Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There’s a mouse wearing a suit. He’s standing on a chair, nose whiskers quivering barely an inch over the desk, and, even worse, smiling. Hitoshi hates when the goons smile at him. 

“Where’s Mr. Watanabe?” he asks warily. “Did you like, commandeer his office or something?” 

“That’s a delightful way of putting it,” says the mouse, which answers nothing. “Won’t you take a seat, Shinsou?”

He doesn’t move. “How do you know my name? Who are you?” 

“I see your sense of suspicion is alive and well!” For some reason, this makes the mouse’s smile widen. “But I believe I can answer both your questions with one stone, so to speak – am I a mouse, dog, or bear? I’m Principal Nedzu!” 

Hitoshi sits down in the chair, which creaks in the exact same way as it has every single other visit. His mind runs a million miles a second. “Wait, does that mean—” 

“You’ve already gotten into UA. Congratulations!” squeaks Nedzu. “Now, I’m sure your case worker let you know you’d have to move foster homes to attend, yes?” 

“That’s what this meeting was supposed to be about, before…” Hitoshi waves a hand to encompass the crap life’s pulled on him on this fine morning. 

Nedzu says, “I’ve pulled some strings, and you’ve been placed with a family who lives very close by. However, they are… unconventional.” 

“Is that code for something?” 

“They do not meet certain standards for eligible foster families, beyond emergency licenses.” Nedzu’s eyes glitter, all black. “However, if you want to go to UA, this placement must be successful. Do you understand?” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Wonderful!” Nedzu claps his hands. Paws? “Shall we go meet them?” 

“What—now?” Hitoshi stammers out. “I haven’t even packed.” The government usually gives him at least that much courtesy. 

“Haven’t you?” It doesn’t sound like a question, so he doesn’t answer. “Watanabe, that’s your cue!” 

Mr. Watanabe, Hitoshi’s (former?) social worker pokes his head in before actually entering, like he always does. Hung on one shoulder is the ragged, neon blue hiking backpack Hitoshi keeps all his stuff in. The limp little man gives a limp little bow. 

Nedzu sighs. Hitoshi gets the feeling this was supposed to be more dramatic. “Well, come along then.” He hops from the chair up to the desk, and then down to the floor. 

Mr. Watanabe passes the backpack to Hitoshi as Nedzu pitter-patters across the room. He murmurs, “I put some, uh, snacks in there for you. You like shrimp chips, right?” 

For some reason, this penetrates Hitoshi’s shriveled little heart more than finding out he got into UA did. Maybe it’s just that shrimp chips feel more real than a hypothetical acceptance. “Yeah.” 

Mr. Watanabe gives a smile, a little nervous, like he always is around the villain kids. The thought sours Hitoshi, and he takes the backpack without a word. He hopes Mr. Watanabe didn’t warn the parents this time. 

Nedzu does some kind of acrobatics in order to turn the door handle, and then points his snout back. “Shinsou?” 

“Coming,” says Hitoshi. They slip into an adjoining room, where two men are sitting on a threadbare couch. 

Nedzu takes the time to hop over, shake their hands, the usual. Hitoshi takes the time to observe his new foster parents. 

It’s a gay couple, but Hitoshi’s hoping that’s not why Nedzu called them unconventional. The man on the left, blond and leaning forward with a wide smile, looks weirdly familiar. Hitoshi stares at him trying to place it, but something keeps throwing him off – the hair, the glasses, something.  

It might just be deja vu, though, because the familiar feeling doesn’t go away when Hitoshi looks at the other man – in fact, it gets stronger. As if sensing his gaze, flat black eyes meet his. Hitoshi doesn’t blink. Neither does the man. 

“—and may I introduce Shinsou Hitoshi?” 

The blond guy surges up and gets, like, way too close to Hitoshi. “Hi-i-i!” 

Hitoshi flinches back, losing the staring contest. But before he can say anything stupid like get the fuck away from me, the six-foot menace has retreated to the couch, trying to drag his husband up by the arm. 

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” says Hitoshi, briefly lost for words. Maybe he should’ve gotten more than four hours of sleep last night. 

“I’m Yamada Hizashi, and this is my… husband.” The man’s grin is just a little too wide for comfort. He elbows the other man and stage-whispers, “Introduce yourself!” 

“Aizawa,” he grunts, the picture of malicious compliance. Did they have some kind of fight before this? Hitoshi’s life is so exhausting, all the time. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Yamada enthuses. “We’re going to be your new foster parents.” 

“Yeah, uh, likewise,” Hitoshi says awkwardly, trying his best to imitate politeness while staring holes into Yamada. It’s too common of a name, but Hitoshi knows he recognizes that guy from somewhere. “Have we met before?” 

“Not that I can recall!” says Yamada, but then he winks. Is… Hitoshi supposed to know what that means? 

“Are you sure?” Hitoshi deadpans, in case this is some kind of prank. 

“Practically positive!” Nothing this guy says sounds real. Maybe he just reminds Hitoshi of some cartoon character or something… 

“Everything dealt with?” asks Aizawa, inching toward the door. 

“Almost!” replies Nedzu. He turns and tugs on the hem of Hitoshi’s shirt, in a disconcertingly cute gesture. “If I can do anything for you, Shinsou, please don’t hesitate to ask!” 

Hitoshi hates hearing those kinds of lies, almost as much as he likes exposing them. “Okay,” he says, drawing out the bag of shrimp chips from his backpack, “then can you throw this away for me? Where Mr. Watanabe can see it.” 

The atmosphere grows thick. Yamada’s smile twitches on his face. Aizawa grabs the arm of the couch like he’s bracing for impact. Hitoshi belatedly realizes that this is the mammal in charge of his entire future. 

“Uh. Respectfully,” he adds. 

Nedzu chitters, in what might be the equivalent of a laugh. “No, no, I didn’t take that as a sign of disrespect!” The tension bleeds out of the room. “In fact, I’m delighted to be entrusted with your petty revenge.” 

Hitoshi breaks out in a smile—the first genuine one he’s had all day. 

“Hm-m, why don’t you stay for a while? I’d love to chat more with such a promising young man.” 

“No. This is enough,” Aizawa cuts in. He clicks his tongue and gestures to the door. 

“Shouta, he’s not a cat,” Yamada remarks. He nudges his husband aside and says, “Hey, we’re gonna go now! Let’s go!” 

“I’m not a dog either,” says Hitoshi. 

Aizawa snorts and, surprisingly, so does Yamada. A foster dad with a sense of humor. Well, there’s a first time for everything. 

