Work Text:
Hizashi isn’t even on patrol when they meet. It’s late--or really early depending on who you ask--and he’s on his way home from the radio station. He’s tired, his hair in a messy bun and his glasses slipping down his nose as he plods along.
As per Shouta’s request (read: demand) he doesn’t have his headphones on and does have his hearing aids turned up. Something about it being safer for when he walks home this late at night. He’ll thank his husband later for the rule because it is what allows Hizashi to pick up on the small crash and whimper that sounds from the alley nearby.
He’s instantly on alert, eyes darting around as he takes his hands from his pockets and slips into the shadows. Hizashi may not be on patrol, but he’s still a pro hero, and if someone is hurt or being hurt, then it’s his responsibility to do something about it.
There are no sounds of a struggle, but there is another small whimper of pain. Hizashi suppresses his shudder of disgust as he wades through slimy puddles and imagines all the creepy crawlies that might be nearby. Someone in need of help is more important than his hatred of bugs.
“Hello?” he calls out. “Is anyone hurt? Do you need help?”
This isn’t his first time in this type of situation. A few times, he’s had to break up a fight or send a would-be mugger running. More often than not, he’s simply told to get lost. This time, there’s no answer other than a sharp intake of breath and a scuffle of feet.
“I’m not here to hurt you; I just want to help.” He’s out of costume, and sometimes these things go better if he doesn’t announce who he is. He keeps his voice well beneath his usual loud tone and inches further into the darkness.
Something falls with a clatter to his right and Hizashi whips around, eyes narrowed, and scans the area around the dumpster for anything out of place. It wouldn’t be his first time getting jumped either, although those types are never all that hard to handle.
Still, he keeps himself at the ready as he tries to make shapes out of the shadows. There: a tiny lump sticking out from behind the dumpster, not quite able to squeeze themself between it and the wall.
Oh. Oh no. Oh nononono.
It’s a kid. Tiny, dirty, and peering up at him with wide eyes so bright and so scared that it strikes Hizashi right in the gut.
He crouches down immediately, folding his tall frame into something that hopefully seems a little less intimidating. He softens his body language, hands raised, and quickly scans the tiny bundle in front of him. The lighting is horrible, so much he can’t even tell what color the kid’s hair is, but he looks male and he looks young.
“Hey there,” Hizashi whispers, gentle gentle. “I’m not gonna hurt you. My name is Hizashi.”
The kid says nothing, just tries to scooch back even further, doing his best to sink right through the wall. His little chest is heaving, but Hizashi can barely hear his rapid breaths. There are inky shadows clinging to him, making him hard to see, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s injured.
“Are you hurt?” Hizashi tries. “I promise, I’m here to help. I’m a pro hero.”
That usually helps when it comes to kids, but Hizashi can see the flare of panic that fills the boy’s wide eyes, and he tries even harder to scramble behind the dumpster.
“Whoa, whoa, easy little listener. I promise, nothing’s going to happen. I just want to see if you’re hurt.” And get you out of this nasty alley.
The kid shakes his head rapidly, but there’s a bit more moonlight peeking out behind the clouds now and his movements make something metal catch Hizashi’s eyes.
Oh fuck.
“Fuck,” Hizashi breathes. There’s a muzzle strapped to the kid’s face, metal edges digging into the skin of his cheeks in a way that tells Hizashi whoever put it on him wanted it to hurt. A scream bubbles in Hizashi's chest, his teeth snapping shut so fast the click echoes through the alley.
For a single hysterical moment, Hizashi really wishes he had Shouta with him.
The boy is shaking, trembles ripping through him as he whines low in his throat. The sound seems to terrify him further, and he curls into himself, ducking his head out of sight behind his knees. It shakes Hizashi out of his own head, and he shoves down the rage and bile so he can do his damn job.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay.” Think, Hizashi, think. “I can get it off, little listener, you’re going to be okay.”
There’s something like a choked sob and the kid shakes his head again. His knuckles are turning white where they’re gripping the edge of his pants.
“Hey, can you look at me please? I promise, you’re gonna be fine. I know it hurts, but I've got you.”
Two teary eyes peek up at him over the top of knobby knees. Hizashi tries for his gentlest smile, even as his own cheeks ache with phantom pain. “Hi,” he whispers.
The kid’s tears are halted by the rough edge of the muzzle, and Hizashi knows the salt must sting at the wounds there. The sight makes him so angry it takes every bit of professionalism he has to keep it off his face and out of his body language.
