a cat half a breath away from pouncing on its’ prey.

Here it comes, his anxiety whispered.

“So~.” Hitoshi didn’t like that drawl of Kaminari’s voice. “Like I know you said you gotta be back home in, what, an hour, right?”

“. . . Yeah.” Hitoshi gave Kaminari a wary stare. “What . . . do you wanna do?”

Kaminari’s grin sparked mischief. Hitoshi wondered what he was getting himself into, and if it were too late to beg for forgiveness. It was. That train had abandoned the station the moment Hitoshi lied right to Aizawa’s face.

He was in so much trouble.

“Wanna get baked?”

It started because the people in Hitoshi’s life would disappear overnight. It started because people who were supposed to love him and care for him carved holes in his chest and memories, and then wondered why he was so messed up and behaved the way he did, ignoring the knowledge that their actions were the root cause of his problems.

It started because Hitoshi is two, five, seven, nine and his world is in pieces.

Hitoshi had never been high before.

No one would let the class Little anywhere near the alcohol and drugs that high schoolers swore were a traditional “teen experience.” He didn’t care that he’d been excluded from those activities, used to the peer ostracization that he was. Besides, he’d heard rumors that some drugs heightened anxiety—and Hitoshi was anxious sober. He didn’t need to get high and feel even worse.

He’d talk to his mother if he wanted to be miserable.

Oh, wait.

He couldn’t do that anymore.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Hitoshi had said when Kaminari rolled and lighted a blunt. His palms sweated with nerves; his heart threatened to stop.

“Don’t worry~,” Kaminari had grinned. “Let Denki-sensei teach you all he knows about our lady and savior, Ms. THC.”

He floated yet was oddly heavy. Kaminari agreed with him and they spent a good moment whispering theories about being secret astronauts that somehow shifted into conspiracy theories about Bakugo being a secret shape-shifter who had gone to upend the structured chaos of the world.

Kaminari had the idea to ask him about it. Hitoshi was too high to recognize that uh no, he fucking shouldn’t.

“Baku-chan, Baku-chan~,” Kaminari spoke into the phone. “Are you secretly a Pomeranian shape-shifter from outer space?”

Hitoshi snickered as Bakugo’s furious voice crackled through the receiver. “What the ACTUAL FUCK are you talking about?” Bakugo paused for a moment and then asked, in a tone that made Sober Hitoshi wave red caution flags. High Hitoshi feigned obliviousness. “Are you . . . Are you HIGH, Kaminari?”

Giggles poured out of Kaminari’s mouth as he flopped onto the grass. “No~. You’re high.”

Hitoshi thought it was hilarious shit and laughed. He slapped his hand on the grass, snickers pouring into the air. “You look like a worm,” he informed Kaminari, who cackled at the supposedly amusing imagery. “Like a – Like a wriggly little thing.”

Kaminari wiggled his toes. “I am a wriggly little thing.”

Hitoshi echoed an agreement, and then startled when Bakugo’s sharp voice reminded him that they weren’t alone.  

“Who the—Shinsou?”

Hitoshi brought the phone to his mouth, a move that made Sober Hitoshi scream in frustration, and chirped, “Hi, Kacchan~.”

“What the fuck,” Bakugo said. “What the fuck.”

Another voice floated from the other end, muffled and deeper. Sober Hitoshi placed his head in his hands and wept at the sound of whoever spoke, but High Hitoshi couldn’t see the problem. It was probably an employee, right?

“Hi, Hitoshi-chan~!” Hitoshi blinked at Yamada’s voice. It made his stomach curdle for reasons he couldn’t think of. “Having fun?”

Hitoshi tilted his head. “Uh huh.”

“Sensei?” Kaminari gasped and pressed against Hitoshi’s side as if to get closer to the phone. “Hi, sensei~! Wait, which sensei are you? Aizawa-sensei?” He paused, and his quirk gently crackled over his skin for a moment. “Ha, that tickled.”

“It’s Yamada-sensei~,” Yamada responded after a pause. “Hey, kiddo, can you tell me your location?”

Hitoshi and Kaminari blinked in tandem. “What?” Hitoshi asked. Kaminari poked a ladybug with a stick. “Our – our what?”

There was a distant “what the actual fuck did they have” from Bakugo, but Yamada’s voice drowned it out. “Where are you, sweetie?” he asked. It didn’t sound like a question, but a demand. Sober Hitoshi sent a prayer for his bottom.  

“Dunno,” Hitoshi admitted. “Ask Denki.”

“Can you put Denki-kun~ on the phone, please?”

Hitoshi acquiesced to the demand and handed Kaminari the phone, who accepted and pressed it against his ear. His voice was a breathy, “Hi~! You’ve reached Denki-kun~! Who is this?” Then, when Yamada spoke, Kaminari gasped. “Sensei! Like, Aizawa-sensei? I dunno . . . you’re kinda scary.”

Amusement curled in Hitoshi’s veins. Aizawa was pretty scary.

Yamada spoke again and Kaminari hummed. He chirped out where they were and let the phone fall onto the floor. “Ne, Hitoshi, do you want another blunt?”

There was an echoed “NO!” from the phone, and Hitoshi blinked. He pointed in the general direction of said phone, and said, “The grass said no.”

Kaminari nodded. “You should always listen to what the grass says.”

