Chapter Text
How could any one person suffer so much? How was a mere child expected to endure an abusive father and a neglectful family--not to mention the development of a dangerous quirk with no one to help you understand it.
He didn’t mean to. HE DIDN’T MEAN TO. IT WASN’T HIS FAULT. WHY COULDN’T YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE?!
He was terrified and confused.
He felt both grief and guilt.
He was alone, surrounded by the blood and ash that was once his family. No one came to help him.
When he could no longer stand the sight of his family's blood splattered on the walls, he ran. He ran until legs could no longer carry him. When he finally fell to the ground--his knees hitting the ground with sickening thud and his palms scraping against the pavement--he noticed that he could not feel his legs. His sides heaved, his chest ached, his lungs cried out for air. His heart beat painfully--not in his chest where it was supposed to be but in his throat--and his blood roaring in his ears.
He noticed a kindly old woman with her back turned to him. Still too out-of-breath to speak, he reach up to pull on her coat sleeve. She turned her head with a gentle smile on her face, but her expression froze when she saw who exactly who sought her attention. Slowly, the smile slipped from her face, replaced by a worried frown. "I'm sorry, dear, but I'm sure a hero will help you soon." She took one last look at his ashy face and blood-soaked clothes before turning and walking swiftly away. Trembling, the young boy dragged himself to the entrance of an alleyway and sat with his back to the brick wall. He took one look at his surroundings--an overflowing dumpster adorned with graffiti, a damp cardboard box, some broken glass bottles, weeds forcing their way through the cracks in the concrete, moss growing along the damp brick wall, and the subtle taste and feel of grease in the air. Someone opened the back door of the restaurant--that explains the grease--that bordered the alleyway, spared him barely a glance before tossing yet another garbage bag into the already filled dumpster and shutting the door. As more people continued to pass him on the street, he began to loose hope than anyone might save him.
The sound of shattering glass at the other end of the alleyway caught his attention. He leaned forward, peering around the dumpster and accidentally made eye contact with a boy. He appeared to be around his age, covered in horrific scars, and wearing clothes that barely covered him. His hair was a shocking white. Before he could say anything, the other boy turned and ran. Even that kid--who couldn't have looked much better than he must look--was scared of him. The sudden pounding of feet on the pavement startled him out of his dark thoughts. He looked back down the alleyway to see the same boy from before, followed by an older man with long, unkempt black hair and a scarf that hid most of his face. The boy pointed at him and said something before the man began to walk slowly towards him. He had taken maybe four steps before he looked back at where the other boy had been standing only to be shocked by his sudden disappearance. The words, "You need to see a doctor as well so--" were barely out of his mouth before he noticed the boys disappearance and cursed under his breath. He reluctantly turned back to the boy in front of him before taking a few more cautious steps.
"I'm pro-hero Eraserhead. I'm here to help. Can you tell me your name?"
"Sh-sh-shim-shimura t-tenko, sir"
"Shimura Tenko? Can you tell me what happened?"
"M-my quirk--" Shimura burst into tears before he could finish his explanation.
Eraserhead closed the gap between them but made sure not to touch Shimura yet. "Shimura, is it okay if I hold you?" Shimura bobbed his head once in affirmation. Eraserhead took the small boy into his arms and help him tightly. He murmured softly, comfortingly to him. "It's okay, Shimura, it's okay. I won't let anyone hurt you anymore."
"What if I'm the one who hurt people, sir?"
Eraserhead looked at this pale, frail child who couldn't be older than 5. "Who did you hurt?"
"M-my family. I didn't mean to, I swear! I just touched them and they-they-they" his tears flowed with new vigor.
Eraserhead was beginning to understand the situation. "What's your quirk, Shimura?"
"I didn't have one until-until last night. I think I used my quirk to hurt my family."
"You didn't do it on purpose though, did you?"
"No! At least, not at first. I didn't mean to hurt Mon-chan or Hana-chan or Okaasan or Obaasan or Ojiisan. Otousan, though, I think I meant to hurt." He looked scared. He seemed to think I was going to march him down to the police station and have them throw him in prison immediately.
"Why would you want to hurt Otousan?"
"He was mean. He never liked me. Okaasan, Obaasan, and Ojiisan were nicer. They never did anything to stop Otousan, though."
"I see. Shimura you did nothing wrong. I'm going to help you. You did nothing wrong," Eraserhead assured the child in his arms.
_____________
After a visit to the hospital and to the police station, Eraserhead sat with Shimura on a park bench as the sun went down. In his pocket was a folded piece of paper that declared him Shimura's temporary legal guardian. "Oh, shit, I'll have to clean the spare bedroom. Its full of litter boxes and cat trees right now. Shit, I'll have to stop saying shit! He's going to need to see a quirk therapist and a therapist therapist. This kid had been through hell and back, and he definitely blamed himself. I'm only his legal guardian until the police sort everything out and social services finds a more permanent place for him to stay. I don't know how long that will take though, so we need to go shopping. He looked at the kid sitting next to him--his eyes dark and his face solemn. He was quiet. He had barely spoken a word since their initial interaction.
"Hey, kid," he said softly so as not to startle him. "My name is Aizawa Shota, by the way. You can call me whatever you feel most comfortable calling me, okay?" The kid nodded but said nothing. "Is it alright if I keep calling you Shimura or do you want me to call you something else?"
The kid was quiet but this time it was a thoughtful silence. "I don't want to be Shimura Tenko anymore."
"Okay then, kid, what should I call you?"
"Tomura"
Tomura? Mourning? That's dark. I think I was right to assume he blames himself for what happened to his family. He'll remember this for the rest of his life. I only hope I can give him some happier memories eventually.
"Okay, Tomura. Let's go home."