Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i . two months in

“It’s really not—“ 

“I said , lift up your shirt.” 

Hitoshi complies, eyes darting around anywhere but Aizawa’s face. The reddish splotch across his upper left ribs is rapidly expanding and darkening in places—just as he thought. He should have stopped as soon as he noticed Hitoshi was flagging and should never have lost focus like he did. 

“Can I examine it?”  Aizawa asks, pulling up his sleeves on instinct, thinking Hitoshi’s going to agree right away. 

Hitoshi pauses and flinches just slightly—just slightly— when Aizawa gets closer. 

“Sorry, uh. Yeah.” He straightens and flushes as if he’s embarrassed—as if he felt shame for that reaction. As if his teacher didn’t just roundhouse him at full speed, with his steel-toed boots on, in a no-contact spar , because of his carelessness.  

Aizawa, promising to himself that he wasn’t going to let that go, proceeds then. “I’m checking to see how much damage I did. Tell me if it hurts too much, alright?” 

Hitoshi nods, more confident this time, so Aizawa places his hands on the area and palpates gently but firmly. The sparring gym is quiet save for the low hum of the air conditioner every once in a while. Hitoshi, who typically does not outwardly exhibit signs of pain, grimaces the entire time. Shit . 

He lets out a gasp when Aizawa’s fingers press his sixth rib, which feels slightly bent under his touch.

“Well.” Aizawa pulls his hands off and adjusts Hitoshi’s UA t-shirt back into place. “I broke one of your ribs, probably two. How’s it feel to breathe?” 

He takes an experimental breath in with a carefully-measured expression. “Um. A little weird. But not bad, I can—“ 

“Can what? Go home?” Aizawa has a difficult time keeping his self-directed anger inside. “Absolutely not. Recovery Girl should still be in. Let’s go.” 

Hitoshi stays seated. “I really don’t…I swear, it’s fine—” 

Aizawa says softer, “We could go to a hospital if you’d prefer. But I can’t send you home in good conscience, kid. I’m sorry, I wish I hadn’t fucked up like this.” 

That makes him snap to attention, then recoil a bit under a wheeze.

“I fucked up,” Aizawa repeats. “What, did you think it was your fault that I got sloppy? That was on me. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.” 

Hitoshi opens his mouth, pauses, then says, “I should have dodged—“

“Sure. But I never should have kicked that hard in the first place in a no-touch match. The point was to work close-range with your capture weapon, not for me to kick the shit out of you.”

Hitoshi’s mouth opens once more, then closes.

“Yeah.”  Aizawa grabs his own sweatshirt from the wall where they put their stuff, then folds it neatly into a makeshift splint. “Here, hold this to your side, it might brace your ribs a little.” 

Hitoshi, still looking shocked, takes it and does as asked. His face flickers with a wince, but he doesn’t complain. He never does. 

“You ready to go?” 

“Um.” He grunts as he stands, ignoring the hand Aizawa holds out to help him. “Do you think it’ll take long? I just need to get back in time for curfew. That’s why, y’know, tomorrow morning would be—“

“No,” Aizawa repeats. “You worked hard today. You need to rest tonight, and you won’t be able to if you’re in pain. Not to mention your breathing might get worse as time goes on, and then we’d have bigger problems than just broken ribs.” 

Hitoshi seems to accept this as truth, eyes sliding to the side. He clutches the makeshift splint to his side as he walks with a grimace— God , Shouta feels horrible.

“And getting treated is much more important than a curfew, in my opinion,” he says. “But if you don’t think you can make it back in time, I’ll take you home after and explain to your parents in person. I should do that anyway—“

“No!” Hitoshi’s eyes grow wide. “Um. Um, it’s fine, really, it’s not a problem. It’s pretty far and I don’t want to hold your night up. It’s fine.” 

Aizawa pauses walking and turns to him. “I’m offering because I want to. I wouldn’t if I didn’t. You’ll be exhausted and I want to make sure you get home safely, and your parents deserve an explanation and an apology.” 

Hitoshi looks extremely uncomfortable. Aizawa’s worried he crossed a big line, but he has no idea where. 

“But if you really don’t want me to, then I won’t push it.” Aizawa guides them back along towards the infirmary. “Just let me know what I can do, okay?” 

Hitoshi bites his lip and nods. 

“ Okay ?” he emphasizes, seeing the hesitation. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Okay.” 

After Recovery Girl finishes with him (and chews out Aizawa to hell and back, which he deserves) but still refuses a ride, Aizawa instructs him specifically to let him know when he gets home and to call him for any reason if he needs to. 

The absence of a call doesn’t surprise him, and the gnawing feeling of uselessness grinds away in Aizawa’s stomach. 

Patient : Shinsou, H. (15yr M)

Assessment : ( Subj. ) Patient reports accident during sparring involving steel-toed boot to the right ribcage and not much else. Denies pain. Mentor in distress. ( Obj. ) Vitals: HR 98, BP 128/80, RR 20, T 98.8, SpO2 96%. Excessive bruising visible on ribcage, tender to palpation. Visible grimacing despite denial of pain. Anxious when mentor leaves the room. 

Priority : Acute pain as evidenced by BP, grimacing, extent of bruising. 

Intervention : Quirk applied. Maintain comfort measures (ice, compression). F/U tomorrow. 

Evaluation : Vitals: HR 72, BP 110/79, RR 12, T 98.9, SpO2 99%. No longer grimacing, not tender on palpation. Mild fatigue. 

Complications : N/A

Special considerations : Seems anxious to return home beyond what typical patients exhibit. Cause unknown. Monitor relationship with mentor in relation to home life. 

ii. four months in

Aizawa gets that call in due time—the time being 11:52 on a Tuesday evening during winter break. And it seemed pretty innocuous at first. He found a kitten and he didn’t know what to do with it, but he knew Aizawa liked cats and therefore had a modicum of knowledge about them. 

He neglected to mention he got hit by a car in the process of saving this kitten. 

“It was only my hand!” The child on the ground protests, shaky yet still petulant.

“You got hit by a car ,” Aizawa growls as he inspects the crushed hand. Illogical child doesn’t even flinch.

“Well—” Hitoshi splutters, face red with frustration as he looks down to the kitten in his lap. “She was gonna get run over!” 

“So you leapt out in front of traffic to save her?” Aizawa asks with a bit of derision, still pissed that Hitoshi would leave out the fact that he put his life on the line for a cat. 

In a strong display of emotion, which Aizawa rarely sees from him, he bursts out, “I couldn’t just watch it happen! That asshole wasn’t gonna stop and neither was I!” 

He crosses his arms stubbornly, cradling one purpling hand closer to his chest than the other. The kitten mewls from his lap in echoing refrain. 

“Look, can you…see if she’s okay?” Hitoshi asks quietly. “Can’t pick her up with two hands.” 

Aizawa sighs, picking up the brownish-whitish cat and examining her wriggling form. Dirty, and probably flea-ridden, but unharmed. “She’s fine. You, on the other hand, need to go to the emergency room.” 

He rolls his eyes. Wow, bringing the teenage angst today. “Can’t I just go see Recovery Girl tomorrow?” 

“Can’t you just listen to me?” Aizawa bites back. 

Hitoshi gasps, showing more fear at Aizawa than he did about a moving vehicle. Shit , he needs to track that back.

“I’m sorry, that came out harsher than I intended,” he says, measured and slow. “Look, if this helps you to put things in perspective, you need your hand to use your capture weapon at the very least. So if you want to continue with training, let me take you to the hospital.” 

That gets to him a bit, but he doesn’t concede yet. “Let my parents do it,” he tries. 

Aizawa pretends like that doesn’t sting in a strange way, but reasons, “And will they actually take you?” 

Hitoshi’s silent then. 

He frowns as he realizes what a dick move that was, but this brings up another problem. “And they’d need to come tonight. I can’t sign off for you.” 

Hitoshi looks away. 

He thinks for a moment, trying to hold back his anger at everything wrong with the last hour, and decides, “Can you stay in the dorms tonight? I’ll call Recovery Girl in.” 

Hitoshi’s watery gaze— damn it— seems suspicious. “There aren’t any Gen Ed kids on campus.” 

“If you don’t feel comfortable sleeping in an empty dorm, you can stay with me.” 

Hitoshi pours over it for a moment, then nods wordlessly.

Aizawa shifts the kitten to his left arm to offer his right. “Can you get up?” 

Hitoshi takes it with his uninjured hand and stands. “What about Cujo?” 

Aizawa blinks, then realizes with an internal giggle that he’s talking about the kitten. “Present Mic will take her for now. Tonight, all that matters is you.” 

Aizawa hadn’t even registered those words leaving his mouth, but Hitoshi seems to flinch again at them. He wonders briefly if he misspoke, got too careless. 

But then Hitoshi picks up the pace and walks next to Aizawa instead of behind. And if Aizawa lets Hitoshi rest and play with the cat instead of training for the rest of the break, then he’s not getting soft, he’s just being logical. 

Patient : Shinsou, H. (15yr M)

Assessment : ( Subj. ) Patient reports car vs pedestrian where “the tire only ran over his hand.” Reports no pain. ( Obj. ) Vitals WNL. Bruising and swelling on crush injury, cradles R hand. Mentor extremely agitated. 

Priority : Acute pain. I am too old to be providing a justification for my diagnoses when children like him are my typical clientele.  

Intervention : Quirk applied. Maintain comfort measures (ice, bracing). Recommended rest for the remainder of school break. 

Evaluation : Vitals WNL. No longer cradling hand. Mild fatigue. Mentor much less anxious. 

Complications : N/A

Special considerations : I was called into the office because parents were not available to take him to the ER. While I am happy to do this, WCM home dynamic. Patient withdraws upon asking. 

iii. six months in

“All my students with psychological quirks react differently when I use Erasure.” 

“Mmhm.” Hitoshi wishes he would just get on with it. 

“Sometimes it’s very painful.” 

“Yeah.” Jesus Christ, can they just do it?

“Hitoshi,” he says firmly. “This could severely hurt you.” 

“I know,” he huffs. “But it’s not like I’m gonna run in with a villain who doesn’t want me hurting.” 

“But the chances are slim that you’d ever ask one to activate their psychological Quirk on yourself.” Aizawa shifts on his feet. “I don’t want you getting hurt for the sake of an experiment.” 

“I consent, though. I’ve been dying to know what happens.” 

Aizawa rolls his eyes.

“No, seriously!” Hitoshi urges. “Haven’t you ever done something a little risky just for curiosity’s sake?” 

Aizawa pauses before answering. “Hitoshi, be serio—“

“Tell me your name.”

“Aizawa Shouta.” 

Hitoshi takes a deep breath. “Keep eye contact with me.” 

He does as asked. His stare under Brainwashing is…unsettling, when there’s no intensity behind it.

“Activate your Quirk.” 

And Hitoshi sees a red glow and feels the string between them snap back at him with an explosion of sharp pain. Then that’s it. 

***

“—sou, wake up, kid, c’mon, that’s it, Hitoshi.” 

He’s facing the sky, except there’s a big black spot in his vision. And it’s getting bigger. And his stomach is turning and he’s puking, fuck , black fabric covered in puke, and it’s not going in the right direction it’s going back down his throat oh God he can’t breathe.

“Shit,” the initial voice hisses, and they stop moving. They were moving? 

He’s quickly facing to the side, he recognizes, looking onto the gym floor, which he carpets in a new wave of yack, but at least he’s not choking on it anymore. 

But there’s a hand on his back. And a hand pushing his hair back from his forehead. 

“Try to breathe deeply, Hitoshi,” the voice says. 

“...Aizawa?” he says, except it comes out as aaiiaaihh . He tried. 

Aizawa squints at him scrutinizingly behind the giant black spot. “Jesus, kid. Can you hear me?” 

“Uhmhm,” he replies intelligently. 

“Alright, good. I’m taking you to Recovery Girl.” He’s lifted in the air, oh. “You’re going to be fine. Stay awake.” 

He tries. He really does. But the moment the fluorescent lights of the infirmary hit his eyes and the urgent noises of people talking hit his ears, the black spot grows exponentially. 

***

Patient : Shinsou, H. (16yr M)

Assessment : ( Subj. ) Mentor reports experimental quirk use and “choked on his puke.” Matches description of typical quirk exhaustion symptoms. ( Obj. ) Vitals: HR 132, BP 130/87, RR 18, T 98.5, SpO2 98%. PERRLA, AOx1. Impressive epistaxis. Patient vomiting intermittently, no hematemesis. No apparent trauma to head. Moans upon palpation to forehead. 

Priority : Risk for dehydration as evidenced by vomiting. 

Intervention : Quirk applied. 0.9% saline hung, 500 mL/hr. Maintain comfort measures (cool towel, ice chips). Recommend halting further quirk experimentation. 

Evaluation : Vitals WNL. Pain maintained at 6/10 but states “worth it,” I suspect only to spite his mentor. Reports similar to migraines after quirk exhaustion. Continued emesis.

Complications : N/A. Monitor vomiting and apply fluids PRN. 

Special considerations : Mentor’s anxiety spiked when he was not allowed in the room during assessment. Potential insecurity risk. Will f/u at earliest opportunity.

***

“—let him do that, Shouta, seriously?” 

“He insisted.” 

“Since when has that stopped you?” Someone—a woman—sighs. “Just because you’ve got a soft spot for him doesn’t mean you can let him do whatever he wants, you know. You’re lucky he’s going to be okay.” 

“I know,” he says quietly.

Hitoshi squeezes his eyes together experimentally— nope , he’s not doing that again. He might as well just open them. 

“Fuck,” Aizawa breathes out, hands covering his face like he’s the most tired man in the universe. Which might be true. 

Recovery Girl’s liver-spotted hands and wrinkled face comes into view. “Good to see you awake, dear.” 

He blinks several times while his environment comes into focus. There’s still a large black spot on his vision—weird.

