Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hitoshi has always lagged behind.

From his birth, when he came out premature, to his childhood, where he spent a sizable portion of it sickly and stupid, Hitoshi never had a chance. He physically struggled to play with his peers and, when his Quirk came in, the separation between him and those in his year only grew. No one wants to be near the creep capable of brainwashing them.

His academics were the only thing that really redeemed him and, even then, they were subpar at best. He forced his way through each class, like a bull in a china shop, and fought tooth and nail for every correct answer he got on Yuuei's written exam. It was over a year of rigorous studying and brute memorization. He paid off some older kids in the Business Course to give him as many questions as they could remember from their test so he could practice, and he went out of his way to trawl every Yuuei forum he could find for hints. Everyone is extremely tight lipped about these things, but he found enough to make the score he needed, and the rest was just pure luck of the draw.

All that to say, Hitoshi was boned the second he transferred into 2-A. He was always going to be behind because of the year he spent doing useless shit in Gen Ed, but it's made even worse by just how terrible he is at everything. He's passing just enough to keep Aizawa off his case—and that's about it. Fifteenth in a class of twenty, always five steps behind everyone else. It doesn't matter how much he studies, or how much he trains outside of class. He pushes and pushes and pushes and he still can't keep up.

Nothing makes that more obvious than their sparring matches.

Hitoshi isn't the only one in 2-A with a lousy Quirk. Hagakure is just as physically limited as he is and Koda is doomed in pretty much every situation, but even they find times to shine when pit against their classmates. Hitoshi is a one trick pony and, once that trick is discovered, he may as well throw in the towel.

Normally, he doesn't. He approaches training the same way he approaches everything: knowing he's going to fail and trying anyways on the minute possibility it goes well for him. It mostly works—in the case of Yuuei—and Aizawa says his persistence is one of his better qualities, so that's what he does. Every time Bakugou blasts him to the ground, he gets up again. Every time someone refuses to answer his question, he keeps needling them. Every time he gets a low grade, a poor review on his performance, or a comment on how he could improve, he takes it as a challenge and fixes it.

But trying is exhausting when you don't get any results. Hitoshi has noticed changes in himself, of course. He's more muscular from all the bulking up, and he's more graceful from his endless work mastering acrobatics. He used to be dead last in exam scores and now he's fifteenth. He is improving, but it's nothing compared to the others. It doesn't matter how much extra time Aizawa gives him, or how many hours he spends ghosting people's attempts to hang out so he can study. No matter what, Hitoshi is drowning while everyone else surfs by.

Aizawa decided to mentor him for one reason and one reason only: he saw potential in him, and insisted there was a place at Yuuei for him. Hitoshi likes to think of Aizawa as all knowing, someone who will answer every question and be correct every single time, but the man isn't actually infallible. He's been wrong before, he'll be wrong again, and he's wrong about this.

Class 2-A doesn't have space for failures and, as each day passes, it's proven to him time and time again.

"Hey, Shinsou! What'd you get on the quiz?" Kirishima asks, crowding Hitoshi's desk like the two of them are friends.

At best, Hitoshi considers himself on friendly terms with Tokoyami, Midoriya on good days (he talks too damn much and Hitoshi can only take so much of him before he wants to die), and Bakugou on bad ones (he's the only one in 2-A who treats Hitoshi like he's been there since the beginning and, surprisingly, tends to notice when Hitoshi's brain has been shit down a toilet. For some reason, Bakugou lets him borrow his meticulously made notes every time).

Monoma is his only real friend, though, and it shows with how little Hitoshi talks to anyone else.

"Uh," Hitoshi responds eloquently. "Three. I think. Could use some work."

Kirishima hisses sympathetically. "Bummer, yeah. Hey, at least you passed! Kami got a two. And after all the work Bakubro did to help him..."

"What did you get?" Hitoshi asks. He doesn't really care about Kaminari's scores in Hero Law & Ethics when he wipes the floor with them in English. Yamada handed back one of Hitoshi's essays with a frowny face yesterday and it took everything in him not to break out in tears.

"Four!" Kirishima grins and flexes his bicep. "I knew goin' in that I'd totally blank when it came to the legal differences in cops and heroes, but I got more than I thought I would!"

Hitoshi, trying to be polite, returns the smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. You'd think this class would be his best one since it's Aizawa's specialty and it's half memorizing shit and half interpreting the shit you memorized. Unfortunately, he falls short even when Aizawa is holding his hand through it. He thought he'd get a four for this quiz too, after all the hours Aizawa wasted going over the lessons again in private, but alas. Aizawa masked his disappointment well, but Hitoshi knows he would've put a frowny face on the front page if he could.

During heroics, an hour later, Hitoshi finds himself tied to a pole. Sero's tape has a strong adhesive to it that can carry an immense amount of weight when stuck to a hard surface. To fabric, it's a menace to tear off without water. To a fabric made chemically of and with the properties of hard metal, it's impossible.

Hitoshi was out of the game the second he and his partner, Asui, had been paired against him and Satou. It was twenty minutes of Hitoshi struggling pathetically to get the tape to dislodge itself while poor Asui fought in a two against one. He didn't give up until the buzzer sounded, confirming that she couldn't protect their flag. By that point, he hadn't made any progress escaping. His eyes burned, but he forced it down as Aizawa knelt beside him.

"You let him get the jump on you."

He uncaps a water bottle and pours it on top of Hitoshi's head—similar to what he does in training when Hitoshi gets too worked up. It doesn't give him a refreshing reset, though. It just trails down his cheeks like tears and soaks into his capture weapon and costume.

"I know," Hitoshi responds, gutted. He doesn't meet Aizawa's eyes, ashamed and dejected.

"Keep it in mind for next time," Aizawa says, slowly peeling Sero's tape off of him in pieces.

When next time happens—because Aizawa always pairs students together based on previous failures—Hitoshi ends up back at that stupid pole, unable to move, because no amount of preparation will change the fact that Sero is leagues ahead of him in every way. His tape manipulation is effortless and controlled, as opposed to Hitoshi's with his scarf, stunted and unreliable. It doesn't do what he wants it to half the time and, the other half, he's so caught off-guard by it actually working that he ends up fucking it up anyways.

Life moves on.

"Come on, Shinsou!" Monoma whines in his ear. "Haven't you heard of letting loose? Of taking advantage of your golden years before they're all gone? Every single nerd in the history of nerdom has regretted not hanging out with people or actually, y'know, doing things!"

They're at lunch, sitting among those in 2-B. Hitoshi never sits with his own class, and this was true in Gen Ed too. He'd mostly eat alone or he wouldn't eat at all.

Currently, his tray has been left mostly untouched and he uses his chopsticks to push things around and nibble on the occasional grain of rice. Monoma doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in being way louder than necessary as he recruits Hitoshi to some… event happening this weekend. A party maybe?

"Nerds have the luxury of skipping a day of studying. They're smart enough to make up for it later," Hitoshi drones, resting his cheek on his palm.

"You're plenty smart!" Monoma says. "Certainly smarter than all those other 2-A losers. I mean, seriously, did you hear the commotion Bakugou caused this morning? Talk about ignoramus."

He heard about it, but he wasn't there. Something about setting fire to the kitchen in their dorm when he tried to make breakfast. Hitoshi doesn't join the others in the morning. He tends to wake up too late for that, either because his typical sleeping problems rear their ugly head or because he accidentally overdoes it when revising. It's amazing he's never been late to homeroom—though, he has gotten dangerously close.

"Doesn't matter." Monoma waves his hand, cutting himself off from a rant about Bakugou that Hitoshi tunes out. "Point is, you'll be fine to miss one day. You owe it to me! Invited you out for coffee, you blew me off. Invited you over to our commons to play Mario Kart, you said you'd come and didn't. Invited you to study with us, since that's all you ever do, and you still didn't show! Honestly, Shinsou, I'm beginning to think you don't like me!"

"I don't," Hitoshi responds dryly by default, but then he pauses.

Monoma grandstands and makes himself larger than life because he knows if he doesn't, no one will pay attention. He wants to be a star and he wants his voice to be heard. Hitoshi can relate. He knows what it's like to be perpetually ignored, either on purpose or just overlooked by virtue of being woefully unspecial in a world of idiosyncrasies, and he knows what it's like to wish people could actually see him. It's one of the main, if only, reasons he hates that he has to go underground. All he ever wanted was to be noticed.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to ignore you," Hitoshi says, straightening up. "I'm just struggling to get by. I barely kept my spot during the Sports Festival and… and I can't risk falling behind any more than I already have."

This year's festival had been a goddamn train wreck. Non-Support Course students are only allowed one approved support item, so he had to choose between his voice modulator and his capture weapon. Obviously, he chose the latter. It's much more versatile and he already knew Aizawa had moved from Support to Heroics using it alone when he was a student.

But it rendered Hitoshi's Quirk obsolete. No one competing was stupid enough to answer any of his questions. It's the biggest drawback of getting top ten during his first year. Everyone saw what his Quirk was and how it worked, and he didn't even place high enough to get any of the benefits.

This year, he was twenty-sixth, a horrifying downgrade to his previous performance, and, when it came time to query for internships, Hitoshi didn't get a single letter. It didn't matter because he was going to work with Aizawa regardless, but it stung. There were so many Support Course and Gen-Ed students who did better than him and he remembers waiting with bated breath for over two weeks to hear if he'd been replaced. To be honest, he still isn't sure he's out of the dog house yet.

