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The early September sun beats down on Hitoshi’s shoulders, summer still holding firm to the beginning of UA’s second term. The small bursts of wind that ghost across his skin with each punch are welcome, even as sweat rolls down his temples, dropping off the ridge of his nose with each jarring movement. It feels good to be back again after the break. Most of Hitoshi’s time over the holiday was simply spent waiting around for when he could be here again, doing this.
This being making some sort of headway toward his dream.
Hitoshi has never been a ‘sweet summer child’, no matter how much Kaminari may like to call him such, the heat always attracted to his thick head of unruly hair and his body seemingly unable to keep him cool in any useful capacity. He sweats and he pants and he wishes for autumn every year until finally, it graces him with its coy presence. He loves the snow and the ice. White winter coating his tongue, his lashes, nipping at his toes.
But the heaviness of the heat doesn’t only have to do with the feel on his skin.
Between controlled kicks meant to strengthen his hip flexors, the tip of his toe pointed sharply towards the sky, Hitoshi spares a glance to his supervising instructor. Aizawa stands like a sentry in wait, still and hawk-like, the dappled shadows of a nearby tree somehow making him look more menacing than ever as he watches Hitoshi closely.
It sends butterflies through the boy’s stomach to be observed, though he isn’t exactly sure why. Still, he looks when he thinks he can get away with it, and because of this he can’t fail to see the change in his teacher.
Aizawa is a stern man, a serious one, but Hitoshi has come to know his quick-witted humor and sarcastic drawl. He loves when the man feels comfortable enough to jab at him with playful banter, Hitoshi’s own humor suited perfectly for such things.
Hitoshi hasn’t heard a light-hearted word from the man’s mouth since the term started.
He’s not stupid, of course. He knows what happened. Bakugou’s kidnapping, the end of All Might. He had to share the television with his three other siblings but the deafening silence of the room for once made sure he caught every word of Aizawa’s professed failings and the subsequent fight between two super-beings.
Hitoshi will never be able to forget the destruction of Kamino Ward.
A drop of sweat flies manically through the air to land somewhere on the grass as Hitoshi spins, beginning to work with the capture weapon wound around his neck, getting the feel for it again after so many weeks apart. He chances a look at Aizawa again.
The man is sitting now, his back against the tree.
Those were the man’s kids the world watched on the screen—his class, the students he has been tasked with guiding this year—and every ounce of Hitoshi’s admittedly stunted empathy feels for him. For the panic he must have felt, the worry.
Because Hitoshi knows the man worries, no matter how strong his apparent outward distaste for sentiment.
Aizawa’s worry is subtle, disguised as vague questions about Hitoshi’s upbringing, offers for food after training, surprise snacks lining his pockets; a brand new water bottle when Hitoshi admitted he didn’t have one; an extra break thrown in professed as Aizawa himself needing a breather when the dark circles under Hitoshi’s eyes threaten to swallow him whole.
Yes, Hitoshi knows Aizawa is a caring man. He may not share pretty words or have those types of sit-down talks the movies always seem to cram down everyone’s throats about the mentor-type, but he is. He likes action and gestures. Hitoshi has to force down a smile at the idea that he’s come to know his sensei so well in such a short amount of time.
It falls faster when he thinks about what else he has noticed lately.
Aizawa is tired.
It’s the kind of exhaustion sleep doesn’t shake, the kind caused by being stretched so thin with no end in sight. The kind from a mental load so heavy that it escapes the fenced-in corners of the mind and makes home in the body, weighing down the bones. Hitoshi has felt it before, feels it still sometimes when he can’t seem to reconcile his wants with his abilities, and worries so much for the future that he feels half sick. And he sees it in his teacher, now.
Aizawa needs a break.
His head is leaning back against the rough bark of the tree, now.
Hitoshi keeps going, counting reps with a desperate determination in his mind as the sun sinks lower in the sky, his stomach beginning to rumble with the need for fuel. His water bottle—purple, Aizawa got him purple—rests next to the current subject of Hitoshi’s thoughts, tempting him with thick drops of condensation. His mouth waters for it, each repetitive move only increasing his thirst, if only sensei would stop paying attention—
Which is when he sees it.
Aizawa’s head is slow to droop sideways onto his shoulder, his arms folded over his chest loosely, ankles crossed. The deep lines of his face that Hitoshi has eyed curiously for days relax into the lingering furrows of a man in his early thirties. His breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.
Well, Hitoshi did say Aizawa was tired.
With a huff of laughter on his lips, Hitoshi stops, every muscle tingling with fatigue, and wobbles slowly over to the tree, grabbing up his water bottle as quietly as he can. Each swallow is heaven, he’s sure, no liquid better than this as he closes his eyes and savors every drop before inevitably Aizawa wakes up and directs him to continue. They have about half an hour left if Hitoshi’s watch is anything to go by, and Aizawa doesn’t appreciate wasted time.
But as he looks down at the man, he’s surprised. Aizawa hasn’t registered the change, hasn’t realized Hitoshi has stopped or has come close, and for a seasoned hero with sharp senses, that may as well be blasphemy.
With raised eyebrows, Hitoshi stands still and stares, enjoying the shade as it blocks the onslaught of the sun. He watches as Aizawa slowly breathes, knowing he won’t like the crick in his neck when he wakes, what with how he’s sitting. Hitoshi smiles, small and secret.
Sensei doesn’t feel in danger here.
Even though the thought is obvious, it makes that feeling in Hitoshi’s stomach return, the one he gets in the middle of a good conversation with Aizawa or after being his sole focus during training. It’s trust. Bestowed on Hitoshi like a gift.
Aizawa is tired, and Hitoshi can’t fix that. He knows it’s above him, too adult for him to grasp entirely, but he can let his sensei sleep, let him escape his secretly incessant worries for just a while, and as he thinks this he sits, too. The bark is rough against his back but isn’t wholly uncomfortable as he draws up his knees, holding his cold bottle against his chest, the ice already dropping his core temperature. He feels exhaustion overtake him and droop his eyes, the sun making patterns across his lids.
Like this, it isn’t such a hot day.
He knows this rest won’t last long but all the same, he doesn’t fear waking. Sensei won’t be mad. They’ll share a flat look before Hitoshi averts his eyes in feigned sheepishness, Aizawa following up with a proclaimed increase in laps during their next session which he won’t enact.
Hitoshi smiles again.
The world is scary and times are unsure, but here, Hitoshi thinks things can't be so bad. Not when he can simply take a nap under a tree with his mentor, escaping the heat for just a moment.
Hitoshi is tired. So he sleeps.