Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Present

Shouta had long since stopped panicking when he got calls from the hospital. After years of teaching, and even longer being a hero, there wasn’t much left he hadn’t already had to deal with. When the familiar number lit up his phone, he simply prepared himself for the worst, headed out, and answered the call.

It was just a Tuesday like any other, one of Shouta’s days off now that he was semi-retired, when he got the call. With a sigh, he slipped into his shoes and grabbed his coat, and by the time he answered the phone, he was already on his way.

“Aizawa Shouta, hero name: Eraserhead,” he answered flatly, “what’s going on?”

“Aizawa-san,” the receptionist greeted in that overly polite voice they always had, “we’re contacting you as an emergency contact for Shinsou Hitoshi. He’s had an accident and is currently undergoing surgery. Are you able to come to Central Hospital, or is there someone else we should call?”

Shouta felt like he was listening through static. Hitoshi was the only thing in his otherwise blank mind— Hitoshi had an accident.  

“Aizawa-san?”

“Yes,” he blurted. “That is, I’m on my way. I’ll be there shortly, thank you for calling.” He hung up and picked up the pace.

Hitoshi. “Undergoing surgery.” What did that mean? Surgery for what? What were the possible risks or complications? Was it serious? Was he going to be okay?

God, it had been so long since he’d even seen the kid, and this is exactly what he’d tried so hard to avoid. Who would’ve thought, 7 years ago, that they’d be here now?

7 years ago

As a teacher, Shouta had witnessed all kinds of family situations from afar: students with loving two parent homes, students whose parents were going through messy divorces, kids whose parents had to be reported to the police, kids whose parents were nothing more than names on their birth certificates. Shouta had seen it all. 

There was no reason, then, that Shinsou Hitoshi should stand out to him. Sure, it was tragic that a kid his age was in the foster system, but he seemed to be doing okay regardless, fighting his way into the hero course, keeping his grades up, even forming connections with his peers. There was nothing particularly unique about that.

And yet. Shouta wasn’t sure if it was because the kid reminded him of himself in some ways, or if it had more to do with the way Hitoshi would show up sometimes with bruises that didn’t come from practices or eyes hazy in ways that had nothing to do with lack of sleep, or maybe it was because of the various trips he had to make to the principal’s office throughout the year to change address and guardian forms. No matter the reason, when Hitoshi turned 15 and had yet another falling out with yet another foster family, Shouta stepped in.

“Shinsou, come see me at lunch,” he’d said, and when Hitoshi came, eye bags heavy under his red rimmed eyes, Shouta made him an offer. “I’ll be your legal guardian until you can emancipate. I’m not looking to be your father, but you’ll have a stable home, you won’t have to worry about food or work or anything like that, even after you’re independent if you don’t want to. You’ll be able to focus entirely on your studies and training, and making friends like a kid your age should be doing. My only condition is you stop whatever you’ve been doing that has you coming to class beaten up or high. If you can do that, you can come stay with me until you graduate.”

Hitoshi had been taken aback, but a week later he had accepted. The paperwork was filed, and within the next few days, Hitoshi was moved into Shouta’s spare bedroom. He’d brought his school bag, stuffed full of books and documents that had nothing to do with school, and a single suitcase that contained everything else he owned. 

Shouta had always thought that he had a good relationship with all his students. They trusted and respected him, but they never feared him. Often, students would come to him for advice even about things not at all related to hero training. Hell, the main thing that kept any student from approaching him was usually that they didn’t want to disturb him since “you look so tired all the time.” 

With Hitoshi, he’d felt that trust and respect amplified from the start, and it had only grown when Shouta took the kid under his wing and helped him train with a capture weapon just like his. That bond was why Shouta had brought up the idea of fostering Hitoshi, and, he assumed, why Hitoshi had agreed.

But trusting your teacher and suddenly living in their house under their legal control were two entirely different things. The Hitoshi that Shouta met in the weeks after he moved in was a beast he didn’t know how to tame. Hitoshi was quiet, withdrawn, and almost frightful, as if Shouta’s floors were made of eggshells and Hitoshi was afraid to leave a crack. Shouta tried not to feel guilty about it, but he knew it was a lot to put Hitoshi in a situation like this. 

Shouta knew Hitoshi hadn’t been this meek around his other foster families—he had the reports to prove it—but it wasn’t the same when the foster parent was a complete stranger. Shouta was Hitoshi’s trusted mentor, and he could tell that Hitoshi was terrified he would do something in their new dynamic to mess that up.

Finally, Shouta had to sit him down after class. “You need new clothes,” he told him. Hitoshi blinked back. “I’m not sending you packing, Shinsou. You don’t need to fit in a suitcase anymore. And you need clothes that fit you.”

Hitoshi was hesitant, but Shouta saw it a bit like grocery shopping: it was a mere necessity, not a luxury Hitoshi couldn’t afford. He took him after school let out on a Thursday afternoon.

“Try on whatever you want. Don’t look at the prices, we’ll figure out what you want after.”

It took more meddling on Shouta’s part than expected to get Hitoshi to actually pick clothes up, much less keep them once he saw the price, but after a few hours they were able to get back home with a few bags of clothes that had no holes, that fit Hitoshi and let him replace the dingy, ragged pieces some false family had bought for him years ago.

It wasn’t much, Shouta recognized, in the grand scheme of things, but it was a start. It was something to prove that Shouta was serious about letting Hitoshi stay. His clothes were in the closet of his room. His bed had fresh sheets, and he had a shelf in the bathroom for whatever he needed. 

It wasn’t much. But hopefully, with time, it could become a home.

Present

Shouta sat in the waiting room for two hours before someone came to get him. He followed them closely, nearly stepping on their heels as they led him down a maze of identical hallways. 

“There were no complications with the surgery,” the nurse explained as they walked, “but the recovery will be long, and his injuries were quite extensive. It seems many of the injuries came from before the car accident, but the worst of them happened on impact or afterwards as the vehicle rolled. The main concern is the head trauma, but…”

Shouta barely heard the rest. It registered distantly, because Shouta had spent many years as a hero and a teacher who had to be constantly attentive, but his mind was elsewhere. The only thing that slipped through when the nurse said it was amnesia.  

Amnesia, amnesia, amnesia. It circled in his mind like a hawk. Amnesia. Was that even real? Shouta had encountered quirks that could wipe memories, from the past 15 minutes to the entirety of someone’s life. But amnesia, the medical kind, Shouta had only seen in dramas. 

“He may be groggy, but he’s awake. You’re free to go in and talk to him, but try not to overwhelm him with information. He has generalized retrograde PTA, so he doesn’t have access to any explicit memories—learned things like facts—from his whole life as far as we can tell. Amnesia rarely affects implicit memories, so things like walking, talking, riding a bike, things that become unconscious knowledge he’ll still be able to do without issue. You can explain things he’s forgotten, but try to stick to objective facts, it can be confusing to try to internalize someone else’s emotions and reactions to things.”

The nurse paused at the door to Hitoshi’s room and turned to Shouta. “Since everything went well with his surgery, he’ll be discharged after a few hours as long as nothing goes wrong. He had no personal belongings, and we were unable to find a home address, not that he would be able to be released without someone to take care of him. Will we be able to discharge him into your care?”

Shouta blinked. “By that, you mean he would be living with me?”

“If you are unable, he would have to remain here until he was well enough to find a job and home, or until he remembers where he was living before, which may or may not happen. If he is discharged, he would live with you and be under your care. While his injuries don’t need our continued attention, he will need assistance with basic things like washing, taking care of his wounds, and making sure his condition doesn’t worsen. There are also caretakers you can hire if you are unable to take care of him yourself.”

“I- I see.”

