[it would have been easy to ambush him. back facing out, face down at the screen, attention on the potential loss of his reunion, the perfect pathetic prey to pounce on. save for being pointless. endeavor's not here to witness his perfect puppet reduced to smoldering ashes, like what shoto did with his life. no one to cry and mourn in teeth-gnashing agony over the waste of life. he should've left him here as a sucker punch, building up the hope for a meeting, only to be let down and disappointed by the cold reality life is not a happy little fairy tale once you decide to move on from your past. would he cry? would he text him and ask "why" while returning home? or would he simply leave his package somewhere and depart, assuming this was the outcome all along... questions that will never be answered, because he's here.
the same's also true for him. an ambush could be waiting. he doesn't believe shoto would stoop to something so villainous, but the heroes he cavorts with aren't above such practices. using his little brother as bait to bring in a known criminal. would shoto accept such a role? he is a hero after all. sworn to do the "right" thing to uphold law and peace. that always was his dream. a dream that little puppet got to keep. fanned by his father in the worst way, nurtured by his mother in the only way she knew how. shoto's a hero. it makes his stomach grind on itself.
nah. he'll let him live, even if he hates him. consider it the first and final birthday present he'd ever give his little brother. the one on the battlefield didn't count. endeavor saved shoto that day by passing out and stealing his reason for fratricide. so he's here, the distance between them slowly closing with each casual step as he approaches. already judging the situation as safe due to the minutes of scouring out the situation before and after shoto arrived. he really came as promised, free of trap and trick outside of anything on his person. which would only place himself in a hostage situation if he tried.
each step brings him closer to his little brother, each one brings him into focus and detail, picking out things on him that he hadn't noticed before. disappointment drags through his veins at the sight of his face only bearing the scar their mother gave him. he hadn't done enough damage with his own flames to leave a mark on his little brother despite crushing him into the ground with his quirk. tougher than he thought... just like that thing that spawned them. everything is exactly how he remembers. the same mismatched eyes, same hair split between snow and blood, same serious expression that could be taken as innocent to stubborn to completely blase. sizing each other other or simply looking for details missed in the heat of war. he knows he probably looks completely different to shoto compared to the same villain who dragged his noisy blonde friend through that portal so long ago. too bad, brat. he's the same person. there ain't any separation between the two. your big brother's a child kidnapper and a mass murderer.
desperation can spawn idiocy. is he really that keen to get to know someone he's never interacted with for more than a few minutes in his life? mah, that person's dead. he died a long time ago. even tried to take his baby brother with him in a fit of fury. bet dad never told ya about that either. of course not. endeavor wouldn't waste the time.
a white brow arches at the comment. after all that, shoto talks about his clothes? it's not like he's insulted by it. just wryly amused there's an opinion about them.]
Sorry. Lemme go back home and find somethin nicer in my closet. [if his dry voice sounds like he's giving shoto the middle finger, that's because it is. he doesn't have much in the way of casual clothing. the idea of leaving, murdering someone nearby, and coming back in their clothes comes through in a petty suggestion. but it's more a hassle than he feels like spending on shoto.]
Ya don't even know my size. ["silly" isn't the word he's use. "foolish" is more like it. he's grown up a lot compared to whatever might have been leftover in his forgotten things back at home. none of them know a thing about him anymore. yet here shoto is, talking like this is just another year together. the sheer idiocy of this hits almost hard enough to walk away. it's uncomfortable. and yet... a sliver of patience and curiosity remains.]
That sounds real weird to hear ya say. [happy birthday. he's never heard those words from shoto's mouth before. but they succeed in arresting his feet at least. hands in his pockets, he finally stops about a foot in front of his little brother. barely even has to look down at him. shit, this kid's gonna be taller than him soon. gross.]
( there's a sigh that comes, pressed through his nose, but his expression hardly changes, his gaze rooted on his brother in front of him. he should have expected that sort of reaction. it had been stupid to say it, but the words had come past his lips before he could understand them himself; it's the way that things are now, the way that he's grown up to be, the way that going to school and making friends has affected him. his emotions and his thoughts and his viewpoints aren't hidden in the back of his throat anymore, tempered by a sheet of glass; he just says them, gives them freely, and that's something that he hadn't thought of, something he hadn't imagined that dabi would use against him. he should have. should have prepared for it, should have thought harder. it's a hard thing to reconcile: the anger and dislike for the villains, and the strange lump in his throat he's always felt about the brother he never got to spend any time with.
of course, dabi wouldn't have anything else to wear, but he'd figured there had to be something. a different jacket, a hoodie, something that wouldn't mark him as one of the deadliest villains that everyone is trying to track down. he doesn't really care if anyone sees him here, though he should: it's more that he's worried if someone sees dabi here, and what could happen to him because of it.
the thought that dabi could easily kill a civilian tailing him is there and gone again, briefly. it feels like he should be disappointed in himself that he's worried about dabi himself getting caught.
so he tries, swallowing down any feeling, tries and lifts his chin up, stubbornly: )
I figured... you'd at least wear bigger than me. Smaller than Natsu-nii.
( another swallow, a flicker of nervousness. he doesn't want to drag natsuo into this, either, so he tries to redirect: ) It's fine if you don't like any of it. But I thought we could do...
( it sounds ridiculous, and he can feel that stubborn nervousness building inside of him, like he knows he's going to be ridiculed; it's the same sort of anxious adrenaline he used to feel sticking up for their mother or otherwise adamantly going against endeavor's words, where he knew he'd be hit, knew he'd find only punishment waiting for him, but continued anyway. )
...something. And we can't do the something I wanted to do if you're dressed like you are.
( his gaze flickers, going down dabi's waist, his hips, eyeing his pants and his boots as though to try to confirm that they're less noticeable--or worse, to try to confirm that the contents of the shopping bag between his feet will fit him. )
[he never got to know his little brother when he grew up. only saw fleeting glimpses of him being dragged off by that monster, prevented from ever spending any time with the successful experiment that ended his life. how does shoto act? what things does he like? what is his personality? how does he respond? all questions he never had answers to outside of the surge of newspaper articles and televised interviews that began to pop up all over once u.a. inducted its new students. he recognized the ice-covered costume shoto wore for what it was, realizing then that his little brother resented their father too. but gradually, that ice began to leave, ever since that green brat ignited shoto's flames in the tournament. for a brief period, he thought he could understand his replacement... but then that too went up in smoke and the person in front of him became an unknown all over again. not yanked away by their father this time, but rather walked back into a world of light that he didn't belong in. surrounded by friends and teachers who cared for him. away from the harsh realities of a world infested with selfish and abusive heroes like endeavor. of course that reaction should've been expected... apparently the separation between them rendered preparations moot.
yeah, he could've worn something else. honestly, he'd thought about going just that. a jacket, sweater, t shirt, jeans, boots, anything other than what he's been seen on the news wearing multiple times. the villain dabi. that's not who shoto came to see, but "toya" died a long time ago. "dabi" is the revenant born from shoto's long lost elder brother's death. this isn't some sweet family reunion. it's a hero meeting a villain. that's how it is. how it will always be. how it should've been... how it should've been...
and then shoto said Happy Birthday.
now he's here in front of him, looking at his face that he hates so much. not burning it. the breeze carries past once more, bringing the scent of his little brother towards him. clean, fresh, pure almost. he hates it, yet the forbidden nostalgia that's long since been locked away and scorched in his heart, somehow finds the strength to lance through. maybe dragged up by that stubborn tilt of shoto's chin.]
I ain't much bigger than you. [the words come out in a wry drag, admitting to his own slighter stature compared to his brothers. shoto only has a year at max, and he'll be taller than him. broader shoulders. larger muscles. far more health. compared to his wiry, lanky frame, he's pretty sure he could fit whatever shoto's wearing without much issue. size wise.
it should make him happy to see shoto struggling like this, nervous and wary, finally acknowledging the sheer reality of what his phantom elder brother has become. and yet the kid struggles on, as stubborn as the only gene that endeavor passed down evenly to all of his experimental spawn. instead, it irritates him, igniting tiny sparks under his ruined skin. he wants to wrap both hands around his neck and throttle him until those mismatched eyes roll back into his damn skull. but his hands are staying by his side. shoto's pushing through everything to stand his ground.
just like he used to do to defend their mother. a little brat who'd never give up to accomplish his goal.]
Come with me. [that's all he says as he turns away from the young hero. smoke and leather catch on the breeze as it rounds as well and blows past him towards shoto, carrying his coat's shredded tails behind him. head ducked into the collar, silver hair rustling against his brow as he heads into the gentle zephyr. we could do... something, shoto says. that's morbidly hopeful. and yet it's the thing that worked. that and something else.
the trip's not far, and he stays silent through all of it, but eventually the door to an abandoned building nearby closes behind them and he heads into the foyer. there's nothing here that indicates it's a base, an official stop, a trap, anything. it's a stopgap wreck to shield them from the eyes of any lunatic that might be out here in the most unlucky of times. for the lunatic. with a rustle of material, he shrugs out of his coat, catching it on his elbows before shucking it off his hands. it's silent acceptance of those clothes shoto brought, willing to change and be "toya" for a little bit just for his little brother's sake. why? ... well-]
( his breath catches, and for a moment, he thinks this is it.
he can feel the urge, curling beneath his skin: the urge to light up in flame, in ice, the urge to put a barrier between them, to keep dabi from getting closer, to keep him from doing whatever it is he's going to do. come with me might be ominous enough, but it's the movement, the smell of him, that acrid curl of smoke and the creak of leather; he feels his nerves explode in his throat, a queasy tilt of his stomach with the sudden influx of anxious worry. he thinks that maybe he's pushed it too far, now, that maybe this is all the patience that dabi has in the world, for him, and maybe that's deserved--maybe he should have fought harder, maybe he should have snuck out, maybe he should have done anything to close the gap between them. to find some level ground. to not let the world and the expanse of the todoroki estate and their father keep them apart.
but nothing terrible happens. dabi turns, pivots away from him, and immediately, without thinking, his own hands grope down, feeling for the handles of the bag between his feet. he doesn't want to trip over it--he swings it up, hooks it onto the crook of one arm, and he immediately pedals after him, padding quietly, kept at an arm's length distance.
of course it's possible that this is a trap, still. nothing about his brother's countenance has changed, really, except that he might have heard just a touch of bemusement and resentment in that comment about his size--but he doesn't reveal anything else, doesn't really show that he feels any differently than he had when he'd first appeared. quiet, he keeps at his heels, following him silently on a path that could lead him towards the rest of the league of villains, or something even worse: but in the end, it only leads him to a small, quiet place, an abandoned building with a door that creaks with disuse as he fits it into place behind them. here, there's no one waiting for them--nothing waiting but the quiet, open space, and for a moment, he's confused.
and then dabi shrugs out of his coat--and immediately his own chin ducks down, embarrassed.
happy birthday. what kind of person asks for their brother to get undressed, for their birthday? he can feel his skin heating in mortification, a flush to his cheeks and his ears as he nods, faintly, and tries to do what he needs to do. the bag catches on his wrist, for a moment, before he wrenches it off--and sets it down, crouching behind it so that he can carefully dig through the contents and pull out a large, oversized black t-shirt, a large, oversized zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans, awkwardly holding them in his arms before he takes a breath and then, just as awkwardly, rises up to his feet again to hold them out to dabi. )
You can look at...these. ( he has no idea why he's so embarrassed. why is this embarrassing? he swallows, slow, and stubbornly jerks his gaze up to meet dabi's, solemn. ) If you don't like any of them, I'll put them back in the bag for you to take home.
( he stumbles over the last word, a little clumsy--should he have said something else? take...back to base? back to...the league? he swallows, and falls silent. )
[if he has any indication his little brother is trying to emotionally implode all over himself, he doesn't give it away. the breeze carries his scent backwards, taking nothing of shouto and bringing everything of him there. this kid is too trusting, too desperate, as if reaching for him with both hands, heedless of what blades could lacerate him in the darkness. the reality bothers him, dredges up his guts in irritation that someone, a hero, would be so clueless about how the world works. is this what his mother taught him? a saccharine life lesson that'll leave him dead in an alley someday with that bitch wailing "if only" in the psyche ward. serve her right for instilling this in her offspring. endeavor would be no better off, ripping such a hole in his little puppet that its festering rims desire any form of balm possible. even a burning stake plunges through it, searing the gaping shut and numb.
that's kind of tempting... what would their faces be like if they saw the family's golden idol dead in a hovel in the woods? no glorious battle or newsworthy feat to commemorate his passing. just a foolish little kid who followed someone he shouldn't somewhere he shouldn't.]
Don't keep me waitin. [quiet but irritable, a proverbial jab in shouto's back to force him into the building and out of sight so the door can swing shut and lock them in like a jaw clamping down. the darkness could let him do whatever he wanted. attack, escape, confuse, but instead, he's shrugging off his coat and sucker punching his little kid brother with the strangest two-word acceptance shouto ever heard. his response is nothing short of expected: tense, embarrassed, polite, all the elements of a well-trained young man mom and dad should be so damn proud of. what a prude. leather flutters through air and lands atop the nearby table with a clattering flop, arms spreading as the cuffs roll. while shouto fishes in the bag, he busies his hands in the hem of his shirt, stripping off to reveal the severe damage endeavor encouraged on his flesh. burned to ash, faulty repaired, scorching repeatedly as he lays his own skin down on the path to hell. whatever clothes shouto's offering, surely he won't want back. did he get these out of the donations bin? despite the name on the bag, he has no thought the hero would have wasted money on that.
one piece after the next appears and he's left to take in the sight of these gifts. a villain who can get new clothes any time he wants is getting handed clothes brought to him by his estranged shit of a sibling. how much of him would like to set shouto and his presents up in smoke? a fair amount. yet he acquiesced. the kid looks like a disciple holding out offerings to some pagan god. it'd be flattering if it weren't so pathetic.]
You're still so awkward. Haven't those kids rubbed off on ya? [a swipes the bundle from shouto with slender fingers. passing the material of the shirt between thumb and index, he gives it a brief inspection (that's what you do for gifts still, right?) before pulling it on over his head. tufts of white stick out the collar for a second before the entire burst follows as he gets it past his noise, jaw, and finally around his neck. oversized isn't bad, but if it's oversized on shouto, it's also on him. he rolls his shoulders, popping one, and rounds his neck to adjust the shirt on his torso, lanky arms falling through the sleeves. at least it's black? which clashes with his hair, though that's hardly against his previous aesthetic: white shirt black hair.] Where'd ya get these? It wasn't at that store.
[call him out on that fact while sliding the hoodie on like a jacket. oh... this is nice actually. kinda heavy enough that it feels conforming without shoving into his face. he flips the hoodie up over his head, then works on his boots. so he can ditch the pants. probably not necessary, but if he's two out of three already...]
( dabi's words have always caused a certain level of pain, inside of him, as though they're always laced with daggers, always said with a certain knife-edge to them, sharp and piercing. it had hurt, hearing him talk about their family like he had, bellowing it out for everyone in the vicinity to hear--he hadn't even told his friends about his brother until compelled to, hadn't told any of the other students about all the horrors that had waited and continued to wait behind the doors of the todoroki estate. there's something embarrassing about it all, to have to admit to being the kind of weak kid that got pushed to doing things he didn't want to do--the kind of weak kid that couldn't even protect or keep his mother's love, the kind of weak kid that let his brother walk into a pyre alone. he never wanted anyone there to look at him with pity, or talk in hushed whispers about his plights amongst each other--and dabi's words had made him feel like an idiot for ever considering accepting some form of his father's penitence.
they're not so harsh, here, but he's still prepared for them. his shoulders are tight, as dabi speaks, but he only harps on him for his awkwardness, something that he can admit hasn't gotten nearly as better as he wants it to be. and maybe that's just because this is the kind of person he is, deep down: the kind of person that has too much kindness, the kind of person that's a little too naive in all the wrong ways. he accepts the criticism and says nothing; his gaze stays, trained on the floor, but his hands drop as dabi accepts the clothes, and he considers that a significant win, on his side. at least dabi's willing to go along with a few things.
his hands smooth out, seeking the pockets of his own jacket. )
No, it wasn't. ( he can admit that, at least--though he seems reluctant to say where he happened to acquire the clothes at all. rather, he forces his gaze to stay rooted at his feet, as though he shouldn't watch his brother change despite everything. maybe there's a part of him that worries he'll be encouraged to do all kinds of things if he catches sight of the way his skin has only gotten worse. ) I got your...cake, at this store.
( he braces for the criticism, again--but his lips are pressed into a determined line. he's content to accept harsh words about himself, about his demeanor, about his abilities or about his existence at all, but when it comes to something that he thinks dabi needs, or deserves, he's going to argue if he has to.
birthdays deserve sweet things. he's already made that point. and like always, he's stubbornly clinging to what he believes in. )
You can take it back with you. But I thought we could... ( he tries not to be awkward, tries to keep his voice even. ) ...I had an idea. For something to do. Together. Now.
