Shouta does a mental headcount despite knowing his kids are fine, the headcount is unnecessary and entirely illogical. If anything were to happen, he wouldn't be able to get to their classroom in time anyway.

And yet. The names and corresponding faces flash in quick succession in his mind, Asui, Midoriya, Bakugou, Tokoyami Aoyama Ashido Hagakure Iida JirouKaminariKirishimaKodaMinetaOjirosatouseroshinsoushojitodorokiurarakayaoyorozu—

Shinsou.

A jolt, his pair of wings briefly flaring out, scrambling to grab his phone, and ignoring the way his elbow-back-wings-crescentscar twinges. There are many unread messages, and he has to scroll down until he finds the profile picture he needs—Shinsou smiling softly at a long-furred cat with his feathers casting a shadow across his face, the feline cropped out when Shouta had selected the picture and had been too lazy to adjust it afterwards. Hizashi had sneakily taken it that one time they went to a cat cafe to celebrate his student's first successful scarf throw, his husband deciding to tag along at the last minute. Hizashi had sent it to him on the ride back home, after they had walked Shinsou to his train, alongside a multitude of other pictures. At least half of them were blurry or out of focus, and most were taken so close in time to each other that they were practically copies.

(He kept them all in a folder titled "UA Children", where he saved the culmination of five years of teaching, ranging from official graduation group pictures to the occasional cheeky selfies his bravest students had taken in class with him sleeping behind them.

He doesn't give them detention if they manage to sneak up to him—positive reinforcement and all that.)

The preview only reads 'sorry sensei, I' before cutting off, and it seems normal enough, but Shinsou only knows how to start his sentences in apologies, even when he's hurt.

The time for his finger to meet the screen stretched into hours, is too slow, he's too slow, Asui's face turns to ash and Bakugou slips through his fingers and One for All's arm bulges, the message finally loads. He scans through its content, and even if it tries to be reassuring, Shouta knows to read between the lines, because he somehow always gets saddled with the low self-esteem ones, the self-sacrifice ones, the secretive ones, the problem children.

It would be easier for his aching heart to read the text messages as they are instead of keeping a mental list of turns of phrases and speech patterns that was almost always followed by a more-tired-than-usual teenager. Still, he doesn't stop interpreting typos and all lower case sentences, not when he knows Shinsou's cracked phone has autocorrect and automatic capitalization. He has become, against his will, an expert in analyzing cat kaomoji.

sorry sensei, i'm not oing to train with u for a few days, i think u need a break n i kniw ur not giong to take one /ᐠ –ꞈ –ᐟ\ get well soon /ᐠ ̥ ̮ ̥ ᐟ\

There's a strew of messages before that, but Shinsou seems as fine as one can be after the aftermath of the training camp and the fall of All Might, teasing messages turning worried turning frightened.

His fingers tremble while he tries to write a reassuring response, and he settles with a short 'I'm fine, training tomorrow is still on, we'll practice with your quirk.'

He hesitates for a second before sending a picture of Sushi, one where she lazes on the windowsill, the sun behind her giving her a warm glow. Her eyes are closed in contentment, and she had been purring at the time.

When he finishes organizing most of his first years' therapy schedules, he gathers his things to head to class 1-A, timing it with Hizashi arrival in the staff's room. He hooks his pinky with his husband's when they both cross the door's threshold, allows himself a dry peck on the cheek and the back of his fingers to graze against Hizashi's scapulars, and then he's on his way.

It will have to do until he finishes supervising homeroom. He longs for his cats and his bed, the warmth of Hizashi's embrace in the privacy of their home.

Homeroom starts and goes like always, although his tone is softer when he admonishes Ashido and Kaminari for being distracted and he doesn't comment when small preening circles start to form toward the end so that already scarred hands can realign feathers. He can't help keeping his eyes on Bakugou either, taken by the irrational fear he'll disappear into a portal.

(Sometimes, when days are foggier despite clear skies and everything seems to drag, Shouta catches himself envying others' quirk.

There are theories about how quirks can predict personality and how they have invisible repercussions on a person's body and mind. Shouta doesn't believe in the former; they are more self fulfilling prophecies than anything. But the later, he has grown to discover, might not be drivel. It's difficult to tear his gaze off people he cares for, to tamp down the paranoid thought that Hizashi could go from alive and standing to broken and scattered yellow feathers if he so much as blinks.

On particularly bad days, he'll stay awake, his eyes drying up in the dark, as he thinks about the distance some heroes are allowed. What would it be if he didn't have to witness terrible things for the chance to prevent them? Most of the time, he saves people, stops stabbing and crushing and cremating quirks just in time. But the nightmares—are they still nightmares if they're true?—haunting him overshadow those moments easily, and corpses in the making plays on repeat in his mind.)

