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It’s in the way they can communicate without uttering a single word, even without sign language, and Hitoshi can never hear the unsaid. How with a single glance, they just know things. Not in a way Hitoshi can understand, or decipher. He doesn’t speak their language, even when they’re teaching him JSL. Well, more than the bits and pieces he learned from library books and the internet. Just his name, and I can’t speak.
“You’re doing well,” Yamada always smiles with all his teeth, and Hitoshi has to remind himself that he’s not baring them, it’s just a smile. Just a smile, obviously. Obviously. “You’re catching on with these signs really quick.” Did he not think he would? Did Yamada think he was too dumb to, too slow? Did he- no, no. It’s a compliment, it’s kind. But Hitoshi knows how much venom can lace pretty words.
(It’s in the way the dishes clink just a tad too loud when stacked.)
Hitoshi doesn’t miss the way Aizawa’s eyes track his every movement, even as perpetually exhausted they are. And he can’t help but stare back, memorize the way he places his mug on the counter, the way his hands clench around his capture scarf. He notes the way he collapses into the couch after school and after patrol. Watches the way he curls his lips around, “let me know if you need help with that,” and how he eyes Hitoshi’s incomplete homework.
“I’m fine,” the words pass through his lips like a prayer, even though he knows no god is listening. “I’m okay,” he lies pretty little things wrapped in pretty little bows, all pleasantries and niceties. “Thank you,” and that is genuine. And when he stares at the way Aizawa stares back, he knows he too must know the way the truth sticks to his tongue. How lies slip out like drool in his sleep, but the truth never wants to escape, sticking to the roof of his mouth all peanut buttery gooeyness.
(It’s in the way the door clicks too harshly against the latch guard.)
He holds his breath, tilts his head as if that’ll open his eardrums to the pseudo-silent footsteps of the heroes walking down the hall. He tenses, ready to jump up from whatever he’s doing, laying in bed, doing homework, on his phone- it doesn’t matter. He’s ready, at a second's notice, for them to scream his name. “Shinsou! Get your ass over here!” But it’s never that gravelly voice or those squeaky sneakers echoing down the hall. It’s the excited shout of Yamada or the coolly collected drawl of Aizawa. It’s never “you think this is acceptable?” to whatever chore Hitoshi failed to complete sufficiently this time around.
It’s a soft knock at his bedroom door, and that one two three second pause for Hitoshi to decide if they can come in or not. Despite the fact his door doesn’t have a lock, never did, they don’t enter without his permission. And sometimes he waits four five six just to see if they’ll keep that silent promise. They do.
(It’s in the way Yamada kicks off his boots with too little care of possible scuffs on the well-loved leather.)
And every night after Yamada has long since gone into slumber and Aizawa has left for patrol, Hitoshi fixes the shoes. Lines them up neat and tidy. Because he knows how important it is to anticipate your enemy’s the next move. It’s what he learns in ‘hero training’ after all, or whatever his after school sessions are called. It’s only a matter of time anyway, until he can join the hero course for real, and he’ll be prepared. He’ll be ready
“Hey Sho, did you move my shoes?” And Hitoshi forces himself not to freeze, forces himself to keep writing his essay as if anything after will be coherent.
They must know the answer, they’re brilliant, they have to know, “and when would I have time for that” Aizawa isn’t necessarily snarky, but he doesn’t have time for bullshit.
Tough luck for Hitoshi- “must have been the ghost.”
“If you mention that damn ghost one more time-“
(It’s in the way Aizawa collapses into the couch, his sigh taking too much air for Hitoshi to be able to breathe in the same room.)
And he didn’t run, he didn’t. He walked like a normal person, quieter than a cat, and closed his door soundlessly the way he perfected so many years ago. And he waited, for the yells that didn’t come. The blame that was never thrust upon his thin shoulders. He waited, for Aizawa to never call his name, never demand he do more than just make his legs fall asleep from how long he sat on the floor. He wasted so much time for pain to never come.
But didn’t it?
(It’s in the way he-)
Hitoshi can’t breathe, he can’t. He can’t, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Everything, a bitter voice reminds him.
