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“Well!” Shuzenji says, smacking her thighs lightly as she turns around in her chair to face Shouta. “The good news is, you could knock them both out on the same day if you wanted to.”
“They both need their tonsils out?”
A very groggy and hoarse Hitoshi murmurs, “Wha’?”
“Go back to sleep.” He takes the brief time to put a soothing hand through his fever-sweaty hair, then turns back to Shuzenji. “Why?”
“I’m concerned about the quality of Hitoshi’s voice if he continues getting infections,” she says quietly. “And Eri’s tonsils are abnormally large. Hence…”
She gestures toward the bed she’s sacked out on opposite Hitoshi, where she snores like an old man instead of a seven-year-old. Shouta always found it sortof humorous—not abnormal.
“They might grow smaller in time, but they also might not. She meets the qualifications for getting them removed. If she’s going to, she should do it now, while she’s still a younger child.”
Shouta’s voice lowers with seriousness. “Are you saying Hitoshi’s surgery will be worse?”
“It could be. Adult tonsils are very vascular—there will be much more bleeding during the procedure, and much more pain afterward.” She continues with a pinched face, “But I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would be worth it.”
“Don’t want surgery,” Hitoshi grumbles, eyes still closed and heavy with the effect of Shuzenji’s Quirk. It sounds like swallowed gravel—it can’t be anything but painful.
“I know, sweetheart, but you’ve had so many bouts of tonsillitis. I know you don’t always lose your voice with it, but I worry about the long-term effect on your Quirk.” She reaches out to pat his thigh with her liver-spotted hand. “Not to mention the discomfort. This is the third infection you’ve had this year. It can’t be fun.”
“No,” he grinds out. “Throat hurts.”
Aizawa lets himself wince a little. “I know, kid.”
The hand goes back in Hitoshi’s hair. Thank God Eri’s dead asleep—he’s not sure he could handle two awake sick kids. He’s just not used to this. It’s only been five months since Eri’s adoption, and two since Hitoshi’s, and it’s just not natural at this point like he thought it would be.
He sure as hell didn’t handle their colds well this past week, considering he let Eri give it to Hitoshi, and now it morphed into tonsillitis for the both of them. Shouta brought Eri to Shuzenji’s office first thing this morning after she spiked a fever over last night and dreamt vividly of Chisaki tearing her apart. Hitoshi, on the other hand, pleaded to participate in 3-A’s exercise today and made a convincing case that he felt fine despite his hoarseness, but the reduced quality of his voice carried over his vocal modulator and got him defeated almost instantly, not to mention his midday fever.
In Shouta’s defense, they’re both too good at hiding their progressively-worse pain and love to pretend like they’re fine. He hates this world for what it’s done to his kids. But he’d be damned if he let them suffer anymore in any capacity.
“If you think it’s best, I trust you,” Shouta concedes.
Shuzenji smiles gently at him, warm with the knowledge that, once upon a time in his school days, Shouta trusted no one—especially not UA staff. “Very well, then. I’ll put in a referral for you.”
“What, you won’t do it?”
“Nope. I only perform minimally invasive, Quirk-based surgery. This is neither of those things.”
Not minimally invasive. Well. He gives a long look at his sleeping kids, heart pulling with something he can’t describe.
She scribbles on her prescription pad. “Ten days of azithromycin for both of them in the meantime, acetaminophen for their fevers, no school for either of them for two days at least.”
Shouta frowns. Well, he can get a substitute, that’s fine, and he wasn’t planning on patrolling this week anyway. Both of them will be pissed , though.
Then Hitoshi puts searching fingers into Shouta’s pant leg and mutters, “Can we go home? ‘Wanna go to bed.”
Well. Maybe that won’t be an issue, then.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Shuzenji coos. “Take them home, Shouta, we’re done here. I’ll check on the both of them tomorrow. Don’t hesitate to call ‘til then.”
Something pulls at his heart still, something full and wide that he cannot name, as he gathers their things and carries Eri along with one hand and supports Hitoshi with the other. She doesn’t stir, and Hitoshi’s too sick to be embarrassed.
Something pulls.
Camped out in front of the TV, both of his kids lay half-dozing, taking up one part of the sectional each. Except Eri hasn’t been able to sleep soundly since they left the infirmary, so she’s spread-eagle on top of Shouta’s chest.