Shouta had shuffled the curriculum around so their main classes today were Art History with Nemuri and English with Hizashi instead of Foundation Hero Studies, and he's relieved they seem a little less tense, the line of their backs losing their weeping willows' quality. He desperately hopes they'll gain back their straightness in the way only fledglings could. They'll need it for when he'll start assigning them to various psychologists in the prefecture, usually only done in second year.

He's a strained towel by the time he slumps in the car with Hizashi. He's thankful they both have tonight free, his agency making him take a leave and Hizashi didn't have his radio show today. They hold hands the entire ride, from the moment they're both in the car until they enter their home, when Hizashi only lets him go to take his speaker off and gather him in his arms, holding him together while they sway to an invisible soundtrack. Shouta buries his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the deep smell of leather and that cologne Hizashi liked to mist over himself in the morning. Lets himself lose his composure in his husband's strong arms, carried off into the calm peace he can only achieve when Hizashi opens his wings to be big and tall around them, until he finally feels like he won't fall apart anymore. His eyes stay dry, but Hizashi passes his thumbs under them.

"Let's get your drops, yeah?" his husband murmurs, herding him toward the sofa with a firm palm resting on his back, right under his scapulas. He doesn't resist when Hizashi gently nudges him on the plush furniture until he lays down. Hizashi pushes Shouta's hair out of his eyes, hand warm and soft except for the odd placement of his calluses that, contrary to Shouta's, were grown there by various string instruments.

Soft lips brush his brow, a small smile, then Hizashi places Sushi on his torso. Shouta automatically cradles her, his wings going up like safe walls to prevent her from falling when she'll inevitably let herself roll off from his chest, scratching behind her ear, tension draining out as his fingers bury themselves in her fur and his entire upper body rumbles along her purring.

He almost dozes off to the quiet humming coming from their joint bedroom, only deigning to open his eyes when he feels the heat of another body warming his shoulder. Hizashi had let his hair down from its peak while he went to fetch his eye drops, and big rectangle glasses frame his face, making him look like the dork he actually is. Shouta doesn't move to take the bottle from him, simply tipping his head on the armchair. The tip rests about two centimeters away from his right eye, and Hizashi is close enough that he could easily jab the end of the bottle right through before he could ever react. He could take away his quirk in one quick move.

The thought makes Shouta relax further into his husband's touch; he knows Hizashi, from the way his tongue peeks out from concentration to the ring he proudly wears alongside his other flashier jewelry. He likes to think he can feel it amongst the other rings and bracelets, a smoother metal warmed with whispered promises, helping to thaw him out of his ice-numb state. It matches his own, tucked safely under his shirt, and if he were to take it out now, he knows their engraved names would glint in the lowlight. Something in his chest loosens, rattles when it falls and ricochets off his ribs.

A warning press against his forehead, a thumb holding his lower eyelid open, and then a drop falls. The initial sting is quickly followed by soothing relief, excess liquid dripping down the side of his face.


Shouta shuts his alarm off with a groan, blearily trying to read the new messages he received during the night. He frowns; there's still no response from Shinsou, not even a quickly snapped picture of the stray tabby that roamed near his way to school.

He goes through the motions of the day, muscle memory taking over his drowsy state, gestures groggy from sleep despite the cup of coffee he downs. He almost dozes off again on their sofa when Hizashi cards his fingers through his feathers, smoothing out the places where sleep had rendered them a mess, the soft tug-and-pull sending shivers down his spine and up toward his face. His back is to his husband's chest, sharing their warmth through clothes, his wings occasionally twitching under the attention.

A pointy chin digs in his shoulder. "Come on Shou, don't fall asleep on me." Hizashi tucks one lock of hair behind his ear, his lithe fingers caressing the shell. He signs, way too enthusiastic for the early hour of the morning, using Shouta's face and chest for some of the words. He's never told Hizashi how much he enjoys this, having him speak using parts of him, but he suspects his husband knows already. Even when they were younger, Hizashi always understood Shouta better than himself.

It doesn't help that he's never been good at holding back the pleased puffing of his feathers either. "Let's go teach our cute students, yeah? PLUS ULTRA!"

Although he could do without the occasional smack in the face when Hizashi got too excited. The loud exaggerated 'mwah' pressed between his shoulder blades is a good enough apology.

The sofa squeaks when he turns around to face bright green eyes, tucking back his wings to not hit Hizashi. His hair is already gelled up, a shimmery sheen covering his bright yellow feathers.