[pain. their life is pain. even the gentle period of five years where nothing was supposed to cause suffering came about from endeavor's made frustrations. his creation was born from that infuriating ambition, the pain of his mother's labor passing onto him in the weak body and wretched genes he was forced to live with. at one time, that'd been fine. he'd accepted his physical limits because his quirk was unmatched. and then that too was ripped from him, dragged out by failure's bloody hands as his father turned his eyes away in disappointment. all of them had turned away. a mother too weak and pathetic to stand up for herself, a sister who couldn't understand the burden crushing him, a brother who grew tired of being the only thing he could count on to keep his head above the waves. and finally, the thing that came about and drove him into the ground. discarded like a useless vessel that couldn't hold a candle for shoto's flame. yes pain. all of them were nothing but pain, and the world was going to know it.
every shameful glare turned towards endeavor for being an abuser. every piecing question fuyumi had to answer from her little shit students as the staff wondered if she was capable to serve in her job. every whispered comment natsuyo had to endure on his campus as people gossiped about his being the son of such a man. every guilty look or pitying interaction shoto would be forced to weather under at u.a. as students, staff, and refugee wondered whether to treat him as a poor suffering victim or worry when he'd snap like his father and brother and mother, ending up an abusive monster, an insane villain, or a fragile headcase. and every single one of those realities would only loop back in a torturous return to endeavor himself, forced to watch the world judge his spawn, his mate, and himself, for every failure, every crime, every punishment, every shame. because none of those secrets were secrets anymore. everyone knew. everyone could talk about it. every wound laid bare for family, friends, acquaintances, allies, enemies, and millions of stupid, ignorant strangers to stick their fingers in and stir around forever as they talked about it over and over.
that pain.
which is ironically not happening now as he accepts the clothes from his little brother. he never had a birthday with shoto. he wasn't allowed to his older siblings' parties and they never got to spend his with him. all because toya tried to murder his baby brother in the past. is it fitting the first time he ever got to embrace shoto in his life was due to another attempt to kill him? perhaps that's their destiny, to do this forever until one wins. his brother's too kind, too naive, too gentle despite the life he grew up in. makes him sick. makes him jealous. apparently makes him willing to pull the hoodie down over his hips and lift his arms to test out the hang and comfort of the material. again, not bad. this feels ridiculous, but it's a birthday for both of them. aren't they usually supposed to be kind of stupid?]
You can look at me. I ain't gonna burn your eyes out. [his dry tone carries mild exasperation but twinged with sarcastic amusement. what's up with this kid anyways? he's boring holes in the ground with his eyes, as if desperately trying to avoid lifting them. he originally thought it was out of respect as he changed, but now he's starting to blister under the idea shoto's disgusted by him, doesn't want to see the damage their father did to him, avoids acknowledging his brother is a disfigured corpse still burning on borrowed time. or perhaps it's something else... even stranger.]
Ya really went all out for this. [what kind of face would shoto make if he torched it all? sent the cake, these clothes, up in flames. a complete rejection of every nice gesture the stupid kid went out of his way to do. show him just how foolish it was to try and love someone who hated your very existence... for depriving him of his own. he shouldn't accept any of this, should hate it, and does, but yet... there are no flames. he says he feels nothing, yet even to natsuo, toya once admitted he'd been in the wrong for trying to attack shoto. an innocent boy brought about by endeavor's mad ambitions. all of them were nothing but victims. it's unfortunate his little brother is choosing the wrong side. he can't understand how shoto came to that conclusion. doesn't want to anymore. the decision's been made, the die cast, and the battle lines drawn.
this is just a birthday gift. the first and final present he'll ever give his little brother.]
Do I look safe enough to hug now? [he rolls his shoulders, taps the toes of his boots on the ground, wearing the shirt, hoodie, and pants shoto brought for him. granted, he obviously still looks like himself, just casual and goth without the intimidating coat and stitched pants. probably looks more like a hoodlum than a villain, but whatever. the kid went out of his way to do all of this for him, even trusting his words. the idea of taking his cake back with him is amusing. no way is he going to let those idiots have his cake. it's his. they can fuck off.]
I'm waitin. [for a hug? for his cake? for the continuation of whatever shoto's struggling to drag out of his mouth in that stumbling awkward sort of way. he's acting like a shy schoolgirl trying to talk to her crush...]
( some part of it feels like a trap, when dabi says it--that he can look at him, that nothing bad is going to happen. it feels like he'll lift his gaze and dabi will do something or say something awful, that he'll wait for their eyes to meet before he decides that he doesn't want to go along with this after all. in some ways he thinks that he would be able to tolerate an attempt on his life more than he would tolerate the cake and the clothes and the contents of that bag, going up in flames; his life has only recently been his to accept, after all. up until he'd been accepted into UA, and even past it, his life had been in service to a father who desperately needed him to use his flames: and then after, his life had become the thing that would be needed to stop dabi, if endeavor could no longer fight, the thing that might need to be sacrificed for the sake of their family. his mother might call him their family's hero, but he doesn't know if he really believes that at all. should they really need a hero, in the end? is it heroic to have to save someone from themselves?
but that kindness, the desperation to be recognized, just once. to have dabi accept something from him that isn't the confused, angry words on the battlefield, or the longing looks from his childhood, wanting to be close to something that he had been forbidden to be near. to have something he's done and something he's gotten be taken in by dabi. if he torched all that, it would feel like devastation: like a bridge, fully burned.
so he doesn't look up, not until he hears the fabric stop rustling. then, his chin lifts, a slow, canting gaze of mismatched eyes that take in the boots, the pants, the long hem of the hoodie. when his eyes finally land on dabi's face, it's with a slow, almost satisfied glimmer to them; he doesn't smile, but it feels like he might if he doesn't think so hard to stop it. he figures dabi would probably think of him as a creep if he did that. )
Is that what you want? ( he finally says, slowly--a little cautious, burning with curiosity. it's an odd request, but then he figures that it could be designed to get under his skin, that maybe dabi wants to remind him of that burning, aching grip he'd had on him, torching him from the inside out with their proximity. he can still hear the twisting lunacy in dabi's voice, gasping so close to his ear: if you get burned by my flames, what kind of expression do you think dad'll show me?
his throat hurts, for a moment, burned with the memory. but he's come this far, he's gotten to this point, he can't just shake his head or force more distance between them. the whole purpose had been to clear it, and if he has to walk on glass to do it, has to risk the fact that he might go up in flames, at the end, he still has to do it anyway. ) I'll hug you.
( he says it like he has to telegraph it--but it's funny, really, the sort of thing he would say to anyone back at the dorm, too, solemn and sure. his sneakers brush forward, moving away from the shopping back; he walks slowly, hands lifting from his pockets so that he can reach, at first, for either of dabi's sleeves, curling his fingers into them to use them as an anchor to pivot himself further still. up close, he can see that there's no stopping it, anymore: the damage is starting to climb past the seams on dabi's face, starting to blur past the staples, and it makes his jaw lock, makes his fingers go tight, dragging away from the sleeves of that sweatshirt so that he can slowly crane his palms in against dabi's waist.
he's always been awkward about hugs. most of the time he just lets his arms hang down, uncertain of where to go, of how to touch. his mother had hugged him when he'd been small, clutching at him, keeping him close; but after she left, it'd only been the weight of his father's backhand to keep him grounded.
with a slow, shallow breath, he presses himself in against dabi's chest, chin hooking slightly over a shoulder, hands still fisted in against his waist. )
...You. ( slowly, cautiously: almost muffled. ) ...like piercings, right?
[a trap would be more fun. shove two burning fingers into those innocent eyes the second they look up to see what he just gave shouto permission to see. leave himself as the last thing this little puppet ever saw in his life. but nah, there are still things more he wants shouto to see in the future. the look on endeavor's face. the corpses of shouto's friends. his own flesh burning off his bones as the failure's fire crawls through his sinew and turns his bones black, knowing there's nothing he can do but fail. fail at winning. fail at living. fail at saving. how could he deny his little brother the privilege of seeing all of that just for a cheap shot at him right now? he's even being nice enough not to burn all these little gifts into ashes in front of him. then again, if that'd been the plan, he wouldn't have wasted his time coming all the way here. there are other ways to break shouto's heart. and if he's brutally honest with himself, he's curious. what does this kid who never had a birthday shared with his family think he knows about birthdays? he's never been to one with anyone but himself and their whore mother. unless he learned something from those brats in school.
what would be he look on his face if this effort went up in flames? would he look like endeavor, the distraught crushing weight of disbelief and pain smearing across his visage as he struggled for breath. not wanting to believe the facts in front of him as those touching thoughtful gifts burned to ash before him. did shouto really deserve any sort of kindness from him? this brat stole his very existence! ... yet it wasn't his fault. even in his insanity and hatred, there's that annoying little fact occasionally appearing in his mind, a silver fish in a sea of blackness. flicker, shine, there and gone, impossible to catch and kill, impervious to the corrupting flames that have consumed so many other memories. he hates shouto, he'd kill him without remorse, but it was never shouto's fault to be born.
what a pain. so he gives him this much. standing before him in clothes he didn't buy or find himself. clothed by someone else who picked out his covering for him. the last time that happened was well over fifteen years ago. a strange thought. as shouto takes in the sight, he's busy watching his face, crawling over the kid's eyes, lips, brows, to pick out each emotion lurking under the usual blase frame. seems the little doll's started to grow a personality under there.]
I'm waitin. [repeating it with the same dry tone, lifted at the very end with the hint of annoyance that comes on the verge of an impatient action waiting to shove forward. is it really such an odd request? shoto came here with a present, a cake, a birthday wish to be together, to do things he never did before. wouldn't something stupid like a hug be one of those never-before-experienced things? it wasn't like he asked for the embrace high above the ground the last time. such a tense body beneath his arms, struggling so hard to resist burning up without the ability to break free. was his little brother so deprived of love that he'd even accept a fatal embrace from a revenant dragging him to hell? let him remember that feeling, the dread of death juxtaposed with the first embrace he ever received from his eldest brother. as he's offered a second one. all of this could be a trap, right? one wrong step, one mistake, one blink...
dad's not here though.
shoto didn't die in that battle because he deliberately released him, irritated the thigh couldn't watch. that memory should be enough to indicate the danger here is reined in by his older brother's insane need for bloodlust slaked on one person alone. spilling his life out in front of their father is the only way he wants to end his little brother's legacy. a pathetic torch in a little house on the edge of the city for endeavor to find later? what satisfaction would that bring him? the thought of it is as amusing as it is revolting. he didn't come this far to settle for that end. neither of them did. apparently shoto understands that well enough, with the agreement that tremors in his mouth.]
Don't catch fire. [oh he wasn't about to let shoto indulge in this without running a knife into the gift. let him remember the flames, remember the burning on his flesh, the heat suffocating his throat, and decide if he wants to risk it again. hug him while fearing him. this isn't some warm family reunion. it's a challenge, mocking shoto for even thinking he could enjoy something as domestic and familial as an embrace with his eldest brother. a cheap facade of what'll never be. go ahead and pretend, try to convince himself it's real, embrace someone who wants you dead on an altar before their father. it's not meant to be pleasant.
... it's not pleasant for him either. fingers catch at his sleeves, pull the material slightly against his arms. fabric brushes at his staples, catching the seams of his tortured flesh as shoto uses his shirt as some kind of lock. for himself or for his brother, he's not sure. but instead of running, the kid pushes forward and a slight tremor slithers through his muscles when those arms finally slide around his waist. it's not the same desperate clutching to his shoulders and back in a failed attempt to push him off as shoto writhed in pain amid his grasp earlier. tentative, exploring, even beseeching as they wind about his body for a proper, weird circle.
not like he has much experience in hugging either. toya used to run up and grab onto enji, but toya's dead. the only embraces the skeletal corpse standing before shoto knows are things his little brother shouldn't be hearing about from his older brother's mouth. that'd corrupt the kid... ah who's he kidding? shoto's a teenager. he's probably found someone to fuck him at his school. maybe they'll get into that conversation later.
what bothers him the most about this is just how damn tall his little brother is. they're practically the same height despite the nigh-ten year gap between them. even now, he feels his brother's shoulders against his own, slightly broader, a chest that's stronger, thicker torso and harder arms, different from his own wiry strength and scarred flesh compared to shoto's pure skin. that chin over his shoulder almost flares him up, eyes narrowing at the wall behind his brother's back. so much he got from their parents, all the good, all the strength, all the perfect... he wants to destroy it, tear him into pieces, leave him a scarred mess all over the floor no one would want to look at again. everything shoto is could've, should've, been his... his own life is hugging him.
god he fucking hates endeavor. there's no embrace back. too spurred on by the flood of vile in his chest. disgusted by the difference between them, how perfect shoto is, how much more life he has and growth promised. he wants to rip it away from him, hold it up and laugh at his dying form, shake that squirming "life" in his face as it curls into ash. shit, if he thinks about this further, he's going to kill him where he stands.
all he does is lean forward, spiky hair brushing past his brother's smooth strands, and rest his chin on shoto's shoulder. it keeps them close regardless, allowing the kid to do the lion's share of the embrace. but he stands there with him, resting his head against his little brother's, throat against his collarbone so his jaw's shoved up against his teeth. as much as he hates it... there's a little something that goes along with that stupid fish inside. a tiny glimmer of what once was. it manages to keep all of that at bay for a few quiet moments.
he can't hug him back. not this way. if he does, he'll kill him. but the quiet rest against him, leaning into the embrace, accepting that at the very least... he can manage it. maybe he'll try again later tonight. maybe.]
They're just a middle finger to those idiots. Somethin I could feel. [he didn't walk into a store and search out specifics for fashion or pleasure. it was a way to punch through his burned flesh and get a sense of sensation once more, as well as throw that perfect boy image away rei and enji wanted for their children.] Whaddya bring somethin?
( if there's anything that he thinks is dangerous in this situation, beyond the power that dabi wields and the lack of care he has for himself as well as for the world at large--it's the sense of hope. hope can be a great thing, encouraging heroics and giving people something to live for, lifting them out of difficult situations; it can give someone who has given up on everything the chance to see something bright in their future, again. the world had needed that, once, and still does: someone to depend on, someone to give them the positivity of a future that isn't as bleak as it seems like it will be. he had lacked it himself, living only for the sake of his anger, as though it became the fuel for his life more than hope, or love, or his own dreams did--and then there had been that one glimmer, that one tiny moment where he had realized that maybe things wouldn't be miserable forever. that maybe he could be a hero, that maybe he could heal from what he had endured, that maybe his whole family could heal, in their own way: that he could become his own person, in his own way.
it's that hope that he thinks dabi wanted to strike down, in the both of them--in their father, more than him, but his presence in that fight had been the perfect bonus, the cherry placed on top of the stormy sundae he'd given to them. making amends, trying to spend time with his children, coaxing at natsuo, thanking fuyumi: endeavor had been working so hard to acknowledge his wrongs and try to move forward past them, and there dabi had been, dragging him back into a past that he'd created. smashing that sense of hope. killing those dreams. if he's honest with himself, somewhere deep down inside, he can't say he doesn't understand it: but there's an insanity to dabi's revenge that he can't support, the way that he would be willing to sacrifice any life, any person, any hope, in order to crush endeavor's entire life. the way he would have let their brother die if it had hurt endeavor further.
and there's still hope, here, in the impatient way that dabi coaxes him into a hug. there's hope, when he doesn't light them both up in flames, when he doesn't dig his hands in and send a burst of blue right into the pit of his back. there's hope that maybe there's something he can do here, something he can change here, or that dabi's arms will lift and hook around him and hold him close; there's a sickening twist in the pit of his stomach, a heart that rabbits in excitement, and a trickling stream of dread that works its way through all of it. that hope isn't there. his arms go around dabi's waist, fingers pressing into him, and he gets the warm, stiff weight of his brother in his arms--but nothing further. he won't hug him back.
it shouldn't bother him. but he'd been foolish, and that teaches him: his lips press together, swallowing, waiting, and dabi's chin rests on his shoulder, bony and hard. he doesn't mind it. maybe it's even dabi's way of conceding something to him, in terms of the hug, as though he can't look past all his hatred, but maybe some of it. he doesn't ask.
instead, he lets out a cool breath, swallows down those hurt feelings, and forges on. )
Oh. ( it makes sense: and there's another dash to his hope, his plan starting to fall apart at the seams. but he's too far into it now to really backpedal, can't take any of it back, so: ) I thought we could...go. Get something...pierced. Together.
( after all, that would be some measure of balance, right? endeavor would rather throttle him than see his perfect creation marked up again--and his life wouldn't be at the mercy of dabi's firepower. some sort of wobbling compromise that he thinks suits everyone well enough--had been his thought, anyway. )
[hope. he had hope once. it crawled under his skin alongside his blood each time he torched a carefully set up log on sekoto peak, dripped out of his eyes as he cried when his flames turned blue, settled under his heart whenever he heard his father's footsteps outside the front door. if only this time- this time would be the one- not this time but next time- he dug his fingers into the next day and pulled himself forward, believing like an idiot that endeavor would look at him if he kept getting stronger. hoping each time it would be the magical "enough" to earn at least one accepting glance from the man he wanted so much to impress. some people likened hope to a light in the darkness... fuck that. hope burns. it scorches his lungs as he pumped his flames higher, sizzled the tears on his cheeks as he trained. every burn on his body was hope seared into his flesh. and all endeavor did was rage at it, yell at him for daring to hope. for being stubborn and stupid. hope was a burning curse. and he never once let go of it. hope certainly did give him something to live for again. i hope you succeed, just so i can tear it all down around you.
he hoped endeavor lived each battle he fought in. the nomu. starservant. ending. he was elated when endeavor became the number one hero, caught off guard when he found himself desiring his father achieve that position. and he hoped shoto and enji were both there at that battle. god, he'd been downright giddy with glee at seeing them, the look on endeavor's face when he revealed the truth, hearing shoto screaming for his dear daddy to stand up and move because they were about to die. even now the memory gives him chills down his corpse. it felt so good... he'd dredge hell itself up to this world if that's what it took to make sure endeavor stayed entrenched in his past. every chain, every hook, every weight stayed in place no matter what effort he made to better himself. there's no getting growth out of a burned-out log. hope for a better future? over my dead body. the past never dies! and he'll step on every sliver of hope that shows itself in enji's life to snuff it out. a monster like that doesn't deserve to hope. not even for a quiet death.
do you know what it feels like to lose hope? ... do you? ... it felt like that.
one day, he'll be able to say that. one day, enji will know exactly what he felt up there on sekoto's peak. when he realized his father wasn't coming. when it finally hit him... no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he burned, no matter how tightly he held onto that tiny bit of hope, enji would never look at him.
he wants him to know exactly how that felt. the despair and agony of his sorrow when he realized how completely worthless his life, his existence, was. no one, nothing, will get in his way to experience that. this is his hope now.
so then, what the hell's he doing like this? opening his arms so his little brother can come in for a hug. it's fucking ridiculous. he hates it, his skin bristles inside and out. body pulling in half, gristle of his own meat straining in one direction to burn shoto alive, in the other to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze until his throat crushes inward like a can. but instead, his hands are far lower, hanging by his side like dead weight. no flames, no heat, just the urge to throw up on his neck. or sink his teeth in and rip out a plug of flesh. fuck, he doesn't know what he wants right now. one hug and everything snarls into a jarring mess of revulsion and directionless want. his heart slams in his chest, excited and anxious for the thrill of murdering shoto again, but furious because he knows he's not going to.
nothing. he feels nothing. no desire to embrace him right now. so he settles for the bone of his chin upon his brother's shoulder, his jaw resting close to his nape. it's all he can and will give him right now. shoto will have to accept the compromise. it is conceding. he's touching him. he's not burning him. he's letting his little brother hug him and be close to him without tearing him open. thankfully there's no foolish questions. far too much stuffed inside, hating and burning as the person who replaced his life and purpose for existing embraces him. don't talk to him about hurt feelings. you don't know the meaning of the phrase...]