Hitoshi sleepily nibbles on toast and banana. It would be peaceful if he didn’t let out a pitiful cough every other minute.
“Drink, please,” Shouta urges.
Hitoshi scowls, but diligently takes a sip of his water. It doesn’t seem to sit well with him—he grimaces, then sets both the glass and his plate down on the coffee table. He blinks heavily, returning to glancing at the TV and dozing off.
Something pulls again.
Eri, then, lets out a child-sized moan in her sleep, interrupting her snoring. It’s the kind of thing you never want to hear, especially given it undoubtedly means she’s having a nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “‘M so sorry, please don’t…”
“Shh, shh-shh-shh,” Shouta tries to soothe, rubbing her back with one hand and cradling her head with the other. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Hitoshi snaps back awake, looking to Shouta with pleading eyes. “You can’t wake her up?”
“No,” Shouta murmurs. “I hate her therapist.”
Hitoshi chuckles in a nervous way. Neither of them are too happy with that verdict.
Then she starts to cry. And if Shouta rubs her back a little harder in hopes she might wake, well, he didn’t mean to.
“I love you,” Shouta whispers under his breath. He plants a very light kiss on her feverish forehead. “I love you. You’re safe.”
Hitoshi looks on with wide eyes.
Shit. Shouta says that a lot less around him. “Love you too, kid.”
Hitoshi’s flush gets a little deeper and he looks away quickly.
Damn it.
Surgery day came much quicker than he anticipated. Shuzenji has plenty of connections, of course; it felt like as soon as his kids’ antibiotic courses finished, they were in the surgeon’s clinic being evaluated, and were booked right after. They sit in their curtained-off room in pre-op, side by side on the bed instead of in two separate bays like they were suggested to reside in.
It might be advisable to bring another visitor with you, the nurse had told him upon learning he planned on bringing them alone. That way, you can definitely have someone watching over each of them the whole time.
Maybe it was illogical, but he wasn’t going to get anyone else involved. He wasn’t going to let anyone split apart his kids, or let anyone in on something he could supervise. Shouta was going to be with each of them equally. So here they sit, smushed in one bay, Shouta dressed in paper scrubs over his civvies to be with Eri in the OR. The patients in question kick their feet—one in excitement and one in dread.
“I get to go first!” Eri brags, face smug and arms crossed over her little yellow hospital gown.
Shinsou doesn’t bite. “Yup,” he says, picking at his much more dull adult gown. “Good thing you’re braver than me.”
The nervousness is written all over his face. Everyone seems to have drilled into him how difficult the recovery will be—it pissed Shouta off to no end, but was unfortunately true. He’s already stocked the freezer with enough popsicles and ice cream to last them the year.
“No!” She says cheerfully. “You’re braver than lots of people. Sometimes you’re even braver than Deku!”
“Thanks.” He huffs, and a flicker of a sarcastic, then genuine smile passes over his face. “But you’re the bravest one here and we all know it.”
Her face crumples a little—there it goes. She dives into his side, forcing his hand to come over and half-hug her.
“Not brave,” she says quietly.
“Plenty brave,” Shouta counters.
She ignores him. “Sensei told me no one wants to hurt us here,” Eri says to Hitoshi, voice steadier. “But it’s okay if we’re still scared because that’s a normal response.”
“Yeah.” Hitoshi rubs her back, then sends a nasty smirk Shouta’s way. “He’s never wrong.”
Shouta rolls his eyes in response. At least Hitoshi is capable of keeping it light still.
The curtain peels back then. “Eri Aizawa?”
Eri goes rigid as she answers the circulating nurse’s questions as polite as can be, and remains rigid as she takes Shouta’s hand with a gulp to head into the OR.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he tells Hitoshi. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Bye, ‘Toshi!” She says. It comes out strained.
He nods. “Give ‘em hell for me.”
Eri raises her fist in response.
Shouta contains his amusement while the circulator chuckles nervously. What’s reassuring to them—a violent encouragement, like they’re headed to battle—is perhaps uncouth for the general public, but makes sense as the product of growing up in an arguably military setting.
