Chapter Text
Hitoshi couldn’t say he didn’t know embarrassment. He was well acquainted with the sting of humiliation, the kind that settled deep in his bones. He was embarrassed by everything. The idea of paying at the shops or raising his hand in class left his palms clammy and his heart pounding. Chronic anxiety, or something.
He thought about yesterday.
He’d been sitting in Yamada-sensei’s class, as usual, but he’d been completely out of it. The night before, he’d gotten home late—there’d been a villain attack that delayed his train. His foster father had been irritated at best, and pissed off, honestly.
Hitoshi didn’t remember much of the punishment. His memories blurred somewhere in the middle, and he’d come to sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.
It was strange to call it his bathroom. But since he was the only foster kid the Horus had at the moment, he’d been given his own room. The house had two master bedrooms, after all. The reasoning, apparently, was that even sharing a restroom with him was sickening to his foster mother.
One moment he’d been working on his English packet. The next, he was blinking his vision clear in an empty classroom, Yamada crouched beside his desk.
He didn’t really remember what excuse he’d given to avoid Recovery Girl, but it must’ve been good enough. Or maybe Yamada-sensei just hadn’t felt like arguing.
Either way, Hitoshi had rushed out of the room, face burning.
He stood on the train, one hand gripping the overhead bar as the car swayed. Earbuds were plugged into his phone, some American singer playing for Yamada-sensei’s English extra credit. He didn’t need the points. His grade was fine.
He just wouldn’t admit he loved the way Yamada’s eyes shone whenever Hitoshi turned in an analysis of whatever Western media he’d assigned that week. So he told himself the extra credit was a backup. Just in case.
Hitoshi was fluent in English.
He knew listening to sad music was setting himself up for a bad day. In his defense, he had a reason to feel miserable. He’d had a horrible night, and he wanted to sit in it a little longer. Sue him.
The overcom announcing his stop pulled him from his thoughts. He tugged one earbud out and let it dangle as he made his way toward the school grounds. It wasn’t a long walk—ten minutes if he took his time and let the morning chill sink in.
He drifted as he walked. His thoughts dissolved into static, unfocused and dull. He didn’t consciously decide where he was going, and he didn’t think he could hold a thought long enough to try.
He blinked.
Suddenly, he was standing at the gates of U.A.
He glanced down, patting his pockets for his student ID. Nothing. With a quiet huff, he shrugged his backpack halfway off his shoulder—
“Stop.”
Hitoshi looked up.
Aizawa-sensei stood in front of him. Hitoshi blinked, then straightened. “Sorry…?” he asked, glancing around as if he’d done something wrong.
“Don’t apologize, Shinsou.” Aizawa sighed, pulling out his lanyard and unlocking the gate. It wasn’t quite opening time yet, but students were allowed on campus.
“There’s no reason to freeze while you dig for your ID when I’m standing right here.”
Hitoshi nodded. Once they were inside, he broke the silence. “Thank you, sensei.” Aizawa didn’t respond—but Hitoshi didn’t take offense to that anymore.
They split at the doors. Aizawa lifted a lazy hand in farewell, and Hitoshi waved back, already reaching for his phone to unpause his music.
School was a mess of mixed feelings.
In middle school, one foster family had sent him to school wearing the muzzle they made him use at home. He’d never heard the end of it. He had a habit of getting attached to teachers who didn’t care about him—and getting hurt when they proved it.
He floated through his first classes. During lunch, he locked himself in the bathroom and sat on the floor in silence. He wanted to skip, but the risk of his foster parents being called forced him to stand again.
The mirror caught his attention. His eye bags were dark and heavy.
With a quiet huff, he splashed water on his face and dug through his bag for concealer. He blended it in with his finger, but it was obvious—his flushed cheeks and freckles only made the pale skin under his eyes stand out more.
He stared at his reflection until someone nudged his arm.
He startled, glancing over. A student he didn’t recognize—probably older.
They hummed, muttered a “one sec,” and dug through their bag before straightening with a smile.
“Hi! I noticed your concealer’s a little obvious—do you want some help?” Hitoshi blinked. “What?”
They flushed. “It’s fine if not! I just— I have blush and brown eyeliner on me, so I figured I’d offer.”
He glanced at himself again, then shrugged. “Sure.”
They brightened immediately. After opening the blush, they gently lifted his chin. It tickled. Hitoshi closed his eyes, letting the sensation fade into distance until they pulled away.
“There!” they said cheerfully.
He looked in the mirror.
It did look better.
“Thanks,” he muttered, grabbing his bag.
“No problem! I’m Hyun—second year. You?”
“Shinsou,” he replied. “First year. Gen ed.”
“Cool! See you around, Shinsou.”
“Probably.”
They held the door for him, waving when he turned the other way. Something warm swelled in his chest—he felt more present than he had all day.
He glanced back to make sure Hyun wasn’t a hallucination.
Someone helping him just because they wanted to had him chewing on his lip.
He pushed open the door to Yamada-sensei’s classroom. It was mostly empty. Yamada sat at his desk and beamed when he saw him, joy bright and effortless.
It looked exhausting.
“Shin-sou!” Yamada sang. “Good afternoon, listener! Finish your homework?”
Hitoshi nodded, flushing as he handed over the paper.
Yamada clapped like it was Christmas morning. “I’ve been looking forward to this one!”
Hitoshi stood awkwardly, staring at the scuffs on his shoes as Yamada read. His stomach sank when the man went quiet.
He hates it. He hates me.
Then Yamada clapped again.
“First paragraph’s amazing! Best hook I’ve read in a while—made me want to curl up by a fire and read the rest.”
Colors burst behind Hitoshi’s eyes. “Thank you, sensei,” he murmured, retreating to his seat.
English was fine. School was fine.
The walk to the train station was nice. The cat he met let him pet it.
The train ride home was fine.
But it wasn’t.
His eyes burned, sharp and aching. He never felt like this with Yamada. Or Aizawa. And he hadn’t with Hyun.