“It should be noted that his care here has been fully paid for by an anonymous donor, which is also where we got his information—name, age, ID number. If you did need a caretaker or preferred to check Shinsou-san into a facility, they may still be willing to pay. As is, they’ve stated that the person taking care of Shinsou-san would receive a stipend to ensure he continues to receive quality care.”

Who the hell was covering Hitoshi’s care? The last Shouta has seen of him, he’d fallen back into the worst of the worst kind of crowd, and Shouta knew damn well not one of those low-life bastards would give a cent to someone who wouldn’t be paying them back threefold. 

“Aizawa-san?”

“Sorry. Yes, I can take him. That’s fine.”

“I’ll make sure the paperwork is ready for you. You can go in now. Press the call button if you need anything.”

The nurse walked away and Shouta stared at the door in their absence. It looked like every other door they’d passed to get there, but Hitoshi was apparently waiting on the other side. Was it even Hitoshi? A Hitoshi with no memories. 

Christ, Shouta’s hands were sweating. He came, because of course he did, but the last time they’d spoken was still heavy in the back of Shouta’s mind.

3 years ago

Hitoshi was an hour late. It had been like this for the past year almost. Barely noticeable at first, easily explained by rush hour crowds or missing the first train, but eventually shamelessly and excessively late. 

Shouta had chalked it up to Hitoshi wanting to be more independent. They weren’t family or anything, but maybe it was embarrassing for a young adult to go home to his former legal guardian’s house for dinner once a month. Hitoshi surely had better things to do, better people to hang out with. 

But Hitoshi still showed up every time, even if he was hours late. He showed up with split knuckles or disheveled clothes. He showed up with the stink of tobacco on his clothes or his eyes dilated and hazy. He stumbled into Shouta’s home—the home he’d invited him into, years before—bruised and intoxicated, increasingly unapologetic. 

Shouta had been waiting for an hour already. The food was growing cold, but he’d made it on time anyway, like an idiot. And he’d waited without eating, like an idiot. And he kept waiting.

When Hitoshi showed up, it was nearly eleven. Shouta had packed the food away without eating, and sat down at the table to wait. That had been three hours ago. 

“I’m home,” Hitoshi called from the genkan, his words slurred together, followed by the banging of things—probably Hitoshi himself—falling over. 

Shouta wiped a hand over his face, defeat and resignation pulling at his tired mind. He didn’t say anything as Hitoshi stumbled into the kitchen.

“I’m home,” Hitoshi repeated, slumping into his usual chair opposite Shouta. “Where’s the food?”

“Hitoshi.”

“I want gyudon.”

“Hitoshi.”

“You put it away already? I’m not that late, am I?” He was leaning into the fridge now, looking for containers.

“Hitoshi!” Shouta didn’t raise his voice often, and he deflated immediately after. “Hitoshi, come here.”

There was a moment of stillness before Hitoshi shut the fridge door and returned to his chair. He met Shouta’s gaze with a blank neutrality, like he knew what was coming next. His face was bruised, traces of dried blood flaking off the side of his jaw. His pupils were too large, the whites of his eyes pink and bloodshot. 

“I can’t do this, kid.”

Hitoshi sucked in a breath. Shouta had to look down at the table. Hitoshi’s hands were scarred and rough in a way they hadn’t been a year before.

“I told you when I took you in. I told you, all you had to do to live here was to leave all this behind. Stop treating yourself like a villain. I thought- I thought you believed me, by the time you graduated, that you could be a hero. You did well at UA, you had friends and proved you were more than capable, that you wanted to do good.”

Hitoshi was unreadable, still as a statue on the other side of the table. Shouta raked a hand through his hair, trying to stay calm. He didn’t get easily riled up, but it was hard right now to keep his head on straight. This damn kid had become too important to him. At some point he’d invested too much of himself into making sure Hitoshi had that faith in himself, and watching him self-destruct like this was too much.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten into. You don’t tell me anything, but I’m not blind, kid. I can’t do this anymore. I’m telling you again what I told you then. This has to stop. Hitoshi, if you can’t leave this behind… Look, I’ll help you. You can come back here, we’ll find you some work. Your classmates have agencies, they know what you can do, I’m sure you could find a place.”

Hitoshi’s face was an impossible mix of almost visible emotions. “You want my high school friends to give me a job out of pity,” he said, his voice scratchy. 

“I want you to stop treating your life like it’s disposable,” Shouta cursed. “You’re better than this, Hitoshi. Drugs, and fights, and whatever else you’re involved with. I believe that, but I can’t decide for you. And I can’t sit here and watch you kill yourself. I won’t. I promised to help you, and I still mean it—if you want to move on, I’ll do whatever I can. But if you keep doing this, I can’t be a part of it.”

“What does that mean?”

Shouta slumped back, meeting Hitoshi’s guarded gaze. “This? These dinners where I sit around and wonder what state you’ll be in when you walk in? None of this. I won’t be around for you. If you keep going like this, whatever relationship we have— had— is over.”

“Is this an ultimatum?” Hitoshi sounded almost surprised.

“Yes.” Shouta looked away. “You need to decide, kid. But I can’t do this anymore. You know- I don’t say it much, but you know I love you, even if we’re not family. I never lied to you. I only wanted you to have a good life. I didn’t even need you to be a hero, though I knew you could. This- Hitoshi… You can keep me in your life, if that means anything to you anymore, or you can continue to destroy it alone. Those are your choices now.”

Hitoshi stared at him; he could feel the weight of those bloodshot eyes boring into him, but he couldn’t meet it. Shouta had spent most of his adult life trying to be reliable, to be the person people could count on no matter what. He strived to be that person for his students, for his fellow heroes, and, god, he’d tried so hard to be that person for Hitoshi. It felt like a betrayal, not just of the kid he’d done his best to raise and protect for the past several years, but of himself, of every ideal he held himself to and prided himself on. 

“Okay.” Hitoshi’s voice was void of emotion, and it stung. “I’ll see you around.” 

Shouta didn’t watch him walk out. He heard the door close, and then silence. 

Something soft inside him hurt, but Shouta didn’t let himself cry. He sat at the table for a long, long time that night with his face buried in his hands, relearning how to breathe.

Present

Shouta did not, in fact, see Hitoshi around after that night. It was like Hitoshi dropped off the face of the earth. Every now and then he would overhear someone talking about him, one of the problem children from Hitoshi’s class, but it was rarely anything substantial. 

“You seen Mindfreak around?” “Not in a while.” “I heard from him recently! He’s having a rough time, I think. I don’t know why he didn’t join us after graduation.”

Nothing helpful. Nothing to alleviate the guilt.

But now he was standing in front of him for the first time in 3 years, and it felt like all the oxygen in the room had turned to liquid, like no matter how many breaths Shouta took, he wouldn’t be able to fill his lungs at all.

Hitoshi’s bed was in the corner of the room, just far enough from the wall for the heart monitor and other machines to fit. The blinds were open and Hitoshi was staring out through the window, sitting up with the support of several pillows and the inclined bed. In all the years Shouta had known him, he’d never seen Hitoshi look as peaceful as he did right then.

His face was battered, bruised and bandaged, illuminated by the sunlight coming through the window, and Shouta couldn’t look away. 

Was this the same boy he’d taken in nearly a decade ago? The same boy who’d walked out of his home and his life years ago and not returned since? Even covered in bandages and hidden by the sterile green cloth of the hospital gown, the breadth of his shoulders was apparent, as was the cut of his jaw and the angle of his adam’s apple. He’d grown up, damn it. He’d grown up without Shouta’s help, and now he was in the hospital with no memories of his life before and a number of serious fucking injuries that would very likely have permanent effects.

Shouta wanted to apologize. He wanted to walk out and pretend he hadn’t seen a thing. He wanted Hitoshi to apologize for walking out, for landing himself here, for risking his life and forcing Shouta to watch it happen again. 

