Archive of Our Own

The walls are a delicate greyish-green with the ceiling white and the floors hardwood. The bed sits on neatly spread carpet that complements the walls with its misty colouration, everything efficiently brought together in a harmonious union that’s objectively soft on the eyes. The walls are bare save for a single framed painting of a forested landscape, something that had adorned the walls long before Hitoshi had ever stepped foot in the house and one that will continue to peacefully do so; even despite Yamada’s many periodic off-handed comments that Hitoshi is free to decorate as he pleases. Posters, ornaments, figurines, books, manga, whatever—’this is your room, Shinsou. Spruce it up however you like!’ 

It’s all reminiscent of a hotel room. Clean, neat and welcoming, but ultimately impersonal. The only thing that suggests Hitoshi even exists in this space is the fact he has his schoolwork on the desk. Arranged orderly and without an ounce of clutter, of course, because while both Aizawa and Yamada have verbally described the room as explicitly Hitoshi’s room, it still exists under their roof. One of their rules is to keep it clean, so unblemished it will stay. 

(Well. Okay. There may be a book series Hitoshi has since gravitated towards. Two volumes with a third on the way, chronicling a sci-fi fantasy space opera complete with a fantastical prophecy of a chosen one—except said chosen one is said to be destined to become a monster, with the heroine’s story revolving around her struggles to deny this fate. Complete with a power that other characters are fearful of.

... Three guesses as to why Hitoshi could possibly have an interest in such a series.

The books are hidden within the desk’s drawers and out of sight, because leaving them out felt like a blotch on an otherwise clean canvas.)

And while Hitoshi is content to… push, on occasion, maybe even press certain buttons that can have either adult level him with a displeased stare, he currently has no aspirations of losing his rooming privileges. 

He likes to think they wouldn't actually do that (he holds a strong 90% certainty on the subject), but this time of year it rains more often. There is a tree that stands in the corner of the small walled terrace that could provide adequate cover but Hitoshi does sometimes have his head screwed on correctly: he really much prefers the bed. He has decided long ago that while he isn’t the one to decide what privileges get revoked, he can at least do his best to not give Aizawa or Yamada a reason to take away the bed. Or the room. ‘His’ room.

His… room. Yeah. Only one bed present in said room because he is the only child existing in the house. A far cry from the children’s home he had been living in prior, wherein he shared his sleeping space with four roommates all on wire bed frames within a room that was only just big enough to accommodate them all. 

When Hitoshi was first transferred (re: dumped) on Aizawa and Yamada’s doorstep, he was thirteen years old, and only had a week’s notice that he was even moving out of the children’s home. He met the pair of men for the first time the day of when he, his apparent new guardians and caseworker, Kitamura-san, all congregated together in a private room of a restaurant to share introductions as Hitoshi’s appetite all but disappeared, wishing he could be literally anywhere else. Yamada had shared his fried chicken with him like trying to garner the trust of a hungry dog.

Hitoshi was subsequently voluntold by Kitamura-san to join the pair in their kei-van on the journey ‘home,’ as she trailed behind in her own car. It proved to be the most awkward car ride of his life that had him (literally) twiddling his thumbs while debating on his chances of opening the door at a red light and simply running away until his legs gave out.

Aizawa and Yamada (and now he) live in a two storey house nestled comfortably in quiet city suburbia. The upstairs are dedicated to the bedrooms with the adults (obviously) possessing the largest room that has the balcony and Hitoshi sequestered to a corner room that’s across an empty guest bedroom and sharing a wall with the small bathroom. They could fit at least ten children here, could even make their own children’s home. But no; Hitoshi was that statistical anomaly in which he’s…

(He had not known Kitamura-san for long before she asked him an impossible question. She had given him a simple manila folder that possessed the portraits and basic information of a pair of men, explaining to him she’d been in contact with a said pair and personally oversaw their journey into becoming qualified with licenses. They attended and completed all the necessary training. They passed the home study. They’re looking for a child, specifically a teen, to welcome into their home. ‘I think you’d make a great fit, Shinsou-kun, they would love to have you under their care. You’ll really like them, I know it!’

On principle, Shinsou automatically wanted to prove her wrong. To instantly renounce this sit-down for what was: a charade. An illusion of choice.

She had said since he was thirteen, he got to have a say. He could decide whether or not he wanted to be, to be—

“I’m being thrown out?” He had asked with the edges of his periphery darkening, his mind attempted to burrow in on itself and hide away forever.

Kitamura-san quickly bounced to reassure him, the tentacles on her head that constituted as her hair twitched in anxious energy as she stated no, he wasn’t going to be tossed away, never. Rather, he has the right to choose. The cards are in his hands. Should he accept, he'd be scheduled to meet them in a week’s time, then will spend a month in their home and can decide to irreversibly change his life then. As if. As if this Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi wouldn’t decide to return him first, when they are sure to realize their mistake in only week with Hitoshi under their roof.

They’re both high school teachers, Kitamura-san said cheerily like it was an endorsement. Pro Heroes, whose identities he can inquire about when he meets them. Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi are both ready and willing to provide him guidance, support and stability, she promised. A permanent arrangement that would give him a brighter future, and they’re so excited to meet him, she promised. He would have a new family, he would be adopted, she promised.

He knew how to read between the lines, though: if these two men could claim guardianship so easily, then it must mean his real parents have terminated their parental rights. Completely voluntarily, most likely, hadn’t even needed to be convinced nor could be persuaded otherwise which—shouldn’t be a surprise. They never visited him when he was in the children’s home. He hasn’t seen them in years.

It felt as though he watched himself through another person’s eyes as he acquiesced and agreed to the arrangement; not that any of it mattered because he knew well that asking him was simply a pretense, since it was all clearly already decided.)

…had all legal guardianship regarding him officially signed over to Aizawa and Yamada. 

It all gradually made sense when Hitoshi looked through an outsider’s perspective: Aizawa and Yamada are married, at the time nearing their thirties and with successful careers. The next logical venture in their lives was to snag a child or two, right? Something to really test their marriage. When Hitoshi realized they were both Pro Heroes, everything fell further into place—maintaining that squeaky clean façade to complete their civilian life.

He’d say they were doing their Heroic duties in promoting typical Japanese values, but if that were true they would have done the smart thing and welcomed an infant that is actually theirs, instead of… 

(“We want what’s best for you,” Yamada had said when Hitoshi flatly asked why. Why open their doors and become legally responsible for a literal stranger? “Every child deserves a home, Shinsou, and we want to be that home for you.” 

“We’re both highschool teachers, our entire lives revolve around dealing with brats. We decided we just had to add more headache in our lives by bringing one home.” Aizawa drawled into his coffee mug, prompting Yamada to squawk and swat the man’s shoulder in scolding.)

… Playing house. It’s a nebulous, formless thing that gives the air a physical weight that Hitoshi isn’t sure he has the strength to yet face full on; that he has actually lived with the pair for years, now. He’s known them as guardians longer than he’s known them as his teachers, which adds another layer of surreality. Which—that must mean they’re in it for the long haul. It would be… irrational, to rehome Hitoshi now, not when they’re now his teachers because that’d make everything unbearable and, more importantly, extremely awkward.

Hitoshi sits on the bed. Slumps, more accurately, with shoulders slack and mind faraway, his hand the only thing still tethering him to the present as he busies himself with a most important task: stroking the black cat that is currently curled next to him.

That’s still another dizzying thing to comprehend, that he has been existing with not one, not two, not even three, but four (4!!) living and breathing cats. A quartet that have been denizens of this house for far longer than either adult's knowledge of Hitoshi’s existence, evident with how the world's largest cat tower exists in the living room and the walls are decorated with mounted platforms for the cats to comfortably judge the humans below as they sit upon their thrones high above.

The cat who was kind enough to grace him with her presence is named Makkuro, entirely an inky black and an animal that Hitoshi has mistaken his black shirt for on multiple occasions. She shares the house with Izumi, a calico who who crosses her paws like a dignified lady as she demands attention, Akachan, a grey tabby male who possesses the most delicate meow of all feline kind, and Yoshi, an orange male who always appears to be the instigator of many a shenanigan, such as getting his head stuck in a can more than once or eating the toilet paper roll.

Hitoshi actually lives with cats and is partly responsible for them all. That’s a thing. That’s actually a thing. And more so: he’s since been able to garner the trust of all four and has had each individual cat lay in his lap or sleep on his bed with him.

Truly, a miracle. One that he is inherently unworthy of, and so he is always sure to send his gracious thanks through many meticulous massages and bounties of treats for each individual cat.

Cats. A room. A stubborn persistence that Hitoshi is to eat three meals a day that neither Aizawa nor Yamada seem content on ever easing. A house. A house. That Hitoshi is free to traverse through even if the doors are closed, because he is no longer required to seek explicit permission to open a closed door. Save for Aizawa and Yamada’s bedroom, but that’s just common sense. The pair may not have their kitchen cabinets and fridge locked but Hitoshi has gotten to the point wherein he really doesn’t want to test their patience in that regard, not now, not ever.

Hitoshi had thought he figured it out, when months had gradually passed and there was yet a sign that suggested he would be returned to the children’s home. The conclusion was logical: A maid. 

That made sense. Assuaging the societal expectations of getting a kid, soothing whatever errant urges of charity they feel as Heroes, and acquiring a little helper shaped through debt all at once. After a couple of months or so they'd stop emulating what they expected him to replicate and he'd be bestowed the sole responsibility of cleaning, cooking, laundry and everything in between.

(“We want to take care of you, Shinsou.” Yamada had said with something sad, when Hitoshi asked with irritation laced in each word: ‘why am I even here then?’ after the blond had stated he’s not their servant. 

“Staying under this roof is not dependent on you catering to us, kid. We’re responsible for you, not the other way around.” Aizawa sighed. “Zashi and I hardly have any qualms about you being eager to do your chores, nor are we under any assumption that you aren’t a fully capable and responsible person, but we’re all living in this house, and so the housework is shared.”

