[stop it, touya. over and over. until his shins bled from banging into those iron bars thrust before his legs, shoulders battered and mottled with bruising crashes into metal barriers shoved before his chest, each one demanding him to quit. give up. because he couldn't. his mother's pathetic protests pulled at him when he went out, trying to distract him without caring a moment about how much it hurt. how many times had that monster ripped his shirt up his chest or stripped his sleeve from wrist to shoulder, screaming at him for his failures even as he tried his hardest to make the man notice him, desperate to see anything else in his eyes. the burns didn't hurt, he promised himself they didn't, he could handle it, easily, each one another pleading attempt for endeavor to look at him. look at him without hating his disgusting failed creation. if only for a moment, look at him the same way he looked at shouto. he had a life before that little puppet was born! didn't he? the tears soaking his pillow, the salve he slapped on his burns, the blackened trees where he trained... none... none of that... none that was fake, right? Right?! he didn't care if endeavor hit him, put him in the same room as shouto until his guts poured out of his mouth and his teeth stained with his own bile. it'd be worth it. until his body itself was fried to a hellish crisp. LOOK AT ME!!
stop it, touya...
that little brat had been delusional. to think he would be able to get endeavor's attention via any other way but this. shouto. his hero. his key into the man's heart. of course he wouldn't care about anyone else but shouto. this is where his life lay all this time. nestled within a heart of ice and fire. what should have been rightfully his... reaching for him was easier this time, burning through a foolish dream born of a vapid brain brought up on too much fluff. flesh and blood surrounded raw bone, pure white and untouched as his fingers found the column of his throat. here and now, he could seize every second of his father's attention. headlines flared into existence, shouto todoroki burned alive in a seedy back-alley tattoo parlor. a gateway his own wretched hand reaches through, charred bones snapping and scraping against his hand as he penetrates the remains of his little brother's ribs and seizes into endeavor's chest for that throbbing, sobbing prize. what'll dad's face look like, shouto? when you die, will he look at me with such a face?
only because of him.
touch. touch. two at once. a hand on his stomach. a hand on his throat. stopping shouto was never in his mind. he needs him to move. to live. kept alive until he dies at the appropriate time. like a pig for slaughter. one more body on endeavor's pyre. the most important body. the only one that could possibly understand a fraction of what it meant to host hellish ambitions. killing shouto is akin to killing his own life. his reason for existing. he wants to... right now, he wants to feel it. each beat of his pulse under his thumb, passing up and down the side of his brother's neck. four fingetips compressing slightly into his trachea, divoting smooth perfect skin. it should be disgusting this kid finds some enjoyment in his touch. flickers of satisfaction and pleasure sparkle beneath ice. wonder what his classmates would think of him, knowing the perfect spawn of endeavor is also a little bit insane.
smart kid. understanding even now his hand around his neck is hot enough to scorch him out of existence. impatient, demanding, tempting so hard it punches his lungs with pangs of desire. a dip of saliva tugs his throat beneath his palm, adam's apple bobbing once as he crunches his thumb to the beat of shouto's jugular. what kind of freak takes pleasure in being strangled by his own family member? did endeavor beat him so badly, this puppet began to equate abusive treatment with affection? it'd be kinda funny if that were the case. muscles draw taut, tendons orders to contract, bones gritting under his too-wiry skin with the same inexorable draw of a castle's chains pulling shut. doing exactly as shouto encourages him. both hands capturing his wrist, a tiny shake urging him to finish it here and now. burn him alive, crush his throat in his hand, snuff out his perfect useless broken miserable life. a candle gone out with the sound of raspy breath and crumpling tube. almost snapping one fold of his throat-
Happy Birthday.
... fuck.
chains rattle in a cacophony as the castle gate plunges back down, tendons snap backwards, muscles pull open, and he releases shouto's neck with a spring. gross. is that what he thinks will make him happy? satisfy him like nothing else? whether shouto was serious or not, offering his life as a birthday gift is sick. sick because he thinks it'll work. some kind of repayment, some twisted expression of love, as if doing his makes everything better. no idea how valuable his life is. simply not the time. skeletal grip disengaged, he draws his arm, and shouto's both, away from his brother's throat. even now, a bruise begins to mottle the boy's neck, five dark points lurid under fair skin. no one's gonna be able to explain that tattoo as anything other than strangulation. should be a fun experience for his brother if his hero friends see it. what if endeavor sees it... mah, he wishes he could be there. earrings in his lobes, a hand mark on his neck. all this brat's missing is a hickey.
cloth hisses, abs tighten, dragging his ruined body forward until he's sitting up and leaning into his little brother's space. spikes of hair card through silken strands as his head passes alongside shouto's, hot breath ghosting awash to his incriminating new bruise. sensitive, throbbing, aching, probably. lips so close to his abused skin, there's no way his sibling can avoid feeling their brush. half fair, half wrecked. smooth, wrinkled. flesh, metal. they really are different lives, aren't they... bony fingers curl in the back of his hair, scrunching a chunk into his fist to hold him still in a mockery of embrace to hold his little brother close. he's sure the touch will bring some strange emotion to the boy's beating heart. enjoyment above all. he's so glad shouto was raised to know what love was: a curse.]
Happy Birthday, Shouto.
[murmured into his blemish. satisfied? ... mah, it'll do. this'll be the last time either of them get to say those words to each other. not until they see each other again in hell.]
( touya's fingers tighten, for a moment, and for a moment, he thinks that it's really the end. the fight that's inside of him still lives there: a hellbent desire to save his family from itself, if that's the role that he must take onto himself, a role that his father could never handle. if he has to be the one to smother touya down, if he has to be the one to keep him from hurting himself, then he'll do it. if he has to be the one to bring his mother back, then he'll do it. and it's not like he sees himself as some kind of savior, as though he's something that should be praised for his actions, for his resolve, or for the fact that he would so easily, and handily, throw his life away for the sake of his family: it's just that there's no one else that can do it. a hero can mean much more than just saving strangers and making the world a better place; sometimes even a family needs their own hero to save them from themselves.
but is he really going to let touya do this? it's hard to say. something like pleasure buzzes in his mind, a ridiculous feeling, coupled with fear, coupled with heartache, coupled with anger--and nothing seems to be able to win out over the other, nothing seems to be heard, a cacophony of emotions that he doesn't understand, too strong, a wave that wants to take him under and drown him in its strength. would it make touya feel better, to have him like this? to see his eyes water from the pressure, to hear his breath rasp out of his throat like there's little left?
in the end, it's not even his decision to make. touya's hand jerks down, and his own follow suit, dragged away from touya's arms; his breath comes out in a rush, a gasp, feeling his skin tent and tingle with the hint of a bruise. the mark of touya's fingers there, wrapped around his neck: how long will they stay? like some kind of fucked up tattoo he didn't ask for, in this place, the irony-- )
It's...
( --hard, really, to understand. touya's arm wraps around him, fingers that arch and curve up into the back of his hair like a skeleton hand out of a horror movie, but the tingling sensation goes down the back of his neck, down his spine, curls and coils around his middle like a snake; he can't breathe, when touya's mouth is close to his skin, when his head bows, when his own shoulders tighten and his eyes squeeze shut and every screwed up feeling he ever felt comes blossoming to the surface. the sickest part of it all is the joy: having touya close to him like this, touching him like this, does things to him that he doesn't want to admit. and is it really just that kind of reaction, that endeavor's beaten him so often that pain means affection? or is it something else, something worse?
his tongue works over his lips, a hard, bobbing swallow before he can talk again-- )
...not my birthday.
( stubborn, and pointless, but factually true: something for him to cling to, as he realizes, abruptly, the heat that's pooling inside of him is really, truly wrong, and his own hands lift, just to brace a cold palm and a sweaty one against dabi's front, pushing him, forcing them to separate.
flushed, embarrassed, and immediately refusing to meet his gaze, he stumbles back a step, and then works around the table towards the door. )
Let's go. ( he needs the cold air outside to help him steel his nerves--and calm himself down. )
[hero. lying in his mother's arms, staring with big eyes at a small boy crying in disbelief at his father, heedless of the life he extinguished at the second of his birth. a tiny bundle bringing exhausted relief to his mother and dumbfounded elation to his father, shouto was the culmination of ambition and love. an ignorant void siphoning his brother's reason to exist even as he stared wide-eyed and innocent as turbulent orange flames roared towards his face in the hand of a screaming boy. a boy who no longer meant anything at the hands of a hero who meant everything. shouto is their family's hero. born with everything, a mother's love, a father's attention, a perfect quirk, a perfect body, endeavor's precious golden vessel to pour his dreams and aspirations into until his little brain choked out under a monster's weighty demands. even now, he sees it in his mismatched eyes, looking at him from his pedestal. a hero willing to sacrifice himself to save people. his family. god he makes him sick... so willing to throw his life away. the life that should have been his.
here and now, he could throttle it from his throat, crushing every precious layer of air from his lungs until shouto gurgled his last breath. what would his reaction be? what kind of face would his little brother show him? the same despairing denial as enji, wide-eyed and nearing hyperventilation? or something stoic and resolved, committing his fate into his own brother's hands as some twisted form of atonement for wiping his life's meaning out... likely the latter. even with the confused emotions swirling through shouto's chest, hardly a crack appears in his eyes, voice as quiet and deep as ever. little puppet made of ice, malformed from underdeveloped upbringing. it's kinda admirable, in a twisted way, this brat's been able to make friends with strangers when he's such an alien to his own siblings.
guess he won't be seeing that idea through. bony fingers curl in the air, one at a time to knead his own palm. fingertips play across burn scars creeping past his hand's heel, where healthy flesh meets ugly punishment. twisting disappointment writhes in his stomach, mating with depraved amusement at the noise of his little brother's gasping breath. a consolation prize: shouto's return to school tomorrow marred by fingerprint bruises on his throat. he wishes he could be there to see what the other brats said once they lay eyes on his flawed skin.]