Aizawa sighs. “Was it worth it?” 

And all Hitoshi can do is slowly, dumbly grin at him through the nausea and the aching. 

Aizawa looks to Recovery Girl, throwing his hands up. That only makes Hitoshi cheese harder.

The smiling quickly turns into retching, though, and Aizawa doesn’t even seem to be glaring at him as he pukes into a bowl thrust into his hands. What a strange situation, he thinks in passing, when Aizawa pulls a hair clip out of his pocket and pins Hitoshi’s bangs back. 

“I’m not letting you off easy on this one. You chose to Brainwash me,” he says while also rubbing Hitoshi’s back soothingly. 

He takes a breath. “Sor—“ and leans back over the bucket.

“No playing with Cujo or Sushi for a week,” he determines, while fixing a stray hair plastered to his forehead. “You can still come over if you need something, but she’ll be locked in the bedroom.” 

Hitoshi opens his mouth to protest, then decides otherwise as he gags and the black spot on his vision gets bigger. 

“I ought to stop our training.” Aizawa places a cold towel behind his neck. “Nip this behavior in the bud.”

“Oh, that’ll be the day,” Recovery Girl laughs. “You need each other.” 

And Hitoshi didn’t know what she meant by that, but fell asleep before he could think much about it.

Chapter Text

iv. eight months in

“—sou!? Hitoshi ?” 

Hitoshi wakes with an embarrassingly loud moan, hand immediately reaching for his head. 

“Nn-nn, don’t move,” he gets in response. A hand closes around his wrist and keeps it down. “You recognize me?” 

He squints hard at the figure looking down at him—is he laying down?—and the pieces magically come together, though they aren’t really all that helpful. “‘Z-zawa-sensei?” 

He lets out a long exhale. “Yeah, kid, it’s me. Can you tell me where you are?”

Hitoshi tries to look around—he’s laying on one of the concrete slabs, but as he tries to roll his neck to see, Aizawa’s hands hold him still by his jaw. There’s something soft under his head. It feels nice. “Nn…Wha’ happened?” 

“You’re in Ground Beta. You were working with the capture weapon and it slipped from a hold. You fell, mostly on your shoulder. I tried to catch you in time but your head still hit the ground.” 

Hitoshi just blinks at him for a few moments, then says what comes to mind: “‘M sorry.” 

“Stop that,” Aizawa snaps. “Tell me what hurts.” 

He takes stock quickly. Outside the pounding in his ears, well, “Shoulder. Head.” 

Aizawa grimaces. Oops, too truthful? “How’s your vision and hearing?” 

“J’st dizzy,” he responds in lieu of a real answer because he really isn’t sure. 

“Can you move your fingers and toes?” 

He succeeds in twitching them, then discovers that takes a lot of work. “‘M tired.” 

“Don’t fall asleep yet, understand? You need to stay awake until we get to a hospital.” 

Aw, shit, he really doesn’t want to do that. “‘pital?” 

“Recovery Girl’s in Hokkaido. You’ll have to see a doctor.”  

“Don’t wanna,” he whines, somehow not caring about the act of whining in front of Aizawa. 

And then a soft hand comes to rest gently on the side of his head, brushing back his bangs. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Hitoshi just stares at him for a second, unsure if he was in shock from the casual, almost tender touch or just hallucinating Aizawa taking care of him so gently. 

Aizawa frowns down at him and, with his hand still resting on his face, raises his phone to his ear. “Kan. I needed that backboard ten minutes ago. No, don’t bother, just get your ass over here, Hizashi’s pulling the car around. Okay? Okay.” 

He redials. “I don’t care what Nezu said about your car. Get as close to the entrance of Beta as you can, I don’t want to haul him more than fifty meters. I’m worried about his c-spine. Of course he’ll fit in the back, it doesn’t matter if it’s vintage. Punch it, his pupils are blown.” 

Hitoshi blinks. Huh. Is that why the sun seems so bright?

“Love you, too. Hurry up.” He clicks his phone off and goes right back to staring intently at Hitoshi, inspecting something on his face that Hitoshi can’t see.

“Whowazzat?” Hitoshi asks eloquently. 

He freezes just briefly, then recovers. “Present Mic. He’s gonna drive us to the ER.” 

“Y’love’m?” 

“We’ll talk about that when you aren’t severely concussed.” Aizawa starts fiddling with the shoulder that hurts so badly—he’s gotten his capture weapon wrapped around his torso, immobilizing his arm to his chest. “Quit fidgeting.” 

“S’rry.” 

“Say that again and I’ll never let you into the hero course.” Aizawa bites his lip, looking conflicted. “You’re fine, you’re gonna be fine.” 

“I’knw.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y’r herrre,” he finds himself saying. 

Aizawa just stares at him, then tightens his hand around one of the capture weapon bands and looks up. “Kan! Here!” 

The next few minutes were a painful blur that he tried to keep his eyes closed for, but that Aizawa and the homeroom teacher for 1-B kept pestering him not to do. A collar had been fasted around his neck and his body had been placed on a deeply uncomfortable backboard that kept him strapped in and practically immobile as they walked him…somewhere. He felt like he was in a funeral procession.

“What?” Aizawa asks, brow knit down at him. Aizawa was carrying the head part of the board while the homeroom teacher carried the foot part, and somehow Present Mic got there—when, he wasn’t sure—and was holding up the middle. Hitoshi could feel his massive hands under the plastic. 

“Huh?” Hitoshi didn’t remember speaking. 

“That GCS of his gotta be goin’ down,” Present Mic says, then grins at him reassuringly. “Hitoshi, how’ya feelin’?” 

And, because he can’t seem to say anything but exactly what’s on his mind completely unfiltered, he answers, “Hmmfrm.” 

All the teachers look at each other, then start walking faster. 

“Sn’s’,” Hitoshi says, well-spoken as always. 

They all just squint at him. 

“‘Z’wa-s’ns.” 

Aizawa figures it out over the sound of their combat boots on the rubble. “Yes?” 

His eyes are dark— worried —so Hitoshi feels some shame when he pronounces, “‘Wanna g’t’sleep.”

“Ten minutes and you can sleep, alright? Just ten. You can do anything for ten minutes.” 

He considers, just for a moment, using his Quirk to get Aizawa to lay him down on the ground here so he can sleep. He blinks, then blinks again, longer. 

“Hitoshi. Stop,” Aizawa commands. “Okay, how many commands can you give without Brainwash failing?” 

“R’c’rd’s five.” He pauses to try and look at him confusedly, but his head is facing forward and he’s panting, so he gives up on that. “Y’kn’w tha’.” 

“Yeah. Tell Vlad King and Mic what five commands you made me do.” 

He laughs a little, which makes him more nauseous but also makes him laugh some more. “Made y’ do a split. Made y’ sm’le un-cre’py.” 

“Those are possible?” 

“Shut up. What else, Hitoshi?” 

“Fiffhy-met’r dash…” 

“Yeah, slide him in there, I’ll get in from the other side and you can put the head side on my lap, keep it elevated. Keep going, what were the last two things you made me do, hm?” 

“P’t a r’ck in ‘r m’th.” 

“What?” Present Mic asks. “A rock in your mouth?” 

“It wasn’t my proudest moment. Drive.” Then his gaze comes right on Hitoshi. “What was the last thing?”

“‘de y’tell me…y’w’re pr’d ‘me.” 

“You didn’t need to Brainwash me to make me say that.” 

“‘eh?”  

“Yeah. I’ll say it right now—Hizashi, drive faster —Ready?” 

“Mm.” 

“I’m proud of you, Hitoshi.” 

“‘Elly?” 

“Dead serious.” 

“‘Kay.”

The hand lands in his hair again, brushing sweaty pieces off his brow. 

“‘nks.” 

“Any time. I hope you know that.” 

“Mm.” 

“I know you’ll forget this exchange after you’ve recovered. I’m sorry.” 

“‘Kay.” 

“It’ll be a miracle if you still want me to train you after this.” 

“‘ha?” He’s not sure if Aizawa even said that. He never expresses doubt. 

Aizawa laughs a little at him, just in time for the car to slam to a stop and Present Mic to start screaming something about a kid with a GCS-something or other. 

“‘lwy’s trus’y’u,” he makes sure to fit in between Mic’s yelling. 

There’s one more hand in his hair before Hitoshi finally closes his eyes. 

iv.5. eight months, five hours in

“You love that kid, don’t you.” 

It’s stated as a non-negotiable fact, but Aizawa still continues with, “‘Love’ is a very strong word.” 

Hizashi sighs. “Pardon me—you love all your kids, but there’s something special about this one.” 

Aizawa declines to comment. He shifts again in his uncomfortable hospital chair and looks toward Hitoshi—sleeping in the PACU after reconstructive surgery on his shoulder and significant imaging of his skull again and again. He got off extremely lucky: only two skull fractures and both of them linear. 

He still can’t believe he let that happen. It’s a miracle he didn’t have a brain bleed or have his skull cave in. He should have been faster, should have caught him before he hit the concrete. 

“Quit thinking so loud,” Hizashi whispers. “He’ll be fine. Remember when I had that skull fracture after our debut? It hurt like a bitch but I’m only a little bit dumb now!” 

Aizawa glares at him, but can’t find the motivation to tell him off. He’s right. Hitoshi will be fine. But, still, something feels off. 

Maybe it was because, when he called his foster parents, no one answered. And when he called his social worker, they couldn’t provide a reason as to why they weren’t answering. No one’s gotten a hold of them. And, after Aizawa tried to look through Hitoshi’s phone for any other emergency contacts, the only number listed was his . 

Shouta already hated his parents. He’d never met them, but he hated them—hated the way that Hitoshi would flinch if Aizawa approached him the wrong way. Hated Hitoshi’s self-derisive comments all the time. Hated the way Hitoshi immediately gained weight and put on muscle when he moved to the dorms, like he hadn’t eaten well at home. He hated the way they didn’t seem to care about him.

In what world would Aizawa rank above parents? 

“Are you gonna be okay when I leave? I can find coverage for patrol.” 

“No,” he replies, but lets Hizashi wrap an arm around him. “I’m just—I don’t know why…” he trails off.

Hizashi squeezes him to his side. “You just love him, Shou. That’s all there is to it. He’s a good kid with shitty parents and he wants to be just like you, of course you love him.” 

Aizawa massages the bridge of his nose, trying to quit how emotions hurt his eyes. 

Hizashi rests his hand behind Aizawa’s neck. “It’s okay to love him. I know it’s hard when everyone’s always in danger, when we could lose people easy, but it’s okay to love him.” 

Aizawa just bites the inside of his tightly-pressed lips.

***

Fifteen hours after he was brought in by three pro heroes after smashing his body against the concrete in a fucked-up game of parkour, Hitoshi wakes. Gradually. 

He takes a deep breath to scan over himself. There’s a hand on his hand, which is nice and warm. His other arm is pinned tightly to his chest. But other than that, things seem normal. There’s a pound, pound, pounding in his head, but that’s kindof normal for him anyway. 

“Hitoshi?” 

The voice—deep and familiar—seems far away. He struggles against himself to try and identify it or even to open his eyes.

“Relax, kid, you’ll hurt yourself,” the voice gruffs. “Take your time.” 

He follows the advice because, he realize, everything usually turns out okay when he follows the advice of this voice.

Chapter Text

v. eight months, three days in

“Alright, let’s get report over with, I wanna get the hell outta here.” 

“Sure.” 

“Twenty-five bed 2’s a sixteen year old male with a TBI, post-left shoulder surgery too after a fall. He came from step-down at 7 last night and, like, he’s stable. Mostly we’re keeping him around because social work’s still trying to figure out what’s going on with him. His pain is, like, 5/10, too, but…basically, they can’t get ahold of his parents, so they don’t want to discharge him yet.” 

“What do you mean, like…the parents didn’t bring him in?” 

“No. See, he goes to UA, and that’s how he got the TBI—some sort of freak accident, fell from a height—and his teacher’s a Pro, of course, so he brought him in. And his parents just haven’t showed. It’s sad. Really sad.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah. Anyway. He’s on percocet and vanc, responding well, 20 gauge line on the right cephalic. They’re both due at 8. There was some talk last night about switching to a PCA but I’m not sure if that’s happening. They might just up the dose. What else…He’s up with a single assist, vitals Q4 but, like I said, he’s stable. Mentally, though, I mean…he’s not the happiest kid I ever met—I wouldn’t really be either if I were him—but he’s not despondent. A little flat, maybe? Mostly, you gotta keep the teacher at bedside. He freaks without him, will clam up and everything.”

“Okay, sure. He’s cooperative?”

“Yeah, just be careful with touch, he’s a bit skittish. And that’s another thing. The teacher—his name is Aizawa—he’s…not that pleasant. Extremely involved, clearly cares about the kid, but very defensive. I think he’s mostly just really pissed off about what happened. He’ll let you do your job, just don’t be surprised if he glares at you the whole time.” 

"Well, I'm glad someone's looking out for him." 

***

His parents don’t come, which creates a ton of problems. Apparently, the law says Hitoshi’s not old enough to sign off on things about his health. So there’s a lot of waiting around. A lot of people to talk to. A lot of questions. He’s thankful for the little button he can press for morphine—it lets him get through it all with less headache. 

They release him to the dorms, somehow. Something about Aizawa having a foster license. Whatever, so long as he can sleep. 

And then he discovers he’s not allowed to sleep in the dorm. 

“They discharged you on the assumption I would be taking care of you. That’s what’s happening,” Aizawa explains gruffly, tapping his ID on the faculty dorm door. 

Hitoshi wants to whine, but holds it back. “But I’m feeling way better. It’s not like I need help getting up to piss or anything, and my classmates can help if something—” 

“Are you going to ask for help if you need it?” Aizawa interrupts, halting Hitoshi’s line of thought. “Didn’t think so. You’re staying with me, at least until Recovery Girl gets back.” 

