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“I’m retiring,” says Aizawa. “I should’ve retired years ago, but I was too stubborn and that damn motto made me worse. I won't be able walk normally for the rest of my life, but that’s beside the point.”
”The point,” Hitoshi repeats numbly, almost hysterical.
For the average citizen in this country—and the world at large—All Might had been the ideal hero. When kids were asked who their favorite hero was, they’d answer All Might. Nowadays, they might say Deku or Dynamight or Shouto, sure, but Hitoshi’s favorite has been the same person from his coincidental childhood rescue right up until this very moment.
Hitoshi didn’t really understand the collective despair that had fallen when All Might announced his bloody retirement on live TV. He got it on a technical level—in the sense of a pillar of peace falling—but so many people took it so personally, like it was worse than the death of a family member.
He’s starting to get it now.
Hitoshi knew it was coming, of course. He patrolled with Eraserhead, worked as his sidekick for months during school and for a while after graduation. He had seen firsthand the slow, inevitable decline. Eraserhead wasn't as agile, prone to minor injuries, making small mistakes here and there that he wouldn't have been caught dead making five years back. Hitoshi doesn’t doubt that it was a decision agonized over for weeks if not months. Hero work is never something people give up with relief. It's a bitter consequence forced upon them.
Still. Eraserhead is retiring. Hitoshi is witnessing the fall of an empire. Being told that Santa Claus isn’t real. Seeing his home crumble to pieces before his very eyes.
“Retiring,” Hitoshi says. He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand across his face. Get it together, man. “Okay. Well, it’s about time. Everyone was getting worried about you.”
“You sprain an ankle one time.”
“To be fair, you only have one of those now.”
“Hitoshi.”
“It’s really pulling the weight. No pun intended.”
”Quiet.”
Hitoshi is finally able to crack a smile. “Don’t be so grumpy, sensei. The time comes for us all.”
“Wait until you’re my age,” Aizawa says darkly, like he’s casting a curse. “Knees. Back. Neck. Joints will start hurting in places you didn’t know existed.”
“I’m not exactly a teenager anymore,” Hitoshi points out. “I have back pain too.”
“No thanks to your terrible posture. Stop distracting me. I didn’t tell you I was retiring so you could throw me a party—“
“You do realize once the news gets out, there will be a party.”
“They’ll have to catch me first. Speaking of.” Aizawa slides a box across the table. He nods at it. It’s a typical Aizawa present: cardboard shipping box, no wrapping paper or note. For all Hitoshi knows, it could be a bomb or fat stacks of money.
He peers at it and gives it a gentle shake. It doesn’t make a sound. It’s light. You’ll have to catch me first. What on earth could it be?
“Just open it,” Aizawa says, exasperated.
“I know you have wrapping paper,” Hitoshi says, intending to tease, but he rips the tape away and the rest of the sentence goes unfinished.
Inside lies a familiar gray scarf. Aizawa’s capture weapon, coiled neatly around an envelope. It’s not a new scarf. It’s his. The one he’s been using for years. Carbon fiber alloy. The half-faded bloodstain on one corner from a particularly nasty fight. Hitoshi gently smooths out non-existent wrinkles and picks up the envelope. There’s a short note.
You’ll do fine.
- Eraserhead
Hitoshi’s eyes burn. “You’re so unfair,” he croaks. The note is brief, but it doesn't need to be lengthy for him to understand everything Aizawa wanted to convey with it. You’ll do fine means I trust you. You’ll be a great hero. I hope this helps. Use it however you want. Even if you diverge from my path one day, I won’t be any less proud of you. Hitoshi carefully tucks the note and scarf back into the box and scrubs at his eyes. “I’ve been begging you for your autograph for years and you only give it to me after you retire?”
“I’m giving you a one of a kind collector’s item and you’re ungrateful,” Aizawa says, but his voice sounds a little thick too. He clears his throat. “If you want to hang it up as a souvenir in your room, be my guest. It’s yours now.”
“I’m going to auction it off online,” Hitoshi manages to say. The note he’ll keep. He’ll have to frame it. Izuku will have suggestions about good ones. UV and humidity resistant. Glass-protected. “I’ll rake in thousands. There are some hardcore Eraserhead fans, you know.”