By the time Yamada and Bakugo stomped into view, some few minutes or so later, a bit more awareness sunk into Hitoshi’s bones. His blood turned into a portable ice machine as he observed Yamada’s expression—he’d never seen the man look . . . so pissed; a cold rage that made him almost expressionless.

There were other flashes of emotion, too—enough that it made a part of Hitoshi wonder if today would be the day he saw the man cry.

Kaminari whistled low in his throat. “We fucked up.”

“Rest in peace,” Hitoshi mumbled right before the two stopped to a halt before them. He gave them a slow blink. “Hi.”

Kaminari burst out in giggles. “Kacchan, is that hair gel?” Somehow, the thought of Bakugo using hair gel was the funniest shit to Kaminari. “You use hair gel?”

Bakugo gritted his teeth, and he seemed impossibly tall as he towered over Kaminari. Did he have a growth spurt in two days? “Where. Are Your. Things.”

Sober Hitoshi blared kill bill sirens. Bakugo wasn’t even cursing. Yamada picked up Hitoshi’s items without a word and held a tight grip on Hitoshi’s hand. Bakugo looked half a breath away from incinerating Kaminari’s hair as the giggly blond sprawled over his shoulders with a giggled, “whey~” even though he hadn’t gone brain dead from quirk use.

Sober Hitoshi snorted at its’ sight and said something about if he’s not Little, I’ll eat dirt, and it made High Hitoshi sniffle because he didn’t want to eat dirt. It was gross, and held bugs, and who knew the bacteria that lived in soil?

Yamada’s thumb brushed the back of Hitoshi’s hand as they walked. “Hmm?” he said, and there was something – off about his voice. A bundled pile of emotions that Hitoshi was currently too indisposed to make sense of. “What’s wrong? High wearing off?”

“No,” said Hitoshi. He blinked back slight tears. “Don’ wanna eat dirt.”

Yamada paused for a moment, and then a warm chuckle floated between them. “Baby, no one’s gonna make you eat dirt, ‘kay?”

Hitoshi squinted at him. “Promise?”

“I promise, honey.”  Yamada lightly swung their hands. His expression was a touch lighter than before. “Cross my heart, hope to die, and everything~.”

Hitoshi burst into tears and sputtered something about not wanting anyone to die (“Were you dying, sensei?” He said through a mouthful of tears. “Is Aizawa-sensei? Don’t leave me-e.”) when Yamada asked, in a hysterical manner, if he was in pain.

God. He was a mess. He was a mess and going to die. Aizawa would kill him the minute he stepped through the front door.

“Do you understand how reckless you were?” Aizawa hadn’t even given Hitoshi time to slip off his shoes before he descended. High Hitoshi fled with a finger gun at the sight of his stern guardians’ rage. Sober Hitoshi already had one foot out the door. “I thought you had been kidnapped, Hitoshi.”

“I . . ..” Hitoshi swallowed around a dry mouth. He didn’t know what to say. His anxiety begged him to shut the fuck up before he made the situation worse. “. . . Sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” said Aizawa in a flattened tone and expression. Hitoshi shrunk in the genkan, one shoe still on, and wished for a place to hide. After a brief stilted pause, Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed noisily. “Shower. Now.”

It was eerily reminiscent of internship week. Hitoshi almost tripped over his feet as he scrambled toward his bedroom. His guardian’s whispered conversation nestled against his spine as he grabbed a change of clothes and slipped into the bathroom. Even if he wanted to (which he did and didn’t), he couldn’t hear their conversation.

A part of him wondered if they were reconsidering their decision to take him in. Heat and anticipation rippled through his abdomen as he stood beneath the warm spray of the showerhead. He couldn’t tell you how long he’d stood there, but it was long enough that Aizawa sharply knocked on the door and said a muffled, “Hitoshi? Are you alright?”

“U-Um—.” Hitoshi fumbled with the body wash and winced as it clattered to the ground. “I—I’m okay.”

Aizawa hummed through the door. Hitoshi had a brief thought of his possibility of drowning via showerhead. “Hurry up, please,” the man ordered in a curt tone. Hitoshi hated that tone. “I’d like to speak with you about your behavior.”

Hitoshi didn’t want to talk. “Y-Yes, sir.”

When they’d adapted the house rules around the new development of Hitoshi’s living situation, Aizawa and Yamada laid out, in terms that couldn’t, under any circumstance, be misunderstood, that underage drug use wouldn’t be allowed. Hitoshi assumed the rule had been added because of his brief stint with his mothers’ vodka, but a voice in the back of mind wiggled something about a history there that he knew but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember.

Hitoshi’s fingers trembled as he dressed. The scent of his body wash and shampoo drowned out the faint stench of marijuana, something he was relieved by. He didn’t like the smell that much. In an attempt for more time, he brushed his teeth, too, and gargled mouth wash.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Hitoshi murmured to himself once he stared at those exhausted bags beneath his eyes. His paled expression exaggerated its’ depths. “It’s temporary. You’ll be forgiven.” His breath crawled over the mirror. “You’ll be okay.”

How funny.

His previous anger, that welting temper, cowered deep in his mind.

“The living room, Hitoshi,” Aizawa called once he stepped out of the bathroom. There was only one place he could go to, Hitoshi thought, and shook those thoughts away. When he stepped into Aizawa’s line of sight, the man patted the seat next to him. “Here.”

