Chapter Text
A strange tension floated in the air when Hitoshi crossed the front gates of U.A. High School. Goosebumps skittered across his skin as he fought down the instinctive shudder. No one else seemed to notice, either minding their own business before the day began or chatting with their friends. It would look out of place if he shivered, and no one else seemed affected—especially since it was a warm spring morning.
It’s nothing, Hitoshi told himself. I’m just being paranoid.
It certainly wouldn’t be the last time.
See, Hitoshi had a few secrets bundled up under his skin, all of which would be detrimental to him (and his ability to sit, no doubt) should they ever be revealed to the public. Or worse—Aizawa, his homeroom teacher and mentor. Hitoshi had managed to matriculate into Class 1-A by the skin of his teeth, thanks to the hidden system of rescue points, and he had just barely edged out someone named Mineta for the last spot in the Heroics course.
He had a lot to prove—to himself, to U.A., to those who watched upcoming heroes with a hawk-eyed gaze. His trajectory would be a bit different than most of his peers, given he had no plans to be in the public’s eye. Ever since he was small, he wanted to follow in Pro Hero Eraserhead’s footsteps as an Underground Pro Hero. It would be where his quirk and skills would shine best, after all.
Aizawa, the very Pro Hitoshi had admired for a near decade, agreed and even trained Hitoshi as his personal protégé.
Hitoshi had too much to lose if his secrets were to ever be unleashed.
He had the misfortune of living in a society where a biological, hormonal, and pheromonal caste system dictated your place in the world. Gender Dynamics had three classes: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. It contained a fixed amount of hormonal and pheromonal development in addition to sex characteristics. One’s gender identity could be fluid and change, but a dynamic was something you were stuck with the moment you entered a phenomenon known as ‘the Presentation Haze,’ or the ‘Haze’” as was colloquially referred. Dynamics would then diverge into another classification system, this one dependent on hormones and pheromones that could influence physical and mental behaviors.
The Dominant Class, which then were categorized into Dominants/Dommes, Caregivers (also split into Guardians, Big Sibling, Babysitter/Minder), Handlers, and Dom-aligning, referring to those who didn’t quite meet the biological criteria for a full Dominant or Caregiver classification. It was a common assumption that the Dominant Class was filled with Alphas and a few Betas, but even an Omega could be classified as a Dominant. The Switch Class, categorized into Dom-Leaning, Sub-Leaning, and Neutral, were seen as the class most ‘Beta’s shuffled into, given Beta’s stereotype as being the balancer between the dynamics. Finally, the Submissive Class, categorized into Submissives, Littles (Tots [or Pups], Tyles, and Tweeners), Pets, and Sub-aligning, which many perceived as ‘the omega class.’
To the rest of the world, Shinsou Hitoshi was another run-of-the-mill Beta Neutral. His scent muted, but still with its’ distinct lavender, patchouli, and vanilla. Nothing to blink twice at or turn one’s head into knots. If anyone had to describe him, they would likely state he was the most normal of all normals. He had a lanky stature, which many did associate with more of the Dom classes, and a lean, muscled physique thanks to the months of training beneath Aizawa’s stern eye.
As long as no one picked him up, they would continue to believe in the lie.
Weight was one of the first indicators of a Little classification. Hitoshi vaguely remembered something about bone density and distribution of fats from his middle school Dynamic Biology & Health class. Like any other Little, his weight was low in a way that would cause alarm and medical interventions in any other dynamic and class. Hitoshi couldn’t explain the why’s or the how’s; he was a solidly average student when it came to the sciences.
See . . . Littles didn’t have as many rights or freedoms as the other classes, thanks to the biological necessity and function of being submerged in a younger headspace, and out of everyone, the Omega Pup class had even less.
Other Littles could have a typical life, within reason, and didn’t need to be in headspace more than a few hours a week. However, the younger one’s headspace was, the more care and protection they needed from the other classes. Most people believed omega pups had no need to even be outside the pack den for longer than a few hours, and it was socially, culturally, and even legally, acceptable for someone to regard and treat an omega pup as their headspace age rather than physical. Encouraged, even.
