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Shinsou Hitoshi had contemplated suicide many times in his relatively short life, but it still hit him out of the blue every time something went wrong in his life and his first thought was this wouldn't matter if I was dead. It was almost funny, in hindsight, how quickly those — bi-yearly at most — thoughts turned into every few weeks turned into every waking moment. The first time he absentmindedly considered throwing himself off the edge of a building after he made it into the hero course, he'd frozen up.
He was patrolling with his mentor — it was still so crazy to him that the Eraserhead had taken him under his wing — peering over the edge of an apartment building, the hero a few feet away sending a text. They'd been flying across the rooftops for what had to have been nearly two hours, and Hitoshi was nearly vibrating in excitement, beyond ready to get back out there. But Aizawa-sensei insisted on breaks for some reason. Hitoshi doubted Aizawa took breaks when he was patrolling alone.
And then he yawned, and when he reached up to cover his mouth, a spike of pain shot through his side — a stark reminder of the deep purple and blue bruises mottling his ribs. He almost didn't notice how easily the thought flitted through his mind, how nonchalantly he'd mused that if he simply ‘slipped’ right now, his side wouldn't have to hurt anymore.
It startled him, and he almost hadn't noticed his teacher tucking his phone away and turning to him. “We're going to start heading back to UA now. You still have classes tomorrow, as do I.”
“Ah — Yeah.” Hitoshi stammered smartly, not noticing the strange look his mentor shot him as he frowned down at his feet. With much less argument than normal, he began to follow his teacher back towards the school, lost in his thoughts as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop.
He'd always thought that if he ever managed to get into the hero course, if he ever made it, then the thoughts would stop. He didn't know why — he'd known he was mentally ill since he was old enough to talk old enough to be muzzled but for some reason, it never really clicked that he could have everything he'd ever wanted, and still want to die.
Well, not quite everything, he mused. A foster family that didn't regularly beat the shit out of him was too much to ask though, for someone like him. He knew that, he always had.
Kids like him, kids with villain’s quirks — they didn't get happy endings. He almost managed to forget.
Sometimes, Hitoshi pretended that Sensei was his dad. He'd never admit it in a thousand years, but sometimes when Aizawa patted his head or praised him for finally pulling off a move he'd been struggling with — he imagined that Todoroki was right.
Hitoshi always gave off that he was annoyed about Todoroki’s insistence that he was their teacher's secret love child, but in his head, he wished for it more than anything in the world. He wished that it was Aizawa and Yamada that he went home to every night instead of the Fukushimas. That he could call Eri his little sister instead of just someone he wished he could be.
When he laid in bed at night, nursing new bruises under his clothes and clenching his jaw to keep the muzzle from digging into his skin — Hitoshi closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like for Aizawa to take the muzzle off his face and draw him into his arms. He imagined Yamada yelling his current fosters into oblivion, imagined letting himself be saved.
And then he got up every morning, and nothing changed. And rinse and repeat.
Hitoshi could wish and pray and imagine all he liked, but he knew that a life like that just wasn't in the cards — not for him. Because some part of him, the part that had been beaten down for his entire life, muzzled and silenced — believed that he deserved it.
It was why he kept quiet about his home life. It was why whenever it looked like Aizawa might be starting to make a realization, he steered the conversation away. When Yamada began to look just a little too concerned, he threw on a tired smile and he pretended everything was fine. And of course they didn't dig deeper, because Hitoshi didn't want them to.
But for some reason, it still stung. Because the other half of him, the half that just wanted to stop hurting, wondered how they possibly couldn't know. How they could look at Hitoshi and not see what he was trying so hard to hide from them.
And even though he was in the hero course now, Hitoshi was still miserable. Sure, he had what he was pretty sure were friends now, and sometimes when he looked at Kaminari his heart raced and he felt things he didn't understand.
But at the end of every day, Hitoshi trudged into an apartment that did not welcome him and left the next morning hiding another slew of injuries that nobody ever noticed because nobody ever had.
And every night, he found himself wondering if it wouldn't be better for everyone if he was dead. Having been dealing with those thoughts since before he hit double digits, Hitoshi was used to them. What he wasn't used to, was just how much more appealing the option sounded lately.
He was on his way to being a hero, but what kind of hero couldn't even save themself? What kind of hero was muzzled more often than not? What kind of hero couldn't even tell his mentor that he was being abused?
Hitoshi found himself wondering how Aizawa would react. Hitoshi had never seen his sensei cry, and he wondered if his funeral would be the exception. Hell, his fosters would probably just get him cremated and dump him in the trash, if he was being realistic. The thought tore a bitter laugh from his throat, and Hitoshi grimaced as the movement reminded him of the sharp metal edges of the muzzle digging into his face.