He doesn’t know why he’s freaking out when neither of his foster parents are, all he did was spill his coffee on the floor. He cleaned it up, he scrubbed the damn floor until it was practically sparkling. But it’s not enough, it’s never enough, you’re never enough. And he didn’t mean to disobey, when both heroes said he didn’t have to go that far, that a paper towel would have sufficed. But it’s not that simple, it never is. Forgive and forget is just a fable, a pretty little story you tell kids so they don’t realize happily ever afters are as fake as Cinderella’s glass slipper. Already gone before the clock strikes midnight.
He choked down every single apology after the initial “I’m sorry,” because no one wants blubbering excuses. They want restitution, and if that’s not enough they want someone to punish.
But that’s not Aizawa and Yamada, he has to remind himself. They aren’t the kind of people to needlessly punish him. They don’t even scream at him.
(It’s in the way-)
Yamada cradles him so close, too close, that Hitoshi can smell the candied orange rinds and- he doesn’t care to know what kind of cologne he wears. He runs his long bony fingers through his hair and Hitoshi hates the sigh that pushes through his clenched teeth. He despises the way he feels his limbs go boneless into the embrace, body no more than a pillow to hold, all small and soft.
He loathes the whine that pressed against his throat, refusing to be swallowed down, when Yamada switches their position and what if he leaves? What if he walks away and leaves Hitoshi alone? What if he holds him so lovin- nicely and then leaves like it meant nothing? What if what if what if…
He hates himself a little more.
(It’s in the-)
“It’s alright.” Sometimes he wonders if he’s capable of being honest. “I understand.” Nope, he can’t do it. The truthfulness just gets stuck like a popcorn kernel between his molars and he just has to accept it lives there now.
Those dark dark eyes loom into his soul most likely, with how intensely Aizawa makes eye contact, “it’s just for today, we’ll be back to training tomorrow.” And Hitoshi wants to believe him, he knows he does, he believes he does want to, but too many broken promises and too many not-quite-promises have been shattered for him to be anything less than abysmally wary.
Hitoshi nods, like he’s the understanding and patient and good little boy he was meant to be, “I’ll just get ahead with homework,” he’s not sure if he’s telling that more to Aizawa or himself. He’s not sure who he needs to convince.
Himself, himself, himself.
(It’s in-)
“I’m sorry,” the apology bursts out of him like the juice of a berry stepped upon, “‘m sorry,” it’s borderline compulsive at this point, the apologies.
Hitoshi didn’t have the energy to convince myself the exhale wasn’t out of resentment, of a fuse too short not to explode, “I already told you there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s illogical to apologize over things that aren’t your fault.”
Illogical, that’s an oddly nice way to say how stupid Hitoshi is being. How pathetic, useless, he is to be brought down to such a pitiful state by a not so serious injury. And it is his fault, why Aizawa would lie about something so obvious is beyond Hitoshi.
-it’s a trap
He could merely clench his eyes tighter as his foster father wrapped his finger over the butterfly bandage, “you shouldn’t need stitches as long as you don’t rip the cut open more.” As long as you’re not still so stupid, Hitoshi translated in his mind. “You have blood on your sleeve, go change your shirt.” He knows when he’s being dismissed, when he’s no longer needed. And he blinked a few too many times to fight against his increasingly blurry vision as he escaped to his the bedroom.
He made quick work of replacing his ruined shirt, hoping he could salvage the new clothing next wash day, knowing he had to go clean up the mess he made. With the blood contaminating the chicken he had been cutting, no doubt he’ll have to start over. And then dinner will be late and when Yamada comes home he’ll be hungry and disappointed and fuck he’ll be angry too, because of course Hitoshi can’t do something as simple as chop fucking meat.
Biting down a whimper at the painful tug of his skin when he grabbed a fresh shirt, he threw it on and made his way back to the kitchen. If it were another day, maybe Aizawa would have been proud at how quiet yet speedy Hitoshi was. Perfect for an underground hero, if he’ll still want to train him after seeing how utterly deficient he is.
Only years of shutting himself up prepared him to not outwardly question the now clean kitchen with nothing cooking anymore. Aizawa, of course, heard the unsaid question. “There’s not enough time to remake the meal, so we’ll just order in.” There’s not enough time to fix his mistakes. “Any preferences?”
A shake of the head. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, Hitoshi is never one to be fooled again.