I missed it. [his voice purrs deliberately along bruised nerves, as concerned as missing a thrown knife's target. he hadn't missed; he knows every time that date rears its wretched head on the calendar. year after year. fingernails rake across shouto's scalp, feeling and listening to silken strands of conditioner-treated hair grit beneath keratin. so close to him, tremors ripple down the younger man's spine. hm? azure eyes open halfway, nigh glowing in the shadow cast by the hero's head. not fear. what is that then? interesting. feelings blooming under ribs, threading through muscles suddenly pulling taut beneath shouto's clothes, as if his own wires draw tight enough to twitch his fingers. as expected, his little brother likes it. being close to him. even as blue flames licked at his skin, singed his hair, threatened to consume him to ash, shouto knew what love was as his older brother embraced him once in his life. turning his head, half smooth half gnarled lips burning their mismatched shape into his sibling's throat-]
You're real messed up, Shouto. Feelin like that... [he wants to call him a pervert, taunt him for something his little brother might not even have the mindset to understand. yet as shouto starts to scramble, actively planting his hands in his chest and shoving his body away, he wonders if the kid actually does get it. if so... piqued. wonder who's fault that was. a distant abusive father, resulting in starving affection from an older male figure? or a protective treasured mother poisoning shouto's mind with ideas he needs more than simple love. mah, something to pick around at later. he leans back on the seat, a corner of his mouth twisting upward in humor. as much as he hates him, his little brother's an interesting guy.]
I'll meet ya out front. [he has to take care of something first. nothing naive heroes need to witness. give him a few minutes before a gentle click of doorknob separating from jamb and his lanky figure emerges from the tattoo parlor. warmth ghosts across shouto's side as he stops adjacent to the boy, cold turquoise eyes barely needing a dip to look at him. flushed, confused, shivering, scared, embarrassed, curious, what's going on inside that twice-bred head of his?]
( he hadn't thought that it would be such a relief--separating from touya, given the excuse of meeting him out front, but his breath escapes despite himself, a heaving sigh that's covered by the short nod of his chin, disregarding everything else. he's not going to let those words soak into him just yet; later, much later, alone in his dorm, he'll think about them, think about how even touya thinks that he's messed up, thinks that he's feeling something that he shouldn't be feeling, and if that's the case, should he just say it? do something, admit something? they always say that the first step is admitting there's a problem, or something like that: it's just he doesn't quite know what the problem is, yet. isn't it natural, wanting affection from his brother? isn't it natural, to want to reconnect with someone who was never there?
his exit from the room is easy, a gentle click as he closes the door behind himself. he lets touya handle whatever it is he needs to handle--and he handles the bill, meeting their piercer at the front to hand over his father's black card. does it matter? he'll know once he sees shouto's face, anyway, and it's not like it'll be some itemized receipt. his father may rant and rave about it, but at the same time: he's not the one that does all the accounting for their family anyway. as long as he's not spending egregious amounts of money, it will probably just skate on by without notice.
outside, the air is a bit colder, now--he can feel it biting at his cheeks, as he struggles to zip up his jacket, trying to keep the collar in safe around his neck. the woman at the counter hadn't looked closely at him, at least not enough to notice the hint of bruising, but he's sure that he won't get that lucky again.
case in point: he's a little startled, once touya emerges out from the door, and he gives him a quick glance, confirming he still has his bag, that he still looks relatively fine, that there's no molten anger bubbling to the surface. he's used to the disdain and the ire, but: he still doesn't want to start a fight, out here. )
Ah? ( 'it'? with a short swallow, he reaches up with one hand, feeling for the edge of his own ear, as though certain that must be what touya is talking about. ) It...was interesting.
( not particularly painful, but not a completely painless experience, either. he thinks he can understand the pleasure: why it seems like almost an addiction, getting pierced, getting inked. his gaze stays rooted down towards touya's boots, towards his own shoes, as though he doesn't know if he should look up at him: )
Do you want...to go somewhere else? ( or is time up, now? )
[coward. did he hurt his little brother's feelings, calling him weird? he should embrace it. nah, why would he do such a thing? it would smear endeavor's perfect image even more than he's already done. shouto's impetus put a hole through his ear, and earned him a bruise round his throat. neither as permanent as the marring gift his mother and father gave him, externally and internally respectively. even in this, his older brother can't touch his life as intensely as their parents could. a piercing will close, a bruise will fade, but those scars never leave. he hadn't been able to burn his sibling as a baby. hadn't been able to leave any memories of himself in his head, save for distant glances. he wasn't even allowed to lay a permanent claim on his little brother during the war, no matter how hot he pushed his decrepit body. ironic. even now, enji remains a barrier between himself and his own flesh and blood.
... is that the reason he's permitting this farce in the first place?
shouto doesn't need to know what business is handled behind him. passing the host pulpit on the way out, he pauses long enough to inquire about the payment. endeavor's card, huh. so he really went through with it. an act of rebellion against his father and unconsciously protecting the staff from any undue carnage. minus a singe mark on the wood in order to force the hostess to reveal that previous information. mah, they did good work. he has nothing against them. material swallows his hair and head, hood flipped up once more as he steps through the door and closes it behind him. the first time he heard a hero recognize him had been almost euphoric. all it took was killing a few people. now it only takes a glance and people know him. there's a thrill of power in seeing their reactions. though also irritating... overexposure's a bitch.]
I wanna see the look on dad's face when he sees you.
[not his friends. not his teachers. not his siblings. not his mother. only one man's reaction matters. too bad he won't come back with shouto to watch in person. both of them know that. little more than vapid wishing in an amused tone as comes to a stop beside the hero in training and rummages a bony hand in his pocket. is this how brothers are? existing in the same location, one's head full of intent, the other determined to stop it. on the outside, they look peaceful...]
Light this. [he leans his arm to the side on his elbow's pivot, a slender white stick captured between two fingers coming to bear in front of his baby brother's face. at the outset of their little trip, he said he wouldn't kill him, wouldn't start a fight. didn't intend to hold to that promise if it no longer worked for him. luckily for shouto, still the case. relax, kid. he's not gonna try talking him into smoking. bad enough he's corrupted the upcoming corpse into putting a hole in his body. inking his skin and poisoning his lungs comes later.]
I said I'd give ya the night. [or a few hours at least. he's nice enough not to count the train ride as part of those hours. does he want to go somewhere else? not particularly. sitting in a restaurant playing nice with his brother as people look on... the idea makes his skin crawl. wandering a shopping mall looking for useless junk alongside shouto is pointless. probably lead to annoying arguments the other boy would find some sick comfort in.]
Ya didn't have all this planned out if I accepted? [taunting him as he steps one stair at a time towards the cold street below the shop's little stoop. shouto's too young to drink and he's not about to invite his little brother to something seedy on their first date.]
( hope is a funny thing, like a ship that's only got one sail, and it's easy enough to put holes in it and sink it back down. the thought that touya might come back with him, might go and see their father, might then renounce the villain world--no, he's naive, but he's not that naive. there's no way that touya will entertain returning back to that house, and if nothing else, he understands that himself: he doesn't enjoy it either, and had been grateful to be kept in the dorms. even returning back to that house for school vacations and family dinners can be too much. it's not like he'll see the face that endeavor makes, not like he'll know the sort of rage that he might exhibit, seeing the holes in his ears--or worse, the bruises around his neck.
he'll do his best to hide those, at least. given the right moment, he doesn't think endeavor will even notice.
there's an obvious surprise, when his chin jerks up, met with the expectant flick of touya's cigarette--without even thinking about it, he lifts his hand, a small lick of flame that torches the end of the cigarette, and leaves the burden of getting it going with touya. he's never really been interested in this sort of thing, but with the hint of smoke curling in the air, he finds that he's interested in it now solely for his brother's sake; what is it that he likes about it? does it taste bad? is he just after it because there's nothing for him to lose?
his own steps are rigid, as he echoes touya's movements, sliding down the steps--his lips purse together, hands sliding down into the pockets of his jacket again as though to hide the clench of his fists. )
I...thought this much would be pushing my luck. ( with a small nod upward, indicating the piercing shop. ) So I didn't...
( a nervous wet of his tongue over his lips: should he even admit that feeling? that he'd been sure that it would be an immediate dismissal, that touya would turn and leave him behind? that he's so perversely elated at the fact that they're still standing here together that he doesn't even know what to say, or what to do? stubborn, his brows knit together.
he can't just give up now. he can't just say that he didn't think of anything, and let touya walk away. so, adamant, his chin lifts again-- )
So we'll go somewhere else. For the night. Until morning.
( a karaoke place, a manga cafe, a hotel--he's lining up all the possible options, as though he'll make a whole list if only so that touya can't refuse entirely. )
[only one prize could return him to his birthplace. it brought him back once before. feeling floor boards beneath the soles of his feet for the first time in three years. scars on the walls from childhood playtime. an odious scent of smoke and sweat filled the home like gunk crawling through paltry attempts by someone in the home to cover up the stench of despair. standing in his parents' bedroom door, he watched a single massive body rise and fall under futon covers. alone and pathetic, licking his own child's blood off his knuckles. his brother's door half shut to the hallway revealing his frame huddled beneath his blankets, only a single futon spread out on the floor without hint a second had once been there. little shouto's room full of books and training equipment, funneling round and round a dizzy little boy curled in a fetal position on his bed, pillow wet with tears he could never show to anyone anymore. it would've taken everything he had, but that damn house could've been left in the same blazing state as the orphanage prison he escaped from days before. every one of them was wretched, weak, idiotic, callous... reflected in the metal of his own altar, he let himself die. left behind to rot in their memories as they all wanted. not a single thing changed. minus that bitch being gone. not a single one of them cared to make a difference. his existence meant nothing anymore. why the hell would he ever return to that hellish estate, but to immolate it and every single person inside.
surely not shouto's hope tonight. he's a fool, but not that much of one. half expecting him to voice an invite, to ask a question from his heart instead of his brain. not knowing at all what came out of his mouth. stupid hero. he's really grown up to become one more imbecile throwing his morals and ideals around the world. just like endeavor. lighting up the world. a subtle "fwoosh" licks up from shouto's hand and swallows his cigarette's tip within.] Good boy. [smolders trail thin white smoke from his little brother's hand to his mouth as he slips the stick between his lips. who cares what he does with his body now? already falling apart and rotting like the memories buried in that garden. putrid burnt drags in with his breath, coiling his tongue and staining his taste buds with an acrid flavor until he exhales it all out into the cold air. wonder what shouto's little classmates'll think if mr. top nominated 2nd place comes back smelling of cigarette waste. guess it's better than smelling like a crematorium.]
