Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hitoshi has barely hanging on to life by a thread in the past week, constantly jumpy and tired and afraid, so scared.

Sleep never comes easy, and he ends up spending the nights lying awake on his bed, glancing around the room with bullet eyes, scanning the area for threats, trying to find what exactly has been staring at him for so long, hidden in the dark.

Hizashi and Shouta notice how little he eats and how suspicious the boy seems as he carefully munches on his food, in silence. But they don’t talk to him about it, they know they’d do more harm than good.

They’re fully aware that Hitoshi's having a bad week, plagued by nightmares and anxiety, constantly on edge. They see it in their classes, at home, during family hangoutsー how Hitoshi’s always clawing at his wrists, scratching them, pulling at his fingers or tormenting his hair. 

His fathers stop him when it gets too much for his own wellbeing, but it’s never a sudden, direct gesture, no. A hand casually rests on his shoulder, or pats his head, or they call him and point out something that might take the boy’s mind off whatever he’s thinking about, whatever he’s remembering.

Deep down, he’s grateful.

Hitoshi knows that his parents only want what’s best for him, and care for him like nobody has ever done before. But, he can’t help but feel somewhat paranoid due to their eyes always on him, prying and scrutinizing, analyzing his behaviour, watching his every little move as if he were someone not to be trusted.

Eri is, to say the least, a blessing. Her smiles and gentle touches and little gifts that come in the form of drawings or flower-crowns are a breath of fresh air, something that never fails to drag him out the dark place he unwillingly goes to, more often than not.

Until now. 

They’re all sitting at dinner, when Shouta clears his throat, making Hitoshi glance up from his still full plate. He knows his fathers are going to ask him something. He knows he can’t lie, but he should.

“Hitoshi, are you okay?” Shouta asks, nonchalantly, so that Eri won’t notice the tension. She does, anyway, but Hizashi easily distracts her in a moment.

The boy nods, curt. “Yeah.”

He holds the spoon in a death clutch, trying to block out the noise of the dishwasher humming in the background, of Hizashi and Eri’s chucklesー they’re not directed at him, he’s fine, they’re not laughing at him.

Hitoshi’s chest tightens, breath short. The need to run away and lock himself in his bedroom is strong, so strong, but if he does that now, they’re going to know.

And he can’t let them know.

Because he knows that there's no need to be alarmed. He's fine.

But he isn't.

Shouta hums, unconvinced. “You haven’t been sleeping well. Or eating. Are you sure you’re fine? It’s okay if you’re not. Just talk to us.”

“I’m okay.” Hitoshi’s voice is barely a whisper now, and he wants to slam his head against the wall and curse his stupidity.

He can’t fool them, he can’t fool anyone. He’s just a kid, just a little kid with no talent, with no future, with no hope.

“Have you been taking your meds?” Shouta asks, still eating, making sure that Hizashi’s got distracting Eri covered.

He does.

The teen’s heart leaps in his chest, and he nods. He’s not lying, he’s been taking his meds daily, following the prescription, but they’re not working because he’s too broken, too broken. However, he can’t say that. It’s a waste, it’s always been a waste to care for him. 

The amount of money his fathers have spent on therapy and sleeping pills and anti-anxiety meds is not something he’ll ever be able to pay back, and he doesn’t have the heart, nor the courage, to tell them that nothing works right anymore. It never has, probably.

Maybe it’s always been more about the placebo effect, maybe his fathers have fed him placebo pills all along. Maybe Hizashi and Shouta hate him because they know that he’s been faking it, that he’s been capable of achieving peace of mind on his own all along without those expensive meds and doctors.

He's a waste.

“A waste of money and space, that's what you are!! A fuckingー villain!! You pathetic excuse for a child!! Go fucking starve and die if you despise our efforts to feed you so much!!”

“-oshi, kid, maybe you should go to bed. I can come with and stay until you fall asleep.” Shouta says, concern edging in his voice.

“If you’re not hungry now, don’t force yourself. We’ll get you some tea and cookies later, if you want.”

Hitoshi shakes his head, eyes unblinking as he stares at the hand holding the spoon.

No.

He’s not falling for that. He’s not falling for that again.

“Eat your fucking food, now!! It took me time to cook for you, and you repay me by not eating what I've made!? Do you think that the food on your plate just magically appears there!? You fuckingー”

Hitoshi shakes his head, imperceptible. He eats what’s on his plate without a word, cheeks bulging with each bite. The grip on the spoon is shaky but secure, he’s not going to drop it, he’s not going to make a mess.

“What are you, someー some kind of anorexic bitch, or whatever!? You aren't going to become any prettier if you starve yourself, so eat!!” 

There's hands on him, pry his mouth open and shove the food inside with bare hands, fingers violent and going deep, they make him gagー 

“-shi, Hitoshi, stop. Baby, put the spoon down, come on. Let's get you to bed, you're tired.” 

It's Hizashi to say so. He thinks it is. He's not sure. Hitoshi shakes his head.

Slowly, the curry disappears from his plate and into his mouth, and he gulps it down, choking on it, and choking on air.

