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Chapter Text

It was pitch black and stuffy. His legs were far too long, too out of place, too taut against his chest in the closet he'd already outgrown. It was hard to breathe with a muzzle on–his breath coming out in short, ragged puffs. It was hot and uncomfortable. Shinsou wasn't sure whether or not his eyes were open or closed, but it didn't matter anymore.

He didn't know long he's be in here. Time seemed to slow. No, more like disappear into nothingness. His mind was fuzzy, but not with comfort, with weary anticipation of what was to come when the door opened.

If the door opens.

He shifted slightly. Most of his limbs were asleep and aching. He was surprised he was still alive because he felt like maybe–he was dead. Maybe he's been dead for a while. Does that make this his coffin? He hopes not.

The door opened abruptly, and his eyes squinted at the light, hurting his eyes. They don't adjust quickly. Suddenly, he's being hauled out of the closet, listening to drunken apologies from his foster mom.

He only caught bits and pieces of her slurring. Her "sorrys," and "I forgot, I didn't mean to," and "'s not that long, not that long." His eyes glanced over the time, and he had to pause.

It was .. Sunday? But–no, that couldn't be right. It couldn't be right. Not at all, that couldn't–it's not–he was put in the closet for- for punishment on 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺. He'd been in there for three days?

His foster mom was sobbing hysterically, but he couldn't bring it in himself to look at her. His head was spinning, and it wasn't just from the lack of food and water.

He'd never been in there that long. Not that he can remember. Then again, Shinsou's forgotten (read: repressed) a lot of things.

His foster dad, Osamu, was never around anymore. Shinsou had half the mind to believe he up and left to start a new, better family. He didn't blame him. He wasn't fond of the man and never had been.

And he felt oddly spacey. Like, maybe this wasn't even really happening. His foster mom's sobs and words went in one ear and out the other. He flexed his fingers when he remembered how to move by himself, and was disturbed to find them still attached to his body.

Suddenly, Akemi pulled back, face twisted in a scowl. His eyes, glazed and sluggish, fluttered to her face. "I took–𝘩𝘪𝘤–you out 'n you d'nt even sa-say thank you, you useless piece of shit," she slurred. Her arm lifted like it weighed 1,000 pounds, trying to slap him. She wasn't able to.

Still, it felt like the effect was just about the same. His chest throbbed with a dull, constant ache, and he accepted her words deep into his psyche, his soul.

She scoffed, brushing past him. Their shoulders collided, and he could barely feel it. Shinsou wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been standing there since she stormed off, but his legs hurt.

He felt slow. This wasn't the grogginess he'd only experienced a few times in the morning (he was always ready, always alert, always prepared), or the fatigue after a long day of training with Aizawa-sensei, being left with a sense of accomplishment.

This was different. This was heady, and it felt impossible to shake. The whole house was still. He realizes belatedly, she must have left. Maybe to the bar just down the street.

He knew the way to the bar like the back of his hand, but for some reason, he drew a blank. Now, he wasn't sure what to do or where to go.

A voice cut through the fog.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦, 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵?

Weeks ago, Aizawa-sensei offered him support and help if he ever needed it. An offer on the table, an infinite deal to take. Then, he brushed over his words with a small, awkward chuckle. And Aizawa-sensei dropped it.

If he were clearer in his mind, he would have decided against it. But he wasn't. He just wanted–he just wanted someone with him. Anyone. He'd even take a damn alley cat this point.

Shinsou inhales shakily, reminding himself to breathe every once in a while. His hands found the front of the metal restraint on his face. He didn't linger on the feeling. It sent him further down into chaos–chaos he didn't need right now.

He looked around the barren room for his phone. His foster mom always took it during his punishments and schoolwork. He walked (slow, slow, slow) to the living room, exhaling out of relief to find the bin on its side on the couch.

Oh, right. She was drunk. He reached for the bin, hesitating. What if he got to Aizawa-sensei and was sent back here? What if his punishment got worse? What if he never makes it to his next training session?

Shinsou swallows quietly and turns the bin right side up. He grabbed his phone and powered it on after multiple tries (too much pressure or not enough). He knew the location of Aizawa-sensei's house, off campus, a rare thing to say.

