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Dripping, seeping, cold and hot all at the same time. A static buzzing, and a ringing quiet. Hard steel against soft flesh, a metallic tinge in the air.
Blank.
That was the first word people would use to describe Hitoshi Shinsou— blank, unnerving, absent of everything one would typically attribute to the human condition. From his quirk to his looks, nothing quite seemed to stand out about the boy, save for the slight on-edge queasiness he tended to give off; that is, if people even noticed him at all.
It was okay. Nothing new.
Still, recently, Hitoshi had been given an opportunity: to train under Mr. Aizawa— the hero course homeroom teacher— and finally, finally have a shot at proving everybody else wrong. Not that he deserved to, of course. But the chance was there, and he would be a damn fool not to take it, cling to it with everything he could and hold on for the ride.
Even so, the road was.. challenging, to say the least. Training was rough, chewing him up and spitting him out with dozens of new bruises each day; he’d still struggled to make many friends, even with the kind, do-gooder attitude that was somehow so prevalent at UA. It was like taking a test you forgot to study for, each interaction doing nothing more than reminding him he was behind.
Still so far behind.
Sometimes, Shinsou wished he could use his quirk on himself, wash away the thoughts that stabbed around in his head every moment of every day and relinquish control to someone, anyone else. Erase it all, if only for a moment. The voice telling him he couldn’t catch up, that he was destined to be a villain all along. That was what he deserved. That, even after being given the world, a genie granting his every wish, he wasn’t good enough. Too lazy, too odd. Who could he ever hope to become, when he could barely manage as is?
He’d honed his mind to be able to point out these things— to construct words into weapons, so he could initiate the ever so familiar call-and-response of his quirk. The insults came easily, a steady flow of maladies streaming from his consciousness.
Like a villain.
Today was just one of those days. A joint training between the two hero classes (plus Shinsou, of course). He’d gotten beat bad, even with the binding cloth Aizawa had given him to use for the exercise. The hero course kids just made it seem so easy. They’d complimented him on his performance— both the kids and teachers alike— but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t tried hard enough. He hadn’t worked long enough. He wasn’t good enough.
Drip, drip. A burning and a numbness. Adrenaline.
Now, Hitoshi was crumpling up toilet paper, pushing the soft squares against the counter, washing away the red that threatened to stain the cool white tiles covering its top. His arms buzzed with pain, and he still had yet to wash them, instead focusing on preventing anything from getting onto his bathroom carpet.
Blank. The one thing Hitoshi Shinsou tried so hard to avoid being. The only way he could ever be seen.
The boy flushed the soaked toilet paper down the toilet, taking off the rest of his clothes— a ratty tee he’d gotten from a middle school trip, navy blue lounge shorts, and underwear— before stepping into the shower. Its icy droplets shocked him awake and he shivered, drawing in closer to himself as the water adjusted. As it got warmer, he stared at his left forearm, watching carefully as the rose-tinted streams carried away the blood that had caked around his new cuts. Hitoshi liked the way that his brain seemed to shut off, its bandwidth having been reduced to simple sensory experiences and brief notations; nothing like its usual overactivity.
His arms began to sting, and he flinched, jerking his arm away from the now-hot water before returning it with an aching bliss. Things would be quiet for tonight.
Finally.
Weeks passed. Like always, nobody noticed as Hitoshi swapped his usual baggy short-sleeve tops for longer ones, then to arm sleeves, then back to his typical attire as the lines on his arm faded from a deep crimson to flat, shiny, pastel pink. Still not fully healed. Then again, would they really ever be?
Today, Hitoshi was back at the training grounds for the second time, attending one of his lessons with Mr. Aizawa. He was currently staggering up from the ground, having allowed himself to fall just a little too hard— a choice he was sure Aizawa didn’t notice, given his unchanged demeanor. Taking a step forward, Hitoshi sprung, shooting out his own capture weapon towards the pro hero while sidestepping a punch. He swung.
His fist met air; somehow, Aizawa had dodged even that, and, sticking a leg out, managed to send Hitoshi sprawling onto the floor again.
“Focus. You know how to avoid those,” the teacher began, fixing his no-nonsense gaze on the purple-haired boy, though for just a moment, his sight seemed to drift.
“Yeah, sorry. Sir.”
Hitoshi tacked on the last word quickly, internally cursing himself for not being able to land a single hit on the man when he was literally right there. He reset his stance, thoughts whirling around his head. Was Mr. Aizawa going easy on him? Normally he’d at least counterattack, or add a bit more movement, or something.
As if he’d heard Hitoshi, Aizawa paused, holding his hand up.
“Go get some water.”
“I’m fine—“
“Go.”
Great. Now he looked weak. Weak and rude. With slow steps, Shinsou stalked over to the nearby bench where he’d set his water bottle, untwisting the cap and then pouring the drink into his mouth. Panting, he thumbed the capture weapon that wound its way around his shoulders, encasing him in a semi-cocoon of metal-infused cloth. A reminder of how far he was from measuring up to the hero Aizawa was. The hero Aizawa thought Hitoshi could be. Behind, yet again.
“You’re letting yourself get hit.”
The teacher’s voice yanked Hitoshi from his thoughts roughly, sending him tumbling back to the forested green training grounds on UA’s campus. Right. He was right, and Hitoshi knew that, but something inside of him fell anyways, like an ice cube crawling through his esophagus. Surely it wasn’t that obvious.
“I said I’d do better.” The boy’s voice was level, though a hint of his frustration laced his tone.
“Shinsou.”
“What?”
Aizawa was close now, standing only a few feet away from the student with an indiscernible look on his face. Hitoshi caught his eyes and held contact, waiting for the man to speak. When he didn’t, Hitoshi spoke instead.