Shouta gives into his impulses and leans forward. Hizashi's lips are soft against his, a bit oily from the cherry flavored chapstick he likes. Shouta's hands find the nape of Hizashi's neck, supporting the back of his head without messing up his hairdo, the other trailing down, fingers hovering over the bumps formed by his vertebraes until he gets to his husbands wings, running the pad of his fingers over their base.

Something hot stirs in his lower abdomen. It's been a long time since they've had time for each other. Of course, they try their best to keep a minimum of an hour to preen each other or they make up the skipped days with longer sessions, but these last weeks, they had barely been able to squirrel away fifteen minutes to quickly oil the hardest-to-reach places before going back to work. Shouta has never felt Hizashi's absence more than in this very moment.

A small gasp escapes Hizashi when Shouta turns the casual kiss into something more, smoldering heat hanging between them when he parts away, only to reconnect with the corner of Hizashi's mouth, his ridiculously cute moustache tickling him.

Hizashi runs his hands over his back, bunching his shirt and grabbing fistfuls of feathers when Shouta trails toward his neck, teeth brushing the sensitive pulse point. He rewards his husband by pressing his tongue flat when Hizashi tilts his head to allow easier access, tasting subtle floral in the back of his throat.

One last open mouth kiss, and then he pulls away. Hizashi has a dazed look, healthy pink flushing his cheeks and going down past his collar, while his wings stand wide behind him, instinctually trying to display their bright colours to Shouta. His pupils are dilated, green almost all swallowed up. "What…?

An easy grin splits Shouta's face open. Hizashi shifts, tries to rearrange himself in his tight leather pants.

"Plus ultra." He stalks off with puffed up feathers, feeling like the owl that got the mouse, acutely aware of the hungry gaze following him until he turns the corner.


He checks his phone again. Nothing.

Shinsou is late. Shinsou is never late.

His worry gradually coalesces into paranoia when he video calls Hizashi, who tells him he hasn't seen Shinsou in English class. He hadn't been there yesterday either, his caretakers having called in sick, but Shinsou had once come to school sweating and feverish, and had waited for Shouta in the gym with vomit stains on the sole of his shoes. No one has called in today.

(Shinsou is so eager to please, throws himself with everything he has no matter what challenge Shouta puts in front of him—it's something he's trying to curb, but the teen is stubborn and so very determined—so it's unthinkable to think Shinsou skipped their training session because he's sick. Not without any warning.)

At the twenty minute mark, Shouta writes a quick message on a sticky note he slaps on the door, in case Shinsou really is late and was skipping class, and strides to Nedzu's office with his wings carefully tucked tight and his arms on his sides, because principal Nedzu might abhor it, might hide it well, but even he cannot escape his nature. Aizawa can relate; he's closer than most to his wing side.

He doesn't knock, yet principal Nedzu greets him like he was expecting him all along. "Here's the warrant, Aizawa-kun!"

Right next to a cooling cup of tea, rests a plain folder and a car key. Nedzu doesn't ask him questions. There's implicit trust between them, built up from the many times Shouta has come to the principal for this very request, with barely anything but hunches and the occasional unexplained bruise marring young skin.

Most would have stopped him. Asked him to rethink what he's doing.

But Shouta knows to lean on his gut feeling for things like these. Rationalization tends itself to ignoring bags under eyes and tense replies to authority figures. Society might look down upon those that are closer to their wing side, and he himself encourages his students to use their heads, but at his age, instincts has failed him less often than rationalization, has saved him and Hizashi more often than he can count, and this is something he's unwilling to miss.

Shouta desperately wants to be wrong. Shinsou is one of the luckier ones, placed in one of the limited foster homes in Musutafu instead of a government institution, almost a miracle at his age and with his quirk, even with the rising number of family based care in the last years.

If he turns out to be right, Shouta doesn't want his protégé to be sent there, where hopelessness and misery is crammed into every child's pore.

(Shouta meets so many familiar faces on his patrol runs, ghosts crawling back from his childhood to haunt him.)

He gives a tense nod to the principal, grateful once again. He picks up the folder and the key a little too hard, the paper crinkling under his itchy fingers, before turning around to find Shinsou. He doesn't need to look at the kid's address; he was given the information on the second training session, and has added the neighbourhood to his patrol route. He passes right over a grocery store, two blocks away from Shinsou's fosters. Only Hizashi, his handler, and he knows about the added detour.

He slams the school issued car door with more force than necessary, the entire chassis rattling. A quick second to send out 'House visit. Shinsou.' to Hizashi, and another to calm himself down before backing out of the designated parking space and heading out.