He will not scare this kid. He will not be the reason for any more of his pain tonight.
“I need to ask you a few questions, okay? You can just nod or shake your head.”
The kid waits a beat, then nods, hesitant and slow. Hizashi really wishes the lighting were better.
“Do you want me to take the muzzle off?” he starts with.
The kid shakes his head first, pauses, nods, pauses again, then shakes his head. More tears flow down his covered cheeks. Two tiny hands flit haltingly through the air in a way that's immediately familiar.
‘You can’t,’ the kid had signed, and Hizashi feels something like relief sting his lungs. This, he can work with.
“Okay, great, that’s good kid. You can keep signing, okay? Why can’t I take it off?”
The kid blinks, looking a little shocked that Hizashi was able to understand him. Then those same tiny--god he’s so small-- hands lift again. ‘ I’ll get in trouble.’
“With who kiddo? The person who put it on you?”
‘Yes.’
“Was it-” And Hizashi has to swallow hard, shoving any unhelpful feelings and memories into a tiny box deep in his mind. “Was it a parent?”
Another nod, another head shake. Hizashi is so glad the kid knows sign language. ‘Foster parent,’ he reveals.
“Your foster parent put the muzzle on? And told you you can’t take it off?”
A wary nod. Hizashi breathes out harshly, closing his eyes so the kid won’t see the anger that flares in them for a moment.
“Okay, thank you for answering, you're doing really well.”
Hizashi gathers himself, the kid starting to relax and unfurl a little. He meets the boy's gaze, trying to make sure he sees how serious Hizashi is. “Firstly, you are not going back there, okay? What your foster parent did was wrong, and I’m not going to let them keep hurting you, alright?”
He lets that sink in, the kid staring up at him with such disbelief and wary confusion in his eyes that it makes Hizashi's chest ache.
“Second. If I promise you won’t get in trouble, will you let me take the muzzle off? I know it must be painful.”
Something panicked and conflicted crosses the kid’s eyes. His hands clench and unclench several times before they move into trembly little signs. ‘I- my quirk, it could hurt you.’
And oh, doesn’t that make Hizashi want to cry. It kicks him right where it hurts, deep deep down in the part of him that’s just as tiny and scared as the kid in front of him, a bundle of blonde hair and teary green eyes that knew all too well the feeling of metal over his mouth.
“You and your good for nothing quirk! It does nothing but hurt people!”
“Please! Mama, don’t, don't pleas-mgfhfh!”
Hizashi takes another deep breath.
“You won’t hurt me, little listener. Whatever it is, I can handle it. I’m a pro, remember?”
The kid’s chest shakes, and he lets out another choked sob as he shakes his head.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I just want to help.”
Several more head shakes. Gosh, Hizashi wants nothing more than to wrap this kid in the softest blanket he owns and hold him so close that nothing bad could possibly touch him again.
‘Y-you’re a hero.’ The poor kid’s hands are shaking so hard it’s difficult to tell what he’s saying.
“Yeah, I am. It’s my job to help, you dig?”
He’s pretty sure the kid’s eyes are purple. His hair is dark and tangled, but he thinks that’s purple too. His skin is pale under the dirt and grime, and Hizashi has been refusing to think about why he’s out here hiding behind a dumpster this late at night because if he pictures this kid’s foster parent for more than a second, he might seriously end up murdering someone tonight.
The boy shakes his head again. ‘I-I-I’m a villain, though. Heroes hate villains.'
What?
“I don’t know who told you that, little listener, but they’re wrong, okay? You are not a villain.”
‘But my quirk hurts people.’
There’s a resigned sort of acceptance in the kid’s eyes that makes Hizashi’s fist clench. He fights down the years-old rage and inches another step closer. His thighs are starting to ache from squatting down like this, but he ignores it easily.
“You want to know a secret, little listener? My quirk can hurt people, too. In fact, I hurt someone the very first day it came in, and I've even hurt myself with it. But that doesn't make me a villain, and your quirk doesn’t make you one either.”
The kid stares at him, eyes so wide that Hizashi could drown in the depth of his shock. He knows the kid won't believe him, not right away at least. It took Hizashi a pretty long time to believe it himself, after all. Not in small part because of another boy with long dark hair and tired eyes.
“I promise, you’re not a villain, kiddo. Let me get that off.”
