Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So far, the evening had proven itself an uneventful one.

Some heroes might shy away from thinking such thoughts, afraid of jinxing themselves and ending up with more drama than they wanted to handle. Eraserhead was not such a hero. He liked to think of himself as a logical man, and did not entertain such superstitious beliefs that one could seal one's own fate by thinking about the eventfulness of one’s evening.

Still, it was somewhat unusual. His patrol would soon be coming to a close, and aside from stopping a would-be mugging early on, his afternoon-turned-night had been largely uninteresting.

Taking a running leap over to the next rooftop, Shouta creeps over to the edge on the other side and looks down into the street below his rooftop perch. This area was somewhat notorious for its gang violence, and almost every time he had passed by previously in these past two months, he had ended up having to deal with some incident or another. However, the street was completely devoid of people now. Even the local homeless people had retreated, probably looking for warmer haunts than the biting chill this place offered.

 A figure rounds the corner of one of the buildings and walks into view, kicking an empty soda can with enough force to send the small object flying down the road with a loud clatter in the otherwise silent night.

Angry, the hero notes, as he takes a moment to observe them from his rooftop perch. The lone figure sported dark pants and an equally dark hoodie with the hood pulled up. There was a scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face, which alongside the hood efficiently hid their features behind cloth and shadow. The figure walked with their hands in their pockets and a somewhat hunched posture, either from the obvious anger or from the chilly air, most likely. 

While being upset certainly wasn’t illegal in and of itself, Shouta knew that this area was poor, and unfortunately a hotspot for drugs and violent crime. Taking a couple of minutes to keep an eye on one of its obviously agitated inhabitants towards the end of his patrol wouldn’t really be a waste of his time, since there was nothing else going on at the moment.

Decision made, the hero takes a quick moment to scan the area again before deeming it clear. He was almost done with his patrol now, only a rough half-hour remained. He flicks his eyes down to the figure again. They were closer now, walking slightly fast in the typical manner of an agitated person. Shouta trails after them silently, keeping himself out of sight by stalking across the conveniently nearby rooftops.

Observing the figure below, he tries to deduce their gender. The baggy clothes combined with the dim lighting make it hard to tell if they are male or female, but going from height and stature they were probably a woman, or possibly an adolescent.

It wasn’t an uncommon sight to see children and teenagers being roped into joining one of the local gangs, usually used as messengers or small-time dealers, disposable cannon fodder for people who belonged behind bars. Shouta dearly hopes it isn’t a teenager, though his instincts are telling him it is. Typical teenage attire aside, the boldness of walking around alone in this district at this time of night reminded him a little bit too much of his own occasionally bull-headed students.

Shouta might be wrong. He hopes that he is, because there were very few good reasons for a half-grown kid to be stalking around angrily outside so late at night, underdressed for the cold weather in one of the poorer parts of town.

The figure grows less visibly angry as the minutes pass by, the agitation slowly seeping out of their frame as their pace slows, steps slowly starting to drag in a tired manner. Something about the way the figure hold themselves seems familiar though, and there is a nagging feeling of recognition in the back of his mind. 

Shouta doesn’t think anyone he knows lives in this area. His friends certainly don’t, and none of his current students live in very poor districts, much less here. While he can’t exactly claim to have memorized the addresses of all of his acquaintances, it was in all likelihood a stranger, though he hadn’t become the hero he was by ignoring his instincts. Something about them was familiar. 

While the hero ponders the identity of the person below, the mystery figure below eventually comes to a stop by the mouth of an alley, all signs of agitation gone as they slump against the wall, looking more tired and defeated than anything else. They were probably not about to commit any sort of violent crime at this point, going from their body language. There was little point in him sticking around any longer, having done his due diligence as a hero. Still, the nagging itch in the back of his mind persists.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and the hero creeps as close as he can at the risk of being seen, peering down at the mystery person below as he tries to get a glimpse of their face under the hood.  

Suddenly, the figure lifts a hand and runs it through their hair in what seems like a frustrated gesture, dislodging their hood in the process, and Shouta recognizes the now visible violet hair immediately.

…Hitoshi?

The hero blinks, then immediately narrows his eyes at the unexpected sight as the puzzle pieces of nagging familiarity click together in his mind. What could the boy be doing all the way out here at this time of the night? Because it was his student standing there- huddling in on himself in too-thin garments, looking much more like a street kid than a student successfully attending a prestigious school. The teen’s lower face might be covered by a scarf, but even so, Shouta would have recognized that wild mop of unusually-colored hair anywhere.

It had already passed midnight, but the teenager didn't seem to be in a hurry to get home. Shouta knew for a fact that the kid didn’t live anywhere even remotely close to this area, so there shouldn’t be any reason for him to be here in the first place. Especially not so late on a school night.

Looking for trouble?

Maybe some people would jump to that conclusion on the basis of the teenager’s quirk, but Shouta knows the kid. He doubts that his student is out here for any illegitimate reason.

Still, that left the question of why he was here. He ponders the mystery as he keeps an eye on the boy, mind running with possibilities. It wasn’t really inconceivable that the teen knew someone in the area, though it was certainly a bit too late for social visits.

The kid had been angry, though. From a fight? The boy wasn’t showing obvious signs of pain or injury, going from the way he had walked, from the way he held himself.

Shouta finds himself intrigued, but decides that he isn’t going to get any satisfactory answers from up here. Figuring that he might as well confront the kid directly, he throws his capture weapon at the opposing building’s fire escape, securing a safe descent, and lets himself drop down into the alley.

“Hey, kid.” He greets casually, as he touches down next to his student. Shouta doesn't bother trying to hide his amusement as the boy physically jumps in alarm at his sudden presence, and the hero catches the startled punch the kid throws at his face with an ease born of many years of practice.

"Good reaction time," the teacher in him praises, before adding; "but you weren't paying enough attention to your surroundings. I've been tailing you for several minutes now."