"You're paranoid," Monoma says flippantly. "You're doing fine. Eraser seems like the kind of guy who would tell you if you were in danger of flunking out, and hasn't he been telling you to take a break?"

He has. In fact, he canceled next week's training session because he's convinced Hitoshi is overworking himself. It was the worst night he's had in a long time.

"… I'll try to make it," Hitoshi says with a weak smile.

That weekend, neither of them are surprised when Monoma texts him and he responds by saying he can't go.

The 2-A dorm rooms are far from sound proof and he can hear his classmates being rowdy downstairs in the common area. He hears Bakugou's shouts, an assortment of laughter, and the sound of a movie playing in the background.

Hitoshi stays curled up at his desk, the only furniture he has beside his futon in the corner, and stares at the blurry text of the book in front of him. Wet spots scatter across the page as he sniffles and desperately tries to wipe away the tears as they come.

He's exhausted.

It's not his typical exhaustion either. Hitoshi is always tired. No amount of sleep has made a dent in the weariness that hangs off each bone in his body. He doesn't think he's ever woken up refreshed, no matter what medication Aizawa crams down his throat or how many naps he takes. This is somehow worse, though.

His brain is fried and he can feel the electric thrum of his always active Quirk zapping each wrinkle, overheating to the point of blankness like Kaminari after a bad outage. His limbs are made of lead and all he can think about is the inevitability of his failure. If he had something else going for him, maybe the prospect of losing everything wouldn't be so bad. But he doesn't. If he can't become a hero, there's nothing left.

He doesn't even want to be a hero. He just wants to prove that he can; that he can help people instead of hurting them. His spite is far from a noble reason to be here and there are likely many others who deserve this spot more than he does. Even those in his old 1-C class. He wasn't friends with them either, but they were happy for his transfer and for the ambition it inspired, a dream they could make something out of themselves.

Because if poor, pathetic Hitoshi can manage it—if stupid, useless Hitoshi can convince the school he can do something as inane as become a hero—then surely they can too.

He wants to apologize for getting their hopes up. Like his entrance into Yuuei, it was a fluke. A luck of the draw. There was a pool of dozens of students who did just as well as he did on the written exam and he was chosen by Principal Nedzu for arbitrary reasons. There were so many skilled, talented students who deserved to be top ten in the festival and he only got by because no one realized he existed. There are so many better candidates for the Hero Course, but he secured a spot because Aizawa feels bad for him.

After years of the worst luck imaginable, Hitoshi finally beat the odds and he can't even handle it. He just isn't good enough.

Hitoshi slips out of his chair and collapses to the ground, pressed into it by the despair weighing down on him. It's a blanket of darkness in his room. The curtain to his balcony is shut, the overhead light is off, and the only thing keeping him from sinking into the void is the shitty lamp he brought from home and the line of light leaking in from under his door.

2-A's Saturday hang out rumbles against the floor and Hitoshi swears it's merging with whatever party 2-B is throwing in their dorm in the next building over. Monoma's contact is still on his phone screen with Hitoshi's last response being left on read. He's disappointed his only friend, he knows he has, and he doesn't know what else he can do.

He can't go out. He can't show his face among his peers. His peers who aren't struggling to prove their place here. His peers who don't have to worry about what they'll do when they get expelled because their potential is enough to get them into the real world. His peers who aren't even his peers at all because he's so, so fucking behind. He can't ask Monoma for help and burden him when he's already fighting his own battles to get his class recognized. He can't admit to Aizawa and Yamada that he's seconds from dropping out just to get it over with. He can't do anything but lay here, cracking beneath the pressure.

He wants it to end. He wants to give in to the urge to quit—not just heroism, everything. If he's not a hero, he has nothing to live for. No future. No reason to endure. No sense of self. He doesn't have dreams or aspirations behind this farce that was thrust upon him at an early age. It's all been one big drive to prove himself worthy of being alive.

He's never been strong. He's always been left behind. He can't keep up. He's not good enough.

Hitoshi sobs like a toddler on his floor and, all at once, realizes that's exactly what he is. His breakdowns can never be simple. They can never just be the embarrassing picture of a teenager losing his mind. It has to be even worse, a crumbling of the little dignity he has.

His headspace fuses with the grief pressing down on him. He isn't fully regressed, thankfully, so he notices the haze of sensitivity as it crosses over him. Each agonizing second is filled with the squeezing of his hyperventilating lungs and the throbbing pain spearing into his brain. It only pushes him further down and Hitoshi yanks at his hair to keep himself lucid.

Nearly a year ago, Aizawa bluntly confronted Hitoshi out on the track field. He doesn't know what prompted it, or how long Aizawa had been planning the intervention (because that's what it was—a goddamn intervention), but Hitoshi had been cornered and given a binder of neatly printed papers in the same style as Aizawa's review packets. It was filled with information on C-PTSD, childhood neglect, and trauma responses akin to arrested development.

Utterly, embarrassingly unaware of himself, Hitoshi learned that Aizawa suspected him of being an "age regressor"—a response, he thought, to the years Hitoshi spent growing up too fast and too alone. He gently, but deliberately, listed out every symptom. Apparently, Hitoshi throws juvenile-level tantrums when he's irritated, he gnaws on anything he can get in his mouth, and there are times when both Aizawa and Yamada are purposefully more soft on him because it's 'clear he's in-between headspaces'.

At the time, Hitoshi lashed out and left training early, intending on burning the binder and never speaking of it again. It was bad enough that Aizawa saw something off with him and assumed it was that, but to have Yamada in agreement? To know they both suspected him of being a freak for who knows how long and acted accordingly? Hitoshi wanted to throw himself out a window.

But they weren't wrong in their observations and, that night, Hitoshi stewed for hours over every single memory he's ever had. He recalls meltdowns in middle school, leaving him feeling especially vulnerable and upset. He pictures moments where he sat in front of the morning cartoons with the younger kids in his orphanage and feigned disinterest. He gets hit with a recontextualization of a scene the week before when his class went on a trip to the mall together and he got caught up in a store selling big, cuddly stuffed animals in bright colors. It was buy two and receive a free sticker set of his choice, so he impulsively splurged on a whale shark and a floppy black cat with some cat stickers as his extra.

He regretted the purchase almost immediately since he doesn't have much in his savings, but the thought of abandoning the toys after he gave them the hope of having a new home was too much for him and he refused to return either of them. Instead, they live in the dark of his closet and the stickers are plastered all over his laptop. Childish. Stupid.

Hitoshi read through the binder, cover to cover, and reread every page twice. Aizawa had been concise and factual, citing sources for him to look up and prioritizing brevity with relevant bits highlighted so Hitoshi doesn't get overwhelmed by pages of text. He gets overwhelmed anyways, but it does help him get through each section without tearing his hair out.

Aizawa taught him to approach things logically, to take himself out of the emotion of a situation and acknowledge the truth, no matter how much it sucks. The truth of this situation is that Hitoshi related far too much to the descriptions Aizawa gave and, as the days passed, it became harder and harder to ignore his headspace now that he was made aware of it.

It's not like it's something that haunts his every move and invades everything he does, but it follows his depression and mood swings like a shadow, never far behind on bad days. It's just that, for Hitoshi, every day is a bad day and, in recent times, the scale has gone from bad to worse to holy fuck, I want to die.

So, it kind of does factor into everything, and he tries his best to push it down as deep as possible, pretending it doesn't exist in lieu of focusing on his work. He can't ignore it now, however, and clawing his way out of the pit in the back of his head is impossible.

His regression softens the edges around his brain, leaving a fuzzy film that somehow dampens and heightens the emotions wreaking havoc through his body. The anxiety, the depression, the fear. His purposefully constructed walls are turned to mush and he's forced to feel everything he's pushed down for so long.

It's like he's being tortured. He convulses, sobbing, and yet he can hardly make a noise after so many years of being silenced. The loudest thing is his choked gasps as he tries frantically to fill his suffocating lungs with air. If he were less ashamed, he could drag himself over to his closet and find one of his stuffed animals. He could squeeze out the energy and imagine he's being hugged.

But disgust and self-loathing have fueled his every action for as long as he can remember and, by the time he grabs the reigns and shuts this shit down, he hasn't moved from that spot on the floor. His muscles are sore from how hard he's been tensing them, his brain swells within his skull from how much he's cried, and there's a stinging pain from how many bleeding scratches he's dug into his arm.

He lays there, staring off into space, for way too long. He has to study, or work out, or something. But he can't. He's too tired, and the lights are off inside his head. He's dissociating, he thinks. He can hear the continued laughter downstairs, unaware of his plight in the isolation of his dorm, and he wonders if this is what it'll be like when he dies—alone while the others celebrate down the hall.

When Hitoshi gains his awareness back, it's a couple hours later and he wants nothing more than to curl up under his weighted blanket and rot. Instead, he pulls himself up using his desk and, with gritted teeth, sits back in his chair. Monoma responded to his text with a selfie of him and Kendou with the other 2-B kids in the background. They're at a roller rink—that's what Monoma was inviting him to. Maybe the party is what's happening downstairs and Midoriya was the one who asked him to come to that. He can't remember anymore.