He doesn't even remember why he was given it. Maybe Aizawa-sensei knew he'd need it. Maybe he'd known for a while. He pulls up the only app his foster mom didn't go through: The GPS.

The distance was only a little less than 20 minutes away. At the moment, it seemed more like 100 minutes. It was his only–no, wait. It was the best option. He thinks. It's been a long three days.

Shinsou shook his head a little and regretted it a lot.

He was out the door quicker than he'd ever left before. Walking down the street this late at night, and this absent-minded–let's just say it took him longer than the time estimated.

He made a few wrong turns. Every time a person walked past him, he could almost feel the hair on his neck stand in paranoia. He left with his hoodie and that's it. It was tightened to cover the muzzle as best as he could.

He wished he could get it off now. To breathe–to feel his cheeks again. It was a little slick behind the metal, and Shinsou recognized the familiar feeling to be blood.

His stomach churned.

Finally, he arrived at Aizawa-sensei's doorstep. He lifted his trembling hand to knock against the dark, oak wood, and paused. This was a bad time to start second-guessing his decisions.

He's positive his foster mom isn't home. And if she is, she'd have company with her.

(Shinsou can't count on one finger how many times he's heard noises through the thin walls that made him heave into whatever bag he could find.)

He takes a breath, or at least tries to, and knocks, three heavy beats. The door remained closed. He had half the mind to do it again before he completely dismissed the stupid thought.

He was cold. Freezing. His head hurt–his whole face hurt. Standing here, he realizes how many parts of his body actually ached. It was his entire body. 𝘐𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦. Probably messy fractures and broken bones twisting at the small space he endured in the closet.

The door swung open. Aizawa-sensei's face was twisted with annoyance and drowsiness. It was enough to make Shinsou recoil. He shouldn't have come here. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦–

"–𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦?" 𝘖𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘶'𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘈𝘬𝘦𝘮𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘧 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘮.

𝘐𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. "𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦," 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 (𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯). "𝘏𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘶𝘱, 𝘣𝘰𝘺," 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘖𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘶'𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘢𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵. 𝘖𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳. "𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯," 𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴.

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘵. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨–𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘱 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘖𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘶 𝘵𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘶'𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰–

"–breathe, okay? It's all right, just take a few breaths," he didn't recognize the voice. Forced inhales and exhales left his mouth, and he ragged in relief when he realized the muzzle was off.

His eyes fluttered open, damp with tears. Yamada-sensei sat to the left of him at a safe, neutral distance. Meanwhile, Aizawa-sensei stayed to his right, eyebrows furrowed in what he could assume was worry.

"You back with us, kid?" asked Aizawa-sensei. Shinsou's not too proud to admit how much lighter his soul felt at the sound of their voices.

He nodded just barely, but they were pros, and their eyes were trained to see the slightest bit of movement. "Do you remember why you're here?" Aizawa murmured, pointedly avoiding mentioning the muzzle that he knew was entirely on his and Hizashi's minds.

Speaking of which, the gag rested out of sight in the trash can. Shinsou took a moment to remember, trying to look past the temporary anemisa. He nodded slowly but didn't care to elaborate.

He misses the shared look between the two men.

"Listener-kun," Yamada-sensei started. Shinsou could already feel himself bracing for whatever he was about to receive. A part of him half expected to be kicked out. The other half was ready to beg to stay.

"You don't have to tell us anything you don't want to, but we can't help if we don't know what's wrong," he spoke softly, like he was made of glass. His arms curled around his torso.

"I just‐" He started. He could feel his eyes watering again. Traitors. "I'm so tired," he exhaled. They cascaded down his pale cheeks. He didn't go to wipe them.

"I'm always—" He paused, running a hand down his face. "I'm always so tired," Aizawa's heart broke in two and Yamada looked just about the same way. Shinsou was his student. His son. His priority. Seeing him cry was—it was a never ending nightmare.

Aizawa-sensei shifted, face contorting as if it pained him to be so far. "Hitoshi," oh–that was new. "May we touch you?"