(It’s-)
He didn’t mean to flinch, he thought he trained himself out of it. He’s just tired, that’s it. He’s not actually scared, not really. Not of Aizawa and his deceivingly strong statue and Yamada’s height and big hands. He’s definitely not afraid when Aizawa’s is even a tad harsher than his normal drawl, and Yamada moves even quicker than his hyper self. He’s not afraid, they've given him no reason to be afraid. “I wouldn’t hit you, Hitoshi, I hope you know that.” But isn’t that in itself a reason to be wary?
“I know,” sometimes he wonders if the bitter bitter lies will fill his empty stomach, make him not feel so hollow.
( … )
He can’t do it, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hitoshi has never been a patient one, after all, always striving to move forward. Get to the next step, proceed through the frivolous happenings and just progress. Whether it be to the next level of training to be a hero, or- And this, the smiles, the ‘family dinners’, the how was your day and the we’re happy to listen ’s are too much. Isn’t it fascinating how everything Hitoshi has always dreamed of has turned out to be a nightmare?
He almost wishes it started off as a nightmare.
Because how can he relax into those soft embraces, fingers running lovingly through his hair, when he knows how quickly gentle can turn into harsh tugs? How can he dare open his mouth when he knows that The Quiet Game was never really a game after all? How can he just pretend like everything’s going to be fine when there’s no way Aizawa and Yamada can be this perfect? That’s just not a thing, people don’t look at Hitoshi like- like that. With adoration in their gazes and a smile gracing their lips. People don’t listen, don’t encourage Hitoshi to talk. That’s not how this works.
Hitoshi isn’t complicated, not really. He’s gone through life the best player in The Quiet Game, after all. He knows when to hush and quiet and shut the fuck up perfectly well, thank you. He doesn’t need anyone to wrap a hand over his mouth when he can do that just fine to himself. No one had to strap that damn muzzle to his face for him to learn his place. He knows that, he knows how that all works. Just follow the steps, and he’ll be fine.
But Aizawa and Yamada do not follow those rules. They don’t remind him to shut up, they don’t give him that look when he forgets. And Hitoshi can’t do that. It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be happy and safe and secure and constant and fuck what is wrong with him? These are good things, they’re good, and so why are they so scary? Why does his chest tighten every time he hears their footsteps? Why does he still hold his breath when they’ve never so much as raised their voices against him? Why is he so- so fucked up?
Nothing about Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi make sense, and so Hitoshi does what does make sense. And he sneaks food to his room and stashes anything that won’t go bad. He steals. He packs what he doesn’t actively use, and always has his go bag at the ready. He hides. He plans, figures out which online friends live the closest, studies bus routes. He runs.
Well, he prepares to. Because if he just stuffs his bag and bolts, he’ll be caught immediately. He’s not that stupid anymore, a good escape needs time. It needs patience he just doesn’t have, it needs work he doesn’t have the energy to put in.
He does everything as normal, going through school, doing his best on his tests just in case, working his ass off in training. He helps with dinner, chews even when he wants to spit it out, swallows when he already feels nausea curling around the butterflies in his stomach. He does his homework, let’s Aizawa check over his answers, he watches tv with Yamada. He wishes his teacher a safe patrol, waits until his other foster father is asleep in bed.
and and and
He can’t do it, leaving like this. Running from the only people who could possibly maybe love him.
But is he strong enough to cope with watching the fondness turn into hatred rather than love?
No.
And so he grabs his prepacked bag, he wears multiple layers of clothes for warmth and room in his backpack. He doesn’t let himself write a note, leave an explanation, apologize. He doesn’t bring his key with him, not needing that failsafe. And he still stops and listens by the bedroom door, but Yamada’s snores stay consistent. He bypasses the new sneakers the hero bought him, instead slipping on his own. The last thing he needs is to be accused of stealing.
His hands can’t help but tremble at the click of the door echoing through the otherwise silent apartment. And he knows without his hearing aids Yamada will have no way to catch his too-loudness. But Yamada also says he doesn’t like not being able to hear when Aizawa is on patrol. Because what if Hitoshi needs something and Yamada won’t be able to hear? What if Hitoshi is getting into trouble and Yamada isn’t able to catch him? What if Yamada isn’t able to stop him?