Hitoshi’s limbs locked in befuddlement. Wasn’t – Wasn’t he going to be punished? He took a seat beside Aizawa, nonetheless, and waited with bated breath.

Aizawa hadn’t disappointed. “I hope you understand the severity of your behavior today, Hitoshi,” his mentor started. Hitoshi’s fingers gripped a tight hold on his pants. “Are you aware of what could’ve gone wrong? You could’ve gotten hurt, and no one would have any idea—.”

“I wasn’t by myself,” Hitoshi interrupted because he, like a fool, couldn’t learn. “I . . . I was with Kaminari . . ..” His voice faded.

Aizawa’s expression told Hitoshi his thoughts on that weak defense. “Not the point, Hitoshi, and you know it.” Aizawa leaned back with a sigh and crossed arms. Hitoshi stared at his socked feet, heart bleeding through his eyes. “Let’s talk about the rules you broke.”

Hitoshi didn’t want to, but his anxiety wrangled him in a chokehold. “Okay.”

“What was the purpose of leaving through the fire escape?” Aizawa asked him; tone quiet and angry—but curious. “Why did you feel the need to lie?”

“I . . .,” Hitoshi licked his lips, dug his big toe into the carpet. “Th-Thought you’d . . ..”

“Thought I’d . . . what?” Aizawa echoed. “Tell you no?”

Hitoshi gave a miserable nod. “Y-Yes.”

“And why did you just assume I wouldn’t allow you to meet with Kaminari?”

Gravity pressed Hitoshi’s breath into his lungs. “I – I don’t . . . I . . ..” Why had Hitoshi lied? It seemed like the best possible option in the heat of the moment, but . . . “I thought – because of . . . of the homework . . ..”

“Homework?” Aizawa’s brow pinched. “You mean the homework you’d completed?”

A soft wheeze replaced his breath. “Uh-Uh huh.”

Aizawa stared at him for a moment. “I’m trying to understand your thought process here, kid. You assumed I wouldn’t allow you to hang out with your friends—which, by the way, you won’t be able to for at least two weeks after your behavior today—because I had told you to do your homework . . . which you had already completed?”

Wow.

Hitoshi sounded like the dumbest teen alive, when the situation was laid out like that. His head pounded. He didn’t think he was sober enough for this conversation, but he was aware that pointing that out . . . wasn’t a good idea.

“Then you’d decided to leave the house through the window,” Aizawa continued and raised his palm for quiet when Hitoshi opened his mouth to say something about the fire escape, technically because yeah, he was the dumbest teen alive. “And proceeded to, not only, ignore my phone calls—but get high off an illegal substance in a public space?”

Hitoshi shrunk at the rise in volume. “Ye-Ye-Yes.” Sobs threatened to burst. “I – I – ‘M sorry.”

Aizawa’s voice was soft. “Why?”

Hitoshi stared at his lap and shrugged.

(He knew why.)

“Hitoshi.”

His vision blurred. “D-Dunno.”

(He won’t say it.)

“Okay.” Aizawa briefly cupped a hand around his eyes before he removed it and stared at Hitoshi. “You’re going to take a nap.”

“So . . .,” Hitoshi squinted. A nap? There was no way he’d be sent off with a lecture and a nap. (There they go again, said that voice. Treating me like a—). “I’m not getting a spanking . . .?”

Aizawa crushed his rising hope with a ruthless, “You’re still getting spanked,” and then added, “but Hizashi and I agreed it’d be best if you took a nap first.” Sleep off the high, a part of his mind pointed out. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

It’s the anxiety, Hitoshi thought. “I . . . okay.”

What else could he say? No, thank you, I don’t want a nap?

Ha. Ha. Ha.  

“And I mean. A. Nap.” Aizawa said with an echo of heat. Hitoshi winced at the slight reminder of his lie as Aizawa ushered him toward his bedroom. “We’ll talk more about your punishment after.”

That was the part Hitoshi hated the most: waiting.

He knew he walked on a thinning line and slipped under the covers amid wracking nerves. Aizawa briefly disappeared and reappeared a few moments later with a bottle. The rise of disgruntled thoughts he had felt in the past were quiet at the action. He slipped the bottle in his mouth and hoped, for his asses’ sake, that he’d sleep until morning.

(He knew he wouldn’t.)

Aizawa didn’t leave like Hitoshi thought he would and sat down beside Hitoshi. His expression, while still stern enough that Hitoshi’s toes curled in anticipation of his impending punishment, softened. He carded fingers through Hitoshi’s hair and gently scraped the pads of his fingers against Hitoshi’s scalp. Hitoshi closed his eyes and sighed at the feeling.

Hitoshi drifted at the combination of the gentle touch and warm formula. His anxiety burrowed, still, in the ridges of his spine, and although he knew it wouldn’t happen, he hoped the nap would ease some of it. Aizawa placed the bottle on the bedside table when Hitoshi drifted too far to grip it properly and placed a quiet kiss on Hitoshi’s forehead.

“. . . Sleep well, kid.”

He woke, briefly, to a gentle press against his wrist. Someone checked his pulse with two fingers, but he drifted back into slumber before he could open his eyes to see who it was. They had the faintest scent of coconut; a fragrance Yamada liked. But . . . why would he check Hitoshi’s pulse? Did he think he’d stop breathing over a nap?