Hm? [did shoto really think there was some deep meaning to his mutilation? nah, that's what these scars represent. all the silver holds him together and a few are just there cause he could. and yet, there's a momentary, noticeable pause in his very core when his little brother mentions that thought. breath stilling, head twitching in notice, chin lifting almost imperceptively, as if he had to turn his attention to make sure his scorched ears heard right. the perfect little prince wanted to get something pierced... together. daddy's precious puppet, marred once again. it's such a mixture of teenage rebellion, stupid childish hope, a rude gesture, and individual decision.
his breath isn't a laugh, but not simply an amused exhale. something between the two, audibly enjoying the idea. what would enji's face look like when he saw that? the questions, the ire, or perhaps it'd be a secret just between the two of them? what a pathetic suggestion. and yet it's incredible. ridiculous enough to work.] Ya know... that actually sounds good.
[quick. just a few seconds. that's all shoto gets. a tiny period of time as he lifts his scarred arms and wraps around his little brother's body. shoulder blades against his forearm, the diamond of his back curving under the other. he digs his fingers into the kid's shirt, a quiet embrace that's as possessive as it is callous. with only the tiniest bit of warmth. yet it's a hug. a reward for the idea. is it really any surprise the only chance shoto'd have to bond with his brother would spark off with a "fuck you" to endeavor?]
( in some ways, he thinks that this is what endeavor always wanted, in the end. growing up the way that he did, full of resentment and bitter anger, concaving his feelings onto themselves, he had never once looked at endeavor and wanted to please him, had never once felt like he wanted to make him smile and be proud of him. no matter what he did, endeavor toted him around as though he could be the end-all-be-all for the new generation of heroes; he would brag about all the things that he could do, and then immediately criticize them once they got back to the training grounds at home. it didn't matter what he wanted, or how he saw anything: it only mattered that he became the perfect tool to soothe endeavor's bruised and raging ego. and it's funny, really, if he thinks about it: the way that natsuo talked, all touya wanted to do was be acknowledged, be a good hero, be praised by their father. he had it all there, all of it there: and he threw it away.
and rather than endeavor? now it's dabi, here, that he finds himself desperately seeking acknowledgement from. it's dabi that he wants to touch him, dabi that he wants to have hug him back like he matters. it's not the way it should be, and he knows it; it's not the way he should be thinking, and he can acknowledge it.
but it doesn't stop that little hitch of breath, when he feels dabi's arms tighten, just slightly, around him to hug him back. it doesn't stop the way that he swallows, that his face flushes, a shade of embarrassed pleasure that echoes there for a moment before he forces it away. it feels like he's said something right, that he's said something that gets dabi's approval, out of all things--and all it takes is the offer to punch a hole through his skin somewhere. he fights back the urge to smile.
it's harder to fight back the urge to tighten in again himself--his fingers curl, a gentle, plaintive tug at the material before he realizes himself and drops his hands. if he tries to climb right into dabi's skin with him, would that feel better, or worse? head bowing, he offers a step back, as though to give his brother the silent approval to separate entirely if he wants to. )
I was thinking... ( now this is where his inexperience shows--his tongue presses over his lips, considering, before he continues. ) ...beneath my shirt.
( it would be too obvious in his face: and though he might not care what endeavor thinks of it, he isn't quite sure he wants to invoke the wrath of aizawa-sensei, if it came to it. then again, he thinks that this whole meeting has to operate on a careful balance of compromise: something that he has the feeling his brother isn't very keen on in general.
still--he's trying, his gaze hardened as he draws back further to look at dabi's face. )
You can pick where. I thought my navel, maybe. ( it's somehow embarrassing to be proposing this to his brother, but here they are. )
[endeavor wanted nothing more than to surpass everything. a selfish, arrogant monster who desired the all eyes in the world to look upon him in awe. beneath his anger and attitude, his pride and ego boiled amid envious ambition. the greatest hero who ever lived had to be endeavor and no one else. he knows this because it's what endeavor told him over and over all those developing years of his life. you will be the greatest hero who ever lived. no one would compare to him, not even all might. the center of attention, the pinnacle of hero society, whenever someone said his name, they would know exactly who the man was and all that he stood for. and if he couldn't do it himself, then he'd do it through someone else. a vessel hand crafted into which he poured all his aspirations, pride, goals, and heroic fury. that's what his creation was. a thing designed to carry on the legacy endeavor himself couldn't. it's what his firstborn's entire existence was meant for. to be what endeavor wanted and nothing else.
and then it broke. revealed itself to be a flawed creation, unable to handle the burden of those lofty schemes. rejected, abandoned, and ultimately serving as nothing more than a shameful reminder of why it needed to be replaced. so endeavor didn't have to look at it anymore. sometimes he wonders if that monster had been relieved upon his death. nothing changed after all. his butsudan was more for his wife and other vessels out of tradition, wasn't it...
questions he could ask shouto, considering they're here together right now. heartbeat strong in his chest, arms around him with a grip promising growing strength, just barely under his older brother's height. (was he the only one who got the worst genes out of the four of them?) if shouto's really looking to him for acknowledgment, he's not going to find the kind he wants from endeavor here. it won't hurt him to admit his little brother's gotten stronger. he's already realized that from watching him all these years. but is that really what shouto wants to hear from him?
what a weakling. it's barely a hug and this kid's catching his breath and swallowing back feelings like he voiced a tender compliment of brotherly affection for him. the last time he hugged shouto, he'd tried to murder him. and the thought of doing that again still flickers in his mind as a tempting option. probably going to be present the entire night. mah, wouldn't be the first time he's dwelt on those morbid thoughts for hours on end. they're entertaining, comforting even.
he glances away to the wall, a wry expression on his usually uninterested visage when shouto's fingers tug into the fabric of his hoodie. it's not like he's forgotten the times he used to cling to natsuo like this. wanting his attention and comfort, anything to balm the choking pain in his chest. a plea for something, anything, to stop the corroding existence inside him as his life ate itself away more agonizing than any burn in his flesh. shouto's doesn't have that same dire life, does he. the golden child who was actually wanted, who could succeed where the first three failed.]
Ya don't think your classmates are gonna notice a stud in ya navel or nipple?
[his tone dips taunting amusement as shouto backs off and gives him space while he slips his hands into his pockets. he knows those kids shower together in the dorms and change together for hero training. there's no hiding this from them. turquoise eyes linger on his little brother's body, taking a look one place or another. of course shouto's inexperienced in this. endeavor would never let his kids put a hole in their bodies. even as an adult, fuyumi still hadn't gotten her ears pierced. it's one of the reasons he'd stabbed himself in the ears multiple times, punched a trio of them in the side of his nose, gleaming metal "fuck you's" to their prim and proper family just to be the biggest disappointment and stain he could on the todoroki name.
but perhaps there's a tiny bit of compromise in this daring venture if he's discouraging his little brother from putting a ring in his nip. instead, he reaches up and lazily flicks his middle finger against shouto's earlobe. his own burnt off a long time ago. but they're right here on this brat's ears. obvious is the point. and who give a shit what his teachers think? unless pieced ears aren't allowed at u.a. he rather doubts it.]
Start small. Ya gonna get caught sooner or later. Don't make it weird.
( even if he allows it, even if he encourages it, even if he's the one to take a step back, robotic, and put space between them--god, it's weird to feel disappointment, isn't it? they separate, and dabi's arms drop down, hands sliding into his pockets, and he tries to figure out what to do with his own. he's never been good at this, never been good at anticipating feelings with anyone, least of all himself; the closest he ever got had been being able to at least anticipate endeavor's rage, being able to tell when he came close to snapping, when he would lash out in frustration, or on the other end, when he would be soothed by the display of shouto's power.
the problem is that he hadn't been cruel every second of every day, as much as he wants to remember it that way: the problem is there had been kinder moments, too, washed into the harsh severity of everything he had done. moments where he had smiled, where he had praised, moments where he had allowed him things like books he wanted or some toys to keep him entertained. and he had learned how to anticipate that by the step of endeavor's weight down the hall, by the glowing look in his eyes during training.
he can't find those clues, here. it's been so long since he's even seen touya's face that he can't remember what anything meant at all, those few times he watched, longingly, past the glass windows, when he snuck out every once in awhile to see his siblings playing together in the computer room or down the other hallways. he hadn't been around touya enough to know what it looked like when he smiled, or what made him smile; he doesn't know it about natsuo, either, still learning from his older brother about his mannerisms, the way he talks, his desires, his dreams. fuyumi is a bit easier to read: and maybe that's just because he can tell when she's lying, can tell when she's running away from something she doesn't want to acknowledge.
and dabi is an entirely different creature. he doesn't know what that look on his face means, doesn't know if he can trust the amusement he hears in his voice. at the very least, dabi's words hit the mark--his face flushes in scowling embarrassment, lifting up one of his stunted hands so that he can rub at the back of his neck. of course. his classmates. not that he thinks any of them would be weird about it, but it's possible.
but he can't just give up, here. he takes in a breath--and dabi flicks in against his earlobe, and he swallows down his words. don't make it weird.
is he--making it weird? there's a small bubble of fear in his throat, that maybe dabi's seen something through him, something he doesn't fully understand in himself--but he nods, a dip of his chin, forcing himself away from that. )
Ah. Right. ( he licks his lips. ) Okay. I'll start there.
( one of his hands lifts, pulling gently at his earlobe in thought; rather than move in again, he takes a purposeful step away, nodding down towards the bag. )
You carry it. It's yours, anyway. I'll lead the way.
( he tries to sound a little bit confident, even though it's against all of his training to turn his back on dabi and start walking back towards the entrance. )
[he feels no disappointment. if anything, a twist of curiosity and sink of relief he doesn't have to deal with the strange feeling lingering within. the second time he's ever embraced his little brother, this time with no intent to burn him alive, sees shouto escape without death. hadn't that been his goal from the start? to end this precious abomination and deliver his charred corpse to endeavor as a greeting present. embraces turned into annoyances in his past life. he forgot long enough if endeavor ever hugged him, his mother's were nothing more than pitying attempts to distract or shove him away without answer, even natsuo's became filled with reluctance... no wonder this one made him feel weird as fuck.
everything in that house blackened. four years of happiness became nothing more than the crank of a gun ready to go off, those smiles and peaceful times darkened in the realization it hadn't been happiness, but rather the impatient waiting for his quirk to emerge so he could become to vessel his father always wanted him to be. ever since the start, he was nothing more than the crystallization of endeavor's ambitions. only a boy foolish enough to never see it until those aspirations leaked out of his burning body and that creature's face darkened in despair and disappointment.
year after year, the distance got wider, the only coldness he's ever known in his life sewed the icy needle of abandonment through his flesh, ever closer to his heart. until finally that masterpiece was born and his existence flatlined. he remembers the look on endeavor's face, the plunged feeling in his chest as if a vice wrapped around his hear and crushed it. hopeless... that's what he saw whenever he looked at shouto. his replacement, his purpose for being, his perfect self that he'd never be. as fuyumi and natsuo looked in awe down at the baby in the cradle, he lurked behind them and drifted out of the room, torn between burning jealousy and drowning sorrow. looking at shouto made him sick. he never wanted to learn anything about him, except what endeavor had taught him. so he could rush back to sekoto as fast as his legs could take him and train on those very same moves. if shouto could do it, so could he! right? right?! RIGHT?!
he doesn't know who this creature is in front of him, has never bothered enough to learn intimately. he knows his skill, he knows his leanings, he knows his friends, he knows his moves, his tendencies, he knows his personality, he spent as much time watching shouto as he did endeavor. he knows everything about him, even the room he sleeps in at his little school. and yet he doesn't know who the boy is standing a few feet from his body. a puppet created for a dream he wants to burn. perhaps that's what makes it easier to talk to him now. because he doesn't care.
it's cute almost, how shouto flushes in embarrassment and scuffs at his nape like a guilty child called out on a crush. reminded of a bit of reality to drag that habit of flying high in a dream back to the ground. even in something as simple as this, the boy's tempted to get his head lost in proverbial clouds. he can't, or won't, but him right now, but this is another way of doing just that, isn't it. poking little holes in his rose-tinted view, taunting him for his ignorance, enjoying himself as shouto's expense because his little brother simply doesn't know any better.]
It'll hurt less than most other places. [right, does shouto know it's going to hurt? probably, but he can still talk to him as if he doesn't. the bag? he drops his eyes to the item on the ground. right, he put his usual clothes in there. tempting to kick it aside and leave it here, but the train stops nearby after all.] Cruel. Makin me do work on my birthday.
[but he picks it up with bent knees and curled fingers, free hand tugging the jacket hood further over his head. never was one to like being told what to do. still, shouto said these things were his, and there's a defensive claim to them, like a stray dog snarling over a thrown bone. following the young hero out of the building, he emerges into the moonlit night once more, stopping when he's shoulder to should with the kid he's going to kill eventually.] If ya get in trouble, I ain't helpin.
[that's a loaded statement shouto's free to take in any flavor he wants.]
( the skin on the back of his neck tingles, and for not the first time tonight, he wonders if he's just signed away his life, somehow. like all of his kindness is made of stupid mistakes and petty desires and wishes that he'll never get fulfilled, wishes that he should have never had in the first place. what's it like, when dabi--no, touya, he should think of him as touya--when his brother smiles? does he smile? he's seen the cruel grins thrown at his father, stretching at his skin, pulling at the seams, and he's seen them directed at him, too, hazy through a sheet of insanity. but he hasn't seen his brother smile over something that makes him happy, or smile at a memory, or smile because someone's made him smile; is there no one left in the world who can do that, or worse, no way for it to happen? it's foolish to think that he could ever be someone like that, just be sheer design alone: he is endeavor's puppet, full of its own flaws, and never strong enough, never quite right enough, to go where he wants it to go.
and that could be the end of it, here. his back turned, dabi could reach in, snap his neck, and be done with it all; he could light him up and start a war, here, in some quiet town, at the edge of the city, and they could die, or he could die, far away from anyone else. maybe that would be fitting, in some way, two pieces of the same whole clashing together just for nothing; maybe endeavor would deserve that agony, if he's cruel enough to think it. he doesn't want to think it.
but his brother comes in at his side, instead. past the broken down building, back onto the street, his hood pulled up, their shoulders touching. he chokes on a shallow breath of relief; his hands sink down into the pockets of his own jacket, willing warmth into them there, and trying not to find himself delighted with the fact that they're walking side by side instead of dabi's hand clutched over the back of his neck, forcing and guiding him like a dog.
his chin ducks a little, a solemn nod. )
I know. No one will help.
( there's not aching plead for pity, in his voice--just quiet resolution. it might be something of a lie: could he call midoriya, if he got into trouble, here or otherwise? it's possible. he's the kind of friend that would maybe understand; kirishima, iida, bakugou, any of them might at least listen long enough to save him. but does he want to be saved? does he really need someone else to do it? he's strong enough on his own, and more than that, or more selfishly than that, he doesn't want to share.
even if all it amounts to is his brother's ire, his brother's hatred of him--he doesn't want to share.
mismatched eyes glance up, then out, reassuring the street name, calculating and matching it up with the map he studied on the way here; he tilts his head, silent, in indication. the shop's open late, near a bar, and there should be no trouble: although he might look a little young, his height will probably get him through without ID or anything, and dabi definitely looks old enough, and menacing enough, not to be questioned. )
Just a block or two past here. ( softly, so that his brother knows how long. ) I'll pay. What...are you going to get...?