Maybe it is. You gonna risk pushing further? [levying his own promise to his face, a night to spend with him, yet how far can he push him until the villain snaps? of course shouto didn't think much further. he has no idea where limits stop, clinging from one moment to the next. each step takes them further from neon lights, shadows stretching longer before them in a grotesque outline merging their separate "bodies" together in puddles of dirty water and grimy asphalt. one hand buried in his pocket, he taps his finger and sends a chaff ember tumbling to the ground before lifting the cancer stick to his lips once more. he should go. already knotted irritation twists in his stomach, sick of this brat's unwavering devotion to him despite knowing he'd interfere. and yet, he's still here. both of them. guess he can choke down a few more minutes of shouto's presence. make him fight for his attention. how's it feel, endeavor's perfect little puppet, chasing someone else's eyes. make it hurt, make his heart beg for his older brother to look at him. just like a damn idiot pleading for his father to stop looking at shouto and turn his eyes to him one more time. irony's cruel, isn't it.]
I know a little place. [before this stupid hero can list off whatever his emotional brain is lining up. there's no point in entertaining naive desires like fun cafes or gaming parlors or shopping malls, crap shouto might go to with his friends. one look at him and those places would empty, bring some self-righteous hero down on their heads. gonna have to lie low with this bastard.] Hope you're hungry.
( risk? he's no stranger to risk. it had been a risk just to send the message at all, a risk to meet, a risk to bring touya anywhere that had more than just his own body to bear the brunt of his ire: but so far, none of the more terrible possibilities have come to pass, aside from his own personal humiliation, and if that's the prize that touya takes back with him in the morning, then maybe he doesn't mind it as much. after all, his father won't do it--his mother can't do any more than she has, and fuyumi and natsuo never trained with endeavor, never learned how to weaponize their quirks the way he has. so the only person left, the sacrifice at the altar, maybe, is himself--the person who has to save their family, or maybe save the world from the mistakes of their family. he should have fought harder, maybe, when he'd been a child; he should have tried to do something, rather than dig his heels into the wood of the floor to try to keep from being dragged away, rather than stand in front of his weeping mother in the hopes that he might shield her from assault.
he's thought about it plenty of times, but had there really been anything he could have done? he'd been too young to think of convincing touya, or to try to find some kind of compromise; he'd been too young to really do much of anything, except endure, and he hadn't even managed that all too well. and he's not so ignorant of his own feelings--no matter how much he might want to swallow them down--that he doesn't recognize that's part of why he's here: like he could somehow make up for all of that inability he had, back then, like he could somehow make touya realize that as much as touya had wanted to be looked at by endeavor, he himself would have been content to just have touya there beside him.
he can't live in the past like that--not wholly. if anything, living with his classmates has taught him the importance of acknowledging past mistakes but also moving on from them; he can't change anything about what happened, but he can do all that he can now, even if it's futile. if touya laughs at him, pushes him away, curses him, wishes he'd never been born: he can endure all that. he can handle all that.
he just doesn't fully know how to endure what might come out of his own mouth--or his own body, when he tenses at touya's side, walking beside him. both hands slip down into his pockets, chin tilted down, watching their shadows flicker and merge and mold together; his lips pass a soft sigh. )
I'll push as hard as I can. ( murmured, a little, like it's said more for his own benefit. ) Are you hungry? We can go somewhere else, if you want. Somewhere to...
( a tilt of his head, considering. ) Drink?
( he's too young for it, but there are plenty of places where he'd still be allowed inside--his gaze lifts, focused on the glowing ember of touya's cigarette, enough that he almost trips over a dip in the sidewalk, jerking his head back to keep from knocking their shoulders together.
eyes narrowing in irritation at himself-- )
It's your birthday. ( with a slow puff of breath. ) So we can do anything. I'll do anything. Food is good.
[wasn't his entire birth a risk? one more desperate roll of endeavor's dice to spawn a vessel of flesh and ability enough to house his burning ambition. both of them standing here are nothing more than one crazy monster's dream. not a boy, not a man. only things. one a success. the other a failure. perhaps this was the least risky thing shouto's ever done; they're the same, aren't they. and yet, he wishes to take his little brother in his own arms, hold him close, smell his flesh cooking between his hands as endeavor's precious dream blackens into ashes and crumbles to pitiable pieces. but it's not enough. shouto alone can't take the burden of their father's abusive treatment. he's not satisfied with only his little brother. even worse, this brat wouldn't mind. some twisted caricature of "love" in his heart seeks to dig through every action he takes tonight and find a stupid interpretation to slake his selfish little perversion of brotherly affection. it disgusts him as much as it leaves him incredulous at how broken shouto's mindset is. to think he'd want love from a villain, the very creature he's supposed to want nothing more than to beat down to pulp and lock away forever in jail while he walks away to adoring praise and a shiny medal. this kid's fucked up. and he kinda likes that... too bad his friends got to him first.
what would it have been like? if he'd been the one to reach out first? so much of his time was spent thinking of how to kill this perfect meat puppet. he wanted to serve his corpse up to endeavor personally, approach him with shouto's body draped in both arms. wanted to show up to the number 2 hero with his son's head dangling from a villain's fingers tangled in his hair. wanted to string up his immolated corpse across the front doors of endeavor's hero agency. nights putting himself to sleep with possible venues. none of them were enough... he'd never once thought much to reach for shouto and find his little brother's anger. run his fingers across his frozen little heart, curling in abandonment invite to lull the kid off endeavor's precious path. he couldn't force it like that idiot shigaraki tried on the explosive brat; there wasn't enough hate and anger in that kid to be anything but a hero.
but shouto... standing here amid licking curls of dirt street breeze tugging at the rim of his hood, he momentarily lets himself wonder a "what if" he'd so easily thrown aside before. shouto desperately wants his brother back. kinda insane to think he could've offered that at one time. with a catch.
water drips from the sole of his boot as he steps forward, hands falling into his pockets as a faint wisp of steam curls over his shoulders and races down his back. there's no changing the past. he made his decision. killing shouto in any way other than in front of his father has no meaning. he's simply one more piece on the pyre, with the main slaughter still waiting to be thrown atop the pile. it was risky to meet him here tonight. and yet, it was hardly a threat to either of them. he wonders how much of that shouto knows. would it change his view? probably not. the kid's too stubborn.]
It's kinda cute ya think I'm worth the effort. [pointless, but there's something disgustingly charming at how much this guy's intent on him. what a coward. instead of pushing endeavor, he opts to push him. protecting their father from his own failures and mistakes. it's easier for shouto if his older brother changes instead, isn't it.] Nah, don't worry. I'm takin ya to a place you'll like. It's got milk.
[taunting him over his age and inability to drink. why not? he's punched a hole in his little brother's body, yet hasn't offered him a drag of his cigarette and isn't planning on plying him with alcohol. as much fun as that'd be. nah, he has another idea, and he wants his sibling to be as awake and aware of it as possible when it happens. wants to see his eyes flicker with realization, the reaction on his face as raw and truthful as it can be. their next turn changes the light's angle, causing his shadow to swarm over shouto's rather than allow the pair to meld together evenly.
his birthday. his choice. do anything he wants. so ready to sacrifice almost anything to keep his attention and presence. starved for familial connection. turquoise eyes flick to the side, black brows arching in amusement when someone almost takes a stumble on the street. in one motion, the kid saves himself from falling and wrenches to avoid bumping into him.] Careful. Wouldn't wanna bruise ya pretty face.
( anyone else would probably hate that kind of ribbing. they've got plenty of years between them, years that he'd seen as he grew, watching touya and natsuo and even fuyumi get older and leave him behind; he'd felt the years between them, when natsuo had gone off to college, when fuyumi had become a teacher.
he'd felt it even worse when he'd finally gotten to school, realizing that he had no idea how to interact with anyone his age--realizing that he'd lost so many years being alone, unable to cope, unable to learn how to socialize beyond the manners that had been nearly burned and etched into him. even now, touya has to be at least in his twenties, and he's still lagging behind. there's no way to clear that kind of space, and perhaps someone with a more traditional childhood would hate to be belittled by their elder sibling, to be reminded of all the things they're not legally allowed to do. not being offered a cigarette, or even a drag off the end: not being taken somewhere that serves alcohol, and instead teased with the mention of milk.
sure, anyone else would feel embarrassed, maybe. frustrated. but he feels elated. these are all things he's never really experienced before--and to have touya teasing him, ribbing him a little, just makes him want to smile; he tries to hold it back, but his mouth twitches, and stubbornly he forces his lips to snap together.
one of his hands lifts, warm from his pocket, but it's only so that he can rub over his cheek: the one that would have likely taken the brunt of the fall, if he'd really tripped and fell on his face. )
It's not pretty. ( he says slowly, almost stubbornly; what is this strange feeling? he doesn't like it, the way his stomach clenches, the way he feels embarrassed, the way he doesn't know whether he wants touya to be teasing him, or not. ) Already marked up.
( he doesn't have to point out his scar for touya to know precisely where it is; his own fingertips barely graze it, from where he rubs gently up along his cheekbone, before he drops his hand back down, seeking out the hidden warmth of his pocket again. if it's somewhere touya wants to go, somewhere with milk, then he'll go along with him. even if he's not entirely sure that what he wants to drink, when his stomach is already so tumultuous, is milk.
that, at least, has him lifting his chin--and easing just slightly closer to touya, almost like they'll touch elbows. )
...Are you going to tell me what it is? Or make me guess.
( knowing touya, he's probably not going to do either, and just lead them there without warning. dutifully, he's bound to follow him. )
[every element of him is a target. his age, his birth, his strength, quirk, friends, decisions, life. all of them equally flammable. only difference is what shouto's reaction is to any being struck. what does he care about, what's important enough to defend and insignificant enough to ignore? the reports in crinkling newspapers don't reach that deep, and no interviews glowing on television in an otherwise dark room reveal such trivia about his little brother. he has the chance now to drag some straight from shouto's lips. why not enjoy...
waking up amid sterile lights and white sheets, all he'd done was demand answers from an asshole in a flower costume and a bunch of kids he didn't care about. learning in horror from a cruel man in a screen what happened to him, all he'd lost, his skin, his power, years of his life, even the presumed ability to learn from his own father. what it felt like to have his heart freeze in a scrunching vice behind his ribs, throbbing in fear and incredulous rage over his tragic life. so much gone, ripped away in a roaring blaze and years of black silence. for a brief moment, delirious in hope and heedless of tiny stones and sticks sliced into the soles of his bloody feet, he stood outside his family's home, wanting nothing more than to reclaim any shred of what he'd lost. a foolish little kid wandering bloody exhausted through his familial halls. with no sign of his missing life even recalled... none of them changed... his death meant nothing to any of them. severed from all of them. from endeavor, from his mom, his sister, his brother, shouto.
it remains even now, a yawning blackened gape between them. only an idiot would think he had the chance to cross it. bridges burned away long ago. as close as his little brother is beside him, so much remains across the chasm. he teases him, wanting to hear the echo of his voice and reaction over their separation. a shadow of their past. when they had the chance to know each other torn away from them by the monster who stalked within their family walls. shouto's under the impression he can reclaim that. running through the forest in his own delirious hope. kinda sickening how similar they are in this stage of life. yet completely opposite.
shouto's happy to be teased. everything thrown to him, he pounces like a starving mutt to scraps. and he keeps tossing them, sitting on a dirty park bench amusing himself with a pathetic animal's antics. no matter how much he tries to hold back his smile, shouto's unable to stop his mouth twitching at the corner, or the slight rise in his chest. right?
a bare hum vibrates in his chest and throat, floating somewhere between disinterested and piqued.]
