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Really, Hitoshi should have thrown out the shorts ages ago. They hardly fit him, they weren’t his style, and it wasn’t like he liked wearing shorts anyway. But sitting on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, cat in hand, staring up at his foster father, he couldn’t ignore the most pressing reason he should have trashed them: they didn’t cover his scars.
They only went up to about mid-thigh, leaving a whole expanse of pale skin marred with healed over cuts and slashes, ones he had tried so hard to hide for so long. All amounting to nothing because he hadn’t thought to change before heading to the kitchen. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was likely an inevitable outcome, considering the sheer amount of scars he had, amassed from years of pain and numbness, times in which no one had bothered to ask if he was okay.
Yet he had still clung to the hope that he could keep them hidden. That perhaps his newest fosters would never have to bear witness to how much of a mess he was, how broken his spirits were. He had clung to the hope that he would be able to stay, that maybe they really wanted him, that they could look past his gaunt appearance and unpleasant personality and somehow see something worthy deep inside of him. But now, seeing his past in physical form, in the shape of hundreds of lines tangled up and down his legs, how could they still think that? How could they still want to keep him, of all kids, when there were so many other, more deserving, better kids out there?
If only he had never turned to the blade to comfort him; if only he had done them in less conspicuous spots. If only he had had fewer troubles; if only he were a little less him. So many regrets, all flashing through his mind as he gazed up at his foster father with wide eyes.
There was no taking them back now; they were undoubtedly visible once the harsh fluorescent lighting was switched on, stark physical reminders that stood raised and discolored against his skin. Had they been in any other situation, he could almost have found them beautiful; he could have appreciated the natural tint that came along with them as he ran his fingers along them, could have thought up some nice metaphor of how they showed what he surpassed. But alas, as he sat there, cowering under the sharp gaze of his caretaker, he couldn’t feel anything but hatred for them.
He hated how they covered his legs, hated how prominent they stood out, hated how some of them had faded into invisibility. He hated how he couldn’t wear shorts without burning shame, hated how people made assumptions and judgements about him once they saw them. He hated how they made him scared of people’s reactions, how they made him scared of himself. He hated how they made him feel weak, and how they tempted him to add more scars. Currently, though, he just loathed finding out how his current guardians would react.
Because he didn’t want to lose them. He couldn’t lose them, not without losing a piece of himself. Because losing them would mean losing UA, losing his chance to be a hero, and losing the best home he’d ever had. Aizawa and Yamada were nothing like his other fosters; they were kind and forgiving, they didn’t neglect his needs or shame him, and they didn’t hurt him. He didn’t want to lose the caring touches, didn’t want to lose the house with 2 cats, didn’t want to lose having his own bedroom that he didn’t have to share.
But he couldn’t help but feel like he was going to lose it all. Because why would they want him, after seeing what he had done to himself? He was under no illusion that Yamada wouldn’t rush to tell Aizawa about the scars. And then they’d both know how much of a fuck-up he was. They’d mark it down on his file, and he’d never be able to find a good placement again.
He couldn’t stop the fears that raced through his head. Would they accuse him of attention seeking? Would they throw him in a psych ward? God, what if they thought he deserved it? Would this garner him some sort of punishment, or would it simply be the final straw that made them kick him out? The silence only worsened his anxiety; it felt as if someone had frozen his lungs, an icy panic grabbing hold of him.
“Hitoshi? Are you doing okay, sweetheart?” Yamada asked gently, leaning forward with a crease in his brow.
“I-I’m not sure.” He admitted, reflexively leaning back. He wasn’t sure what Yamada was really asking, or how he wanted him to respond. He shook minutely, sitting frozen staring into his foster father’s worried gaze. He distantly realized the cat in his arms had leaped away from the tense situation; if he hadn’t been preoccupied with feeling as if he couldn’t breathe, he likely would have catalogued some jealousy for it being able to escape.
“Hey, it’s alright, just take some deep breaths, okay?” His foster father moved to crouch down beside him. Desperate to appease the man, Hitoshi tried to suck in some air, but all he ended up with was haphazard choking. Despite his attempts to blink back the stinging in his eyes, he felt tears slide down his cheeks.