He won't let the food go to waste. They worked hard to feed him, he can't let it go to waste.

The air feels so stale, and he can’t breathe. The food settles heavily in his stomach, but it’s fine, he’s fine. 

The food tastes like blood by the time he gulps it down, when the fingers leave his mouth at once.

Until they're back, shoving more food down his throat, forcing him to ingurgitate his own bile that rises from his stomach, along with the food that is being forced down his esophagus.

“See, wasn't so hard!! I didn't raise a pussy, so stop acting so fucking dramatic all the time.” 

He lets out a stifeld gag.

Now, Hizashi is staring at him behind the spectacles, while Shouta’s talking to Eri about something he’s not focused enough to understand. Hitoshi lifts his head and offers a tiny, fake smile.

Hizashi can see right through him, and they both know so.

The boy feels like he’s going to hurl.

Soon enough, dinner’s over, and before Shouta can convince him to go to bed, Hitoshi’s gathering the cutlery and dishes, placing them into the sink as he grabs a sponge.

If he manages to distract himself, to tire himself out long enough to nod off, maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to rest for a while.

It’s barely eight, and he’s painfully aware that he won’t be able to shut down until three, at least.

Still, he’s worked out and studied earlier today, and he feels dizzy and shaky as it is, so maybe he’ll be granted the mercy to fall asleep early enough to catch maybe four hours of sleep before school.

Four hours...

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s got that many hours of sleep in a row, without waking up gasping and panting and screaming and thrashing. It’s been so long.

“...sure you got this, baby? I can do the dishes, if you need to sleep. You do, as a matter of fact.” 

That’s Hizashi speaking. Hitoshi can’t recognize the voice at the moment, but he’s the only one that calls him ‘baby’, so it must be him. He shakes his head, not turning around as he scrubs a spoon clean.

“Okay, we’ll be in our room, then. If you’re tired at any moment, just tell us and we’ll finish here. At any moment.” Shouta says, “And come to us if you need help.”

Hitoshi nods, “Okay. Thank you. Goodnight.”

It almost sounds mechanical, unauthentic. Like a script he’s been forced to learn and recite over and over for years. 

The adults hesitate behind him, he can feel them standing still. He needs to be more convincing, he can't cause so many problems all the time, he can’t bother the adults.

A shaky inhale that he hopes they won’t hear, and then he adds the tiniest ‘Love you’ he’s ever uttered. 

“We love you, too.” they say in unison, and leave after another dense moment. 

And, had he been just a tiny bit more tired, he probably would have kicked Eri in fear and shock as she latches onto his leg pant, big ruby eyes shining and looking up at him.

“Are you sad?” she asks, naive.

Hitoshi is willing to die to protect his sister, but right now, he wishes she would just be quiet and leave him alone. 

The boy shakes his head, hoping to be convincing enough to fool a six year-old. 

He doesn’t want to deal with her right now. He doesn’t want to deal with anybody. 

He feels like shit for even feeling like that towards the people who care for him, but he can’t, he doesn’t have the strength and God, oh God, he can’t, he can’t do this now, he’s too tired, he’s too afraid to harm her, to be bad.

Eventually, Eri’s grip loosens and she trots away, but she doesn't leave the kitchen just yet.

She’s got one knee on the chair and the opposite foot on the floor, a tiny hand stretched up toward the table to grab a dirty glass and hand it to her brother.

She wants to help, she wants to be a good kid.

Hitoshi knows this, too. 

But it’s exactly when he hears the sound of glass that shatters into a billion pieces, that his breath hitches, and his heart stops beating. 

Someone’s screaming and crying, maybe he is too, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t think so, he’s not sure it’s him. Hitoshi turns around, blind eyes scanning the room, and he calls a name that rolls awkwardly off his tongue. 

A small, scared voice says something that he doesn’t hear, and that’s when he breathes out the single word that has already saved him once, just barely, but it must work again, it has to, or he’s dead. 

Just like that, Eri walks into the living room with empty eyes, headed toward the couch. It’s his chance to run, to escape before they find him and rub his face against the shards again, like the last time.

They'll hold his bloodied face with rough hands and muzzle him again, letting the skin scar over the shards and incorporate them just like last time, won't they?

But his body won’t move. He’s stuck, deaf and blind, numb to the world. He slowly sinks to the floor, and waits.

It’s too late, anyway. They will get him in any case, at this point.

Hizashi’s making his way to the kitchen when he spots his daughter.

“Hey, my little listener, what happened? Dad heard some noise and sent me here to check.” the man chirps, smiling down at the kid,

“I mean, of course he did. I’d already taken my hearing aids off, couldn’t hear a thing.” he clarifies.

But she doesn’t even glance up at him, and that’s enough to set Hizashi on edge. He crouches in front of her, not quite touching Eri just yet, and his own eyes widen as he yells for Shouta to hurry up and come.

Shouta’s there less than ten seconds later, panting and paler than ever.

“Zashi!! What’s wrong?”

“Hitoshi, he’sー go help him.” 

The man with black hair glances at Eri for a split second, before he bolts to the kitchen, barely seeing Hizashi cradle Eri in his arms and head to her room. 