The adults exchange a few more pleasantries, before Aizawa practically drags them out by the scruffs of their necks. They pile into an old minivan, Hitoshi having to share the backseat with a suspiciously large black bag. 

Aizawa, in the passenger seat, says tensely, “Go, before Nedzu decides to hitch a ride.” 

“He’s not that bad,” says Yamada, buckling himself in even slower. “I thought it was cute!” 

“Of course you’d think that,” mutters Aizawa. 

“Hey, kid!” Yamada says, twisting around in his seat instead of starting the car. Aizawa groans. “You like Nedzu, right?” 

Look, Hitoshi tried. He really, really tried to be civil, but this kind of thing is—well, a trigger. He replies, barely restraining his voice, “I don’t like being a prop in other people’s arguments.” Goodbye, UA. 

“Aw-w, guess I better find another prop!” Yamada quips back, without missing a beat. He grabs the All Might-themed air freshener hanging off the windshield, and says in a surprisingly good impression, “I like Nedzu! That’s why I signed up to work for him even though I’m already a bajillionaire.” 

“Don’t treat me like a five-year-old.” Hitoshi represses the urge to add that All Might would never be a hero just for the money. His fanboy days are past him. He swears. 

“I’m not treating you like a five-year-old, I’m treating Shouta like a five-year-old,” Yamada says with an exaggerated wink, waving the air freshener in Aizawa’s face. The underground hero sits there with an air of extreme exhaustion as the neon-yellow thing baps him on the nose. “Besides, I thought you didn’t wanna get involved?” 

“I’m always—” But before Hitoshi can finish, there’s a sharp rat-a-tat-tat from one of the car doors. He leans over to the window, and sees two fluffy white ears. 

“I told you,” says Aizawa. 

“Hey, Shinsou, can you roll down—” 

Hitoshi’s already on it, opening it all the way so he can lean out to chat. But when he tries, his vision fills with white and he’s buffeted back by a warm, furry weight. There’s a brief press of a paw on Hitoshi’s shoulder, and he can suddenly see again. 

“… the window,” Yamada finishes with a sigh. “Hey boss.” 

Hitoshi looks to his left. Nedzu’s perching sedately on the leather, like he didn’t just leap through a car window. “Hello to you too, Yamada!” 

Aizawa hits his head on the dashboard, firm, like he’s trying to knock himself out. He grumbles something that sounds like, “Why is he here?”  

“This is the shared UA faculty car, is it not?” says Nedzu. “I am faculty!” 

“Ha-ha… yeah…” says Yamada. “You, uh, realize we’re driving to—”

“Ooh, what’s in this?” Nedzu interrupts, sniffing around the large black bag that Hitoshi’s been trying to ignore. 

“It’s a dead body,” suggests Hitoshi. 

“No, it would be unhygienic to keep a cadaver in the car,” Aizawa refutes, voice still muffled from where he’s pressing his face into the dashboard. 

Yamada sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Not the strongest argument.” Aizawa glares at him, and he puts his hands up, saying, “Hey, hey, we both know how your apartment looked before we fixed it up for the child. Like, same level of sanitary as a car cadaver, I feel.” 

“You are exaggerating. Like you always do.” 

While those two squabble, Hitoshi murmurs to Nedzu, “Hey, what was Mr. Watanabe’s reaction?” 

“He sighed, and picked it out of the trash. It’s a little anticlimactic for my tastes,” says Nedzu. Hitoshi doesn’t doubt it – the guy clearly has a penchant for drama. “Would you like me to get rid of him?” 

“Eh-h-h,” says Hitoshi. “He’s just kind of incompetent, which is honestly the best flavor social workers come in. Pretty impossible to be good at your job when you’re undertrained and overworked.” 

“Of course! A systemic issue,” Nedzu says. “Hm-m. It seems I must move a few items up the agenda. Aizawa, would you be so kind as to roll down that window there?” 

They all know better than to ask why he doesn’t exit through the one that’s already open. 

Aizawa lets out a deep sigh. “Fine.” 

Nedzu hops in between the two front seats, and says, “By the way, you should really take down that air freshener. It makes Yagi uncomfortable.” 

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” replies Aizawa. 

“Of course you couldn’t tell, Yagi’s poker face is as good as mine!” Yamada remarks. 

“Yagi’s poker face is better than yours.” 

Yamada starts defending himself loudly and passionately, during which monologue Aizawa finishes opening the window completely. In a flash of fur, Nedzu launches himself out. Hitoshi thinks he even does a somersault in the air, which really is just extra. 

“Floor it,” says Aizawa. Yamada speeds out of the parking lot like a madman. 

“Remind me to listen next time you tell me to hurry up!” The blond says, vibrating with some kind of manic energy. 

“I will,” mutters Aizawa. 

“Now, Shinsou!” Hitoshi leans back a little, with all that intensity directed at him. “We have a few questions for you.” 

Hitoshi knew this was coming. So he starts talking, and doesn’t stop. “Yes, I can control it. No, I won’t use it on you or anyone else, unless it’s for self-defense—”

“Sounds good!” 

“—and I’m not budging on that.”

“Alrighty,” says Yamada. 

It’s at that moment that Hitoshi processes the actual reaction to his words. He finds himself stumped, for a moment, before deciding to push his luck a little further. 

“So about—” Yamada starts, but it’s already too late. 

“I wanna visit my mom,” Hitoshi blurts out. 

“Sure!” Yamada answers. “Where does she live?” 

“Musutafu General Prison.” 

To the credit of the couple, neither flinches. Aizawa gives a grunt, and Yamada winks, again. Hitoshi is starting to think that’s some kind of tic at this point. 

“Tell us when you go,” says Yamada.

“Um—yeah.” 

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Aizawa asks dryly, “Kid, you got anything else to say? Or is it our turn now?” 

Hitoshi just sort of shrugs, uneasy. 

“So!” Yamada smacks the wheel, and the car lets out a loud HONK.  

Aizawa does a funny little jump, and snaps, “Jesus!” 

Hitoshi snickers. 

“Whoops, sorry,” says Yamada. He makes eye contact with Hitoshi through the mirror and wiggles his eyebrows. Hitoshi suppresses another laugh. “Butterfingers, y’know how I am.” 

“Oh, I do,” Aizawa grumbles with a good deal of vindictiveness. 

“Anyhoo,” Yamada continues, “Shinsou, do you have any medical conditions we need to be aware of?” 

Hitoshi considers lying, but—what’s the worst they can do? He’s already buddy-buddy with their boss. “I get really bad migraine, which is usually triggered by my insomnia episodes.” 

“Don’t worry, we’ve got the good sleep pills.” 

