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He’s used to rain.
At least, that’s what he tells himself with each drizzling patrol. The nights are heavy with the sound of thunder and waterlogged clothes sopping against rooftops. It’s not Eraserhead’s most graceful patrol, but he managed to take down a couple of small-time criminals braving Japan’s rainy season.
The alleyways always stink the worst around this time, but Aizawa has learned to tune out the everyday grime in favor of vigilance and hiding behind his trusty capture weapon. Even then, the rain lulls him into a sort of numbness. The reminder of a dry bed and warm husband pushing him through the last hour of his patrol with a sort of distractedness that only hair plastered against your neck can provide.
At least that’s what he tells himself to justify almost missing the flash of green in the corner of his eye.
Although he works independently, thankfully free from the same grueling bureaucracy a typical daylight hero agency provides, he still follows the crime maps built by the police force for the majority of his patrols. Knowing that most high-risk crime won’t come out onto the dewy streets, Shouta prepared himself for a slower pace and a calmer patrol, scraping only the surface of the underground.
He’s a good enough hero to know his weaknesses. A low-visibility rainy night isn’t something a vision quirk can specialize in, even given his extensive combat experience. His bones ache with the wet chill of the night, and his mind is already half towards the hellions he’ll have to teach tomorrow.
But something about that flash of green has him pausing, straining his senses towards an alleyway littered with the remains of soggy cardboard boxes as well as the typical assortment of beer bottles. The alley ends with a lone dumpster shoved against the graffitied wall, dim street lights showing proclamations of fuck the heroes amongst other vulgar phrases promising a good time. Nevertheless, Eraserhead crept forward, one hand on his capture weapon and his gut screaming that something hid within the shadows of the dreary night.
Approaching the dumpster, a loud bang startles him into a fighting stance, quirk activated and heart pounding. Just as quick, a small figure darts from behind the dumpster, sending a handful of gravel towards his eyes. A good attempt on the figure’s part, but overall not a match for his yellow visor and decade of experience.
Eraserhead whips his capture weapon around the person, quickly immobilizing them and cutting off any means for escape, though he stays on guard.
In that moment, a dreary Tuesday evening similar to every other, Shouta’s heart broke a little. In the same way each mewling ball of fur sends his protective instincts haywire, the kid, maybe ten or eleven, makes his chest tight where they shiver within his capture weapon.
The kid has a head of greasy curls, grime typical of living on the streets shadowing his complexion, but unable to mask the bright green eyes that peer at him with mistrust and fear. The kid is weighed down in a threadbare green hoodie showing better days of a faded All Might catchphrase, as well as an overfull yellow backpack and muddied red shoes.
After this instant of mutual observation, Eraserhead loosens the kid’s binds somewhat, enough to give him some breathing room, but not too much to allow him to break free.
He tries to soften his voice into something more fitting for a shivering child, but he’s unable to escape his usual gruff deadpan.
“Hey kid. I’m a pro hero. I’m not going to hurt you. Can you tell me your name?” The kid doesn’t appear outwardly dangerous, but he knows better than to test that by caging the boy in. Eraserhead crouches down as to not loom over the kid, joints creaking in protest, and waits.
The kid continues to shiver in silence, not a word spoken.
“Would you like to see my hero license?” He attempts to soothe the boy’s obvious fear and distress, but has to mask his surprise at the mumbled Eraserhead that he gets in return.
Most police don’t even recognize him, let alone child civilians, so Eraserhead is instantly on guard, though trying not to show his unease.
“That’s pretty observant of you kid. How’d you figure it out?”
When he’s once more met with no response, Eraserhead attempts to change directions.
“How about this, we can go down to the station and get you some dry clothes, get you out of this rain?” Eraserhead has to tighten his grip on the capture weapon as the kid instantly begins to wiggle frantically against the binds, appearing somewhere between hyperventilating and searching for an out.
“Hey, hey, we don’t need to go to the station,” Eraserhead soothes, “I just don’t want a scrawny thing like you catching a cold.” Somewhere in the sentence he appears to have made another error, as the kid curls into themselves even more.
He can feel the growing frustration and worry over the kid burning in his chest, but he tries to remain rational.
“Alright, let’s try again,” he pulls an extra juice pouch from his pocket, “I’m Aizawa Shouta. Are you hungry?”