“On your couch?” 

“No, you’re sleeping on the bed.” 

“Seriously? But what are you—” 

“Hitoshi.” Aizawa pauses in front of his door, face dark. “The vast majority of my sleep happens on the ground in a sleeping bag. You’re not depriving me of anything.” 

That leaves them at an impasse, but Cujo and Sushi both meow loudly at their arrival like this is just a normal afternoon where Hitoshi visits. Aizawa sets down the bag of Hitoshi’s personal effects he gathered from the dorm, and they immediately sniff and climb all over it. 

“See? They’re happy you’re here,” Aizawa grunts, and anyone else would think that Aizawa was being sarcastic about everything. But Hitoshi knows that’s his way of saying he’s happy Hitoshi is here, too. “Go lie down, try to sleep. Dinner and meds in a couple of hours.” 

He does as told. Despite his bitching, it’s actually not the first time he’s napped in Aizawa’s bed. He’s been known to sleep off a sudden migraine in there. It’s just the first time he’s practically moving in. But it’s not hard to slip off his shoes and slip into the dark gray bedding (“Blood doesn’t stain it,” he found out surreptitiously once)

He blinks his eyes shut into the pillow that smells like Aizawa’s laundry detergent—smells like grappling with Aizawa and pinning him into an arm triangle lock, which got his face all pressed up into his jumpsuit. Smells like that one time Hitoshi, full of shame and embarrassment and longing during training, burst into tears after just about cracking from the pressure of doing everything himself and Aizawa, awkward and confused as fuck, hugged him. That’s what it smells like. That’s what it feels like, like he’s fighting and he’s crying and he’s longing and he’s carrying all this weight but Aizawa is there.

It’s all recklessly, dangerously familiar. But he can’t be bothered to think too hard about it when his skull’s got cracks in it. 

***

Hizashi let himself in, per usual. It’s been hard to keep him away since news broke about Hitoshi’s parents being pieces of shit. But at least he’s a better cook than Shouta. 

“Check on the rice cooker, wouldja, Shou?” 

He looks up from the discharge papers on the kitchen table—rules about traumatic brain injury that Shouta already knows but can’t hurt to reread somewhat obsessively—and follows orders. Hizashi’s doing that thing where he’s thrumming his Quirk into the floorboards, soothing Shouta’s frayed nerves with a simple resonating melody. 

Then the humming cuts off abruptly. “Oh, Hitoshi, you’re awake! Sorry!” 

“No, ‘s okay. Hey, Mic-sensei.” 

Shouta looks back up and takes a good long look at Hitoshi—his face is drawn with the weight he briefly lost in the hospital and the bags around his eyes are more pronounced than usual, but he walks steadily. Relatively. Wait, no, he’s listing. 

“Sit down,” he instructs (not unkindly, he hopes). Shouta pulls a chair out from the table and grasps Hitoshi’s elbow to ease him down when he sways. “How are you feeling?” 

“Okay,” he says, quieter and far less snarky than usual. “Tired, mostly.” 

“How bad’s your head, one to ten?” 

“Four, maybe?” 

“Alright,” Shouta murmurs, knowing that meant at least a six. He passes the glass of water Hizashi passed back to him at Hitoshi’s place at the table. “If you can handle it, try to drink.” 

Hitoshi nods and sips diligently at the glass; Shouta sits opposite him while Hizashi pours soup into bowls and distributes the rice, giving Hitoshi plenty. 

“And eat up, if you can. You’ll need more stamina for Recovery Girl when she comes.” Hizashi places the bowls in front of him. “I hope you like it! If not, totally fine—I can whip you up something else, or we can get takeout or something.” 

Hitoshi just nods, but doesn’t touch the food. Hizashi sends a nervous glance Shouta’s way, but sits down with them. 

Then Hitoshi eats—oh, maybe a manners thing. He sips cautiously from the renge, then starts wolfing it down like starved man, probably because that’s what he is after three days mostly unconscious. 

And when he catches Shouta’s eyes on him, he stops. Again. “Sorry.” 

“No, eat,” Shouta urges. 

“I’m glad you have some appetite! I have to fight Shou tooth and nail to eat when he’s nursing wounds,” Hizashi snorts. “But take your time, don’t make yourself sick, m’kay?” 

Hitoshi nods, still looking a tad withdrawn, but he eats, and with each bite, relaxes a little more.

“I know this has been an…overwhelming time for you,” Shouta tries clumsily, “so don’t concern yourself with manners or whatever.” 

“Just pretend it’s like any other time we’re having dinner, yeah?” Hizashi grins. “Where I talk the whole time and you guys just kinda blink sleepily at me!” 

And that they do. It’s nice to follow routine—Hitoshi doesn’t eat dinner with the two of them unless it’s school break and he doesn’t go home, but it still feels familiar enough. Sans Christmas lights. 

Once Hitoshi finishes, Shouta starts collecting the plates. If Hizashi does the cooking, he does the cleaning. “Alright, what do you want to do? Sleep some more?” 

“I can take care of my own—” 

“Be serious.” Shouta waves him off. “You look like you’re about to pass out. If you want to sit on the couch while I do some grading, you can, or if you want to go back to bed, you can.” 

“I, uh. Maybe the couch.” His eyes drift to the couch and he pushes himself up off his chair, gripping the edge of the table all the while. 

Hizashi stands conspicuously close to swoop in and steady him if need be, but he manages to stay upright. He even pushes in his damn chair. And, albeit slowly, he makes it to the couch without falling over. Shouta tries to pretend he wasn’t watching him out the corner of his eye with bated breath. 

“Okay if I sit here?” Shouta hears over the sink. 

“Uh. Yeah.” 

The couch cushion with the one rusty spring underneath it—Hizashi’s favorite spot, much to Shouta’s annoyance—creaks. “I’d say we could watch a movie or something, but I know from experience that it might not help your head much.” 

“Mm,” Hitoshi murmurs with a heavy pause. “I, um, had a concussion in middle school. Not my first time.” 

While he was in foster care , Shouta errantly thinks. He can only imagine how that worked out.

“Yeah?” Hizashi perks up at Hitoshi making his first attempts of conversation of the night. “What made you feel better then? Got any ideas how to pass the time?” 

There’s an extremely heavy pause, then Hitoshi says very quietly, “I’d listen to your radio show.” 

“ Yeah ?” It sounds like Hizashi’s having an extremely hard time keeping his voice at a comfortable volume. “Oh, man, I never would have thought you listened to my show! That makes me super jacked! Hey, look, I got a proposition for ya. You feel up to listenin’ to some music right now?” 

Hitoshi nods. 

Hizashi beams . “‘Cuz I got Friday’s setlist on my laptop right here if you want to run through it with me! Give me some feedback, yeah?” 

Hitoshi’s eyes get wider in the way Shouta recognizes is excitement—the same look he got when he gave Hitoshi his old capture weapon. It’s subtle enough that Hizashi doesn’t notice, but Shouta keeps that in his heart. “Okay.” 

If Hizashi’s grin could get wider, it would crack his face open. “Cool! Y’know, I spend a lot of time listening to my own taste of music and I think sometimes it gives too much bias to the show. I’m always trying to figure out what other genres people want to hear, other than when we do requests, right, and not including Shouta ‘cuz all he wants me to play is either classical or—” 

“Don’t suffocate him with personal information,” Shouta grumbles, but helps Hizashi hook up the soundsystem. 

“Okay, okay, what should we start with? Go ahead and pick! But if the blue screen’s too much I’ll read ‘em out to ya’.” 

Hitoshi takes the offered laptop and scrolls a bit, checking the options and squinting. He eventually hands it back, saying, “Um, that one.” 

“Ooh, you like that band? One of my interns suggested them. I really dig their sound, yeah?” Hizashi’s clearly holding back his music critic tongue. “Let me know if we should keep this one or choose from another one of their albums!” 

The living room, thanks to Hizashi’s speaker setup, is soon surrounded in the lightest setting of volume of some alternative-whatever band that Shouta won’t ever be able to tell from the next. But he makes a point to mentally jot down the name of the band in his head—Hitoshi likes them. 

Hitoshi hardly ever opens up about the things he likes. And Aizawa finds himself more and more wondering what Hitoshi likes. Wanting to give him what he likes. 

They sit semi-quietly for a while, the two pro-heroes grading and Hitoshi shifting around songs on Hizashi’s setlist as prompted. He seems relaxed—more relaxed than Shouta had seen so far. 

The Shouta gets up for coffee and he flinches. He blinks at Shouta blearily a few times, half-asleep, unsure of what’s going on.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he says, cautiously, lowly, in the same tone he uses when he’s mediating a hostage situation and he doesn’t want anyone to make sudden moves. So much for leaving the work at the door. “You want some?” 

He just gets a startled blink back.

“Shou, just because you drink coffee when you’re concussed doesn’t mean anyone else should,” Hizashi berates him softly, then turns to Hitoshi. “Sorry, kid, but I’m vetoing coffee for now, Recovery Girl would kill us if she found out we let’cha have some. Would you like something else? Keep you hydrated?” 

Hitoshi swallows. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” And Hizashi, being Hizashi, pats Hitoshi’s knees as he stands up. 

And Hitoshi, being Hitoshi, goes very, very still, and very, very quiet. 

Hizashi flashes a look at Shouta and then asks, “Y’okay, bud? Sorry, I shoulda asked before I touched ya’, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Hitoshi still just stares at them, eyes flicking back and forth as his breaths come shorter and shorter. 

So Shouta circles around, being sure to approach Hitoshi well within his line of sight and without looming over him, then bends down by the couch to be at eye level with him. “Hitoshi. If you can, try to take deep breaths. I’ll count, okay?” 

Hitoshi nods very minutely. 

“Alright, in, two, three, four…” He watches as Hitoshi takes a sharp inhale—better than nothing. “Now hold, two, three, four…and out, two, three, four.” 

Hitoshi’s clearly trying, but can’t seem to get too much air in. Shouta, for now, is patient. 

“That’s right, you’re doing fine.” Shouta eyes the way Hitoshi’s hand grips the couch cushion and acts on something that totally is not instinct. He helps pry away the fingers and takes hold of his hand. 

Hitoshi squeezes immensely tightly and tears start streaming down his cheeks. Shit, was that good or bad?

“Again. In, two, three, four…” 

They continue like this for several rounds—enough for the tears to stop almost as soon as they started. 

I DO-WHAT? Hizashi signs somewhere in between their seventh and eighth round.

T-E-A? H-O-T? he signs back with his free hand. The temperature will ground him, he hopes. 

“I’m sorry,” Hitoshi chokes out suddenly, still gasping. “‘M sorry, I don’t—I’m—“

“Hey, no,” Shouta tries. “It’s alright. You’re safe here.” 

“I know, so I don’t know why…” He takes a deeper breath. “All Mic-sensei did was touch me and all you did was stand and I don’t know why—why that—“

“Your senses are a little incapacitated. That’ll put anyone on edge.” Aizawa continues the low, even voice. “And I think we both know why you might be on defense spending the night under somebody else’s care.”

Hitoshi nods, clearly trying to keep his dignity as he presses his trembling lips in a straight line. 

“It’s not your fault,” Aizawa maintains. 

Hizashi, steps loud enough to be noticed from far away, adds, “Even if you weren’t concussed, arguably we aren’t the most normal looking people. Shouta makes full-grown adults cry because they think he’s tag teaming with villains.” 

A flicker of a smile crosses his face.

“But really, Hitoshi, we want to do whatever we can to make you feel safe, alright?” Hizashi sets down the tea set on the table and starts pouring. “If that means you want us to keep our distance or anything you can think of, you just tell us. And we’re big boys—nothing will offend us.”

“Yeah, tell him to leave,” Shouta grunts, allowing himself a bit of a smile. Hitoshi barks out a surprised laugh.

“I…” Hitoshi looks between the two of them and takes the warm cup in his hands, after gently letting go of Aizawa’s. “I don’t want to be alone right now. And I…don’t mind being touched.”

“Yeah?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yeah, it, um. Yeah.” 

“Okay then.” Hizashi puts a cautious hand on Hitoshi’s knee. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

More tears raise in his eyes, which he immediately scrubs away and tries to hide by sipping at his tea. But Shouta’s heart warms to see a shy smile hiding under Hitoshi’s lips.

Chapter Text

vi. two years, three months in

It had been an incredibly busy month for Shouta. Not that this was an excuse, but it was true. Not only did he have a new batch of brats in 1-A to wrangle, he had to start preparing paperwork for 3-A’s graduation way ahead of time, and his Big Three were challenging to manage to say the least. Hizashi was grappling with the decision to put his mother in hospice, and there wasn’t much Shouta could do to help him with that other than listen and support, which just made him more upset. Eri’s in the fourth grade and keeps coming home with fourth grade girl drama, unfinished homework, and a growing rebellious streak. He keeps needing to go back to his prosthetist—he finally put on some weight again, which was good, but now everything has to be tweaked, checked, tweaked again, and re-checked. And it was uncomfortable. Not that he would admit that to anyone, or limp at all, but he keeps finding himself massaging his thighs and hip flexors under his desk to loosen the ache. 

He was tired. He was always tired, but god , he was tired . And Hitoshi? Well, Hitoshi seemed to be doing fine. Of course, both he and Hizashi kept him in the loop about things that were going on, but neither of them tried to bitch or complain about their troubles. Maybe in their efforts to do that, they minimized everything. 

But Hitoshi’s a smart kid. 

Shouta and Hitoshi never stopped training—not for a moment , especially not after the wars. The thought of Hitoshi being unprepared in any way made Shouta tense and shiver. But Hitoshi recently has been…more reluctant. 

“Sensei, could we mostly work on my Quirk today? I was thinking about working with original thought.” 

