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For someone that a lot of people often sneered at for “being worthless” to society, Hitoshi thought he had done well so far. He knew there were people who likely thought he had died by now—killed either by hunger or by some villain who prowled the back alleyways during the cover of the night—or joined the underground society as a blossoming villain.
He could only think of the whispers and rumors floating through the too-shiny hallways of Nabu Middle School. Never mind that shitty foster family of his.
Regardless of their opinions, Hitoshi had found shelter and a relatively safe food source (thank you, soup kitchens) within twenty-four hours. After the terrifying argument he had with his previous fosters (one of the few times Hitoshi had honestly thought he would get murdered and buried in the backyard) when his scent patch failed, Hitoshi had been unceremoniously kicked out.
They had let him pack his belongings, though, which was the last (and only, if he were honest with himself) act of kindness they had ever shown him.
He drifted throughout his prefecture, doing his best to stay low and away from areas where he knew pro heroes frequented. He knew he’d need to keep away from any underground pro heroes, given they were often the nosiest Caregivers Hitoshi had ever met in his life. Granted Hitoshi had only met one, and Ms. Joke was more of a hybrid than a completely underground pro hero, but the thought still stood.
If Hitoshi wanted to remain undetected, if he wanted to stay out of the foster care system, then he needed to remain undetectable to any, and all, pro heroes.
He had food to last him a good two weeks, considering he hoarded non-perishable foods (and water) as if it were going out of business. His only concerns, of course, were reliable shelter where he wouldn’t fear getting stabbed to death in his sleep (or worse, discovered by a police officer). He amassed a good amount of funds as well, always one to do small jobs around whatever neighborhood he lived in, and purchased a ticket to Musutafu.
His chances of being spotted by his social worker increased the longer he stayed in his prefecture. He could fade into anonymity in Musutafu. There was an increased risk involved in traveling there, of course, given the influx of pro heroes (specifically: underground pro heroes) within the prefecture, but so long as Hitoshi kept his head down and kept smart about his actions, they wouldn’t be a problem.
Besides, Musutafu was really the only prefecture he could go to. Everything else was either too far or too expensive.
School, unfortunately, had faded in the background. Hitoshi knew it’d be best if he showed up and acted as if nothing had gone wrong. Yet as he thought more about the discrimination and downright abuse he’d often face in those halls, he decided he was better off without Nabu Middle. They wouldn’t mark him as missing, anyways. They’d likely throw a party once he failed to show up three days in a row. He knew his fosters had either reported him as a runaway or hadn’t bothered to at all.
Unless child services got involved, no one would know Shinsou Hitoshi disappeared. It made a part of his heart ache, knowing how little people cared about him and his wellbeing, but he’d shrugged off the hurt as he always did and went about trying to survive the best he could.
Nevertheless, he’d found shelter in an abandoned apartment building. From the old, weathered signs posted around it, it had been conscripted to be torn down for something new, but likely something happened to make the schedule pause indefinitely. He thought it was rather symbolic: an unwanted boy living in an unwanted building.
Musutafu was littered with soup kitchens and food drives. They didn’t require anyone to show proof of their homelessness or lack of reliable income, which was a blessing in Hitoshi’s eyes. He would always be careful whenever he arrived for food, though, knowing someone concerned might tip off child services with his description at any moment.
He never went to the same kitchen twice in the same day, though. He bounced around as much as he could, keeping his features hidden with a scarf he’d found in one of the apartments (after washing it, of course).
One thing Hitoshi did find himself doing, however, was pickpocket. He decided to embrace his ‘delinquent’ label everyone branded him as before they learned who he really was, seeing his quirk before his person, because it was the only way he could survive. No one would hire a twelve-year-old, let alone a twelve-year-old Little, even if Hitoshi had the height of someone older.
Thus: the pickpocketing.
He only took small amounts, of course, and he did his best to return whatever wallets he’d snatched. His stomach always churned with unease at how easy his actions were. Butter fingers, a previous foster had once said.
It happened on a typical day, some months when he had become officially homeless. Hitoshi noticed his funds were dwindling, given he had to invest in a battery powered fan due to the poor insulation of his new home (and the near deathly summer heat that year). He had chosen to skip out on the kitchens for a few days after an altercation. It wasn’t anything too serious, but Hitoshi was paranoid. A volunteer had started to ask Hitoshi far too many questions than he was comfortable answering, seemingly not convinced Hitoshi was the eighteen-year-old he’d told the other members that he was.