Shouta expects either a surprised greeting or possibly an annoyed huff at his antics as he lets go of the kid’s fist, but the boy just draws his hand back silently and tugs at his scarf in a self-conscious manner.

Nonplussed at the boy’s silence, the hero follows up with a question. “It's a bit late to be wandering around outside, don’t you think?” 

His student buries his face deeper into his scarf, shifting his feet. Strangely, the kid stays silent, still doesn't respond. 

And- there was something off about that. The teen might not be one of his more talkative students, far from it, but the kid never ignored a direct question either.

"You're quiet today," Shouta observes out loud, folding his arms across his chest. "Something the matter, kid?" 

His student shakes his head in the negative, denying the words. Shouta arches a disbelieving eyebrow. The boy stops, hesitates. Fiddles with the hem of his scarf anxiously, but still, he keeps his silence.

"Talk to me," Shouta says, though it probably sounds more like an order than the request he intends it as, because the kid twitches guiltily in response to his words. 

A long moment drags by in utter silence, and just when the hero is starting to think that the kid is actually going to refuse without any explanation, the teenager shakes his head again before lifting his hands, and with a quick, nervous movement, the boy signs I can't talk.

Somewhat caught off guard, Shouta is surprised to learn that his student knows sign language. His own knowledge stemmed from long hours of practice with a much younger Hizashi, his deaf friend who wanted a way to communicate even without his hearing aids. As far as the hero knew, the kid didn't have any deaf friends. Maybe one of his foster siblings..?

He pushed his surprise aside, as none of that was really relevant right now. "You can't talk?" He confirms instead, because that was somewhat concerning. If the kid had lost his voice due to sickness, which would explain the scarf at least, then he definitely should not be walking around outside without a proper jacket in this cold weather. "How come?"

The boy doesn't respond, nor does he lift his hands to explain in sign. He just hunches his shoulders and averts his eyes as he stares at the ground in what seems like shame. The hero doesn't understand how that could possibly be the case, until the kid slowly, haltingly, lifts up a hand and tugs down the frayed scarf covering his face.

Concern flashes into anger as the kid pulls down the scarf not to show skin, but the hard edges of a muzzle.

As a hero, Shouta was no stranger to the many forms of quirk restraints, and was familiar enough to be frustrated by the lacking laws that governed their use. Use of quirk restraints on criminals was a given safety measure, but the use of restraints on children was not illegal, if the child in question had what could be vaguely labeled as a dangerous quirk.

Of course, it was generally frowned upon to use quirk restraints on children. The vast majority of people didn't do it, and it was mostly practiced in cases where the child had a dangerous quirk that they couldn't control.

Shouta despised the practice of unnecessary quirk regulators on children. All children could and should be taught control, with patience, time, and practice. Excess restraints took away that option to learn. To just slap restraints on a kid and call it a day wasn't just abusive, it was inhumane.

Hitoshi didn't even have control issues, the hero knew that for a fact. Neither did the teenager have a habit of misusing his quirk. There should have been no reason to restrain him at all, yet someone had muzzled his kid dammit, and the hero had to swallow the bitter pill that he couldn't even use that as evidence of abuse because it wasn't illegal.

Fury boiled in his blood at the injustice of it, at his own inability to arrest the fuckers that had done this. Shouta knows who the likely perpetrators are, the kid's fosters had been on his radar for their likely abusive ways for some time now. Though despite his best efforts, he hasn't been able to get the teenager to confess to anything, and hasn't been able to dig up enough evidence to get the boy removed from their 'care'.

Clenching his hands into fists, he imagines giving them a piece of his fucking mind.

I'm sorry, the kid signs, still looking at the ground, not meeting his eyes. For not responding. I didn't mean to ignore you. As if that was what Shouta was upset about.

"I am rather upset right now," He admits tersely, because the teenager had very clearly picked up on his anger, and lying about it wasn’t going to set the boy at ease. "But not with you." He adds, before the kid can get the wrong idea.

He draws a deep breath, deliberately calming himself down. Justified or not, his anger serves no purpose here. The kid had obviously already suffered a difficult evening, and there was no point in stressing him out even more.

"Come here, kid," Shouta speaks as he pushes down his frustration, taking a step closer to the boy who is still not looking at him. "Let's get that off." He reaches out to inspect the device, only for the kid to flinch away hard at the touch, back hitting the brick wall behind him.

There's a second of pause, before the teenager visibly gathers himself again, looking frustrated, and steps forwards. Shouta doesn't comment on it, doesn’t make it into a big deal. He just reaches forward again and doesn't say anything when the teen stiffens under his touch, when the boy forces himself to stand still as the hero tilts his head to the side and inspects the device with a critical eye. 

It bothers him that the kid still flinches from him. 

Frustration didn't quite cover it, but it was frustrating to find the kid still looking at him with a mix of wariness and resignation whenever Shouta found himself upset, like the boy expected to find himself the target of his anger, expected to be hit.

It bothers him, but the hero is not surprised.

Instincts didn't develop without a reason, and overcoming habits formed to keep oneself alive was a massive, time-consuming process. And the hero was not the slightest bit convinced that said instincts weren't still being reinforced, didn't still serve their purpose. 

The kid was being hit at home. Shouta was certain of it.

He didn't have proof, didn't have anything he could use as evidence, aside from telling mannerisms and the recurring bruises the boy would always explain away.

It pains him that his student still doesn't trust him enough to ask for help.

It troubles him greatly that the boy feels like he needs to hide his injuries, feels like he has to protect the very people Shouta is convinced keep hurting him.

Frustrating as it was, the hero couldn't do anything if the kid refused to talk, and the teenager was very determinedly keeping his silence on the matter. The only thing he could do was try to establish himself as safe, to gain the boy's trust. 