The sight is not pretty, but Shouta expected that, sadly.

Hitoshi’s eyes are wide and distant, pupils pinpoint, and his lips are slightly agape as he murmurs shapeless words into the void. He’s pressed into the corner of the kitchen, where the sink and the cooker form a ninety degree angle.

The handles of the drawers dig painfully into Hitoshi’s back and shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of that.

The boy’s curled up, knees pressed to his heaving chest, hands tugging and pulling at his hair, fistfuls of it already on the ground below him. He’s shivering and gasping like a fish out of water.

Shouta takes a deep breath, and lowers himself to the ground a few steps back, before he crawls on all fours toward his son. Dark hair hefts into the air, shiny red eyes staring at Hitoshi’s, and as he hears Eri sob in the distance, indicating that she’s back in control, Shouta immediately releases his hold on the boy’s quirk. 

He’s dealt with panicking children before.

Bakugou’s never been the same after the Kamino accidentー he despises the name. That was no accident, it was the direct consequence of every U.A. teacher’s negligence and incompetence, himself included. 

Todoroki has his fair share of panic attacks and dissociative episodes, and every day Shouta is reminded of how much he hates the system for not letting him beat Endeavour to a pulp without legal consequences.

And Kaminari, Kirishima, Iida, Midoriyaー all of his students constantly deal with that kind of problem, so Shouta’s no stranger to meltdowns, and he wishes that he could do more, he prays every night that, one day, he’ll be able to do more for these kids, for all the kids out there.

And yet, when it’s his own son who’s having a violent crisis, he feels frozen, terrified, incapable of even lifting a finger.

But he must.

Shouta takes a steadying breath, before he musters his most firm yet kind voice, praying for it to come out as non threatening as humanly possible.

“Hitoshi.” he calls.

The boy doesn’t even flinch. He’s so far gone, hurting in unimaginable ways.

There's hands on him, unkind as they push and pull and tug and break, and it hurts, it hurts. 

Hitoshi lets out a guttural scream as he pulls at his hair harder, heaving for oxygen and gagging uncontrollably. 

He throws his head back and bangs it against the hard furniture over and over and over, until blood trickles down his neck and back and stains his jacket. It’s not much, but it’s there, and Shouta can’t let Hitoshi hurt himself further.

“Hitoshi, kid, listen to me.” he says, unheard over Hitoshi’s raw screams.

His hands itch to reach for Hitoshi, but they don’t, not yet.

“It’s me, it’s Shouta. You’re here with me, in the kitchen. You’re Hitoshi, sixteen years old, son of Yamada Hizashi and Aizawa Shouta, brother of Eri. You’re here with me, don’t think about anything else.” 

But Hitoshi shakes his head. He cries and screams and kicks, because he wants out.

It hurts, it hurts where they kick him and slap him and punch him and slam him into the walls. His scalp burns after the nails dig into it and yank his hair.

And he pleads, he pleads because he’s sorry, he’s sorry for being so bad.

“Hitoshi,” Shouta calls again, trying not to let his own panic overwhelm him. “it’s Shouta. It’s me, it’s Shouta. It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Hitoshi’s sobbing, a mess of snot and tears trickling down his face as he presses himself further into the corner, trying to scramble far away from the unknown figure in front of him, pleading to be left alone, promising that he’ll do better.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry...”

He’s like a broken record, and Shouta’s guts feel tighter than ever.

His hand brushes against the pocket of his sweatpants, where his phone is certainly charged enough for a quick phone call to the emergency services, but he opts to wait, just a bit longer. 

The man glances at the clock. Hitoshi’s been in this panicked state for almost fifteen minutes now. But, it’s still not long enough to require an ambulance.

Not yet.

“Hitoshi, can I touch you? It’s me, it’s Shouta.” He keeps saying it, he keeps reminding Hitoshi, because he thinks, no, he knows that the boy’s probably half blind now, between the hyperventilating and whatever he’s seeing. 

Not seeing.

Remembering.

There’s an abyssal difference between the two things. Because Hitoshi, his son, isn’t seeing things that spring from his imaginationー which would have been an equally serious issue.

No, Hitoshi is remembering something that has been done to him for his entire life.

All the abuse, things that Shouta remembers causing him to feel physically sick when he read the police report, punishments that no child, that no living being should be subjected to.

Under any circumstances.

“Hitoshi, buddy, I’m going to put my hand on your knee, okay? I won’t hurt you.” 

Touch is grounding, and Shouta’s desperate to bring Hitoshi back to the present, where he can be safe, at last.

The teen doesn’t respond. Shouta doesn’t really expect him to.

He hefts a hand in mid-air, trying not to make it look like a hand that wants to hit, but rather like a hand that wants to comfort, to caress. Hitoshi flinches and gags, so Shouta relents for now, guilt washing over him.

Hitoshi’s skin is grey and clammy, all colour drained from his face, and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

The man half-expects him to, at this point. 

“It’s okay if you need to throw up,” he says over Hitoshi’s choked gags, “don't hold it. Just let it happen. I’ll clean it up later, I won’t get mad, nobody will. You’re safe here, Hitoshi. Hitoshi, kid, you’re safe here.”