Either way, Hitoshi tears up again. He likes roller blading almost as much as he likes cycling, and Monoma added a 'Everyone's missing you!' caption.

He turns his phone all the way off, sniffles, and gets back to work.

—

Despite their less than pleasant reputation, Shouta doesn't mind Mondays.

It's the first day back from a weekend break so his brain hasn't had the time to realize he's working again, and no teenager comes in awake enough to be rowdy. Tuesday is the real irritation, with his students adjusting to being back in school and Shouta realizing he signed up for hours of nonsense every single day for the rest of his life. At least with Monday, Shouta can pretend the good behavior is just how his class is, rather than a result of them being dead in their feet.

Something is off about this one, though. When Shouta walks through the door, the quiet murmurs cease and nineteen bodies straighten to attention with the immediacy he's drilled into them since last year. Nineteen because one of them, sitting in the back right corner, is slumped over a textbook and pointedly ignoring him.

Hm.

Hitoshi is in rough shape. His uniform is wrinkled, his eyes are bloodshot, and exhaustion carves his face gaunt. He already resembles a living skeleton most of the time, but his features are so sunken in that he's more of a dead man walking than a bright eyed student ready to learn. Shouta has half a mind to send him to Recovery Girl, or back to the dorms to sleep.

But he doesn't. He's a firm believer in letting children learn through natural consequence and these kids, in particular, need to figure out their limits in a safe, controlled environment. Hitoshi has been overdoing it for weeks now and Shouta has only lightened the load enough to make sure he won't actually hurt himself while he crashes and burns.

Hizashi thinks he should force the issue and confront him, but Shouta's experience tells him that teenagers are too stubborn for direct communication. Tell them anything and it'll go in one ear and out the other. No, they need to do everything the hard way and figure out the solutions themselves. Shouta will be there to help pick up the pieces afterwards.

So, he goes about his lessons normally—for their regular classes, anyways.

He still gives the kid multiple chances throughout the day to say or do something and, every time, he's rebuffed. He offers Hitoshi a moment to step outside for a drink of water and Hitoshi holds up his water bottle. He mentions one on one tutoring if anyone is struggling and Hitoshi, who has always said it doesn't help, stays predictably quiet while a few others raise their hands to ask about his available hours. He reaches out to Hizashi when Hitoshi is in English and is told that none of his husband's attempts have worked either.

None of it is surprising. This has been the cycle the three of them have been trapped in for far too long. Something's gotta give and Shouta's instincts flare, certain that it'll be today. Something about Hitoshi is different. He's subdued, distant, resigned. His eyes are a little too wet and the cap of his pen finds its way to his mouth every couple minutes.

Shouta doesn't like it and he finds not intervening to be more and more difficult. Perhaps this is it, the breaking point. Hitoshi is the kind of person to hit rock bottom and keep mining down. He isn't stupid, but he is self-destructive and it's a difficult balance of figuring out when stopping him does more harm than good.

One more time. He'll try one more time. He pulls Hitoshi aside before heroics, the final and most rigorous class of the day.

"You look terrible," he says bluntly.

"I'm fine," Hitoshi says for the fiftieth time. He doesn't even have the energy to toss on his typical monotonous, blank slate expression. His tone leaves much to be desired and every word is torn from his throat. It really is like pulling teeth to get anywhere with him.

"You're not," Shouta insists.

"I am."

"I'm not going to feed into this," Shouta says, clipped. "Even if you aren't sick, you clearly aren't feeling well. It isn't rational to push to yourself. Limits are important, Hitoshi. We've talked about this."

Shouta doesn't think he's given a lecture to the same student so many times before. It doesn't matter how logical he is about it, or how many times he explains how dangerous it can be for an exhausted hero to be on the job. He points to critical mistakes Hitoshi has made, he points to critical mistakes he's made in his own youth. None of it matters; Hitoshi still moves as if stopping for even a second will kill him.

It's to the point where he has to seriously consider suspending Hitoshi's training until further notice. He hasn't brought it up yet, not when canceling even one session has Hitoshi looking at him like he kicked a newborn kitten, but this is getting ridiculous and Shouta can't allow his personal feelings towards the boy to cloud his judgment.

At the end of the day, this is struggling child under his responsibility.

"I said I'm fine!" Hitoshi snaps, proving his point. It's loud enough to garner the attention of his classmates stretching on the other side of the gym.

"Watch it," Shouta warns. He lowers his volume in hopes that Hitoshi will follow.

"Stop asking stupid questions then," Hitoshi says, childishly mocking, and glares at the floor. "Or better yet, just leave me alone. Can't go a fuckin' minute without you—without you pestering me."

Oh.

… huh.

The growing irritation halts and Shouta's expression turns suspicious. He's always allowed a certain amount of grace for Hitoshi's snark. When he first met the boy, he'd been overly polite and bordering on mute. He only spoke when spoken to, he never asked questions even when confused, and he laid on a thick level of appreciation after every meeting they had—genuine appreciation, but with far too many bows and promises to not waste Shouta's time.

As they grew closer and Hitoshi realized Shouta wasn't going to punish him for existing, the dry humor and snide remarks he's now known for shined through. He was never disrespectful, so Shouta never bothered correcting him. It's good for children to feel safe enough to be a little bratty, and even the times when he went too far were fine because at least he was communicating something.

It's the same reason why he lets Bakugou shout and swear at him. How someone delivers something can be adjusted, but only if they're willing to deliver it at all. He'd rather hear what they have to say and respond to their intent, not the specific words they use. Most of the time, that alone will fix an attitude. It's amazing how agreeable teenagers are when they feel they're being listened to—it's almost as if they're people too.

But he digresses. The point is, he doesn't mind when Hitoshi makes jokes at his expense or is a little too short with him. The kid is pretty good at figuring out boundaries and self correcting, to the point where he tends to punish himself for minor infractions far more than Shouta ever would. This, however, is a little much, even for him.

His words are slightly slurred, more like a lisp than him being intoxicated (not that Shouta would ever assume he would be. Hitoshi flinches at the mention of alcohol), and his lips fall into a pout. He rocks slightly on the balls of his feet, looking seconds away from stomping, and his hands are locked in tight fists. A tantrum, Shouta realizes too late. He's throwing a tantrum.

"Hitoshi." His tone turns soft, the one he uses when he visits Eri. "Hitoshi, are you feeling small?"

Because asking if he's regressed will freak him out. He doesn't like acknowledging what's happening, and the only way he lets Shouta and Hizashi care for him is if they all act like it's something else. They've been letting him process it on his own terms—for now, at least—and he's made some progress.

"Shut. Up."

Not enough progress.

"Hitoshi—"

"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm not—I'm not," Hitoshi seethes, unable to actually get the word out. His tone is low, slightly menacing, and he puffs up, like a hissing cat trying to scare a threat away.

"I really think… you should take a step back," Shouta says carefully. "Go back to your dorm. Take a nap. You aren't doing yourself any favors sticking around."

He doesn't know what to do here. Hitoshi has never regressed in the middle of class, and he's never been so hostile while small either. They, Shouta and Hizashi, have fallen into certain routines when they notice it happening during training, or when they're supervising the 2-A dormitory, but it's such a rare occurrence now that Hitoshi is aware of it. They never got around to making a plan for if something like this happened.

He mentally kicks himself. He spends hours every day anxiously making backup plans for everything, but the one time he actually needs it, he doesn't have one.

"Is that an order, Sensei?"

Hitoshi meets his stare, daring him. It's a test, one Shouta has been given before. He won't fall for a hurting boy's attempts at putting a wedge between him and the only support he has.

"No, it's not," Shouta answers, pointedly not using Erasure. This isn't a dangerous question. "If you think you can handle this, I trust you. You're a smart kid and I know you know when you're making a bad choice. I strongly suggest you sit this one out, but I'm not going to make you."

A calculated risk.

He doesn't actually know if Hitoshi is regressed right now. It seems like he is, but it can be hard to tell the difference between a toddler headspace and a moody teenage boy being upset. Either way, he's a child and his behaviors reflect that, muddying the cues Shouta tries to look out for.

Assuming he is, Shouta knows from experience that not a whole lot changes for him. His motor skills are fine, as are his language and processing skills. He's more impulsive and less smart about his strategies, but there have been times he handled training just fine and Shouta hadn't realized until much later that he'd been regressed the entire time. He'll probably survive one heroics class like this, and it might even allow him to blow off some steam and clear his head.

Not to mention, if Shouta forces Hitoshi back to his dorm, he'll spiral and there won't be anyone there to make sure he's safe. Shouta can't just abandon his students, and Hizashi and Nemuri are likely too busy with their own duties to babysit. Hitoshi won't react well to anyone else stepping in—not even Hound Dog or All Might.

It's a bad idea, no matter what he chooses, and he can already tell this was what his instincts were warning him against, but Hitoshi isn't leaving him with very many choices. It's like he said earlier, Shouta believes in natural consequences and he believes in letting his kids make their critical mistakes where it's safe to do so. Worst case scenario, Hitoshi eats shit as a six year old and Hizashi yells at Shouta about it later. He can live with that.

His words defuse Hitoshi's anger, at least. As soon as he registers that sappy phrase—I trust you—his shoulders lower and his fists loosen. He's still on the defensive, but a bit of clarity reaches him and Shouta can see the exact moment he realizes just how out of line he's been. He averts his gaze and stands down.

