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Shouta didn't often allow himself to reminisce about his childhood. Despite that, he could still remember the stench of whiskey on his father’s breath, like rotting fruit left too long beneath the summer sun, and his mother’s whispered pleas for Shouta to stop fighting. I'm begging you. The memories would creep up on him sometimes — late at night whilst on patrol, or just sitting alone in his apartment with nothing but the tinny hum of the tv playing away to itself to generate some background noise. Some wounds never truly healed, no matter how hard he tried to forget, invisible scars that still somehow throbbed beneath his skin when the weight of everything pressed down on his chest like a physical thing.
And when he adopted Shinsou, it only got worse. The nightmares, the flashbacks — all of it. Don't get him wrong, Shouta loved his kid to death, but every distant look, every flinch when Shouta moved too fast — it all dragged Shouta back to that dreary house at the end of the road. That house with its peeling paint and crooked shutters, where neighbours pretended not to hear the screaming.
Sometimes, watching Shinsou sleep — finally peaceful after hours of tossing and turning that never seemed to relent — Shouta would find himself transported back to his own childhood bedroom. It reminded him of something his mother used to whisper to him in those rare gentle moments, her trembling fingers brushing through his hair as they huddled together in the darkness. Her voice barely audible over his muffled sobs as his tiny body shook, covered in a canvas of purples and yellows and greens that no child should wear.
“Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Shouta. It'll only end in pain.”
He didn't know what it meant back then, not until he was 15 and placed in foster care after someone finally — finally — noticed. Life changed after that, between going to UA and compartmentalising his trauma, Shouta started to understand what his mother had meant. Don't challenge the source of your survival, even when it leaves you broken and bleeding beneath its weight.
From then on, Shouta did anything but lay down and take it. His mother's words still haunted him, whispering in his ear even as he pressed on past Shirakumo's death and through the rough, jagged start of his hero career. The memories would resurface in quiet moments between breaths when the world seemed to pause. But Shouta had made a promise to himself long ago, written it in blood and sealed it with tears: Shouta Aizawa would never, ever submit to the Hell reality threw at him.
He'd built himself from scratch, crafted a new identity piece by painful piece from the rubble of his childhood. His hands were calloused now, not from the beatings but from fighting back — against villains, against a system that failed children like him, against his own demons that still writhed in the shadows of his mind. He would never be the submissive, cowering dog that his parents wanted, in their own twisted, fucked-up ways. He'd rather tear his own throat out with his teeth than bend to anyone's will ever again.
That was why, after officially adopting Shinsou, Shouta didn't fault him when the boy snapped back. It was like looking into a distorted mirror infested with cracks, shards falling away from an empty frame to reveal the pain underneath. And God did Shinsou's shards cut deep, drawing dark rivulets of blood that never seemed to staunch.
Every biting remark and warning nip when Shouta got that inch too close to a vulnerability that Shinsou had been guarding since he was a boy — it wore down on him, but he understood probably better than anyone else would.
Shouta's hands would be covered in muscle-deep puncture wounds before he ever demanded Shinsou to stop.
He knows well enough that he can only offer the helping hand, he cannot force the child to actually accept it before he’s ready. And Shouta knows there’s a chance–for all he hates to acknowledge it–that Shinsou may never be ready.
The kid’s already experienced far too much pain in his short life, hands that were not for helping, or love, or affection. Hands that were outstretched to bring pain, to stifle his freedom…hands meant only to break him.
Shouta may not be reaching out for the same reason but he cannot blame the kid for being vigilant and watchful, for being inclined to bite first and ask questions later.
After all, it had taken the love and care of some very determined people in his life to begin to bring him back from that same feral survival state. They'd never quit on him, and he will not give up on Shinsou. Not in this lifetime.
He and Hizashi will offer him the safety and care he needs and see where it leads them. Shinsou’s path is his own now, whether he wants to follow in their footsteps and walk the path of a hero or do something entirely mundane.