The kid’s eyes lock onto the pouch, but they still seem hesitant to reach out. After a staring contest between the food and the kid, a grubby hand darts out and snatches up the pouch, cradling it against their chest. The sealed pouch is quickly opened and sucked down with little regard towards choking, though Shouta would be hypocritical to tell them to slow down. The entire time, the kid’s eyes never stray from the hero’s outstretched hand, as if making sure he wasn’t going to reach any closer.
He’s seen quite the handful of abuse cases throughout his career, and this kid’s demeanor isn’t painting a pretty picture.
“Okay. You don’t want to go to the station, right?” The kid shakes their head vigorously, matted green curls flopping all over the place.
“Why don’t we go back to my place for tonight? I’ve got a shower you can use and some extra clothes. No station, but it gets you out of this weather. What do you say, kid?”
Shouta ignores the alarms blaring in his head, telling him it’s not exactly rational to bring home a random kid off the street like a stray cat, but if he has to see this pitiful kid shivering any longer, he might just break something.
The kid regards him for a moment, something fragile in their gaze. Shouta waits, letting the kid come to him. The kid stays silent, but nods their head quickly, as if he’s afraid that Shouta will retract his offer if he waits too long.
Little did the kid know, Shouta had already vowed to protect them in any way possible.
“Alright. I typically roof hop, but I don’t mind the walk if you don’t.” He levers himself off of his haunches, painful cracks in his knees protesting such treatment. The kid nods again, but not before tugging at the capture weapon a little, a silent plea to be freed. Shouta unwinds the kid’s binds, but keeps a loose hold on the small figure’s wrist, just in case.
The pair begin their walk, short hesitant bursts on the kid’s part, and the gentle loping gait of the hero. Shouta keeps up some baseline chatter, something much more fitting for Hizashi, but it seems to soothe the kid nonetheless.
He tells the kid about his husband, loud but harmless in the grand scheme of things. He mentions the cats, and gets a jerk of a nod confirming that he’s not allergic. The rain seems to let up somewhat, still weighing down those that dare to brave the weather, but easier for the hero to hold gentle conversation.
Shouta goes to unlock his apartment door, kid in tow, but is unable to get more than two feet into the doorway before he’s met with a wall of sound and his whirlwind husband.
“ShOU OH MY GOODNESS,” Shouta has to activate his quirk, lest his panicked partner scare the kid more than he already has, “Where were you! You usually text if you’re going to be late but you DIDN’T,” He can see his husband gearing up to (carefully, in case he has injuries) launch himself at the raven-haired man, but skids himself to a stop, just as he notices the green-haired figure peeking out from behind the taller hero in trepidation.
“Oh-” Hizashi cuts himself off, “Hi little one! Who is this Shou?”
Shouta turns to the kid, ensuring that he’s not more than startled from the loud blonde, and thanks his past self for the foresight to mention it to the kid.
“This is-” He cuts himself off with the realization that he still hasn’t gotten the kid’s name, and after a moment of silence where the kid doesn’t offer anything himself, he continues. “A child.”
The kid snorts, a cut-off sound, before quickly slamming a hand to his mouth in panic. The adults carefully ignore the moment, lest the kid think themselves in trouble, but Shouta can’t help the quirk of a smile tugging at his lips.
Hizashi seems to come to the same ‘fuck it’ mentality Shouta had been adopting most of the night, and goes with the flow. “I can see that, Shou. I’ll get you two some towels, you’re soaked!” The loud man rushes off again with a smile.
Hizashi quickly returns with two towels, some of the softer ones, he notes, and a gentle question in his eyes. Shouta shakes his head, silently promising the full story later, and the taller man just smiles in acceptance.
“Alrighty! Little one, Shou, are you hungry? I can whip something up while you two dry off?” Seeking the kid hesitate, Shouta quickly agrees for the both of them, with Hizashi zooming off to make them something warm.
It’s in these moments Shouta is more than grateful for his angel of a husband.
The two quickly dry off, the dark-haired man setting his hero boots aside in return for his house slippers, as well as some guest ones for the kid. Shouta tries to pretend he doesn’t feel the kid’s stare, tracking his every movement while taking care to not drip over the genkan.
“Alright kid, I know you aren’t comfortable with telling me your name right now, and that’s fine, but do you have any pronouns you’d like us to use?” Aizawa takes the now dirtied towel from the kid, and tries to ignore his growing heartbreak at the kid’s shock and confusion.
“Um,” a small voice squeaks out, “he/him?” It’s phrased more like a question than a statement, but Aizawa knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Sounds good. Both me and my husband are he/him as well. Here’s some slippers, and we’ll get you settled into something warm.”