"I can handle it," he says quietly, fidgeting with his gym shorts. "I'm fine. I can do it."

"Okay," Shouta accepts. He notes the lack of an apology. "Go warm up. Let me know if you need a break."

Hitoshi gives him a curt nod and flees with his tail between his legs. Their audience jerks and turns their heads to pretend they weren't watching. Shouta is fairly certain he catches Jirou's earphone jack popping out of the floor and he sends her a lethal look. She should know better than to eavesdrop. She doesn't meet his eyes either, but she looks more confused than anything. Lucky he didn't say anything that damning.

Shouta gets them all back on track with Hitoshi in his sight at all times. The boy keeps his distance from the others, but that's not surprising. To both Shouta and Hizashi's dismay, transitioning Hitoshi into the Hero Course wasn't as seamless as they hoped. He didn't really click with anyone and, while the others often tried to invite him into their circles, he had a hard time fitting himself into relationships that already had a year to prosper.

(Still, Tokoyami hovers closer than the others with Dark Shadow bridging the gap so Hitoshi isn't totally on his own.)

Today's exercise is simple, a warm-up into the rest of the week and something they've done a thousand times before.

Self-assessed sparring.

They break off into pairs where both sides mutually agree they have weak spots against the other and are set in either an open space or a closed off one, depending on what the pairing tends to excel in. It's a classic, giving them the time to critically think about where they can improve and the space to practice solutions for any vulnerabilities they can't reasonably do anything about.

It helps that it's entirely on them to complete, so Shouta's only real job is approving of the pairs and making sure no one dies. An easy assignment for an easy Monday—said with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

The first half of it goes fine. After so many assessments, they have all realized Shouta's point in assigning this: every single one of them is weak against everyone in some way. Whether one's Quirk is similar to another's or they're polar opposites, there is a weakness every hero has in every fight because people are more than just the surface level manifestation of their power. It makes the current pairings, now that all the obvious ones have been done to death, quite interesting.

Hagakure and Iida. Uraraka and Yaoyorozu. Midoriya and Ashido. Kirishima and Tsu. So on and so forth.

Hitoshi and Bakugou choosing each other is the one that bores him. It's not a bad match up, necessarily. There are a lot of ways Bakugou's physical prowess overwhelms Hitoshi's, and Shouta very specifically will pair them up for Quirkless combat practice for that very reason.

But Bakugou is a hot head, even with a year of growth under his belt, and something about Hitoshi in particular needles him. Really, his mentee doesn't even need his voice modulator to convince Bakugou to respond because of how quick he is to bark back. In any other situation, Shouta would reject it without a second thought.

"Fine," he says. "Keep to the open."

He would prefer a closed space, where a capture weapon is harder to use and Bakugou's movements are limited, but Hitoshi needs something trouble-free. It may be a little unfair for Shouta to tilt things in favor of one student's victory, but hero work isn't fair and Bakugou doesn't care if the game is rigged, he'll just brute force it anyways.

One by one, Shouta has the teams spar while everyone else watches and takes notes. He starts with those in the closed off space, a thin stretch of hallway that doesn't allow for much maneuverability. There are cameras at each end that they watch from and Shouta marks down his own review on a clipboard for them to compare their self-assessments to. Once that's done, he does a quick check for any injuries, finds only minor scrapes and bruises, and leads them to the much more open gym, emptied so there isn't anything to hide behind or use as leverage.

It's all very typical. Shouta knows his class well enough to predict most of the issues that come up, as well as who wins each match up. He get surprised every so often, but it's all very standard. Until it's Hitoshi's turn to go up.

"Don't overdo it," Shouta says as both boys, dressed in their gym clothes, head to the massive foam mat in the middle of the room.

Bakugou tsks and waves him off with a muttered, "I never overdo it," and Hitoshi ignores him completely, tightening the straps to his voice modulator. They stand a dueling distance away from each other and wait for Shouta's signal.

There's a pause of hesitation as he gives Hitoshi a questioning look that's snubbed. All right then.

"Go." Shouta raises his hand with his voice and the two are off.

Hitoshi darts forward, capture weapon primed, and Bakugou takes to the skies. The ceiling in here is meant to accommodate multiple stories worth of space, so they can go high, but there is a limit to it. Bakugou reaches that limit immediately, touching the sturdy ceiling and using it to launch himself back down with a powerful kick off followed by a blast.

A swift rolling dodge from Hitoshi and he is quickly put on the defensive.

"Come on, man," Hitoshi says, regular voice slightly robotic through his modulator. "This is a bit much, don't you think? Can't you just give me the win? We both know I deserve it more."

Bakugou keeps his mouth shut and tosses a couple explosions towards Hitoshi, flashy but mostly harmless. Bakugou is trying to herd him towards the corner, where he'll have no choice but to give up. The heat makes them both sweat.

Hitoshi tries over and over to get Bakugou to say something to him. He switches voices—Midoriya, Kirishima, even Shouta himself—and he hits all the boxes that normally work against him. Either Bakugou has been making more progress than Shouta thought, or he decided that today would be the day he actually tries against Hitoshi. Either way, the dread in Shouta's stomach reappears. He doesn't think Hitoshi can win this, not with how sloppy his movements are, all trying desperately to dodge the rapid-fire onslaught.

Finally, Hitoshi does find an opening when Bakugou shoots into the air as a repeat of what started the fight. If there's one thing Shouta will always commend him for, it's Hitoshi's ability to adapt on the spot. Once an opponent does something, they'll never be able to do it again without him interrupting.

The capture weapon goes flying and snaps around Bakugou's waist, halting all momentum. Hitoshi tries to pull him back down, probably to slam him into the mat, but Bakugou growls, grabs the fabric with one hand, and uses the other to set off various explosions, all growing in intensity. The force is much more than Hitoshi's strength is able to withstand and, in seconds, Bakugou has flipped the script and yanked Hitoshi into the air.

The boy goes flying, way too high, and he'll land on pure concrete without interception. Shouta's own capture weapon is wrapping around his ankle in seconds and pulling him back. It manages to keep him in the safe zone as he hits the ground hard with a thud and skirts across the floor. White scarf lines the blue mat and Bakugou lands much more softly, relaxing from his stance and putting a pause on the fight.

"Shinsou," Shouta calls. "You alright?"

He hasn't gotten up, but he is moving; still conscious. He curls into himself and, as Shouta opens his mouth to ask again, a broken sob echoes throughout the space.

"Is he… crying?" Sero says behind him, shocked.

Shouta doesn't answer. He's already moving, following the connection of his capture weapon with a brisk jog. Kids are as dramatic as they are resilient. He often hears the tip that if a child is crying, that means they're probably fine, and it's when they're quiet that you should be concerned. It might generally be true for younger ones, like Eri or Kouta, who cry at anything and everything. For teenagers, however, it's the exact opposite. He's seen students break bones and get up with a sheepish grin. When a teenager cries, especially in a room full of classmates they don't want to embarrass themselves in front of, it means the worst has come to pass.

"Hitoshi," Shouta says once he reaches him. He kneels beside the boy, hand on his shoulder, and scans for injuries. "Hitoshi, are you okay?"

Tears are streaming down Hitoshi's face in fat blobs and his mouth is perpetually open, twisted in upset. He sobs, but most of the noise comes from his breath hitching or a cry breaking through years of trained silence. Shouta has seen Hitoshi break down more than once and it's always chilling how quiet it is.

"Hey, can you tell me what hurts?" Shouta asks softly. "Do I need to get Recovery Girl?"

Midoriya has started inching towards the exit, waiting for the go-ahead.

Hitoshi shakes his head and threads his fingers into his hair, tugging harshly. He's not one to crumble under some pain (in fact, Hitoshi's tolerance is often worrying, and they fight regularly about how much the boy pushes through physical pain when training) so he's probably not actually hurt. He's fully dropped then, and cracking under whatever weight he's been carrying the last few weeks.

"That must've been really scary, going up so high," Shouta tries, always too awkward when dealing with younger kids. He's gotten better at it with Eri, but he still struggles with Hitoshi. It can be difficult to separate the regressed version of him from the headstrong, 'I don't need you to coddle me' version Shouta deals with every day.

"Uh huh," Hitoshi says wetly. He hiccups and presses his face into the mat, trying hard to hide from view.

"Yeah, yeah, I bet," Shouta says, distracted. He glances at his class, all watching with wide, concerned eyes. Most of them haven't seen Hitoshi as anything other the aloof loner that pushes everyone away and tries too hard. His disinterest is a mask, but it's one none of them have managed to break through.

He probably won't like his cover being blown like this, and he definitely won't like anyone finding out about his regression. Hitoshi nearly quit training all together after he found out Shouta told his teachers about it (a decision that wasn't made lightly; Hitoshi's safety and mental health is too important to leave it a secret when his headspace is as sporadic and intrusive as it is).

So, first thing's first, Shouta has to get him out of here.

"I'm going to take Shinsou to Recovery Girl," he announces, shuffling Shinsou out of his fetal position and hauling him up to stand. "Doesn't seem serious, but he hit the mat hard and I want to make sure he's not concussed. The rest of you, take the time to go over your matches, either reflecting on how it went or preparing for how it will go. I'll be back soon."