He really should have expected that Shinsou would follow Shouta’s path though. The kid has more grit than most, and as he had settled in and relaxed into safety that had become more and more clear.
Yet Shinsou's entry into UA still ended up managing to surprise him.
Shouta had made it clear he would support Shinsou’s choice in high school no matter what, and that he would be happy to help him prepare for any sort of entrance exam—hero course or otherwise—to the best of his ability. But Shinsou turned down the offer, claiming, I can do it on my own! and Shouta wasn’t sure what to do apart from let him be.
He’d expected Shinsou to go for a hero school of some sort, and of course UA is the most prestigious, but he’d hoped that if Shinsou’s top school choice was the same school where Shouta himself taught, his son might at least let him know beforehand.
Instead, he finds out when the acceptance letter comes in the mail, welcoming Shinsou into UA’s general education course.
All he has to say is, “Figures.”
Shouta watches him slump back to his room, the Congratulations, dying on his tongue. The letter and torn envelope lie discarded on the table. Shouta can’t help but feel as if he’s doing everything wrong.
If he follows Shinsou, he’s crossing a clearly marked boundary; if he doesn’t, what sort of parent does that make him, neglecting to comfort an upset child?
The sound of Shinsou’s door slamming shut snaps Shouta from his thoughts. The line he won’t cross is stepping into Shinsou’s bedroom without permission—that’s his space, and Shouta knows from his own childhood that a place of privacy is worth more than gold to a child who has been harmed by those who are supposed to care for them.
He approaches the room, knocking on the door but not testing the knob to see if it’s unlocked. “Hitoshi,” he calls. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Silence stretches on for several long moments. Shouta is about to hold out the olive branch of, I’ll leave, but come to me if you need anything, when the door swings open. Shinsou looks at him, eyes hollow, and asks, “What is there to talk about? I didn’t make it.”
Shouta hears himself say, “I could have helped you,” even though he knows that is not what Shinsou needs right now.
Shinsou sneers. “If I wanted to be a nepotism baby, I’d have asked you to put me through as a recommendation student like Endeavor did for his kid. If I’m going to be a hero, it’ll be by my own merit, thanks.”
The door shuts in Shouta’s face.
Hizashi would be pushy, he thinks. Shouta wants to be, as well, aching to linger at the door and unravel all the hurts knotting Shinsou up right now. A thread of hurt courses through it all, sparked by the blatant rejection.
He takes a deep breath, rubs his temple, and retreats, accepting the boundary for what it is and taking the chance to adjust and reconsider his course forward. Later, he pushes at it only to let Shinsou know when dinner’s ready. Shouta had been expecting the mumbled, reticent response, had even been half-expecting to be eating dinner on his own that night only to be pleasantly surprised when Shinsou actually emerges a minute or two later.
This prompts another reconsideration of his carefully thought-out (read: stewed over and heavily anxiety-driven) plans. As pleasing as it was that Shinsou came out of his room at all, the boy’s still clearly (understandably) upset: hunched and slouching, sullenly picking at his food and glaring at the table. Tension sits between them. It lurks and skulks along the edges of their presence, laying heavily over their meal and stifling all conversation before it can begin.
Shouta scrabbles together all his courage and gives the middle finger to that tension.
“I apologise,” he begins. “That was a stupid thing for me to say. What I meant was—you know you have my help, if you want it, right?”
Shinsou glares back at him. This is, of course, off to a swimmingly good start. “I told you, I’m going to be a hero on my own merit. I don’t need some—some handouts, or something, or special favours, or anything like that.”
Shoving down the reactive part of him, the lingering hurt which recoils and lashes out, Shouta breathes even and replies: “That’s not the only kind of help that exists. You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want me to open any doors for you, so that’s not the kind of help I’m offering.” He raises an eyebrow and quirks his lips, an undercurrent of wry amusement beneath his words. “Or did you forget I’ve done this all before? My quirk certainly wasn’t a big help against robots.”
