Chapter Text
When Hitoshi was three, his quirk was used for the first time. He made his mother pick up a toad from the park grounds and hand it to him. He couldn’t remember how it felt, or what happened after. His next memories were of homes he didn’t belong in and people who didn’t want him. He’d been given up with little hesitation, as many kids with unbecoming quirks or no quirk at all were. No one wanted a freak for a son. No one wanted one in their house, either. People took him in for the money and locked him in his room. At best.
Something Hitoshi learned early on about parents was that many of them had or took in kids they didn't want for anything other than a personal punching bag. He'd had frustrations, anger, or much more complicated problems he would never understand taken out on him. He'd met many sorts of monsters who masqueraded as parental figures.
His last placement had been with a wealthy, older woman who was praised for her kindness, her willingness to take in teenaged lowlifes that nobody else would dare touch. She basked in the praise, took the money, then left them on their own. It wasn't nearly the worst of evils, and he’d told himself that made it okay. He didn't need looking after. And she was the one to let him try for UA, an opportunity he wouldn't have had otherwise.
The reason she couldn't keep him was because he caused trouble with her other, better kids. Which he did. He fought back because they always picked and prodded at him. A lot of kids did that, trying to get him into trouble so they could watch him get punished and have a laugh at the creepy kid. He was used to it, but he'd tried so hard to be good this time. It was like he didn't know how to be good. Like he'd been born rotten.
One of his earliest memories of interacting with other children was in a school courtyard when he was six. It was his first week of primary school, he had just moved to a new town with a new family. They didn't like him much, as no one seemed to. His foster mother yelled a lot, and one of his sisters had given him a black eye that was currently a faded brown under-eye bruise. It kept away potential friends as well as that one time his social worker pulled him out in the middle of class to tell him he was switching homes again.
He had been swinging alone, kicking his short legs as fast as they could take to raise himself higher into the air. Two older kids, maybe eight or nine, grabbed hold of the rusty chains, digging their fingers into his scrawny arms. They pushed him off the swing, his knees landing roughly on the mulch.
He didn't fight them. He didn't want to be mean, but even more so, he didn't want the other boys to see the tears pricking in his eyes. He ran away, letting them have the swings, and hid in an empty corner of the playground, beneath the slide. He looked down at his stinging knees where beads of blood were forming from fresh scrapes. He brushed away the dirt, then tugged his sleeves over his hands and wiped his eyes.
In kindergarten, the children mostly hadn't spoken to him. They said he was scary and kept their distance, moving down seats and scooting away crayons when he came near, but they weren't like this. He wasn't sure either was worse, they both left him with hurt feelings all the same.
Primary school was no fun. The kids didn't just dislike him, they were mean about it. He didn't understand why they were so mean to him. He hadn't done anything wrong. He couldn't control what his quirk was or if the family he was placed in didn't want him anymore. But he wasn't mean. He wasn't bad. If they got to know him, he could prove he wasn't scary.
But they didn't give him the chance. They called him names and threw erasers at his head. They pushed him off the swings or chased him around the playground throwing sticks and rocks. Sometimes, he tried to get back at them by saying he was going to brainwash them to do his homework, which wasn't even that bad, but he still ended up the one getting in trouble. His foster mother got sick of the teachers calling to complain and he feared she would want to get rid of him.
He tried not to care, but it hurt his feelings. He didn't actually want to brainwash people. If he did, he would force everyone to be nice to him. But he would know it was fake. He wanted people to be nice to him because they liked him, not because they couldn't help it. But no one did. So maybe everyone else was right. There was something wrong with him.
He didn’t talk much as a child. He had nothing to say to these people, and he didn’t have any friends. There were a few assurances he had when it came to people finding out his quirk. It guaranteed a bout of laughter at the evil little boy, running in fear, or a cruel warning to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes a slap across the mouth when he didn’t. Sometimes worse. Foster parents were legally required to be informed of it, which often meant being passed up by people who couldn't care for him.
