Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saturday, March 9.

It was late, past-midnight, when Aizawa Shouta left the club. His friends, Yamada Hizashi and Kayama Nemuri, were still dancing but the noise was getting to be too much for the dark-haired man. To be frank, he hadn’t wanted to come out in the first place. But it was Nemuri’s 21st birthday and she was his friend, so he’d endured a few hours of loud, shitty music for her sake. 

Now though, Shouta was alone and the streets were blissfully quiet. Perfect. He loved the late night hours best -when sound was muted and everything was still, as if the whole world held its breath.  

It was a bit of a hike back to his neighborhood but Shouta didn’t mind.; he didn’t even mind the slight chill in the air or the mist that settled in and curled between the buildings, just walked unhurriedly, reveling in the peacefulness. He’d been going for about ten minutes when he noticed a lone figure on the bridge up ahead: a girl about his age with long opalescent hair, walking along the guard rail like a balance beam. He shot a glance over the edge of the bridge to the river about 30 meters below. The girl took eight steps then spun gracefully and started back the other way. What the hell was she doing?! Shouta opened his mouth to call out but reconsidered. She hadn’t seemed to notice him yet, what if he startled her and she fell? 

As if the act of thinking it alone made it so, Shouta watched in horror as the girl’s boot twisted wrong and her body pitched hard to the side. Time slowed. The girl swung her arms and teetered dangerously; for a moment it looked as though she might be able to regain her balance. But then…she tipped and careened into the open air.

Shouta sprinted forward, crossing the distance between them in seconds. He leapt over the railing, keeping one hand firmly on top, and reached for the girl. His fingers closed around her wrist and his heart soared - Yes!- Shouta actually smiled as his onyx eyes met the girl’s large, lavender ones. He did it, he saved her! 

Then, time sped back up. 

The girl wasn’t heavy but her weight and momentum yanked Shouta’s arm harder than he’d expected. With a cry, he felt his fingers lose their grip on the railing and his stomach dropped as they plummeted through space. 

Falling, cold air whipping past, pain, pressure, water pushing into lungs, roaring sound, darkness everywhere. 

Shouta kicked hard, coughing and gasping as soon as his head broke the surface. He’d lost hold of the girl. Treading water he spun in place, searching; relief flooded his body when she surfaced a few meters away. Shouta crossed the distance quickly, “Are you okay?” The girl’s sputtering coughs were his only answer but she began to swim toward the shore so he followed. 

At last, the two crawled up the bank of the river and collapsed in the cool grass, chests heaving. Once his breathing slowed mostly to normal, Shouta rolled his head toward the girl and tried again, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“What…the fuck…were you thinking?” She panted. Well, that wasn’t the response he was expecting… “You could’ve died!” 

“Me?! What were you even doing up there?” 

“Thinking.” The girl rolled to her hands and knees, coughing. 

“Thinking?” Shouta pulled himself into a sitting position and caught her eyes with a disapproving glare as she sat back on her heels. She just narrowed her eyes in return. “Most people don’t tempt death while thinking.” 

“Yeah, well most people don’t throw themselves off bridges after complete strangers either.” 

“I didn’t throw myself off. My hand slipped.” She rolled her eyes as she stood up and began climbing up the embankment. Shouta stood as well and wordlessly followed her up the steep hill. The soft spring ground did not make things easy. Both slipped and fell often, and when they finally emerged onto the path that ran along the river’s edge their hands, knees and shoes were caked with mud. 

They stood there for a minute or so, panting again, and caught their breath. Shouta tried not to stare at the girl before him as she wrung the water from her long, white hair. Thick-soled boots, ripped denim overalls, faded flannel button down, undershirt soaked through… He blushed and looked away.

“I’m Aizawa Shouta,” 

“Good for you.” The girl whipped her hair over her shoulder and brushed past, knocking his shoulder as she stomped away.

“Are you mad at me or something?” He’d raised his voice without meaning to, the words hard and accusing. The girl stopped. Slowly, she turned to look at the dark-haired young man shivering across from her. Her eyes searched his face, for what he didn’t know, but whatever she saw there must’ve been enough. Her expression softened, wide lavender eyes almost…sad? She wrapped her thin arms around her torso, curling her shoulders forward protectively. 

“I’m sorry. I, um, I’m not used to…this.” She gestured between them as if that explained what she meant; it did not. “I’m Mochizuki Kokoro. Thank you for trying to save me.” She bowed deeply, her opalescent hair falling forward, tips just brushing the ground at her feet. After a moment Kokoro straightened but kept her eyes down, sniffling quietly. “I, um, live pretty close by. I can make tea, dry your clothes if you want…” Shouta would’ve declined but a strong wind blew past and he shivered violently. The apartment he shared with Hizashi was still a twenty minute walk away so he nodded instead. 

They walked in silence for a block or two before arriving at a thick apartment building squished between two taller structures. After climbing the worn stairs to the fourth floor both were panting yet again and now sweating from the heat of the stairwell. Kokoro unlocked her door and went in, Shouta hesitated just a second before crossing the threshold; he hadn’t been in a woman’s apartment before -other than Nemuri’s that is- and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. 

Once inside, he closed the door and paused in the entryway taking it all in. Kokoro moved around the small room turning on lamps, illuminating more and more of the surroundings. There was…a lot. The walls were plastered with artwork: sketches in charcoal, pencil, pen; paintings in watercolor, oil, acrylic, even spray paint. A small tea table with two pillows was clustered into the corner to his right, half of the table obscured by a stack of books almost a meter high. In fact, nearly every flat surface Shouta could see -including the floor- had books piled haphazardly on top. 

“Sorry, I, uh, don’t have any guest slippers…don’t really have guests.” Kokoro rubbed her neck with one hand, the other shoved deep in her pocket. “Um, bathroom’s there if you wanna, y’know, get cleaned up. I’ll find something you can wear while your clothes wash…” There were two doors directly to his left, she nodded him toward one then disappeared through the other. The bathroom felt oddly empty in comparison to the previous room. It was tiny, just a shower stall, toilet and pedestal sink with a small mirrored medicine cabinet on the wall above. Everything was plain white, no color anywhere which seemed at odds with what Shouta was learning about the girl who lived here. 

“Here, um, these should fit okay…” Kokoro mumbled from behind him, holding out a towel, a thick knit sweater and jogging pants. “Just toss your stuff out the door when you’re ready. I’ll pop ‘em in the wash.”

“Thanks,” Shouta took what was offered and Kokoro retreated almost immediately back to what he assumed was her bedroom. He started the shower and set the towel and clean clothes on the edge of the sink, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wow, he looked like absolute shit . His cheeks and lips were chapped pink by the cold wind, the dark circles under his eyes stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin; his black hair sat plastered to his head, clothes clinging to his lithe frame. Still too skinny …he thought, frowning. 

With a sigh, Shouta turned away from his reflection and pulled off the sodden clothes. He set his phone, wallet and keys aside then froze. What should he do about his boxers? He can’t very well have a random girl he just met touch them. That’d be weird. And he can’t not wear underwear while borrowing her pants. That’d also be weird. Shouta considered the situation for a moment before deciding to wring them out and just drape them over the edge of the sink and hope they dried a bit. He scooped up the rest of his clothes, cracked the door and plopped them on the floor of the hall then hopped in the shower. 

There was surprisingly good water pressure and, after quickly rising off all the mud, Shouta took an extra moment or two to simply stand under the pounding spray, letting the heat seep into his body. Still, he kept it short and, somewhat reluctantly, turned the water off sooner than he’d have liked; he imagined Kokoro would also like to warm up so he shouldn’t use all the hot water. He toweled off quickly, pulled on his cold, damp boxers and dressed in the clothes Kokoro had provided. The joggers fit a bit snuggly, but the sweater -the sweater! - was fantastic. For one, it was huge , easily twice the size that Shouta would’ve needed and the thick, dark gray wool was warm and soft against his skin. He loved it. Would it be odd to ask where she got it?

Shouta draped his towel over the door of the shower, grabbed his belongings and walked out to the living area. The plush rug beneath him tickled his bare toes as he turned in place. He was alone. “Mochizuki-san?” Maybe she was still in her room? He called her name again. No answer. Alright then… The dark-haired man perched awkwardly on the very edge of the futon. After a moment, he tilted his head to read the titles of the books on the table before him. Shouta made a small sound of mild surprise upon discovering that most of them were in English. 

Taking the top book from the stack and paging through, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to decipher the text. He’d thought his English was pretty good, but apparently he was wrong because he could hardly make out a single word. He flipped back to the cover to read the title, “Canterbury Tales” by Geoffrey Chaucer. Hm, sounded vaguely familiar. He set it aside and picked up the next two from the stack, “Call of Cthulhu and Other Dark Tales” by H.P. Lovecraft and “War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy. Judging from the covers alone Kokoro’s taste in literature seemed as varied as her taste in art. Shouta wondered absentmindedly if she was a university student. 

The apartment door opened loudly and Kokoro barreled inside. Her long, opal hair, while still wet, had been brushed and fell in a thick braid over her shoulder. She’d changed clothes, too, now sporting an oversized UA sweatshirt over simple black leggings and fuzzy mismatched socks. 

“Everything’s in the wash, should be about 30 minutes until it’s ready to switch to the dryer.” Kokoro padded quietly to the kitchenette just as a kettle began to whistle and poured two, large mugs of tea. Shouta held back a smirk as she shuffled forward, taking the tiniest of steps, tongue peeking out between her lips in concentration, trying not to trip or spill. The girl set one mug on the table next to the stack of books Shouta had been perusing, “Careful, ‘s hot,” 

“Isn’t that the point?” He didn’t even try to hide his smirk this time and picked up the mug, grateful both for the warmth and for something to do with his hands; Shouta noticed absentmindedly that his mug was shaped like a cat. Kokoro made a face and laughed mockingly as she curled up on the opposite side of the futon, leaning her back against the wall to be able to look at him directly. For a few minutes they sat in silence, blowing on their tea and taking small sips. Shouta thought the quiet should feel awkward but it was surprisingly…nice. 

“Did you go to UA?” Shouta asked after most of his tea was gone. Kokoro’s face contorted into the epitome of confusion so quickly Shouta had to hold back another smirk. He nodded toward her sweatshirt and realization spread across her features.

“Oh, no.” She shook her head and continued quietly, “My parents did though, hero course ‘n everything.” 

“Yeah? Did they go pro?” Kokoro gave another head shake but didn’t elaborate further. 

“Did you? Um, go to UA that is…?” Lavender eyes gazed curiously over the edge of her mug, silently cataloging every detail of the man across from her. He’d be a great face to sketch…excellent lines…  

“Hero class, graduated just over a year ago.” 

“Ah, that explains why you were so eager to jump off a bridge,” Kokoro scoffed softly. Shouta opened his mouth to argue until he saw her lips curl into a smile and, almost like a magnet, he felt his own lips mimic the expression. The dark-haired man expected her to ask about his hero name and was already preparing a response about personal safety and how it’s dangerous to let people know both his real name and his hero persona, but the question never came. Maybe because her parents had gone through the program she understood.

“What about you then? You didn’t go to UA but,” he nodded at the stack of books before them then at the portraits on the walls, “I’m guessing you are a student, right? English major? Art?” 

“Oof, 0 for 3. That’s all just for fun.” 

“Fun?” Shouta stared at the girl incredulously. “You read…” He glanced back at the stack of thick books, “...classical English literature…for fun ?” 

“I do, yes.” Kokoro laughed, a beautiful tinkling sound, pale eyes glittering with mirth and mystery. 

From there conversation flowed easily and they bantered back and forth with each other like long-time friends instead of recent acquaintances. Kokoro popped out to swap the laundry to the dryer and, before they knew it, that cycle was done, too. Even though it was nearing four in the morning, Shouta couldn’t help but drag his feet. He changed back into his own clothes slowly, pocketing his wallet, keys and probably dead phone with a sigh. Carefully he folded the joggers and sweater and, with a reluctant pat, left them on the edge of the sink.

As Kokoro walked him to the door he asked where she’d gotten the sweater. To his dismay, she’d picked it up at a thrift store years back; there was no designer tag on the inside so she suspected it had been homemade. 

“Ah, I see.” Shouta knelt to put his shoes on and found they’d been cleaned of mud and were dry again. He looked up to say ‘thank you’ to Kokoro, but she’d gone from the room. He waited a moment but, when she didn’t return, the dark-haired man turned and left, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Shouta padded down the stairs easily and emerged back into the misty night, already missing the warmth of the cozy little apartment. 

“Aizawa-san! Wait!” Kokoro ran towards him clumsily in unlaced boots; her shoes, he noticed, were still covered in mud. “Here,” She pressed the sweater into his arms. “Um, you should keep it. As a ‘thank you’ for saving me.” A pale blush crept along the tops of her cheeks as she held the gift against his chest.

“I didn’t save you. We both fell.” 

“Yeah, well, you tried. And, it fits you better than me,” Lavender met onyx and Shouta’s arms finally got the message to close around the bundle. Kokoro dropped her hands and shoved them into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she walked backwards towards her building, “Anyway, I’ll, um, see you around?”

“See you,” Shouta nodded, dark hair falling to cover his face a bit, hopefully obscuring the matching blush that spread along his own cheeks. 

. . .

The sky began to lighten just as Shouta reached his apartment building, exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs. It wasn’t the lack of sleep -he was used to late nights- but rather the 30 meter jump into frigid water that had left his body tired and aching. 

“Shouuuuu! Where you been, man? You just disappeared! Ooh, whatcha got there?” 

Shouta ignored the questions from Hizashi, choosing instead to trudge past and go straight to his room. He closed the door and collapsed fully dressed on top of his comforter, still holding the sweater. Something crinkled… paper? Without opening his eyes Shouta rolled to his side and pawed around on the bed for the source of the sound. The crinkling was… inside the sweater. Sitting up, he discovered a note safety pinned to the thick fabric - ten digits, handwritten in neat script. With a genuine smile, he pulled the sweater to his chest and fell back into his pillow.

Not usually one to dream, Shouta’s thoughts as he slipped into unconsciousness were of pale lavender, tinkling laughter, and tangled opal. 

Chapter Text

Aizawa. Monday, May 6.

Aizawa Shouta shuffled into the apartment, not even sure if he swung the door hard enough to close behind him. He pulled off his boots, uncoiled his capture weapon and trudged towards the kitchen where the clatter of pots and the smell of cooking meat awaited. At the stove a woman bounced from foot to foot, humming along to music playing from her phone. The dark-haired man shuffled forward and fell face-first into the woman’s back, wrapping his arms tightly around her middle. Her body shook with tinkling laughter and opal hair tickled Shouta’s cheek. 

“Welcome home, love. Rough day?” He grunted noncommittally, burrowing deeper against her soft sweater-clad body. Kokoro reached back to gently pat her husband’s head. “Why don’t you go change? Dinner’s just about ready,” With another groan the man extricated himself and trudged down the hall to their bedroom. The woman chuckled softly and smiled as he went. Gods, she loved that man. 

By the time Shouta emerged, now clad in comfy house clothes, Kokoro had set the table and was busy dishing out portions. Before sitting down, Shouta claimed his wife’s mouth with a soft kiss; he could feel her smile against his lips. Since the USJ Incident a month ago they were both all too aware of how each time could be their last. 

“So, I watched the Sports Festival on TV today. Your class was pretty impressive. Anyone in particular you’ve got your eye on?” 

“You mean other than Problem Child #1 and #2?” He shrugged and ate quietly for a moment. “There is one kid from the general studies course, Shinsou Hitoshi.”

“Oh he was the, uh, the mind control boy? Right?” Shouta nodded.

“He’s got potential. And he’s motivated.” 

“Are you taking him on for training?”

“Mm. I approached him after the festival. He’s eager to start.” Shouta noted the shadow and hint of unease that crossed his wife’s face as she nodded slowly.

“Ko, I’ll be fine. It won’t put any more strain on me; Shinsou will be the one working hard." Shouta would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t excited; Shinsou reminded the dark-haired man a bit of himself at that age: serious, stoic…stubborn. And the light in the eyes of the next generation of hero hopefuls was the main reason he loved teaching. When things looked their worst, that light became a beacon in the dark and reminded him that day would come again. 

Hitoshi. Monday, May 6.

Hitoshi couldn’t believe it. Eraserhead - the Eraserhead!- wanted to train him . Even after the pathetic showing he gave against Midoriya. He just…couldn’t believe it. It had to be a dream. As the boy walked home after the sports tournament his mind rambled uncontrollably. Eraserhead was his favorite hero. The man wasn’t exactly popular or well-known, he didn’t have a flashy costume or bombastic moves. He wasn’t after fame or glory, the man worked quietly and thanklessly to clean up the streets and protect citizens without them ever knowing - and that’s exactly why Hitoshi admired him. Eraserhead was a true hero. 

And that same man wanted to train Hitoshi. 

Aizawa. May-July.

The first training session with Shinsou was simply spent finding out what the kid could do. Once the bar had been set, the underground hero worked out a meal and exercise plan for the boy as well as scheduled training with him three days a week after classes. 

Over the next few weeks Aizawa trained Shinsou diligently but the boy’s improvement was slow. He wasn’t gaining muscle and he tired far too easily; Aizawa was certain the boy was actually losing weight. Aizawa watched the way Shinsou practically inhaled the food from Lunch Rush every day, and still the teen’s cheeks hollowed, his bones protruding from his elbows and wrists, clothes hanging looser and looser over his slight frame.  

Aizawa had noticed other things as well. 

He noticed how Shinsou flinched whenever the man spoke from behind the boy. Aizawa had asked the other teachers and many had seen the same flinching in class when someone stood or moved too quickly near the boy. He noticed the bruises and small cuts on his student’s arms; a Monday where he sported a mostly-healed black eye; a day where he’d favored his right arm all throughout training; he noticed how the boy’s fingernails were chewed to the quick, his cuticles ripped and bloody. Whenever Aizawa asked about the injuries, however, Shinsou would make a thin excuse -he tripped walking home, he fell out of bed, he took a ball to the face during gym- and changed the subject. Eventually the teen had taken to wearing long-sleeve athletic shirts under his uniform every day, despite the temperature hovering around 30*C as summer approached.

One or two of these on their own wouldn’t have been cause for concern. But, the consistency with which they happened left a bad taste in the hero’s mouth. 

. . .

“Shinsou,” The purple-haired boy gazed up at his mentor, panting, “That’s all for today.” 

“I can keep going, I–” Shinsou wavered as he stood, face blanching and knees buckling. Aizawa darted forward to catch the falling boy and laid him gently on the grass. Brushing purple hair away from his student’s forehead, Aizawa found the boy’s skin hot and dry; his eyes rolling listlessly, pupils unfocused. With a small grunt, the teacher scooped up his student and jogged quickly back to the main campus. Pushing into the infirmary, Aizawa was relieved to see Recovery Girl hadn’t left for the day yet. 

