Archive of Our Own

Hitoshi didn’t mean to do it.

He just intended to clean his room. It was late, and he couldn’t sleep, and he just wanted to clean his room. It had been a few months since he cleaned up last and even his dad had begun to comment on the mess, so he’d thought, why not get something done instead of staring at the ceiling tonight?

That was all he wanted to do.

He didn’t mean to stumble upon the old and dirty blade, but when he did, the thoughts started and they wouldn’t stop until he brought the sharp edge to his arm.

He just—he was curious, was all. He wanted to know if it felt the same. He wanted to know if the pain still brought the same kind of relief that it used to.

So he snuck into the bathroom just across the hall, pointedly not glancing in the direction of his father’s closed bedroom door, and he cleaned the blade thoroughly, because he isn’t a complete idiot.

Hitoshi locked the door just in case, and rolled up his sleeves. Like an idiot.

-

The next morning (the same morning?) brings pain and regret and Hitoshi spends a good twenty minutes lying in his bed, mentally working through the night before.

It’s been almost a year.

It had been, before he ruined it.

After a moment, it occurs to him that this means he has to keep this secret again. He never thought he’d have to hide this again. He never thought he’d have to hide underneath long sleeves and arm warmers and compression sleeves ever again.

He sits up on the edge of his bed, and contemplates for a moment, staring down at his bandaged arms. It had been late when he’d finished cleaning up, but Hitoshi wasn’t stupid enough to risk the chance of infection.

He has to go out and have breakfast with his dad and his sister now, he realizes. He has to go out there and pretend everything is normal, like his arms aren’t itchy, like he didn’t just relapse on an addiction that his father didn’t even know he had mere hours ago.

Hitoshi hates himself a little more.

But he knows how to act. So he pushes himself up, and he gets dressed. He wears a long sleeved shirt and throws a baggy sweater on top of it to be safe, putting his thumbs through the holes of the sweater paws to ensure the sleeves stay down over his wrists, and he forces himself to leave the safety of his bedroom.

His bedroom. Last time Hitoshi cut himself he still doubted that, still called it the bedroom in the back of his mind, still refused to decorate despite Aizawa’s insistence that he could. He still flinched at every turn, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He still refused to speak to Aizawa most days.

(And, wait, why is he calling him that? Aizawa has been Shouta for months now.)

He’s come so far.

But has he really?

Has he really come that far, if he’s back in the exact same place he was a year ago?

Shouta is still working on breakfast when Hitoshi finishes stalling in the bathroom, and he accepts the quiet invite to help out, grateful for a distraction. He’s hopeful that between the soft music playing and the relaxing act of cooking a simple breakfast, he won’t have to think so much.

Hitoshi is, of course, proved very wrong very fast when he is handed a knife to chop up onions, peppers, and something else that he doesn’t really process. It’s stupid, the way he immediately tunes out every noise in the room. All he can think is how easy it would be to just drag the sharp of the blade over his wrist. It’s stupid, because he isn’t addicted to this anymore. It didn’t even feel good when he did it the night before, so why does he want to do it again? It didn’t bring any of the relief, any of the familiar feelings that got him addicted to it to begin with.

Shouta nudges him when he spends a minute too long just staring at the veggies and Hitoshi sees the concern in his eyes, so he forces a smile, and he starts chopping.

Hitoshi remembers when he truly believed he had healed and gotten over his depression, despite the therapist that he barely sees anymore telling him that healing is a process that never really ends. He remembers thinking that he was better, and that he’d never be in a position like this again. He remembers thinking he would never spend another day staring at a blade like this. He remembers cooking meals with Shouta and handling knives and fire and boiling water and not thinking about how he could hurt himself.

Looking back at it now, it feels so unreal.

Hitoshi pushes both the knife and cutting board away from himself the second he’s finished, and he slinks back down the hall with a halfhearted excuse, slipping back into the bathroom and closing the door quickly behind him.

He sinks to the floor, back to the door and knees pulled to his chest, and he just breathes. He just needs to breathe. He just needs to relax, to spend a few minutes alone so he can calm himself down and stop thinking these ridiculous thoughts.

Hitoshi buries his fingers in his hair and he—he doesn’t pull, because he doesn’t want to hurt himself. He just. He just tightens his grip enough to give pressure. Just enough to ground himself. It’s fine, because it doesn’t really hurt. It’s fine.

When he feels calm enough to pick himself off the floor, the table is set and Shouta is just setting down a steaming cup of coffee next to his plate, and a cup of apple juice by his little sister’s. He nods in thanks and forces a tiny smile as he sits and lifts the boiling liquid to his lips, just in case the man is still thinking about Hitoshi’s little zone out moment.

His dad never found out that Hitoshi had ever hurt himself until long after the scars turned silver, and he’d lied when asked about them, saying they were from years and years ago. He didn’t ever want to admit that he had self-harmed under Shouta’s roof, but he’d definitely thought about it. He might’ve even told him someday soon if it weren’t for this… lapse in judgment.

He really should tell him, it’s something his father should know, but his chest aches thinking about him knowing that the kid he fostered—his legal son, as of a couple of months ago—is this messed up. This broken. He doesn’t want him to know.

Shouta asks how he’s doing, and Hitoshi panics, even though the man had just asked Eri too. This is something familiar, something they do almost every day, and yet Hitoshi had immediately panicked. It’s a paranoia he hasn’t felt since his scars first faded, and he hates hates hates himself for it, because really, he shouldn’t be back in this place.

Then and there, he decides he won’t be ever again.

Because it won’t happen again. Hitoshi doesn’t want to hurt himself anymore and he doesn’t like the feeling it brings and he’s in a good place now; he’s better. It won’t happen again.

-

It happens again.