Hitoshi shivered in remembrance of those sharp green eyes. The man looked (and sounded) familiar, more so with that “little listener” he dropped when first greeting Hitoshi, and he didn’t want to stick around to see if the police would be called.
He had to rely on his non-perishables because of it. He purchased a bento here and there from a corner store, but given the expenses of his scent patches and medicine (because of course he had gone down with a damn cold), his money dwindled too quickly. It would literally mean choosing to live or die if he didn’t leave his little nest of blankets and pillow to pickpocket.
Hitoshi gave the alarm clock beside him a bleary stare. He had found it in another apartment, the cracked screen likely why it’d been left behind, and gave it new batteries. It worked like a charm ever since. It blinked 11:23 A.M. in green.
He groaned. “Don’ wanna m’ve.”
“Then stay here,: replied Princess Fluffy Butt, his faithful stuffed animal he’d received from a kind foster parent when he was seven. The brown-spotted cat looked weathered and aged, a few patches of fur missing, one of her button eyes threatening to fall out of its’ socket, but she was a stalwart, loyal friend to a very lonely Little. “You need the rest.”
Hitoshi dragged a hand through sweat-soaked locks, muttering, “I need the money.”
“You can always go tomorrow,” offered Sir Whiskers, his other stuffed animal he had purchased as a birthday present, acting surprised in his quiet bedroom when he’d ‘unwrapped’ it from the plastic bag. It wasn’t a cat, but rather a teddy bear: white and patterned with little hearts. “One day won’t hurt, Toshi!”
“It won’t,” Princess Fluffy Butt insisted. “Let’s cuddle!”
Hitoshi sniffled and rolled it over in his mind. His body was sore and ached everywhere, and cuddling was always a favorite past time of his. “When I get back,” Hitoshi promised as he begrudgingly sat upright, ignoring the way his fingers trembled. “We-We can cuddle, then.”
Despite his head feeling clogged with cotton balls and an on-and-off runny nose, and the protests from the worrywartsthat were Sir Whiskers and Princess Fluffy Butt, Hitoshi dragged himself out of his warm blankets and out of the apartment once he slipped into his shoes. It took a few minutes, tears burning the backs of his eyes from frustration, but it got done in the end.
He made sure to slap on two scent patches before he left his apartment. It wasn’t medically sound advice, considering it could send his system into shock or other averse reaction, but Hitoshi knew his cold would make it easier for him to drop into headspace. He could not be in headspace when he pickpocketed.
He could not have his scent patch fail, either.
He’d die.
He made his way onto a busy street and found a few targets to pickpocket. He nicked (and returned) two wallets, grasping a good amount of cash for the early morning. Hitoshi was rather pleased at his boon, considering how his limbs often became mush when he was cold. Take that, Princess Fluffy Butt, he thought to himself as he scanned the dwindling crowd for his last target.
He found one within seconds.
Hitoshi squashed down his guilt at pickpocketing a man who resembled more of a homeless person than Hitoshi. He needed the money, nevertheless. He needed to eat, and he needed to get more cold medicine. With that thought in mind, he steeled his resolve and walked further. Hitoshi went through the motions with ease, dipping his ‘buttery fingers’ into the mans’ pocket (who wears a black jumpsuit and scarf in the middle of summer?), and fished out his wallet with ease.
His heart fluttered in his throat. He made sure to keep his face as blank as it always was, eyes down to his feet, as he walked by the man, attempting a casual gait. He barely walked four steps forward when a hand clamped around his wrist.
His blood turned to ice. A low, foreboding voice then intoned, “Excuse me? Just what do you think you’re doing with my wallet?”
Hitoshi turned, slow and trembling, to meet the red, furious gaze of the person he had just pickpocketed . . . no, it wasn’t simply any person. It was Eraserhead. Hitoshi pickpocketed Eraserhead. He blinked twice, swallowing around the forming ball in his throat, and thought, you should’ve listened to Sir Whiskers and stayed inside.
“Well?” Eraserhead raised an eyebrow, expression terrifyingly stern. “I’m waiting on an answer, kid.”
