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It happens quickly. Hitoshi is sparring against Kirishima in class, Kirishima gets a good punch to Hitoshi’s face, his voice modulator is shoved into his face, and suddenly–
Suddenly, Hitoshi is no longer sparring in the gyms at UA. He's no longer sixteen and training to be a hero. Instead, he's twelve and living in his fourth foster home with Kenji Ito. Instead, he's being muzzled for speaking, for apologizing after dropping a plate while washing dishes. It was a stupid mistake, a mistake he shouldn't have made, a mistake he knew better than to make. All he had to do was wash the dishes and shut the hell up, could he really not follow two simple instructions?
Ito-san was so mad. He kept yelling, even after strapping the muzzle a little too tightly to Hitoshi's face. How many times has Hitoshi washed dishes, how did he manage to fuck that up? Ito-san smacked the muzzle into Hitoshi's face, causing blood to gush from his nose inside the muzzle. Hitoshi felt like he was drowning in it; blood was in his nose and his mouth, and he could barely breathe through the taste of iron. When he tried to open his mouth to take a breath, the sharp edges of the muzzle dug into the underside of his jaw, irritating the old scars from before he learned to keep his mouth shut. His whole face was sticky from the blood, and the heat of his breath made the air in the muzzle muggy, but he couldn’t get it off, he can’t get it off–
He collapses to the ground, keeping his head down, trying to show Ito-san that he's not a threat. He can feel the blood pooling in the muzzle as he gasps for air. He's aware of someone speaking, but he can't hear their words. He already knows what they’re saying, maybe this will fucking teach you since it hasn’t gotten through to you. A hand enters his vision, reaching out to him– reaching for him, he's going to hit him again–
Hitoshi scrambles away. His hands drop from scratching at his muzzle to push himself back, back, back, further away from the hands seeking to hurt him.
Hitoshi is unaware of how the rest of the class pauses their sparring when Kirishima calls for Aizawa. He’s unaware of the worried looks and the hesitant questions. He’s only aware of the pressure against his face and the tightening in his lungs.
His back collides against a wall, and no, he's trapped, he can't get away. He curls in on himself, diminishing his size and protecting his head and stomach. Hitoshi thought this was over, he thought Ito-san already sent him back to the group home. Why is he here again, bleeding into the muzzle, the taste of warm iron sharp on his tongue as it fills his mouth, his throat– he’s going to die here.
An anomalous voice drifts to him over the distorted sound of his own panicked breathing. It’s low, soft, gentle, and nothing like Ito‐san’s voice was. Hitoshi can’t help but focus on it. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You just need to breathe, Shinsou, just keep breathing,” The voice says, but Hitoshi can’t breathe. The muzzle is far too tight, and the blood is still leaking into his mouth, and his chest hurts so much–
“Shh, Shinsou– Hitoshi, you’re okay. Everything is okay. No one’s going to hurt you, Hitoshi.” Hitoshi? Ito-san never called him by his first name. He doesn’t think Ito-san ever even knew his name.
“It’s just me, Hitoshi, it’s Aizawa.” Hitoshi hears the words. No one’s going to hurt him, Aizawa is here. Why is Aizawa here? That's not right, that didn't happen, something's wrong.
He cracks his eyes open and the first thing he notices is how bright it is. It wasn't this bright in Ito-san's house; he hated bright light and always kept it dark. The next thing he sees is his shoes. He's wearing shoes. He wasn't allowed to wear shoes inside, so why is he wearing shoes? He knows that he cut his foot on part of the broken plate, so why doesn’t feel any pain in his foot and why is he wearing shoes?
“Hey, Hitoshi, are you with me?” Hitoshi looks up from between his arms. Aizawa looks back at him with his dark hair and darker eye bags. Aizawa's here in front of him. Aizawa had never been in Ito-san's house, Hitoshi had already been moved to his sixth foster home before he even met Aizawa; he shouldn't be here. Hitoshi's eyes flick down and notice the end of Aizawa's capture scarf lying on the ground next to him, in arms reach. He removes one hand from over his face and inches it toward the scarf. He grabs it and feels the rough fabric as it catches on the calluses on his hand. Real; this is real. The relief hits Hitoshi so hard that his vision blurs.
“I’m going to touch you, Hitoshi, okay? I’m going to take off your voice modulator. Will you let me do that?” Hitoshi nods his head so aggressively that it knocks against the wall behind him. He keeps the capture scarf clutched tightly in his hand, his fingernails digging into his palm.
Aizawa’s hands move near his face, but Hitoshi doesn’t feel fear bubbling in his stomach or climbing up his throat. It’s Aizawa; Aizawa is going to help him. His hands touch Hitoshi’s head, and the pressure of the muzzle lessens until his face is exposed to the open air. The blood on his face feels cold now. Hitoshi coughs and spits out the blood that had gathered in his mouth, desperate to escape the tang of iron that still coated his teeth and tongue. He takes in a full, deep breath and releases it shakily. A few tears slide down his cheeks, leaving cool trails that add to the blood drying around his nose and mouth.
“Good job, Hitoshi, just keep breathing.” Aizawa’s voice floats into Hitoshi’s ears again as the panic subsides. Hitoshi nods. Breathing, yeah, he can do that. Hitoshi rubs his thumb over the capture scarf as his heartbeat calms, no longer pulsing through his entire body.
As the adrenaline wears off and the flashback fades, Hitoshi feels exhausted. His muscles ache, his head pounds, and his nose throbs. Blood is still steadily dripping from his nose, which is definitely broken. His surroundings start filtering back in; the hum of the air conditioning in the gym that's drying the blood on his face, the hard floors pressing on his tailbone, and his classmates gathered on the opposite side of the gym pretending that they're not watching him.
Right, he was training. Training in class with all his classmates present. Classmates who just witnessed him have a meltdown after getting punched in the face. Fantastic.
“Hey.”
Hitoshi is dragged from his thoughts by Aizawa's voice. Aizawa's face is composed in a way some would see as cold or uncaring. Not Hitoshi, though. To Hitoshi, Aizawa’s flat demeanor is predictable; reliable. Hitoshi knows he must look like a mess with his face covered in blood and tear tracks, his eyes wide and bloodshot. And despite this, Aizawa remains unshaken. It's familiar, it's safe– a word Hitoshi hasn't associated with his life in a long time.
“Are you with me now, kid?”
“Yeah,” Hitoshi's attempt at speaking sounds like sandpaper. It feels like sandpaper, too. He attempts to clear his throat and ends up spitting more blood on the polished gym floors.
“Here.” Aizawa miraculously presents him with a cup of water. It's then that Hitoshi notices Bakugo hovering a few steps away with his arms crossed and face twisted in his signature scowl. Predictable, reliable, familiar.
Hitoshi takes the cup and eagerly washes the taste of iron from his mouth, spitting now-pink water back into the cup.
“Y'know, you're usually supposed to drink the fucking water, but what the fuck do I know.” Bakugo grumbles and saunters back towards the rest of the class.
“You should go to Recovery Girl,” Aizawa states.
Hitoshi shakes his head, which isn't the greatest idea with the headache he's sporting. “Mm-mm, I'm good now.”
“Your nose is broken.”
Ah, right.
“You make a good argument.”
Aizawa stands and offers a hand to Hitoshi. He's dizzy when Aizawa pulls him to stand, but he thinks he hides it well. Hitoshi starts walking towards the door to the gym and, to his surprise, Aizawa follows.
“Iida, don't let anyone die before I get back,” Aizawa calls over his shoulder while keeping stride with Hitoshi. When Hitoshi looks over at him, his face is as impassive as ever.