[what must it be like, to stand there knowing the person across from you would be willing to kill you over nothing? this isn't anything shouto's aware of, but in his oldest brother's days on the streets, he's had that same instance. the prickle of fear down his nape, realizing that one wrong move could spill his blood across the pavement. dabi would die before he ever got a chance to live. so he made the right choice in that moment. he struck first. something his littlest brother doesn't have to guts to do. it's been a long time since he's felt that sensation. perhaps he's already forgotten it. there's a strange blessing in insanity. feelings burn up, discarded, left behind, and birthing a freedom that lived in the dirt and grime of the underbelly. shouto will never have to deal with that. sleeping each night in a nice bed, surrounded by friends who smile at him and talk to him without being inane bothers most of the time. this kid has ever right to feel fear in the moment. one wrong move and he'd lose all of that comfortable life... but this isn't the way he wants to do it. they'd take too long to find his body and figure out what happened. nah, he wants them to know about it, he wants him to know about it, to see the look on his father's face when he presented the monster with his precious puppet's pretty head.
as tempting as it is to press his hand against shouto's back and burn him to cinders, he leaves his hand by his side. he spent too long thinking about how he wanted to do it and isn't about to mess that up just for a cheap thrill. endeavor needs to suffer far longer than this. he wants the man to know shouto's going to die. what kind of mistakes will their number one make when he continues playing hero under the scorching knowledge of his child's dying efforts? he certainly never cared enough to be distracted over touya's death. it makes his blood boil to know his father was far more broken over dabi revealing himself to be alive. now he cared. right...
how many more times with endeavor invade their little moment together? probably a lot. he's the common factor between them. his genes flow through their veins, with shouto having almost all the good ones. he only got the firepower. and his eyes. even enji's hair left, sickened at having to be a part of this failure. as he steps out into the night, there's a brief flicker in his eyes of second thought. not fear. not caution. not even disinterest. simply wondering if he wanted to. it's one to thing to play at being a hero. it's something else entirely to play at being family. just how pathetic can they be? ... apparently plenty.]
What a brave kid. [he doubts that's true. many people would come running to shouto's aid. all those friends from school, other heroes he's probably got on speed dial, endeavor himself once he heard of it, the police. as soon as someone realized dabi was with shouto, their little whatever this is will be shattered like glass to the ground. well, someone reputable. other criminals wouldn't say anything. in fact, that might cause him to step in. he hasn't said anything to the rest of the league but... no one's taking out shouto except for him. that's his right. selfish or obsessed. who knows.
there's a quiet sound from his side, half in thought, half in curiosity. shouto's done his research to have already picked out a spot. it's not surprising. none of enji's spawn are stupid. but as for what he's going to get... he's already pierced himself so many times. defying the precious "clean" image his mother and father wanted their children to have. grasping for a moment where his mangled body can again feel something. enjoying the intimidation his image brings in those wide eyes whenever people see him for the first time. but what to get that's a match for shouto? something that they get together, to always remind him of his little brother when looking at it.]
Didja bring cash? Ya ain't gonna want dad seein that on your statement. [as if he won't see it gleaming in shouto's ear the next time the two cross paths.] I'm thinkin about right here.
[and reaches up to brush a long finger across his eyebrow. he's running out of real estate on his ears, his lips are fucked, and he doesn't want his nose being too busy. something unique just for this little brat.]
( --is something he almost didn't think of. a part of him had wondered if it would be enough just to use his card and have enji see it on there, some small part of him still rebelling in the way he had when he'd been younger, keeping things secret, keeping things closed. it wouldn't have mattered to him: enji could rage about it all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the fact that he had done it and would possibly do it again. the pain isn't really much of a deterrent, and if by some great miracle touya actually likes being around him, in so much as might be possible, they could do it again. he'd go again, take the trouble of riding out to the very edges of the city just to see him.
something like that reeks of desperation. he doesn't have to be told to know it's true: that it's pathetic, a little, and to what end? it's not like he has any delusions that he can talk touya down from what he wants to do, that he can convince him that at least tolerating enji is better than spilling with the vehement hate and howling pain that touya must have. he can't erase the things that have been done, can't fix what's being done now; he hadn't been lying when he'd agreed with natsuo, that their father can do as much as he wants to try to atone, but that doesn't necessarily earn him forgiveness. endeavor is a great hero: enji is a terrible father.
in the end, it's going to be up to him--he knows that enji can't, won't be able to do much of anything, standing in front of touya. and maybe a part of him, as delusional as it might be, thinks that if they stand face to face on the battlefield, some tiny part of touya might hesitate, even for a moment, in the face of him if they've spent this time together. if he's learned what he could about him, hungry for it, desperate to know things about the brother that was always kept from him, same as the others. even if all it does is temper dabi's flames for a split second, it might be the split second that he needs. effort spent towards something is never wasted, at least not like this.
there's a solemn nod, his hands feeling in his pockets for his wallet. )
I have cash. But I don't mind using the...
( --card, he'd wanted to say. but his gaze gets drawn up, encouraged there by touya's fingers, and he can't help it: he smiles, a little bashfully, nodding with a slow approval into the collar of his jacket. )
...Ah. There. I think that would look...good on you.
( and there it goes again, that sort of bashful, uncomfortable feeling that has him jerking his head away, focused instead on the path in front of him. it's an odd feeling, to know that he's being strange, to know that the feeling is strange, and being able to recognize it is half the battle; he just isn't equipped well enough to fight the rest of it. instead, he falls into silence as they work down the sidewalk, past a closed cafe, some sort of used bookstore, and then another block to the glowing neon sign in the window of the piercing parlor.
rather than make a comment, he simply drags the door open, hand pulled from his pocket: because this way he can't be abandoned, if he goes in first. instead, he holds that door like a gentleman, eyeing touya, expectant, for him to slip inside first. )
[the single word drives a small curiosity through him. neither a committal to the answer or rejection of it. such a simple thing, whether a hero has cash on him. they don't have to scrounge for spare change or rely on the anonymity of cash. important enough in society's eyes to have their name, their identity, on that stupid little card. so many of them don't bother, having no need for something as rustic and "common" as bills and coins. they can swipe without fear of the teller screaming or the cops being called, or someone trying to track you down via the purchases you've made, like a dog found from the scent of its piss. for what? living? heroes have it easy, down to their damn wallets, don't they. so... which is shoto today? posing as a commoner or coasting through as a hero?
the t-shirt is kind of itchy, because it's new. not the familiar loose hang of a shirt over-worn and run through so many stolen laundry cycles. the hoodie jacket isn't fresh out of the package though, despite the luxury brand shopping bag it all came in. each step pumps a tiny thought in the back of his mind like a separate heartbeat: again? will they do this again? him and shoto. this brat who grew up with a golden spoon in one hand and a bundle of blood in the other. there's a part of him that wants to laugh over how much shoto suffered at the hands of that monster. he wasn't born perfect; he was beaten, burned, molded into enji's idea of perfect, all that "useless" flayed off him in the crucible of his childhood. he should laugh. he even smiled like a maniac upon hearing how close natsuo came to death.
but he's never once felt true mirth over his little brother's agony at enji's hands. only disgust and anger.
and he's not sure he likes that. it confuses him the scant times that thought swims past. it's easier to shove it away and dwell on something else. why waste the time on that when he knows they'll come to blows later. shoto's going to get in his way. he wants to take down that monster, but this perfect puppet will have one more dance with him first. that's fine. it was his initial plan to serve shoto's head to endeavor before killing him. the breeze carries across his little brother's body and drifts past his face, catching the scent of his shampoo and conditioner, the faintest whiff of ice. he could've killed him so long ago, but enji got in the way. this time, there won't be an interruption. it renders what they're doing now completely meaningless. to him. not so to the kid next to him.
that almost makes shoto even more fucked-up in the head than him. hoping. insane.
he brought cash.]
Really? When didja start lookin through piercing catalogs? [his tone's not as biting, irritably, more amused that shoto would even consider what looks good in terms of shoving a piece of metal through his skin. this brat doesn't have the head or heart to be sarcastic, so the comment is unflinchingly truthful. he thinks it'd look good. dropping his hand, it retreats to the safety of his pocket once more, head ducked slightly as the hood and his bangs cover the area once more in darkness. damn. he should've let him use the card.
there's no splash of puddle underfoot, the crunch of leaves, or the echo of empty cement. only the sound of twin steps that fall annoyingly in and out of sync with each other. shoto's long legs are able to keep up with his, no struggling effort to close the gap like he had to with natsuo when they were younger. until his growth spurt finally let that stunted boy named toya catch a minor break in his life. this guy got everything... even if it was smashed into him. his eyes occasionally flick to the windows they pass, instinctively checking for anything reflected that might trigger an alert. even in the open air of the city's edge, trust only goes so far.
the neon glow through the glass washes up his chest and blooms on his face, turquoise eyes lingering at the sign as the fluorescent buzz drones onto his skin to reach his ears. shoto's funny, not thinking for a moment he could shove the door shut in his face behind him. by now, he's in for the trip. concrete and wood grit all three steps up the tiny stairway to the door and he passes his brother through the doorway. one hand catching the door simply to spite his gentlemanly effort. he can't let it swing shut after him though. too bad. once inside, he hangs to the left for shoto to come to his flank. then simply rests a hand on the kid's shoulder.]
You're goin first. I'll make sure they don't butcher ya.
( it doesn't bother him, the way that touya's hand catches on the door as though he's going to yank it shut behind him, and it's true--he hadn't thought of that, hadn't thought of anything except covering touya's back in order to keep him there in front of his gaze. as much as his breath threatens to spill, puffed out in playful irritation, there's that messed up part of him that wells up in interest, because isn't this how it's supposed to be? isn't this how it could have been, if nothing had gone wrong? if endeavor had been a good person, if he'd been allowed to see his siblings, if they'd spent more time together--their lives would be full of these little moments, the tiny rankling of a little brother against the teasing from the older one. he's never really gotten to experience it with natsuo, either; now that they're both older, it's a little awkward, sitting in rooms with him, even visiting home with him, as though he doesn't really know natsuo at all. but he's learning, he's trying, just like he's doing here, with touya.
unbidden, his lips twitch, a half of a smile, but he wipes it off his features easy enough. he doesn't want touya to take it the wrong way, when he stubbornly clings to the door and then nudges it with his shoulder to keep it open, trailing into the shop after him.
it's not a place he's ever seen: though he had, a few times, googled tattoo piercing parlour japan while riding the bus out to this place, hoping to figure out what he might be in for. the walls are dark, some of them decorated with art, some decorated with what he assumes to be options for tattoos; there are rooms, sectioned off not by doors but by curtains, and a larger open area with multiple tattoo chairs and cabinets and tables for tools--there are some customers here already, and some of the staff seem to just be chatting amongst themselves, creating a cacophony of sound and music and the buzzing of tattoo guns and other equipment.
immediately, his gaze lifts to touya--and then steadies itself onto the check-in desk, his jaw locked, emboldened by the hand on his shoulder. the woman behind the desk is checking something on the computer, but she brightens up, seeing them, and he takes a few steps forward, ensuring that touya is there, that his hand stays touching him. she asks what they're there for, and with another spare glance at touya, he answers: calmly, slowly, indicating on himself where he wants pierced, and then half-lifting a hand as though to touch touya before floundering and gesturing to it on his own face, instead. she tells them to wait a few minutes while she gets a room prepared; his gaze immediately goes back to touya like it's the most comfortable place for it to be. )
...Will you stand outside? Just...in case.
( it sounds childish, and it's not like he's afraid of the pain, but the uncertainty of not knowing how a situation will play out does make his stomach flip, a little--or maybe that's just the too-hot weight of touya's hand still on his shoulder. )
[braced against the stone wall, he watched from the shadows as the two carried on in the park. one older, one younger, obviously siblings playing together. how many years apart were they? maybe similar to him and shouto. could he have had something similar? sinking backwards into the gloom, he left the scene behind him, eyes narrowed as a finger picked at the increased wrinkles on his forearm. what could have been... he'd played with natsuo & fuyumi plenty during his childhood, but eventually that began to fade away. fuyumi couldn't understand him, natsuo didn't want to deal with him, and shouto... shouto was too young, too special, too important to their father to be given any time to spend with his siblings. he'd almost killed him, blinded by sorrow, desperation, rage, and the experience returns to haunt him every now and then. guilt began to twist into envy, anger burned any semblance of regret, day after day scraping on the streets to survive while his little brother stayed in the clutches of abusive luxury. until the idea of being a big brother came to mind as a laughable suggestion. they barely have anything in common, their lives were as different as night and day, goals in complete juxtaposition, a pristine rail forever running parallel to a warped rail. impossible to meld. shouto was one thing to him: a replacement that would crush his father's heart.
then why is he here, doing this with him? listening to this brat's request, standing with him in the foyer of the piercing parlor, decidedly not slamming the door shut in his face behind. a question not even he can formulate a complete answer to. irritation needles under his ruined flesh, leading his middle finger to absently scratch a blunt nail at the inside of his pocket. this is nothing more than a foolish imitation, some child desperate to have a semblance of an alternate.
whatever. let him have his fun. it will be one more thing to lose when his life goes up in smoke and ash. as shouto takes in the sights around him, he approaches the counter in in the front. rustic wood and a cross suggests this thing used to be a pulpit at some church before being stained with a new vocation. his eyes take a roam around the place, inspecting the setting. rooms partitioned by curtains, ostensibly for the shy or for intimate-area tattoos, open chairs and tables for smaller jobs and public work, frequent spots of cleaning materials between stations, medical boxes on the walls despite some garish decorations. this place took it's business seriously. he judges the place acceptable. initial inspection.
whoever this woman is, she's either very brave, very callous, or doesn't pay much attention to the news. he's experienced people running in terror when a known villain walks into their establishment. the hand on shouto's shoulder eases into a relaxed drape rather than a curled dragon claw directing his focus. if there's any confusion the two are together, it's made obvious enough with that. hn, that's a pathetic attempt to indicate his preference for a brow piercing. luckily the woman gets the implication and he doesn't have to explain the deflating gesture. once she indicates a room's getting ready, he steps back from the counter and draws shouto with him via a press of hand to shoulder front. it's only a brief retreat to the waiting area, where he looks only slightly down at his littlest brother. brat... what's the entreating look for? hopeful, comfortable, pleased.]
Aww, scared? [he knows he's not.] I ain't standin outside, idiot. [he turns his head back to the room, taking note of the staff he sees and the few patients in the open area chairs and tables. watching with hooded eyes that belie silent threat within their flickering color. needle and tattoo pen, touch and buzz, before a clean disinfectant wipe to soothe the skin, another section following soon after. he's actively making sure this place is treating their customers properly. turning over his brother to some moron isn't on his schedule tonight.] I'll be in the room, watchin ya the entire time.
[threatening the tattoo artist with implied death if they botch this.]
( there's a part of him, proud and a little bruised, that feels itself rising to the challenge that touya's words seem to start--he wants to assure him that he isn't scared, that he isn't worried about it, that this is something so normal and easy and hell, people do this all the time, right? so there's nothing to be scared of. it would be something of a lie, though it's not like he's afraid of the pain, or the needle, or anything that might happen: it's more that he's afraid he's going to make a fool of himself, reading social cues the wrong way, saying something juvenile, that touya is going to get angry with him and leave. it's not even that he's afraid for the people in the shop, as though touya's ire might extend to them, as though he might light the whole place up in flames; that's something maybe he should be prepared for, but he doesn't spare it a single thought outside of deeming it an unnecessary worry.
for better or for worse, he thinks that even his brother's sanity might extend to, at the very least, keeping himself from being exposed. if he really wants endeavor gone, if that's really his goal, if he wants to kill them both: well, he can't get caught by someone here, then, can he?
with a short swallow, his skin flushing slightly in embarrassment, he feels his stomach bottom out when touya says i ain't standin outside like that means he intends to leave him there after all. his mouth opens, ready to retort, ready to offer a quietly petulant demand--but the clarification has his mouth snapping shut, a small nod of his chin, gaze sliding elsewhere. )
Oh. ( prolific as always, the silence stretches there for a moment--before he nods again, satisfied. ) Okay. That's good.
( it might mean a little humiliation, if he does anything the wrong way. but maybe it also means that touya can step in and intercept, as needed, or that he can at least be--something to depend on, which is a little silly, given everything else. he doesn't say it out loud: he doesn't need the blow to his ego, or to his shoddily-hid affections, by touya telling him that he's wrong.
so he waits, huddled in there, tucked in close to touya's side, waiting; it doesn't take long for the woman to return, gesturing them in down the hall, and with one last glance, wary, up at touya, he falls into step behind her, keeping his gait measured with his brother's. at the end of the hall, a curtain is pulled back for them, and at the woman's instruction, he takes a seat in the piercing chair first, while touya is relegated to take a seat on the bench inside if he wants.
sliding into the chair, he tucks his knees in together, sitting up straight, hands loose in his lap--the woman asks him if he picked out what he wants to have in his ear, while he's healing, and immediately his gaze shoots to touya. )
... He can pick. ( in a soft murmur, quiet and polite; the woman turns to touya, then, offering him the small case of selections. ) I want him to pick.
[he wants to mock his little brother. a precious chick inside the safety of his shell, unused to the brutality of the outside world. scared? he should be. the wild interior of a tattoo parlor, covered with strange colors and shadows as people willingly have pieces of metal and plastic plunged through their skin as a statement. forever damaging themselves in front of a bundle of ice and fire who never so much as gave himself a deliberate paper cut. nah, he only had daddy sinking his meaty fists into his stomach and battering him around the room in effort to turn this brat into a perfect weapon. compared to that monstrous bull blowing steam out of his nostrils across the room, what part of a tattoo parlor would give shouto any level of fright? fear was beaten out of him except for the most extreme cases. not even that little green kid could undo all the damage endeavor wrought. how ironic that one of those "extreme cases" is a little bit of social anxiety. he wonders how shouto would deal with a press conference... and finds he doesn't much care.
rather, he's more invested in what happens here. there's something about putting his little brother under someone else's knife that messes with him in a good and bad way. he was more than willing to sic villains on endeavor, to watch shigaraki attack shouto's school, play in the role of kidnapping that blonde with a bad attitude without caring what the attack cost his brother. any of those could have left the kid dead for endeavor to find and despair. but the idea of some idiot messing up shouto's piercing? yeah, he'd kill the artist for that. without a second's hesitation. you had one job...
what the hell? is this kid getting feelings because his older brother wants to be in the same room as him while he's getting pierced? yes, of course he is. shouto's still a baby in a lot of ways. even if he remains the most taciturn of all endeavor's spawn. honestly, he wonders where he got that from. everyone else in the family is more willing to talk than shouto is. maybe the monster really did damage his brain with all those beatings. heh, funny. he slips his hands into his pockets as the younger agrees with the decision.] Good.