Shinsou lives under the care of Kojima Saeko and Kojima Shoichi, with three other boys. From the things Shinsou has unintentionally admitted, the other kids dislike him, although he's quick to reassure Shouta that they avoid him. His fosters feed him appropriately, but he never comes to school with any snacks, and he's been signed up to UA's breakfast program.

He had been granted access to Shinsou's student profile after receiving permission to take in Shinsou for training in the form of the fosters' signature and a brief phone call. Kojima Saeko had been agreeable, if curt in her response when he had talked to her, but he hadn't wanted to judge her solely on that when he himself isn't the most polite person.

It sounded like a reasonable home at the time. It still does. Shinsou hasn't texted back yet.

The car ride is spent mulling over every possibility that may explain Shinsou's absence, from him simply forgetting—ridiculous—to having been caught in a villain attack—UA would have been notified—to Shinsou actually resting while he's sick and bedridden—laughable.

Finally, the roads start becoming more familiar, although it's odd seeing them from this angle. He's more used to a bird eye view.

The house is visible now. No light peeks through the curtains, and aside from a few kids he can hear down the road, there's no one.

He sends out another message to Shinsou before ringing the doorbell, knocking on the door to make sure he's heard. He shifts his weight, half hoping for his phone to buzz, but his device remains silent.

He's about to knock again when he catches a shadow in the window.

The doorknob rattles in a practiced rhythm, a small weight letting itself fall on the door to open it. Lines of stripped paint show where the frame warped and became too narrow.

Shouta jolts when he sees Shinsou standing furtively on the side, out of view from anyone looking up from the street. They stare at each other for a few seconds, the teen having obviously not expected Shouta by the way his eyes widen in surprise.

"Shinsou—"

The door slams shut and the click of the lock marks its finality before he can do anything. He stands there, shocked into stillness, before he can gather his wits. "Shinsou, open the door."

There's no answer, of course there isn't, that thing—

"Shinsou, it's Aizawa." A younger Hizashi, feathers dull-grey even through the colourful dye, coming to school with red marks lining his face. "Knock if you're okay."

The entire house holds its breath as it waits for him to go away. At the lack of response, the felt hesitation through the other side of the door, he takes out the picking kit he always carries in the lining of his boot. The lock system is one of those old ones, with pins and their tell tale-clicks. If it wasn't serving him so well right now, he would be horrified about how easy it is to pick.

The door opens with effort, tries to deny him entry. Shinsou darts away from where he had been standing, uncoordinated limbs hitting the corner he takes. Shouta calls for him, but he's already deep in the house's entrails.

Shouta has seen all types of homes from these visits—some with floors untidy with harmless things such as plastic wrappings and cardboard boxes, others that had food smeared on the walls, and, most often, ones where the mess has been hastily pushed out of sight, but the mildew-sweat-mold stench had stained the entire place and scurrying could be heard behind plaster.

This one is obsessively clean, no framed pictures of the family, nor dishes in the sink. The chairs are perfectly lined up against the table with the plastic wrapping still around them. Chemical lemon burns his nose.

He doesn't take his boots off.

Usually, at least one adult is present when he shows up for home-visits, or he waits for one to let him in. He can already tell there's no one despite it being after-school and after-work hours. No one but Shinsou.

The short corridor Shinsou took holds three shut rooms. He's drawn toward a hastily drawn curtain fluttering where a door should have been, light casting moving shadows on the floor through the gaps. "Shinsou, I'm coming in."

Shouta waits for his protégé's response, and when he finds none, he repeats himself before entering the bedroom.

It's depressingly devoid of anything that should be in a teen's room, and the chemical smell is more concentrated here. Four beds line the walls, government issued molt and downy feathers poking out of scratchy looking pillowcases, their stems bent out of shape from fingers trying to push them back in before giving up their useless endeavour.

Surely…

He goes to the last bed, closest to the window, and lays on the floor, his knees-back-elbows groaning in protest. He leaves a good arm length between the beginning of the bed frame and himself so he doesn't spook Shinsou. If he reaches out, the tip of his fingers would barely brush against the wood frame.

The kid is huddled under the bed, back pressed against the wall, limbs held tight to his torso. His wings are wrapped around himself while his feathers are flared out to make himself bigger. Now that he isn't running away and surprise isn't clouding his eyes, Shouta can see that the 'quirk inhibitor' he had thought to be a gag, the type Hizashi had helped get banned, is actually a bite guard.

"Shinsou." He pitches his voice down, mellows it out. It doesn't prevent the teen from flinching, pressing himself away.

Internally, he reprimanded himself; he'd forgotten Shinsou was too well attuned to others' emotions, seemingly able to sense them before the actual person could identify them themselves. Initially, he had hoped it was a side effect of his quirk, an instinct to latch on something he could use, but the flinches made Shouta suspicious of something else he didn't dare name at the time, in case it summoned that particular monster into existence.