He didn’t ask for anything, just took what he was given and did as he was told. It was easier to keep him quiet than everyone else having to tiptoe around him. His caretakers realized this, and by the time he was eight, he was dropped off at a new doorstep with a trash bag full of things and a muzzle over his mouth. He didn’t have to wear it when he was alone, so he was usually alone.
The home he’d been in through his first year of middle school only let him take it off when he slept or ate, in turn prohibiting him from sitting at the table with them. Group homes were the worst because that muzzle made it easy to pick on him without fear.
For as long as he could remember, he had been taken to a new home the same way. He expected no difference when he was taken to Aizawa’s– Shota’s –home, only a slight difference in the acceptance of him. Unlike every other home that had to get stuck with some random kid, Shota actually wanted him. He was waiting for him, a light in the window excited to welcome him home.
The teachers who kept an eye at school, who didn't seem to notice when Hitoshi was being hurt, weren't the sort of people he would ever look up to, much less trust. They knew what everyone did, that there was something wrong with Hitoshi. Maybe that was why they never said anything. Maybe they thought he deserved it. And maybe they were right. Maybe he had been born cursed and they all knew this. The people who gave him short glances as he walked home from school probably saw it too. Like it was painted on his face.
But Shota didn't look at him like that. He looked at him normally, which might have been worse. Because he knew what to do, how to react, if someone gave him their fear and judgment. He wasn't equipped to handle things of the positive or favorable sort. Shota liked him. He might be the only one to do so, but he did.
Mr. Yamada liked him, too, but he wondered if it was only for Shota’s sake that he put up with him. It was difficult to imagine that wasn't what everyone was doing. Putting up with him. He'd rarely felt comfortable enough around anyone to believe otherwise. Not many gave him reason to. And he didn't give them any reason either.
He still couldn't figure out why Shota was doing this and how long it would take him to realize it was a bad idea. He liked Hitoshi now, but he hadn't lived with him yet. After a month of doing so, he would feel different. Or maybe a week. Most people were sick of him off the bat, but Shota was more generous than most. Hitoshi feared this would ruin the nice relationship they'd already established.
Hitoshi didn't expect much as he followed his social worker up to the apartment that was to be his new home. Shota didn't need to greet him, they knew each other well. All he needed was to be shown to his bed. It was late, Shota was probably tired. Though Hitoshi had no idea when or if the man ever slept. And with school out for the summer, it wasn't like he had anywhere to be in the morning.
Hitoshi stood back while the social worker knocked on the door, planning to keep to himself until the introductions were over. He hated this part. He hated all the parts. He’d been in this muzzle too long. All he wanted was to take the stupid thing off and collapse into bed. His stomach gave a low grumble and he narrowed his eyes in reproach. He wondered what breakfast would be like.
When Shota opened the door, his gaze fell immediately on Hitoshi. Noticeable shock and confusion scrunched his eyebrows together before he turned to the woman he was supposed to be paying attention to. His handler had any information left that Shota would need, which wasn't anything, really. But she spoke for the wild animal she was leaving in his care. It didn't have a voice of its own.
When the social worker left, and Hitoshi was guided into the house, Shota stared at him like he'd never seen such a sight. It was embarrassing, and Hitoshi wished he would stop. It made him want to bark out in anger, a feeling he didn't usually have for his teacher. The muzzle prevented this, so he settled on a half-covered glare.
“May I take this off?” Shota asked.
The question caught him off guard. It was his turn to stare, because not only was he capable of taking it off on his own, but no one had ever wanted him to. It was a pleasure to see, a breath of relief that precautions had been taken to protect against this wicked child.
Hitoshi wasn't sure what to do, but Shota had asked, so he turned around. The straps were undone with some struggle and the muzzle slipped from his face. A trail of spit fell from his lips. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, his jaw clenching instinctively without the restraints keeping it shut.