“Sensei, I went for a run earlier with Midoriya and Iida—I need more work with the capture weapon, could we do that instead?” 

“Sensei, I feel like I’ve got a bad habit with my left hook—can you look at it with the punching bags?” 

“Sensei, do you think you could watch me spar with Mic-sensei tonight? Maybe before dinner?” 

Shouta wasn’t stupid, either, but he swore there was no way Hitoshi would know his prosthesis was bothering him. It wasn’t that big of a deal; he was still patrolling twice a week, as was his new schedule, and he was sparring regularly with both 1-A and 3-A. Hitoshi sees him do that . Maybe Hitoshi noticed he was tired, but he was always tired, and that’s never stopped them before. The only reason Shouta could think of for why Hitoshi seemed to be avoiding some of their more physical training was that he was edging away from combat-heavy pro hero work. 

And he could hardly blame him for that. Fuck, the idea of Hitoshi heading into the fray, as much as it makes him proud as his newly-minted legal father (he’s so damn good, so damn smart it blows him away), scares the shit out of him.

Shouta has been busy. But that’s no excuse for him to not have noticed Hitoshi slinking off to pick up extra work. He only caught it when it was too late. 

“I’m heading out,” he calls from the genkan, slipping on his shoes and his coat to go meet Kaminari and Midoriya and a number of his kids to…do whatever seventeen-almost-eighteen-year-olds do on Saturday nights nowadays. So long as he comes back before eleven, doesn’t reek of beer or cigarettes, and doesn’t actively try to break the law or get himself killed, Shouta’s learned to be more hands-off. Hell, he’s even letting Eri have a sleepover with the Wild, Wild Pussycats tonight. Hitoshi still frequently spends the weekends in the teacher’s dorms, even though he’s got his own room across campus, and Shouta wants him to feel like he has independence in both places. 

(But Shouta likes it when he asks to crash at home during the weeks—he likes when Hitoshi sleeps comfortably in his bedroom installed next to his and Hizashi’s, likes it when he does homework on the couch close enough to Shouta so he can ruffle his hair every once and a while, likes it when he can hear Eri, Hizashi, and Hitoshi messing with the record player in the living room, safe and warm and sound and alive .) 

(He wishes, more often than not, that he could just never let Hitoshi out of his sight. But he doesn’t have a lot of sight to give nowadays.)

“Have fun!” Hizashi switches to a simpler one-handed melody on his piano so he can wave. 

“Be safe. Text when you’re heading home.” 

They exchange a nod—firm, understanding, no-nonsense. Just right. 

The door closes, and with the absence of children, Hizashi stops playing and Shouta detaches his prosthesis. 

“I’m gonna call Mom’s social worker,” he murmurs, nervously twisting his hair as he scootches out of his piano bench. 

“Take it out here,” Shouta ask-tells. He needs to make sure Hizashi doesn’t rip his hair out.  

He obliges, sitting down on the couch next to Shouta with their shoulders bumping. Hizashi’s free hand goes to Aizawa’s tight quad and starts massaging, gentle but perfectly firm. “Yeah, hello! So sorry to catch you at the end of your office hours.” 

Shouta keeps an ear out for details and an eye out for changes in Hizashi’s expression but continues combat evaluations from 3-A’s exercise today. Lots of little mistakes to go around that can turn into big mistakes in the field—he reflects that in his red-pen comments. Anything small can mean death. 

“Mmhm.” In response to something on the other line, Hizashi’s tone gets a little darker in a way only Shouta would recognize. He snakes his arm around him, rubbing circles into his ribcage. 

The rest of the night proceeds this way: Shouta gradually building up a headache from straining his eye, Hizashi trying to hold himself together as he goes over admission dates and consent forms, the two of them doing their best to make it easier on each other even if there’s nothing to do. 

Shouta must have dozed off at some point because his next conscious experience is Hizashi asking, “Have you heard from Hitoshi?” 

It’s eleven. Since when did it get so late? Hitoshi’s never been late without letting them know, and even then, he’s hardly late in the first place. 

On your way back? Shouta shoots into their group chat. 

Nothing. They wait fifteen minutes. 

“You think he crashed at the dorms?” Hizashi picks at his cuticles, and after Shouta forces his phone into his hands to do something else with his fingers, he shoots off another text. If you’re spending the night in the dorms, that’s cool! Just let us know, we’re a little worried! 

Three minutes. 

Shouta’s chest gets much, much tighter. Everything okay?

Two minutes. 

They start some preliminary investigation. Maybe his phone died and he and his friends are just sitting on the couch right now, watching their trash TV in the dorm. Midoriya, is Hitoshi with you? 

Hey Kaminari! Is Hitoshi hanging out with you?

One minute. 

Sorry Sensei but we didn’t go out tonight! I can ask around? But I thought he said he was staying at home for the weekend.

Thirty seconds.

no,? thought he was at home this weekend,? idk not sure

The air keeps escaping Shouta’s lungs. He clicks his prosthesis in, wanting to pace around the room even though he isn’t a pacer. He prefers withdrawing until he disappears. But Hizashi is—he’s launched off the couch, fingers twisting together.

Hitoshi. Come home. 

We aren’t mad, but you can see why we might be worried. Midoriya and Kaminari said they haven’t seen you?

Two minutes. Aizawa’s heart is beating out of his chest. 

“I’ll give it twenty minutes and then I’m going out to look,” Hizashi grits out between his teeth. The echo of his Quirk-amplified nervous humming fills the space. 

“Make it five. I can’t stand sitting around here. If he never made it to Midoriya or Kaminari—” 

“Don’t say it,” Hizashi rushes out, practically wheezing. “Please don’t say it.” 

But in only the space for Aizawa to blink—fifteen seconds, not nearly as long as it used to be—both their phones vibrate.

sorry everythings fine. omw back now 15 mins

“Oh my god,” Hizashi lets out, sighing almost like a sob—he eases himself back to the couch, shaking visibly.

“I know.” Shouta runs a hand over his face, massaging the bridge of his nose and getting infintesimally closer to Hizashi. “I know.” 

“Where do you think he ran off to?” 

“Fuck if I know.” 

“Do you think—I always thought he felt like he didn’t have to hide anything from us.” 

Shouta tries not to get too upset. He’s seventeen—seventeen-year-olds do stupid shit that worries their parents. It’s part of growing up, he knows, and he knows it’s only natural. It’s just usually not involved Shouta in such a…direct way. 

“Well, he’s gonna have to tell us something now,” Shouta reasons. 

“He’s a good kid. It can’t be that bad.” 

“But we made some really poor decisions at that age.” 

“That we did.” 

“What do you think we should do?” 

“God, I dunno. What if it’s, like, him sneaking out to a club? Or fucking off to get high? Kaminari would definitely aid and abet that.” 

“I’m not sure if—” 

The door swings open. Both heads swing in its direction. 

“Hey,” Hitoshi says, quiet, almost panting. Shouta pushes Hizashi up with a quiet go check on him . 

“Hey, kiddo,” Hizashi says cautiously as Shouta eases himself off the couch.

He hustles to stand next to Hizashi, arms crossed as he regards his son—still in a thick hoodie and sweatpants, looking to be coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He’s pale, eyes darting around, almost shaking—fear? God, Hitoshi is not the kid he wants afraid of him. Not between the walls of their home, at least, it’s been so long since that’s been the case.

“Come sit down,” Shouta settles on, trying not to be too harsh even though his heart is still out of control and he would love to punch a wall to feel angry instead of scared. 

And they start heading out of the entryway, until Hitoshi hangs back and almost wavers like he’s going to fall over. They both reach out a hand, which Hitoshi doesn’t seem to acknowledge. He walks past them, slow and cautious.

“Mind telling us where you were?” Shouta settles on then. He looks like he’d get a DUI ticket, all sweaty and spacey.

Hitoshi avoids eye contact with either of them as he lingers in front of the couch. 

Hizashi continues, “When Midoriya and Kaminari said they didn’t know where you were, that scared the hell out of us. Really not cool to sneak off like that.” 

He just blinks at them, and Shouta, so upset and scared still about not knowing where he was just moments ago, loses the awareness to recognize something was terribly wrong. 

“Well?” he huffs instead, snark oozing out of his words. “Talk.” 

Hitoshi blinks at him again, looking confused.

“You look high off your ass right now,” Hizashi fills in. “Care to comment?”

“No, ‘m not,” he murmurs. His eyes slide shut. “I swear, I just…”

Shouta and Hizashi look at each other, and he can tell his husband is just as unimpressed as he is. 

Shouta decides to take the logical route. “You’ll have water, sleep whatever it is off some, and then explain yourself when you can form a conscious thought. Okay?” 

Hitoshi still doesn’t seem convinced. He keeps looking to his bedroom door, the front door, the bedroom, the front, bedroom, front. He lists back and forth in time with his eyes, swaying like a reed in the wind.

“Sit down before you fall, kid,” Hizashi sighs. “I’ll get you a drink.”

Hitoshi leans back towards the couch, then tips forward.

Shouta catches him miraculously, hands full of his solidly-built son. “Jesus, Hitoshi.” 

And when he adjusts his hold to grab him under the arms, he cries out, then stifles it immediately.

Shouta pulls his hands back as Hizashi steps in to help, and the alarm bells start to ring. “Are you hurt?” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” 

Then he collapses entirely into their arms.

“Shit!” Hizashi lets out a Quirk-enhanced curse. 

“Fuck,” Shouta lets out a normal curse—at how much his entire left side protests when he eases him down to the floor and also at, y’know, his now-unconscious son. He gets to work on assessing him: breathing, pulse, airway all okay. 

Hizashi starts using his Quirk more intentionally, at a level just a bit above uncomfortable. It’s a good way to assess consciousness, Shouta has to give him that. “Hitoshi, can you hear me?” 

“Dislocated shoulder.” Shouta continues his assessment, palpating down his chest and hating what he’s finding. ”Bruised ribs, maybe decreased movement on the left side, I can’t tell, his breaths are too shallow.” He keeps going, peeling off clothing as he searches, then stops right below his hip because there’s an ace bandage pressing into the skin. It’s one from Shouta’s own first aid kit. And underneath… “Hizashi, he’s got a knife wound.”

Both men are suddenly on it. The bleeding is sluggish, probably due to Hitoshi dressing it, but the wound is deep, even if it’s less than ten centimeters long, and it’s soaked the compression costume gear he’s got on. 

“Son of a bitch, he wasn’t high, he was in shock .” Hizashi’s voice comes out strained. “I’ll get gauze if you put pressure on it.” 

Shouta doesn’t even have to nod. He was already grabbing a towel from the laundry basket he was working on out of stress. It goes from white to red within seconds. 

“Do you think we should call for an ambulance or get Shuzenji here?” Hizashi starts wrapping another compression bandage around the thigh wound, hands shaking.

They’re used to doing this for civilians—for themselves—but not their child. Not Hitoshi. 

Shouta grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and starts wrapping Hitoshi in it, wishing it would reverse the shock he’s already in. “She’ll be quicker. I’ll let her know.” 

“Hitoshi, I need to check for a concussion and I’d really like for you to wake up.” Hizashi’s volume increases, enough to where Shouta winces, and he flashes his phone flashlight into Hitoshi’s peeled-back eyes. “Pupils equal, round, reactive.” 

“Okay, then what?” Shouta gestures down to him, hoping to convey the concept of unconsciousness. “Just shock? Don’t think he’s bled enough for hypovolemia.” 

“Dehydration? Pain? Internal bleeding? Slipped some kinda drug, or maybe a Quirk?” 

“No way to know until she gets here.” 

Hizashi winces, but continues his earlier endeavors. “Hitoshi. Wake up, bud.”

His eyelids flutter a little. He mutters something unintelligible and blinks slowly. 

“Hitoshi.” Shouta places a hand on his cheek, hoping to keep him alert. “Stay awake, okay? Can you tell us what happened?” 

“Training,” he wheezes, his blinks continuing their sluggish pace. 

“With?” 

“Nn…they’re at the police station now.” 

Hizashi and Shouta share panicked looks. “Were you patrolling?” Hizashi tries to clarify.

“No.” Hitoshi lists his head into Shouta’s hand. “Yeah. Sorta.”

“Alone?” Shouta follows up. 

“Not at first…” He’s getting quieter—sleepier. Dammit . “‘M not a snitch.” 

Typical. “Let me rephrase—is anyone else hurt?” 

“No,” Hitoshi takes a sharp breath in, then coughs it back out. “Made sure.” 

“Of course you did,” Hizashi murmurs as he pushes back Hitoshi’s sweaty bangs. “You’ll be able to rest soon, kiddo. Recovery Girl’s on her way.” 

“‘Kay,” he grunts. After a pause, he continues, “Sorry. Sorry for lying. Didn’t wanna. Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about that now.” Shouta tries to keep his tone even but knows it probably isn’t. 

“Didn’t want,” he pauses, breaths hot on Shouta’s hand as his eyes flick between his two fathers. “I wanted to get better—didn’t want to make more work for you. You’re both tired—I’m sorry—” 

There’s three quick knocks on the door. Both he and Hizashi hesitate for a moment to see who will get it, but they both know Hizashi’s faster nowadays—he launches up to open the door and Hitoshi lets out what almost sounds like a whine from his absent presence. 

“He’ll be right back with Recovery Girl, and then you’ll be alright,” Shouta reassures him. “You’re doing well. Just keep breathing.”

He leans more into Shouta’s hand, eyes closed tight with pain, and Shouta takes over what Hizashi was doing: carding through his hair, both feeling for injuries and soothing. 

“My stars, I hear we have an Underground hero on our hands,” Shuzenji tuts. 

He swears that makes Hitoshi smile a little. Shouta wants to cry.