And Eri is battle-worn, in all senses. It shows in the way she holds herself as they walk down the hall, little hand gripping Shouta’s, but back completely straight and voice meek as ever. It shows in the way she doesn’t flinch as they walk into the cold, bright operating room, and the way she hops onto the table gently and calmly and desperately holding back her feelings.
“It’s okay if you’re scared,” Shouta murmurs to her, standing where the nurse said he should as the anesthesiologist starts affixing monitors to her and yapping on with whatever kid-friendly lingo she didn’t need. Eri has an intimate familiarity with hospital equipment, with all she’s been exposed to directly or indirectly.
“‘M not,” she responds.
He just holds her hand. It’s still hard for him to be affectionate, much less affectionate towards someone who isn’t asking for affection.
“Alright, we’re gonna start having you breathe through this mask like we talked about outside, okay?” The anesthesiologist says, saccharine sweet with hands that reveal how eager the staff is to move on with the next case.
She breathes, fully aware of how he turns up a yellow dial marked SEVOFLURANE . Her eyes dart back to Shouta, and they finally start to water.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s okay to be scared. No one will be angry with you.”
And she takes a breath, then cries out loud , launching herself towards Shouta’s arms with trust he would catch her. The whole staff seems to wince, all moving to immobilize her and prevent her from falling, but Shouta holds her tight and without compromise.
“It’s okay,” Shouta soothes, grip firm as everyone struggles to work around their new position, wincing as she cries loud enough to hurt his ears. “You’re going to take a nap, and when you wake up, I’ll be there.”
“ Daddy ,” she cries, muffled by the plastic the anesthesiologist has pressed to her face.
She hardly ever says that.
“I’ve got you,” he says fiercely, unable to come up with anything more creative. “I’ve got you.”
She fades quickly when they turn up the yellow dial all the way. She jerks in Shouta’s arms once, twice, three times, then her eyes and neck roll back.
It’s like she fucking dies, is all he can think about.
They take her from him to lay down quietly on the surgical bed, and he’s being showed out before the gruesome part starts. He could take it—he tried to tell them that, but they didn’t seem to believe him. Maybe they were right.
“Alright, first time out of the day, let’s do it. This is Eri Aizawa, date of birth 12/21, MRN 23845601, here for a tonsillectomy under general anesthesia, position safe, secure, correct, any allergies?”
“No known allergies.”
“Antibiotics?”
“Ancef.”
“Great. No implants, imaging, or anticipated specimens. Let’s see, fire safety. Procedure above the xiphoid, closed O2, no prep, ignition source is the Bovie cautery on thirty-five, fire risk is low.”
“Any concerns, everyone…? Alright, first case of the day, introductions.”
“Kawamura, surgeon.”
“Matthews, anesthesia attending.”
“Sawada, anesthesia resident.”
“Jiang, scrub.”
“Matsuno, nurse extern.”
“Seok, circulator. Everyone agree, tonsillectomy…?”
“Good, let’s get going. Suction at max, please.”
Sensei looks horrible—that’s the first thing Hitoshi notices when he comes back, fifteen minutes after he took a terrified Eri with him.
“Is she okay?” is the first thing out of his mouth.
Sensei flops down on the chair next to his stretcher. “She’s fine. All to be expected.”
Hitoshi struggles to smirk and tease, but tries regardless. “Bad for you, then?”
“I’ll throw out the banana ice cream,” he deadpans. “Eri and I hate it anyway.”
“Nooo, I take it back.”
“That’s what I thought, brat.”
It leaves them quiet for a couple of minutes. Hitoshi plays on his phone, not really looking at anything at all. Plenty of well-wishes from 3-A to answer…he’ll get to it eventually. Probably.
“You okay?”
He shoots his head up. “Yeah, fine.”
“You’re shaking, kid.”
Hitoshi frowns at him—he didn’t need to point that out.
Sensei gets up with cracking knees and slides onto the stretcher with him, putting an arm around him. Hitoshi, just this once, shamelessly accepts it.
“I didn’t need a hug,” he grumbles, just because he feels the need to.
“This is not for you,” Sensei grumbles back.
They sit like that until Hitoshi gets taken back—alone, because he’s over twelve years old. Sensei looked freaked (well, as freaked as he can display, which isn’t much at all) as he walks away, and it stabs Hitoshi in the gut a bit.