“Do you have to wear this all the time?”
Hitoshi shook his head. He didn't. And he didn't want to talk about the times he was made to wear it. He wanted to pretend it didn't exist. If Shota could just act like he never saw it, that would be perfect.
“Do you want to keep it?”
Keep it? Keep it where? He didn't keep it with him, his caretakers chose when he had to put it on. He had just expected Shota to keep it, even if he never used it. Maybe he should use it. Something about not wearing it felt more frightening than having to put it on.
Shota handed the muzzle back to him. He took it, but not without the turmoil of confusion he didn't voice out loud.
“Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat, though you might prefer takeout.”
Hitoshi didn't know what to make of all these new approaches, these unanswerable questions, so he froze. He said nothing, his jaw tightly shut. Words touched his tongue and were swallowed back down his throat, unable to pass the barrier of his lips.
Shota showed him the basket full of snacks he'd prepared especially for him and gave him a tour of the fridge. It was all very unsettling.
Shota took from the silence that Hitoshi didn't want food right now. He was hungry, but he was having trouble stomaching any of this.
“Would you like to see your room?”
Hitoshi didn't respond, but he followed Shota down the hall. He was led to a bedroom that was completely set up. And not just in the bed made, windowsill dusted, kind of way. The bed was made up with fluffy comforters, extra pillows, and an All Might throw blanket. A pile of folded laundry and an unopened pack of socks sat atop it. A strand of blue string lights wrapped around the headboard and a lamp shaped like the moon sat on the nightstand.
The walls were painted purple and adorned with a few posters of popular bands. He didn't listen to even half of them, but he liked the way they looked as decoration. Two shelves lined the walls, filled with books, puzzles and games, art supplies, and some empty spaces waiting to be filled. In one corner was a beanbag offering the company of a family of stuffed animals. Beside it stood a guitar he wouldn't know how to play, but maybe he would learn.
His favorite thing in the room had to be the desk. He'd never had his own desk before. He did have one he shared that was always covered in pencil shavings. But this one was all his. It came with a desk chair and a few mini anime figurines he guessed Shota had picked out at random for added personality. It was probably the best thing Hitoshi had ever seen, and he stared wide-eyed at all of it.
“Bathroom’s on your left,” Shota said, casually as if he hadn't just tipped the world upside down. “There’s a new toothbrush and toothpaste in there for you, if you need it. You can shower if you want, sleep if you need to. That basket’s for your dirty laundry.”
Hitoshi barely registered the empty laundry basket Shota pointed at. His eyes caught on the unopened box sitting on his new desk. Shota noticed.
“That’s for you.”
It was a laptop. His very own. He didn't have to share it with anyone. At least, he didn't think he did. It was on his desk, in his room. He hoped he wouldn't have to share it with their little girl, but what did she need a laptop for? He hadn't even gotten a phone until he was fourteen.
“If you need anything, just ask. I’ll be here. Eri’s asleep, so don't make too much noise, but otherwise do what you want.”
Eri. His new foster sibling. He had never gotten on well with any of his foster siblings. Some of them tried not to be mean to him, which he could appreciate more now looking back, but they didn't speak to him either. How could they, with all the imposed isolation he frequently found himself under? He would sit alone for hours in a small, mostly empty bedroom, away from all the normal, less frightening kids. His siblings were told to stay away from him, and plenty of them couldn't find a reason not to steer clear of the mean, muzzled boy.
Hitoshi nodded, nervousness and fear and excitement knotting into a ball in his stomach. He was glad to see Shota leave and take a fraction of those overwhelming feelings with him. Moving into new homes was never pleasant, having to learn new rules and readjust to all the routines, values, customs, and ways of being that everyone was used to. But snacks and laptops and purple walls were too much.