“I’d say he fell from a height and rolled, probably using his capture weapon looking at that pulled-out shoulder. It’s the same arm he fell on as a first-year, right? I’d imagine there’s some lingering structural weakness there.” She sighs and regards the two pros after her more thorough examination. “I can stop the bleeding on his thigh, heal his ribs enough so he can breathe without pain, and realign his shoulder, but I don’t know that I can do much more than that. He’s got connective tissue damage everywhere, especially in his knees and that shoulder, from accumulative injuries he hasn’t treated. He must be jumping off buildings like you, Aizawa. I can’t repair it now without compromising his health further. We’ll have to go in stages.” 

The relief of that information, grim as it is, is still enough for Hitoshi to relax just a little. He only relaxes further after Shuzenji engages her Quirk. There’s still a furrow of pain between his brow, but his eyes seem a little brighter. 

She sits back on her heels, frowning. “I don’t think it would do much help to bring him to the infirmary. You’d rest better at home with your fathers, I presume?” 

Hitoshi nods slowly. Shouta runs another hand through his hair and resists the urge to scoop him up and never let him go as the slow blinks turn more into sleep than unconsciousness.

“Alright, dear.” She shifts her gaze to the pros. “When he wakes in the morning, have him eat if he can and then bring him in. I need to get some imaging. And no dipping into any prescription pain meds I know you must have lying around—ice, anti-inflammatories, fluids, and rest only. But if he can’t stay under from my Quirk all night, it should be fine for him to use his sleeping medication.” 

“Thank you, Shuzenji,” Hizashi says, always more vocally put-together than Shouta. 

“Of course. He’ll be just fine if he spends some time off his feet over the next few days.” She smiles reassuringly to them. “And try not to be too hard on yourself about this. Especially not about a boy as remarkably strong-willed as he is. He takes after his fathers.” 

Shouta swallows down the lump in his throat—Hizashi seems to have teared-up anyhow. He gathers Hitoshi up in his arms, headed towards his bedroom, so Shouta gets up quietly to see her to the door. 

She frowns at his left leg, which is right about where she stands anyway. “Aizawa, would you like me to use my Quirk?” 

He considers it for a moment—considers the hypocrisy of Hitoshi and taking care of himself—but decides against it. “No, I need to be awake tonight.” 

“Okay, well, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this, but see your prosthetist sooner rather than later. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you to set a good example about taking care of your body, either.” She huffs out a sigh. “I’ll see you in the morning. Call me if you need anything.” 

He tries not to let it go to his head, swearing to make an appointment by the end of the week as he shuts the door, then rushes as quietly as he can around the kitchen for supplies to bring to Hitoshi’s bedroom. 

***

Patient : Shinsou, H. (17yr M)

Assessment : ( Subj .) Parents report “he looked like he was high” and lost consciousness for approx. 1 min after weight placed on left shoulder. Breathing pattern concerning—parents in distress. ( Obj. ) Vitals: HR 72, BP 90/61, RR 26, T 97.8, SpO2 96%. Cool, clammy skin. Bleeding from partial dressing on wound on R thigh, 10cm in length but pant leg soaked. Bruising along left side of ribcage, shallow breaths. Unconcealed grimacing and appears anxious. Pupils dilated, AOx4. 

Priority : Acute shock due to stab wound as evidenced by BP, LOC, and pupil dilation.

Intervention : Quirk applied. Maintain comfort measures and PRN medication. F/U tomorrow. 

Evaluation : Vitals: HR 78, BP 115/75, RR 14, T 98.9, SpO2 99%. PERRLA, AOx4. No longer grimacing, pain 3/10 on verbal questioning. Appears fatigued. 

Complications : N/A. 

Special considerations : Continue to monitor family dynamic (adoption by parents ~1yr ago). Appears functional despite vigilantism (note: family hx). Readiness for enhanced parenting visible.

***

Hizashi’s peeling off his dirty, bloodstained compression costume clothing (how could they miss that he was wearing that?) to replace with stain-free gym shorts and a loose t-shirt, singing quietly as he goes while Hitoshi practically melts into his bed. 

“You feeling a little better?” Aizawa starts binding ice packs to the trouble areas—shoulder, ribs, and knees, making sure to keep his touch light. Hitoshi isn’t fragile by any means, but he deserves the sensitivity after a month of…not being their number 1 priority.

“Mm,” Hitoshi hums, clearly a little loopy not only from his previous state but also the force of Shuzenji’s Quirk. He looks up at Shouta with wide, teary eyes. “Sorry. So sorry. I lied…I’m so…” 

Hizashi butts in, “Shh, ‘Tosh. It’s okay. We’ll talk about it later, when you feel well. Don’t worry.”

“Just rest right now,” Shouta reinforces. “And I hope you know this, but we’re going to take care of you, no matter what. You could never do anything that would make us stop loving you.” 

God, Shouta’s emotional intimacy skills have gotten so much better, especially since they understand better what kind of insecurities Hitoshi has left over from foster care. Hitoshi’s mouth twists up like he’s going to cry.

Of course, Hizashi’s right there behind him. “You deserve it, okay? You know that?”

Hitoshi’s eyes get all shiny as he nods, so Shouta squeezes his hand. 

“Tired,” he murmurs, voice breaking on the second syllable. Even on a normal day, emotions drain him like they drain Shouta. 

“I know, kid, but stay awake just a little longer.” Shouta pops out a few ibuprofens while Hizashi helps him sit up, passing a glass over when he thinks Hitoshi’s hand is steady enough. “Take these and drink all that water. Do you think you can eat?”

“Nn-nn.” He obliges diligently, easing back down when he’s had his fill. “Too tired.” 

“I bet,” Hizashi tucks him in a little tighter, smoothing back his hair and thumbing away a drop of water from his cheek. “Can you think of anything else you might want?”

“Eri…she’s okay?” he murmurs. 

“She’s okay,” Shouta confirms. He already called the Pussycats and checked, but he might do it again—he knows she’s fine, but he’s got to know where his kids are tonight. And because he knows what it’s like to be paranoid after a bust, he asks, “You want her to come home?” 

He sighs, and Aizawa realizes his eyes are watery. “No,” he says, and Aizawa doesn’t believe him. “Don’t want t’scare her.”

“We won't tell her yet, then."

“M’kay,” he murmurs, then pauses, eyes drifting in bashfulness. “You’ll stay, though, maybe?” 

Shouta, already popping off his prosthetic, sitting down on the bed with him, and squeezing his shoulder gently, answers, “We’ll stay.”

two years, three months, eight hours in

Waking up in a warm, soft bed feeling as if he got run over by a semi is not a new experience for Hitoshi. Feeling like he got run over by two, maybe three semis, well, that’s new. He’d usually have a shitty, hard-in-most-places bed like in his last placement, or he’d be in a cold hospital bed. 

No, he’s at home. Home home, at his Dads’ place. Why…?

Oh, shit . 

He can hear voices and something frying from his cracked bedroom door. “Fuck, that hurt! Shouta!” 

“You’ll live. Go see if you woke him up.” 

Hitoshi just kindof lays there, unable to do anything but lift his head, determine that hurts too much, then put his head back down. God damn it, how is he supposed to do damage control if he can’t even sit up?

“‘Toshi?” Hizashi murmurs, eyes zeroing in on Hitoshi’s face. A warm smile replaces his concerned look. “Hey, bud. I didn’t mean to wake you, Shouta and I were…having difficulty with breakfast. But it’s ready now!” 

Hitoshi just blinks at him sleepily. “‘Kay.” Great, now he can’t do words, either.

“How are you feeling?” Hizashi makes his way to his bed, sitting on the edge and brushing back Hitoshi’s hair with his long pianist’s fingers. 

“Fine,” he manages, but he lets his aching head’s weight follow Hizashi’s hand. He wishes he could say something— anything —about the previous night, but it just won’t come out.

He smiles regardless. “Whatever you say. Shall we eat in here? Get a gradual start?” 

He thanks God that Hizashi is much more perceptive than he looks. There’s no way he could make it out to the kitchen. After a tiny nod from Hitoshi, Hizashi squeezes his shoulder and leaves, then after a long blink, he’s returning with Aizawa and food. 

“Don’t try to get up by yourself,” Aizawa warns after seeing Hitoshi’s fingers move literally one inch. 

Hizashi grins devilishly. “He’d know. You’d never believe the amount of times Shouta woke up in RG’s place and passed out right after from trying to launch himself outta there. Let’s see, when was the last time…hmm…ah, yes, two weeks ago?” 

“Thin ice, Hizashi.” But Aizawa smiles a little as he and Hitoshi grasp palms and pull until he’s sitting up. “I know he just asked and you lied, so I’m gonna try again. How are you feeling?” 

Liar . 

He must have clammed up because he sees Hizashi aim a very sharp elbow into Aizawa’s ribs. “Shouta also has no sense of tact.” 

Aizawa genuinely looks apologetic, which doesn’t necessarily make Hitoshi feel better. It doesn’t make him feel worse, though. “This time he’s actually right. I’m sorry. I don’t know how much you remember from last night, but you expressed that you were concerned about—” 

“I remember,” Hitoshi murmurs. “Sorry. I’m just really sore, maybe a little dizzy.” 

“No sharp pains?” 

“Nn-nn.” 

“Think you can eat? Blondie burnt his thumb on the frying pan just for you.” 

Hizashi sticks out his overly-red finger with a grin, and Hitoshi can’t help but huff out a small laugh. “Yeah, I could eat.” 

They proceed with gentle tension—not overpowering, just gentle. Hizashi sits with his legs splayed out onto the rug and Aizawa’s taken over the desk chair, plonking his metal prosthesis on the wood of the desktop. The metal toes glint in the morning sunlight. It’s weird, but it’s relatively normal.

“I would just like to say,” Hizashi begins around a mouthful of toast, “that lying by omission is different than straight lying, and I think as parents and teachers we’re supposed to discourage both those things, but for me as a pro, and, like, being myself, I’m personally not that opposed to it.” 

Aizawa puts his fork down on his plate with a clink . “I am going to kill you, Hizashi.”  

Don’t laughdon’tlaughdon’tlaugh . 

“I’m just being honest! You’re the ‘rational deception’ dude here.” Hizashi looks to Hitoshi and says, “Shouta’s mad because parenting books say that we shouldn’t have these kinds of conversations with mixed messaging around you, but also, I think I’m right and I’m hilarious.” 

Hitoshi still hides his smirk behind his toast. “Please, go on.” 

“With that resounding endorsement, I will.” Hizashi grins. “Anyway, we both agree that being…hm, not utilizing the entire truth around us makes us a little upset. Not because we expect you to always be honest with us—you’re allowed to have your own privacy, that’s not what we mean. Besides, you’re a teenager. It’s gonna happen. We’re more just afraid we’ve done something to affect your trust in us. And, like, not to mention, it absolutely kills us to see you hurt when we could have helped to prevent it, because we’re heroes and also your parents. Does that make sense?” 

Hitoshi nods. This is going better than expected. 

“But—” 

Hizashi points a fork accusingly at Aizawa. “Why are you always bad cop?” 

“Because you beat me to good cop every time.” Aizawa sighs. “We don’t need to spell it out for you. Even if it technically isn’t vigilantism, it is against the school’s rules to patrol outside of approved hours. Not because we don’t think you’re capable of it, you clearly are and you’ve proven it many times, but because we want someone to have eyes on you if you were, say, stabbed in the leg. But you know that.” 

Hitoshi nods again, this time a little slower. 

Hizashi sets his now-empty scarfed-down plate. “You explained some of this last night, but you were pretty out of it, kiddo. Do you feel comfortable telling us what went down?” 

Hitoshi hesitates for a moment. God, it’s embarrassing that he nearly pulled it off, then collapsed at the end. 

“If you don’t want to talk with us, it’s fine, but the other option I can think of is Nezu and there’s a good chance he already knows.” Aizawa shrugs. 

Hitoshi takes a deep breath in. “We’ve been tracking this guy—we don’t know his real name, he goes by Powder Keg—” 

Hizashi holds up a hand. “Sorry, who’s ‘we?’”

“Um.” Hitoshi falters. “I. I meant I.” 

Both his dads raise their brows at him. 

“Anyway, his Quirk is basically like Bakugo’s. Like, gunpowder comes out of his skin. But he can’t make the powder ignite without lighting himself on fire, so he feeds it to people to make their blood pressure drop until they pass out. Then he shuffles them off to some sort of broker we— I haven’t identified. Basically, he’s a human trafficker.” 

Aizawa gives him a blank look. “Interesting. Why am I just now learning who this guy is?” 

“Because you haven’t patrolled in a week,” Hitoshi says, remarkably calm. “We pinned him three days ago. Before then, we didn’t have evidence.” 

“Gotcha,” Hizashi hums. “You catch this guy last night?” 

Hitoshi nods. “Not before he got a couple good ones on me, but yeah, he’s in custody.” 

Aizawa rests his chin on his palms. “So, last night was a setup?” 

“No, actually. I really did think I was gonna go hang out with Midoriya and Kaminari. But we got some CCTV footage—” 

Hizashi tilts his head. “But you didn’t have a warrant?” 

“—that tipped us off. The footage is from a conbini owner who, um, gives us food when we track down guys in the area.” 

Aizawa stares at him. “Hold on. This isn’t the first setup you’ve pulled?” 

“Well, the other ones were on school time, so yes but no.”

Aizawa murmurs a string of curses under his breath. “Go on.” 

“That’s it. We pegged this guy, he stabbed me, I brought him in, then I fucked up my shoulder coming back with the capture weapon because I…got dizzy and missed a hold.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“God, kid, you got balls.” Hizashi’s long arm reaches enough to give Hitoshi a fist bump. 

Aizawa still doesn’t look thrilled. “Did you take care of paperwork?” 

“Yeah, did it while I was there.” 

“What about the press?” 

“I dipped before they got there.” 

Hizashi looks at Aizawa and grins. “Honestly, Shou, this is the best way this could have gone.” 

