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This morning, if asked to predict his day, Hitoshi would have had no idea that eleven PM would roll around with him scratching, clawing at a dude four times his size who was dragging him down an abandoned street towards a really shitty-looking van. It’s almost too cliche for Hitoshi to even be angry. (It’s so cliche, he shouldn’t be terrified out of his mind.)
His voice modulator has been crunched up, first crushed against his throat and then scrunched within a large fist. It dangles by threads against Hitoshi’s battered neck, and there’s nothing he can do. When he tries to scream, his voice is croaky and ragged and it only comes out at conversational level.
Midoriya is his patrol partner, and while his hearing is busted from years of whatever Bakugou did to him to make him wary of loud noises, Hitoshi knows Midoriya could come get him. But Midoriya’s busy, and Hitoshi needs to free himself, and Hitoshi needs to prove that he can. He’s in Class A now and it’s his job to take care of himself.
Idiot , he says firmly to himself, you’re never going to make it as a hero if you can’t get away from this guy.
Every breath rattles painfully in his throat. Forming words feels impossible, but he manages, “Why are you--” before his captor’s hand slams over his mouth.
Hitoshi bites down, and twists his body, and his feet finally hit the ground again. He almost falls, and one of his knees scrapes the pavement, but he keeps staggering forward and gets his momentum under control. The guy behind him lunges, and grabs hold of the coils of Hitoshi’s capture weapon, and yanks backwards.
The fabric snaps his head back, cutting his breathing off.
Hitoshi cries out, the call mostly sounding like a horrific wheeze. The noise is louder than he’d hoped, and he sees, down the street, Midoriya’s head turn towards him.
Hitoshi’s feet leave the ground again as he swings into the air, and he claws at the fabric wrapped around his neck. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die here, and he’s never going to amount to anything, and he’s--he’s--
“Let go?” he chokes out, as a last resort, his vision swimming.
“Make me,” the guy rumbles. Mistake.
Hitoshi sucks the guy under his control, and the hand on his capture weapon slackens. Hitoshi slams into the ground knees-first.
Hitoshi crumples, resting his palms on the pavement and gasping through the sharp pain in his knees. “Sit down,” he tells the man, when he can find the air.
The man sits, docile.
“Don’t resist arrest,” Hitoshi says. He doubles over, trying to get air through his throat, and wheezes for several moments before pushing himself up to his feet. Midoriya might still need him.
Midoriya doesn’t, in fact, still need him. By the time Hitoshi reaches him, Midoriya has taken down maybe half a dozen other people, and he’s hardly injured. In stark contrast, Hitoshi feels like he’s been hit by a truck.
“Shinsou!” Midoriya says, alarmed, and runs to meet him. When he’s close enough, he puts a hand on the center of Hitoshi’s back, guiding him towards the sidewalk. “The police’ll be here soon, you should sit down.”
Hitoshi can’t argue with that. He drops to the curb and puts his head down on his knees, trying to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he manages. “You did all the work.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Midoriya says, though his own voice is full of concern. “Don’t make yourself talk. Your neck is pretty bruised.”
Hitoshi could sign, because Yamada’s been teaching him, but he’s sure Midoriya doesn’t know JSL. Hitoshi needs to apologize, so he keeps talking anyway. “I should’ve seen him coming,” Hitoshi insists. “I know better than that and he--” Hitoshi has to stop, because something gets irritated in his throat and he begins coughing. “He, I should’ve--I--”
“Hey,” Midoriya says, voice dropping into something more authoritative. His hand rests on Hitoshi’s back, somehow soothing despite the fact that Hitoshi would never let him touch him otherwise. “You’re hurting yourself more. Just...we can talk about this later. You don’t need to apologize to me. It’s not your fault that we had to jump into direct combat, I know you’ve been really tired lately and Aizawa-sensei said I should keep an eye on you anyway--”
“He said that?” Hitoshi rasps, snapping his head up, and immediately dissolves into more coughing. He looks up suddenly enough that Midoriya’s normal reassuring smile snaps into place a split-second too late.
It’s true that Hitoshi’s week hasn’t been stellar. Despite the fact that getting to know his classmates has made it less nerve-wracking to go to class, or train, or do anything, Hitoshi’s been so anxious he can hardly feel his hands. He can’t tell where the stress is coming from, but it’s keeping him from sleeping and he’s only becoming worse and worse as it goes. The only times he feels totally normal are when Aizawa trains him, but training sessions have tapered off recently.
