Chapter Text
From: Mr. Aizawa [8:23am]
Kit, take care of the dishes before I come home. Thanks.
It’s just a text, I shouldn’t be so worked up about it. It’s just a simple command, an order, for a chore that really should be expected of me already. Then why is my chest so tight? It’s stupid, really. All I need to say is yes, Mr. Aizawa. And then it’ll be fine, he’ll be satisfied probably and I won’t get in trouble this time. Or maybe I’m supposed to say ‘yes, sir.’ That might work better. Perhaps, Sensei is more appropriate. But how am I supposed to know? If I say the wrong formality, will he be pissed? I already know the answer to that, that’s just how grownups are.
It’s not like he has ever texted me an order before, how am I supposed to know how to respond? How am I supposed to know what will set him off? I forced in a deep breath, filling my lungs completely for the first time since I received the text. I’m overthinking, I know I am, but that doesn’t mean it eases the tension in my chest. Though I know I’m taking too long to respond, the options between sir and Mr. Aizawa and Sensei with no clear correct answer is making my breathing speed up again.
Nope, now is not the time for a panic attack.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I began washing the dishes in the sink. I can always text him back when I’m done, if I’m lucky he’ll assume I’m asleep. I ignored the thought that whispered: Since when have I ever been lucky? I made quick work of cleaning the dishes with practiced movements. Placing the clean plates and bowls into the drying rack, I ignored the sting of the split in my lip as I clenched my teeth around the tender skin. I bit down harder, knowing my lip wouldn’t bleed, as another option filled my brain. Maybe I was supposed to text back, yes, Eraserhead. I instinctively stifled my frustrated groan at not being able to figure out something so fucking simple. For someone who the teacher himself calls smart, I really am an idiot.
But enough black eyes and bruised cheeks have taught me never to make an answer I was unsure is ideal. Not safe, never safe. Once the sink was clear and wiped down, I made work of putting away the silverware and cups. As I padded around the kitchen, placing away platters and mugs, my phone felt a thousand pounds in my pocket. After more than a few times at opening the device only to have heard the phantom of a buzz, I stopped checking for texts I knew wouldn’t be there. Because this is the definition of insanity, isn’t it?
Only once I was satisfied that every dish was in its rightful place, did I finally retreat to my bedroom. As much as I knew I needed to reply to my foster father’s text, I just could not figure out what was expected of me to say. Ghosts of hands grabbing and choking, bruising and slapping, covered my body. No, it’s safer to say nothing than pick the incorrect option. Yes, this is guaranteed to make him frustrated, but it’s nothing to be insufferable lividness from saying the wrong thing.
When the front door opened, and did not slam louder than usual, my clenched fists eased ever so slightly. Not enough to take away the bite of nails into my palms, but not quite so piercing either. Though, after straining my ears to hear the light feet moving around the kitchen, I was met with the slam of a door ? I did not recognize. Before I could figure it out, Mr. Aizawa called out, “Shinsou, come here.” I barely allowed myself a moment to attempt to catch my breath before I was immediately walking towards the kitchen. Like a man walking off the plank into the deep dark depths. I stabbed my nails back into my palms upon meeting my foster dad’s unimpressed expression. “Is your phone working?”
I could not help but widen my eyes before turning my expression back to neutral, “yes…” I drew the word off, still unknowing how to address this particular angry parent figure. I forced my face void of emotion, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he caught me off guard with that particular inquiry.
His steely self let out an, “Oh?” There was no surprise to his tone, “so you have no excuse for deliberately ignoring me.” It was not a question. It was a threat with unsaid consequences.
Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit, I should have texted back.
Even with my body tense in preparation for the hits to surely come, I stood my ground. Fleeing now would only worsen the punishment, as if I have any chance at escape. “I did read your text,” my voice was low and slow, waiting for the repercussions sure to come. I murdered any attitude threatening to spill out of me, not wanting to end this day entirely black and blue. I mentally muzzled that little voice saying Aizawa has never hurt me before so why would he now-?
His words were calculated, but not unfeeling in the worst of ways, “And yet you still decided to ignore one measly request of you,” he did not raise his voice but that did not give any illusion of calmness. I’m not that much of a moron to believe he could really be emotionless about this… situation.
Now that did get a reaction. How do grownups always know how to make my walls crumble under their cannon fire? “What- I mean,” I thought as quickly as I could to find a way to work my inquiry without it coming off as a question. Without it coming off as an attempt at brainwashing. “Tell me what I can do to fix this,” I inwardly cringed at the demanding wording of my sentence as I refrained from rubbing the back of my neck. Hands stiff at my sides, I could feel the blood prick at my fingers from where my nails stayed planted in my skin.