“Best way would be without a stab wound,” he growls. “But I agree. It could have been significantly worse.” 

“Also! Guess what!” Hizashi grins. “You didn’t really lie!” 

Hitoshi almost laughs. 

“He’s right,” Aizawa says, and he’s grinning his tiny little genuine grin. “Other than that last text. ‘Everything’s okay,’ my ass.” 

Hitoshi hesitates, but decides to give some lip. “I learned that from you.” 

Aizawa rolls his eyes, but laughs when Hitoshi laughs. 

Okay. Maybe this is okay.

“But the hell isn’t over!” Hizashi exclaims, just a tad short of painful. He must be trying to be considerate. “We promised to take you to RG’s!” 

Hitoshi can’t help but let out a little groan. He can’t even conceptualize getting out of bed right now, much less trek across campus and be poked and prodded, then trek back . 

Aizawa groans, too. “It’s only nine. We still have plenty of time.” 

Hizashi’s already planting himself at the foot of Hitoshi’s bed, sneaking up to Hitoshi’s side to steal his empty plate and help him sit back. “Hm, you’re right—perfect, you can do the dishes now instead of leaving them for later!” 

Aizawa flicks him the bird, but goes to the kitchen carrying plates willingly. “I’m coming back in five minutes and I’m passing out on your face.” 

Honestly, with food in his stomach and warmth from his bed, the world was already getting fuzzy for Hitoshi and his eyes ache to close. Hizashi’s hand back in his hair just encourages it. “Can I go back to sleep for a little while?”

“‘Course. I’m just hangin’ around because I’m worried about’cha. But I can definitely leave if you like.” 

“No, don’t,” he murmurs.

Hizashi smiles, and Hitoshi almost goes to sleep right then and there, but he jolts back awake. "Eri—she's still at the Pussycats?"

"Mmhm. Shouta told Mandalay you got into a little incident on patrol last night, but apparently Eri made big plans to go see some movie with Kota this afternoon, so we thought we'd just wait until we picked her up this evening to tell her." Hizashi frowns a little. "Is that okay? Want her to come home earlier?"

"Nah, 's fine." Hopefully, by then, he'd be in better shape. He remembers something faintly about last night, not wanting to scare her.

She's mourned so many family members for someone so young.

He tries to shake the thought, inching his head back towards Hizashi's fingers to try and get the message across. 

Hizashi’s thumb graces Hitoshi’s cheekbone, silently acknowledging him, and then the fingers are back in his hair. He’s asleep before he’s even aware of it. 

“Nezu already knows somehow, but I think I ought to know because they’re in my class. Who’s your accomplice?” 

Hitoshi turns his head away, tucking the blankets up further to his chin. He looks marginally better than this morning, but only marginally, despite Shuzenji doing all that she could for him, and now he’s back in bed. God, Shouta should have noticed how hard he was pushing himself sooner. 

“Said ‘m not a snitch,” he murmurs.

Shouta just stares at the back of his head. It’s enough pressure for him to shift around. 

“Shall I go through the list?” 

The squirming continues. 

“It’s Midoriya, isn’t it?” 

That gets Hitoshi to turn around. “No. You know he’d have permission from the Commission, anyway.”

“Fair.” Shouta leans back and crosses his arms, thinking of who might enjoy covert work with massive risk and little return. “Well, then. Tokoyami? Sero?” 

“Look, I’m the only one who left campus. Happy now?” 

It’s nice to see him feeling well enough for snark, at least. “I still need to know.”

“Will they get in trouble?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” 

Hitoshi casts his eyes to the side. “He wanted you to know. And he tried to keep me from going out. But we’ve been tracking that asshole for so long and—“

“Who, Hitoshi?”

“Mashirao.” Hitoshi completely deflates. “I’m serious about him not being as involved as I was, though. As far as he knew, I stayed home last night. Please don’t punish him.” 

“Ojiro?” Shouta didn’t know he had any interest in Underground work, but he supposed it made some sense. “Can I ask why?”

“We‘ve been sparring most days since last semester. I let it slip I was following some guys on my own time and he wanted in.” 

Interesting. “But you didn’t let him?” 

“No, because he thought you should know.” 

Shouta runs a hand down his face. “Okay. Well. I can’t promise he won’t have some sort of punishment. Nezu hasn’t told me what the plan is. But I’m not inclined to give him anything serious on my end. He tried to protect you—I’ll give him credit for that.” 

Hitoshi’s shoulders relax slightly with relief. God, his kid.

“You, on the other hand. I have no idea what Nezu’s going to do, but I’ll back him.” 

Hitoshi bites his lip and his shoulders tense again; Aizawa wants to kick himself.

“I’m not mad, kid, I swear. This is just me being your teacher. And you’ve already gotten your punishment, you don’t deserve more,” he says quietly, gesturing over Hitoshi’s sore, bedridden body. “but it doesn’t change the fact that you broke the rules that are there for your own safety. We know you can handle yourself. But there’s no need to put yourself in harm’s way in an uncontrolled environment as opposed to—” 

“As opposed to what? More training with you?” Hitoshi’s eyebrows knit and his lower lip wobbles worryingly. “We can’t go as hard as we used to and you know it. You barely patrol anymore! I don’t want you to have to worry about it now. I don’t want to be one more thing for you to have to deal with when the time you spend on me isn’t efficient.” 

Aizawa lets out a long breath, trying to compose himself underneath all the self-hatred Hitoshi just spewed, so dangerously tied to his less-than-peak physical ability. “You could have expressed this to me sooner. I wouldn’t have been mad.” 

He stays quiet, face completely immobile, like he’s afraid to express any emotion. Aizawa mistakes this for confusion for a moment.

“What? You’re right. I fucked up this time. I’m clearly not giving you enough individual attention for you to continue to improve. But I would have found someone else to help you train if you—” 

“I don’t want anyone else.” The tears finally drip down Hitoshi’s face. “I want you to teach me. And if I can’t have you, then I’d rather train myself on my own time. I don’t want to have someone else’s fighting style. I don’t want somebody else overwriting what we’ve already done. And it’s so—so frustrating because I know that doesn’t make sense but I just—I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

That’s it, he supposes. He resigns himself to laying down with Hitoshi on the bed, joints protesting and metal leg dipping into the mattress.

They just stare at the ceiling for a while together. 

“You know I don’t pick favorites,” he finally says, ignoring the way his voice cracks like that one tiny crack on the ceiling that he should fix sometime this month. 

Hitoshi just swallows thickly. 

“But you were my favorite from the beginning, even before adopting you came into the picture.” 

Hitoshi lets out one, almost-disguised sob.

But Aizawa keeps going. “You were so eager to learn everything—so smart, so good at applying corrections. So driven I barely had to teach you.” He finally shifts his head over to look at Hitoshi. “Training you has been the greatest honor of my career, and being your father has been the greatest honor of my life.” 

That finally gets him. As soon as Aizawa opens his arm slightly to accept him, Hitoshi crashes into him, sobbing and staining the front of his shirt. Aizawa holds him as he shakes, pinning small kisses on his hair and running a hand up and down his back. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. “And I’m so proud of who you’ll become. Who you already are. I’m proud that you recognize it’s time to move on, and I’m proud that you’re constantly trying to improve. I can’t wait to see what you go on to accomplish, Hitoshi. I can’t wait for the world to see you as I do.” 

The tears definitely don’t stop and Aizawa just holds him closer, feeling his warmth and irrationally hoping, praying that nothing bad will ever come to him anymore. 

Yesterday 23:13

Why did I just hear you on the police scanner

I cannot believe you 

Status report

in custody. no problems 

Are you okay

i’m fine. otw home

Text me when you get back

k

Did you make it home

Hitoshi

What the fuck

Answer your phone

It’s been an hour

I’m literally getting Midoriya to find your address 

Found it I’m On my way! 

pls do not 

YOU ASSHOLE 

sry may have been slightly more injured than i thought 

Be more specific than that

well i kinda passed out when i got home

Passed out asleep??? Or???

decline to comment

i’m alright tho RG came over

don’t worry

Thank god I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere

We need to talk soon

i haven’t snitched you out jic you were wondering 

No I don’t care you know that

I mean we need to go to Aizawa 

i’ll call you tomorrow ok 

explain a couple things 

Okay. Take it easy 

will do

thanks. for everything 

Of course

Today  09:37

Morning 

Call me whenever

Today  10:43

Good morning. You may call me at your earliest convenience. 

Today  12:39

Good AFTERNOON you should be UP now

Not this shit again

Hitoshi if you lied and you never made it home I am going to pound your ass

Today  14:23

Alright I’m coming over. Even if you’re there and alive I need to apologize to your parents

Damn you live in a nice neighborhood  

Ok Im outside should I just knock

I’m gonna knock

I hope you’re alive

Also hope your parents are nice 

Because they’re gonna hate me if you’re dead and it’s my fault 

Three knocks on the front door sound amidst the noise of the nature documentary Hitoshi definitely wasn’t watching, given his face was pressed against Shouta’s leg and he was drooling a little. 

“Huh?” He startles, blinking rapidly as he pushes himself up with a grimace—a vigilant sleeper, just like Shouta, even if he’s exhausted. He notices the tiny wet spot on Shouta’s sweats, touches his mouth, then flushes dark red. 

Shouta ruffles his hair very gently in reassurance, honestly grateful that he could get at least some deep-ish sleep, and even more grateful that Hitoshi’s still comfortable around him even after 1) the threat of punishment, which, in the sense Hitoshi still understood punishment, Shouta would never give and after 2) being so emotionally vulnerable with him. 

But Shuzenji found a mild-grade concussion on him during her second exam this morning, so maybe he’s just still lagging behind some and the crash will come later. Either way, Shouta was grateful for what he had now.

“The door,” he explains, cocking his head in that direction. “‘Zashi.” 

There’s no response from across the sectional—Hizashi’s bopping along to his next show’s play list that must be playing from his cochlear implants. 

“I can get it,” Hitoshi mumbles, pushing himself up further with a grunt. 

“No,” Shouta pushes him back down and he reaches for his leg, popping it in and heaving himself up. “I’ll get it. I have no idea who it would be.” 

He passes Hizashi on the way over and taps his shoulder. DOOR , he signs, YOU KNOW WHO?

Hizashi quickly clicks off his music and grins. “No, but I’m expecting a package!” SWEATER FOR CAT.

Shouta brushes past him with a scoff. 

“Laugh at me now, but when you have lots of precious pictures, you’ll be thanking my good judgement!” 

He swings the door open, once again wishing they had a peephole, then completely pauses. Mashirao Ojiro is bent over at a 90 degree angle, tail tucked between his legs. 

“I have to ask you if your son is home!” He rushes out, barely breathing and definitely not making eye contact with Shouta at all. 

So he just decides to stand there until Ojiro figures it out. 

His tail twitches and tucks itself in even tighter. “I sincerely apologize for the intrusion, but I am worried for his safety, and—“ 

It’d be cruel to keep on like this. “Ojiro. Get up.” 

His head snaps up so fast Shouta worries he’ll break his neck. “Sensei?” 

Shouta takes another moment just to stare at him, more wondering how the hell Ojiro got his address than anything else. And in that time, he’s folded himself into a deeper bow. 

“Shinsou and I have been investigating a villain outside of school hours—I tried to make him stay and wait until we talked to you about it but he went out last night to capture him anyway and now I can’t get ahold of him—“

“Would you rat me out that quick?” Hitoshi limps toward the door, favoring his stabbed leg and grinning like a little shit. 

Ojiro’s head snaps up again and his tail immediately shoots up, too, wagging slightly. But he snaps, “Why haven’t you answered your phone!?”

“Uh, ‘cos it’s charging in my room?” 

“For almost twenty hours? I thought you had died! And that I was complicit!”

“Woah there, kiddos!” Hizashi joins their ragtag group at the doorway, completing the trio. “What’s the fuss?” 

Ojiro blinks, then shoots right back down to his bow. “Mic-sensei! I apologize!” 

Shouta’s had enough indulging this. He grasps Ojiro under the arm and heaves him up. “Get inside, kid.” 

“Yessir!” He goes straight as a ramrod while Hizashi grins at him, herding him along. 

Shouta lets out a long sigh as he sits on the coffee table, sinking his metal foot into the carpet for balance. He was going to have to talk with Ojiro and Hitoshi together at some point, but he was hoping to prepare some. Whatever. 

Ojiro still stands at attention, tail erect as he pretends not to look around the space. 

“Sit,” Shouta instructs, pointing to the couch opposite him where Hitoshi had already settled back down—he’s slightly more on edge, looking more like he did this morning, which makes Shouta feel slightly guilty. He needed to keep up appearances around his students, though; this was a teaching matter.

Once both the boys are in front of him, Shouta flashes his Quirk—which would do nothing for Ojiro and only stress out Hitoshi, he belatedly realizes—to try and re-establish some authority despite wearing a pair of bright purple sweatpants, complete with a drool stain from his son, and one of Hizashi’s merch shirts from their last fundraiser: I PUT MY HANDS UP! , it says in giant lettering. 

“Let me preface by saying I know what happened last night, and I know you didn’t want him to proceed,” Shouta drawls to Ojiro, “which I appreciate. I won’t lie and say I’m not upset that you’ve both broken school policy that’s there for your safety—“ he glances at Hitoshi, hoping he can drive it home. “—but, all things considered, you did well.”

The two of them squirm—Ojiro more so.

“Now. Why are you in my house?” he asks Ojiro, knowing exactly why, but wanting to give him the space to express it. 

He takes a deep breath. “Shinsou and I agreed to call in the morning last night after he told me he’d been injured but okay. He never responded to any of my messages today, so I assumed…I dunno, I thought that maybe it was worse than he let on. And I wanted to apologize to his parents anyway because he came home injured and that was my fault.” 

Hitoshi turns slightly to give him a look—one that most people would consider to be blank, but definitely has some guilt to it. “What are you talking about? You didn’t know I went, how could that have been your fault?” 