–

Panic. He panicked. His heart was beating outside of his chest at this point. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see–he was in the closet again. Being pulled out, turned around, and used like a sex toy–he couldn't–he couldn't-

His arms pulled his legs to his chest, hunching into himself. He could feel the hands on his cock–the marks and bruises and scratches and 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴-

His hand clutched his shirt, head tilted back. His face was sheened with sweat, eyes lidded and hazy and unseeing as he stared at a ceiling he couldn't recognize. All he could hear was the moaning and panting, and he wasn't sure if it was his or Osamu's-

–

"Fuck, what the–" Hizashi startled, much like Aizawa did when Shinsou took off at his question, half tripping over himself. The door to the powder room slammed shut. It was silent.

Aizawa stood, automatically about to go follow, but he stopped himself. He didn't have to ask Hizashi if he saw the scars on Shinsou's face. As soon as he opened the door, the teen was gone.

Seeing something (or someone) entirely different. "That was definitely a trigger," Aizawa muttered under his breath, disturbance lacing his words. Hizashi gave his husband a look of understanding.

Neither of them wanted to consider the possibility that Shinsou could have been assaulted in such a vile way. But then, what else could it be to have that intense of a reaction (fight or flight) to a simple question for permission?

Hizashi swallowed quietly. "He can't go back there," he declared. It wasn't an option to begin with. "No, he can't. And he won't. But–we should focus on the problem at hand."

Their eyes fell on the door.

–

A knock.

Shinsou's breath caught, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. He's trying so hard to stifle the sobs–he's trying so hard, he's always trying so hard–he doesn't want it–not anymore, oh god, please-

"Hitoshi?"

And that couldn't be right. Osamu never called him by his name. Only when he was playing it cool for Social Security.

"Kiddo, can you open the door, please?"

And that wasn't his voice, either. He didn't think he locked the door. Everything was a blur, and the tears kept falling.

"We're here for you. Okay? We're here now and we'll be here when you're ready."

And Osamu would never say that.

Shinsou wiped his eyes with fisted palms, sniffling as he debated his chances. He didn't recognize the voices. If it wasn't Osamu, maybe‐ maybe they could help. Maybe they could get him out.

"'S open," his wobbly voice called out. He braced himself for what was to come. Well.. maybe the strangers would be nicer than Osamu is.

The door opened slowly, and it revealed a tall man with long, raven-black hair and a taller man with blond hair that went past his waist. Shinsou sniffled quietly, round, wet eyes staring at the two figures.

"Hey, buddy," The blond man cooed softly, crouching at a distance. His eyes lingered cautiously on the man with black hair. He also crouches.

"You've been in here for a while, huh? Don't wanna come out and get a little clean?" He suggested with no malice or pressure. Shinsou blinked slowly.

"..I-I get to .. choose?" He questioned slowly, eyebrows pinching. He'd never been given many choices. It was weird. And he–he didn't want to choose. Not yet, not when he didn't know what they would do.

"Yes, of course, little listener," the man replied, tethering the edge of empathy. "We won't do anything you don't want to."

Shinsou had to pause in awe at his words. The man with black hair remained silent, his eyes calculating but gentle. "Kid," he spoke. "How old are you?"

The blond man and Shinsou paused. "Hnm?" He tilted his head. The blond man seemed to realize where it was going, but he wasn't focused on that. His guard was dropping slightly.

"Do you know, sweetheart?" The man asked patiently. Sweetheart. Shinsou's mind fuzzed. He felt like he was in a rabbit hole suddenly, drifting deeper. "Feel .. d'nno," he thought he did, briefly. But now he's not so sure.

"Yeah? That's okay," the man nodded a little. "How about we get you up and changed?" The blond man asked. "..Okay," Shinsou mumbled.

–

Aizawa and Hizashi didn't want to traumatize the boy further by changing him without real consent, so they left him in the clothes he came in. He didn't smell the freshest, and Aizawa hated to linger on the thought of 𝘸𝘩𝘺.

Throughout the process of cleaning Shinsou's face and brushing his teeth, he was relatively quiet. At some point, as they set him on the couch was again, his fingers slipped into his mouth again, confirming their suspicions.