“Oh my, what’ve we here?” The elderly woman gestured to the empty bed nearest her desk and Aizawa gingerly placed the purple-haired boy down. 

“Heat exhaustion, I think.” Shuzenji Chiyo tutted at the dark-haired man, leveling him with a reproachful glare. She took the unconscious boy’s vitals and hooked him up to an IV of fluids before giving him a healing kiss to the forehead. Almost immediately violet eyes fluttered open and the teen’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as he became aware of his surroundings.

“Wha-...where-...” Shinsou clenched his teeth to hold back the questions, frustrated once again by his quirk’s ability to speak normally with people.

“You passed out during training. I took you to the infirmary,” Aizawa easily clocked the boy’s crestfallen expression. 

“I’m sorry, Sensei…” Shinsou tried to sit as he mumbled out an apology, “I can go again in just a second…” Aizawa and Recovery Girl moved at the same time, each placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder and firmly, but gently, pushing him back into the pillows.

“Don’t be. I should’ve noticed and stopped things sooner.” 

“You aren’t going anywhere until this whole bag is empty, young man.” Shuzenji-san tapped the IV bag hanging beside the bed. “You just rest,” Outnumbered, Shinsou sighed and closed his eyes in defeat. 

“Shinsou, are you following the meal plan we laid out?” The purple-haired teen rolled his head away from his teacher and muttered a quiet, “Yes, Aizawa-sensei.” The elderly woman let out an unflattering snort and Aizawa couldn’t help but agree. There was simply no way Shinsou was eating enough; the underground hero still wasn’t back up to 100% after his injuries at the USJ Incident and he’d had absolutely no trouble running while carrying the boy from across the entire length of campus. 

“Hm. How’s your sleep?” Aizawa watched as the boy’s face blanched by a near imperceptible amount. 

“‘S fine. I…I’ll work harder, Sensei.” 

“It doesn’t matter how hard you work, Shinsou.” The boy's hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. “If you don’t take care of your body, you’re just wasting our time out there.” The dark-haired man sighed and ran a hand down his face. 

“Starting tomorrow I want us to meet every day after classes. Okay?” 

“Yes, Sensei.” Came the quiet reply and, with a definitive nod, Aizawa stood and left the room without another word. The teacher strode slowly back out to the training field where he gathered Shinsou’s ratty backpack as well as his own bag then returned to the infirmary. He hadn’t been gone long but when he got back to the room he found his student dozing peacefully. Aizawa gestured for Recovery Girl to join him in the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“Shuzenji-san, has Shinsou been to see you at all before today?” The elderly woman thought for a moment before shaking her head, the syringe in her hair bobbing side to side. Aizawa scowled in disappointment.

“Not that I can recall, why?” 

“I have…concerns. I was hoping for some verification.” 

“What kind of concerns?” With a sigh, the dark-haired man told the elderly woman everything he’d noticed over the past few weeks of working with Shinsou Hitoshi. 

. . .

Shinsou again came to consciousness in the infirmary with Recovery Girl and Aizawa beside him, the setting sun now streaming through the window. The IV fluids had finished hours ago but neither adult was in a hurry to wake the boy; he was exhausted and needed the rest. Upon realizing the time, however, Shinsou sat up in a flash and practically fell out of the bed. 

“I-I have to go,” 

“Shinsou, calm down. I already called your parents to let them know you’d be home late,” 

“You what ?” The boy’s voice rose in octave and volume, nearly shouting at his teacher. Aizawa dimly registered this as the first direct question his student had ever asked him, but the sheer terror on the teen’s face captured the majority of the dark-haired man’s attention. Shinsou was already hopping around pulling his shoes on and grabbing at his backpack, he paused at the doorway to give a quick bow and ‘thank you’ to Recovery Girl before tearing off down the hall.

Aizawa sprinted after, easily catching up as they burst out of the building, “Shinsou, wait.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and watched as the purple-haired teen flinched and ducked wildly to the side, tripping over his feet, slamming into the wall and crumpling to the ground. Shinsou stared at his teacher with eyes blown wide by fear, his shoulders hunched protectively and breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Shouta held his hands up placatingly as he slowly crouched in front of his student, keeping his voice calm and steady, “Hey, it’s okay. Let me give you a ride. Please,” Shakily, the boy nodded and followed his mentor to the staff parking lot and a non-descript black sedan. 

Once they were buckled in, Shinsou mumbled his address and Aizawa typed into the car’s navigation system. They rode in silence, the air between teacher and student thick with tension. When the car pulled up in front of a modest looking detached house, Shinsou got out, mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’ and shuffled away, darting inside and closing the front door without a backward glance. 

. . .

Later that evening, at his own home, Shouta did some investigating. He pulled up Shinsou’s school record, UA application essay, testing records, etc. He’d already done this after deciding to train the teen but now he was looking for something. He searched for evidence he may have missed before.

Shinsou Hitoshi. Age 15, birthday July 1. Former student of Nabu Middle School. Excellent grades despite occasionally spotty attendance due to…undetermined illness. Hm. No participation in sports or extracurricular clubs. Higher than average marks in the UA entrance exam, falling short only in physical abilities and quirk usage resulting in his placement in the General Studies course; received a full ride scholarship due to academic merit. Seems the boy was reluctant to use his quirk at all during testing, even when it would have been beneficial. Interesting. 

Looking past Shinsou’s school history, Shouta noted the boy’s address had changed several times, especially during his elementary years; the most recent change was a little under three years ago. He hadn’t paid much attention to that fact in his earlier study of the student but now...paging through the records Shouta found that the boy’s address wasn’t the only thing that changed frequently, so did his ‘legal guardian,’ none of which held the same last name as the purple-haired teen. It didn’t take long for Shouta to find the probable reason why in an article from March 2011: “Earthquake leaves many orphaned, homeless” .

With a deep sigh, the dark-haired man shut his laptop and closed his eyes tightly against the familiar pain that bloomed in his head. Due to his own quirk he’d always suffered headaches and migraines, but he’d noticed them becoming worse and more frequent since his injury at the USJ Incident. Pain was par for the course as a hero, though, and it was a price Shouta would never hesitate to pay. Tonight, however, he felt the cause may be something else.

“Ko?” The opal-haired woman beside him lifted her eyes up from the book in her lap. “I’d like your opinion on something, see if I’m reading too much into things…”

. . .

The following day Shinsou went to the training field after classes as instructed. He’d changed into his gym uniform and was busy doing warm ups when his teacher arrived. 

“Sit,” Puzzled, the boy took a seat in the grass and Aizawa plopped down beside him. “Here, eat.” Shinsou’s face went slack at the bento his mentor held out to him, brow furrowing into confusion.

“Um, I thought we were…training.”

“We are. Nutrition is important training.” Aizawa shook the bento until the teen gingerly took it. Upon unwrapping the dish the boy froze; the only word Shinsou could think of to describe it was ‘beautiful’. The food had been expertly packed and artfully arranged - little dividers separating the various flavors so they wouldn’t mix during transit, tiny intricate designs made with individually placed seeds, fruit and vegetables carved into shapes of flowers and leaves. 

Shinsou couldn’t help but stare open-mouthed at the masterpiece in his hands. He was brought back to the present as his teacher nudged his arm holding out a pair of chopsticks. Did Sensei make this? For me? Why would he do that?

“I…don’t understand, Sensei.” Aizawa shrugged, dark eyes staring at the purple-haired teen beside him.

“You’re too small, kid. You gotta eat more.” Aizawa could practically see the silent war being waged behind those narrowed, violet eyes. 

“But this…I…you didn’t have to…”

“Do you cook, Shinsou?”

“Uh…” Aizawa held back a chuckle at the puzzlement on the boy’s face.

“Portions are hard to estimate. I make a lot of extras and I hate to see food go to waste.” 

“Oh…okay…” Always careful not to ask a direct question, Shinsou let the confusion on his face ask for him.

“If I’m gonna tell you to eat four meals a day the least I can do is give you one,” Aizawa shrugged casually, “That way we don’t add any more strain to your parents’ food bill AND my extras don’t go to waste.” 

“That…makes sense, I guess.” Finally, Shinsou accepted the chopsticks and carefully took a tiny bite. The boy chewed slowly and gazed unseeingly at the bento in his lap. At last, Shinsou swallowed the food and looked to his mentor, his face flushing at the realization Aizawa had been watching him. With a nod from his teacher, Shinsou took another, bigger, bite. Good . The dark-haired man pulled a book from his bag and settled back on his elbows to read while the boy continued to eat. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, per se, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. 

“Thank you, Sensei.” The purple haired teen bowed, cheeks still a bit flushed with…embarrassment? I wonder why that is…

“Don’t mention it. See you tomorrow.”

And that was that. Every day Aizawa met Shinsou after class at the training field with a bento. On their scheduled days they trained first; on their off days the teacher settled down next to his student and read quietly while the boy ate. By exams Shinsou had even started to bulk up a bit. The boy’s cheeks no longer looked gaunt and hollow, and there was a curve to his upper arm now, the hint of a bicep. Still a bit thinner than Aizawa would’ve liked, but it was something and the teacher was pleased with the progress they’d made in such a short time.

Hitoshi. May-July.

“Shinsou,” Hitoshi’s heart pounded and his hands went cold at his sensei’s deep voice as he wracked his brain for what he could’ve done wrong. He’d gotten comfortable around his mentor and they often exchanged verbal jabs and jests. Had Hitoshi gone too far? Did he say something to insult his teacher? It was exam week so they weren’t scheduled for training and, because exam days were shorter than normal class days*, Hitoshi didn’t expect that Sensei would bring a bento like usual. So, what did he want? Why was he here?

“I thought you might be here. I’m glad I caught you,” Hitoshi blinked back to the present. Eraser-sensei didn’t look angry, but he wasn’t known to be especially expressive to begin with. The dark-haired man plopped down on the grass and pulled a bento from his bag as usual and Hitoshi’s shoulders slumped with relief. The teen eased down beside his mentor and accepted the food gratefully. It still made him a bit embarrassed to have his teacher feeding him all the time, but the teen had to admit it was nice. After all, food wasn’t exactly the most…stable part of Hitoshi’s life.

Once Hitoshi’d finished eating, Eraser pulled another box from somewhere behind him and wordlessly held it out to the boy. It was about the size of a shoebox, plain black and tied with a dark violet ribbon. Hitoshi reached out, slowly took the package from his teacher and cradled it against his body.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Heat flooded to the teen’s face and he dropped his head hoping to hide his blush behind purple bangs.

“Oh, um, sorry…” Hitoshi quickly tugged off the ribbon and opened the box. As he parted the tissue paper and revealed what was inside, the boy caught his breath in a gasp. He lowered the box to the grass and carefully tugged the item free. “Is this…” The boy’s violet eyes were wide and glassy, in his hands he held a binding cloth identical to Eraser’s own capture weapon.

“Happy birthday, Shinsou.” Hitoshi stared at the dark-haired man. His favorite hero, his mentor…had gotten him a birthday gift? Through his surprise the teen barely caught the man’s next words. “It’s just the basic version. Once you get the hang of things we’ll have Hatsume customize one for you.” 

“Sensei…”

“We’ll start using it next week. Hope you’re ready,” Eraser-sensei nodded and even gave one of his rare ‘smiles’ then stood and brushed himself off. “Don’t stay too late today, exams tomorrow ‘n all...” The man walked away back to the main campus area, waving a hand over his shoulder in goodbye. Hitoshi stayed glued in place, too shocked to even think, let alone move. The forgotten tissue paper and box before him rustled by a slow breeze. The boy blinked away tears and clutched the gift tightly to his chest. 

Eraserhead… Sensei… he remembered my birthday… and he… got me a gift. Hitoshi couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a birthday present. He’d never been particularly close to anyone and, since it usually fell during exam week, he was usually too stressed from studying to even consider doing anything with the few acquaintances he did have. Hitoshi felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as a strange warmth filled his chest. The next thing he knew, the sun was setting. The purple-haired teen gently packed the binding cloth into his worn backpack along with the ribbon then tucked the empty box under his arm and began the long walk home. By the time he walked up the drive night had fallen and the streetlamps were on. Hitoshi placed the empty box in the recycle bin before taking a deep breath; he knew there would be no gifts inside and he didn’t want them to know he’d been given anything, especially something as precious as the capture weapon. 

. . .

Hitoshi fell to the ground in a tangle of fabric. How? How does Eraser-sensei do this?! It makes absolutely no sense.  

“Good, let’s call it there for today.” Strong calloused hands untangled the teen from his fabric prison. A deep rumble echoed through the man’s chest and it took a moment for Hitoshi to realize what it was: laughter. Eraserhead was laughing. The boy glared at his mentor, but couldn’t keep his own face from cracking into a smile as he huffed out a small laugh, too. 

Untangled at last, Hitoshi carefully straightened and wound the binding cloth before tucking it almost reverently into his bag. Sensei flopped gracelessly to the ground and passed the boy his daily bento. The dark-haired man stretched out on his back and closed his eyes against the afternoon sun. Hitoshi took his time eating; this was their last training session of the term and, unfortunately, Eraser-sensei wouldn't be able to work with him over the summer break. Hitoshi wasn’t looking forward to the month away from school. Classes were a great distraction and training with Eraserhead the highlight of his week. Plus, Hitoshi’d come to rely on the extra meals and he wasn’t exactly eager to return to being hungry all the time. 

When he’d finished eating, Hitoshi mirrored his teacher’s pose and fell back into the grass, arms behind his head, violet eyes closed peacefully. Mentor and protegee lay side by side in companionable silence for some time. 

“Shinsou,” The boy rolled his head to the side and squinted at the dark-haired man beside him currently holding out a small scrap of paper. Hitoshi reached out and took the paper, ten digits scrawled on it in his mentor’s messy handwriting. “That’s my personal number,” The man’s black eyes bore into the boy’s violet ones, willing him to understand. “Call me if you need anything. Any time, for any reason.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa. Sunday, August 18.

Shouta woke with a start to the sound of a ringing phone. He rolled over, grabbed his work cell and flipped it open. The ringing continued. His personal cell? Shouta grabbed the other phone off his bedside table, “Hello?” No one spoke at first, but he could hear noise in the background…sniffling and traffic sounds. 

“S-sorry to bother you, Sensei…” 

“Hitoshi? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” The dark-haired man sprang into motion snatching up a shirt before making his way through his apartment. He was already shoving on his shoes and grabbing his keys by the time the boy answered. 

“Um…I…I need someone to p-pick me up…”

“Send me your location. I’m leaving now.” Shouta tugged the shirt over his head as he walked out swinging the door closed behind him, not even bothering to lock it. He heard a ‘ding’ as a message came through and pulled the phone away just long enough to see it was a location pin. “Are you safe?” 

“I…y-yes…There’s a police officer here,”

“Good. Put them on the phone, please.” The officer came on the line as Shouta started the car and tapped the location details into the GPS. The car surged forward aggressively as he slammed down the gas pedal while the officer gave him a rundown of the situation: The teen was found sleeping in an alley downtown, in dirty clothes and with nothing but a ragged backpack. It was clear he’d been out on the streets for a while and had been roughed up recently. When the officer said she’d call the boy’s parents he’d tried to run. The officer was able to catch him easily and told the teen he could either call someone to pick him up, or she would call an ambulance to take him to the hospital -a course of action she still recommended. Shouta thanked the officer and she put the boy back on the line. 

“I’m fifteen minutes out. Wait for me there, okay?”

“Aren’t you…I mean, I thought…um…okay…” The teacher’s heart clenched as he ended the call. His student had sounded so small, like a child, his voice quiet and thick with tears and hurt. Shouta dialed his wife and quickly brought her up to speed on the situation. It wasn’t until after he’d hung up that he realized…he’d called the boy ‘Hitoshi’ instead of ‘Shinsou’ throughout both conversations. And, what’s more, it hadn’t felt wrong.

Hitoshi. Sunday, August 18.

After the call ended Hitoshi stood completely stunned. The man he admired most in the whole world, his favorite hero and mentor, had called him by his given name. And then that same man got out of bed at fuck-you-o’clock to drive across town and pick the kid up. No questions asked. 

A strange warmth blossomed in the boy’s chest as hot tears flowed freely down his face. He…called me Hitoshi … Had anyone else ever used his given name before? The purple-haired teen wracked his brain but came up blank. Much like the birthday gift, Hitoshi had never really been close enough with anyone who wanted that level of familiarity. It was…nice, special.   

What seemed only seconds later, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. Eraserhead exited the car without bothering to turn it off or even close his door. He strode directly to the boy; Hitoshi tried not to flinch but failed and bowed his head in shame. Eraser-sensei crouched and gently turned the boy’s face up, dark eyes taking inventory of the purple bruises across his face and the grimey cheeks streaked by tears, and finally down to a split lip a few days old. 

“C’mon kid, let’s go home.” Hitoshi took an involuntary step back, wide eyes darting between his mentor and the police officer still beside him. But the dark-haired man shook his head, “ Mine , not yours,” which calmed the rapid beating of Hitoshi’s heart, if only marginally. Eraser-sensei thanked the police officer then placed a warm hand on the boy’s back and led him to the car. He opened the door and guided his student down to the seat, and even buckled him in. Hitoshi dimly noticed that his teacher was wearing checkered pajama pants and had his hero boots on untied.

Once sequestered inside the privacy of the car, Hitoshi expected a slew of questions about what the hell happened, or yelled admonishments and insults. Instead, they drove in silence until they arrived at a low, plain looking apartment building. This is where Eraserhead lives? Hitoshi held his backpack to his chest like armor as he followed his mentor up the stairs. Aizawa-sensei paused before opening the apartment door and turned to Hitoshi, “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” The boy shook his head and, with a nod of his own, Aizawa ushered him through the door of apartment 2E. Hitoshi hadn’t given much thought to what the hero’s home would look like, but he hadn’t really expected something so…average. 

From the entryway Hitoshi could see most of the apartment as he slipped off his shoes: a galley kitchen to his left, a small dining table to his right, the living area before him with a large, sliding glass door on the far wall; he could see a hallway going off between the kitchen and the living area to what he assumed were the bathroom and bedrooms. There wasn’t much furniture or decor but everything looked clean, neat and well taken care of. In fact, the only personal touch visible were the dozens of portraits adorning the walls: painted, sketched, mixed media, in all kinds of styles. The smell of recently cooked food mixed together with an underlying scent of clean laundry and eucalyptus. The overall effect left Hitoshi with an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. Safety . 