Finally,
finally,
Hizashi gets a nod. He wastes no time after that, keeping his movements clear and slow as he reaches behind the kid’s head to unlock the torture device contraption.
The kid sucks in several desperate gasps of air as Hizashi pulls it away, the squelching suck of bloody skin as the device is removed making the kid flinch and Hizashi choke down a quirk-powered scream. His whole body shudders with the kid’s, his hands immediately chucking the metal as far down the alleyway as he can.
He never wants to see it again. Already, the sight of the kid wearing it is burned in his brain, tangled locks flicking from purple to blonde and back again.
“You’re alright, just breathe, it’s gone, you’re alright.”
The kid shakes and shudders and then pitches over to puke onto the nasty alley floor. His hands are jerking into half-started ‘I’m sorry’s’ as he sobs and gasps. Hizashi keeps up a soothing murmur, nails digging into his palms so he won’t do something stupid like reach out and touch.
God, does he want to though.
“Easy, little listener, just breathe. Here, like me. In…and out.”
He makes sure to catch the kid’s gaze as he puts a hand to his own chest and takes an exaggerated breath. He does it again, counting slowly, and waits patiently for several heartbeats until the kid starts to try and match him.
“Good, just like that. You’re doing great.”
It takes them several long moments, long enough that Hizashi starts to wonder how late he’ll be getting home now. He needs to text Shouta, needs to tell him there’s going to be someone joining them tonight.
“Can you tell me your name, little listener?” Hizashi asks softly.
The kid immediately clams back up and shakes his head. His hands lift again. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
He really wants to know what this kid’s quirk is, but Hizashi understands that asking would not be a smart move at the moment.
“Okay, that’s fine. You can keep signing.”
The kid’s shoulders sag in relief. The silence hurts, a familiar pain that Hizashi remembers as stifled sentences and a bitten tongue. A childhood full of hands over his mouth and hands over his ears and hands that hit hard against his head.
“Just SHUT UP!” his mother would scream.
And Hizashi did. For weeks and months, he didn’t say a word.
With a harsh swallow, Hizashi buries the memory, shoving it away and away until he can focus back on the kid in front of him instead of the one in his past.
“How about how old you are, hm?”
That one is easy at least. ‘Ten,’ comes the answer, and Hizashi makes sure to smile encouragingly despite the pang in his chest.
Ten is so young. So very very young.
“I know your face must hurt. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
‘No.’
“That’s good. How do you feel about getting inside then, yeah? We can clean up those cuts and get some food in your belly. I’m sure you must be hungry.”
Those cuts…this kid had been wearing that muzzle for hours. Hizashi would know. Under the makeup that he always wears, the tiny pale scars on his cheeks are burning with old memories.
Plus, Hizashi’s legs are really starting to hurt and he’d love to get them both out of this nasty alley. He needs to text Shouta and then get them both home.
‘I- I don’t want to go back.’ The kid's hands are rushed and frantic. Hizashi dares to get even closer.
“You’re not; I promise you’re not. You’re gonna come with me, okay? My home is right around the corner and it’s nice and warm.”
Hope shines in the kid’s eyes for just a moment before it’s squashed beneath the ever-present fear. ‘They’ll be mad. I wasn’t supposed to leave.’
It’s marginally better than the idea of someone having kicked him out to wander the streets like this. Marginally. Hizashi is still seething on the inside, though.
“Hey, trust me when I say this: you will not be in trouble. They are in a lot of trouble. What they did to you was very wrong, and it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
He’s going to have to make several calls tonight. But Shouta is good friends with Tsukauchi, and Hizashi has a few of his own favors he can call on. They’ve had their emergency foster license since they both debuted, so it shouldn’t be that much of a problem.
Hizashi would fight tooth and nail for this one. He knows Shouta will too.
“Come on, kid. Let’s go home.”
He holds a hand out, careful and slow, and waits with bated breath until a tiny arm reaches out and joins him. Hizashi pulls them both to their feet, the kid swaying slightly but overall steady enough to make the walk. He's barefoot, but an offer to carry him is vehemently declined.
Hizashi keeps up a light chatter all the way back, determined not to let them sit in silence. Anything but silence. The kid is tiny and skinny and his clothes are torn and damp. He eyes Shouta with distrust when they enter, but he lets Hizashi lead him into the bathroom, lets him clean the cuts and wipe down his skin and smile at him as kindly as he can.