“Hitoshi,” he said instead, because there was nothing else to say. Hitoshi turned to him with a perfectly neutral expression. Shouta watched as he looked him over, taking in Shouta’s nondescript black clothes and disheveled half-bun, messy strands of inky hair falling around Shouta’s face. Hitoshi’s indigo eyes looked at him like he’d never seen him before in his life, like he hadn’t shared a home with him for several years. 

“You must be my emergency contact,” Hitoshi said, and even dry and cracked, his voice was notably deeper than the last time Shouta had heard it. Hitoshi’s lips turned up in a lazy smile that lacked any of the defensive snark Shouta had long ago become accustomed to. “You my boyfriend?”

Shouta froze. “What?”

“You’re hot,” Hitoshi said, gravelly and vaguely amused. “I’m assuming that if you look like that and we’re close enough that you’re my emergency contact, we’ve got a pretty serious relationship.

Shouta wondered if maybe he was the one who’d been hit on the head. Maybe he was in some sort of deep coma right now, his brain coming up with all kinds of wild tricks. Why on earth he would dream up something like this was beyond him, though.

Hitoshi tilted his head, his wild heather hair flopping to the side with the movement. “You’re not?” He asked it like he was just clarifying, as if Shouta wasn’t currently questioning the very fabric of this reality. Shouta shook his head, and watched in abject shock and confusion as Hitoshi’s smile faded into a small, disappointed frown. “Shame. You look like fun.”

What in the fresh hell was that supposed to mean.

“I’m fifteen years older than you,” Shouta settles on, because it’s easier that I was your teacher, mentor, and guardian for years, I taught you everything I could and believed in you more than anyone, but you gave all that up and look where it landed you. That would probably be a bit much, given the circumstances.

Hitoshi shrugged, “I’m pretty sure I don’t care. That is- you’re not related to me right? I didn’t just hit on my uncle or anything, did I?”

Hitoshi didn’t use to be this shameless, did he? Shouta couldn’t tell if he’d just changed in the past few years, or if this was a product of the whole blank-slate-brain thing. “I am not your uncle,” he ground out, “but you still shouldn’t hit on me. You’ll hate yourself when you get your memories back.”

“If,” Hitoshi corrected, not sounding at all bothered. “ If I get my memories back.”

Shouta took in his neutral expression, the relaxed slump of his shoulders. He seemed to genuinely not care. “You don’t think you will?”

“Who’s to say,” Hitoshi answered, cocking his head. “I don’t know, but everyone keeps trying to reassure me: “when you get your memories back,” “don’t worry, you’ll remember,” “you’re young, you’ll bounce back,”. I don’t really care one way or another, and I know for sure they can’t guarantee I’ll get them back anyway, so I’d rather they stopped pretending. Especially when they’re doing it to spare my feelings.”

“You don’t care?” Shouta frowned, “You don’t want to know who you are?”

Hitoshi laughed, tossing his head back, though the action made him wince a bit. It was an amused laugh though, nothing bitter about it. “I think that’s too big of a question for me to worry about—what’s your name, by the way?”

Oh, of course. “Shouta. Aizawa Shouta.” He fought the urge to tell Hitoshi to call him Sensei. He wasn’t his teacher anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. They were both adults now. 

“Shouta,” Hitoshi purred, giving Shouta a loose smirk. “Pretty name. Anyway, that’s too big a question, Shouta. As far as I know, the me sitting in this bed now is the same me that’s always existed. I know my name, my blood type, my birthday. I know I’m not some brainless android; I might not have memories, but I have a personality, likes, dislikes. I feel things: happiness, anger, pain, attraction.” He chuckled when Shouta scowled and looked away. “At the end of the day, someone else could have lived every single moment of my life and still be a different person, so I can’t expect those experiences to define me. Besides, I can’t just sit around waiting indefinitely for a person who may or may not exist anymore. If I convince myself that I’m not me, that I’m some empty shell just because I don’t have my memories, what happens if they never come back? I’m not going to sit around hating myself and thinking I’m missing something for the rest of my life just because some doctors told me I would never get better.”

Shouta took a deep breath. He felt angry, for some reason, and he didn’t know why. Angry at Hitoshi for not wanting to remember? For not caring? Angry at himself, at the doctors, for not being able to do anything? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t help anything, so he let it go. 

“Alright. There’s nothing we can do anyway.” 

Hitoshi grinned at him. “Exactly. No point in worrying, hm?”

Something about this Hitoshi made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like he was being hunted. It was weird and unsettling, and Shouta didn’t quite know what to do about it. “Sure,” he agreed, shifting awkwardly. “Did the doctors tell you you’re coming home with me?”

Hitoshi hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing on Shouta like he was delighting in his discomfort. “They might’ve mentioned it. We live together?”

Shouta froze. “Not for a while,” he finally said. He didn’t want Hitoshi to ask questions. “They couldn’t find an address for you or anything and you need some supervision if you’re released, so that’s what I’m here for, it seems.”

Hitoshi seemed to notice his hesitation, but he didn’t say anything. He’d always been too observant, Shouta thought. “You’ll be my nurse then?” Hitoshi drawled. “Will you wear a little uniform for me?”

Shouta was stunned speechless again, and he felt his face heating. What the hell was wrong with this kid? He was in his early twenties for god’s sake, he couldn’t be thinking these things about Shouta, of all people. When they got home, Shouta would sit him in front of the TV and make him watch the gossip channel for a while. Maybe seeing some heroes and idols and movie stars closer to his age would snap him out of this… this thing he had going on.

Shouta decided to ignore it for now. “The discharge paperwork should be ready soon. It’s your choice, though. To you, I’m a stranger, so you may not feel comfortable staying with me. You would apparently be taken care of regardless, but I don’t know much about that.”

“I don’t mind,” Hitoshi said, thankfully letting Shouta off without more trouble. “If I trust you enough to have you as my emergency contact, I’m assuming you’ll be fine.”

Shota didn’t exactly know how to say I don’t think you trusted me anymore, I think you just never updated your medical information without having to delve into the whole everything of their past, and he wasn’t sure he could give Hitoshi an account of events that wasn’t heavily biased. So he just nodded, and called the nurse in to let her know.

7 years ago

Hitoshi was settling in better than Shouta had expected. As far as he could tell, the fighting had stopped; Hitoshi was always in class on time and clear eyed, attentive and focused. He trained hard and studied hard and was otherwise unproblematic. 

Shouta could tell that he wasn’t exactly comfortable yet, but that was to be expected. Honestly, Shouta himself wasn’t entirely comfortable yet either—he hadn’t lived with anyone since he was Hitoshi’s age and living with his parents, who’d been gone more often than not anyway. It took time to adjust and they were both still figuring things out.

Still, Shouta felt oddly proud of the kid. He’d been working hard to catch up in his studies, and he’d even made some closer friends amongst the kids in his class. He spent a lot of time with Bakugou, which was surprisingly unsurprising. Bakugou was near the top of the class in every subject, which Hitoshi needed, and he had a similarly stunted ability to be emotionally vulnerable, which meant he rarely asked for more than Hitoshi could give. They were as good friends as they could be given their mutual personality flaw.

Hitoshi came home that day from a study session with Bakugou, and Shouta greeted him absently from his desk where he sat grading papers. He drifted around the room on the edge of Shouta’s periphery, and Shouta paid him no mind, letting him settle in on his own.

And then Hitoshi spoke. “Hey. Should I call you dad?”

Shouta briefly considered pretending he simply had not heard him speak, but eventually sat back in his chair with a weary sigh, red pen dropping to the desk. He looked up and found Hitoshi watching him with that preemptively defiant glare he’d learned was the kid’s go-to defense.

“Why would you call me that,” Shouta asked, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers and a thumb. 