He needs to calm down, but the anger clings to his thoughts, sinks its claws into his mind. The bite guard is the same one used for Villains, big and bulky, with tiny holes lined on the side.

"Shinsou, come here. Let me help you. Please." He tacks on the last word in the hopes it will coax Shinsou out.

Shinsou doesn't move, except for the small tremble running through him. His eyes are wide, darting from his face to his hands to his face again. A deep shudder runs through him and he shuts them, an emotion that looks too much like shame flickering on his face.

Shouta just wants to take the bite guard off, burn it, destroy it until it becomes unrecognizable. He breathes through his nose, slow and steady to calm his racing heart. He can't force Shinsou out from the place he deems safe; even the idea of pulling him out while the kid claws at the floor makes him sick.

He looks around, searching for something that might help. With a flick of his wrist, he sends out his scarf toward a pillow on Shinsou's bed. He grimaces when he catches it, feeling how lumpy it is. It's not even filled well, more pillowcase than stuffing. After unzipping it to make sure there are actually feathers inside, he slides the pillow under the bed.

Instead of calming down like Shouta expects, Shinsou turns his face away, moving to be as far away as he can from the pillow. "Shinsou, it's okay."

Shouta doesn't know when the others will come back. He had hoped he could leave with his student before anyone intercepted him. He isn't sure he can hold back his tongue if he has to interact with whoever did this to Shinsou.

Something moves under the covers, displaced when he had pulled the pillow off the bed, catches his eye. It's a feather having lost all of its structure, of darker colouring than synthetic molt, darker than Shinsou's. Unmistakably Shouta's. Which baffles him because he has never given his molt feathers to Shinsou before. He must have picked it up at one point when Shouta wasn't watching.

His chest tightens at the realization that Shinsou holds him in such regard, that he feels safer with Shouta's feathers. Shouta has occasionally found himself picking at his down and comparing which feather was the softest. He has never acted out on any of his impulses though; it's not something he can offer without thinking of what he's giving out, the implications such an action would have.

He can assume those responsibilities now, and Shinsou needs the reassurance. He doesn't have any on him, he's nowhere close to his molt, so before he can talk himself out of it, he braces himself and pulls out a handful of feathers with a wince. Leaning over, his wing twitching from pain, he places them right on the edge of Shinsou's safe space before shuffling back.

He beats away the disappointment when Shinsou doesn't even look at them, focused on following his every move. After a few more seconds, Shouta stretches into a more comfortable position, slowly reaches into his pocket, and takes out his phone. The first minute is spent responding to more messages, sending a quick text to tell Hizashi to prepare the guest room and dust off their emergency placement certificates.

Hizashi doesn't ask any questions, just sends him a series of emoticons and a thumbs up. Shouta sends back a heart before opening a video app. Putting on a cat video is easy when he has so many of them saved. He raises the volume of his small speaker until soft purring fills the bedroom.

His whole body is turned toward his screen, but he keeps Shinsou in the corner of his eye, careful not to look at him directly. The illusion works, because a pale hand reaches out to snatch the black feathers, lightning quick. They're immediately brought to Shinsou's face, as he holds them in front of the bite guard.

It worries Shouta, to see the small aeration holes covered like that. If he listens beyond the usual hum of the fridge and the not-silent of a normal house, he can hear the soft whistle of air getting sucked in narrow openings at the end of each of Shinsou's breaths.

Six different videos later, the teen moves again. Keeping himself relaxed and his breathing regular is difficult when all he wants to do is gather Shinsou in his arms, but he's had practice being patient and staying still with Sushi, and then Heater, and later Lamp. His kid starts inching forward until tuffs of his lavender hair peeks out from under the mattress, and then there's no more progress.

Shouta angles his phone so Shinsou can watch the tabby resting on a sunwarmed rock. The cat's slow blinks are aimed toward the person holding the camera, relaxed and entirely trusting that their owner will watch over them while they nap.

Slowly, his frozen still student starts to thaw, harsh breaths gaining speed, and then he scrambles out, almost throws himself in Shouta's arms, only just stopping before they come in contact.

His phone is dropped without care at his side so he can free his hands. Shouta slowly brings them up, giving Shinsou time to avoid his touch, and is surprised when he comes in contact with warmed up plastic, having expected him to flinch away.

"Let's get that off."

Shinsou bows his head instead of turning around to give him access to the lock. His pants are clutched tight in between his white knuckled fists, the elastic fabric stretched to its limit.