Shouta holds up a hand. “It doesn’t matter now. Ojiro, you tried to make up for it, and that’s admirable. Hitoshi, when you agree to make contact with a field partner, you have to actually follow up.” 

They both sit there still, expecting more. 

“How’d you get my address?” Aizawa asks eventually, trying to keep them from getting too anxious. 

“I got Midoriya to figure out the address of Hitoshi’s parents and it was this one,” he says warily. “So, um, I guess I maybe got the wrong house?” 

Hizashi flops down on the table next to Shouta, slinging an arm around him. “Ever consider we might actually be his parents?” 

Ojiro’s eyes go wide and he just blinks at them in shock. Hitoshi tries to hide a snicker under his hand.

“I don’t understand why you insist on playing this little game with everyone,” Shouta grumbles at him. “It’s not a secret.” 

“I dunno, I don’t want it to look like nepotism,” he grumbles back, picking at his nails. “Midoriya knows, though. He figured it out early because he’s so damn nosy.” 

“They’re really your parents?” Ojiro’s eyes are still wide, pointed towards Hitoshi. 

“Yeah. I had kindof a shitty home life, so during first year I spent a lot of time sleeping here anyway. They adopted me after the war.” Hitoshi grins shyly towards his parents. “But, uh. I don’t advertise it. But yeah.” 

Ojiro’s confusion is turning more into awe. “That’s so cool .” Then his gaze drifts to the adults on the table and shifts into horror. “Oh my God. I let you come home injured to Sensei .” 

Shouta can’t help but flash his “creepy” grin. Ojiro makes an excuse to get out of there shortly after.

Eri ends up coming home even later than planned, playdate extended and extended because not a single person on the planet can tell her no when she asks for something.

(Unfortunately, she is very fond of Kota. Hitoshi hopes this isn't because they have some sort of trauma bond.)

When she walks through the door with her little unicorn backpack, Hizashi escorting her, Hitoshi straightens on the couch and tries to look unhurt and not exhausted from everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

She approaches him, tugging on the edge of her dress, eyes wide. She stares at him for a moment, then finally opens her shaking lips. “Are you getting a new leg, too?”

Hitoshi can’t help it—he laughs a little, “No, no, I’m fine—” 

He’s cut off when she bursts into tears and launches herself into his lap.  

“What did you tell her?” Hitoshi hears Aizawa hiss to Hizashi from across the room. 

Her horn pokes into Hitoshi’s stomach as she clutches his back. “Hizashi said someone cut your leg and Aizawa’s leg got cut too and now he doesn’t have one so I thought you were—I thought—” 

“Shh,” he finds himself saying, rubbing her back. “I’m fine, I’m just fine. So’s Aizawa.” 

Aizawa ambles over to place a hand on her hair, petting gently without saying a word. He gets quiet like that around Eri a lot.

“You sweet thing,” Hizashi coos, “I didn’t mean to scare ya!” 

Eri lifts her head from Hitoshi’s t-shirt to pout at him. Hitoshi has to hold back a snort. 

“I wanna see,” she murmurs, tugging at Hitoshi’s sweats. “Lemme fix it.” 

“No,” Hitoshi says firmly. “You know the rule.” 

“Okay,” she sniffs. “But—” 

“No.” Hitoshi shakes his head. “Tell me about your sleepover.” 

She starts on, gradually at first and then giggly and animated at the end as she illustrates something dumb Kota did. God, Hitoshi hates that Eri’s taken a liking to the punk who kicked Midoriya in the balls. Which is a little funny, but still. 

“...and then Hizashi picked me up and he told me about you which scared me ‘cos I thought you were really hurt but you’re just sleepy. Like right now.” 

She pokes Hitoshi on the cheek, jolting him back to reality after he must have been drifting off. “Sorry. You know how Recovery Girl makes you tired?” 

She nods solemnly. There was a traumatizing moment a month ago involving a rolled ankle and a lot of tears. “Did she kiss you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“She smells like an old lady.” 

Hitoshi can hear laughter from the kitchen. “Yeah, she does.” 

two years, three months,  forty-seven hours in

It’s after he hobbled into bed on Sunday after a moderately easier day—laying on the couch, sore, and not moving any muscles unless absolutely necessary—that the real shit hits the fan. He decided to hit the sack two hours early, hoping to make it to RG’s once more before school starts, but really just sat in bed with his phone for two hours. 

The door cracks open a few times—twice with Hizashi and Aizawa knocking to give meds and insist he drink more water. Then once with no warning.

“Hitoshi?” 

He honestly was getting kindof sleepy at this point, so he has to blink a few times to see Eri standing in the doorway in her pajamas, clutching Cujo to her chest. 

She hefts the cat further up on her chest. “Can me and Cujo sleep with you?” 

His heart breaks a little. “‘Course. C’mere.” 

She ambles in, depositing the cat on the bed who makes her way to her spot on the foot of his bed dutifully. Eri moves her to sit with her instead, which Cujo tolerates. God, that poor cat.

“What’s up?” Hitoshi murmurs, having her lean in close to his chest.

She stays quiet, so Hitoshi just plays with her hair, rubbing his fingers in her scalp and making little braids. She melts into him with time, breaths evening out. If it works for him with Hizashi, it's gotta work for her.

“What really happened yesterday?” She asks quietly after sufficiently calming down. 

Hitoshi sighs. He figured she’d ask at some point—she’s quick as a whip and knows when Hizashi or Aizawa withholds information from her, trying to keep her safe. 

Hitoshi heaves himself up onto his elbows to talk to her face. “What’d they tell you?” 

Her eyes are wide in the dark as she turns to face him. “That you got cut and fell during training last night. But you never fall.” 

“That’s not true, I fall sometimes,” Hitoshi murmurs. “And they didn’t lie to you. I did get cut and fall while…sortof training.”

“Sortof?”

“There was a bad guy. But it’s all okay, I took care of him.” 

Eri frowns at him. “You were training with bad guys?”

“You could say that.”

“That sounds dangerous,” she hums, nestling down into Hitoshi’s bed. “Don’t do it.”

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” Hitoshi affirms.

“Did it hurt when you got cut?”

She deserves honesty, as much as he can give. “Yeah, a bit. Mostly it scared me.” 

She scootches up onto his pillow more, stealing it, but then says, “I’m here.” 

Don’t cry, Hitoshi. Don’t cry, Hitoshi.  

“I know,” he murmurs, ruffling her hair. “I know.” 

Chapter Text

vi. two years, four months in

Shouta sleeps with socks on. It drives Hizashi crazy in bed, but for fuck’s sake, his feet are cold. What would he prefer? To stick his cold feet on Hizashi’s legs? 

And of course, this counts for his stump, too. It helps him feel like his phantom foot is covered. 

So he made two mistakes for a little while. 

1. He left his sock on his stump because he felt cold. Chilled, even, for the past few days.
2. He intentionally left his sock on his stump because there’s a weird rash on it and he doesn’t want Hizashi to ask about it or his children to see it. 

Sue him. It was better than making a fuss about a stupid rash, right?

***

Eri’s doodling on her homework—times tables, which she loathes —and figures it’s a good time to ask Hitoshi what she’s been wondering for a while. 

“Do you think ‘Zawa’s leg is hurting him?” 

Hitoshi snaps up from where he had been zoning out in front of his computer, watching clips of grappling techniques. “Huh?” 

“‘Zawa’s leg. There’s something wrong with it.” 

“Um.” Hitoshi pales. “I think he gets phantom pain.” 

“The one where he feels like he still has a leg?” 

“Yeah.” Hitoshi looks back at his computer, but Eri’s not done. 

“I don’t think it’s that, though. His face gets scrunched up when he thinks I’m not looking.” 

Hitoshi puts his hands down on the table and sighs. “Well.” 

He wasn’t blind in either of his eyes. Of course he knew Aizawa’s prosthesis was hurting him.

He did a decent job of hiding it, actually; it was more that Hitoshi scrutinizes him like crazy, because he always has as his student. He was trained to watch him closely. Every little flicker of the lips when he twists weight on it in sparring, every sigh when he squats down at Eri’s level, every time he sits down at his damn desk chair turned into alarm bells to Hitoshi.

And now his sister’s figured it out, too. So he’s got Eri on the conspiracy. He tried to deflect a bit there, actually, to keep her from stressing out too much about it, and then she called him out on it. The cat was out of the bag. 

Even Cujo, idiot cat that she is, seems to purr extra loud near him. 

So Hitoshi knows exactly what is wrong when Aizawa drops during a training exercise, halfway into demonstrating close combat on Hitoshi for some first-years. 

“Come in for the clinch like this,” he says, wrapping his hands around Hitoshi’s neck and drawing him closer. 

And Hitoshi could feel the heat radiating off him—that should have been enough for Hitoshi to make him stop. But he let him keep going. 

“Next is the knee,” Aizawa pants, expression hard towards the kids. They’re all too scared of him to notice something like this.

And if Hitoshi were looking hard enough, he could have seen his already-pale face turn a shade whiter as he shifts his weight over to his prosthetic, in preparation to knee him. 

“Don’t let go of the clinch until the knee connects,” he says, transferring his weight slowly. Hitoshi’s sure the kids are interpreting this as him slowly demonstrating the move, but Hitoshi knows something is up.

“Sensei,” he murmurs. “Are you—” 

And then he collapses, nearly taking Hitoshi with him since he was still stuck in the clinch. 

“Sensei!” Several of the first-year students call out at once, but Hitoshi’s literally right there, and softens his fall the best he can onto the training turf, heart pounding, because what the fuck ?

After checking his airway and pulse—open and a tad elevated, and really strong, okay—he cuts through his dad’s pant leg with his utility knife and detaches the prosthesis, sucking in a breath at what he finds under the sock. A handful of the kids wince or make ew sounds. 

“Hitoshi,” Aizawa groans, rousing nearly immediately. Thank God, it was just a fainting spell. “What’re you doing?” 

“When the fuck were you going to do something about this?” Hitoshi growls, pointing towards the crusted, scaly welts around the bottom of his stump, which is swollen and red with inflammation—it can’t be anything but painful to stand on. 

Aizawa lifts his head up to look at it, then murmurs, “Don’t touch that, it’s some kind of infection.” 

“Yes, and the Pope is Catholic. Jesus,” he mutters, then moves to feel his forehead. “You’ve got a fuckin’ fever.” 

“Watch your mouth.” 

“You’ve got a fuckin’ dumbass fever. No wonder why you passed out, your blood pressure’s probably nonexistent.” He turns to the crowd of first-years, all nervous and wide-eyed. “One of you let Recovery Girl know to expect us.” 

There’s brief shuffling until they decide on a kid who can teleport. That’s convenient. 

But he’s not Midoriya, he’s not going to give much time to that. “How long has this been here?” He asks, helping his Sensei up onto his elbows despite his worry-anger. Worranger. 

“The rash has only been there a few days, I just couldn’t find the time—” 

“Can it. The fever?” 

“I’m not sure, a couple days ago?” Aizawa huffs. “Look, it’s just because the fit has gotten off because I gained weight, and now there’s some sort of abrasion or something—” 

Hitoshi says, “I don’t wanna hear it. Even Eri knew something was off with your prosthetic, and that was a week ago. I tried to throw hints at you to take it easy but I assumed I wouldn’t have to legitimately tell you to take care of yourself.” 

Aizawa just breathes—short-of-breath breathing, but breathing regardless. 

“Now are you gonna refuse Recovery Girl? Or are you gonna follow your own advice for once? Can’t teach when you’ve got a raging infection, much less fight, it makes you a liability.” 

He sounds just like him , someone whispers from the group. 

Aizawa takes Hitoshi’s hand, prepping to pull himself up to stand, but Hitoshi lets go, allowing him fall back in a moment of vindictiveness. 

He laughs bitterly. “I’m not letting you put your leg back on. You’re riding one of Recovery Girl’s stretchers or getting fireman’s carried through the halls, your pick.” 

His dad, despite the sheen of sweat over him and the obvious discomfort he’s in, cracks a nasty grin. “I knew I could fit more weight training into your routine.” 

And Hitoshi, despite himself, laughs, because isn’t all this a bit familiar? He’s literally fireman’s carried him around this training ground a hundred times over the course of their training. The only difference is that this time, it’s not out of spite. 

“I’m starting laying down just for you,” Aizawa half-teases.

Hitoshi feels a pang of worry in his heart—he really must feel like shit to permit that. So Hitoshi has to bend down to lift him; the class starts coming forward, but he shoos them away until he gets Aizawa over his shoulder. 

“Can’t wait to tell Hizashi about this,” Hitoshi grunts out, trying to breathe deeply under the weight. It’s a little easier than back when they trained since there’s a whole leg missing from Shouta’s weight now, but it’s still not easy.

“I guess I kindof deserve this, don’t I?” Sensei murmurs, giving hard looks to all the first years staring at him. 

“Yeah,” Hitoshi snorts. “You do. You fuckin’…startled me.”

Aizawa pauses for a few breaths, then concedes, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see that.” 

“It shouldn’t have happened, period.” He’s feeling especially pissy about this, about how his fingers still tingle with adrenaline and his chest clenches with worry. “You could have just said something to anyone .” 

“You’re right. I just hate having to put my own problems on you, you’re still a kid and you don’t deserve my irresponsibility.” 

Well. That’s not satisfying. Aizawa sighs quietly on his back and it warms his neck.

“I can’t afford to let anything happen to you after everything that’s happened,” Hitoshi confesses after a few beats of silence. “And keeping quiet about it doesn’t make it any better.” 

“I’m sorry.”

And it takes him a few moments, but Hitoshi says, “I forgive you on the condition that this doesn’t fucking happen again.” 

“I promise,” Shouta murmurs. “You really do need to watch your mouth.”