But there’s no padding fest down the hall and there’s no shout of stop or wait or caught you! There’s nothing but his too fast breaths and his trembling hands and his too quick blinking. His legs can’t help but quake as he walks away from his foster parents, going down the backstairs even though he knows Aizawa won’t be home for hours. The cool air outside should be refreshing but he just feels cold through the shirt and sweatshirt and jacket. He feels it seep through his clothes like it’s not even there, causing goosebumps on his skin and tightening his joints.
He walks opposite the direction of Eraserhead’s patrol route, head down as he follows the paths of the street lamps. Risk of being recognized is always a lesser concern than the risk of being murdered in the a back alley if you ask him.
Buses don’t run at this hour, but that’s fine. He’s worked up endurance, he can walk awhile, get to a park far enough away they won’t find him immediately. In the morning he can get a bus. And yeah hero resources could probably find him easier if he takes public transport like that, but isn’t it selfish to assume they’d spent such precious time and effort on him? No doubt the heroes will deduce he left willingly, his own runaway record is enough evidence alone without his missing belongings, and then they’ll know there’s no reason to look for him. No one would want to look for him.
Not even Aizawa and Yamada.
When he saw the flashing lights, he didn’t let himself freeze like the first time he saw a villain, he didn’t let himself sprint like the first time he escaped a ‘home’. He crossed the street at the corner, like a good citizen who doesn’t want a cop to catch him jaywalking, and he walked at a normal pace like a normal person not absolutely petrified. Because if there’s cops here, something had to have happened. There could be a villain and Hitoshi wouldn’t even know because his phone doesn’t really belong to him and so couldn’t bring it with him and if he hides in an alley that would be not only suspicious but dangerous as fuck. So he can only walk, hood uncomfortably pressing down his hair, eyes flitting around him with every breath.
Of fucking course someone just has to stop him, “hey kid, did you see what happened over at the gas station?”
Hitoshi barely stopped walking, because screw meaningless politeness rules, “no,” he tried not to grind out the word, because being a total asshole would only bring more attention to him.
But of course the hesitation it what fucks him over, the tall man stares at him a moment, giving Hitoshi time to scan him over just as well. His long coat looked almost like what a detective would wear in a cheesy cop show. “Are you okay?” Was not the question Hitoshi would have ever thought would leave the stranger's mouth.
He nodded, and of course that wasn’t enough. The man kept staring at him with those dark dark eyes like he could see right through any façade Hitoshi may try and muster. Licking his perpetually dry lips, a pathetic “yeah,” was all he got out. He shifted his weight foot to foot, eyes flickering around as if an exit sign would light up before him. For someone literally running away, he was wasting too much time rooted to the cement beneath his feet.
The man lifted an arm, not touching Hitoshi, but a way to say wait. I’m not done with you. “Do you need help?” And when Hitoshi gave a prompt no , the stranger gave an almost smile, “my name is Detective Tsukauchi, I can help you.” Something in him urged him to remember, to place that name, to know something he just doesn’t. And the detective with the most cliche outfit the teen may have laughed about if he wasn’t still shaking, he didn’t give him time to think, to plan, to run. “There’s a hero over at the scene, if you’d be more comfortable talking to him when he’s done.”
Wait, what? No, a hero can’t get involved. The odds aren’t great he’ll know the hero personally, but any hero is a no go. “No thanks, I’m good. I don’t need any help.” Ah yes, the most convincing of explanations.
“I apologize for not explaining earlier, but I can tell when anyone is lying to me.” Well isn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic. The most inconvenient quirks in the history of quirks is the fucking detective to stop Hitoshi. Because of course he’s a detective of literally any profession the man to stop him on the side of the road could have been. Because he’s just so inexplicably lucky like that, obviously.
(Now is the time Hitoshi would mutter about wishing he was smothered as a baby instead of being forced to live this life, but Yamada outright squawked in indignation last time Hitoshi so much as said shoot me)
Detective Tsukauchi pulled out his radio, “hey Eraser, I have a kid needing someone trustworthy to talk to.”
No. No, no, nononono- Hitoshi may be unlucky but he’s not fucking cursed.