Hitoshi shrugged. “Figured you might prefer that. You took me in and everything, and I don’t really get why, so I thought maybe you want to be a parent and I’m, like, a surrogate or something. Isn’t that a thing for teachers?”

Shouta coughed out a laugh, shoulders relaxing slightly. “I don’t know about other teachers, but if anything, dealing with you brats has put me off of parenthood for good. Beside, I never wanted to be a dad anyway, I wouldn’t be any good at it. Is that what you want from me?” Maybe he should've asked that first, but oh well.

Hitoshi shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t need parents.” That could be argued, perhaps, by developmental psychologists or someone else of that caliber, but Shouta certainly wasn’t in a position to comment on it. “I was just wondering.”

“Alright.” Shouta chose not to think too hard about the fact that Hitoshi probably would’ve accepted the condition if it meant he got to stay. He didn’t want to think about the weird amount of power he had, providing for Hitoshi’s needs with rules in place. He wondered if he should maybe clarify that Hitoshi should never do anything he was uncomfortable with in order to stay here, Shouta wouldn’t kick him out for saying no to anything. 

He went back to grading his papers for the time being, because Hitoshi had fallen into the kind of awkward, fidgety silence that usually meant he had something to say but wasn’t saying it. Aizawa watched out of the corner of his eye as Hitoshi paced before the bookshelves, fingers fluttering directionless over book spines. Shouta let him stew for as long as he wanted.

Finally, Hitoshi spoke up again, but when Shouta looked over, he found that the kid was looking stubbornly away from him, tension clinging to his frame. 

“Why, then?” he asked, and it was clear he wanted to sound nonchalant about it, but it came off very young. Shouta set down his pen again and straightened. 

“Why what?”

“Why… Why take me in? You’re not getting anything from it. I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Hmm? You’re a kid,” Shouta scoffed, “I don’t expect you to pay rent or anything. What could I need from you?”

Hitoshi shrugged. “Most foster parents do it for tax benefits or free labor or something like that. Some just want someone to… do things with since they have nowhere else to go.”

Well that would be reported to the police, Shouta noted with a frown. If he didn’t get his hands on them first. “I don’t want anything like that,” Shouta reassured, clear and earnest. 

“Then why?”

Shouta thought about it. Shrugged, even though Hitoshi’s back was still turned. “Why not? You’re my student. You were doing poorly, and I know it wasn’t because you’re not smart or capable enough. Your living situations were interfering with your schooling, and your physical state was disrupting class time. I have an extra room, and due to being your teacher, I wouldn’t be leaving you on your own to fend for yourself during the day. It seemed logical. Have you changed your mind about it?”

“No,” Hitoshi answered, so quickly it took Shouta by surprise. Although, judging by the little he’d just learned about Hitoshi’s prior situations, he could understand why the kid would be reluctant to leave. “No,” Hitoshi said after a second, a little quieter and more controlled. “I… I like it here. I like UA and training to be a hero. I want to stay here. Please.”

“Sure,” Shouta said, because he could kind of tell that Hitoshi didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “But don’t call me dad, alright?”

Hitoshi turned his head just to make a face at him, and Shouta held back an amused grin. “Like I’d want to,” Hitoshi grumbled. 

Shouta gave him a moment to continue the talk if he wanted, but Hitoshi just swung his bag back onto his shoulder and said he was heading to his room to finish some homework. Shouta absently wondered if he’d said and done the right things, but at the end of the day there was no going back and redoing it, so what was done was done. Hopefully, though, the air was cleared, and Hitoshi would stop waiting around for the other shoe to drop. Maybe now they could both get comfortable.

Present

Bringing Hitoshi into his house again was… strange. It was strange, and Shouta wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

The drive over from the hospital had been tense and awkward (on Shouta’s end, anyway) as Hitoshi pestered him with questions he should have known the answers to. 

“So we’re not related at all?”

“No.”

“And you’re sure we aren’t dating?”

Shouta scowled at him in response.

“We lived together, though?”

Shouta wasn’t sure how he’d pieced that together, but he nodded nonetheless. “For a while. A long time ago.”

“If we weren’t dating, how come?”

Shouta had no idea how to answer that at the moment. “It’s a long story.”

Hitoshi answered “I like hearing you talk,” like they were strangers sitting beside each other at a bar, asking about the other's misfortunes and drink of choice. He was dressed in a hospital gown and a pair of sweatpants, but he still sent Shouta his sleaziest grin.

“Another time,” Shouta finally said, because he didn’t know how else to respond to this Hitoshi. 

Later, Hitoshi led with “Are you putting me back in my old bedroom? Or will we be sharing a bed?” and an eyebrow wiggle that Shouta didn’t dignify with an answer, though his disdainful glare was enough to have Hitoshi snickering in his seat.

Finally walking in the front door—or, in Hitoshi’s case, being pushed on a precautionary wheelchair—felt oddly final.

Hitoshi looked around with unabashed curiosity, like he was taking the chance to piece together as much information as he could about Shouta from the books on his shelves and his choice of light fixtures. He studied the blankets on Shouta’s couch with the same rapt attention that he paid to the shoe rack by the door and the rogue cat toys littered across the hardwood. 

“I used to live here?” he asked, and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

“No,” Shouta answered, because the home he’d shared with Hitoshi years ago had been an apartment close to work, convenient and spacious enough to be comfortable, but never really permanent. The house was new, a product of the flexibility he gained from semi-retirement, and this was Hitoshi’s first time inside it.

It felt… wrong, inviting this Hitoshi into his home like this. This wasn’t the Hitoshi he’d taken in and helped raise, the Hitoshi he’d done everything he could to support and protect. This wasn’t the Hitoshi who had walked out of the apartment they’d shared, leaving it feeling far too big for Shouta to fill alone. 

This was a new Hitoshi, not the one Shouta had- But no, Shouta had told himself he’d given up on that. There would be no homecoming, no touching reunion where Hitoshi came back healed and safe and wanting to return. No belated housewarming where Shouta showed Hitoshi around the house, introduced him to the cats he’d adopted in his absence. Shouta had told himself to give up on all that.

This Hitoshi may as well be a stranger. One he couldn’t leave to suffer alone, but a stranger nonetheless. He would see Shouta’s new home with no sense of homesickness for the cozy window nook in the old apartment or the hum of the old radiator. He would meet the cats and not think twice about the worn out collar and framed picture Shouta used to have on the end table by the couch before he had a house with a real office. He would sleep in a guest room that had only been used twice before, not knowing that the mattress he was sleeping on was the one he used throughout highschool and then some. 

And Shouta would be there, forcing himself to remember that this Hitoshi was not his Hitoshi, and that his Hitoshi had walked out three years ago and not said a word to him ever since. His Hitoshi, if he’d had a choice, would probably never have stepped foot in Shouta’s home again. 

“I’ll show you your room,” Shouta murmured, grateful that Hitoshi could walk up the stairs on his own, and that he wouldn’t be able to see Shouta’s face. “You should rest, and I’ll show you around later.”

Maybe it was because the stairs were still a bit much for Hitoshi’s current state, but he didn’t respond, and Shouta was thankful.

The guest room really had only been used twice, and Shouta hadn’t been expecting anyone to stay in it soon, so the bare mattress was covered by a single quilt, and the room was just kind of generally cluttered with cat stuff—toys, a scratching post, little caves to hide in, water bowls, a litter box. By the time they got up there, Hitoshi was out of breath and looking paler than he should, the bruises on his skin standing out worryingly on his skin.

“Sit,” Shouta directed, motioning to the bed and pretending like he wasn’t hovering around in case Hitoshi fell. “I’ll get you a pillow, you just lie down for now.”