“Have a little faith in us, little listener!” Yamada cheerily chirped while Hitoshi silently glowered at his sock clad feet, his annoyance turned inwards and a fire of self contempt lit through his veins at the conclusion he somehow screwed up on literal grunt work.)

It’s Saturday, with the afternoon slowly progressing into the evening. With Hitoshi’s schoolwork having been completed since morning, his weekend is free for—whatever. Tagging along for the weekly grocery trip on Sunday with Yamada and Aizawa, taking a jog or cycling down to the beach and back, updating his semi-popular blog that’s solely dedicated to the aforementioned cat quartet he lives with, going out with… friends? 

That’s still bewildering. Still feeling unnatural to assert, like admitting to a delusion or trying to ground rocks between his teeth. But Jirou and he have shared music recommendations, Tokoyami has asked his critique on his poetry, and Asui—no, Tsu, right—partakes in the… good-natured ribbing (AKA ‘shittalking’) about their classmates with him. She gets to call him Toshi-chan. In private. Only her. That all has to mean something. That can fit the barest definition of friendship.

And that’s not even putting into account the illogical tug-of-war that is apparently still happening between the two stupid-brigades, the self-proclaimed Bakusquad and Dekusquad (barf), wherein each party both try to convince him to sit with them during lunch or join for a study session. Hitoshi will orbit between the two depending on which has the better food for him to snag, thanks.

Oh, yeah. That. The fact he’s been transferred into the Heroics department halfway through the school year. That’s something. Even if it’s probably just because if (when?) Hitoshi becomes a Hero, Aizawa and Yamada can both point and say ‘we did that’ while reveling in the accolades given for successfully rehabilitating a lost cause. A monumental feat they should receive a damn medal for, if only for sticking out this long with someone like Hitoshi infesting their literal home. 

… And also because Hitoshi was a suitable (and quick) purple haired replacement for when that purple haired pervert got punted into the stratosphere. The turnover looks good for Aizawa. Convenient.

'That, that, that.' How did this become Hitoshi's life, that he is able to mark off such a checklist that still feels so... unimaginable? How did this even happen, how does he have this life?

Hitoshi lets out a breath. Makkuro tilts her head to allow him greater access to her cheek to scratch. A room, without locks that shut from the outside and no barred windows. A house, that he can actually leave the boundary of provided he tells either adult where he intends to go. A—bike, of his sole ownership that he isn’t obligated to share and is allowed to take out into the mountains if he wanted to.

(“Oh.” Yamada’s face fell, deflating like a balloon where he stood as Hitoshi felt his own expression sour at the so-called ‘surprise.’ “What’s wrong, my little listener?”

The man had presented a mountain bike. An actual, brand new and sparkling fucking mountain bike, for Hitoshi to inspect and apparently… own. Aluminum frame, hydraulic brakes and ready to take on any kind of terrain, from city streets to forested hills, and patently absurd.

“I don’t… I don’t need a bike.” Hitoshi groused as his skin prickled uncomfortably, staring at the too-shiny bicycle. “This is—why? This is too much. Please don’t tell me this was something ridiculous like a hundred thousand yen. Why would you waste money like this? Are you—“ stupid? But he kept the word at bay because the last time he had a smart mouth he had to write a hundred—a hundred! Also known as a human rights violation—lines promising he would speak with respect, resulting in a cramped hand.

Aizawa stared at him. “It’s your birthday, Shinsou.” He said, as if that justified or explained anything. “You’ve mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you enjoy cycling. It’s a gift, it isn’t a waste because we choose and want to give it to you for you to enjoy.”

Hitoshi felt his face twist just as his stomach contorted into a tight knot. It’s brand new. And clearly one of those long lasting, high quality models. The thought of the hypothetical price tag made Hitoshi dizzy, spurning a certain nausea to take root as the desperate mantra of why continued on repeat in his head as a deafening crescendo. 

“Yeah. Well.” He sniffed, clenching and unclenching his fists in order to ground himself. “I’d enjoy it more if you’d return it. I don’t want it.”

It’s too much. It’s too much. And terribly, he wants it. He hates it. Another thing that can be taken away when he inevitably screws up and demonstrates in great detail that he doesn’t deserve it. Any of it.

He turned on his heel quickly and marched away because gazing any longer at the bike held a very real risk of Hitoshi’s eyes misting over and having him rip his hair out.

“It’ll be beside the car when you’re ready!” Yamada’s voice followed him, and Hitoshi knew better than to slam any doors as he holed himself in ‘his’ room, ready to scream into a pillow or punch the wall or lock himself in the closet and empty himself of any wayward tears.)

And despite it all.

He still exists as a bottomless pit. There isn’t another explanation for it, because it’s an ordinary Saturday just like any other lazy weekend and he has a roof over his head, a bed that he currently sits upon, a pantry of snacks exists in the kitchen that he need only ask to indulge in, and yet.

Still left wanting, apparently. 

(It took two months for Hitoshi’s resolve to finally crumble. It could have taken only a month, but he held onto another more purely out of spite.

“Help me out, what am I looking at here?” Yamada had asked as he adjusted his glasses, looking at the phone Hitoshi unceremoniously thrusted in his direction.

Hitoshi’s palms grew sweaty. “The route I wanna take… for, uhm. Cycling.” 

It didn’t even take Yamada a moment to digest what he said. In an instant, Yamada’s eyes brightened—quite literally sparkling with a brilliant smile overtaking his face. Hitoshi still doesn’t know how the man is able to smile so wide and not come off as completely deranged.

“Ah, a fantastic maiden voyage, my little listener! Hey, remember your helmet, safety first! And tell Shou and I how it goes, yeah? Have fun!” 

And Hitoshi could only stare dazedly. Because Yamada’s face hadn’t contorted into an annoyance so poisonous it’d steal the air straight from Hitoshi’s lungs. Irritation did not weigh his words and turn the air ominous. All of Hitoshi’s meticulously planned words detailing the specifics of the route—how long it would take, the shops he would pass wherein he could conveniently pick up items from—evaporated because Yamada didn’t even snatch away his phone to keep for two months or remove his bedroom door as restitution for letting the bike just stand in the carport collecting dust.

Hitoshi was completely willing to prostrate on the floor with his forehead on the ground to apologize for his prior… embarrassing display. How he was an ungrateful imbecile. But when Yamada reached out to card his fingers through Hitoshi’s hair, the teen didn’t even flinch.

“Oh, no need to be so formal, please. We’re long past that!” Yamada quickly waved away Hitoshi’s bow—which was perfect, by the way—as he mustered out a proper verbal thank you.)

Like a leech.

(Yamada and his penchant for ruffling Hitoshi’s hair, Aizawa and his intermittent pats on Hitoshi’s shoulder—

Mystifying, were what they are. That his skin doesn’t automatically crawl like he’s submerged in a mound of insects. Not anymore.

Hitoshi suspected that if his Villain’s quirk didn’t have the pair return him back to the children’s home, then his miserable grades would. Simply weep at the sight of his unsalvageable academic career and cut their losses, a lost cause. A shame they could simply never be associated with as teachers themselves. 

Or. Take it as a challenge. The route they took. A particularly wretched uphill battle, suddenly put under the weight of an ever present gaze of an adult or two, the pair rotating like prison wardens as they sat Hitoshi down day-by-day, week-by-week, and tortured him.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Aizawa calmly stated, seemingly unbothered at how Hitoshi, in a fit of sudden white-hot resentment, threw his pencil against the living room table and sunk into the couch cushions, a prisoner to one of the adults’ many mind-numbing ‘study sessions’ as Yamada busied himself in making dinner. The teen had growled caustically ‘I already know you think I’m fucking stupid. This is a waste of time’ because it didn’t matter, it never did, not when Hitoshi was going to die behind some dumpster before he reached eighteen.

Hitoshi definitely did not pout as he glared half-heartedly at the man, bitterness welling between his teeth but the embers of his anger quickly snuffed in the face of Aizawa’s unperturbed expression.

“I think you just never had the proper help before.” The man succinctly said, reorganizing the school work on the table. “And remember what we said about language, kid.” 

A wince. Because while neither Aizawa nor Yamada had done so (yet?), the taste of soap slithered across his tongue and clogged his throat regardless. Aizawa really had a talent for only needing to instill one warning, despite having never raised a hand against Hitoshi. Yet?

It would have been easier if they did think he was stupid. It would’ve made sense, it would have been familiar, just like how his teachers and house parents had declared him as being on multiple occasions, so much so that the title is practically tattooed on his forehead. A literal fact backed by numerous failed test scores and incomplete assignments better left to rot, because it hadn't mattered how many times his teachers took their wooden rulers to him or pinched his ears or used his grades as an example for the class, Hitoshi simply doesn't learn. Some sort of inherent, biological fault, just a waste of meat between his ears.

His—parents, his actual parents, clearly knew this to be true and understood it, since Hitoshi’s school attendance and school work had been something they long decided wasn’t important enough for either of them to ever bother with.

Hitoshi fully blames Yamada’s stupid earnesty and his stupid ‘We believe in you! You can do it, Plus Ultra!’ that he felt the compulsion to… endure. 

‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ spoken by both adults. Their voices are patient and startlingly sincere. A simple, useless phrase that repeated like a broken record, ringing against the walls of Hitoshi’s skull and anchoring the teen to his coursework, coaxing him to finish. If there was ever a chance to make the pipe dream of getting accepted into UA possible, it would be when his guardians are literal teachers of that very school, right? It was a boon to have no semblance of a social life, because he had nothing to distract him.

He ultimately did not dredge his grades upwards enough to qualify for the Okinawa field trip at the end of the school year, but he had hiked that unforgiving mountain and was able to settle comfortably enough in… average. Just slightly below average, actually.

Yamada ruffled his hair. Aizawa squeezed his shoulder. He was taken to a cat café to—of all things—celebrate and maybe, just maybe, not getting to go to Okinawa wasn’t so bad.)

Like a really, really fat leech.