“Wow, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Hitoshi says, and then realizes he probably shouldn’t sass his new foster parents – at least, not this early. “Um, sorry. That was unwarranted.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I love talkers.” Yamada waves it away, a fire lit behind his eyes. Hitoshi’s definitely made a mistake, but a different kind of mistake than normal. 

Somehow, over the course of the next hour, Yamada squeezes more information out of Hitoshi than he even knew about himself. It’s more than just getting to know him—Hitoshi is being interrogated: each opinion met with a counter, and he must counter that counter, and on and on and on, even about the most seemingly insignificant little things. He thinks Yamada might even be driving in circles just to keep the conversation going, but Hitoshi is too woozy from the interrogation to pay enough attention. 

“—which really proves free will is an illusion, doesn’t it?” says Yamada, his grin a little too wide, and sharp around the edges. “But that’s just my opinion. What do you think, Shinsou?” He brakes a little too late at a red light, throwing them all forward, and then twists in his seat to make direct eye contact with Hitoshi. 

“I think I’m done, actually,” Hitoshi decides, loosening his seatbelt so it's not strangling him. He can’t do this anymore. His bullshit meter has been reached. “What’s next, having to defend the Geneva Convention?” 

“Aw, how’d you guess?” 

A realization dawns on Hitoshi. “You’re messing with me.” 

Yamada winks. Aizawa gives him a look of pity. 

“So you were just squeezing my brain out of my ears for what, fun?” Hitoshi’s never been on the receiving end of that, and damn, it burns. If not for his pride, he might be taking notes. 

“Next time don’t let him know your thoughts,” says Aizawa. “In fact, don’t tell anyone your thoughts. On anything.” 

Hitoshi considers his quirk and general disposition. “Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

Aizawa makes a sound that Hitoshi refuses to consider a hiss, because this is now his legal guardian and he honestly doesn’t think he can handle that. 

Conveniently, this is when Yamada pulls into an apartment building’s parking lot (clear evidence for the driving in circles theory). Just from the outside facade, it seems a nicer place than Hitoshi was in before. That’s not saying much, though. 

His new foster parents insist on taking the stairs, not the elevator, which wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t live on the sixth floor. By the time they get all the way up, Hitoshi’s panting, and desperately trying to seem like he isn’t. Neither of the other two are winded, which is just rude.

Upon entering the apartment, Hitoshi feels briefly like he’s been placed in a black-and-white film, because there isn’t a single spot of color about the place. It smells of bleach and vinegar, and the decor could be called minimalist, if said minimalist were deep in a depressive episode. 

“I know,” Yamada, who now seems even more like a cartoon character, sighs. He tries to discreetly put a yellow doorstop on the carpet. 

Aizawa grabs his hand before it can reach the ground, saying simply, “No.” 

“But you like yellow!” Yamada cries. “Plus, it’s welcoming.” 

“I don’t want to be welcoming.” 

Yamada stomps on one of Aizawa’s bright pink cat slippers with his platform boot, gesturing towards Hitoshi. Aizawa lets out a halfhearted, “Ow.”

The exhausted-looking man lets the blond put the doorstop down, and only then does Yamada take off the boots that Hitoshi is now classifying as weapons. Hitoshi toes off his sneakers, which are peeling at the soles, and shoves them under the black-lacquered bench before either man sees. It’s not that he thinks they’ll care, but it’s embarrassing. 

They give him a quick tour: living room, kitchen, bathroom. Hitoshi’s initial assessment seems to have been wrong – there are pops of color scattered throughout the apartment, although he gets that feeling that it’s in spite of Aizawa’s best efforts. Most prominently, there’s a wooden cat tree, tucked into a corner of the living room. 

“Do you have a cat?” Hitoshi asks, unable to keep hope from threading through his voice. 

“I used to, but she died,” says Aizawa, face stone cold. Then a wide, vaguely menacing smile splits his cheeks. “That’s why I got you.” 

Hitoshi opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “Uh. What?”

Yamada slings an arm around Aizawa, crying, “That’s a joke, sorry, sorry, Shouta has a crappy sense of humor, ha-ha-ha.”

He elbows him in the ribs, and Aizawa recites dully, “Please forgive me for my lack of tact.”

“OK?” Hitoshi replies. 

“Great. Now,” he continues, “would you rather sleep on the couch or in a sleeping bag?”

Yamada coughs loudly and smacks his husband’s back. “Hey, no, we got the bedframe delivered last night, remember?” In response to a blank look, he adds, “And we pawned that mattress off your neighbors?” 

“He could still want to be in a sleeping bag,” Aizawa argues. 

“I’m good on that, actually,” says Hitoshi. He’s had people unprepared to take him in before, but never this unprepared. Maybe Nedzu gave them as little warning as Hitoshi got. Springing stuff on people is probably more entertaining to watch, or something.

“Then you’ll love your new room!” Yamada declares like a TV announcer. Hitoshi stares at him, and almost, almost, remembers where he recognizes the guy from, but then Aizawa buffets against him, and the idea disappears into the ether. 

Hitoshi follows, coming into a room containing: a bed, a window (with curtains), a desk (without a chair), a dresser with four drawers, and a small lamp on the floor. He can see Yamada’s influence in that there is actual color in the room, but they’re all neutral shades rather than the neons the guy seems to prefer, which Hitoshi appreciates. 

“Not too shabby for three-days’ forewarning, huh?” says Yamada. Well, that explains a lot. “We’ll get you more stuff in a few days. Sound good?” 

“Yeah,” says Hitoshi. The question he asks next always makes him seem like a brat, but he has to do it. “How many people am I gonna be sharing this room with?” 

“Zero!” says Yamada, patting him between the shoulder-blades. Hitoshi jumps, but it’s not… bad. “Anyway, tell us if you need anything!” And then he leaves. Just like that. 

Hitoshi’s never had a room that was just his – even when he was a little kid, when his mom took care of him, they didn’t have enough money for a two-bedroom. He technically had his own room when he was living with his uncle, after his mom went to prison the first time, but nothing in that house was really Hitoshi’s. 

And in foster homes, most kinds of privacy are hard to come by. 

Most foster homes, anyway. Hitoshi’s landed in this bizarro in-between situation because of his acceptance to UA. It’s possible other kids might be in the same circumstances and get sent to Aizawa and Yamada, but foster kids don’t have the resources or support to be high achievers – honestly, most of the reason Hitoshi even got to this point is pure stubbornness. 

He plops down on the bed, arms splayed out. It has navy-blue pinstripe covers, and smells like old people. The mattress seems soft enough, and the window shuts just fine. Hitoshi just wishes he’d known he’d be moving to another home – he would’ve at least packed some snacks. 