Midoriya’s admission means that Aizawa’s sure that Hitoshi is falling behind. Aizawa’s noticing that Hitoshi’s crumbling under the stress, and now that Hitoshi’s done such a shitty job at patrol, what’s going to be the last straw? What’s going to be the last failure that gets him kicked out of the hero course?
Flashing lights appear at the end of the street, hurtling towards them.
“Maybe I should call Aizawa to come get you,” Midoriya tries, uncertain, when Hitoshi’s brain takes him off the deep end in mere seconds.
“No,” Hitoshi cuts him off. Desperation begins to rise in his chest. If Aizawa finds out, then things will only get worse. Hitoshi can at least take credit for his meager contribution and he can do his job and he can put a tight lid on his anxiety for at least half an hour longer. “No, don’t.”
“Then stop talking.”
The first police officer reaches them then, and Hitoshi has no time to argue. Instead, he gets to his feet and tries his very best to get a word in edgewise, but Midoriya gracefully takes over. Midoriya is calm, succinct, and has somehow fixed his smile back on his face without a hitch.
“Is he okay?” the officer asks, jolting Hitoshi back from a haze of staring at Midoriya like a freak. He’s dropped control over the big guy he’d taken down, who is apparently the leader (which makes Hitoshi feel just a bit better), so he has no reason to stay attached to the conversation.
“Fine,” Hitoshi answers, though his voice sounds more like wind swooshing through a broken tunnel than an actual human voice.
“He said he’d correct me if I got something wrong,” Midoriya covers for him, “because his neck got kinda...you know, but he’s the brains here. I’m doing fine so far, right?”
“You,” Hitoshi says, ready to tell Midoriya to stop being a dipshit and making fun of Hitoshi in front of a fucking officer of the law, but he has to start coughing again, and he twists away to hide his face in the crook of his elbow while Midoriya takes the opportunity to finish his report. Once he has recovered, Hitoshi looks away, watching where the last of the gang is being shepherded into various vehicles, and absently nods along when he feels like he’s supposed to.
The journey back to UA is quieter than normal. They take the train, and Hitoshi gives up on talking while they do so--he’s getting enough weird looks for his rapidly-bruising neck--and he doesn’t try again until they’re a couple blocks from the school.
“Why were you like that to me in front of the cop?” he asks. It takes a lot out of him, to get that whole sentence out, but Midoriya doesn’t appear to understand.
Midoriya frowns, raises his eyebrows. “Like what?”
Hitoshi swallows hard. His throat might be swelling shut, actually. His lack of sleep is making gravity increase, and he’s quickly losing both steam and patience. And the resulting outburst is partially Yamada’s fault, if you think about it, because Yamada’s slowly been getting Hitoshi used to the idea of letting feelings out instead of shoving them down. “She already knew I didn’t do much. You didn’t have to--” he coughs, but wheezes out, “--have to rub it in like that.”
“I didn’t mean to rub it in,” Midoriya hurries to say, stopping Hitoshi with a hand on his arm, face drawn in alarm. “I didn’t think--I wasn’t implying anything. Are you upset?”
“No,” Hitoshi says stubbornly, but he is a little bit. “It’s just, I know th-things come easy to you but I’m training so fucking hard to fit in here. And--and--and--I already know I fucked up so I don’t think it’s funny for you to make sure everyone knows and--Aizawa’s already gonna know so you don’t have to threaten to call him, and-- you’re the one who told me not to be so focused on competition with Class A, so fuck you if you just said that to push me behind you, fuck--”
His voice tapers into nothing. His mouth moves, but no sound escapes through his throat, and then he doubles over in coughing for what feels like the eightieth time. The force of his hacking sends him down onto the curb again, and his eyes water hard enough that he can’t tell where Midoriya is. He hears footsteps running away from him, and Midoriya’s hand disappears from his arm, so maybe he finally scared Midoriya off.
Somehow, Hitoshi doubts this is true. He won’t get his hopes up for nothing.
It’s only a few moments of Hitoshi’s throat attempting to rip itself out of his neck, but it’s long enough that Midoriya has time to retrieve Aizawa from where the latter had been waiting by the gate for them. The two of them are late getting back, anyway, so that had only made it easier for Midoriya to run into Aizawa right away.
Either way, Hitoshi looks up with streaming eyes and sees Aizawa. He hasn’t had this impulse since he was adopted six months ago, but he wants to get up and run. Nothing good is going to come out of this situation, he’s certain of it.