“Hitoshi.” Aizawa brushed hair from his eyes with featherlight fingers when he’d surfaced from his nap again. “Did you sleep well?”

Awful, Hitoshi thought. His anxiety manifested in his dreams: he had been back at the diner and tried to order another milkshake while Aizawa, as his waiter, kept asking for him to speak up, to be clearer, this is why no one loves you. Kaminari laughed and wept about Pomeranians who choked to death on the moon. Yamada existed in the background as a malformed caricature of the smiling voice hero Hitoshi knew him to be. Every time he opened his mouth, he sounded clinical and detached as he repeated someone’s time of death.

It was.

Interesting.

“Um.” Hitoshi sat upright, and his stomach twisted into a corded braid because he knew was would going to happen next. “Um. I slept okay.”

 “Good,” Aizawa said. “Now—I’m letting you choose, would you rather we have our talk here or in the living room?”

Hitoshi would rather they didn’t have it at all. “The living room,” he mumbled out.

“Use the bathroom,” Aizawa instructed, and that angry part of him bristled at the order. “Then meet me in the living room.”

Hitoshi did as told, a tremble in his hands. His throat clogged with building tears. It’s temporary, he explained to himself. He made his way into the living room, and distantly noted Yamada wasn’t around.

. . .Did Yamada find Hitoshi’s behavior repulsive enough to leave?

“Where—?” Words curled in his mouth. They tasted like ash. Like curdled milk. “Y-Yamada’s—?” Upset, Hitoshi remembered. He looked so upset—but why? Hitoshi was fine. He was fine.

(His anxiety said otherwise.)

“Hizashi will speak with you once we’re finished here,” Aizawa explained and motioned for Hitoshi to come closer, pointing to an area in front of him with a silent stand here in his eyes. “He’s having his own corner time right now—but you don’t need to focus on that. Let’s discuss your actions—starting from the moment you decided to lie to me.”

(oh.

. . . OH.)

Hitoshi . . . really was horrible, wasn’t he? No wonder Yamada had looked so upset, so heartbreakingly blank as he picked up Hitoshi. While he’d been young when the news rippled through, everyone knew Present Mic had been held back for half his second year to recover from drug addiction in a rehab center for young adults.

. . . And Hitoshi had just spat those memories in his face with a smile. Fuck.

(Yamada hated him now; no wonder he hadn’t looked Hitoshi in the eye.)

Hitoshi hiccupped around a breath and nodded. Anxiety coated his tongue in spices that made tears cling to his eyes.

“You’ve broken quite a bit of rules with your behavior.” And trust, was unsaid, but Hitoshi heard it well. “You lied to me. You left the house without permission—through the window, no less—and decided to partake in an illegal substance. Did I miss anything?” He added in a soft, perilous tone that made a part of Hitoshi want to hide.

He cleared his throat. “N-No.”

“And can you tell me the agreed punishment is for breaking these rules?”

Anger rippled at the treatment. He kicked the ground, every inch the baby he didn’t want (but also did?) to be treated as. “Stop treating me like I’m an infant,” He groused. “I’m not a baby—!”

“You. Will. Not. Raise your voice at me, Hitoshi.” The disappointment in Aizawa’s voice made Hitoshi wilt, made the anger spill out and dissipate. After a pause, Aizawa continued: “You might not be an infant, physically, but you are certainly acting as recklessly as one in regard to your health.”

A green beast clawed his mouth open. “Fucking rich coming from someone who only eats jel—ow, ow!”

He curled his toes and whined in response to the stinging swats Aizawa placed on the seat of his pants. What the hell was he doing?

(Being an utter dumbass.)

“I’d watch your mouth, Hitoshi,” Aizawa threatened in that soft, dark voice as he turned Hitoshi around to face him again. “Or I’ll wash it out with soap after your spanking.” Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “Your behavior is inexcusable, and I don’t know if it’s because someone put ideas into your head or what, but it. Will. End. Today.”

If the shower and nap hadn’t swallowed his brief high, then Aizawa’s voice definitely made it flee.

“Pants. Off,” Aizawa ordered; Hitoshi wished he were still having a nap. “And then over my lap.”

“Can’t—.” His voice failed briefly. “Can’t I just w-write lines . . .?”

“No.” Those red eyes were lined with emotion, with the disappointment and anger at Hitoshi’s behavior. “You know our rules, Hitoshi, and you chose to break them. You will face the consequences. Over my lap. Now.”

Hitoshi bit his lower lip.

“Do not make me put you over my lap myself.”

Hitoshi wanted that even less than the spanking. He slipped out of his pants and laid over his guardians’ lap, a shiver up his spine when Aizawa adjusted his position and rested a hand on the small of his back.

“Comfortable?” Aizawa checked. Hitoshi was tempted to stall. “What’s the safe word?”

“. . . Oranges.” Hitoshi’s breath brushed against his knuckles. “And I’m—okay.”

It was clear Aizawa was in a no-nonsense mood. A soft exhale of noise escaped Hitoshi’s mouth at the first sting of heat, soon followed by a lightning flurry of swats. Whimpers of discomfort burned in the back of his throat at the heat quickly building in the seat of his pants.

Aizawa set a fast and punishing (ha) tempo; the sound of discipline crackling in the late morning air. It echoed throughout the apartment, floated down the hall. Hitoshi breathed around hiccuped whines at the knowledge that Yamada was cognizant of his spanking.

