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The knock comes, timid and quiet, on the doorframe of the dining room at four in the morning, but Shouta is unsurprisingly still awake.
He glances up from his veritable mountain of paperwork, opening his mouth to tell Hizashi that he’ll be in bed soon, just let him finish this last thing, but stops himself when he’s greeted by a head of familiar lavender hair.
"Hitoshi?"
The kid fidgets with his long sleeves, shifting on his feet with eyes lined in red, and generally looking miserable. "I um- you made me promise when I- it's stupid but-"
Shouta puts his pen down, paperwork forgotten. "Come here."
He gestures the kid to the sofa, knowing that the teenager feels safe in the nest of blankets, and sits beside him.
"Did you hurt yourself?"
Hitoshi visibly swallows, but he nods.
Shouta's chest gives a little squeeze in sympathy, but he keeps his expression carefully blank so as not to scare him off.
"Alright, I’m proud of you for coming to me. It was very brave of you.” He begins, knowing that the kid responds well to positive reinforcement, and honestly grateful that Hitoshi had trusted him enough to follow through with the promise he’d made to alert Shouta when he self-harmed under his roof.
The teenager ducks his head, a pleased smile twitching at his lips, but his mouth stays firmly closed.
“I’d like to talk about what got you to this point in a moment, but first; Did you do any first aid?”
“No.” The admission is nothing more than a whisper, and Shouta’s heart clenches again.
“Would you be alright with me doing it for you, or would you take care of it yourself?" He asks, hoping that by coming to him with this, the kid has placed enough trust in Shouta to accept help.
It wouldn’t be the first time the hero had to patch his foster son up, and probably wouldn't be the last if hero training had any say in the matter. But Shouta's underground. He's had extensive training for mental health, and he's well aware of the procedures when dealing with a self-harming teenager.
He needs to assess how bad the injuries are. It’ll give him an idea about where to go from there.
Hitoshi takes a deep breath, and rolls his sleeves up in lew of a response.
Shouta reaches out, and Hitoshi lets him take his hands, turning them to scrutinize the bleeding lines with a practiced eye.
Shouta notes that none of them need stitches with no small amount of relief, though the sheer number crowded on the teenager’s arms is concerning.
As if anticipating his question, the kid speaks up. “I-uh. This is more than I usually- I mean I got carried away and didn’t mean to- sorry.”
Hitoshi trails off into a whisper once again, and Shouta places a firm hand on the teen’s knee in reassurance. "I’m not mad, kid. Just worried about you. Will you let me treat them?" He asks, holding eye contact, and searching for any hint of wariness.
The lavender-haired teen nods immediately, and without hesitation. Shouta’s shoulders sag in relief.
"I need to get the first aid kit. Will you be safe if I leave you here for a moment?"
Hitoshi nods, and Shouta moves to stand.
His knees crack and pop, protesting the time he’d spent at the kitchen table working past his usual hours, but the kid snickers at his mutters of 'old man bones', and Shouta decides that a little discomfort is worth it for that laugh.
He's back in seconds, lugging the small pharmacy Hizashi keeps stocked in the hall closet because of the tendency Shouta has for ignoring medical first responders and dealing with injuries himself.
Hitoshi raises an eyebrow at the size of the bag.
He wasn’t in the right state of mind to notice how obnoxiously large the thing was last time he’d needed it, and Shouta has a smaller one that he carries on him for training, but he waves a hand in dismissal.
"Hizashi's a worrywart."
Hitoshi's expression clearly states that the statement still didn't explain the actual duffle bag filled to the brim with enough supplies to treat 40 people, but his expression shuts down as soon as Shouta takes a wrist in a gentle hand.
The man pauses, worried at the sudden lack of expression.
“Kid?”
Hitoshi blinks a few times as if trying to refocus, and tugs his hand away to sign. “ Helps with the pain .”
Shouta frowns, but lets the kid retreat back inside himself, taking the time to set out a few plasters, gauze packs, and disinfectant. When he looks back up again, the teen’s eyes are unfocused, and he doesn’t react when Shouta begins spraying his arms with a saline solution.
