Just A Myth | Shota Aizawa

Chapter 1

Third person pov

Growing up, Shota Aizawa didn't have the best home life. With a mother whom he'd never met and a father too tired and too busy to give him any form of positive attention, his childhood wasn't the greatest. He acknowledges that it could have been worse. His father was never abusive. Tired, snappish, and maybe a bit short: but never abusive. The man worked three jobs to keep them well off enough to be somewhat comfortable, so Aizawa understood. He didn't resent his father for it. In fact, though he'd never dare to say it aloud, he'd even say he was proud to have a dad who worked so hard just so Shota could grow up in a decent neighborhood. 

Though they were few and far between, there were moments where Shota's dad was just that— a dad. Late at night, after his shift, he'd sit down on the end of Shota's bed, right near the very edge. At first he wouldn't say anything, no, he never did, and he and Shota would both sit there in a comfortable silence. Sometimes Aizawa would have to fight to keep his eyes open, though over time, his anticipation was enough to keep him from drifting off. Before long, his father would close his eyes and exhale deeply, and allow himself to lean back against the wall.

These were the times Shota cherished most, because anytime his father did those things specifically, he knew he was going to hear about the merfolk.

Shota really didn't believe in them now. Not really, anyway. There was no solid proof of any mermaids or mermen existing, and he was a rational man. Still, there was a part of him still enamored by the idea. Perhaps it was left over from his younger years. As a child, he'd been convinced. 100% sure that there were creatures half fish and half human out there, flitting through the sea with shimmering, powerful tails that would glimmer like polished jewels when the light hit them. He drew pictures, wrote out theories, and daydreamed constantly what it might be like to meet one.

His obsession with them didn't come from nowhere. His father, when he'd exhale, and lean back against the wall with his eyes shut, would spin glorious tales. He'd talk about how beautiful and ethereal the oceanic creatures were, with souls of sea-salt and kelp, and a type of magic so age old it could be traced back to before quirks ever even existed. How they were best friends with the dolphins and sea turtles, the octopus and squid, even the brainless jellyfish that mindlessly drifted through the waves. He'd tell Shota all about their ability to tame sharks and how they'd share secrets with great, hulking whales older than time itself, almost as though recalling a fond and distant memory.

He talked of colorful coral, tended to by the tailed creatures. The shells they'd collect and create tools out of, and the rarity of their very existence. And though his father insisted they were real, he also claimed that there were few left, if any at all. He spoke spitefully about hunters who'd track them down and capture them for their beauty. Those stories, the ones where mermaids and mermen were killed, always angered Shota. So much so that sometimes his eyes would gleam red and his hair would fly up. His father never failed to chuckle when it happened, proud. He too thought merfolk should be cherished. Protected, preserved, and maybe even looked up at for their abilities and stunning appearances. 

Shota wasn't sure when he grew out of it. But at some point, maybe in the beginning of high school, his father stopped sitting at the end of his bed. He stopped exhaling, and leaning back against the wall, and closing his eyes. Even though he was about to enter adulthood ten, Shota still missed it. He clung to the stories, jotting down everything he could possibly remember in a notebook. A notebook that he still, to this day, has. Even if he can't quite believe the tales within it anymore, he knew he'd never get rid of it. Sometimes on particularly bad days, he'd flip through it, letting his fingers ghost over the scratchy writing of his passionate young self. The belief entwined with his writing made him wonder where his spark for the merpeople had gone.