Eyes wide, he was already shaking his head, backing away from the stranger as fast as he could. Stumbling a bit, he ignored the hurried “wait!” Tsukauchi called out, as Hitoshi scrambled away. It’s not like the detective can force him to stay, he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like he’s arrested, no one even knows he left. And if he can just get away before Aizawa catches on then he can still get to the park and he can still take the bus and he can still get away and everything will be fine.
“Shinsou Hitoshi,” two words and his heart simultaneously felt like it was clutched stopped and beating so hard there’s no way his ribs could contain it without cracking. Eraserhead didn’t say anything else until he was in front of Hitoshi, until he was staring him down with eyes already too overexhausted to be dealing with this. “I can assume Hizashi is unaware,” he didn’t specify further, didn’t need to.
Unable to look anywhere but his foster fathers clenched teeth and overly calm breathing, he nodded too rapidly. The space behind his eyes already aching without the unnecessary strain. How Aizawa managed to pull out and text Yamada a sufficient message in the amount of time it took for Hitoshi to realize how absolutely truthfully fucked he is, is beyond him.
Aizawa didn’t touch Hitoshi, but he also left no room to escape, as if he would right in front of a hero’s eyes. He led him a little ways off, next to an alley. Not quite in it, but far enough to get some semblance of privacy from the other officers still going over whatever crime scene surrounded them. Whether he was waiting for the right words to scream at him, or for Hitoshi to start blubbering useless excuses and apologies, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t dare meet his eye, couldn’t, as he bit his lip to keep from begging forgiveness.
Because how could Aizawa ever trust him again when he ran away, when he left while Yamada slept, trusting he would be asleep in his own bed? In the large bedroom they so generously gave him? How could he ever believe another word Hitoshi says when he pretended for days that he wasn’t going to betray the only two people to ever believe in him? How can Aizawa ever listen to him again when Hitoshi can’t even explain it himself? Because what do you do when you don’t even know why you left?
It doesn’t make sense, and he knows it doesn’t. And maybe that’s the worst part, because it’s impossible to justify the illogical. It’s unreasonable to excuse what can't even be fathomed. No one in their right mind gives up everything they ever wanted. And maybe that’s Hitoshi’s problem, he’s just insane, crazy and unstable and that’s not even a good excuse because no one wants insanity ruining their safe home. Maybe he was just meant to ruin things, that would make sense. He finally found the home of his dreams, support and care and love and he gave it all up to be back on the streets, likely on the way to another shelter. Back to his familiarity.
And that makes sense, instability is safe as long as it’s familiar, right? Danger is comfortable when it’s all you’ve ever known. And maybe when you’re broken inside you need to be surrounded by broken things too.
Broken things aren’t meant in whole homes.
Hitoshi did not cover his mouth, did not clench his eyes closed, did not stutter on his breath. He glared up at the sky, what he could see of it just above Aizawa’s head, and cursed himself for tearing up before he was even yelled at. He cursed his tongue for swelling up so big it filled his mouth, making only a pitiful whimper the only sound able to come out. He cursed himself for not even being able to be looked at with disappointment without breaking down.
A sigh, “we’ll talk about this at home.” It wasn’t a bullet to break down his walls, but a feather. “Kid-” Hitoshi didn’t mean to cut him off with his sob, but he couldn’t help it. Eyes still up, as if looking high enough would prevent his tears from falling. “I’m not angry with you.”
And god isn’t that cruel.
Another rasping sob, ripping from his throat and making his chest ache, his head stinging in sympathy. “You should though,” he cried, snot-nosed and wet eyed like an absolute baby. “Should be mad, ‘m mad at me too.”
“Can I touch you?” In Hitoshi’s wildest possibilities that is not even on the list of what he thought his teacher would ask. Shushing his incoherent whines, Aizawa clarified, “just shake or nod your head.” Though it just pained him further, he managed a jerky nod of the head, like a rusty bobble head. And he still moved slow, giving Hitoshi plenty of time to shy away, but he didn’t. He may not have leaned into the soft hold Aizawa pulled him into, but he didn’t pull back. One rough hand cradling his head, the other wrapped around his back, hugging him so softly yet securely.
Safe.
And the thought just made him sob out, “I’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” his voice cracked like a prepubescent child. And with his face hidden in the crook of his foster fathers neck, what was hastily bandaged together too fell apart. Broke. “I- I don’t know, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. What’s- I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He doesn’t even know who he’s asking. “You gave me everything, everything I ever wanted and I couldn’t take it.”