Halfa Japan doesn't agree with ya. [he's seen them, his little brother's fans, talking about him in store lines, discussing him on the news, a reporter's eye lingering two seconds too long on the hero's face, a petty criminal grunting out what he'd like to do to shouto before blue flames consumed his face and brain. shit kindling.] Some people are fascinated with damaged goods. Makes 'em feel better about themselves when they can pity something.
[he's seen those looks thrown his way as well. sickos interested in his scars, fingers picking at his staples, lips wanting to know his story, and none of them getting much in response. people can be taken with grotesque, as if they're special enough to "fix" the damage or have some perverse idea they can "save" him from whatever fate their hero-bleached brains want to levy on his life. even that green kid from shouto's class had the same idea. feeling sorry for a scar-faced emotionally-fucked-up boy, he just had to reach out to save him from a decision he decided for himself was "bad" for shouto. of course his little brother doesn't see it like that.]
A bar. [as predicted, he does neither. not a name, not an address, leaving the boy to guess more what kind, where at, and so forth. standing close to him, sharing warmth despite their clothes, a faint brush of elbow earns a quick glance to the side, azure eyes almost glowing within his bangs' shadows. when's the last time someone stuck this close to him, not out of fear, but out of comfort? as if his presence offers shouto protection and assurance. he'd never been the "big brother" who gave his siblings that sense of power. another facet of his failures. and yet, this perfect, powerful puppet hangs close to him, because he wants to. because he likes it.] Pretty sure you've gone out with ya little friends, right?
To a bar? ( his voice bleeds skepticism; he's not even sure any of the others would have dared to try. kaminari, sero, and even kirishima can get into trouble from time to time, dragging others into their orbit, but he's not sure that they've yet to risk trying to get into somewhere they're not supposed to go. it's not even entirely about the backlash they would get from aizawa-sensei: it's the backlash they might get from the public, or worse, cause troubles for UA entirely.
in a way, he should be thinking about the same things--there's a kindle of shame there, a tuft of a flame that he blows out with another thought. they're on the outskirts of town, in a place that probably sees less and less support from pro heroes, and what's the worst thing that could happen? he tarnishes endeavor's brand? the great todoroki name?
for not the first time, he thinks: go ahead, i want to.
there's a faint shake of his head, training his gaze in front of them. )
No. Just to karaoke, or shopping, the usual sorts of things...
( he doesn't want to bring up practice, or training, doesn't want to ruin the tenuous string of this conversation; selfishly, maybe, he doesn't want touya to change his mind, or to get in a bad mood. if touya had said they were going to an underground fighting ring where he'd have to battle someone to the death, he would have still followed him. ridiculously, he can understand that he's being stupid--that he's letting his own feelings get in the way, but he's easily blinded by even just the slightest glance that touya spares him, like he's looking to see if he's still following along.
he needs to get a hold of himself. a bar isn't going to help that, either--his idea is that it will be dark, and intimate, loud music playing, and touya looking at him from across a table, staring at him with those unreadable eyes. the thought makes his skin prickle, but it's all in a good way, a terrifying way, and he wants to tell himself it's just the cold, even though he isn't affected by it at all.
so he sticks close to touya's side, measuring their steps together, his hands sunken back down into his pockets so he can clench his fingers together; it makes touya's words circle back, after a moment of silence, like he has to ask: )
...Is that how you see me, too? ( it wouldn't surprise him, but then touya's broadcasted how he feels about him loud and clear; even so, he's grasping at straws like he can't help himself. )
Uh-huh. [what kinda image blooms in his innocent little head with a single word? a seedy wall-sunk back-alley door hosting shaded figures lurking beneath a single swaying lamp. smoke curling from cigarettes over glittering alcohol-filled glasses. bar stools in a row with hunched men and women drowning problems in sake as they gird up for tomorrows they already hate. a good little boy like shouto is never supposed to go to bad places like bars. adults only. even endeavor avoided places like that, afraid of trashing his precious image. now his eldest sibling aims to open that dark door and watch him walk into this forbidden world. why not? he's already betrayed his own heroics by meeting a villain and not running to the nearest phone for backup. he's pierced his perfectly healthy body with metal and studded his ears with wounds. would it be such a crime to walk with his cigarette-smoking failure of a brother into another patch of "naughty" underground? if anyone found out shouto interacted with one of japan's most wanted without trying to arrest or capture him, his reputation hangs in peril. and yet, it's this which gives him a sudden pause. visible in his parted lips, barely perceptive widening of his eyes, even a momentary caught breath.]
What's wrong? Afraid ya gonna get caught? [taunting, digging, twisting his dare of invitation deeper. he's already come this far down the path. is being with a villain worth risking his status in public, his place at his precious school, his standing as a hero? and what of his friends, his family, his academy? all of them will face a lurid backsplash if this goes public. and all of it will emanate from a single little kid who for one night said "fuck you" to everything he stands for...
there he goes. two-toned bangs wipe gentle cross shouto's forehead and he resumes walking, attention listed back to the path ahead.] Such a good boy. Bet it feels good, stayin in the lines. Keepin ya record neat an' pretty.
[bet endeavor's real proud of him. each time he sets his eyes on the only thing which matters, he'll see it shining bright and pure, fiery ambitions swirling within its icy walls. how he wants to wrap his bony fingers around a hammer's shaft and smash it to pieces. nah. one at a time. he's waited this long to enact his plans. he can wait some more. shouto wanted to give him a birthday gift and he's not even aware the additional present he's offering. chances to taint and corrupt the naive hero before he's even graduated. far too late to shove him face-first into the hell he normally walks through. but he intends to send him back to his idyllic world with a few personal injections. no worries of him changing his mind now. this night's turning out more interesting than he thought. just how much is shouto gonna let him get away with under this moon? ... kinda excited to find out. wrapped up in the clothes his little brother bought him, leaving their own mark on his ruined flesh, he'll return the favor.
no one's gonna care if they jaywalk, right? there aren't any cops out here to interfere with them. woulda been funny if there were. would shouto duck behind him, would he run along side him, would he use his quirk? nah, he's a hero. and his quirk's too recognizable. but he wouldn't stand aside and do nothing if he lit up beside him. way to ruin their fun night together. no it's a good thing the outskirts are devoid of police.]
What else are ya? [he's gotten used to the weight of his coat's tails moving with him, so turning around in his casual clothes feels a bit strange. walking backwards, he tugs his hands from his pockets and lazily gestures to himself, head lifted to brazenly shrug off the hood over his head. baring his scars, his own damaged face. fingers touch his chest, splayed in a mocking tenderness at his gestures.]
We're from the same mold, Shouto. Bred to be nothing more than a vessel for someone else's goals. Ya just happened to get luckier than the rest of the spawn. [a lazy smirk tugs his mouth in half, contempt and callous interest mingling on his expression.] Ya don't think you're perfect at all either, do ya.
( it's hard to pull the pieces of the frown away from his expression; he wants to, wants to paint his face over in the usual ice sculpture that it is, emotions fleeting and blurred behind the pale surface. his classmates have helped burn that ice away, have helped him adopt a more practical, more natural expression in their presence, but when it comes to endeavor, there's still that cool stare, that uncomfortable piercing of his gaze, that stilled quiet that he settles into like a used costume--touya isn't endeavor, and more than that, touya is a person that he wants to keep a hold on, a person that he wants to prove something to, though he hasn't figured out exactly what that thing is. he's never been able to hide himself well around touya, never been able to do it well around fuyumi, either, or even natsuo; in some ways, he thinks they're all pieced together in the same sort of hell, wearing different masks, showing different facets underneath, and that makes the space around them safe, as though they each understand what the other has gone through: to an extent.
he'll never know exactly what it felt like, to be abandoned like that. he'll never know the complicated fear, disgust, hatred, worry, emptiness that his mother may have felt, looking into those eyes glaring at her; he'll never know the agony of being left to die alone, somewhere, without anyone there to help. he won't pretend to know. won't trivialize something like that by saying he understands, or that he can perceive the feeling.
endeavor sees him as some perfect creature, hand-crafted to be the vessel for his legacy; touya sees him like he sees the rest of them, like damaged goods. that's the reason he's frowning. that's the reason his heart dips, flutters, his stomach twisting with a lurch of discomfort. he doesn't want touya to think of him like that; the more complicated issue is that he hasn't quite figured out how to name the feeling he wants instead. )
No one is perfect. ( softly, lowly, a little petulant, maybe--he doesn't care if they jaywalk, doesn't care if they're in the way of anyone else; he watches touya walk in front of him, walking backwards to face him, and he doesn't like the distance there, either.
he quickens his stride by a step, then another, until they're nearly walking in tandem, like their knees might knock together if he moves in even closer. )
I'm not perfect. I don't want to be. But I don't...
( his breath trails off in a puff of frustration; his eyes skid sidelong, avoiding contact, and for a moment he feels like he can sink back inside of himself, hide away under the cold, let his hair fall into his eyes and shiver back into the pantomime of chilled perfection that endeavor forced him to be.
but he swallows, instead, lifts his chin up again, and reaches in to snag at the front of touya's sweatshirt, using the hold there to forcibly turn him back around the right away. )
You're going to trip if you keep walking like that. ( calmly, though pointedly, he's not looking at him. ) Is it this place up here?