The boy takes the slippers from him, though always keeping one hand settled onto his worn backpack strap with a death grip. Shouta doesn’t want to think of how that kind of behavior is taught, shadows of foster homes and less-than-pleasant foster siblings creeping into the corners of his vision.
Shouta guides the green-haired kid to the living room couch, a chorus of meows already twining around his ankles as Bastard and Fluffles scream for food. Shouta has to stifle an internal victory cheer as the kid twitches a smile at the screaming display.
Shouta heads to the bathroom for their overly-large med kit, though still keeping an ear out for the kid. Aizawa quickly disinfects and bandages some of the small-time scrapes he got during his patrol, as well as shedding some of the sopping outer layers of his hero costume. Aizawa returns with the med kit in hand, now reduced to a slightly damp undershirt, his costume thrown into the bedroom the two heroes share.
The kid watches all of this out of the corner of his eye, keeping his head down and focused on Bastard’s aggressive purring in his lap, though still curling into himself with the cold.
“Okay, kid. You got anything you need bandaged up? I can take care of it if you’d like, but you’re welcome to anything you need.” Aizawa places the kit onto the living room table in front of the boy, only to be met with a shake of his head.
“Alright. Would you be comfortable showering here? The bathroom’s just down the hall and I can get you some spare clothes. I’m sure you’re not feeling much warmer in those.”
The kid seems to regard him with fledgling panic, though relaxes after Aizawa slow-blinks at him like a cat, trying to project as many good intentions as possible.
“Does it have a lock?” The kid shocks him a moment with his voice, seemingly rough from disuse, but still high for a tiny kid.
“It sure does. I can leave the spare clothes outside the door for you to grab whenever you’re done.”
The kid nods and scurries down the hall towards the bathroom while Shouta is quick to retrieve some old clothes from his and Hizashi’s dresser. They tried to separate clothes at first, but after seven years of marriage, Shouta has given up on hiding his comfy shirts from his husband.
After a quick change into some hot pink sweatpants with unknown origin (it was probably Hizashi’s but still criminally comfy) and one of Hizashi’s old band shirts, Shouta settles the spare clothing outside of the bathroom door with a knock.
“Clothes are out here, kid. Take them whenever you’re ready,” Shouta thinks for a moment to see if he’s missing anything, “Also feel free to use any products we have in there. Hizashi might squawk if you use his fancy conditioner but he doesn’t mean it. Food will be ready when you get out.”
Shouta doesn’t get a response, but he hears the shower start up and deems it good enough. He joins his lovely husband in the kitchen where he’s finishing omurice with a side of extra rice for the kid.
“Rough night?” Shouta proceeds to wrap himself around Hizashi’s back in response, thinking that maybe he can bury some of his worries in his husband’s golden hair. Hizashi puts a hand over the other man's with a considering hum.
“He looks young.” Hizashi says, voice weighed down by the shivering kid currently occupying their bathroom, “Did you get an age?”
Shouta wishes he could give his husband more than a “Nah. Kid’s too skittish.” The pair watches Hizashi slide the omurice onto a clean plate for a moment, too on edge to break the quiet calm they’ve carved into their own home.
Hizashi’s quick to put the kid’s food onto a warming plate for when he gets out, and turns to his husband with a considering eye.
“Talk to me Shou-love. What’s going on?” Shouta leans himself against the island across from his husband, mirroring the other man.
“I don’t know, ‘Zashi, really. He just looked scared. He was shivering and it was still raining and he eyed my juice packet like he hadn’t eaten in weeks,” Shouta runs a frustrated hand through his hair “He refused to go to the police station or tell me any personal details.” The raven-haired man can’t meet his husband’s eye, “I’m sorry ‘Zashi, I really am, but I couldn’t just leave him.”
The taller man is quick to cross to his defeated husband with a coo. “Shouta and his strays,” Hizashi lifts the other man’s chin to meet his eyes, “I know you couldn’t leave him and that’s why I love you. You’re a hero, sweetheart. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And we’ll do our very best to keep the kid safe and warm while we figure out what’s going on,” the blonde man breaks into a mischievous grin, “Besides, I’ve always wanted a baby.”
“‘Zashi no. We can’t adopt the kid just because he’s cold and dirty.” Shouta tries for a stern look, but knows he misses the mark in the face of his beautiful, wonderful husband.
“Suuuuure Shou. Like you haven’t already claimed the kid.” It’s amidst their warm kitchen, gentle in the face of his husband and so thankful for where he’s ended up, that Shouta is able to relax.
