Hitoshi lied to his hero for the first time when he was nine years old.
Still awkward and shattered and so terribly hopeful under it all.
He wasn’t old enough or tall enough yet to wander the streets without well-meaning heroes stopping to ask if he knew where his parents were.
He did know and sometimes, when a do gooder was particularly annoying he would tell them exactly where they were: the far end of the cemetery across town.
Unfortunately, Present Mic asked about his adults, not his parents, which meant he had to say he’d gotten lost on the way to the convenience store two blocks from his foster home.
It wasn’t a very good lie but… it didn’t really need to be, most of the time.
He didn’t even argue very much when Present Mic offered to walk him back. Hitoshi liked Present Mic, liked him a lot, and was still young enough to hope that he was just as nice as his show made him out to be.
So, for perhaps the first time in his very young life, when Present Mic asked him where he’d gotten the bruises on his arms, Hitoshi seriously considered telling him the truth.
Present Mic was a friendly hero, and more importantly, he was someone who understood. He talked sometimes about growing up and being too powerful and too destructive and just too much. Hitoshi certainly felt like he was too much a lot of the time. Nine-year-old Hitoshi had put a lot of stock in that, in that sliver of understanding, but in the end, the sight of his foster home in the distance and the niggling feeling that this disappointment would be one too many was enough to get Present Mic a very nice fake smile (Hitoshi was getting good at those) and a lame excuse about running into a wall.
They both knew that walls didn’t leave bruises like that but… it had never really mattered how good his lies were before.
Present Mic had smiled, it was a very kind one and patted his head in a way no one had in years and said “Alright, try to be more careful little listener.”
His foster parents lost their licenses later that month. Hitoshi barely noticed, it wasn’t like moving was an exciting occurrence anymore.
-
The second time he lied his hero wasn’t even there.
Hitoshi kneeled on the asphalt heaving with exhaustion and trying very hard not to vomit.
He stared blankly at his bruised knuckles and throbbing muscles and didn’t cry.
Hitoshi hadn’t cried in a long time.
He listened almost in a daze as Present Mic gave out the last instructions to the applicants. He only really heard the last few words, cheerful and loud as he always was.
“-You’ll get ‘em next time!”
“Yeah, I’ll get ‘em next time.” He parroted blankly and tried very hard not to break because Hitoshi knew better than anyone that there wasn’t going to be a next time.
All his dreams were dust, gone in an instant with barely a thought.
His foster parents at least tried to keep the sneering triumph to a minimum this time.
-
The third time was several months into an incredibly ill-advised stint of vigilantism, right around the time he had started to think that calling it a "stint" was probably inaccurate.
He’d had several close calls, including letting Present Mic help with a cut that Hitoshi really could have handled himself. He hadn’t gone out for a week after that, terrified that his hero would make the connection.
They barely talked but Hitoshi found himself failing to flinch when he got close. He found himself wanting his hero to pull him up after a fall and smile at him again. He wanted to know if Present Mic would flinch if he asked another question, if he knew what Hitoshi’s quirk was. He hadn’t run off at the first sign his hero was coming closer in over a week.
It was weird and dangerous and Hitoshi couldn’t chalk it up to lingering nostalgia for the radio shows of his childhood anymore. Not when he’d started listening again, not when he closed his eyes and remembered those days when he was a sad little nine-year-old sitting next to a radio turned down low staring out a window and dreaming of someone coming to save him.
He was a teenager now and had well and truly outgrown those dreams, or so he’d thought. There was still that dull ache in his heart for someone, someone to understand that he was worth something, that he was kind and awkward and doing his damn best underneath all the layers and walls.
Perhaps it was those last sparks that had allowed Present Mic to get so close, so dangerously close to him.
Not physically close enough to grab him but there was an ache in his heart and Hitoshi knew it wasn’t going away.
“Hey, little listener!” He greeted with the same sad kindness and halfway quiet exuberance he always did and Hitoshi almost smiled.
“How’s it going? You need anything? I got this great mochi from my friend the other day and-”
It was all so normal and kind that Hitoshi’s breath caught for a moment. The truth was on the tip of his tongue, he needed help. He needed someone to pull him out of this spiral before it got him killed, he needed someone to care, even just a little bit.
Present Mic cared, Hitoshi knew that. Somewhere, between the stupid rambling about nothing and the smiles and the fact he hadn’t once just gotten tired and dragged Hitoshi kicking and fighting into a police station, his hero had gotten that far.
Hitoshi could probably ask for help and Present Mic would probably jump at the opportunity.
It was just… probably wasn’t enough for a teenager hurt far too many times.
“I’m fine.”
-
The fourth time Hitoshi was in over his head, so in over his head.
He’d noticed the tail five blocks from his latest foster home and it was only the vague reflection in a puddle that saved him.
He tried so hard not to panic.
He couldn’t go back to his foster home, the little kids didn’t deserve to get caught up in his reckless, suicidal attempts at feeling something.
He didn’t have anywhere else, anyone else.
The only thing he had was a very cheap burner phone with one number in the contacts.
It was almost funny how much it terrified him.
He didn’t want to die, not really, he’d been ambivalent about the concept for a long time but faced with it? Faced with an organization too big for a stupid teenager with a crooked staff and a halfway useful quirk? He really, really, really didn’t want to die.