[nice eyes. i kinda wish i coulda seen them change after i died. such innocent eyes, staring wide from his mother's arms as raging flames bore down on him. he only remembers his little brother's eyes in two states: sparkling in wonder and hope, watering in fear and longing. never did the former gleam to existence around his father. so unlike his older brother, always so eager to show endeavor what he could do. what a foolish child, thinking he could do anything to impress a man already decided on his failure. another foolish child peering through banister bars at his siblings below, never able to reach them. happiest away from war, battle, and pain, things which only brought him sorrow, misery, and loneliness. so many years passed before he saw his little brother's eyes again. frozen over, bitter, hateful. when i saw you back then, what you'd become... i was happy. because as perfect as you were outside, i wanted you to be ruined beyond compare inside.
what about them now? peering towards his backwards-walking body, rifling emotions behind his mismatched gaze in a flurry of confusion. shouto can't decide which emotion to feel. too much, too new, too confusing. did he hope tonight would be a beautiful sibling reunion, all feelings doffed for the sake of mutual peace? and now he's left trailing behind his sibling's charred corpse. conflicted. determined. like a hand clasped round a coal, burning flesh sizzling in agony as his mind screams for him to let go, yet all the logic in the world can't force his instinctive tendons keeping a burning chunk in his grip. shouto's holding onto him, knowing full well how bad he is for him, his reputation, his life. how much more will he let himself scorch and boil before he realizes there's no future? ya really are nothin more than a stupid little kid.
none of them can know the other. four abominations crafted by a demon in a house of hell. born of the same intent, with divergent failing results. he never cared what fuymi thought; she was a girl, she wasn't a hero, she didn't know anything. natsuo was rejected from the start; once upon a time, he thought his little brother could understand. but he only wanted to bury his head in the mud and ignore everything washing over him. shouto... why would he want to understand the creature that stole his reason for existing? none of them could understand each other in the end. enji's legacy. a madman's heirloom. who could see them as anything else?
... those who knew the truth. standing atop a mountain of flesh and bone, almost tearing his mouth apart at the seams from how hard he grinned and laughed, all the while regaling the world with the truth endeavor and his ilk so desperately wished to keep a secret. not only enji, but each one of them. their burning red blaze of glory and snow white desire to escape their history for a "normal" life. he poured everything out of his soul until his lips dripped with spite, salivating in utter glee above his own racing heart. beating so hard in euphoria it raged in straining agony, all the while bloodshot eyes tearing at their own veins and dilating pupils to see each shred of his family's lives burning black at his fingertips. the world sees you differently now, doesn't it! no more lip service, no more ignorance, not more fawning! each and every one of you can rot in hell with me! where we all belong! fuyumi's little students would look at her in ignorant stupidity, wondering why their trusted teacher knew such a bad man. natsuo's colleagues would draw back in horror at knowing someone they worked alongside was the product of domestic abuse. what sort of pitying looks would all of shouto's friends give him, knowing his disgusting origins? i want the world to hate us as much as we loathe ourselves. rip everything away from all of them, until they had no choice but to return to that house of hell and reunite around endeavor's pyre.]
You were. Once. [calm, cold, bitter, amused. hands behind his head, fingers laced together over the back of his hood, elbows flying to either side in an angular, bony triangle as his feet carry him backwards. putting a distance between them once more, all because he wants to see the look on his little brother's face. determined, petulant, quickening his pace with his head and shoulders tilted forward as if he can weight his momentum for speed. all for shouto to bring his body close and force a shared space once more. as incessant as a burr.]
Ya gonna have to start finishin your thoughts, Shouto. It's rude. [taunting him, fully aware he's the last person to be speaking of rudeness. as if his words can reach forward, long fingers composed of his voice cupping round the balls of his brother's eyes and drawing at them. look at me. you're disgusted by me. you're afraid. is that why ya look away all the time? questions he won't bring to lip, as a strong arm reaches forward and fists his shirt. lacking all threat, the grip of a child clutching at his mother's skirt for reassurance and safety. before it morphs into a commanding pull and forces him to twist on his feet. for a splitting second, memories flash through his mind, a huge hand crushing his shirt and ripping it up his chest to expose his burns to furious teal eyes.]
Yes, dad. [he tugs his sweatshirt down so it's not bunched above his fly and slips his hands inside the pocket, now successfully pivoted front facing once more. falling in step beside his little brother, maligned lips settled into a quiet line.] Yeah. The red one.
[they can take the stairs. a quiet, small narrow place with a single serving center, a few stools staunchly bloomed below the front bar, and thin high-backed two-person booths, somehow making the close intimate space cloistered between each of its distinct partitions. red-papered lanterns hang from black chains and wires, a small candle squatting centered on each booth table for extra light. at least it manages to avoid the "seedy back-alley" atmosphere any sane hero wouldn't be caught dead in.]
( the amount of vitriol and spite that he can handle, from his brother, from others, even, is larger than he expects it to be. even standing there in the middle of a battle, his friends bleeding out, injured and hurting around him, even knowing that he had somehow been responsible for creating dabi, for not being strong enough to do anything to help: he could take all the words, all the hurt, that even endeavor couldn't handle, swallow it down and leave room for more. seeing his son born back to life in mottled, burned flesh and half-hinged staples, endeavor had broken, there: and as much as he had begged, he'd sat there, overwhelmed, smothered and drowning in the words that dabi piled up over him like a coffin being buried beneath the earth. his ability to withstand all of the anger and the hate and the burning rage of his brother's words, and his brother's quirk, had only grown with time.
but it's moments like these. where touya says dad like it's an insult, and the comparison, feeble as it is, makes him immediately drop his hold, as though the touch itself is burning a hole in him, and he wants it to stop; it steels something in him, hits a nerve, rips up some healing scab in his heart and pools the blood out there, unwanted and overwhelming. not even a real insult, just some half-hearted stab, and yet touya's hit him right where he has to: his face falls, then smooths over, an immediate coping mechanism that freezes his emotions into a flat plane of nothing.
wordless, he waits at the bottom of the stairs for touya to start up ahead of him, first, before he trails behind. the staircase is narrow, and if someone were to be exiting, and come down the other side, he would have to get out of the way anyway; better like this, to be at touya's heels, to be sure that he won't run, or turn back, without crashing into him. once they dip past the entrance, he finds that stoic demeanor suiting him: no one offers any kind of challenge, for what few patrons are there, and the staff don't immediately deem him unfit to be here because of his age.
rather, he looks--cold, frozen over, jaw set and lips pressed into a thin line, and instead of letting touya take the lead, he takes it from him, instead. )
We'll sit here. ( quietly, as he edges in the small space towards one of the empty booths. he's not looking at touya: he's looking past him, at the bar, and then slowly swings his gaze to meet his, steely and chilled. ) Get your drink, I'll wait.
( not like he could get away with ordering himself, he thinks. instead, he angles himself down to tuck himself into the booth; like this, there's hardly even enough room for another person, and touya's still, for now, a little taller than him, so he tries to sit tall, pulling his hands into his lap, and then, realizing that likely makes him look young, leans his shoulders back into the booth, one hand on the slender tabletop to tap his fingers there.
it's dark. darker than he expected, but maybe that's the point: his fingertips stretch towards the candle, hardly flinching at the slight burn of the wax that drips onto him when he touches it, before he lays his hand flat on the table and waits. )
[he'd loved that moment. every second of it burning into his mind's flesh amid sizzles and spit. a fake hero, risen to his position through lies, abuse, luck, ambition, trapped on his weak legs which no longer supported him, his anguished expression broken across his face. he loved the sight of his eyes, aqua irises swimming in a pool of white, so torn between the truth he couldn't bear to swallow and another lie to keep his brain running he failed to even shed a tear at the reunion of his long-lost child. hyperventilating under his throbbing shoulders, arms dangling without strength, mouth frozen in shock and protest as his own miserable wretched failure crammed one spear in after another.
even thinking about it now drives a quiet thrill of joy through his skin, ticking the undersides of his stapled flesh and churning his sack of venom with hate. that bastard. how many times he sat before his butsudan and thought about his dead spawn? how many times did he regret his actions? how many times did endeavor think "if only" and wish he could have done things differently, turn back the clock's wretched hands, and make a different choice? who knows. not enough. not enough to suddenly find himself with that very same corpse back to life, arms spread and offering a reunion, and all enji could do was call him a liar... didn't even think for a fucking second to be happy his despised mistake hadn't really died.
shouto's reaction to even a sleighted comparison elicits a stupid childish giggle in his brain. it makes him so happy to know all his warming up to their father and enji's attempts to become a better parent mean absolutely nothing. both endeavor and shouto are faking it. grasping at a future impossible to have. there's no recovery from the hellish history they share. not a single one of them gets to escape from his hands. he'll reach into their disgusting house and wrap his charred fingers around each one of them, bones burned black and skin cracking off into ashes. remind them each time how much it hurts, how much it hates, and tear any attempted bandages and scabbing away from those wounds which he refuses to believe, or allow, can heal. shouto still hates his father; he loves the reminder.
leading the way, he takes the steps one at a time in a lazy gallop, pushing with each foot and swinging the next up behind him as his hand lingers on the railing. not to hold it, but to trace his fingers along metal, feeling faint bumps of shoddy paintwork, dips from small chipped damages or dents left by a drunkard tumbling down the steps. zero attempts to question his arrival or the presence of someone so young trailing behind him. his business isn't for anyone here to question, and he has coin enough to keep their focus on their jobs. boots pass stools lined before the bar, refusing to take a single one of those seats as he aims for the personal booths instead. no one gets to sit beside his little brother. shouto's focus belongs completely on him.]
Oh? Aintcha the man of the house now. [giving him orders, making decisions. he drifts to the side, permitting the younger boy to pass him easily, and falls in step behind, faint curves of a lurid grin playing at his mouth's corner. a show of power? a fleck of anger? trying to take back some control between them? could be any of those, and he likes what he sees. ordered to his drink, he simply cants his head to the right and lifts his shoulders in a lazy motion, but refuses to obey. instead moving forward to complete their booth-bound journey. shouto slides into the cushioned seat and he takes his own across from him like a lanky shadow poured into the dimly-lit space.]
It'd be rude of me not to ask ya what you want. [lithe bony fingers wrap over a plastic-coated menu and he plucks it from the stand on the table's edge. a candle's reflection twitches in the blurry reflection as he sets the menu upon the tale, bottom first, and allows it to slide down flat, a soft ghost of air settling it in front of his little brother's face. lists of drinks streak the paper in black chunks, underlined above a blockquote inset of ingredients for each cocktail across from their price. a forbidden realm once more, as damning as a piercing or a tattoo for a whitewashed hero like shouto. not old enough, obviously, but who the hell's gonna care in this place? he rests his elbow on the table, chin atop the back of his cruxed hand, and leaves his eyes on his little brother's face. as if this is some cursed contract offered to him for signature and acceptance.]
