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Hitoshi struggles to wake up in the morning. Every morning. Sometimes it's because he only manages a few hours of sleep before his alarm goes off, and other times it's because he dreads the coming day ahead of him. Today is one of those days.
His eyelids are weighted down and his muscles are sore from how little they want him to get out of bed. What bit of vision he has is bleary from a groggy film he can't blink away. It isn't painful or even out of the ordinary. It is worse than it has been in a while, though.
He wallows in the human shaped lump on his bed. In middle school, he'd just stay in bed until the verbal—and sometimes physical—lashing of his guardian forced him up. No matter how horrible he felt, the only way he could stay home was if it was bad enough to warrant a doctor's visit. Even then, sometimes it didn't matter.
He tries not to let it get that bad anymore. He avoids it by outrunning his bad days at full throttle. If he isn't training, he's doing homework. If he isn't doing homework, he's being bothered by a number of his new classmates trying to become his friend, something he insists he doesn't want no matter how quickly he answers their texts. If he's not being bothered, he's doing the bothering by poking the cheeks of his new parents, just because he can, or putting himself on cat herding duty.
Moving to the Hero Course didn't solve his problems, but it didn't solve them in the same way money doesn't solve your problems. It did enough that, for the last few months, he could pretend there was nothing wrong with him. He could ignore the thick layer of sludge caked on his brain, or the weight of a thousand whales on his chest. He's been put on medication, he's been given a home, and he has ways to cope with nearly a decade of abuse that doesn't include offing himself.
He's been too busy to be depressed—he's still too busy to be depressed—but the bad days don't just disappear. No matter how fast he runs, they lurk around every corner, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. No amount of anything will actually fix him or take away the pain forever, and that thought only depresses him more. Is this really all he has for the rest of his life?
Today, it's caught up with him. His brain has decided to take the wheel and swerve him into a tree. He's pinned in place, body being crushed by the rending metal around him. All good things come to an end eventually and this is his limit. His heart thuds to the grating 'WAH, WAH, WAH' of his alarm clock. It's loud and requires him to walk across the room in order to turn it off. Otherwise, he'll just sleep through it.
He nearly sleeps through it anyway when a knock at his door has him jolting awake.
"Up and at 'em, Toshi-chan! The sun is shinin', the birds are shitting on my beautiful, freshly washed car, and I got a pot of coffee on the brew!"
It's far too early for the nonsensical energy of Present Mic. Yamada ends his announcement with a second, more rhythmic knock and struts down the hall with a whistle.
Hitoshi can't bring himself to move. The alarm blares in his ears and creates a throbbing pain in his temple. It's more of a warning cry than something to get stubborn kids awake before school. He stuffs his head beneath his pillow.
An eternity later, another knock comes. This time, the hand is heavy and the sound is precise. No more than necessary to tell Hitoshi who it is.
"Get up, kid. Breakfast is ready and we have to go soon."
The deep timber of his mentor has Hitoshi clutching his pillow even tighter, utterly mortified by how just a few words has his skull cracking open and revealing the swampy headspace of his regression down below. He isn't small yet, but he will be if he doesn't snap out of it.
Hitoshi rubs his face against his pillow, trying to rub off the lingering weight that has his expression drooping. For a moment, he debates asking Aizawa for the day off. He's always prattling on about how Hitoshi needs rest days and how it's important to not push himself. But that always meant physically. He needs rest days for his body to heal from the strain he puts it through, just like he needs sick days for when he's actually ill.
He's neither sick nor sore, so the "need to rest" doesn't actually matter. Aizawa would never let him skip something as important as class just because he's feeling a little glum. Everyone gets depressed and everyone fights through it to do their job—Aizawa certainly does. That's the responsibility of the adult Hitoshi is growing to be, and that's the work of the hero he'll one day become. Heroes don't get to rot in their beds for no reason. Hitoshi can hear Aizawa's lecture in his ear now.
It takes more effort than he'd like to admit, but Hitoshi drags himself out of bed and unplugs his alarm clock. He stands there for a while, rooted in place. The air is still and suffocating and he has to fight through it to move. Static dances across his vision and the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor is his repeated mantra that he's a hero now and he can't do this anymore.
The burn of Aizawa's disappointment, something he works so hard to avoid, lights a fire under his ass and, yet, he can only manage a pathetic burst of energy. It gets him dressed in his uniform, though. He leaves his tie is undone and his shirt untucked. His bloated backpack drags behind him, and he plays off his sour mood by saying he didn't get enough sleep. It's not a lie, at least. Hitoshi doesn't think he could lie to his parents right now.