Makkuro’s fur is silky smooth, her purring vibrating against his palm and traversing straight to his heart, a direct contribution as to why Hitoshi’s blood is still being pumped through his body. 

And that alone should be enough: he’s petting a cat. One that he lives with. He’s read the literature, he knows the science, that gentle touches between human and pet reduces stress while releasing the lovey-dovey chemicals in the brain for both species. Mutualism. Hitoshi can and does indulge in cat therapy anytime he pleases, such is a privilege he would never take lightly, and it’s. Enough. Should be more than enough.

Hitoshi strokes Makkuro’s head, feeling the phantom sensations of Yamada’s hand pleasantly gliding across his scalp and setting his breath to shudder.

There’s no… reason.

Other than that he's gluttonous. Ugh. Yamada isn’t even home currently, he’s at the radio station ‘dishing out the tunes,’ as he says. Maybe he should just fish out his phone and open the Put Your Hands Up! app to lessen the background buzz of what feels like worms writhing beneath his skin. It is only the late afternoon but the seconds stretch into hours with the quiet feeling like he’s been weighed down to the bottom of the ocean and there’s no reason.

There’s no reason for the deep-seated ache that spasms through his body. A craving as if he’s a man desperate for water, pleading with a dark cloud above to finally release rain. 

He’s already tried cocooning himself in his bedsheets to shield himself from such errant and useless feelings, but that had only accomplished the opposite and amplified the incessant twinge, turning it into a misery that quickly turned cavernous.

Fuck’s sake. He literally has a cat next to him. What the hell is wrong with him, that he could still feel so unsatisfied?

Hitoshi was on the cusp of coaxing Makkuro onto his lap, a foolproof plan to smother those background urges with the pleasant weight of a contented feline blanketing him, but Makkuro clearly had other ideas.

She jauntily jumps off the bed, trotting towards the ajar door with her tail held high. Hitoshi's expression is blank because he’s not sulking at the cat’s decision, there is no knife twisting his heart, that’d be unbelievably stupid and childish.

Makkuro pauses at the door’s precipice, turning to spare the still sitting teen a glance and squeaking out a meow.

Truly the smartest creatures on this planet. She’s absolutely right, of course. Hitoshi should follow and simply traverse downstairs: the rest of the cats are most likely congregated on the first floor with the radio most definitely tuned to Yamada’s show, as Aizawa’s home.

All of which points to a remedy that would guarantee in extinguishing this… burden.

Hitoshi sluggishly lifts himself from the bed, lumbering towards the door and following a satisfied Makkuro down the stairs, silently amused by her swaying primordial pouch.

Hitoshi stands at the border of the living room, suddenly thirteen years old again and feeling distinctly like an intruder, abruptly attempting to determine what is the best way to ask without actually asking for permission to enter.

Makkuro pauses to look at him again. She brings him to the present, forcefully tuning his body away from its default setting and reminding him that such precedents do not exist under this roof. Right. He steps inwards.

The sounds of the radio gently murmurs through the air as background white noise, some upbeat pop tune. Aizawa sits on the couch with an open laptop, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and typing away at some email or whatever teacher stuff. The man turns his gaze to give Hitoshi a quick acknowledgement before returning to his attention back to the screen, and Makkuro slinks to rub herself against Aizawa’s legs before using the scratching post near the cat tower.

Izumi is perched upon the highest wall mount and observing her kingdom below. Yoshi sleeps in the cat tower like a fluffy croissant. Akachan is curled next to Aizawa on the couch, the man periodically lifting a hand from the keyboard to deliver the tabby a pat or a scratch. Put Your Hands Up! is currently streaming an uninterrupted flow of catchy music in the background, and Yamada will be taking questions when evening sets in. It’s a regular Saturday. Hitoshi feels as though he is sinking in quicksand.

Hitoshi is at an impasse, he quickly realizes.

He understands the problem, of course. He’s not stupid (anymore). He knows what his body wants. Okay—what he wants.

Just… Too bad there’s already a cat saddled next to Aizawa and therefore it’s totally impossible to sit next to the man at the moment. What unfortunate timing, simply can’t be helped, better luck next time. Hitoshi quietly treads towards the kitchen in hopes of being able to draw out these useless jitters. He ends up mindlessly tapping his fingers on the kitchen counter.

It’s just so stupid. And… embarrassing. Heat is already sneaking up his neck.

(Head pats, shoulder pats, shoulder squeezes, a hand stroking his back, arms encircling him—

“It’s alright, darling. It’s going to be okay.” Yamada cooed into his hair, lips ghosting Hitoshi’s forehead as the man cradled the teen in his arms on the floor of the bathroom. The boy shuddered against the blond’s chest, grabbing fistfuls of Yamada’s shirt and hiding away his face, hoping the world would just crumble away and leave him in darkness. He breathed in painful breaths, hoping his ribcage would simply splinter and tear his heart and lungs asunder, as tears breached over onto his cheeks.

He had locked himself in the bathroom, curled into the corner like a corpse of an insect with clumps of hair clutched in his hands, wanting to rip himself apart. He could handle ‘villain’ being carved into his desk. He knew how to be unbothered when a schoolmate ‘accidentally’ set off their quirk on him. He was an expert in ignoring fellow students who developed the habit of literally spitting at him when he walked past in the hallways.

But venomous whispers had started a rumor that he used Brainwash to force girls to lift their skirts or bend schoolmates to his will in order to act out inappropriate scenes for him to film and keep as blackmail. It was just not true. It could never be true, not in a million years, not ever. That’s so, so wrong. He would never, but who in their right mind would believe a Villain in the making? 

Aizawa and Yamada are, are going to hate him. They’re going to throw out what little he has into the street, yell until his eardrums burst and hit until Hitoshi is a marbled patchwork of black and blue. They're going to dump him in a jail cell before spitting at his broken form, and he'll be left to shiver in the cold, alone when he takes his last breath.

He won't… Hitoshi won't be able to survive Aizawa and Yamada hating him—

“I’m here, baby. I’m here, and I believe you.” Yamada soothed, beginning to rock them both, and Hitoshi was brought to the slow realization that he couldn’t remember when he felt such a thing.)

Hitoshi subconsciously brings his arms upwards to stroke the opposite bicep in a poor imitation, feeling the faint echoes of Yamada’s hold whisper against his skin.  

Stupid. He’s not going to force himself into an ugly meltdown like a toddler in order to force attention from Aizawa. It’s like looking through frosted glass and attempting to discern vague, unknowable shapes, when he tries to navigate the maze of these childish feelings.

It was easier when it was attached to a consequence.

(His palms stung as if flames licked across his skin. Ten strikes with the wooden ruler, five on each palm, and Hitoshi felt the skin of his face twist in a deep grimace, attempting to ease his breaths.

He hears a snicker from one of his classmates, the very same classmate who had been persistently throwing pieces of eraser at Hitoshi all throughout the lesson. And Hitoshi knew to simply ignore it, but his willpower had been frayed that day with the new asinine nickname of ‘Puppet Master’—his proposed Villain name—bestowed upon him as his peers gleefully explained in detail how All Might would beat him to a pulp when he grew up. Like a rubber band pulled too far and finally snapping, Hitoshi responded in kind by throwing his eraser directly in that classmate’s face.

He was instantly given karmic retribution for such insolence. Tabata-sensei called his name sharply and ordered him to the front of the class. A scolding, a command to fetch the ruler, and bringing his palms upwards to have them turn a cherry red.

“I know you can be a good student, Shinsou-kun. I know you have it in you.” Tabata-sensei had said softly afterwards, her hand a comforting weight on his shoulder that kept his mind from burrowing away. “You can do better, can’t you?” 

He nodded, eyes downcast and focusing on the anchor of her touch.

Hitoshi quietly retook his seat after being made to apologize, and another piece of eraser was thrown in his direction.)

It grounded it to the material world, made it tangible. Made it easy to understand. A + B = C.

(“See? It wasn’t worth it, Shinsou.” Murmured the current house parent of the children’s home, Konishi-san, his hand massaging Hitoshi’s nape as the boy laid bent over the bed and shaking his head in agreement. “You know I hate doing that to you, Shinsou. Please don’t make me have to do it again.”

Hitoshi’s ears still rang with the phantom sounds of leather slicing through the air, keeping his limbs locked and encased in ice as his bottom half burned into blisters.

Hitoshi doesn’t know why it is so hard for him to learn, he doesn’t want to be bad. Regret as heavy as a mountain kept his body sunken into the mattress, and Hitoshi held no pride in making Konishi-san have to belt him like he’s some errant toddler. 

The man had literally made some delicious red bean pancakes only hours prior and here Hitoshi was, ruining the evening. The pit formed in his chest ached more than his naked backside and thighs that had been tanned a bright, angry crimson. The guilt curdling in his stomach already morphed into an anguish stronger than any of the pain that would arise from his near future sitting difficulties. 

Konishi-san moved his hand to glide his palm through Hitoshi’s hair, and the boy leaned into the man’s touch to chase it further, as he released a shuddering breath. His eyes fluttered open to peek through his blurry vision at Oshima-kun: a boy two years his junior and one of Hitoshi’s roommates. Oshima-kun had refused to leave Hitoshi’s personal space that evening and Hitoshi found himself with an empty reservoir of patience. In a fiery impulse, he smacked and shoved the younger boy harshly, just as Konishi-san had rounded the corner.

Oshima-kun sat on his own bed, with his hands clasped over his ears and gaze fixed at the floor, and Hitoshi was speared with remorse so palpable he felt bile creep up his throat.)

But Aizawa and Yamada aren’t… like that. 

They don’t even have a spanking stick. Hitoshi’s not only searched more than once but he’s also acted out in ways that would warrant it, but they’ve never marched out with any such implement. They don’t even shake him. One of their rules is literally ‘no yelling in the house other than for emergencies,’ which will never stop being ironic considering who he lives with, since they made it explicitly clear that such a rule extends likewise to them as it does to Hitoshi. 

