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It was all too easy. That’s what should have tipped Hizashi off sooner, in retrospect. Adopting Hitoshi was way, way too easy. The combination of an emergency situation, plus his and Shouta’s clout as teachers at a respectable school and Pro Heroes on top of that made the paperwork red tape just melt away. And Hitoshi himself was generally quiet and well-behaved and funny. It felt like Hitoshi had always been here, barring some occasional transition mishaps, it was just...so natural.
However, Hizashi had forgotten one important fact from his almost-forgotten child psychology class: that trauma will usually manifest in a child once they are relocated to a stable place.
That is to say: about two weeks after Hitoshi is adopted, he gets sick.
He was already sick when he and Shouta adopted him, and they’d just assumed that his teenage immune system had kicked it. So Hizashi didn’t pay it much mind at all when Hitoshi came home from school one day looking exhausted and a little pale. Hizashi had given Hitoshi a gentle warning against pushing himself too hard and went to work, bidding his two favorite boys goodnight.
He’s two hours into his set when he gets a text from Shouta.
[hitoshis sick. I think youd better come home.]
Hizashi has never not completed a show in his life. He doesn’t even hesitate.
**
He comes home and the apartment’s heat is blasting despite the fact that Shouta’s HRT makes him run hot and the weather outside is temperate. The sharp, acrid tang of vomit hits him next, and Hizashi has shed his hero outfit in a heartbeat--directional speaker and spiked jacket falling carelessly to the floor. He follows the sound of retching into their bathroom, where Shouta is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his hand on Hitoshi’s trembling back as the teenager heaves painfully into the toilet. Shouta meets Hizashi’s gaze with a darkeyed stare of his own, more openly worried than he’s seen Shouta in a while.
“Oh, Hitoshi,” Hizashi murmurs, kneeling next to the boy instantly. He wants to reach for him, to soothe him as best he can, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm Hitoshi. “Honey, how long have you been sick like this?”
Hitoshi’s dark eyes look bloodshot from the tears the strain of throwing up has brought streaming down his cheeks, but the stare isn’t focused. He turns mindlessly to the sound of his voice, but Hizashi can tell he isn’t comprehending the words.
“We called off his training early today because he felt dizzy,” Shouta replies for Hitoshi, who is staring at Hizashi with glassy eyes still. “He woke up from his nap about an hour ago and has a fever. He’s been throwing up for a good twenty minutes now.” Shouta’s absently rubbing circles between Hitoshi’s shoulder blades, probably not even aware he’s doing it, watching Hitoshi’s gaze slide from Hizashi’s face to the toilet bowl again as the teenager’s frame shudders.
“Poor baby,” Hizashi sighs. “High fever?”
“Not high enough for a hospital, but high enough.”
Hitoshi stirs under Shouta’s hands, pushing himself up on his forearms and looks up at both of them, his face sickly pale under the yellow bathroom light. He swallows once, twice, and says, “I-I’m sorry.”
Hizashi pushes Hitoshi’s bangs off his sweaty forehead, wincing a little at how unnaturally hot Hitoshi’s skin feels under his palm. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“ ‘S because I wasn’t careful,” Hitoshi slurs, eyes unfocused. “I’w’nt be...I’ll be fine. Don’t s...make me go.”
He’s not making a lot of sense and that’s pretty fucking concerning. Hizashi looks up at Shouta, who looks just as startled.
“Hitoshi,” Shouta says, his voice calm despite his clear worry. “You aren’t going to be in trouble, and you’re not going anywhere except back to bed. I’m going to move you now, okay?”
Hitoshi makes a high noise in the back of his throat and his face contorts with fear. “No, no, no,” he says, gripping Shouta’s sleeves, wobbling dangerously in his half-crouch. “No, no, not there, I didn’t--d’nt lock me in, ‘m sorry, sorry, it’s small in there ‘n it smells so bad, don’t lock me in there--”
Shouta lowers Hitoshi back on the floor immediately, this time sitting down with him. The air in the bathroom is stale and rank, and clearly affecting Hitoshi’s anxiety, but both Hizashi and Shouta know they can’t just grab him and lift him up without scaring him.
“Hitoshi, shh,” Shouta soothes, gently maneuvering Hitoshi’s shivering frame so that his face is pressed into the front of Shouta’s shirt. “Shh. You’re not back there. You’re here, and we aren’t locking you anywhere. We’re just going to get you back to bed. Just back to bed.”
Hizashi strokes Hitoshi’s wild curls back and says, “it’s okay, honey, it’s just us. It’s Mic and Aizawa. You’re safe.”