Tears burned as they fell. “Ow.”

“Rules are meant to be followed, Hitoshi,” Aizawa scolded. The disappointment in his voice cut through Hitoshi sharper than the unrelenting spanks painting his bottom. “I thought you’d understood the danger involved in your previous underage drug use, but I can only assume you’ve been far too Little to properly comprehend your behavior.”

Hitoshi sniffled and swallowed a whine. His shoulders trembled as Aizawa spanked him, sobs curled deep in the crevice of his lungs. “Don’ wanna—.” Hitoshi hiccuped and cried out in soft gasps as a white-hot blaze formed on the seat of his pants. “Don’—not a, n-not a b-b-baby, sen-sensei.”

Please stop talking, begged Hitoshi’s anxiety and common sense. Please! Stop! Talking!

“You don’t wish to be treated like a child?” Aizawa peppered burning swats on Hitoshi’s bottom as he spoke, layering areas in heated attention. “And yet you’ve done nothing that proves otherwise.” Ow. Hitoshi sobbed quietly. “You will be treated the way you behave, and right now I only see a misbehaving Little who chose to break the rules and risk their health for illogical reasons.”

Hitoshi whined around a flurry of sobs in his throat. He jerked and squirmed in the futile hope a few of the swats wouldn’t land, but Aizawa’s pace remained crisp and ruthless as if Hitoshi hadn’t moved at all. Hitoshi had forgotten the heavy hand his mentor wielded. He wasn’t going to forget ever again.

“I understand that you’ve undergone a series of personal changes recently, what with being removed from your previous household,” Aizawa continued over as the staccato of his swats increased, much to Hitoshi’s dismay. “But that does not mean you behave in a reckless and irresponsible manner, Hitoshi! Your actions have left Hizashi and I disappointed, and we expect better behavior from you, not only as a hero student but as our charge. If you are having a problem, if you are struggling with what’s happened, then talk to us—do not do what you’ve done thus far. Am I clear?”

“Ye-es.” Hitoshi breathed around bone-melting sobs, knowing Aizawa liked verbal responses. Slivers of his headspace yanked out of the box Hitoshi often pressed it into, coating his tongue in apologies. “I – sorry. Sor-ry, sorry. I so ba-a-ad.”

Aizawa’s hand scorched Hitoshi’s sit-spots and upper thighs with little remorse. Hitoshi gasped into the cushions and dug his toes into the couch cushion, squirming at the heat that bloomed in response to Aizawa’s stinging swats. 

“You are not bad; but the choices you made today were, not only illegal, but unreasonable and naughty,” Aizawa explained as he alternated between Hitoshi’s sit-spots, upper thighs, and other areas of his behind that wept from heat. “As I’ve said before, I’m aware this is a difficult transition for you, Hitoshi—but that doesn’t give you a free pass to misbehave and act as if the rules don’t apply. Understand?”

His voice dripped against Aizawa’s pants’ leg, mostly drowned out by the sharp sounds of discipline. “Uh huh, uh huh,” Hitoshi cried. “Be good – be good.”

“Yes, you will.”

The angle shifted higher. Hitoshi went limp with sobbed apologies and promises to do better, remorse and anxiety sinking claws down his throat. The unforgiving rain of swats continued for what seemed to be a dreadful decade but was probably another minute or so. He couldn’t tell anymore.

Hitoshi felt undeniably tiny. Tears pooled down his face as Aizawa murmured assurances that it was alright, that he was alright, and had done very, very well. “You’re good, Hitoshi,” his guardian said softly, fingers massaging his scalp. “Shh, kid. Shh. You’re good, just made a few poor choices—but you’re forgiven, alright? You’re good.”

 He whimpered around another hiccup; tongue heavy as if it were swollen. “I good? Hitoshi good?”

“Yes.” Aizawa’s voice was firm and unyielding; there was no room for misunderstandings. “You have always been a good boy, Hitoshi. What you did today doesn’t change that.”

Hitoshi hiccupped, and then shook his head.

“No?” Aizawa hummed and then repositioned Hitoshi, no longer sprawled over Aizawa’s lap but cradled. “Can you tell me why?”

“Always bad,” Hitoshi insisted wetly. “I — just, bad.”

Aizawa pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and bounced him lightly. “I don’t think you’re always bad, Hitoshi.”

 Then why, that grieving part of him, still two, still five, still seven, thought, does everyone leave, if I’m not? “Nuh uh.”

“Uh huh,” Aizawa said, teasing and light and warm, and it caused a light giggle in Hitoshi’s throat.

Aizawa rubbed his back in soothing circles. Hitoshi’s softer, fading cries were muffled by the front of his shirt as he pressed his face against Aizawa’s chest. He wheezed out a breath, his anxiety fluttering around in his chest in a manner that made him confused, and tired, and angry, and tried to focus on – something. Anything. The way Aizawa hushed him.

(he sounded a bit like)

He blew his nose into a tissue when prompted. His muscles ached as though he’d recently sped through a marathon. His bottom – well. Hitoshi knew why that hurt. He quietly succumbed to a floating quiet as Aizawa comforted him.

But, like all things in Hitoshi’s life did, it came to an end.

“I’m going to call Hizashi into the room now, okay?” Aizawa murmured. “He’d like to speak with you still.”

Hitoshi’s stomach dropped. “‘Kay.”

