A/N: So you may notice something here - I've messed with the timeline a bit. Just spreading things out to be a little less clustered - there's not going to be a real consequence of the rearranging.

Thank you all for the incredible response to last chapter. You have no idea how happy seeing the email notification makes me. :)

Enjoy!


It wasn't fair.

Or, at least, that's what Iida said. Several times. Each more upset than the last, a strange dark despondence invading his entire personality. Izuku would have almost been amused if he didn't know that anything Iida did had to be in complete earnest. But, to be honest, it was rather refreshing to have a new competitor for the top student slot in nearly every class. Even Yaoyorozu acknowledged that she was oddly happy with the new competition. And for his part, Hitsugaya didn't flaunt it. He was perfectly happy to receive his flawless grades in math, chemistry, biology, and English – perfect grades in English, how in the hell did he do that, whoever invented that language lacked all common sense – without making a big deal out of it.

And then, a week after Hitsugaya had joined the class, everyone got back the essay that Cementoss had assigned them in Japanese Literature. There were a few explosions of tears from Ashido and Kaminari, as had become rather standard, as well as a rare sigh of disappointment from Yaoyorozu – you only lost two points, Yaomomo-chan, come on – but as soon as the bell for lunch rang, they all stayed back to compare essay scores, even Kaminari, who had somehow scored a 30.

"Midoriya-kun, what was your score?" Iida's voice was light, though it felt a little strained, and Izuku felt a pang of sympathy when he remembered the horrible phone call Iida had received two days after the U.A. Sports Festival. Izuku held up his paper with a sheepish grin.

"I got a 95." He showed the other boy his paper, a bit flushed. "I forgot to put in three quotes and lost five points."

Iida's glasses glimmered with earnest understanding, pointing his hands about like a robot.

"Ah, that's a terribly silly mistake for a quality paper, Midoriya-kun," he commiserated. "I must say I did better – I received a perfect score on my essay."

Izuku felt his heart jump a bit at the actual satisfaction on his friend's face, happy that the good grade had put at least a little bit of joy back into his friend's heart. And then he saw Hitsugaya standing off to the side, flipping through the paper he'd written with quick, frustrated motions. His white shoe was tapping against the floor, a tiny tic Izuku had noticed that tended to appear when he was getting annoyed. Careful not to draw attention to himself or the obviously-irritated Hitsugaya, he slipped away from the others.

"Ah, H-Hitsugaya-kun, is everything okay?" he asked, trying to keep his voice down. Hitsugaya glanced up with a jerk, startled to the point of actually flinching back, and Izuku had to swallow a gasp of pity. Hitsugaya didn't seem like the type who would appreciate pity. The quiet teenager regarded him for a minute, then let out a huge breath, his cheeks puffing out and his eyebrows knitting together to create a kittenish annoyance that almost made Izuku laugh. Then he grudgingly handed Izuku the paper he'd written.

There were red marks. A lot of them. And when Izuku flipped the pages back to look at the front, a large red 73 was staring back at him. He blinked in absolute shock, not expecting the near-genius to do so comparatively poor on any assignment. Then he shifted his gaze up to meet the white-haired boy's piercing, slightly terrifying glare only to see that Hitsugaya's perfect posture had slouched a bit and he'd looked away. A faint rosy tinge stained the mysterious teenager's cheeks.

He's embarrassed. Oh. Oh goodness, how do I handle this?

"Um…" he took a moment to analyze the argument that Hitsugaya had written, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Um, w-well, your paper isn't actually too bad – you just didn't explain yourself well enough."

Hitsugaya frowned then, the rosy tinge still flushing his cheeks, but he straightened up and met Izuku's gaze.

"How so?" he asked, a bit warily. Izuku tapped the beginning of the third paragraph, which Cementoss-sensei had circled widely.

"Uh…like here, look. I don't know how you managed to connect the woman's death to the garden – I mean, I made the connection in my essay too, so I know how – but you just equate them. There's no 'why the author chose to' or how this is logically a conclusion to draw." Hitsugaya read over the paragraph he'd written. Then his frown crimped a little bit, his brows furrowing in confusion. Izuku tried not to stare. Hitsugaya was blushing. And confused. And leaning over his shoulder, the mop of snow-white hair soft and fluffy. Why did this guy look so much like a squishy marshmallow when he was the most reserved, cold person Izuku had ever met?

"…But it's so obvious," Hitsugaya said, exasperated, and suddenly Izuku knew where the problem was.

"To you, yes," Izuku agreed, the gears in his brain already starting to turn. "You're highly intelligent, so much so that logical connections like this one mean these two symbols don't even register as separate topics to you. But that means that you operate on a psychological expectation that the rest of the world can see these same kinds of connections and therefore you don't have the subconscious need to explain this sort of link."