Shouta trails his hands to the back of his kid's head until he feels the bulky locking mechanism. There's no way to take it off without the key, and judging by Shinsou's bristly uneven hair and the marks on the straps, scissors won't work either.

"I'm going to pick it," he warns, before taking out his lock pick for the second time today. He's slower than he could go, but going faster would risk shifting the plastic and digging the barely sanded off edges into fragile skin.

It sticks to Shinsou's skin when he pulls it off, and deep painful looking indents cut his face, purple where most of the pressure went. "You're going home with me."

He doesn't care about legislation. He'll fight to get Shinsou's custody—he has favors he can call on, and he's not disillusioned enough to not be aware of Nezu's fondness for him.

Shinsou doesn't react when he moves to stand up. Gently, he pulls his protégé up with him, hands careful not to come anywhere close to his head. Glazed eyes are still fixed on the floor, wings held tight in a way that would make them more difficult to grab, and the empty nods confirm Shinsou's checked out.

He doesn't look like he'll be able to walk, or maybe it's Shouta's desire to not let this place stain his kid anymore than it has. "Shinsou." He waits until the teen turns slightly toward him until he asks, "Do you want me to carry you?"

Two arms come up ever slightly toward him to grant permission, body letting itself go weightless when Shouta lifts him. Despite his lanky stature and pointy elbows, Shouta is confident he won't drop him. He doesn't weigh as much as he should, not with how far they are in their training and the meal plans he prepares for Shinsou.

A wet face, skin slightly sticky, presses on his shoulder as clingy fingers bunch his shirt up. Shinsou's still clutching his torn feathers to his chest.

Shouta clumsily shoves the scuffed laptop and cracked phone that refuses to open in Shinsou's messenger bag—there are clothes there already, and a box at the very bottom—alongside a few artificial feathers that had escaped their pillow and bedding, slips the plastic bite guard in a stray plastic bag as evidence, before he power walks out of the house.

Or that's what he intends to do. The door swings open to reveal Kojima Saeko. The bag she's carrying drops when she sees him, a pair of cheap bolt cutters tumbling out.

"Who are you? What do you think you're doing?"

Shouta draws up to his full height, pulling out the warrant from the folder to toss it to her. He has a copy in the car if she does anything to this one.

"Pro hero Eraserhead." He holds up his license. "I'm here to take Shinsou Hitoshi away from your care. His social worker is on the way."

He goes to sidestep her, but she blocks him off. She takes a step forward, her brow creasing. "Why?"

Shouta grits his teeth. His wings ache. "This"—he compounds his word by waving the bagged bite guard in her face—"is reserved for police and hero work. It's grounds for care termination."

Her eyes grow wide. "Oh, this is a huge misunderstanding. We would have never allowed this into our house, The other boys brought it in without our knowledge. They wanted to play a prank on Hitoshi, you see, but the key broke when my husband went to open it."

She's holding herself right; her eyebrows tilt just so to show shame, her eyelids droop in the corners. Her lips are thin in disapproval, corners pulling down, and she holds herself like her body is too heavy. She seems remorseful. "Hitoshi, tell him. I told you we were going to eat from that take-out you like, didn't I? We even promised you that your brothers were going to buy you a new phone as punishment. Even if you just received a new one."

A tremor runs through Shinsou's wings.

"How long did you leave it on?" His voice comes out barely a murmur.

She freezes, her wings twitching behind her back. "We didn't find out about it until the morning after—".

"How long," he repeats, each syllable fuelling his anger, "did you leave him like this?"

She lets out a nervous laugh. A bead of sweat trails down the side of her forehead. "We had to go to work, and by the time we came back home, he wouldn't let us come close. It actually came in useful. Can you believe he tried to bite us?"

Two days. Shinsou has spent two days like this, cowering under his bed.

"Hitoshi, stop acting like an animal, come on now—" Her face is flushed in angry embarrassment at Shinsou's feral drop, as if she didn't contribute to his state.

Shinsou tenses up at the sound of his name, pulling on his shirt so much so that the collar digs in the back of his neck, and Shouta can't hold himself back. His wings unfurl, so fast that a gust of wind pushes the hair out of her face.

More often than not, his wings are an inconvenience, knocking things over if he doesn't keep them tight against his back. He would have preferred his wings to be smaller, lighter—they force him to hunch over most of the time, and he's had to deal with back pain since he was 17.

But in moments like these, when their width takes the whole room, pulling it into darkness, Shouta can admit they're useful. He's not ashamed to say that he feels petty vindication when she stumbles back, her face draining of colour as he casts a shadow on her. He makes sure to pull them to their entire length.