And that’s when Hitoshi promptly brings up a mouthful of sick all over his jacket, already soiled with tears and snot. It’s not much, and he stops after that, but the boy keeps sputtering and heaving helplessly, his eyes vacant and bloodshot.

He feels so bad. He feels sick and gross and scared, he just wants to run. Hitoshi wants nothing more than to hide and cry and die already. 

It’s exhausting, to constantly be on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for someone from his past to come back and snatch the life he’s fought so hard for from his cold little dead hands. 

He wishes they’d killed him when they wanted to. 

He wishes he hadn’t texted Aizawa-sensei that his biological parents wanted him to be gone for good, just a moment before they actually tried to make their wish come true by charging at him with knives and fists raised up in the air.

He should have kept quiet. He should have died that night.

“Don’t say that. Please never say that.” Shouta whispers shakily.

He’s on the verge of tears, but he won’t show himself panicked in front of Hitoshi, because that would only aggravate the situation. 

Yet, the man wants to cradle his son in his arms and never let go, he wants to tell him how glad he is that Hitoshi reached out, and how he wishes that he’d acted on his own initiative to go save the boy days, no, years before the attempt.

Hitoshi’s still hyperventilating to the point where his eyes have turned glassy and emptier.

Fuck, he wishes he’d killed himself when he could, when nobody would have noticed his absence.

He’s been alone for so long, left to his own care, the house all for himselfー he could’ve grabbed a few pills and a knife and ran, far far away, headed to die in a ditch alone, where nobody could hurt him, where he could be finally safe.

“You are nothing but a disappointment, you little bitch!! Good for nothing, always fuckin' shit up, I can'tー I can't stand you!! Go kill yourself and make me happy for once in your pathetic life!!”

The teen groans and yells, hitting himself. Shouta needs to act fast.

“Hitoshi, it’s Shouta, it’s Dad. I love you.” he starts, “I’m so glad you’re alive, kid. We’re all glad you are alive. Let us help. We won’t hurt you.” Shouta says, trying to will his anxiety away to no avail, clearly.

“I’m going to touch your knee, now. I won’t harm you, I won’t let anyone do that.”

And a second after saying so, he gently places the hand above Hitoshi’s kneecap. The boy tenses, and for a moment the air stills, and silence echoes in the house.

Even Eri’s sobbing seems to have died down.

It doesn’t last.

Hitoshi’s not breathing hard anymore, no. Instead, he lets out a blood-curdling scream, hands covering his face and scratching it, peeling the skin off despite the short nails. He shakes his head and thrashes and cries and curses at the hand, at the person in front of him, at the universe, at himself.

Because it hurts, it hurts so fucking much.

He feels the touch as it burns and harms, like all the other touches he’s ever felt in those fifteen years of life.

...Fifteen?

He bangs his head again, harder, on purpose. He just wants to rest, he wants to close his eyes and sleep forever, so that he doesn’t have to hurt anymore.

The hands fist at his hair and yank his head against the wall, over and over.

“You stupid bitch!! When will you learn to obey!? When will you stop being a goddamned nuisance!? I wish you were never born, you fucking villain, I wish I’d aborted you when I had the chance!!”

Hitoshi hits himself with tight fists, over and over on his forehead and head, he punches and slaps himself and tears his skin and sinks his teeth into his lips, drawing more crimson blood, froth stained in pink. 

Shouta’s hands shoot forward before he can stop himself, trying to grab onto Hitoshi’s shoulders to pull him away from the furniture, but soon a pointy elbow swings dangerously close to his face, and the man’s forced to retreat.

“Hitoshi!! Hitoshi, you’re not there. You’re safe with me. Don't go there.”

God fucking damn it.

“Don’t do that, don’t hurt yourself, please.” Shouta pleads, desperate, grip on the knee tightening a bit, to try and bring Hitoshi back.

“Come on, feel my hand. It’s me, it’s Shouta, you’re safe, I promise.”

His skin feels like raw, exposed nerves. Hitoshi screams again, the soreness in his throat is not enough to make him stop.

But there's something that makes Hitoshi hiss under his breath, maybe a shallow wound that stings.

Probably.

And maybe it’s the pain that makes Hitoshi look slightly more aware. Shouta doesn’t really want to think about it right now, but he seizes the chance in a heartbeat.

“Breathe with me. Follow my instructions.” he says.

As much as Shouta despises the idea of controlling Hitoshi like this, a part of him, egoistical and morally grey, prays that Hitoshi will be somehow too afraid to disobey. It’s despicable of him to wish so, Shouta’s aware, but he needs this to work, now.

It’s already been half an hour, and Hitoshi doesn’t seem to be getting any better. He doesn’t have a choice anymore.

And it works. 

It works.  

Shouta feels like he might cry. He probably will, later.

“Okay, there you are, kiddo.” he says, “You’re going to be alright, I promise. Just follow what I say and do. Hitoshi?”

Hitoshi doesn’t really seem like he’s back, not even close to it, but there’s the tiniest glint of awareness in his eyes, probably sprung by utter terror, and Shouta latches onto it desperately.