It might be wishful thinking, but Hizashi swears he can see some recognition in Hitoshi’s eyes at the mention of their names. Either way, Hitoshi seems to have worn himself out enough to relax into Shouta’s hold, allowing Shouta to gently scoop him up and take him back to bed. Hizashi trots ahead to get the bedroom door for them, and to pull back the covers to tuck Hitoshi in. As Hizashi bundles Hitoshi in every blanket they put in his room, it strikes Hizashi how young he looks. He’s only sixteen anyways, but he’s been filling out and finishing a growth spurt and now, sick in bed, it’s like he’s just a skinny, scared boy again. There’s a ring of sweat around the collar of his shirt, and a high flush on his cheeks and ears.
“Do we have fever reducers anymore?” Shouta asks, cutting through Hizashi’s tangled thoughts. “I looked in the bathroom, but it’s been a while since either of us got sick.”
“Yeah,” Hizashi sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No, I don’t think we have stuff anymore. We have more painkillers than a pharmacy, though. Pretty sure some of them have fever reducing as part of their thing. I’ll go out and get some specific stuff for the flu. Also some ginger tea.”
“Sorry you had to cut out early from your show,” Shouta murmurs. “But I figured you’d rather be here. And I didn’t want to leave him alone to get medicine.”
Hizashi smiles at Shouta, a little worn and more than a little frazzled, and says, “no, it’s okay. Keep an eye on him while I run out. If he gets any hotter, or starts to get confused about where he is again, we might have to consider taking him to the hospital.”
Shouta listens intently to every word with the same kind of intense gravity as listening to a mission briefing. Always so serious, always so intense, Hizashi pushes past his worry for a second to press a kiss to Shouta’s cheek. “He’ll be okay,” Hizashi soothes. “It’s just the flu. He’ll be okay.”
Shouta’s expression doesn’t change, but he nods briefly, turning his attention back to their now-slumbering teenage son. Their son. Hizashi knows intellectually that it’s just the flu, that he’ll be just fine, that people get the flu every single day. But it doesn’t do much to quell his anxiety as he leaves the room, intent on getting there and back as fast as humanly possible.
**
It’s...freezing. Hitoshi is so freezing. The Noguchi house is usually warm, he’s not sure who has been messing with the thermostat, but they’re gonna get in big trouble. His stomach rolls again, but he swallows hard. If he throws up, he’ll have to clean it up, and he can’t...he just can’t. Even if he throws up cleanly in the toilet, he’ll have to clean the bathroom and every part of his body aches. Down to his very bones. He feels like he’s forgetting something. Someone. There was someone rubbing his back as he vomited, hugging him when he panicked. A cool hand brushing hair out of his eyes. Nobody’s ever...nobody’s ever.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, surfacing just a little whenever someone presses a hand to his forehead, or adjusts his blankets. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. Keeps waiting for someone to drag him out of bed and get him to clean up his mess. He’s gotta clean up his mess. He’s going to get stuck in the closet if he doesn’t…
He opens his eyes and even that movement aches. He doesn’t quite recognize where he is, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to get locked in. He won’t. It can’t be that hard to clean.
He staggers to his feet and, once out of the warm cocoon of blankets, is hit with frigid air. He almost doubles over, shivering and swaying. He hurts all over, he absurdly feels like crying. He’s not sure where he is, but he also knows exactly where he is. His head is pounding. Dimly, he hears voices talking in another room, but he can’t focus enough to understand them. He doesn’t even have the energy to try and recognize them. He has to get to the bathroom.
Unfortunately, the bathroom still smells enough like vomit that he immediately retches, and his ribs twinge under the pressure. There isn’t anything to puke up, but his body tries. And it hurts so bad. He’s sure he’s making a mess, and he’s equally sure that he’s pulling his muscles in his sides. His throat burns with acid.
He senses a presence standing next to him, and he can’t fight down the urge to wince. But instead of a firm hand grabbing him by the elbow, dragging him somewhere else, there’s gentle fingers in his hair, a steadying hand on his back. He leans back instinctively, desperately chasing the kind, soothing touches. It stirs something deep, deep in his memory, something untouched for years and years in the back of Hitoshi’s mind that makes his chest ache.
“...Mom?” he murmurs, barely understanding the words that he’s saying. The hand freezes in his hair, but before Hitoshi has presence of mind to be afraid, he’s being hugged, cradled, even, and it feels so nice that it drowns out the ache in his lungs and the pain in his joints. He lets himself slip off to sleep again.
**
Aizawa pulls the tea kettle off the stove before it can shriek too loudly, not wanting to startle Hitoshi. Hizashi had seen him stumble to the bathroom and had gone to help him out, leaving Aizawa to arrange the ginger tea and dig out some rice crackers. He didn’t think that Hitoshi would eat anything, but the tea would help settle his stomach, as would some of the medication Hizashi found for him. He glances up to see Hizashi standing just outside the bathroom holding Hitoshi in his arms. Just...holding him, with his head tucked under Hizashi’s chin, his fist balled loosely in the collar of Hizashi’s shirt. Hizashi is teary-eyed, but there’s no urgency in the way he’s gently rocking Hitoshi, so Aizawa does his best not to rush over to where they’re standing.