Well, they’ll have to feed him soon enough. It’s the law, or whatever. 

So Hitoshi waits. He unpacks his clothes, folding them in the dresser (leaving space, because while it’s not likely, he’s not gonna be the jackass who leaves no room for the new foster sibling). He takes out the old Nintendo DS that he thrifted for much less than its market value, and plays Pokemon – at zero volume, because some of his guardians have gotten really pissy about that, and things that get confiscated usually don’t come back. 

He re-folds his clothes. He plays more Pokemon. He lies down on the bed and tries really hard to take a nap. He gives up on taking a nap, and instead spies on the people walking on the street below. He finishes his Pokemon game, and restarts it for the umpteenth time. Yeah, he’ll do the fire type this time. 

At some point, Hitoshi gets hungry enough that he decides it’s worth the risk, and slinks out of his room into the kitchen. 

But there’s nothing to eat. They have a rice cooker, but no rice. All he finds in the cabinets are banana-flavored protein bars and Aizawa’s jelly packs. 

Quite frankly, Hitoshi’s had enough. He had a brief stint of wondering if this was some kind of secret endurance test Nedzu had set on him, but then decided not even the UA Hero Course was worth eating one of those protein bars. 

He marches into the living room. Yamada’s perched on the back of the couch, feet resting on Aizawa, who is lying facedown on the pillows. 

“I need food,” says Hitoshi. 

“I was just about to order takeout!” Yamada says. Okay, that sounds fine. “It’s an exciting new place, just opened up—Italian-Korean fusion…” 

Never mind. “I’m not eating that,” says Hitoshi. “But, legally, you need to give me real food. Not protein bars or jelly packs.” 

Yamada stares at him with wide, birdlike eyes for a moment, and then nudges Aizawa with his toe. “Shouta. Problem.” 

Aizawa’s eyes snap open, and he jumps up onto his feet. Somehow, he avoids smacking any body parts into furniture or Yamada. Hitoshi’s only a little jealous. “Problem?” 

“The child needs food.” 

Aizawa scoffs. “There are army rations in one of the secret compartments.” 

“Army rations,” Hitoshi repeats, despairing a little. Must he sacrifice his taste-buds to go to UA?

“Not anymore.” Yamada slides up into a standing position, unfolding his arms and legs like some kind of huge insect. He steps up uncomfortably close to Aizawa – chest to chest. Why is he doing this? Please, please do not start making out right now. “Because I ate them.” 

“No, you didn’t.” Aizawa goes up on his tippy-toes so he’s the same height as Yamada. “I made it up. I don’t actually have army rations in the secret compartments.” 

What does he have in the secret—wait, no, this doesn’t matter. 

“Guys, can you stop it with the mind games?” asks Hitoshi. “I just want, like, fried rice or something.” 

The couple don’t stop their stand-off, but Aizawa’s eyes creep over to meet Hitoshi’s. “I like fried rice,” he says. 

There’s a flash of movement, and Yamada suddenly has his arms wrapped around Hitoshi’s and Aizawa’s shoulders, and is dragging them out the door. “Then it’s settled! We’re going to the grocery store!” 

“This is your fault,” Aizawa says to Hitoshi. 

On the walk over, Yamada quizzes both of them on allergies, favorite snacks, dislikes and likes, preferable routes through the grocery store and what tasks they’d like to be in charge of, because apparently they’re treating this like some kind of military mission. 

By the time they get there, Hitoshi feels drained. It was a short walk, but Yamada has a talent for squeezing twenty minutes of talking into five. 

Aizawa stops them before they go in, holding out a handful of slightly crumpled face masks. 

Hitoshi doesn’t take one. “What are these for?”

“Grocery store has security cameras,” says Aizawa, slipping on his own. 

“Why would I care about that?” 

“Facial recognition technology gets better every day,” he replies, ominously. 

Hitoshi stares at Aizawa for a moment, rattled, and then covers it up with a cough. He asks Yamada, “Is he serious?” 

“Afraid so,” says Yamada, smiling. “Our faces have already been recorded extensively, but it’s cute that he’s trying, isn’t it?” 

“Are—are you serious?” 

Yamada winks, and pulls out a mask from his own pocket—that looks exactly like his actual face. Mustache and everything. 

“You both need psychiatric help,” decides Hitoshi. 

“I’ve never met a therapist that could handle me,” says Yamada, with a blinding smile. “Now, let’s get this party train a-chug-chug-chugging!” 

“Never say those words in that order ever again,” says Aizawa. 

Hitoshi can’t help but agree. But Yamada just cackles shamelessly, and plows into the store. The other two hurry after him. 

“What’s the limit?” asks Hitoshi. “For how much money we can spend.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” says Yamada, smile turning a little smaller and more private. “Seriously.” 

“Just don’t get unnecessary things,” Aizawa drawls.

Hitoshi starts doing the familiar mental calculations of how much he can survive on for the week, but his thoughts are interrupted by Yamada smacking Aizawa upside the head for no clear reason. 

“It seems I didn’t articulate myself correctly,” says Yamada. “There is no limit, so stop thinking about it! And if you do think about it, I’ll know, and I will stop you.” He smiles with pearly white teeth, the kind of white that’s clearly artificial. “Sound good?”

No limit? Yamada must be loaded… plus he seemed so familiar… Maybe he’s a talk show host? Or a pro-hero? 

Hitoshi dismisses that last thought immediately. Pro-heroes have to be mentally stable, and Yamada would not be cleared by any psychologist worth their degree. 

Instead, Hitoshi says, “Sounds good.” It doesn’t feel like it would be a great idea to argue with him right now. 

Whatever intense mood had gripped Yamada fades, and he asks, “Are you okay getting snacks by yourself? This guy,” he points a thumb towards Aizawa, “can’t be left alone in grocery stores.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” Aizawa suddenly seems so much taller, looming in front of Hitoshi. “You’re in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and you’ve never been to this store before. You are surrounded by potential hostiles. Do you want to stay together?” 

“I wasn’t scared before you put ideas in my head,” says Hitoshi. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll protect you,” says Aizawa. 

Something traitorous in Hitoshi’s chest warms up. Protected. He wants to be protected. Dammit, he wants Aizawa and Yamada to like him. 

“Fine,” says Hitoshi. The depths he’ll go to for anything resembling parental affection from anything resembling parental figures. 

So they go around the stupid grocery store, and have stupid banter, and it’s all stupid and ridiculous and in no way meaningful at all—well, except for one thing. 

Shrimp chips. Hitoshi’s greatest love. His most loyal ally. A bag of crunchy miracles. 