“Hitoshi,” Aizawa says. He reaches out, untangles Hitoshi’s capture weapon, then his ruined voice modulator from his neck, places a cool hand over what must be a terrific bruise. His movement is slow enough that it doesn’t scare Hitoshi into running, and his hand is cold enough that it feels kind of nice, but Hitoshi is still coiled tense like a bowstring. “Do you have any other injuries?”
Hitoshi’s voice still doesn’t work when he tries, so he lifts his hands and signs a clumsy NOT BAD.
“Where?” Aizawa asks anyway, not entirely believing Hitoshi’s assessment.
Hitoshi puts a hand on his ribcage, then over his skinned knees, and then Aizawa takes his hand to examine the split knuckles there. They’re superficial injuries, compared to his neck. Hitoshi tugs his hand free, and signs, ME OKAY.
“Hm,” Aizawa says. His eyes fall back on Hitoshi’s neck, and his eyebrows twitch downwards in obvious worry. (Maybe annoyance, though. He might be fed up with Hitoshi’s shit, and he just doesn’t want to show it in front of Midoriya.) “We’re going to Recovery Girl. Midoriya, what about you?”
“Nothing to report,” Midoriya says. He’s not lying, as far as Hitoshi can tell--the worst he’d complained about on the walk over was the scrape down one arm that’d torn his uniform.
“Right. You’re coming with us, anyway, for Shuuzenji to check on you. Let’s get onto campus.” Aizawa reaches out to help Hitoshi stand, but Hitoshi wants to prove that he’s alright, so he hoists himself up and stands on his own. He brushes himself off, and refuses to look at either Midoriya or Aizawa as they flank him, basically escorting him to UA’s front entrance.
The walk is silent. Midoriya’s chattering doesn’t make an appearance, and Aizawa makes no effort either. Hitoshi, hit with another tsunami of exhaustion, can only focus on keeping his feet moving at a normal rate. He steps with his right foot, then his left, heel-toe heel-toe, up some stairs, through a couple doors, and uses the repetitive movement to keep his brain clear of you really fucked it up this time, there’s still a chance for Aizawa to get rid of you, you can’t stop ruining everything, huh, freak?
“Hey,” Aizawa says, breaking the silence and putting a hand out in front of Hitoshi’s chest to stop him. Hitoshi blinks, dazed, and finds that they’re already outside of Recovery Girl’s office, and Hitoshi is inches from plowing straight into the door.
“Sorry,” Hitoshi tries to say, but he can’t.
The door slides open to reveal Recovery Girl, already changed out of her normal uniform, with a bag slung over her shoulder. She always stays on duty until everyone’s back from patrol, and she doesn’t look surprised that the three of them are catching her on her way out.
“Oh, my dears, looks like someone had a mishap this evening.” Recovery Girl drops her bag onto a chair, comes back over and herds Hitoshi towards a bed. After he’s settled, she turns her head to Aizawa and Midoriya, who are still in the doorway. “Don’t tell me you hurt yourself too, Midoriya.”
Midoriya shakes his head, still uncharacteristically quiet.
“If you’re lying, you’ll face my wrath,” Recovery Girl says, in an admirable attempt at keeping the mood light.
“I’m not lying,” Midoriya says.
No blustering or desperate gesturing accompanies this statement, so Recovery Girl accepts it. Hitoshi has dropped his gaze to the floor, so he misses whatever facial expressions or nonverbal communication she probably has in the silence that follows, but Hitoshi can’t make himself care about that. It’s getting harder to breathe, most likely because his throat is swelling, so he’s just focused on not choking or panicking or crying--he’s already made enough mistakes this evening.
“Okay, Shinsou, sweetie,” Recovery Girl says, and pulls her rolling chair over so she can sit in front of him, at a better angle to inspect his injury. “This doesn’t look fun.”
Hitoshi shakes his head, still not looking directly at her.
She takes his hand and gives it a light kiss, and immediately, Hitoshi can breathe easier. He yawns, and lifts one hand to try and feel if the swelling has gone down, but she swats his hand away. “Don’t touch. It’s not healed.”
“What?” he tries to say, and only a whisper comes out but at least he’s audible. His brain feels so foggy. “Why not?”
Recovery Girl tuts at him. “You’re exhausted, kiddo. I did what I could, but you’re running on fumes.”