His students ring out a chorus of 'Yes, Sensei!' and a few throw out comments to Hitoshi.

"Hey, you did really good! Definitely would've won if Bakugou didn't play dirty," from a snickering Sero, who sticks his tongue out at his friend. Bakugou flips him off.

"Hope you feel better, Shinsou!" from Uraraka. Midoriya mirrors the sentiment, and Hitoshi keeps his head down and uses the bulk of his voice modulator to hide the state of his face from them both.

"Don't sweat it, man. Better luck next time!" from Kirishima. He helps Bakugou untangle from the capture weapon and re-roll it. Shouta has already fixed his around his neck and he takes the second one from a stony faced Bakugou with a nod of thanks.

"Sorry," Bakugou grunts, lips pursed. "Didn't mean to toss you that far. Or that hard."

"Shut up. It's fine," Hitoshi mutters. He fists his dewy eyes and sniffles.

Bakugou has enough sense not to comment on it, but his nose crinkles with his habit of judging others for their weaknesses. Shouta warns him with a look and leads Hitoshi out of the gym with a hand on the boy's back.

"We're gonna go find Hizashi, okay?" Shouta says quietly.

The final period of the day is course dependent. Hero Course does heroics training and preparation, Support Course works on their inventions and gear in the workshop, Business Course goes in-depth on finance and marketing, and General Education uses the time as an advanced study hall so they can specialize in certain core subjects and prepare for university. Only one of those courses actually requires an English teacher, but he's still busy enough that Shouta couldn't sack the kid on him earlier without just cause. This is more than enough to qualify as an emergency, though, especially when he texts Hizashi to find that he's just grading papers on his own anyways.

Shouta gingerly takes Hitoshi's hand and threads their fingers together. He can visually see the light affection knocking Hitoshi down a couple years, and he keeps himself as a steady support for Hitoshi to lean on if he so chooses. As expected, Hitoshi keeps himself at arm's length.

Shouta operates with the knowledge that, sometimes, he is not enough. His best isn't enough to save someone, no matter how hard he tries, and he just has to accept that he'll fall short. At its worst, it means he goes home covered in the blood of a life he couldn't change the fate of and, at best, it means he has to walk his crying protégé down an empty hallway after letting him get hurt. If he could ease the burden on his boy's shoulder, he would. But he can't, so all he can do is be there for him.

—

As his sneaker clad feet slap against the tile floor, Hitoshi has been sentenced to death.

The grey walls, bright overhead lights, and endless doors makes it feel like a prison more than a high school. With the way he's walking alongside Aizawa, he may as well be a villain taking their final march to death row.

Aizawa's footsteps are silent, as they always are, and the two of them walk forward without a word said between them. There's nothing that can be said. Hitoshi is simply mortified and there's nothing that will help him recover from the hatred spiraling inside him. He tells himself his tears are non-existent, but they trail down his cheeks slow enough to make them itch.

He roughly rubs them away using his wrist and struggles to settle his breathing like Aizawa taught him. He couldn't win against Bakugou, even when everything was in his favor, and he can't calm down, even after he's already humiliated himself and his mentor in front of their entire class. He didn't mean for things to go this badly but, now that they have, he can't stop blaming himself for not preventing it.

He should've sat out, or just powered through the ache in his shoulder from how he hit the mat. He should've gotten up, instead of crying like a baby on the floor. He's crying like a baby now and he can't stop it. His head is jumbled with a haze that makes everything so much more vivid. The sun shining through the walls of windows, the heartache searing through his chest, the pains of not being good enough.

He messed up in front of everyone, and he regressed. In public. He wants to say he isn't anymore, but he feels the film on his brain and the heaviness to his limbs. His body is in control now, and it wracks with the sobs of a little boy that can't self-regulate worth a damn. Just like it has every time he has a breakdown in the dead of his room, it turns on parental control and locks him into his headspace.

He can barely walk forward without stumbling or tightening the grip on to Aizawa's hand, like the man is his father and not his iron-fisted teacher. They're both all too aware of the situation at hand and neither of them are actually willing to comment on it. Hitoshi because he's embarrassed and Aizawa because—well, why would he? Why would Aizawa do anything more than he has to? The fact that he's walking Hitoshi anywhere instead of sending him on his own is more than enough. Why would he bother acknowledging the elephant in the room when he, too, understands how dreadfully inconvenient and shameful Hitoshi's assigned trauma response is?

So, they leave the talking to the only real adult between them: Yamada.

When words fail between mentor and mentee, their observer tends to know what to do. This has always been the case, even early on. According to Aizawa, the only reason he even took the leap in training Hitoshi is because Yamada convinced him to (not too dissimilar to how Yamada convinced him to become a teacher, as well). When it comes to Hitoshi's regression, something both of them ideally ignore, Yamada is the one who regards it openly and with a sense of levity that no one else can muster.

He's the one who convinced Aizawa to say something about it. He's the one who first brought it up with kind words and soft tones after Hitoshi's mega-meltdown when it first came up. He's the one who actually makes Hitoshi feel even the tiniest amounts of normality about it.

Yamada, to be perfectly honest, is the only reason anything between Hitoshi and Aizawa works as smoothly as it does. They're both avoidants, perpetually exhausted by themselves and other people, and incapable of expressing any sense of vulnerability, no matter how dire the circumstances are. Yamada is the opposite: full of boundless energy, much more in-tune with his emotions (sometimes too much with his leaps to anger and anxiety when shit goes down), and he's not great about expressing his own vulnerabilities either, but he's really good at forcing everyone else to. He's a man of many words and all of them are intentional. He's not perfect, but his ability to read a room and coax people to do what he wants is magical.

It's nearly impossible to keep your guard up around him, and it's even harder for Hitoshi to after the week he's had. The month, really.

As soon as Aizawa slides the door open, Hitoshi peeks his splotchy face into the room. It's one of the many break rooms dotted throughout the school, typically used as a quiet place for students to have breakdowns in or complete assignments if they have the accommodations for it—like Hitoshi is supposed to have but never actually uses. The overheads are off so the only light in the room comes from the sunshine leaking in through some narrow windows and Yamada is lounging on one of the plush couches with a stack of papers beside him.

"Hey there, listener," he greets, glancing between Hitoshi and Aizawa. He puts down whatever assignment he was grading and sits up. "What's goin' on here? Someone throw a party and forget to invite me?"

He's more focused on Aizawa, who looks more ashamed than anything—ashamed of Hitoshi, probably.

"There was… a situation," Aizawa says carefully. "Didn't have time to explain it over the phone."

Hitoshi just stands there, bottom lip wobbling. He stares at Yamada with big eyes, feeling his entire face melt into something small and sad. Being regressed is always a mind-fuck. He feels physically small and sensitive, but nothing actually changes. It's all in his head, a shift only internally. Despite that, Yamada meets his eye and clocks it, either through his tears or his kicked puppy expression.

"Oh no!" Yamada croons, scooting to the edge of the seat and opening his arms. "Did somethin' happen, honey?"

Without any other prompting, Hitoshi crumbles under the soft, high pitched coo of a pet name. He rushes forward with the grace of a toddler and falls face first into Yamada's arms, mouth open in a silent wail.

Yamada continues cooing sympathetically, murmuring words that fly over Hitoshi's head as he attempts to bury himself as deep into Yamada's leather jacket as he can. It's difficult for a tall, scrawny teenage boy, but Hitoshi has no concept of being able to do anything else right now. He just whines and lets Yamada adjust him until he's curled in the man's lap, hunched around Yamada's torso and crying into his shoulder.

Yamada looks up at Aizawa and goes quiet, but no words are exchanged between them. He rocks Hitoshi absentmindedly and rubs soothing circles into his back, distracted by whatever Aizawa is doing. Sign language, probably. If Hitoshi looked behind him, he'd likely see a flurry of hand movements that he's not fluent enough to understand anyways, so he pretends they aren't talking about him behind his back.

All bad things, he has to assume. Aizawa is probably telling Yamada about how rude Hitoshi was earlier, when his head felt like it was underwater and every time someone spoke to him, the pressure boiled over. Or he's talking about Hitoshi's abysmal performance in the gym, capping off all his other failures. Yamada is going to respond by getting another frowny sticker and slapping it on Hitoshi's forehead, he just knows it.

He's been bad. At everything. He's a bad student, a bad hero hopeful, a bad kid. He isn't just falling behind, he's proving everyone right. He scorns being lumped in with villains just because of his Quirk, but he's being mean and he's not doing things the way he's supposed to.

It's not even ego-death, like what Bakugou mentions going through when he opens up. It's just Hitoshi realizing how little of a chance he ever had.

When Aizawa finishes his explanation, Yamada hums and cups the back of Hitoshi's head, more focused on the hug. He squeezes Hitoshi tightly enough to keep him from splitting down the middle. Aizawa's gaze is heavy behind him, like an executioner lifting the axe.

"Poor thing," Yamada murmurs. "Had a rough day, didn't ya? A no good, very bad day."

It's his child-friendly voice. Present Mic, despite his reputation, is far from an ambassador of younger ears. He swears, he tells too many inappropriate jokes, and he's best friends with Miss Midnight, but he gets away with it because of his ability to turn his tone melodic and kind. He's like a host for a children's show without all the stimuli. It's the voice he uses when Eri or Kouta visits, or when he meets a tiny listener so excited to hear from their favorite hero.