“Good. Now, can you take your track jacket off? It’s dirty, probably uncomfortable. I can help, if you need me to.” he says.

Shouta’s certain that the stench of half-digested curry isn’t probably helping.

But Hitoshi doesn’t reply, he doesn’t even blink. He’s mostly shut down, eyelids twitching despite the fact that the boy's eyes are still wide-open, pupils looking close to roll back entirely. The corners of his mouth are stained in vomit and froth, as Hitoshi inahles shallow, rasped breaths, catching a little too often to be of any help.

Shouta warily extends his hands, watching for any signs of excessive fear of discomfort, but when Hitoshi doesn’t pull away, he takes the jacket off in a swift movement and tosses it to the other side of the room. 

After that, he gently takes Hitoshi’s wrist into his hand, grip barely tight enough to hold it up, and forces the boy’s palm flat against hisー Shouta’sー chest.

“We’re going to breathe now, alright? Together. I’m here to help, Hitoshi.”

He waits a moment.

“Okay, here we go. In for four…” he instructs, inhaling an over-exaggerated breath, waiting for Hitoshi to mimic him. 

The boy doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do anything, as a matter of fact.

Shouta knows it’s normal, but part of him is freaking out. Yet, he can’t let the panic take over. For Hitoshi’s sake, he needs to remain calm.

“In for four…” he repeats, “And hold for seven.”

It takes twelve tries, approximately eight minutes, before Hitoshi inhales a choked, pathetic breath.

He immediately coughs and sputters on empty air, some time between ‘two’ and ‘three’ of the inhalation phase.

Shouta smiles, extending his free hand to rub at Hitoshi’s shoulder, delicately.

“It’s okay, you’re almost there. Let’s do it again. In for four…”

After another good fifteen minutes, Hitoshi finally manages to complete the whole breathing exercise two times in a row without choking.

He does on the third time, when he’s almost over the ‘hold’ phase, but his breathing’s calmed down enough, so Shouta succeeds in coaxing him into doing it again soon enough without further issues.

The man looks at the clock. It’s been about an hour and a half since Hitoshi’s last been somewhat aware. While he doesn't look like he's going to pass out any more, he still banged his head hard enough to draw blood, and he also vomited and struggled a lot, and Shouta takes that into account.

Hitoshi’s not going to school tomorrow nor the day after, and that’s for sure.

The boy slowly starts to uncurl from his position. His body aches, and his head feels heavy filled to the brim with lead. He’s also trembling an awful lot.

The apartment’s warm, but the teen’s shivering and leaving him with a T-shirt only isn’t going to help. Just as Shouta’s about to text his husband to ask for something warm to cover Hitoshi, he sees the man peek inside the kitchen. 

Eri’s in her pajamas, hair brushed neatlyー it was hers and Hizashi’s little bedtime ritual, it helps her with anxietyー bundled in her blanket with her stuffed toy clutched to her chest. She’s snoring lightly in Hizashi’s secure hold. 

“The neighbours offered to keep Eri until tomorrow morning, to give us more space to work. They said they'll even take her to school if needed. I’m taking her to them now.” Hizashi says, voice uncharacteristically low.

Shouta wants to ask if Hizashi texted first, but his husband anticipates the question with a tired sigh.

“They heard screaming, so they texted me to see if we were okay. I mean, we’d warned them about the kids’ nightmares and all, but I don’t think they expected to hear Hitoshi yell bloody murder at, like, 9PM. They were worried.” he explains, visibly tired and on edge.

The man with corvine hair sighs. “Okay, Iー thank them for me, too, please. How’s Eri?”

Hizashi smiles, “Oh, she’s okay. I told her what happened, and since she’s no stranger to these episodes, she understood. She thinks that Hitoshi has used his quirk on her to protect her from the shards. It’s all good, now.” 

Shouta exhales in relief, “Shit, okay. Thank goodness.”

“Yeah, we’re lucky.” the other chuckles. He turns around to leave, but Shouta’s voice makes him stop.

“Oh, Zashi, could you fetch Hitoshi’s weighted blanket when you come back, please?” he asks.

The blond nods and disappears, and Shouta returns his gaze to Hitoshi. 

His vacant stare is fixed somewhere behind his father's, hands still tugging at his lilac hair, but not as violently. 

“Hitoshi, bud.” Shouta breathes out, “Are you with me? It's me, it's Shouta. It's Dad.”

The words make Hitoshi flinch, but he doesn't seem much more aware. 

Shouta knows that Hitoshi's never called that monster that raised him 'Dad', but considering the reaction, maybe he'd wanted to, at some point.

He sighs, shaky. 

Not defeated. Worried, angry. Not at Hitoshi, no. At his biological parents. At those bastards that let the kid down and abused him for almost sixteen  years.

The world has failed him so badly, at such a young age nonetheless. 

It makes the man's blood boil.

“You're safe here, okay? Papa's coming in a moment, and Eri's staying with the neighbours for the night. The cats are… somewhere in the house. Nobody here will hurt you, Hitoshi, you're safe.” he explains, calm as ever.

“Can you look at me, please?”