“All okay?” he murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to Hitoshi’s forehead. It’s still warm, but nowhere near the searing heat it was in the beginning of the evening.
Hizashi takes a wet, shaky breath in and nods. “Yeah,” he replies into Hitoshi’s hair. “I think he’ll be able to sleep off most of the rest of this.” Aizawa steps back to let Hizashi take Hitoshi to bed, but Hizashi doesn’t move, still holding the teenager close to his chest.
“Are you all right?” Aizawa presses gently, tilting his head. Hizashi blinks a couple of times before giving Aizawa a strained smile.
“Yeah, definitely,” Hizashi says, sniffling. “I just...wow, this is our son. He-he was definitely a little delirious, but...he asked for his mom. In the bathroom just now. I think he thought I was…” Hizashi trails off, pressing his face back into Hitoshi’s hair, clearly overwhelmed. Aizawa can’t blame him--when he’d first offered their home to Hitoshi and the boy had reached out to hug him in earnest, Aizawa thought his heart was going to stop.
“Let’s take him to bed,” Aizawa says quietly, “and see if he’ll drink some tea.”
Hitoshi stirs into semi-wakefulness when they settle him into bed, and Aizawa is unspeakably relieved to see recognition in his dark eyes.
“...Sensei?” Hitoshi murmurs, his voice wavery and weak, like the act of speaking is too much. “What’s...going on?”
“You have the flu,” Aizawa replies. “Probably the strain you had before, but your body had held it off until now.”
Hitoshi frowns a little. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ll...be fine, you guys don’t need to, like, go out of your way…”
Aizawa has to remind himself to not roll his eyes or speak sharply. Hitoshi is a sick, vulnerable child. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says after a beat. “We want to take care of you. That’s our job, and we want to do it.”
Hitoshi blinks at him, hazy surprise flitting across his hollowed features. “I think I threw up,” he says, his voice small and ashamed.
A gentle laugh draws Hitoshi’s attention to Hizashi, who sits in Hitoshi’s computer chair. “Sweetheart, you have definitely thrown up more than once,” he says, smoothing out Hitoshi’s blankets. “But that’s okay. You focus on getting better, me and Shouta will take care of the rest. Okay?”
Hitoshi stares up at Hizashi for a moment, his eyes more clear than they’ve been all night. He swallows dryly and says, “you aren’t mad?”
It’s a heartbreaking question. It makes Aizawa want to put on his jumpsuit and his capture weapon and just beat the living hell out of every adult that has ever made this child feel ashamed for being sick. He regrets not saying more to Hitoshi’s old foster father when they met briefly. In a secret back corner of his mind, Aizawa regrets not laying that man out in one clean hit to the jaw.
But it wouldn’t have done anything to heal the damage Hitoshi is already carrying. Aizawa knows that. So he softens his expression and puts a hand on Hitoshi’s shoulder. “We aren’t mad,” he reassures him. “We’re just worried. Drink some tea for your stomach, and get some more rest. We’ll be here if you need us. Whatever you want.”
Hitoshi obediently sits up enough to sip hesitantly at his tea and nibble on the corner of a rice cracker. He still looks exhausted, but not so pale and hollow. He looks up at Aizawa with that same nervous look that he always wears when he wants to ask for something that he doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to want.
“Can…” Hitoshi starts, then stops himself, chewing on his lower lip. Hizashi shifts forward in his chair, but neither adult says a word, waiting for him to decide what he is going to do. “If it’s not too much trouble, can...can you guys sit with me?” Hitoshi ducks his head instantly, as if expecting chastisement. “I know it’s weird, I’m way too old for this, I know there’s other things you guys need to be doing tonight-”
“Nothing that’s more important than this,” Hizashi interjects, settling back into the chair. Aizawa nods and settles onto the foot of Hitoshi’s bed, leaning against the wall. “Nothing that’s more important than you.”
Hitoshi looks at Aizawa, then Hizashi, his eyes filling with tears. He looks so fragile, so awed at simple words of affirmation. It makes Aizawa want to kill someone, everyone who ever wronged this vulnerable boy in front of him. In lieu of anything to add, he just pats Hitoshi’s foot and settles in.
“...Thank you,” Hitoshi murmurs, his eyelids already drooping. “Thanks.”
Hizashi leans forward and kisses him on the forehead impulsively. “Sleep well,” he says with a loving smile. “We’ll be right here, sweetheart. We aren’t going anywhere.”
Hitoshi is smiling when he drifts off to sleep. It feels like a triumph.