[he wouldn't have listened to a protest anyways. once the hostess returns to invite them, he peels off the wall and resumes his place beside shouto as they walk. the little glance upward goes ignored, though a bony hand with burned wrists settles atop the boy's shoulder. is to an affectionate hug, a protective embrace, or a possessive guardianship? likely the latter, though he's sure the kid thinks of it as the middle. once the curtain's pulled back, he enters the room and lets go of his brother. while shouto gets settled in the chair, he scans around the room, taking in the quality and cleanliness. this isn't a seedy backward establishment, but a proper parlor, so it checks out well. good to know.
the bench? nope. he moves to stand next to the chair instead, opposite the woman. shouto looks like a little kid nervously sitting all proper on the edge of the doctor's examining table, ready to get a physical. a black brow arches when the decision's deferred to him. silently he reviews the options, then indicates a simple set of rose stud starters. simple, small, without clashing much to shouto's skin tone. might let him get away with it for a day or two on passing.] You'll look good with these.
[his brother's got plenty of girls around to ask questions to later. now back to the woman, before they get started.] I'll need a mask. [because he'll be right here during the procedure. no arguments. he trusts shouto's body to be too hot and cold most of the time for any infection to set in, but... might as well play at being big brother for a little bit longer.]
( the list of all of his pathetic feelings, when it comes to touya, is now at a record high. it's not only that his brother has agreed to come with him in the first place, celebrating a birthday that he likely wishes never came, but now he's walked with him in public, entered a tattoo and piercing parlor with him in public, walked with him into the room, stood next to him, and now? he's picking out his jewelry without complaint, even offering a compliment during the act. it's enough to make him wonder if he's dreaming, if this is just some sad attempt at his head turning things around for him in sleep, trying to make at least some part of the world tolerable; uncomfortable, he presses his knees together, nodding faintly when the woman looks back at him for confirmation. even if touya had picked out the ugliest thing in the case, or picked out some terrifying gauges, or something else he has little knowledge about: he would have accepted the choice no matter what.
whatever touya wants him to put in his body, he'll wear. it's easier to accept than signing his own death certificate, allow touya to roast him from the inside out.
but still, his jaw locks, lips pursing, as the woman steps out of the room to get a pair of the earrings that touya indicated. he doesn't know if he should thank him, or tell him he likes his choice, or if his voice will even let him do that much--and how stupid is it, to get this excited about something so small, so insignificant? it's not as though any of this will make touya change his mind about anything; there's a sort of profound, lonely jolt at the realization, every time he comes around to it, every time his joy circles back to a bit of sunken despair. a brother for the night, maybe, or for a few hours--like cinderella, except he's the one turning into a pumpkin at the end of it, the one who would offer touya every glass slipper in the world if it kept him there.
when the woman returns, it's with a disposable mask for touya--and a tray with the piercing needle, amongst other things. narrowing his eyes, he turns to look up at touya; the woman approaches him, but it's only so that she can gently mark the spots on either ear, having him face her so that she can ensure they're even. it's obvious she wants to ask about their relationship, whatever it is: her gaze flickers, up to touya, then back to him, as though trying to see if there's any resemblance, or if they're friends, or even lovers, maybe. embarrassed, he doesn't say anything: he moves with her guidance, and when she goes to do one ear, she telegraphs her movements with a practiced ease; he's less nervous when she's next to him, instead of in front of him, and even the breath he lets out as she makes the first hole in his ear isn't too bad. the pain is nominal, at best.
more relaxed, he waits, twists so that she can do the other ear--and when she's done, and the earrings are in, he immediately twists back to look at touya, impatient and almost demanding. )
Do they look okay? ( he mumbles--even as the woman laughs, since she's been holding out a hand mirror for him to check it himself. he takes it from her, but he doesn't look; his gaze whips back to touya, expectant. ) Do you like them?
[this isn't about showing up to endeavor's house presenting ears studded with shards of black glass. it's a quiet form of rebellion, counter to his previous yelling at his father for leaving the house without training him. he sneaked out whenever the man was away, knowing his mother wasn't able to stop him regardless of whatever pithy excuses came from her lips. only able to stand up to endeavor when his father finally caught him, because that's the only way he could earn those burning eyes falling on him. rebelling captured endeavor's attention, even if only for a while. what would he think when he saw his beloved perfect puppet return with piercings in his ears? he was so angry when that bitch scarred his masterpiece, boiling water melting and discoloring the skin only endeavor had previously been allowed to bruise. would he be jealous someone else touched shouto in a way that left a permanent mark? feel a sense of vulnerability that he hadn't watched him close enough to keep him to himself? ... unlikely. the man's trying to act like a better person. he'd accept the new decorations in a pathetic attempt to justify he could change. a caring father who wouldn't land his fist in his child's face for desecrating his own body like that. maybe he should care more about what his little brother thought.
... he already knows what shouto thinks. it's there in the quiet sparkle amid those mismatched irises. the kid's happy. swelling inside with a warm pleasure at his big brother's attention, even though it won't ever make it fully through his icy surface. look at him, jaws set and lips tight together. what's he locking away inside his mouth right now? those feelings bloating his chest? grateful words or curious questions? trembling nerves? he remains where he is, looking down at the boy in the chair from above. it's too bad shouto's not a dog. he wouldn't be able to hide how excited he is. probably be he kind of pedigree with impeccable looks and breeding, only to piss itself in happiness when given some love. that's right... shouto wasn't raised without love. he survived because of it. no matter what endeavor did, rei was still able to protect her baby's beating heart. even after she was locked away, shouto's fleshy organ pumped out of anger for her. because he knew love. surely he doesn't think these pathetic crumbs his older brother's giving him right now hint at reconciliation. this changes nothing between them. yet something keeps him here. hmph... maybe there's a bit of pathetic still left inside his own rotten corpse. guess it can't hurt to be stupid for a night.
he turns his head just enough to regard the woman out the corner of his eye and hooks the mask with a finger. a quick fit over his mouth, chin, and nose, straps behind his ears, and he's settled, the white surface a strange comparison to the scarred bags under his eyes and wrecked violet throat. his eyes crimp slightly from a hidden smile beneath his mask, but it's not the kind caring smile that reassures a child. that smile burned up a long time ago. shouto's head goes back and forth, marks on his ears presenting an easy preparation. he's not a troublesome child, complacent and calm. the woman's occasional glances between them slowly threaten to become irritating as the unspoken question on her tongue begins to build. she could ask it, but then again, does he look like someone you want to potentially piss off?
we're brothers. just friends. i'm datin him. no relation. ain't ya business. he's got options.]
Treat him gently. He's a special guy. [wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him. even if that's a silken lie and shouto knows it. he should take his hand... but that brings back the same feelings as when shouto hugged him in the dingy room back there. ironic, since he's not that big on feeling anymore. memories of feelings? if he does anything now, it's simply imitation. doesn't mean anything, right? he narrows his eyes as the needle finally pierces, welling up his father's blood on the surface of shouto's skin. an injury not from heroics or training. what a brave guy.
he remains beside him, looking down at his little brother. no, he won't touch him. won't offer a hand for comfort. it's too strange. but he also isn't retreating. stands there like a ghoul beside him the entire time, in his vision, in his space, always within arm's length and eyesight. it ain't like playing kickball in the courtyard, but it's the first sibling thing they've ever done together. does it even count as that? touya died a long time ago... ah but he reclaimed touya on the back of that giant, in front of shouto and his father. guess he's returned from the grave with a few strips of sibling clinging to his damned bones. the piercings are done, the wounds are cleaned, and the starter studs are in.
heh. it's almost cute how quickly shouto looks to him for validation. didn't even look in the mirror first. he's actually avoiding it. what a loyal little puppy.] Hn, turn ya head. [once one way, then to the other, checking out the reflection in the light and how they go with the hang of his hair.] They look nice. Who picked 'em out for ya?
[now he's just taunting him. but the compliment is genuine at least.]
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Date: 3/4/24 00:23 (UTC)the same's also true for him. an ambush could be waiting. he doesn't believe shoto would stoop to something so villainous, but the heroes he cavorts with aren't above such practices. using his little brother as bait to bring in a known criminal. would shoto accept such a role? he is a hero after all. sworn to do the "right" thing to uphold law and peace. that always was his dream. a dream that little puppet got to keep. fanned by his father in the worst way, nurtured by his mother in the only way she knew how. shoto's a hero. it makes his stomach grind on itself.
nah. he'll let him live, even if he hates him. consider it the first and final birthday present he'd ever give his little brother. the one on the battlefield didn't count. endeavor saved shoto that day by passing out and stealing his reason for fratricide. so he's here, the distance between them slowly closing with each casual step as he approaches. already judging the situation as safe due to the minutes of scouring out the situation before and after shoto arrived. he really came as promised, free of trap and trick outside of anything on his person. which would only place himself in a hostage situation if he tried.
each step brings him closer to his little brother, each one brings him into focus and detail, picking out things on him that he hadn't noticed before. disappointment drags through his veins at the sight of his face only bearing the scar their mother gave him. he hadn't done enough damage with his own flames to leave a mark on his little brother despite crushing him into the ground with his quirk. tougher than he thought... just like that thing that spawned them. everything is exactly how he remembers. the same mismatched eyes, same hair split between snow and blood, same serious expression that could be taken as innocent to stubborn to completely blase. sizing each other other or simply looking for details missed in the heat of war. he knows he probably looks completely different to shoto compared to the same villain who dragged his noisy blonde friend through that portal so long ago. too bad, brat. he's the same person. there ain't any separation between the two. your big brother's a child kidnapper and a mass murderer.
desperation can spawn idiocy. is he really that keen to get to know someone he's never interacted with for more than a few minutes in his life? mah, that person's dead. he died a long time ago. even tried to take his baby brother with him in a fit of fury. bet dad never told ya about that either. of course not. endeavor wouldn't waste the time.
a white brow arches at the comment. after all that, shoto talks about his clothes? it's not like he's insulted by it. just wryly amused there's an opinion about them.]
Sorry. Lemme go back home and find somethin nicer in my closet. [if his dry voice sounds like he's giving shoto the middle finger, that's because it is. he doesn't have much in the way of casual clothing. the idea of leaving, murdering someone nearby, and coming back in their clothes comes through in a petty suggestion. but it's more a hassle than he feels like spending on shoto.]
Ya don't even know my size. ["silly" isn't the word he's use. "foolish" is more like it. he's grown up a lot compared to whatever might have been leftover in his forgotten things back at home. none of them know a thing about him anymore. yet here shoto is, talking like this is just another year together. the sheer idiocy of this hits almost hard enough to walk away. it's uncomfortable. and yet... a sliver of patience and curiosity remains.]
That sounds real weird to hear ya say. [happy birthday. he's never heard those words from shoto's mouth before. but they succeed in arresting his feet at least. hands in his pockets, he finally stops about a foot in front of his little brother. barely even has to look down at him. shit, this kid's gonna be taller than him soon. gross.]
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Date: 3/17/24 21:10 (UTC)of course, dabi wouldn't have anything else to wear, but he'd figured there had to be something. a different jacket, a hoodie, something that wouldn't mark him as one of the deadliest villains that everyone is trying to track down. he doesn't really care if anyone sees him here, though he should: it's more that he's worried if someone sees dabi here, and what could happen to him because of it.
the thought that dabi could easily kill a civilian tailing him is there and gone again, briefly. it feels like he should be disappointed in himself that he's worried about dabi himself getting caught.
so he tries, swallowing down any feeling, tries and lifts his chin up, stubbornly: )
I figured... you'd at least wear bigger than me. Smaller than Natsu-nii.
( another swallow, a flicker of nervousness. he doesn't want to drag natsuo into this, either, so he tries to redirect: ) It's fine if you don't like any of it. But I thought we could do...
( it sounds ridiculous, and he can feel that stubborn nervousness building inside of him, like he knows he's going to be ridiculed; it's the same sort of anxious adrenaline he used to feel sticking up for their mother or otherwise adamantly going against endeavor's words, where he knew he'd be hit, knew he'd find only punishment waiting for him, but continued anyway. )
...something. And we can't do the something I wanted to do if you're dressed like you are.
( his gaze flickers, going down dabi's waist, his hips, eyeing his pants and his boots as though to try to confirm that they're less noticeable--or worse, to try to confirm that the contents of the shopping bag between his feet will fit him. )
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Date: 3/18/24 18:00 (UTC)yeah, he could've worn something else. honestly, he'd thought about going just that. a jacket, sweater, t shirt, jeans, boots, anything other than what he's been seen on the news wearing multiple times. the villain dabi. that's not who shoto came to see, but "toya" died a long time ago. "dabi" is the revenant born from shoto's long lost elder brother's death. this isn't some sweet family reunion. it's a hero meeting a villain. that's how it is. how it will always be. how it should've been... how it should've been...
and then shoto said Happy Birthday.
now he's here in front of him, looking at his face that he hates so much. not burning it. the breeze carries past once more, bringing the scent of his little brother towards him. clean, fresh, pure almost. he hates it, yet the forbidden nostalgia that's long since been locked away and scorched in his heart, somehow finds the strength to lance through. maybe dragged up by that stubborn tilt of shoto's chin.]
I ain't much bigger than you. [the words come out in a wry drag, admitting to his own slighter stature compared to his brothers. shoto only has a year at max, and he'll be taller than him. broader shoulders. larger muscles. far more health. compared to his wiry, lanky frame, he's pretty sure he could fit whatever shoto's wearing without much issue. size wise.
it should make him happy to see shoto struggling like this, nervous and wary, finally acknowledging the sheer reality of what his phantom elder brother has become. and yet the kid struggles on, as stubborn as the only gene that endeavor passed down evenly to all of his experimental spawn. instead, it irritates him, igniting tiny sparks under his ruined skin. he wants to wrap both hands around his neck and throttle him until those mismatched eyes roll back into his damn skull. but his hands are staying by his side. shoto's pushing through everything to stand his ground.
just like he used to do to defend their mother. a little brat who'd never give up to accomplish his goal.]
Come with me. [that's all he says as he turns away from the young hero. smoke and leather catch on the breeze as it rounds as well and blows past him towards shoto, carrying his coat's shredded tails behind him. head ducked into the collar, silver hair rustling against his brow as he heads into the gentle zephyr. we could do... something, shoto says. that's morbidly hopeful. and yet it's the thing that worked. that and something else.
the trip's not far, and he stays silent through all of it, but eventually the door to an abandoned building nearby closes behind them and he heads into the foyer. there's nothing here that indicates it's a base, an official stop, a trap, anything. it's a stopgap wreck to shield them from the eyes of any lunatic that might be out here in the most unlucky of times. for the lunatic. with a rustle of material, he shrugs out of his coat, catching it on his elbows before shucking it off his hands. it's silent acceptance of those clothes shoto brought, willing to change and be "toya" for a little bit just for his little brother's sake. why? ... well-]
Happy Birthday.
[it's his gift.]
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Date: 3/30/24 23:34 (UTC)he can feel the urge, curling beneath his skin: the urge to light up in flame, in ice, the urge to put a barrier between them, to keep dabi from getting closer, to keep him from doing whatever it is he's going to do. come with me might be ominous enough, but it's the movement, the smell of him, that acrid curl of smoke and the creak of leather; he feels his nerves explode in his throat, a queasy tilt of his stomach with the sudden influx of anxious worry. he thinks that maybe he's pushed it too far, now, that maybe this is all the patience that dabi has in the world, for him, and maybe that's deserved--maybe he should have fought harder, maybe he should have snuck out, maybe he should have done anything to close the gap between them. to find some level ground. to not let the world and the expanse of the todoroki estate and their father keep them apart.
but nothing terrible happens. dabi turns, pivots away from him, and immediately, without thinking, his own hands grope down, feeling for the handles of the bag between his feet. he doesn't want to trip over it--he swings it up, hooks it onto the crook of one arm, and he immediately pedals after him, padding quietly, kept at an arm's length distance.
of course it's possible that this is a trap, still. nothing about his brother's countenance has changed, really, except that he might have heard just a touch of bemusement and resentment in that comment about his size--but he doesn't reveal anything else, doesn't really show that he feels any differently than he had when he'd first appeared. quiet, he keeps at his heels, following him silently on a path that could lead him towards the rest of the league of villains, or something even worse: but in the end, it only leads him to a small, quiet place, an abandoned building with a door that creaks with disuse as he fits it into place behind them. here, there's no one waiting for them--nothing waiting but the quiet, open space, and for a moment, he's confused.
and then dabi shrugs out of his coat--and immediately his own chin ducks down, embarrassed.
happy birthday. what kind of person asks for their brother to get undressed, for their birthday? he can feel his skin heating in mortification, a flush to his cheeks and his ears as he nods, faintly, and tries to do what he needs to do. the bag catches on his wrist, for a moment, before he wrenches it off--and sets it down, crouching behind it so that he can carefully dig through the contents and pull out a large, oversized black t-shirt, a large, oversized zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans, awkwardly holding them in his arms before he takes a breath and then, just as awkwardly, rises up to his feet again to hold them out to dabi. )
You can look at...these. ( he has no idea why he's so embarrassed. why is this embarrassing? he swallows, slow, and stubbornly jerks his gaze up to meet dabi's, solemn. ) If you don't like any of them, I'll put them back in the bag for you to take home.