He doesn’t, but distantly, he hears him. Hitoshi desperately wants to clutch onto the idyllic reality that he’s not in danger, but he’s continuously dragged back, yanked away from the warm, safe place that the familiar figure offers. 

Yet, he can’t even move. He feels floaty, distant, detached from what he’s led to believe is reality. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but maybe it’s worse. 

He can’t feel.

Hitoshi doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. He’s too tired to think.

“Do you know where you are, Hitoshi?” Shouta asks.

The boy swallows, throat feeling raw and sour. He doesn’t know, no.

“It's okay, don't worry about it. You're home with Hizashi, who's your Papa, Eri, who's your sister, and I, Shouta, your Dad. Oh, and the cats, Tama and Chobi. We live in Musutafu, not far from U.A., where I and Papa teach, and where you study. You're in class 2-A now.”

The man's tone is calm as he explains. “You’re Hitoshi, you’re sixteen years and four months old. You've been living here for about half a year. Do you remember the first thing you said when you walked in the house?” 

He waits for a response that doesn’t come.

“You said 'cats.' with the most neutral face ever, pointing at Tama and Chobi. They immediately started to purr and rub themselves against your calves. Tama’s a Munchkin cat, and he’s very round, hence the name. Chobi’s a Burmese cat, we got her a month before you came to live here. She’s very small.”

Hitoshi thinks he remembers the cats. He can picture himself petting them and playing with them. Chobi also bit him, once. He thinks. He’s not sure.

Shouta sees the boy’s fingers twitch in the corner of his eye.

“Do you remember what their fur feels like? I could go fetch them, so that you can feel for yourself again.”

The man’s about to continue, when he hears his husband approach the threshold of the kitchen, a weighted blanket in his arms as he peeks inside without actually stepping in the room yet.

“How is he doing?” he asks, almost whispering.

There's a pregnant pause.

“He's not entirely aware yet, but he's definitely coming out of it. Do you want toー?”

Hizashi nods, and waits. Shouta looks at Hitoshi, trying to catch his eyes to no avail. 

“I'm going to step out of the kitchen to let Hizashi join you. He won't harm you, he's your Papa and he loves you very much. I do too. I'm going to look for the cats and bring them to you when you feel like it. Is that okay, Hitoshi?” 

The boy doesn't reply, and his father really doesn't expect him to.

Shouta crawls back, and then stands up far from Hitoshi, trying not to startle him. As he passes Hizashi, the latter grabs at his hand and squeezes it, encouragingly. They exchange a silent look of comfort, before the blond eventually steps inside and the other leaves.

Just like Shouta, Hizashi crouches down far from Hitoshi, and crawls forward, slow and quiet, the blanket awkwardly folded under his arm.

“Hitoshi, baby? It's Papa. How are you feeling?” he says once he's close enough.

Nothing comes out of his son's mouth. His eyes don't even shift.

Hizashi's gaze softens. “I got you a comfy blanket. Will you allow me to wrap it around your shoulders, please? I promise it'll make you feel better. It's a bit chilly without it, isn't it?” he tries, but once again, Hitoshi is silent, absent.

“Alright, I'm going to put this on you, and then you can tell me if it's too much or if you want it off. I won't get mad. Nobody is mad at you, baby.” 

Hizashi waits a moment for a response, but Hitoshi doesn't even flinch nor blink, so he takes that as his cue to hurry and ground his son as soon as possible. The man takes the blanket and slowly eases it onto Hitoshi's shoulders.

And that's when the trembling increases significantly. 

It's not just shivering anymore, no, it's full-body tremors that wreck the teen's frame mercilessly as he almost convulses, he looks like he's seizing as he gasps and chokes on heaved breaths.

Despite the somewhat gruesome sight, Hizashi can't help but smile. 

It's working, painfully so.

“There you go, easy does it.” he says, gente. “Can I hug you, Hitoshi? It's okay if you don't want to.”

Once again, he's met by a blank stare and a strangled, inaudible yelp, so he gingerly scoots closer to his son. Then, he extends his arms, wrapping them around Hitoshi with the most feather-light touch that any human being is physically capable of.

When Hitoshi doesn't pull away, but only shudders and jerks more violently, releasing the tension in his muscles and nerves and unloading the adrenaline, Hizashi tightens his hold slightly. 

He's pressing the boy against his own body, a tear-stained face buried in Hizashi's shoulder as the man swiftlyー but slowly, so slowlyー manages to put Hitoshi on his lap.

The boy's now wrapped in a weighted blanket bundle, every inch of his body, up to his neck, covered by the warm blanket, cradled like a newborn in his father's arms.

Hizashi rocks back and forth, at a steadily calm pace, a hand on the back of Hitoshi's head to keep it against the shoulder. The other arm goes around the teen's body, hand pressed against the back to give support and comfort, patting above the blanket occasionally. 

It's a bit of an awkward hold, probably not meant for two people with only six centimeters or so of height difference. But it is grounding, and that's all that matters.

Hitoshi still hasn't uttered anything, except for a few soundless sobs and choked pleas with no real words in them, but Hizashi can see how the boy's eyes look definitely less dull, slightly more aware.

