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No one bothers him when he leaves.
He doesn’t even make an attempt to hide his actions, slipping by in plain sight. His foster mother stares at him as he bypasses her, curled on the couch with a book in her lap. She’s made it clear before that she cares little for Hitoshi’s whereabouts, so long as the police are never brought to her door. His foster father is of the same opinion, though he’s a bit of a drinker and isn’t often . . . present to even notice when Hitoshi leaves for school each morning.
No one bothers him when he reaches a building he’d marked as his grave.
Then again, it’s not as if there’s anyone around to bother him. His steps echo softly in the night air as he walks, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. It’s a chilly night. Windy. Hitoshi thinks there’s some poetry about that. He’d been born in the midst of a summer storm, noon sun smiling at the world. He’s going to die on a cold night in winter, fingers bitten from frostbite.
Born surrounded by people; by love and warmth. Dying on a stained sidewalk, surrounded by himself and the emotions that drain out of him like his blood.
It’s not an old building, but it isn’t new, either. He knows it’s been marked to be torn down for construction—a government building, probably; he hadn’t paid much attention—and his death will make the process go faster. He slips beneath the CAUTION tape and makes his way toward the roof. He finds no problems once he steps onto the platform.
Wind rustles his hair. It reminds him of Aizawa, almost, carding fingers through it after a training session. His thoughts make him falter, slightly, as he approaches the ledge. Slivers of guilt nestle in the crevices of his ribcage. He couldn’t call himself a student if he disappeared, if he died, without a single word. He’s left letters, of course. A journal, really, that outlined everything he could never say aloud.
It’d be rude if he doesn’t say goodbye, wouldn’t it?
If he doesn’t answer, I jump, Hitoshi tells himself as he looks up the hours for Yamada’s show, as if he didn’t know it by heart. If he does, I say goodbye.
His fingers dial a familiar number. Hitoshi has been a regular caller on Present Mic’s show for years. Before they knew his name and face, they’d known him as Toshi; a quiet and anxious student with a so-called villainous quirk. He’s positive the station knows his number by heart, at this point, and he isn’t surprised when his call goes through.
“Hey, hey, listener!” Yamada greets cheerfully, blissfully unaware of Hitoshi’s emotional turmoil. “You’re on the air~! Tell Present Mic WHAT’S HAPPENIN’, BABY!”
Hitoshi tries to laugh. It’s a mournful, choking noise that dies as soon as it escapes his lips. “H-Hi Mic-sensei,” Hitoshi manages to say after a pause. Words choke and mangle in the back of his throat, a painful symphony he tries to swallow back. “It’s, um. Shinsou. Shinsou Hitoshi.”
“Oho! We have one of my students on the line tonight~! How ya doin’, Shinsou-kun?”
Hitoshi closes his eyes. His breath hitches in his throat, curling around building sobs. “I’m . . . d-doing okay,” Hitoshi replies, and his voice trembles, and it cracks. He bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough for it to bleed, and knows it hasn’t escaped his teachers’ notice. Yamada has sharp intuition—sharper when there’s a child involved. “I, uh, j-just wanted to say goodbye, I guess.”
“. . . Goodbye?” Yamada echoed, much quieter than his Present Mic personality. “Why’re you sayin’ goodbye? You goin’ on vacation and leavin’ your poor sensei’s behind?” It’s a clear attempt for Hitoshi to laugh.
He tries. He fails. “N-No, I’m . . . I’m going to leave s-soon.” His voice cracks again; a melancholic tang that splits his tongue in half. “An-And it’d be . . . rude if I didn’t say goodbye, y’know?”
“Hitoshi-kun.” Yamada steels his voice, no longer the sunshine and comedic radio host, but rather a protective teacher and pro hero handling a delicate case. “What’s going on, listener? You’re scaring me, kiddo. What’s your status? Are you—?”
Wind interrupts Yamada; a whirling force that skids Hitoshi a few steps forward. There’s a series of indignant squawks an murmurs on Yamada’s end, muffled and distorted by the wind. It’s a dangerous night to be up so high, really, but Hitoshi figured he couldn’t wait any longer. It wouldn’t be fair.
“What was that?!” Yamada cried out. Hitoshi’s positive his five-minute call has been used up. There’s other people waiting for their chance to speak to Present Mic; he needs to stop being so selfish. “Hitoshi-kun, where are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt, sensei. I’m. I’m on a roof.” Quiet swallows the admittance. It melts across his skin; a caustic acid that rots his veins. “’M sorry, Yamada-sensei.” Glass splinters the inside of his lungs. “Tell Aizawa-sensei g-goodbye for me.”
“Wait—WAIT, HITOSHI, DON’T HANG UP—!”
Hitoshi hangs up the phone.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. He stands there, seeing everything yet nothing at all, and breathes. He thinks his crying; cheeks damp. His nose and throat burn.