He knows it's an impressive display. At their full wing span, the tips brush against the ceiling, collecting all the missed strands of cobwebs stuck there. If he strains them out, each measure two times his height.

"There will be an investigation."

This time, when he moves forward, she flinches away. He stares her down until she shuffles into her house, waiting to hear the lock turn before wrapping his left wing around Shinsou. The other stays out and open, just in case someone tries to steal Shinsou again.

"I'm calling the cops!" she yells through the door.

He receives the declaration with a smile showing too much teeth, all threats. The Kojima fosters might not suffer any consequences for neglecting Shinsou's wings—'They're already doing so much, how can we force people to preen brood parasites' —but the bite guard is enough cause to take Shinsou away. And most importantly, no one in their right mind would dare separate them, not when Shouta has a claim on Shinsou. Government feathers don't mean anything in the face of the real thing.

The walk to the car drags.

The adrenaline is making him twitchy, edges him close to his instincts with how his emotions are running high. He tries to place Shinsou in the car seat, but the teen refuses to let go of his shirt. He has to rip more of his feathers out and rub them in Shinsou's palm to coax him to latch onto them instead. He ties Shinsou's seatbelt for him, thankful his student already wrapped his wings around his torso. His shoulder feels frail under his palm, but still, no response even when he gives him a reassuring squeeze.

"We're going home. The cats will like you." Shinsou doesn't move, face still terrifyingly blank. "It's going to be okay."

One last look, to make sure all of his kid's limbs are out of the way, before he closes the passenger's door.

The way back to his apartment is silent. Shinsou hasn't moved the entire time, holding onto the feathers like a lifeline, all the blood having left his dead-white knuckles.

"We're here." He cuts off the motor, turns around to look at Shinsou. "Mic lives with me."

That garners a reaction. Shinsou turns to him, his eyebrows lowered in confusion.

"He knows you're coming. He's okay with it."

The frown smoothed out, leaving a blank face again. Shouta helps him unbuckle when Shinsou's movements are too slow and stilted, carrying him all the way to his apartment. Thankfully, he passes next to no one that can question what Shouta is doing with a teen.

Hizashi opens the door while he's fumbling to get his keys, ushering him inside.

"He's all instincts right now," Shouta signs one handed. "Hide the cats."

Hizashi casts Shinsou a worried look. It bothers Shouta too. At his age, Shinsou should have enough support and should have learned enough coping mechanisms to prevent himself from dropping like this. He'd been able to pull himself out by the time Shouta had arrived to open the door, but the fact that he dropped back so fast just at the sight of him isn't something that should have happened. Not with the family based care he should have received at the Kojima house.

"Got it!" Hizashi quickly goes back in. Indignant meows can be heard before the door to their bedroom shuts. They don't enjoy being confined, but Shouta doesn't know how Shinsou will react to their small scurrying. His wings are mostly cuckoo, so it's a tossup whether he'll be overcomed by prey drive or not.

(Shouta doesn't get the urge to snatch his cats up—he has, once, pounced on one of their fake mice when he'd been high strung after returning from patrol—but he'd rather not have to catch Shinsou before he dives after them.)

Shouta waits until his husband comes back before entering their home. He places Shinsou on the sofa, covering him in a cat patterned weighted blanket and framing him in pillows to give him the illusion of being in a nest while Hizashi brings him the med kit.

"Hey, lil' listener!" Hizashi crouches in front of Shinsou. "I'm gonna make the sickest hot chocolate. You want some?"

Shinsou's hands flex around the feathers. He opens and closes his mouth a few times without speaking, before snapping it shut with a click. Hizashi holds up the cocoa powder paquet, lightly waving it to examine Shinsou's response to it, a relieved smile appearing when Shinsou's gaze is only briefly enticed by the shimmering foil before sliding back to Hizashi's face.

"What do ya say? We even have cat-shaped marshmallows."

Shinsou doesn't react, but Shouta can feel his interest perk up. He says, slow and difficult, like every word has to be dragged out, "I don't.. want to… cause… trouble."

Hizashi's quick to reassure him, dispelling Shinsou's protests with a wave of his hands. He's gone to the kitchen before Shinsou can object more.

"Shinsou." Now that he has the reassurance that the teen is starting to come up enough to talk, he asks, "Do you want to clean your wounds or do you want me to do it?"

Shinsou holds his arms toward the tube, but when he tries to grasp it, his fists refuse to open, a part of him still unwilling to drop the feathers. Frustration wrinkles his forehead, and even when he tries to force his hands to obey, all he can elicit from them is some trembling.

"Shinsou, it's okay. We can wait."

He breathes in, glances at Shouta's hands. Closes his eyes. "You do… it."