A noise to his left made Hitoshi tense. Was there someone else here? His teacher noticed and held a hand out placatingly like he had back in the infirmary over a month ago. “It’s okay, it’s just my wife.” Wife?! Hitoshi didn’t know why the idea shocked him so much. Why wouldn’t Sensei have a partner? He’s a grown-ass man, a successful hero, and attractive in a kind of…homelessy sort of way, I guess. A woman appeared slowly in the doorway of the kitchen. In the midst of Hitoshi’s racing mind, she appeared only as a jumble of facts: medium height, slender build; opal hair, thick bangs; wide, lavender eyes, delicate nose, rosebud mouth. 

“You must be Shinsou-kun. I’m Aizawa Kokoro.” She bowed gracefully and a warm smile crinkled her eyes as she said, “Pleasure to finally meet you. Shouta talks about you all the time.” Hitoshi froze. Shouta? Oh…does…she means Eraser-sensei… The boy’s tired mind struggled to make sense of her words. He…talks about me? The woman had continued speaking, her voice rolling over the boy like waves. A bead of panic worked its way to his throat when Hitoshi realized both Aizawa-sensei and his wife were looking at him. Shit… He’d zoned out. What was the question?  

Apparently his bewilderment was answer enough. Sensei placed a hand gently on Hitoshi’s back again and steered him past the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom. A stack of clothes and a fluffy gray towel with matching washcloth were already stacked and waiting on the counter beside the sink. Hitoshi startled at the sound of a shower turning on and the deep rumble of Eraser’s voice, “Go ahead and get cleaned up. We’ll talk after,” Hitoshi felt himself nod as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Numbly Hitoshi stripped off his filthy clothes, grabbed the washcloth -carefully avoiding catching his reflection in the mirror- and stepped into the shower. The hot water soothed his aching muscles and washed away more than dirt and grime, but tension, fear and worry, too. He stood there, eyes closed, under the spray of water for a long time just soaking in the relaxing heat. Eventually Hitoshi washed his hair and body, having a fleeting thought of how weird it was to be in Eraserhead’s home and using his shampoo. He rinsed his hair and started washing his body. Despite the softness of the washcloth, every pass over his skin hurt -the soap stung the cuts and his bruises ached deeply under any pressure at all. 

Finally clean and warm, Hitoshi turned off the water -albeit a bit reluctantly- and wrapped himself in the large, plush towel. He took a moment to simply burrow in the softness; it all felt so good. Before he knew it hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Get it together! Heroes don’t fucking cry… Hitoshi sniffled and angrily pressed his fists to his eyes as he turned away from the mirror and quickly dressed in the clothes provided: comfy pajama pants, big cozy socks, and the softest t-shirt he’d ever felt. Panic rose again in Hitoshi’s throat as he tugged futilely at the short sleeves, trying to pull them down to cover the slew of cuts on his arms. With a defeated sigh, he hung the towel and washcloth neatly over the door to the shower, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with his old, dirty clothes. A hamper sat in the corner of the bathroom, should he put them in there? Would that be too presumptuous?

“Hitoshi?” A light knock followed by his given name spoken in his teacher’s low voice shook the boy from his decision paralysis. He opened the door, arms crossed tightly against his stomach and ducked his head to escape the dark eyes that looked him over. “C’mon,” Eraser gestured with his hand up the hallway. Hitoshi hesitated and started to reach for the pile of his clothes but the dark-haired man shook his head, so the boy just followed him mutely up the hall and back to the living area. Hitoshi remembered what Eraser had said before his shower: “We’ll talk later.” Dread settled in the boy’s stomach with each step. He didn’t want to talk; he was sore and tired and hungry and–

The dining table, empty before, was now laden with steaming plates and bowls. He hadn’t thought he’d been in the shower that long, but he must’ve if they had time to make all this. The boy’s stomach gave a loud growl and, blushing, Hitoshi looked to his mentor for…instructions? Permission? The man nodded towards the table and that was all the invitation the teen needed. Hitoshi crossed the room in three easy strides and started piling food onto the empty plate that had, apparently, been set aside for him, taking a seat at the table almost as an afterthought. Hitoshi tried to remember to slow down, he didn’t want to make himself sick, but he was just so, so hungry and everything tasted so, so good. 

After he’d inhaled as much food as possible, Hitoshi looked around and it was as if the world had gone from black-and-white to technicolor. The fuzzy edges of his vision were gone and he felt sensations once again, like the soft fabric of his clothes, the hard wood of the table…the cool air on his exposed arms. Stupid-stupid-stupid… Hitoshi’s face flushed deeply as he folded his arms and pulled them tightly against his body. The boy’s head snapped up at the gruff sound of Eraser clearing his throat from where he sat on the couch, his wife - What was her name?- tucked in comfortably beside him. Head bowed, Hitoshi stood and cautiously made his way over to perch on the opposite end of the sofa. 

“Hitoshi, I have questions that need answers.” The purple-haired teen’s heart thudded faster and faster, the food he ate turning to lead as his stomach roiled; he was dimly aware of his leg bouncing bouncing bouncing. 

“But, only three matter right now though,” The teen flicked his eyes up at the opal-haired woman. Her soft voice, wide eyes, and relaxed position exuded comfort. The warmth in his chest begged Hitoshi to trust. Just three questions? When she put it that way, it didn’t seem so bad… 

“First, did you make those cuts yourself?” And just like that any sense of comfort evaporated. Hitoshi’s shoulders rolled forward protectively as he hugged his arms painfully tight against his ribs. 

“It’s alright if you did, Hitoshi. You’re not in trouble.” Wait, what? His narrowed, violet eyes met his mentor’s onyx ones. Eraserhead, his hero. Hitoshi searched the man’s face for any hint of anger or betrayal, but found only… concern? The teen gave a single nod, biting his lip as he averted his eyes to the floor. 

“Second, would you let Shouta look at them?” Hitoshi shook his head tersely and curled himself tighter over his arms. 

“Hitoshi, I have to see if they need stitches or something,” 

“T-they don’t. I… I’m careful,” 

“Please, kid,” After a moment of hesitation, the boy turned his face away and held his arms out. The dark-haired man quickly looked over the myriad cuts and scars that patterned the pale skin. Hitoshi was right, most of them weren’t very deep and appeared to be healing well; but one on his left arm, near his wrist, was wide enough to be concerning. It was less of a cut and more of a… tear. The wound was thick, the edges jagged and uneven. 

“There’s one I’d like to cover, okay? I’ll be right back,” The teen wordlessly dropped his arms to his lap as the man left and returned with a first aid kit. Hitoshi didn’t move or make a sound as his teacher cleaned the wound and applied antibiotic cream and only a small muscle near his eye twitched when the man placed a few steri-strips to hold the skin closed before wrapping gauze around his slim wrist. “Thank you, Hitoshi.” The boy silently pulled his arm back and cradled it against his body. Gods, this is so embarrassing. Stupid fucking idiot how could you let them see?!

“Lastly, do you still want to hurt yourself right now?” The woman’s gentle voice asked and Hitoshi flushed deeply, shaking his head again as he contemplated the likelihood that the floor could spontaneously open up and swallow him whole. If only…

“Good. That’s all for now. Let’s get some rest,” Wait, that… was it? Eraser-sensei stood and Hitoshi tried not to flinch at the sudden movement, but he did and his teacher definitely noticed. The purple-haired teen followed as the man led him again to the hallway and to a door Hitoshi hadn’t noticed earlier, just to the right of the bathroom ( Seriously? How’d I miss that? ). As the light flicked on it illuminated a simple guest room decorated in neutral colors of gray and white; there were no portraits or anything else on the walls here and the room seemed naked without them. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Eraser-sensei showed the boy where extra blankets and pillows were in the closet before giving him a gentle shoulder squeeze and pausing at the threshold, “Hitoshi, if you need anything, I’m right down the hall.” After a small nod from the boy, Aizawa closed the door and Hitoshi was alone. 

The boy stood in the center of the room feeling more than a little lost as he tried to wrap his brain around the past few hours: 

I’m staying the night in Eraserhead’s apartment…With him and his wife. 

What the fuck is going on? 

I called… and he answered; he actually came to get me.

They know about my cuts… But they aren’t mad? 

They gave me food.

And now I’m supposed to… what? Sleep? 

Like this isn’t the weirdest fucking thing ever. 

Why would they do any of this?

Why?

The exhaustion of the past few days won out over his spiraling thoughts and Hitoshi collapsed into bed, eyes closed and halfway to sleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Aizawa. Monday, August 19.

The following morning, or rather later that morning, Shouta leaned against the counter and drank deeply from his mug of coffee, the bitter taste and toasty smell working to wake him from the inside out. Across the small kitchen, Kokoro stood with her back to him, and single-handedly cracked eggs into a large bowl before adding in sugar, soy sauce, mirin and salt, and whipping it all together. Tamagoyaki, ymm. She’d just made the first few rolls when a loud ‘thud’ came from the guest room. In a flash, Aizawa set his mug down and sprinted from the kitchen, Kokoro only seconds behind. 

“Hitoshi!” They slammed into the door sending it flying hard into the wall on the other side. The purple-haired teen lay on the floor, tied in a mess of blankets and pillows, eyes wide and disoriented. Shouta and Kokoro crouched beside the boy, untangling him from the swaths of fabric. Hitoshi, freed from the blankets, scuttled back against the edge of the bed and shakily pulled his knees to his heaving chest and folded his arms protectively on top; he looked incredibly young. 

“Hitoshi?” The boy didn’t look up or move from where he huddled, body trembling with silent sobs. Kokoro made eye contact with her husband and the two shared a wordless conversation before the woman quietly stood and left the room. Shouta moved slowly to sit about an arm’s length in front of the boy. The dark-haired man stayed still, taking exaggerated deep breaths until Hitoshi finally peeked an eye over his folded arms and caught on, matching their breathing. 

“It’s okay, kid. You’re okay.” Once the panic seemed to have passed, Shouta reached out, slowly, and gingerly brushed his student’s hair away from his face. To his surprise, Hitoshi leaned so heavily into the gesture that Shouta was forced to move closer in order to better support the weight of the boy’s head. Now side-by-side, Hitoshi’s body leaned after his head and the next thing Shouta knew, the boy had tucked himself into Shouta’s side. The man wrapped an arm around his student’s thin shoulders ( It’s only been four weeks, how is he so small again?) and rested his own cheek on soft purple hair. 

“‘M sorry…” Hitoshi mumbled from within his huddle. 

“What for?” Shouta felt the boy shrug beneath his arm.

“…everything…” The purple-haired teen burrowed his face farther into his arms, pulling his body into a tight ball. Shouta rubbed the boy’s arm gently, methodically up-down-up-down.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, kid; you haven’t done anything wrong.” After a few minutes of silence, Shouta chanced broaching the subject of his concerns. “What happened?” He felt Hitoshi tense up and draw his legs and arms in tighter as he physically turned away from the question.

“Nothing,” The dark-haired man sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache. 

“Hitoshi, please. Just tell me. I want to help.” But it seemed the teen was done talking. He shrugged Shouta’s arm off his shoulders, stood and mumbled out a hurried: “Bathroom,” as he literally fled, leaving his teacher sitting on the floor, shaking his head. After a moment Shouta stood and followed but in the hallway he found Kokoro already positioned outside the bathroom, one hand emitting a silvery-white glow as she pressed charcoal black fingers against the door. The dark-haired man pressed a quick kiss to his wife’s cheek as he breezed past her to the kitchen to finish making breakfast. She had things well in hand now.

Hitoshi. Monday, August 19.

Hitoshi leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. What the fuck is wrong with you? His whole body felt like it was rebelling - he was sweaty and shivering, tired and wired, all of his muscles were strung taut but try as he might he couldn’t seem to relax them at all. Did you just cry on Eraserhead’s fucking shoulder?! He left the faucet running to cover his sobs as he slid to the floor, banging his fists against his head and pulling at his hair in frustration. Why can’t you just be fucking normal?! 

A strange sort of calm descended on the boy. His cries ceased, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed and his mind cleared. You’re okay. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. The words repeated like a mantra and with every repetition the tightness in his chest lessened. At last, Hitoshi took a deep, deep breath and exhaled slowly. He eased himself to a sitting position, then to kneeling, and finally to standing. Again, Hitoshi leaned against the sink and splashed his face with cool water. This time, however, he turned the faucet off and calmly dried his hands and face before opening the door and quietly making his way out to the living area. 

The purple-haired teen peered around the corner of the hallway to find the dining table once again laden with food. He startled slightly as Eraser’s tall, dark form appeared on his right, but the man was simply exiting the kitchen and hadn’t seemed to notice the boy yet. Eraser-sensei carefully placed three mismatched mugs on the table before taking a seat in the middle chair. Hitoshi was grateful for that because, as nice as Sensei’s wife seemed, the boy didn’t know her and definitely didn’t trust her. With this seating arrangement she would be across from Hitoshi and always within his line of sight; now the only decision he had to make was whether he wanted to sit with his back to the living area or to the front door. Neither was ideal, but the teen decided being closer to the front door would put him at a slight advantage should something happen. 

Hitoshi edged carefully around the corner then darted to the table and took the seat to Eraser’s right. Now, if he could just get through breakfast without speaking or making eye contact… The boy kept his head down, purple bangs shielding his face, and hid his arms under the table. Even if they knew about his cuts, that didn’t mean Hitoshi was comfortable with showing them. As if summoned by the thought, his teacher’s opal-haired wife floated into the room from the hallway carrying Hitoshi’s own sweatshirt. 

“Here, fresh from the dryer,” She held out the folded garment and Hitoshi pulled it over his head gratefully and tugged the sleeves down as far as possible, clutching the edges of the fabric tightly in his fists. 

“Thank you, Aizawa-san.” 

“Call me Kokoro.” He absolutely would not. The woman chuckled lightly, a sound that reminded Hitoshi of tinkling bells, as she took the final seat at the table and tugged a plush green cardigan closer around herself. “I had a feeling you might be cold in the mornings like me, instead of a human furnace like Shouta.”  

“Maybe if you both ate more you’d have better circulation.” Sensei gave one of his signature smirks as Kokoro rolled her eyes dramatically. The couple continued to hassle each other lightheartedly. It felt so… normal. Hitoshi thought it would be awkward -he’d called his teacher in the middle of the night to come get him, soiled their clean apartment with his filth, had an emotional breakdown and cried all over- but Sensei and his wife seemed… completely comfortable and unbothered by his presence. They joked casually with each other and included Hitoshi with small smiles and as they passed him dish after dish until his plate was full. Just like last night (earlier this morning?) there were almost too many things to choose from: miso soup, kage gohan, ochadon, tamagoyaki, toast, yogurt, sliced fruit - Hitoshi’s head swam at the options and he decided to just take some of everything. Absent-mindedly, the boy wondered if this is what meals were like in normal families or if the Aizawas were going all out just for him.

The trio ate happily; every time Hitoshi’s plate neared empty another dish was passed his way until the boy had again eaten as much food as he possibly could. With everyone finally finished, Kokoro packed away the leftovers while Eraser-sensei washed the dishes and Hitoshi sat awkwardly on the couch waiting for the inevitable ‘talk’ his teacher certainly wanted to have. 

The boy tried to imagine the questions the Aizawas would ask then rehearsed safe and appropriate answers. Obviously they had to know things weren’t great, but Hitoshi had been careful up until now and figured he could explain this away as a one off, a fluke, an abnormality. It’s not like any of this was a big deal. So he had a black eye and a split lip? He’d had worse and came out just fine. However, when the underground hero sat down beside Hitoshi holding a thick file folder in his lap, it was clear Hitoshi wouldn’t be able to brush this away so easily.

“Don’t mind me,” Kokoro chirped as she passed them carrying a mug in one hand and a book in the other. She tucked the book under her arm and opened the sliding door, briefly revealing a small balcony, before stepping outside and closing the door. It seemed Sensei had been waiting for her to leave to begin his questioning.

“Hitoshi,” The purple-haired teen almost leaned forward, eager at the sound of his given name. Get your shit together, it’s just a fucking name! “I know you aren’t going to like this, but please, I need you to be honest with me.” 

“Um…okay…” Contrary to his words, Hitoshi did not think that was okay and he instinctively scooted away from the man, his brain screaming danger-danger-danger! But, as his teacher opened the folder on his lap and started talking, an odd sense of calm covered the boy like a blanket. Calm. Safe. Trust. Just like earlier in the bathroom Hitoshi felt his whole body relax. His shoulders dropped, his jaw unclenched, his hands loosened their deathgrip on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. 

“Hitoshi?”

“Hm?” The boy’s violet eyes blinked slowly as he looked to his mentor.

“I want to make sure you understand that whatever you say, you will not be in trouble.”

“Um, okay…” 

“You’ve been in the foster system for some time, correct? 

“Mmhmm, about eleven years or so.” Hitoshi was surprised at the sound of his own voice, he’d barely felt his mouth opening but the words definitely came from his lips.

“Have you ever been hurt by a foster family?”

“Yes,” What in the fuck?! The boy brought a hand slowly to cover his mouth. Why did I say that? Another wave of calm washed over the purple-haired teen and his hand dropped limply back to his lap. 

“Have you been hurt by your current foster family?”

“Yes,” Hitoshi’s mouth moved almost of its own accord as he continued to share, “It’s… been mostly my fault though… I-I usually deserve it,”

“I assure you, Hitoshi, you did not.” Sensei’s voice had an unfamiliar edge to it, a hardness that would usually have set Hitoshi’s hackles on end but, for some reason, the boy remained unbothered. Calm.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” As quickly as it had come, the hard edge was replaced by an equally unfamiliar gentleness. Hitoshi gazed at his teacher and thought he looked almost… sad? Safe. 

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. And… I didn’t want to make trouble.” The boy sighed and dropped his eyes to his hands, purple bangs shadowing his face. Trust. “This is my last placement… If I mess up here, I’ll go to a group home and… I-I won’t be able to go to UA and if I can’t go to UA I can’t become a hero and-and then…” Hitoshi broke off in a huge shuddering breath, wringing his hands and worrying his lip, brow furrowed. Calm . The boy closed his eyes and breathed deeply -in, hold, out; in, hold, out. When he opened his eyes, he found his Sensei studying him carefully.

“How… would you feel about… staying here?” Safe. Eraserhead cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, “Ah, with me. Well, with me and Ko, that is.” Hitoshi blinked once. Twice. Did I hear that right? Did Eraserhead just ask me… if I wanted to live with him? And is he… nervous about it?

“I-I couldn’t. I-”

“Yes, you can, Shinsou-kun. If you want to, we’re more than happy to have you.” Hitoshi turned to find Kokoro leaning in from the balcony; he hadn’t even heard the door open. His gaze darted between the lavender eyed woman and his onyx eyed mentor, searching both their faces and finding… only sincerity, warmth, hope. Trust.

“I-If you’re sure…” Kokoro smiled warmly and nodded; Eraser-sensei gave a signature, definitive nod. “Um… okay then. I-I would like that…”

Chapter Text

Kokoro. Tuesday, August 20.