"Ah-ah-ah," Hizashi swiftly removed the now spit-coated digits, eliciting a small whine from the boy. "No fingers, kiddo," Aizawa mused, sitting on the couch. Shinsou babbled under his breath, clumsily pressing himself closer.

"Here, sweetheart, trying eating for us." Aizawa murmured, feeding the boy apples periodically. Shinsou didn't make an attempt to use his own hands at all and Aizawa found he didn't mind it.

"Aah, we shouldn't have thrown out those chewy necklaces!" Hizashi dramatically collapsed beside him. Shinsou giggled, and it only heightened how young he was. Even out of this headspace.

"You're annoying him," Aizawa said dryly, setting down the bowl of fruit once he was finished. "You wound me, Shouta." His husband pouted. He guessed a kids' movie then and put on Lilo and Stitch, which had Shinsou captivated almost immediately.

Halfway in, maybe, Shinsou's eyes fluttered lightly, drooping in exhaustion. "Aw, the baby's tired?" Hizashi chuckled, prepared to share a laugh, only to see that Aizawa was knocked the hell out.

His smile softened, giving the man a soft kiss to the lips. "It's definitely bedtime," he whispered to himself, watching Shinsou's eyes fully close, his head resting against Aizawa's chest.

Hizashi sighed with contentment and grabbed the remote from the coffee table.

𝘊𝘩𝘬.

Chapter Text

Shinsou woke up in a room that wasn't his. It was undeniably impersonal–the walls blank and overtly tidy. He rubbed his eyes, a small frown overcoming his expression.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭?..

Suddenly, all the memories of last night came back to him like a brick he couldn't dodge. He found himself missing the blissful obliviousness. He sat up and ran his hands over the blankets.

They were grey, littered with little white stars. The texture of it was fuzzy, and he'd hate to ever forget it. He could smell food (bacon prominently) likely coming from downstairs, and his stomach rumbled almost painfully.

Shinsou grimaced. He didn't feel like leaving the room at all. Wasn't sure if they'd tell him he'd have to go home. On that topic, he found himself desperately trying to remember what all of last night entailed, only to come up blank.

"Fuck," he whispered in the silence. He tossed his legs over the side of the comforter, taking slow, concise steps to the door cracked ajar. Guiding it open, even just a little bit, let the smells heighten. He could feel his mouth water.

That was another thing. He never looked to be fed intentionally. At some point, some year, he just stopped asking for meals. Stopped asking for 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 in general, and he took what was given to him.

He wondered if they'd be generous.

Shinsou stepped out into the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. His face pulled taut in a wince.

You can't be serious. He found the stairs very quickly, pausing at the sight of Yamada-sensei at the stove, humming a purposefully off-tune tune while Aizawa complained with a hint of amusement on his face.

He went down the steps quietly and found himself tensing when Yamada-sensei greeted him, bright and rambunctious. "Hey, hey, hey! Come join us, Shinsou-kun!" His hand went to wave, but the pan of eggs held him down.

Aizawa-sensei tsked at Yamada-sensei's clumsiness. "Did you sleep well?" asks his mentor. "Yeah," Shinsou uttered awkwardly, his feet touching the floor. "Yes. Thanks for letting me stay, Yamada-sensei and Aizawa-sensei," he added.

He wasn't sure where he was allowed to sit, so he kind of just .. stood. "You can call me Shouta, kid." That didn't sound quite right. He was told to address his superiors accordingly. But–this was different, this was permission.

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, you can call me Hizashi," Yamada-sens–𝘏𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪 added. Shinsou gives them both a little nod, just to show acknowledgment (and hopefully appreciation if they could depict through his uneasiness). "Sit," Shota motioned to the chair at the table.

"Breakfast's eggs and bacon. Hope that's fine." Shinsou took a seat on the plush cushion. It was nicer than most things he'd been allowed to use.

"It's simple because Hizashi can't cook for shit," Shinsou couldn't swallow back to surprised laugh, much to his dismay. Aiza–Shouta looked pleased, though, so maybe it was okay.