“Hizashi.” Aizawa called, and then dipped his head at Hitoshi who, more or less, had stopped crying, when Yamada stepped into the living room. “He’s ready for your talk, now.”

Oh, no.

Hitoshi forced himself to breathe when Yamada ruffled his hair. “How’re ya doin’, listener?” Yamada checked in. Aizawa drifted toward the kitchen to give their conversation privacy, an act that Hitoshi both loved and despised.

“F-Fine,” Hitoshi sniffled. As fine as one could be after their ass got warmed for teen drug use. “Um. Y-You . . .?”

“I had better days.” Yamada’s expression shifted. He didn’t seem like the cheerful, preppy voice hero anymore. “Hitoshi-chan . . . could you explain to me why you decided it was a good idea to consume an illegal substance? In public?”

What, that teen part snarked. So, in private is the way to go?

Hitoshi stomped it down. Not the time. Not the time. “I don’t . . ..” His lips were probably scabbed with how hard he’d bitten them. “I just . . . I just wanted . . .,” His voice trailed; he didn’t think his reasonings were – well, logical.

“Wanted what, sweetheart?” Yamada prompted quietly.

Another sob pressed against his lungs, but Hitoshi drowned it down. “I – to be . . . to be a teen,” he mumbled out, fingers twisting in his shirt. He wanted to stick his fingers in his mouth.

“Darling . . .” Yamada blinked slow, and he leaned to rest a palm on Hitoshi’s head. “You are a teen, though . . .?”

Irritation and anxiety welled deep. “None . . . you don’t – you don’t treat me like one . . .,” Hitoshi mumbled; he didn’t think he could speak louder. He wanted the conversation to end. “You – You treat me like . . ..”

(the point is that hitoshi hasn’t been cared for in what feel like decades and doesn’t know how to respond when yamada and aizawa show that they care so, so much.)

“Alright, honey,” Yamada said slowly. Noise from the kitchen, those hints of life that declared Aizawa’s existence quieted. “I’m just trying to understand here, okay? You . . . you don’t want us to treat you like you’re Little . . .?”

(the point is he is two, he is five, he is seven, he is nine, he is fifteen and frozen, stuck in place, his emotions a thunderstorm that he ignores until it threatens to splinter him where he stands.)

“No – yes – I don’t know,” Hitoshi responded and then, because, apparently, he wasn’t done crying, he burst into tears once more. “I – j-just, I just, I’m sor-ry.”

“Oh, baby.” Yamada cooed. “Come here. Shh, shh.”

He was curled up in Yamada’s arms within moments, face pressed into the crevice of the voice hero’s neck. Yamada rubbed and patted his back in a calming tempo, soothing him quickly. Hitoshi placed two of his fingers in his mouth, closing his aching eyes. Yamada’s soft chuckle brushed over his cheekbones.

“You’ve been going through it, huh?” Yamada murmured; Hitoshi sighed quietly in response. “Shh . . . we’ll continue our chat, just focus on calming down for me, okay?”

It took another five minutes or so before Hitoshi grasped enough control to quiet. “Am I . . .?” His voice stuttered. He knew they wouldn’t give him two spankings, so . . . lines? “Wri-Writing l-lines?”

“No, honey.” Yamada carded gentle fingers through Hitoshi’s hair. It made him feel . . . so small. “I think a bit of corner time would do you some good.”

. . . Timeout?

Okay. Okay.

Hitoshi could do that. His elementary school teachers used to shove him in corners all the time. Of course, those lasted, like, thirty seconds—and he didn’t consider those timeouts valid as, well, Hitoshi’d be blamed for someone else’s wrongdoing. Something crackled over his skin. Doubt dripped in ash coated his tongue. To be in timeout meant to be alone. Did that mean—?

They had to leave.

They were leaving him.

“everyone leaves you shinsou”

“Oka-ay.” His voice sounded small and pitiful as it broke around his words. His fingers twisted and looped through his shirt. It used to belong to his brothers’, one of the few items he’d snatched before his mother dragged most of his belongings in the trash the following days after his arrest. His scent had faded years ago. “How – How long?”

“it’s not bad luck”

“Just five minutes, sweetie.” Yamada’s voice brushed over him; soft and gentle compared to his still stern silhouette. “And then—we can cuddle~, okay?”

That sounded nice. Hitoshi liked cuddling.

Yamada directed him to the corner in silence and moved to set the timer. Hitoshi wished he could see clearer, wished the tears weren’t blurring his vision, so he could tell if his guardian, if one of the heroes he’d idolized for most of his life, hated him now. 

(a voice pointed out that if it were true, Hitoshi wouldn’t have been soothed when he cried. Hitoshi told it to be quiet.)

“it’s a curse.”

His breath hitched in his throat as he stared at the wall. It slithered in place, a wriggled movement that made his head weep. The floor wavered beneath him, but he somehow managed to remain upright. He heard Yamada distantly as he explained that the timer was on. Hitoshi gasped and sputtered as an invisible hand pulled his lungs from his chest.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Hitoshi-chan?” A palm rests on the middle of his back. It was enough. It wasn’t enough god how pathetic was he—? “Hey, honey, can ya copy my breaths, please?”

He couldn’t—

He couldn’t—

They were gonna. They were gonna.

He tried. Hitoshi tried. Nothing worked. His breath coiled tight in the middle of his chest. It splintered and dissipated in his lungs. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Everyone left him. Why did they LEAVE.