Hitoshi is neither of these. He isn't really a little listener, no matter how often Yamada assigns him that title (assigns everyone that title, Hitoshi reminds himself), and he isn't someone as special as they are small. There's no reason to be soft and gentle with him. He should be better, stronger. Yamada should regard him like he does Aizawa—with a healthy level of sarcasm and jovial remarks at his expense. It's their normal dynamic. Everyone expects the most from him and Hitoshi fails with only his mask of indifference to lighten the load. It doesn't work when that mask is gone and they realize how sensitive he really is.

But he can't breathe without someone holding the oxygen mask over his face, and everyone knows you're only supposed to handle your own mask even in the case of an emergency. He's stuck, painfully exposed to the people he most needs to hold a brave face in front of.

"Do ya wanna talk about it?" Yamada asks into Hitoshi's temple.

Hitoshi can only shake his head and sharply inhale, choppy and hard enough to make him cough. His shoulders shake and Yamada backs off briefly to let him curl into himself and hack out the layer of phlegm in his throat.

"Ohh-kay, deep breaths, sunshine. Wouldn't wanna make yourself sick, yeah?"

Yamada coaches him through slowing his breaths, but Hitoshi can't really match him with how difficult it is to get in any air. He's bordering on hyperventilating and there's a ringing in his ears that only overstimulates him more. As much as he wants to follow the intentional rise and fall of Yamada's chest, his own feels like it's exploding.

He rocks back and forth in Yamada's lap, tugging at his hair and trying to push through the rush of overwhelming anxiety and shame. His usual strategy of just waiting it out doesn't work here because he's not alone in the darkness of his bedroom. Yamada is smiling sadly at him, eyes downcast and sympathetic. Aizawa hasn't left the room yet, and Hitoshi is acutely aware of his mentor watching him break down. It's proof that whatever potential they saw in him is worth nothing.

To his surprise, Yamada's arms, already loose around his frame, let go and are replaced by another set. Hands settle on Hitoshi's sternum and upper stomach and a heavy pressure blankets his back. Aizawa wraps him in a hug from behind, bent over uncomfortably to act as a weighted presence where possible. Hitoshi squeaks and, immediately, relaxes into the hold. A brush of calm tingles up his spine and unravels the panic storming in his brain.

"Deep pressure therapy," Aizawa says (maybe) to Yamada, a quiet murmur.

His chest rumbles and he handles Hitoshi gently, cradling him. With Aizawa behind him and Yamada in front of him, Hitoshi is cut off from the rest of the world. It's like he's been put in a bubble, protected on both sides from all the bad waiting for him outside. His stupidity, his inability to perform as well as his classmates, his pathetic state. It's hard to register any of it when he's practically swaddled between the two men that never fail to make him feel tiny.

Hitoshi exhales in a whimper and manages a stuttering breath in. Instead of yanking at his hair, his hands drop to desperately hold on to Aizawa's arms and return the hug.

It's so stupid, how much he needed that hug. Hitoshi exists in a space around other people but never actually with them. He watches Yamada throw his arm around his fellow teachers, he watches Bakugou put his friends in headlocks and grind his knuckle against their skull until they fight him off, and he watches Monoma offer a caring hand to his classmates in 2-B when they're thrown to the ground. Small forms of connection that are utterly foreign to Hitoshi.

He's always been a loner. He never had close friends who let him rest his head on their shoulder, or girls who wanted to hold his hand, or parents who offered cuddles when he was sad. He's separated from everyone else, usually a result of his own doing, and he never expects or even wants that to change. He likes being left alone. He likes not having to deal with the baggage of other people. He likes not having to handle the hard parts of relationships.

But there's always a part of him that wants to be embraced. He wants his hand held, his hair ruffled, his body loved for something other than what it can do for other people. He wants the good parts of friendship while acknowledging he can't handle the bad and he wants the unconditional love of a parent that he'll never have.

From the outside, Aizawa and Yamada are the closest thing he has to any of that. They're arguably much closer to Hitoshi than anyone else, to a point where ethics on teacher favoritism and boundaries would likely be called into effect if Hitoshi had a family who gave a damn about being replaced. But that's on the outside. From where Hitoshi sits, he's stuck at the bottom of a valley and his teachers stand at the top, closer to the edge than anyone else is willing to get, but too far to grab him and pull him out. The only reason they're here at all is because Hitoshi is too broken to function on his own. They need to watch from the cliff's edge to make sure he doesn't rot at the bottom.

Yamada holds his hand now, though. While Aizawa squeezes him and protects him from what awaits outside the door, Yamada threads their fingers together and reminds him that he's there too. Hitoshi loudly sobs, an audible cry for help that he doesn't let himself have. There's never a point. He's too old for this shit, and no one would respond anyways. They might at first but, eventually, the burden outweighs the reward and Hitoshi has nothing to offer. He's not good. He's not smart. He's not nice to be around.

He's a wailing child that couldn't take the pressure of growing up.

Eventually, it ends. As always, it's quicker than most would expect. Hitoshi has never been one to spend hours crying. He can't. He cries in bursts of five to fifteen minutes at the absolute most and the rest of his time is spent with a boulder on his chest while he stares at a wall, gone from his body. Neither of his teachers let him wander too far once his waterworks run out, they keep him grounded with intentionally heavy doses of affection.

"Did ya get it all out, honey?" Yamada asks quietly. He uses his free hand to wipe tears from Hitoshi's flushed cheeks, hot with how upset he is.

"Uh huh," Hitoshi whimpers, already gearing up for a second burst. He doesn't think he can handle another one, though. He's so tired.

Yamada must be able to tell because he wipes away one last tear and says, "I think it's time for a little break, hm? Maybe we wrap ourselves in some blankets and take a loooong nap, or maybe we turn on the big TV and put on our favorite cartoon. Whaddya say?"

Hitoshi sniffles and leans into Aizawa's chest, shifting to alleviate the prickly feeling dotting his skin wherever he's being touched. There's still a part of him that's too big to handle any of that. The bell won't ring for at least half an hour and heroics always goes over the schedule. People don't usually end up back at the dorms until hours after school was supposed to end. That's so much time that Hitoshi should spend reviewing his match and figuring out how he fucked it up so badly. Aizawa should be scolding him for letting Bakugou get the advantage. He should be elbow deep in training exercises to make sure this never happens again.

"That's a good idea," Aizawa says behind him, resting his head on Hitoshi's.

"It's not," Hitoshi responds, reflexively. "I—I have stuff to do."

"No, I have stuff to do," Aizawa corrects. "I have to get back before someone burns the gym down. You have to rest. You hit the ground hard, kid. We need to make sure there aren't any injuries bad enough to warrant Recovery Girl."

"And if you're gonna be stuck under observation anyways, might as well take advantage of it!" Yamada chimes.

There's no use in fighting. Aizawa and Yamada, for all that they love each other, differ more than cats and dogs. If they actually agree on something, there's no changing their minds about it.

Accepting that today just isn't his day, Hitoshi nods with a frown. Losing the heavy weight of Aizawa doesn't help much, though, and he pouts as Aizawa ruffles his hair and tells them he'll be back. Hitoshi's posture goes straight, like a meerkat, and he stares intensely at the sliding door, even after Aizawa has disappeared behind it.

Yamada taps him gently to get his attention and points to the wall mounted television screen in the corner. "So, the TVs in the break rooms aren't supposed to be use for channel surfing. They're meant for, like, white noise and calming music—bleh. But I happen to know a super secret way to hack into the school's mainframe and pull up… uhh, what do kids these days watch? Somethin' All Might related?"

Hitoshi scrunches his nose in disgust. He has nothing against All Might, but every cartoon about him is just a bunch of episodic fight scenes. If he wanted that, he'd watch the news.

"Beyblade?" Hitoshi suggests instead, twisting his shirt in his hand.

"I don't know what that is but hell yeah, little man. Whatever you want," Yamada says, reaching for the remote and clicking the TV on. Apparently, his super secret way to hack in is just screen-sharing from his tablet.

He pulls up one of his accounts, shared with Aizawa, and Hitoshi totally isn't nosy enough to look through their watch history. From the brief glance he accidentally gets, it's a random assortment of musicals, nature documentaries, and crime dramas—as if they don't get enough of that in real life. Yamada quickly moves on to search Beyblade in the bar.

Hitoshi picks out an older season: Metal Fight. He'd prefer one of the Burst seasons, just so he can use this as a chance to catch up since he's so behind on them, but there's something comforting about rewatching the show he grew up on. The nostalgia holds his headspace firmly in place and he settles against Yamada with the collar of his gym uniform in his mouth.

Yamada is extremely confused by the premise of the show ("Are the spinning tops magic? Do these kids live in a magic world?") and Hitoshi is more than happy to babble the plot to him in a way that probably doesn't answer anything. Words are harder to find, so Hitoshi uses the best substitutions and assumes Yamada is smart enough to get it.

Like when he points to the DJ Blader and says, "You."

"Me?"

"DJ," Hitoshi confirms. DJ Bladers are the announcers for the bey battles, just like Yamada is the announcer for the Sports Festival. They're also very bad at blading, but Hitoshi keeps that part to himself.