Barely a day later, it happens again, because Hitoshi is weak and pathetic and stupid and apparently can’t even trust himself to behave in school anymore.

The students from all other courses are all spending their third period helping set up for a promotion event for the business course, and Hitoshi was helping a few 1J students he’s talked to before but doesn’t know the names of to build a set. Hitoshi had volunteered to grab a boxcutter for them without even thinking about it, but the moment he laid eyes on the sharp replacement blades packed in the utility bag, he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d brought the tool back to the other student and pocketed one of the blades, making a quick excuse for the restroom as he felt his hands begin to shake.

Hitoshi had felt some desperate thing wiggling underneath his skin and he’d practically collapsed onto a closed toilet lid the moment the stall door was locked behind him, desperately shoving up his uniform sleeve and peeling off his day-old bandages.

He just stares at his arm for a moment at first, because he knows this isn’t right, he knows he should suck it up and go spill everything to Shouta no matter how badly he doesn’t want to.

But the thought of Shouta seeing him like this makes his heart sink into his stomach. He probably looks about as pathetic as he feels, shaking and breathing heavy over the mere sight of a blade. He doesn’t want Eraserhead to see him looking so stupid, because what if he has to stop training because of this? What if he’s sent back his social worker for this? It doesn’t matter that Shouta has adopted him, it doesn’t matter that this is supposed to be his forever home, this could be the last straw.

Hitoshi blinks, and the overly sharp edge is pressed to his already marred skin.

Not even lunch yet and Hitoshi is already hurting himself. He hasn’t had an urge this bad in a year, and he wonders how simply finding his old blade could’ve led to a full on relapse and reversion so quickly.

He hates himself for it, but his shoulders drop at the sight of the blood beading up from the five cuts. Not many, but enough to settle the ache in his chest. They’re bleeding pretty good too though, the cutter blades are sharp and brand new and he has to be careful not to press too hard, unlike the old rusty one he’d used last night.

As he gets the cuts to stop bleeding with toilet paper, Hitoshi is silently grateful he’d had the forethought to throw bandages and gauze in his backpack this morning. He hadn’t thought about wipes, because he was planning to not do this again, but at least he doesn’t have to messily wrap his arm with toilet paper.

Once the gauze is in place, the bandages are wrapped, and he’s buried all of the bloody tissues in the trash, Hitoshi tugs his sleeve down and opens the stall door, gingerly peeking out to make sure he’s still alone. His hands are still shaking. He washes them quickly in the sink until there are no remaining traces of blood, then splashes cold water on his face in a vain attempt to snap himself out of this floaty feeling.

By the time he’s cleaned up and presentable the lunch bell has already rung, and Hitoshi silently resigns himself to a quiet fifty minutes underneath a staircase. He’s been spending lunch with Bakugou and his squad lately, but Hitoshi can’t handle them today. He thinks his head might actually explode if he tries.

He has a bottle of water for lunch. He didn’t manage breakfast this morning either, he realizes, and his stomach aches in a way it hasn’t in over a year.

Hitoshi is so exhausted that he falls asleep sitting up against the wall.

The bell startles him awake forty minutes later, and he sleepily wipes at his eyes. He checks his phone on the way to class and sighs at the concerned messages from his friends, but he doesn’t answer any of them, and he avoids their gazes in class too.

He won’t let it happen again, because this is all just exhausting.

-

Hitoshi was really doing better before all of this, he muses as he swipes his blade against his wrist once again.

He ate a lot better and he slept a lot better once he really settled into living with Shouta, his anxiety even got better when he finally admitted to having it and let himself get help for it.

(Or, rather, when Shouta found out. It’s less that he admitted it and more that he had a panic attack or four and Shouta is too good of a parent to not do something about it. Same thing.)

Hitoshi got a lot better in the past year or so, and he had even gotten to the point where he found he quite liked himself.

He really really wishes he could go back to that point, and wow, was it really only a month or two ago that he’d realized that? It feels like a lifetime now.

Hitoshi thinks he might once more hate himself.

As he cleans up his forearm, pushing a little too hard to feel the sting as he attempts to stop the bleeding, Hitoshi debates with himself. He should ask for help, he knows he should, even if it’s small, like asking to schedule a sooner therapy appointment. He doesn’t have one set up for another week and he hasn’t had one since before his first relapse, but there’s a part of him that fears it. He had felt this same fear for the first couple of months of therapy, and only a handful of times since then. He hasn’t had a situation bad enough to warrant the fear since he had a fight with Shouta so many months ago.

He sighs, and he tells himself he’s fine. He patches himself up and moves on.

-

Hitoshi is, decidedly, not fine. He thinks that excuse has long expired the first time he hurts himself three separate times in a single day.

The first time is another occurrence that’s quickly becoming typical. He gets a bad grade back on his math test and shoves the paper in his bag so aggressively that it’s all creased by the time he gets to the mostly empty teacher’s lounge.

He has English before lunch, but Hizashi has always been kind to him, both as a friend of his father and, even before that, as a teacher. Hizashi is amazing, and he’d claimed his role as Hitoshi’s uncle (the “fun uncle”) within a few weeks of Shouta fostering him, much like Nemuri so quickly demanded he call her Auntie Nem. He’s great, and Hitoshi likes him a lot.

Mic-sensei, though, has always been there for him, starting at his very first week at U.A., when some kid in his class had made an offhanded quirkist comment and been expelled on the spot. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, but no one has ever done anything about it, and especially not a teacher. Mic-sensei had kept him after class and told Hitoshi to let him know if anyone else said anything, telling him about how he experienced quirk discrimination too, and that it is absolutely not excusable at U.A. High. He already knew that part, since he’s been listening to Put Your Hands Up radio since he was 9 years old. Not that anybody needed to know that.