Hitoshi swallowed audibly. His palms trembled. “U-um . . . I, I, u-um . . ..” His bottom lip quivered the longer he remained under Eraserhead’s disapproval. “I . . ..” His breath quickened. His heart already melted on the sidewalk. Like chalk, bleeding (ha) into the storm drains. “I’m . . . I’m n-not a kid . . ..”
Eraserhead snorted. “Sure, you are.”
Hitoshi bristled at the heavy sarcasm and tried to tug his wrist out of the mans’ grip. It didn’t even fucking budge. What did this man eat? “L-look,” Hitoshi started, not caring if he had to get on his knees and beg. “I . . . I w-won’t take your money, okay? Y-You caught me, so, so just, just take your wallet, and, and we’ll go about our w-ways!”
“Yeah,” Eraserhead sighed, “that’s not happening, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Hitoshi snapped—and much to his mortification, his voice cracked and wobbled. A trail of wet crawled down one cheek, signifying a tear. A few more followed as he whispered, “J-Just let me go . . ..”
Eraserhead frowned, grip lightening a bit. Hitoshi couldn’t remove his wrist, even then. “Although I did stop you before you could take anything, I know that children don’t steal—especially from strangers—unless there’s an underlying issue.”
Hitoshi shook his head. He needed to leave. He needed to leave. Surrounded by Eraserhead’s scent of displeased Caregiver, not to mention his cold, Hitoshi’s headspace yanked urgently at the edges of his mind. Little Hitoshi insisted he spill everything, let the adult handle it, but Big Hitoshi refused to entertain that line of thought.
Eraserhead could not know he was Little. He could not know Hitoshi was homeless. He didn’t get a choice.
A softer, cloying scent drifted in the air. Hitoshi tensed as he could feel the patch malfunction, prickling his scent gland to the point of irritation. It underlies his natural scent, a blend of strawberries and vanilla, the unmistakable baby.
Eraserhead straightened. A part of Hitoshi thought the man loomed. “A Little, hmm . . .? Where’s your Caregiver?” Eraserhead questioned, expression showing doubt on Hitoshi’s hypothetical Caregivers’ existence. His gaze drifted over Hitoshi’s clearly disheveled appearance. “. . . Do you even have one?”
ABORT, Hitoshi’s mind screamed. Emergency sirens blared from all corners of his brain; if there were little Hitoshi’s in there, they’d be scrambling about in utter panic. ABORT! RUN AWAY FROM THE CAREGIVER! RUN AWAY FROM THE FUCKING CAREGIVER! WHO IS ERASERHEAD!
“Um.”
Eraserhead sighed. Hitoshi’s one-word answer and baffled expression likely answered any of the mans’ unasked questions. He removed his wallet from Hitoshi’s grasp, who struggled to hide his pout, and seemed to come to a decision. “I don’t know what your home situation is like—.”
Hitoshi sneezed.
Not once, not twice, but a rapid succession that left him dizzy. He stumbled on his feet, moving closer to Eraserhead as he did so, and whined as a series of coughs tickled the back of his throat. Eraserhead pressed a hand against his forehead, making him lean into the warmth with a soft noise.
“. . . You have a fever,” Eraserhead muttered and shifted his grip from Hitoshi’s wrist to waist. Before Hitoshi could make sense of the world around him, Eraserhead picked him up. “You shouldn’t even be standing, much less walking around in the summer heat.”
A broken whine drifted from his lips at the slight scolding. Hitoshi squirmed as Eraserhead readjusted his grip, grasping a securer hold. “P-pu’ me down,” Hitoshi demanded—or tried to, given the watery tones of his voice in that moment. “’M — ‘M not sick,” Hitoshi continued, sniffling. He paused to cough in the crook of his elbow, breath hitching as Eraserhead gently rubbed and patted his back. “’M not a, a kid.”
Eraserhead hummed, unimpressed with his lies.
Hitoshi could feel himself tire out. His resolve didn’t dwindle, nonetheless, and his struggling continued. Eraserhead’s arms never strained, even once. “This—this’s kidnapping!” Hitoshi tried to insist, tried to sound threatening, but—again: no one looked at a teary-eyed Little and thought, this is a threat. “I—let me go!”
Another sigh escaped Eraserhead. Hitoshi crinkled his nose, trying not to pout, as Eraserhead readjusted his grip once more, making it so they could make eye contact easier. “You have a fever,” Eraserhead reminded him as if Hitoshi forgot. “I know it might be scary for you right now, but I assure you I’m a Pro Hero. I can even—.”