He snatches one and sneaks it into the cart, but Yamada’s eagle eyes snap onto his attempt immediately. But instead of making him put it back, Yamada puts two more in, with the usual over-dramatic wink. 

From anyone else, Hitoshi would’ve considered it a bribe. Fake. But, well, it’s Yamada. If he wanted to butter Hitoshi up, he would’ve put way more pizzazz into it. 

It’s the feeling of sincerity that makes Hitoshi wink back. 

Yamada emits a high-pitched noise of excitement. Aizawa elbows him in the stomach, cutting the sound off neatly, and steers the shopping cart over to one of the checkout counters. Or more accurately, to the huge line behind one of the checkout counters. 

“Why don’t we go to the one over there?” Hitoshi suggests, pointing to one that's less crowded, near the corner.

“We won’t,” says Aizawa. 

“But it has a way shorter line,” Hitoshi points out. 

“We are going. To this one,” Aizawa growls. It even cows Hitoshi a little. 

The effect is immediately ruined by Yamada leaning over and whispering, “He’s buddies with the cashier.” 

“We’re not buddies,” Aizawa snaps immediately. “We are…” 

“Besties?” 

“… associates.” 

Okay, Hitoshi needs to see Aizawa’s bestie. He cranes his neck to look over the people in front of them, to the register. 

He catches a glimpse of a girl with a pink buzz cut and dinosaur claws for hands, which are wrapped in flimsy plastic gloves. She takes a receipt with her knuckles and hands it to a middle-aged woman, smiling a close-lipped customer service smile. 

At the sight of Aizawa, she seems to smile for real, parting her lips to reveal pointed teeth, spaced apart from each other and curved backwards. The phrase obligate carnivore springs to the front of Hitoshi’s mind. “Hey dude!” 

Aizawa refuses to look at her. “Please cover your name tag.” 

“No prob.” She crooks a single claw over it. 

“Thanks, Ryu!” exclaims Yamada. Aizawa’s eye twitches. 

Their initial interaction makes Hitoshi worry the cashier’s going to be chatty, but she’s not. If anything, it’s Yamada who’s talking too much, but somehow Ryu coasts along that conversation without being blindsided by his Yamada-ness. The talents of retail workers never fail to amaze. 

When they’ve paid for everything and put it all into big tote bags, Hitoshi thinks they’re done with this surprisingly un-bizarre interaction. Of course that’s not what happens. He’s pretty sure being normal for five minutes would make his foster parents combust, or something. 

“15,000 yen, and you never saw us,” says Aizawa. Almost too quick to see, he passes the cash into Ryu’s hand. She nods and slides it into her pocket. 

“15,000 yen?” Hitoshi sputters. “Is this some kind of blackmail situation?” 

Yamada bursts into laughter, latching onto Aizawa as his whole body shakes. The other man just sighs. 

Ryu looks at Hitoshi, and tells him, “Not cool.” 

Somehow, those two words are one of the most devastating blows he’s ever felt. 

So Hitoshi does what he does best, and redirects his feelings into antagonism. “Do you seriously bribe cashiers to pretend they didn’t see you at the grocery store?” 

“Or recognize me if anyone asks,” adds Aizawa. “And it’s only one cashier.” 

Hitoshi turns to Ryu, but the only thing that comes out is a single, inarticulate, “Why?”  

She shrugs. “Free money.” 

“What if someone else offers you more money?” Hitoshi prods. “Would you give him up?” 

“Nah.” 

“Why not?” 

“Same reason why I go to work every day instead of robbing a bank or whatever,” says Ryu. “‘S called a stable income, my dude.” 

His foster guardians are wearing twin grins, bright and mocking. Hitoshi shrugs and mutters, “Whatever.” 

Deciding that’s enough drama for the public today, they usher him home. He helps the two put away the groceries, and then slips away once they start arguing about whether or not to put the eggs in the fridge. 

Well, if it really is just his room…

Hitoshi does something that he hasn’t done in the daytime for years. He unzips the secret pocket hidden in the lining of his backpack, and takes out a Ziploc bag filled with colored plastic tokens – sobriety chips. They’re much brighter when there's sunlight to see them by.

Then he takes out a tiny mail package, one he picked up from his P.O. box this morning. Hitoshi opens it carefully, making as little noise as possible from habit. The sobriety chip shines gold in his hand: 2 years. 

Hitoshi registers the knock on the door just as Yamada bursts in. 

“Hey, kid—” Hitoshi can tell the exact moment the man catches sight of the sobriety chips. He crushes the urge to shove them back into the backpack—he doesn’t want Yamada to know where the hidden pocket is. “Ooh, is that a two-year chip I see? I’m proud of you!” 

He holds his hand up for a high-five. 

“They’re not mine,” snaps Hitoshi. “I would never do that.” 

“Well, whoever it is, I’m proud of ‘em!” says Yamada. When Hitoshi continues to leave him hanging, he high-fives himself. “Anyway, I just wanted to pop in and say toodle-oo, since I’ve gotta skedaddle.” 

By the time Hitoshi’s unscrambled Yamada’s meaning, the man’s already left the room. He scrambles after him, and calls out, “Wait, going where?”  

“I have night shifts, you know,” says Yamada, eyes twinkling. “And my own apartment.” 

“You guys… don’t live together?” Hitoshi asks. He hates how small his voice sounds. 

“We don’t have relationship troubles, don’t worry,” says Yamada. “It’s just a little bit unconventional.”

“Unconventional?”  

“Shinsou…” says Yamada, kneeling down and putting his hands on Hitoshi’s shoulders. “You know this is a barely-legal foster arrangement, right? Nedzu didn’t mislead you, I hope.” 

“… No.” 

Yamada pats his cheek. “Besides, you know if I lived here full-time, I’d eat all your shrimp chips. And I’m up at all hours of the night. And I’m a huge slob. Really, I’m a horrible roommate!” 

“Oh shit, really?” Hitoshi asks mockingly. 

“Language,” Aizawa reprimands him.

“Yeah, watch your fucking language!” Yamada shouts, dodging his husband before he darts out the door. It closes with a dull thud, leaving them in the gloom of the hallway. 

“Letter,” grunts Aizawa. 

“What?” 

He points. Hitoshi looks down, and sees, under his dirty sneaker, a thick envelope marked with the UA seal. His heart jumps up into his throat. With shaking hands, he picks it up, and then retreats hastily to his room. 

But it doesn’t tell him what he wants to hear. 

It’s an honor to get into UA. It was a long shot even to get into General Education. Still, for some reason, Hitoshi starts crying. 