(Mostly, Hitoshi was just nervous about talking to his long time hero, and then very very giddy when he actually turned out to be such a good person. “Don’t meet your heroes,” ha.)

Of course, there was also that time a couple of months into the semester when Hizashi had asked him to stay after class. Mentally, he had begun to freak out, but soothed himself with the reminder that Hizashi had been talking about a few of his books Hitoshi could read for his advanced English work. He got the books, and then he got sat down and gently asked if everything was okay at home.

Apparently, Hizashi had muzzle marks of his own, though much more faded than Hitoshi’s, and the man had noticed his badly hidden scars very quickly. He had lied straight to his teacher’s face about being safe, but at least he was able to be honest about the muzzle being a thing of the past.

All in all, Hitoshi doubts Mic-sensei will care too much if he’s late, so he takes advantage of what he knows is Shouta’s free period. He goes and finds his dad, and he shakily hands him the test with a large red D scratched on the top. He accepts the hug he’s offered, and quietly cries about it into Shouta’s jumpsuit, grateful for the hushed exit he hears Midnight make. He lets himself be coaxed into talking about it and they even come up with a game plan for him to make the test up.

He does what he’s supposed to.

He still cuts himself in the bathroom on his way to English class.

The second time that day, Hitoshi messes up in heroics training. He misjudges the distance between the roof he’s on and a pole and free falls from the top of a building for five whole seconds before he manages to catch himself, throwing out the capture scarf again and catching the edge of the building’s fire escape railing. His arm scrapes against the brick wall hard as his momentum slows and it burns his cuts through his costume. It hurts so badly that he can’t hold back a cry, and Aizawa-sensei must’ve called a timeout, because he’s there next to him almost as soon as his feet touch the ground, and he can’t hear the timer ticking anymore.

Sensei tries to push his sleeve up and Hitoshi visibly panics, but he thinks he plays it off as pain, because Shouta backs off, hands hovering over his side carefully instead. Hitoshi thinks for a few moments too long before he just tugs his shirt off, pulling it over his head but leaving his arms in his sleeves. He reveals just enough to show the worse half of the injury without revealing any of his cuts, and Shouta lets him off with a short yet effective scolding and instruction to go to Recovery Girl.

He does. Or, he tries to. He means to, he really does, but he’s just so angry at himself and he can’t stop himself from turning into a bathroom and just collapsing into the first stall. He’s almost desperate as he shoves up his sleeve, pulling his phone case off to get his blade and accidentally pricking a finger in his haste to get ahold of it.

It’s reminiscent of the first time he used this blade. The desperation and the crawling underneath his skin is so painfully familiar that he just cries. Usually when he hurts himself, he’s a little distant from it, a little apathetic. It hurts, but he doesn’t usually cry anymore, is what he’s getting at.

This time, he sobs, painful and with his entire body, his shoulders convulsing with the weight of each cry, his body folding in half. It hurts, and he just wants it to stop hurting. Distantly, he’s grateful that this happened in the middle of heroics training, when the majority of classes are already back at the dorms. Nobody is here to hear him break.

He pulls himself together quickly and takes a slow and careful breath. He needs to get to Recovery Girl. Sensei always lets her know when there’s a student on the way to her, and if he takes too long, it’ll be suspicious. He’d rather just not go at all, but his arm and shoulder really do hurt.

He washes his face quickly, and he rushes out the door, keeping his head down and trying very hard to stop thinking about how it felt to fall from that building. He really needs to get himself together.

The third and final time that day, he’s just so exhausted that he can’t think past the pure need to hurt.

Recovery Girl had given him a kiss and sent him on his way once Shouta came to get him, and he’d collapsed the moment they got back to Shouta’s apartment in the teacher dorms. He was out until dinner, barely choked down enough of his plate to be excused, and then went and slept for four more hours.

He wakes again in a daze, disoriented and confused, his body aching and his mouth dry in that special way that only comes from a truly epic nap. He rolls over with a groan and feels around blindly for his phone, finding it plugged in on the nightstand, and he squints at the bright light. It’s just after ten at night. He drops the device again and sighs.

Hitoshi tries his hardest to fall asleep again, but he was lucky to have slept as long as he did in the first place, and even then it was mostly aided by Recovery Girl’s quirk. He sighs, again, and pushes himself up. His stomach is gnawing at itself and he’s reminded of just how little he’s been eating lately. He should do something about that, probably.

Reluctantly, he trudges out to the kitchen. He sees Shouta’s bedroom light on underneath the door and is quietly grateful that he can at least be alone. He loves his dad, but he really doesn’t want to deal with the questions and the worried looks after the day he’s had.

His hands shake as he opens the fridge, not even bothering to turn the lights on. He considers the container of leftover dinner for a long moment, but ends up pulling out a couple of apples instead. The thought of eating an actual meal makes his stomach twist and he thinks he’s safer cutting up some fruit.

That thought fizzles out when he reaches out for a knife, and yet again, Hitoshi is upset with himself. He should be able to handle basic human tasks without thinking about every way he can hurt himself. He swallows down the self hatred and picks up the ugly green child-safe fruit slicer that Shouta bought for Eri to use even though he always does it for her, and he pretends he doesn’t feel like an absolute failure.

He cleans up silently and slinks back down the hall. He intends to go back to his room and wallow, but the thought has been building in the back of his mind since he woke and he simply doesn’t have it in him to resist when his body automatically turns into the bathroom.

Hitoshi sits on the ground for a while just thinking, long enough that his apples are browning by the time he has enough sense to patch himself up. The last time he hurt himself so much in a single day was at the height of his addiction, when he was constantly hurting himself over the smallest of inconveniences without even considering other options.

But isn’t that what he’s doing now? Isn’t that what he’s been doing for the past month?