Shouta makes a simple meal, and Hizashi thanks every deity he knows for giving him such an amazing husband when the other hero takes it all in stride, sliding a piece of paper across the kitchen table so the kid can write down a shaky ‘Hitoshi’.
Hizashi keeps talking. He keeps smiling. He changes the sheets and digs out some pajamas and tells the kid, crouched down to his level and with his hands clasped lightly on both shoulders, that “You’re safe, Hitoshi. You are safe here.”
Hizashi holds it together all night, just like he had in that alleyway, until finally finally he slides into bed and rolls over to press his face to Shouta’s chest.
“Zashi,” his husband rumbles, achingly soft, and Hizashi loses it.
There’s a kid in his guest room, tiny and skinny and with harsh red lines across his cheeks, and Hizashi cannot look at him without seeing himself.
“He was wearing a muzzle, Sho,” he whispers. His voice cracks and breaks, his heart shattering as it fails to contain the painful memories.
“I know.” Calloused fingers comb through Hizashi’s hair, and he breathes in the scent of home and safety that he used to think he’d never get.
“He- I won’t let him go back.”
“I know, Zashi.”
“I promised him.”
“I know.” Shouta presses a kiss to Hizashi’s temple, gathering the man even closer. “He’s not going anywhere, Zashi.”
Shouta doesn’t say the words ‘I promise’ but then again, he doesn’t have to. Hizashi knows that tone of voice. He saw the way Shouta had looked at Hitoshi. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve a husband like Shouta, but he’ll forever be grateful for the other’s presence in his life.
The sun will just begin to peek over the horizon by the time the two finally fall asleep. They'll get precious little of it before they’re forced awake again, Tsukauchi the first to arrive at their home followed by Recovery Girl. There will be a mess of paperwork and social workers and a home visit where Hizashi will have to remind himself that murder is illegal before they’re finally back, Hitoshi falling into an exhausted lump on the couch as Shouta downs another cup of coffee.
The kid won't say a word the whole time. It’ll take weeks before he does. There are three other kids in that house, and Hitoshi’s back is peppered black and blue when he lets Recovery Girl take a look.
Brainwashing, the file will say. Hitoshi had been in more homes than Hizashi cared to count, and he had a feeling not a single one had been what the kid needed. Us, Hizashi will think selfishly. He needs us.
Shouta, with his ability to erase the kid’s quirk, a failsafe that makes Hitoshi’s shoulders slump in relief when they tell him. And Hizashi, who crouches down beside the panicking kid one night and lets his tiny fingers trace the pale lines on Hizashi’s cheeks that matched Hitoshi’s own.
I’m like you, Hizashi won't say. Hitoshi will hear it anyway.
It will take months, years really, for the kid to fully break out of his shell. Hizashi expects nothing less. He remembers his own journey vividly, and he will do his best to be everything Hitoshi needs. It’s something he'll find funny, really, that the older the kid gets, the more he looks like Shouta.
“He’s like a mini-you, Eraser!” their friends will tease.
It’s true, too. By the time Hitoshi is old enough for hero school, decked in grey and black with a capture scarf around his head and bags under his eyes, he will look so much like a teenage Shouta that even Hizashi joins in on the jokes.
Their friends all know he’s adopted. They’ve been there through the ups and downs, a village that Hizashi stays grateful for every day. Hitoshi gets mentioned on his radio show several times, always careful to hide the kid’s name, quirk, and true identity.
Hizashi will get asked, sometimes, in interviews, fans, and coworkers alike, what made him want to adopt. What made him choose Hitoshi.
“He reminded me of someone,” Hizashi always replies.
His coworkers think he means Shouta. The kid takes after the underground hero in so many ways that it’s a logical conclusion to jump to. Hizashi never corrects them. Just smiles to himself and goes home to his family.
Only a few know the truth. Shouta is one of them. Shouta is the one that holds him together the first night, pressing light kisses to the scars on his face. Shouta is the one who learned sign language for him, who packed him an extra lunch every day during high school, who refused to use his quirk on him even in class because he would never take away Hizashi’s voice.
Shouta knows that that first night in the alley, when Hizashi looked at their son, he saw himself.
So tonight, with Hitoshi asleep in their apartment for the first ever time, Shouta doesn’t need to say the words ‘I promise’. Hizashi already knows.
Hitoshi is theirs, and he’s not going anywhere.