"Um, excuse me! I'm still learning!" He rolled his eyes and flipped his blond hair, turning his back to Shouta. Shinsou glances at him, lips tugging at the 'No, he's not' that was mouthed to him.

He felt comfortable in the odd sense of domestication between him and the pros. He didn't want to 𝘨𝘦𝘵 comfortable, though.

"Are you gonna send me back?" Shinsou blurted, shoulders tense. His hands were on his lap in fists. Suddenly, the air felt heavier.

"No," Hizashi replied softly. "We don't intend to." Shouta set down his glass of (pure black) coffee. "If .. you want to go back–" He gets cut off quickly with a denial and headshakes, and what Shouta thinks were pleas of 'I'll be good'.

"Whoa, hey, hey," Hizashi frowned a little, raising a soothing hand. "It's okay, Hitoshi," Shouta uttered sincerely, almost like a promise. "We don't want to 'send you back' anyway. We were going to ask .. if you wanted to stay here. With us."

Better to rip the band-aid off in one piece, right?

Shinsou's brain malfunctioned. Or maybe time slowed. Or 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 he's entered another dimension entirely. Because an offer like this couldn't be taken lightly.

He swallowed quietly. "Really?" He croaked. His hands were wringing, and Shinsou had half the mind to pinch himself. "Really, really," Hizashi grinned. But it was softer around the edges. He could feel his heart racing.

"What if–what if I can't be–good? What will I have to do? I-I mean, I'll do anything–thank you so much–" Shinsou rambled with gratitude he's never felt before. Not to this amount. His head was spinning.

"Hitoshi," Shouta returned the favor and cut him off instead. "You don't have to earn your right to stay here. It's an offer Hizashi and I didn't hesitate to make. You don't have to do anything for us.. We don't want you to do anything for us."

It was spoken slowly, almost like he was made of glass. He could admit he felt reasonably fragile right now. But the words–his comforting, unbelievable words went in one ear and out the other.

"..Huh?" Shinsou blinked. He was met with faces bordering empathy. "No, that's–I always have to earn it."

Hizashi's eyes dulled with protection and sadness. "Not anymore, Hitoshi-kun," he murmured. And Shinsou couldn't understand–he didn't know how to believe them. But he wanted to.

His eyes were welling with tears before he knew it. He blinks them back frantically. "Um," he started reluctantly. "What's.. going to happen to m-my foster parents?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

Shouta inhaled quietly. "..We should save that conversation for tomorrow." It wasn't exactly a suggestion–but it wasn't 𝘯𝘰𝘵 a suggestion.

Shinsou takes the easy way out.

"Okay," he gave a small nod. After a beat of contemplating silence, Hizashi stood abruptly. "Oooookay! I'm gonna clear the table! Sho.. you and Hitoshi-kun should pick a movie to watch!"

They didn't have time to answer before the blonde was ushering them out of the dining room. Shouta chuckled gruffly, a sound that made Shinsou's mind calm, like a tide finally deciding to settle.

"You can pick the movie," the man said easily, sitting down on the velvet red couch casually. Shinsou remained stone still before rushing to sit, too. "A-are you sure? I wouldn't mind watching what you picked," Aizawa glanced at him. "I'm sure, kid. Play whatever you want."

Shinsou didn't get free will often. When he did, he tried to conform to what the latter wanted, so he guessed it still wasn't free will.

He ended up playing Inception. He'd never seen it before. He heard about it on a whim from Tsuyu. Shouta created cozy body heat with their small distance. He found himself leaning into it and gave the biggest sigh of relief (internally) when he wasn't slapped for it.

Hizashi joined them with an exaggerated grunt and gasp. "We're watching Inception? Ooohh yeah! This is a great pick, Sho!" He clapped all too loudly. "Actually," Shouta started, amused at his husband's antics. "It was Hitoshi's choice."

Shinsou blushed at the sudden attention from Hizashi, shrinking into himself a little. "This is great, Hito-kun, you're gonna love it, if you haven't seen it before." The man told him, certain of himself.

"Oh, okay," Shinsou smiled slightly, watching as Hizashi leaned back and enjoyed the movie as it began. Shouta spared him a glance and a rare smile.

Everything felt.. well... right.