Aizawa’s concern dripped from the ceiling as Yamada called for him. Yamada rubbed circles in his back, murmuring shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, breathe, toshi-chan, please breathe. Hitoshi tried to say that he couldn’t, he couldn’t, but only hysterical sobs heaved from his mouth. Apologies fluttered like the first day hint of snow.

He said something about not leaving, about being alone, about are you gonna leave me now do you hate me am I so unlovable like my mother says—

White spots bloomed across his vision, and the safe word dripped off his mouth in a wilted sob. He couldn’t. Everyone had. Why did. He was pulled into a warm, protective embrace. Hands curled in his hair. Someone hushed him quietly and bounced him in a light manner. Someone else worriedly asked if they should get a bottle, confused and upset and not knowing how to handle Hitoshi’s spiraling meltdown.

(a meltdown thirteen years in the making.)  

Someone—who was that? daisuke?—asked him to breathe, please, hitoshi, breathe. Hitoshi couldn’t listen. The world tipped into a monochrome of gray.

you are two and tiny and terror is your mother and

He didn’t know when it started.

you are ten and hunger ripples through like a searing knife and

He knew when it started, but it was easier to smile and insist he couldn’t remember. That he just didn’t know.

you are twelve and coiled tight in a crackled ribcage and

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. Invisible hands were clamped around his ears, his eyes. They were calloused like Daisuke’s. Like his father’s.

the two year old in you, that terrified, weeping terrible two, wailed, and wailed, and wailed. someone screeched at him to shut the fuck up you annoying little brat don’t you know its all your fault

He did know and

but no one brushes away your tears. no one is there. because they leave they always l

But, no.

That wasn’t right anymore, was it?

Hitoshi floated. He drowned. He drifted aimlessly. He knew his destination. He reached awareness in increments, slow pieces that stitched back together. Warmth encased him on all sides, and the way it brushed against his skin made him realize he’d been wrapped in a blanket. A hand rubbed his back in a comforting manner, another passed through his hair, an arm was secured around his waist. Someone hushed him quietly whenever he made a noise.

No—not someone.

Aizawa.

He laid on – something. It wasn’t as soft as a couch, but neither was it as hard as the floor. A few moments passed before he recognized that he was lying on someone’s chest as they, most likely, laid on the couch. There was something in his mouth—a pacifier.

He opened his eyes slowly, humming around the bulb in his mouth. He lied on Aizawa’s chest while the man lied on the couch, head on Yamada’s lap. “Mmm?”

“Hey, sweetie.” Yamada gently massaged Hitoshi’s scalp, chuckling lightly at the purr. “You back with us, baby?”

Hitoshi hummed something noncommittal, muffled by his pacifier. If they asked him how he felt, he couldn’t tell them. He floated too much, and his emotions were brief echoes of what had sent him spiraling. He didn’t feel empty, per se—just quiet. Grounded in Aizawa’s arms, in the gentle touches of Yamada’s fingers.

Safe. Comforted. “Wha’ happen’?”

“We were hoping you could give us some insight,” said Aizawa, quiet and pensive. “But when you’re feeling better, alright?”

Hitoshi hummed again. “‘Kay.”

He drifted again to the sounds of a movie softly playing in the background. It sounded like something from Studio Ghibli, but pre-quirk. Howl’s something. When Hitoshi returned back to awareness again, he was in a more upright position. Still on Aizawa’s lap, he noted, but no longer lying down. The fading scent of takeout floated in the air. Boxes of takeout from their favorite mom-and-pop manjuu place were on the coffee table, along with a bottle of formula. The adults quietly talked with one another over the soft hum of the TV.

Hitoshi gave a slow blink before he tugged on Aizawa’s sleeve. “Sensei?”

“Hitoshi?” Aizawa shifted complete attention toward him. “What’s wrong?”

Hitoshi made grabby hands toward the bottle on the coffee table. He still wasn’t in the mood to speak; his tongue was concrete in his mouth. Word melted where they formed. Yamada passed the bottle over, pressing a light kiss to Hitoshi’s forehead that made him hum in delight, and then gently removed Hitoshi’s pacifier from his mouth.

“There you go~,” said Yamada as he pressed the bottle into Hitoshi’s waiting hands.

Hitoshi slipped it into his mouth and leaned back against Aizawa, who rubbed small circles against his spine. He got through halfway of the bottle before Yamada pried it away from his grasp with a quiet, “We need you to eat something solid now, okay, Hitoshi-chan?”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about chewing things, but he knew he was too tired to fuss. Aizawa shifted him again, making sure he faced the TV rather than the wall. His hands trembled too much for him to use chopsticks (something that made his guardians share looks with one another), so Yamada fed him the manjuu order. It was his favorite option from the restaurant, and it settled nicely in his stomach.

Hitoshi . . . felt as though he existed in a liminal space. Somewhere that wasn’t quite Little, but not quite so Big, either. If he guessed, he was in that gray area where he could either tip out of headspace or plunge headfirst into. He wasn’t sure what option he wanted more.

He finished most of it, much to his guardians’ apparent relief, and then asked for his pacifier with a quiet, “Paci?”

The movie changed to Kiki’s Delivery Service when Hitoshi felt grounded, felt more cognizant over what was going on. He’d safe-worded, something he’d never done before, but preceding his use of the safe word, he’d spiraled into a complete meltdown . . .