Almost half an hour passes before Hitoshi gives the tiniest yet biggest hint of awareness since the beginning of the episode. He tilts his head a bit, trying to clear the fog, to understand where he is.

The arms around him are warm, hands delicate, and they don't hit, they don't harm. 

They cradle and pat and caress and care, and Hitoshi suddenly feels like crying. 

More than that, now that he's aware enough to think, he feels, and that's such a foreign sensation to his exhausted mind.

The boy feels his body relax a bitー his body, his bodyー but he can't stop shaking, he can't stop inhaling such shallow breaths. 

To Hizashi, though, he looks calmer. And maybe, just maybe, the worst is over.

The man waits another minute, before he decides to try and elicit a vocal response.

“Hitoshi, baby?” he calls.

He really doesn't like how his son flinches and tenses up again, already on the defensive, scared that he might be in for the punishment of the century or God knows what fuckery the universe has prepared for him. 

Hizashi really, really wishes that he could be granted five minutes alone with the monsters who did this to their ownー no, to his kid.

But he knows that he needs to stay calm, he knows that Hitoshi can sense the tension in the air. It's what triggered him in the first place, after all.

“It's okay, I won't hurt you. Shouta told you, right? That you're safe here, that nobody wants to harm you. He wasn't lying, I promise. You're safe, we won't let anyone get to you, baby. It's safe here, you're safe.”

He doesn't stop rocking his and Hitoshi's body, to the rhythm of low waves crashing onto the shore on a calm day.

“Do you know where you are now? It's fine if you don't, I'll help you.” he asks.

Hitoshi seems to be somewhat slightly aware that the voice is talking to him, but Hizashi can see how disoriented and uncertain and terrified the boy is.

Of course he is, the man thinks, bitter.

Of course he is, it's what he's been used to for ages. Being punished for speaking, being abused for messing up, being hit for crying, being hated for literally only existingー those are not experiences that one can forget easily. 

“You can speak, Hitoshi. Actually, it would be of great help if you did, but if you can't, you can sign. 'Yes' or 'no', that's all I need, baby.” Hizashi coaxes.

Hitoshi opens his mouth, blinking heavily and trying not to cringe at the sour taste in his mouth. Has he thrown up? He doesn't remember. 

His head hurts.

“Mmnh… I... I, sss-oー n-no, s'a m-, a mi-” That's all he manages to utter before grunting and letting out a dry sob.

And even if Hizashi doesn’t know what it means, right now, it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. Because Hitoshi’s trying to communicate.

He’s coming back.

“Yes, yes, that’s it, baby!!” Hizashi says, still cradling his son, “There you are, you’re okay, you’re coming back, you’re almost back, baby.”

He turns around, looking at the door. “Shou, Shou!!”

Shouta’s there in a second, eyes wide. “W-what? What’s wrong!?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. But he’s coming back, Shou.” Hizashi immediately clarifies, watching his husband’s expression relax, “Can you light up some candles?”

“Sure, yes. Vanilla?” Shouta asks, already making his way to the drawer where they keep the candles and lighter.

“Yeah, something that isn’t too strong, please.” Hizashi says, and returns his attention to Hitoshi.

The boy looks disoriented, but grounded enough to know that he’s not in immediate danger. It’s good enough for now.

Shouta comes back a minute later with two lit candles, and places them on the table, careful to avoid the shards. 

“Music?” he asks. Hizashi nods. It’s not music, really, but they call it like that.

Soon enough, rain sounds start to play in the apartment, the house’s good subwoofer implant a blessing in these situations. It’s not loud, per se, but it’s loud enough to feel comforting and grounding. They know Hitoshi likes it.

He does, really. Slowly, he can feel himself coming back to reality. He can smell the scent of candles and shampooー Hizashi’s, that’s Hizashi’s shampoo. Those arms around him, the blond hair that tickles his nose, it’s Hizashi’s.

Papa’s.

A mumbled mutter escapes his chapped lips, and it’s enough to make the man’s attention snap back to him. 

“Hitoshi, baby? You okay?” he asks immediately, hold tightening slightly. “Are you in pain?”

The boy shakes his head after a stretched moment. Hizashi beams.

“That’s great, that’s so great, Hitoshi. Dad’s coming to help me check you over, and then we’ll get you to bed, hm?”

“Mnh, a-ahnh, ngh…” Hitoshi tries, voice foreign, and he’s not sure of what he’s trying to say.

His thoughts are scrambled, confused, and while he’s aware that he wants to say something, he doesn’t exactly know what.

He’s sorry, that’s one thing he wants to say.

Sorry for hurting Eri, sorry for screaming, sorry for making a mess and crying and ruining everything like he always does. Sorry for being disobedient, sorry for being a villain and for harming the good people around him. Sorry for being pathetic, for being stupid.

He’s just, sincerely sorry. For everything. 

Shouta enters the kitchen too, at this point, crouching in front of Hizashi and Hitoshi.

He smiles, and it’s the warmest smile he can offer. “Hey, kid.”

“Nh, d- mnh…” Hitoshi tries, but ends up cutting himself off with a cough.

