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Hitoshi wouldn’t consider himself a germaphobe on any normal day, but when his bad nerves start to flare up in a sudden attack like this, an overwhelming sense of discomfort and germophobia are a common symptom he often can't avoid. Strange of all, it affects his perception of things that would never usually bother him, and the more triggers that are thrown at him, the more and more intense his physical reactions can become.
Upon doing his own research, warm baths are said to help ease tension and anxiety. Shinsou prefers a quick shower compared to a hot, soapy bath, but on days like today when his nerves are especially rattling him, he’s willing to try anything to find some semblance of peace within himself.
Hitoshi doesn’t announce that he’s going to run himself a bath, nor does he ask his parents like he usually does before taking a shower; just the polite ask if either of them needed to get in before he occupied it for the next fifteen minutes or more.
Unfortunately, though, the bathroom is down the hall and in direct line of sight to the living room where Aizawa and Hizashi usually sat, lights dim as they watched the evening news over tea or coffee depending on whether they have a long night ahead of them. Hizashi is quite the air-head by no means of insult; it’s just that his demeanor is always so floaty and energetic that he rarely ever tends to pick up on much unless it’s spelled out directly in front of his face.
His companion, on the other hand, is nothing if not a direct contrast, which is why Shinsou finds himself locking eyes with Aizawa in momentary pause as his hand remained pressed against the light-switch that just illuminated his presence.
Shouta always had this… stare, as if he wasn’t looking at Hitoshi, but straight through him. Shinsou has seen that look on his face a great number of times - this unreadable, nonchalant expression yet with the most piercing, serious, laser-beam eyes - but for some reason, there was always the slightest difference in it when aimed towards Hitoshi specifically, which unfortunately happens more often than not. Perhaps it’s because he knows him well enough by now to realize that Shinsou is the type to keep things to himself or even lie just so he could burden his issues on his own, and as time continues to go by living in this family unit with them, the swifter Aizawa is at catching on when something was off.
No matter what Shouta thinks or doesn’t think, however, that didn’t make Shinsou any more willing to come running to him and spilling his guts, especially when he was overreacting over such pathetic little things or merely overcome by these bad feelings for no reason at all. It was stupid, it was weak, and it was Hitoshi’s burden to bear alone, it always has been.
He downcasts his eyes, flicks on the shower fan, and steps inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him. When he opened the cabinet door, Shinsou sighs through his nose when he saw there were no clean towels. They were probably thrown haphazardly into a laundry basket on his parents’ bedroom floor to be folded and put away later this evening, and while it would only be quick and easy to go out and fetch one before he got into the tub, his skin crawled at the thought of passing Aizawa again, feeling that suspicious gaze burning into the back of his head.
Hitoshi sucks a deep breath in, murmuring an, “Okay,” under his breath as if to calm himself down and reassure his own mind and body that they would make do. There were still some other towels poked away in the back, and while they are smaller than what Hitoshi would normally use to dry off with, they would have to make do for the night; a little towel is better than no towel, right?
And then came the part that Shinsou dreaded the most of all, the part that made him cringe at the thought of taking baths: having to try and rinse and wash out the tub of any stray hairs or dirt. Normally, he would ask Aizawa to do this part for him whenever he did announce that he was getting a bath or shower, and that tended to keep his cool; he trusted Aizawa’s judgment and sense of cleaning far more than his own inexperience, plus he always looked like he knew what he was doing. Hitoshi wasn’t even sure if he knew how to do it right, as he got down on his knees in front of the tub with a random hand towel in hand.
He flicked on the shower head and scrubbed at the base of the tub with as much vigor as he could manage, and yet the most noticeable little pecks of dirt, dust- something, wouldn’t dare scrub off and it only made him grit his teeth in further frustration. The hairs he tried to catch in the cloth kept losing its grip and clinging back onto the smooth surface of the tub, there were still places he couldn’t make clean enough to his liking, and of fucking course he didn’t have a strong enough grip in his nails to pull the suction cups attached to the bottom of the bathmat up so he could wash underneath there too like Aizawa always did. He just couldn’t fucking handle this after the horrible day he’s had already.
So Hitoshi does what he does best, right? He gives up. He turns the shower head off so the tap can run properly and goes searching for a bath stopper from the cupboard underneath the sink so the water could start to fill up. He kept playing with the temperature scale, not liking his bathwater too hot or too lukewarm, but once he deemed it good enough, he pressed it in and patiently waited for the water to fill up.
Of course, though it’s never happened before for whatever reason, Shinsou’s clothes managed to get wet from the spray-back of the shower head, which made him feel uncomfortable as hell, as if someone had spilled their drink all over him. There were only a couple of wet patches; the back of his right shoulder and a couple of pecks at his lower back, but what was worst of all was the wet patch that managed to form at the front of his head, making his already greasy hair feel that much more fucking awful.