It’s an interesting feeling—being so high off the ground, and yet feeling as insignificant as the smallest speck of dirt on the concrete below. He takes a breath or two—or five, really. His shoes are lined beside him neatly, a note tucked inside. It only has his name and a number to call (and a scratched out im sorry sensei). He doesn’t need anything else.
His heart stutters in his chest as he takes a step forward. It’s oddly peaceful. It’s quiet. The world sleeps while he is mere seconds away from his death. Poetic. He ignores the dampness of his face, the stinging in his eyes. He steps off the ledge.
Falls.
Air rushes toward him; whistling deafeningly in his ears. A yelp escapes him as his descent is stopped, abruptly; something tugging at his clothes. Keeping him adrift in air. He’s tugged upward and back, almost flying, until he’s guided back on the roof. He’s set down gently, a good distance away, and whirls around to see. . .
Hawks?
Hitoshi makes a noise in the back of his throat. A part of him thinks it sounds like a sputtering car engine. Failing to do its’ job, no matter how many times it’s tried. Just like Hitoshi. “Wha—Hawks?” Hitoshi finds himself frozen, pinned beneath that golden gaze. “Wh-Wh-Why . . .?” His mind drifts toward the goodbye call. Had Yamada . . .? “D-Did P-Present Mic call you?”
Hawks uses his feathers to retrieve Hitoshi’s belongings, shaking his head. “No one called me,” Hawks says quietly, and before that could settle into Hitoshi’s lungs, continues: “I was . . . taking a flight and saw you.”
Cold seeps into the soles of his feet. “O-oh.”
“What’s your name, kiddo?” questions Hawks as he helps Hitoshi into his shoes, likely not trusting the way Hitoshi’s limbs trembled. There’s still a feather nestled into his clothes. A sharp, grounding grasp against the fabric. Hawks’ smile twitches at the sight of Hitoshi’s note, but he doesn’t bring attention to it. “Shit, kid, I—how old are—?” Hawks cuts himself off, exhaling. It hitches. “Okay. Okay.”
It hits Hitoshi, suddenly, that Hawks, for all that he is the Number 2 Pro Hero, is barely twenty-two. Hitoshi, likewise, is barely sixteen.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, okay?” Hawks’ voice is soft; gentle as if Hitoshi might shatter within the next few seconds—but firm and unyielding. He isn’t going to take a refusal as an answer. “We’re going to get you off this roof, alright—.”
A soft growl interrupts them. Hitoshi’s face heats from mortification at the presence of his hunger, but Hawks only softens further.
“We’re going to get off this roof,” Hawks continues quietly, “and we’ll get something to eat—.”
“It-It’s late,” Hitoshi interrupts even though he knows he shouldn’t. Because stupid foster children shouldn’t interrupt adults—. “An-And you . . . you shouldn’t spend money on—.”
“On what?” says Hawks, gentler and more knowing than any adult Hitoshi has ever spoken to. “A hungry child?”
Words die on Hitoshi’s tongue. He chews on his bottom lip, breath hitching in his throat, and shivers when another volley of wind curls around them. Hawks gaze sharpens at that and grows even more determined to get Hitoshi off the roof and someplace warm.
“Come on,” Hawks murmurs as he gathers Hitoshi in his arms, as if Hitoshi weighs nothing, and flaps his wings. “I know just the place!”
Hitoshi is somewhat surprised, and unsurprised, he ends up in a fried chicken joint. It’s opened twenty-four hours every day, and the employees greet Hawks warmly. Not as if he’s a well-known pro hero, but, rather, because he’s likely a constant regular. Hawks keeps a grip on Hitoshi’s hand, squeezing for comfort whenever Hitoshi looks even remotely distressed at the three people in the establishment.
He thinks, belatedly, it’s also because Hawks doesn’t want Hitoshi to run.
They step in line (which . . . is just them, really) and order—well, Hawks orders, and Hitoshi stares at everyone with a distant, barely-there gaze—and Hawks herds Hitoshi toward an empty booth. They sit amid quiet, some song crackling overhead in soft tones, until an employee arrives with their food, setting it on the table with a kind smile.
“Shouldn’t your little brother be sleeping?” laughs the employee, eyes twinkling with mirth as she winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
“Hey,” Hawks mock-pouts and ruffles Hitoshi’s hair, smiling kindly at the wide-eyed look. “There’s nothing wrong with 3 AM fried chicken~!”
The employee—Sasada Yui, her nametag declares—only snorts.
Hitoshi slowly processes the interaction, chewing on the bite in his mouth. Was I just . . . adopted . . . by Hawks? His head hurts at the mere idea. He makes the executive decision to shove it in the back of his mind, to unpack and process when he’s in a better mind state. If he’ll even—
“So!” Something about Hawks’ expression alleviates the tension in Hitoshi’s shoulders. “Tell me about yourself~.”
Hitoshi swallows and stares at a stain. “’M not that interesting . . ..”