Hitoshi feels like it, too. He frowns, and rasps, “I can’t train without my voice, could you just try to--”
“You won’t be training until you’ve caught up on sleep, young man.”
Terror, finally freed from where Hitoshi had been keeping it on lockdown in his chest, seeps into his voice. “What? I have to--”
He breaks off into coughing. He worries that Aizawa will appear at his side, out of obligation to see how Hitoshi’s doing, but Aizawa appears to have retreated across the room to have a private conversation with Midoriya.
Recovery Girl puts a cough drop in Hitoshi’s hand, and remains unmoved. “I thought you’d have more sense than the other kids in Class A, but I’m not surprised; you’re Yamada and Aizawa’s kid, after all. You’re going to rest tomorrow and Friday, and you can come back on Monday. I’ll be able to heal you better once you’ve slept. Do not argue with me. Now, do you want to stay here, or do you want that strapping young man over there to help you to the dorm?”
Hitoshi would gag at the ‘strapping young man’ descriptor being given to Midoriya, but Hitoshi’s in no position to be gagging anytime soon. Instead, he sullenly shrugs.
“Alright. What’s been keeping you from sleeping?”
“I dunno,” Hitoshi says. He’s lying. She knows that he knows that he’s lying.
“Nightmares? Or insomnia?”
“Both.”
“Are your meds filled?”
Hitoshi, halfway between frustrated and ashamed, shakes his head.
“Shinsou,” she says, exasperated. “We worked hard to get you referred last year. That doesn’t help you unless you keep up to date on your prescriptions.”
“I know,” he insists. His eyes are watering, though maybe he can pass it off as pain from talking, and maybe nobody will guess that he’s so tired he’s about to cry. “I just forgot.”
Recovery Girl sighs. “Okay. I’ll call your doctor’s office, tomorrow morning. Do you need something to help you sleep tonight?”
Hitoshi shakes his head. He swipes away the tears on his face, hopefully quickly enough that Aizawa and/or Midoriya don’t see.
“Shinsou,” Recovery Girl says, warning.
“I don’t,” he says.
“If you say so, I trust you. Aizawa,” she calls, over her shoulder, “get them back to the dorm. I need to talk to you tomorrow morning, when I’m not pushing my overtime pay limit.”
“Sure,” Aizawa says. He starts to approach, perhaps to assist Hitoshi in walking, but Hitoshi’s already standing and starting the journey on his own. His gait is even and consistent as he exits the nurse’s office, with a goodbye and thank-you to Recovery Girl that he hopes is sufficiently polite. Aizawa, while not being used as a crutch, stays close to Hitoshi’s elbow in case Hitoshi stumbles, and Midoriya keeps up as well.
It may be the exhaustion talking, accelerated by Recovery Girl’s quirk, but Hitoshi has a harder time ignoring the mean voice in his head this time. He was shitty to Midoriya, and he can’t remember if Midoriya deserved it or not. Aizawa is at the very least reconsidering Hitoshi’s spot in his class, if he hasn’t already decided to expel Hitoshi and call it a day. Hitoshi is behind, has been behind, and he’s not as strong as his classmates and he’s just barely gotten his provisional license and he’s fucked up too badly for anyone to trust him ever again. All his hard work has meant nothing and he can hardly breathe and he’s slowing to a stop, bending over to rest his hands on his knees to try and make his lungs work.
“Hitoshi?” Aizawa asks, and drops to a crouch next to him. His face, when Hitoshi risks a glance at it, is simply concerned--not annoyed, for sure this time.
Hitoshi gives a strangled wheeze in response. They’re pretty close to the dorm, but he can’t imagine going the last ten yards right now. Midoriya’s standing right next to Aizawa, so Hitoshi can’t crumple into tears and admit all his mistakes and beg to be kept in the hero course. Hitoshi just gasps, and squeezes his eyes shut, and pleads with himself to just start walking again.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa says, “I’ll take care of him. You should head to bed.”
“But,” Midoriya starts to protest, because he’s fucking Midoriya , but Aizawa cuts him off with, “You did well today. You brought him to campus and now you need to rest. Let me worry about him.”
Midoriya’s footsteps hesitantly leave the two of them behind, and Hitoshi breathes out in a way that definitely betrays that he’s hurtling into a panic attack.
“Hey, kid.” Aizawa drops his voice. His hand comes to rest on the center of Hitoshi’s back. “I know it hurts.”
