Chapter Text
The soles of his shoes were falling off.
It was an old pair. The innards were worn through to the edge on his big toe, the aglets had long since lost their plastic bit and frayed to fiddly threads, and a few of the metal eyelets were bent or missing.
He’d fixed all of those issues, once upon a time. He’d put felt and bits of dishcloth where his toe was, rewrapped the threads together with bits of tape, and stitched around the holes where the eyelets had popped out.
He’d bought these shoes new; a size and a half too big to give him room to grow, but now they were a size too small. Once black and white, they now looked black and grey with the amount of city grime they’d accumulated. He took an old toothbrush to them a few times, but that didn’t help very much now.
The shoes around him were different— bright colors, name brand, just barely worn in. The foam bottoms were still grooved to provide traction on the pavement as they ran.
…How was he supposed to compete?
Hitoshi was running around looking for something to do, but all he could think about was the unattached sole flapping underneath his heel with every step.
That stupid, stupid sole. It was consuming his every thought that after failing this exam, he’d have to scour the thrift stores for a new pair of shoes. Maybe some of these very pairs— burned by lasers or stray quirks, scuffed by terrain. Perfectly good pairs that would just be thrown away after this.
He ran into something big and metal. A 3-pointer, his brain distantly supplied. But he didn’t feel the determination he felt coming into the exam. It was falling apart like his trusty sneakers. Now, he felt humiliated and defeated by this stupid, biased exam.
He ripped off the sole and chucked it at the sensor of the 3-pointer with as much animosity as he could muster. The robot fired a beam, and by some dumb luck hit another robot who returned the courtesy.
… 6 points!
He felt some brief amount of hope, even with his sock on the soot-covered ground. He could still, maybe, pull this off! He just needed to—
A hoard of screaming students suddenly sprung around the corner and shoved him down.
He was stepped on and trampled by countless shoes. All of these damn hero-hopefuls were running away in fear, their brand-new shoes giving them no advantage over the beast of a machine Hitoshi managed to catch a glimpse of.
And they were all keeping him from getting up.
He wanted to cry. These were the people who were going to make it. These were the cowards that would qualify in the eyes of the hero commission, and thus, society.
The timer trickled to a close, and so did Hitoshi’s hopes of ever making a difference.
==============
Believe him, it was a long walk home. He spent all his extra cash on his application to the hero course, so he didn’t have the funds for a train ticket. Instead, he shuffled through all the nice, shiny, hero-filled neighborhoods surrounding UA with his sock to the pavement.
Two hours, it took him. Two hours of watching the mean income slowly dwindle across each neighborhood.
His apartment building didn’t have a whole lot going for it. The whole neighborhood smelled like defeat— cigarettes, booze, and urine, and his sorry excuse for housing wasn’t much different. If you like the smell of cat spray and smoke caked into the very walls of your living space, you’re in luck: Rent GreenHill Apartments! Still, the landlord was willing to turn a blind eye to a teenager renting an apartment under the table, so he could compromise.
He willed himself up the stairs, begging his aching legs not to collapse on him. Recovery Girl had done wonders for his injuries (those other examinees were not careful.), but he desperately needed some ibuprofen and a nap.
The best way to describe these halls was like an old church. Stained red carpet, yellowing walls, flickering lights, and weird wooden benches scattered aimlessly about the place. Hitoshi would bet everything he owned that the carpet had never been cleaned. There was a very real possibility of collapsing and touching that disgusting carpet with bare skin, and that thought made him want to puke.
It was bad enough that his (now unsalvageable) sock was subjected to those horrors, so onwards he trudged towards his sixth floor studio.
After unlocking the numerous locks he’d set in place, he nudged open the door with a weak “Honey, I’m home!”
It was his little inside joke. After tough days it gave him a much needed chuckle. It didn’t work very well today
After slipping off his shoe and a half and carefully hanging up his word out bag, he went to wash off the grime… but something caught him off guard.
A breeze against his cheek. Coming from his window— the window he never opened.
It didn’t have a lock, but he figured that the sixth floor might absolve him of that necessity. Apparently not, because when he looked over, the window was wide open, staring out at the forlorn neighborhood under the very last dregs of light.
Exhaustion forgotten, Hitoshi began surveying the apartment. There wasn’t a whole bunch to survey— a small corner kitchen that he hardly touched, his mattress, and his tub of clothes and other stuff.
There was nowhere to hide except the bathroom.
Was someone hiding in the bathroom?
Shit.
No way in hell was he calling the cops, but he could probably solve this… right?