Fukushima-san had been angrier than usual tonight, and had tightened the device far more than she usually did. That meant that he would have to peel it out of half-formed scabs in the morning and then find a way to cover up the cuts. Maybe he could claim that he was mugged. Or maybe, he could tilt forward a little bit and not have to worry about anything ever again. Hitoshi’s lavender gaze remained stuck on the skyline as he rocked back and forth where he sat, perched at the edge of his apartment building.
Tomorrow, he went back to the dorms. Which meant tomorrow, he'd have to figure out a story for the marks on his face, and then he'd have to pretend not to be disappointed when Aizawa believed him.
Or. . . Hitoshi could close his eyes and push himself forward, just a little. People that survived jumping to their deaths often said that they felt regret only as they were already falling and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Hitoshi knew that from this height, he would not survive.
And maybe he might regret it as he fell, but that wouldn't really matter, would it? He'd be too dead to care in seconds. If he fell forward now, there would be no questions about his muzzle marks tomorrow.
If he jumped now, Hitoshi could finally find an end to this miserable life.
But. . . if he jumped now, he'd never get to find out if Kaminari liked him too. He'd never get to find out what the hell the ‘Dekusquad’ wanted with him. He'd never be the hero he'd always wanted to be. He'd never find out if Aizawa and Yamada cared about him like he cared about them.
But if he jumped now, he wouldn't have to hurt anymore.
And Hitoshi was so tired of hurting.
You could ask for help, you know? If you told Sensei, he'd believe you.
Hitoshi frowned, even when the expression made fresh blood trickle down his face from the cuts on his cheeks. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his battered phone.
It was instinct that had him clicking on his mentor’s contact, but a pang of fear held him back from hitting the call button. Instead, he stared at the picture. Aizawa was asleep at his desk, and there were at least four pink hair ribbons in his hair, courtesy of Yaomomo and Ashido. When he woke up, they were all expecting him to be mad.
Hitoshi still remembered the amusement that had tugged at his heartstrings when the man simply blinked and then began teaching as though he didn't look like he'd just let Eri get to him.
Would he have that same patience now if Hitoshi called?
His hand tightened around his cracked phone. Why was he even considering this?
What if he asked for help, and Aizawa didn't give it? What if he asked for help and his mentor just didn't care? What if he'd never cared as much as it seemed, as much as he said he did?
Or what if he expected Hitoshi to get over this by himself — he was training to be a hero after all. What if all this time, Sensei had expected him to save himself, and he hadn't even tried?
Or, what if Sensei really just never noticed? What then? What was he supposed to do with that? The possibility that he just didn't matter to him as much as they did to him.
Hitoshi sniffled miserably, tears dripping from his eyes and gathering against the edge of his muzzle.
His gaze drifted out to the long, long fall in front of him. Well, if Sensei really didn't care, then Hitoshi had his solution. But if he did. . .
Hitoshi hit call, and he brought the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring out while his heart pounded. Was the man patrolling or sleeping? Which would he feel more guilty to interrupt?
The ringing cut out, and a familiar voice reached his ear. “. . . Shinsou? Is everything alright?”
And. . . the light in his eyes died as his teeth clenched together uselessly. All he could manage was a shaky breath. How could he be so fucking stupid? Of course he couldn't ask for help with his mouth forced shut behind a muzzle.
“Shinsou, is that you?”
Beginning to panic, Hitoshi hummed. His voice cracked embarrassingly. Sensei made a noise.
“Can you talk? One tap for yes, two for no.”
His shoulders slumped as a fresh wave of tears spilled down his face. He shakily tapped his fingers against the phone twice, hearing a sigh in return. “Okay. Are you injured?”
Hitoshi hesitated, a hand ghosting over his bruised ribs.
“I'm taking that as a yes. Do you need the hospital, kid?”
Immediately, he tapped twice, a heavy breath ripping from his throat as he shook his head vehemently despite not being visible to the man.
“Okay, alright. No hospital. Are you at home, Shinsou?”
Hitoshi slumped in relief, and then he froze. Slowly, he tapped three times, hoping that got his point across.
“. . . Can you text me where you are? I'm on my way now.”
Hitoshi hummed again in disbelief, shakily clicking the speaker button so he could type out ‘roof’. After a moment, there was a sharp intake of breath. “You’re on the roof of your apartment building?” He clarified.
Hitoshi tapped once, lilac eyes flickering over the buildings around him like he expected the hero to magically appear in front of his eyes. He noticed shuffling noises over the phone, like Aizawa was moving and he realized that when he said he was on his way now, he meant it. “What. . . Ah, what are you doing up there, kid?”
Hitoshi didn't answer that one. His grip tightened over his phone, knuckles going white. He sniffed, and then tapped twice. “Okay. Okay, I'm almost there, Shinsou. Just stay where you are, okay? I'm coming for you.”