Like trying to win over a stray cat, he thinks to himself as he finds the lock hidden under the scarf where the straps connect, at the base of the teenager's head. "Pretty standard design. I should be able to get this open," Shouta says wholly for the kid's benefit after inspecting the lock. "Take off your scarf, then hold still."

Following his order, the teenager pulls at the cloth, unraveling the scarf with a harsh tug. The fabric slides from his neck, exposing the contraption and the lock in its entirety, alongside a large, dark bruise previously covered and hidden by the fabric. Shouta very deliberately does not look too hard at it, does not think about how the boy likely received it, or about the likelihood of there being more such bruises decorating his student's skin underneath those clothes.

Well. Maybe he does, but he's careful to not let the anger show. He does not tighten his fingers around the lock keeping his student muzzled like an animal, he keeps his movements calm, slow, controlled. He buries his simmering rage deep within his heart, awaiting more deserving targets than one beat-up, skittish kid.

Fishing out his lockpicks from his toolbelt, the hero gets to work picking the lock. It wasn't a particularly difficult lock by his standards, but it wasn't the cheap type that one could just jam a paperclip into and twist, either. The angle would make picking it awkward too, so he is not surprised that his student hasn't been able to get the thing off by himself.

After a minute of careful work, he twists the tension wrench one final time, and feels the lock give under his administrations. The teenager wrenches the muzzle from his face and sucks in a ragged breath, and Shouta tucks away his tools as he gives the boy a moment to collect himself.

"Thank you," the kid rasps out after a minute, sounding so genuinely grateful that it almost hurts to listen to.

"Anytime, kid." He says, because he wants nothing more than for the boy to realize that he can ask for help when he needs it.

Shrugging off his backpack, the teen stuffs the device into its depths before pulling out a bottle of water and downing half of its contents, wiping his face with his sleeve and sliding down the nearby alley wall into a sitting position. The boy looked exhausted, Shouta thinks to himself. He finds himself sitting down next to the kid, leaning his head against the wall behind him.

Maybe he had jinxed himself earlier, because instead of a quiet, uneventful evening he now had to deal with the emotional fallout of whatever this was. Somewhat forcibly, he shoves the nonsensical thought away. Not that he regrets following the kid for a single moment, because he would rather sit through a hundred emotional conversations than let any one of his students suffer alone in silence.

Shouta makes himself as comfortable as he can next to his protégé. They sit in silence for almost a minute, before the boy eventually breaks it. “I’m sorry,” the teenager rasps, hugging his backpack to his chest and staring at his shoes.

The shoes in question appear quite worn. He has noticed how the student doesn’t have dedicated gym shoes during training. He wonders idly if the kid would accept it if Shouta bought him new shoes. Something to consider. “What for?” he asks. 

“Just- for making you do this.” The teenager mutters, still not looking at him. “You can leave, if you want. I'm fine.”

Shouta generously gives the boy five entire seconds of silence to withdraw that absolutely ridiculous apology, before he lifts his arm and cuffs the teen -lightly- on the back of his head. “Don’t be an idiot, kid.” He huffs. “I obviously couldn’t leave you like that, and if you genuinely think I’m just going to abandon you here alone, in one of the sketchier, crime-ridden districts in the middle of the night, you obviously need to learn some sense.”

“Sorry,” the teenager apologizes again, but Shouta can hear that the boy is smiling, properly chastised. He puts his arm around his student’s shoulders and is pleased when the kid doesn’t react negatively to the touch, when he feels some of the tension leave the too-thin frame.

“Tell me what happened.” He urges after another few moments, when it becomes clear that his pupil isn’t going to take the initiative to explain.

“I was stupid,” the kid mutters eventually, voice dripping dark with anger.  “I broke a rule.”

Shouta can’t tell if the anger he hears in the teenager’s tone is self-directed or if it is directed at his so-called guardians. He has a worrying feeling that it is the former. “And then what?” He digs, frustrated on the teenager’s behalf. “They responded by muzzling you?”

“Using quirk regulators,” The kid utters the words with no small amount of disdain, “on your kids isn’t illegal if they have dangerous quirks, and you are reasonably concerned for your, or someone else’s safety.”  

The teenager says the words almost like he is quoting something, and Shouta wonders if that is exactly what the law says. The boy is obviously familiar with it. "It should be." He responds lowly, tightening his hold on his student. 

Shouta doesn’t get a response to that, but he isn’t really expecting one either. He’s surprised the kid had been willing to offer any information at all, considering the topic. The boy was always so careful with what he said about his fosters, carefully avoiding any implication that they might be abusive.

Maybe the kid didn’t consider what had happened to be abuse on the merit that it hadn’t technically been illegal. He wonders…

“Is this something that happens frequently?” 

If he could get the kid to open up about some of the less pleasant -though still frustratingly legal- parts of his home life, then maybe he could use that as a foundation for eventually getting the kid to admit to the less legal parts. If he could get the boy to see that his treatment wasn’t acceptable, then maybe he could get the boy to trust him enough to help.

Trust took time to build. Time, work, patience. When he wanted to win over a stray cat, he needed to gain its trust first. Establish himself as safe, take one step at a time, and wait for the cat to come to him. Food was certainly a great motivator too, of course, but Shouta was confident in his ability to build trust without.

Winning the trust of a stray kid really shouldn’t be that different, when it came down to it. Sure, there was more nuance in human interaction, but the core principles were the same. Less bribery with food perhaps, but-

Actually, Shouta muses, turning the sudden strike of inspiration over in his head, bribing the kid with food might be an excellent idea. The boy was clearly not well-fed, and he wasn’t putting on as much muscle as he should have been doing. Shouta didn’t know if meal restrictions were a punishment the boy had to suffer, but honestly, the hero would not be surprised if that was the case. Not with how thin the kid still felt like underneath those layers.