He tries not to freak himself as he walks into the cold, bright, and crowded operating room, as they position him on the table, as they place an IV in him and start pushing propofol into his bloodstream, as they tell him to breathe into the mask, too, because mental Quirk holders usually resist anesthesia.
As his consciousness fades, he’s struck with a thought—this feels and smells a lot like a villain he met on patrol with a sedating Quirk. What was his name? Hypnocracy or something stupid like that? He nearly died that day.
But he falls asleep before he can give it the corresponding emotion.
“Case number two with the brother, let’s hope it goes as well as the first. We have Hitoshi Aizawa—”
“Doctor, his last name is different, this is Hitoshi Shinsou.”
“Check the band, please?”
“...Yes, Hitoshi Shinsou.”
“Fine, Hitoshi Shinsou, date of birth 7/1, MRN 23875342, here for a tonsillectomy under general anesthesia, position safe, secure, correct, allergies?”
“No known allergies.”
“Antibiotics?”
“Ancef again.”
“Good. No implants, imaging, or anticipated specimens. Fire safety, procedure above the xiphoid, closed O2, prep dry, no pooling, ignition with the Bovie on thirty-five, probably. Fire risk is low.”
“Concerns…?”
“Let’s go, we’re running a little behind. Suction on.”
“Hitoshi? Can you open your eyes, Hitoshi?”
There is light and color, and Hitoshi has woken up in a fog. People are talking, something is beeping, but he can’t really perceive much at all.
He has been hurt, hurt badly. They’ve taken him. They’ve come back for him and they took him and they put him to sleep and now he—he has to go while he has the chance.
A strap over the top of his chest comes off. “We’re all done, buddy, you did great.“
He can’t focus on a singular person in this room, but someone did talk, and his Quirk is firing off. At least six minds are in this room, this bright room.
“What did you do?”
“You had surgery on your—“
“Stay.”
Everything is still, and his head pounds, and he wants to fall back asleep. But he scrambles to sit up and roll off the table, knocking a bunch of shit off him. He falls to the tile floor—there’s blood on the floor, his blood , what did they do to him—and he crawls until he can stand, and he limps out until he can push a heavy door open, and he’s in a hallway that’s darker and he’s just moving, moving fueled only by fear. They’re coming, he knows it, and he needs to get out of here.
His Quirk tugs—he trips onto the tile and coughs. Blood spews out of his mouth, what did they do to him, he chokes a little. He keeps moving.
He’s dying, he thinks, as he pushes himself along on all fours. It starts to hurt. His body is so sluggish and heavy, and he can’t remember anything . He knows he’s scared, and he knows someone is coming for him.
There. Steel double doors on the other side of the hallway, if he can get to them, which he can . He hauls himself up on two feet and leans against the wall for support and moves , wills himself to move, step after step after step on his socked feet.
He shoves himself against the doors with a huff, and then there is noise, and his Quirk tugs and pulls with the presence of so many bodies.
He trips over his feet again with a cry, and he doesn’t even have the energy to be frustrated.
Eri still hadn’t woken, even after the recovery nurse came and got him and he sat there for a few minutes. Normal, apparently, and good, because she should absolutely wake up with Shouta there instead of a stranger.
He gets one of the automated text messages he’s been waiting for. THE PROCEDURE FOR HITOSHI SHINSOU HAS CONCLUDED.
Good. Good, it must have gone well, he’s only been back there for twenty minutes. He’ll be out shortly, no doubt, and Shouta’s already in the PACU, so he can keep an eye on him the entire time. It’s working out nicely. He didn’t need a second person.
Eri still looks…eerily quiet. But the small monitor by her bed flashes regular heartbeats and breaths. To be her, sleeping so deeply. Shouta’s hated every surgery he’s had done on himself, but he loves being sedated and getting the best sleep ever.
He sits with her for a few minutes more, brushing her hair back as she sleeps and waiting for the big double doors from the operating wing to open and wheel Hitoshi in, too. But no one’s come yet, no sign of him.
Maybe the anesthesia team is working with him more. After all, they’d both been warned about how mental Quirks can interfere with it, and that he might have to receive more sedation than typical for his age and weight. He’ll wait a bit more before asking someone about it.