"Nap in the car," Aizawa says to him, a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. Hitoshi physically feels his vision zoom out, his eyes going big and blurry with his headspace.
He shakes himself out of it and buries the sudden quiver to his limbs. A nap is good, yes.
Except when it doesn't help.
It lets Hitoshi skip ahead to his first period, but nothing changes. He's too heavy, too tired, too hollow to do anything. He sits in the back of the classroom, next to the window leading outside. He spends most of class squinting past the bright sunshine. It's a beautiful day. Birds fly by, green grass and towering trees sway in the wind, and a couple students walk by with smiles on their faces. It's too nice of a day for him to feel so bad. He's wasting it, just like he's wasting his education by spacing out instead of paying attention to any of the lectures happening up front.
His classmates aren't making things any easier. They tend to be rowdy and loud, much more so than class 1-C. They bicker like they've known each other their whole lives and they respond playfully to their teachers knowing it's safe for them to be as annoying as possible. Today is no exception. They're just as chatty as ever, a constant roar in the background when a teacher isn't talking. Hitoshi's head, already weighed down and chained to his desk, crackles and pops with an aching pain.
Aizawa notices. Of course he does. His too keen eyes bounce from student to student, a rotating headcount where he checks for anything out of the ordinary. Hitoshi is always a little isolated from the others, and he's never been particularly thrilled about schoolwork, but he knows he isn't doing as well as he should to mask the goop threatening to swallow him whole. The two of them have lived together long enough for Aizawa to know his baseline, however embarrassing that may be to admit.
But Aizawa doesn't talk to him about it. Not yet. He doesn't like to approach a struggling student before first giving them the space to figure it out on their own. It's how he's dealt with Hitoshi since the beginning: waiting and watching until he's sure Hitoshi would rather drown than ask for help—which is the case most of the time, but that's beside the point. Aizawa wants them to prove they're strong enough without him, even when they aren't, and he doesn't like to hold their hand through problems if he can help it.
Especially Hitoshi.
Hitoshi is walking in his footsteps. Aizawa has high expectations for him, and neither of them would have it any other way. He needs Hitoshi to be strong, and he would be so disappointed if he learned that this is what's slowing Hitoshi's progression after all the work they did to get him into the Hero Course.
The most his mentor gives him throughout the day is a questioning look, an invitation to talk to him if necessary. Hitoshi doesn't take the bait. He isn't fine, but he can power through it. He always does.
Until it's time for English with Present Mic. Hitoshi likes Yamada, but the man has a startling knack for making him feel small. He doesn't know if it's because he grew up listening to Put Your Hands Up radio, or if Yamada has a secret side effect to his Quirk that lets him turn unstable, fucked up teenagers into puddles, but something about the man's zany persona is a personal attack on him.
Hitoshi barely survives Aizawa's classes, filled with his mother's soothing monotone and his scarf dangling behind him—perfect for a little hand to reach out and tug. Somehow, Yamada's classes are worse. Instead of the safety that lulls Hitoshi into a sleepy warmth, it's an upbeat and silly energy that has him scrambling completely out of his depth.
Yamada calls him pet names, and ruffles his hair, and puts stickers on his assignments, and smiles so genuinely at him, and keeps checking on him because he, too, notices Hitoshi's mood, and—
And when Hitoshi is so brittle, it shatters him. It just reminds him of home, where Yamada and Aizawa dote on him and take care of him. It reminds him of the kitties meowing at him, and his plush blankets waiting for him to sleep forever in them. The shaky feeling is exacerbated when Hitoshi realizes he doesn't even remember getting to Yamada's class. His memory is littered with short gaps where he zones out a little too much and his body moves on autopilot with his classmates. Did anyone notice? Probably not. He didn't even notice.
But it scares him. The classroom is too big, and there's too many people, and he doesn't like how his mind is spiraling. It feels like something's clamped around his ankle and is slowly dragging him out with the tide while he claws through the sand to get back up. It wants him to sink to the bottom of the ocean, frozen and with enough pressure on all sides to implode him in a fraction of a second.
He curls around his desk, his head throbbing and his finger hooked between his teeth. He wants to go home. He wants…
Hitoshi glances up as the heavy thud of Yamada's platform boots come towards him. He's just walking by, glancing from desk to desk to see how everyone's doing with the assignment. The assignment that's in front of Hitoshi. How long has it been there?