At most they flick his forehead or pinch his ear. They’ll give him a split lip during a spar but won’t take a belt or wooden spoon or ruler at him. It's still weird and a little confusing, just as the men themselves still exist as a puzzle for Hitoshi most days. He doesn't like change. He doesn't fully understand it. But maybe he could admit that it's a little nice.

Hitoshi had initially thought such a lack of discipline meant that they hadn’t… cared. Just how his progenitors never did. He still remembers well banging his fists on the door and crying himself hoarse with a muzzle strapped to his face when he was locked in his room, forgotten for the day and still too small. Mom always did enjoy telling Hitoshi she wished she could just run away, or drop him off at some random street in a random city in a random prefecture and leave him. He doesn’t know why she just didn’t do that. Dad was practically allergic to his son’s mere presence.

So, logically the conclusion held was: Aizawa and Yamada had no interest in keeping him accountable, in actually guiding him into adulthood because there was no promise in tackling any of his unsavoury behaviours, since Hitoshi is only meant to be some sort of decoration for them. Something to keep up appearances. They don’t care enough to actually put in the effort, not like his elementary and middle school teachers or the house parents at the children’s home.

(Hitoshi had felt big, unconquerable even, when he pulled Yamada under Brainwash with an ugly sneer plastered on his face.

He honestly wouldn’t even call it a miscalculation or even mere stupidity, that he had done so when Aizawa was right there, more so… a demand. A challenge, even, because if there was anything that would prompt Aizawa to maul him, it would be this. Hitoshi doesn’t want to be bad, but they don’t care, they’re both Heroes and yet they don’t care—

Ice quickly replaced any bravado cultivated as his body automatically grew taut and frozen, at Aizawa’s thunderous expression. Crimson eyes flashed, and Brainwash was silently whisked away.

Hitoshi did not know if his throat suddenly tightening was due to Erasure, or the fact he now had two angry adults bearing down on him with no quirk as a last resort. He’d always known his death would be at the hand of an irate authority figure tired of his shit.

He could already feel the tightness of the muzzle’s restraints strapped to his head, the unyielding pressure of the mask that will leave scars over the bridge of his nose and cheek, clamping his jaw shut. Maybe they’re going to let him starve. He’d be pliant and submissive only after a few hours, maybe less, if they shut him in a dark room.

Aizawa and Yamada did not present a muzzle. Maybe they didn’t even have one. 

No, instead—Hitoshi is scolded. Thoroughly. Lectured within an inch of his life. A tongue lashing so severe it felt as though he’d been physically whipped. 

His fate was decided when he was sentenced to cleaning the entirety of their neighbour’s house, belonging to an elderly woman named Itotama-san. She was in her nineties with the quirk Dazzle, in which her smile quite literally planted sparkles in the air to frame her face, making it near impossible to say no to her. She was the chosen grandma of the cats, since each feline would on occasion visit her. 

Sometimes… she would accidentally call Hitoshi ‘Yamada-kun’ or ‘Aizawa-kun,’ or some bizarre combination of both their names such as ‘Zawayama-kun,’ and sometimes… Hitoshi didn’t correct her. 

B-because she was old and just tended to forget anyway, obviously. So there was no point in repeating himself.

It was a particularly cruel condemnation to finish their verbal walloping and his grounding with, because Hitoshi actually liked Itotama-san. Involving her was almost inhumane, and Hitoshi was thoroughly imprisoned. Itotama-san’s daughter, who had usually visited once a week, was currently out of the country which left the elderly and infirm woman with a literal laundry list a mile long. A perfect opportunity to instill some manners, and one adult would happily converse with Itotama-san while the other acted as his prison warden to ensure he did his time.

In hindsight, Hitoshi would’ve lended a hand for the woman regardless. But having Itotama-san click her tongue and waggle her finger at him while calling him a ‘naughty boy’ was an excellent way to imbue a very raw sense of shame into his core. A cruel and unusual punishment.  But dastardly effective. 

And—work that proved to be rewarding, something to be paradoxically proud of, considering it was a punishment. It evolved into satisfaction that left him equal parts boneless and standing tall when all was said and done with Itotama-san insisting they all stay for tea and cakes, rattling Hitoshi’s ear off about her late Brazilian husband Benicio and the eccentricities of their marriage.

Hitoshi, of course, apologized. Sincerely.

Yamada responded by smiling brightly. “Apology accepted, little listener. It's all water under the bridge, alright? I’m not in the business of holding grudges!” 

“Learned your lesson then?” Aizawa arched his brow.

“Yeah, yeah.” Hitoshi rubbed the back of his neck. “No kickstarting the Villain career early.”

Aizawa snorted. “You’re not a Villain. Just an unruly brat sometimes, like every other kid.” He shared some look with Yamada, communicating wordlessly. “You’ve got a good and useful quirk, Shinsou. Zashi and I have been talking; it’d be good for you to develop Brainwash.”

Yamada nodded exuberantly. “Good for your mental and physical health to give your quirk a workout, once in a while. Not to mention it will boost your self-confidence something nice to build a proper self-image regarding your own quirk. It’s part of what makes you you, and isn’t something to be ashamed of! So: Whaddya say you let Shou and I show you the ropes sometimes, eh?” He winked. “That way, you get to Brainwash us to your heart’s content in a controlled and safe environment under supervision! Sounds like a party to me, little listener.”

Yeah. Bewildering, but Aizawa and Yamada have proven themselves interchangeable with the word.

Because they still trusted him, despite everything.)

Maybe Aizawa and Yamada actually care too much. It’s a strange thing that can make Hitoshi feel as though he is floating if he thinks too much on it.

He’s not hurt, he’s not looking to deliberately misbehave, he has—no reason. Nothing happened, it’s just a normal Saturday but as the minutes tick on, he continues to exist in a barren desert with his body sure to desiccate. He thinks of head pats, shoulder squeezes and arms caressing him, rocking back and forth.

See, in the thesaurus, one of synonyms of ‘comfort’ is ‘luxury’, and that word means indulgence; things that aren’t necessary. Aren't essential. A finite resource that needs time to be rejuvenated, something to be treasured and dignified with… something! A reason!

Hitoshi huffs an irritated breath, glaring at the kitchen counter. It’s clean, without a trace of crumbs and wiped semi-regularly. The floors are likewise and no dishes exist in the sink. It’s infuriating, because there’s nothing to A) distract him or B) use as a means to garner a reward.

Yamada uses the train to get to the radio station, so Hitoshi could go out and see if the car needs cleaning in any capacity but that almost feels too… obvious. Like putting up a neon sign flashing to Aizawa that Hitoshi is a needy, useless and stupid burden—

Hitoshi presses his palms to his eyelids so deeply he starts to see starbursts. This is bad, for a multitude of reasons but chiefly, as prior experiences gleefully remind him, it’s something that possesses a fuse like a lit stick of dynamite. And detonation is marked by his eyes collecting tears with his breath breaking, the urge to crumble into the fetal position seizing him and making him into a giant baby against his will.

This is literally do or die, he needs to find a reason. He throws quick glances around the kitchen like an swivelling owl but finds nothing, and so inches his way to the kitchen’s entryway to spy where Aizawa still sits and types on his laptop, peering at the coffee table present.

There. Salvation comes in the form of an empty coffee mug.

(“I made tea,” Hitoshi hedged and then subsequently winced, because Yamada had been doing his work on the dining table and therefore had full view of Hitoshi boiling the water and steeping the tea, so the announcement was completely unnecessary.

Yamada still blinked at the offering regardless, dispelling the dust of fatigue that had accumulated from grading English grammar tests.

The man smiled something small but brilliant. And pertinently, something knowing, because Hitoshi had saddled to his side so closely their arms brushed against each other.

Hitoshi had no time to sink into embarrassment, because Yamada had raised a hand to bless him with the great honour of a welcomed head ruffle.

“Thanks a million, my little listener. Much appreciated.” Yamada mused, as Hitoshi ducked his head and bit the inside of his cheek to ward away his smile.)

“Do you need more bitter bean juice?” Hitoshi asks in the safety of a monotone voice, after moseying his way into the living room and pointing at the mug.

Aizawa pauses his typing, turning his head to look at the teen.

“If you're making, sure. Pour yourself a cup while you're at it too.” He says, before pointing at Hitoshi and clarifying: “Decaf."

Hitoshi rolls his eyes good naturedly, since both adults have long established they wouldn't take that action as a sign of disrespect.

When he returns with two steaming mugs in hand, black for Aizawa and dash of cream for himself, Akachan is suspiciously sitting on the floor now instead of beside Aizawa, with the laptop shut and put aside on the table. 

“Any requests?” Aizawa says mildly, TV on and currently channel surfing as he very casually drapes his arm across the couch’s backrest as an open and wordless invitation. Hitoshi feels himself flush; typically it's Yamada who is the more perceptive one of the pair when it concerns such… matters. This silent tango Hitoshi is beholden to that they have unfathomably decided to indulge in each time. 

He rolls his shoulders as to mitigate against them automatically hiking towards his ears, manually willing his face to return to its proper paleness and yeah. It's what he wants but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel small and childish at the stark affirmation that he is indeed being small and childish.

With their mugs neatly placed on the table, Hitoshi quickly sinks into the couch cushions. 

“Anything’s fine,” he says, nearing the verge of a mumble. His way of saying that he needs white noise and time to slowly decompress. Aizawa graciously settles on some random sci-fi movie neither of them pay close attention to, as Hitoshi settles close but not close enough. Aizawa’s arm is still slung across the backrest and now framing Hitoshi’s shoulders, and it would be an effortless thing for the man to simply snake it downwards to become a comforting weight upon Hitoshi. If Hitoshi were to simply tilt his head sideways, he could lean against the man’s shoulder. Their thighs are a breath away from touching.

He could curl his body against the man and seek sanctuary in Aizawa’s chest, chasing his embrace. Doing so would lay him bared like a flayed corpse, exposing all the tender sinew of his vulnerabilities under the scrutiny of a microscope. Everytime he is called to assuage these feelings, he is required to leap from a cliff’s edge to sink into the turbulent waters below, so he can be forgiven if he has to psyche himself up each time.

