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In the moment, he didn't remember what led him to it. In the moment, Hitoshi didn't remember how his thoughts had spiraled from the usual I'm so fucking tired spiel to I can't do this anymore. He did what he'd always done when he was sad and started dredging up every bad fucking thing that had ever happened to him, every self-depreciating thought he'd ever had.
And in the end, all Hitoshi could think of was how tired he was. Exhausted. Because there came a point in everyone's life when tired just didn't cut it anymore — didn't elucidate the bone deep weariness he could feel in his gut.
Despite how much he didn't deserve to feel like this, not after everything his adoptive parents have done for him — Despite it all, despite the hope he'd been handed so generously, Hitoshi hadn't changed. Maybe he had loving guardians now, a home where he wasn't afraid to be hit, a home where he never had to worry when his next meal would be — a home.
Maybe he was on the fast track to the hero course, maybe he had everything he had ever dreamt of.
But he was still him. Hitoshi was still the same kid that had been beaten and muzzled and starved and belittled for years. He was still the same kid that, deep down, always kind of believed he deserved it. The same kid, who in the quietest, darkest part of his mind, sometimes wished he just. . . wasn't.
It's why he found himself holding a razor to his wrist at two in the morning, eyes burning with tears as a lump grew in his throat. Hitoshi got sad, and when he got sad, he reminded himself of every bad thing that ever happened to him, and every bad thought he'd ever had about himself.
But in the end, when he'd thoroughly worn himself out just by thinking, the thought that compelled him to tear apart one of his dads' razors was one he said to himself daily.
He was so fucking tired. Everything that he was and everything that he'd ever be was thoroughly exhausted, and Hitoshi wanted out. He wanted to be done.
Yet, he couldn't do it. Hadn't worked up the nerve in the moments after he'd scrambled to press the blade to his wrist. But he also couldn't quite get himself to put it down either. So there Hitoshi sat on the edge of his bed for well over an hour, with the biting edge of a razor blade digging into the fragile skin of his wrist. Just enough pressure to sting.
The apartment was dead silent in the early hours of the morning, not even a rustle of movement from any of the half dozen cats that lived there. Across the hall, past two closed doors, his dads slept soundly, unaware of how close they were to losing their son.
The thought made a fresh wave of tears spill down Hitoshi's blotchy, swollen face. His dads were right there. One call for help and they'd be there in an instant. But if he remained silent, if he grew the nerve to push down, to pull at the shiny metal clasped between his fingers, they wouldn't know.
Not until morning when his tears and blood would be long dried, when they went to wake him for breakfast only to get no response. He could picture it now, Yamada's worried voice as he knocked on Hitoshi's door, masking his worry from ears that would never hear him again. When he got no response, Aizawa would get worried too. And they'd find him dead.
The kid they'd spent so much money and time and effort on, gone with no explanation. Blood staining their carpet, his sheets, him.
A near silent sob tore from his chest, and Hitoshi flinched as the jostling movement dug the edge of the blade deeper into his wrist. A dot of blood welled up, coating his fingertip. Still, he didn't move. Didn't dig it in deeper, but didn't pull it away either.
Because Hitoshi was tired. So. . . fucking. . . tired. More than anything, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to be done. He didn't want to hurt anymore. Hitoshi sniffled softly, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. Tears continued to trickle steadily down his face, but he paid them no mind, ignoring the way they dripped from his chin and rolled down his arms.
He imagined that was what it would feel like when it was blood running down his skin instead.
Hitoshi's breath hitched in his lungs, his lips wobbling where they were tightly pressed together. One drag of either hand and it would be over. One drag of either hand and there would be no more training, no more of Aizawa's small, genuine smiles he reserved only for Hitoshi and Yamada. No more being woken up by quirk infused yells, harshly cut off by erasure in an attempt to let him sleep a little longer.
No more looking away in embarrassment when Yamada burst into tears over the smallest slivers of affection. No more anything.
Hitoshi would be gone, and his parents would. . . be devastated, wouldn't they? They'd be fucking heartbroken to lose him, something he'd come to learn in the almost full year he'd lived there. A harsh, near silent sob ripped from his chest, his face crumpling as he stared down at his shaking hands. One movement, and it would all be over. Or. . . one word, and his parents would be right there at his side to carefully pluck the razor from his trembling grip.
The next sob that spilled from his lips was loud, unrestrained — painful.
Hitoshi inhaled sharply, and with a wobbly voice croaked, "Dad." If his parents were anyone else, they probably wouldn't have heard it, would've most likely remained asleep and Hitoshi would've lost the nerve to call for help.
He'd have finally drawn together the willpower to tear the blade down the blue of his vein, and all those hypotheticals he thought up would come true.
But as it was, Hitoshi heard a door opening almost instantly, and even as his heart pounded in his chest and his blood roared in his ears, something in him shattered as his white knuckled grip on the razor loosened.
His door swung open. "Hitoshi, wh—"
Hitoshi lifted his head, vision blurred with tears, and he looked to the deathly still form of his dad, then to the blob of yellow behind him. And he sobbed.
"Help," he begged, trembling from head to toe, and that was all it took for his dads to dart toward him, shaking fingers carefully taking away the blade before Yamada all but yanked Hitoshi into his arms.
With his face buried in his dad's chest, Hitoshi began to weep, curling his arms around himself as they slid to the floor. He was barely aware of the way Yamada began to rock him gently, stammering through soft reassurances that Hitoshi didn't hear.
He didn't know how long it took for Aizawa to return, but when he did, another set of arms wrapped around him on the other side and he was engulfed in the warmth of his parents, squeezing his eyes shut tight as he bawled into Yamada's shirt. Eventually, their gentle words began to filter in, and he curled even more into himself as he processed.
"—s okay, Hito, you're gonna be okay. We're here, baby, we're here—"
"—eathe, breathe, Hitoshi. It's okay, we're going to help you, I promise—"
Hitoshi wailed, throwing his arms around Yamada, unaware — uncaring of the small dots of blood he was smearing on his pajama shirt. He was so tired, but he didn't want to do it alone anymore.
"It's okay, it's okay, it's gonna be okay, Hitoshi. We've got you." Aizawa droned lowly, arms tightening around him.
And Hitoshi wept louder, because he was pretty sure he was finally starting to believe them.