Instinctively, he reaches out and grabs Yamada by the leather sleeve. Yamada's footsteps stutter and he takes a step back, looking down inquisitively. He looks so tall like this—the way Hitoshi remembers adults being when he was younger. Back then, it was terrifying.
"What's up, little listener? Ya callin' in a question for me?" Yamada asks, peering at his blank page with furrowed eyebrows. "Heya… somethin' wrong?"
Hitoshi quietly whimpers and leans his forehead against Yamada's arm, still trapped in Hitoshi's grip. He signs the word with one hand before he can find his voice enough to whisper, "Momma. I want mmm—my mom."
Just like that, something in Yamada shifts. He crouches down to Hitoshi's level, sparkly green eyes over his orange spectacles. His expression turns soft instead of loud and he leans in to respond so no one else hears.
"Oh yeah? You want your momma, sunshine?"
Tears well in Hitoshi's eyes. He was small before, but it was more like he was floating on the surface of the ocean. Adrift with sun on his face and a cold, harrowing depth below him. Those few words coil a chain around him and drop him to the bottom, sinking fast into the darkness with the weight of an anchor he can't break away from.
He nods weakly and swallows around a hiccup. His momma lives in the dark. The shadows are his home, his safety. If anyone can make the pressure stop, it's him.
Yamada glances around at the round faces of Hitoshi's classmates. Most of them are minding their own business, but a few are looking over with a mix of interest and concern as Hitoshi's expression turns more and more pitiful.
"Okey-dokey, kiddo, let's see…" Yamada trails off in thought. "He should be in the teacher's lounge still. Do ya want a buddy to come with? I'm sure one of your friends—" He pauses at the look on Hitoshi's face. He doesn't really have friends, other than maybe Monoma from 1-B. Hitoshi has peers that he hangs out with sometimes on the occasional weekend or afterschool tutoring session. It's already embarrassing enough that he's cracking in view of them. "Or I can spare a few minutes and walk with ya! How's that sound?"
It's… better, but not by much. He's already taking up Yamada's time when the man could be helping his students with the assignment or getting ready for the the next part of the lesson. Even if it's only a few minutes, that's a few minutes that could be spent more productively. Hitoshi burdens his guardians enough. How many times has one of them called out of class to handle him? Just last month, Yamada missed a day to be with him at a doctor's appointment.
So, even if there's nothing he wants more than to hang on his dad's sleeve while they hurry to the teacher's lounge, Hitoshi is strong enough to make the walk himself. He's sad, not hurt or sick. He can walk for five minutes through the halls he knows like the back of his hand. He's fine alone.
Yamada is resistant, but he never pushes Hitoshi. That's Aizawa's job—to push him when he needs it and keep him improving. Yamada is here as a fallback for when Hitoshi inevitably goes too far and needs someone to catch him.
"You sure?" Yamada asks. "It's okay if ya need a little help, honey. I really don't mind."
Hitoshi shakes his head, much more firm than he feels. He thinks he's shaking again.
"Okay… get your stuff and get goin'. I'll text your momma to make sure he knows you're comin'. If ya need anything, don't hesitate to come back and get me, 'kay?"
He helps Hitoshi pack up his things and quietly escorts him to the door, blocking Hitoshi's body from the nosy eyes watching him leave.
Unfortunately, this is much harder than Hitoshi anticipates. When the door shuts behind him, cutting him off from Yamada's presence, Hitoshi wavers. He stands in place for a while, unsure of what to do. The hall is too long, too empty, and he doesn't know if he can traverse it all the way to the teacher's lounge. He wants Yamada to come back out and lead him forward, like he always does when they go out. He keeps track of the itinerary and navigates them through crowds and stores, impossible to miss with his height and bright blonde hair.
Hitoshi turns to open the door and pauses. His hand hovers in the air. Aizawa always tells him he's stronger than he thinks, and he can do things by himself even if he's scared. He just needs a little help being brave, that's all.
Hitoshi, instead, unzips his backpack and pulls out the thing that makes his bag so round every day. It's a cat plush, about forty centimeters from the tip of its ears to the bottom of its paw. A big kitty for him to cuddle. It's entirely black with truly massive ears the size of its head and a cute little snout with golden irises in its glassy eyes. Its back paws are twice the size of the front ones and all of them are filled with beads, giving it a lovely weight against his chest. The entire thing is adorably kitten-like with its proportions and he adores it more than life, itself.