He hides away in the pleasant warmth of his coffee mug cradled between his palms, a temporary shield before he will inevitably fall.

A moment, feeling like it stretches for an hour, before Aizawa creates a bridge when he slowly slips his arm downwards to rest across Hitoshi’s shoulders.

Hitoshi keeps his gaze fixed on the TV screen. He spies Aizawa glancing at him in his periphery.

“Anything you want to talk about?” The man asks.

There’s an overly friendly character being introduced in the movie. “This guy is definitely going to betray them by the third act.”

Aizawa huffs an amused breath, and allows the deflection—but because he needs the last laugh like the asshole he is, he rubs his hand up and down the teen’s shoulder because he is intent to have Hitoshi unravel completely on his lap, apparently. 

It’s exactly what Hitoshi needs to continue his existence on this planet and what he has wordlessly asked for. But his face flushes regardless, as he takes another hearty sip of his coffee, reveling in the warmth cascading down his throat and settling in his core.

The movie continues on. Something about government corruption portrayed through the backdrop of a hyper-technological metropolis that is cannibalizing itself, commentating on societal decay and the consumerist hypocrisy of Hero culture. Something something, probably halfway interesting and meant to make the viewer really delve into some hearty introspection, but Hitoshi simply has no energy left to spare to actually pay attention. He and Aizawa intermittently share mindless commentary about the film, but are mostly content to have it pass in a comfortable quiet.

It’s—nice. It’s really, really nice.

The pressure that had been slowly and steadily building behind his sternum slowly flows outwards, like a muscle cramp that has finally found relief through a massage. His coffee dwindles and is abandoned on the table. His body lists. Drawn in like a magnet, Hitoshi’s cheek makes contact against the man’s shoulder as he slumps. He pulls his feet upwards to tuck them beneath himself, curling himself into Aizawa’s chest and releasing a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He tucks his hands underneath his armpits to keep himself from doing something foolish, like clutching at the man’s shirt.

His bones turn into wobbly gelatin, rendering his body limp and completely useless, but Aizawa stays as a stable foundation. The man never shifts, doesn’t inch away or push Hitoshi and his neediness away so he may actually enjoy the rest of the day in peace. His arm is still curled around Hitoshi as if coaxing him closer still, holding the teen against him without any reservations. As if this really is just the most natural progression of the evening.

And, of course, Aizawa continues his merciless spree: his hand lifts to traverse from Hitoshi’s shoulder to lightly pet his head instead. Aizawa’s palm is a soothing weight upon the side of his head, causing him to sink.

Traitorously, Hitoshi’s breath hitches.

Aizawa massages circles into Hitoshi’s scalp with his thumb. “Okay?” He asks.

His voice is pitched low, near a whisper and spoken into Hitoshi’s hair. A single word and small, but sheltering Hitoshi from everything that would do him harm.

Hitoshi builds courage. “Is this…” he tucks himself beneath Aizawa’s chin, heat coalescing in his face. “Uhm…weird?”

It’s gotta be. Everything about Hitoshi is wrong, so this must be too.

Aizawa continues holding him. “If you are uncomfortable, we can stop. This is on your terms. But know that neither Hizashi nor I ever have any objections in helping when you need a pick-me-up. We are always willing to provide you comfort when you need it.”

“But I’m sixteen. It’s—this is weird, right? That I…” ( need) “… want to. Huddle. With you, and Yamada. At sixteen.”

Huddle, yeah. That sounds just a smidgen better than cuddle or—gods forbid—snuggle. He still needs to preserve some scraps of his dignity.

His face is definitely dusted red as a certain shame blossoms like a tender bruise. He can count too many faces in his mind’s eye that would gladly sneer a disparaging laugh his way at the scene he creates currently.

Still, there exists no judgement in Aizawa’s tone. “The need for physical intimacy does not fade away as we age, it is a natural part of being human, with proven health benefits. It is not ‘weird,’ even if you’re sixteen. Or when you’re twenty, or sixty, there is no shame in seeking comfort.” Spoken as if it is a simple fact. Hitoshi feels Aizawa lowering his head, lips ghosting the teen’s forehead with his voice acting like a lit hearth. “And I am very honoured that you’ve come to trust me enough to help you, as is Hizashi, I can assure you. It is not something we take lightly. We know how important it is to you, and we will always gladly give you what you need. We care about you.” 

They've both said that. Multiple times now, it doesn't ever change nor is it ever uttered with any hint of exasperation, despite how many times they've had to repeat it: We care about you.

Hitoshi has enough deeply-rooted self-resentment that he can easily express enough irritation on the adults’ behalf, for the fact he needs the sentiment repeated over and over. 

(“You’re not my fucking dad!” Came Hitoshi’s irate exclamation. It practically echoed against the walls of the house and Hitoshi was completely heedless to their stupid ‘no yelling’ rule, because clearly the only way to effectively communicate with these self-righteous shitheads was to scream at them.

It’s just constant nagging upon nagging with these two idiots. ‘Are you sleeping well, are you eating enough, did you do your homework, do you need help with your homework, how was school, is anyone giving you trouble, you can tell us anything—’

The quiet born was not dissimilar to the silence created when the smoke clears after a bomb has detonated. They really shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, because Hitoshi is quite content in merging into the background and becoming one with the furniture, and yet they insisted. 

It’s comical, almost, how Aizawa placed his hands on his hips and glared straight into Hitoshi’s soul. Despite wearing hot pink sweatpants, his expression was still severe, with a palpable weight, feeling as though a mountain had suddenly materialized on Hitoshi’s shoulders.

“You’re right. I’m not your father.” Aizawa had grounded through his teeth. “I actually care about you.” 

It slapped away Hitoshi’s vehemence that had boiled over like an overflowing pot sizzling on a stovetop. Literally, Hitoshi felt the sting upon his cheek—or, rather, the still red bruise already streaked across his cheekbone twinged painfully at the man’s words as a rude reminder; the very reason the pair engaged in a verbal sparring in the first place, because Aizawa just couldn’t let things go. Hitoshi was in his final year in junior high, it didn’t matter. It just didn’t. He probably won’t see these schoolmates ever again so there’s no use springing up a racket and wasting everyone’s time. ‘Tell me who did this to you and I will deal with it,’ Aizawa had said, like he’s part of the fucking yakuza.

Hitoshi’s ire was quickly doused and the teen was reduced to simply goggling at the man like a complete imbecile. Gathering his senses, Hitoshi quickly turned on his heel and marched up the stairs to hide away in his room, like the coward he was.

Because Aizawa wasn’t lying, no matter how many times Hitoshi agonized over the words and tried to dissect out a flaw. Aizawa and Yamada cared, and it’s terrible, and it’s wonderful, and Hitoshi was so, so scared—because everything dies, even promises.

But—

When Hitoshi was nauseated with fever at school one day, Aizawa took time out of work to collect the teen from school. He actually answered his phone when the school called and stayed with Hitoshi at home instead of telling Hitoshi to stop being a baby. When Hitoshi accidentally cut himself with a kitchen knife while cutting onions one day, Yamada dressed his wound. He actually disinfected and wrapped the finger in gauze instead of rolling his eyes and telling Hitoshi to suck it up and stop being useless. 

When Hitoshi graduated middle school, Aizawa and Yamada both actually attended the graduation ceremony instead of leaving their seats empty. And Hitoshi could be convinced that it could maybe last.)

Hitoshi silently gnaws on his bottom lip. He turns inwards, pressing his face into Aizawa’s chest and focusing on the faint sound of the man’s heartbeat, like a lighthouse in the fog. He doesn’t understand how it is possible for both men to possess what is seemingly an endless amount of patience when it comes to Hitoshi and his ceaseless difficulties.

One of the world’s many mysteries. And as Hitoshi burrows into the man (not snuggling) and tentatively slips a hand outwards lay upon Aizawa’s chest in a loose fist, he decides he may just be selfish enough to reap its benefits.

Not for the first time, does Hitoshi casually wonder if he could actually be in a coma, with the last few years having all been an elaborate hallucination. Because that is the only way to make sense of how he could possibly be (not cuddling) with Eraserhead right now. 

No one else in 1-A gets to not cuddle with Aizawa, hah. Haha! Suck it losers, Hitoshi is the indisputable favourite.

He really must be hallucinating.

“… You really don’t mind?” Hitoshi eventually mumbles.

Aizawa’s voice reverberates through the teen’s body. “No. Never.”

“Even if I ask again if it’s okay? Not weird?”

“No, not weird.” Aizawa rumbles a soft chuckle. “You can ask a hundred times, Shinsou, and the answer will stay the same. Hizashi and I care about you. We always will.”

There’s honey in his chest, all warm and gooey and despicably sweet. 

But still attracting flies.

“Even if I become a Villain?” 

His voice is as small as he feels, thankful that his gaze is pointed to a random spot of the wall and that Aizawa’s face is completely absent from his sight. The ambiance of the TV sounds as if it comes from a totally different room, as Hitoshi focuses solely on how Aizawa’s hand never ceases stroking his hair.

“You won’t become a Villain.” Aizawa replies simply.

“Humour me. Let’s put our thinking caps on.”

Aizawa hums in thought. “Then Hizashi would have to drag you back to your senses, because I would retire from Hero work, as I wouldn’t be able to fight you.” That—creates something very sharp to fissure Hitoshi’s chest apart, oh. Aizawa continues. “Hizashi though. He’d give you a good, long scolding on live television and make your sorry ass see the error of your ways. Pull you by your ear all the way back home.” 

He’s just saying that, is the logical explanation. It’s scary how easy Hitoshi can imagine an irate Yamada seething out a simple ‘Shinsou Hitoshi’ and instantly annihilating ‘Puppet Master’ in one fell swoop. 

‘Home,’ though. It's nice. It’s just…

(Warmth in winter, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in the morning, a room of his own, four cats, consistent meals, classmates he can safely call friends, two adults who never gave up on him, finally having parents who care —)

…Really, really nice.