Shouta hesitates, unsure if he should respect Shinsou's choice or insist. "Are you sure? There's no rush."

Shinsou nods, leans forward slightly. Trust, or something similar, softens the clench of his jaw.

The tube is half empty, most of the cream at the bottom because while Shouta just squeezes the tube from the middle, Hizashi had been the last to use it and he's particular enough about this to push all of the cream down. They've had to buy two toothpaste tubes because of how annoyed they would get with each other.

Shouta squeezes out a snake of cream over his fingers, holding them up to show to Shinsou. When he doesn't change his mind, Shouta approaches slowly, giving him time to change his mind. Shinsou doesn't. He keeps steady while Shouta smears the bruise cream over his cheeks. It's lucky the bite guard's edge hasn't drawn blood.

When everything is covered, he opens one of his jelly pouches, a cucumber flavored one, and places it in Shinsou's hand, balancing it over the feathers. "Drink this."

There's a lot of fumbling, but eventually, Shinsou manages to bring the jelly pouch to his mouth.

Slowly, his crisped up fingers lose some of their stiffness, Shinsou's wings start fluttering, and the wild glint in his eyes fade.

It leaves room for social standards and self-consciousness to settle back. Shouta sees the moment Shinsou comes fully back, a mortified grimace flashing for a split second on his face. He drops the feathers on his lap like they're hot coals.

Hizashi enters the living room while precariously holding three mugs, a bit of Shouta's drink sloshing around and spilling down the side when his husband puts them on the coffee table. Shinsou refuses to look at any of them, and Shouta isn't sure if he's relieved Shinsou shifted from blank I'm-not-here motionless to fearful don't-look-at-me motionless.

Hizashi nudges his leg under the table, subtly signalling him to say something.

Shouta isn't good at this. He's never been the teacher student went to when they needed to hear something. "Do you need lacteeze tablets? Hizashi uses milk for the hot chocolate."

His husband kicks his feet with a surprising amount of force despite none of his actions showing from his waist up. "I'm going to get them. Start without me, yeah?"

If Hizashi had another quirk, Shouta would have two holes burned into his face from the intensity of his husband's glare.

"I'm sorry, Sensei." Shinsou's voice is tight with shame. "I should go."

Shouta is quick to say, "You aren't going back there."

"Where am I going to go then?" A hint of defiance colours his words. It's better than the meek thing from before.

"You can stay here, if you want. Otherwise, UA is going to build dorms soon."

Shinsou stares at him, slack jawed. He mouths Shouta's words, as if he can't understand. Slowly, his eyes drift to the black feathers on his lap. "My curfew..."

"Your social worker already knows you're here."

The teen lets out a disbelieving laugh. He gestures at himself, frustration covering his shame. "I just went feral, you can't want to—to what? Let me live here?"

"Shinsou. We would never judge you for that." Hizashi and he are amongst the few that can understand. They're always toeing the line between wild and not, never having erected the walls necessary to keep themselves separated into two clean parts. Hizashi masks it better than Shouta, but people who don't know still get uneasy around them, subconsciously catching on the way Shouta flexes his fingers around principal Nedzu and Hizashi gaze linger a second too long on bugs even when he screams in terror.

"You can't—"

Shinsou falls silent when Hizashi chooses that moment to come back with the lacteeze tablets. "Shouta's right, ya know? Nothing will scare us away. I once shoved a whole caterpillar in my mouth when I was wild. We've seen everything, lil' listener."

Shinsou cuts himself at the casual admission, wings beating in surprise. The movement sends a black feather to fly away, but Shinsou snatches it before it touches the floor. He keeps his head down, turned away, and his tone is softer. "I don't want to be trouble."

"You're going to transfer to Heroics. Being trouble is a prerequisite."

Despite the fact that Shinsou still avoids eye contact, Shouta can see that the confident affirmation brings a pleased tilt to the corner of his mouth, and his wings settle into a looser pose, one that gives the impression that they would mimic the way Shouta's are draped over the back of the sofa if they weren't so small.

Shinsou lets out a snort, feathers flaring in surprise, as if he hadn't anticipated his own response. He says, teasing with an undercurrent of hesitation, "Your students might be, but I'm a delight."

Tomorrow, the police will come get a recount of what transpired, will stare down Shinsou while he trips over words to explain his feral drop and tucks his wings tight behind his back. Shouta will glower at them and Hizashi's feathers will be ruffled for the whole day.

But that's tomorrow. Now, Shouta goes to let out his cats and the three of them immediately target Shinsou, purring over each other to fight for his attention. Shinsou unconsciously relaxes into the improvised nest while he's buried under their combined weight, black feathers covering his legs.