This is how it started: a bag of groceries in one hand, an unremarkable rock in the other, and the burning, reckless bravery that comes with forty-three sleepless hours.
It's funny, he thinks, that it should end this way too. Only it won't, will it? Because his groceries are spilled across the ground, the rock is no longer in his hand, and forty-three hours has dialed up to fifty-eight.
He would laugh, if only he weren't pinned to the ground by a slimy purple tentacle wrapped around his neck. Actually, scratch that, he's already laughing. Of course. Of course he's only in this mess because his aim is too fucking precise.
What a fucking joke.
The villain doesn't seem to share his sense of humor, because the tentacle only squeezes his neck tighter. Black spots dance in his vision, and he can only just make out the gleaming hatred in his attacker's iridescent eyes. Can only just recognize the swollen, mottled jaw from this morning, where rock #1 had provided enough of a distraction to escape with the villain's original would-be victim. Mere inches below it, smack dab in the middle of the throat, is the impact site for rock #2, where a spectacular bruise is already beginning to bloom around a bloody gash.
It also happens to be the site of his greatest, most idiotic failure to date.
(He can see the headstone now: Here lies Shinsou Hitoshi, age 14. Murdered by some half-octopus villain because he accidentally rendered his own quirk useless by taking out the person's voice. He will be remembered for his supreme idiocy, always. May he rest in fucking pieces.)
The villain seems to be trying to communicate their fury through eyes alone, but Hitoshi can't be bothered to pay attention. He pictured his end more heroic than this, maybe pushing someone out of the path of a runaway truck, or holding off an insanely powerful villain until the heroes could arrive.
Not in a narrow backstreet on his way home from doing groceries. Not because he just happened to bust someone's throat twice in the same day.
He lets his eyes close as the hopelessness of his situation washes over him, and thinks briefly, guiltily, of a small apartment three blocks from here. Of a short, grey-haired woman with kind eyes and a mean left hook, cradling a plump grey cat whose only ambition in life is to receive chin scratches and sleep in his desk drawer.
He thinks of a boy with bright green eyes and hair to match, whose freckled face splits into a wide grin every time they manage to meet up.
He thinks of these things and realizes: I'm going to die here.
A fresh wave of terror sweeps over him, and his hands claw frantically at the appendage around his throat. His lungs are on fire, and his head feels like it's going to explode. Though his eyes are closed, a different kind of darkness tugs at the edges of his vision, and all he can get out is a single, choked, "Stop."
Don't you dare die here, you fucker, don't you dare. Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you —
He must have blacked out, because the next thing he's aware of is someone shaking his shoulder with an urgency he can't comprehend, saying words he can't understand. He cracks his eyes open and wonders, briefly, why he fell asleep on the ground in his school uniform, and why this unkempt stranger is so insistent that he wake up. It's only when he recognizes the yellow slitted goggles shielding the man's eyes and the bands of silver fabric draped loosely around his neck that the events of the past several minutes come rushing back to him. His eyes fly open, and he jerks upright, gasping —
— and immediately breaks into the worst coughing fit of his life.
A hand rubs his back steadily as he hacks his lungs out, throat burning and eyes watering. When he finally catches his breath, he looks around to find his savior, certain he's either dreaming or dead.
Because there's just no way. There's no way that, of all the heroes who could've been patrolling the area at this hour, it's Eraserhead who just happened to stumble upon him in his moment of need. Even as underground heroes go, Eraserhead is more elusive than most. Barring a few major incidents, the media hasn't caught hide nor hair of him since his debut nearly a decade ago. The fact that Hitoshi should stumble upon him by mere chance is practically impossible.
And yet, impossibly, there he is, mere feet away tying up the cephalopodic villain. Hitoshi can't help but stare as he binds the villain as easily as one might tie their shoe. He doesn't even realize he's still staring until Eraserhead is crouched next to him again, hand on his shoulder, asking if he's all right.
His brain short-circuits a little bit at that, and he tries to stammer out a response, but every attempt to speak turns into more coughing, so in the end he just settles for nodding weakly. Eraserhead doesn't seem quite satisfied with that, though, because he adjusts his position so he's kneeling in front of Hitoshi. As Hitoshi tries vainly to convince himself this is real, Eraserhead removes his goggles, revealing two tired, bloodshot eyes.
"What's your name, kid?" Eraserhead is saying. "Is there someone you want me to call?"
This is really happening. Holy shit, Eraserhead is talking to him. Eraserhead is talking to him. Eraserhead is —
"N-no," he manages hoarsely, rubbing his throat, "that's okay." God, it feels like he swallowed a bowlful of nails. Sounds like it, too. Grimacing, he says, "My name — my name is Shinsou. Shinsou Hitoshi. Uh, thanks — thanks for, um," and then his voice gives out, so he jerks his head toward the unconscious villain.