Get whatever you want. Ya never forget your first.
( a flicker of surprise in his gaze, when touya crowds into the booth with him, and if he weren't already seated as straight as he could be, he would have jerked up a little straighter. even when he tries to understand himself, even when he tries to power forward, even when those little trickles of hurt and resentment leak through his actions, like a wound that won't quite close, touya is there to put him on edge, or rather, to make him realize that he doesn't understand himself at all. for one of the first times, he wonders what he would have done, had he been in touya's situation: would he have just laid down and died? no, not when he knows what he did in the face of all of endeavor's subsequent abuse--he endured it. he would have endured, too, just like touya did. it's just hard to say what would have happened after that. would his hatred and anger have raged out of control, to declare a death wish on their whole family, or would he have tried to become some kind of vigilante hero instead?
his gaze lifts, from the candle, to touya, and he finds himself caught there: glancing at him, a little hurt, a little wounded, before looking away again.
no, he doesn't think he could do it. maybe that's a lack of strength of character, on his part--that he wouldn't have been able to advocate for himself enough to hate any of them enough to do it, that he would have rather sacrificed himself, somehow, if he could. lips pressed together, he finds the menu pressed across the table towards him; it feels like he's supposed to sign his soul away on the dotted line.
gently, carefully, his fingertips catch the edge, dragging it a little closer to him. )
They don't have milk. ( there's a strange little tingle in his voice, despite its flatness: an obvious tease, as his eyes roam the list. none of it he understands--he knows the various types of liquor by name only, and some of these have so many different things in them, it's hard to say what's alcohol and what isn't.
he tries, though. he studies it intently, for a moment, wandering his gaze down it, keenly aware that touya is staring at him--it doesn't make him nervous, but it does make his stomach twist, and for not the first time, he's afraid that he's beginning to understand why it feels that way, and why he should avoid it at all cost. )
...This one. ( one slender finger, tapped out against what's noted as a zombie cocktail on the menu: three types of rum, grapefruit juice, grenadine, and a few other things he doesn't understand or recognize, though the mention of a few drops of absinthe is the reason he chose it to begin with. something a little dangerous, especially for a person who doesn't drink.
with a bit of a challenge, cool, in his gaze, he nudges the menu back towards touya. ) Do you want to take my card to pay?
[a light reflection of himself, a mirrored image of what if sitting before him. how many times has he watched his little brother in his life and wondered of his future? would he grow up to be an amazing hero, or would he sputter out and become another face in an bloated crowd of names and claims... endeavor's face full of disbelief, wonder, relief, amazement, hope, glowing over a crying baby. had he looked at him the same way when he was born? no. he wasn't what endeavor wished for, only what he received, and ultimately saddled with. each time he saw him, his chest clenched, his stomach grew weighty, knowing this concoction of genes and blood failed to fail. his life abruptly ripped from his flesh and proudly placed in a greedily-absorbing maw of empty ambition before his ichor had even ceased dripping from it. trained until he puked, orders shouted at his trembling form, hauled to his feet amid sweat and water for another round, forced to grow and evolve under monstrous eyes ever-burning to feast on his victory. who would shouto become beneath such a life? he asked himself in front of a computer screen, he asked himself in a hospital bed, he asked himself in front of burning corpse's putrid stench. what happened to his little brother? what did endeavor do to him?
lounged back in his booth's side, bony elbow haphazardly tossed over its ratty cushioned ridge, he takes one piece of his answer in at a time. candlelight shadow can't hide endeavor's mark on his brother's face. endeavor's treatment can't hide his mother's gentle heart beating strong and bright inside his pathetic golden chest. what a ruined hero, as perfect as kintsukuroi masterpieces. glacier strength pushing his hatred into a frozen mass plodding inexorably towards his "future" as if he could walk out from under his father's thumb. still squished and squirming in effort to escape when he's trapped even now. because under all his ice, his fire's far too warm. a tender little kid begging for any ounce of his lost childhood. turning from friend to friend to teacher to mentor to even his villainous older brother in silent plea to recapture his gaping hole. he's too weak to fill it on his own. too good... too smart.
funny he's chosen to be stupid tonight. he outta give the kid credit for sticking to his intentions. what'll he get out of these hours? something cozy to snuggle with at night. all he's gotta do is sign right here and it'll all vanish in colored liquid splashing within glass walls. he's looking forward to this.]
Don't cry, Shouto. They can find some. [naive little brat. despite his pain, he's found strength enough to play around. does endeavor know how badly he flawed with this guy? sitting in a shady bar crammed between two buildings across from one of japan's worst monsters, and he notes they don't have milk. he wants to laugh, bubbled in his throat before spilling from his lips in a quiet sound of amusement. shit, he's cute. so naive and stupid, innocent and pure beneath his trauma. really has to give him some credit here. he's gonna be a great hero in his remaining days. fabric scuffs across his leg as he lazily extends it and drops his foot atop shouto's. nothing more than a weight. kind of wants to interrupt his intense focus, irked suddenly his sibling's so rapt on a menu, attention no longer on him. didn't think he'd care so much. look at me... i want you to...]
Thinkin about comin back from the dead? [he's daring. not a beginner's drink. likely gonna choke and cough on his first sip, if he doesn't spit it across the table in shock. his hand thuds atop the table, dropped bonelessly from its previous prop on his jaw. he splays his fingers and drags the plastic-covered paper to himself.] Nah. I don't want dear old dad knowin where you've been.
[not if questions come up and all this comes to light. as amusing as it'd be, he'd rather not have the bar raided and ruin a good drinking spot. thanks to shouto's clothing trade, his usual slimy shadow slink out of a booth, all black head and fried arms with shadowy coattails dragging behind him, exchanges for a lanky guy in hood and jeans getting up like he's gotta take a piss. how weirdly... normal. leaving his partner behind, he heads for the bar and rests his forearm on it, a quick glance catching the bartender's attention. the man's gonna ask about his partner's age in the booth, and he's gonna tell him to mind his business. in a way suggesting doing so's the safe thing to do, if he wants to make it through this night. alive.
never really been one for fancy drinks. shouto's drink arrives in a taller glass (with a straw on the side) and a cherry ha ha dangling in a sidecar. accompanied by a sake bomb (shotglass of sake dropped in a glass of beer) with said shotglass balanced atop his beer's rim via two chopsticks. and a quaint thick-bottomed cup of nigorizake + milk, because he's not above answering someone taunting him. a backup plan if shouto can't hold his liquor.]
Betcha the first one in ya little class to have an adult drink. Makes ya feel real special, doesn't it?
( thinking about the way you did, he wants to say. a memory burned so deeply into him, despite being relatively recent--one that haunts him at night, one that makes him question where he is, or why he's there, or what he's supposed to be doing. seeing his brother up there, tall, proud, alive: it had broken something inside of him, something that he's still struggling to put back together, or at the very least, work to cover up. touya is much closer to him now, so close he could reach across the table and wrap his hands around his wrists--so close that he could pull him in, smell the scent of those clean clothes on him, mixed with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and his own flesh.
he can't do that, as much as he wants to. he's been dancing around touya's boundaries all night, and the last thing he wants to do is make a mistake this close to the end; he doesn't want to put his arms around his neck and ask him not to go, because as ridiculous as it sounds, it's too honest. he can't be that honest.
it does sting, a little, when touya slips out of the booth, and he looks less like his brother and more just like a regular guy--slinking up to the bar, waiting there for their drinks. he tries to pass another glance at the menu, as though he might be able to calculate how much it'll all cost; he knows that touya won't take his money, will likely see it as some kind of pity offer, but he feels like he should at least try.
then again, isn't this what big brothers are supposed to do? he has no idea. natsuo had done his best, but he'd wanted to be out of that house just as badly as the rest of them--he can't really blame him for the distance, there.
when touya returns to the table, it feels like there's a whole spread of things: enough that his brows lift, his eyes narrow, and then he glances from the drinks to touya and then back again. judging by the name of his drink, he can detect which one is supposed to be his--but he reaches, instead, towards that cherry, fingertips nearly grazing the side before he drops his hand down. better for that to be there after he takes a sip of this god awful concoction, a way to flush his mouth out if needed.
instead, primly, he reaches for the straw. dips it down into his glass, gives a firm, twisting swirl, mixing up the contents into a dark, foreboding sort of green. )
I don't feel special. ( softly, as he looks down into his glass--without hesitation, he guides the straw between his lips, settling down around it to take in the smallest, tiniest little sip.
ugh. it burns. he knew it would, but the mixture is so strange that his eyes fall shut, his head twisting slightly to let go of the straw with a hard breath. firmly, he swallows it down--swallows, and then forces himself to look up at touya again, defiant and bland. )
... I'd feel more special if you let me help you. ( such a weird thing, a shot glass balanced on chopsticks--he's nearly holding his breath, trying not to make any errant movements, which is also part of why he forced himself not to react to the taste of his own drink. he can still feel it tingling on his tongue. ) Are you supposed to pour that in...?
[what could he possibly know about his death asides from whatever truncated facts endeavor spit out to distance himself from killing his own child? a face he saw from the distance, a sibling he had no connection with, a shrine to pray at for a broken vessel his family was better off without. they moved on fast enough. he loved the feeling of taking hold on each of them and dragging them backwards into their past. endeavor's stupid face staring up at him, so pathetic he couldn't even move. to broken to even respond to his precious child screaming beside him. he wished he could've seen natsuo's face, fuyumi's face, endeavor's wife's face, when they watched his reveal. did the scream, did they cry, did they protest to everyone around them it wasn't true, they weren't related, it wasn't them, it wasn't like that? can't even ask shouto; he wasn't there. mah, two out of five ain't bad. he hated them the most anyways. now one out of five sits across from him, torn between happy sibling moment and confused social crack.
is this the kind of reunion shouto envisioned? within arm's reach but hesitant to prick his finger. the brother he's wanted to know all his life, finally here with him, and he's afraid to make a wrong move. not surprising. he can still smell his brother's burning hair and clothes as he wrapped him in his arms. the first time he ever embraced his replacement with anything more than his eyes watching him over a crib's rim. felt good, in a horribly wretched way. like tearing a crusted over scab from a glistening unhealed wound festering beneath.
shouto's showing his naivety again, barely perceptible twitch of his brows above a momentary widening-then-narrowing of his eyes. surprise, suspicion, curiosity, all flickering across his face like the innocent little kid he is facing a trio of tickets to the "adult" world he's not allowed into yet. what others way can he corrupt a hero tonight? his lips twitch in an amused smile as slender strong fingers reach for the proverbial cherry dangling in its safekeeping glass. the one thing sequestered from cups full of vice and dangerous unknown. and doesn't take it. smart kid. gonna need that to wash out what he's about to put in his mouth.
bone clunks on wood as he drops his elbow on the table and props his jaw in his half-charred hand, staples digging into his gnarled flesh as his fingers rest shy of his temple. perched and watching with curious quirk tugging his lips in a barest line up. he knows shouto's gonna do it, the kid's already this far. so many heroes drink; it's nothing new. but watching his little brother dump something "bad" into his body lightens his chest with something stupidly giddy. similar to seeing that needle punch through his ear an hour ago. one mark after another left on his heroic body and legacy. doing what his flames couldn't weeks ago. he should be pissed off...]