( he stumbles over the last word, a little clumsy--should he have said something else? take...back to base? back to...the league? he swallows, and falls silent. )
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Date: 4/5/24 00:48 (UTC)that's kind of tempting... what would their faces be like if they saw the family's golden idol dead in a hovel in the woods? no glorious battle or newsworthy feat to commemorate his passing. just a foolish little kid who followed someone he shouldn't somewhere he shouldn't.]
Don't keep me waitin. [quiet but irritable, a proverbial jab in shouto's back to force him into the building and out of sight so the door can swing shut and lock them in like a jaw clamping down. the darkness could let him do whatever he wanted. attack, escape, confuse, but instead, he's shrugging off his coat and sucker punching his little kid brother with the strangest two-word acceptance shouto ever heard. his response is nothing short of expected: tense, embarrassed, polite, all the elements of a well-trained young man mom and dad should be so damn proud of. what a prude. leather flutters through air and lands atop the nearby table with a clattering flop, arms spreading as the cuffs roll. while shouto fishes in the bag, he busies his hands in the hem of his shirt, stripping off to reveal the severe damage endeavor encouraged on his flesh. burned to ash, faulty repaired, scorching repeatedly as he lays his own skin down on the path to hell. whatever clothes shouto's offering, surely he won't want back. did he get these out of the donations bin? despite the name on the bag, he has no thought the hero would have wasted money on that.
one piece after the next appears and he's left to take in the sight of these gifts. a villain who can get new clothes any time he wants is getting handed clothes brought to him by his estranged shit of a sibling. how much of him would like to set shouto and his presents up in smoke? a fair amount. yet he acquiesced. the kid looks like a disciple holding out offerings to some pagan god. it'd be flattering if it weren't so pathetic.]
You're still so awkward. Haven't those kids rubbed off on ya? [a swipes the bundle from shouto with slender fingers. passing the material of the shirt between thumb and index, he gives it a brief inspection (that's what you do for gifts still, right?) before pulling it on over his head. tufts of white stick out the collar for a second before the entire burst follows as he gets it past his noise, jaw, and finally around his neck. oversized isn't bad, but if it's oversized on shouto, it's also on him. he rolls his shoulders, popping one, and rounds his neck to adjust the shirt on his torso, lanky arms falling through the sleeves. at least it's black? which clashes with his hair, though that's hardly against his previous aesthetic: white shirt black hair.] Where'd ya get these? It wasn't at that store.
[call him out on that fact while sliding the hoodie on like a jacket. oh... this is nice actually. kinda heavy enough that it feels conforming without shoving into his face. he flips the hoodie up over his head, then works on his boots. so he can ditch the pants. probably not necessary, but if he's two out of three already...]
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Date: 4/7/24 22:33 (UTC)they're not so harsh, here, but he's still prepared for them. his shoulders are tight, as dabi speaks, but he only harps on him for his awkwardness, something that he can admit hasn't gotten nearly as better as he wants it to be. and maybe that's just because this is the kind of person he is, deep down: the kind of person that has too much kindness, the kind of person that's a little too naive in all the wrong ways. he accepts the criticism and says nothing; his gaze stays, trained on the floor, but his hands drop as dabi accepts the clothes, and he considers that a significant win, on his side. at least dabi's willing to go along with a few things.
his hands smooth out, seeking the pockets of his own jacket. )
No, it wasn't. ( he can admit that, at least--though he seems reluctant to say where he happened to acquire the clothes at all. rather, he forces his gaze to stay rooted at his feet, as though he shouldn't watch his brother change despite everything. maybe there's a part of him that worries he'll be encouraged to do all kinds of things if he catches sight of the way his skin has only gotten worse. ) I got your...cake, at this store.
( he braces for the criticism, again--but his lips are pressed into a determined line. he's content to accept harsh words about himself, about his demeanor, about his abilities or about his existence at all, but when it comes to something that he thinks dabi needs, or deserves, he's going to argue if he has to.
birthdays deserve sweet things. he's already made that point. and like always, he's stubbornly clinging to what he believes in. )
You can take it back with you. But I thought we could... ( he tries not to be awkward, tries to keep his voice even. ) ...I had an idea. For something to do. Together. Now.
( oh, yeah. absolutely not awkward at all. )
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Date: 4/10/24 20:47 (UTC)every shameful glare turned towards endeavor for being an abuser. every piecing question fuyumi had to answer from her little shit students as the staff wondered if she was capable to serve in her job. every whispered comment natsuyo had to endure on his campus as people gossiped about his being the son of such a man. every guilty look or pitying interaction shoto would be forced to weather under at u.a. as students, staff, and refugee wondered whether to treat him as a poor suffering victim or worry when he'd snap like his father and brother and mother, ending up an abusive monster, an insane villain, or a fragile headcase. and every single one of those realities would only loop back in a torturous return to endeavor himself, forced to watch the world judge his spawn, his mate, and himself, for every failure, every crime, every punishment, every shame. because none of those secrets were secrets anymore. everyone knew. everyone could talk about it. every wound laid bare for family, friends, acquaintances, allies, enemies, and millions of stupid, ignorant strangers to stick their fingers in and stir around forever as they talked about it over and over.
that pain.
which is ironically not happening now as he accepts the clothes from his little brother. he never had a birthday with shoto. he wasn't allowed to his older siblings' parties and they never got to spend his with him. all because toya tried to murder his baby brother in the past. is it fitting the first time he ever got to embrace shoto in his life was due to another attempt to kill him? perhaps that's their destiny, to do this forever until one wins. his brother's too kind, too naive, too gentle despite the life he grew up in. makes him sick. makes him jealous. apparently makes him willing to pull the hoodie down over his hips and lift his arms to test out the hang and comfort of the material. again, not bad. this feels ridiculous, but it's a birthday for both of them. aren't they usually supposed to be kind of stupid?]
You can look at me. I ain't gonna burn your eyes out. [his dry tone carries mild exasperation but twinged with sarcastic amusement. what's up with this kid anyways? he's boring holes in the ground with his eyes, as if desperately trying to avoid lifting them. he originally thought it was out of respect as he changed, but now he's starting to blister under the idea shoto's disgusted by him, doesn't want to see the damage their father did to him, avoids acknowledging his brother is a disfigured corpse still burning on borrowed time. or perhaps it's something else... even stranger.]
Ya really went all out for this. [what kind of face would shoto make if he torched it all? sent the cake, these clothes, up in flames. a complete rejection of every nice gesture the stupid kid went out of his way to do. show him just how foolish it was to try and love someone who hated your very existence... for depriving him of his own. he shouldn't accept any of this, should hate it, and does, but yet... there are no flames. he says he feels nothing, yet even to natsuo, toya once admitted he'd been in the wrong for trying to attack shoto. an innocent boy brought about by endeavor's mad ambitions. all of them were nothing but victims. it's unfortunate his little brother is choosing the wrong side. he can't understand how shoto came to that conclusion. doesn't want to anymore. the decision's been made, the die cast, and the battle lines drawn.
this is just a birthday gift. the first and final present he'll ever give his little brother.]
Do I look safe enough to hug now? [he rolls his shoulders, taps the toes of his boots on the ground, wearing the shirt, hoodie, and pants shoto brought for him. granted, he obviously still looks like himself, just casual and goth without the intimidating coat and stitched pants. probably looks more like a hoodlum than a villain, but whatever. the kid went out of his way to do all of this for him, even trusting his words. the idea of taking his cake back with him is amusing. no way is he going to let those idiots have his cake. it's his. they can fuck off.]
I'm waitin. [for a hug? for his cake? for the continuation of whatever shoto's struggling to drag out of his mouth in that stumbling awkward sort of way. he's acting like a shy schoolgirl trying to talk to her crush...]
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Date: 4/20/24 22:24 (UTC)but that kindness, the desperation to be recognized, just once. to have dabi accept something from him that isn't the confused, angry words on the battlefield, or the longing looks from his childhood, wanting to be close to something that he had been forbidden to be near. to have something he's done and something he's gotten be taken in by dabi. if he torched all that, it would feel like devastation: like a bridge, fully burned.
so he doesn't look up, not until he hears the fabric stop rustling. then, his chin lifts, a slow, canting gaze of mismatched eyes that take in the boots, the pants, the long hem of the hoodie. when his eyes finally land on dabi's face, it's with a slow, almost satisfied glimmer to them; he doesn't smile, but it feels like he might if he doesn't think so hard to stop it. he figures dabi would probably think of him as a creep if he did that. )
Is that what you want? ( he finally says, slowly--a little cautious, burning with curiosity. it's an odd request, but then he figures that it could be designed to get under his skin, that maybe dabi wants to remind him of that burning, aching grip he'd had on him, torching him from the inside out with their proximity. he can still hear the twisting lunacy in dabi's voice, gasping so close to his ear: if you get burned by my flames, what kind of expression do you think dad'll show me?
his throat hurts, for a moment, burned with the memory. but he's come this far, he's gotten to this point, he can't just shake his head or force more distance between them. the whole purpose had been to clear it, and if he has to walk on glass to do it, has to risk the fact that he might go up in flames, at the end, he still has to do it anyway. ) I'll hug you.
( he says it like he has to telegraph it--but it's funny, really, the sort of thing he would say to anyone back at the dorm, too, solemn and sure. his sneakers brush forward, moving away from the shopping back; he walks slowly, hands lifting from his pockets so that he can reach, at first, for either of dabi's sleeves, curling his fingers into them to use them as an anchor to pivot himself further still. up close, he can see that there's no stopping it, anymore: the damage is starting to climb past the seams on dabi's face, starting to blur past the staples, and it makes his jaw lock, makes his fingers go tight, dragging away from the sleeves of that sweatshirt so that he can slowly crane his palms in against dabi's waist.
he's always been awkward about hugs. most of the time he just lets his arms hang down, uncertain of where to go, of how to touch. his mother had hugged him when he'd been small, clutching at him, keeping him close; but after she left, it'd only been the weight of his father's backhand to keep him grounded.
with a slow, shallow breath, he presses himself in against dabi's chest, chin hooking slightly over a shoulder, hands still fisted in against his waist. )
...You. ( slowly, cautiously: almost muffled. ) ...like piercings, right?
no subject
Date: 5/3/24 08:18 (UTC)what would be he look on his face if this effort went up in flames? would he look like endeavor, the distraught crushing weight of disbelief and pain smearing across his visage as he struggled for breath. not wanting to believe the facts in front of him as those touching thoughtful gifts burned to ash before him. did shouto really deserve any sort of kindness from him? this brat stole his very existence! ... yet it wasn't his fault. even in his insanity and hatred, there's that annoying little fact occasionally appearing in his mind, a silver fish in a sea of blackness. flicker, shine, there and gone, impossible to catch and kill, impervious to the corrupting flames that have consumed so many other memories. he hates shouto, he'd kill him without remorse, but it was never shouto's fault to be born.
what a pain. so he gives him this much. standing before him in clothes he didn't buy or find himself. clothed by someone else who picked out his covering for him. the last time that happened was well over fifteen years ago. a strange thought. as shouto takes in the sight, he's busy watching his face, crawling over the kid's eyes, lips, brows, to pick out each emotion lurking under the usual blase frame. seems the little doll's started to grow a personality under there.]
I'm waitin. [repeating it with the same dry tone, lifted at the very end with the hint of annoyance that comes on the verge of an impatient action waiting to shove forward. is it really such an odd request? shoto came here with a present, a cake, a birthday wish to be together, to do things he never did before. wouldn't something stupid like a hug be one of those never-before-experienced things? it wasn't like he asked for the embrace high above the ground the last time. such a tense body beneath his arms, struggling so hard to resist burning up without the ability to break free. was his little brother so deprived of love that he'd even accept a fatal embrace from a revenant dragging him to hell? let him remember that feeling, the dread of death juxtaposed with the first embrace he ever received from his eldest brother. as he's offered a second one. all of this could be a trap, right? one wrong step, one mistake, one blink...
dad's not here though.
shoto didn't die in that battle because he deliberately released him, irritated the thigh couldn't watch. that memory should be enough to indicate the danger here is reined in by his older brother's insane need for bloodlust slaked on one person alone. spilling his life out in front of their father is the only way he wants to end his little brother's legacy. a pathetic torch in a little house on the edge of the city for endeavor to find later? what satisfaction would that bring him? the thought of it is as amusing as it is revolting. he didn't come this far to settle for that end. neither of them did. apparently shoto understands that well enough, with the agreement that tremors in his mouth.]
Don't catch fire. [oh he wasn't about to let shoto indulge in this without running a knife into the gift. let him remember the flames, remember the burning on his flesh, the heat suffocating his throat, and decide if he wants to risk it again. hug him while fearing him. this isn't some warm family reunion. it's a challenge, mocking shoto for even thinking he could enjoy something as domestic and familial as an embrace with his eldest brother. a cheap facade of what'll never be. go ahead and pretend, try to convince himself it's real, embrace someone who wants you dead on an altar before their father. it's not meant to be pleasant.
... it's not pleasant for him either. fingers catch at his sleeves, pull the material slightly against his arms. fabric brushes at his staples, catching the seams of his tortured flesh as shoto uses his shirt as some kind of lock. for himself or for his brother, he's not sure. but instead of running, the kid pushes forward and a slight tremor slithers through his muscles when those arms finally slide around his waist. it's not the same desperate clutching to his shoulders and back in a failed attempt to push him off as shoto writhed in pain amid his grasp earlier. tentative, exploring, even beseeching as they wind about his body for a proper, weird circle.
not like he has much experience in hugging either. toya used to run up and grab onto enji, but toya's dead. the only embraces the skeletal corpse standing before shoto knows are things his little brother shouldn't be hearing about from his older brother's mouth. that'd corrupt the kid... ah who's he kidding? shoto's a teenager. he's probably found someone to fuck him at his school. maybe they'll get into that conversation later.
what bothers him the most about this is just how damn tall his little brother is. they're practically the same height despite the nigh-ten year gap between them. even now, he feels his brother's shoulders against his own, slightly broader, a chest that's stronger, thicker torso and harder arms, different from his own wiry strength and scarred flesh compared to shoto's pure skin. that chin over his shoulder almost flares him up, eyes narrowing at the wall behind his brother's back. so much he got from their parents, all the good, all the strength, all the perfect... he wants to destroy it, tear him into pieces, leave him a scarred mess all over the floor no one would want to look at again. everything shoto is could've, should've, been his... his own life is hugging him.
god he fucking hates endeavor. there's no embrace back. too spurred on by the flood of vile in his chest. disgusted by the difference between them, how perfect shoto is, how much more life he has and growth promised. he wants to rip it away from him, hold it up and laugh at his dying form, shake that squirming "life" in his face as it curls into ash. shit, if he thinks about this further, he's going to kill him where he stands.
all he does is lean forward, spiky hair brushing past his brother's smooth strands, and rest his chin on shoto's shoulder. it keeps them close regardless, allowing the kid to do the lion's share of the embrace. but he stands there with him, resting his head against his little brother's, throat against his collarbone so his jaw's shoved up against his teeth. as much as he hates it... there's a little something that goes along with that stupid fish inside. a tiny glimmer of what once was. it manages to keep all of that at bay for a few quiet moments.
he can't hug him back. not this way. if he does, he'll kill him. but the quiet rest against him, leaning into the embrace, accepting that at the very least... he can manage it. maybe he'll try again later tonight. maybe.]
They're just a middle finger to those idiots. Somethin I could feel. [he didn't walk into a store and search out specifics for fashion or pleasure. it was a way to punch through his burned flesh and get a sense of sensation once more, as well as throw that perfect boy image away rei and enji wanted for their children.] Whaddya bring somethin?
no subject
Date: 5/12/24 22:08 (UTC)it's that hope that he thinks dabi wanted to strike down, in the both of them--in their father, more than him, but his presence in that fight had been the perfect bonus, the cherry placed on top of the stormy sundae he'd given to them. making amends, trying to spend time with his children, coaxing at natsuo, thanking fuyumi: endeavor had been working so hard to acknowledge his wrongs and try to move forward past them, and there dabi had been, dragging him back into a past that he'd created. smashing that sense of hope. killing those dreams. if he's honest with himself, somewhere deep down inside, he can't say he doesn't understand it: but there's an insanity to dabi's revenge that he can't support, the way that he would be willing to sacrifice any life, any person, any hope, in order to crush endeavor's entire life. the way he would have let their brother die if it had hurt endeavor further.
and there's still hope, here, in the impatient way that dabi coaxes him into a hug. there's hope, when he doesn't light them both up in flames, when he doesn't dig his hands in and send a burst of blue right into the pit of his back. there's hope that maybe there's something he can do here, something he can change here, or that dabi's arms will lift and hook around him and hold him close; there's a sickening twist in the pit of his stomach, a heart that rabbits in excitement, and a trickling stream of dread that works its way through all of it. that hope isn't there. his arms go around dabi's waist, fingers pressing into him, and he gets the warm, stiff weight of his brother in his arms--but nothing further. he won't hug him back.
it shouldn't bother him. but he'd been foolish, and that teaches him: his lips press together, swallowing, waiting, and dabi's chin rests on his shoulder, bony and hard. he doesn't mind it. maybe it's even dabi's way of conceding something to him, in terms of the hug, as though he can't look past all his hatred, but maybe some of it. he doesn't ask.
instead, he lets out a cool breath, swallows down those hurt feelings, and forges on. )
Oh. ( it makes sense: and there's another dash to his hope, his plan starting to fall apart at the seams. but he's too far into it now to really backpedal, can't take any of it back, so: ) I thought we could...go. Get something...pierced. Together.