For a second Hitsugaya was quiet, blinking owlishly. Then his lips quirked again and Izuku almost got the feeling that the reserved teenager was admiring his theory. There was a knowing sort of glint in those gemlike eyes, the twitch of the muscles in his jaw betraying what could have been a smile but refused to show. And for the first time, his body language appeared to relax a bit, a kind of hesitant tolerance of the classroom environment apparently beginning to form.

"Thank you, Midoriya-san. That was helpful," he said after a moment, the confusion and flush of embarrassment melting from his facial features. Izuku went a bit pink himself, suddenly feeling like Hitsugaya had been the one to teach him something and not the other way around.

"A-ah, don't…uhm, don't mention it," he squeaked, and Hitsugaya just gave him that same patient, slightly approving look, then took his essay back and put it in his messenger bag. The white-haired teen then quietly slipped out the door by himself.

Uraraka and Iida bounced up behind Izuku, watching as Hitsugaya ghosted away, the long, sheathed sword on his back still riding comfortably between his shoulder blades. Once they were sure Hitsugaya was out of earshot, Uraraka spoke up.

"He actually likes you, Deku-kun," she commented curiously, and Izuku reeled back in shock at the offhand observation, flailing wildly.

"Ah-ah, Uraraka-san, that's not-"

"Uraraka-chan is right, Midoriya-kun," Iida interjected a little bit tiredly. "I have not seen Hitsugaya-kun yet tolerate much interaction with any of the members of Class 1-A besides you. He…he rather avoids being in our presence, I think."

Izuku looked at the ground for a moment, remembering the label on the plastic medical bracelet on Hitsugaya's wrist. He bit his lower lip, worrying it with his teeth anxiously as he fidgeted, debating on whether or not to tell Iida and Uraraka about the diagnosis he'd seen. But then he sighed and decided against it. Hitsugaya would tell everyone when he was ready – it wasn't fair for him to reveal that secret just because he'd been nosy.

"I…I think it's probably because I remind him of that person he knew," Izuku said after a moment, carefully choosing his words. "He doesn't really seem like the type of person to trust easily, so that's probably why he tolerates me a little better."

It took a moment, but then Uraraka and Iida nodded in agreement, seeing the logic in Izuku's quiet theory. Then, as the rest of the crowd of grade-comparing students began to meander toward the exit, the trio followed. The lunch hour was brief, the conversations between the three friends making it seem much shorter than it was, and then they all headed back to the classroom only to find that Midnight and Aizawa-sensei were both in the room, holding stacks of paper. Hitsugaya arrived just as the bell was ringing, sliding into the back of the room like a shadow and taking his seat before the sound died off.

Then the pair of teachers pointed out the packets of paper on some students' desks, and Midnight grinned foxily.

"Alright kids! For those of you unaware, you are all going to be doing internships with Pro-heroes for a week, starting two days from now, and you'll be doing that instead of your regular schooling. You'll be allowed to wear your hero costumes for this internship, and today in class we'll be coming up with your code names. Those of you with the packets of paper on your desks, you were extended offers from certain hero agencies based on how well you performed in the U.A. Sports Festival a few weeks ago. Those of you with only one sheet of paper, that is the list of agencies we've partnered with that will accept any of our students. And remember to learn while you're there. Final exams take place a month after you all return."

Almost immediately, the entire class burst into chatter and titters of excitement. Midnight cracked her whip, causing everyone to instantly fall silent.

"I will be judging your hero names. You could be stuck with these for the rest of your careers, so make sure they're good!" she snapped. Aizawa, bored, zipped up his sleeping bag and rolled into a corner, and then the students got to work. And then, hesitantly, Hitsugaya raised his hand.

"…Is there a specific reason I was not issued a list of the agencies?" he asked, eyes already narrowed in thought. Midnight nodded with a sigh, her expression faintly apologetic.

"Yes – Principal Nedzu decided it would be best for you to use this week as time to catch up on your studies. You will not be participating in the internship. You may use this time to make a preliminary sketch of your hero costume, however, if you are any closer to remembering your Quirk's particulars," she said. Hitsugaya merely nodded and ducked his head a bit, pulling out his notebook. Absently, he started to write, his hand moving quick and fast over the paper. Izuku glanced back at the other boy with some dismay, but said nothing, knowing that Midnight was right – especially if Hitsugaya's memory loss involved his Quirk at all. Meanwhile, he looked down at the page in his hands, where only one name was present.

Gran Torino.


Honestly, he was glad that he was being excluded from the internships.