And an omega pup holding a job?
It was unthinkable. Preposterous. It wasn’t illegal, technically, for an omega pup to have a job, but most people believed it was. Seldom respectable businesses hired those applicants, and omega pups who attempted to find work had to maneuver through unsavory places. Universities and many high schools declined their admittance as well, leaving many omega pups with either elementary or middle school education.
U.A. did hire omega pups (rarely) with the caveat that another pack member also enrolled in, and/or worked at, the school. If said pack member didn’t meet the enrollment criteria or wasn’t an employee? Well. That was the beginning and end of the pups’ high school experience, snuffed out within seconds.
Even then, the only department a pup could enroll in would be general education. Heroics and Support were out due to the dangers involved—villains, hero training, the experiments and items creation in support that often-caused explosions—and Management would “cause far too much stress than their delicate minds could handle.”
(An actual quote from Principal Nezu, some few years ago).
Higher education and a job were unthinkable for an omega pup, and so was being pack and/or caregiver-less. If anyone even had an inkling Hitoshi were a packless and caregiverless omega pup, he would have a horde of government departments breaking down his door out of ‘concern’ for his wellbeing.
Packs were beneficial for all dynamics and classifications involved, and it was essentially found family with additional instincts, behaviors, and scents. People often reported they could feel the bonds between pack members, fluttering under their skin, but Hitoshi found himself skeptical. He admitted, though, that his skepticism likely arose from the fact he had never been part of a pack before, not since he was an infant. As that time was buried deep within his subconscious, it didn’t count, in his opinion.
Regardless, if he did have any remaining pack bonds, they were dead and frayed by the time he was four years old and shuffled off into the foster care system. His foster homes were borderline negligent and emotionally, often verbally and sometimes physically, abusive, and he moved homes too quickly to even make any lasting pack bonds. Either someone in the home found him creepy, his quirk creepy, his voice creepy, and so on, until the complaints piled up and his overworked social worker appeared on the doorstep with another placement begrudgingly accepting him as another mouth to feed.
His Haze had happened, thankfully, at a home where his foster parents had left him to care for the younger children in favor of a two month-long cruise. His foster siblings at that time were too young to even know about the Haze, much less the different gender dynamics. All they knew was that big brother Hitoshi had a fever for a few days and wasn’t as energetic as before.
By the time the couple returned, Hitoshi behaved as though nothing out of the ordinary happened, his scent as dulled and muted as he dared.
There was only one way for an omega pup to hide their post-haze changes, and it was with the very illegal and dubiously created suppressors. Scent patches were sold in convenience stores beside bandages, meant to be used when one was in an enclosed area with other people and it wasn’t polite to flare one’s scent if they weren’t in distress. There were Rut and Heat suppressors, but those were a stopgap and meant to last around 72 hours. Anything longer could cause significant health complications.
Hitoshi used a general suppressor, one meant to, well, suppress any of his omega pup instincts and behaviors. Couple with the scent patch, people accepted his explanation of being a beta neutral with ease and little questions. He had been using them religiously for almost two years now and did his best to ignore the rising anxiety about potential health concerns. His dealer often took advantage of desperate pups and had latched onto Hitoshi with a vice grip, even offering to hack some of the government systems to change things if anything were noted, like his weight.
People would tsk and regard him as a poor, pitiful puppy if it ever became common knowledge. No one would look at him and see a capable fledging hero; all they would see was a pup who had been foolish and naïve enough to trust a drug dealer. He would be used an example, a case further justifying why pups needed such oversight and protection.
Therefore, it was imperative that his secret remained just that.
It had been a risky gamble, getting into the Heroics course. Getting personally trained by an Underground Pro Hero. But Hitoshi was nothing if not determined and single-minded in his goal of showing the rest of society he could be a Hero, and he didn’t need a Pack or Caregiver coddling and protecting him from knee scrapes.