( after all, that would be some measure of balance, right? endeavor would rather throttle him than see his perfect creation marked up again--and his life wouldn't be at the mercy of dabi's firepower. some sort of wobbling compromise that he thinks suits everyone well enough--had been his thought, anyway. )
no subject
Date: 5/17/24 05:50 (UTC)he hoped endeavor lived each battle he fought in. the nomu. starservant. ending. he was elated when endeavor became the number one hero, caught off guard when he found himself desiring his father achieve that position. and he hoped shoto and enji were both there at that battle. god, he'd been downright giddy with glee at seeing them, the look on endeavor's face when he revealed the truth, hearing shoto screaming for his dear daddy to stand up and move because they were about to die. even now the memory gives him chills down his corpse. it felt so good... he'd dredge hell itself up to this world if that's what it took to make sure endeavor stayed entrenched in his past. every chain, every hook, every weight stayed in place no matter what effort he made to better himself. there's no getting growth out of a burned-out log. hope for a better future? over my dead body. the past never dies! and he'll step on every sliver of hope that shows itself in enji's life to snuff it out. a monster like that doesn't deserve to hope. not even for a quiet death.
do you know what it feels like to lose hope? ... do you? ... it felt like that.
one day, he'll be able to say that. one day, enji will know exactly what he felt up there on sekoto's peak. when he realized his father wasn't coming. when it finally hit him... no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he burned, no matter how tightly he held onto that tiny bit of hope, enji would never look at him.
he wants him to know exactly how that felt. the despair and agony of his sorrow when he realized how completely worthless his life, his existence, was. no one, nothing, will get in his way to experience that. this is his hope now.
so then, what the hell's he doing like this? opening his arms so his little brother can come in for a hug. it's fucking ridiculous. he hates it, his skin bristles inside and out. body pulling in half, gristle of his own meat straining in one direction to burn shoto alive, in the other to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze until his throat crushes inward like a can. but instead, his hands are far lower, hanging by his side like dead weight. no flames, no heat, just the urge to throw up on his neck. or sink his teeth in and rip out a plug of flesh. fuck, he doesn't know what he wants right now. one hug and everything snarls into a jarring mess of revulsion and directionless want. his heart slams in his chest, excited and anxious for the thrill of murdering shoto again, but furious because he knows he's not going to.
nothing. he feels nothing. no desire to embrace him right now. so he settles for the bone of his chin upon his brother's shoulder, his jaw resting close to his nape. it's all he can and will give him right now. shoto will have to accept the compromise. it is conceding. he's touching him. he's not burning him. he's letting his little brother hug him and be close to him without tearing him open. thankfully there's no foolish questions. far too much stuffed inside, hating and burning as the person who replaced his life and purpose for existing embraces him. don't talk to him about hurt feelings. you don't know the meaning of the phrase...]
Hm? [did shoto really think there was some deep meaning to his mutilation? nah, that's what these scars represent. all the silver holds him together and a few are just there cause he could. and yet, there's a momentary, noticeable pause in his very core when his little brother mentions that thought. breath stilling, head twitching in notice, chin lifting almost imperceptively, as if he had to turn his attention to make sure his scorched ears heard right. the perfect little prince wanted to get something pierced... together. daddy's precious puppet, marred once again. it's such a mixture of teenage rebellion, stupid childish hope, a rude gesture, and individual decision.
his breath isn't a laugh, but not simply an amused exhale. something between the two, audibly enjoying the idea. what would enji's face look like when he saw that? the questions, the ire, or perhaps it'd be a secret just between the two of them? what a pathetic suggestion. and yet it's incredible. ridiculous enough to work.] Ya know... that actually sounds good.
[quick. just a few seconds. that's all shoto gets. a tiny period of time as he lifts his scarred arms and wraps around his little brother's body. shoulder blades against his forearm, the diamond of his back curving under the other. he digs his fingers into the kid's shirt, a quiet embrace that's as possessive as it is callous. with only the tiniest bit of warmth. yet it's a hug. a reward for the idea. is it really any surprise the only chance shoto'd have to bond with his brother would spark off with a "fuck you" to endeavor?]
no subject
Date: 6/2/24 23:34 (UTC)and rather than endeavor? now it's dabi, here, that he finds himself desperately seeking acknowledgement from. it's dabi that he wants to touch him, dabi that he wants to have hug him back like he matters. it's not the way it should be, and he knows it; it's not the way he should be thinking, and he can acknowledge it.
but it doesn't stop that little hitch of breath, when he feels dabi's arms tighten, just slightly, around him to hug him back. it doesn't stop the way that he swallows, that his face flushes, a shade of embarrassed pleasure that echoes there for a moment before he forces it away. it feels like he's said something right, that he's said something that gets dabi's approval, out of all things--and all it takes is the offer to punch a hole through his skin somewhere. he fights back the urge to smile.
it's harder to fight back the urge to tighten in again himself--his fingers curl, a gentle, plaintive tug at the material before he realizes himself and drops his hands. if he tries to climb right into dabi's skin with him, would that feel better, or worse? head bowing, he offers a step back, as though to give his brother the silent approval to separate entirely if he wants to. )
I was thinking... ( now this is where his inexperience shows--his tongue presses over his lips, considering, before he continues. ) ...beneath my shirt.
( it would be too obvious in his face: and though he might not care what endeavor thinks of it, he isn't quite sure he wants to invoke the wrath of aizawa-sensei, if it came to it. then again, he thinks that this whole meeting has to operate on a careful balance of compromise: something that he has the feeling his brother isn't very keen on in general.
still--he's trying, his gaze hardened as he draws back further to look at dabi's face. )
You can pick where. I thought my navel, maybe. ( it's somehow embarrassing to be proposing this to his brother, but here they are. )
no subject
Date: 6/12/24 21:27 (UTC)and then it broke. revealed itself to be a flawed creation, unable to handle the burden of those lofty schemes. rejected, abandoned, and ultimately serving as nothing more than a shameful reminder of why it needed to be replaced. so endeavor didn't have to look at it anymore. sometimes he wonders if that monster had been relieved upon his death. nothing changed after all. his butsudan was more for his wife and other vessels out of tradition, wasn't it...
questions he could ask shouto, considering they're here together right now. heartbeat strong in his chest, arms around him with a grip promising growing strength, just barely under his older brother's height. (was he the only one who got the worst genes out of the four of them?) if shouto's really looking to him for acknowledgment, he's not going to find the kind he wants from endeavor here. it won't hurt him to admit his little brother's gotten stronger. he's already realized that from watching him all these years. but is that really what shouto wants to hear from him?
what a weakling. it's barely a hug and this kid's catching his breath and swallowing back feelings like he voiced a tender compliment of brotherly affection for him. the last time he hugged shouto, he'd tried to murder him. and the thought of doing that again still flickers in his mind as a tempting option. probably going to be present the entire night. mah, wouldn't be the first time he's dwelt on those morbid thoughts for hours on end. they're entertaining, comforting even.
he glances away to the wall, a wry expression on his usually uninterested visage when shouto's fingers tug into the fabric of his hoodie. it's not like he's forgotten the times he used to cling to natsuo like this. wanting his attention and comfort, anything to balm the choking pain in his chest. a plea for something, anything, to stop the corroding existence inside him as his life ate itself away more agonizing than any burn in his flesh. shouto's doesn't have that same dire life, does he. the golden child who was actually wanted, who could succeed where the first three failed.]
Ya don't think your classmates are gonna notice a stud in ya navel or nipple?
[his tone dips taunting amusement as shouto backs off and gives him space while he slips his hands into his pockets. he knows those kids shower together in the dorms and change together for hero training. there's no hiding this from them. turquoise eyes linger on his little brother's body, taking a look one place or another. of course shouto's inexperienced in this. endeavor would never let his kids put a hole in their bodies. even as an adult, fuyumi still hadn't gotten her ears pierced. it's one of the reasons he'd stabbed himself in the ears multiple times, punched a trio of them in the side of his nose, gleaming metal "fuck you's" to their prim and proper family just to be the biggest disappointment and stain he could on the todoroki name.
but perhaps there's a tiny bit of compromise in this daring venture if he's discouraging his little brother from putting a ring in his nip. instead, he reaches up and lazily flicks his middle finger against shouto's earlobe. his own burnt off a long time ago. but they're right here on this brat's ears. obvious is the point. and who give a shit what his teachers think? unless pieced ears aren't allowed at u.a. he rather doubts it.]
Start small. Ya gonna get caught sooner or later. Don't make it weird.
no subject
Date: 6/17/24 21:43 (UTC)the problem is that he hadn't been cruel every second of every day, as much as he wants to remember it that way: the problem is there had been kinder moments, too, washed into the harsh severity of everything he had done. moments where he had smiled, where he had praised, moments where he had allowed him things like books he wanted or some toys to keep him entertained. and he had learned how to anticipate that by the step of endeavor's weight down the hall, by the glowing look in his eyes during training.
he can't find those clues, here. it's been so long since he's even seen touya's face that he can't remember what anything meant at all, those few times he watched, longingly, past the glass windows, when he snuck out every once in awhile to see his siblings playing together in the computer room or down the other hallways. he hadn't been around touya enough to know what it looked like when he smiled, or what made him smile; he doesn't know it about natsuo, either, still learning from his older brother about his mannerisms, the way he talks, his desires, his dreams. fuyumi is a bit easier to read: and maybe that's just because he can tell when she's lying, can tell when she's running away from something she doesn't want to acknowledge.
and dabi is an entirely different creature. he doesn't know what that look on his face means, doesn't know if he can trust the amusement he hears in his voice. at the very least, dabi's words hit the mark--his face flushes in scowling embarrassment, lifting up one of his stunted hands so that he can rub at the back of his neck. of course. his classmates. not that he thinks any of them would be weird about it, but it's possible.
but he can't just give up, here. he takes in a breath--and dabi flicks in against his earlobe, and he swallows down his words. don't make it weird.
is he--making it weird? there's a small bubble of fear in his throat, that maybe dabi's seen something through him, something he doesn't fully understand in himself--but he nods, a dip of his chin, forcing himself away from that. )
Ah. Right. ( he licks his lips. ) Okay. I'll start there.
( one of his hands lifts, pulling gently at his earlobe in thought; rather than move in again, he takes a purposeful step away, nodding down towards the bag. )
You carry it. It's yours, anyway. I'll lead the way.
( he tries to sound a little bit confident, even though it's against all of his training to turn his back on dabi and start walking back towards the entrance. )
no subject
Date: 6/30/24 21:47 (UTC)everything in that house blackened. four years of happiness became nothing more than the crank of a gun ready to go off, those smiles and peaceful times darkened in the realization it hadn't been happiness, but rather the impatient waiting for his quirk to emerge so he could become to vessel his father always wanted him to be. ever since the start, he was nothing more than the crystallization of endeavor's ambitions. only a boy foolish enough to never see it until those aspirations leaked out of his burning body and that creature's face darkened in despair and disappointment.
year after year, the distance got wider, the only coldness he's ever known in his life sewed the icy needle of abandonment through his flesh, ever closer to his heart. until finally that masterpiece was born and his existence flatlined. he remembers the look on endeavor's face, the plunged feeling in his chest as if a vice wrapped around his hear and crushed it. hopeless... that's what he saw whenever he looked at shouto. his replacement, his purpose for being, his perfect self that he'd never be. as fuyumi and natsuo looked in awe down at the baby in the cradle, he lurked behind them and drifted out of the room, torn between burning jealousy and drowning sorrow. looking at shouto made him sick. he never wanted to learn anything about him, except what endeavor had taught him. so he could rush back to sekoto as fast as his legs could take him and train on those very same moves. if shouto could do it, so could he! right? right?! RIGHT?!
he doesn't know who this creature is in front of him, has never bothered enough to learn intimately. he knows his skill, he knows his leanings, he knows his friends, he knows his moves, his tendencies, he knows his personality, he spent as much time watching shouto as he did endeavor. he knows everything about him, even the room he sleeps in at his little school. and yet he doesn't know who the boy is standing a few feet from his body. a puppet created for a dream he wants to burn. perhaps that's what makes it easier to talk to him now. because he doesn't care.
it's cute almost, how shouto flushes in embarrassment and scuffs at his nape like a guilty child called out on a crush. reminded of a bit of reality to drag that habit of flying high in a dream back to the ground. even in something as simple as this, the boy's tempted to get his head lost in proverbial clouds. he can't, or won't, but him right now, but this is another way of doing just that, isn't it. poking little holes in his rose-tinted view, taunting him for his ignorance, enjoying himself as shouto's expense because his little brother simply doesn't know any better.]
It'll hurt less than most other places. [right, does shouto know it's going to hurt? probably, but he can still talk to him as if he doesn't. the bag? he drops his eyes to the item on the ground. right, he put his usual clothes in there. tempting to kick it aside and leave it here, but the train stops nearby after all.] Cruel. Makin me do work on my birthday.
[but he picks it up with bent knees and curled fingers, free hand tugging the jacket hood further over his head. never was one to like being told what to do. still, shouto said these things were his, and there's a defensive claim to them, like a stray dog snarling over a thrown bone. following the young hero out of the building, he emerges into the moonlit night once more, stopping when he's shoulder to should with the kid he's going to kill eventually.] If ya get in trouble, I ain't helpin.
[that's a loaded statement shouto's free to take in any flavor he wants.]
no subject
Date: 7/4/24 21:58 (UTC)and that could be the end of it, here. his back turned, dabi could reach in, snap his neck, and be done with it all; he could light him up and start a war, here, in some quiet town, at the edge of the city, and they could die, or he could die, far away from anyone else. maybe that would be fitting, in some way, two pieces of the same whole clashing together just for nothing; maybe endeavor would deserve that agony, if he's cruel enough to think it. he doesn't want to think it.
but his brother comes in at his side, instead. past the broken down building, back onto the street, his hood pulled up, their shoulders touching. he chokes on a shallow breath of relief; his hands sink down into the pockets of his own jacket, willing warmth into them there, and trying not to find himself delighted with the fact that they're walking side by side instead of dabi's hand clutched over the back of his neck, forcing and guiding him like a dog.
his chin ducks a little, a solemn nod. )
I know. No one will help.
( there's not aching plead for pity, in his voice--just quiet resolution. it might be something of a lie: could he call midoriya, if he got into trouble, here or otherwise? it's possible. he's the kind of friend that would maybe understand; kirishima, iida, bakugou, any of them might at least listen long enough to save him. but does he want to be saved? does he really need someone else to do it? he's strong enough on his own, and more than that, or more selfishly than that, he doesn't want to share.
even if all it amounts to is his brother's ire, his brother's hatred of him--he doesn't want to share.
mismatched eyes glance up, then out, reassuring the street name, calculating and matching it up with the map he studied on the way here; he tilts his head, silent, in indication. the shop's open late, near a bar, and there should be no trouble: although he might look a little young, his height will probably get him through without ID or anything, and dabi definitely looks old enough, and menacing enough, not to be questioned. )
Just a block or two past here. ( softly, so that his brother knows how long. ) I'll pay. What...are you going to get...?
no subject
Date: 7/19/24 17:53 (UTC)as tempting as it is to press his hand against shouto's back and burn him to cinders, he leaves his hand by his side. he spent too long thinking about how he wanted to do it and isn't about to mess that up just for a cheap thrill. endeavor needs to suffer far longer than this. he wants the man to know shouto's going to die. what kind of mistakes will their number one make when he continues playing hero under the scorching knowledge of his child's dying efforts? he certainly never cared enough to be distracted over touya's death. it makes his blood boil to know his father was far more broken over dabi revealing himself to be alive. now he cared. right...
how many more times with endeavor invade their little moment together? probably a lot. he's the common factor between them. his genes flow through their veins, with shouto having almost all the good ones. he only got the firepower. and his eyes. even enji's hair left, sickened at having to be a part of this failure. as he steps out into the night, there's a brief flicker in his eyes of second thought. not fear. not caution. not even disinterest. simply wondering if he wanted to. it's one to thing to play at being a hero. it's something else entirely to play at being family. just how pathetic can they be? ... apparently plenty.]
What a brave kid. [he doubts that's true. many people would come running to shouto's aid. all those friends from school, other heroes he's probably got on speed dial, endeavor himself once he heard of it, the police. as soon as someone realized dabi was with shouto, their little whatever this is will be shattered like glass to the ground. well, someone reputable. other criminals wouldn't say anything. in fact, that might cause him to step in. he hasn't said anything to the rest of the league but... no one's taking out shouto except for him. that's his right. selfish or obsessed. who knows.
there's a quiet sound from his side, half in thought, half in curiosity. shouto's done his research to have already picked out a spot. it's not surprising. none of enji's spawn are stupid. but as for what he's going to get... he's already pierced himself so many times. defying the precious "clean" image his mother and father wanted their children to have. grasping for a moment where his mangled body can again feel something. enjoying the intimidation his image brings in those wide eyes whenever people see him for the first time. but what to get that's a match for shouto? something that they get together, to always remind him of his little brother when looking at it.]
Didja bring cash? Ya ain't gonna want dad seein that on your statement. [as if he won't see it gleaming in shouto's ear the next time the two cross paths.] I'm thinkin about right here.