There was really only one way to avoid that, as far as Hitoshi could tell.
He hit the final button and tried very hard to keep his walking steady and oblivious as he changed directions.
“Little listener?” He tried very hard not to think about how relieved his voice sounded.
“Hi, um, sorry to bother you, uh.”
“You’re not bothering me, what’s wrong?”
“Um, there’s someone following me and I maybe sort of got some gang's attention and I really don’t want my foster siblings getting hurt.”
“Where are you?” It felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs, he was going to help, really help.
Hitoshi tried very hard not to cry as he choked out the address.
He was terrified and he wasn’t alone and Present Mic was coming for him.
The rain started a few minutes later, Hitoshi found he didn’t care.
He only started caring once he was dripping rainwater onto his hero's probably expensive and definitely dry car seats.
There was an underground hero handling the tail and they drove around aimlessly for a while just in case.
Hitoshi was honestly half expecting to get dropped off at the police station once they were clear. He accepted it, it made sense and at least… at least he wouldn’t be dead. At least his little foster siblings would be safe, or as safe as they could be in that house.
He wasn’t expecting to be gently shuffled into an apartment that was very clearly lived in, very clearly loved.
He just kind of stared, uncomprehendingly from the doorway as Present Mic rambled, talking himself in circles and explaining things that really didn’t need explaining.
“Um, little listener? Are you alright?”
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine.” He wasn’t, he really wasn’t, he was probably about one tiny little nice, stupid thing away from crying.
He wasn’t fine, not at all, but maybe… maybe he could be.
-
Hitoshi had never met a good thing he couldn’t fuck up.
That was the only explanation for his worst lie.
It had taken a few weeks to get used to the fact that Present Mic, Hizashi, his name’s Hizashi, wasn't planning on throwing him out the first chance he got.
It didn’t make any sense and Hitoshi was always waiting, always ready for the other shoe to drop.
He’d been watching and waiting for years, there hadn’t been a single person who’d failed him yet. There was always a breaking point, always.
Hitoshi had never been a particularly patient kid.
So, in perhaps the dumbest feat of impulsivity Hitoshi had allowed himself in years, he decided to drop the shoe himself.
He never remembered what the actual argument was about. He guessed that went to show just how important it was.
Now, Hitoshi was fucking good at getting under people’s skin. He was, if he had talent it lay in pissing people off. Some people liked to say it was his quirk but Hitoshi knew better, he knew it was a hard won skill born of the knowledge that other kids didn’t tend to get mean if he got mean first. That appearances were important and looking like nothing bothered you was more important than actually being hard to ruffle.
He didn’t remember the argument beyond the fact that Hizashi was calm and kind and so infuriatingly good and…
“I hate you!”
They’d both startled, Hizashi out of pure hurt and Hitoshi out of shock.
Hitoshi was fucking good at getting under people’s skin, he was. So what did it say that he’d known, somewhere in his heart and his instincts, that lie would hurt the most?
He’d run then, like a coward, not very far, he felt safe enough not to go very far. It was terrifying and amazing and bound to blow up in his face just like everything else.
He used hard won skills to climb his way up the fire escape onto the roof and hide his head in his knees.
Hitoshi had never met a good thing he couldn’t fuck up.
-
Hitoshi heard the door creak open and a sigh of relief.
He couldn’t bear to look at him.
He couldn’t face it so he didn’t.
He just buried his face further in his knees and curled up tighter.
He didn’t mean to, he really hadn’t.
Hizashi just sat down next to him, didn’t touch him or even come close to it.
It was so much like those first days, when he had been so careful and kind and then just never stopped.
Hitoshi was halfway through the second sob before he realized what was happening.
He was crying, crying like he hadn’t in a very long time.
He needed to say something, needed to fix it, tell Hizashi he didn’t mean it.
He couldn’t because there were sobs choking his throat and tears in his eyes and Hizashi was supposed to be angry with him because Hitoshi had meant to hurt him and it had worked. He had just wanted to know where the line was, the horrible line that always got Hitoshi hurt or kicked out or locked away.
“Oh Hitoshi,” and he wasn’t doing any of those things and Hitoshi didn’t know how to deal with that. “Can I hug you?”
He nodded before he could even give it a second’s thought.
“I’m sorry.” He managed to choke out in warm arms that somehow made him feel safe. “I don’t hate you. I don’t, I promise.”
Hizashi just hummed, that terrifyingly patient hum that scared him sometimes.
“I’m so sorry.” He was shaking and he didn’t know what to do.
Hitoshi had never wanted to hurt him, not really.
“I know.” Hizashi pulled him closer and Hitoshi didn’t argue.
“I’m scared.” Hitoshi admitted suddenly, it felt like everything he was never supposed to admit was torn free at once. “I shouldn’t be, you’re not-, you’re different.” He settled on, knowing well enough Hizashi’s opinions on his former guardians. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Oh little listener,” he sounded fond. “It’s alright to be afraid. I’m afraid sometimes too, I've never had a kid before.” He chuckled a little helplessly while Hitoshi tried to remember how to breathe. “I guess we’ll just have to figure it out together.”
“Yeah, okay," he swallowed. "I think, I think I can do that.”
He could, he really could.
More than he could, Hitoshi wanted to.
He wanted to figure it out.