Hitoshi can handle himself just fine. He didn’t need protectors, and he certainly didn’t need caregivers, either.
“Shinsou, have you heard?!”
Hitoshi blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by Kaminari’s conspiratorial whisper that really wasn’t a whisper. He hadn’t even noticed when he entered the classroom and made his way to his desk, far too in his thoughts to be aware. “What?”
“It’s all over the school forums,” Kaminari continued, fingers flying across the screen of his phone, sitting on his chair in reverse. “I still can’t believe it myself.”
Hitoshi rested his cheek on a propped fist and raised a brow. “What? Did one of the upper years get caught doing something?”
“Worse,” Kaminari chirped, and then leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “There’s a rumor of a pup in the Heroics course!”
All of Hitoshi’s blood became ice.
“. . . What?”
Kaminari didn’t notice the shaky undertone to his voice, only nodded in ‘agreement.’ “I know, right? Even though it’s just a rumor right now, apparently the staff are going nuts about it!”
KEEP CALM, Hitoshi chanted. KEEP. FUCKING. CALM. “That’s . . . how did a rumor like that even start?” He commended himself for his acting; it seemed Present Mic’s lessons were paying off.
“Whatcha talkin’ about? Whatcha talkin’ about?” Ashido bounced in their direction, her gaze bright for the early morning.
“About the pup,” said Kaminari.
Ashido’s eyes widened. “I heard about that! Didn’t some undercover second year see them buying suppressors or something?”
Hitoshi felt like his limbs were tied down by stone. “Undercover?”
“Yeah, apparently their agency has been working on unveiling the network of underground suppressors in Musutafu,” Kaminari explained. “It’s really cool—I think that’s something you wanna do, right, Toshi?”
“Right,” Hitoshi croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Has nothing been confirmed?”
“Not yet,” Ashido responded and hopped up on his neighbor’s desk, much to Sero’s sputtering. “There’re not enough facts yet, I think, and these kinds of missions take time, right? Since it’s so underground and everything.”
“I think Aizawa-sensei’s getting involved, too,” Sero butted in, and all of Hitoshi’s hope died right then and there in a painful, withering death. “I heard he even threatened the Chief of Police about it, too, when he tried to object.”
“That’s sensei for you,” Ashido smiled brightly and laughed. “Always protective when it comes to us kids and pups.”
This is it, Hitoshi thought, feeling disembodied from the present moment. This is where, and how, I die. “Well, uh, it seems like things will get handled since It’s sensei.”
“Yeah, but then someone from the agency leaked the info about the pup,” said Kaminari, frowning. “Which jeopardizes the operation, right? That’s how the rumor spread even here.”
“I read a few articles about it this morning,” another voice jumped into the conversation. Hitoshi blinked and wondered when Midoriya even entered the classroom. “I really hope they figure out who the pup is soon,” Midoriya added, worryingly biting his bottom lip. “I’ve seen things about suppressor abuse . . . it’s awful.”
Ashido shuddered. “Right?”
“My mom used to work in those cases,” said Sero, an abnormally serious expression and tone. “She had to leave and switch careers; it was too devastating, y’know? Had her all messed up for a few years, too.”
The door opened roughly and Aizawa stepped inside the classroom a moment later. “Settle down,” the man drawled, and, like well-trained pets, the students of 1-A quieted and scrambled for their seats. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the rumors, by now, so I’ll be addressing them once we roll-call.”
Roll-call commenced and Hitoshi hoped his voice didn’t waver suspiciously when he said, “Here,” once his name was called.
“I’m sure you have all heard about the suppressor case,” Aizawa said as he leaned against the podium, eyebags deeper than normal. “If not, let me debrief you. Two weeks ago, a second year on internship has been on an undercover infiltration mission with her agency, and they’ve been targeting a local, presumed underground suppressor ring that targets vulnerable pups.”
Gasps and shocked murmurs floated in the air. Hitoshi pressed his hands against his lap, hiding the way his fingers shook.