"Hell yeah, dude," Yamada says, nodding like Hitoshi has said something prophetic.

By the time the main character, Gingka, is being attacked by a hundred different bladers ("This feels like attempted murder," Yamada comments), Hitoshi's face droops with exhaustion. His eyelids close without his permission and he fades in and out, tethered only by the metal clinking noises of the anime and Yamada's hand rubbing his back. Soon enough, that, too, disappears.

When his awareness returns, it's with heavy bones and a level of grogginess he only gets after he's crashed hard. Like, didn't sleep for three days trying to study hard. Dry drool crusts the corner of his lips and the room spins a little when he blinks himself awake. He's laying on his stomach with something bony and much harder than the couch cushions digging into his side—Yamada is sprawled out beneath him with one arm over his head, the other hanging off the edge, and his mouth parted in a loud snore.

Sitting on the floor beside their heads is Aizawa with his legs straight out, one crossed over the other, and an open laptop on a wooden lap table on top of them. His back is leaning against the couch, so he doesn't notice the boy rousing, and Hitoshi gets a good look at the incredibly awful email he's sending to Nedzu. The text is small and Hitoshi is smaller so it's a bit hard to read, but it's essentially summing up what happened today and requesting a counselor for Hitoshi to talk to.

He whines sleepily. "I don't need a shrink, 'Zawa."

He expects Aizawa to jump, but he slowly turns his head to meet Hitoshi's gaze. There's a black pair of reading glasses on his nose and he uses the opportunity to look over them with raised brows, the perfect picture of a strict teacher.

"It's rude to look at someone's computer screen, even worse to read their private conversations," Aizawa says. He goes back to typing, unbothered.

"Don't put it in front of me then," Hitoshi quips. He watches Aizawa finish the email and send it with a frown. "I still don't need a shrink."

"Wrong kind of counselor," Aizawa says, shutting his laptop and adjusting his position to better face him. "I was requesting an academic advisor—to help you handle your classes better."

An anchor drops from his heart and digs into his stomach, keeping him in place. It's a shock of icy ocean water slamming over him in a wave. Whatever tiredness he had disappears, dread and white hot agitation replacing it.

"Although, an actual counselor wouldn't be a bad idea either. You aren't coping well, and I think talking to someone could be beneficial," Aizawa adds.

"I'm fine," Hitoshi responds, frosty. His age flip flops between going up too quickly and being dragged even lower. His face is too expressive and his emotional control (if he ever had it) is slipping. He doesn't know what he's feeling, he just knows it's bad and it crawls within his chest like a spider with long, spindly legs.

Aizawa shoots him a hard look. "No, I'm tired of hearing that. I would rather you not insult me by insisting that I'm too blind, or too stupid, to not notice what's been going on."

Hitoshi winces and ducks his head. He presses his cheek against Yamada's chest, rising and falling with the sound of his snores. Hitoshi wants to wake him up. As much as he adores his mentor, he's planted firmly between headspaces and the disappointed, formal tones Aizawa speaks to him with only makes things worse. It's like he's pushing Hitoshi's head firmly underwater, unwilling to let him up even when he starts choking.

"I'm sorry," Hitoshi mumbles, curling his fingers into Yamada's leather jacket. He just wants this to be over, so he tries to defuse the tension. "I… I'm just sorry. For bein' mean earlier, and for… for everything now. Didn't mean to make you mad…"

There's a moment of stilted silence as Aizawa thinks, interrupted by a sigh. "Things are easier when you accept help, Hitoshi. The ironic thing is that's easier said than done, but it's true."

It's not. Wasting hours being tutored on something he won't understand doesn't make things easier. Being distracted by another person while he's studying and being constantly told to stop working doesn't make things easier. Hitoshi learned a long time ago that if he wants something done, he has to do it himself and it's frustrating that Aizawa, of all people, doesn't get that.

Out of anyone, he should understand.

"I do appreciate the apology," Aizawa says. "But I'm not angry with you, I just want you to get the support you need."

"I need to be left alone," Hitoshi mutters.

Aizawa flattens his lips in a lip, stuck on Hitoshi's stubbornness. There's no convincing him otherwise. It's like telling him the sky is green or water is purple.

"I forgive you," he tries again, "because I know you're doing your best, even though you feel like that isn't good enough."

"It feels like it's not enough because it isn't. I'm behind and I need to do more. Be Plus Ultra or whatever."

"Plus Ultra means to surpass your limits for the sake of helping people," Aizawa says slowly. "It doesn't mean to burn yourself to the ground. You can't save anyone if you're exhausted, and you're behind because you're too tired to do your actual best. It's a circular problem, Hitoshi. One you can't keep up with, or break out of, on your own. Trust me, I'm speaking from experience here."

There's a groggy hum and a hand lands on Hitoshi's back. Yamada's orange sunglasses are askew on his nose, so the green and gold of his irises peeks through.

"Only way out of a hamster wheel is to hit that pause button and fall out, baby," Yamada says, voice thick with sleep. He pets Hitoshi absentmindedly, eyes fluttering between states of awareness. "Or let someone stop it from spinnin' outta control. Take the load off."

"I'm not a hamster," Hitoshi mumbles, lacking the energy to argue with both of them. He could handle the one, but he's too small, too fragile. He could shatter into a million pieces at even the slightest touch. Yamada doesn't let go of him, though.

"Could be a mouse wheel," Yamada says, eyes fully closed again. "Or a kitty wheel. We got one for ours a couple months ago."

"Mm, kitty…" Hitoshi hides his face in Yamada's chest, struck with a sharp feeling of longing for the floppy black cat abandoned in the back of his closet. Left in the dark, alone, just like Hitoshi is every day. In both instances, he only has himself to blame.

"In other words," Aizawa says, fixing Yamada's glasses and giving him a disapproving look for getting them off track. Yamada only smiles back with a level of intimacy and affection that has Hitoshi feeling like an outsider.

"You need to slow down, and let someone be there for you. Mic and I, of course, are always available, but you have other people in your corner too—like the annoying one from 2-B. He came around last week to ask for some of our study material, despite it being inferior to Vlad-sensei's," Aizawa mocks, more unamused than actually offended.

That… sounds like Monoma, but Hitoshi didn't know anything about that. Monoma laments every time they do study together about how Aizawa is doing Hitoshi a disservice and how he'd be better off in 2-B. Even though the lessons and curricular is the same, the approaches differ and Monoma is convinced that Vlad King could outdo Eraserhead in anything. So, why would he ask for material from Aizawa?

The confusion shows on his face and Aizawa says, "Kid, he wants to help you," while tapping Hitoshi's forehead, like he's trying to knock it into his brain. "He's your friend."

His heart hurts. He knows this on a logical level, but it's so hard to actually accept that his friendship with Monoma isn't one-sided. Hitoshi can't fathom the idea that anyone would want him around, let alone actually care enough to help him. Even if it could be true, he doesn't want to ruin a good thing by always being behind, always being in crisis, always needing help.

But… in a way, he's already started to ruin things by pulling away, hasn't he? The study groups, the ghosted text chains, the missed day roller skating. If he keeps saying no, one day Monoma is going to stop asking. Then what? Who else would Hitoshi have to turn to?

His insides shrivel and wilt, tightening up like something's sucked all the air out. He shudders, hiccups, and bites down the urge to cry again. Yamada's hand starts moving in those soothing circles, a reminder that Hitoshi is still safe from his big kid responsibilities.

"Hitoshi," Aizawa says gently, resting his hand on top of Hitoshi's head. "You're only making things worse by running on fumes and pushing everyone away. There's nothing wrong with taking a few days off, or letting your friend help you out. Every hero needs time to recuperate, and you're no exception."

Against his will, tears overflow from Hitoshi's eyes and he brings his fist up to rub them away like a baby. Yamada shifts and wraps him in a tight hug.

"It's okay to be behind, too," he says into Hitoshi's hair. "There's no finish line you gotta cross, or a time you gotta beat. It took me a couple years to launch my career after I graduated. Even longer to get my show online. Not bein' able to do something, now or ever, doesn't make ya a failure, you hear? Your worth isn't determined by how much you can do."

And Hitoshi loses what little control he has and sobs into Yamada's chest. The words are said too sweetly, too earnestly by a man that doesn't care to lie. Aizawa would lie to him—has before under his guise of rational deception—but Yamada would never, and Aizawa has no reason to now either. They truly believe this, even if it's nonsense, and Hitoshi weeps from the warmth of reassurance he rarely gets. He needed to hear this, with their arms around him and the privacy of their ever changing relationship spurring him on.

Aizawa, never great in these situations, just keeps his hand as a weight on the back of Hitoshi's head and pats it when Hitoshi gets too hysterical. He coaches Hitoshi through breathing again and, when his second burst of crying ends a few minutes later, he seals the deal with one last thing.

"When I was your age," he says, "I thought it was impossible for me to make it. I thought I wasn't strong enough, smart enough, passionate enough. My Quirk wasn't ideal for this line of work and… and I lost sight of who I wanted to be when I graduated. It felt like everyone surged ahead with dreams and an understanding of who they wanted to be and I just stagnated."

Hitoshi lays frozen on Yamada's chest, too scared that if he moves it'll make Aizawa stop talking. His mentor is so private, and he keeps things so close to his chest. It's rare that he ever discloses anything about himself, and the vulnerability in his tone is jaw dropping.