He couldn’t help but wish Yamada would just get it over with and do something already; he knew he would be punished, or kicked out, so what was the use in this comforting? It only served to make the pain linger, make it that much harder for him to leave. Hitoshi hadn’t taken Yamada for someone who would indulge in that kind of cruelty; maybe he was wrong.
“Inhale for four seconds, hold for four, then exhale for four. You’re doing perfect, little listener.” Yamada gently cooed.
Hitoshi slowly regained his breathing, though his panic did not subside. Now unfrozen from his spot, he couldn’t bear to look his caretaker in the eye. He didn’t think he could handle any judgement or disappointment right now.
“Hey bud, you back with me now?” He softly said. Hitoshi nodded slightly in response, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the linoleum tile.
He frantically searched his brain for some kind of excuse that would be plausible reasoning for the perfectly straight and parallel scars etched all over his body, but none seemed sufficient. There was no one else he could shift the blame to, no way to escape the consequences. He wished he could go back in time and shake his younger self for being so stupid as to start the habit. But he couldn’t, and he’d never be able to. He was stuck in the present, even as time seemed to blur around him, as if the world was going at a faster pace than his body.
His grip on consciousness was fuzzy, and his fingers rather ironically itched to grab a razor. He settled for bringing a hand up to his hair, nervously tugging as he finally turned to face his foster father. All he saw in his gaze was concern and care, but surely that couldn’t be right? Maybe his skills in reading others weren’t quite as reliable as he had thought.
“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to talk about this, y’know.” Yamada said hesitantly. Hitoshi exhaled through his nose, nodding with resignation. It was foolish to think he could hide it anyway.
“They’re not…fresh, or anything. I haven’t- I’m not currently doing it, if that matters.” He muttered barely above a whisper. He knew his body-language was betraying how scared he felt, a weakness he had never been able to cover up. It was only amplified by Yamada’s soft words and gentle actions; they only further pointed out what he was going to lose.
It was bad enough that he was already marked as a ‘volatile teen’ in his file; once this was marked down alongside his already discouraging history and quirk, he would have no other options but a behavioral facility. He distantly mourned the fact that he had started to unpack his belongings in his room; it would only make it more difficult when they made him leave.
“Of course that matters. It’s important that you’re not at an active risk right now,” Yamada leaned in. “And I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry that you felt like you had to resort to self-harming, but I want you to know that me and Shou are really proud that you made it through, okay? And we’ll always be there to support you.”
Hitoshi couldn’t help the sob that clawed up out of him. It sounded too good to be true. There was no way they would be alright with this! Surely he was going to take it back, or let him down gently as to how they just couldn’t keep someone as dangerous as him?
Yamada’s eyes softened. “Oh, poor baby. I know it’s not easy, but please, if you ever feel like that, come and talk with me or Shou, yeah? I promise we won’t ever be mad,” He looked searchingly into his eyes. “We aren’t gonna hurt you, Hitoshi. Ever. Not for this, or anything else. I promise.”
With a gentle warning, Yamada pulled him snug against his chest, wrapping him into a warm embrace. And Hitoshi wept. Loud, violent, and wracking heaves swept through his body, accompanying streaming eyes that he screwed shut. It felt like a dream; no one had ever reacted with such care, such gentleness. All he had ever faced was judgement and scorn; he could hardly believe the words falling from the other man’s mouth.
“I thought you would be upset…” He hesitantly admitted, hiding his face in the fabric of the other man’s clothes. “Everyone else was always upset.” Even as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t help but hate how childish they sounded. He hated how his vulnerability was being shoved out on display, hated how uncertain he felt.
“I promise I’m not upset, sweetheart. There’d be no reason to be anyway, not for something like this,” He pet Hitoshi’s head comfortingly. “And anyone who did get upset with you for this was wrong, okay? It’s not a healthy coping mechanism, sure, but it’s not your fault that you had to turn to it.”
He sniffled miserably. The words felt novel to him. ‘It’s not your fault’, he had said, but how could it not be? Everything had always been his fault; at least this really was something he had done. Yet it seemed Yamada wasn’t placing any blame on him for it, and really, who was he to dissuade such grace?
But still, there was one question that plagued his mind: would they still believe in his dream? What if they barred him from his hero training due to this? It didn’t seem like Yamada was angry, but perhaps he would deem it too dangerous now? Screwing his eyes shut, he hesitantly forced out his query. “Can I still be a hero?”