So nice, in fact, that Hitoshi finds himself blinking in rapid succession to dispel some stubborn dust.

And if this is home, and if they care, then:

“Is it—” words clog in his throat, as if they’re too big to leave his mouth. “—Do you wanna… Uhm. You can call me Hitoshi. If you want.”

He feels like such a hypocrite. Because it was he who turned his nose up to staunchly declare that he wasn’t going to change his name nor did he want them using his given name. He had pulled his lips back to bare teeth and asserted that being referred to as their son was out of the question. It should’ve been then and there the pair realized that Hitoshi was an exhausting runt, because he had decided he refused to be their doll and thought replacing his family name would be a disgrace, but they just—agreed. 

Hitoshi could slap his younger self. Could throttle him. What did ‘Shinsou’ ever represent other than a pair of parents who regretted his entire existence and wish he was never born? 

“Hitoshi. Of course.” Aizawa’s voice is a summer breeze, a roof over his head and food in his belly, home, home, home. “Does this mean you like me more than Hizashi?”

Hitoshi utters a feeble laugh; it comes out suspiciously wet. He can feel Aizawa’s smile. “Learn how to make pancakes as good as his, then we’ll talk.” He quickly scrubs a hand over his face.  “He can call me Hitoshi too.”

He’s floating. He has the sun shining beneath his skin and Hitoshi’s going to melt into a puddle.

Aizawa hums. “A forewarning, although I know you don’t need it: he is definitely going to cry about it.”

Yamada might not be the only one.

(“Aizawa-sensei uses binding cloth, Shinsou uses binding cloth,” Kaminari mused too casually in a whisper, balancing his pencil between his top lip and nose. “Aizawa-sensei has a mental quirk, Shinsou has a mental quirk. Aizawa-sensei looks like he hasn’t slept in ages, and Shinsou also has eyebags for days!”

Hitoshi blinked at the blond from where he sat, he and the ‘squad’ all congregated in the library with the intent of studying. Kirishima had been the one to merrily invite Hitoshi for the excursion, all but challenging the purple haired teen to a ‘brain workout battle.’ And Hitoshi, who had already been headed to the library and drudged his grades into being slightly above average, decided there wasn’t harm in tagging along. It’s always dinner and a show, with these chucklefucks.

The ‘brain workout’ seemed to prove a futile effort however, since Ashido has been making paper airplanes while Kirishima has been staring at the same sentence in his textbook for the past ten minutes. Sero left to find a book amongst the shelves and has seemingly gotten lost. Kaminari was Kaminari. It was already a foregone conclusion that Bakugou would earn high grades without even trying and yet he still sat with them, even if it appeared to cause him physical pain when he was referred to as the squad’s tutor.

Kaminari leaned in closer with a raised brow. “What do you have to say regarding this evidence, Shinsou?”

Kaminari’s keen expression was quickly squashed when Bakugou threw his textbook at the other boy’s face with devastating precision. The explosive blond then emitted a low and caustic growl to Kaminari that superficial similarities between Sensei and Eggplant won’t be on his make-up test he’s supposed to be studying for. Flourished with much colourful language sprinkled in-between, of course.

It was the current gossip of the week for 1-A to wag their tongues about: Hitoshi and Aizawa, and what curious familiarity and similarities they share. Thanks, Todoroki.

Not that Hitoshi was going to make it easy for them. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you could possibly be alluding to.” He responded flatly. 

One of Ashido’s paper airplanes took flight and poked the side of his head. “It’s gotta be super weird having your dad—” she deliberately emphasized the word, waggling her eyebrows, “—also be your teacher. I wouldn’t be able to survive that! Probably quizzes you at home doesn’t he? Ack! The horror! I get shivers just thinking about it!”

It was only the combined years of learning how to keep his expression blank—both self taught and coached by Aizawa—that Hitoshi did not visibly react at Aizawa being so nonchalantly referred to as such.

And—it’s—well. It’s not, it’s not really wrong, was the thing. Aizawa was Hitoshi’s legal guardian, as is Yamada. That’s—yeah. Aizawa is. That word. There’s a strong argument for that.

Something very important has fried somewhere in his brain. Because he might want that; to be known as their… their…

No, he definitely wanted that. But Ashido and Kaminari were the self-designated class clowns, there couldn’t be any playful sincerity if they knew, because the whole subject is only a joke to them.  

Because the whole idea was so absurd it's laughable. That Aizawa and Yamada lowered themselves to pick up another person’s… trash. That Hitoshi wasn’t living with his—real parents, because he failed as their son.

Oh. Would it be sympathy or disgust to bloom on their faces if they were made aware? How differently would they view him? Accuse favouritism, even nepotism? 

Kirishima saved him: he asked his ‘Bakubro’ what he was doing over the weekend and Bakugou looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel telling his stooges how they were all destined for failure if they couldn’t handle a measly study session.)

Maybe Hitoshi’s already ruined it. Had it set in stone with his complete idiocy, believing he could honour his birth parents by slamming the door in Aizawa and Yamada’s faces from the very start: that he didn’t even entertain the mere thought of being their… son.

If they both just think of him as their high-maintenance roommate, Hitoshi might just throw up. He desperately needs to rebuild that bridge he burned like a moron.

It’s a long moment wherein Hitoshi listens to Aizawa’s heartbeat before he speaks again, mumbling against the man. “M’sorry that I was a dick to you an’Yamada a lot.”

Aizawa strokes his hair, anchoring him to the now. He says, “Neither Zashi nor I hold any ill will, Hitoshi. You know we would never hold that against you. And we were not perfect either, there were definitely many things he and I could've done better ourselves. It was a very sudden upheaval to your life and the transition should have been smoother, and for that I am sorry.”

Hitoshi really likes that about Aizawa and Yamada. That they’re adults who apologize. Even if at this moment it isn’t actually necessary.

Aizawa continues. “And I would be remiss if I didn’t highlight that your upbringing was not, and many would argue still isn’t, typical. You've faced more hardships than you ever should have at your age. It was natural, and expected, that you’d lash out or have difficulties settling in. But let’s also not forget that pushing boundaries and skirting with disobedience is simply just a normal part of being a terrible, terrible teenager. Zashi and I have zero regrets when it comes to bringing you home. We care about you, Hitoshi.”

We care about you, we care about you, we care about you. Hitoshi wants the phrase to repeat in his head for eternity. He wonders if they’d be willing to replace ‘care’ with another four letter word, one that starts with L.

(It was ‘their’ spot.

A quiet, secluded clearing within UA’s woods that possessed a tranquil pond fed by a trickling stream that acted as the perfect sanctuary for tadpoles to flourish.

Predictably, it was Tsu who showed Hitoshi refuge one day. And so it was routine to retreat there every so often during the lunch period to enjoy their food, especially if the two ‘squads’ were being particularly overburdensome.

Hitoshi had finished his fried chicken—courtesy of Yamada—when Tsu spoke up from where she was couched at the edge of the pond and counting the tadpoles.

“Ribbit. I think if we were to combine Aizawa-sensei and Mic-sensei together the result would be you, Toshi-chan.” She turned her head to give him a pleasant grin, pointer finger held to her cheek. “You got that dead eyed look that Aizawa-sensei has and you described something as ‘groovy’ in English once, which can’t be anything else other than Mic-sensei’s influence.”

Well, when she put it that way…

It’s a weird sensation that sprouts right in the centre of his chest, something that sets him to sit taller and raise his chin. He imagined this was what pride must have felt like.

“Are you trying to imply something?” He asked flatly, raising a brow.

“Just that you shouldn’t be surprised if everyone else decides to drag this whole thing for at least another week.” Tsu raised herself to a stand before dusting her skirt, and hopped her way to sit beside him. “Especially considering you tend to never outright deny it, ribbit. If you need help stringing people along, you know where to find me.”

She winked. Hitoshi will lie when he needs to. He has no reservations on the subject. But a disquiet unfurled like a molting spider at the thought of this whole back and forth simply existing as nothing more than a joke. A sour taste welled between his teeth.

“They’re not my biological parents.” Hitoshi picked at his pant leg.

That gave Tsu pause. She tilted her head. “Funny you had to specify the ‘biological’ part, ribbit.”

It’s imbued into his skin just like his scars: confident and loud declarations that he is unlovable, broken and can never be good enough, when his peers found a new wound to gnaw upon in the realization he lived in a children's home. That his parents were right to throw him away, their biggest mistake, because no one in their right mind would ever want him.

Tsu has a big family. She’s shown him the photos; bright smiles and family vacations and creating a deep chasm in Hitoshi’s chest.

She’s a good—friend. Yeah. A friend. He needed her to understand.

“I’m, uh, adopted?” Hitoshi stumbled over his words, bringing a hand upwards to rub at the back of his neck. 

The utterance, more so a confession, was done without an ounce of grace. The words were foreign upon his tongue, because he belatedly realized he had never actually verbalized it. Adopted, since he was thirteen, but kept hidden, like it was some secret shame. Guilt germinated between the gaps of his ribs like weeds growing in the pavement, because recognizing that fact felt as though he spat directly in Aizawa and Yamada’s faces. Why was he always screwing everything up?

She blinked at him. “Why did you phrase that like a question? Are you not sure?”

“... It’s kinda complicated, I guess.”

Well, legally it’s pretty cut and dry. He’s their ward, they’re his guardians. He lived with them. He was something they overcommitted to because they were starry-eyed and maybe even a little naïve at that, and it’s far too late to return him now. They’re stuck with a kid that can’t even build the courage to call them his parents.

“Isn't it literally either you are adopted, or you aren’t?” Tsu remarked flatly. “I think you might be overcomplicating things for yourself, Toshi-chan. Ribbit.”

“It’s not that easy and—You really don’t have anything to say about that? That I’m adopted?”

That he was thrown away, that he was unwanted, that there couldn’t ever be a possibility of Aizawa or Yamada feeling the same affection with him as they would an actual child of theirs—

“You haven’t really confirmed it yet.” Tsu stared at him without expression.