After making breakfast, Kokoro smooched her husband and left under the guise of “going to work.” The little white-lie was only for Shinsou’s sake, Shouta knew exactly where she was going: shopping with Nemuri and Hizashi. 

Kokoro had taken inventory of Shinsou’s belongings after encouraging him to just put all his things in the wash hamper, and found them seriously lacking: he had two school uniforms, one gym uniform, one pair of regular jeans, one pair of sleeping pants that looked far too short for the tall boy, two t-shirts, one sweatshirt and, while she hadn’t specifically counted his undergarments but it felt safe to assume those were few as well. Everything, save for the school clothes, was old and worn out - the backpack itself was practically in tatters, held together by shoddy stitching repairs, safety pins, and even some Duct tape. 

Kokoro remembered her own days like that. She knew the shame being poor carried, but also how one’s pride often made it impossible to accept help. Thankfully she’d at least been handy with a needle and thread; back then that’s the best she could do. But now… Now Kokoro was a grown-ass adult with a paying job and had both the means and the will to spoil a certain purple-haired teen. So she would. And lavishly. 

Hours later, Hizashi, Nemuri and Kokoro returned to the apartment, arms laden with bags and boxes. They’d gone a bit overboard maybe, but she didn’t expect everything would fit or be to Shinsou’s taste so they’d probably end up returning a lot. Kokoro just couldn’t help herself, the boy deserved so much more than the nothing he’d been getting up until now. Even though she’d only met Shinsou a few days ago, Shouta had already told her so much about him and, upon finally meeting the kid, Kokoro had instantly adored him. Something had just… clicked into place within her, an empty puzzle space finding its matching piece at last. 

Kokoro and Shouta had discussed the sensitive topic of having children many times over the years, but the couple had never come to any definitive decision. Kokoro did not want to have a baby, physically; childbirth was, to put it simply, her literal worst nightmare, the one thing she was most afraid of in the whole world. That fear was the source of incredible guilt for the opal-haired woman; Shouta was a wonderful person with an incredible quirk, he deserved to have a baby and be able to pass on his traits to the next generation and it wounded Kokoro deeply to know she could never give him that. Shouta, the amazing man that he was, had never once pressured her or made her feel bad about her fear, but Kokoro constantly worried he’d come to resent her later on. 

Obviously they both knew there were other ways to grow their family. They’d talked about surrogacy, foster and adoption, but quickly discovered there were an overwhelming number of additional obstacles and regulations for them because of Shouta’s career as a pro hero. Kokoro understood and agreed the concerns were valid -children needed stability and safety and if your job constantly put you in danger of death, that probably wouldn’t be the ideal environment for a kid. But Shinsou… he was different, right? Older, mature, and on his way to becoming a hero himself. Maybe he… maybe they could…

The jingle of keys in the door shook the woman from her thoughts. 

“They’re heeeeeeeere!!!” Hizashi whisper-yelled, stamping his feet and clasping his hands together in excitement. Nemuri fluffed her hair and made a few last-minute tweaks to the arrangement of gifts they’d laid out on the coffee table in front of the couch. Kokoro ran her hands nervously across her soft cardigan then smiled brightly.

“Surprise!” The trio shouted (Hizashi more so than anyone else) as Shouta opened the door and moved to the side, revealing the room and its occupants to a seriously shocked teen. Shinsou took a step back, looking ready to bolt, and a pang of guilt shot through Kokoro as she worried they’d actually frightened the boy. Violet eyes darted around the room taking in the familiar people and the table of bright bags and boxes, before finally landing on his mentor for direction, a question clear on his bewildered face. 

With a nod from Shouta, the purple-haired teen took off his shoes and cautiously padded further into the room. Hizashi and Nemuri plopped down on the couch and Kokoro queued up some music from her phone and soon the room had a bright, bouncy soundtrack; she always felt that background music helped set the tone of a gathering and put people at ease. 

“Okay, I know it seems like a lot,” The opal-haired woman held back a laugh at the boy’s wide eyes and shocked, blank face. “But these are just some things to get you started. Once you’re settled we’ll go again and you can pick out whatever you actually want.” –”

“BUT you’ll hafta open ‘em later ‘cuz we’ve got pizzaaaaaaaaaaa!” Hizashi fist punched the air and, again, stamped his feet excitedly. My gods, he’s more of a child than Shinsou… Kokoro chuckled in delight at her friend’s antics.

Hitoshi. Tuesday, August 20. 

Hitoshi’s brain short circuited. What the hell was going on? The adults were eating and laughing and talking like… like everything was… fine. But why? What were they so happy about? 

The boy mechanically ate his pizza as his mind struggled to make sense of the situation. Hitoshi’s previous fosters had had parties, sure, but they’d never been for him , with gifts for him -hell, he hadn’t even been allowed to attend, always told instead to stay quiet in his room. What was he supposed to do? What was expected of him here? Hitoshi’s leg started to bounce, up down up down, faster and faster as his thoughts spiraled out of control. 

Thankfully Present Mic and Midnight left shortly after eating. Hitoshi chanced peeking in a few of the gift bags as Aizawa and Kokoro washed dishes in the kitchen. There were so, so many things - shirts, pants, sweaters, even a winter coat (Where the hell did they find that in the middle of August?); a new backpack, thick, durable folders and fresh notebooks all paired up by color, pencils and a rainbow of highlighters and pens, tiny office supplies like a tape dispenser and stapler. But, most surprising of all: electronics. A slim, silver laptop with stylus for notetaking; a smartphone and smartwatch; and matching indigo wireless bluetooth headphones and large, over-the-head ones the same brand as Present Mic’s. 

Too much. It was all too much. 

Hitoshi’s head swooned, blood rushing from his face as sound faded away. How would he ever pay them back for all this? He had, like, 1500 yen to his name. It would take… years to work off the cost of just the laptop alone. The boy ran shaking hands through his unruly purple-hair as nausea clawed at his stomach.. Hitoshi became dimly aware of someone speaking but he couldn’t hear them right, he didn’t understand. Why would the Aizawas do this? Why would they trap him like this? He owed them now -not that he didn’t think he already owed them for taking in his sorry ass. Oh fuck-fuck-fuck…What am I gonna do? 

Aizawa. Tuesday, August 20.

“Hitoshi?” Shouta approached his student slowly and crouched beside him. The boy was perched awkwardly on the very edge of the couch seat, leaning over his bouncing knees with his hands tangled in his hair. 

“Hitoshi, are you alright?” The dark-haired man gingerly placed a hand on the boy’s back. The teen shrugged away so quickly he slid off the couch to the floor, head thudding into the coffee table on his way down. At the sound of the commotion, Kokoro rushed out from the kitchen but paused once she caught a glimpse of the kid’s face scrunched up in fear and agony.

“Shinsou, love, what’s wrong?” The teen just bit his lip and shook his head hard as, body trembling, he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Shouta sat down on the floor but didn’t get closer to the wild-eyed boy; Kokoro slowly and silently made her way around the table to kneel on Hitoshi’s other side. The kid’s head snapped between the two adults, muscles tensed like a cornered animal. Shouta’s stomach dropped at all the things that could’ve happened to make the boy act this way. Kokoro made eye contact over the boy’s shoulder and held up her hand, ready to activate her quirk.

“Hitoshi, look at me. Breathe.” Violet eyes met onyx and Shouta took deep exaggerated breaths hoping, as before, the boy would follow suit. Behind him, Shouta watched as Kokoro’s hands started to glow a familiar silvery-white and her fingers began to darken. The dark-haired man could tell the instant his wife’s Calm took effect. Hitoshi’s face slackened, the furrow between his brows and the pinched set of his mouth disappearing; his shoulders dropped as if the strings drawing them up had been cut; his breathing deepened to normal at last. After giving the boy a few minutes under the Calm effect, Shouta tried again. 

“Hitoshi,” His student didn’t respond other than blinking slowly, but the eye contact he made showed he was listening. “What’s wrong?”

“I… feel bad,” Shouta’s heart ached with how small and fragile the purple-haired teen sounded.

“Can you tell me why?”

“The stuff… I-I can’t pay you back,” 

“We don’t expect you to, Hitoshi. They’re gifts.”

“But… I haven’t done anything to earn them…”

“Shinsou-kun, you don’t need to earn a gift. You just receive them. That’s all. We got all this for you because we wanted to.” The boy turned slowly to look at the opal-haired woman kneeling behind him. 

“Why?” At the confused expression on her face Hitoshi continued, “Why… would you do that?” 

“Oh honey, we wanted to make you feel comfortable and happy. I’m sorry they stressed you out instead.” Shouta could practically see the wheels and gears turning inside the boy’s brain.

“Hitoshi,” Shouta waited for the teen to make eye contact again, “Is that the only thing upsetting you?” A slow shake of purple hair. 

“I… I don’t know the rules..” 

“Rules?” Kokoro chimed and the boy nodded slowly as if moving through water.

“Okay. How about we start with these,” Aizawa-sensei held up his hand and ticked off his fingers as he listed things off, “Take care of your body and mind. Always tell us when you need or want anything. And, ask a lot of questions. Seem fair to you?” 

Hitoshi gaped like a fish before sputtering, “I- Wha- Those aren’t rules. T-they didn’t start with ‘no’...” Kokoro and her husband shared a look over the boy’s shoulder. 

“Shinsou-kun, I don’t think we need to tell you ‘no’. You’re a smart kid and you’re old enough to make good decisions. We trust you,” 

We trust you.  

A small form brushed past Shouta’s leg and he felt his mouth lift in a slight smile at the gray and black striped tabby now rubbing against Hitoshi’s legs. He watched the boy’s violet eyes widen, pupils blown large -not from fear this time, but excitement. Tentatively, Hitoshi stretched out his fingers and the cat instantly headbutted his hand demanding pets. 

“Ah, Hotaru, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence again?” Kokoro crawled forward to sit beside Hitoshi and reached out to pet the cat as well. The purple-haired teen let the animal push its soft fur against his fingers until, eventually, the kid reached out to stroke all the way down its back. The cat leaned heavily against Hitoshi’s legs in delight, a loud purr striking up; a tiny, sweet smile cracked the boy’s face. 

“You like cats, Shinsou-kun?” Shouta watched his student nod, his violet eyes never leaving the small creature before him. Kokoro stood and scooped the cat into her arms; Shouta swallowed down a laugh at the childlike scowl of disappointment that appeared on Hitoshi’s face. 

“Here, lay down.” Kokoro patted the couch with one hand and waited for the boy to get comfortable laying on his back before she carefully placed the mackerel tabby on Hitoshi’s chest. Almost instantly the cat settled into a loaf, eyes closed and purring like a motorboat. Shouta’s heart squeezed at the scene: his wife, a child, their cat. It was too fucking wholesome. Just as Hotaru seemed entranced by the boy’s steady ministrations, Hitoshi looked equally entranced by the cat’s soft fur and warm, pleasant weight on his chest. Kokoro chuckled softly, giving the cat one last head scritch before heading back to the kitchen. Shouta sat on the floor a moment longer, watching his student and cat. Shouta never wanted to see that boy scared or sad ever again -not that he wanted to see any child scared or sad, but particularly this child. Deep down, the dark-haired man knew this was where Hitoshi was meant to be.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi. Wednesday, August 21.

It had been two full days since Hitoshi came to the Aizawas’ home and less than one day since Kokoro’s words had burrowed into Hitoshi’s mind: We trust you .

They trusted him? They didn’t even know him. 

Eraser-sensei had left early this morning, something about parent meetings with All Might, so it was just Hitoshi and Kokoro at the apartment. Breakfast was its usual affair with tons of different dishes though a bit awkward without Sensei as a buffer. Afterwards, still a bit overwhelmed from, well, everything , Hitoshi retreated to the guest room - his room- to lay down. 

Music and singing filtered down the hall and through the open bedroom door. Hitoshi didn’t recognize many of the songs because they were, oddly, mostly in English. The genres and decades varied wildly and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what song came on next. He didn’t mind, he enjoyed music and learning what Kokoro listened to helped him build out the puzzle of who she was as a person. Right now though the pieces he had didn’t fit together; the woman seemed less like a coherent picture and more like an abstract painting of a kaleidoscope.

As if summoned by thought alone, Kokoro knocked on the doorframe before leaning around into the room with a smile, “Dinner’s almost ready,” On the bed, Hitoshi sat up quickly in alarm. Wait, dinner? What happened to lunch? Had he fallen asleep? Maybe he’d lost time instead… He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tip-toed down the hall. In the kitchen a timer started beeping. Kokoro reached into the oven and had a large dish in her hands when a loud knocking came from the front door.

“Could you get that? I’ll be right there,” The boy nodded and made his way to the entry. Upon opening the door, his blood froze. A short, plump woman with graying red hair and scowling expression stood before him. His case worker, Tanaka-san. Hitoshi’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. How did she find him so fast? Did his foster family call her? He felt movement beside him and tensed.

“May I help you?” Kokoro moved to stand between Hitoshi and his case worker. The boy stared at the opal-haired woman with anxious anticipation. From his angle slightly behind her Hitoshi couldn’t see Kokoro’s face to read her expression but her voice… her voice sounded dangerous, like a warning growl from a dog. 

“Tanaka Akira. I'm a caseworker from social services and I'm here to take him back to his foster home.” Hitoshi shrank away, practically cowering. This couldn’t be happening. No, he couldn’t go back there, he couldn’t– But before the boy’s thoughts could spiral any farther Kokoro spoke, nearly unrecognizable with the amount of venom in her voice.

“The fuck you are.” Silence. No one moved as Kokoro’s words hung heavy in the air. 

“I beg your pardon?” Tanaka exhaled, outrage clear on her face. 

“You should.” Tanaka’s mouth went slack, gaping. Once she recovered her wits, the older woman blustered and jabbed a finger in Hitoshi’s direction.

“That boy is a runaway , a delinquent . It's my job to get him back to his proper placement.”

“It’s also your job to make sure that placement is safe, isn't it?” Kokoro's voice remained low and steady, sounding like a whisper in comparison to the older woman’s outburst. 

“I assure you the Akaishi family is perfectly wonderful, despite whatever lies he may have told you.” Tanaka-san turned her gaze to the boy, her hatred readily apparent. The opal-haired woman reached back and gently nudged Hitoshi toward the open apartment door before crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Shinsou didn’t have to say anything, his injuries spoke loudly enough by themselves.” 

“If you don't surrender him now I'll be forced to call the police.” Tanaka was shouting now. The door to the apartment next to them cracked open and Hitoshi saw an elderly man peek out curiously. The caseworker crossed her arms with a triumphant smirk. That’s it then. I’m not worth an arrest…

But, to the boy’s utmost surprise, Kokoro laughed. The opal-haired woman straightened to her full height, still several inches shorter than Hitoshi but plenty tall enough to tower over the shorter woman. He watched in awe as Kokoro stepped menacingly towards Tanaka, crowding the older woman back until she was pressed flush against the railing of the stairs. 

“Call them. I have plenty I'd like to discuss.” And with that Kokoro turned on heel and gently but firmly began to steer the boy back into the apartment. As soon as her back was turned though a hand darted out and gripped Hitoshi’s wrist like a vice. Too stunned to say anything the boy just managed a strangled sort of cry as he was dragged across the hall towards the stairs.

A flash of white followed by the sharp staccato of a slap and his arm was free. Hitoshi stumbled to the ground, hand going to his face…but, his cheek was fine, the slap hadn’t hit him. So who had it hit? 

Movement at the corner of his vision sent Hitoshi scuttling away to awkwardly hunch against the wall. Opposite him, Tanaka was also on the ground against the stair railing, an angry red welt already visible on her face. The woman’s eyes seemed to shake as she stared up at the form above her.

“How dare you touch him.” Kokoro hissed from between clenched teeth, her lavender eyes completely black and her fingers began darkening as well, the charcoal coloring spreading quickly up clenched hands and past her wrist. The opal-haired woman’s body shook and faint black lightning began crackling around her forearms. She crouched down in front of Tanaka and practically spit the words, “Get the fuck out of here. Now.” It was all the older woman could do to pull herself up and run away down the stairs. 

Kokoro took a deep breath, and cracked her neck loudly. When she turned to Hitoshi her eyes had returned to pale purple and her voice was soft and kind again; her hands, however, remained black. 

“Shinsou-kun, are you alright? She didn’t hurt you, did she?” Kokoro’s brow furrowed with concern as she noticed bright red splotches beginning to blush through the gauze on the boy’s wrist. Her jaw clenched in quiet fury. Wide, lavender eyes found violet again, full of hurt. “I’m so sorry. That should have never happened.” 

“‘S okay,” The boy mumbled and carefully pulled his arm to his chest, embarrassed under the weight and sincerity of her gaze.

“It’s absolutely not okay.” The woman’s hands clenched into fists at her sides but, noticing Hitoshi’s discomfort she deliberately flexed her fingers wide and, closing her eyes, took three deep breaths. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose my temper.” That was considered ‘losing her temper’? That was practically nothing.

“Aizawa-san…it-it's fine. I'll go. I-I don't want to cause trouble.”

“It's no trouble. Shinsou-kun, you are no trouble.” Her lavender eyes met his scared violet ones as she gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a burden or an inconvenience or anything else people have tried to make you believe. Okay?”

“But…the police…I…”

“Shouta and I have already thought about and prepared for something like this. Don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”

“You…have?” The boy immediately covered his mouth with his hand, as if he could push the question back down his throat. But Kokoro answered with no hesitation.

“Yes, we have.” She smiled and gently rubbed her hand on his shoulder. “You won’t be going anywhere with that woman or anyone else you don’t want to.”

Hitoshi could hardly make a string of coherent thoughts. The Aizawas had thought about what to do if his case worker came to take him away? What did that mean? Did it even mean anything at all? Sensei was pragmatic, it made sense that he would have considered all potential consequences that could arise from taking the teen in. 

“Everything is going to be just fine. I promise.” Kokoro’s lips curled into a small smile. Seriously?! What part of the past few days made her believe anything would ever be fine? And what was with all the smiling. 

Her hand slid from his shoulder to gently cup his elbow and ease him up to standing. Hitoshi let her guide him back to the apartment and settle him on the couch. Hotaru quickly jumped up and settled into his lap. The boy ran his fingers through the animal’s soft fur as his mind chewed on what had just happened. Kokoro had put herself between him and Tanaka. She laughed at the prospect of the police being called and then assaulted and threatened the older woman. Kokoro… protected him. But why? She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. It didn’t make any sense.

The rattling of keys at the door drew their attention. Sensei’s deep voice rang through the apartment and he rounded the corner a moment later, black eyes darting between his wife and his student.