“ Sorry, ” Hitoshi tries to say, but his throat is closing up. His hands have lifted and are scratching ineffectively at his neck, trying to alleviate some kind of pressure.
Aizawa grabs his wrists and pulls them away before Hitoshi can do any lasting damage. “Breathe when I do.”
Hitoshi tries to listen. He really does. He swallows hard against the feeling of his throat constricting, and he copies Aizawa’s perfectly even breaths until his vision comes back into focus a few minutes later. He’s still hunched over, in the middle of the sidewalk, and Aizawa coaxes him upright and puts a hand under one of his elbows so Hitoshi’s sort of leaning on him.
Aizawa shifts, taking more of Hitoshi’s weight, and they start on the final stretch towards the dorm. As Aizawa shuffles around for his key card, he says, “Hizashi’s inside, he’s staying over with Eri today. Do you want him to sit with you while I do rounds?”
“Please don’t go,” Hitoshi rasps, barely audible.
Aizawa’s free hand moves to his back, rubs around in a sort of a circle, a less-effective imitation of Yamada’s go-to comforting method. “I’m not leaving. I can get you situated in my apartment, and I’ll only be gone for ten minutes at the most.”
Hitoshi doesn’t want that. He’s spent most of his evening trying to keep away from Aizawa and his possible disappointment, but now Aizawa is Hitoshi’s only tether to reality and Hitoshi trusts him more than anybody else. There’s an undercurrent of nervousness that Aizawa’s going to expel him if he fucks up, but he does feel better with Aizawa holding him together.
They make it into the dorm. Aizawa shoves his keycard back into one of his pockets, and shepherds Hitoshi inside.
Unfortunately, the common room is not deserted, as Hitoshi had hoped it would be. At the long tables, a group is clustered around laptops and notebooks in a late-night homework session, though all of them snap to attention when Aizawa says, “Curfew was fifteen minutes ago.”
Hitoshi squashes the urge to hide behind Aizawa when all of them turn to look at him. The group is comprised of Yaoyorozu, Kaminari, Hagakure, Jirou, Ashido, and Sero, and none of these are people who are going to forget Hitoshi showing up looking like this. In fact, most of them bolt out of their seats, worried, and those who don’t (Yaoyorozu and Hagakure and Jirou) sit up in alarm anyway.
Hitoshi is not equal to any of them. They probably look at him and see something pathetic, someone who can’t handle a simple patrol without coming home looking wrecked like this. His right hand finds Aizawa’s sleeve and he tugs. Aizawa asks under his breath, “Do you want to talk to them?”
Hitoshi, with his other hand, signs NO, and Aizawa shifts in front of Hitoshi and holds up a hand to stop Kaminari, who has been trying to approach.
“Get to your rooms, before I think about consequences for being out after curfew,” Aizawa says, stone-faced like a wall. When Kaminari tries to duck around him to get to Hitoshi anyway (a motion that makes Hitoshi’s heart feel lighter, for some stupid reason), Aizawa moves too, blocking his path. “Are you listening to me?”
“Is he okay?” Kaminari asks, voice oddly thin, as he tries to juke around Aizawa to no avail.
“Ask him tomorrow,” Aizawa says. “Jirou, I’m authorizing you to use any means necessary to get everyone to their rooms.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Jirou whispers.
Hitoshi turns his head and peeks out from behind Aizawa, meeting Kaminari’s eyes. Kaminari looks worried, even more so than Aizawa had been earlier, and his hands are wringing themselves together.
“If you need me, I’m here,” Kaminari says, and leaves the invitation open, and then turns to deal with whatever chaos Jirou is about to enact.
Hitoshi is deposited in Aizawa’s apartment, on the couch, next to Yamada. Yamada drops an arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders, anchoring him, and waves to Aizawa as the latter slips back out to do his customary rounds through the halls of the dorm. Hitoshi tries not to be scared by Aizawa leaving, and he’s embarrassed when Yamada has to remind him to breathe again.
“Shouta texted me,” Yamada says, saving Hitoshi from giving an explanation of what’s happened (and this also explains why Yamada hadn’t panicked when Hitoshi entered the room looking like this). “It looks like it hurts. I was pretty freaked, too, the first time I got almost killed on patrol.”
Yamada’s accent is heavier than normal, blurring his words together. Hitoshi checks surreptitiously, and Yamada’s hearing aids are missing, which explains that. Hitoshi scoots and turns to face Yamada, frees his hands, and offers a clunky response of WHAT YOU MEAN?