Pause. Deep breath. “Yes. I'm adopted. They took me in when I was in middle school.”

This would be a lot easier if he was whisked away as an infant. Then they could have… properly bonded.

Hitoshi has to quickly bar away the thought, because he was rudely reminded that both Aizawa and Yamada were fifteen when he was born, and that’s a whole separate can of worms he doesn’t have the stomach for at the moment.

“Aizawa-sensei and Mic-sensei?” Tsu asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh. So they really are together?”

“Married.”

“Good for them. And good for you.” She smiled. “I’m happy for you, Toshi-chan. That's nice.”

Hitoshi stared. “Nice.” He parrotted monotonously. That’s nice.

“Yeah. I mean, Aizawa-sensei can be a little scary in class but it's pretty obvious he cares for us all, so even if he’s strict at home I don’t see him being too much of a tyrant. And being around Mic-sensei has clearly given you a good sense of fashion.” She tapped her chin as she looked skyward, as if contemplating. When she resumed eye contact, concern suddenly enveloped her face. “Isn't it nice?”

She doesn’t even question it. If Hitoshi had ever dared announce he was adopted by the likes of fucking Present Mic in junior high, he would have been strung up by his damn underwear. Or thrown into a dumpster again, just like when he was eleven and his peers found out he wasn’t living with his parents anymore, but this time with a plastic bag tied over his head.

“They’re not my real parents.” Hitoshi said numbly. “I haven’t even spoken to my real parents in literal years. I used to—I used to live in a children’s home for, for years. You don’t think that’s weird?”

Tsu frowned. She hardly hesitated before she answered. “Ribbit. No. I think that’s sad. That sounds awful, Toshi-chan. Some people shouldn’t be parents. I’m really sorry you got stuck with birth parents that were terrible. But I’m really happy you found a family despite it.” A small smile had developed but quickly twitched. “Uh, please tell me they’re good to you, Toshi-chan.”

“... They’ve never called me their son.” At the pinching of her brow, Hitoshi quickly rushed to elaborate. “Not—not that I blame them. I was the one who told them not to, but, I…  they’re great. They’re really, really great and I want to. I want to call them d-dad, but it’s already been over two years now. I was a real pain in the ass the first year they had me and, and, and—what if they regret it?”

He might’ve been on the precipice of ripping his hair out. Why did Todoroki have to announce his stupid conspiracy-but-not-really-a-conspiracy theory to the whole class? He had to have planned it, because his captive audience were stuck on a bus when he asked, set to be taken to field training with Aizawa having stepped out for just a moment. But Todoroki only needed a single, measly moment to plant the seeds of chaos. What an asshole.

A single monotonous question asked by a blockhead in a bus, and suddenly the existential crisis Hitoshi had been meticulously burying rose to the surface and ate him whole.

“Toshi-chan, have you tried sitting them down and actually talking to them about this?” Tsu’s voice reeled Hitoshi back into his body, because her tone was plain and flat like what she said was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t think either of them are mind-readers, and you’re going to overthink yourself into developing a stomach ulcer at this rate. Ribbit.”

Hitoshi did not disparage her. He enjoyed her company too much to sully what they had together to snap at her that she didn’t understand. Instead, he hunched in on himself and folded his arms to grab the opposite elbow in a mock embrace, as he turned his gaze downward to the forest floor.

“But what if it’s too late now?” He mumbled to his feet, thinking of a bed, warm meals, four cats and a pair of adults who committed to taking full guardianship of him after only a month when all Hitoshi did was hide in his room.

Hitoshi jolted slightly when a finger poked his cheek, blinking at the girl who wore an aloof expression beside him. 

“Have you ever noticed that Mic-sensei doesn’t call anyone else ‘my little listener’ except you?”

Bewilderment encompassed his whole body. He stared uncomprehendingly before sputtering.

“What?” He felt his brows pinch. “He calls everyone that.” 

Tsu rolled her eyes. “No, Toshi-chan, he calls you his. I was stressing the ‘my’ part. Ribbit.” She poked him again, this time his forehead. “He calls everyone else just ‘little listeners.’ But you’re his little listener. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Did it?

… Maybe.

“Oh.” He uttered in a daze. “I guess… No, I didn’t notice that. Somehow.”

“If it's any consolation, I don’t think anyone else really noticed either. Except maybe Midoriya. But he’s weird like that. Ribbit.” She patted his head, smiling cheekily as she leaned closer. “And that’s not even mentioning how Aizawa-sensei didn’t expel you on the spot when you forgot the ‘sensei’ when speaking to him that one time.”

Heat quickly snaked up his shoulders and blazed across his face at the memory. “Ugh, don’t remind me of that.”

Hitoshi scrubbed his face with a hand to dispel the image of Aizawa blankly staring at him as the class suddenly appeared to be collectively holding their breath, as the man flatly asked if Hitoshi was ‘forgetting something.’ Ugh. The worst part was that it took Hitoshi a moment to understand what Aizawa was even implying, causing the teen to quickly scramble when his brain finally rubbed a pair of neurons together and understood. Uuugh! 

Way to ruin the moment. He gave a half-hearted glare that Tsu snickered at in response.

“They’re respecting a boundary you put in place.” She said simply, nodding sagely. “You want them to be your dads. But the problem here is that you’ve forgotten that they’re already your dads. You’re such an airhead sometimes, ribbit.”

Hitoshi huffed an amused breath. He rubbed his face again, clearing his cluttered thoughts and maybe also wiping away some abrupt moistness welling at the corner of his eyes. He looked skywards, peeking through the tree branches and letting the sunlight thaw away the stubborn tension held in his shoulders as he let out a long breath.

His lips quirked upwards in a small smile as he turned to face his companion. “Thanks, Tsu. Where would I be without you?”

“Wallowing, most likely. This session’s free, but next time I’m charging by the hour, ribbit.” 

That’s fair, Hitoshi thought as he ducked his head to hide his snicker.

But Tsu’s a menace in her own right, because then she mused casually: “I wonder how long it will take for you to call either of them ‘dad’ during class.”

Hitoshi turned red.

“Don’t speak that into existence, Tsu!”)

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. 

Of course, since he is laying upon Aizawa’s chest and peacefully listening to the man’s heartbeat with a body relaxed and gooey enough he could even be pulled into a nap, is when certain thoughts and memories slither their way to him. His memory has him wade through dark and murky waters, treading through the gloom until his head is submerged and his breath is stolen from him. In the bleak, pitch-black tumult, images take shape, like a shark that has been circling him finally striking.

Listening to a lecture and taking notes before an alarm sounds; lockdown, the classroom enacting steel curtains and turning into a bunker; his face blank and appearing unbothered but heartbeat rattling against his sternum, feeling as through his bones nearly break; ‘Villain attack, USJ, Heroes and law enforcement inbound, remain calm, remain calm,’ feeling light-headed with that day’s breakfast curdling in his stomach at the recollection that, that, that Aizawa was teaching there—

Eventually, the school was evacuated. Someone else piloted his body when he overheard scattered back-and-forths through the sea of bodies of a possible fatality, a faculty member, a teacher.

“—The body was unrecognizable—”

“—a bloodbath, I hear—”

“—he was torn apart! I think there’s still pieces of him missing —”

When Hitoshi first visited Aizawa in the hospital, the man covered head-to-toe in gauze and hooked to an innumerable amount of tubes and machinery without the ability to hear or see or do anything but lay like a corpse… Hitoshi felt resentment. Ugly, gnarled hatred, something murderous, and mostly directed at class 1-A, the closest and most tangible subject to point his molten ire because they’re the reason Aizawa almost died, that Aizawa still laid dying.

It was only Aizawa’s phantom voice reminding him not to be irrational that calmed Hitoshi’s misplaced malignancy.

When Aizawa regained consciousness from a two week long coma, Hitoshi and Yamada could only communicate by tapping lightly on the man’s shoulder, employing morse code, Aizawa’s senses still all but ruined with mixed assurances of recovery. Hitoshi remembers too clearly the apologetic explanations of the possibility of permanent brain and body damage as Aizawa could do nothing but groan lowly around the endotracheal intubation. 

Of course, Aizawa survived. Remarkably, at that, the miracle of modern medicine and healing quirks and a blessing from a god or two. He regained his sight and hearing and speech in slow increments, leaving only a crescent scar underneath an eye to the outside observer. 

But they do not see when Aizawa cannot rise from the bed because he’s a prisoner of a body that remembers too much, when he needs assistance in order to eat and bathe and walk, or how his quirk has been permanently affected, and the weight thereof.

(They do not see the nightmares, shared by all three.)

Aizawa’s heartbeat still sings. Hitoshi counts, listening intently and letting the sound wash over his body in a shroud of calm. He is alive. Aizawa is alive. He nearly died. Hitoshi almost never got to call him dad.

Hitoshi’s breath hitches, with his throat suddenly grown tight like someone’s heel grinds down on his trachea. 

“Hey,” comes the soft voice of Aizawa above him, his breath wafting against the teen’s forehead. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

A beaten, broken body with a growing pool of crimson blanketing the concrete below. Pale skin turned dark with a grisly medley of bruises, flesh torn from the inside and out, no longer able to contain the broken pulp of his innards that spill outwards. An eye popped from its socket, vision glazed over and unseeing as he lay unmoving with no breaths.

He swallows it all down. It goes down like a ball of thorns, a physically painful act. Hitoshi’s vision blurs at the corners, prompting the teen to use his wrist to scrub clean his face.

He still sees it. Aizawa’s corpse. Sometimes Yamada, sometimes both, gnarled and twisted and impossible to discern where one body starts and the other ends.

“Hey.” Aizawa coaxes again, the undercurrent of concern carrying his voice as the man shifts slightly where he sits, one hand still resting upon Hitoshi’s head and the other moving to rub the length of the boy’s arm soothingly. “Can you lift your head and look at me? Tell me what’s wrong, Hitoshi.”