This kitty is special, though. Alongside being the cutest thing imaginable, Hitoshi has also fashioned a pair of golden goggles out of felt and he's winded a long, grey scarf around the cat's neck. Catzawa, he calls it. Easily the most important thing he owns.
It feels… pathetically juvenile to model his favorite plushie after his favorite hero, specifically because he lives with said hero, but Catzawa protects him when Aizawa can't. Sometimes the man is busy on patrol, or teaching another student, or sleeping. Sometimes Hitoshi can't bring himself to bother either of his parents, even after months of getting used to them. The middle ground they came to is this. If Hitoshi can't get to his parents for whatever reason, he can stay calm knowing that Catzawa will keep him company until they find him again.
Hitoshi zips up his backpack, slips it back on, and cuddles Catzawa to his chest. He, then, steps a stilted forward. Very bravely, might he add.
The trek to the teacher's lounge takes forever, like he crossing the entire country to get there, and Hitoshi is all too aware of how he looks right now, clinging tightly to his kitty with a petulant pout. Class is still in session, however, so the halls remain vacant. It's easy to avoid anyone heading to the restroom with the skills his momma taught him—like pressing up against the wall and hoping really hard that no one comes his way.
Catzawa tells him to take a deep breath and keep going, so he does. Hope floods his chest when he finally sees the familiar sliding door. He has half a mind to hide Catzawa just in case Aizawa isn't alone in the lounge, but the ache inside him is too strong. He really, really wants his mom. It's an all-consuming feeling. One he really isn't used to.
He slides open the door a little too frantically and the air is sucked from his lungs when he meets his momma's dark brown eyes. They're nearly black and stern enough that most people find them scary. Not Hitoshi. He could never find them scary. Aizawa's gaze is intense, but it's intense because it keeps Hitoshi safe. It watches, and it knows, and it keeps track of everything so Hitoshi doesn't have to.
Hitoshi's grip on Catzawa tightens and he promptly bursts into tears. Seeing his momma for even a second is enough to have him blubbering. Big teardrops run down his face and soak into Catzawa's fur. Hitoshi whimpers and sobs out all the hurt that he's been feeling since he woke up.
Aizawa scoots his chair back and opens his arms with a simple, "All right, that's enough. C'mere, kid."
His texts with Yamada are bright on his phone, his desk is covered in the lesson plan he was editing, and the overhead light is off so the room is lit only by the sunshine. Luckily, there's no one here. Yuuei's staff list is small since it's primarily made of heroes, so many teachers overlap in subjects or duties. The only time the staff room is full is during lunch or afterschool. Hitoshi has never been so relieved.
He stumbles over with a shuddering, choked noise and clumsily falls forward. Catzawa is squished between them, mrowing in protest. Hitoshi sniffles and heaves. He's unable to catch his breath. He's wailing like a toddler and it does nothing for his headache.
Aizawa shuffles him into as comfortable of a position as he can get with a gangling sixteen year old trying to crawl into his skin. Hitoshi ends up in his lap, legs dangling on either side of the chair and face trying desperately to dig into Aizawa's shoulder.
"Toshi," Aizawa rumbles, hiking him closer and trying to meet his eye. "Take a breath. You're safe." He rubs a circle into Hitoshi's back and keeps his own breathing steady and dramatic enough for Hitoshi to follow. Or attempt to follow.
"Can you tell me what's wrong?" Aizawa tries after a minute.
"Mmm!" Hitoshi whines. "Momma!"
It's all he can muster. He feels so small. It's an overwhelming, tumultuous kind of feeling. It leaves him dizzy and out of control, like he's only half-awake. The dim room is nice on his eyes, but his head hurts and his body is just as leaden as it was this morning and the world is so big and time is somehow rushing by and standing totally still and he's scared.
"Momma's here," Aizawa murmurs. He's not quite used to saying it yet, but it's a balm on Hitoshi's spiraling thoughts.
The choice to call Aizawa 'mom' had been a weird one, he knows. It was a joke he and Yamada started. Aizawa has a tendency to dote on Hitoshi, mothering him in a way that no one else really did, and it was fun to needle him. At first, it was just poking fun at him being a mother hen. Then, it was Hitoshi playfully rolling his eyes with a, "Yes, Mom." whenever Aizawa told him to do something. Finally, it was Hitoshi casually using the title more and more—still as a joke—until Aizawa would instinctively respond to it as if it were his name.
