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Hitoshi stares up at the ceiling, unseeing and unmoving.
He has, in fact, been staring at the ceiling for ages now, ever since he went to bed, tired and achy from yesterday's training with his Dad. Or was it today's? Has enough time gone by for him to be sure it was yesterday's and not today's training? He doesn't know. His phone is charging on his desk, too far away from his bed to be retrieved with a simple arm movement and Hitoshi doesn't have it in him to do that only to check the time and be flashed by a too bright screen.
The idea to have his phone away from him during the night had been his Papa's. Ever since he was adopted in the Aizawa-Yamada household, his parents have been looking for ways to help him and his sister get a better night's sleep, worried about their health to an extent Hitoshi never thought he'd be subject of in a lifetime.
In Hitoshi's case, that worry had translated to helping him improve his sleep hygiene and to search for ways to make him rest properly at night. Everything from tiring him out with training to better pillows and a mattress adapted to his needs, paired with pleasantly scented soaps, shampoos and eye masks. It sometimes worked, too, to Hitoshi's surprise, his eyes lifting off some of the heaviness he'd carried around ever since he could remember.
So, so. He doesn't move to reach for his phone. He doesn't move at all, actually. He feels restless and exhausted at the same time, the muscles in his back and his abdomen cramping, reminding him that he needs to sleep so that the tissues can regenerate and strengthen to be prepared for his next training session.
And yet his mind, like it's mocking him, refuses to let him relax. He thinks about REM cycles, how hard it'll be to move with the capture weapon with sore muscles and not being sharp enough when needing to keep his guard up.
Oh, the irony, he thinks, feeling the sharpest when he needs it the least. He squeezes his eyes tight in frustration and feels them sting, moisture gathering at the corners.
To add to his predicament, the toasty warmth under the duvet suddenly becomes torrid. He sharply shoves the covers away, chest heaving and he instantly regrets it when his sweaty pyjamas meet the cool air of his room.
Whining to himself, he rolls out of bed, getting rid of his clothes and swapping them for fresh ones. He pads to the bathroom, tossing his sweaty pyjamas to the hamper and wincing when the flash of the overhead light mercilessly blinds him. He ends up moving around with his eyes closed and thus using Eri's favourite apple soap to wash his hands and his face. The sweet scent makes him feel like a lollipop as he turns off the light to blink his eyes open again.
The idea of returning to bed makes something in his chest tighten, so instead he turns around and away and walks to the kitchen.
Only after he's filled a glass with water and drunk half of it, he realizes that there's light coming from the living room. He hasn't been silent enough to not be heard by whoever is in there.
With the empty hope for the light to have been turned on by one of the cats and not by a human, Hitoshi approaches the threshold. His hope quickly shatters when he's met with two of the three people he lives with and who can now call his family, with the remaining member having left to the radio station. And one of the two cats they own.
His Dad is sitting on the floor, back propped up against the couch and legs hidden under the kotatsu, working on multiple stacks of paper on the low table in front of him. He has a cushion behind his head in which a cat has curled up -the black one, so it must be Coffee- and is now sleeping. On the floor by his side, there's a small body covered by a blanket, with only a head full of pearly hair loosely braided visible.
His body is too exhausted to move, but his mind is already racing through thousands of excuses to explain himself and avoid being punished. Not that that has happened ever since he first set foot in his new home but still— His adrenaline-driven brain thinks it's about time he reached that tipping point.
When his Dad's eyes settle on him, Hitoshi's ready to accept his scolding. All that effort and money to help him and he still wanders around the house at who-knows-when in the morning.
"Bad dream?" his Dad prompts, and Hitoshi purses his lips, gaze low as he shakes his head.
"Come sit?" he suggests, patting the space to his side. It's the unexpected gentleness in his tone what makes Hitoshi move forward.
The warmth under the kotatsu is light and pleasant as he slides beneath it, only reminding him of the ache in his body. He feels jealous looking at Eri, sleeping peacefully with her head on top of one of his Dad's thighs and hugging a plushie to her chest.
"What happened?" he whispers, nodding at her.
"Bad dream," his Dad explains, this time without the question mark.
Hitoshi frowns, nodding. His eyes turn to take in the papers on the table. They look like essays on some heroics topic, judging by some words he catches here and there.
