No, it's you and you alone.

Chapter Two

Only an hour or two later does his phone go off with a quiet alarm and Hitoshi's eyes snap open, having barely moved from his position curling around Aiko. He moves his unbroken hand out from under her to pull his phone out of his pocket and switch off the alarm, listening carefully to see if it woke anyone else up. 

When there is no other noise, Hitoshi shifts to lay Aiko down by herself as he stands and tucks her in. Hitoshi winces when the movement jostles his injuries, sharp pain spreading throughout his limbs as he rests his injured hand gently against his chest. 

Carefully padding over to his bed on the opposite side of the room, the bottom bunk that he shares with another foster kid his age, he draws out a spare uniform and sparse first aid kit from below his bed and changes quickly, taking the time to clean and wrap his wrist, ribs and chest as tightly as possible. At least Ikeda has the decency to target areas not seen so easily. Silver lining, Hitoshi thinks idly..

With one last look behind him, Hitoshi opens the door quietly and creeps through, shutting it behind him. He strides down the hallway towards the front door, ducking into the kitchen to grab a protein bar and an apple before leaving the dilapidated house behind. A

s soon as the front door shuts behind him, Hitoshi is clawing off the muzzle, the taste of rust settling on his tongue as he swallows a couple of times and washes his mouth out with a water bottle stowed deep in his bag. 

The muzzle is shoved into the crumpled box and crammed as far into his bag as he can put it. Hitoshi eats the protein bar and apple as quickly as possible as he waits for the bus, ignoring the way it tastes of rust and powder on his tongue.

The ride to UA goes by in a blur and before he realizes, Hitoshi is standing in front of the gates. In front of him is a mass of press, probably desperate for a glimpse of the top heroes after the show they put on in the sports festival. 

He scoffs to himself and pushes through them, ignoring the eyes that settled on him, trying to identify if he is important or not. He doesn't know whether to be offended or relieved when he is left alone.

Hitoshi drags his feet as he walks, head down to his class. When he reaches the large door that separates him from the rest of the class, he hesitates. Squaring his shoulders and pushing his sleeve down over the bandages wrapped around his wrist, he enters the classroom with his head hung low. 

He shuffles over to his seat before sitting down with a concealed wince. Hitoshi puts his head on the desk and does his best to block out the sounds of his classmates chatting excitedly around him, welcoming the sound of the door opening and his teacher calling for silence before classes commence.

The day drags on and Hitoshi drifts, caught up in a haze as his injuries throb and he replays the events of the past day over and over. He jumps when the bell rings throughout the classroom and groans to himself as everyone immediately begins talking loudly and heading over to each others desk as lunch begins. 

Hitoshi takes his time packing up his things, care to avoid using his hand which has only kept on growing with pain, swelling and aching despite the bandages that are supporting it. He throws his bag over his shoulder and trudges out into the hallway, lost in thought and almost bumping right into a large, dark form. He flinches back with a mumbled sorry before trying to step around the form.

"Shinsou." A gruff voice comes from the form and Hitoshi blinks before looking up and meeting the gaze of Aizawa Shouta. It takes a second before he realizes that Eraserhead just said his name, he knows his name. 

Aizawa sighs before he gestures towards the doors at the end of the corridor, "I'd like to speak with you, if you have time now?"

Without waiting for a response, he begins to head down the hallway, Hitoshi following on his heels, thinking frantically of anything he could have done recently that would warrant a talk from a teacher. He tightens his uninjured hand on the straps of his bag before they pass through the door and into the sunlight.