Shinsou looks down, picking at the food almost aggressively, and replies, “Well, I'm not you.”
Shouta exhales slowly. He knows a lot about dealing with teenagers: he’s been handling them for years now, he knows more or less what to expect from them. But most of those kids have a home to return to. Good or bad, most of them have families, and even those who don’t are not under Shouta’s direct care; he tries to help, of course, wherever he can, but he can’t bring every single troubled kid home with him.
For a while, he thought himself unfit for this role. Being the adult a kid comes back home to. He never regrets taking Shinsou in, never, but in times like this—in times when Shinsou needs something from him and he can’t figure out what it is, and Shinsou won’t tell him—, sometimes he asks himself if he can make it work.
Step by step, he tells himself patiently, and to his son he says, “You don’t need to be me. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to, because we’re different. What worked for me might not work for you. What I need you to understand is that I could give you advice, or some pointers, or guide you, if you asked me to.”
Shinsou scoffs, his brow furrowing. Stubborn.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “I failed, anyway.”
Shouta won't blame him for not asking for help. He wouldn’t have, either, at his age. Shinsou doesn’t talk about his family and his life before he was put under Shouta’s care at all, but Shouta knows enough to understand that, after a life of being treated poorly, he wouldn’t expect any hand offered to him to be gentle.
Shinsou is on edge often, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he’s ready to fight or flee, if the situation calls for it. But Shouta recognises attempts at letting him get closer, too. So he doesn’t shame Shinsou for being reactionary. He doesn’t act like he’s biting the hand that feeds him.
When Shinsou lets him, he closes the distance. When he doesn’t, the only thing left to do is to be patient.
“I understand you're upset,” he says. “I was upset, too. When I failed.”
That catches his attention. His face softening into something more curious than upset, he looks up at him. “What?”
Shouta doesn’t talk about his school days too often, not even with Hizashi and Nemuri, who were there with him. The memories it brings are painful, no matter how much Shouta tries to pretend he’s over it. But he can tell Shinsou this much.
“I couldn't take down those robots like someone with a strength quirk could. You seriously think I made it into the hero course on my first try?” Shouta gives Shinsou a pointed look, and the boy's eyes widen slightly. There's a something raw in his gaze—a vulnerability that doesn't quite hide the spark of hope beneath. “I had to fight my way up from general studies, just like you'll have to. Got transferred to the hero course after I won the sports festival.”
Shinsou's eyes seem to light up at his words. It's the most open Shouta has seen him in weeks, this revelation seemingly tearing down some invisible wall between them. For the first time, Shinsou seems to be looking at him not just as an authority figure, but as someone who might actually understand what he's going through.
“I didn't even think about that...” Shinsou trails off, his voice softening at the edges, something like shame and understanding permeating his words.
Shouta shrugs. “I don't talk about it,” is his simple answer.
A long silence stretches between them, and Shouta finds himself thinking about how much of himself he sees in this kid. They may not be related by blood, but there's this invisible thread connecting them—something that makes them father and son in the ways that actually matter. Even on the days when Shinsou can't quite see it yet, and even when Shouta himself has trouble believing he deserves it.
After another moment, Shouta considers something, then offers softly. “Before you know it, the Sports Festival will be here. That’s your real shot, Hitoshi. If you’re serious about making it into the hero course, you should start preparing now.”
Conflict flickers across Shinsou's face, his nose scrunching up and his mouth twisting like he's just eaten something sour. His eyes dart away, then back, pride wrestling with need. Finally, he lets out a long, defeated sigh that seems to deflate his entire body.
“Can you help me get ready?”
Something in Shouta's chest pulls tight and then releases. In those four reluctant words, he sees a bridge being built—fragile and new, but there all the same. He nods once, firmly, already calculating training schedules and strategies in his head.
“Of course,” Shouta says, his voice rough but gentle. He hesitates, then adds in a quieter tone, “You're my kid, Hitoshi. I'll do whatever it takes to help you get there.”