"Can't sleep?" his Dad inquires, leaving the essay in front of him aside to look into his eyes.
Hitoshi shakes his head. "My brain just won't leave me alone," he explains, hoping he makes sense. He scratches the back of his neck, hiding between his arms.
His Dad hums, bringing up his red pen to press it against his chin, suddenly pensive.
"You're not feeling tired at all?"
Pressing his lips into a thin line, Hitoshi shakes his head no, looking down at the wooden table and prepared to receive the inevitable sermon he knows must follow.
He's surprised when his father slides some of the papers he's correcting before him, along with a pen settled on top of them.
"Want to help me with this?"
Hitoshi blinks back up at him, confused. "How?"
"If you have too many thoughts up there," his Dad begins, tapping on top of his purple mane with his own pen, "doing a simple task might help you get your mind off them until the morning. These essays have four marks at the top of the first page. You'd only have to add them up and write the result in the square on the right."
Hitoshi nods, the task looking like an achievable one. He grabs the essay on top of the stack to begin working with it.
"Okay. I can do that."
He operates robotically for a while, occasionally needing to hold his fingers up to add the decimals correctly and double-checking every calculation. For a while, the loudest sound in the living room is his Dad's pen scribbling away, but at some point Hitoshi sees him reach for his phone, tapping on the screen a few times and pressing the volume buttons until a certain melody flows through the small speaker. Hitoshi smirks to himself when he recognizes the opening tune of Put Your Hands Up Radio.
A knee bumps into his leg. "Keep at it."
Grinning, Hitoshi goes back to his calculations. He writes an oddly low mark in an essay with very little corrections throughout the text and curiosity makes him look at the name of the student who wrote it.
"Wow. Midoriya getting a penalty? Didn't think it was possible."
"He needs to understand what 'word limit' means."
Hitoshi chuckles, leaving Izuku's essay aside and continuing with the next one. Shouta watches carefully, but apparently, Hitoshi doesn't realize that Midoriya's name had previously appeared and, what's more remarkable, that some of the essays Hitoshi's skimming through are in English.
So maybe Hitoshi's brain isn't as alert as his son thinks.
When Hitoshi starts to get marks higher than the maximum possible and isn't able to tell a five apart from a six, he slides the remaining papers away from himself and rests his forehead on top of his crossed forearms. The position is not the most comfortable he's been in, but it gives his stinging eyes some much needed darkness.
The scratching of his Dad's pen against paper echoes loudly through the wood along with the shuffling of papers. He hears the music coming from his speaker with a deeper bass, thanks to the way the vibrations travel across the table to the ear he has pressed against it.
After a few more pen scratches and paper flips, a hand ruffles through his hair. He opens one eye at the same time the music reaching him lows in volume. His Dad isn't looking at him, rather typing something into his phone.
"The radio isn't a bother. For me— that is. You don't have to turn it off on my account."
His Dad smiles at the screen. "I wasn't planning to."
The phone is placed down on the table again, the music still playing while his Dad continues correcting. He's no longer reading through the essays but rather checking Hitoshi's calculations, which he can't really blame the man for. He watches on with a cautious eye and a bit of worry, in case any sum is actually off.
"Alright everybody, we're following through with our suggestions segment to enjoy the excellent requests our wonderful listeners have to offer! I'm really digging all these beautiful ballads, so let's continue with an anonymous message for one of my favorite songs. Your host Present Mic has the best soundtracks for the night, so just let your worries melt away with this wonderful classic, only on Put Your Hands Up Radio."
Present Mic's babbling is hard to follow, so Hitoshi lets himself get lost in the sound of his voice. Still, as soon as he recognizes the tune of the lullaby his Papa sings to Eri when she can't sleep, a low keen escapes him as he rubs his eyes against his forearm.
"It won't work," he weeps, perhaps a little frantic. He grabs two handfuls of hair and pulls, in a hopeless attempt to get his brain to work how it's supposed to.
Soon, hands are grabbing his wrists and fingers, trying to pry them off the strands.
"Don't do that, c'mon."
"Then what can I do?!" he half-cries. He lets his Dad move his hands away from his hair, but his mind is revolting against himself and fears he's entered a vicious cycle of which he won't be able to escape. He wheezes.