Yikes, he thought. They’re not going to let me just . . . walk away without explaining.

Hitoshi pulled the pacifier from his mouth, cleared his throat, and asked, raspily, “Could I have some water?”

If he were another person, he might’ve laughed at how Yamada tripped over his own feet in his haste to get Hitoshi water.

“Feelin’ bigger?” Aizawa asked, and Hitoshi nodded in response. “That’s good. How do you feel?”

“Floaty,” Hitoshi said after a pause. “But—not like I’m going to . . . do whatever I did—.”

“It’s called a subdrop,” Aizawa explained.

Hitoshi nodded. “—a subdrop, then. I just . . . feel safe,” Hitoshi ended quietly, and then smiled at Yamada when he returned with the glass of water. “Thanks, Yamada-sensei.”

“Hitoshi-chan,” Yamada said with a slight pout. “You can call me Hizashi, you know? And Shouta, too. We’re not in school, honey. We’re home.”

We’re home.

Such a simple statement. A firm belief and fact of life.

Tears welled up in Hitoshi’s eyes, but before either of them could panic, Hitoshi said, “You – you’re not going to leave me?”

“No.” Aizawa’s voice, like it always was, left no room for argument. A tension Hitoshi didn’t know he had was released. “We didn’t obtain custody of you just to hand you off to someone else, Hitoshi. You’re here to stay. No one is leaving you.”

“That’s right, listener,” Yamada said in a gentle voice as he rested a hand on Hitoshi’s knee. “This is your home, okay? We won’t be leaving you—even when you’re all old and wrinkly.”

Hitoshi couldn’t muster the energy to snicker at the imagery. “But. . . everyone always leaves me,” he mumbled out.

Yamada squeezed his knee gently. ‘What do you mean by that, hon?”

Hitoshi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and, for the first time in what felt like years, talked. He started off with when he was two, and then five, and then seven, and then nine, and then – now, fifteen; a bristling, terrifying fifteen. Yamada and Aizawa were quiet as he talked about his life, about how his fathers’ disappearance, his mothers’ neglect, and his brothers’ imprisonment made him feel, about how his town made him feel, about his classmates’ subtle bullying, about being so abruptly moved from a routine he knew by heart and then placed into a home where people actually cared, and he . . . didn’t know how to feel, how to adjust.

So, he shoved it down. He ignored it. He packed his emotions into a neat box, but it was overfull and spilled out within weeks. Everything that led up to his behavior today.  “And – And I know it’s, it’s not an excuse . . .,” Hitoshi said quietly. “. . . but I just . . . wanted you to know.”

“Oh, baby, you’ve been through a lot,” Yamada said as he held Hitoshi’s hand. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Hitoshi-chan.”

“Yes, thank you.” Aizawa rested a hand on Hitoshi’s head. “We’d like to apologize. Hizashi and I haven’t been the best supporters for you right now.”

Hitoshi tensed. “But you have—.”

“Regardless of our intentions, they caused you distress enough that we made you use a safe word,” Aizawa cut him off, though with a much gentler bite. “For that, Hizashi and I are sorry. Neither of us meant to create an environment where you felt like you couldn’t talk to us, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi sniffed. “It’s – It’s okay.”

“. . . Kiddo,” Yamada eyed his expression. “On that note, do you think you could explain why you safe-worded?”

A flush curled up Hitoshi’s neck. “I . . . I mean, I was already anxious, but . . . when you told me I would be in timeout, I knew it would only be for five or so minutes, but my brain and anxiety had me convinced that you were both so . . . disappointed in me that you were going to leave, so . . . it kind of escalated into a panic attack. And I safe-worded.”

“You also subdropped,” Aizawa pointed out. “You might not have been aware of it, but there were moments where you were conscious . . . but you were deeply in your headspace whenever you did.”

Hitoshi blinked at that information. “Huh. I don’t think I remember that.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Yamada smiled and patted his hand. “Lotta Littles don’t really remember when they subdrop into their headspace; it’s normal.”

Hitoshi made a quiet noise in surprise. “Interesting.”

“Alright~, do you listeners know what time it is?” Yamada said after a brief quiet had settled. At their questioning looks, he beamed. “Cuddle time~.”

Hitoshi chuckled quietly as Yamada dove for the couch, curling up beside them with little preamble. Kiki’s Delivery Service turned into Ponyo which turned into My Neighbor Totoro. They stayed curled around each other as they watched the movies. At some point, Hitoshi finished the rest of the bottle. At some point, Aizawa and Yamada had drifted off after each other, the stress of the day haven gotten to them both.

Hitoshi watched the TV quietly as he pressed between the two slumbering adults. He didn’t feel a need to leave for his room; he felt comfortable, and safe. His phone, lying on the coffee table, buzzed with a message.

It was Kaminari, again.  

LOLOLOL the weed yanked my presentation OUT

ya boy is Little n uh . . baku’s my caregiver????

pls Pray For Me

Hitoshi bit back his amusement. 🙏🏼 may our asses rest in peace

Kaminari replied within seconds, clearly waiting for Hitoshi’s response. typo u mean in PIECES, was the message, and then Kaminari sent a gif of a man, looking exasperated with the rest of society, saying why are you booing me, im right!

Hitoshi, for the first time in what was probably years, laughed aloud.