 He could take the kid out to eat after training, perhaps, maybe claim it as a reward for a job well done if the boy was skittish about it. Worst case scenario, Hitoshi would just decline in favor of eating at home, and maybe prove that his fosters weren’t complete fucking assholes at the same time.

“No, not- really.” The teenager in his grip replies after a moment, dragging the hero away from his scheming thoughts and bringing him back to the present. “They generally have fixed punishments for breaking specific rules. I won’t have to wear it, for say, disrespect,” the teen runs a hand through his hair. “Thank god," The kid mutters under his breath with no small amount of relief in his voice, before continuing somewhat more loudly; "Just quirk-related stuff, really. They’re, uh, afraid of my quirk.”

The way the kid had said thank god for not having to wear the inhumane device for being disrespectful, told Shouta two very important things; the boy got punished for being disrespectful, and it was apparently something that happened frequently.

If the recurring bruises he found on the kid’s skin were any indication, and they were, the hero had a pretty good guess as to what the punishment might be.

And wasn’t that interesting, how Shouta didn’t really seem to experience too much of this seemingly blatant and chronic disrespect that his guardians likely punished the boy for so often. He himself was an additional authority figure who spent a lot of time with the kid, and while the teenager could certainly be a stubborn brat and have a smart mouth on occasion, Shouta rarely felt like the boy said or did anything that warranted actual punishment.

The only behavior that the kid displayed that truly frustrated him was the incessant lying, but it wasn’t like Shouta couldn’t understand why the boy felt the need to lie about his injuries, felt the need to make up stories and bluff, pretend, deceive.

As an underground hero, Shouta had met many people in bad situations. Kids, suffering under the hands of their parents, men and women, stuck in volatile relationships. Elders even, trapped by circumstances and abusive relatives. Confronted with the truth, most would tell a lie, come up with some excuse in an attempt to mislead, convince him, and sometimes themselves, that his suspicions were unfounded. 

Some were just too afraid to speak up, scared for the safety of themselves or someone they cared about. Others were sometimes brainwashed into believing the abuse was somehow their own fault, their self-esteem crushed, believing they deserved what they got. It wasn’t exactly uncommon for victims to lie to protect their abusers, so Shouta didn’t hold it against the kid, even if he would really prefer that the boy just talk to him already instead.

“What's the punishment for disrespect?” He asks lightly.

The boy stiffens under his arm for a split second, lightning-quick before obviously forcing himself to be less tense, clearly not having expected Shouta to focus on that part of his statement. “Just the normal stuff.” The teenager replies with a shrug, tone admirably disinterested as he attempts to dismiss the topic.

Shouta humms in mock-thoughtful interest, not so easily dismissed. “Enlighten me.”

Several moments pass by slowly in silence, and Shouta wonders if his student is actually just going to ignore him, or if he is genuinely struggling to come up with something. The thought that the kid might not even be able to come up with a reasonable punishment for such a minor thing on the spot is absolutely tragic, and the teacher pushes the unhelpful thought aside.

Another moment flashes past without any response, and Shouta decides to dig a bit further before the boy can gather the nerve to lie to his face, again. “Was it disrespect that earned you that bruise at the back of your neck too?” The hero asks, tone casual.

It was a difficult balancing act trying to speak to his student about his suspicions, because the teenager never volunteered information on his own initiative, so Shouta always had to ask and push and dig for the answers he wanted. However, if he was too blunt, pushed too hard, then the boy would turn aggressively defensive and avoid him, something that was ultimately counterproductive to his end goal of earning the kid’s trust.

Tactless, Hizashi sometimes called him. Shouta was a blunt and direct person, something that usually served him well in his particular line of work, but apparently left his social skills somewhat lacking. Honestly, Shouta usually couldn’t care less. Going through an entire song and dance of beating around a bush when one could just point something out directly seemed so unnecessary and tedious to him.

“No,” his pupil denies just as vehemently as Shouta had sadly expected, but while the kid shifts for a moment, he ultimately doesn’t pull away from the arm the hero has slung over his shoulders at the insinuation of abuse, and if nothing else, Shouta considers that a victory.

Still. He would like an explanation.

So, he lets the silence take root again, and waits. The cold was really starting to bite now, gradually numbing the exposed skin of his face now that he wasn’t actively moving anymore. Shouta ignores it, and just sits carefully waiting as the kid next to him restlessly fiddles with one of the straps on his backpack. “...I fell.” the boy mutters eventually, gaze fixated on the black strap he has twisted around one of his fingers.

“You used that excuse last time,” Shouta points out mercilessly, too frustrated and tired of the constant lies to even pretend to entertain the possibility that the boy isn’t being dishonest. “Zero points for creativity, kid. Now tell me the truth.”

The boy tenses at that, ducking his head, and Shouta kicks himself mentally because fuck, he was pushing too hard again, and now the teenager was going to get up and hiss at him angrily for making insinuations, for ‘talking about things he knows nothing about’. 

Seconds pass in tense, conflicted silence, and Shouta is quiet, afraid that the boy would attempt distance himself again, and rebuild the walls that the hero had been trying to slowly, carefully pick apart.

By divine intervention, or more likely, just a timely stroke of luck- it doesn’t come to that. 

Gradually, the tension bleeds away from his pupil in increments, until Shouta is no longer completely convinced that he has fucked things up in a major way. “It’s…” The kid starts after a while before he stops, hesitates. “Embarrassing.”

Shouta continues his silence. He waits patiently once more for his student to explain himself, though the teenager doesn’t seem to be in any great hurry to do so. After a minute, the boy runs a hand through his hair again and continues reluctantly. “I had a panic attack,” the kid says, the words soft and barely audible. “From the…” he gestures vaguely at his face with a hand, but doesn’t finish his sentence.

“The muzzle?” Shouta guesses, seeing little reason to not call the contraption for what it was.

