Work Text:
Hitoshi is doing good.
like, actually.
It's a weird thing to realize, honestly. Looking around at his life and blinking dumbly in the face of his own happiness. Apparently after a lifetime of being gods favorite punching bag and the universe's personal chew toy, things are finally looking up for him.
He's somehow managed to claw his way into the hero course, (reluctantly) gotten himself a couple genuine friends, and he's been officially adopted by both Present Mic and Eraserhead.
It's pretty surreal.
All of those things are objectively good. Great even. Things like that don't just happen to people, and they certainly don't happen to kids like Hitoshi. Ever.
and yet here he is, standing on a mountain of his own success and morbidly curious about throwing himself off of it. Hitoshi should be happier than ever, jumping up and down in joy at how amazing his life is and how lucky he is to have ever gotten here.
and yet.
Hitoshi swallows, eyes drawn back to his arms again. He doesn't know why he keeps looking. The long jagged scrapes on the back of his forearms are a purplish red, standing out starkly against his pale skin. Mottled in-between are yellow-green bruises, dusted around the scrapes.
The funny part was that it hadn't even been a training accident or the desire to go off the rails and hurt himself for old times sake. Hitoshi had just eaten shit on his bike, nothing villainous about it. Misjudged a turn and got a little overconfident about how fast he could go and that was that. Learned a very valuable lesson that day about the speed limit and everything, look at him go.
The embarrassment had practically drowned him when he had to trudge home and admit to Aizawa and Yamada that no he hadn't gotten jumped and yes he did actually fall off his bike because he was careless.
They'd been weirdly doting about the whole thing really. Asking over and over if he wanted to have Recovery Girl take care of it, rubbing cream on the scrapes and wiping away any gross fluid that came up with the blood. It wasn't a lot, the scrapes were just that. Scrapes.
Hitoshi's had worse before. Has done worse before, punched himself black and blue and bled himself dry. He bites back the urge to point that out sarcastically because it's not really funny. Not to anyone but him. A couple drops of blood and a few tiny bruises don't even make the top ten of injuries Hitoshi's given himself over the years.
and yet Aizawa had patched him up with a steady hand and a focused furrow between his brow, holding Hitoshi close like he was something important. Yamada spent the whole time regaling Hitoshi with stories about his day, bemoaning some hapless intern who’d picked the wrong set list and sent the whole station into a flurry of activity and damage control. It was funny and distracting. Good.
Hitoshi had pointedly swallowed down the thrill that went down his spine at the focused attention and care with a healthy dose of shame.
Don't be so attention seeking, he'd snapped at himself hotly. An echo of foster parents and patient notes from years past.
Hitoshi just doesn't like to be reminded of it, is all. That's probably why he keeps looking. He doesn't like to remember when he wasn't doing good. When he would walk out at four in the morning and throw himself against walls and scratch his arms until they bled because no one was really looking anyway.
It wasn't attention seeking. or, at least it hasn't felt like it then. Hitoshi had mostly just been trying to fill the void, pass the time. He was on like three different psych meds and was real low on hobbies at the time, sue him. Nothing better to do than make a choice. Just something to prove that he could take action. That somehow he could change what tomorrow would look like.
Sometimes he just wanted to see what he could take. How far he could push himself until he snapped. How many times could he hit his head into this wall? He'd wondered.
How long can I lay on this road before a car comes? How long can I go without sleep? Without food? Without water?
It hasn't really occurred to him until much later that he had actually been looking for attention. for someone to know him well enough to see the signs. But he'd gotten plenty of attention from adults before, and none of that was ever any good anyway. They were all either patronizingly positive or screaming mad, and Hitoshi had no patience for either. So no, he did not want attention.
It wasn't until he started training with Aizawa that he realized you could have an adult whose attention felt warm. That's what he's been looking for this whole time, he realized. He'd found it in that focused look Aizawa would get when correcting hitoshi's form or helping him with his homework. In the nights after they finished training and Aizawa would buy him dinner or take him to the cat cafe. like he had all the time in the world to help him. like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
Hitoshi gets that a lot these days, given the fact that he's legally the guys son. which is. good. Hitoshi doesn't like to linger on it long, doesn't like to acknowledge how important it is to him. Spouting off about how much he loves what he has is practically an open invitation to lose it.
So yeah. Things were awful before but they're good now. He doesn't hurt himself anymore, doesn't need to. has no reason to. Hitoshi gets plenty of attention. plenty of food, water, love, whatever. There's nothing else he could possibly ask for.
Hitoshi's eyes flick back to his arms again and he grits his teeth at the yearning ache that pulls at his chest.
So why does he still miss it?
Maybe if he-
“Something on your mind?”
Hitoshi startles, whipping his head up to see Aizawa leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed. He looks like he just got home from patrol, capture weapon still coiled around his shoulders. He hopes Aizawa hasn't been standing there long, but knowing him he's probably been there for ages. Testing Hitoshi's situational awareness or just wanting to get the drop on him to be an asshole for fun. Going by the small quirk to his mouth, it's probably both.
“Uh.” Hitoshi fumbles after a moment, “Not really.”
Aizawa hums, equal parts unimpressed with the lie and content not to call him on it yet. He steps away from the door frame and leaves without a word.