Hitsugaya ignored all the fuss over hero codenames, filling in more of his hairline theories on the Quirk that had brought him to this dimension. He was starting to get frustrated with his lack of discernable progress, though he had found at least a few leads through some less-than-legal internet forums. Most promising among them was a villain called Kurogiri, who had the rare ability to create warp gates. With the right trigger, maybe he could also open the Senkaimon.

After class was dismissed for the day, Hitsugaya jogged down to the school's huge library and checked in with the librarian. He spent the next four hours sorting books and thinking, the work-study program job monotonous enough to allow his brain to churn along at the usual breakneck speed. It was rather pleasant, he was slowly coming to realize, this existence. There was the expectation that all the students would graduate and fight crime for a living, and so while they were still sheltered, they weren't being handled with kiddie gloves. Even he was being given a little bit of space, monitored from afar as he settled into Class 1-A, his PTSD misdiagnosis not a constant bitter thorn in his side.

But the fact remained that his presence was causing the dormant reishi particles of this world to cling to him like a gigai, to quicken and hum with just enough energy for Hollows to rip through. He was lucky that a second one hadn't appeared since the first Adjuchas, but it was only a matter of time before the tear grew in size. And the only way to permanently stop them was to go home.

Which was proving impossible.

It was true that as a student of the U.A. he was privy to a great deal of information he otherwise would not have been able to access. However, it wasn't enough. And it was only slightly helpful.

After his shift in the library ended, he ran effortlessly back to his dorm room and threw off his uniform. Hyourinmaru hummed quietly in the back of his mind, staying silent as he stepped into the shower and stood under the cool water for a few long minutes. Both dragon Zanpakutou spirit and his shinigami master were restless, disturbed by the lack of information, and dismayed by the dwindling chance of their return to Soul Society. Toushiro sighed, his breath freezing a few of the water droplets on contact, and grudgingly started to wash his hair. By the time he stepped out of the shower and into a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants All Might had given him, it was late, and the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. He breezed through the homework easily, barely glancing at any of the jejune assignments.

And then he felt it. The sharp, unsettling coldness of a needle pricking over his neck, a draft cool air rushing in from the window over his exposed skin, and the room slowly vanished into white, white, white- he couldn't move-

So stubborn, Hitsugaya-taicho. Relax, and this will all be over before you know it.

Kurotsuchi's voice was patient and patronizing, and the needle tickling his carotid artery burned as it sank through his skin, charring him from the inside out, and he was screaming, and everything was on fire but he couldn't move- couldn't move- tied down- Where was Matsumoto? Zombified by Giselle, Giselle with dark hair and a cruel laugh and the dead eyes of Madarame and Ayasagewa as his body cut them down and he couldn't do anything. Breathe, one, two, but there was something in his mouth – blood, Giselle, forcing it down his throat as he's clinging to life – and everything was on fire, his blood boiling, make it stop, Kurotsuchi-

A door opened with a thud – Kurotsuchi Nemu, syringes in hand – he was coughing blood and white lab walls were fading into darkness, there was another needle in his neck- the walls were light green, why- softness in a coffin that forces air into his aching lungs- carpet beneath his hands, see, he can move- everything was burning again, make it stop- cold air against his hand, warmth beneath his cheek, a heartbeat loud and strong, a hand in his hair.

"You're safe, Hitsugaya-kun. Nobody here is going to hurt you."

Aizawa.

Kurotsuchi's lab disappeared. The needles stopped coming, the burn of chemicals and blood searing his veins with unnatural fire vanishing. He was on the floor, crumpled into a ball, his hands locked over the back of his neck as if he was trying to hide, to curl inwards on himself until he dissolved into nothing. Aizawa was sitting with him, cradling him gently against a strong chest, one hand running gently through his white hair. Hitsugaya jerked away, or tried to, but the dark-haired teacher appeared to have anticipated the move and he didn't let go as easily as Hitsugaya had expected. The young shinigami froze, so startled by the resistance that he actually had to pause and take a breath.

It happened again.

The thought was gut-wrenching and terrifying all in one, and he'd been desperately trying to avoid letting it cross his mind. But while he was held like this, acutely aware of how disconnected from the world he'd become, it was impossible to ignore. He'd let a human – a living human – sneak up on him, touch him, hug him, all without even realizing what was happening. He'd become so lost in the horror of his memories that he'd ceased to comprehend what was going on in the present. Slowly, he took a shuddering breath, trying to hold off the dawning realization. If he'd been in Seireitei when this happened, fighting a Hollow, commanding troops, even conducting a training exercise, this episode could have been the cause of someone's death. Hyourinmaru stirred in the back of his mind, the icy coils of the dragon's silver-blue body shifting as the powerful, wise creature reared his head.