There's a knock on the door. Hitoshi wipes away his snot and tears with his sleeve, but suspects he doesn't do a very good job.

“Shinsou—oh,” says Aizawa, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Uh, do you want a jelly pack?” 

Unable to control his tongue, Shinsou says, “Who the fuck approved you as a foster parent?” 

“Nedzu.” 

“I already knew that,” snaps Hitoshi. 

“Then don’t ask the question,” says Aizawa. His voice is calm—his face unaffected—his stance passive. Hitoshi is struck with the odd notion that this is Aizawa trying to be gentle. 

“Just… go away, please.” 

“Okay.” Aizawa closes the door almost all the way, then pauses. “I’m gonna make fried rice with whatever I find in the groceries. If you don’t want to eat it with me, I’ll put a serving aside and you can warm it up. But you will be eating it.” The door shuts silently. Well-oiled hinges. 

Hitoshi stares at those hinges and wishes, not for the first time, that his mom was here. But a new desire, small and unfamiliar, wells up in his chest: that Aizawa hadn’t closed the door. That Yamada hadn’t left. 

Most strongly, though, Hitoshi feels the urge to watch the UA rejection-acceptance. Again. And again. And again. 

After a while, he’s desensitized enough that he doesn’t cry, or look away, or close his eyes. This means Hitoshi’s vision is clear when, at the end of his speech, the Present-Mic-facsimile gives a very, very familiar wink. 

“Holy shit,” says Hitoshi. “Holy shit, he’s Present Mic! Oh my god!” 

Barely registering that his surroundings are far darker than when he last checked, Hitoshi sprints out of the room. He races into the kitchen, and is faced with the red eyes and floating scarf of Eraserhead. At the sight of the man, Hitoshi feels hatred, or maybe gratitude, which finally fades into embarrassment. Then he clocks the pink cat slippers on the man’s feet, and realizes—

“Holy shit,” says Hitoshi,  “you’re—” 

“Language,” says Aizawa, pro-hero alias: Eraserhead. He turns around, and puts a plate of fried rice into the microwave. It gently beeps as the plate circles around. He grumbles, “Took you long enough, though I don’t get why you were running around in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder. I thought you were an intruder.” 

“No, no, I found out—” 

Aizawa-Eraserhead shoves the plate at him, ordering, “Eat.” 

Dumbstruck, Hitoshi does so. Then Aizawa tromps away, and comes back with a thick white pill in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. 

“Take these.” 

“Are they the good sleeping pills?” He can’t help but ask. 

“They’d knock out a horse,” says Aizawa. “Now, I’m going to bed, and so are you. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight?” 

Apparently unsatisfied with the uncertainty in Hitoshi’s response, Aizawa drags him by the back of his collar to the room. He turns the UA projection off without comment, and then asks, “Do you need me to tuck you in?”

“No!” Hitoshi snaps, feeling blood rush to his face. 

Aizawa just shrugs, and ambles out of the room, taking any answers to Hitoshi’s questions with him. Well… maybe he can just ask them… tomorrow… 

Hitoshi wakes up the next day at noon, on the floor, feeling more rested than he has in years. Those pills are no joke. 

He hears the telltale sound of bickering from the other room. He brushes his teeth and changes in record speed, desperate not to miss Yamada, now he knows exactly how busy he is. 

“Hey sleepyhead,” Yamada greets as he comes into the living room. Hitoshi can't help but note the irony of that statement, considering that Aizawa next to him looks like he's about to faceplant into his coffee mug. “What’s up?” 

“You’re Present Mic!” Hitoshi blurts out. 

A smile spreads across Yamada’s face – wide, and a little mischievous. “I was waiting for you to figure it out!” 

Hitoshi rubs the back of his neck. “Ah-h… yeah… I’m not good with faces…” He shakes the embarrassment off, and adds, “I always knew there was something off about you, though.” 

“Really? Tell me more.” 

“Well, you clearly aren’t a normal person. You have money but work weird hours, you make these big announcements like you think you’re on TV,” Hitoshi lists. “And you two don’t act like a traditional married couple, but pros marry for legal reasons a lot, so it makes sense that you’d be married to Eraserhead but not live in the same—” 

Aizawa’s sharp tone cuts through Hitoshi’s rambling. “You know who I am? How?” 

“Uh, when I was a kid, I went searching for heroes with villainous quirks…” Hitoshi lies. But it sounds believable, right? You can find anything on the internet. 

“Get me the intern,” says Aizawa, who then chugs his entire mug.

That can’t be directed at Hitoshi, right?

“Hizashi,” Aizawa sounds irritated, “I need the intern.” 

“Oh, you were saying that to me?” replies Yamada, a vicious look in his eyes. The hairs on the back of Hitoshi’s neck rise up. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had clocked in as your secretary for the day. Would you like some coffee while I’m at it?” 

Apparently unaware of the clear danger he’s in, Aizawa says, “No, I can make my own.”  

Yamada smiles. 

Hitoshi retreats to his room, to get out of the line of fire. 

An hour and a lot of screaming later, Aizawa knocks on Hitoshi’s door. “I’m going to get the intern myself,” he says. “If you need something… don’t ask Hizashi.” 

“Can I come along?” asks Hitoshi. 

“Yes,” says Aizawa, and turns around, sweeping down the hallway. “How long’s it been since you went outside the house of your own free will?” 

Hitoshi hurries to keep up with him, running his hands through his hair. He didn’t know they were going now. “A while.” 

“You don’t have any friends?” 

“No.” 

“Neither did I, at your age,” grunts Aizawa, slipping on boots that he fastens with Velcro. He sweeps out of the door without looking back. 

Hitoshi jams on his sneakers, and staggers behind with laces untied. “How did you fix that?” 

“Got into UA’s hero course.” 

“Oh.” Well, Hitoshi’s already failed at that. 

“You got in gen ed, right? You can fix that with the sports festival,” says Aizawa. “I can train you.” 

Hitoshi’s heart makes a pathetic little leap. He can still get in the hero course, and a real pro-hero is offering to train him? It’s almost too good to be true. 

No. It’s definitely too good to be true. 

“What do you want in return?” Hitoshi asks. He’s not shaking any hands until he knows the catch. 

Aizawa gives him a long look. Hitoshi can’t see anything behind those flat black eyes. 

“I want you to win.” 

It’s no choice at all. 

“Deal.” 

They ride the train out to a beach that Hitoshi’s pretty sure was full of trash a year ago. He can just about see two figures, sitting beside each other on a bench: one tall and rickety, the other small and stocky. 

They both wave as Aizawa and Hitoshi approach. 