His throat was so dry his voice was as rough as a smoker, but he didn’t so much as clear his throat before continuing, “you handed it to me on a fuckin’ golden platter and I smashed it all to the floor,” he froze for a breath and a half, waiting for the reprimand that didn’t come. Voice lower, he mumbled out, “I destroyed everything and I don’t even know why ,” his whisper was so guilty he thought not even a priest could forgive him. He thought maybe not even Aizawa can either. “There’s no reason, nothing, no no reason to run and I did and- and I still want to,” he sobbed, teared soaking into the hero’s costume and making the fabric stick to his face. “I can’t stay here, it doesn’t make sense, I don’t get it. I want- I want- ” he would have pulled at his hair if Aizawa wasn’t holding him so tight, so like a- “fuck, fuck me I don’t know what I want, I can’t do it. I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
And Aizawa didn’t cringe away at the snot and tears surely seeping onto his skin. His fingers ran through Hitoshi’s hair, ever so gingerly untangling the strands. “I’m still not mad at you, even if you can’t explain why. Even if you don’t understand it yourself.” His other hand rubbed almost rhythmically over his back, in time with his own even breaths.
-like a dad.
Shifting, he still couldn’t get the hero suite to unstick from his face, the whole shoulder damp and cold. “I don’t wanna be like this,” he murmured into the fabric.
“I didn’t take you in to be the perfect child, nor did I expect you to be. You’re allowed to struggle, and to ask for help.” Hitoshi stuttered out a breath at the word ask . “You were never meant to drown when there’s people to teach you how to swim.” Another day, another lifetime maybe, he would have found that silly, a little cliche even. But here, now, he clenched his faster fathers costume tight and nuzzled into his shoulder. He could only hope maybe he too is learning how to speak without words.
There wasn’t anything else to say yet, not in a dirty alley at god knows what time in the night (morning?). But Aizawa still didn’t let go while Hitoshi caught his breath, finally got his chest to stop heaving and his mouth to stop gasping. And Hitoshi only clung tighter, eyes closed as he hoped that would help ease the sting. He wasn’t sure how much longer it was before his mentor was patting his back, informing him Yamada was there to pick them up.
“It’s okay, I can assure you he is not angry either.” He comforted even before Hitoshi could think of how to voice his worries. Shoulders dropping, Hitoshi forced himself to pull back from his foster father. To his snuffling relief, Aizawa kept an arm around his shoulders, easing him over to the waiting car.
They slid in together, into the back seat. “Hey, Listener,” and Hitoshi had to look up at him in the rear view mirror, had to know. And his smile was tired, undoubtedly, but not ingenuine.
The car wasn’t silent, couldn’t be with Hitoshi’s breaths still not completely steady and the low hum of the radio no one was truly paying attention to. The almost-silence should have been oppressing, should have been a pot left to overboil, but it wasn’t. It was just quiet.
Getting back hom- to the house, it was still their practiced normalcy. Yamada throwing his boots off wherever they may land, Hitoshi carefully lining his shoes against the wall. And Yamada pulled him into a hug, tighter than Aizawa’s but no less comforting. “Do you want to talk tonight, or take a break and talk in the morning?” And typically Hitoshi would hate the wait, would find it a punishment. It wouldn’t even be a choice (it never is, in reality). He would know it’s always better to be disciplined now than later, because anticipation is an almost crueler second punishment.
“Morning, please?” He requested, as if they would rip the question right out of the air.
Aizawa nodded over his husband's shoulder, easy as that, “okay. Just keep your door cracked open for tonight,” and though it wasn’t a request, Aizawa still looked at him like it could have been one. And he could only nod, hoping that was the right response. It must have been, given the quick peck to the side of his head that left him tingling in the sweetest of ways. It’s not the first time Yamada has placed a comforting kiss to his head, but it still makes him blush just as bright each time.
Getting into his bed was almost like normal, almost like he didn’t ruin everything in a couple hours, almost like everything could be okay again.
(Maybe it can)
Not today, not tomorrow. But some day. Maybe.
Maybe maybe could be a hopeful statement from now on.