“What happened?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Kokoro answered with a sigh as she ran a charcoal-colored hand through her hair, “Dinner’s ready. We should eat before it gets cold.” Aizawa fixed her with a questioning look, then nodded toward the kitchen and the two disappeared into the other room. Hitoshi was getting pretty tired of people discussing him and not including him in the conversation. He listened to the low murmur of their words but wasn’t able to make anything out. A few moments later they emerged carrying plates laden with food toward the dining table. Sensei gestured him over and Hitoshi rose to join them. Everything tasted like ash in his mouth and he was barely able to choke down three bites before setting his utensils down in defeat, stomach roiling. 

What felt like only seconds later but had to have been more like a half hour, a knock on the door again turned Hitoshi’s blood to ice in his veins. Aizawa tapped the table to get his attention and nodded toward the kitchen; Kokoro stayed sitting, waiting. As soon as Hitoshi and his mentor were in the kitchen he heard the door open. The dark-haired man stood before the sink and opened the tap flow wide, gesturing to his student to hand him the dirty dishes. As his teacher washed the boy dried and put away the dishes, all the while trying desperately to hear what was going on in the next room over. He could make out Kokoro, Tanaka-san, and two male voices he didn’t recognize. Police? Were they here to take him back to the Akaishis? Or arrest Kokoro for hitting Tanaka?

Turned out, neither. Before Hitoshi and Aizawa had even finished with the dishes the front door opened and closed once more and Kokoro joined them in the kitchen. Wordlessly, she walked up behind her husband and leaned face-first into his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. It was so…domestic; Hitoshi felt like he was trespassing on an intimate moment. His teacher didn’t move or say anything and after a moment the woman disengaged. 

“I’ll finish things up here. Shou, why don’t you help Shinsou re-bandage his arm.” Hitoshi’s neck and face began to heat with embarrassment as he felt his sensei’s eyes dart his way. The man nodded and the two disappeared to the bathroom. 

A few minutes later, as Aizawa was wrapping fresh bandages around the boy's arm, the electronic chirp of a phone broke their quiet bubble. Hitoshi tried not to pry but his teacher held his phone right there as he opened the incoming message. It was from Kokoro and simply read: “going out, don't wait up, love you”. Aizawa tapped out a quick reply, “be safe” before he finished the bandaging and taped it all in place.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered as he held his injured arm close to his chest. He'd been here less than 48 hours and had already driven his teacher's wife from their home. Self-hatred surged within the boy as predictable as the tides. Why was he like this? Why did he ruin everything?

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.” The dark-haired man methodically packed up the first aid supplies and stored the pack under the sink. 

“I made her leave. Again.” Hitoshi nodded his head towards his teacher’s phone, hating how small and childish his voice sounded. Pathetic . 

“No, you didn’t,” Aizawa scoffed, a rather undignified sound as he stood and helped Hitoshi to his feet before gently steering the boy out to the living room. The man sank into the sofa with a sigh, “Ko does this all the time, it has nothing to do with you .Don’t worry about it, kid.” Hitoshi didn’t understand. Sensei’s wife just…left? In the middle of the night? Often? Where does she go? And…why? 

Hitoshi. Thursday, August 22.

Nightmares were common for Hitoshi, but his sleep had been blissfully unplagued since coming to stay with the Aizawas. Last night, however, he couldn’t escape. One after another, they kept coming, and left him gasping and thrashing in the sweat-soaked sheets. Around 4am the boy gave up. He turned on the light and stared at the ceiling until sunlight poured through his window at around 6:30am when he decided to tiptoe down the hall to see if anyone else was awake yet.

Bathroom, kitchen, living area - all empty and quiet. Maybe they’re still sleep…wait– Kokoro’s boots and coat were missing from the space by the door. She’s…not back yet? Hitoshi’s heart and breathing began to race. No-no-no-no… What if something happened to her? If she died because he’d made her leave…what would Eraserhead do? Hitoshi found himself backing away down the hall to the guest room. Oh fuck-fuck-fuck… His chest tightened painfully and his pulse thrummed loudly in his ears. He’d fucked up. And after only, what, two days?! This warm little bubble he’d been playing pretend in… would burst as soon as Eraser-sensei woke up. Hitoshi had to get out. Now. He couldn’t be here any longer. 

The boy stumbled into the guest room. He changed quickly out of his new pajamas back into his old clothes and grabbed his ratty backpack with shaking hands; he hadn’t even unpacked any of his old stuff yet. Hitoshi briefly considered taking some of the new things Kokoro had gotten him, but decided against not to; it felt too much like stealing. He hurried through the apartment, shoved on his shoes and left, closing the door as quietly as possible before taking the stairs two at a time and literally running away down the street. 

Hitoshi ran until his lungs burned, taking turns and streets at random. He ran until his side ached and his legs shook, then he kept running. Finally the boy collapsed in a small (and thankfully empty) park and retched behind some bushes. Over and over his stomach clenched and emptied itself out onto the grass. When, at last, there was nothing left, the purple-haired teen rolled away from the mess and closed his eyes, shivering despite the morning sun and the growing heat of the day. 

Aizawa. Thursday, August 22.

He had to tell Shinsou today. It wasn't ideal that he had to leave so soon after everything, but it was out of Shouta’s control. He’d put it off too long already. 

The dark-haired man got up and stretched, noticing as he did that his wife’s side of the bed had been completely untouched. Must’ve spent the night at the studio … Kokoro’s habit of disappearing had been alarming in the beginning of their relationship but now hardly bothered Shouta. 

He trudged sleepily down the hall, pausing outside the ‘guest’ room to listen for any sign the boy was in distress like the other morning. Silence. Maybe he’s still sleeping… Or maybe he hurt himself again. Shouta’s heart skipped at the mere thought. He knocked and called out softly, “Hitoshi?” Silence. He waited 30 seconds then knocked again, speaking louder, “Hitoshi,” Silence. Worry settled heavily in his stomach. Something was wrong. Shouta opened the door and took in the quiet room, the tangled bedsheets, the pile of pajamas on the floor, but, most importantly, the missing backpack; the boy was gone. 

Shouta flew around the apartment searching everywhere the boy could fit just in case he’d had some sort of episode and had felt the need to hide. But no, the apartment was empty. Shouta was alone. Snatching his phone off the bedside table, the man dialed his student’s number. Straight to voicemail. Motherfu– He dialed again; voicemail. Shouta called Kokoro, trying to keep his growing terror from seeping into his voice; she hadn’t seen or spoken to Hitoshi since she left last night. He called Hizashi and Nemuri, but neither had seen or heard from the boy either. Shouta stalked back to the empty bedroom -and noticed a phone charger still plugged into the wall by the bed. Damn kid’s phone is probably dead…  

As Shouta closed the apartment door (leaving it unlocked in case Hitoshi came home while he was out looking for him), his phone pinged with a message alert. He’d been added to a group message with Kokoro, Hizashi and Nemuri; his wife and friends were already coordinating search areas. Gratitude flooded his chest. He chimed in about what direction he would take as he reached the bottom of the stairs, then took off on foot in search of his purple-haired student. 

The dark-haired man leapt from roof to roof scanning the streets and alleys below for any sign of Hitoshi. Whenever he saw someone, Aizawa dropped down to ask if they’d seen a purple-haired teen pass by, but no one had. Where the hell are you, kid?

Hitoshi. Thursday, later.

A few minutes or a few hours passed before Hitoshi felt he could move. Standing up on shaking legs, the world spun around him and, for a moment, the boy thought he was going to be sick again but the nausea passed. Hitoshi swung his bag over his shoulder and checked his phone, simultaneously hoping and dreading seeing a call or message from Eraserhead, but the small device remained stubbornly dark. Dead . With a sigh, the purple-haired boy pocketed the phone and started walking; he’d find a cafe or something to sit and charge it in. 

The boy had ended up deep in a residential area from his run earlier and it took a while to finally find a place. Hitoshi quietly moved to the back of the small cafe and tucked himself away at a table in the corner near an outlet. He pawed around his bag with increasing panic. No phone charger. Fuck . He must’ve forgotten it in his haste to flee. Not that his phone would’ve been much use anyway, but no longer having the option of communication sent the boy’s thoughts spiraling. Hitoshi cradled his head in his hands. 

This is fine. I’m fine. There’s only…ten days until classes start. You’ve been out longer than that. You just have to make it until campus opens up again. That’s it. Ten days. That’s nothing. I can do this. 

Hitoshi dragged his hands across his face in a gesture reminiscent of his mentor as he started to work out a plan. He needed food, water and safe-ish shelter. Hitoshi knew he had about 1300 yen hidden in a pair of socks at the bottom of his bag… if he got one rice ball a day from a konbini he should easily be able to stretch that for ten days. Alright that covers food. He knew he couldn’t go back to the vacant building he’d been squatting in before for a number of reasons, so where else… Oh, he was pretty sure Dagobah Beach had a public drinking fountain, if he could find somewhere nearby to lay low that would work. Just need to check out the area and see where I can hide… With a decisive nod, Hitoshi left and started making his way in the direction of the beach…er, he hoped…

Kokoro. Thursday, later.

Hitoshi is gone. 

Kokoro’s brain instantly went through all the worst case scenarios that could’ve possibly happened, and even a fair amount that were extremely improbable. She tried to think but her husband’s words drowned everything out. 

Hitoshi is gone.

Where would he have gone? Assuming he left of his own volition and that horrible woman hadn’t returned. I swear, if she hurt him… Where would a sixteen year old boy with no money and (let’s face it) no friends, go at 7am on a Thursday in the middle of summer break? 

Where would I have gone?  

Kokoro pulled on her helmet and started her motorcycle. With her phone, she set the comm settings to read all incoming text messages aloud before zipping the cell safely in her pocket; she didn’t want to miss anything. The opal-haired woman tore off down the road as messages flooded in from Hizashi, Nemuri and Shouta each declaring what locations they’d search. Please, let him be okay…

. . .

Back in their neighborhood, Kokoro pulled over on the side of the road outside the apartment and made a few quick searches from her smartphone:

Public shower near me

Public bathroom near me

Public drinking fountain near me

Community garden near me

Briefly studying each map of results, the opal-haired woman overlaid them in her mind’s eye…Where would have the most access to his basic needs? 

The beach. As soon as she thought of it, Kokoro knew that’s where Shinsou would be. It had a bathroom, an outdoor shower for rinsing off after swimming, and a water fountain. For food, there was a konbini not right up the road and a community garden only a ten minute walk away. It’s where I would’ve gone… The opal-haired woman stowed her phone again, revved the engine, and sped away.

Hitoshi. Thursday, later.

The lanky, purple-haired teen arrived at the beach just as the streetlamps clicked on. Movement in the growing shadows to his left sent Hitoshi’s fight-or-flight response into overdrive. When the person at last came fully into view, Hitoshi couldn’t hide the cycle of emotions that crossed his face: surprise, confusion, anger, fear, wariness. The woman stopped about ten meters away; Hitoshi tensed his muscles, poised and ready to run. 

“Shinsou-kun, are you alright?” Kokoro didn’t walk closer or reach out to him; she didn’t move at all.

“Aizawa-san… what are you– how did you–” Hitoshi clenched his teeth in frustration, trying not to ask a direct question.

“Honey, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The boy took a step back, eyes scanning for more people, more surprises.. “No! Oh, Shinsou, not like that! You just, you scared the shit outta us is all…” I…what?

At his blatant confusion she continued softly, “Shou woke up and you were gone and no one’s been able to get ahold of you; we’ve been worried sick,” 

“We…” As usual, Hitoshi was careful not to change his inflection and turn the statement into a question.

“Me, Shouta, Hizashi, Nemuri - we’ve been driving around all day trying to find you.”

“Trying to find…me.” The opal-haired woman bobbed her head, wide lavender eyes imploring him to…what? Believe her? The teen took another step back. 

“Did…did something happen? This morning?” He stalled at the question. Kokoro seemed to sincerely want to know. When he didn’t run, she tried again, “Did Shouta or I… did we do something to upset you? Make you uncomfortable?” 

“What? No, I–” His incredulous tone cut off abruptly as Hitoshi realized he’d asked a question, literally biting his lip to keep his mouth shut, shaking his head.

“It’s okay… if you need space or whatever, that’s fine. Just… leave a note or something next time?”

“...Next time…” Wait, what did that mean? ‘Next time’...why, why would there be a next time? He’d fucked up and had to go. That’s it, that’s how things worked.

“Yeah, next time,” Kokoro could see the anxiety swirling around the boy start to fade a bit and breathed another sigh of relief. “Now, were you really looking to spend time at the beach tonight, or can we go home and eat? ‘Cuz I’m starving,” Her eyes crinkled with her smile. Shinsou remained where he was, battling his mind until finally deciding it was… not ‘safe’ exactly, but not not -safe to go with her. Hitoshi shuffled forward a few steps, still ready to run, as Kokoro turned back into the shadows and wheeled forward a sleek, matte black motorcycle. Seriously, a fucking motorcycle?! Who was this chick?

“You ever ride a motorcycle before?” 

“I…don’t even know how to ride a bike,” Fuck, why did I admit that? Seriously, what is wrong with you lately?! Kokoro didn’t acknowledge the confession, just showed him the basic parts of the bike (e.g. where not to touch in order to avoid getting burned) as well as standard riding tips (don’t lean or wiggle around wildly, keep his hands on her or the bike at all times). She shrugged off the thick, leather jacket she wore and held it out; Hitoshi noticed the woman’s hands were still jet black, but the color had receded down past her wrists. I wonder what the hell that’s about…

“It might be a bit tight, but if we crash it’ll save your skin. And, this too-” Hitoshi removed his backpack, slid on the coat (which actually fit just fine), and put his bag back on before accepting the helmet the woman handed him. Kokoro carefully helped the boy strap into the helmet and explained the comm controls. With a nod that he understood, she straddled the bike and turned the starter, the engine roaring to life beneath her. Kokoro cocked her head and Hitoshi carefully climbed on the back.

“Hold on,” Kokoro’s voice was muffled by the helmet as the boy wrapped his arms around her middle, blushing slightly under the helmet. Hitoshi rarely reciprocated or initiated any physical contact and this felt dangerously close to hugging -that and the boy couldn’t help but wonder what his mentor would think of his student touching his wife like this. 

“Here we go,” The woman pressed a button on her phone before zipping it into a pocket at her thigh then revved the engine and – they were off. 

Hitoshi’s stomach flipped as the bike surged forward, his arms tightening instinctively around Kokoro’s waist. They weren’t even going that fast yet, but the motorcycle felt so… precarious to the teen; he sat stiffly, barely daring to breathe, his heart jumping to his throat at every turn they made. 

Music came over the comm speakers and, once they were safely stopped at a red light, Hitoshi chanced letting go for a moment to turn the volume up with the buttons on the side of his helmet. Electric guitars and thumping bass filled his ears as Kokoro eased onto the expressway. “Ready?” Hitoshi could barely hear her through the helmet and over the music and engine noise. He nodded, head awkwardly heavy, and ended up bouncing the helmet against the back of Kokoro’s head. Her light laughter filtered past him as they accelerated.

Hitoshi’s breath stopped, his brain left somewhere behind them and his world reduced to only basic sensations of sight, sound, feel. They flew through streaks of color: red taillights, white headlights, yellow street lights, the rest of the rainbow represented in the flashes of the city beyond the sides of the road, all of it streaked by wild, opalescent hair. Music soared in his ears, somehow staying louder than the engine that growled steadily beneath him. Despite the jacket, a chill ran through the boy and he burrowed a bit closer to the woman in front of him for any warmth he could get.

As usual for Kokoro’s music Hitoshi could only understand about half the lyrics but the way the music felt … now that he understood. It felt… powerful. He felt powerful. Like he could do anything, be anything. Nothing could stop him; the world lay open before him, his for the taking. As they drove, he forgot about… everything, really, as if the wind swept it all away. All his mistakes, all his fears and anxieties, all his memories -good and bad- everything. Gone. Blown away and left behind, the motorcycle too fast to catch. 

Hitoshi felt… free. For maybe the first time in his life. Free. Untouchable. Alive.

The longer they drove the more Hitoshi relaxed, becoming less terrified and more exhilarated. His shoulders loosened and he even chanced turning his head to look around. The boy had no idea how fast they were going, but from the way Kokoro weaved past cars like they were standing still, he guessed it was well over the posted limit. And yet, that didn’t scare him. He felt completely at ease. Calm. Safe. After some time, Kokoro exited the expressway and again eased them through winding city streets though these at least started to look familiar. 

As they pulled up to the apartment Hitoshi tightened his arms around the opal-haired woman’s middle and pressed his face to her back. Awkward because of the helmet, he hoped she would still see the gesture for what it was meant to be: Thank you .

Chapter Text

Aizawa. Friday, August 23.

It really was unfortunate timing. After yesterday’s…event, Shouta couldn’t deny the anxiety growing in his chest. He cared about Hitoshi, probably more than was normal for a teacher to feel towards a student. More than ever, he hoped the kid could see that.

“Hitoshi,” After they’d cleared away the breakfast dishes, Shouta gestured that the boy take a seat beside him on the couch, “Due to recent events, all teachers and students in the hero courses will be required to live at UA full-time. Starting today,” A display of emotions flickered across his student’s face before settling on stoic impassiveness as the words and their implications took root. 

“I understand. I’ll pack my things,” The purple-haired boy moved to stand but Shouta placed a gentle hand on his knee to keep him still.

“I’m not sure you do,” 

“Shinsou-kun, only Shouta’s going; I’m staying here.” Kokoro entered the living area slowly, arms holding her green cardigan tightly around her slight frame. “And, you can, too. If you want,” Violet eyes darted between onyx and lavender as the boy’s brow furrowed deeply.

“I… No, I couldn’t, I–” 

“Yes, you can, Hitoshi. Again, it’s your choice,” Shouta willed the teen to understand, to trust him.

“I-You…you would let me stay…” The teen was careful, as always, to keep his intonation level so it wasn’t truly a question. Shouta gave his signature single nod as confirmation and Kokoro bobbed her head earnestly, opal hair swinging. 

“I’d actually like that very much. It’ll be lonely without Shouta -not that he won’t be around , but…” With a smile, the woman shrugged and brushed a strand of pearl hair behind her silver-studded ear. Shouta noticed as Kokoro’s eyes studied the space just around the boy’s frame, reading his emotions. Whatever she saw must’ve been negative; her voice when she continued was quiet and careful, like confessing a secret.

“I know you’re not sure you can trust us and that this feels like some kind of trick or trap. All I can do is assure you it’s not and hope you believe me. You are more than welcome here, Shinsou-kun, for as long as you want,” His wife and student held eye contact for some time before, at last, Hitoshi nodded slowly. Shouta exhaled heavily in relief; he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath. 

Hitoshi. Saturday, August 24.