“There is reason to believe the pup in question is a current student of U.A.,” Aizawa continued a moment later, gaze sweeping over the students. Hitoshi hoped the way he averted his gaze wouldn’t be suspicious. “If any of you know anything, or even have an inkling, please either tell me or one of the other Hero staff. Suppressors can cause organ failure and death, if used long-term, and the risk increases exponentially when the user in question is a pup.”
A hand rose through the sea of desks, and Aizawa nodded in their direction. “Are there any other demographics you could tell us about?” Yaoyorozu questioned.
Aizawa hummed for a moment, pensive. “Intel believes the pup is either a first or second year of unknown gender identity. Given the suppressor use and general availability of scent patches, it’s more than likely they’re masking as a Beta or a Neutral.”
Hitoshi would’ve sweatdropped, if this were an anime.
Kirishima waved his hand next. “Will there be any, like, interrogations?”
“If or when it comes to that, you and your legal guardians will be informed and given suitable notice,” Aizawa explained. “Right now, we are in the information gathering stage of things.”
“What about the dealer?” asked Bakugou.
“There are a few eyes on them,” said Aizawa. “Now, as this is a sensitive case, I do not want any of you to start poking your noses into it.” Aizawa gave Midoriya a look, and the teen sheepishly smiled amidst the classes’ laughter. “If there’s reason to suspect a classmate, bring it to me. I will handle it.”
Hitoshi’s skin prickled and, before he could stop himself, his hand rose. Aizawa nodded at him to speak. Hitoshi took a moment, making sure his voice didn’t waver, and asked, “What’ll happen to the pup, um, once you figure out their identity?”
“They will be finding themselves over either my or another disciplinarians’ knee for some time,” Aizawa responded coolly, and many students shivered out of sympathy, remembering their own trips to a discipline room. Hitoshi couldn’t even move, frozen as he was. “Aside from that, likely an exam from a medical professional well-versed in pup biology and suppressor withdrawal. Depending on their homelife situation, other procedures may follow, too.”
Asui tilted her head. “Will they still be a student, kero?”
Aizawa sighed. “The Board will convene to discuss that with Nezu and their homeroom teacher, so I’m unable to give a definitive answer.”
Fuck.
“Now . . . let’s open your ethics textbook,” Aizawa continued a moment later, the edge of his lips twitching upright in amusement at the responding groans. “I hope you’ve all read the assigned chapter. What are some of your reflections?”
The rest of the day bypassed Hitoshi in a daze. He found himself vaguely connected to the surroundings, going through the motions as though he were submerged deep in water. He engaged in class and conversed with his friends as though nothing was wrong and even managed a successful rescue of one of the rescue bots during the exercise in afternoon training.
All Might even praised him for doing a good job.
No one thought anything had been wrong. No one side-eyed him or asked pointed questions. His classmates thought it to be just another school day, aside from the rumors. Not even Midoriya sensed something to be off, and he could scent out problems like a shark scenting blood in the water.
His mind remained a tangled battlefield of thoughts as evening settled over Musutafu. His hands shook slightly when he undressed and stuffed his uniform into the gym locker. Putting on his hero uniform made some of his anxiety still, feeling the fabric mold against his body, but it wasn’t enough to completely erase the encroaching sense of doom.
He should’ve called off training; made up a lie about having a migraine or stomachache. Now that he knew Aizawa was on the hunt for the pup that was most definitely him, it was probably a foolish idea to spend even more time with the Pro on an individual manner. Yet in order to maintain the façade, he needed to behave as normal.
Aizawa couldn’t have any inkling Hitoshi was the pup he sought.
Not even the smallest of thoughts.
Hitoshi might be somewhat oblivious at times, but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. Aizawa – and Yamada – had almost seamlessly moved from strict homeroom teacher to strict mentor to strict yet soft parental figure when it came to Hitoshi, in just a short amount of time. Perhaps it was due to the knowledge of Hitoshi being in foster care, or perhaps Aizawa had looked at him and saw a kindred soul—whatever it was, it became somewhat of an open-kept secret in their class (in the entire school, really) that Aizawa behaved more like a sire when it came to Hitoshi.