Hizashi pats his back, and Shouta gets him a glass of water, movements slow and meticulously calculated to avoid startling the boy. 

Hizashi angles Hitoshi’s body so that he’s sitting up a bit more, sustaining his back, and Shouta brings the glass close to his son’s lips, holding it for him.

“Don’t strain yourself, only drink what you want.” he instructs.

Hitoshi drinks a couple of shy sips, and then his head lolls forward. He’s exhausted, obviously. Nobody blames him for that. Or, for anything.

He’s not quite asleep yet, but he’s nodding off. Hizashi feels how Hitoshi’s body is slacker, relaxed. He and Shouta exchange a knowing look. Hizashi squirms from under Hitoshi, arms still wrapped around the boy.

“I’m going to lift you now. Do you want to sleep in the bed with Dad and I? We can make sure you don’t have nightmares, promise.”

“S- szz,” Hitoshi tries, fisting the blanket, eyes squeezed shut, “s- o, sso…!”

He sobs, distraught. He aches all over, and he's upset beyond human imagination.

“Shh, it’s okay, buddy, take your time.” Shouta says, and Hizashi nods encouragingly.

“Would you rather sign?” 

Hitoshi knows a bit of JSL. Not much, really, just fundamental things. He's been learning it only for a few months, so his sentences are fragmented and unclear, sometimes, but he knows the basics. 

All heroes with voice-related quirks know how to sign a bit. Besides, with a hard of hearing parent, it's the bare minimum. 

But right now, Hitoshi wants to speak. 

After another minute of deep breaths and dry hiccups, he finally forces something out, something he's been wanting to say for a while.

“M's-sor...ry…” he takes a breath, brain still oozing annoyingly, making thoughts hard to have.

Hizashi and Shouta are both about to tell him something, but he doesn't let them.

“D-di...didn't… mean,” he coughs, breathless, “t'harm… E-Eri.”

Shouta speaks first, before his son can continue blaming himself for something he hasn't done. “You didn't harm her, and none of us here blames you. She loves you, and we love you, Hitoshi. Eri's fine.”

“Yeah,” Hizashi cuts in, “she only cried because she was scared of the shards, and she was a bit tense, but she's alright now. She's worried for you.”

Tears well up at the corner of his spent eyes. Hitoshi inhales, shaky. “I u-used… quirk. Bad…”

“No, hey, no. You didn't do it on purpose, you were just scared. Accidents happen, and you didn't hurt her, she's alright. You didn't hurt anyone.” Hizashi says immediately, heart hammering in his chest, holding onto his son tighter.

Shouta nods, “You're not bad, Hitoshi. And your quirk isn't bad either. You're a great kid with a useful quirk and lots of potential and talent.”

Hitoshi's eyes droop, and he stifles a sob. He's so tired. He's so tired of everything.

His fathers immediately take notice. Hizashi murmurs words of comfort as he stands, taking Hitoshi with himー God, the kid's so light, so tiny. Shouta moves out of the way to let his husband maneuver freely. 

Hizashi sits Hitoshi on the king size bed in his and Shouta’s room, and he waits for the other man, who arrives a moment later with a first-aid kit and Chobi.

The man places the cat onto Hitoshi's lap, and the boy lets a hand rest on the tiny kitten, petting her absentmindedly.

Hitoshi’s basically half asleep, he’s tired himself out long ago, barely clinging onto consciousness.  

The adults check his head: the cut isn’t deep, it won’t need stitches. They clean the wounds and bandage his head, wash the blood off his hands and face with a damp sponge, the chilly water a blessing against the battered skin. 

Getting Hitoshi out of the bloodied shirt and into a fresh one reveals every bruise and cut on his back and ribs, from the handles in the kitchen, mostly. They put lenitive cream on those, and wait a moment before coaxing a semi passed out Hitoshi into putting a clean shirt on, with their aid. 

“We’re almost done, baby.” Hizashi says every few seconds, while Shouta works in silence.

It takes about fifteen minutes, between one thing and the other, and when the voice hero offers his son a tiny pill and a glass of water, the latter moans in discomfort and throws his head back.

Not hard, but still enough to make Hizashi lay his palm on the back of Hitoshi's head to prevent him from doing it again.

“Don't do that, you're already hurt.” he says.

Hitoshi moans, eyes squeezed tight. “Ngh, hm-mm, st-o, st-stop.”

His fathers hush him, gently, while they continue to coax him into taking the tranquilizers. It's a small dose, because they know that he's going to fall asleep anyway.

Hitoshi’s frustrated, he’s worn out and dead on his feet, he wants to sleep, he doesn’t need anything else, he doesn’t want to take that stupid pill. But he gives in, eventually, after a lot of kind words and gentle persuasion.

The teen swallows the sleeping pill and a sip of water, before his body starts to shut down on its own. It’s slightly panic-inducing, but his fathers don’t seem alarmed, so he must be okay. 

He’s safe with them, he’s safe there with his family. Their hands won’t hurt, their words won’t harm. He trusts them. And now, Hitoshi is safe.

He feels safer than ever, and he is.