Just as Eri begins stirring, the double doors crack open—not swing open, like they do for a gurney, no, someone has pushed one open. And in the time for Shouta to peek his head out from behind the curtain, he hears the loud thunk of a body hitting the floor and a cry that he immediately recognizes.
“Hitoshi!?”
“ Sensei! ”
He moves faster than he ever has in combat, standing up from his chair with a screech as it slides back, and turns the corner to see Hitoshi splayed face-first on the tile floor, limbs askew, gown untied, struggling to keep his head up.
Shouta slides to his knees next to him as staff join them, but Shouta is the first to ask, “Hitoshi, what’s going on?”
“Help me,” he gasps. “They’re coming .”
“Who, Hitoshi?”
“V—” He coughs, spewing up blood, and doesn’t react when Shouta gathers him in his arms, lifting him to the stretcher that’s already been prepared for him. “Villian. Got me. Help.”
Shouta can feel his stomach drop like lead in a swimming pool. That can’t be true, but that means Hitoshi is imagining it, which is somehow worse. He’s terrified .
The nursing staff descends on them, hands moving and flipping him around, inspecting. “This is Hitoshi Shinsou?”
“Sir, we need him back in the OR, he’s bleeding too much.”
“How’d he even get here?”
He ignores their questions for now and plays into the delirium. “How’d you get away?”
“Quirk still works.” He spits up more blood, nearly choking. It speckles his cheek, his pale skin. “Five of them. Told ‘em to stay, can’t hold ‘em for long. Help.”
“Wait, he’s talking about the surgery team, I think.”
“I’ve got you now, kid, you need to let go of your Quirk. I’ve got you, he’s not getting near us.” He spares a glance to the staff crowding around them. “Hitoshi has a suggestion Quirk that may have immobilized the staff.”
“You think he’s in delirium?”
“No, he’s a hero, he has PTSD from being sedated by force,” he grinds out. How did he not think about this beforehand? It was seven months ago, but the memory burns hot in Shouta’s head still.
“It doesn’t matter now. His airway is unstable because he’s bleeding from the tonsils again, he might choke. We need him back in the OR to stop it.” The sternest nurse drills daggers into Shouta’s eyes. “Can he release them?”
“Hitoshi,” he asks, quiet, nonthreatening. “Can you let them go? I’ll take care of them, but you have to trust me.”
“No.” Hitoshi’s eyes water. “Won’t let them hurt you.”
And doesn’t that just ache?
“ Trust me, Hitoshi,” he hammers in. “You did great, I got it from here.”
He looks suspicious—as suspicious as he can be with sedation-slack features—but he melts a little in Shouta’s arms with a whine of relief.
Moments later, everyone hears shouts and clanging of machinery from the operating wing. Hitoshi’s stopped holding them back.
“Let’s go,” the lead nurse commands.
Shouta moves with them through the doors, but one of the nurses holds him back. “Dad, you need to let us take him.”
“Absolutely not, I’m going with you,” he growls, pushing right through her arm.
“Your daughter,” one of them says. “She’s waking up. Stay with her.”
Shit .
“Stay with her,” she continues, “and we’ll call you back as he’s being extubated.”
Maybe he really should have brought someone with him.
“Fine,” he concedes. “I expect to be kept updated. And I’m staying while you sedate him again.”
He steals a look down at Hitoshi—Hitoshi, whose purple eyes are stuck on him as he pants out little flecks of blood.
“I love you,” he says, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re safe.”
He nods, silent. His eyes stay trained on him as they wheel him back onto the table, as they push milky liquid through his IV again. Only when they tape his eyelids down does his gaze break.
Hitoshi wakes calmly, sleepily.
“Hey, kid.” Aizawa smiles—barely—at him. Eri sits in his lap, changed out of her gown and sleeping with her head on his chest.
He blinks at Aizawa. Hey , he tries to say, but it comes out as “H—“ and a hacking cough that tastes like coins. He can’t feel his throat very well, but he can imagine he’s going to be hurting shortly.
“Don’t try to talk,” he says. “They burnt your tonsils to a crisp. You bled a lot.”
Hitoshi winces at the thought.