“I plead the fifth.”
“We live in Japan, Shou-love. That doesn’t apply here.” It’s a familiar back-and-forth and Shouta is ready to fire back, but hero-trained ears catch the bathroom door opening. They share a silent look, carefully not turning to the kid hovering near the edges of their vision in favor of gentle teasing and setting the table.
“You’re an English teacher, ‘Zashi. Certainly some English rules apply.” Shouta makes sure to place the kid’s food a little away from where the heroes settle to sit, close enough to talk but not crowd the kid.
“You never paid attention in English class anyway, so it’s not like you’d know.” Shouta has to bite back half of an offended squawk, instead choosing to be the bigger person and turning to the kid.
It’s made all more obvious how malnourished he is in Shouta’s entirely too large UA shirt. He’s still got a deathgrip on that grimy yellow backpack, but the kid seems to have left some of the fear and replaced it with awkwardness, if the shuffling of his feet is any indication.
“C’mon, kid. We’ve got some omurice here for you.” Shouta gestures to the seat a spot away from the two of them, but leaves the smiling to Hizashi.
“Here, kiddo! Fresh off the stove! You can push your backpack underneath your chair, if you’d like.” A better look at the bag reveals it to be stuffed with what looks to be notebooks and little else. The kid shoves it under his chair after he notices the two heroes looking, but cages his ankles around it for extra insurance.
The kid settles into the seat, eyes darting between the heroes and the steaming rice, before pushing it back towards the two men. ‘Zashi spares a look of concern, though Shouta’s sure he’s no better.
“Not hungry, kiddo?” Just wide green eyes and the steady cracking of Shouta’s heart.
The mop of green hair carefully cuts off a section of his omurice, coupled with some rice, and sets it on the edge of his plate, then pushing it back towards the heroes. Shouta understands all at once and has to fight the bitterness welling up in him. He’s too young to have this much fear.
Shouta makes sure to reach towards the plate slowly as to not startle the kid, and scoops the separated portion into his mouth, chewing and swallowing fully.
The kid watches for a moment further before tucking into the food with gusto. Both Hizashi and Shouta keep up meaningless conversation to both reassure the kid and keep their minds off the fact that the kid expected to be poisoned.
The meal is finished quickly, though hopefully not too quickly for the kid’s weak stomach, and the next step is subtle interrogation and plans. A quick glance at the kitchen clock reveals it to be near five am at this point, and though both Shouta and his husband are used to sleep deprivation, that’s pushing it. A quick text to Nedzu to ensure their classes are covered for the day and the heroes are ready to turn back to the kid.
He’s fidgeting in the seat, hands stuffed under his thighs and wide, analytical eyes tracking Hizashi.
“So, kiddo! Did you enjoy your-”
“Present Mic.” It’s half whispered and raspy, but Hizashi is a good enough hero to catch it as quickly as Shouta, and he perks up with a grin.
“That’s right, little listener! I’m surprised, most people don’t recognize me out of costume. You must be pretty clever, huh?” The kid looks uneasy again, shrinking back into himself. “What gave me away?”
The kid hesitates for a moment, eyes darting between the two men, before silently gestures to his ears. Hizashi’s hearing aids are fairly subtle, built for hero work in the effort to conceal an opening to any villains. The fact that this half-pint could notice them at all, let alone connect them with Present Mic, makes Shouta all of sudden doubt who exactly they brought into their home.
“My hearing aids? How observant! But while we’re at home, you can call me Yamada Hizashi. On the subject of names, is there anything you’d like us to call you?” And of course ‘Zashi isn’t phased, rather staying on the subject of adoption. Shouta is aware that he shoots himself in the foot with his paranoia too often, and so decides to trust his husband’s judgment of exactly where this will go. He’s always had good-people sense anyway.
Unluckily for Hizashi, this particular question just leads to an awkward silence prompting the kid to shake his head furiously.
“Alright. Can I ask why you’re so nervous to share your name?” The kid can’t be comfortable balled up in the chair like that, but Shouta knows this question is necessary, protective instincts aside.
“Dangerous.” The kid rasps out, somewhat louder than he’s been previously, though the statement invokes some caution in both heroes.
Shouta decides to step in. “For who? You or us?” And this is why he leaves the talking to Hizashi, the kid’s visibly shaking in their seat, breaths coming out too quickly.
“Both.” He cuts in before either hero can intervene in his panic. Both heroes are momentarily stunned by the half-feral look the kid is sporting. Somehow, all that goes through Shouta’s head is this just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.