Something painful stirs in his gut and he pulls his bowl of gross-brown apples into his lap, distracting himself by taking a bite and thinking way too much about the taste and texture. He has to do something to restrain himself from the urge to pull his blade back out, and he doesn’t have enough energy to stand and leave, so he eats. Very slowly.

It’s past midnight by the time Hitoshi gets himself back to his room, and he wonders how a quick trip out of his room turned so quickly into a two hour wallowing session. He doesn’t let himself think about much, just collapses back into bed and wills himself to sleep.

-

Hitoshi knows he’s getting worse. There’s really no denying it anymore.

He cancelled his therapy appointment at the last minute and simply told Shouta that nothing has happened, that he has nothing that he needs to talk about. The man doesn’t press, doesn’t have the right to. Hitoshi’s therapy is his own thing and Shouta had no problem letting him control it completely, as long as he wasn’t being an idiot about it (Hitoshi’s own words).

He’s pretty sure Shouta knows that something’s up, but Hitoshi is good at avoiding confrontation. He takes every opportunity he can to not be alone with the man, and he’s got plenty of excuses.

It’s a late night, and Hitoshi has been fighting the urge to hurt himself all day. Somewhere between a nightmare and yet another low grade, the itch started brewing beneath his skin and it hasn’t dulled in the two hours he’s been staring at his ceiling.

It’s almost painful, how bad the urges have been lately. He can feel them underneath his skin and all throughout his veins and it hurts to ignore it almost more than it does to listen to it.

His mind is working slowly tonight, and by the time he realizes he’s thirsty, his throat is aching with the need for water.

Hitoshi knows if he leaves his room, he will almost certainly end up hurting himself before he gets back. It isn’t something he wants to do, but his skin is crawling with the urge, and he won’t be able to resist it any longer if he leaves the safety of his bed.

But he’s already hurt himself so much by now, and he really is thirsty. What’s a few more scars?

Hitoshi sighs, reluctantly pushing himself up, and he keeps his gaze on his feet as he walks. He expects the kitchen to be empty, and he’s fine with that. He doesn’t want to deal with Shouta’s worried glances or questions tonight anyway, he didn’t put so much effort into avoiding that just to run into him like this.

Instead, he flicks on the kitchen light only to reveal Eri sitting on the floor in the dark, eating a bowl of cereal. They stare at each other for a long few seconds before Hitoshi mentally shrugs and walks over to the sink, choosing not to ask questions. He’s done weirder things, he’s sure.

He fills up a glass and drinks the whole thing, then turns to put away the box of cereal left open on the counter. He stops halfway through, instead pulling out a new bowl and pouring himself some. He puts away the box and the milk and slides down the fridge door to sit across from Eri.

They sit in silence for a long time, each eating their respective bowls of cereal at a drawn-out pace. Hitoshi is a slow eater nowadays because he hardly eats full meals anymore, and Eri is still struggling with proper eating habits, even after the past ten or so months of living with them. They take their time, and both of them have bowls of soggy cereal by the time the silence is broken.

“Are you okay, nii-chan?” Eri asks quietly, and Hitoshi blinks. His sister is only seven years old, but he thinks she might be the most emotionally intelligent person he has ever met.

He has been trying his absolute hardest to act normal around his family, but Eri is very observant and very empathetic and, really, he should have expected this to come ages ago.

Hitoshi takes another bite of his disgustingly wet cereal, and he tilts his head at her. He gives a sad tilt to his mouth and shrugs, only because he doesn’t have it in himself to lie to her. She frowns, but doesn’t say anything more, only nudges his foot with her own in the way Shouta has done with him and likely, he realizes, with her too. It makes his heart ache in his chest, and he manages a flicker of a smile. It doesn’t even feel forced.

They sit there for another half hour before Hitoshi moves, standing and rinsing out their dishes. He goes through the motions slowly, his muddled brain taking its time to remember and work through the steps of existing. There’s a faint tingle underneath his skin as he goes to leave, but as he glances back at Eri who immediately runs up and grabs his hand, he doesn’t remember why. Hitoshi smiles down at her and flicks off the kitchen light.

She quietly asks if he’ll tuck her in, and by the time he gets back into his own bed, he’s completely forgotten the urge he was fighting.

He goes two days after that before he hurts himself again. It’s not nothing.

-

Hitoshi relapses. And he relapses, and he relapses, and it continues to be the worst feeling ever. The guilt and the shame gets worse with every new cut, and yet he can’t seem to make himself stop.

He’s been doing it more frequently, and he’s been doing it worse, and he just wishes he would have never picked up a blade again.

Looking at his arms now, Hitoshi finds it hard to believe it’s only been a month since his first relapse.

The sheer amount of scars crammed onto his forearms is concerning on its own, let alone how deep they each are. He knows how to be careful, but he’s afraid of himself sometimes; he’s afraid that he’ll cut too deep, that he’ll make a mistake and his dad will have to stumble upon his lifeless body—or worse, his sister.

His family has already suffered so much loss and gone through so much trauma. He’s terrified that he’ll end up adding to that.

Hitoshi sighs at the thought, but doesn’t move to stop the blood trickling down his arm. He only made a couple of new marks, but in doing so he’s reopened three other ones that were just beginning to scab.

There’s no empty space left on his arms, and it’s—an issue. Frustrating.

He could move higher up on his biceps, but it’s more painful in his every day life when he does it there. He could move to his thighs, or his calves, or his ribs, but it just feels wrong. Hitoshi has always done it on his forearms, and he doesn’t want such a large collection of scars to be present anywhere else on his body. It’s gross enough having it on his arms.

So he deals with it. It causes his cuts to take a much longer time to heal, but he deals with it. There’s not much else he can do.