It was clearly the wrong thing to say, “so now you’re the one telling me what to do? Sorry for you, little boy,” he did not in any way sound apologetic, “but you’re not in charge here,” he paused for a moment, eyes analyzing every inch of me before he sighed, “go to your room. This can’t be fixed right now.” I don’t know what he was looking for when his eyes raked over me, but I know he did not like what he saw.
It took everything in me not to sprint right out of the kitchen, run away run away run away runawayrunawayrunaway-
When I made it to the closest thing to a safe haven I have in this foster home, I closed my bedroom door as quietly as possible behind me. I only paused for one shaky breath, listening for footsteps that did not follow me. Yet. Too many broken down doors and failed attempts at fleeing have taught me never to let my guard down. I know better than to believe he won’t come to deliver punishment. It’s inevitable.
His words echoed through my head as if he was already here, “ this can’t be fixed right now.” I can’t fix it. I can’t fix this, fix us. It’s broken. I’m broken, I’m broken and I break everything I touch. It’s unfixable, I’m unfixable. He said it himself, this is broken. Here is broken, I broke it. I always do, I know that and yet I still let myself think I could last a little longer. Just a bit longer this time, please I just wanted this time to be different. I knew that could never happen and yet I still let myself think otherwise. That this could be better, that I could be better, but I can’t. Because a broken thing can’t help but break everything else around it too.
Acting more on instinct than anything, I scrambled to my old worn out backpack. Digging through the inside pocket, I found my dirty blade at the very bottom. Wiping the crumbs from who knows what off the metal, I clenched it hard enough to sting my fingers. The blade itself was smaller than the length of my pinky, but much sharper than it had any right to be. Who knew pencil sharpeners could be so dangerous?
Pressing it into my already stinging palm, I practically collapsed onto my bed, knowing I could never truly hide in here. Too many thrown off doors have shown that closets are never the safe zone they pretend to be.
Pressing the small blade harshly into my skin, I barely allowed myself time to revel in the initial pain before I was making another parallel slash. The small canvas of the back of my hand painted red with mark after mark, filling the expanse with beads of scarlet ready to drip at the slightest tilt. A hard to hide spot, yes, but oh so easy to bleed.
I can’t fix it, I can’t fix anything. And the worst part is is I don’t even know what I did wrong. Yes, I refrained from texting back, but Mr. Aizawa seemed too pissed for that to be the only factor. I always do this, I always ruin everything before I can stop myself. It’s just in my nature.
Purposely, I turned my hand up vertically, watching the blood bubbling up out of me gather into larger droplets before dragging down my skin, staining everything in its wake. I watched the drip disappear underneath my oversized sweatshirt sleeve, no doubt soaking into the fabric and staining it just as much as my body is. With my hand still up and ready for more blood to ooze out, I crisscrossed my next cuts, opening up the prior ones even more. Scarlet dripped and disappeared faster this time, the red spreading through all the previously imperceptible wrinkles in my skin.
I broke it and I know what happens next. I know, yet I’m still wasting time calming myself down when I’m just going to end up crying anyway. It’s the cruel cycle of my foster homes. The honeymoon phase in which they don’t hate me yet, I fuck it up, then they kick me out while I’m crying and internally begging to stay. Because I can never ask to stay to their faces, I can never so blatantly give them a reason to shut me up permanently.
Even if all they do is hurt me, who’s to say wherever I’m stuck next won’t be worse?
I continued, forcing my hand to relax as I knew when I clenched my fist it would only push more blood out. I better save that satisfaction for later when I can’t make more gashes anew. I pressed the tip of the blade in, forcing the corner as deep as my mind would let me before the somehow still existent self-preservation instincts kicked in and scared me too much to press harder. I watched the blood seep around the blade, dragging with it as I made another quick slash. Always quick, so it’s too fast to regret. Too fast to stop myself.
But that’s the problem. Here has been the best of anywhere so far, and I still broke it. I still ruined it beyond repair. I’m like the opposite of King Midas, everything I touch turns to dust. I’m just blue flames demolishing everything I touch, like that villain Midoriya told me about. Here has been smiles that weren’t a mask, laughter I had not been forced to suppress, loving gentle touches, going to bed with a full belly. Not once have I passed out from hands too harsh, hits I couldn’t flinch away from. Never have Mr. Aizawa nor Mr. Yamada even raised their voice at me. I let myself think this could be a paradise, like my own heaven on earth after all the hell I’ve been through. But I should know by now, I’ll never stop paying my dues.
Feeling the tears continue to press against the back of my eyes, I pressed my fingers cruelly into them, trying to physically make the tears stay in my body. It’s hopeless I know, but when has anything about my life ever had hope? Knowing it was futile, I forced myself up and onto my feet. If I keep wasting time like this, I’ll be forced out of here before I even have a chance to pack. Firstly, I placed my blade into the bottom of my bag where it belongs. Scanning over my room with a calculated gaze, I can’t fit everything in my backpack anymore.