So with the on slot of such sudden feelings of intensifying discomfort, Shinsou strips off every thread of clothes until he was left in only his socks, the part of any outfit he always preferred to take off last for some reason. He sits on the floor besides the tub and waits for it to fill, loving the slow, patient course compared to the rush of a shower. At least here in the bathroom, the door was locked and no one could disturb him, nor did they expect anything of him or even tried talking to him unless it was something urgent. In here, alone and in the silence entirely by himself, he could let his guard down and just exist for a few extra minutes, not having to brave a mask of indifference to the whirlwind of pain and feeling clenching in his chest.
These days, for some reason, the rare bath he takes seemed to fill all the more faster than he remembered. He hated that. He tried to procrastinate getting in right away by making the excuse that the hot water would need some time to cool down, but even that felt far too gone. Hitoshi doesn’t even like getting in the bath, he quite disliked it, but it was loneliness and silence for an extended pass of time, and that was too precious to just pass up for such stupid reasons that made no sense to begin with.
He placed one foot in first, testing the temperature and deeming if it was safe to sink in yet or not. It felt really hot on his feet when both made contact with the soapy water, but as he gave in and slowly lowered himself into the bath, the heat felt especially mediocre to the rest of his body. Which could only mean one thing, really…
He wasted too much time. The water had already gone lukewarm, and now so as not to waste so much water, Hitoshiwould have to just sit here and deal with it.
By this point, Shinsou’s anxieties had forgone the point of frustration to the extreme of downright sad, cursing every flaw and fault this day dealt him as if he somehow deserved it. He knew it was stupid and pathetic to ‘cry over spiltmilk,’ so they called it, but when you’re consecutively hit by punch after punch after punch of little mishappenings, it hurts so much fucking worse than having to brave out what is considered actual bad news.
Things started to take a turn for the worse from there, spiraling so far out of Hitoshi’s control that he couldn’t suck in the panic for any longer. The bath water felt so fucking dirty, even though he knows his parents keep this place clean and tidy on a regular basis, but like sitting in a cup of tea too cold to drink was suffocating his entire mind and body. The bath stopper also made this ungodly noise, and while Hitoshi twisted and turned it, inspecting it with his eyes and nails alone, the condition looked perfectly fine so why was the bath water already lowered to the point of his ribs and already making this monstrous growling noise like something he pulled straight up from hell.
That was when his breath began to quicken, quicken, quicken to the point that, despite having sat in the tub for a meager two minutes at the most, he felt he needed to get out. Even his body felt so dirty, legs and thighs stained by suds that the water he splashed refused to wash off without just adding more.
In, out, in, out, in, out, Hitoshi struggled like a bitch as he placed one foot after the other upon emerging from the tub. The bath mat felt soggy beneath his feet and everything felt so fucking gross, even his own skin as he scrubbed the flesh as hard as he could muster with the little towel he left out for himself. He had the overwhelming urge to scratch at his own skin until he tore every inch of flesh off from his body, because every single inch of him felt like it was beyond the hope of cleansing and he had no clue why . It was the germaphobia, the germaphobia that didn’t exist until Shinsoufell into a frantic state and no longer felt comfortable in his own body.
He dried himself off with more vigor than he normally would use, and yet he still didn’t feel dry enough when he forced himself into the fresh change of clothes he left on the counter. Hitoshi had the tendency to get ansty on a normal day over the weird and uncomfortable feeling like he could never dry his crotch off enough to not feel soaking wet in his underwear and pants, even though the skin felt dry to the touch. He kept tugging and pulling at his sweats as if that could help, and the tag of his sleep shirt was rubbing and scratching at the back of his neck so fucking bad-
“Hitoshi!” There’s a light knocking on the door, a gentle action that contrasted the concern and urgency in his dad’s voice. “What’s going on?! Are you okay in there?!”
Shinsou isn’t sure when he ended up sliding down onto the floor, arms hugging his knees as he curled into himself, but he must of cried out or screeched something for Aizawa to appear so suddenly. The floor felt so fucking disgusting, why would he sit on it, it just made everything feel a million times more worse, he’s getting his clothes dirty and it’s going to smell like that imaginary stench that he breathed into his lungs.
His chest still felt so sweat, the fabric of his shirt was practically sticking to him. Shinsou had to squeeze his hands into the tightest balls of fists so the sting and pressure of his nails gauging into his palms could alleviate all of these pent up emotions that were forcing themselves out of his body in one form or another.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, it just came over me!” Shinsou’s voice is a broken sob called from his own side of the door, pressing his nose and mouth to his knees as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, unable to get that imaginary stench out of his system. “I c-can’t… I can’t b-breathe, Dad, I can’t-!”
With a forceful kick to the door, Aizawa was able to get it open with an impressive show of ease. Normally, he would of just demanded that Shinsou ‘open the door right now’ if he had rushed off mid-conversation to cry in the bathroom or if he heard traces of sniffles to accompany the tears Shinsou fought to hide from them behind the lock on the bathroom door. But it would seem Shouta understood the severity of the situation even though Hitoshi himself couldn’t comprehend anything beyond the overwhelming feelings taking over his nervous system.