“Brat,” Aizawa says fondly, tugging Hitoshi in for a hug.
As an underground hero, Hitoshi doesn’t get photographed often, but pictures from devoted fans do get posted online sometimes. He’s from the famous Class A, after all—with that title comes more attention than a typical underground hero is likely to attract. Pictures of Hitoshi using a different capture weapon spread like wildfire over the next few days. Keen-eyed fans are quick to recognize the similarities between his new tool and the now-retired Eraserhead’s weapon. His classmates are even quicker to call him on it.
wait, did sensei seriously give it to you?????? comes a text from Toru in the group chat. what the hell!!! that’s unfair!!! i want a weapon from sensei too!!!!!
he loves me the most, Hitoshi sends back, promptly silencing his notifications so he doesn’t have to field enraged protests.
He’s unable to dodge them forever. True to form, his class holds the party he warned Aizawa about. It’s held at a cozy izakaya not far from Aizawa’s house. They rented out the whole place—his friends are not exactly the embodiment of quiet and order—and the restaurant is accordingly decked out in streamers, fairy lights, balloons. Custom-made balloons, by the looks of it. Most if not all have messages on them, ranging from Retirement Party! to Hooray for not dying on the job! to We Love You Even If You’re Not Cool Anymore.
The plan probably includes a second round of drinks at Aizawa’s house. Aizawa already seems exhausted by the thought of it, but the grimace might stem from the fact that he has a party hat strapped to his head by what seems like Hanta’s tape. On the tape, someone had written, Cone of Punishment for Favoritism. Denki’s handwriting.
“Don’t you all have work tomorrow?” Aizawa says, aggrieved, but there’s no real bite to it. “Shouto. Stop writing conspiracy theories on the wall. For the last time, I’m not Hitoshi’s father.”
Shouto ignores him, continuing to string red tape between pictures. The one he’s working on is a picture of Hitoshi and Aizawa in action miraculously photographed in identical poses. Between the pictures, Shouto has written: Genetics?
Hitoshi doesn’t know if it’s a bit or if he’s actually serious but either way it’s pretty fucking funny.
“Can you blame us?” Mina whines. “How come he gets the weapon? We didn’t get anything. I bet we’re not even written in your will.”
“None of you are written in my will. You aren't my children,” Aizawa says loudly.
“That hurts, Dad,” Kyoka says.
“Enough.”
Momo’s gotten funnier, too. She says, “But, Father—“
“Stop it.”
“You’re aggravating sensei,” Tenya cuts in, chopping at the air. Groans erupt. Hitoshi narrows his eyes. The tips of his ears are red. He’s gotten a few drinks in him, probably courtesy of Tsuyu. “You must be careful with your words! Sensei is old and emotionally vulnerable, after all!”
Somewhere among all the laughter, Katsuki lets out a loud and sharp, HAH!
Aizawa closes his eyes. Fumikage says, “Betrayal never comes from your enemies. It comes from those you trust the most.”
“That’s really profound, man,” Eijirou says.
“Thank you.”
“Alright,” Aizawa says, reaching the end of his patience. He yanks off the hat and the tape—disappointed noises all around—and tosses it on the table like he won’t take it home later and gently place it in a drawer of his most treasured possessions. “I’ve endured enough heckling. Wrap it up.”
“Speaking of wrapping it up,” Izuku says, because he’s never really grown out of the not-understanding-euphemisms thing, “can you show us the capture weapon?”
Several reasons why Hitoshi should refuse. He drank too and his fine motor control is not ideal. At the same time, he’s warm inside and out, full of peace, hope, and so much happiness he feels like it could float him right out of the room.
Wait, no, that’s Ochako. She laughs.
“Whoops!” A sly note enters her voice. “How about a deal, Hitoshi? I’ll let you down if you promise to show us.”
Hitoshi does enjoy having his feet on the ground. All eyes are on him, waiting for a response. “There’s a training dummy at sensei’s house,” he says and the room erupts into cheers.