“Ooh--yikes. Sorry, I shouldn’t have led with that. I meant, the first time I got really hurt on patrol.”
Hitoshi blinks, trying to process. Hitoshi could have died. In the moment of having his voice modulator crushed into his trachea, he’d been pretty certain he was about to. Is it messed up that he’s more concerned about his class standing than about his life? It is, right?
Yamada tilts his head, analyzing Hitoshi. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I NOT SCARED-OF HURT, Hitoshi says. The signs come slow to him, and while sign language is a thousand times easier than English, Hitoshi has a long way to go. YOU HURT ON P-A-T-R-O-L?
“Hitoshi, don’t fingerspell if you can work around it, that’s lazy,” Yamada reminds him, not quite scolding, and the familiarity of it is more comforting than Hitoshi thought it would be. He makes a sign with his hands that must be the one he uses for PATROL, and Hitoshi copies it, and then Yamada returns to the previous conversation. “I got hurt on patrol all the time in high school. I was really accident-prone, and it took me a while to get better.”
REALLY? Hitoshi asks. YOU, fuck, wrong sign, YOUR CLASSMATES MAD-AT YOU?
“For getting better?” Yamada’s brows furrow. He thinks for a beat, and then realization breaks over his features, softening into something that looks like hurt. “ Hitoshi. We’re not mad at you for getting hurt. It’s not your fault, and it looks like you had a really scary evening.”
Hitoshi’s eyes start welling up with tears, but he soldiers through it, desperate to explain why he’d been overthinking. M-I-D--god, no, his name is too long, D-E-K-U DID ALL-OF WORK, ME (he doesn’t know the sign for USELESS) NOT IMPORTANT-ME.
“Hitoshi, kid.” Yamada reaches out and taps Hitoshi’s wrist. He’s careful not to startle Hitoshi, or disrupt his difficult breathing. “You work so hard. I know you did your best, but even the top ten heroes have bad days. Take it easy on yourself, holy shit. I’ve gotten enough neck injuries to know they’re horrible.”
Hitoshi, unfortunately, is going to cry.
“You’re not in trouble,” Yamada soothes, and reaches out further to rub a hand up and down Hitoshi’s back (he’s much better at it than Aizawa). “Shouta isn’t mad, either. If you wanna hear that from him, though, he’ll be back soon. Here,” he says, and pulls his hand back, “I’ll go get you an ice pack. You want some ice cream, too? It’ll make you feel better.”
Hitoshi shrugs. Yamada takes this as an enthusiastic yes.
“You got it! Okay. You sit here with All Meow-t,” Yamada says, and scoops said cat up onto the couch, “and I’ll be back pronto. I’m just across the apartment, so, text me if you need me back here.”
Hitoshi gives a tired thumbs-up, and pats the cat in his lap. Yamada ruffles his hair, and then disappears in the direction of the kitchen. Now that Yamada’s not looking at him directly with open sympathy and worry, it’s easier to shove his tears away and stop feeling like that.
After he’s gotten himself under control and shifted into a better position, he blinks, and he must fall asleep briefly, because the next thing he’s aware of is Aizawa coming in through the door.
“Where’d Hizashi go?” Aizawa asks, unwinding his scarf.
Hitoshi yawns in response, and points. Aizawa looks him over, checking for any imminent issues to deal with, and then vanishes in the same direction Yamada had gone. Hitoshi remains on the couch, yawning whilst also trying to curb his panic about the conversation that Aizawa and Yamada are definitely having in the kitchen. He curls up into the corner of the couch, and breathes carefully, and absently pets All Meow-t in hopes that that will calm him.
He can’t hear Aizawa and Yamada’s discussion. They’re likely signing, so there’s no hope of Hitoshi eavesdropping. His eyes are drooping shut, and he starts drifting off. He takes off his wrecked voice modulator and unwinds his capture weapon from his neck, and then pulls his knees into his chest, ignoring that he’s still in his hero uniform, which isn’t warm at all because dried sweat is chilling his skin. For the first time in weeks, he’s exhausted enough that he bypasses his normal tossing and turning and goes straight to unconsciousness, leaving All Meow-t and Aizawa’s apartment behind.
Hitoshi is startled from sleep by someone squeezing his ankle. He pedals upright, instantly alert, and is greeted by both a terrible ripping pain in his throat and by Aizawa, crouched a safe distance away from Hitoshi so he won’t get kicked. The apartment is dark, and Hitoshi’s chest is heaving with the aftermath of what must have been a bad dream, judging by the fleeting and jumbled thoughts of having the air squeezed out of him that are clouding his brain.