"Running from your fears only causes them to grow deeper roots, little one." The dragon's voice was soft like a fine drizzle of rain, knowing that his master and partner's crumbling ability to deny his reality was painful enough without a massive ice dragon saying, 'I told you so'. "And this particular weed has had twenty years to grow and take root in your soul."

"I'm not…" his voice cracked, splitting into an embarrassingly pitchy high note, and Aizawa let out a sigh of both resignation and no little concern.

"You don't have to pretend that you're okay, kid," he said gruffly, a sort of dreary wisdom in his eyes. "I've seen a lot of heroes twice your age functioning only half as well with severe PTSD."

Hitsugaya felt fire surge through his mind, uncontrollable anger melting his icy reserve into faint glassy shards, and he lashed out in the only way he knew how, shoving at Aizawa violently. But the man had expected that as well, and suddenly Hitsugaya found a couple of stiff bands of metal woven into bandages snap snugly about his wrists, pinning him. The sudden restraints were too much, and as Hitsugaya started kicking and thrashing about, the metallic bandages caught his ankles and shoulders too, binding him tightly.

"I don't have any sort of mental disability, you pathetic, weak-minded scrap of-"

"PTSD isn't a mental disability, Hitsugaya-kun." Aizawa's voice was still completely calm. Unbelievable. It was infuriating, and as that dark, tired gaze found his again Toushiro found himself entirely losing his cool, howling mad for absolutely no reason. He kept struggling, finding it increasingly difficult to refrain from displaying his shinigami strength and tearing through the thin metal like paper. And Aizawa – the bastard – just kept him close, ignoring the way his pinned hands were repeatedly beating against the broad chest holding him prisoner. And the teacher's calm, patient expression never changed, never once turning upset or annoyed no matter how Toushiro yelled or struggled, all of the hurtful, cold things rolling from the young captain's tongue ignored so easily that it seemed he wasn't even hearing them.

But after thirty minutes of fruitless yelling and screaming, Hitsugaya went still, his chest heaving, his throat sore from the constant string of nasty expletives. And Aizawa still sat there, his expression calm, his scraggly dark hair pulled back in a messy low ponytail. Hitsugaya closed his eyes, swallowing the numb ache in his chest with a lot of difficulty. He could still hear Aizawa's heartbeat beneath his ear, the sound strangely grounding.

"…a lot of trauma patients get angry very easily." Aizawa's voice was neutral, almost conversational, and that strange aimlessness made Toushiro pause, still choking back the rising tide of boiling emotion in his chest. The teacher then glanced down, and Toushiro sucked in a shaky breath. There was no pity in those dark eyes, only sorrow and understanding.

"They want other people to be mad at them," Aizawa said, the gruffness of his tone gentling just a little bit. "They feel so terribly guilty that they want the entire world to hate them so that they feel like they're getting what they deserve."

It was like he'd been kicked in the chest, and he stared up at the human man who had somehow cut right to his core in one single sentence. He couldn't breathe. It took a minute for him to muster up the strength to speak, but when he did his words were faint, incredulous.

"…It was my fault," he whispered, and Aizawa raised an eyebrow at him, that same look of sorrow and understanding in the grim, stubbly lines around his mouth.

"Did you, willingly, choose to cause or participate in whatever event you're feeling guilty for? Did you have any control over the situation at all?" he asked gently, and Hitsugaya, after a moment's thought, shook his head with a hint of desperation. He could feel the swell of emotion starting to break, starting to surge through his defenses, and he needed control back before everything came crashing down around his head like ice dominos.

"That's not what-"

"You can't blame yourself for things you can't control, Hitsugaya-kun," Aizawa scolded lightly, and then he pulled the metal bandages off Hitsugaya's ankles, wrists, and shoulders in order to push the teenager back. He put his hands on Toushiro's shoulders, looking at him sternly.

"It's not your fault, kiddo," he told the young shinigami firmly. "It's not your fault."

First it was one droplet. Then two, a pair leaking over the top wall of the dam stretched to the breaking point. And then with a third, enough stony resolve had eroded away that the dam cracked and burst in a spectacular shower of saltwater. And Toushiro buckled, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking violently as he struggled vainly to keep his eyes dry. Aizawa reached out and carefully took him, pulling him into a second hug. Toushiro hung there limply, his face hiding in his teacher's shoulder, hiccupping erratically as the tears kept coming. And then Aizawa smiled a little bit, ruffling his student's pure snow-colored hair.