Oy, don't say that. I was payin ya a compliment. [he lowers his arm, head lifting slightly from its previous prop. some of his humor seems to flicker as a candle in the breeze. lowering to focused interest as those pale lips wrap around his straw. pursing ever so slightly, pressing together in a sucking pucker. one drag upward and liquid rushes murky green through the tube like a thermometer's sudden spasm. in it goes.
down it goes. from his tightened jaw to his throat's column dipping in telltale swallow. well well, he's impressed. didn't think shouto would back out at this stage, but some tiny part wavered in question. his little brother would do this, all for him? sullying his perfect image with piercings and alcohol. for a long time, he'd wanted to drag him down to his level, force him into the mud he's known for years now. until his shiny make believe life's saturated with it. now... he gets to watch shouto dip his toes in of his own accord. mostly.]
Bravo, kid. Wasn't so bad, was it? [given his bland face and how he tugged his head aside, he's pretty sure it was. good. he ordered something heavy after all. sliding backwards until his back aligns with the booth's seat, he lifts both hands and takes hold of each chopstick's end. little bastard had to go for a taboo topic. he's pretty damn sure shouto's "help" had nothing to do with a drink.]
And how ya gonna do that? [get him a private audience with endeavor? tie the man up and drop him off in a warehouse? put him on trial after investigating all his criminal activities? each one of those brims a "no" without doubt. why'd he have to go and ruin a scant bit of fun they were having? a hero's nosy questioning can't be muted even for a few minutes. typical invasive.] You know exactly what I want.
[he pulls both chopsticks to the side like an executioner's block and the shotglass falls. bombs away. glass plooshes into his mug and floats towards the bottom in a drowning sway. sake instantly diffuses through beer, both liquids mixing in a downward swirl following his shotglass. sucking out its contents and absorbing them into a much greater whole.]
( the shot glass plummets into the mug, just as his stomach plummets in disappointment--because there's another chance gone, because there's another space ruined, because there's just another step closer to the moment where they'll have to part for the night, and in the end, he'll have nothing to show for it but his own blood and the taste of liquor on his tongue. he can't help touya with this any more than he can help him with anything else; what could he even offer? no matter what hawks may have done, something that he still doesn't fully understand, he could never be clever enough to figure out a way to make both sides meet in the middle with something that wouldn't just end with both of their heads on a pike. no matter how much he hates him, he can't just offer his own father's life in exchange--to say nothing of anyone else.
if he killed himself, would touya accept it? no, he'd just be even angrier, and it would mean nothing, anyway. his own death, at this point, can't mitigate everything that happened; it would have been better if he had just never been born at all.
in silence, he watches touya's glass, watches the liquor slosh around, mixing together, diluted into one again; with a soft breath, he reaches for his own straw, forces another swallow--and this time, there's a faint cough, too much down at once, a wheeze of breath before he steadies himself.
it's not the first time that he's felt helpless, tonight, or helpless in general, when it comes to all this, but it is the first time that he feels like he's hit the bottom, unable to figure out some way to pick himself up or dig himself out of the hole. just like the shot, diffusing itself through the beer, his thoughts and his ideas and his determination seems to be drowning out in the weight of circumstance; he forces himself to take another swallow of his drink, his head already starting to feel a little fuzzy in reaction. )
I don't know exactly.
( an answer that serves more than one purpose: he doesn't know how he would help, just as much as he doesn't know, fully, what it is touya wants.
case in point: )
Do you want me dead?
( a glance, up over the candlelight between them--and then back down, as though he shouldn't have asked it, as though his tongue is already too loose, and the hand that snakes up onto the table goes after the cherry, instead, sliding it from the edge of his glass up to his lips, sucking on the artificial sweetness.
he should have just kept his mouth shut from the beginning, but ironically, he'd only wanted to help with the drink. now he can't back away from this conversation, by his own standards; he won't be another person to turn his back to touya. )
[sinking within liquid, contents rushing out to mingle with exterior liquid forcing its way inside. how much of his own mind was like that? once full of stupid dreams hoping to become a hero, only to be ripped from his own skull and impregnate with a monster's ambition until nothing else he could call his own remained. clinging to the lingering remnants of his birth's purpose until this creature across from him was spawned to replace him. one cry, one wail, and everything he had left was absorbed into someone else. always someone else... enji told him to follow in his footsteps, the bitch who birthed him told him to look to another person instead, his sister and brother wanted him to talk to anyone but them, and shouto had all eyes on him since the beginning. even now, he watches his littlest sibling's hopes drown like the shot glass settling on the drink's basin. what'd he hope to do here? convince him to let go and forgive that bastard? it wasn't touya shouto wanted to save, but rather endeavor, the heroes him, all shouto's little friends. always someone else had the focus. didn't matter how hot he burned or how hard he worked, his life was nothing more than a facet of someone else's. gutted and hollowed out... a backdraft waiting to happen.
death won't make everything better, won't make anything better. a long time ago, he wanted to kill shouto and watch endeavor's face when he dropped his precious creation's scorched body in front of him. but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't enough. endeavor would only push forward. relegating shouto to a stepping stone in his insane drive to be a hero. he still had more to give. death wasn't the answer until the very end, when endeavor had nothing left. if shouto thinks he'll be able to see this through without clashing with his sibling, he's a fool.
unless endeavor decides to sacrifice himself for his youngest child... would he? maybe. he's pretty gung-ho on this fake "redemption" arc bullshit. bony fingers wrap round cold glass and he lifts it to his lips. swirling flavors combined as he spills it into his mouth, leaking over his teeth and tongue before entering his throat. how many people will endeavor put on his own pyre until he mans up and takes his rightful place atop the flames?]
Oy, don't choke. Ya supposed to drink it, Shouto. [innocent, naive little idiot. thinking he could somehow bear the brunt of his father's sins. typical hero, expecting himself to handle everything on his own and telling the rest of the world to sit back and let him handle it. so often he wonders what faces endeavor makes at the news of the league's activities, but what kind of faces has shouto made? when he watched that disgusting monster standing over endeavor's fallen bloody body. did he stare in horror at the screen, torn between hope and helplessness? did he run out the door in panic as if he could get there fast enough to save him? or did he sit on his ass and scream at endeavor to move? he sets his drink down with a clunk and clink of glass and ice, half-charred lips quirking slightly at one garish corner in an amused hint.]
Wouldn't mind. I wonder if dad'll snap if ya did. [seeing all his precious life's work fizzle out, everything gone to waste. he slouches slightly as he rests one lanky arm over the cushioned back, fixing shouto with quiet eyes. did he want him dead? not as much as he thought; he's letting him live right now. could've killed him during the war, but endeavor wasn't watching. could've tried to kidnap him in the woods like those other two, but shigaraki wanted the noisy one. his muscles shift, lips dropping slightly.] It's rude to ask a question and look away. What's wrong? Scared of my face or somethin?
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no subject
Date: 12/7/24 19:57 (UTC)stop it, touya...
that little brat had been delusional. to think he would be able to get endeavor's attention via any other way but this. shouto. his hero. his key into the man's heart. of course he wouldn't care about anyone else but shouto. this is where his life lay all this time. nestled within a heart of ice and fire. what should have been rightfully his... reaching for him was easier this time, burning through a foolish dream born of a vapid brain brought up on too much fluff. flesh and blood surrounded raw bone, pure white and untouched as his fingers found the column of his throat. here and now, he could seize every second of his father's attention. headlines flared into existence, shouto todoroki burned alive in a seedy back-alley tattoo parlor. a gateway his own wretched hand reaches through, charred bones snapping and scraping against his hand as he penetrates the remains of his little brother's ribs and seizes into endeavor's chest for that throbbing, sobbing prize. what'll dad's face look like, shouto? when you die, will he look at me with such a face?
only because of him.
touch. touch. two at once. a hand on his stomach. a hand on his throat. stopping shouto was never in his mind. he needs him to move. to live. kept alive until he dies at the appropriate time. like a pig for slaughter. one more body on endeavor's pyre. the most important body. the only one that could possibly understand a fraction of what it meant to host hellish ambitions. killing shouto is akin to killing his own life. his reason for existing. he wants to... right now, he wants to feel it. each beat of his pulse under his thumb, passing up and down the side of his brother's neck. four fingetips compressing slightly into his trachea, divoting smooth perfect skin. it should be disgusting this kid finds some enjoyment in his touch. flickers of satisfaction and pleasure sparkle beneath ice. wonder what his classmates would think of him, knowing the perfect spawn of endeavor is also a little bit insane.
smart kid. understanding even now his hand around his neck is hot enough to scorch him out of existence. impatient, demanding, tempting so hard it punches his lungs with pangs of desire. a dip of saliva tugs his throat beneath his palm, adam's apple bobbing once as he crunches his thumb to the beat of shouto's jugular. what kind of freak takes pleasure in being strangled by his own family member? did endeavor beat him so badly, this puppet began to equate abusive treatment with affection? it'd be kinda funny if that were the case. muscles draw taut, tendons orders to contract, bones gritting under his too-wiry skin with the same inexorable draw of a castle's chains pulling shut. doing exactly as shouto encourages him. both hands capturing his wrist, a tiny shake urging him to finish it here and now. burn him alive, crush his throat in his hand, snuff out his perfect useless broken miserable life. a candle gone out with the sound of raspy breath and crumpling tube. almost snapping one fold of his throat-
Happy Birthday.