“I know who you are,” Hitoshi replied in a glum tone, disbelieving of how quickly his life upturned. “You’re Eraserhead, right?”
Eraserhead blinked and quirked an eyebrow, chuckling. “A hero fan, are you?” It was obvious, really, considering even the most rabid of hero fans didn’t have a clue who Eraserhead was. “Makes it easier, then.” No, Hitoshi thought in dawning horror, an inkling of what would come out of Eraserhead’s mouth next. No! “Until I’m aware of exactly what’s going on with you, I’ll be taking emergency custody—.”
Hitoshi, panicked and terrified, grasped those silvery threads and pulled.
Eraserhead halted and tensed, waiting for an order. Hitoshi breathed a quiet sigh of relief and ignored any guilt at using his quirk on a hero. “Put me down,” Hitoshi whispered. When Eraserhead obeyed, Hitoshi scrambled back a few steps, shoulders rising to his ears. He couldn’t look his favorite pro hero in the eye and see the forming disgust there. “S-Stay here for, for three m-minutes and then pinch yourself.”
Assured Eraserhead was under his quirk entirely, Hitoshi bolted. He doesn’t think he’d ever run so fast before in his life.
Hitoshi didn’t pickpocket for the rest of the week. He seldom left his little hovel save for brief trips to the corner store when he ran low on water and medicine. He steered clear of the shelters, and kitchens, even though a part of him ached for a soft bed to sleep on or something warm in his stomach.
Princess Fluffy Butt and Sir Whiskers soothed his aches and pains as best as they could, staying quiet and cuddling with Hitoshi. His cold hadn’t worsened . . . but it hadn’t gone away, either. Hitoshi wasn’t sure what was wrong—he drank water, and ate soup (granted, it was cold soup from a can, but it still counted!), and took his medicine every six hours as directed.
Though there was that little disclaimer to see a doctor if ones’ fever lasted longer than three days, but Hitoshi took that advice with a grain of salt.
He’d be fine.
Right?
Right.
Princess Fluffy Butt gave him a dubious look. “I think it’s time for an adult.”
Hitoshi whined into her fur, shaking his head. “Nuh uh! No ‘dults, they’re . . . they’re . . ..” He wracked his brain for an adjective, but his thoughts were muddled. Most of his focus remained on how hot and tired he was, how sore he felt from just sitting upright to drink water every thirty minutes (Sir Whiskers helped him with the time since staring at the alarm clock hurt his eyes), how hungry he was, stomach grumbling every hour or so.
“They’re what?” Princess Fluffy Butt prompted as Hitoshi fell quiet, dazed and wanting to go back to sleep for a few more days.
“Meanies,” Hitoshi mumbled. Princess Fluffy Butt and Sir Whiskers both sighed. Hitoshi would’ve bristled if he had the energy. “No si, sig—no that, ‘m ‘ick.”
“Sorry, Toshi,” they intoned, and Hitoshi sniffled. They didn’t sound sorry. “But we are worried,” Sir Whiskers added on. “Your fever’s too high . . . and you haven’t really left your, uh, bed, and . . . you’re getting low on food, honey.”
Hitoshi pouted and drew his blanket over his head. “’M not listenin’ anymore!” He ignored their attempts of coaxing him out, but he knew, in the back of his mind, they were right. Hitoshi knew he needed a doctor. He knew he needed an adult. He needed medicine, and warm food, and an actual bed. He poked his head out a moment later, sniffling. “Sorry,” he whispered, cuddling Princess Fluffy Butt and Sir Whiskers close.
“It’s okay,” Sir Whiskers soothed. “We know you didn’t mean it.”
Hitoshi cuddled with them for a few more minutes before he climbed out of his makeshift bed. He had enough money leftover that he didn’t have to pickpocket. He wasn’t sure he even could successfully pickpocket in his state, anyway. He pulled on one of his hoodies that didn’t smell the most, waved a tired goodbye to Sir Whiskers and Princess Fluffy But, and left.
He remained unbothered as he slunk toward the nearest convenience store. Although the sun warmed the sidewalks, Hitoshi could barely feel the heat. Cold wracked through his bones as he walked, hugging his torso to try and retain what little body heat he had left.