The cuts are fresh and consist of clean lines without a hint of jagged edges. It was clearly done with a well taken care of blade, so it’d be illogical to use something as potent as hydrogen peroxide, and he knows better than to use rubbing alcohol on a cut.
He glances up periodically, noting with no small amount of concern that clarity doesn’t once return to the teen’s lavender eyes.
Shouta has seen dissociation enough to recognize the signs, though he doesn’t like the implications of seeing it in children. The significance is not lost on him, though he’s well aware of Hitoshi’s C-PTSD diagnosis, so he secures the gauze with medical tape, before setting both hands on the teen’s shoulders.
“Hitoshi. Hey, come back to me kid. I’m done, it won’t hurt anymore, alright? Why don’t you tell me 5 things you can see? It can be in sign, I just need a response of some kind.”
He keeps a steady mantra of coaxing as lavender eyes slowly begin into focus, the teen shaking his head as if to rid it of the lingering fog.
Hitoshi takes a moment to stare down at the wrappings on his wrists, running a careful hand over them as if to make sure they’re real, before making eye contact with Shouta and signing a hesitant, “ Hey ”.
Shouta snorts, “Hey, kid. Those alright? Not too tight?”
Hitoshi nods, flexing his hands experimentally. “ Talk now? ”
“I’d like to yes, but it can wait if you’d rather be distracted.”
“ It’s fine. ”
Shouta sits back, tucking his legs under him and getting comfortable. “Alright, do you want to tell me what got you here tonight?”
Hitoshi hesitates, glancing away. “ It’s dumb .”
“If it caused you to hurt yourself, nothing’s a dumb reason,” Shouta responds automatically, smirking when the teen huffs dramatically.
They’ve had this conversation before, though not about the issue at hand. The familiarity seems to lighten the air though, and they sit in the reminiscent atmosphere until Hitoshi gains the courage to raise his hands again.
“Nightmare,” Hitoshi signs reluctantly, picking up speed as he rushes to explain himself, “Had a panic attack and couldn’t calm down. It’s been a few weeks anyway, and it’s harder to resist.”
Shouta nods, understanding all too well. “Are you open to trying a few things before resorting to hurting yourself?”
Hitoshi shrugs, but doesn’t sign no, so Shouta takes it as the opportunity that it is.
“Okay, I’ve got a list of alternative actions on my laptop, let’s go over a few and pick a few. I want you to write the ones you think might work on a sticky note and put it somewhere you’ll see it before you go for a blade. Even if you only spend five minutes doing the activity, I want you to try it, alright? If it works, great, if not, cross it off the list and move onto the next one. Sound good?”
“ Yeah ,” Shinsou signs, and Shouta gathers his laptop, pen, and a pad of purple, cat-themed sticky notes Hizashi bought him as a gag gift. They prompt a smile out of the lavender-haired teenager when he hands them over and Shouta mentally thanks his husband, pulling up a few PDF files and passing his laptop over to the teen.
“Write down whatever you think might work, if nothing on that one is helpful, switch tabs.”
Hitoshi nods, tapping the pen to his lips as he reads. Shouta snags a pile of grading from the coffee table that he’s been putting off, resisting the urge to smile each time the lavender-haired teen scribbles something down.
They work in silence broken only by pen scratching on paper, and the occasional changing of tabs.
An indeterminate time later, the laptop is placed on the coffee table, and Hitoshi stretches.
Shouta glances at the various sticky notes covered in ink.
“You done?”
Hitoshi signs an affirmative.
“Alright, go put those where you need to, and meet me in the kitchen.”
The teenager nods, moving to stand, then pauses. “ Why the kitchen? ”
Shouta grins, “You wanna help me make some cat-chocolate?”
The kid blinks, but a smile lights up his face, and Shouta ruffles his hair.
They spend the rest of the night on the couch, drinking far more sugar than either of them should reasonably have in one sitting, and watching whatever they stop bickering about long enough to get more than thirty seconds of.
Hizashi finds them dead asleep in a pile of limbs, cats, and blankets in the morning. He frowns at the bandages wrapped around Hitoshi’s wrists, but takes the empty mugs, snaps a picture, and starts making breakfast.
He’ll never truly understand what his Little Listeners go through, but he does what he can to support them, and today that starts with pancakes.