-

Before, when he would hurt himself, Hitoshi was careful, incredibly so. His fosters didn’t like to see it, though he isn’t sure why; it isn’t like they didn’t leave their own scars on him, but he built the habit of hiding it nonetheless. He was careful of both how and where he would do it, always making sure he would be able to hide it until it healed.

Now, not so much. He’s careless in the way he slashes at his forearms, careless of how much or how little he cleans them, as long as none of the cuts bleed through the bandages he halfheartedly wraps around them. And they don’t.

Usually.

Hitoshi wakes up that morning to his arm aching from being laid on for what must’ve been hours.

It’s happened before, quite a few times in fact. He tends to move around in his sleep a bit and he wakes up laying on top of his arms pretty often. It’s never been a big deal before.

But today, that is exactly how he ended up in such an inconvenient predicament.

He’d forced himself out of bed and went to change out of the sweater and pants he’d fallen asleep in when his gaze caught on it. His cream coloured sweater with cats on the front now has the addition of a brown splotch soaked into the sleeve.

A stain.

A blood stain.

His mind goes blank for a moment, and he has to take the time to mentally reboot before he can work through a solution.

Hitoshi has exactly two options, he realizes. He could dispose of his favourite sweater, the very first piece of clothing that Shouta bought for him after taking him in, simply because the man had noticed Hitoshi’s eyes lingering on it for a little too long. It is the most comfortable thing he owns and the most meaningful too. He doesn’t want to throw it away, but that is the safest option.

Or, he gives his sweater a chance, and comes clean to Shouta. He has seen his dad scrub red and brown stains out of his own clothing and his capture weapon after some particularly rough patrols.

It’s an easy choice.

It should be.

Hitoshi wants to save this, but if he takes the chance, there is no possible outcome where Shouta does not figure out what the stain is from. He could lie and say he just scraped his arm, but like the too-good-for-Hitoshi parent he is, Shouta would want to see and clean him up.

No matter which way it goes, Hitoshi has to come clean.

He spends a lot of his morning contemplating. Shouta is at the school for a meeting and Eri had spent the previous night at the Class A dorms, so he’s alone.

Hitoshi doesn’t want to hurt himself anymore, he admits to himself in the quiet of the bathroom, staring into the mirror at his mostly bare body. His arms look disgusting and he wants to peel his skin off. It hasn’t even felt good anymore, and he wants it to stop. He didn’t want to relapse in the first place and he didn’t want it to keep happening, but it did, and he’d begun to crave it again.

But he’s so tired.

If cutting himself is worse than coming clean to Shouta, then he has to come clean. He has to tell his father about the countless times he brought a blade to his skin, and he can picture the man’s face in a lot of different reactions.

Would he be disgusted, like Hitoshi is with himself? Would he be angry? Guilty?

Worst of all, Hitoshi fears the man would be uncaring. Completely indifferent, as if none of this was ever an issue and Hitoshi has been making a huge deal out of nothing. All of the shame he’s been feeling, the fear and the stress of hiding something that feels like so much, only to find out it was insignificant all along.

Once he finally gets into the shower, he’s able to rid himself of those imagined reactions. His dad has always taken mental health very seriously between Hitoshi, Eri, and the entirety of Class A, and most likely, he would get a hug and then a hot drink shoved in his hands while they talk. It’d be a long talk, he imagines, in which Hitoshi will most definitely end up in tears, but Shouta will know what to do and how to help him.

Hitoshi wonders if his dad will cry too. He doesn’t very often, and it’s hard for him to cry at all, but Hitoshi has witnessed it exactly once. It’s possible.

Hitoshi grimaces at the mental image. He’s uncertain of how the conversation will go, but he definitely doesn’t want his dad to cry. Tears would be bad, he’s certain of that at the very least.

Hitoshi breathes a heavy sigh and runs a rough hand through his wet hair, pushing it back out of his face. Keeping his self harm a secret was something he’d learned to do early on, and it’s never been any other way. His self harm is a private thing, something he can turn to when he gets a bad grade or that familiar heavy weight of emptiness is pressing down on his chest.

Does he really want to lose that?

Hitoshi’s eyes drift as he slowly rinses away the bubbles of his body wash, landing on a razor sitting innocently on a shelf, then down to his arms. Maybe he does.

He drags his hands down his face and groans. This is a problem for future Hitoshi.

-

Future Hitoshi really hates Past Hitoshi’s decisions.

He’s been sitting on this for two whole days, and it’s been easy to convince himself to stay quiet. He’d contemplated telling Shouta on the very same day he’d decided he needed to, but chickened out of it just before.

It was just after Shouta had put Eri to bed, he’d been helping clean up, and he’d really meant to come clean right then and there.

Then they made eye contact, and he just. Couldn’t.

All Hitoshi could do was imagine Shouta’s reaction, and it was so painful to think about. It was too much, all of it. Admitting to the fact that he cuts his arms open for sport and then having to watch the man’s reaction? He couldn’t.

So here he is. Monday morning, too early for anyone else in the house to be awake, contemplating his entire future.

Maybe not his entire future. Maybe he’s putting too much worth in this stained sweater.

But how can he not? If Shouta has a bad reaction, if he decides Hitoshi is too weak, then that’s his entire future down the drain.

Hitoshi sighs. He is getting far too existential about all of this.

The easiest way for Hitoshi to tell Shouta the truth is to not tell him at all. He thinks he’s going to just put his sweater in the laundry and let the man find it himself. Maybe he won’t notice the stain, but maybe he will.

Maybe he won’t care about it.

But maybe he will.

His hands shake as he stands in front of the washer and dryer, soft sweater clutched in his hands.

It’s not even six in the morning, the sun isn’t even out yet. It’s laundry day because Shouta forgot to do it yesterday.