Hitoshi blinks as he walks away and feels disappointment curl in his chest, embarrassed. He didn't actually think he'd leave that fast. Alright.
Aizawa returns a few minutes later before he can get too in his head about it. The relief is almost palpable and he nearly kicks himself for thinking Aizawa would just leave him out of nowhere.
He's carrying two mugs of tea and hands one of them to Hitoshi. He sits up in his bed and takes the mug. It warms his hands and he takes a sip, pleasantly unsurprised to find it's just the way he likes it.
Orange Marmalade with honey. He's good about remembering stuff like that.
Aizawa nods in the direction of his bed, a silent question to sit beside him. Hitoshi scoots over to make room, clutching the tea in his hands like a lifeline. He knows Aizawa won't force him to talk about anything if he really doesn't want to. The part that sucks is that he does actually kinda want to. eugh.
They sit in silence for a while, drinking their tea. Aizawa doesn't press, the quiet isn't expectant. He just sips his tea and closes his eyes in thought.
Hitoshi is, unsurprisingly, the first to break.
“I've been doing better lately.” He says it like he believes it and he does. but he still finds himself looking to Aizawa for confirmation.
Aizawa opens his eyes at his words, blinking slowly at Hitoshi, “You have.”
Somehow the words don't feel patronizing. He looks back down at his tea anyway and feels like he's hiding.
“And you guys are really great. You’re um,” Hitoshi stumbles here, warring between ungrateful and you're asking for it, “You're really good to me. I've got everything I've ever wanted.”
Aizawa nods, listening.
So why do I still miss it?
“But lately I've been. uh...” He trails off here. God where does he even start? How is he supposed to say, Hey I know you've put so much time and effort into helping me get better but I actually hate it and I miss being suicidal and angry all the time because I'm permanently fucked up actually!
Hitoshi looks down at his arms again. He feels a weird swell of sickly sweet nostalgia and familiarity looking at the mix of yellow greens and reds. He used to be really good at it. He did it for years and years without a second thought, he's got the scars to prove it. But honestly he probably wouldn't be able to do it again even if he really wanted to. Pain tolerance is too low these days. He's out of practice.
“But you’ve been looking.” Aizawa finishes for him, gaze somehow never straying to his arms, even as he calls him out on it. He just keeps his eyes on Hitoshi.
Hitoshi ducks his head in shame, unable to look his mom in the eye. Because that's it, isn't it? He's looking back. He's exactly where he wants to be and he's worked his entire life to get here. He's recovered. His past doesn't define him, he's his own person, he's not a villain, and he doesn't need to hurt himself to feel better.
Hitoshi feels tears sting his eyes, and he sniffs despite himself.
but It's scary, being better.
It's so much easier when you have nothing to lose. You're not afraid of losing your parents or your friends, because you don't have any. You're not afraid of dying because you always want to die anyway. You're not afraid everything you've ever wanted will be ripped out from under you if you stop moving for even a second.
All Hitoshi has ever wanted was to be safe. to be comfortable, to be loved.
He has that now. So why does his body think that this is what he wants? Did all those years in foster care really fuck him up that badly? At what point did his brain start to associate pain with safety?
It's familiar, Hitoshi thinks. He misses it because it's what he knows. Maybe in the absence of actual safety his brain just picked what was around the most. The thought that hurting himself was a more consistent part of his life than his biological parents were is more grim of a concept than he thought it'd be.
Aizawa sighs, gently prying the tea out of Hitoshi's hands and replacing it with his own. He squeezes both of his sons hands, calloused and grounding.
“Hitoshi, look at me.”
Hitoshi does, because somehow things always turn out okay when he listens to his mom. Even when he doesn't want them to.
“There will always be a part of you that longs for the past, no matter how far you've come.” Aizawa pauses for a moment, visibly mulling over his next words.
“...Ignore that part and come get me.” Is what he settles on.
The absolute lameness of it startles a wet laugh out of Hitoshi and he finds the strength to raise an eyebrow at him, “That's it? That's your grand advice? The sage wisdom you've decided to impart upon me in my hour of need is ignore it?” He teases, somehow grinning through tears because god maybe they are biologically related after all. Clearly the gene for terrible at words was passed directly down.
“Brat.” Aizawa huffs and puts his hand on the back of Hitoshi's head, shoving his face into his chest in fond retaliation. “I also said to come get me. It's good advice. Practical.”
Hitoshi giggles and wraps his arms around his mom, sniffing and inhaling the scent of cigarettes and home and safety. He likes this. Aizawa didn't lie, didn't make up stuff about how things will get easier or go on a rant about how you should never hurt yourself. He just said sometimes it's hard and that he’ll be there.
Hitoshi doesn't always believe the things people say when they try to comfort him. But he can believe that.
Aizawa runs his fingers through Hitoshi's wild lavender hair, carefully and effortlessly working through knotted strands with practiced ease.
“If you want flowery words and long winded stories, I’ll send Hizashi next time. But you've got me, so we're gonna take a nap instead.” Aizawa drawls, already shifting them both so they're laying down in the bed.
Hitoshi hums, already forgetting the witty quip he had prepared as drowsiness starts to take over and he's wrapped in Aizawa's arms. Secure, protected from all sides, and thoroughly exhausted by his own thoughts, he slips away easily.
And for now, it's enough.