And if he even thought, just for a second, that Hitoshi could be a pup? Using suppressors? Being Packless and Caregiverless?
Yeah . . . Hitoshi would be lucky if he saw the light of day ever again. He would be snatched up and tucked into a nest so quickly, he wouldn’t even remember how to do kindergarten level mathematics.
A soft beep from his phone yanked him back to the present. His scent gland itched. He turned off the alarm and glanced at the time; there was about five more minutes before afternoon training officially began. He shook out his nerves for a moment and then made his way toward the gym. As it was a private practice session, he didn’t have to worry about other students being around.
I should go back to the Hanazono’s, Hitoshi thought to himself, getting into the motions of various stretches and warm-ups. I shouldn’t tempt fate, right?
He stretched out his hamstrings, breathing slow and deep. Relax, he told himself. Looking nervous is just gonna make him suspicious.
Aizawa arrived at the gym when he finished the warm-up sets, a shadow trailing behind him. Hitoshi hoped he didn’t look as rattled as he felt at Yamada’s familiar grin.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Yamada greeted with finger-guns, and Hitoshi snorted despite himself. “Hope ya don’ mind me hoppin’ on your parade?”
Hitoshi quirked an eyebrow. “I thought it was ‘raining on your parade’?”
“Don’t listen to this idiot,” said Aizawa.
Yamada squawked. “Shouta! Is that any way to speak to your dearest, most bestest friend?”
“Nemuri already went home,” was the dry response. “And ‘bestest’ isn’t a word; you’d think an English teacher would know that?”
Hitoshi smothered his laughter and masked it as a cough, Yamada’s dramatic fake sobs floating throughout the quiet gym. “So,” Hitoshi said once he felt his laughter was under control. “What’s on the agenda today, sensei?”
“There were some areas you lacked during today’s heroics class,” said Aizawa as he tied his hair back into a bun. “I want you to do some sets with your capture weapon.” After a pause, he added, casual, “After we check something.”
Hitoshi pinched his brow in question. His heart plummeted. “Check what?”
“Oh, the usual,” said Yamada with a dismissive wave, gaze oddly sharp and predatory as he stared deep into Hitoshi’s soul. He rested an arm on Aizawa’s shoulder. “Mind taking off your scent patch for a bit?”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Hitoshi stiffened. “W-what?”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, assessing him. Whatever the man found, it made his expression . . . stern. Hitoshi struggled to smother another rising shiver. “Mic was quite clear, Hitoshi. Take off your scent patch, and then we’ll get started with training for the afternoon.”
Hitoshi should’ve faked the flu, damn the consequences. No—he should’ve broken a fucking bone or something.
This gym would soon be his grave. How poetic. “Why? Are we doing scent training or s-something?” Hitoshi questioned, hoping they wouldn’t notice the way his palms sweated, the way his spine trembled slightly. His gaze, searching for an exit.
Aizawa sighed, as if disappointed. Hitoshi tried not to flinch too obviously. “Don’t insult either of our intelligences, kid. You know exactly why we’re asking you to take off your scent patch given the information I shared this morning.”
Yamada walked—no, prowled forward, hands behind his back, a lightness in his step that betrayed his keen expression. “Is that going to be a problem, lil’ listener?” He drew out some of the syllables in a deceptively cheerful tone, the ‘o’ in ‘problem’ pointed and stretching.
The ‘lil’ listener’ sounded less like a fond nickname and more like a threat. A gun, loaded and ready, pointed right at Hitoshi’s temple.
“Not at all.” Hitoshi attempted to follow all the mindful breathing exercises he knew. He could feel his glands burn. “I’m not wearing a scent patch, though. My scent is ju—.”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, pup.”