It came out barely above a whisper, his hesitance and guilt clearly evident in the tone. He held his breath in anticipation. He simultaneously dreaded and desperately needed the answer; needed to know if he should dash his hopes and attempts for good or not.
Yamada raised his brows. “I don’t see why not. They’re just a testament to your strength. And besides,” He raised the leg of his own pants. “-it’d be awfully hypocritical of me to say you couldn’t.”
Hitoshi’s eyes widened as he took in the matching, albeit much more faded, scars on his foster father’s skin. He looked back up into the other man’s gaze with shock. He would have never expected someone like him, who always seemed so positive, so good, to have that kind of marking.
His surprise must have been evident in his gaze, as his foster father smiled down at him softly and knowingly. “Shou will understand, too. I meant it when I said you could talk to us about it, kid.” He hugged Hitoshi tighter against him, pressing his face down into violet hair.
Hitoshi leaned further into the comforting, committing the warm feeling in his chest to memory. He couldn’t stop the hope that sparked in his chest, resilient against his fears and anxieties. He couldn’t deny the care that was evident both in his foster’s words and actions. Despite his assurity beforehand that this would end poorly, perhaps it really would be alright.
They both startled as they heard footsteps enter the room. Hitoshi looked up in surprise as he saw his mentor standing there. Despite the previous reassurances, he felt the old anxiety kick back into his chest.
“Hey, Shou! Me and Hitoshi were just having a little chat,” Yamada said with a bright smile. “You might want to add your own tune, yeah?” He urged.
Aizawa moved closer before crouching down alongside them. An analytical gaze swept over them, prompting Hitoshi’s face to flush. Embarrassment washed over him the longer the silence stretched. He knew he must be quite the sight - scars on full display, with puffy and red eyes tucked into Yamada’s shirt.
“I was just telling the little listener that we would both understand if he needed to talk - whether it’s about the self-harm, or anything else.” He informed Aizawa gently.
Aizawa nodded. “Really, kid. It will help. I can speak from experience.” He shuffled closer, wrapping his own arms around Hitoshi. Hitoshi blinked his eyes tiredly - the insomnia that brought him down to the kitchen in the first place combined with the emotional conversation they just had seemed to be catching up to him and his energy.
“Therapy can help as well, but we don’t have to worry about that at one in the morning. We’ll talk about that later,” Aizawa looked down as Hitosh let out a wide yawn. “You ought to get some sleep. Your eyebags will never disappear at this rate.”
Hitoshi laughed wetly. “Bold of you to say that, yours are almost as bad as mine!”
With a ruffle of his hair and a snort, Aizawa stood. He was right - Hitoshi really should get to bed. His eyes were threatening to fall shut even as he sat there. Besides, he would only feel worse in the morning if he stayed up any further. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move from the warmth and safety he felt in the embrace.
Aizawa looked down knowingly at him, clearly sensing his hesitance. “Don’t want to be alone, kid?” He questioned, raising his eyebrows.
Hitoshi shook his head, too deeply exhausted to feel humiliated. Because he really didn’t want to be alone, so why lie? The weariness laid deep in his bones, heavy enough to feel it weighing down on him. He was all but jelly in Yamada’s arms now, any stiffness gone from his limbs.
“You wanna come to the bed with us?” Yamada asked gently, running a hand through his hair.
Hitoshi paused briefly. “If that wouldn’t be…weird, or anything.” He looked down. It felt like a childish sort of comfort, but he couldn’t deny the yearning it sparked in his chest. His cheeks flamed as he waited for a response.
“‘Course it wouldn’t be too weird - I wouldn’t have offered it if I thought it would be.” Yamada gently comforted. Hitoshi nodded slightly, beginning to rise from their position. The night was embarrassing enough - he didn’t need to add being carried to bed to the list.
Later, cocooned in soft pillows and warm blankets, he couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky he was. It seemed the universe had finally, after much turmoil, decided to smile down upon him. Never once had he dared to hope for this kind of kindness in the past - if you had told him a year ago he would end up being cuddled and comforted in between his English teacher and mentor, he probably would have scoffed at what seemed like a cruel joke. Yet, here he was. And maybe, for once, this comfort wouldn’t be taken away.