[and reaches up to brush a long finger across his eyebrow. he's running out of real estate on his ears, his lips are fucked, and he doesn't want his nose being too busy. something unique just for this little brat.]
no subject
Date: 7/25/24 20:26 (UTC)( --is something he almost didn't think of. a part of him had wondered if it would be enough just to use his card and have enji see it on there, some small part of him still rebelling in the way he had when he'd been younger, keeping things secret, keeping things closed. it wouldn't have mattered to him: enji could rage about it all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the fact that he had done it and would possibly do it again. the pain isn't really much of a deterrent, and if by some great miracle touya actually likes being around him, in so much as might be possible, they could do it again. he'd go again, take the trouble of riding out to the very edges of the city just to see him.
something like that reeks of desperation. he doesn't have to be told to know it's true: that it's pathetic, a little, and to what end? it's not like he has any delusions that he can talk touya down from what he wants to do, that he can convince him that at least tolerating enji is better than spilling with the vehement hate and howling pain that touya must have. he can't erase the things that have been done, can't fix what's being done now; he hadn't been lying when he'd agreed with natsuo, that their father can do as much as he wants to try to atone, but that doesn't necessarily earn him forgiveness. endeavor is a great hero: enji is a terrible father.
in the end, it's going to be up to him--he knows that enji can't, won't be able to do much of anything, standing in front of touya. and maybe a part of him, as delusional as it might be, thinks that if they stand face to face on the battlefield, some tiny part of touya might hesitate, even for a moment, in the face of him if they've spent this time together. if he's learned what he could about him, hungry for it, desperate to know things about the brother that was always kept from him, same as the others. even if all it does is temper dabi's flames for a split second, it might be the split second that he needs. effort spent towards something is never wasted, at least not like this.
there's a solemn nod, his hands feeling in his pockets for his wallet. )
I have cash. But I don't mind using the...
( --card, he'd wanted to say. but his gaze gets drawn up, encouraged there by touya's fingers, and he can't help it: he smiles, a little bashfully, nodding with a slow approval into the collar of his jacket. )
...Ah. There. I think that would look...good on you.
( and there it goes again, that sort of bashful, uncomfortable feeling that has him jerking his head away, focused instead on the path in front of him. it's an odd feeling, to know that he's being strange, to know that the feeling is strange, and being able to recognize it is half the battle; he just isn't equipped well enough to fight the rest of it. instead, he falls into silence as they work down the sidewalk, past a closed cafe, some sort of used bookstore, and then another block to the glowing neon sign in the window of the piercing parlor.
rather than make a comment, he simply drags the door open, hand pulled from his pocket: because this way he can't be abandoned, if he goes in first. instead, he holds that door like a gentleman, eyeing touya, expectant, for him to slip inside first. )
no subject
Date: 8/5/24 00:33 (UTC)the t-shirt is kind of itchy, because it's new. not the familiar loose hang of a shirt over-worn and run through so many stolen laundry cycles. the hoodie jacket isn't fresh out of the package though, despite the luxury brand shopping bag it all came in. each step pumps a tiny thought in the back of his mind like a separate heartbeat: again? will they do this again? him and shoto. this brat who grew up with a golden spoon in one hand and a bundle of blood in the other. there's a part of him that wants to laugh over how much shoto suffered at the hands of that monster. he wasn't born perfect; he was beaten, burned, molded into enji's idea of perfect, all that "useless" flayed off him in the crucible of his childhood. he should laugh. he even smiled like a maniac upon hearing how close natsuo came to death.
but he's never once felt true mirth over his little brother's agony at enji's hands. only disgust and anger.
and he's not sure he likes that. it confuses him the scant times that thought swims past. it's easier to shove it away and dwell on something else. why waste the time on that when he knows they'll come to blows later. shoto's going to get in his way. he wants to take down that monster, but this perfect puppet will have one more dance with him first. that's fine. it was his initial plan to serve shoto's head to endeavor before killing him. the breeze carries across his little brother's body and drifts past his face, catching the scent of his shampoo and conditioner, the faintest whiff of ice. he could've killed him so long ago, but enji got in the way. this time, there won't be an interruption. it renders what they're doing now completely meaningless. to him. not so to the kid next to him.
that almost makes shoto even more fucked-up in the head than him. hoping. insane.
he brought cash.]
Really? When didja start lookin through piercing catalogs? [his tone's not as biting, irritably, more amused that shoto would even consider what looks good in terms of shoving a piece of metal through his skin. this brat doesn't have the head or heart to be sarcastic, so the comment is unflinchingly truthful. he thinks it'd look good. dropping his hand, it retreats to the safety of his pocket once more, head ducked slightly as the hood and his bangs cover the area once more in darkness. damn. he should've let him use the card.
there's no splash of puddle underfoot, the crunch of leaves, or the echo of empty cement. only the sound of twin steps that fall annoyingly in and out of sync with each other. shoto's long legs are able to keep up with his, no struggling effort to close the gap like he had to with natsuo when they were younger. until his growth spurt finally let that stunted boy named toya catch a minor break in his life. this guy got everything... even if it was smashed into him. his eyes occasionally flick to the windows they pass, instinctively checking for anything reflected that might trigger an alert. even in the open air of the city's edge, trust only goes so far.
the neon glow through the glass washes up his chest and blooms on his face, turquoise eyes lingering at the sign as the fluorescent buzz drones onto his skin to reach his ears. shoto's funny, not thinking for a moment he could shove the door shut in his face behind him. by now, he's in for the trip. concrete and wood grit all three steps up the tiny stairway to the door and he passes his brother through the doorway. one hand catching the door simply to spite his gentlemanly effort. he can't let it swing shut after him though. too bad. once inside, he hangs to the left for shoto to come to his flank. then simply rests a hand on the kid's shoulder.]
You're goin first. I'll make sure they don't butcher ya.
no subject
Date: 8/8/24 20:33 (UTC)unbidden, his lips twitch, a half of a smile, but he wipes it off his features easy enough. he doesn't want touya to take it the wrong way, when he stubbornly clings to the door and then nudges it with his shoulder to keep it open, trailing into the shop after him.
it's not a place he's ever seen: though he had, a few times, googled tattoo piercing parlour japan while riding the bus out to this place, hoping to figure out what he might be in for. the walls are dark, some of them decorated with art, some decorated with what he assumes to be options for tattoos; there are rooms, sectioned off not by doors but by curtains, and a larger open area with multiple tattoo chairs and cabinets and tables for tools--there are some customers here already, and some of the staff seem to just be chatting amongst themselves, creating a cacophony of sound and music and the buzzing of tattoo guns and other equipment.
immediately, his gaze lifts to touya--and then steadies itself onto the check-in desk, his jaw locked, emboldened by the hand on his shoulder. the woman behind the desk is checking something on the computer, but she brightens up, seeing them, and he takes a few steps forward, ensuring that touya is there, that his hand stays touching him. she asks what they're there for, and with another spare glance at touya, he answers: calmly, slowly, indicating on himself where he wants pierced, and then half-lifting a hand as though to touch touya before floundering and gesturing to it on his own face, instead. she tells them to wait a few minutes while she gets a room prepared; his gaze immediately goes back to touya like it's the most comfortable place for it to be. )
...Will you stand outside? Just...in case.
( it sounds childish, and it's not like he's afraid of the pain, but the uncertainty of not knowing how a situation will play out does make his stomach flip, a little--or maybe that's just the too-hot weight of touya's hand still on his shoulder. )
I'll be fine, but. You know.
no subject
Date: 8/14/24 22:23 (UTC)then why is he here, doing this with him? listening to this brat's request, standing with him in the foyer of the piercing parlor, decidedly not slamming the door shut in his face behind. a question not even he can formulate a complete answer to. irritation needles under his ruined flesh, leading his middle finger to absently scratch a blunt nail at the inside of his pocket. this is nothing more than a foolish imitation, some child desperate to have a semblance of an alternate.
whatever. let him have his fun. it will be one more thing to lose when his life goes up in smoke and ash. as shouto takes in the sights around him, he approaches the counter in in the front. rustic wood and a cross suggests this thing used to be a pulpit at some church before being stained with a new vocation. his eyes take a roam around the place, inspecting the setting. rooms partitioned by curtains, ostensibly for the shy or for intimate-area tattoos, open chairs and tables for smaller jobs and public work, frequent spots of cleaning materials between stations, medical boxes on the walls despite some garish decorations. this place took it's business seriously. he judges the place acceptable. initial inspection.
whoever this woman is, she's either very brave, very callous, or doesn't pay much attention to the news. he's experienced people running in terror when a known villain walks into their establishment. the hand on shouto's shoulder eases into a relaxed drape rather than a curled dragon claw directing his focus. if there's any confusion the two are together, it's made obvious enough with that. hn, that's a pathetic attempt to indicate his preference for a brow piercing. luckily the woman gets the implication and he doesn't have to explain the deflating gesture. once she indicates a room's getting ready, he steps back from the counter and draws shouto with him via a press of hand to shoulder front. it's only a brief retreat to the waiting area, where he looks only slightly down at his littlest brother. brat... what's the entreating look for? hopeful, comfortable, pleased.]
Aww, scared? [he knows he's not.] I ain't standin outside, idiot. [he turns his head back to the room, taking note of the staff he sees and the few patients in the open area chairs and tables. watching with hooded eyes that belie silent threat within their flickering color. needle and tattoo pen, touch and buzz, before a clean disinfectant wipe to soothe the skin, another section following soon after. he's actively making sure this place is treating their customers properly. turning over his brother to some moron isn't on his schedule tonight.] I'll be in the room, watchin ya the entire time.
[threatening the tattoo artist with implied death if they botch this.]
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Date: 8/24/24 04:49 (UTC)for better or for worse, he thinks that even his brother's sanity might extend to, at the very least, keeping himself from being exposed. if he really wants endeavor gone, if that's really his goal, if he wants to kill them both: well, he can't get caught by someone here, then, can he?
with a short swallow, his skin flushing slightly in embarrassment, he feels his stomach bottom out when touya says i ain't standin outside like that means he intends to leave him there after all. his mouth opens, ready to retort, ready to offer a quietly petulant demand--but the clarification has his mouth snapping shut, a small nod of his chin, gaze sliding elsewhere. )
Oh. ( prolific as always, the silence stretches there for a moment--before he nods again, satisfied. ) Okay. That's good.
( it might mean a little humiliation, if he does anything the wrong way. but maybe it also means that touya can step in and intercept, as needed, or that he can at least be--something to depend on, which is a little silly, given everything else. he doesn't say it out loud: he doesn't need the blow to his ego, or to his shoddily-hid affections, by touya telling him that he's wrong.
so he waits, huddled in there, tucked in close to touya's side, waiting; it doesn't take long for the woman to return, gesturing them in down the hall, and with one last glance, wary, up at touya, he falls into step behind her, keeping his gait measured with his brother's. at the end of the hall, a curtain is pulled back for them, and at the woman's instruction, he takes a seat in the piercing chair first, while touya is relegated to take a seat on the bench inside if he wants.
sliding into the chair, he tucks his knees in together, sitting up straight, hands loose in his lap--the woman asks him if he picked out what he wants to have in his ear, while he's healing, and immediately his gaze shoots to touya. )
... He can pick. ( in a soft murmur, quiet and polite; the woman turns to touya, then, offering him the small case of selections. ) I want him to pick.
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Date: 8/29/24 16:25 (UTC)rather, he's more invested in what happens here. there's something about putting his little brother under someone else's knife that messes with him in a good and bad way. he was more than willing to sic villains on endeavor, to watch shigaraki attack shouto's school, play in the role of kidnapping that blonde with a bad attitude without caring what the attack cost his brother. any of those could have left the kid dead for endeavor to find and despair. but the idea of some idiot messing up shouto's piercing? yeah, he'd kill the artist for that. without a second's hesitation. you had one job...
what the hell? is this kid getting feelings because his older brother wants to be in the same room as him while he's getting pierced? yes, of course he is. shouto's still a baby in a lot of ways. even if he remains the most taciturn of all endeavor's spawn. honestly, he wonders where he got that from. everyone else in the family is more willing to talk than shouto is. maybe the monster really did damage his brain with all those beatings. heh, funny. he slips his hands into his pockets as the younger agrees with the decision.] Good.
[he wouldn't have listened to a protest anyways. once the hostess returns to invite them, he peels off the wall and resumes his place beside shouto as they walk. the little glance upward goes ignored, though a bony hand with burned wrists settles atop the boy's shoulder. is to an affectionate hug, a protective embrace, or a possessive guardianship? likely the latter, though he's sure the kid thinks of it as the middle. once the curtain's pulled back, he enters the room and lets go of his brother. while shouto gets settled in the chair, he scans around the room, taking in the quality and cleanliness. this isn't a seedy backward establishment, but a proper parlor, so it checks out well. good to know.
the bench? nope. he moves to stand next to the chair instead, opposite the woman. shouto looks like a little kid nervously sitting all proper on the edge of the doctor's examining table, ready to get a physical. a black brow arches when the decision's deferred to him. silently he reviews the options, then indicates a simple set of rose stud starters. simple, small, without clashing much to shouto's skin tone. might let him get away with it for a day or two on passing.] You'll look good with these.
[his brother's got plenty of girls around to ask questions to later. now back to the woman, before they get started.] I'll need a mask. [because he'll be right here during the procedure. no arguments. he trusts shouto's body to be too hot and cold most of the time for any infection to set in, but... might as well play at being big brother for a little bit longer.]
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Date: 9/5/24 21:42 (UTC)whatever touya wants him to put in his body, he'll wear. it's easier to accept than signing his own death certificate, allow touya to roast him from the inside out.
but still, his jaw locks, lips pursing, as the woman steps out of the room to get a pair of the earrings that touya indicated. he doesn't know if he should thank him, or tell him he likes his choice, or if his voice will even let him do that much--and how stupid is it, to get this excited about something so small, so insignificant? it's not as though any of this will make touya change his mind about anything; there's a sort of profound, lonely jolt at the realization, every time he comes around to it, every time his joy circles back to a bit of sunken despair. a brother for the night, maybe, or for a few hours--like cinderella, except he's the one turning into a pumpkin at the end of it, the one who would offer touya every glass slipper in the world if it kept him there.
when the woman returns, it's with a disposable mask for touya--and a tray with the piercing needle, amongst other things. narrowing his eyes, he turns to look up at touya; the woman approaches him, but it's only so that she can gently mark the spots on either ear, having him face her so that she can ensure they're even. it's obvious she wants to ask about their relationship, whatever it is: her gaze flickers, up to touya, then back to him, as though trying to see if there's any resemblance, or if they're friends, or even lovers, maybe. embarrassed, he doesn't say anything: he moves with her guidance, and when she goes to do one ear, she telegraphs her movements with a practiced ease; he's less nervous when she's next to him, instead of in front of him, and even the breath he lets out as she makes the first hole in his ear isn't too bad. the pain is nominal, at best.
more relaxed, he waits, twists so that she can do the other ear--and when she's done, and the earrings are in, he immediately twists back to look at touya, impatient and almost demanding. )
Do they look okay? ( he mumbles--even as the woman laughs, since she's been holding out a hand mirror for him to check it himself. he takes it from her, but he doesn't look; his gaze whips back to touya, expectant. ) Do you like them?
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Date: 9/11/24 23:04 (UTC)... he already knows what shouto thinks. it's there in the quiet sparkle amid those mismatched irises. the kid's happy. swelling inside with a warm pleasure at his big brother's attention, even though it won't ever make it fully through his icy surface. look at him, jaws set and lips tight together. what's he locking away inside his mouth right now? those feelings bloating his chest? grateful words or curious questions? trembling nerves? he remains where he is, looking down at the boy in the chair from above. it's too bad shouto's not a dog. he wouldn't be able to hide how excited he is. probably be he kind of pedigree with impeccable looks and breeding, only to piss itself in happiness when given some love. that's right... shouto wasn't raised without love. he survived because of it. no matter what endeavor did, rei was still able to protect her baby's beating heart. even after she was locked away, shouto's fleshy organ pumped out of anger for her. because he knew love. surely he doesn't think these pathetic crumbs his older brother's giving him right now hint at reconciliation. this changes nothing between them. yet something keeps him here. hmph... maybe there's a bit of pathetic still left inside his own rotten corpse. guess it can't hurt to be stupid for a night.
he turns his head just enough to regard the woman out the corner of his eye and hooks the mask with a finger. a quick fit over his mouth, chin, and nose, straps behind his ears, and he's settled, the white surface a strange comparison to the scarred bags under his eyes and wrecked violet throat. his eyes crimp slightly from a hidden smile beneath his mask, but it's not the kind caring smile that reassures a child. that smile burned up a long time ago. shouto's head goes back and forth, marks on his ears presenting an easy preparation. he's not a troublesome child, complacent and calm. the woman's occasional glances between them slowly threaten to become irritating as the unspoken question on her tongue begins to build. she could ask it, but then again, does he look like someone you want to potentially piss off?
we're brothers. just friends. i'm datin him. no relation. ain't ya business. he's got options.]
Treat him gently. He's a special guy. [wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him. even if that's a silken lie and shouto knows it. he should take his hand... but that brings back the same feelings as when shouto hugged him in the dingy room back there. ironic, since he's not that big on feeling anymore. memories of feelings? if he does anything now, it's simply imitation. doesn't mean anything, right? he narrows his eyes as the needle finally pierces, welling up his father's blood on the surface of shouto's skin. an injury not from heroics or training. what a brave guy.
he remains beside him, looking down at his little brother. no, he won't touch him. won't offer a hand for comfort. it's too strange. but he also isn't retreating. stands there like a ghoul beside him the entire time, in his vision, in his space, always within arm's length and eyesight. it ain't like playing kickball in the courtyard, but it's the first sibling thing they've ever done together. does it even count as that? touya died a long time ago... ah but he reclaimed touya on the back of that giant, in front of shouto and his father. guess he's returned from the grave with a few strips of sibling clinging to his damned bones. the piercings are done, the wounds are cleaned, and the starter studs are in.
heh. it's almost cute how quickly shouto looks to him for validation. didn't even look in the mirror first. he's actually avoiding it. what a loyal little puppy.] Hn, turn ya head. [once one way, then to the other, checking out the reflection in the light and how they go with the hang of his hair.] They look nice. Who picked 'em out for ya?
[now he's just taunting him. but the compliment is genuine at least.]
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