It was a testament to how battered Hitoshi was that he followed the instructions without a word. Shouta went about his business quickly, finding a spare pillow or two and a clean set of sheets, a soft comforter and a pair of slippers for Hitoshi’s bare feet. He even scrounged up a clean set of towels to set aside, though Hitoshi was in no state to be showering at the moment.

Hitoshi didn’t look like he should get up, but he insisted on letting Shouta make the bed now instead of making him wait, so Shouta made sure he was safely situated on the floor with his back against the wall before he got to work.

It was weird working with Hitoshi’s eyes on him, but Shouta simply pretended he didn’t feel them as he made the bed, fluffing the pillows as he set them in place. 

“I couldn’t find more blankets just now, but I’ll get some for you tonight, I know you get cold,” he said absently as he straightened the quilt over the comforter. Hitoshi’s silence let his words catch up to him, and he froze in place. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat, smoothing his hands over the already smooth blanket to keep from turning around. “I guess I don’t know anymore. Let me know if you get cold, I’ll bring some blankets in anyways. Just in case.”

“Sure,” Hitoshi said quietly. Easily. Shouta wondered, selfishly, how much easier it must be to be in Hitoshi’s place right now, unburdened by their past and its consequences on the present. But Hitoshi obviously had his own set of problems to overcome, so Shouta would have to deal with it.

“Do you care if the cats come in here?” Shouta asked, straightening back up and surveying his work. “Kumo might be in and out, but Sota tends to sleep in here. I can shut the door if you want.”

“No, I like cats,” Hitoshi said, a little smile on his face. How do you know, Shouta wanted to ask. Refrained. “By the way, you do make a cute nursemaid. Maybe after a nap I can watch you make dinner. Still a no to the uniform?”

Shouta dropped the pillows and walked out. If Hitoshi was able to say stupid shit, he was able to get up and walk himself to the bed. And if he wasn’t… “Scream if you need something,” he huffed. “I’m hard of hearing, so you have to be loud.”

“I’ll scream plenty loud for you if you want me to,” Hitoshi called after him, amusement clear in his voice, “though I’d rather be the one making you scream.”

Shouta fought the urge to slam the door behind him as he stormed off.

Living with Hitoshi was… strange. It was strange living with a complete stranger who he knew so well. It was strange taking care of someone again: cooking for two, doing laundry, cleaning, helping Hitoshi with things that were hard for him with his injuries.

Showering was one of those things, and it was strange for a few reasons. Hitoshi couldn’t shower on his own. He could stand under the water well enough—unless he got dizzy, which happened sometimes—but moving his arms too much was hard for him, and he wasn’t able to lift them past his chest at all. So Shouta had to help him, which was strange because:

Shouta had never had to do this for Hitoshi, but it was glaringly obvious that the Hitoshi he was washing was not the same as the one who’d left him. For one, he’d grown up… a lot. His pale skin stretched over thick, lean muscle, even if he was still far too skinny, and it was painted in black tattoos that Shouta had no way of knowing their meaning. It was clear he was strong, strong enough to rival even his former classmates who were all pro heros now. It was hard to see Hitoshi as the kid who’d lived in his house when he looked like this. It made him all too aware of the time between them.

What took Shouta aback even more than that, though, were the scars that littered his body. All his students had them, it was inevitable after what they’d been through, but Hitoshi’s were… Shouta couldn’t imagine what the hell he’d gotten involved with in the past few years that would have left him looking like this. It made him hesitate to even touch him. Even if Hitoshi couldn’t remember the scars or what they’d come from, Shouta couldn’t help but think that it was impossible for this kind of damage to not ingrain itself into the very fiber of someones being.

He also didn’t understand how Hitoshi even trusted him enough to let him wash him. As far as he was concerned, Shouta was a stranger to him. Furthermore, even if Hitoshi didn’t remember them, he could clearly see all the scars on his body. To know he’d been through so much, that he’d been so hurt before, how could he just offer himself up to someone he didn’t even know? Shouta almost wanted to scold him for it, remind him that a good hero didn’t let down his guard like that. But Hitoshi wasn’t a hero. Shouta kept his mouth shut.

Lastly, and perhaps weirdest of all, Hitoshi seemed to love shower time. Or rather, he seemed to enjoy seeing how flustered Shouta could get as he made increasingly crasser jokes and innuendos while Shouta washed him. “Oh no,” he’d lament as he climbed into the tub and sat on the stool, crossing his muscled arms daintily in his naked lap and looking up at Shouta with big, imploring eyes. “I’m all dirty. Won’t you help me?”

“That’s literally why I’m here,” Shouta would remind him, already exasperated, and Hitoshi would smile like he’d won the lottery.

Or he’d make lewd noises as Shouta washed his hair, eyes closed and head tilted back into Shouta’s hands. Sometimes he’d peek one eye open and look up at Shouta with an innocent smile. “You can pull it if you want.” There was no winning that one, because when Shouta brushed his hair and the brush tugged at his scalp, Hitoshi would look at him with twinkling eyes, open his mouth, and moan.

Hitoshi’s favorite method by far was when Shouta was washing his body with a washcloth and Hitoshi would say “Oh, you missed a spot! Lower. A little lower… A bit more, lower, lower-” 

Until Shouta threw the soapy towel between his legs with a glare. “I’m not fondling your dick. You still have two functional hands, do it yourself.”

Other jokes included “You know, you’re free to join me. I can’t get your back, but if you come real close, I can get something else, if you know what I mean” (as if there was any room for subtlety), or “Isn’t this kind of humiliating for me? I think you should get naked too.”

Shouta did his best to focus on the fact that he had a job to do, that Hitoshi needed to get clean and Shouta was the only one who could help him with it. If he didn’t think about that, then Hitoshi won by default.

So washing Hitoshi was weird as fuck. Fine. It would’ve been weird no matter who it was, even if anyone else would have spared Shouta the ridicule of being come onto by a man fifteen years his junior who he’d literally raised at one point. But fine. 

The fact that the rest of living with Hitoshi was still strange… Well, there was really no doing anything about it.

Hitoshi had all these weird habits that he definitely hadn’t had as a teenager, and Shouta couldn’t even ask about them because Hitoshi wouldn’t be able to answer him anyway. 

First of all, he was always awake by the time Aizawa woke up, usually lying on the couch with some Western period piece playing on the TV, volume all the way down. He rarely ate breakfast either, he’d just make two or three cups of coffee and drink them down like water—Shouta might’ve been to blame for that. 

Sometimes Hitoshi would get all… jittery. He’d step outside and pace on the back porch until he tired himself out and had to come in and sit. From the sheen of sweat he’d get on his forehead and the constant fidgeting of his hands, Shouta had a feeling that at some point, Hitoshi had become a bit of a smoker, and losing his memory had been an accidental cold turkey quit against his will. Buying him a pack would probably settle those nerves of his, but Shouta figured what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him… much, anyway. 

He also walked around the house at night before going to bed, and Shouta wondered if he was even aware of the fact that he was double, triple checking the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. From the way he’d just stop sometimes in the middle of a room with a small, confused frown on his face, Shouta doubted it.

He usually forgot about things like meals, so Shouta had to make sure he ate, especially when Shouta had something to do and wouldn’t be home at a mealtime. 

Lastly, although Shouta wasn’t sure if it was a habit or just an annoyance, Hitoshi was a fucking snoop. He was constantly opening doors, peeking into cabinets, rifling through drawers. Shouta did his best to keep his room locked, and it wasn’t like he had anything to hide (other than the occasional confidential document pertaining to either hero work or some student at UA), but…

But even now, even after he’d left his old apartment and moved to this house where Hitoshi had never stepped foot (until now), there were still traces of him lying around.

There was a trophy from when he’d placed second in the sport’s festival his second year sitting atop of a box of various achievements: Hitoshi’s acceptance to his first internship; his provisional license, with a picture of him all fiercely proud; his UA diploma with the gold plated star that showed he’d been in the top of his class; god knows what else. 