"To start with, breathe. Hyperventilating won't do you any good."
Slowly, with far too many hiccups in between, Hitoshi gathers the discipline he usually holds during training and focuses on his diaphragm. It's a struggle, when it strains against his control, but he's able to take a couple of slow breaths. He coughs slightly in between, but by the cautious look his Dad casts at his lap and the reassuring smile he gives afterwards, he hasn't disturbed Eri's sleep. Coffee, however, is eyeing him silently, tail swaying and ears twitching.
"Good. Now, tell me what's on your head."
Hitoshi flexes his fingers, then opens them again. He'd love to, but he can't find a logical explanation for how, despite his monumental exhaustion, his mind doesn't let him take a break.
"Too much. I don't understand."
"You don't need to. These things happen. Doesn't mean they're your fault."
"I hate it."
He does receive an answer, but not a verbal one. Despite the apparent apathy on his Dad's face, Hitoshi is starting to learn the small changes in his expression that give him away. Had it been a year ago, Hitoshi would've sworn all Aizawa had done was tilt his head to the side. Now, though, Hitoshi sees the way his eyebrows furrow just slightly, how the corners of his mouth curve downwards and his eyes... Sadden, somehow.
"I'm sorry," he says, reflexively. He's too exhausted to run, so he just hides his head in his arms, slumped over the table. He's uncomfortable, slouched like that, but it's better than to face the pity his Dad's face must be displaying right now.
What comes, instead, is a tap against his head with a pen, making him turn his neck to the light.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, kid. Come here, lie down."
The words are accompanied by his Dad's hand lowering to pat the thigh that's not currently borrowed by one sleeping Eri, and the suggestion is so unexpected it takes Hitoshi quite a few seconds to fully process it.
Never would Hitoshi have thought he'd be on the receiving end of such offers. Sure, his Papa loves physical affection and he's gotten more forehead kisses in the last year than over his whole life, which is still a dizzying fact for him to process. His Dad likes closeness, too. He's less grandiose with his affection, but not less meaningful.
And yet, somehow, that difference is non-existent to Eri, who hugs and cuddles away without a care in the world. Hitoshi thinks it has to do with the fact that, unlike her, he doesn't ask for anything. Couldn't dare to, after everything he's been given, like a roof over his head and warm meals every day and a loving family and a bed to sleep in in which he doesn't sleep.
Because he's ungrateful. So, he doesn't ask. He doesn't doubt his Dad's request to be a genuine one, but he fears he's too ragged and ugly to deserve it.
What finally comes out is a head shake. "I'm too old for that stuff," he declares, because he probably is. He wishes his tone would've come out lighter, like it does when he's poking fun at his parents, but he's afraid that the playfulness is lost in the same place as his ability to fall asleep.
"Are you?" his Dad says, and even if Hitoshi can't see him, the smirk in his words is heard all the same. He's starting to feel embarrassed of his stupidity.
"I didn't know there was an age limit to rest your head on your parent's lap."
"Dad."
"I'm going to have to tell Eri. She'll be heartbroken."
"Dad."
"Kid."
Hitoshi's growing exasperation is only met with an amused grin.
"Where's the problem?"
"I'm not Eri." And the statement is incredibly obvious, Hitoshi thinks. Eri is peacefully asleep and not being a pain while he's rolling his eyes and scoffing at his father for trying to help.
"So?"
"'s not gonna work."
"Who said anything about that?" His Dad raises one eyebrow. "I don't want your back to be bent as it is. Your neck will thank me."
"That's old-people advice," he retorts, and immediately wants to punch himself for his absurd reluctance. Maybe that way he'll knock himself out cold and sleep for a few days straight.
"So you're not old enough to lay down, but also too old to lay down?" his Dad grins. "Pick a side, kid."
Hitoshi groans, rubbing his forehead across his forearms.
"I'm not in the mood for riddles."
"This isn't a riddle. This is you being difficult and plotting against yourself."
It's indignant to be accused so plainly of something he's definitely guilty of, but the bastard he has for a brain is too self-aware to let him surrender so easily.
"C'mon."
So he does, if only to spite the voice that tells him not to, as if to score a win against his self-dread in revenge for the hell of a night it's giving him.