The automatic doors made a soft chime as he stepped through. He shivered at the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his neck, though found no one staring in his direction when he turned to look. He shrugged off the feeling, writing it off as paranoia, and grabbed a basket. He made a beeline for the medicine, and then grabbed a nutrient drink or two.
“I see you’re still sick.”
Hitoshi froze at the voice and almost flung the basket, stopping only because he was terrified of the consequences (and, you know, his noodle arms). He turned, slow as if this were some horror movie, to see Eraserhead’sunimpressed expression. His audible swallow drifted in the space between them.
“I—,” Hitoshi started, and then coughed, grimacing at the awful sound wracking his throat. Eraserhead patted and rubbed his back when a few more coughs slipped out. “. . . Sorry,” he murmured once his brief coughing fit passed. At Eraserhead’s raised eyebrow, Hitoshi added, “F-for . . . the first time we met.”
Maybe it was stupid to remind a pro hero he’d used his quirk illegally, but it wasn’t as if Hitoshi operated under a completely logical mind at this point. He could only hope that if he were arrested, the jail cell would be much warmer than his abandoned apartment building he called home.
Eraserhead only sighed. “You were scared, and unwell,” the man said and patted his head. “I don’t blame you for reacting to a perceived threat.” He then stared down at the items in Hitoshi’s basket, and Hitoshi was almost (almost, but he was honestly too tired and cold to care) embarrassed at the various nutrient replacement drinks littering the basket. “. . . Only nutrient drinks?”
Hitoshi held the basket close and shrugged. “Don’ have a stove.” He wasn’t even sure he could use one, anyway. Not in the state he was in now, at least.
Eraserhead frowned. “Microwave?”
Hitoshi didn’t even have a working sink.
Eraserhead likely wanted to continue his line of questioning, but it seemed he decided to shelve it for later. “I’ll . . . I’ll pay for those.”
Hitoshi pouted a bit. The cranky part of his mind wanted to snap out that he had the money for it, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to remind the pro hero he gathered said funds illegally. Therefore, Hitoshi relinquished his basket when Eraserhead tugged it out of his hands.
Hitoshi held Eraserhead’s free hand without prompt and then lodged two of his fingers inside his mouth, ignorant to the way the Caregiver grimaced. Hitoshi did notice the pacifier Eraserhead pulled out of his pockets, which made him blink.
“Fingers are dirty,” Eraserhead said with a soft tsk, and pressed the pacifier into his mouth. Hitoshi furrowed his eyebrows together in a disgruntled pinch, to which Eraserhead only looked amused. “Is it okay if I pick you up?”
Hitoshi thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. Eraserhead picked him up with the arm not holding the basket, moving with ease. Hitoshi rested his head against Eraserhead’s shoulder and hummed, a larger part of him calmed by the fact that a Caregiver was here to help. That he didn’t have to do this alone anymore.
“. . . ‘Raserhead?” Hitoshi murmured, waiting for the man to hum in acknowledgement. “Wha’s gonna happen now?”
Eraserhead adjusted his grip on Hitoshi, making them both a bit more comfortable with the hold. “As I said when we first met, I’m going to take emergency custody of you for the time being,” Eraserhead replied and gave him a light bounce when he whined a bit. “It’ll be alright, I assure you, but right now, my immediate concern is reducing that fever of yours.”
Hitoshi loosely gripped the front of Eraserhead’s jumpsuit. “’Kay.” As Eraserhead moved down the hall, Hitoshi murmured, “Is Toshi in trouble?”
Eraserhead was quiet for a moment, and then sighed. “No, sweetheart,” Eraserhead assured him gently. “You’re not in trouble, okay? We’d have a different discussion if you do something like this again, but I know you won’t.”
He was a little curious as to what kind of discussion Eraserhead hinted at, but decided to seek those answers when he didn’t have a dangerously high fever. He took a moment to think, chewing around the bulb of the pacifier, before he removed it to mutter, “You don’t even know my name.”
Eraserhead hummed at that. “I suppose it’s only fair I introduce myself, then. Aizawa Shouta.”
Hitoshi blinked at the trust. “. . . Shinsou Hitoshi.”
Eraserhead paused for a moment, and frowned at him. “Are you aware you’ve been on the missing children’s list for the past few months?”
Hitoshi knew the best response no response.