“Yeah.” the kid responds, quietly. “That.”

“And then you fell?”

“Bumped into the edge of the counter,” the kid agrees, still not looking at him. “Didn’t even notice it at the time.” 

The implication of that explanation is not lost on the hero. 

While he can easily imagine that it would be scary and stressful to be muzzled against his will by people who are supposed to take care of him, a full-blown panic attack - well, that spoke of underlying trauma. It’s… a distressing thought.

However, Shouta does not miss how the explanation just so happens to also not incriminate the boy's foster parents of doing anything illegal. It might have happened that way. He can’t be entirely certain, but he is not completely convinced. The kid would lie about this. Even if it was true to some extent, the boy would certainly lie about the details.

However, Shouta knows that the boy is going to stick to the story,  be it true or not, so he lets it go.

For now.

"Come on kid," Shouta says, removing his arm and rolling back onto his feet after a moment of deliberation. "Let's get out of here."

His student releases a quiet breath next to him, before he climbs back onto his own feet, throwing his backpack back on again. "Right,” the boy mutters, seemingly to himself, “I need to catch the last train."

"No," Shouta states after they have left the dingy alleyway behind, once the boy falls into step beside him. "you're coming with me."

Shouta can see the kid make a face in his peripheral vision, like he disagrees, like he’s going to argue. Waste of time, he thinks. His student should know by now that he is picking battles he won't win. Even so, the boy opens his mouth to protest. "Sensei," the teenager starts, placing his words carefully, obviously realizing that he is picking an argument, "I have to go home."

Shouta doesn't slow down. "Why are you out here, Hitoshi?" He asks instead, as they cross the empty road. He’d prefer to get back onto a roof, stay high off these streets. Especially with a kid in tow. Just because it had been quiet so far, didn’t mean it would continue to stay that way. Complacency had killed many a hero. It wouldn't kill him.

"Sure, you fought with your foster parents," he continues,  and doesn't miss how his protégé looks away at the word 'fought’. One day, he would have to train his student out of his tells, when they were no longer proving so incredibly useful to him. "-but you should be in bed, sleeping." He continues, scanning the buildings around him.

There.

"At the very least, you should be at home." He stresses the final word, before slowing to a stop. Quickly mapping out a route, he scales the building he had decided on, only stopping once he had pulled himself up onto the edge of the roof. Turning, he looks down and gestures for his pupil to follow him.

The teenager huffs as he hoists himself over the edge onto the roof half a minute later, not quite as experienced with scaling buildings as Shouta himself. "I was a bit too keyed up to go to sleep," the boy responds unsatisfactorily once he has joined Shouta on the roof, balancing fearlessly on the edge for a moment before joining him further in. "I wanted some fresh air."

Shouta arches a brow. "So you decided to come all the way into the city to kick cans around," he says dryly, "instead of just stepping outside?"

The boy averts his eyes again, flushing, probably embarrassed at having his lies so bluntly exposed. "I'm going home now, Sensei," His student announces stiffly, with an edge to his voice that made it obvious that he was fed up with Shouta's insistence on pushing the topic. “Goodnight.”

Which was too bad for the kid. Shouta wasn't done by a long shot, because he had already solved the puzzle.

The hero watches as the kid stalks back to the edge, obviously intent on actually leaving, before opening his mouth. "They kicked you out," Shouta declares, and watches the boy freeze at his words.

"That's why you're here, instead of at home." he continues when the boy remains unmoving, "That's the reason you were angry, isn't it? You can't go home."

It's partially a guess, but the hero is confident in his deduction. It is all but confirmation when the kid doesn't respond, just stiffens further, silent.

He's close now, so close. He can smell it like a shark smells blood in the water, how close the boy is to breaking. Shouta has grown attached to the kid, and he's more than tired of seeing the boy get hurt. If he can get the teen to admit to it, then he could finally do something about it. The seething rage and frustration he has buried in his heart burns with the need for it, to get his hands on the assholes hurting his student, his fucking kid.

Maybe he is pushing too hard again, too fast. It's a gamble, it always is, but he has never been so close, he feels like he can almost reach out and touch it, the admission he wants to hear.

"Kid," He speaks, his frustration bleeding into his words. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, urging him to act. "You don't have to protect them," he continues bluntly, "I know that they are hurting you. You don't have to lie anymore." He urges, hoping that the kid will take his cue, and finally decide to trust him.

He can see the teenager's shoulders shake with suppressed emotion, but the boy, as always, remains silent. The kid was stubborn. That iron will would serve him well someday, if only he learned to be stubborn about the right kind of things.

"Let me help you, kid," he urges, knowing that he sounds desperate, but not caring. Not about this. "You don't have to go back there."

The teenager twitches at his words, and Shouta doesn't hesitate to pounce at the perceived crack in the boy's resolve. The anger burns in his heart, burns at the injustice, at his powerlessness, at his inability to help the kid he has grown to care for.

In the end, the only one standing between the kid and the hero’s ability to help, was the kid himself.

"Hitoshi," He speaks, a command this time. The kid flinches at his tone, balling his fists, every line in his body tense with upset. "Look at me." Shouta insists, stepping closer again as his pupil reluctantly obeys. "Talk to me, kid," Shouta says after a second, less of a demand and more of a plea. He can see the kid struggling, his expression visibly torn as he wavers, presumably between his desire to confess, to get away from the horrible situation he was stuck in, and his conditioning to hide the evidence that anything was wrong with it.

It is, to his bitter frustration and disappointment, the kid's conditioning that wins out in the end.

"You're wrong," The teenager bites out a second later as he looks away again, refusing to meet the hero’s gaze. "They're not hurting me, Sensei. You don't know what you're talking about."

Shouta clenches his fists. He can feel his nails digging into his palms as the simmering rage in his heart grows into a wildfire in his veins. He wants to hunt down the boy's foster parents and punch them in the face. Wants to track down every last person who made the kid be this way and kill them.