“I’m not sure about that,” Hawks comments.
Hawks gently pries information out of him while they eat. He learns Hitoshi’s name, and age, and that he’s a U.A. student, aiming for heroics. Hawks looks impressed when Hitoshi informs him, in a tone shyer than he’s ever been, that he’s being trained by Eraserhead, and Present Mic, too, whenever the man has the time to join their training sessions.
Hitoshi picks his way through his food. Not quite hungry, but not quite full. He doesn’t want Hawks money to go to waste.
Minutes drift by as they speak. Hitoshi finds himself talking about the stray cats he feeds around his neighborhood. He’s named most of them, and they follow him around as if they’ve adopted him into their little pack of feral felines. He never fails to feel proud whenever they purr beneath his fingers. He talks about his classmates—about his surprise whenever he’s invited to sit with them at lunch, whenever they never hesitate to answer his questions, whenever Midoriya gleefully talks about the applications of his quirk—and how safe he feels at U.A.
He doesn’t talk about his foster home.
He doesn’t talk about his quirk, either.
Hawks, sensing the complication, doesn’t ask, either.
(It’s almost enough to make Hitoshi want to cry. He’s never been much of a crier, mostly because it had been too dangerous to express emotions other than blank disinterest, but his world has been upturned and twisted. He doesn’t know how he still breathes. He wonders if this is a hallucination, a last-minute dream as he falls, and falls, and—)
A brief pause blankets the table. Words shiver beneath Hitoshi’s skin, wanting to spill from his lungs. They weep and writhe; desperate to be heard, to be listened to. That grieving, aching six-year-old Hitoshi has never truly outgrown screams, still. Asks why no one is listening, why no one cares—
“What’s . . . your name?” Hitoshi is careful with his inflection. Always a blanket statement. Never a threat. “It feels . . . weird . . . j-just calling you Hawks.”
For a moment, Hawks only stares. Hitoshi thinks he’s done some faux pas (of course) and, heart shredding in his lungs, tries to backpedal.
“S-Sorry—!”
“Takami.” Hawks pronounces the name slowly, as if it’s rare to speak it into existence. Hitoshi can relate. A good portion of his childhood, his foster homes never referred to him by his name. “Takami Keigo.” Hawks smiles, then, and it’s the most genuine Hitoshi has ever seen on the heroes’ face. “But I think, after everything tonight, you can call me Keigo, Hitoshi-kun~.”
Hitoshi hums around another bite. “Are you . . . sure?”
Hawks—no, Takami nods. His eyes crinkle. “Yeah, kid. I’ve never been more positive in my life.” It’s such an exaggeration, Hitoshi can’t swallow back the snort. If anything, Takami’s smile widens. “Finally! I’ve got you to laugh~!”
They finish eating within minutes despite Hitoshi’s slow progress. There’s a lump in the middle of his throat; he doesn’t know what Takami is going to do, what he’s going to suggest, now that there is no food to distract either of them. Hitoshi follows the hero in a daze, throwing away his trash in the marked area as they exit the establishment.
Sasada tiredly tells them goodnight. “Get home safe, boys!”
Hitoshi has a heart, contrary to belief. He’s not going to say he doesn’t have anything to return to. It isn’t fair to burden a stranger with his problems. But aren’t you doing that now? A voice murmurs in the back of his mind, a dark lilt to their mouth.
Takami exhales, wisps of white in the air. Hitoshi knows what’s coming next.“I’ll take you home, okay—?”
“No.” Hitoshi really shouldn’t; it’s a terrible idea, but he thinks he should be selfish a bit longer. His fingers thread through the front of Takami’s shirt (a distant part of his mind points out it’s a pajama shirt with cartoon-like cookies patterned on it). “Please . . . no,” Hitoshi finishes in a whisper. “I can’t . . . don’t let me go back there.”
“Hey. Hey.” Takami rests a grounding hand on Hitoshi’s head. “It’s okay, Hitoshi. I’ve got you, okay? Whatever’s going to happen next . . . you won’t be alone anymore.”
Hitoshi hears glass shattering. It sounds like his heart. He thinks they must’ve made an interesting sight to the rest of the world; Hitoshi, weeping as Takami reconstructs his crumbling world. Takami, dripping in worry for a child he barely knows.
He isn’t sure how long it takes him to become coherent again. They’re sitting at a bus stop, Takami rubbing slow circles into his back. It makes Hitoshi think—ache—for Aizawa’s familiar touch. For Yamada’s.
They must be so worried.
“Is . . . Is there anyone you can call?” Takami asks, almost hesitant to speak and interrupt the tranquility in the air. “Anyone you trust and know will be able to be here for you?”
His phone burns through his pocket. His last phone call lingers, as haunting an apparition as the tragedy that landed Hitoshi into foster care and a series of unloving, negligent households.
“. . . Yeah,” Hitoshi admits softly. A first breath taken, after drowning for a decade. “There is.”