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Hitoshi hadn't ever truly had a family before—not in the traditional sense. Not in the way that every child like him yearned for, scared and alone, hurt by the very people who were meant to care for him.
He'd peer through his dirt-smudged window and watch parents walk down his street, hand-in-hand with their children, all big smiles and genuine happiness plastered on their faces. Hitoshi couldn't understand that, because the only smile he ever put on was fake—the kind that his mom forced him to wear in public so that nobody would suspect what was really going on behind closed doors.
Things changed when he started attending UA. Not necessarily in the way that his parents treated him, but he had a haven now. Somewhere, he wouldn't be tormented for his quirk—an institution that kept him safe, rather than isolated.
While being in general education wasn't what he wanted, it was better than being in a public high school. Hitoshi already had a taste of what that would be like in middle school, and the scars left behind—both physical and mental—spoke louder than words. Despite his position, being at UA gave him a chance to be a hero, not the villain everyone said he would be.
And he was content with that for now. Not happy, but he hadn't ever been happy before; that wasn't new.
Hitoshi still threw himself into his work; he still tried his hardest at the Sports Festival, either way—if he could just get a leg up, if he could just get into the hero course, his dream wouldn't be so out of reach. Maybe his parents would finally see him.
As fate would have it, failing at the Sports Festival, his parents' approval, none of it mattered. Because Aizawa Shouta looked at him and saw a broken kid, one that could be lifted up and become something great—not the freak that Hitoshi couldn't help but believe he was.
He wasn't sure when it happened, but over time, Hitoshi began to see Aizawa as more of a father than his blood father had ever been—and honestly, father was a loose term when it came to that man. Aizawa actually gave a damn about him; Aizawa picked him up when he fell, told him things would be alright, and didn't flinch when one day Hitoshi couldn't hold it in anymore and broke down in the man's arms.
Hitoshi never expected any of that would lead to this—to being Aizawa-Yamada Hitoshi. To having a real family.
Shouta and Hizashi gave him the things that he never had when he was a kid; it didn't matter that he was 16 years old and grown. He got ice cream on sunny days, played catch in the field behind their house (and discovered that neither he nor Hizashi were very good at it), and watched movies late, even when it was a school night.
Eventually, Hitoshi was transferred to the hero course—Shouta's class, of course. At first, he was worried that it was some form of twisted nepotism, but the man assured him this was a long time coming—that the papers were ready to be processed a long time before the papers for Hitoshi's adoption were. Hitoshi had earned his place.
"I'm proud of you," Hitoshi blinked, tugged violently back to the present by his dad's voice.
The two men were looking at him from across the dinner table, eyes softened in a way that always made Hitoshi feel… warm. Loved. He swallowed thickly around the lump forming in his throat. Years of abuse, of wondering why life had been so cruel to him when he was only a kid, wouldn't disappear so easily—but that look his parents gave him? It helped.
Bit-by-bit, day-by-day. Hitoshi never believed in time healing all wounds, but this was living proof.
"Mm, no. I'm prouder," Hizashi added, smirking at the pair of them. Hitoshi rolled his eyes, catching the tail end of his dad's matching expression. "But seriously, kid—"
Hitoshi bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep the tears from spilling over as his pops reached out for his hand, the warmth seeping into his perpetually cool skin. Hizashi squeezed his hand once, a comforting pressure.
"You're doing great."
And wasn't that everything he'd wanted to hear, ever since he was 4-years-old and old enough to understand that his family didn't function like everyone else's. I'm proud of you. You're doing great. You've got this, kid! Hitoshi made a soft sound, pulling his hand away, if only to rub roughly at his eyes.
He hated crying in front of other people, especially his dads—it never resulted in anything good when he was young—but… here he was allowed to break down. He was allowed to cry, stamp his feet, and act like the small child that never really went away, even as his body got older.
Suddenly, warmth enveloped him from both sides. Hitoshi went stiff, only for a moment, before sinking into his fathers' embrace. Shouta's rough fingers carded through his hair, gently smoothing out the knots and kinks he couldn't be bothered to brush out.
"We've got you," Dad mumbled, tightening his old just a fraction. "We've always got you."