The feeling is blinding, overwhelming, like an inferno of all-encompassing rage in his chest.

Drawing a deep breath, Shouta breathes through the feeling, breathes through the burning need for retaliatory violence, and tries to push his anger away. Even through his rage, he isn't blind to the effects it has on the kid. The tense line of his shoulders, the increasingly wary look on his face. The way the boy stuffs his hands into his pockets to hide the trembling.

Fuck-

His anger has no place here. It's unhelpful at best, actively damaging at worst. Shouta would never lay hands on the kid in anger, but it is more than clear to him that the boy believes that he would.

Hating himself for losing his temper, the hero tries to force his anger down. The fury in his heart doesn't abate, and he draws another deep breath, focuses on the numbing feeling of the cold night air on his skin, on the sound of the wind blowing, on the fact that he is probably terrifying the kid he is trying to earn the trust of. He focuses on his breath until the wildfire in his heart cools down into a smolder, and he is certain that he has successfully managed to suppress his rage, tucked it away for targets more deserving.

Once he is sure that he can control himself again, he speaks. "Come here, kid." Shouta says, hating the incredibly guarded way the boy looks at him. His heart physically hurts in his chest at the way the teenager hesitates to obey for a very long moment, like he's scared of what Shouta will do, like he's certain he is going to be hurt.

Eventually, the teenager takes a reluctant step towards him, then another, with an air of dread and resignation. The hero forces himself to stand steady even though a part of his heart threatens to break from such misplaced suspicion. The kid stops right in front of him, close enough for Shouta to hit him, like the kid so obviously thinks he will do.

Shouta hates it.

So he does the only logical thing- he grabs the flinching teenager by the shoulders and pulls him forcibly into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. Shouta holds his kid tight as he feels the boy draw a shaky breath, feels the teen shudder in his arms.

Maybe he can't force the kid to admit anything, but he can sure as hell refuse to act the way the teenager so obviously dreads and expects. He can prove himself trustworthy, one step at a time.

He will.

Chapter Text

Progress, Shouta thinks, was a slow thing.

Trying to get anywhere with the kid frequently felt like taking three steps forwards and then two steps back. Or four, if he wasn’t careful. At least, he thinks as he unlocks the door to his own apartment with said kid in tow, he’s pretty sure that this time he has managed to take some steps in the right direction.

He had convinced the boy to follow him home, after all. That certainly wasn’t nothing, not after the flinching, wary dread he had displayed at the rooftop earlier in the night.

Though upon further reflection, the hero had to wonder if he had really managed to convince the boy, or if the kid following him like a silent, cautious shadow was only doing so because he didn't think he could realistically get away.

To be fair, the teenager wouldn't exactly be wrong about that.

Of course he would have preferred it if the boy followed him of his own will, followed him because the teen realized that accepting help would be the reasonable, logical thing to do in this scenario. Not that it really mattered too much in the end, he muses as he opens the door and gestures for his student to step inside. His most immediate concerns had been addressed- namely, getting the kid inside and off the streets for the night.

Progress, no matter how slow, was still progress.

Shouta locks the door behind him as he follows the boy inside, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Officially wet, cold and tired, the hero wants nothing more than to take a shower and go to bed, but right now, the soaked, chilled teenager at his side had to take priority.

Taking off his boots, the hero turns to his student. "Go take a shower," He says to the shivering boy once he has gotten his shoes off. They had travelled largely across the rooftops to get home, but it seemed that even the burst of exercise hadn't been enough to keep the boy from freezing. It probably wouldn't have been even if it hadn't started to suddenly pour down on the way.

"You need to get warm," Shouta adds when his pupil hesitates, giving him a firm push in the direction of the bathroom.

The teenager hasn't said anything on the entire trek home, but at that, the kid finally breaks his silence. "I don't have any other clothes." The boy states, unmoving. Maybe as a protest, perhaps as a silent request. The hero isn't quite sure, but the problem itself was easy enough to solve.

"I'll lend you something to sleep in," He assures, giving the dripping teenager another push in the direction of the bathroom. "Now go, before you catch a cold. I'll leave the clothes outside of the door for you." The boy looks reluctant for all of a second, but ultimately, the kid does as he is told.

The hero doesn't blame the boy for being reluctant to shed his layers. After all, if the bruise he had noticed branding his student's neck earlier was any indication, the kid had something to hide.

The thought alone is enough to bring the simmering anger back to the forefront of his mind, but he forces himself to breathe through it, pushing away the urge to hunt down the bastards responsible.

Someday, he promises himself darkly.

Right now, he has other things to focus on. He can deal with his own rage later, after he has made sure the boy is safe and comfortable. Shouta watches the kid disappear into the bathroom before he goes into his bedroom to change out of his sodden hero costume, happy to discard it in favour of pulling on something warm and dry.

Once he is done, he towels off his wet hair and goes rummaging through his drawers again for something the teenager could use. While he doesn’t own any teenage-sized clothes, it shouldn’t matter too much that the borrowed clothes ended up being somewhat big on the kid. It was just for sleeping in, after all.

He pulls out another pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and then he stops, considering. He could find a sweater too, he knows that the kid would prefer that, would feel more comfortable layering up.

Frowning, the hero weighs the options. He is willing to bet that the kid was currently feeling rather vulnerable, not having a lot of control over his situation at the moment. He would prefer not to add to that stress, but at the same time, it would be illogical to allow the boy to hide his potential injuries.

Would getting proof of any other injuries change anything?

He ponders the question for a moment. It would depend on the severity. The boy would try to explain any bruises away, obviously. However, evidence was evidence, even if it was circumstantial. There were only so many reports he could file before the system was obligated to follow up.

He doesn't know if the boy has injuries on his arms, but it was one of those areas that tended to get wounded in struggles. It didn't hurt to check. He could always offer the kid a sweater later.