After some thought, Hitoshi decided that it was best not to go in empty handed and grabbed the curtain rod from the top of his window to use as self defense. That was when he noticed the bloody handprint on the sill.
Why? Why!
He slowly opened the door just wide enough to look in. It didn’t look like anyone was inside, but just to be safe he jabbed the curtain rod through the shower curtain. He didn’t have a large shower, so this part was easy enough.
Until he dropped it, of course.
The pained groans that followed from the floor will haunt his nightmares.
Why does this happen to him? He just bombed his hero exam and busted his shoes, just for some wacko to crawl to his SIXTH FLOOR APARTMENT. How does one even do that? How high does one have to be to consider such a feat? Why does one not consider the tired soon-to-be fifteen year old they could be intruding on?
All of these thoughts he summed up succinctly with “What the fuck?”
Then he looked down. These thoughts he summed up as: “WHAT THE FUCK!”
Before you judge him for his vulgarity, let me paint a picture. Here is Hitoshi; tired, annoyed, and still running on adrenaline from his stint with the curtain rod.
There, bleeding out on his bathroom tile where he expected to be some idiot who had a little too much fun, was pro-hero Eraserhead, his hero obsession since he was like, seven. There was a bloody knife next to him, presumably the weapon responsible for the bleeding.
After this realization was a string of “shit, shit, shit …” because PRO HERO ERASERHEAD WAS BLEEDING OUT ON HIS BATHROOM TILE.
… And he was a runaway delinquent foster kid illegally renting an apartment.
Shit.
He had to handle this himself, huh?
Morally, he would call emergency services immediately. He really wanted to… but then he’d have to risk going to Juvie, or worse, back to the Yamazaki’s. Hitoshi loved Eraserhead, but if he was sent away, all of his hopes of becoming a hero just spilled down the drain.
He scrambled around for a while before googling how to deal with a stab wound. There was a handy wikiHow article on it.
…He tried not to think about it too much.
Step 1: Survey The Area
He’d pretty much already done that. There wasn’t anyone else in his apartment… but just in case he closed the window. If he had a nickel for every time a guy crawled in through his sixth story window, he’d have a single nickel. Let’s not make any more money than that.
Step 2: Call Emergency Services
…Fuck you wikiHow. Next.
Step 3: Lay the Person Down or Get Them to Sit
Eraserhead was already laying down, but the article also recommended he prop his head up and make him comfortable. Talking was good as well, apparently, to keep the person calm.
He grabbed the pillow off his bed and a few extra clothes as well to add extra padding. As he shoved the clothes in the pillowcase he shouted—
“Hey, uh, Eraserhead? I’m gonna try to help you okay? Let me know if you need anything, yeah?
He got a solid grunt in return.
“Cool.”
Step 4: Examine the Person and Determine the Extent of the Injury
Hitoshi took his pillow over to the bathroom before noticing a pretty glaring problem: His bathroom was tiny. It was fine when it was just him, but he wouldn’t be able to do much “examining” in the space.
“Hey, Eraserhead?”
“Hm”
“I’ve gotta move you. I can’t get to you if you’re wedged in the bathroom like that.
“Ghm”
“Um. Yeah, I’m not strong enough to carry you, so I’m gonna drag you out by your feet. Are you ready?”
“Hm”
Hitoshi counted off, and used all his might to pull Eraserhead into the main floor. There was a trail of blood behind him.
Ugh. Was this considered evidence? He only had half a bottle of bleach cleaner in the apartment. Was that considered tampering with evidence?
He immediately cushioned Ereaserhead’s head with the pillow and looked for the stab wound. It was in the front right of his abdomen. No slashes or anything, just one big gash. It looked pretty serious, but no spurting blood. Thank god.
On to section two. He’d be attending to the wound now. The pressure to call emergency services was growing. Rapidly. Why did he think he could do this again?
Put on Gloves.
Whelp. He didn’t have those so he rinsed his hands as best as he could.
Check the victim's ABCs, Airway, Breathing, and Circulation.
He was definitely breathing, and from what Hitoshi could tell, his pulse was still strong enough. Wins in his book.
“How are you doing? I know that wasn’t the best way to move you.”
“Mmm”
“I’ll take that as a ‘good as I can be.’ for my sanity. Okay… next step…”
Remove the victim's clothing around the affected area
That part was gonna be a bit awkward. Eraserhead wore a jumpsuit, probably great for utility, but not great for just lifting up his shirt. He’d need to cut it off.
He’d check “Cut the clothes off of your favorite hero” off his bucket list.
“Sorry about this.”