Hitoshi thought he would be more ready for this.

He’s been overthinking about this for days, and he thought he’d be more ready to know that his dad is going to find out.

Stupidly.

Knowing that he won’t be there when his dad finds out isn’t making it easier at all, and he doesn’t feel ready in the slightest.

He drops the sweater into the basket of dirty clothes and goes back to his room. He curls up in bed and lies awake, staring at the wall, until his alarm goes off.

-

Hitoshi is an idiot, he thinks.

Of course doing it like this wouldn’t make it easier.

Aizawa-sensei came and found him during his lunch hour so he could ask Hitoshi to pick up Eri after school. Apparently, the man is completely free after his last class and has decided to head home early to get started on some chores.

Like laundry.

So Hitoshi is entrusted with getting himself and his sister home safely, which is fine. He agreed quickly, taking the opportunity to make sure he won’t be home when his dad finds out. It’s like the universe is setting him up.

He fears he’s being set up for failure.

He’s distant and dodgy all day and he knows Shouta has noticed, but he also knows that his dad trusts Hitoshi to come to him when something is wrong. Hitoshi feels vaguely sick, and decides to stop thinking about that trust.

By the time Hitoshi leaves U.A., he’s trembling with anticipation. He sends an update to let the man know he’s leaving just as Shouta shared with him when he arrived at home. He gets a typical thumbs up in response and wonders if Shouta knows yet.

He tries to reassure himself, to remind himself that he wants Shouta to know, this was his choice. His stomach twists with regret anyway.

Hitoshi takes his time bringing Eri home, opting to walk home with her instead of taking the train like they usually do. It’s only a couple stops away from home, so not the longest walk, but long enough that Hitoshi’s bones are jittery with nerves.

Hitoshi pushes open their apartment door a half hour later with a reluctant and quiet call of we’re home. Shouta hears it anyway, peeking his head out of the kitchen to greet them briefly.

Hitoshi just about turns tail and runs in those short few seconds.

He can see it in his eyes.

He knows.

He knows.

Hitoshi seriously actually contemplates announcing some made up plans with Midoriya. Shouta would let him go, Hitoshi knows he would. But he wanted this. He wants to talk about it, wants to sit and cry into his dad’s shoulder, wants to get better. He wants everything to be normal again.

-

Dinner is—awkward. Well, not really. Eri is entirely aware of the tense air at the table, but feels safe enough by this point to go on and on about her day anyways. She’s a little more careful and her hands trembled at first, but when no one snapped at her and simply went on as they normally do, she calmed quickly.

Eri’s progress is a sensitive topic for Hitoshi. His eyes almost water just watching her. It’s almost enough to pretend Shouta hasn’t been watching-not-watching him even as he engages with the girl’s story.

Almost.

Eri’s trembles have stopped, and Hitoshi’s have begun. He hasn’t been this scared since his first few months here.

It’s different, and it’s almost worse.

When he first moved in, Hitoshi was afraid of being hit, but he was used to being hit. He was afraid of being disappointed again, but it wouldn’t have been the first time he tried trusting an adult only to be let down. He was scared, but it wouldn’t have been anything new if he was right about it back then.

Now, he’s afraid that the first foster he has ever come to see as a real parent is going to hate him. Now, he’s afraid of leaving the first real sibling he’s ever had. He’s afraid that this will change everything, that he’ll be kicked out despite the adoption having gone through ages ago.

Hitoshi trusts Shouta. He trusts his dad with his life a hundred times over, but he’s fighting every urge to run. His instincts say hide and protect yourself and hurt everyone else before they can hurt you.

He volunteers to wash dishes, then retreats into his bedroom quickly under the guise of doing homework.

And yet, a few hours of hiding in his room later, Hitoshi emerges without being asked. Shouta is going through the motions with Eri, urging her to brush her teeth and change into pajamas, and Hitoshi takes the time to make tea.

He wants to delay this conversation as long as possible, but he also knows there’s no point. The longer Hitoshi hides from this, the worse everything will get. Home will be tense and uncomfortable; school will be awkward; Hitoshi’s self harm will get worse the longer it goes on.

So when Shouta comes out of Eri’s room, Hitoshi is—well. Not ready. He isn’t sure he could ever be ready, but he’s… decently prepared. His dad stops in the door of the living room for a moment, but then his gaze seems to soften. Hitoshi’s hands fidget in his lap underneath the coffee table, but he’s less afraid than he was before.

Shouta is a hard man to read, and Hitoshi remembers being afraid of that when he first came here. Not knowing how his foster was feeling or what he was thinking was a terrifying thing after everything Hitoshi taught himself whilst in the system. Now, though, Hitoshi can accurately translate every little twitch.

Shouta is afraid. Worried. Hitoshi has been so scared of this conversation, but knowing that he’s not the only one helps in some strange way.

He was thinking before that his dad would know exactly what to do, but maybe Shouta is just as worried about this as he is. Something about that is comforting.

Shouta scoops up the elder cat lounging on the back of the couch and drops it into Hitoshi’s lap, then settles on the floor across from him. Hitoshi takes a moment to breathe as his hand automatically goes to stroke through Sushi’s fur, and neither of them speak for a bit.

All Hitoshi knows is that he absolutely is not going to be the one to start this conversation, and so he waits. Shouta seems to catch onto that rather quickly.

“You’re very smart, Hitoshi. You’re very intentional with everything you do.” He says after only a minute or two of silence, and the unexpected start is enough to make the boy lift his head. “You wanted me to find that today.”

It’s not a question, but Hitoshi gives a very small nod anyway.

“If it was an accident you would’ve told me about it.” Shouta concludes correctly, and Hitoshi wishes he could sink into the floor and die with his shame and guilt. The man takes a slow breath, and—

Hitoshi knows whats coming.