Aizawa grunts. “You’re supposed to eat a popsicle, get up and walk around, and change. Then we’re going home.”
OK? He signs hesitantly. Something’s…off.
Aizawa nods.
HER SURGERY HOW?
Aizawa looks down at Eri warmly, all curled up and comfy in the arms of one of the few adults she trusts. “It went well. She’s just riding out the anesthesia.”
YOU HOW?
Aizawa rolls his eyes at him. “I’m fine.”
WHAT? WRONG WHAT?
“You don’t remember?”
WHAT?
“You didn’t react so well to the anesthesia,” Aizawa says, grabbing a popsicle from the nurse’s hand with a small thank-you . He unwraps it for him, and he feels like he’s five years old. “Eat.”
Hitoshi sticks it in his mouth— wow, that feels excellent. I BEFORE DO…WHAT?
“We’re gonna talk later about this. Everything’s fine now, we’re all just worried about you.” Aizawa puts a heavy hand on his thigh. “Finish your popsicle.”
He does so. The nurse walks him in a circle around the unit, where he hears the cries of young kids who got their tonsils out—he’s the oldest patient here, he supposes. Maybe he wants to cry, too? He can’t tell what he’s feeling. There’s this lingering… thing .
Aizawa helps him change and, given Hitoshi nearly fell on his face while pulling his sweatpants on, he gets pushed outside in a wheelchair. Between blinks, he’s somehow in the back of Aizawa’s car, and his arm is around Eri, and then he’s home on the couch. He’s spread out on the cushions with a bowl of banana ice cream in his lap, half-eaten, though he doesn’t remember eating it.
“Wh—” His throat explodes .
“Shh,” Aizawa says, coming around the corner from Eri’s room. “Don’t talk. Sign instead.”
WHY? MY QUIRK?
Aizawa gives him this…sad look, he thinks. “You had a tonsillectomy, remember?”
Oh. Yeah. He takes a big spoonful of ice cream and shoves it in his mouth, missing a little bit and getting some on his cheek.
“How do you feel?” Aizawa asks, sitting down next to him and getting a napkin to clean Hitoshi’s face. He doesn’t have the energy or wherewithal to be embarrassed at this point.
WEIRD . DON’T REMEMBER ANY.
“It’s normal for the anesthesia to screw with your memory for a little while,” Aizawa says. “Eri’s barely woken up during any of this, so I put her to bed. You, on the other hand, can’t seem to sleep much.”
NORMAL.
“I know. I wish you could rest, is all.” Aizawa slumps further into the couch. “Having any pain?”
NONE.
“Good.”
The only sound for a little while is Hitoshi’s spoon against ceramic as he guzzles ice cream. He can’t feel much on the back of his throat, but he knows it feels good. He runs his tongue around everything, hunting for stitches because he can’t help but want to mess with them, then suddenly tastes blood.
Right. Bleeding. Something happening.
A-N-I-S-T-I
“Anesthesia?”
YES. I REMEMBER—NOT REMEMBER WRONG FOR-WHY YOU WEIRD BEFORE.
Aizawa narrows his eyes at him. That probably made very little grammatical sense—he never got a formal education in sign. “Do you want to type it? I think your phone is around here somewhere.”
YOU BEFORE WEIRD A-N-E-S WHY? YOU TELL-ME I BEFORE DO SOMETHING…?
“Oh, you’re asking about how you reacted to the anesthesia? I probably shouldn’t have brought that up then.”
TELL-ME! He nearly smacks his ice cream bowl to the ground.
Aizawa catches it and sets it on the coffee table. “Do you really want to know? I’d rather you rest and not worry about this.”
Hitoshi decides to frown and give him the middle finger. FUCK YOU.
“Fine, fine.” Aizawa rolls his eyes. “I know we didn’t really talk about him much, but remember Hypnocracy? The sedation villain?”
Oh. Shit.
“I’m guessing by the look on your face that you do. You…were reminded of him.”
Hitoshi cringes at the thought of freaking the fuck out and punching someone, which he maybe would do. Maybe. I HURT HOSPITAL PEOPLE?
“No, but you did use your Quirk. All you did was immobilize them, no one was injured, except you. You managed to escape somehow and find me.”
He can’t remember this at all . But he can’t say he’s…that surprised.