Somewhere else was a duffel bag with some of his old clothes: his school uniform, practice uniform, even- even his hero outfit prototypes, complete with the capture weapon Shouta had spent hours and hours training him to use.

And on a shelf somewhere, there was a photo album. The first few pictures were clippings from the school bulletin, local hero news, things like that. The rest were various pictures from the rest of Hitoshi’s high school days. Him on the podium at the sports festival. Him in one of Recovery Girl’s cots, a cast on his arm and a dumb, drugged up smile on his face as he gave the camera a thumb’s up. Him, a blur of purple streaking across the sky, launched halfway across the arena when Midoriya “accidentally” donkey-kicked him when he talked down on All Might during a training exercise. Him on the common room couch surrounded by his classmates oblivious to the camera as they all sniffled and cried over the movie they were watching. 

Shouta had mostly forgotten about that—or at least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. There were Hitoshi things around, but Shouta had more important things to worry about than knowing exactly where all of them had ended up when he’d moved into his house. 

That being said, he remembered exactly where that album had ended up when he walked in the house, arms heavy with groceries, and found Hitoshi sitting on the floor by the television, flipping slowly through the heavy black folio. 

Shouta froze for a moment, alarms blaring. Then he forced himself to move, walk right by Hitoshi and straight to the kitchen to unload his bags. “Memory or no, it’s pretty rude to snoop through someone’s things,” he said loudly enough to be heard in the living room, hoping that his voice didn’t sound as rattled as he felt. 

It took a moment, but then Hitoshi appeared in the doorway, album hanging heavily in hand. “It’s not really yours, though, is it? All the pictures are of me.”

If he were a little more shameless, Shouta would ask him if he was sure about that. After all, though the hair and the eyebags hadn’t changed much at all, the Hitoshi standing in his house now looked about as similar to his teenage self as All Might looked to himself deflated. He’d grown, both up and out, but he’d also become a veritable Pollock of misery in terms of the scars painting his skin, his babyface lost to the years of unknown hardships.

“Did you know that when you pulled it out of the cabinet?” he asked instead, filling a glass jar with water for a fresh bushel of green onions. “Just last week you were looking through Sota’s vet records, and before that you opened a work file that very clearly said confidential right on the front.”

If Hitoshi was ashamed of being caught red handed so many times, he didn’t show it at all. “If you don’t want people looking at things, you shouldn’t leave them out.”

Shouta turned to level him with an unimpressed stare. “The file was in my private office with the door shut. Sota’s records were in a locked filing cabinet, which you picked open.”

Hitoshi shrugged dismissively. “If a boy with several nearly fatal injuries and no memory of his entire life can pick your lock, I think the problem is probably your security.”

“It’s my house,” Shouta said sternly, “I shouldn’t need security in the first place.”

“Whatever you say,” Hitoshi agreed, entirely unrepentant. “Wanna explain this?” He waved the album around and Shouta went back to his groceries.

“Not much to explain. It’s a photo album, that’s all.”

7 years ago

Unsurprisingly, Hitoshi had his first ever sleepover thanks to Midoriya Izuku. For all the trouble he caused, the little problem child was a fucking bundle of goodness, and it soothed something in Shouta to know that Hitoshi had a friend like him. 

Midoriya had invited him home with him for the weekend, and Hitoshi had stared at him blankly until Shouta sent him a glare and a pointed nod from across the room, and that was that. He packed a little bag for the weekend, and off he went. It felt a little strange to suddenly have his apartment to himself, Shouta thought in his absence.

When Hitoshi returned, Shouta tried his very best to not nag him for information, but he wanted to know how it went, sue him. 

Hitoshi seemed happy but also a little… off as he recounted the weekend: Midoriya Inko’s excitement at meeting a new friend of Izuku’s; the way Izuku got kicked out of the kitchen while trying to help his mom cook when he almost cut his fingertips off; the astounding amount of All Might merch the problem child hoarded in his bedroom; how strange it was to see someone in the house they’d lived in their whole entire life, all the memories ingrained into the very bones of the home.

Later, while they were sitting in the living room working on their respective assignments, Hitoshi spoke up. “I don’t have any baby pictures,” he said quietly.

Shouta paused his work and looked up at him, something unpleasant twisting in his gut. “No?”

Hitoshi shook his head. “I have… the pictures for my foster file. And headshots from middle school, the ones for the yearbook. No yearbooks, though; the families I was with didn’t want to buy them.”

Shouta wanted to snap what the hell was their stipend for, then? But it wasn’t Hitoshi’s fault. There was nothing he could do. “I see,” he said instead. “Do you wish you did?”

Hitoshi fidgeted uncomfortably, then shrugged. “Midoriya-san showed me Izuku’s baby pictures. It was… I think it’d be nice. Being able to look back, I guess. See where you started, what you used to look like, used to do. I don’t think I’ll ever have kids, but… I don’t know. I think it’d be fun to, like, be able to see what your baby looked like compared to you at that age, stuff like that. It’s stupid, I don’t know.”

“It’s not stupid. Everyone deserves to have their memories, especially from the times they’ll probably forget. I’m sorry no one helped you keep them.”

Hitoshi’s back was turned so Shouta couldn’t see him, but he heard him sniffle a little and his heart ached for the boy. It was more than just the fact that he didn’t have any pictures, Shouta knew. It was the fact that of all the people who’d… “taken care” of him until now, not a single one had bothered to take his picture, bothered to send some pictures with him for him to keep when he was pawned off to another family.

“Whatever,” Hitoshi mumbled, and then he squirreled himself away in his room until dinner and the topic never came up again.

Shouta didn’t stop thinking about it, though. Hitoshi didn’t have baby pictures and there was nothing Shouta could do about that, but he could at least make sure that there was some record of his youth for Hitoshi to look back on when he was grown up. Something for him to show his future children if he ever chose to have any.

He spent that night searching for anything he could find from the past few months. A screengrab from a video of the sports festival, Hitoshi all angry and determined, sweat beading on his forehead as he almost defeated Izuku. A clipping from the school bulletin of the prom night, Hitoshi in the background making a face at something Kaminari said. A picture of class 1-A, Hitoshi standing awkwardly at the fringes, a small pale hand on his wrist tugging him closer as Tsuyu refused to let him hide.

Shouta dug up everything he could, printed what needed to be printed, cut out what needed to be cut out, and started a file.

Eventually, he bought photo paper for his printer, and began to print the pictures he’d started to take. He found himself taking them not just of Hitoshi, but any time he thought something was worth remembering his phone was in hand, snapping a picture. Most of them, though, were of Hitoshi and all the moments Shouta thought he deserved to remember.

Soon enough, a file didn’t really cut it anymore, and Shouta went out and found a nice-enough photo album. He wrote a little label for the outside, just the years Hitoshi would spend at UA, and began to fill it.

By the time graduation came around, the whole thing was filled to the brim, some pictures even tucked between pages when the slots ran out. 

Still, Shouta hung onto it. 

And when Hitoshi walked out for good, Shouta kept it still, a little secret on a shelf in his closet. 

Maybe it was stupid, it was definitely selfish, but Shouta kept the pictures safe. Someday, maybe, Hitoshi would come looking, would ask if Shouta had anything for him to remember the last years of his childhood, something he could show his children. 

And if not, well. At least Shouta would get to remember.

Present

Hitoshi had found the album a week ago and wouldn’t put it down. It lived on his nightstand now, instead of the media cabinet, and he spent his free time (which was all of it, given his circumstances) flipping through it and staring at the pictures like he could imprint them in his memories. 