“Intern!” says Aizawa, the closest noise to a shout Hitoshi’s ever heard him make. 

“Eraserhead, sir!” The smaller one jumps up. He looks Hitoshi's age, maybe a year or two younger, and a few mean comments away from crying. 

“This one,” Aizawa jabs a thumb toward Hitoshi, “could find my name on the internet. Fix it.” 

“Right!” The intern straightens, and an eerily familiar fire enters his eyes. Hitoshi feels a small flash of fear. “When was this?” 

“It was on some hero forum, I dunno… I don’t remember much ‘cause it was a while ago.” That sounds realistic, right? 

“How long ago?” 

Hitoshi tries to think of an age that’s old enough he could reasonably find a buried forum post unsupervised, but young enough that he doesn’t have to ‘remember’ details. “Like, three? Years ago?” 

The intern swings a neon yellow backpack in front of him, bringing out a laptop that, under all the All Might stickers, looks crazy expensive. It takes his fingerprints before he can type in a password that’s at least twenty characters long. 

“I thought you didn’t trust technology.” Hitoshi watches the computer scan the intern’s eyes. “Especially new technology.” 

“I don’t,” Aizawa grunts. 

“It was a gift for young Midoriya from his mother, at my suggestion,” says the old man, rubbing the boy’s shoulder. He adds proudly, “I donated much of the funds for it, of course.”

“Who’re you?” asks Hitoshi. 

“I’m Yagi Toshinori. Pleased to meet you.” As an aside to Aizawa, Yagi says, “It seems your son takes after you when it comes to the social graces.” 

“Not his son,” says Hitoshi. 

“Ah.” 

“Foster situation, I’m guessing,” says Midoriya, click-clacking loudly on his keyboard. “Nedzu finally pull out the old license loophole, huh?” 

“None of your business,” snaps Hitoshi. Midoriya startles out of the fugue state that seemed to possess him while he was researching (?) on his expensive computer, and stutters out incoherent apologies. 

“That’s a good attitude, that really is,” Aizawa places his hands on Hitoshi’s shoulders and stares uncomfortably into his eyes, “and I want to encourage not telling anyone anything. But the intern is an exception. He can be trusted to keep quiet—” 

“How do you know that?” asks Hitoshi. 

“Because somebody was stupid enough to take a chance on him with state secrets, and he hasn’t screwed it up.” This comes with a pointed look at Yagi. Hitoshi wonders what state secrets Midoriya knows, and how to squeeze them out of him. “You must give the intern any and all information he asks for, so he knows how to best erase it from the internet web.” 

“Ha-ha, erase!” says Midoriya. Everyone turns to stare. “Erase, Eraserhead. Um. Sorry, that was a bad joke.” He hides his head behind his computer, and starts click-clacking again. Yagi pats his shoulder in consolation. 

Hitoshi decides to ignore that – not because he’s decent enough to spare the quivering intern, but because there’s bigger fish to fry. “I’m not paranoid enough to do that, Aizawa.” 

“I am not paranoid,” says Aizawa. 

“Yes, you are,” replies Hitoshi. He knows he’s signing his own eviction notice, but he really can’t help himself. 

“Oh, I dunno about that,” says Midoriya. Honestly, Hitoshi respects his boldness for continuing to talk, even after embarrassing himself like that. He wouldn’t have expected that from a little dude like Midoriya. “You’d be surprised how many assassination attempts Eraserhead’s gotten.” 

Wait, what the fuck?  

“How many?” Hitoshi demands. 

“Um-m-m, I mean, that’s classified information. Um.” 

This kid is gonna crack like an egg. 

“Tell me,” Hitoshi repeats, staring him down. 

“If you tell him, I’ll fire you,” Aizawa butts in. 

“Jesus Christ, okay, don’t tell me,” says Hitoshi. He doesn’t have a lot of boundaries, but he’s not getting someone fired. “How can you live with this guy as your boss?” 

It’s a genuine question, for once. Hitoshi’s been let go from quite a few jobs because he refused to take the bigger guy’s shit. Well, maybe he made a few unprovoked comments, but popping their egos is practically community service. 

“To be honest, it’s been pretty good for my self-esteem,” says Midoriya. “No matter how bad I feel about myself, I know I’m useful to Eraserhead.” 

“You are very useful,” says Aizawa, and even sounds like he genuinely means it. At least three assassination attempts, Hitoshi decides. “Are you wearing a face mask when you go to the grocery store?” 

“Yeah, totally!” says Midoriya, lighting up like his whole purpose is to wear a face mask when going to the grocery store. 

Hitoshi is suddenly very suspicious of this kid. “Hey, how come you know about the license loophole, anyway?”  

“Oh no, don’t worry! I may see Eraserhead as a father figure, but I’d never want him to be my actual father,” says Midoriya, patting Hitoshi’s shoulder like he’s the one in need of comfort. “It’s like they say, never meet your heroes, since they’ll inevitably disappoint you.” A dark look briefly crosses over his face. “And it’s the same with dads!” 

“Hear, hear,” says Aizawa. 

Yagi leans over to murmur something to Midoriya, a distinctly guilty look on his face. Hitoshi can just make out the words “merch” and “first edition” in Midoriya’s reply. 

Hitoshi’s first training session with Aizawa starts at 6 AM the following morning. 

“Why is this so early? I don’t even have school to miss,” Hitoshi complains. “And you work in the small hours of the night. Why are you making me run?”  

“Sure, you can go right back to sleep,” says Aizawa. “You won’t have to run, either. In fact, you can forget about having to train altogether.” 

Hitoshi gets the hint, and runs. 

An hour later, when Aizawa’s made him do laps, push-ups, sit-ups, yoga, and weights, Hitoshi gasps out, “How,” pant, “is this,” pant, “related to hero work?” 

“Conditioning,” Aizawa says, with a demonic smile. He clicks a button on the stopwatch, now that Hitoshi’s completed a mile. “Seven minutes. Let’s get it down to three.” 

After going through hell twice over, the sadistic demon that lives inside Aizawa’s mind has been sated, and they go back to the apartment. 

Only to be confronted with a bright-and-bushy-tailed Yamada, despite the fact that he’s already had a several-hour shift at the radio station and a villain attack that got on the news, declaring, “We’re going out!”

“End me now,” says Hitoshi. He thought his trials were over for today, but God decided it wasn’t enough. 

“Don’t you want your bed to have some nice, clean sheets?” Yamada asks. “And a chair for your desk? And a carpet? And a crate of more clothes?” 

“No,” says Hitoshi. 

“Well, too bad!” 