He can feel the question before it comes, but he is still wholly unprepared for it to fall from his father’s lips. After years and years and years of hiding this from everyone in his life, he just isn’t ready. He doesn’t think it’s possible to be ready.

“Have you been hurting yourself, Hitoshi?”

Hitoshi drops his gaze as soon as the question is out between them, a shaky exhale escaping from his lips. He clasps his mug with his free hand, using the heat to ground himself. He focuses on the sensation of the hot tea in his hand and the soft fur of Sushi between his fingers and he breathes.

“…Yeah.” He gives in a very soft whisper, and he can hear the way Shouta’s breathing stutters. It was the answer that was expected, Hitoshi figures, but probably not one he wanted to hear.

Hitoshi sips at his tea, tightly grasping the warm mug between his hands. He risks a glance up when the silence draws out for too long, studying Shouta’s face carefully. He doesn’t look disgusted or angry and Hitoshi chooses to take that as the best outcome. He can see the questions that the man is holding back and all he can do is sigh. He’s not going to tell him to just ask because he really doesn’t want to answer.

He knows what’s coming; why would you do that to yourself, and let me see, and how long. He’s been doing this for long enough to know how this goes.

“Can I…” the man starts eventually, and Hitoshi clutches onto his drink tighter, mentally preparing himself to have to spill every last detail of his pain and his struggles to the last person he wants to hear about them, and— “Do you want a hug?”

He blinks.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. Out of every question, every accusation he could have thrown at Hitoshi, that’s all? Does he want a hug.

Does he?

Mutely, Hitoshi shakes his head, immediately dropping his entire attention back to the cat curled between his crossed legs. He buries both hands in Sushi’s knotted fur, sparing a brief thought to struggle through brushing him sometime soon, and he tries very hard not to start crying.

“That’s okay.” Shouta mutters gently, and he sounds like it’s very not okay, but Hitoshi only gives a little nod.

“Hitoshi.” He says after a moment, and he sounds so genuine that the boy can’t help but lift his head. Shouta places a hand between them, palm up, and Hitoshi just stares. “Thank you for telling me.”

It takes far too long for Hitoshi to process those words. Out of any reaction he pictured, the best scenario he could think of was a long talk and being bandaged up, and that was all. He didn’t consider he might be offered a hug, or be thanked for anything, and he didn’t consider a stretched out hand.

Reluctantly, Hitoshi places his hand in his father’s, and he feels the stinging start behind his eyes when he gets a gentle and encouraging squeeze. He draws in a slow shaky breath, fighting down the tears.

“You sure you don’t want that hug?” His dad asks quietly, a small sad tilt of a smile to his lips, and it makes Hitoshi huff. He’s always been a bit of a crybaby and Shouta knows it by now. Still, he never shames him for it, only ever offers up his arms.

“I guess.” He grumbles with as much mock exasperation as he can muster up while on the verge of tears, lowering his head to hide behind his hair.

“If I insist, huh?” Shouta mumbles back with the same energy as he pushes himself to stand, and as much as it makes Hitoshi smile it also causes the first tears to fall. He doesn’t lift his gaze even as his dad kneels beside him and gently curls an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a loose hug.

“Oh, kid.” Shouta mumbles when he just slumps against him, and Hitoshi can’t help his tears then. He’s melted into a complete sobbing mess within seconds. Shouta curls his arms around him and he clutches at the man’s shirt, pressing his face into his shoulder as he cries. It’s no surprise when he feels Sushi scurry away, but it makes him feel worse.

“M’sorry, I’m sorry, I,” Hitoshi swallows, trying to keep himself quiet. His sister is trying to sleep just down the hall and he’s mindful of that, no matter how much it aches to choke some of it down.

Realistically, Eri knows far too much about trauma to make a big deal of it. Still, he doesn’t like to worry her.

“Nothing to be sorry for, baby.” Shouta mutters softly as he presses a kiss into his hair, and well that’s just not fair. How is he supposed to be quiet when his dad is being so gentle, calling him these names that Hitoshi used to argue were only for babies. It breaks him apart so easily and he just cries for a while.

Shouta holds him through every choking sob until he feels like he can breathe again and his tears begin to slow, and then some more after that. He thinks Shouta might’ve needed this hug almost as much as he did, and Hitoshi curses his past self for believing for even one single moment that there was the slightest chance Shouta wouldn’t care. He isn’t sure his dad could possibly care more.

“Better?” Shouta finally asks and Hitoshi just gives a tiny nod. Even after all of this time, he’s still embarrassed by his behavior whenever he snots all over his dad like this.

He still doesn’t appear to be upset, but Shouta’s gaze is serious when he pushes Hitoshi away, keeping his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks, his eyes searching Hitoshi’s red-rimmed ones.

“Your arms?” He asks quietly, one hand gently sliding down from his shoulder to his forearm, his gaze following the movement. Hitoshi’s breathing picks up, but when Shouta makes no move to push the fabric up, he makes himself relax.

Hitoshi nods slowly, his eyes dropping down to watch Shouta’s hand. Just in case. He’s already being brave enough by talking about this; he doesn’t think he has it in him to let his dad see.

He thinks the man understands that at least, because he drops his hand away as soon as Hitoshi gets a little tense. Shouta shifts and leans them both back against the loveseat behind them, curling his arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders. He presses a kiss to the boy’s temple and gently rubs at his bicep and those simple actions just about make him cry again.

“It hasn’t been the entire time you’ve been here.” It’s a statement more than a question, but Shouta seems to relax anyway when Hitoshi doesn’t say otherwise. “You started again recently?”

“Little over a month.” He shrugs, staring down at his fidgeting hands.