It became significantly less funny at that point, and Hitoshi had to spend a couple breakdowns sorting through his thoughts. Aizawa forced him to talk about it, something that was worse than pulling his own teeth out, and it just… became what it is now. Hitoshi's regression played the biggest part in it. Calling Aizawa his mom felt like everything right in the world. That's his mom. Nothing makes him feel better than calling out for his momma and having someone respond with a gentle touch.
Even now, Aizawa's quietly repeating of, "Momma's here. It's okay. Can you tell me what's wrong?" does a number on Hitoshi's hazy brain. It threads through the pressure in his chest and releases it, letting him breathe. Hitoshi fists Aizawa's jumpsuit and holds on as tightly as he can.
"Don't… don't feel good," he manages, his eyes big and blurry with unshed tears. Aizawa scans his flushed skin and brings the back of his hand to Hitoshi's forehead, flipping it so his palm can feel a few seconds later.
"No fever," Aizawa mutters to himself. "Don't seem to be enough pain for a migraine. Is it your tummy?"
If Hitoshi were older, it would be comical hearing a man so serious and brooding say tummy. As is, he just shrugs. His tummy does hurt, but it's the hurt of his anxiety twisting and turning inside him. He isn't sick, but he doesn't want his mommy upset with him over it. He doesn't think he can handle that; even the thought makes him want to actually throw up.
He nuzzles into the hand on his forehead and Aizawa uses it to push back his hair, petting him sweetly.
"Jus' don't feel good," Hitoshi repeats, ashamed. His headspace turns from a pleasant fog to something sharp and rocky. He blinks as a few tears trail down his cheeks. He squeezes Catzawa to his side.
Aizawa's intense gaze returns, dissecting Hitoshi's expression. The boy feels raw, like an exposed nerve, and he wants nothing more than to hide in his momma's shadow. He tucks his face into Aizawa's capture weapon, surprisingly soft for something made with metal, and Aizawa continues petting his wild hair. Aizawa's other arm wraps around him and he offers his hand, palm up, for Hitoshi to grab.
Which he does, obviously. Aizawa's fingers are calloused and his skin is hard from years of working with robe burn and being scraped against concrete and brick while traversing the tops of buildings. They aren't the thin, spider-like hands of a musician, like Yamada's are, or the soft, manicured ones of Miss Midnight. They're just as rough as Aizawa is, and they clasp Hitoshi's much smaller hand warmly. Hitoshi instinctively squeezes.
Momma. Momma. Momma.
"Hi," Hitoshi says to him, unable to say anything else. It plays on loop in his head, a need to have his mother's attention.
"Hi," Aizawa parrots.
"Hi, Momma," Hitoshi says again, pushing his forehead into Aizawa's cheek with a whimper.
Aizawa's "Hi, Toshi," has him preening. He wants to continue the loop, to go back and forth with the knowledge that Aizawa will always respond to him, but Aizawa keeps him focused.
"Is the bad feeling physical or mental?" he asks, checking Hitoshi's damp cheek for another temperature. It's the same, and Hitoshi's exhaustion is back.
If he were bigger, he could grin it off and tease his sensei for being such a worry-wart. He's fine, and he can even go back to class if he really wanted to! But Hitoshi isn't big enough for that, not even close. His shields of flippant responses and aloof attitudes are stripped away, leaving only the urge to spill his guts to his momma.
The fact that Aizawa is even asking that question means he probably knows already. He knows Hitoshi isn't sick and that he left class because he's a little sad. He knows his mentee, his son, is weak and pathetic and he knows Hitoshi is crumbling where his other students would rise to the occasion. He knows and he's probably so disappointed.
"You're working yourself up again," Aizawa says evenly, nonjudgmental. He shifts them so he can dig into his desk drawer and pull out a bottle of water and a bag of animal shaped butter biscuits. "Deep breath, you're okay. You're not in trouble. Just tell me what's going on in that little head of yours. I can't make things better if I don't know what's happening."
You're not in trouble.
Aizawa knows him too well, and it's embarrassing how much it works.
Hitoshi frowns, too tired to keep fighting. It's much easier to keep his mouth shut when Aizawa is across the room. Right here, in front of him, Aizawa's affection—rare for most, constant for Hitoshi—cracks through his defenses. He wants his mother to make things better. He always does.
"Woke up feeling bad. Mmm, heavy. Heart hurt. Felt… numb," Hitoshi finally admits, pressing his face against Aizawa's neck and jaw to hide from the eye contact. Aizawa rewards him by squeezing his hand. He offers Hitoshi one of the biscuits to nibble on since he didn't have breakfast.