He’s alive. And just as Aizawa stood unflinching in the face of death to protect his class against a veritable army of Villains, Hitoshi finds courage.

Because this is home, this is safety and peace and permanency that his birth parents never cared nor made the effort to provide. They shared blood but they were never his real parents, merely genetic donors, because the two men who brought him home care if he’s eating enough, they care if he has difficulties with schoolwork, they care if his peers are being unfair to him, they care if he needs reassurance, they care. They really, really care. Aizawa and Yamada care enough to earn the title of dad.

(Once, Hitoshi feebly attempted to mimic what he saw shared at a park between a man and his child. He used Brainwash to prompt his sperm donor into a hug, because the man wouldn’t have entertained the thought otherwise, but at that point shame regarding his quirk was already well instilled and his grasp on Brainwash was tenuous, and so it flickered out of his grasp. He was subsequently punched so hard in the stomach he threw up.) 

Tears do not stream from his face, but stars twinkle at the edges of his eyes as Hitoshi rises clumsily from the man’s chest. He falls, collapsing like a supernova as the curse of his parentage has its claws slip away from his flesh and Aizawa effortlessly catches him. Hitoshi tucks his face into the crook of the man’s neck, arms having all but flung around Aizawa’s shoulders in a desperate embrace with his body twisted in its seat and a hair away from migrating into the man’s lap.

Aizawa’s arms encircle Hitoshi’s body without an ounce of hesitation. The teen’s body slots easily against the man, Aizawa’s hold resolute and creating a shelter in which nothing could ever harm Hitoshi.

Aizawa has a hand cradling the back of Hitoshi’s head with the other moving to trail up and down the boy’s back in a comforting rhythm, melting away the world around them and assuring that even if he is small, Hitoshi is safe.

“I’ve got you, kid.” Aizawa promises.

Yes. This is home.

He inhales a shaky breath through his mouth, vision distorted through a wall of ready tears as all his burdens are lifted from his back

“I’m really glad—” he pieces together with a voice that trembles just as his body does, but no shame nor fear resides within. “…t-that you’re my dad.”

Something wet trails silently down his cheek to drop from his chin, but Hitoshi pays no heed. He feels whole.

“And I am very fortunate,” Aizawa’s voice embraces Hitoshi just as securely as the man’s arms do. “Just as I am so proud, to have you as my son.”

There's little else that can be done other than have the tears breach over and trickle down his cheeks, joy setting him to glow.

Yeah. Yeah, Aizawa’s his dad. Yamada’s his dad. He has two dads. He’s their son. 

Hitoshi’s lips break into a grin. It’s bright and warm, the feeling that flows through his body and pours outwards. Undiluted contentment, bliss, even, bringing him to release short, airy (and wet) giggles.

Hitoshi nuzzles his face into Aizawa’s shoulder. His dad. His dad who strokes his back and pets his hair and continues to hold him.

Holy shit. He’s adopted by Eraserhead and Present Mic. Only took him like two and a half years for it to get through his thick skull. Dad and dad. Aizawa can be ‘oyagi’ and Yamada can be ‘otousan.’ The thought of which instantly springs forth another series of childish giggling that at any other time Hitoshi would have forcefully swallowed, but he has dads. Two of them!

He thinks he could be ready to change his family name. The thought of taking either Aizawa’s or Yamada’s name or combining the kanji to spell something new no longer feels daunting, like staring into the maw of a monster. It feels right. But in due time; there still exists a part of him that needs time to properly mourn his life before. 

It’s a moment. A good, long moment. His sniffles sound through the air intermittently as his eyes eventually clear, body further loosening as a certain fatigue makes itself known to him. His eyelids are weighed down and are an effort to open as his energy is seeped from him. While Hitoshi is certain in the knowledge Aizawa would allow him to nap where he lies, the boy eventually moves.

A monumental effort he should be applauded for. He sags out of Aizawa’s hold to drop to the space next to him as before, head slumped onto the couch’s backrest as Hitoshi makes quick work at the residual clamminess of his face.

Hitoshi stares at the ceiling. He lets out a long breath. He might be floating on a cloud. He turns his head to look at the man seated next to him.

Aizawa calmly watches. There’s a pleased and undeniably fond look on his face.

“Ugh,” Hitoshi coughs, phlegm still stuck in his throat. He sighs. “I should’ve done that when Yamada was home. No way I have the emotional energy to do that again.”

But he will, obviously. Even if Yamada does something mortifying like picking him up in a hug and twirling, it will be done.

“I’m surrounded by crybabies, with you two.” Aizawa muses, snaking his arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders again. “Call him dad when he comes home. He’ll trip over his own feet and fall flat on his face.”

Hitoshi gets to call them both dad, they’re both his dads. Otousan and oyagi. The smile he feels his lips twisted into might get stuck on his face.

“You should film it, for prosperity.” Hitoshi says, dropping his head to lean against the man’s shoulder. The TV is rolling the credits of the movie.

“He would like that.” Aizawa responds.

“He’d make a remix out of it and make a song.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t film, then.”

“No, it needs to be immortalized.” 

“For Hizashi, or for you?”

Hitoshi scoffs. “For historical record keeping, duh.”

“Of course. A momentous occasion should always be documented for future generations to experience.” 

Aizawa returns his hand to its rightful place: he ruffles Hitoshi’s hair. 

And the teen decides: it’s not so bad to snuggle, as he leans against Aizawa.

“I wanna decorate my room.” 

There’s a pretty cool Godzilla poster he spotted recently. It’s always good to appreciate one’s cultural heritage, after all.

Aizawa hums, changing the channel to settle on an animated movie about anthropomorphic American gangster cats. “And it’s yours to decorate, son.”

Oh yeah, it’s great to snuggle, actually.

Right on time, the front door opens.

“Honeeeey, I’m hoooome,” Yamada sings in English from the entryway, quickly shedding himself from his boots and coat as he treads inwards to the living room holding a small floral gift bag. He stops only to bend down and greet a cat that rubs against his leg. When he raises back to a stand, he quirks an eyebrow upwards. “Hello my beautiful husband. Why are you filming?”

Aizawa grins with teeth from where he still sat on the couch, facing Yamada from over the backrest with his phone pointed in the man’s direction. “Hitoshi has something to tell you.”

Hitoshi feels his eye twitch and face flush suddenly from where he is in the kitchen depositing their mugs into the sink. This is sabotage.

He walks into the living room, stopping to place his hands on his hips and leveling Aizawa with an unimpressed glare. The man, of course, merely gives an unapologetic smile in response.

Meanwhile, Yamada’s breath hitches at his husband using Hitoshi’s given name. Comically, the man has raised a hand to clutch at his chest. When he speaks next, his voice is pitched higher than it normally is. “Oh, does he now? And what might that be, my wonderful little listener?”

Gods, Yamada’s face is so—

He’s so mushy. Wobbly smile and eyes already twinkling. 

Hitoshi must look away, or else he will be blinded. He huffs at Aizawa, who is still gleefully filming the scene.

“Ugh, you’re ruining it! That’s not candid camera!”

“Well, you better tell him or else I will, kid.”

“I can’t do it now, it’s not a… surprise anymore.” 

He rubs the back of his neck instinctively, a defense mechanism against how hot he feels his cheeks becoming.

“Considering how I don’t know what it is, it’s still by definition a surprise.” Yamada chirps, practically bouncing on his heels.

Hitoshi wrinkles his nose. “No, you know it's being filmed so that… That ruins the integrity of this whole thing!” 

Yamada snorts. “How about I go back outside and we start over, eh?”

“Zashi,” Aizawa interjects casually. “While I was writing an email—”

“Stop it.” Hitoshi clenches his fists by his sides.

“Hitoshi came down and made me a,” he drops into English,“ ‘cup o’ joe,’ as you would say—”

“You’re so embarrassing. Why are you like this?”

“And decided he needed a cuddle—”

Hitoshi turns to Yamada, who has been watching the exchange like it's a tennis match. “Tell him to shut up.”

Yamada releases a series of snickers. “This is an excellent song-and-dance you two have got going on, how about I throw down my chorus? Since Hitoshi needs a lil’ hyping up before he can do his solo, yeah?” Hitoshi automatically smiles at the usage of his given name. Yamada continues, gesturing at Aizawa. “Be a dear and keep the camera rolling Shou-chan, our little listener ain’t the only one with a surprise.”

Yamada trots forward, bestowing Hitoshi the gift bag he was holding that the teen completely forgot even existed. 

“Ta-da,” Yamada gives an exaggerated bow and a twirl of the wrist once Hitoshi has it in his hands. “For you, my darling.”

It’s very rectangular, whatever it is. He gingerly slips his hand inwards to raise the gift from the bag, blinking at the offering.

It’s… 

The third installment of the book series he’s been reading. 

“This is—” Hitoshi sputtered, looking at Yamada and then to the book in quick succession. “Where’d you get this? It’s only supposed to be released next month! And… full Japanese translation? What? Who did you kill to get this?”

“No killing here. Just friendship! In high places.” Yamada puffs out his chest, suddenly very reminiscent of a peacock. 

The online book club Hitoshi is a part of is going to be so mad he got an early copy. He cannot wait to rub it in their faces. He foresees many sleepless nights spent reading in his near future.

“I… thank you.” Hitoshi almost gives a ninety-degree bow—seriously, the last book left off on such a serious cliffhanger!—but settles for smiling warmly at Yamada instead, and the man returns it.

Hitoshi turns to level a still-filming Aizawa with a point, snarking: “See, old man? This is why Yamada is my favourite dad between the two of you.”

The reaction is silent.

So much so, Hitoshi turns in bewilderment at the lack of immediate danger to his eardrums.

Yamada is blinking rapidly, a smile stuck on his face as his gaze turns faraway.

“... Oh. Oh my. Straight to the heart with that one.” The man says airily, his hand placed against his chest right where his heart sits. “Haha. Aaah. I am going to faint now.”

Yamada leans back, falling. 

But because his husband and his son are quick thinkers and both trained in first aid, his head never bangs on any hard surface.