Before a month or so ago, even with the cold weather he would lounge around the house in sweats and a tee most days. Only when he relapsed did he start wearing sweaters every day, and while he does know his dad noticed the switch, the man never really questioned it more than a brief acknowledgment which Hitoshi brushed off immediately. Hitoshi hopes he doesn’t piece that together. He really doesn’t want Shouta to feel even more guilty over this.

It’s not like it’s Shouta’s fault he didn’t notice. Hitoshi relapsed at a convenient time, where hiding it was easy with the weather.

“When I was cleaning my room.” He continues without prompting, his voice very low. It’s almost embarrassing to remember what caused this full scale relapse. “I, uh. I found my old stuff from before.”

“From junior high?” His dad asks after a moment, and, yeah, wow, Hitoshi is a complete idiot. When first asked about his old scars, he’d said that they were from way before U.A.. It makes no sense for him to have kept them from so long ago. He really isn’t a good enough liar for this.

“…From last year.” He says after a moment and as much as he wants Shouta to put that together, he also doesn’t. He hates admitting to this. He hates the idea of his dad knowing this.

He isn’t so lucky. Shouta makes a little ah sound and holds him tighter. It makes his eyes water again.

“I stopped a bit after you started fostering me. It wasn’t as bad then.”

Hitoshi would like to find the nearest wall to hit his head against. He needs to stop talking, to stop making this worse. Shouta doesn’t need to know that this is almost the worst his self harm has ever been, he doesn’t need to know any of this.

“When—when I found it I just…” and yet, it seems Hitoshi truly has no clue how to stop talking, “I couldn’t resist.”

Couldn’t resist. He couldn’t resist. It’s true, but that makes him sound psychotic.

“…Okay.” Shouta mumbles once he’s sure Hitoshi is done, and his hand gently squeezes the boy’s bicep. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me sooner.”

Hitoshi just doesn’t understand. Even after all of this time spent with Shouta, he still just does not understand how the man can be so good.

Hitoshi should be the one apologizing. Shouta has been nothing short of an absolutely incredible dad, and to hear him apologizing for Hitoshi’s personal failings? It’s just wrong.

All he can do is shake his head. If he speaks he just might start sobbing again and really, nobody wants to have to deal with that.

Shouta rests his head against Hitoshi’s in a clear attempt to make him stop with the silent disagreements, and he’s a little annoyed that it works.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice.” He continues, quieter now. “You deserve better than that. But I’m glad you told me now. We’re going to get you through this, okay? Me and you.”

Hitoshi takes in a wet breath, his chest shuddering with it as tears begin to roll down his cheeks once again. Shouta pulls him close again and he lets himself slump over, half laying against his dad.

“I wanted to tell you.” He sniffles, blinking fast. “But I, I was scared you would pull me from training, or think… I dunno.” Hitoshi trails off, turning his head to hide his face. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“‘Toshi…” Shouta sighs, and it only makes his eyes sting more.

He never understood the fear of disappointing a parent before. Hitoshi was always afraid of making a foster parent angry, he was afraid of doing something wrong and earning himself a beating. Only once Shouta started training him did he really begin to understand.

“That’s okay.” He breathes, more due to Hitoshi crying rather than it actually being okay. “I’m just worried, kid.”

Shouta leaves it at that and then they fall into a nice quiet. It’s not exactly peaceful, with this hanging in the air and Hitoshi sniffling every few seconds, but it’s nice. It could certainly be heavier.

When Hitoshi finally lifts himself from the hug, his eyes are puffy and red but he isn’t crying anymore. He’s absolutely exhausted, but he feels lighter.

He halfheartedly cleans up his face with a few tissues from under the coffee table, and then they’re back to looking at each other. Hitoshi doesn’t think Shouta really knows how to handle this situation any more than offering a shoulder to cry on (literally), but that’s somehow comforting in itself. He doesn’t know what to do, but he’s willing to figure it out just to help Hitoshi. Every day Hitoshi is amazed by how much his dad actually cares for him. Loves him. Unreal.

“Have you been keeping them clean?” Shouta asks just as Hitoshi tosses a couple of balled up tissues at a trash. He misses, and he blames his frown on that.

“Kinda.” He shrugs, risking a glance over at the hero. The one that very clearly doubts every bit of his answer. He amends, “Most of the time.”

A bad amendment, based on the look he gets. Hitoshi gives a guilty and sheepish grimace that is met with a sigh.

“Right.” Is the disbelieving answer Shouta gives as he pushes himself up off the floor with more than a few pops and cracks, moving to sit properly on the loveseat they’ve been leaning against.

Hitoshi gives another smaller shrug, and Shouta pats the cushion next to him with a tired but soft, “Can I?”

Hitoshi reluctantly obeys and lowers himself onto the seat, but he freezes with the question. He tries not to panic, but it’s hard. It’s really so very hard, but after how long he’s spent crying into the man’s shirt, he has to give a little more trust than that.

But he’s been brave enough tonight.

“Ask me again tomorrow.” Hitoshi offers slowly as he curls up into Shouta’s side, already reaching over him for the remote. It already took so much courage to get to this point, and he thinks he reserves the right to wait on this. Just a bit longer.

Shouta curls an arm around him and rubs his side, pressing a kiss into his hair with a softly mumbled agreement. Hitoshi finds a Studio Ghibli movie and they’re both asleep within twenty minutes.

When he wakes up a couple of hours later, Hitoshi is tucked underneath a blanket up against Shouta’s side with Sushi curled up against his legs. His dad is watching a different movie, one Hitoshi doesn’t recognize, and he doesn’t seem to notice that the boy is awake.

Hitoshi just smiles to himself, and he shifts a little, closing his eyes to let himself drift off again.

He thinks he’s going to be okay. Even if he isn’t yet, at least he knows he won’t be alone.