"I see. That kind of bad day," Aizawa mutters. "Explains a lot. Why didn't you say anything?"
Uh oh. Is he mad? Hitoshi blinks sheepishly at him, pouting against his cookie.
Aizawa doesn't seem mad, though. He seems… worried, or maybe lightly exasperated by Hitoshi's need to isolate himself like a sick cat when he's dying.
"Scared. Didn't wanna get in trouble," Hitoshi says. It's irrational, he knows. Hitoshi's stomach turns when he finishes his cookie. Instead of getting another, he mouths on Aizawa's capture weapon to self-soothe.
"I'm sorry you didn't feel like you could tell us," Aizawa says, so earnest it hurts. He kisses the top of Hitoshi's head affectionately. "But you can always talk to us about these things. If you're scared, or upset, or depressed—it doesn't matter. You won't get in trouble. I'll always hear you out, kid, no matter what."
Hitoshi's chest loosens and he lets out a shaky sigh. It doesn't matter how many times his parents reassure him that they'll listen, it feels relieving every single time. It's a promise, and Hitoshi doesn't tend to believe those, but neither of them have faltered on their promises yet.
He hums into the fabric of the scarf. Aizawa watches with a fond look, much too used to his weapon's alternative uses when it comes to needy babies. Hitoshi sinks a little further down, his mental chanting of momma slowly transitioning into mommy, mommy, mommy.
"Do you want to go home?" Aizawa asks, and those words smack Hitoshi harder than anything else he's heard so far.
"Go… home?" Hitoshi repeats, lifting his head to stare owlishly at his mother. The fabric of the capture weapon falls, shocked, from his lips.
"Yeah. To rest," Aizawa says, as if it's obvious. "That's what we do when we don't feel good."
"But…" Hitoshi doesn't understand. This is different. "I'm not sick? Didn't even throw up."
His brain is too fuzzy. He can't quite work out this part of the conversation, but something about it is distressing.
"Oh, kid," Aizawa sighs, a little too knowingly. "You don't have to actually be sick to need some rest. Even if it's just an off day, you still need time to recuperate. Pushing yourself through it only makes things worse."
It's the same lecture Hitoshi gets during training, too. He didn't realize those talks included… this.
The little voice in Hitoshi's head is insistent that his mommy loves him so of course he wouldn't be upset with him for being sad, but the louder, much more present part of him still shivers with fear.
"You do it…" Hitoshi deflects, feeling bad. His insides are shriveling. He wants to go home and he wants to curl up with his mommy and he hates feeling like this.
"And I'm a bad influence," Aizawa says. "Do as I say, not as I do, and I say that you're allowed to prioritize yourself. You can stay home when you feel bad, no matter what kind of bad that is. All you have to do is ask."
Some kids might take advantage of such a blanket statement. Hitoshi thinks of all the times in middle school he overheard kids pretending to be sick just because they didn't want to deal with a quiz, or because they wanted to stay home and play a new video game. Hitoshi never had that luxury. He needed to attend every class and do his very best so he could get into Yuuei and, now that he's here, he has to continue so he doesn't lose his spot.
And Aizawa knows that. He knows Hitoshi would never take advantage of his kindness, which is why he's offering at all, but a small part of Hitoshi sees it as permission to fail, something he can't possibly have.
"But what if I fall behind…?" Hitoshi asks, sniffling. He tightens both his grip on Aizawa's hand and his jumpsuit. He lets out a distressed baby hum and whines, "Mommy…"
"I won't let that happen," Aizawa responds immediately, so firmly Hitoshi can't help listening to him. "And neither will Daddy. I bet he's already making sure you have all of today's work in a much too colorful folder for when you're ready to get back to it." A Present Mic themed folder, probably, with rhinestones and his autograph because he can't help himself. "But those things can wait a little longer."
Aizawa once said their job isn't worth more than Hitoshi's life, and that Hitoshi shouldn't act like it is. He meant it more in a self-sacrificing way, but Hitoshi thinks it might be true here, too. If his mommy says it's okay, Hitoshi isn't of the mind to believe anything else.
"Okay…" Hitoshi whispers. He nuzzles into Aizawa's hold. "I wanna go home, please."
Home.
Where he's safe. Even if it won't fix the heavy feelings, at least he won't be crushed under them. He can hide under his blankets with Catzawa by his side and his mommy and daddy can take care of him. For once, he won't have to carry the weight alone.