Was. . . Was it really that easy? All this time? Hitoshi’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. He squeezed his eyes shut and hugged the phone to his chest, and then bowed over and cried.
Because all this time, all he had to do was call. All he had to do was ask, and Sensei was coming for him, no questions asked. A louder sob spilled past his lips, muffled as it was. “I'm almost there, kid. Just hold on a little longer, yeah?”
Hitoshi managed a garbled hum, blurry eyes peeling open to look around. Aizawa sounded like he was running, and Hitoshi could hear the familiar sound of his mentor throwing his capture weapon out. He was really coming for him. Hitoshi trembled where he sat, wrapping his arms around himself and peering over the edge of the roof to the eight story drop below.
His tears dropped from his face, landing somewhere far below. And Hitoshi realized that this was his last chance. If he really wanted to die, really wanted it to be over, then he could tip over the edge right now before Aizawa reached him.
It wouldn't be the hero’s fault, but he would undoubtedly blame himself.
But. . . if he wanted to stay — if he wanted to be a hero, then all he had to do was wait. If he wanted to be saved, Hitoshi just had to listen to Sensei and stay right where he was. Hitoshi’s shoulders heaved as he dropped his phone beside him and buried his face in his hands.
And he wept. Hitoshi cried until he had no tears left to cry, and he stayed. Even as he felt familiar arms draw him close, and he heard his sensei’s rumbling voice soothing him, he shook from the force of his cries.
“I've got you, kid,” Aizawa said into his hair, one arm around his back and the other carefully caressing Hitoshi’s hair. “It's alright. You're safe now.”
Hitoshi slammed his eyes shut and keened. For a long while, Aizawa just held him there, rocking him gently and murmuring quiet reassurances. Then, Hitoshi shifted to relieve the pins and needles forming in one of his legs and he was reminded of his ribs. With a grunt, his hand withdrew from his mentor and snaked around his torso. Aizawa didn't quite frown as he pulled back, but his brows furrowed in concern.
He looked from the muzzle to where Hitoshi was nursing his side and seemed to decide something. “Alright, Hitoshi, can I get the muzzle off of you? You'll have to turn around and let me touch the back of your head.”
Hitoshi nodded as enthusiastically as he could, practically tripping over himself to whip around. He nearly fell, but Sensei’s hands on his arms kept him from faceplanting on the roof. He'd never said Hitoshi’s given name before and well, he kind of liked the way it made him feel. Settling, Hitoshi looked at the ground while he felt Aizawa’s hands ghosting over the back of the muzzle. He made a soft noise before inhaling sharply.
“I'm going to have to pick the lock, okay? Hold still, kid.”
Hitoshi couldn't exactly nod, so he hummed quietly, ignoring the subsequent voice crack. After a long moment, there was a familiar click from the device, and Hitoshi immediately reached up to rip it off his face.
The wounds on his cheeks stung, a fresh blood trickling down his pale skin and sending a new wave of tears dripping from his eyes. “Thank you,” Hitoshi croaked as he turned back around. He was unable to meet his sensei’s gaze, but something about the late hour, or maybe just about him being here, threw all of Hitoshi’s self control out the window.
With a trembling jaw, Hitoshi lunged forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his mentor. His eyes squeezed shut as he buried his face in his capture weapon, and Hitoshi clung as tightly as he could. “Thank you, thank you, Sensei.” His words were muffled, but it seemed the man had heard him anyway.
Once again, warm arms wrapped around him carefully, this time being wary of Hitoshi’s ribs. “Thank you, kid. For trusting me.” Aizawa said quietly, brushing a hand over tangled lilac hair.
Hitoshi didn't know what was going to happen next, but he knew that his sensei wasn't going to let him be hurt anymore. He melted into the embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered again.
Aizawa only held him tighter.
Hitoshi was barely awake by the time they reached Aizawa’s apartment. The man led him with an arm around his shoulders to the front door, and despite the fact that he was most definitely glad to be out of the Fukushima-household, anxiety had a deadly grip around his lungs. His breaths were shaky and he knew he looked paler than was healthy, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Hizashi is going to be in the living room, okay? Eri should be in bed though, so she won't see your —” he waved a hand at Hitoshi’s face. Which was fair. It did lower his heart rate a bit, though, and his shoulders slumped with some of the tension eased.
Quietly, Sensei unlocked the front door and led him inside. Hitoshi busied himself with toeing off his shoes, and Aizawa pointed at some guest slippers which were coincidentally a perfect fit. “Hey there, listener. Sounds like you did not have a great night, huh?” Greeted Yamada-sensei from the couch.
The blond got to his feet slowly, and if it weren't for the fact that he already knew this was his English teacher, he never would've guessed that the man in front of him was Present Mic.