He shuffles sideways to get to his side, shifting to prevent his legs from bumping against a table leg. The change in position is not the most effective, but it allows him to move without escaping the warmth under the blanket.
Once he's beside his Dad, he lowers himself to rest on his side. He lifts his head to lay it on top of his Dad's thigh, letting his neck take some of its weight, because it's the least he can do. He surrenders as soon as a hand comes down to his hair, burying in purple strands and making him breathe out all of his muscle tension.
"Comfortable?"
Hitoshi hums his answer. He scooches closer minimally and slots his shoulder beside his Dad's leg, head now resting snugly and without strain. The fabric against his cheek is warm and soft with time and smells subtly like sandalwood and sleep.
It's soothing.
"Good."
On cue, the hand on his head starts to scratch a gentle path across his scalp, fingers slow through his hair and careful to never tug, never hurt. The unprompted action is so foreign to Hitoshi that all his thoughts vanish like shadows before sunlight.
For a moment, that's his only focus. And right after, before Hitoshi's brain sweeps him away and makes him consider the way he's crossing his arms across his chest or how he's still very much awake even if his Dad is just being so good to him, he's forced to shift his focus.
"It happens to every hero, you know. At some point in their lives."
As if drowning in the sea of his thoughts, his words allow Hitoshi to come out for air. He hums a question mark and nods his head upwards slowly, to indicate that he's listening.
"When studying to become a pro, you have to learn to be aware of everything that surrounds you at all times. You familiarize with alertness on the daily and at night wonder how is it that you can't rest despite your physical exhaustion."
The statement come across to Hitoshi like a slap to the face. Like the water he's been swimming in has suddenly turned frigid. He's spent who knows how long trying to make sense out of his wakefulness and here comes his Dad and manages to explain it in two sentences.
Outrageous.
"UA's Hero program is a mess. We spend the first year teaching you everything around you is a potential risk and only when you're too wary to believe it, we get to teach you global teamwork and trust. That there are other heroes out there who can and will pick up the torch and keep you safe, so you can recover and cover later for them."
Hitoshi feels himself becoming more aware of his words. His body is still warm and heavy, but he doesn't need to move many muscles to keep a conversation.
"When's that?"
"There's lessons about it on your second and third year of heroics. Your Papa and I are trying to get Nezu to add some lectures to the first-years, but it's too tight a fit. A difficult one, too, with how new and hard to adapt to every student is."
"You didn't have those lessons?"
"Not at all."
"But you guys sleep. How did you learn to do those things? Recover and stuff."
"Badly," comes the deadpan response. Hitoshi can't help but chuckle.
There's the sound of a pen being set on the table and soon two hands trace different paths across his head. Following the natural shape of it, from forehead and temple to the back of his neck.
"When I was your age, I thought safety was non-existent. UA didn't have as many security measures as it does nowadays and casualties were far more common. Far more unfortunate, too."
Hitoshi wills his focus to operate at full capacity. He's caught traces and commentaries about a time during his parents' past they have yet to unveil to him and Eri. He only has a name to link to it, but something in his gut tells him is a story of loss and grief.
Those are the hardest to tell, so he doesn't push. Is only fair, after all the time and understanding his dads are giving him as he deals with his own past of loneliness and abandonment.
Today he won't learn anything new, it seems, because his Dad's narrative takes a different path.
"Even after leaving, security wasn't always a given. For a while, the safest thing I had was a suitcase and my sleeping bag."
Deciding that the health of his neck can fuck right off, Hitoshi turns his head so that he's looking at his father, a horrified expression on his face. Aizawa smiles sadly back at him, patting the top of his head.
"That was a long time ago."
"Dad."
"I'm not telling you this to make you worry, Hitoshi."
"Well, tough luck, I guess," Hitoshi says, and blames his eyes' itch on his tiredness.
"My point is," Shouta says as he coaxes Hitoshi to turn his head again, "when coming from a place where you're forced to be on high alert non-stop, the only way to get some rest is to almost pass out from exhaustion," he continues, and hell if Hitoshi doesn't know what he's talking about.
"I don't know how to turn it off."
"We'll get there. I'll help you," his Dad reassures. Coffee is now perched on his shoulders, and quickly makes his way to Hitoshi, plopping down and curling up in the small space between his middle and his Dad's leg. A hand resumes combing through his hair when Hitoshi looks away from his face to focus on the cat's fur.
