Chapter Text
It had started with a small, purple-haired boy of ten who’d convinced himself he had the Quirk of a villain.
Shouta and Hizashi had only been foster parents for a few years, but they’d quickly made a name for themselves. The couple was often referred to as a “last resort” for troublesome foster kids. Oftentimes, these kids were teenagers, with only a few years left until they reached eighteen and were no longer considered wards of the state. Shouta and Hizashi’s job was to keep these broken children from falling apart before their time. They’d take in the kids that no one else wanted and show them the respect and kindness they deserved. Some would say that made all the difference.
A lot of people have said that Shouta and Hizashi changed their lives. They’d take in children who’d experienced things no one their age should ever have to deal with and show them there was a light in the things they did. Shouta and Hizashi were just trying to help these kids. Being supportive parents was just as, if not more, important than being heroes.
It was a good thing Shouta and Hizashi were experts at both.
Hitoshi Shinsou hesitantly trailed behind Hizashi one rainy Wednesday evening. He hadn’t spoken the entire car ride to the apartment, which was typical, and kept his eyes down. Before first meeting the kid, Shouta and Hizashi had gotten to look at Hitoshi’s files before agreeing to take him in. Even Hitoshi’s social worker seemed hesitant to agree to let them take the kid, which had earned a sharp glare from Shouta.
At just eleven years old, Hitoshi had a longer complaint sheet than half the seventeen-year-olds they’d seen. It didn’t take the critical eye of a Pro Hero to realize which complaints were fake and which were real. Even though they’d only been doing this a few short years, Shouta had already learned the names of the popular foster homes in the area, as well as which ones were “legitimate” or not. Some foster homes were obviously better than others. It was just Hitoshi’s luck that he’d gotten stuck with all the bad ones.
When Shouta moved to help Hitoshi take his coat off, the boy scrambled away and nearly hit his head on the corner of a table.
Shouta could see it in the boy’s eyes. Hitoshi was dull and resigned, already starting to prepare himself for another house of abuse and neglectful foster parents who were more focused on a paycheck than helping a kid who’d already hit rock bottom.
When Hizashi showed Hitoshi his new bedroom, Hitoshi looked ready to cry. He sniffled as he took a second to look around the room, painted a light gray with a full-size bed and solid furniture. The wooden wardrobe, desk, and nightstand were a little scuffed from years of use, but they did their job well. The bed was new, though. Shouta and Hizashi had been forced to upgrade it after one of the latest charges had tried to blow the old bed up.
Hizashi couldn’t deny the pang of sadness that struck his heart as he watched Hitoshi curl up on the soft comforter, a few stray tears falling from the boy’s purple eyes.
“The bathroom is the next door over. Your bedroom door locks, and we will never enter without permission.” Hizashi got no reply. “We’ll call you for dinner, little listener.” He closed the door, allowing Hitoshi to get situated with his new room in peace.
Shouta was sitting on the couch, the news playing on the TV muted so he could continue reading through what was left of Hitoshi’s file. His expression was grim, eyes narrowed. “Did the kid have any belongings?”
Shaking his head, Hizashi sat down next to his husband. “Just the clothes on his back. Barely that. When I showed him his room, he started crying. He was crying , Shou.” Hizashi pulled at his long, blond hair nervously. “How are we the last option? He doesn’t seem like the resistant type.”
“How much of his file did you read?” Shouta asked, not looking up.
“About half. I couldn’t get past the testimonials.”
Shouta scoffed, not at his husband, but at the papers in front of them. He threw them on the coffee table in annoyance. “It’s a bunch of bullshit. These testimonials don’t match up with his hospital records, and am I honestly supposed to believe an eight-year-old kid willingly did this kind of shit? We’re lucky Hitoshi isn’t in a detention center right now.”
When Shouta looked into Hitoshi’s eyes, all he saw was a scared, abused kid who’d been blamed for too many tragedies. Half the things listed in his file were excuses to get the kid transferred for who knows what. Shouta had seen that type of reporting with past charges, but never this bad with someone this young.
“I want to take him shopping tomorrow,” Hizashi said definitely, closing the file on the table and setting a book on top of it. “Kid needs some things of his own. He doesn’t even have a proper school uniform.” He sighed. “Do we want to transfer him to the elementary school nearby, or keep him in his current one until the end of the school year? There’s only a month left.”
“We should ask him. Later, over dinner.” Shouta massaged his temples. “Either way, I want to keep an eye on him. I don’t want him to be alone longer than he has to be. I don’t care what he says, a kid with a record of abuse like this, especially because of his Quirk, is probably bullied at school. Do you think you’d be up for commuting with him in the morning? If you leave your third years alone for ten minutes, they won’t blow up a building.”
Hizashi nodded, already pulling out his phone to update his personal calendar. “Do you want me to pick him up, too? I can do every day but Fridays.”
“I can get Fridays. What about Saturdays? Does he have weekends off?”
“I think so.” Hizashi sighed, still typing on his phone, but glanced up to look at his husband. “How are we going to manage that, since we work all day Saturdays?”
Shouta thought for a second. “It might be in Hitoshi’s best interest to have someone stay here to watch him. He needs to get familiar with the apartment anyway.”
“We could ask Tensei to drop by.”
“Tensei has work.”
Hizashi pursed his lips, thinking. Pocketing his phone, he stood, getting ready to start dinner. “... Could Mika do it?”
“Jirou Mika?” Shouta hadn’t considered asking a civilian. “She has a daughter. And a job.”
“She doesn’t work weekends and her daughter is around Hitoshi’s age. Maybe they could be friends.” Hizashi pulled his hair back and started looking through the cupboards. “How do we feel about katsudon for dinner?”
“Whatever you want, as long as you think Hitoshi would like it.” Stretching, Shouta spread out on the couch, closing his eyes. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me for dinner.”
Sending a smile at his husband, Hizashi nodded his head to himself. “Katsudon it is.”