Eraserhead snorts, the tautness of his mouth easing just a bit. "That's sort of my job, but you're welcome." Standing up, he says, "Though honestly, there wasn't much left for me to do; a bit longer and they would have been down for the count anyway." He pauses, then, eyeing Hitoshi with an expression he can't quite place. "You did well holding your own against a villain like that, especially without a quirk, but next time, leave the fighting to trained professionals." He puts his goggles back on and heads toward the villain, hefting the prone figure over his shoulder like a sack of amorphous potatoes. So cool. "It should go without saying that you were incredibly lucky tonight. Don't rely on it."
He recognizes a rebuke when he hears one, but that doesn't stop the warm, elated glow bubbling up inside him, or the tentative smile creeping across his face. "Y-yeah," he says, "I won't, sir, I promise."
Eraserhead merely grunts, adjusting his grip on the criminal. "If you're feeling all right, you should head home; it's getting late. In the morning you can head over to the police station to make a statement. Tell them Eraserhead sent you; they'll know what to do." With that, he spins on his heel and begins to walk away.
He's speaking before the words have even formulated in his mind. "Wait!" His hand is outstretched, eyes wide and borderline frantic. He's imagined having this conversation a hundred different ways, but now that there's actually a chance for it to play out, the words elude him. He has no idea what to say, but he can't waste this opportunity, he can't. He'll never get another chance like this, and he has to know, has to ask —
Criminal. Freak.
Hero? Gimme a break.
It's only a matter of time before one of us puts you in prison.
Get away, you creep!
"What?" asks a bored voice.
He breathes deeply and grits his teeth and pushes away all the voices in his head. His fists tremble at his sides. "I'm not quirkless," he says to Eraserhead's feet, "but it's true my quirk isn't suited for fighting. It's not flashy or impressive, either, and most people, they're afraid of what I can do with it." It's like a dam has opened, and everything is pouring out whether he wants it to or not. "All I want to do is help," — god, is that what his voice sounds like?— "it's all I've ever wanted to do. That being said," he wrenches his gaze up to meet Eraserhead's eyes — when did he turn around? — "that being said, is it pointless for someone like me to try to be a hero?"
A heavy silence settles between them, and he is suddenly hyper aware of how late it is, how tired the man must be, how childish he sounds. It's the end of the day, and Eraserhead is a busy underground hero, and Hitoshi is just a schoolkid out too late after dark. Heat rises to his cheeks, and his eyes sting. He refuses to look away.
Eraserhead just sighs and looks for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Minutes pass, and just when Hitoshi is sure he'll leave without an answer, he speaks. "I'm not going to lie to you; having a quirk, especially a combat-oriented one, is extremely useful in heroics. Pros risk their lives every day fighting villains and handling disasters, and the ones with physical quirks have a huge advantage." He lifts his goggles to rub at his eyes. "That being said, any decent hero knows you can't rely on your quirk to get yourself or anyone else out of a pinch every time. There's more to it than that." Snapping his goggles back onto his eyes, Eraserhead turns around and continues walking. "I don't know what you see in my opinion, but for what it's worth, I don't think you've got zero potential. I don't know your situation, though. If you're serious about becoming a hero, you'll need to work hard starting now. If your quirk doesn't seem useful, make it useful. Figure out what you can do with it. Be creative." He pauses mid-step, and looks back over his shoulder. "Most of all, though," he says, "be realistic. Know your limits. Chasing baseless dreams is a waste of time." With that, Eraserhead takes off, ribbons of silvery fabric swinging him up until he's leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Hitoshi watches until he's out of sight, then turns around to collect his fallen groceries.
I don't think you've got zero potential. The phrase echoes in his head on repeat, along with you did well and there's more to it than that, and no matter what he does, he can't get this stupid grin off his face. He doesn't even want to. You did well. It's like all the doubts he ever had have melted away, any bitterness or shame or sorrow about the hand he's been dealt evaporating like mist in the sun. It's amazing, really, how a single conversation can make a lifetime's worth of suspicion and distrust feel so trivial.
I'll get trained, he thinks fiercely, shoving one last potato into his bag. I'll learn to fight, I swear I will, and I'll do it without the help of a quirk. Just you wait, I'll be the greatest hero anyone has ever seen!
For the first time in what feels like ages, he heads home with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.
His mom is asleep by the time he gets home, so he puts the groceries away and heads to his room. After brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas, he finds himself on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. He knows he should at least send a text after something so big, but he has no idea what to say. This has been the second-most surreal, emotionally taxing night of his night; there's no way he can type out the whole story and still do it justice.
His mind is made up when his mouth parts in a yawn that nearly cracks his jaw. Sending off a short message, Hitoshi places his phone on the bedside table and crawls under his covers, pulling them up to his chin. Thank god it's the weekend, he thinks, and a minute later he's dead to the world.
Beside him, his phone buzzes, casting a faint bluish glow in the darkness of his room.
Midoriya: sure, sunday afternoon works fine with me!
Midoriya: where did u wnat to meet up?
Midoriya: *want
Midoriya: oh wow, i didn't realize how late it was, sorry!
Midoriya: (hope u can catch up on some sleep this weekend. Goodnight!)
A/N: For once I actually do have specific ideas about where I want to go with this, but since this is my first time writing for these characters, how'd I do? Any feedback is hugely, hugely appreciated. Thanks for reading!