"If you need to cry now, I will not see anything," he murmured softly. And true to his word, he saw nothing as Toushiro finally began to sob.

It didn't take nearly as long for Hitsugaya to cry through his grief as it had taken him to rage through his anger, but it was twice as draining. By the time his emotions had run dry, the anger and grief and confusion and raw, stupefying guilt had quietly faded into a blank sort of numbness. He felt empty, completely lost, and for once he let himself think about what had happened. He avoided the memory of the pitched battles with the Quincy, or the time he spent in Kurotsuchi's hands, but he did let himself think about what he had done after the war.

He'd done a lot of motivational, positive things for the destroyed Seireitei. The Tenth Division had been the first division to once again be fully operational, and he'd volunteered a lot of his own time to help rebuild the Sixth, Fifth, and Thirteenth Divisions. He'd fronted the effort to reconstruct Central 46, carefully laying the framework which would allow scribes and learned men from the Rukongai to be elected into the ranks of a subcommittee designed to help balance the heavy-handed noble influence in the government. He'd made the Tenth Division the most efficient in Seireitei, taking on hundreds of patrols a month and successfully completing all of them. He'd even begun offering personal training sessions with his seated officers and the unseated shinigami that his higher ranks recommended for development. It had eaten into his free time and caused him to lose several hours of sleep a week, but it had boosted the morale in his division to an all-time high.

And he'd never given himself the time to think about the horrors he'd experienced. He'd never allowed himself the few moments he needed to look in the mirror and face the ghosts of the Eleventh Division haunting him. He'd exhausted himself day after day to avoid seeing Giselle's eerie face in his dreams, and to keep him moving, keep his defenses perfect so that war would never happen again.

But here, in this new world, where he couldn't do useful things forever and people would question it if he only let himself sleep five hours a night, he didn't have those distractions. There weren't any excuses for jumping a mile when people snuck up on him, or easy, paperwork-related explanations for the aimless fury that sometimes consumed him whole. He couldn't lash out at people here and brush it off as a captain's prerogative. And the cause of it all was finally starting to sink in.

"You have to admit it to yourself before you can start to fight it, little one," Hyourinmaru said gently, his presence quiet. Hitsugaya took a deep breath, still shaky, and pulled carefully out of Aizawa's hold. The dark-haired teacher let him, still watching him cautiously. Absently, Toushiro realized that the light on his medical cuff, which had been blinking red, had now shut off. Odd.

"…thank you, Aizawa-sensei," he whispered hoarsely, acutely aware of the redness of his eyes. Shame boiled in his cheeks, and he ducked his head. "I apologize for-"

"No."

A calloused hand cupped his chin, forcing his head up so that he was staring directly into Aizawa's stern glare.

"You will not apologize for this," he repeated stiffly. "PTSD is not something you apologize for. It is not something you feel shame for. It means you went through an awful, terrifying event and were strong enough to survive it."

"You are not weak, Master. I would not give my loyalty to a weakling. Own this and destroy it head-on."

Toushiro felt some thin pane of glassy pride crack in his heart, and with a tremendous amount of effort, he finally overcame the furious despair just long enough to speak.

"…I really have it, don't I?" he whispered, knuckles going white on his knees. Aizawa let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Yeah, kid, you do," he said, a little gruff but still obviously concerned. "The psychiatrist that diagnosed you was positive once you started having flashbacks and losing touch with reality, but he also did point out that a lot of the anger you seem to feel is probably a symptom of your PTSD, along with the difficulty you seem to experience while controlling your anger or other strong emotions. Feeling extreme guilt especially is a part of it as well."

A hollow laugh left Hitsugaya's mouth. Not his fault? Shouldn't apologize? Suffering from PTSD was one of the many things that captains shouldn't do. That Captains couldn't do, because the thirteen captains of the Gotei 13 were pillars of unyielding strength that would never give up Seireitei until they were taking their last breath. But he didn't say anything to Aizawa about his position. The dark-haired teacher didn't need to know about Seireitei, or shinigami, or the Gotei 13. Because here, in this world, he could take the time to fight his way through the flashbacks on his own, while he was searching for the one person who could cross dimensions and take him home. He didn't have any distractions here. And that meant he would be forced to face the terror he'd been running from.

He took another deep breath and glanced down at the medical band on his wrist, glaring at the characters there with narrowed emerald eyes. Ailment: Severe PTSD.

"Not for long, it's not," he growled under his breath. And then as he followed his student's gaze, Aizawa smiled a real smile, a hint of pride flickering across his face. Then the pro-hero paused and took a slow breath, that smile growing wider.

It had been the first time Hitsugaya had called him 'Aizawa-sensei.'


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