Sometimes he’d drag it out to the living room and sit all too close to Shouta, their bodies pressed together so he could spread it across their laps and point to people and ask “Who’s this? Were we friends? Do they know what happened?”, and Shouta had to swallow a veritable rock of pain everytime he had to say something like “That’s Bakugou Katsuki, Iida Tenya, Monima Neito. Sort of, yes, I think so. No, no one’s spoken to you in years.”

Hitoshi’s excited grin faltered every time before he hummed and moved on to the next picture. Sometimes, Shouta caught glimpses of little pieces of paper, post-its with arrows and names stuck to the pictures, labeling Uraraka Ochako, Pony Tsunotori, Tokoyami Fumikage. It made Shouta burn with a rage that had no avenue: anger at Hitoshi’s stolen childhood, his stolen memories, his stolen future (that Shouta had failed to protect).

And then one day Hitoshi asked: “Hey, can I see other people? The people in the pictures?”

Shouta froze, eyes darting around as if an answer would suddenly pop up before him. No neon signs appeared. “I- I don’t see why not. Do you want to?”

Hitoshi sidled closer, one hand creeping up Shouta’s back to massage the small of his neck. It was probably meant to relax him, but Shouta just grew more tense still. “Not that you’re not enough for me,” Hitoshi purred, far too close to Shouta’s ear, “but I get a little bored sometimes. You keep refusing to entertain me.”

“I entertain you just fine,” Shouta grunted, shrugging Hitoshi’s hand off. “I keep refusing to sleep with you. I'll tellll you now that if that’s your preferred form of entertainment, your old classmates probably won’t be the best company.”

“Wow,” Hitoshi scoffed, withdrawing suddenly enough to throw Shouta off balance. “I know you don’t want me, but am I really that bad?”

Shouta’s jaw dropped. “That’s not what I- It’s not because of you, it’s just-” He cut himself off when he heard Hitoshi snickering and instantly his shoulders dropped with a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“I was just teasing, old man, don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t want any of them anyway.” He draped himself back over Shouta’s slumped shoulders, head resting by his neck. “The only person I want carnally is you.”

Shouta would be calling his problem children immediately to come deal with this imbecile.

The first one to show up when Shouta sent out an email explaining the situation was, surprisingly enough, Yaoyorozu. She knocked on Shouta’s door dressed in wide legged trousers and a tucked in cardigan, her hair lying in a neat braid down her back. She bowed politely when Shouta opened the door and held up a delicately patterned furoshiki. 

“Hello, Sensei. I brought tea for Shinsou-kun. I’m sorry I didn’t hear about this before.”

“Not your sensei anymore,” Shouta grunted, stepping aside to let her in. She slipped her heeled loafers off and lined them up to the side. “You can go upstairs and find him. I’ll boil some water for you. Just, uh. Don’t overwhelm him, there’s still a lot he doesn’t know.”

“Of course. I’m sure it must all be a lot for him.” 

Shouta grunted in agreement and waved her off. He did his best to not strain his ears to listen as she made her way up the stairs and knocked lightly on Hitoshi’s door. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make out words. No doubt Yaoyorozu was too polite to raise her voice in someone else’s house.

When the water finally boiled, he poured it into his one nice tea kettle, a plain black ceramic one with a delicate handle, and took it upstairs, making sure to let his footsteps make noise so he didn’t accidentally interrupt them.

The door to Hitoshi’s room was open, and he and Yaoyorozu were sitting beside each other on one side of the kotatsu Shouta had bought, their heads huddled over Yaoyorozu’s phone. Shouta rapped his knuckles against the door and they looked up at him, Yaoyorozu already moving to get her tea set out. 

All Shouta could focus on was the look on Hitoshi’s face, his eyes sparkling, his mouth turned up with the hint of a lingering smile. He looked so happy, it made Shouta’s heart ache.

He set the kettle down on a little trivet Yaoyorozu had pulled from her box. “Let me know if you need any snacks or anything.”

“Yes, dad,” Hitoshi said teasingly—maybe too teasingly, judging by the way his voice dipped as he drawled out the word—and Shouta froze for a moment before standing back up and walking out, not risking letting him see what that did to him. 

It wasn’t at all like the uncomfortable realization Shouta was sometimes faced with when Hitoshi tried coming onto him—the ‘shit, he’s an adult now, he’s not my ward, he’s an attractive grown man who, for some reason, wants to sleep with me’ realization. No, this was different. It was a ‘he still doesn’t know who I am, he still doesn’t understand, he would never joke like that if he knew. He’d never even be here if he knew’ kind of feeling, one that made the guilt and shame and anger rise up again in a vicious coil Shouta couldn’t loosen.

He closed himself in his office with Kumo, who curled up on his lap and fell sound asleep, and it took a long time of just staring out at nothing before he managed to do anything but think.

Yaoyorozu stayed for nearly three hours, holed away in Hitoshi’s room. When she left, she smiled softly at Aizawa and bowed her goodbye. Hitoshi didn’t come down for another hour, and when he did, he sort of hovered around aimlessly, staring off into space and distantly following Shouta around the house without even seeming aware of it.

It reminded Shouta of the old Hitoshi, the kid one who had too much to think about and refused to say a word until he’d pondered it alone for a good long time, drifting after Shouta like a ghost as he thought, absently mirroring the motions of consciousness.

Without even knowing, this Hitoshi did the same thing, lost in himself as he processed his thoughts. Shouta knew to leave him be, so he didn’t say anything.

When Hitoshi finally finished, he slumped into the couch with a sigh. He pulled out the photo album and flipped it open. Shouta, watching quietly from his armchair, studied the way he brushed his fingers over the pictures, readying himself for him to inevitably speak his mind.

“She said they’re all heroes,” he said softly. “You didn’t tell me.”

Ah. Whoops. “Yes.”

“And you are too.”

“You knew that.”

“Yeah, but… I didn’t know that everyone was. And I’m… I’m not?”

His voice was quiet but resigned. He knew the answer. “You… went down a different path.”

“What path?” Hitoshi asked. He sounded frustrated. “She couldn’t tell me, she said I just… disappeared. Stopped talking to everyone. But I was- I was supposed to be a hero.”

Shouta tried not to flinch. He tried not to apologize. “You- You made your choices. No one else could choose for you. There is no ‘supposed to,’ there’s only the choices you had and the choices you made.”

“I just- I don’t understand,” Hitoshi hissed. “Why would I- Why would I choose something else? Why would I leave everyone, leave y- I wanted to be a hero, she told me that. I- I know it’s true, I can feel it. I don’t understand.”

“It’s… I’m sorry. I just don’t know. You’re the only one who knows why you made that choice, and you… can’t remember. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

Hitoshi let out a broken sound that made Shouta wince. “I can’t- Why, it’s not fair.”

“I know,” Shouta whispered, because, no, none of it was fair. Not to anyone, but especially not to Hitoshi. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to have to think about all this. It doesn’t help when you can’t remember anything, it’s just… sad. Unfair. And you deserve better than- better than knowing that your life right now is not what you would’ve ever chosen.”

“She told me you took me in. That you believed in me when no one else did.”

Shouta looked away, jaw tight. “Yes.”

“Then it seems like my life right now makes more sense than whatever the hell I’d been doing before.”

“It’s not that simple. You- I hadn’t heard from you in a long time. You chose the life you had. You didn’t choose to be here.”

Hitoshi was quiet for a while. “I don’t know why I chose that,” he finally said, soft and confused. “I don’t know, but I- I know that I want to be here. I want to stay.”

Shouta ignored the ache that hit him at the words. “Sure. But when your memories come back… I won’t blame you. For leaving again.”

“I won’t-”

“Don’t,” Shouta cut off, standing abruptly, “make promises you can’t keep. You think you know yourself, Hitoshi, but I know you. Don’t pretend- You don’t know. And that’s okay. But don’t pretend that you do.”