“You were having a nightmare,” Aizawa explains. His normal impassive face isn’t making an appearance right now--he looks shaken and he’s breathing hard like he’s just sprinted to Hitoshi’s side. “Are you alright?”
Hitoshi nods. He never remembers much of his dreams; they’re more of a burden on people around him. Still, there’s an echo of hands around his neck and crunching metal that irrationally makes him want to reach out for a hug. Aizawa looks just unbalanced enough that Hitoshi might be able to get away with it.
( Aizawa might be mad at you , Hitoshi’s brain reminds him. Hitoshi ends up keeping his hug to himself.)
“I’m going to get you an ice pack. Do you think you could swallow painkillers?”
Hitoshi swallows, experimental, and then gives another cautious nod.
“Okay.” Aizawa is just as efficient and brisk as he always is, but something about his tone is heavier, somehow. Maybe because it’s way too early in the morning for him to be dealing with Hitoshi’s bullshit.
Aizawa is gone, then. Hitoshi puts his head back down and is almost immediately pulled back under by sleep, but Aizawa appears just in time and presses a freezing cold ice pack to Hitoshi’s neck, and winces in sympathy when Hitoshi groans and tries to curl away from it. The cold is nice, and soothes the worst of the throbbing pain, but it’s cold. Hitoshi, at some point, has been covered by a heavy blanket, but he’s always cold right after waking up.
“I have Ibuprofen for you,” Aizawa says. “If you sit up for a second, you can take it with water.”
Hitoshi doesn’t want to sit up. Still, he claws himself upright and rubs his eyes and accepts both the pills and the glass of water. He sits in a puddle of blankets, feeling pretty pathetic, and hands Aizawa back the glass when he’s done, which Aizawa puts on the coffee table before turning back to Hitoshi.
“It’s almost time for me to leave for my meeting before school. Do you need anything else?”
Hitoshi shakes his head. He wonders again if Aizawa would be annoyed if Hitoshi leaned forward and hugged him. Yamada had said Aizawa isn’t mad, but even if Aizawa isn’t mad, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think Hitoshi’s a failure.
“Are you sure?” Aizawa asks. “It’s an all-staff meeting. I could miss it and get the notes from Hizashi.”
Hitoshi doesn’t want to keep Aizawa from doing his job. He does, however, want someone to sit with him until he falls back asleep, because apparently he’s a child.
His indecision must show on his face, because Aizawa makes a decision for him. He taps Hitoshi’s leg, nudging him to make room, and Hitoshi turns and curls up so Aizawa can sit on the couch next to him. “The meeting was going to be boring anyway. Are you comfortable like that?”
Hitoshi nods.
“Okay.” Aizawa reaches out and ruffles his hair. “I’ll be here. Get some more sleep.”
Yamada emerges from the bathroom, then, clicking the light off as he comes. His hair is gelled up in its violent swoop, and he’s wearing his hero uniform. In the low light that’s filtering in from the kitchen, he looks almost as tired as Aizawa, but he gives Hitoshi a smile anyway.
“I’m headed out,” he says. “I’ll send you the minutes, Shouta. I think Eri’s still asleep, she’s getting used to her new headphones.” Hitoshi cringes a little at this--Eri’s likely wearing her noise-cancelling headphones to bed because Yamada and Aizawa knew Hitoshi was going to wake her up with his screaming otherwise.
Aizawa says, “Thanks.”
“Feel better, Hitoshi.” Yamada passes by to squeeze Hitoshi’s shoulder, then drops a kiss on top of Aizawa’s head, and then he’s gone out the back door.
Hitoshi waits a minute, and then another, and when Aizawa doesn’t change his mind about staying with him, Hitoshi clears his throat and ventures, “I’m sorry.” Somehow, his voice is more broken up than it had been yesterday.
“For?” Aizawa asks.
Hitoshi muffles a cough into his elbow, then continues talking. “I promised I would work hard to catch up--” is as far as he gets, then his voice cuts out completely again. He’s not put-together enough to keep himself from panicking, and a hand goes uselessly up to his chest as he attempts to force noise out. He chokes, and tries again, and still nothing, and Aizawa is suddenly there with a reassuring hand on his back.