Hitoshi jerked at the guttural, thunderous, tone of voice. He had never heard such a tone from Aizawa before; not even when a friendly spar turned class brawl broke half the desks in their classroom. It sounded soul-deep and protective, the bubbling rage of a sire when their pup was in danger.
“You already have enough to answer for, and I don’t believe you would like further consequences for lying.”
“In addition to the lies you’ve already told,” added Yamada, cheekily.
Hitoshi swallowed around what felt like glass. “I – I . . ..”
He stared at their expressions, eyes wide and devastated at the fact things were already over before it even began. The two teachers—no.,. . the two Caregivers flared their scents, filling up the spaces between them with a flood of disappointment, parental disapproval, and, inexplicably, at least to Hitoshi, love, and a myriad of other emotions too tangled to pick out.
“H-how. . .?” He flushed brightly a moment later, breath in his throat. “I, I mean—.”
“We know what you meant, baby,” Yamada crooned with a smile that shouldn’t have looked so warm and paternal and yet, it did. “How did we find out you were a pup? You were good at keeping it hidden, I’ll give praise where it’s due . . . but you underestimate just how. . . memorable you are.”
Hitoshi blinked. Memorable?
“When the underground whispers about a lanky, purple-haired teenager with eyebags haunting the spots common for drug dealers, word tends to go around quickly,” Aizawa said dryly, unimpressed with Hitoshi’s months of stealth. “Especially when those drug dealers are known supplies of various suppressors for omegas and pups.”
Hitoshi had been careful.
He had been so, so careful.
(Not careful enough).
Yamada nodded, serene. Kaminari would’ve joked he resembled a monk, given the peaceful expression. “I think things would’ve lasted longer if you wore a wig. Maybe changed your voice, too.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” Aizawa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Point is . . . the charade is over with, puppy.” The stare aimed at him could’ve melted even lava. “Take your patch off. Now.”
Hitoshi didn’t speak.
He didn’t defend himself or make an excuse or, even, begin a tirade about the indignity and unfairness of how society treated omega pups like himself.
No, he ran instead.
In a gym with just one exit where his belongings were in another room. In a school alert and on guard for the pup hidden in their ranks.
Dumb of ass, in the words of a foster sister he once had.
Aizawa’s capture scarf wrapped around his waist two steps in and yanked him backwards. He released a sharp breath when his back stumbled into Aizawa’s chest. The man wrapped an arm around his waist firmly, steadying his hold, but the restraints hadn’t eased. Hitoshi wanted to rant—yell, curse, say something, anything, that could make Aizawa and Yamada believe in the façade he had kept for months. A whine escaped instead, high-pitched and sputtering in the back of his throat.
A pup, caught in his own web of lies and deception.
He yipped, an embarrassing noise only a pup could make, when a swat landed on his thigh, hands flying to soothe the sting. His sweatpants provided some protection, but certainly not enough to ebb the spread of sting. His inner organs shriveled at the expression on Yamada’s face. “I believe Daddy gave you an instruction, no?”
Oh, you’re double-fucked, said the angel on his shoulder. This wasn’t just Yamada as a teacher . . . No, it was a Yamada who imprinted on a packless, sireless pup—and going by Aizawa’s behavior as well, so had he. What should I bring to your funeral?
The devil nodded solemnly and saluted. May your ass rest in fucking pieces, Hitoshi.
Breathing in the full force of the Caregivers’ pheromones, his own scent gland throbbing and burning, scent already leaking from the faux skin, the remaining flickers of resistance drained out of his system like an unplugged bathtub. His fingers trembled as he peeled off one patch, the one smothering his bigger gland on the curve of his neck, diverting his gaze from Yamada’s piercing eyes.
A strained silence echoed. It seemed he could only hear his own breathing, raspy and hitching, and the soft crinkle of the faux skin as it was removed. Beneath the Caregivers’ prying gazes, Hitoshi removed the patches on his neck and inner wrists. He opened his mouth to lie that they were all off, but cool, calloused fingers brushed against the back of his neck. He shivered as Aizawa removed the near miniscule patches there.