“I’m sorry. Rude of me,” he broke off in a mutter.
“You’re doing well.”
The words threw Hitoshi off guard, causing him to bite off whatever half-formed response he’d been about to give. Doing well? Doing well? Couldn’t Aizawa see how awful he was compared to, say, Class 1A? Almost subconsciously, a shadow fell over Hitoshi’s expression, clouding it with something close to anger.
“You don’t have to sugarcoat things.” He murmured, knowing at once that he was being unfair— Aizawa was blunt, he wouldn’t even sugarcoat a lollipop for a 4-year-old. “I know I need to work harder. You don’t have to encourage me. I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” A pause. “You’ve been getting more reckless. You’re on track to match my class in ability, and I’m concerned—“
“What? That I’ll lose it? Go off the rails?” Hitoshi stuttered, grasping for some retort, some shield against the hero’s words.
“That you’re hurting yourself.”
Hitoshi watched as Aizawa’s eyes flickered all-too-subtly down to his exposed forearm, tracing the flattened pink scars that crept up the appendage. On instinct, Hitoshi’s right hand flew to cover the area, his gaze moving to the grass. His vision swam, the vibrant hues of the meadow growing blotchy. He couldn’t start crying. Not now. He’s supposed to be a hero. Blinking once, twice, three times, Hitoshi swallowed down the wet lump clogging his throat.
“Right. Yeah. You’re concerned.”
He attempted more words, but all that came out was a pained chuckle. Because really, who had ever even noticed before? Every time Hitoshi came home and stared at the ceiling all night instead of sleeping, every time he’d “accidentally” gotten a little too close to the stove at class cookouts, every time he got called a freak or a villain-in-the-making just because of something he was born with. Why would Aizawa even care? It wasn’t like he had any reason to— Hitoshi was just a blank, a placeholder for a person who never would be.
“Like your concern is ever gonna do anything. Don’t act like you can just fix it- fix me. As if you actually think I can be a hero.”
“I do.”
“Cut the shit! I’m still leagues behind everyone else. I can’t even win my training exercises.” The wateriness seeped back into Hitoshi’s tone, much to his distress. Why was he getting so emotional over this?
“Shinsou, you’ve passed nearly all of the exercises you do with the classes. Yes, you might not win, but you’re a strong fighter, and an even stronger strategist. Compare that with your sports festival performance-“
“It doesn’t matter! I can still barely even make conversation with my classmates, let alone the kids you have me train with. I’m sick of everyone else being so far ahead.”
“Do you think you can’t catch up?”
Aizawa crouched down gently in front of Hitoshi, looking up into his eyes and taking a deep breath. Hitoshi again met his gaze, his head still bowed in the remnants of an attempt to hide his crying face.
“I just— it’s all so loud, sometimes, and—“
The purple-haired boy broke off into tears. Maybe in some universe he could be everything he wanted. But in this one? Hitoshi couldn’t imagine himself as anything at all. His future always seemed to blur at the edges, frayed by the multitudes of opinions others had forced on him. He couldn’t dream more than one or two years ahead on a good day. How could someone like that ever become anything other than street trash; discarded, stomped on, and left broken in some back alley whenever people realized that nobody, nobody, would benefit from him being around?
Blank.
“Listen. I’m not gonna tell you to ignore it all,” Aizawa’s stoic voice broke through Hitoshi’s sobs. “But there are people who want to see you win. People who admire you. They don’t think you’re behind, or too far gone. They think you’re strong, the same way you think of others.”
“So what?” Hitoshi interjected, his words crackling with a familiar sharpness. “So I should just magically get better? Fix everything so some people who may or may not exist can feel better about themselves? They’re wrong. Too fucking bad. They— you— can’t save me.”
Just like he thought. Stop cutting for someone else. Train harder for someone else. Be a hero for someone else. Hitoshi didn’t care about anyone else. He wasn’t good enough for himself, and not a single other soul could change that. He was tired of being told just to try harder, that people believed in him, that they couldn’t stand to see him hurt. It was all a load of bullshit. If they cared, they’d show it.
Aizawa spoke. “You don’t have to ‘fix yourself’ or ‘be saved’ or whatever you’ve been telling yourself. Because you’re right— nothing’s going to change overnight. That doesn’t mean it won’t change at all. Do you like feeling behind? When it’s all ‘loud’?” The man paused before continuing. “I don’t want to force you to do anything, or say anything, or change anything if you’re really content. But I wouldn’t be here training you if you didn’t think, somewhere, somehow, you could be better.”
Hitoshi struggled again for words as he watched Aizawa get up and pass him a second water bottle (when had he finished the first?). Spiky anger jutted against his ribcage, but a different, more fluid feeling followed it. Ambiguity? Regret? More importantly, who was Aizawa to be telling him this? His fingers tightened around the new water bottle, and he considered what the hero had just said. Before Hitoshi could manage a response, Aizawa spoke again.
“Training time’s up for today. The hero course classes are putting on a barbecue tonight on the grass between their dorm buildings. Midoriya and Monoma asked me to invite you.”
A quick buzz sounded off from Hitoshi’s phone, the plain black device vibrating against the dark wood of the bench the boy was sitting on. The location, and a calendar reminder from Aizawa. Once more with that fluid feeling, a moonswept tide tugging at some thing lodged deep inside him.
“I’ll be there.”
When the equipment Aizawa had brought was finally repackaged safe and sound inside the duffle bags he’d brought it in, whatever emotions Hitoshi had had bubbling up inside of his gut had simmered off. A problem for another day. He waved goodbye to his teacher, cautioning a small smile. Maybe he could catch up. Maybe not. But for now, for just tonight, he supposed, he might as well try.