“Hey. Give your vocal chords a rest.” Aizawa’s voice sounds sympathetic, but not surprised. Maybe he’s had to deal with this before; Yamada had mentioned a variety of neck injuries in the past. It’s not a great life skill to have, all things considered, but Aizawa seems to know what he’s doing. “You can text or sign what you need to say. Be careful with yourself.”
Hitoshi fumbles around until he finds his phone stuck between two couch cushions, and clumsily types out a text to Aizawa that says “i promised i’d keep up and catch up this year and i’m sorry i wasted your time.”
Aizawa reads the text when it arrives, and he lets out a long breath through his nose, and Hitoshi shuts his eyes because he irrationally feels like it’ll protect him from whatever confirmation he’s about to get.
“Hitoshi,” Aizawa says. His voice has the tired quality it has when he’s running his hand over his face in exasperation. “You didn’t waste anyone’s time.”
Hitoshi opens his eyes to type out, half-frantic, “yes i did i’m missing so much school because i was stupid and i know better than to” and then he sends the message early on accident. He huffs in frustration and keeps going with “better than to get surprised and i know how to get out of a stranglehold but i panicked and”
His thumb brushes the send key on accident again. God, he’s so tired. The mistake makes him want to cry, so instead of dealing with it, he gives up and locks his phone and waits for Aizawa to finish reading.
Aizawa puts his phone down. When Hitoshi is aware that Aizawa’s looking at him again, Hitoshi signs a half-hearted SORRY, aware that this is the point in the conversation that he gets yelled at. That’s how it goes--it’s confusion, then concern (this step was skipped by everyone before Aizawa and Yamada), then anger, then maybe more anger, then icy silence.
“You went through your first scary patrol incident last night,” Aizawa says, in his calm, evenly-paced way. “You’re overthinking this because you don’t have any similar experiences to compare this to. Rushing back into work isn’t smart or safe for you, and me reducing your extra training these past few weeks has been more of an effort to get you to sleep than a punishment for not doing so.”
Hitoshi risks a glance over, but can’t tell what Aizawa’s facial expression means.
“Recovery Girl said your meds ran out. I apologize for not keeping on top of those. Does being off your anxiety medication line up with your recent mood change?”
It’s frustrating that Hitoshi’s predictable enough that his spiral had begun about a day after he ran out of meds. Part of him wants there to be another reason for him to feel this way, for him to be a walking disaster, so he could blame that thing instead of something that’s actually kind of his fault. He shrugs, guilty but also annoyed, and Aizawa’s apparently omniscient because he follows up his last question with, “I know that you’re feeling real feelings. But I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that part of this is made worse by you being off your meds.”
Hitoshi shrugs, eyes downcast.
“Are you okay?” Aizawa asks.
Hitoshi almost shrugs again, but then he decides that Aizawa isn’t mad at him so it’s safe to change his mind and shake his head, emphatic. He signs, SCARED YESTERDAY, and like a switch being flipped, he’s on the verge of tears again. The lump in his throat is painful and makes it hard to breathe. When Aizawa turns, sitting sideways on the couch to better face Hitoshi, Hitoshi mistakes this for an invitation and dives headfirst into a hug. He catches him around the middle, eliciting an oof from Aizawa, and holds on tight. By the time he’s already there, clinging like a toddler, the thought catches up to him that Aizawa probably hadn’t been offering this. Aizawa probably just wanted to talk more directly so he could see Hitoshi signing.
As quickly as he’d leaped forward, Hitoshi attempts to backpedal. He finds, though, that Aizawa’s arms have closed in around him, and he’s being held.
“It’s okay now,” Aizawa says, and rests his chin on top of Hitoshi’s head.
Hitoshi pushes his face into Aizawa’s chest and holds on.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Aizawa continues. He’s rocking the two of them back and forth, an infinitesimal movement that’s comforting just knowing it’s there. “I’m here to take care of you, you know. I’m not going to be angry at you for getting injured by someone. All of your classmates have experienced injuries and frightening encounters. I only wish yours hadn’t come so soon into the year.”
Hitoshi sniffs. There’s a wet spot on Aizawa’s shirt that’s definitely his fault.
Aizawa’s hand pats his back, over and over, just solidly enough to remind Hitoshi to keep breathing. Hitoshi hiccups, still kind of weeping onto Aizawa, but he’s no longer full of anxiety about doing so.
“Try to get a nap in before I have to go to class,” Aizawa says. “I’ll be here.”