“It was, well, dangerous. You managed to rupture the sutures they placed and you nearly choked on your own blood.”
Another cringe. He can’t taste the blood anymore around his ice cream, which he now wants more of to chase the feeling. WANT MORE ICE CREAM PLEASE.
“In a minute. I want to talk about this first.”
TASTE BAD, BLOOD.
“In a minute .”
Hitoshi frowns and instead licks on the bowl.
“I think,” Aizawa says slowly, hesitantly, “we should have talked more about that when it happened.”
… VILLAIN?
“Yes.”
WE BEFORE TALK…?
“Not enough, I don’t think. And I don’t know what you talk to your therapist about, but…”
SHUT-UP. NOT YOUR PROBLEM.
“Probably wise.” Aizawa rubs at his eye. “Look, I’m sorry. I just want you to feel like you can talk to me if something’s bothering you.”
He stands up and fetches the remaining pint of banana ice cream.
Hitoshi immediately stabs a spoon into it. I DO TALK WITH YOU.
“You know what I mean, kid.”
Hitoshi looks away.
“Maybe this should have waited until you’re feeling more normal. I’m sorry. But I wanted to say something .”
I KNOW. Hitoshi sucks on a chunk of banana. I FEEL…YOU MY TEACHER. SOMETIMES YOU NOT DAD, YOU TEACHER. SOMETIMES DAD. COMPLICATED.
“Yeah?”
YES. SORRY.
“Don’t be. It hasn’t been that long since the adoption. Even then, if you never see me as your dad, I don’t mind. I want what works for you.”
I WANT FEEL YOU MY DAD. YOU MY DAD YOU!
“And you’re my son. But it’s more complex than that, I know. And that’s okay. We can grow into it.”
Hitoshi has a million things he wants to say. But for now, he just says, OK.
“Okay.”
Aizawa comes a little closer, and hesitantly, slowly wraps an arm around him, the same way Hitoshi was embarrassed about before his surgery. “This okay?”
Hitoshi nods and nestles a little closer. It feels good this time—better. And, in a reciprocal affectionate manner, he holds out a spoonful of banana ice cream.
“Absolutely not.”
The computer rings out over Ground Beta: “All participants have been eliminated. Winner: Hitoshi Shinsou.”
Shouta watches with a secret smile as Hitoshi moves away from the battle ground, his opponents and classmates clapping him on the back and congratulating him on his win on this stealth exercise. It took him a little bit of vocal therapy, at the suggestion of Hizashi, but now Hitoshi’s imitations are perfect.
He jogs up to Shouta with a victorious smirk on his face, taking his modulator off and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “How’d I do?”
“Decent,” he grunts. “Watch your left side, but don’t constantly look behind you.”
“You’re smiling,” Hitoshi accuses.
“I might be a little proud of you,” Shouta says. He lets a hint of his smile come out of his capture weapon.
He looks so happy, happy with his success. It’s such a stark contrast to the Hitoshi who felt like he was constantly underachieving. This Hitoshi is filled with joy.
Something pulls again.
Then Hitoshi looks behind his shoulder—again, that damn right shoulder—and, seeing his classmates headed for the lockers, goes in for a one-armed hug.
He never initiates them. Shouta savors the moment, squeezing him tight, and only lets go when Hitoshi pulls away just slightly.
Before he turns away for the lockers, Shouta asks, “Hey, are you sure you want to pick up Eri today? You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. We’re gonna bike to the park after, if that’s cool?”
“Of course. Just be back in time for dinner.”
“What are we having?”
“Dirt and worms.” (He hasn’t gone to the grocery store yet.) He raises a hand to ruffle his hair, then decides against it. “Go shower, you’re filthy.”
Hitoshi shakes out his sweaty bangs much too close to Shouta to be anything but intentional. Shouta nudges the back of his knee with his steel foot, and that puts a stop to it.
He turns to go, then turns back slightly, just enough to murmur. “I love you.”
He could shout it from the fucking rooftop: “Love you too, kid.”
He runs off, cheeks only slightly red. And Shouta packs up for the day, knowing he’ll say it to Eri, too, and he’ll say it again tonight, and the day after, and the day after that, just in case they forget, just so they know who they can trust.