Hitoshi sank into the beanbag chair, hugging a purple cat to his chest. A soft blue penguin, a squishy panda, a weighted bear, and Pikachu sat beside him. He breathed out a soft, tired sigh. What was he supposed to do with all of this? Shota was too kind, he already knew that. He thought he’d been prepared for it. Turns out, it was worse than he expected. But he had this room, and even Shota would probably prefer him to stay cooped up inside. Maybe that’s why he made it so nice for him.
That night, Hitoshi couldn't get to sleep. Falling asleep was like torture, honestly. He didn't know why he couldn't, but every night was like a game of will he stay awake until the morning or not. His mind was an overworking computer, refusing to shut off even if he thought he was tired. It couldn't just “drift off” like it was supposed to.
Sometimes he stayed up all night and hoped by the end of the day he would be exhausted enough to just pass out. He probably slept for around three hours each night. He tried those breathing and calming exercises he found online that were supposed to help you fall asleep, but they never worked. They only served to make him more frustrated.
Can't sleep? You just need to do a puzzle, but nothing too stimulating, or you’ll be too excited to sleep. Read a book, a boring one that will have you struggling to keep your eyes open. Have any of those lying around? What about meditation? You know, that thing where you sit in silence and don't let your mind run a million miles an hour. Have you tried that? All he wanted was to be able to fall asleep without struggle.
He lay in bed for maybe a few hours, he hadn't been counting, when he heard something at his door. An excuse to get up and ignore trying to fall asleep. He could use a snack anyway. The thought of tiptoeing into the kitchen for food felt forbidden, but Shota left those snacks for him. He wanted them to be eaten, didn't he? Wouldn't it be rude not to? Or was he just being polite? He probably shouldn't touch anything he wasn't handed.
He opened the door to a plump ragdoll cat staring icy blue eyes up at him.
“Hello,” he cooed, kneeling to rub a hand through its plush coat. “Who are you?”
He scooped her up, her body going limp and relaxed in his arms. “Are you the cutest kitty in the world? I think you are. Pretty little baby.”
He carried her toward the sitting area, where the soft glow of lamplight warned him that Shota was still awake. He paused in the hallway, sure his disruptive company wasn't wanted in the middle of the night. And what if Shota was offended that Hitoshi couldn't fall asleep in his house?
“You can come here.”
Shota’s voice startled him. He stepped into the light, his blame going to the unsuspecting victim in his arms.
“She was scratching at my door.”
“She was?” Shota said lightly, arms held out. Hitoshi dropped the cat into them. He rubbed her belly and gave her a disapproving headshake. “Are you not letting people sleep, Sushi-chan?”
Not looking up from the cat’s little face, Shota patted the spot beside him. Hesitantly, Hitoshi took a seat on the sofa. Sushi’s claw snagged onto Hitoshi’s shorts. Aizawa took her paw and hissed like an annoyed cat. His communication was efficient because she slipped out of his lap and padded away from Hitoshi.
“She’s very calm, but she likes to follow people around. Don’t mind them. You’re alright with cats?”
“Fine.”
Them? He had more? Hitoshi tried not to appear too excited as he glanced around.
Someone else curled around his ankles, soft fur rubbing against him. He looked down to see the most adorable calico cat he'd ever seen.
“That’s Misfit,” Shota said, leaning down to scratch her head. “Do you need anything? Want tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“How’s your jaw?”
“Fine.”
It actually hurt a little bit, but it always hurt to some degree and right now wasn't so bad.
“Am I allowed to ask about the muzzle?”
What kind of question was that? Was he allowed? He could do it if he wanted, why was he leaving it up to Hitoshi to decide? What was he supposed to say? Yes? No? Which would Shota prefer to hear? He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to talk about it. But there wasn't much to talk about. Surely he realized the purpose of the muzzle.
“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But if you do want to, you can. If you're ready to talk, so am I.”
Cool.
What the hell?
Hitoshi picked up the cat at his feet, letting her soft fur and sweet purring distract him.
“Is there anything that helps you sleep?” Shota asked. “I can get you something if you need. White noise, hot shower, ice cream.”