And that’s the last of the peace they have, because Hitoshi hears screaming down the hall: “ Shouta! ”

“Shit,” he hears Shouta mutter. 

Mic rounds the corner. “One of the kids came and got me, said she saw you fall on the field! Oh, look at you, Shou, you’re all feverish and— ew , what is going on with your stump ?”

“Shh,” Shouta winces half-heartedly.

“Oh, you’ll hear more of it later.” Mic gives him a warning look. “Hitoshi, give me your father.” 

“Gladly,” Hitoshi grunts, lying, because at least when he could feel Aizawa’s breath on his neck he knew he was alive. 

There are too many nightmares Hitoshi has of the opposite, even after all this time. They all do. 

Hitoshi’s breath catches when he gets a good look at Aizawa’s face, secured in Mic’s arms for the rest of their trek to the nurse’s office. He had gotten a lot paler while on Hitoshi’s back, where he couldn’t see him. 

“Eri?” he asks quietly. “Wherrrizshe?” 

Mic gives Hitoshi a much darker look and they start speeding up. “Safe at school, Shou, she’s okay.” 

“An’ Hitoshi, where…he was…” 

“I’m right here,” he says through his tight throat, constricted with emotion. “Here, Sensei.” 

“Y’okay?” 

“I’m okay.” 

***

Patient : Aizawa, S. (33yr M). 

Assessment : ( Subj. ) Son reports he lost consciousness for approximately 30 seconds during a training demonstration, but repeated limping for weeks in advance of today. Rash on stump that “made a first-year barf.” Husband reports AOx3. ( Obj. ) Vitals: HR 82+4, BP 94/60, RR 22, T 103.2, SpO2 92%. pupils dilated, AOx2, showing signs of anxiety and distress—calls out for his son, but cannot be comforted due to confusion. Diaphoretic. Heat and erythema on stump, impetigo covering distal end. No apparent trauma during fall. Winces and grimaces on palpation of stump. ( Labs ) MRSA-positive, CMP unremarkable, shift to the left on CBC.   

Priority : Risk for sepsis. Fall risk.  

***

It’s so hot . 

Hitoshi, where’s Hitoshi? He needed…he needed to see him, make sure he’s okay. If he’s injured, Hitoshi might be, too, and fuck , where is he?

Hizashi? Eri? Are they okay? 

But Hitoshi—he needs to protect him. If he’s gone, what will happen to him? He needs to…but he’s so hot , it burns, and he can’t find him. 

He’s scared. He wants to scream, he wants to cry out against his instincts, he wants to find Hitoshi even if it exposes his location on the battlefield. Where is he? He can trust Hitoshi to get him out of here, where it won’t burn anymore. 

He hopes he’s safe. He needs to figure that out. But he can’t breathe, it’s so hot, and it feels like he just cut his leg off. 

He did. He cut his leg off. 

Hitoshi, did he see? 

Shigaraki . Shigaraki wants his family dead. He can’t let it happen, he needs to protect them at any cost. He needs to get up, he needs to—he needs to…

***

Intervention : Quirk applied. Pushed vancomycin 1500 mg IV loading dose, 1000 mg IV Q12hr; diclofenac 75 mg IV. Fall risk interventions applied. Restraint of all 4 rails raised during delirium, no complications. Absolutely no use of the prosthetic for at least a week, pending evaluation from prosthetist.

***

It doesn’t burn so much anymore. But he still doesn’t have Hitoshi. Maybe he got him out. Maybe he’s safe now. Maybe. 

“Are you in any pain?”

No, he’s not in any goddamn pain. Where’s Hitoshi? 

“I’m right here. Dad, I’m right here.”

Oh. Okay.

He’s sorry. He’s sorry Hitoshi has to see him this way. Hitoshi relies on him. How can Hitoshi rely on him if he’s like this? He’s sorry.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

Thank God. Hitoshi’s okay.

“I’m okay.”

***

Evaluation : Vitals: HR 78, BP 115/80, RR 12, T 100.4, SpO2 99%. Impetigo is clearing up nicely and patient reports “I’m not in any goddamn pain” (no wincing or withdrawing on palpation, so I’m inclined to believe it’s managed). 

Complications : None, surprisingly. Patient slept through his first doses of medication and did not attempt escape (though, if he did, I’m sure his family would have something to say about it). Son’s presence calmed him immensely and improved orientation.

***

Shuzenji watches from her computer, taking her time with charting to keep an eye on her restless patient and watchful son. Yamada had left to pick up little Eri, leaving Shinsou in charge. 

“Do you need anything?” She makes sure to ask. “You’ve been on watch for a while. I can take over if you want to get some food, take a break.” 

“I’m okay,” he says, not looking away from where his father murmurs in his sleep, gripping tight to Shinsou’s hand.

“My son…” she hears faintly. “I’m sorry, Hitoshi…” 

“It’s okay, Dad,” she hears him say in response, quiet but firm. “It’s okay.” 

She gets up, joints creaking, and pours him a glass of water. “You’re doing a good job.” 

Shinsou’s tired eyes snap up at her. “Thanks,” he says, quiet. 

“It’s not easy seeing him like this, is it?” She asks, open-ended.

Shinsou sips at his water for a moment, hopefully soothing his emotion-raw voice, then says, “No. ‘S not.” 

She rests a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need anything.” 

She turns away. 

He suddenly asks, “He’s gonna be okay, right?” 

Her heart aches, remembering how these roles used to be reversed. How Aizawa would pace around the room, asking Is he gonna be fine? He’s fine, right? He didn’t want to be here, but he’s fine now, right?

And she responds with the same thing she used to say. “With you here, he’s already better.”

***

Special considerations : Patient left at earliest opportunity, per usual, despite impressive fatigue. Education delivered to family that he MUST NOT wear his prosthetic for at least a week, but that he shouldn’t be bedbound (risks of immobility discussed). Son was extremely anxious throughout his five-hour stay in the infirmary and would not leave the bedside. During f/u tomorrow, if permission granted, will perform a well-being assessment on the son, but my outlook is positive. It is my personal opinion that there may be something cathartic about taking care of his father, after all their hx. 

***

Shouta doesn’t remember much past riding on his kid’s shoulders and having his husband’s panicked face popping up in his vision. And the lingering feeling of disappointing his son, too, but that was a separate thing. He remembers a nightmare, then being pissed off in the infirmary and denying there was anything wrong with him. Then he was suddenly in his bed at home, the room dark save from the light of someone’s phone illuminating a figure sitting on his bed. 

“Hey,” he hears Hitoshi grunt. 

“Hey.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows and feels the familiar weight of Shuzenji’s Quirk and a tingling in his stump, plus his eyepatch isn’t on. All signs he’s been out for a while. “I suppose it was worse than I thought?” 

He keeps scrolling on his phone, faking nonchalance. “Sepsis. Which apparently kills people.“

“Oh.” Oops. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m—“ 

Hitoshi shuts his phone off and turns to look at him, expression hard but lip quivering. “Did you know you’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ eight times to me today?”

“…I’m sorry?” God, people are weird, what is he supposed to say? 

“It was all you could say while you were literally delirious. Freaky.” 

Shouta keeps his mouth shut. He isn’t sure anything would come out other than “sorry.” So he reaches his hand out to Hitoshi’s hair, petting it in silence. 

Hitoshi allows it, but clears his throat and asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Normal. Tired.” He punctuates it with a yawn. 

Hitoshi raises a hand to his forehead. “Still warm, you liar.” 

“I’m not lying,” he grumbles. “My truth and your truth are just different.” 

And before Hitoshi can angrily say anything, the light flicks on, making Shouta wince a little. 

“‘Zawa’s awake!” Eri cheers, grinning boldly and launching herself onto the bed. Hitoshi carefully blocks her from landing on Shouta’s stump, but she still crawls toward it and stares at it.

He looks around the bed. There is, in fact, evidence of Eri’s presence scattered around—uncapped markers staining the comforter, doodles of cats with…capture weapons on them, fuck, that’s going on the fridge. And Hizashi’s things, too—his nice headphones for listening to setlists and a collection of takeout menus. They were all sitting with him. That warms something in his heart.

“Eri, kiddo, he might not want the light on right away—well,” Hizashi trails off as he ambles into the doorway. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Shouta grunts and tries to adjust himself as Eri nestles close to his side, leaning over his torso to peek at Hitoshi’s phone nosily. He still manages to cock his head towards Hizashi, giving him permission to come over. 

He explicitly does not ask Shouta how he feels, instead looking to Hitoshi as he sits down and kisses Shouta sweetly. “How is he?” 

“Feverish still,” Hitoshi says, face blank but worrying his bottom lip. He passes his phone over to Eri, who immediately starts playing some game that gets her tapping all over the screen but off of his stomach. “But at least he’s making sense now.” 

Hizashi smiles brightly at him. “Thanks for watching over him.” 

Hitoshi flushes bright red and stares at some invisible spot on the wall. 

“Did you order something?” Shouta asks, voice still feeling gravelly, and holds up one of the menus. He’d kill for something warm and greasy—nothing makes him more nostalgic for vigilantism like takeout when he’s injured. 

“Yup. You and your strange appetite habits.” Hizashi leans in to kiss his forehead. “Dang, you are warm. Feeling better, though?” 

“Yeah.” He looks to Hitoshi and nods. “Fine.” 

“But you looked really bad earlier. Like, you were sweaty and you kept talking in your sleep and your stump looked really ugly so you’re not allowed to use your leg for a week is what Hitoshi said,” Eri murmurs, tugging on a familiar yellow band on Shouta’s wrist that says FALL RISK . “So I got to go home early from school!” 

Damn it. That’ll be a massive pain in the ass. But, honestly, the way he’s feeling now, he might be too lightheaded to even use them. Not that he wants to be bedbound or wheelchair bound. But maybe he wants to have an excuse to sleep for a couple days in a row. 

“Yeah?” Shouta tries to hide his amusement at her flippant comment. She’s come a long way. “Don’t you have your times tables test tomorrow?” 

She shrugs and burrows closer into Shouta’s side, so he wraps one arm around her that she immediately latches onto. “Don’t wanna go to school when you’re hurt. I didn’t have to when you got your new leg.” 

“That’s because you weren’t in school then,” Shouta chides. “I don’t want you to fall behind.” 

“Oh, come off it, Shou, it’s times tables,” Hizashi says. 

“And you?” Shouta raises a brow to Hitoshi. He’s not done picking this bone. Why should everyone’s lives stop just because he made a stupid mistake? “Let me guess, you skipped school too?” 

Hitoshi just glares at him. But, suspiciously, his eyes look wet. “What was I supposed to do, huh? Pretend like everything was fine and you weren’t dying in the infirmary for five hours?”

Shouta rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t dying—”  

“You didn’t see yourself!” Hitoshi bursts. “I thought you were!” 

Hizashi stands up suddenly. “Eri, help me set the table, please,” he says, without room for compromise. She scampers off with him after one last squeeze to Shouta’s arm and tossing Hitoshi’s phone back at him. 

“If we’re gonna have this conversation,” Shouta says slowly, “can we do it with the light off?” 

Hitoshi stomps to flick the light off and Shouta immediately sighs in relief as the pounding in his eye settled. Much better. But his chest is still wrought with…well, whatever it is he feels when his kids are upset. 

Shouta pats the space next to him.

Hitoshi frowns, but sits back down again gently and allows Shouta to touch his thigh. 

“Talk to me,” he urges, voice quiet. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Hitoshi sniffs. “It’s dumb.” 

“It’s not.” 

“I just—” He cuts himself off. “Eri was only repeating what I was telling her, which wasn’t much, but she’s right, you looked awful .” 

Shouta murmurs, “Did I scare you?” 

“Yeah.” He wipes his eyes. “A lot. Don’t say you’re sorry.” 

“But what if I am?” 

“Don’t care.” 

“Okay.” Teenagers are so strange. Was he this aloof as a kid? “Well, I don’t think Eri knows, at least. You do a good job with her.” 

He buries his face in his hands, unable to make eye contact with Shouta. “Yeah, ‘cos she’s never seen you—seen you fall , heard you scream , it’s—it was just like—” 

“Come here,” he orders, and Hitoshi follows, letting himself get wrapped up in Shouta’s arms, tucking his head into his chest like a child much younger than he.

(It still amazes Shouta to see Hitoshi live the childhood he lost under his former parents. Confuses him sometimes. But usually all he needs is to be held and reassured, so it’s a simple formula.)

“I’m okay,” he reassures. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Things are different.”

“Don’t leave me after all the shit that’s happened,” he manages. “I don’t want to do it alone again.”

“I won’t, I promise.” For as long as I live , he thinks, but figures will be inappropriate in the moment. 

“You’ll stop being stubborn and just…let someone help you? Let me help you?” 

“For you, anything.” He squeezes him tighter. 

They sit for a little while, just breathing while Hitoshi regulates his anxiety. Shouta occasionally rubs his back and combs his hair, letting him know he’s there, he’s not going anywhere.

“You want to eat?” He asks after Hitoshi’s breathing slows down to below baseline, almost to sleepiness. 

Hitoshi nestles down closer and yawns. Being anxious—for hours by his bedside is what it sounds like—definitely exhausted him. 

“C’mon,” he says, nudging him. “You have to eat. We don’t have to go to school tomorrow, so you can sleep in later.” 

Hitoshi grunts and pushes himself up. “Recovery Girl said you need to get out of bed every once and a while so you won’t get a blood clot and die. Where’s your wheelchair?” 

“Uhh.” He really does think about it, but he’s blanking. Fuck. It’s been so long since he’s needed it. “Ask Hizashi.” 

Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but grins a little bit. It helps that Shouta’s being compliant, probably. 

And he watches his son hustle away, calling after his husband, moving with purpose and confidence. He hears his daughter laughing from the kitchen, his husband singing a stupid little song full of joy. 

He lets his eye close.