The following morning Hitoshi made his way tentatively to the kitchen where he could already hear Kokoro humming and moving about. He felt a little awkward around her after the past few days, especially now that Eraser-sensei wasn’t there as a buffer, but the opal-haired woman greeted him with a smile and a mug of coffee already prepared how he liked. How did she know that? She hasn’t asked or anything…

“Shinsou-kun, can we talk about a few things?” The boy froze at the serious tone of her voice and the woman instantly noted his anxiety, “Nothing bad!” Kokoro turned to face him and leaned against the counter, sipping her own drink and taking a deep breath before she continued. 

“I just… I want to apologize.” Well, that’s not where he thought this was going… “With Tanaka the other day, I got a bit carried away. I started to use my quirk and I shouldn’t have. I… I hope I didn’t frighten you?” Her lavender eyes peered over the edge of her mug in nervous anticipation, voice rising in a question; the black on her hands had receded even farther so that just the tips of her fingers remained stained.

“Um, no. I’m…okay.” Kokoro’s whole body seemed to melt as she relaxed against the counter. 

“Oh thank gods, I’m so glad! I’ve been trying to be on my best behavior and not scare you,” The woman smiled broadly, practically radiating happiness. Best behavior? Hitoshi wasn’t sure if a response was expected or not. Feeling a bit uncomfortable under her gaze, he drank deeply from his coffee mug. The reason was twofold: the warm liquid woke him up from the inside out and it allowed him to hide his face with his mug for a moment. He desperately wanted to ask about her quirk but didn’t have the nerve to form a question.

“Second, regarding the ‘rules’ you mentioned the other day? I had some thoughts,” The coffee turned to acid in Hitoshi’s stomach. The boy was on guard now, not entirely trusting. Hitoshi set his mug on the counter and tried to stealthily slide it out of arms’ reach. Kokoro again noticed his mood shift and held her hands out placatingly to clarify, “They’re not actual rules, they’re just things you should know now that you’ll be staying here a while,” There was an awkward few moments of silence before Kokoro went on.

“Um… I do the shopping on Sundays. You’re welcome to come along if you like or you can just write whatever you need or want on the notepad here and I’ll pick it up.” She gestured to a list pad stuck to the front of the fridge. 

“I-I don’t need anything,” The boy muttered to the floor.

“Sure, but do you want anything? There is a difference, Shinsou-kun. It’s okay to want things you don’t necessarily need. We’ll get you anything you want - I mean, within reason. I’m not gonna buy you, like, a car or a rocket launcher or something.” What the hell? How did her brain even connect those things?  

“Anyway… uhm, laundry. You can do your own if you like, otherwise anything that makes it into the bin in the bathroom gets washed on, you guessed it, Sundays.” Gods she’s chipper this morning. And so talkative. Is this what she’s really like? Or is the black-eyed person from a few days ago the real Kokoro? 

“Everything in the apartment’s fair game -books, movies, food, all of it- help yourself. I’d say the only ‘off-limits’ thing would be Shouta’s and my bedroom but that’s less about you not being ‘allowed’ and more because I can’t think of anything in there that you’d ever need. You know?” He did not. The boy blinked once, twice, his mind blank. This was definitely not going to be like any of his previous placements. 

Hitoshi. Monday, September 2.

Over the following week, Hitoshi and Kokoro slowly fell into a routine. He’d wake every morning around 6:30 to find the opal-haired woman already puttering around the kitchen. She’d smile and slide him a mug of coffee then he’d go settle on the couch with Hotaru while she finished cooking, the music filtering from the other room along with the smell of breakfast. He’d quickly come to learn that, no, the Aizawas had in fact not been going all out for him that first night/morning… that’s just the way Kokoro cooked for every meal. 

Outside of meals, Hitoshi spent most of the time in his room. Eventually he made himself try on all the clothes Mic-sensei, Midnight-sensei and Kokoro-san got him and was pleasantly surprised. Everything they’d picked out for him fit a bit loosely but he didn’t mind that, and it was all of a style Hitoshi would’ve probably chosen himself -neutral, dark colors, no sayings or embellishments, perfectly anonymous. Guilt and obligation still gnawed at the edges of his mind whenever he thought about the “gifts,” especially the expensive electronics. Sensei giving him the capture scarf was one thing but this… 

The headphones Hitoshi’d been using had been free, a promotional item from some company or other, but now he had the same high-end ones Present Mic himself used; he didn’t even want to know how much they’d cost. Hitoshi’d never even had a laptop of his own before, he’d always made do by using the computers at school or the library. The boy was having a hard time wrapping his head around the idea that he could just look things up or play games whenever he wanted now. 

His old mobile was an ancient, chunky “smart” phone with a cracked screen that Hitoshi primarily used just to listen to music -only on WiFi of course because it was a pay-as-you-go type phone and the System didn’t spring for a data plan. His new phone was gorgeous: slim, sleek lines, crystal clear display, lightning fast connection and unlimited data. Plus, when he turned it on, there were already four numbers programmed in his contacts: AS, AK, YH, and KN. Hitoshi had figured out that AS was Sensei because he recognized the phone number and Kokoro had been quick to explain the others as herself, Mic-sensei and Midnight-sensei. Most heroes apparently entered their sensitive contacts using just initials in case their phones were ever lost or stolen so villains wouldn’t have their family’s or other heroes’ phone numbers. The only numbers he’d ever programmed before were Tanaka-san and whomever his current foster family was. 

. . .

The morning of the first day of school began like every other. Hitoshi woke early, showered, dressed and got his coffee from Kokoro-san. Already in his uniform though, the boy didn’t take his usual place on the couch and instead crouched in the kitchen to give Hotaru some loving. The cat headbut the boy’s hand so hard Hitoshi feared he’d spill the steaming coffee on the animal so he placed it on the floor to allow him to use both hands to satisfy the needy pet. 

Startled by the sudden noise, Hotaru leapt from the boy’s lap, back claws digging into the soft flesh of his abdomen as steaming coffee spread across the tile. 

“No-no no no!” Hitoshi lurched forward and righted the mug, a useless gesture now. Blood pounded loudly in his ears as he tried in vain to contain the spill with his hands, the hot liquid burning his skin through his sleeves as he tried to sop up the mess. A towel appeared and hands firmly pushed his own away from the spill. Hitoshi toppled backwards into the hallway, crawling across the floor until he was pressed against the far wall. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, it was an accident! I–” A blur of movement followed him from the kitchen and the boy curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his head. “Please! I–I didn’t mean to!” Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he tensed his body to prepare for the coming blows. A hand fell on his shoulder but instead of digging or pinching, the fingers moved gently up his bicep, his shoulder and to his back where they moved in slow, steady circles. Sound seemed to return all at once like a TV at full volume suddenly taken off mute.

“Shinsou? Are you hurt?” The hand at Hitoshi’s back kept moving, circle circle circle and a wave of calm washed over the boy. “Honey, did you get burned?” Kokoro dropped her hand and leaned back on her heels, slowly drawing up the boy’s soaking sleeves to reveal splotchy red burns. Panic shot through Hitoshi’s heart as the opal-haired woman stood.

“No no no please I–I-” Hitoshi’s whole body shook with fear. He’d already been such an inconvenience, causing nothing but problems for the Aizawas he couldn’t blame Kokoro-san for being upset. But he didn’t want to see her angry, it still broke something inside him to think of the gentle, soft woman screaming and hitting him. What would Eraser-sensei think when she told him about this later? About what a mess he’d made?

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Kokoro’s clear voice broke through the boys rambling. What was she saying? He realized abruptly that the woman had crouched beside him and was again drawing her hand in soothing circles on his back. “Shinsou-kun, you’re not in trouble. It’s okay,” The woman’s words flowed over Hitoshi like water. Why wouldn’t he be in trouble?! Nothing was making sense. 

Slowly, the boy allowed Kokoro to help him stand and stumble down the hall to the bathroom. He took a seat where she pointed on the edge of the bathtub. The melodic bell-like tones of her voice echoed through Hitoshi’s head as she spoke to him, but it didn’t even sound like language, just sounds. Carefully, Kokoro removed his school blazer, tie and button down; the boy shivered slightly in just his undershirt. Hitoshi hung his head and stared unseeingly at his lap while Kokoro unwrapped the bandage from the boy’s left wrist and unbuckled the smart watch from his right before placing a cool wash towel over each of his forearms. The cloth hurt as it rubbed over the sensitive skin, regardless of how soft the towel was or how gentle Kokoro was being. The coolness did sooth his flamed skin but the opal-haired woman applied a burn cream anyway and rewrapped gauze around the cut on his wrist before sitting down beside him. 

Again, Hitoshi felt her rubbing her hand against his back. Oh, he was sure he could never say how much he enjoyed it but the warmth and gentle pressure, the methodical and predictable design, it made the boy feel so safe and… loved. If it had been Eraser-sensei instead of his wife, Hitoshi was sure he would’ve fallen over and leaned on the man’s shoulder. After a moment or so, Kokoro stood, left the room, and returned with his other school clothes. Wordlessly, she eased the shirt over his arms and shoulders, black fingers deftly buttoning it up and expertly working the tie into a perfect knot before, again guiding the boy’s arms through the sleeves of his blazer. Hitoshi still hadn’t moved or said anything. The opal-haired woman crouched before him and ducked her face to meet his gaze. 

“Shinsou-kun, do you feel okay enough to go to school?” School? Right…fall semester starts today… Hitoshi’s eyes fell to his watch, still resting on the tile floor: 7:45. The bell for home room would ring at 8:25 but the opening ceremony started at 8:00. The boy thought he should be panicking -he needed to have already left if he’d wanted to walk to school… if he ran right now he could probably make it to the station and catch the train but he’d still likely be late for the ceremony… His eyes found their way to meet Kokoro’s earnest lavender gaze. That’s right, she asked a question… Did he feel okay enough to go to school? Yes, yes he did. He loved school, classes were his sanctuary, UA his church. Slowly, the boy nodded. 

Kokoro led him through the living area towards the door and Hitoshi became aware of the rancid smell of burning food. Leaving him in the genkan to put his shoes on as Kokoro disappeared to the kitchen where he could hear her shuffling about. Shakily, the boy pulled on his shoes and grabbed his new backpack where it leaned nearby, grateful he’d had the foresight to pack it the night before. When Kokoro returned, she had her jacket and helmet under one arm and a large bento in the other wrapped in a purple furoshiki patterned with chibi black cats.

“Do you have room in your bag for this? Otherwise, you’ll just have to hold it between us,” The woman held out her thick leather coat to him and the boy shrugged it on while she unzipped his bag and, somehow, managed to make room for the bento inside, “Perfect fit.” Kokoro smiled, quickly zipped up her boots, grabbed her keys and they headed out, arriving at UA a few minutes before the opening ceremony was to start. 

Hitoshi dismounted, removed the helmet and passed it to Kokoro before he shrugged off his backpack and her leather jacket, handing her the coat as well. “I’ll pick you up here after classes, if you like,” The boy nodded, swinging his bag over one shoulder as Kokoro fastened the helmet over her opal hair. “Alright, have a great day, Shinsou-kun. Call or shoot me a message if you need anything, see you later!” And with that she slapped down the helmet visor, revved the engine and sped away. A slight blush colored the tops of Hitoshi’s cheeks as the few students left nearby cast curious glances his way. Ducking his head, Shinsou Hitoshi entered campus for the first day of his second semester at UA.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi. September.

September passed with many changes. 

Weeks of consistently having enough food to eat had caused Hitoshi to gain some much needed weight. One morning the boy had to pause getting out of the shower after catching a glimpse of his reflection. Normally, he avoided mirrors like a vampire but - Holy shit, is that really what I look like? Hitoshi could no longer count his ribs, his shoulders and chest had broadened, his back and arms looked strong and capable, and his thighs and calves had thickened with deep curves and shadows defining the muscles underneath. Not surprisingly, his once loose-fitting clothes finally suited him and seemed almost tailored with how well they fit his new body.   

Classes didn’t waste any time and soon Hitoshi found himself busy as ever. Kokoro drove him to school every day, even getting him his own leather jacket and helmet so he didn’t have to keep borrowing hers. The helmet didn’t fit in his locker so he had to carry it through the halls and store it in the back of the classroom all day; part of him was embarrassed, but part of him thought it made him look cool and he kind of liked the looks he got especially after he donned the leather jacket at the end of the day when Kokoro picked him up. He and Eraserhead resumed training three days each week and on those days Sensei would drive him home to have dinner at the apartment. Hitoshi had tried to convince them he could just take the train everywhere -he didn’t want to wear out their goodwill- but his protests fell on deaf ears; though they did make sure his Suica card was always topped off in case he wanted to “go out with friends.” 

The other practice Kokoro started when the semester began made Hitoshi even more nervous: a weekly allowance. She just… gave him money… for doing nothing; called it ‘pocket money.’ Hitoshi felt guilty accepting it, but the few times he’d refused he’d only found the bills tied in with his bento the next day. He’d never had an allowance before and didn’t really know what he was supposed to do with it, so he’d just been squirreling it away and hiding it in a pair of socks he buried at the bottom of his backpack, as if he could bury his guilt, too. 

Hitoshi had also all but lost the insomnia that had plagued him his entire life up to now and was easily sleeping between 6 and 8 hours every night. Dark circles still ringed the boy’s eyes, but they were far less pronounced as his increased nutrition also left his pale skin looking healthy instead of sallow and sick. The better quality of sleep left Hitoshi feeling relaxed and ready to take on the day. The teen easily kept up with his schoolwork, his mood had improved and he hadn’t had a full blown anxiety or panic attack since the coffee incident, and he was slowly coming to like Kokoro-san, adding her to the list of people he trusted which, admittedly, only consisted of Aizawa-sensei. 

All in all, Hitoshi felt… good. No, great . He could think of no other time in his life where things had gone this well. Despite that, Hitoshi still carried the embers of doubt deep in his chest. Sooner or later the other shoe would drop and he’d lose everything. All of this… would be gone. The boy’s chest tightened painfully at the idea. 

How long will it take the Aizawas to figure out I’m not worth the trouble? How long until they get rid of me like everyone else?

Kokoro. Monday, October 14.

18:02pm. An incoming call paused the music playing from Kokoro’s phone. With barely a glance she recognized Shouta’s number and answered, tucking the device between her ear and shoulder so she could continue stir frying vegetables.

“Hey, love, wh–”

“Is Hitoshi home?” Kokoro immediately clocked the anxiety in her husband’s usually level voice and her blood turned to ice.

“No, I thought you had training after class,”

“We did. I couldn’t drive him today, he said he’d call you but his helmet is still in his classroom.” 

“Did you–”

“Yes, I called him. I’ve been calling him.”

“Maybe it’s dead?” She could feel her husband’s glare through the telephone, “Sorry, I’m just trying to think of anything logical that could’ve happened before jumping to conclusions,” Like you usually do, Shou, except it seems where Shinsou is concerned… A deep sigh came over the line. Now was not the time to make stupid comments; Shinsou was missing and Shouta was scared. “Maybe he took the train or decided to walk. It was nice out. Why don’t you drive the route he probably would’ve taken? I’ll go to the station and see if he’s there. We’ll touch base again in 10 minutes. Sound good?”

“No.” Despite his answer, Kokoro knew Shouta would do as she’d suggested and she hung up the phone. She dialed Hizashi as she turned off the stove and moved the pans away from the burners. He hadn’t heard from Shinsou, and when she called Midnight, the answer was the same. With her leather coat, thick boots, helmet and keys Kokoro drove to the nearby train platform, but she didn’t even need to stop to see it was completely deserted. 

Dread settled in her stomach as Tanaka’s face surged to the forefront of Kokoro’s mind. No, they’d served her with a restraining order after she’d tried to take Shinsou. Kokoro had read her emotions, the woman was scared shitless by the prospect of being arrested; Tanaka wouldn’t have gone near Shinsou. But…his last foster placement, the Akaishis, they hadn’t had enough ‘proof’ according to the police to do anything about them. Would they have done something to the boy? Kokoro pulled to the side of the road, dialed Shouta and shared her concern; from her husband’s uneasy silence she knew he felt it was a possibility. Kokoro told him to go home -he was basically already there- just in case the boy showed up; she would check out the Akaishis and, if Shinsou wasn’t there… well, they’d figure that out then. Begrudgingly, Shouta agreed and quickly sent her the address. 

Forty minutes later Kokoro pulled up outside a plain, detached house toward the edge of the city, parking the motorcycle just as an incoming call from Shouta buzzed through her helmet’s comm system.

“Is he home?”

“Did you find him?”

Well, it seemed the answer to both their questions was ‘no’ if they asked at the same time. Wait… what was that?  

“Shou, hold on a moment…” Kokoro dismounted her bike and, as she neared the front door, was hit by an overwhelming cloud of emotions emanating from inside the house, most prominently: anger, disgust and fear . She peered through the small, textured glass window on the door but couldn’t see anything beyond a normal looking genkan. Kokoro removed her helmet and raised her hand to knock when she could suddenly hear the sound of cries and blows landing beyond the door.

“Hitoshi!” Kokoro dropped her helmet and tried the doorknob but, predictably, it was locked; she banged uselessly on the lacquered wood. “Open the door!” Kokoro yelled and banged louder, but if anyone inside heard her they didn't reply and the sounds of beating continued. “Open the goddamn door, now!”  

Acutely aware of the laws she was breaking, Kokoro smashed her elbow through the window and reached inside to unlock the door. Fuck it, she’ll take the B&E charge - Hitoshi was in trouble and she would do whatever it took to get to him. 

Hitoshi. Monday, October 14.

“Get the fuck away from him,” Someone growled as a figure stormed into the living room and everyone froze. The boy, huddled into a ball on the floor, furrowed his brow in confusion. Ko…koro? How did she find me? How… did she even know to come? Hitoshi recognized her tone as the same one he heard when Tanaka-san came to the apartment: low, dangerous and spitting venom.

For a moment everything was still, no one even dared to breathe. Akaishi Goro stood menacingly over the boy, Akaishi Rin at his side, arms crossed and face split in a sick grin. Hitoshi lay on the floor at their feet, blood ran down his face from a cut above an eye already swollen shut; Kokoro could see the first of, presumably, many bruises starting to form across the rest of his face as well. The opal-haired woman balled her hands into fists as she made to move to his side. 

“Not one step further!” Goro yelled and Kokoro paused. “Rin, call the police. Tell them an intruder has broken into our home.” His wife smirked as she turned on heel and left the room. Another moment passed in tense silence. 

“Hitoshi,” The boy’s violet eyes (well… eye ), wide with fright, met narrowed lavender and Kokoro beckoned him towards her. He’d barely twitched before Goro reared back and let loose a vicious kick to the teen’s ribs, “Don’t you even think about moving!” 