“Ice cream?”
“My dad once told me to eat ice cream when I couldn't sleep. Is that not right?”
“I don't think there's any evidence for that. Isn't sugar worse for sleep?”
The thoughtful knit of Shota’s brows drew out a tiny, accidental laugh from Hitoshi. He covered his mouth, but he was met with a little half smile. Shota nudged Hitoshi’s knee with his.
“Are you settling in alright? I know it’s only been a night, but if anything is uncomfortable-”
“It’s perfect. You don't have to do anything.”
“It’s not a problem if you need something. Or want something. You're not a problem.”
Not yet. He would become one. Offering to care for someone’s needs, saying you would give them anything, was easy. Having to do it was hard. Realizing that this person was a needy, starved animal sinking its claws into everyone it met in an attempt to hold onto something, it became hard. Nobody wanted to deal with that willingly.
Shota stroked Misfit and brushed the back of his hand against Hitoshi’s.
“I know you're worried about this being temporary, but if I can help it, it won't be. There's no test you have to pass, or something you have to do to earn your stay here. It’s yours for free.”
Nothing was free. Everyone was taught that life lesson, weren't they? He certainly had been. He had never lived in a home where he didn't have to earn his keep in some way. He was treated like taking him in was a great favor, and, really, it was. No one wanted him. He was tossed about with people who wanted nothing to do with him, and if they kept him fed and didn't hit him, he was lucky. They made sure he knew that.
“Everything that’s mine is yours. Lights are yours to control, watch tv if you want, put music on. Anything in the fridge is yours. Unless it’s Eri’s, but she likes to share.”
Eri. Sweet little Eri that Shota loved so much. Everything here was his unless it was Eri’s. Eri, who would take anything she wanted and be allowed to because she was little and cute and Hitoshi knew better than to be mean to a little kid. All of Shota’s care was his until it was all Eri’s. And then Shota would change his mind. And it would be just like before. Just like it always was.
“Do you feel safe here?”
Hitoshi wouldn't say he ever felt entirely safe anywhere. Except maybe in the UA dorms. Almost nobody was excited about the dorm situation, but Hitoshi was. He didn't have to go home anymore. He didn't have to wear that muzzle. It was the closest to freedom he thought he'd ever have. And now, well, he felt safer than he had anywhere else.
“I’m fine. That’s not why I can't sleep.” He assumed that’s what he was getting at.
“Why can't you?”
“I don't know.”
“Earlier, you weren't talking. Was something wrong?”
“I don't know.” He knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what it was. He didn't know how to say it.
“That’s okay.”
Misfit stretched and curled up in a sleepy ball.
“If you move her, she’ll come back,” Shota warned. “You’ll get used to it.”
“So, I don't have a choice?”
“No.”
A noise sounded from another room, the cry of a frightened child. Eri. With a pat on his shoulder, Shota left Hitoshi to tend to her. Hitoshi glared at no one and hugged Misfit to his chest. He brought her to bed with him, wanting no more unwelcome guests scratching his door tonight. He stopped by Eri’s bedroom on his way.
Shota was sitting on her bed, whispering as he wrapped a string around her fingers. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be calming her. His hair was floating, indicating the use of his quirk. So Eri couldn't control her quirk when she was distressed, and she had night terrors. What a pain. Hitoshi could be better than that. But he couldn't be as sweet. He could take care of himself, but even that wasn't as lovable as a cute face. He could be good and quiet and useful, but he could never be a darling little girl.
He stormed off, not minding the way his bedroom door slammed. If Shota realized having one sweet, young, adorable kid was less troublesome (which he would), and got rid of Hitoshi, he wouldn't be surprised. Who would ever choose a mess who couldn't sleep over someone who loved to share?
“You’ll stay with me, right?” he whispered to Misfit.
In response, she curled close to his chest. She was appropriately named, it seemed, and sensed her own kind.