Hitoshi Rushed to his backpack to grab his school scissors. He’d accidentally stolen them from his school a year ago, but not one called him out on it so he supposed he was fine.
Whatever material Eraserhead’s suit was made out of was tough, because he scissors hardly got through it. He kept at it though, making sure to keep a good distance from the wound and avoid touching anything. After a while, a large circle was cut out of his suit, and Hitoshi could move onto step four.
Refrain from Removing stabbing object if it is embedded
Well, seeing as the “stabbing object” was on his bathroom floor he figured he could skip that.
Stop the Bleeding.
Well that was specific. Whatever. It told him to apply pressure with a clean towel.
Problem. He didn’t have any of those. He’d have to improvise. He had some clean clothes, so those would have to work. A shirt or something he’d washed recently.
He found a clean one with a hole in it and considered it done before rushing back to Eraserhead.
“Hey. I’m gonna apply pressure on the wound now.”
He got a solid “Hmphf.” in reply, and thought it consent enough.
With a quick glance to his phone he read:
Reposition the victim so the wound is above the heart
“I’m gonna move you to your side”
Keeping constant pressure on the wound, he shifted Eraserhead on top of his left side, hoping that was correct.
Now he just had to wait.
…
…
…
Maybe he should read the other steps so he knew what he was getting into.
Cover wound with a dressing
Continue to apply pressure until help arrives
What was he thinking? He, still fourteen-year-old Shinsou Hitoshi, was trying to do a patch job on an injured hero in his apartment. If Eraserhead… If he died Hitoshi had no proof that he wasn’t the one who stabbed Eraserhead. The weapon was literally feet from him. He had a villainous quirk, which in general wouldn’t go over well with authority figures. Even without quirk bias, if they believed he didn’t kill Eraserhead there was the issue of the blood and the knife. He’d have to hide the body and the weapon, and then clean all the blood out of his apartment.
Those were still serious crimes.
And then on top of that he didn’t call emergency services when he was entirely capable. For what? Some pipe dream of becoming a hero?
“I’m sorry officer, I let this man die because I want to keep people from dying as my profession, please don’t make me go home!”
Was he really going to risk the life of this guy just for his own comfort? Why would it matter whether or not he wound up back with the Yamazaki’s if he actively avoided the easiest way to help his hero? Step eight was literally to wait for emergency services, so what was he doing all of this for then? To wait for his hero to die?
…
But why him?
Why did he have to make these choices?
THE SOLES OF HIS FUCKING SHOES WERE FALLING OFF.
He had to angle his face away from the wound so his tears wouldn’t contaminate it. It probably looked pretty pathetic.
“Um *sniff* I’m sorry. I… I should have called. I’m risking your life aren’t I? That’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?”
He laughed. It really was stupid of him.
Eraserhead was looking at him with open eyes. He felt like the world was crumbling around him.
“It’s just… I want to be a hero. Once I call this number my chance goes away. I’ll be sent away… Hell, who knows? I might be charged with the murder of a hero. But not calling is the opposite of heroic.”
“Mm— my phone. Ca..call. ‘Zashi… Hi… Hizashi.”
Did he just… Was he trying to help? He should call the number he had dialed in his phone… but…
After searching through a few pockets, and using Eraserhead’s face to unlock the phone, Hitoshi found a contact under the name “Hizashi”.
He pressed call.
“SHOUUUTAAA!!! How’s patrol going? You’re supposed to be back soon right?”
Shit. He was going to have to explain this situation and ruin this guy’s day.
“Um. Hi.”
“Who are you, and where is Eraserhead?”
Damn. Tone shift much? Accurate reaction, but still. If Hitoshi wasn’t nervous before, he
certainly was now.
“Sorry. Uh… Eraserhead is in uh, my apartment? He’s been stabbed. I’m applying pressure to the wound now.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. What’s your address?”
He tried to swallow down the part of his brain telling him to hang up. It didn’t feel much better though.
“2489 Green Ave. I’m apartment 6C.”
“I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes. Can you handle that?”
“Yes.”
“Peachy keen. Keep him alive for me, ya’ dig?”
“I… I dig?”
“Great. See you soon.”
Fifteen minutes…
=====================
It was supposed to be an easy patrol. Just a late afternoon, and then he’d get to spend a lovely evening with his husband. He’d reviewed examination footage all afternoon with Nezu, and he was ready to see something other than middle school students.
Looking back, this mindset was riddled with pitfalls. He was excited to patrol— a quick slip into tunnel vision, he expected the patrol to be easy— another way to say he let his guard down, and he’d been reviewing footage nonstop for the past few hours— dry eye and video don’t tend to mix well.