“You son of a—” Through half closed eyes Hitoshi watched as Kokoro bared her teeth, her eyes and hands turning jet black, white hair rising in the air as red lightning began to arc and crackle up her arms. A flurry of movement behind her made the boy’s heart leap to his throat — Watch out!- Hitoshi opened his mouth to call out to her, to warn her, but no sound passed his lips. 

And then, everything seemed to happen at once.

A flash of black and Aizawa was there, pulling Hitoshi to his feet as Rin and Goro rushed towards Kokoro. 

“What about–we can’t–” 

“Move.” The boy stumbled as his teacher urged him forward and out of the living room, red light erupted behind them and the smell of ozone filled the air. Without breaking stride Eraser deftly swept Hitoshi up into his arms and carried him over the broken glass at the front door; the boy himself had completely forgotten he wasn’t wearing shoes. Outside the dark-haired man strode to his still-running car and, in a single motion, opened the passenger door and lowered his student onto the seat before buckling him in and slamming the door. Through the window Hitoshi watched more red lightning flash through the curtains of his former foster home. 

“We can’t just leave her,” The boy’s voice high and tight as Aizawa slid into the driver’s spot.

“Trust me, she’s fine.” The car surged forward bumping heavily off the curb and tearing down the street. 

“B-but the police are–”

“She’ll handle it,” The man chanced a quick glance at the boy beside him and gave a reassuring nod. Hitoshi simply stared in awe at his mentor. He came to get me. Again. He came. To save me.  

“W-where are we going?” Hitoshi was only dimly aware of the fact he’d asked a direct question, his mind was simply too far removed from the moment to care. 

“Hospital.” Eraser’s lips drew into a tight line, a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

“Hos…pital…why?” The man’s face morphed into the closest thing to pity the boy had ever seen on his teacher; he didn’t answer the question, and instead increased the car’s speed.

. . .

It wasn’t hard for Aizawa to carry Hitoshi into the emergency room; the boy didn’t weigh much, even after packing on nearly twenty pounds. The dark-haired man efficiently checked them in and, upon being told the boy’s injuries were due to domestic abuse, they were quickly separated; Hitoshi taken back for processing and x-rays to determine the extent of the damage, and the dark-haired man left alone in the waiting area to complete various forms. The boy told the nurses repeatedly that Aizawa was his teacher and a pro hero -he wasn’t the one who’d hurt him, but they didn’t seem convinced. He bet they probably heard that all the time from victims. Victim? Is that what you think you are? You know you deserved all of that for running your damn mouth about what happened. Idiot.  

As the adrenaline wore off Hitoshi drew back into himself, mind shutting down, autopilot engaged. He followed instructions and wordlessly did as he was told, only vaguely aware of what was going on. At last, the teen was finally set up in a hospital room and left alone to rest. 

In the silence the questions began. 

How did the Aizawas know he was in trouble? And how did they find him? What happened to Kokoro once he and Sensei left? Did the police show up and arrest her? Where was Eraser now? And, perhaps most importantly, would he be allowed to go back to their apartment or was this the final straw? Had this finally shown them how much trouble Hitoshi would cause and how not worth it he was? What would happen to him now? Where would he go?

The boy closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but gasped. That’s right, after the adrenaline wears off the pain comes back harder than ever. Silent tears streamed down Hitoshi’s cheeks as he succumbed to exhaustion.

. . .

Minutes or maybe hours later, a knocking at the door brought Hitoshi to a hazy consciousness. His eyelids felt inexplicably heavy -well, the one he could move did; his right eye had completely swollen shut, the skin around it stretched tight and hot. His whole body throbbed in time with his pulse and everything ached. Aizawa and Kokoro entered quietly, their features drawn tight with concern as they came to his side.

“Hitoshi? Baby, are you awake?” Oh, that’s nice. Hearing his given name in Sensei’s gruff voice was one thing, but to hear it spoken in Kokoro’s soft tone, almost reverently, was… wow . The woman came to stand on his left, her hand moving through Hitoshi’s unruly hair so gently he couldn’t help but lean toward the touch. Or, rather, attempt to lean into it… he didn’t think he actually accomplished moving at all.

A small, raspy noise crawled from his throat as he tried to speak and even that little effort made his ribs ache terribly. A cool bottle of water materialized in his hand and Hitoshi blinked slowly, still not entirely awake. Had that…been here earlier?

. . .

The following morning, the deep rumble of Aizawa-sensei’s gruff voice was the one to pull the boy from sleep. 

“Hitoshi, there is someone here to talk to you. I need you to tell them everything . Please, it’s very important. Don’t leave anything out.” Hitoshi stared at his teacher after probably the most words he’d ever heard the man speak at one time. Black eyes held violet pleadingly as a third person came into view. 

“Hello Shinsou, my name is Haruna Yoshiko. I’d like to ask you about your foster placements.” With a nod from his teacher and a gentle pat from Kokoro, the Aizawas left the room, closing the door behind them. 

“Let’s begin with your most recent household, the Akaishis…” As much as Hitoshi wanted to go to sleep and just forget this day ever happened, the pleading look in his mentor’s eyes sat behind his lids like an afterimage. He took as deep a breath as he could, and started to talk.

Hitoshi. Tuesday, October 15.

He was released from the hospital the following morning and the trio rode home together in Aizawa-sensei’s car. At the apartment Kokoro whipped up a quick breakfast but the woman was off her game. She cracked an egg one-handed like usual but this time she shattered it and dropped bits of shell into the pan, cursing loudly. Removing the shell pieces resulted in a few burned fingertips and even more swearing. When they finally sat down to eat, Kokoro impatiently bounced her leg under the table and didn’t fix a plate.

“Haruna-san and I are going to take those fuckers down.” Hitoshi jumped a little at the anger in the woman’s voice, it sounded so wrong coming from her gentle face. Haruna-san… that was the lady from the hospital… the one who asked all the questions…

“Ko, language.” 

“Shouta, he’s sixteen. He’s heard the word ‘fuck’ before.” The dark-haired man just sighed deeply, “AND I’m not a fucking hero, I don’t have an image to uphold.” 

“T-take who down?” Hitoshi’s throat burned from the effort, he’d done so much talking the night before.

“The fucking Akaishis for starters,” 

“Wh–why?” 

“Why?” The opal-haired woman seemed to spit the question across the table, “Hitoshi, love, do you realize how many laws they broke? How many of your bones they broke? I can’t just let that go. I won’t .” The woman’s hands were clenched into shaking fists. Aizawa placed his large hands over those of his wife’s.

“Ko,” Black eyes met lavender and narrowed warningly, the opal-haired woman turned her fury on her husband.

“Five fractured and four broken ribs, a broken hand, a fractured orbital, fourteen stitches – and that’s just from yesterday!” Kokoro’s eyes had turned black, shiny and dead, like a shark. Aizawa tightened his grip and rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb until she relaxed it out flat against the table. The opal-haired woman took a deep breath, closed her eyes and cracked her neck. Eyes back to pale purple, she continued calmly.

“I’m… sorry I raised my voice. This is just really important to me; you don’t have to do anything, Hitoshi, you won’t even have to appear in court.”

“I-I don’t want to cause you more trouble,” The teen mumbled, unruly purple hair falling to cover his face. “And… they didn’t really do anything wrong… I mean, last night maybe… but-but before, th-they were just trying to make me better. I broke the rules. It was my fault,”

“No, honey. It was never your fault. And you’re not causing any trouble, Hitoshi. It’s actually part of my job.” At the boy’s confused look the woman continued, “My quirk is… helpful for communicating with trauma patients which, unfortunately, include children more often than not. I work with the hospital and the police; I’m quite familiar with the way the system works, and I have a lot of contacts.” Wait, what? I thought she was… The boy realized he’d never actually asked what Kokoro-san did for a living, but he definitely didn’t think she was part of the System. Hitoshi’s gaze jumped from one adult to the other, anticipating where this was headed but scared to be right. 

“Once Shouta shared his suspicions about your foster parents, I asked him to write down everything he noticed.” The boy shot his mentor a look of betrayal. He’s been keeping notes on me? Like a fucking lab rat or something? “A friend in the police force owed me a favor. I requested your file and had him look into the Akaishis and all your past placements. We’ve got a strong case against at least three of them -including your case worker, Tanaka.”

“You wh- ...Why would… That doesn’t make any… Nothing happened!” 

“Hitoshi, everything that happened to you was wrong! Kids aren’t supposed to have bruises and broken bones from their caretakers. They’re not supposed to flinch when someone moves too fast, or burn themselves over spilled coffee. They’re not supposed to… to try and kill themselves…” What started as a shout quickly fell to a whisper and, with the last sentence, crumbled into quiet sobs. Kill themselves? I never–

Kokoro suddenly pushed away from the table. She grabbed her keys and shoes and slammed the door loudly behind her as she fled into the night. The air in the apartment sat heavy and still. After a moment, Aizawa sighed heavily and rested his head in his hands.

“Hitoshi,”

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to upset her,” The boy was already scooting his chair away from the table and preparing to run. Where, he didn’t know. It probably didn’t matter. Eraser was a pro hero, Hitoshi was sure there would be nothing he could do to stop the man’s fury when it came.

“Hitoshi, I’m not upset.” Every muscle in the teen’s body was tensed and ready, like a startled rabbit. “It’s just… you and Kokoro… you’re a lot more alike than you think.” 

Chapter Text

Kokoro. Twenty-Six Years Ago

“Seiji! It’s time!” Five-year-old Kokoro peeked around the doorway to where her mother stood in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter, one hand wrapped protectively around her large belly. The woman let out a wail of pain as liquid splashed to the tile floor. 

“Seiji–” The opal-haired woman sank to the floor with an ear piercing cry, holding her abdomen. 

“Mama,” Cold fear spread through the young girl’s body as she ran to her mother. 

“Kokoro, out of the way!” Her father brusquely pushed her aside and knelt before his wife, “Kyomi, Kyo– look at me! The ambulance is on its way, okay? Just hold on,”

“Seiji…I-I can’t…” Tears streamed down the woman’s beautiful face as she groaned in agony, “S-something’s wrong…I-” She threw her head back with another scream. Kokoro tugged fearfully on her father’s sleeve.

“Papa…Papa!” Red liquid quickly began to seep from between her mother’s legs, spreading across the white tile, closer and closer; Kokoro backed away as the dark liquid chased her bare toes across the floor.

“NO, oh no no no!” The girl was dimly aware of her father speaking and her mother screaming, but all she could see was red getting closer and closer… 

Kyomi’s head lolled to the side and her wide, lavender eyes met their mirror in her daughter’s face, “It’s–okay–baby, Mama’s–gonna–be okay,” The woman forced the words out through pained gasps; she knew she was scaring the young girl just as she knew she wouldn’t make it long enough for the ambulance to arrive. Kyomi turned her head to face her terrified husband, weakly bringing a hand to stroke his cheek, damp with tears. Slowly, she angled his face toward their girl, begging him to understand: Get her out of here. Don’t let her see this. Don’t let her see me die.

“Ko-koro,” The gray-eyed man’s gaze settled his daughter, the spitting image of his beloved wife, and he understood. “Brave girl, can you go get Mama’s bag from the bedroom? We’ll need it at the hospital once the baby gets here,” Kokoro nodded mutely and stumbled down the hall. She found the blue duffel bag on the chair in her parent’s bedroom and struggled to heft its weight, resolving to drag it behind her as she ran back to the kitchen, her father’s cries now echoing through the house. 

The red had reached the edge of the room now. Kokoro hopped over it but had no choice but to drag the duffel bag through the dark river, an ugly smear now trailing behind her as she approached her parents. The room now eerily quiet.

“Mama…?” Kokoro took her mother’s hand and the opal-haired woman squeezed weakly. Suddenly, the girl’s lavender eyes turned shiny black, even the whites, and her fingers started to darken to charcoal where she clutched her mother’s hand. Kokoro’s mouth opened in a silent scream as pain filled her senses. Pain. Fear. Worry. PAIN. PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN–

Then darkness. 

Kokoro. Nineteen Years Ago.

Twelve-year-old Kokoro trudged through the dirty snow of the alley, hugging her arms close to her body, hands tucked under in an attempt to keep them warm. She pushed the door to their apartment building and immediately crashed into their neighbor, a whip of a woman with limp blonde hair and unfocused, bloodshot eyes. Kokoro didn’t bother apologizing, just rolled her shoulders forward and shuffled quickly past up the stairs. 

Fifth floor. The girl fumbled her keys, getting stuck in the lock a few times before it finally turned and she tripped into their tiny apartment. The kitchen and living room were basically the same thing with a matchbox-sized bathroom and single bedroom off to the right; Kokoro didn’t have a room of her own, she slept on the pullout couch. 

She sat there now and dutifully did her homework to the soundtrack of the train passing just outside the dirty window. Afterwards, she ate the last jelly pouch in the cupboard and took a quick, lukewarm shower before dressing in yesterday’s pajamas. Night had fully fallen by the time she was done and, since the electric bill hadn’t been paid in who-knows-how-long, the only light available was the weak orange of the streetlamps that filtered through the cracked window from five stories below. So, having nothing else to do, Kokoro curled up on the couch in a thin, flannel blanket to stare at the wall until sleep finally claimed her. 

What seemed only minutes later, the apartment door banged open, condemning the girl with that single sound. Stomp, stomp, shutter, stomp, stomp, clatter, clatter. With every step her father took, the stacks of dishes in the kitchen shook and rattled, threatening to fall to the linoleum at any second and shatter into a million pieces.

“Kyooomi,” He slurred the name as he clumsily approached the couch. Kokoro didn’t answer and instead curled her body tighter, trying to make herself as small as possible. I’m asleep don’t notice me I’m not here you don’t see me… The rancid smell of stale alcohol and sweat reached her before he did. His rough hand was on her shoulder, not-so-gently shaking her as he drew away the blanket. Then everything proceeded as it always does: he’d realize she wasn’t her mother, he’d remember what happened then get angry and violent before he’d eventually get bored or tired and go pass out in his room. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. 

Kokoro. Seventeen Years Ago.

Kokoro was thirteen years old when her father committed suicide via overdose. She’s still not sure if it was intentional or not, but with no living kin in the country, she was shipped off to live with her maternal grandfather. Her very first plane ride was the seventeen hour flight as an unaccompanied minor from Tokyo, Japan to Chicago, USA with a two hour layover in San Francisco, USA that took her to her new family. 

When she finally arrived, there had been no one waiting to meet her; her grandfather had apparently gotten the dates mixed up and thought she was coming the following day. Thankfully he realized his mistake and only arrived an hour after she’d landed. He smelled like cigarette smoke, motor oil and leather, and had the same opal hair and lavender eyes as her and her mother. Kokoro didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. 

He lived outside the city in the suburbs in a ‘bungalow’ home, as he described it, with two stories, three bedrooms, a basement, and even a fenced-in backyard. Compared to her dad’s apartment it seemed enormous and incredibly lavish -the man had a room just for his car for gods’ sake! Apparently, it was the same house her mother had grown up in and Kokoro’s new room had been Kyomi’s, the walls were still painted the pale turquoise she remembered as her mom’s favorite color. 

The girl felt more than a little untethered here; everything was so incredibly different from the past eight years living with her father. The home was clean and warm, her needs provided for without asking… too good to be true. It couldn’t be real. Something had to be wrong. A well of emotion broke free in her chest and if Kokoro didn’t do something to release the energy she feared she’d drown in it. So, late at night in her room with the door firmly closed, the girl rolled up her pant leg. In her other hand, Kokoro held a pair of scissors open wide. With a steady hand, she pressed one of the blades against her pale skin and pressed down until the first beads of red bloomed then purposefully drew it straight across her ankle. It didn’t hurt as badly as she expected, just stung a little. After a few more cuts, the pressure in Kokoro’s chest lessened, her whole world zeroed in on the thin red slices on her flesh. Kokoro breathed deep with relief and something like… accomplishment? Contentment? I did it. I made the feeling go away. With a little smile, the girl tiptoed to the bathroom to clean up. 

. . .

Adjusting to life in the States was difficult. Kokoro had been decent in her English classes before but now that she actually had to use it, her mind went suddenly blank. Ojiisan tried to help by speaking only English at home which only made Kokoro refuse to speak at all. The man was patient and kind though, and refused to give up on the girl, trying instead to connect with her in other ways. Contrary to what many people thought given his age, he wasn’t blind yet; he saw the echoes of scars in her actions… and her reactions. He noticed how she ducked and flinched when he moved too quickly; he noticed her biting her nails and lips until they bled. Ojiisan saw it all and understood.

So, he didn’t pressure her to speak and didn’t try to fill the silence with words of his own, choosing instead to share music. Kokoro spent long hours in her room, but always left the door cracked to let in the music of Ojiisan’s records downstairs. Listening along while reading the lyrics online helped boost her confidence in English, and the old man’s routines and calm nature slowly chipped away at the girl’s anxiety. Over the following year the two came to a comfortable co-existence. Ojiisan quietly went about his day, making simple declarations so Kokoro knew what was going on and could choose to join if she wished. 

Kokoro appreciated his subtle offers of inclusion, even if she always ignored them, preferring instead to remain alone in her room. In the dark hours between late night and early morning, when either insomnia or nightmares plagued her, Kokoro released the pressure in her chest. Scissors, razors, knives, safety pins, paperclips, broken glass, her house key… their marks criss crossed her legs. Always careful, Kokoro cleaned her instruments and skin before and after; she bandaged the worst of the cuts, wrapping and hiding the bloody tissues at the bottom of the trash; and always wore long pants with knee-high socks and boots, just in case the hem of her pants were to rise. 

And yet, Kokoro was… happier than she’d been in years. The girl was becoming more and more comfortable around the old man -she’d even asked him about his music once or twice. Slowly Kokoro was beginning to relax. She lived in a beautiful, clean home that always had food and music, there was a grassy yard with a pear tree and small garden and flowers; she'd found a way to release the welling of emotion in her chest; things were going well, she had… hope. 

Later, these months would seem like a dream to Kokoro, a hallucination she’d conjured from her imagination to soothe her hurting heart.

. . .

Ojiisan died in the spring of Kokoro’s fifteenth year, two weeks after her birthday. Gone were the days of shared music; of warm autumn Saturdays spent picking pears from the tree in the backyard; of watching the snow fall from her warm, cozy room; gone was the scent of cigarettes, motor oil and leather. 

Kokoro’s next available living relative was her mother’s brother, Sato Kenji, in New York City. Kenji was her mother’s younger brother and a workaholic. He had no desire for a long-term partner or children, only growing his career; for the life of her, Kokoro could never understand why he even agreed to take her in. While not physically abusive like her father had turned following her mother’s death, Sato-ojisan was… less than ideal in other ways. 