Surprisingly for a rich pro-hero, a lot of the things they get are taken from friends or neighbors who aren’t using them, or from Yamada’s own apartment. The fact that Yamada’s not spending actual money on him, and that all this stuff was just lying unused (as the man repeats, again and again), alleviates Hitoshi’s guilt, as well as his nervousness at any debt he might be racking up.

He wonders if Yamada knows that. The guy seems to catch on to a lot more than he shows. 

The furniture pieces end up being a bit mismatched, but Hitoshi’s really going for function over style. However, Yamada seems to draw the line at clothes, so they go to an actual mall to buy some. 

It’s loud and crowded, and Hitoshi has to sit through two hours of being Yamada’s dress-up doll before they can finally leave – with a literal crate of clothing. The worst thing about this guy, thinks Hitoshi, is that I can never tell when he’s exaggerating.  

“Okay, that’s everything – except for the sheets, we’ll have to order those, but no biggie!” says Yamada. Hitoshi prays that this is it. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Dammit. “Do you have a computer?” 

“No,” says Hitoshi. 

“I’ll ask Sasaki. I hear the guy goes through laptops like a chainsmoker goes through cigarettes,” says Yamada, and Hitoshi chokes on air. “You have a phone?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Show it to me.” 

His stomach curdling, Hitoshi takes out the battered, cracked old phone that he’s used for the past few years. Yamada’s face gets the pinched expression that everyone gets when they first see it. 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna do it,” says Yamada. Cheerful. Clinical. “We’ll probably have to buy you a new one, too, since planned obsolescence fucks up all the older ones…” 

“No, I mean—it’s too expensive,” says Hitoshi. 

“Don’t worry, I have a bunch of coupons,” says Yamada, bringing out an actual mountain of papers from his wallet. “I think I could even get them to pay me!”  

See, Hitoshi knows his phone is crappy. It was crappy even when he first got it. His mom had promised that she’d get him a better one – once she got a better job, once she got a little money in the bank, once the courts said she was fit to take care of him. 

Stupidly, Hitoshi had believed her at the time. He supposes he’s still stupid, though, because when Hitoshi looks at his old, crappy phone, he can’t bring himself to throw it away. So he sure as hell won’t let Yamada do it, either. 

“No,” says Hitoshi. “It’s not an option.” 

“I’ll let it go if you tell me why,” Yamada states. He slides his sunglasses down, electric green eyes locking on Hitoshi’s. “And the truth this time, dig me?” 

Hitoshi hesitates. But then he says, quietly, “My mom got it for me.” 

“Alright,” says Yamada. “Then let’s clean it up a bit, yeah?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t worry,” says Yamada, “I know a guy.” 

He brings up a contact called Maijima on his phone, and dials. Unfortunately for the person on the other side, they pick up. 

“My man!” he cries, and Hitoshi can practically hear how screechy it must be on the other end.

“Hey Yamada.” 

Yamada has the phone on speaker, but it’s still pressed up right to his ear. Hitoshi eyes the man’s black hearing aids, and wonders if they’re malfunctioning. Or maybe he's doing it on purpose. Hitoshi can never figure this guy out.

“How’s the Ingenium project going?” 

“It’s going fine, so you don’t need to stick your nose in it this time.” The words are harsh, but Maijima’s tone is reluctantly fond. 

“What, you didn’t appreciate my help?” Yamada tuts. 

“No, you did help, but…” A staticky sigh over the speaker. “What are your suggestions?”  

“No, no, I was actually calling to ask you for a favor!” 

“Oh.” Hitoshi’s pretty sure Yamada’s the only person who could make someone relieved over doing him a favor. “What is it?” 

“I need a cell phone guy!” 

“I am a pro-hero support technician,” says Maijima, “not a cell phone guy.”  

“But you gotta know someone, right?” Yamada says. “Huh? Huh?” 

“Alright, I do. He won’t do it for free, though.” 

“Aw-w, not even a discount for the friend-of-a-friend?” 

“You’re not getting me with that again,” Maijima says. “I’m sure you can talk your way into getting your own discount.” 

“Boo,” says Yamada. 

They end up heading over to the other side of the city, to a small electronics repair shop. Hitoshi tentatively hands his phone over to Yamada, who winks. Weirdly, it’s comforting. 

“Good afternoon, whaddya need?” asks the man, wiping his hands with a rag and making his way to the front. 

“Can you look at this for us?” Yamada asks, holding Hitoshi’s phone out. 

The man whistles, and takes the phone with careful hands. “Oh, when was this, nine years ago? Does it still work?” 

“It works,” Hitoshi interjects – from the look Yamada gives him, a little too forcefully. “Most of the time. Can you fix it?” 

The guy shrugs. “It’s – I mean, is it even worth fixing,” he says. “There are way better options.”

“I don’t care if there are better options. I want that phone functioning,” says Yamada, using his height to its full advantage and towering over everything else in the shop.  

The guy raises his eyebrows, and says he’ll do his best, but he makes no promises. And, somehow, Yamada still gets a discount. The man’s a menace, and Hitoshi’s taking notes. 

Two weeks later, Hitoshi’s woken up at 5 AM. 

“Get to the gym in fifteen, and we’ll spar,” says Aizawa. 

It’s way too early, and he got way too little sleep last night, but Hitoshi knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he’ll never have another chance. So he crawls out of bed, and gets ready to spar in ten minutes, not fifteen, scarfing down his breakfast. 

“Oh, you’re early,” says Aizawa, and smiles in the way he does when Hitoshi does something wrong. “But you really should take advantage of every single second of your prep time.” 

He’s proven right in just a few rounds, when Hitoshi’s keeping his breakfast down while trying to block and counter-attack what he's starting to think is some sort of inhuman machine. Like the Terminator.

Aizawa throws Hitoshi on the ground without breaking a sweat, but at least his food stayed down. Small victories. 

“Get up,” says Aizawa. 

Hitoshi gets up. Aizawa knocks him down again. 

“Get up.” 

His lungs and limbs are burning, but there’s something in his heart pulling him forward. He’ll keep going. He needs to keep going. This is his future on the line. 

“Exactly,” says Aizawa, grinning as he makes Hitoshi eat shit, again. 

Behind the stars in his eyes, he can almost see his future solidifying before him: train with Eraserhead, win the sports festival, get into the hero course, and at his graduation, he’ll have Aizawa and Yamada and his mom.  

Well, if she’s gotten out by then. And if Yamada isn’t too busy. But at least – at least Aizawa will show up, he thinks. Even if it’s just for the class, that would be enough for Hitoshi. 

He feels okay, for the first time in a long while. Maybe it’ll even last.