"How?"
"As you may have noticed, the most important part of those lessons is to understand what safety means. Not just society's, but a person's own, too."
Hitoshi recalls something he memorized way back, when he began his studies in heroics. "There are no guarantees..."
He stops when a pen taps lightly against his forehead.
"No absolute guarantees. Safety depends on so many different parameters that's impossible to quantify it enough for our brains to be satisfied."
Hitoshi closes his mouth, swallows. Soon, the backs of his Dad's fingers graze across the place where he's been tapped.
"But there's a relatively safe state in which we can rest while others cover for us. You think is every pro's responsibility to be on high alert at all times, and that's just absurd. No hero has the weight of the whole world on their shoulders."
"And how do you reach that state?"
"You create it," comes the simple response.
Hitoshi frowns, not knowing what sense to make of such answer. A thumb comes down to smooth the creases between his eyebrows and Hitoshi looks up at his Dad.
"How?"
"With time."
The disappointment upon such answer is too great to hide and Hitoshi is too tired to try and do so.
His Dad seems to notice, because he sighs fondly and ruffles his hair before he starts drawing a different path through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.
"Eri feels safe, for example," he says, free hand coming down to rest on top of his sister's head. "She's surrounded by heroes on the daily, her dads, her brother," he smiles proudly at Hitoshi and continues before he can correct him about being just a hero student, rather than a pro. "Lemillion and Deku are only a message away and her biggest worry is to properly learn her kanji."
Hitoshi smiles lightly at the comment.
"There are heroes patrolling my grounds now, and I trust their training. I don't have to worry about my students, either. They're in a protected building with many security measures and the worst thing they could do is break out of their rooms and fight each other on training grounds. In which case is their safety they'd have to worry about."
"That's oddly specific."
"It has happened," his Dad provides, irritation so deep it darkens the light from the floor lamp nearby.
"Let me guess. Bakugo."
"And Midoriya."
"You're kidding."
"I wish. Is also why we're so strict with curfews. And why there's always more than one teacher keeping an eye on the class whenever we leave UA's main building."
"To keep them and the other teacher safe."
"That’s correct." He stops for a second, pursing his lips and tilting his head to the side. "But I admit it's harder for me to sleep during school trips."
"Why? If there's someone else covering your back?"
His Dad looks up at the wall in front of him, a quiet smile on the corners of his mouth.
"I like it here better," he says, simply. "It's easier for me to be sure you both and Papa aren't in danger. Like right now. Eri needed comfort after her nightmare and I know the worst risk Hizashi is in right now is of saying a bad word on national radio."
His words are punctuated by a, "Yeaaah!" coming from the radio, so timely it makes Hitoshi smile a bit. It feels like his Papa is part of their conversation, too.
"And you," his Dad continues after a pause, "just needed to understand what these things mean to you, which will happen in due time. It would be absurd to expect of you to sort everything out in a day when pros are still dealing with this stuff. So, take it easy and know you can always come to me or Papa if you need company or conversation in any way." He punctuates his words by ruffling Hitoshi's hair emphatically, and Hitoshi thinks he's able to read between the lines. "No matter the time of day or night or whatever you think we're busy with. You'll always be welcome."
Hitoshi begs his face not to redden. It's been months, but the relentless support even when he feels like a failure is too much to handle and the reflex to hide is still there. He can't really do that now.
He knows his prayers have gone unheard when he feels a finger tracing the shell of his ear.
"You do know you're safe here, now, don't you?"
Hitoshi nods, deeming 'yes' as too shallow for an answer.
The hand on his hair spreads, as if wanting to cover as much of it as possible.
"Thank you, kid."
Hitoshi doesn't know what to say. He skims through their conversation, trying to understand what he's done to earn such gratitude, but he doesn't reach a conclusion, or any acceptable response, for that matter.
His Dad, apparently not bothered by his lack of answer, continues his ministrations leisurely, resting his head back on the cushion no longer occupied by a cat. He breathes out calmly and the next time Hitoshi blinks his eyes closed, he doesn't bother with opening them again.
He feels his thoughts have been as thoroughly combed through as his hair, flowing out of his fingers like ocean water. Even his anxiousness feels like a faraway memory, his panic manageable and the hours spent awake inconsequential.