If Hitoshi said anything back, Shouta didn’t hear it as he walked away.

Over the next few weeks, Shouta opened the door to all series of old students since turned heroes. Even a few not turned heroes, like Hatsume Mei who almost set his house on fire somehow. He ended up buying a phone for Hitoshi because he couldn’t keep up with all the messages and calls he was constantly trying to transmit and relay. 

Then he had a new problem, which was that Hitoshi was always on his damn phone or trying to catch up with his new old friends that hadn’t seen him in three or more years. 

The day Bakugou and Midoriya came over at the same time, Shouta just sighed and left the house for the day. 

But it was worth it, Shouta thought. Hitoshi seemed genuinely happy. He was mostly recovered now, physically speaking. Aside from the memory anyway. Sometimes he would even be roped into a little fight, and even though he’d lost so much strength in his healing, even though his body had been through hell, he could still fight, muscle memory guiding his movements.

He still lost to everyone, of course, but Shouta could tell they were impressed. They didn’t know the little that Shouta did about what Hitoshi had been involved with the past few years. Shouta didn’t tell them. Didn’t tell Hitoshi either.

The past didn’t come up again, not the way it had after the first visit. It was better that way. They went back to something like normal.

Normal apparently meant that even though Hitoshi had now spent plenty of time with very attractive people his age, he still didn’t pay them any mind. The only one he ever looked at twice was Shouta. And he looked at him a lot more than twice.

“You know, since I can’t remember anything, I’d let you take my first time.”

“If I call you Sensei, think you can teach me a few things?”

“My ribs hurt. Wanna help me wash up?”

“Sota’s taking up the whole bed, can I sleep with you?”

Shouta was going mad. He wasn’t- He wasn’t tempted, or anything. He was just going fucking insane trying to fend off a twenty-something year old who was living in his house and apparently trying to fuck him all the time.

They were watching a show, some hero drama Midoriya had talked Hitoshi into, and Shouta had already been dragged out of his armchair and onto the sofa where Hitoshi had immediately stuck his feet under his thighs for warmth.

It was probably done to tease him, but it reminded him too much of the occassional movie night they used to have back in his old apartment, Shouta bundled in a blanket or sleeping bag, Hitoshi gradually sneaking his feet closer and closer until he could tuck them under the edge of the blanket or Shouta’s sleeping bag covered leg, always a little too cold.

Shouta let it happen without a word, but he didn’t catch a single thing in the first two episodes, all his focus was on Hitoshi: Hitoshi’s limbs close to his, Hitoshi’s unburdened laugh and lighthearted commentary, the way he looked over with a smile on his face to check for Shouta’s reaction when something happened, the way his gaze would linger, darken. 

Sometimes he’d wiggle his toes further under Shouta’s thigh for no other reason than to draw his attention. Still, Shouta couldn’t tell him no.

Hitoshi was basically healed now, but without memory or information, there was nowhere for him to go, so he was just… there, all the time. Shouta’d had to buy some real furniture for the guest room that wasn’t meant for cats, and some clothes that weren’t just whatever Hitoshi borrowed from his own closet. It almost felt too much like when Hitoshi had first come to live with him.

When Hitoshi had protested the costs, Shouta had just shown him the total of the monthly deposits he’d been getting anonymously put into his bank account since Hitoshi had come home with him. That had shut him up pretty quick. 

“Do you know who’s sending it?” Hitoshi asked, scrolling through the payments. “Who… That’s a lot of money to spend on someone who…”

Who doesn’t have a past, especially not a good one. Who dropped off the map for three years and hasn’t spoken to anyone since. Who, realistically, had been involved in the kind of underbelly that didn’t waste money on things like this: things like him. They both knew it, even if Shouta maybe had a better understanding.

‘I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But someone out there wanted to make sure you were okay. Maybe you’ll remember them at some point.”

Hitoshi hummed quietly to show he’d heard, but he didn’t answer. Shouta wondered sometimes if he’d given up on all of that. Remembering. 

6 Years Ago

Hitoshi wasn’t in class on Friday. He’d been getting ready when Shouta had left for work, but he missed homeroom and then never showed up. Shouta frowned at his empty desk but didn’t say anything.

Maybe something had come up at his internship, though it was policy for agencies to inform the school when students would be missing classes. Shouta asked the other teachers, even Nezu, but no one had heard anything. Hitoshi was simply absent.

Shouta went about his day pretending not to notice the empty seat, the hole in the line up during training. 

He couldn’t ignore it when he got home and found that Hitoshi still wasn’t there either. 

Shouta busied himself cooking and cleaning and grading papers, but he found himself checking the door every few minutes, furtive glances that betrayed his restless mind.

And then, without warning, the door opened, and Hitoshi shuffled in, head held low, shoulders tight around his body. He was wearing his school uniform, but the tie and blazer were discarded, his shirt was untucked and disheveled, dirtied with grime and… was that blood?

Shouta was there before he even knew he’d stood, taking Hitoshi in with his heart slowly sinking.

“You were fighting,” he said finally. Hitoshi smelled like smoke and he wouldn’t meet Shouta’s eyes. 

He also wouldn’t answer; he just stood there in the genkan, gaze averted. Shouta didn’t crowd him, but he didn’t stop watching him either. 

Hitoshi hadn’t slipped up once since he’d come to live with him. Shouta had told him he was welcome as long as he didn’t do that kind of stuff anymore, and Hitoshi hadn’t gone back to it since he’d first moved in. 

It had proven what Shouta already believed: Hitoshi hadn’t wanted to do all that, not really. When he had the chance and the stability, he’d thrown himself into his coursework like the best of them, even making friends and going out on occasion for dinner or karaoke, things like that. He seemed happy, motivated, confident. Shouta didn’t understand.

He said as much. “Why?”

Hitoshi just shrunk in on himself. Shouta noticed suddenly that he was shaking. Despite being nearly as tall as Shouta now, he looked so much like a kid, raising his head and looking at him with bruised, watery eyes. 

“Please don’t send me back,” he whispered, his voice cracking as the tears spilled over.

Shouta barely had time to think before he was reaching forward and pulling him into a hug. Hitoshi instantly grabbed hold of him, fingers tangling in his sweater hard enough to stretch the fabric. 

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry, don’t send me back.”

Shouta didn’t know how to tell him he’d never do that, he’d never be able to send him away now. He just held him closer, and hoped he understood. They were family now. There was no changing that.

It took a long time for Hitoshi to calm down enough to explain, but Shouta made him wash up and eat first. Only then did they sit down to talk.

“I had to run to the convenience store before class,” Hitoshi told him. That’s where they’d found him: the gang he used to run with, or whatever they considered themselves.

They’d noticed him and backed him into a mostly abandoned lot. It turned out they weren’t exactly happy with his sudden absence; between the loss of his quirk and the sudden loose end of a witness to all the shit they got up to, they were far from satisfied with the current situation, and they made it Hitoshi’s problem.

He’d tried to leave without a fight, but they weren’t the type to take no for an answer.

His hero training made him a better match for all of them, but it was still a lot to one, and he was a hero, he didn’t want to hurt them, no matter how bad they were.

It hadn’t lasted all day, but Hitoshi shamefully admitted that he’d been unconscious for some amount of time, and then he’d just been… afraid to come home. 

“I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m not kicking you out, Shinsou. Hitoshi. Even if you had gone out on purpose. Look at me. Have I given up on any of your classmates? Iida-kun literally tried to kill someone last year. Bakugou-kun has caused more property damage in his time as an intern than I have in my entire hero career. You’ve had a shitty hand dealt to you. I’m not giving up on you because you made a mistake or got in trouble.”

That was the last and only time Hitoshi ever broke the one rule they’d set. 

And then he graduated, and everything slowly fell apart.