"Eventually, I figured it out. It took a couple years, but I did," Aizawa falters and inhales deeply. "And, afterwards, a friend of mine—it was Midnight—told me that you can't shame yourself into doing better. You can only give yourself some grace and accept that, even if the past has sucked, the world isn't ending tomorrow. There's still time."

Turning his head timidly, Hitoshi meets Aizawa's eye. Something untangles within him, the panic that's always come with the ticking of the clock and the ever growing distance between him and his peers. It doesn't go away, and he's not sure if it ever will, but he's able to mirror Aizawa's deep breath and settle his racing heart, just a bit.

Bratty and never one to make anything easy, Hitoshi grumbles, "But what if I die tomorrow? Freak accidents happen, Sensei."

Yamada flinches hard enough to jolt them both and Hitoshi blinks up at him, confused. Aizawa only reacts with a slight shift in his expression and shrugs.

"You won't have to worry about catching up then, will you? You could spend your last day resting and snuggling with your favorite sensei, guilt free."

He pats Yamada's arm with a small smirk and Hitoshi averts his eyes, shyly. His cheeks flush with embarrassment as he mumbles, "Not my favorite…"

"Hm?" Yamada lifts his head. "Say somethin', honey?"

"I…" Hitoshi trails off, flustered. "Nothing, it's just—I still like you, but Aizawa-san is… my favorite."

Yamada awes at him with a playful pout, ribbing him for how sweet it is. Aizawa, on the other hand, looks genuinely taken aback. Not upset, just pleasantly surprised.

"Ah," he says, patting Hitoshi's head again. He glances at Yamada. "I suppose that means we should swap."

Hitoshi's blush inflames. "N-no, you don't have to if you don't want to. I didn't mean—"

"Nope! Sorry, Toshi-chan, it's a done deal," Yamada says, already shifting to wiggle out beneath him. "I gotta take a leak and you need some cuddle time with dear ole Eraser!"

As if Hitoshi is the size of literal four year old, he gets adjusted and moved until Yamada is stretching in the freedom of the break room and Aizawa is already dozing beside him. It's similar to the position he was in with Yamada, but now he's on his side, half sprawled on top of his mentor and half falling off the edge of the too small couch. Aizawa keeps an arm looped around him, holding the boy to his chest, and Hitoshi clutches his baggy bodysuit with even more desperation than Yamada's leather jacket.

Don't leave again. Please.

"I think I'm gonna pop by the lounge to get some snacks, too, if y'all need anything," Yamada says, rolling his shoulders. "I'm pretty sure we can commandeer this room for another—oh, I dunno—hour or so? After that we might need to find a new pad to crash."

"It's called going to bed in the dorms," Aizawa drawls. "Don't get snacks, get dinner. The kid didn't eat anything at lunch."

Hitoshi snorts with disbelief. "I did too! Monoma got me a chocolate milk and a strawberry sandwich!"

"That's not a proper lunch." Aizawa glares at him, tired. His knuckles absentmindedly stroke up and down Hitoshi's arm like it's the spine of a cat.

Yamada raises his hand in Hitoshi's defense and says, "I'll get something nutritiously sound for growing kiddos, don't you worry, Starlight."

He turns and slides open the door, preparing to step out. Before he does, something seizes Hitoshi's insides and twists.

"Wait—!"

Yamada's head tilts back, just enough for his eyes to be seen.

Hitoshi pauses, ashamed, and whines unhappily. "Can you… uhm…"

Everything in the room muddles and expands, making Hitoshi feel absolutely tiny. His ribcage is cracked open, exposed, and he nearly flees with his usual strategy of pretending nothing is wrong and hiding away from anyone who dares say otherwise.

"Sure can," Yamada says, before he works up the courage to finish. "Whatever you want, sunshine, I'll get it!"

That makes it easier, just a little, for Hitoshi's words to cooperate. His tongue is too big for his mouth and his head aches from all the crying without any water, but he makes the very, very scary decision to ask for what he needs.

"My, uh, dorm has a closet in it," he mumbles, curling into Aizawa's chest. He's so quiet, and so nervous, that Aizawa takes it upon himself to lazily sign what he's saying for Yamada. "In that closet, there's a kitty. It's black and soft and big and… can you get it for me? Please?"

When he finishes, he risks glancing at Yamada, only to find the man smiling ear to ear.

"You got it, baby! One kitty cat, comin' right up!"

He salutes into a pair of finger guns and slides the door behind him. He whistles as he heads towards the bathroom and it's loud enough that Hitoshi hears it for another twenty seconds. He stares at the door and doesn't let himself fully relax until the sound is gone and all that's left is how dumbfounded and relieved he feels.

"That was…" he trails off, unsure.

"Nice?" Aizawa offers, already reading his mind. "Easier than you thought? I told you, kid, getting help makes a difference. Even if it's just picking something up for you."

Help has never been nice before. It's never come for free, and it's never actually done anything to benefit him. It always hurts, and it always sets him back. If he fucks something up, at least he knows its his fault and he can fix it. If someone else fucks something up for him, it's still his fault but he can't do anything about it. He just has to pick up the pieces—by himself.

It hits him, in that moment, that Hitoshi doesn't trust anyone. It's probably obvious to everyone else, but it's not until now that he realizes it. He doesn't trust Monoma to be his friend. He doesn't trust Yamada or Aizawa to care about him. He doesn't even trust himself to get through the biggest slump he's ever been in.

And… that hurts. Just like it hurts to see 2-A messing with their friends, or 2-B going out on trips as a class, or Aizawa and Yamada letting him in on the secret of their love. No one else has this issue. No one else acts like a hunted dog at every fork in the road. They have friends, partners, family to support them. They didn't have to grow up relying only on themselves.

All Hitoshi has is…

Aizawa flexes for a moment while reaching for the remote and turns the TV back on. The screen lights up to the middle of a Beyblade episode, where Aizawa presumably paused it when he first came in to see them napping.

"Do you remember where you last left off?" he asks, awkwardly fiddling with Yamada's tablet on the end table beside their heads. With Hitoshi's, slightly stunned, instruction, he starts the episode after the assassination attempt on Gingka and settles back into the cuddle, like he's done this a million times before.

But he hasn't. Hitoshi knows he hasn't. He doesn't handle his other students like this, no matter how fucked up their brains are. He doesn't hug Bakugou through his meltdowns, or cuddle Yaoyorozu when she's breaking down over her insecurities. He just sits with them, an adult to ground themselves with, and moves on.

He doesn't take on students to personally train. He doesn't hand down his capture weapon or teach them his secrets. He doesn't try to make something useful out of their broken pieces and then try again when he inevitably fails. It's only Hitoshi, only ever Hitoshi.

Aizawa and Yamada are the closest things to parents he's ever had. He's had adults in his life, even caretakers masquerading as his parents, but they've never taken care of him like this. They would've seen his regression, how it perfectly encapsulates everything wrong with him, and they would've found him disgusting. Aizawa encourages it and tells him that it's good to help him process things. Yamada squeals at him like he's adorable and practically begs for some "baby cuddles" regardless of how young Hitoshi is feeling.

It's… different. And Hitoshi, for the first time in his life, wonders if he can actually listen to them and let them handle things when he can't.

"Sensei?" he murmurs, hiding his face in Aizawa's chest.

He gets a hum in response, rumbly with the sound of his heartbeat thudding against Hitoshi's cheek.

"Can I…" he trails off for a moment before remembering how readily Yamada accepted his request. Maybe Aizawa would too. "Can I take a sick day? N-not tomorrow but… maybe Friday?"

Even though it's four and a half days away, that still feels too soon. Part of him thinks he should just stick it out until the next holiday break and see about taking one of those days off instead.

"Sure. A three day weekend sounds nice," Aizawa says, nonchalant. "I'm sure Bakugou won't mind taking notes for you—since he's part of the reason you need time to recover. I'll still make a folder for you to review on Monday, that way you won't miss anything."

Hitoshi nods quickly, aging up a bit with his brain on student mode. "Yeah, yeah, of course. I'll talk to my other teachers and get every missed assignment finished by morning. Thank you." He pauses, this time only taking a few seconds before asking, "And our training session on Thursday? Is that… still canceled?"

"It is," Aizawa says, absolute. There's no budging him. "But if I feel like you've gotten enough rest this weekend, we can talk about next Thursday being viable. Now, be quiet and watch your cartoon. Babies shouldn't be handling logistics."

Hitoshi pouts, grumbling about how he's not a baby, and turns around in Aizawa's arms so he can face the TV. After a minute of melting into the couch and screaming at himself in disbelief for taking a day off, Aizawa speaks up.

"I'm proud of you, kid."

Hitoshi doesn't respond, and Aizawa doesn't say anything more. There's nothing to say, no reason to ask what he means. Hitoshi knows what he's referring to, and warmth blooms in his tummy. He should thank Aizawa again, to make sure the man knows how much Hitoshi appreciates his kindness, but he decides to accept it. For once, he'll just accept the compliment.

And when Yamada comes back with a plastic bag of less than nutritious snacks and a floppy kitty for Hitoshi to cuddle, he thinks he might actually be able to trust them both. Maybe they're right. Maybe taking a break isn't such a bad idea.