From then on, everything Hitoshi knows is his Papa's rambles on the radio and his Dad's hands across his hair. Eri breathes quietly across from him. He doesn't know how long it takes him to realize that he's synchronized his breathing with hers. He doesn't care, either.
He doesn't realize that the amber, pleasant light that seeps through his eyelids has turned darker, or that his hands stopped petting Coffee a long while back, shoulders leaning further into his Dad. He no longer hears the sound of his nails scratching through his scalp, but the feeling of it remains. He thinks he feels the blanket of the kotatsu cover him further up to his neck, but he's not sure.
Soon, he stops making sense of the sounds coming from the radio, Eri's soft breathing fading away slowly. A while goes by before his Dad's breathing evens out and his hand rests limp on top of his head, but Hitoshi isn't able to acknowledge it.
He doesn't hear, either, the jiggling of keys and the front house door clicking open, the thud of shoes being taken off and slid to the side, the padding of sock-cladded feet into the living room.
His Dad does, though.
He doesn't see Hizashi's eyebrows rise in surprise and Shouta's index finger move to his lips. Doesn't hear the artificial click of a camera shutter being set off and the dull thump of a phone being set on the coffee table, or his Dad's voice in a whisper.
"You're early."
"The road was empty today. How long have you all been here?"
"I haven't got the slightest idea," Shouta deadpans, looking at a tabletop clock propped up on a shelf.
Hizashi decides to change his question. "How much are your legs killing you?"
"Not as much as you'd expect," Shouta defends with nonchalance. At Hizashi's unwavering gaze, he elaborates. "They're pretty numb at the moment."
"Jeez, Shouta," Hizashi sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling. He's smiling, though, so Shouta knows the impromptu English phrase is said with more amusement than exasperation.
He's proven right when Hizashi walks forward and bends down in front of Eri.
"Alright, I'll take care of it." And just like that, he gathers Eri, her blanket and her plushie in a cradle and lifts up the weight off Shouta's leg.
Shouta watches him walk away, silent on every step. He then looks down at Hitoshi, now completely dead to the world as the breathes in and out of his mouth, a trail of drool trickling down to his pyjama pants. Unbothered, he wipes it away with his sleeve. He didn't have any expectations about whether Hitoshi would fall asleep or not, only focused on working through his racing thoughts for the night, but he's glad he's relaxed his son enough to sleep for a few hours.
He decides it counts as a victory.
"Baby number one is settled," Hizashi announces in a low voice as he crosses the living room threshold, empty-armed. "Now for baby number two..."
He kneels before Hitoshi, taking in his position and the cat cuddled close to his chest, calculating the best course of action. He secures an arm around his neck and another beneath his legs, carefully turning him until his head lolls and ends up resting against his chest. With the hard part done, Shouta holds Coffee up, who meows in complain but promptly settles once he's lowered to Hitoshi's chest.
Hizashi takes a second, resting back on his haunches as he takes in his new bundle of sleeping child and cuddle companion, before standing up and nodding at Shouta as he walks away again.
In the meantime, Shouta busies himself with tidying their stacks of essays and wriggling his toes, flexing and pointing them to get the blood flowing. He's oddly content, he realizes, with how the night has come about.
"And finally for the big baby..." Hizashi smirks as he re-enters the living room one last time, now dressed in his pyjamas and with a grin on his face, bending down to slide an arm under Shouta's knees and another across his back.
As soon as he's close enough, Shouta wraps his arms around his neck and leans forward to kiss his cheek.
"Thank you for squeezing one last request in."
"Anything for my favourite listeners. Did it work?"
"Not immediately. We talked for a while afterwards, but it helped."
Grinning, Hizashi leans forward to press a delighted kiss on Shouta's temple.
"I'm glad."
He swiftly lifts him up, twisting mid-way so that Shouta doesn't bump into the table on their way up. He steps on the off switch of the floor lamp and begins his way to their bedroom.
Shouta could admit that during the time Hizashi has taken to tuck Eri and Hitoshi in he's regained part of the feeling on his legs. He could probably walk to their bedroom even with the remaining sting of some pins and needles in the places his kids had been previously laying, but he ultimately decides against it.
After all, there isn't an age limit for being spoiled by your husband, either.