Where Ojiisan’s silence had been comfortable, Kenji’s was cold and distant. He seemed irritated by her very presence and would make little remarks here and there about how much she was costing him -from the increase in his water and electric bills, to the amount of food she ate at meals, and the school supplies she needed. Jokingly Sato-ojisan said he was keeping track of all the girl’s living expenses and that she could pay him back when her parents’ inheritance became available to her at 18; Kokoro doubted he was actually joking. Anytime she needed something, Kokoro researched the cheapest brand or alternative that would work for her purposes before she even spoke to her uncle. She wanted to get a part-time job, but her uncle told her ‘going to school is your job’ and that had been the end of that discussion. So Kokoro looked for ways to cut corners everywhere, to use less, waste less, eat less, be less. 

Kokoro took it upon herself to do all the cooking, cleaning, washing, errands -everything. Yet, no matter how hard she tried or how close to perfection she came, Sato-ojisan still found her lacking. Can’t you do anything right? A blind man could’ve cut these carrots better. Gods, you’re more incompetent than you look, how is that even possible? You’re so clumsy, just get out of my way. Is this the best you could do? Useless. How have you even survived this long being so stupid? Pathetic. 

Over time, Kokoro began to fade away, literally and figuratively. Acutely aware of the price of everything and the resources her existence used up, Kokoro cut back. She never asked for new clothes but learned to alter and recycle what she already had. She used the cheapest off-brand soap and shampoo, even though it left her skin dry and itchy and her hair brittle. She didn’t use lotions, wear makeup, or do anything with her hair because those were extras . But no matter how inexpensive, every item weighed heavily on the girl and the guilt of living settled deeper in her core.

Most importantly, the one thing Kokoro could do to reduce costs the most, was stop eating. She started skipping breakfast. Then progressed to dividing her dinners in half so she could take the leftovers as lunch the next day instead of asking Sato-ojisan for lunch money. Eventually, she only ate every other day. Kokoro knew that wasn’t normal, they’d discussed eating disorders in health class at school, but she couldn’t stop. She liked the control, the feeling of power and accomplishment she got after going all day without food. She liked doing the math, calculating the money she was saving Sato-ojisan, budgeting her calories, and tracking her weight. If she could just go a little longer, eat a little less, get a little smaller…

Kokoro disappeared inside herself. She rarely spoke, often going days without hearing her own voice. At school she kept to herself so quiet and unobtrusive you’d think she had an invisibility quirk. At the apartment, you’d never guess a teenage girl lived there because the only signs of her existence stayed behind the closed door of her room. And yet Kokoro believed: This isn’t so bad: I’m safe here -Sato-ojisan doesn’t hurt me. I have everything I need. I should be thankful for my life here. 

Only a sliver of her soul remained, buried deep inside and hidden well. Now, practically a hollowed out vessel, the emotions of others began to fill the void.

Kokoro. Fourteen Years Ago.

Strobe lights flashed along with the beat of the techno song as seventeen-year-old Kokoro danced along wildly with her ‘friends,’ losing herself to the music. The tequila she drank earlier loosened her muscles and made the songs all blend together. Soon enough the opal-haired girl was drenched in sweat and feeling fantastic but oh-so thirsty. 

Kokoro wound her way through the crowd to the bar for a drink and, while waiting for the bartender caught the attention of a man on the other side. She smiled and didn’t try to hide the fact she was checking him out; neither did he. The man made his way over to her with a grin; he was tall with shaggy hair in a kind of faux hawk, tattoos covered his arms and disappeared under the edges of his shirt, no doubt continuing across his chest. 

Without pause Kokoro took the guy’s arm and led him to the dance floor where his hands wasted no time gripping her thin frame as they swayed and grinded to the beat. Bodies pressed in around them from every direction. A few songs later his mouth was on her. The bass seemed to punch through Kokoro’s chest all the way to her bones, the frenetic energy of the crowd seeping into her. She grabbed his neck with charcoal-colored hands and pulled him into a deeper kiss. Another song or two and she followed him out to his car and back to his apartment…

Kokoro. Thirteen Years Ago.

24:59pm, February 15. Kokoro would turn eighteen in 60 seconds. Yippee , she thought sarcastically. The opal-haired girl stared out at the city beyond as cold, winter wind buffeted her wraith-like frame on all sides. She swayed from her place at the edge of the rooftop and chanced a glance down to the ground some twenty stories below. 

Papa had the right idea all along… 

Hot tears flowed freely from her wide, lavender eyes down her cheeks where the wind swept them away to tangle with her long hair. This is for the best. I’m not worth the space I take up or the fucking air I breathe… Sato-ojisan saw that the minute he met me; Papa saw it, too…I bet even Ojiisan knew. The girl turned her face to the sky with a quiet sob; it was far too cloudy to see any stars though, only the haze of the city lights. My quirk… it’s a curse. I’ll never be able to live a normal life like this. I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I’m pathetic and weak and useless and… I just want to be done… I just… I just want it all to go away…

And she jumped.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi. Tuesday, October 15.

“Hitoshi,”

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to upset her,” The boy was already scooting his chair away from the table and preparing to run. Where, he didn’t know. It probably didn’t matter. Eraser was a pro hero, Hitoshi was sure there would be nothing he could do to stop the man’s fury when it came.

“Hitoshi, I’m not upset.” Every muscle in the teen’s body was tensed and ready, like a startled rabbit. “It’s just… you and Kokoro… you’re a lot more alike than you think.” Teacher and student sat in tense silence for a few moments. Before, after a few false starts, Hitoshi worked up the courage to ask the question that had been on his mind for months.

“What… exactly is Aizawa-san’s quirk?” 

“Empathy. She can see and manipulate emotional energy.” Hitoshi remembered all the times he felt a strange calm wash over him in times of panic. He thought of his lack of nightmares since he’d been living here. Had she…? As if he’d voiced another question, Eraser-sensei continued, “And yes, she has been using it on you since the first night you came here.” The boy’s first instinct was that his teacher was lying. He’d never seen her do anything around him, only to Tanaka and the Akaishis. But he thought of her charcoal colored fingers, how the darkness reached higher on her arms some days more than others.

“She’s been using it Passively. Ko can send out an emotion like an aura around herself. The one she uses most is Calm.” 

“Calm,” The purple-haired teen nodded dully, the pieces finally starting to fit together. 

“She can also Actively join or take emotions through touch,” Hitoshi’s mind struggled to make sense of this new information. But… Kokoro had touched him before -she’d pet his hair and helped him up and cleaned his wounds and- No, wait, had she ever actually touched his skin though? The boy ran through every interaction he could remember with the opal-haired woman. Her hands brushing through… just his hair, never hitting his scalp. Helping him up… by his elbow always covered by a shirt sleeve. Applying the burn cream with… cotton balls instead of her fingers. Sliding his mug of coffee across the counter… instead of handing it to him directly. She hadn’t, he realized; Kokoro had always avoided touching his skin.

Despite his injured ribs, Hitoshi tried to take deep breaths as his heart began to race. All this time. She could’ve stopped this. Kokoro could’ve just taken Hitoshi’s pain and fear and worry and hate away? But she didn’t. The teen’s hands balled into fists. Every breakdown, every panic attack and nightmare… Why didn’t she just take it all away? Why?!

“Because it’s incredibly invasive; you’d have had no privacy.” The boy startled at Kokoro’s voice; he hadn’t noticed the door open or even realized he’d asked the question out loud. “When I take an emotion, I get all of it -I see exactly what you see and feel exactly what you feel- I experience everything attached to the emotion itself.” The woman’s lavender eyes willed the boy to understand. 

“You could’ve just asked me.” Hitoshi couldn’t help but glare at the opal-haired woman; even if it was a bit lackluster due to only having one good eye at the moment. Kokoro wrapped her blackened arms tightly around herself, gaze falling to the floor.

“Yeah well, I’m not… I’m not always strong enough. To handle it. I get… lost.” It took a moment for Hitoshi to realize she was crying as she whispered, “And… I was scared that would happen again…” They’re not supposed to try and kill themselves. Realization dawned and the boy thought he knew what Kokoro had meant now. 

The woman moved to stand right in front of Hitoshi before lowering herself to the floor in a deep bow, forehead to the ground, opal hair falling around her head in a curtain of shimmering white. “I am so, so sorry, Hitoshi,” Her voice cracked, thick with tears, “I should’ve protected you better. I– I’m–” Kokoro’s body shook as she broke into quiet sobs. 

Hitoshi felt deeply uncomfortable. Adults were strong. They didn’t break down. And they never apologized. Ever. Right now though, Kokoro was the complete opposite. It was unnerving. The boy turned his good eye to his mentor hoping for direction, but Eraserhead avoided his gaze, deferring the decision back to the purple-haired teen. Hitoshi had no idea what he was supposed to do, what was expected of him, what the right answer was. 

Finally, the boy reached down and patted Kokoro’s back awkwardly. When she looked up, lavender eyes puffy and red-rimmed from tears, he tried to give a reassuring nod to let her know he understood. Aizawa-sensei mirrored his nod and Hitoshi took that to mean the conversation was done, and he quickly retreated to the quiet of his bedroom; he had so much to mentally unpack right now…

Aizawa. Tuesday, October 15.

Shouta had remained silent during Hitoshi and Kokoro’s conversation, the two needed to talk to each other and make sense of things on their own if this living arrangement was going to continue. Shouta hoped beyond hope that it would; it had been hard enough having to move on campus and leave them behind. And, with everything that had happened recently, the dark-haired man couldn’t fathom Hitoshi living anywhere else; he simply didn’t trust anyone else to care for the boy the way Hitoshi deserved. Except, maybe Hizashi or Nemuri, but they were both living on campus like he was.

After his wife and student seemed to come to a sort-of understanding and Hitoshi retreated to his room, Shouta slid to the floor and gathered Kokoro in his arms. The opal-haired woman clutched desperately at Shouta’s chest, her hands wrapped white-knuckled into his shirt as she cried heaving sobs. This was hardly the first time this had happened and caring for Kokoro in this state had become second nature to Shouta by now. 

He helped her stand then easily picked the small woman up and carried her to the couch. Shouta took a seat in the corner of the sofa and cradled his wife on his lap. Kokoro burrowed her face hard against his chest as she struggled to get her breathing under control. The dark-haired man held her tightly in a bone-crushing hug and whispered reassurances at the top of her head, tucked beneath his chin. He could feel her muscles tensed and shaking beneath his arms as she continued to draw herself into a smaller and tighter ball. After a few minutes, Shouta loosened his vice-like hug and gently stroked his fingers through her hair, all the while still whispering reassurances. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

“No it’s not! –not o-okay! Shou, I– I can’t d-do this anymore,” He leaned down closer to her ear, his dark locks falling over them both. 

“Do what anymore, Ko?” The woman shook her head, coughing and hiccuping, struggling to catch her breath. “Shh, just breathe. Take your time,”

Another few minutes passed and her sobs petered out, her breathing still ragged but the woman was now at least attempting to take deep breaths and calm down. Shouta pulled a throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around Kokoro’s shoulders before again locking his strong arms around her thin frame, now rocking slightly side to side. 

“I can’t lose him, Shou.” The man carefully brushed tangled strands of opal away from his wife’s tearstained face; her wide lavender eyes stared ahead, unseeingly, as she continued to whisper, “I can’t. I- He-He can’t get hurt anymore, Shou. He can’t end up like me… like-like I was… back then…” 

“He won’t.” Shouta’s voice was low and full of authority which finally caused Kokoro to turn her gaze upward and meet his onyx eyes. “He’s not going to get hurt because he’s staying here. With us. I submitted the paperwork to start the process a month ago.”

“Shou…” Kokoro breathed his name reverently, “You… you did? Really?”

“Yes, I did. Haruna-san has been working on it,”

“Haruna? But… she hasn’t said anything to me…”

“That was my decision. I wanted to get through most of it before telling you and Hitoshi.” At his wife’s questioning expression he added softly, “I didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up if our application was immediately rejected like last time,” 

“Oh Shou,” The woman’s face split into a huge grin as she wound her arms around his middle and hugged tightly, burying her face into his chest and crying for a whole new reason. 

. . .

Eventually he felt Kokoro’s muscles relax and her breathing deepened as she fell asleep, exhausted. Carefully, Shouta scooped up his wife, carried her to their bed and tucked her in despite the fact it wasn’t even noon yet. He knew from experience she’d need to sleep a long time after an episode like that. He closed the door and moved up the hall to knock at Hitoshi’s, entering cautiously after an affirmative noise from the boy inside.

“How’re you feeling, kid?” The purple-haired boy tried to shrug off the question, but a glare from his mentor quickly told him that wouldn’t be sufficient.

“Confused, I guess,” Shouta slowly moved forward and perched on the end of the boy’s bed; Hitoshi sat on the opposite end with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, chin resting on top. Shouta had a fleeting thought about how uncomfortable that pose must be with the number of injuries Hitoshi had right now, Kokoro’s words at breakfast coming back to him: five fractured and four broken ribs, a broken hand, a fractured orbital, fourteen stitches…

“What are you confused about?” Again, the boy just shrugged in response and literally pressed his lips together to keep his mouth shut. The dark-haired man sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, “Hitoshi, c’mon. Talk to me, ask what you want to know,” His student chewed his bottom lip, contemplating, working up his courage; Shouta didn’t rush him, he knew the boy had trouble asking direct questions due to his past.

“Does being around me hurt her?” Hitoshi’s practically whispered the words. Shouta didn’t want to answer -he knew the kid would feel guilty- but the man would also never lie to the boy.

“Yes. Being around strong emotions, especially negative ones, does cause Kokoro pain, but she has a high tolerance level.” Hitoshi nodded and tucked his face a bit deeper into his arms with a grimace as he touched his cheek; Shouta could practically see the wheels turning in the kid’s head. “Next question.” 

“Can–” The boy appeared to swallow thickly and sniffed once before continuing, “Can I still stay here?” 

“Of course,” Shouta answered immediately, a bit surprised, “Why do you think that would change?” 

“I heard you and Aizawa-san talking…” Shouta let the silence speak for him and waited for Hitoshi to continue, “She said… she couldn’t do this anymore. I… understand I’m your student and maybe you felt, like, obligated to let me stay but… I hurt her and made her upset… I’m ruining everything. Again. Like I always do. I-I-” With a shuddering breath the tears let loose as Hitoshi fully burrowed his face in his knees, arms drawing up over his purple-haired head. “I’m awful and evil and I’m just in the way and-and taking up space and c-causing trouble and you’re not here anymore and-and I’m-I’m s-sorry… I don’t… I shouldn’t… I-” Shouta’s heart clenched at the outpouring of the boy’s fears and anxieties. 

“Hitoshi,” Shouta moved closer to his trembling student and gently sank his hand into purple hair. The boy stilled so suddenly that, for a moment, Shouta thought he’d done something wrong and began to remove his hand. But then Hitoshi leaned into the touch, hard, his whole body following until the kid was curled on his side with his head laying in his mentor’s lap. Shouta moved his rough fingers through the dark, purple strands over and over. 

“Hitoshi, did you hear the rest of the conversation?” The boy shook his head awkwardly from its place on the man’s knees. Shouta continued to run his hand through the mess of purple hair as he continued, “Hm. Almost everything else you said is entirely incorrect.” The boy hiccupped what could maybe have been a laugh or a groan of pain, Shouta wasn’t quite sure. 

“Neither I nor Kokoro feel obligated to let you stay here; we want to have you here. We like taking care of you and we enjoy your company. I love working with you and seeing how much you’ve improved, how far you’ve come. I’m so proud of you, Hitoshi.” Shouta looked down at the form beside him. The boy’s injured side was facing up so he couldn’t see the expression in Hitoshi’s good eye, but he heard the intake of breath and pressed on. 

“I don’t think I’ve said that before and I deeply apologize; I should have been telling you that for months. You’re doing an amazing job and you’re going to be a fantastic hero .” The dark-haired man could feel hot tears seeping through the fabric of his pants.

“You heard Kokoro correctly when she said she couldn’t do this anymore. And you are correct that she was referring to you staying here,” Shouta felt the boy tense and draw his knees closer to his chest with a hiss of pain. “BUT, what she said next was that she couldn’t lose you .”  

“I… I don’t understand, Sensei…”

“You haven’t ruined anything, Hitoshi. Quite the opposite. Kokoro and I don’t want you to leave; we want you to stay .” Shouta took a deep breath before plunging forward, “Hitoshi, I… we… we’ve applied to adopt you.” 

Silence. 

Shouta’s heart thudded in his chest and his breathing ticked up a notch. Gods, I was less nervous at the Shie Hassaikai raid… What if Hitoshi didn’t want to be adopted? Or, at least, not by him?

Hitoshi. Tuesday, October 15.

“You… what?” Slowly the purple-haired teen sat up and stared, incredulously, at his dark-haired mentor. 

“We want to adopt you. If you want, that is.” Hitoshi heard the deep rumble of Aizawa-sensei’s voice. He knew the man was speaking to him. He consciously understood the words and their meanings. But it just… didn’t make any sense. 

It was one thing to let him stay for a few months until his case worker arranged his transfer to the group home but this… Why the hell would anyone want to adopt me ? Did he not hear me list how badly I’ve fucked this all up? How could they possibly want that much hassle and trouble in their lives? Hitoshi’s head spun. No, actually, the world was spinning, the bedspread coming towards his face with alarming speed. 

“Woah, easy,” Strong, calloused hands grasped his shoulders and leaned the boy back against the wall. Black spots sparkled across Hitoshi’s vision and he was dimly aware of Sensei telling him to ‘breathe.’ Hyperventilating… his fuzzy mind supplied, You’re hyperventilating, idiot. Fucking breathe so you don’t pass out and make an even bigger fool of yourself… The boy met the onyx eyes of his mentor with his one good eye and copied the man’s deep, exaggerated breaths. 

“There you go, that’s it, just breathe,” Hitoshi’s mind began to clear with the increase of oxygen. He felt heat warming his shoulder where one of Aizawa’s large, scarred hands rested easily. The boy felt his whole world zero in on just that sensation. That warmth. The warmth and comfort that had been offered to him time and again by the dark-haired man to whom the hand belonged. We want to adopt you…  

We . As in Aizawa and Kokoro…

Want . As in desire, as in would-like-to, as in would-make-me-happy-if…

To adopt . As in keep, as in add-to-our-family, as in love…

You . As in… him. Shinsou Hitoshi…

“Hitoshi?”

“Yes,” The purple-haired teen breathed, still bewildered by the offer, “I… I want that, too.” He watched his stoic mentor’s generally impassive features break into a jumble of emotions, most notably: relief, joy and love. 

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s usual deep grumble was replaced by a soft, hopeful sound.

“Yeah,” Hitoshi nodded and a huge smile split Eraserhead’s scruffy face, crinkling his onyx eyes, at the corner of which tears even appeared to be gathering.

“Okay,”