Decision made, he leaves the clothes outside of the bathroom door as promised before continuing on into the kitchen. It feels mean, almost, but in the end, he can't let the kid prioritize his comfort over his health.

Filling up a pot with water, Shouta sets it to boil. Some food wouldn't be amiss right now. Something to warm them up and fill their stomachs. He busies himself with making some soup for a very late-night dinner, noticing that the boy was taking his own sweet time in the bathroom.

Shouta lets him. It was understandable that the kid wanted a moment to himself, away from the emotional turmoil that had been his evening. The hero had no doubt that the teenager was feeling stressed and overwhelmed. Admittedly, he probably hadn’t made it any easier, pushing the way he had.

The hero is honest enough with himself to recognize that he might have gone a bit too far. He hadn't been able to resist pouncing on the slightest hint of a crack in the boy's resolve, and he had allowed himself to get too frustrated when his pushing hadn't yielded the results he had been hoping for.

He's not sure what he can do, what to say to make the kid open up. Maybe there's nothing he can do but wait , build a deeper level of trust and make sure the boy knows that he'll listen, that he'll help.

That thought doesn't sit right with him. Not because he's incapable of being patient, but because he knows that the kid will be hurt in the meantime. Suffer at the hands of people that were supposed to protect him.

Shouta has never been good at watching helplessly as others suffer, especially not when he might be able to do something about it.

Frustrated, he wonders what it was that was making the boy so suicidally resistant to accepting help. Fear? Habit? A misguided sense of pride? A crushed down sense of self-esteem or a completely underserved sense of obligation or loyalty to his foster parents?

Fuck, the hero hopes that isn't the case.

Preparing the soup while he waits, he can hear the sound of the shower being turned off before too long. The teenager shows up in the kitchen entrance some minutes later, wearing the clothes Shouta had lent him. The teenager looks more like the kid he is, dressed in the oversized clothes. More vulnerable, and clearly very, very anxious.

It wasn't hard to see why. Sometimes, the hero hates being right.

Shouta sighs internally, and doesn't comment on the now visible state of the kid's arms, on the injuries he had expected to see but had ultimately hoped he wouldn't. He never wanted to see the boy hurt. Not like this.

"Sit," he says instead, gesturing towards the kitchen table. He was hungry. In all likelihood, so was the kid. He wasn't going to pressure the boy into talking again, not before they had eaten, at least. He needed a moment to eat and recover from the emotionally draining evening, needed time to plan out how he wanted to go about this. "I'll finish here and join you in a minute.”

The boy obeys silently and sits down by the kitchen table. His expression was still guarded, still wary, but Shouta lets the boy be, focusing on finishing up his task.

Pouring the soup into two bowls, he puts them on the table. Then, after fetching a glass of water and some painkillers from his medical supplies, takes his seat in the empty chair at the other side, joining his student.

Placing the glass of water and the pills in front of the boy, he watches as the kid grows tense, obviously dreading the inevitable confrontation. "Eat," is all Shouta says, gesturing at the bowl of steaming soup in front of the boy. "And take the pills. You're injured."

His words are met with tense silence. Steadfastly avoiding his gaze, the kid stares at the medicine with a conflicted expression. A long moment passes as the boy wavers, clearly wanting to argue that statement, but the teenager must realize that it is a futile endeavour, because he visibly relents without as much as a word of protest.

Instead, the kid just reaches out for the pills and swallows them with the water, looking resigned to his fate the whole time. It would have been an amusing sight if the situation wasn't what it was.

Shouta doesn't say anything else as the boy eats, doesn't try to get him to talk. Instead, the hero eats his own portion of soup, letting dinner be a quiet affair. Eventually, the kid starts to look less tense, less like he's expecting a sudden attack.

It's not until the boy is done with his food, his bowl empty, that the kid speaks. "Thanks," Hitoshi says, still not looking at him.

"Anytime, kid." he replies, echoing his words from earlier that evening. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," the teenager admits, bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes. He can see the weariness in the kid's posture, in the dark shadows under his eyes, the tired slump of his shoulders.

The boy looks exhausted. Shouta feels tempted to just let the matter lie for tonight, to just bundle the kid up safely and let him rest, recover.

Maybe he would have, if he had been a nicer person.

Unfortunately for the boy, Shouta wasn't above using his exhaustion, wasn't above taking advantage of his vulnerability to get what he needed. Because ultimately, the hero wasn't willing to wait when there was a very good chance that he could break the kid's silence right here, right now.

Still, he has pushed a lot. Bluntly, because that’s how he usually operated. Maybe it was time for a different tactic, a slightly softer approach.

Dragging his chair closer, Shouta turns it so that he was facing his student. He isn't willing to let the issue lie yet, not with the clear evidence that the kid's earlier explanation of just a panic attack had been a bold-faced lie.

“Hitoshi,” he says as he lays a hand on the kid’s right arm, careful to avoid touching the injuries. It was obvious to the hero what the now-visible scratches and bruises were- after all, in his line of work classic defensive wounds weren’t exactly uncommon. “Tell me who hurt you.”

Shoulders bunched with upset, the boy doesn’t meet his eyes. “I already told you,” the teenager grumbles after a long moment of silence, but there was no life, no energy in it. “I fell.”

The boy wasn't even trying any more.

“Kid,” Shouta continues carefully when the boy clings to his lies, “There’s a clear impression of a hand in the bruises around your wrist.”

The teenager doesn't respond, and with that, there was no lies between them anymore, just the blunt, ugly truth.

With all of his lies and layers stripped from him, all that was left was an exhausted and hurt kid.