He was dressed down in sweatpants and a comfy looking sweater. He wore reading glasses instead of his signature orange sunglasses, and instead of a solid banana-shaped tower, his hair was in two braids and incredibly soft looking. He also was eying Hitoshi’s face with a very sad expression on his own.
Hitoshi swallowed thickly, unsure how to answer. In the end, he just shook his head. A hand settled in his shoulder and he jumped, having honestly forgotten that Aizawa was still standing at his side. “Can Hizashi help clean up your wounds or would you rather I did it? Either choice is fine.”
Hitoshi almost picked his mentor immediately, but he hesitated upon seeing the look on Yamada’s face. Slowly, he dragged his gaze between the two and gnawed on his bottom lip. “Um, Yamada-sensei can do it,” he said softly, taking a hesitant step forward.
He didn't know what to make of the relieved look on Yamada’s face as the man beckoned him towards the couch. He looked between the heroes as he sat down, watching Aizawa hang up his scarf and goggles in the genkan and then shuffle into the kitchen. For some reason, he wasn't surprised to see his mentor veer towards the coffee pot. The man downed half a mug before turning to them. “I'm going to go grab you some clothes, I'll be right back.”
He nodded warily, but his attention snapped back to Yamada when he saw his hand move out of the corner of his eye. He was perched on the edge of the coffee table now, an opened first aid kit laid out beside him. He offered a tiny smile as he slowly picked up what Hitoshi recognized as alcohol wipes. “Is it alright if I clean all this blood off your face, kiddo?” He asked gently.
Hitoshi nodded, but couldn't help the way he still tensed up when the man’s hand approached his face. He winced at the slight burn once Yamada began to wipe away the drying blood, but otherwise didn't flinch or move away.
“Sorry, listener. I know it stings like a bitch,” he offered with a sympathetic smile. The casual way he swore made Hitoshi’s eyes widen for a moment as shocked amusement flooded through him, before he pondered the sentence. At first, he imagined it was because the man got injured often as a pro-hero. But then —
Then, his eyes landed on a silvery scar arcing over Yamada’s cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. A ringing match for the cuts adorning his own face. “You —?” He began, before rapidly cutting himself off. Hitoshi was already pale, but the blood draining from his face made him look like a ghost. He forgot himself.
Sure, he was encouraged to ask questions at school, but behind closed doors was another story. In their home — how was he supposed to know what was expected of him? Yamada was in the process of nodding slowly when he noticed Hitoshi’s reaction and he paused with a tiny frown. “What's — Oh. . . Shinsou, kid, you're allowed to ask questions here, okay?”
Hitoshi felt himself tense even moreso, his gaze flickering away. Yamada was quiet for a moment, before he reached slowly for the teen and tilted his chin up with his fingers. Afraid to disobey, he looked back up at the sparkling green eyes of his teacher. “Listen, kiddo. I understand that it's gonna take more than just me saying it once for you to believe it. But, if you're ever gonna listen to me, let it be now, okay?”
Hitoshi gave a small nod. Yamada sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You are never going to be muzzled again. You are never going to be hurt by the people that are supposed to take care of you again. Shouta and I will never raise our hands to you. You're safe here, Hitoshi. You can ask questions, and you can use your quirk — in fact, we want you to ask us everything on your mind. We want you to use your quirk. We want you to feel at home here.”
His eyes prickling with tears and his face flushed red, Hitoshi’s lips parted in shock. “Home?” He breathed, barely processing that he'd asked yet another question. Yamada’s gaze softened.
“Yeah, kid. If you want to stay, then you'll stay.”
Hitoshi’s vision blurred, his throat closing up. “You want me to stay.” He said, unable to force another question from his throat.
But it seemed like Yamada understood, because a soft smile spread across his face. “Yes, Hitoshi. We want you to stay.”
“He's right.”
Hitoshi startled, his head lifting to peer at his mentor who stood in the doorway now with a stack of clothing in his arms. “If you're not comfortable staying with us, we'll find another family. We'd make absolutely sure that they were safe, I promise you.”
Even the idea of being sent somewhere else now sent a spike of panic through him, and Hitoshi shook his head vehemently. “I want to stay,” he told them, looking between his teachers earnestly. The movement made his tears finally streak down his face. “I want to stay.”
“Oh, kiddo,” Yamada’s face broke out into a grin. “Can I hug you?”
Hitoshi lurched forward into his arms, burying his face in the soft looking sweater and only feeling a little bad about probably getting blood on it. Warm, gentle arms settled around him, and before long, Aizawa was joining the hug. One hand settled on his back and the other rested on his hair.
“You're home, Hitoshi,” Aizawa murmured. “We've got you now.”
Hitoshi was pretty sure he believed them.