Then again, not all of this is mine. The bedding Mr. Yamada helped me pick out, that was his money to spend. So it’s his to decide what to do with it. Even if the blanket is the softest I had ever felt. Even if it made an insomniac like me sleep just a bit more than normal. The clothes, Mr. Aizawa spent his hard earned cash on them, he should be able to sell them and make back what he wasted. I was never worth it. Okay, school will be harder without my new supplies, but I lasted before on borrowed pens and nubs of pencils. It’ll be fine.
It’s never fine.
Separating my items from the borrowed not gifts from my foster parents, I bit my lip to keep from whimpering as every movement made my hand sear in pain. I felt more than saw the cuts open more with each grasp of my hand, blood escaping in small tendrils. I was careful to not allow any red to stain what isn’t mine to keep, not the clothes, not the blankets or pillows, not anything. Really, it’s easier to just grab the things that belonged to me originally than separate everything. It’s less painful at least.
With that in mind, I was able to find my old tattered sweatshirt in the back of my closet. Red stains those sleeves too. Just like- oh . I allowed myself another breath of comfort before pulling my sweater up and over my head, and I shivered from more than just the cold. It’s not mine anyway, and it’s not as if I deserve the comfort it brings. I can only hope I’ll have time to scrub the stains out in the sink before I get kicked out.
Slipping my old hoodie up and over my head, I tried not to crinkle my nose at how disgusting the rough material felt against my skin. It's pathetic that’s what got the first couple tears to drip down my face. It’s what I deserve after all, who am I to complain. It’s not like I should have gotten used to soft clothing, clothes that are the definition of cozy. With my threadbare items packed away, I turned to the photos and drawings I had oh so carefully taped on my walls. Even with tears blurring my vision I could not miss the pure happiness radiating off the photos. Pictures of beaming grins I didn’t know I was capable of making, silly faces I’m still shocked Mr. Yamada could get outta Mr. Aizawa, and candid shots caught in the middle of loud bouts of laughter.
I covered my mouth with one hand to stifle a sob.
Though the men captured in the photos could argue they have a right to them, I’ve always been one to toe the line between right and wrong. What else would a future villain do, after all? I didn’t dare cause more unnecessary noise by sniffling, just letting the snot run down my face. It was while I was lining my ancient water damaged notebook with picture after picture that I finally heard footsteps approaching. I wish I could say I did not make such a pitiful whimper at the noise.
Judging by the heaviness of each step, it was Mr. Yamada coming. When did he even get home? I shoved my notebook into my bag, praying to the gods I know are smiting me that none of the papers are wrinkled. I barely spared a moment to wipe my tear-filled snotty face on my shirt.
Unceremoniously yanking my sleeves over my hands, making them more like ‘paws’ as the man coming to deliver punishment would often say. Why is it Mr. Yamada coming? It’s not like Mr. Aizawa ever shys away from disciplining brats. Unless he really meant that it’s broken, so much so that he can’t even be bothered to face me anymore.
Somehow the purposeful neglect always hurts more than the cruelest of punishments.
I flit my glassy eyes over the room once again, spotting my old plush kitty on my bed. Snatching up the so-old-it’s-practically-grey-instead-of-purple stuffed animal as quickly as I could I shoved it into my bag, but I was just too slow. I always am. Admittedly, it’s hard to be productive when I’m still trying to muffle my insistent whimpers and whines with one hand. I swear I flinched hard enough for whiplash at the resounding knock at my door. Is that a trick?
Not wanting to risk angering the man any further, I croaked out, “come in,” before clearing my voice. As if that would take away from any of the embarrassment I’m putting myself through. As expected, it was the blond who opened the door. But instead of a hardened glare I was met with that same gentle gaze he’s looked at me with since my first day living here. Just another ruse.
Like every promise that here would be permanent.
“Hey Toshi,” his voice was much too soft for Present Mic, let alone for it to be addressing me. “Shouta asked me to come check on you.” What is this? The good cop bad cop shtick? There was no way a hero like him missed my watery eyes and tensed shoulders- no, my tensed entire body.
I forced the words out, as much as I hated them, “I’m ready.” I’m not. I’m not, I’m never ready, but especially not now. I’m not ready, please don’t make me go, please-
His brow furrowed as he stepped into my room, slowly as if approaching a wounded animal, “ready for what, sweetheart?”
Oh so that’s how we are doing this, if he wants me to admit my punishment I will. Forcing my tears down by mere force of will, I shuddered out in a failed attempt at an emotionless façade, “I’m ready to go back…” I barely refrained from wiping at the tears escaping me no matter how hard I tried to hold them back, “back to the orphanage.” Who knew Present Mic could be such a sadist?