If he was in his right mind, Shouta would have skipped this patrol altogether. Instead, He’d found a guy on the edge of a rooftop, assumed it was a jumper (It was not a jumper. It was some idiot prepping for a drug deal), and was promptly stabbed by said “jumper” as he startled and ran away.
This was about when he realized that he’d been so eager to get out of that damn viewing area that he left both his comm and his first aid supplies in the locker at school.
What a hero.
This realization led him to stumble through an unlocked sixth story window in a desperate bid for aid equipment.
He made it to the bathroom before the pain caught up with him. He was already pretty exhausted, and that guy got him good. He’d counted his lucky stars that the weapon was still in place.
That luck didn’t last long. When he bent over to check the bathroom cupboards for sterilizing equipment, a wave of pain sent him down to his knees. Hard. The motion dislodged the knife, which skittered over to the side of the room making a bloody mess.
To top it all of the cabinet had nothing in it but a bleach-based cleaner, an extra bottle of shampoo, and a frayed old toothbrush that had seen better days.
After that his mind started to lose connection with reality— faintly buzzing in and out. At one point he was on his knees looking at the cupboard, the next he was staring at the ceiling. At one point, he heard a faint: “Honey, I’m home!”
He remembered being more alert at that, because there was no way more than one person lived in this place.
Shortly afterwards, the door creaked open, and above him was some kind of metal rod beating the hell out of the shower. It made a lot of noise.
Then more pain as, what he assumed was the metal rod, fell on top of him.
The rest was a serious blur of pain, some vague talking, more pain, more talking, on and on ad nauseum.
He briefly wondered if the knife was laced with something. Usually he wasn’t so… disoriented.
Consciousness returned to him as someone came into his line of sight. This guy couldn’t have been very old, he had a very young face underneath some killer eyebags. His logic took hold all too aggressively at the sight of floating hair and a slightly beat up face.
If you squinted he looked kinda like…
No. Going down that road would only lead to pain. There was a young guy here who looked very stressed, and he needed to do his job. Even injured, Aizawa Shouta was still a hero.
Albeit a hero who had no idea what to do with a crying person.
And that’s what he was doing. Crying. Fuck his life.
““Um *sniff* I’m sorry. I… I should have called. I’m risking your life aren’t I? That’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” This was the guy that had been talking to him. Moving him around, if memory served. Probably trying to fix the stab wound.
But called? Called what? What phone call was risking his life?
The guy caught his eye again.
“It’s just… I want to be a hero. Once I call this number my chance goes away. I’ll be sent away… Hell, who knows? I might be charged with the murder of a hero. But not calling is the opposite of heroic.”
…
Well shit.
Piecing together what he could, Shouta could paint a pretty good picture of what was going on. The bare bones apartment? The all-too-young resident? The hesitance over “a call”?
This was a runaway kid, living on his own to avoid, presumably, dangers at home, and Shouta had gone and ruined his plans by almost dying in his apartment. There’s never an easy day, is there? There’s always some sort of brat who lives for the trauma, huh?
Whatever. He couldn’t let him call the police. It was his own fault anyways, he’d just give up his personal phone…
Damn it. His personal phone. He could have called someone this entire time. If he wasn’t so close to dying, Shouta would have bashed his head through a wall to dislodge the stupid.
He told the mystery kid who to call, and promptly passed out. There’s only so much he could do with this much blood loss.
His husband would be there soon.
==============
Hitoshi waited fourteen minutes and dipped. He’d grabbed his backpack and school uniform on the way out.
A blonde man he’d never seen before rushed right past him on the way up, so Hitoshi assumed that Eraserhead would be in good hands.
He’d live on the streets for the next few nights. Attend school as usual. Hopefully there wouldn’t be anyone waiting for him at his apartment when he returned, and he could figure out somewhere else to move in the coming days.
Really, it was a fool-proof plan! Eraserhead didn’t know his name, and he’d probably be pretty fuzzy on his appearance too, being… well. Injured as he was. There was no lease in his name to suggest that a runaway foster kid had ever been there, and both the Yamazakis and the school would vouch for him.
He wasn’t worth the trouble of a background check.
The only suck-y part was that he still didn’t have a fucking sole on his fucking shoe. This sock had seen hell, and Hitoshi would put it out of its misery as soon as possible. Probably by burning it.
At the very least he still had the top part of his shoe, so most people wouldn’t know there was no bottom unless they were really perceptive.
He hoped.