Hizashi stands where Aizawa once stood when the latter drops to a crouch and crawls over to where Hitoshi trembled and cried on the floor. For once, Hizashi was at a loss for words as he stood with his hand pressed over his mouth, expression a mix between pity and his own urge to cry. His eyes did begin to fill up with tears of his own when he finally got a look at his boy, and this is what Shinsou hated more than anything; hurting those closest to him over these stupid little attacks of his.
“Come on, Toshi, don’t do that, please,” Shouta’s voice is a whisper, hurting but still so full of control as he coaxed the hands that Shinsou violently pulled at his scalp in a mantra of shushes. “Shhhh, shhhh, hey, it’s ok, it’s ok. Look at me?”
Why Aizawa, the man with a mind and integrity made up of stone cold steel, would reserve such a painfully gentle tone of voice for him of all people is something Hitoshi doesn’t think he will ever understand, nor ever deserve. Meeting his gaze and seeing such tenderly genuine affection and warmth that his gaze usually lacked, it was almost too good to be real.
“Everything’s going to be alright, ok?” Aizawa utters like it was the most casual promise; like it was so certain that Hitoshi had no choice but to believe it. He brings a hand to his son’s cheek, brushing a thumb along the pocket of tears still pooling and building at his eyelids. “Believe me. You’re the most resilient kid I’ve ever met, not to mention so keen and quick as a whip to catch on to anything you set your mind to.”
But that didn’t mean he sobbed any less when he lowered his head and accepted the loving touch of his dad’s hand to smooth the purple hair at the back of his neck, the skin of his fingers always so warm and dry to the touch.
God, he loved his parents so much…
“If you didn’t have a little bit of vulnerability left in you, I’d worry I turned you into a machine. My training regimens sure are bullet-proof enough to make that happen, but I’m not sorry, kiddo; not when every second I drill into you keeps my son one step closer to evading death and emerging victorious. You feel me?”
When Hitoshi nods his head vigorously, mouth pressed shut and tears still streaming down his face at a steady force, Aizawa whispers an, “Alright,” before slipping his arms through the bed of Shinsou’s knees and bringing him up to a carry, grunting at the crack and pops of his old knee joints.
As his old man turns around and prepares to make for the bathroom door, Hizashi crosses the threshold and approaches his mini family, eyes aglow with his own unshed tears as he caresses the creases in Hitoshi’s forehead with his thumb. Hizashi, too, has this seriously loving expression about him that only made Shinsou want to cry even harder. There was no one who could hug like Hizashi can; if he could melt and cry into that embrace forever, Shinsou would never feel cold again.
“I love you, baby, you know that, right?” Hizashi whispers, his voice quiet and straight-laced as if he could break down crying himself with a single waver of his own. Shinsou absentmindedly presses his forehead further into the warmth of Hizashi’s palm following the silent nod he expressed in return, his own voice hoarse and croaky when he expresses an, “I love you too, pops,” of his own.
Hizashi’s lips manage to stretch beyond it’s reassuring, tight-lip smile that fought to hold back cries, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Hitoshi’s forehead before following at Aizawa’s heels towards their bedroom.
Hizashi quickly passes them to push the laundry basket out of their path before Aizawa is placing Shinsou in the middle of their king sized bed, the mere scent of the comforter and pillows smelling of a home Shinsou never thought he would ever have once upon a time.
Still in their casual down-time clothes, Aizawa and Hizashi move in on either side of him, what has become the routine for nights when Shinsou’s panic attacks are a little too much for him to bear.
Hizashi drops his head on the pillow beside Shinsou’s shoulder, gazing up at his face as he used his own sleeve to wipe away at the snot staining his upper lip.
Aizawa buries his face into the crook of Shinsou’s neck on his other side, emitting a deep breath in and out of his own before stretching his arm across the waists of both members of his family, holding them both close like he’d risk anything at all not to lose them. Shouta might not be especially skilled at physical combat, but when Hitoshi snuggles into those arms, he feels as if he is in no safer place in the world.
“We love you, kid. So much,” Aizawa’s voice is a grave whisper, face still hidden in Shinsou’s shoulder. Hizashi can actually manage the smallest of smiles at his words, lifting an arm to wrap around Aizawa’s own shoulders before gently caressing his fingertips across his shirt.
As if to emphasize that point, Hizashi lifts Shinsou’s other free hand to his lips and presses another kiss to his kunckles, squeezing his hand firm and seriously.
“And that’s something that won’t never, ever change. You can come to us, about anything and everything at all. It’s our job to protect you, and that it always will be.”
Trying to fight a second onslaught of tears he could feel already burning at his eyes, Hitoshi nods his head vigorously with an even wider, softer smile, returning the pressure of the squeeze in their joined hands.
It didn’t take long for Shinsou’s parents to drift off; Aizawa first, and of course the two cats that were already asleep at the corner of the bed before they even walked in here. They continued to hold each other close, Shouta’s arm still thrown around his middle and Hizashi’s hand still holding Hitoshi’s with no intentions of letting go.
Finally, Shinsou can manage a deep breath in of his own, his body finally allowing itself to deflate and settle down. This, right here, amounts to any amount of peace Hitoshi could ever want…