Shouta lets the silence sit for a couple of minutes, equally distressed and frustrated by the achievement. He has the distinct feeling that he has never been closer, that he can get the confession he needs if only he could find the right words-

Careful hope was taking root in his heart, because this could be enough to make a case, if the kid didn’t come up with a believable lie. Random bruises could be explained away, but the marks around the teenager’s right wrist was too distinct to be from anything else than a grown man’s hand.

It was enough to add weight to the smattering of evidence he had compiled, easily enough to force another home inspection, at the very least.

However, the problem was the boy himself. His testimony held more weight than any circumstantial evidence Shouta could present, and if the teenager decided to lie, come up with some other, plausible explanation for the marks, it wouldn’t be enough.

If he let his student leave, let him recover, then the hero was convinced, with frustrated certainty, that the damn kid would.

Pushed into a corner and confronted by some stranger of a social worker? Going by the indignant snark Shouta had gotten on occasion when pushing too hard, he can easily imagine a less exhausted version of the kid playing up his offense at the insinuations, and whatever random overworked, underpaid person they sent out would likely just take him at his word.

  Again.

In front of him, steadfastly avoiding his gaze, the boy remained silent.

Stubborn brat, he thinks with frustration-tinged fondness. let me help, will you?

Shouta gave the boy all the time in the world as he waited patiently, not pushing, not asking any questions.

"It was an accident," the kid mutters eventually, quiet. "He didn't mean it."

He didn’t mean it. The 'he' in question being the kid’s foster father, Shouta had no doubt. He had heard that excuse before, was intimately familiar as an underground hero with the pattern people fell into when stuck in abusive situations.

It was an accident. They didn’t mean it. They're not like that. It was my fault. I should have been better. The same excuses, the same justifications, the same self-blame.

It’s not quite the admission he needs, but it was still the first time the kid had admitted something had actually happened. It was, frankly, more than Shouta had expected, and the ugly flash of fury reserved for the boy's foster parents return with force.

"An accident." Shouta repeats, flatly.

Feeling the kid flinch, he immediately regrets his tone.

“I-” the kid starts, then stops. Drawing a shaky breath, the boy was clearly holding himself together by the remaining threads of his willpower. “I don’t- want to talk about this anymore, Sensei.”

“Hitoshi-” he tries again, but the damage was already done. The teenager only shakes his head, pulling his arm back roughly as he quickly gets to his feet. “I’m going home.” The boy says in an uneven voice as he moves to leave.

The hero jumps into motion instantly. He can't let the boy run away. Not now, not like this. Maybe he can't salvage the conversation, maybe he can't make the boy to confess to anything, but he sure as hell can force the kid to sleep inside, somewhere he isn't likely to catch hypothermia, or in the worst case scenario, his untimely death.

“No you’re not,” he says as he blocks the exit, prepared to physically wrestle the borderline-suicidal kid into submission if he has to, because this is where he draws the damn line. “If you think I’m letting you back out there to freeze to death-”

"You can't keep me," the teenager snarls suddenly as he takes a couple of quick steps further away from him, tense as a coiled spring, as if he thinks the hero might make a grab for him. The kid’s eyes were as wild and suspicious as any cornered back-alley cat the hero had encountered in his life, and upset was evident in every line of his body as he gestures violently, "you can't do that."

Shouta does not want to put on a show of dominance, does not want to take away control from the kid who was obviously, desperately trying to regain some.

He doesn't want that.

However, that doesn't change the fact that he will. Because if he doesn't take charge of the situation right now, when the boy was obviously past his emotional breaking point and actively trying to run away in nothing more than a t-shirt, then the kid would freeze, possibly catching his death.

"I'm not giving you a choice." The hero asserts again, because he would rather have the boy alive to resent him than the alternative. “You’re staying.”

“That's- you can’t just kidnap me!” The boy explodes furiously, voice ragged with the edge of something raw.

There, his mind points out. Something about the raw edge of emotion in the kid's voice nags at him. Upset, anger, but not fear. Another puzzle piece presents itself, and Shouta explores it in his mind's eye as he continues, undeterred.

"Watch me."

The teenager flounders for a moment, caught off-guard by the unexpected response. "You-" he stutters, before trailing off disbelievingly, conflict evident on his features.

Silence sets upon them again, but Shouta is fine with waiting as his pupil sorts out his own emotions. The moment allows him to come to his own conclusions.

Hurt, he decides, as examines the newest puzzle piece. That's what the desperate, raw edge was about. That's what the anger was about. A front, a cover, but beneath it all, the kid was hurting. Allowing himself a moment to reflect back on the kid's stubborn, suicidal actions with that in mind, he thinks that he finally understands.

"You can't just-"

"Care?" The hero interjects boldly.

The teenager flinches hard at the word, and the hero knows he has hit the nail on the head, the final piece slotting in place with a tragic little click in his mind. The boy draws a shuddering breath, turning away from him with a wounded noise. "You can't-" the kid chokes out again, and Shouta can feel his heart clench at the obvious hurt and disbelief in those words.

That's what it was all about.

The boy makes a miserable sound, something halfway between a sob and a whine, and Shouta steps forwards and pulls his kid into a hug.

"I can," the hero corrects firmly, hugging the distressed boy tight. "I do, kid."

It pains him to realize just how deep this wound ran. Just how badly the kid had been hurt. He can't change the past, he can't fix this, no matter how badly he wants. However, there was something he could do.

"Stay," Shouta says to the kid clinging to him, hoping desperately that now, finally, the boy would hear him. "Let me help you, Hitoshi." He begs, "please."

“I don’t-” the teen mumbles into his shoulder, words so low they were barely audible. “I don’t want to go home.”

It's an admission. Coupled with the other evidence, it might just be enough.

“Please, Sensei,” His kid begs, desperately holding on to Shouta like a lifeline as he finally breaks down with a choked-off sob. “Don’t make me go home.”

Tightening his grip in turn, Shouta does the only thing he can. "I won't send you anywhere," he says fiercely.

"I promise."