Let no one say Hitoshi wasn’t meticulous when he had his mind set to something.
“Hmm . . . let’s see if you’ve put any on your ankles,” Yamada hummed and kneeled onto the gym mat, hands gentle as they held his ankle.
Hitoshi looked up at the ceiling as tears pressed against the backs of his eyes. His foot twitched as he felt the small patches be removed. People tended to forget about the glands near their feet and ankles when using patches, the area deemed a sensual and vulnerable place only a mate and/or pack member could touch and see. He counted the tiles, his breath trembling in his ear, but his vision blurred by the fifth one.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, Hitoshi chanted inwardly. Once a pup cried . . . it would open a floodgate of instincts, of pheromones, of hormones that would undoubtedly, inevitably, dropkick him into headspace. One Hitoshi hadn’t entered since the Haze, steadfastly avoiding anything that could tip him into that space. The USJ had been a testament to that strength, and he managed to escape a reveal by the skin of his teeth.
(Seeing Aizawa crumbled beneath the lumbering and violent Nomu had nearly been his undoing, had Midoriya not moved).
“I believe that’s everything, Shou,” said Yamada as he peeled off the last patch. They littered around his knees like crumbled bandages. He gave Hitoshi’s ankle a gentle squeeze before rising, expression softened into something kinder. “Shall we pack up and head to the den? It takes time for pups to settle in new places, you know.”
Aizawa shifted, humming in agreement, and maneuvered the teen. He shifted his grip to a carrying hold than a restrictive one. There would be no denying what classification Hitoshi was. Not when Aizawa could feel the lightness of his hollow bones.
Hitoshi hid his face in Aizawa’s shoulder and said, weakly, “Th-this is kidnapping . . .”
Yamada snorted ugly, but it was Aizawa who responded. “In normal circumstances, yes—but things change when it’s about a neglected, packless, and caregiverless pup.”
Those fucking laws, Hitoshi thought, unable to hide the bitterness underlying his scent. Burnt sugar beneath the vanilla. “I’m not neglected,” Hitoshi refuted in a grumble, bottom lip jutting, but neither adult paid it any mind.
Yamada gave his spine a rub that shouldn’t have felt as soothing as it did. “I like to call it a surprise adoption!” After a pause, his tone softened. “I know change can be scary, love, but everything will be alright from now on. You’re not alone anymore.”
Hitoshi wanted to deny the relief and warmth those words caused. He wanted to, so very badly, but he couldn’t—not when it made his tension dissipate. Those wants and needs he ruthlessly shoved down rose, unbidden, like the sunrise. He wanted a pack, a family. He wanted to feel safe in his instincts, in the place where he slept. He wanted the love, and affection, and care, and protection he should’ve had rather than the rotation of foster homes that only cared if he died or brought the police to their doorsteps.
He just didn’t want it at the cost of his freedom.
There’s still time, he thought, to console, to regroup. I can leave at night. Head down . . . somewhere, I don’t know yet, and just run . . . It’s not hard to change identities, right? Movies do it all the time.
Why not just start the nation-wide hunt right now? said the angel, dryly. Use your quirk and be home free. You’re fast enough to reach the gates . . . maybe.
I thought I was the devil here, said the devil, and the angel only smiled, cherubic and sweet.
Hitoshi ignored them, batting away his imagination, and focused on keeping himself calm. Lost in his thoughts as he was, he hadn’t even noticed they were outside until wind rustled his hair. Yamada slung his bookbag over his shoulder, his charms jingling as they moved.
Just lie in wait . . ., Hitoshi told himself. Things can still change.
Oh, you sweet, stupid summer child.
Hitoshi shoved the angel off his shoulder. I will drown you, he threatened. He listened to the soft chatter between the Caregivers, light conversation despite the tension from earlier. He closed his eyes a moment later, counting the rise and fall of Aizawa’s chest, and hoped.
It was all he could do.