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Hitoshi walked back to his dorms, mindlessly scratching at his wrists. He got weird looks from everyone, as he was the only one wearing his uniform jacket on the warm spring day. As usual, he ignored them. They didn’t understand, and he didn’t want them to.
Today he had training with Aizawa, so he dropped his school bag in his dorm room before grabbing a duffle bag and leaving for the clearing he would be training in.
Aizawa was already waiting when he arrived, changed into his gym uniform with his miniature capture weapon in hand. They had been focusing on perfecting his technique for around two weeks now, but there was little improvement that he had noticed. Just another thing he would never be good enough at.
Something was said, but Hitoshi didn’t hear. He just nodded along and hummed in agreement. Eventually, Aizawa stepped back and let Hitoshi get to work.
It only took 30 minutes for him to get tangled up and fall to the ground. A quiet gasp was heard, but Hitoshi swore it wasn’t him. He made an attempt to untangle himself, turning towards Aizawa. Right as he was going to ask for help, he noticed his mentor staring.
At Hitoshi’s bandaged wrist.
He walked over, untangled Hitoshi, and pulled him to his feet. Immediately, Aizawa pushed up Hitoshi’s sleeves slowly, holding firm when he tried to get away.
“What happened? Who did this?”
Hitoshi stayed silent. Clearly, that was enough.
“Why did you do this?” Aizawa’s voice dripped with concern as he let go of the boy's arms, who inched back and fell to the ground. Still, he gave no answers.
Aizawa sat next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You can talk to me. If someone bothers you again about your quirk, I can and will get them expelled immediately. I know I may not seem like the most open and comforting person, but I don’t like seeing my kids like this.”
Hitoshi couldn’t control it. No one ever showed that they cared. He broke down into tears, turning to lean against Aizawa, who held him in a tight embrace.
He cried and cried as memories from years past flooded his mind.
“Why did our child have to have that quirk? Why couldn’t we have had a child with a physical quirk?” He shouldn't have been awake, but he couldn’t sleep either. Now, he wished he hadn’t left his room as he overheard the conversation his parents were having in the kitchen. The principal must have called them about the incident with Aoki.
His dad sighed as his mom continued on. “He can’t control it! Everyone is scared of him, and they hate us! I wish I could just trade him for a kid like his cousin. That would be so much easier.”
Hitoshi waited for his dad to disagree.
He never did.
A hand was shaking his shoulder, his name being said with layers of concern that had never been directed toward him before.
He looked down to see that he had started scratching at the bandages on his wrists again, hard enough to tear through and show the fresh scars.
“Hitoshi.” He looked up, shocked to see the worry in Aizawa’s expression. “How long has this been going on?”
He looked at the ground. It had been years. The first cut was when he was 11. Sure, it had been a papercut, but he did it on purpose. It still counted. It became routine. Every day, he would give himself another papercut for each wrong thing he had done.
That was a long list.
“5 years.” He mumbled the response, not expecting Aizawa to hear, or care.
But he did.
“What’s the worst it’s gotten?”
“How is a villain like you ever going to become a hero? You sure must be a fucking idiot if you think that would ever happen. You could leap off a bridge, and not a single hero would think to save you.”
The words cut like knives, but not like the ones he had at home. These ones hurt. They didn’t satisfy the urges in the pit of his stomach, the screaming of his thoughts.
He wondered if the bullies were right. Maybe he should leap off the bridge.
Then again, would he want to be seen? At home would be better.
Hitoshi didn’t know why he was so willing to answer. Something about Aizawa’s aura of comfort just made it easier.
“13. Attempted overdose. My mom walked in and accused me of doing drugs.”
The words came out raspy and dry, broken and cold. The opposite of the constant stream of hot tears currently coming from his eyes.
He noticed a scowl spread across the man’s face and flinched back as another memory surfaced.
A glass vase shattered above his bed as he jumped off, pulling a blanket with him.
“What the hell did you do?” His dad, drunk beyond belief, slurred as he got ready to throw another object.
Hitoshi shook his head. He hadn’t done anything, yet he had done everything. He was caught, the blood stains were on the bathroom floor. He was such an idiot, how had he not noticed them?
He pulled his sleeves further down over his bandaged wrists as a beer bottle hit the wall behind him.
“Stop.”
He had been scratching again.
“Shinsou, I care about you. You can tell me what’s going on. I promise, you can trust me.”
His breathing was uneven. The bandages on his wrists itched. The scars were burning. He felt blood dripping down his hands, assuming he scratched too hard and reopened some of the wounds.
The world spun. Everything was too loud. No one was supposed to know, they were never supposed to know. What would his parents do if they found out he still did this.
A pair of hands rested gently on his shoulders.
“Deep breaths. In for 5, hold for 2, out for 5. Do it with me now.”
They sat there for three minutes, Aizawa helping him even out his breathing.
“My...my parents didn’t want me.” Aizawa scooted back a little as Hitoshi began to speak. “They wanted a kid with a physical quirk, like my cousin. They didn’t want a villain kid. I only ever caused them problems.
“At school, kids told me to jump off a bridge and see if any hero would bother saving a villain kid. Some kids acted nice and shared things with me, but then they told the teachers I had used my quirk to make them do it. They would blame me when they bullied other kids.”
He wrapped his arms around himself, repressing the urges to continue scratching at his wrists. Aizawa didn’t say anything, he just continued to listen.
“When I was 13, my mom caught me attempting to overdose. She yelled at me, accusing me of taking drugs. A lot more attempts followed that, none ever succeeded. Just another thing I can’t do right, I guess.” He let out a dry, humorless, laugh at the end of his statement. Obviously, Aizawa wasn’t amused.
“It started with paper cuts when I was 11. Once I was old enough to need to shave, I would take the blades out of my razors. I kept them with me, always. Everytime I did something wrong, another cut. I did a lot of things wrong, according to everyone else.”
He stopped. He couldn't bring himself to say any more. Not now. Maybe not ever.
That was okay, though. Aizawa didn’t need to hear anymore. He had heard enough to understand.
“Why do you want to be a hero?”
Hitoshi froze. He hadn’t expected that question.
“Why’s it matter, anyway? How can I be a hero when I can’t even protect myself from my own thoughts? If I can’t save myself, there’s no way I’ll ever save anyone else.”
“Are you still here, living and breathing? Are you talking to me about what you must have been holding in for years?”
Hitoshi looked at him, confused. He just nodded.
“Then you’re already a hero. You’ve saved yourself time and time again by not ending it all. You are your own hero, Shinsou. I’m proud of you for that. I’m proud of you for making it so far. Many other people may not have reached this point, but you have. You can do it, and I’ll be here every step of the way.”
Hitoshi felt his eyes begin to water again as Aizawa pulled him into another warm embrace.
What was happening? This unfamiliar warmth in his chest? It had been so long since he had felt anything other than numbness and cold. This was new, but it was welcomed.
It was joy. Love.
He was cared for. Someone was worried.
Someone cared. Someone would always care. He would never be alone again again. This was what family was supposed to feel like.
“Thank you...Dad.”
Aizawa hugged him tighter.