... fuck.
chains rattle in a cacophony as the castle gate plunges back down, tendons snap backwards, muscles pull open, and he releases shouto's neck with a spring. gross. is that what he thinks will make him happy? satisfy him like nothing else? whether shouto was serious or not, offering his life as a birthday gift is sick. sick because he thinks it'll work. some kind of repayment, some twisted expression of love, as if doing his makes everything better. no idea how valuable his life is. simply not the time. skeletal grip disengaged, he draws his arm, and shouto's both, away from his brother's throat. even now, a bruise begins to mottle the boy's neck, five dark points lurid under fair skin. no one's gonna be able to explain that tattoo as anything other than strangulation. should be a fun experience for his brother if his hero friends see it. what if endeavor sees it... mah, he wishes he could be there. earrings in his lobes, a hand mark on his neck. all this brat's missing is a hickey.
cloth hisses, abs tighten, dragging his ruined body forward until he's sitting up and leaning into his little brother's space. spikes of hair card through silken strands as his head passes alongside shouto's, hot breath ghosting awash to his incriminating new bruise. sensitive, throbbing, aching, probably. lips so close to his abused skin, there's no way his sibling can avoid feeling their brush. half fair, half wrecked. smooth, wrinkled. flesh, metal. they really are different lives, aren't they... bony fingers curl in the back of his hair, scrunching a chunk into his fist to hold him still in a mockery of embrace to hold his little brother close. he's sure the touch will bring some strange emotion to the boy's beating heart. enjoyment above all. he's so glad shouto was raised to know what love was: a curse.]
Happy Birthday, Shouto.
[murmured into his blemish. satisfied? ... mah, it'll do. this'll be the last time either of them get to say those words to each other. not until they see each other again in hell.]
no subject
Date: 12/30/24 00:13 (UTC)but is he really going to let touya do this? it's hard to say. something like pleasure buzzes in his mind, a ridiculous feeling, coupled with fear, coupled with heartache, coupled with anger--and nothing seems to be able to win out over the other, nothing seems to be heard, a cacophony of emotions that he doesn't understand, too strong, a wave that wants to take him under and drown him in its strength. would it make touya feel better, to have him like this? to see his eyes water from the pressure, to hear his breath rasp out of his throat like there's little left?
in the end, it's not even his decision to make. touya's hand jerks down, and his own follow suit, dragged away from touya's arms; his breath comes out in a rush, a gasp, feeling his skin tent and tingle with the hint of a bruise. the mark of touya's fingers there, wrapped around his neck: how long will they stay? like some kind of fucked up tattoo he didn't ask for, in this place, the irony-- )
It's...
( --hard, really, to understand. touya's arm wraps around him, fingers that arch and curve up into the back of his hair like a skeleton hand out of a horror movie, but the tingling sensation goes down the back of his neck, down his spine, curls and coils around his middle like a snake; he can't breathe, when touya's mouth is close to his skin, when his head bows, when his own shoulders tighten and his eyes squeeze shut and every screwed up feeling he ever felt comes blossoming to the surface. the sickest part of it all is the joy: having touya close to him like this, touching him like this, does things to him that he doesn't want to admit. and is it really just that kind of reaction, that endeavor's beaten him so often that pain means affection? or is it something else, something worse?
his tongue works over his lips, a hard, bobbing swallow before he can talk again-- )
...not my birthday.
( stubborn, and pointless, but factually true: something for him to cling to, as he realizes, abruptly, the heat that's pooling inside of him is really, truly wrong, and his own hands lift, just to brace a cold palm and a sweaty one against dabi's front, pushing him, forcing them to separate.
flushed, embarrassed, and immediately refusing to meet his gaze, he stumbles back a step, and then works around the table towards the door. )
Let's go. ( he needs the cold air outside to help him steel his nerves--and calm himself down. )
no subject
Date: 1/2/25 07:36 (UTC)here and now, he could throttle it from his throat, crushing every precious layer of air from his lungs until shouto gurgled his last breath. what would his reaction be? what kind of face would his little brother show him? the same despairing denial as enji, wide-eyed and nearing hyperventilation? or something stoic and resolved, committing his fate into his own brother's hands as some twisted form of atonement for wiping his life's meaning out... likely the latter. even with the confused emotions swirling through shouto's chest, hardly a crack appears in his eyes, voice as quiet and deep as ever. little puppet made of ice, malformed from underdeveloped upbringing. it's kinda admirable, in a twisted way, this brat's been able to make friends with strangers when he's such an alien to his own siblings.
guess he won't be seeing that idea through. bony fingers curl in the air, one at a time to knead his own palm. fingertips play across burn scars creeping past his hand's heel, where healthy flesh meets ugly punishment. twisting disappointment writhes in his stomach, mating with depraved amusement at the noise of his little brother's gasping breath. a consolation prize: shouto's return to school tomorrow marred by fingerprint bruises on his throat. he wishes he could be there to see what the other brats said once they lay eyes on his flawed skin.]
I missed it. [his voice purrs deliberately along bruised nerves, as concerned as missing a thrown knife's target. he hadn't missed; he knows every time that date rears its wretched head on the calendar. year after year. fingernails rake across shouto's scalp, feeling and listening to silken strands of conditioner-treated hair grit beneath keratin. so close to him, tremors ripple down the younger man's spine. hm? azure eyes open halfway, nigh glowing in the shadow cast by the hero's head. not fear. what is that then? interesting. feelings blooming under ribs, threading through muscles suddenly pulling taut beneath shouto's clothes, as if his own wires draw tight enough to twitch his fingers. as expected, his little brother likes it. being close to him. even as blue flames licked at his skin, singed his hair, threatened to consume him to ash, shouto knew what love was as his older brother embraced him once in his life. turning his head, half smooth half gnarled lips burning their mismatched shape into his sibling's throat-]
You're real messed up, Shouto. Feelin like that... [he wants to call him a pervert, taunt him for something his little brother might not even have the mindset to understand. yet as shouto starts to scramble, actively planting his hands in his chest and shoving his body away, he wonders if the kid actually does get it. if so... piqued. wonder who's fault that was. a distant abusive father, resulting in starving affection from an older male figure? or a protective treasured mother poisoning shouto's mind with ideas he needs more than simple love. mah, something to pick around at later. he leans back on the seat, a corner of his mouth twisting upward in humor. as much as he hates him, his little brother's an interesting guy.]
I'll meet ya out front. [he has to take care of something first. nothing naive heroes need to witness. give him a few minutes before a gentle click of doorknob separating from jamb and his lanky figure emerges from the tattoo parlor. warmth ghosts across shouto's side as he stops adjacent to the boy, cold turquoise eyes barely needing a dip to look at him. flushed, confused, shivering, scared, embarrassed, curious, what's going on inside that twice-bred head of his?]
Didja like it? ["it" being...]
no subject
Date: 1/5/25 23:10 (UTC)his exit from the room is easy, a gentle click as he closes the door behind himself. he lets touya handle whatever it is he needs to handle--and he handles the bill, meeting their piercer at the front to hand over his father's black card. does it matter? he'll know once he sees shouto's face, anyway, and it's not like it'll be some itemized receipt. his father may rant and rave about it, but at the same time: he's not the one that does all the accounting for their family anyway. as long as he's not spending egregious amounts of money, it will probably just skate on by without notice.
outside, the air is a bit colder, now--he can feel it biting at his cheeks, as he struggles to zip up his jacket, trying to keep the collar in safe around his neck. the woman at the counter hadn't looked closely at him, at least not enough to notice the hint of bruising, but he's sure that he won't get that lucky again.
case in point: he's a little startled, once touya emerges out from the door, and he gives him a quick glance, confirming he still has his bag, that he still looks relatively fine, that there's no molten anger bubbling to the surface. he's used to the disdain and the ire, but: he still doesn't want to start a fight, out here. )
Ah? ( 'it'? with a short swallow, he reaches up with one hand, feeling for the edge of his own ear, as though certain that must be what touya is talking about. ) It...was interesting.
( not particularly painful, but not a completely painless experience, either. he thinks he can understand the pleasure: why it seems like almost an addiction, getting pierced, getting inked. his gaze stays rooted down towards touya's boots, towards his own shoes, as though he doesn't know if he should look up at him: )
Do you want...to go somewhere else? ( or is time up, now? )
no subject
Date: 1/7/25 16:53 (UTC)... is that the reason he's permitting this farce in the first place?
shouto doesn't need to know what business is handled behind him. passing the host pulpit on the way out, he pauses long enough to inquire about the payment. endeavor's card, huh. so he really went through with it. an act of rebellion against his father and unconsciously protecting the staff from any undue carnage. minus a singe mark on the wood in order to force the hostess to reveal that previous information. mah, they did good work. he has nothing against them. material swallows his hair and head, hood flipped up once more as he steps through the door and closes it behind him. the first time he heard a hero recognize him had been almost euphoric. all it took was killing a few people. now it only takes a glance and people know him. there's a thrill of power in seeing their reactions. though also irritating... overexposure's a bitch.]
I wanna see the look on dad's face when he sees you.
[not his friends. not his teachers. not his siblings. not his mother. only one man's reaction matters. too bad he won't come back with shouto to watch in person. both of them know that. little more than vapid wishing in an amused tone as comes to a stop beside the hero in training and rummages a bony hand in his pocket. is this how brothers are? existing in the same location, one's head full of intent, the other determined to stop it. on the outside, they look peaceful...]
Light this. [he leans his arm to the side on his elbow's pivot, a slender white stick captured between two fingers coming to bear in front of his baby brother's face. at the outset of their little trip, he said he wouldn't kill him, wouldn't start a fight. didn't intend to hold to that promise if it no longer worked for him. luckily for shouto, still the case. relax, kid. he's not gonna try talking him into smoking. bad enough he's corrupted the upcoming corpse into putting a hole in his body. inking his skin and poisoning his lungs comes later.]
I said I'd give ya the night. [or a few hours at least. he's nice enough not to count the train ride as part of those hours. does he want to go somewhere else? not particularly. sitting in a restaurant playing nice with his brother as people look on... the idea makes his skin crawl. wandering a shopping mall looking for useless junk alongside shouto is pointless. probably lead to annoying arguments the other boy would find some sick comfort in.]
Ya didn't have all this planned out if I accepted? [taunting him as he steps one stair at a time towards the cold street below the shop's little stoop. shouto's too young to drink and he's not about to invite his little brother to something seedy on their first date.]
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Date: 1/21/25 00:04 (UTC)he'll do his best to hide those, at least. given the right moment, he doesn't think endeavor will even notice.
there's an obvious surprise, when his chin jerks up, met with the expectant flick of touya's cigarette--without even thinking about it, he lifts his hand, a small lick of flame that torches the end of the cigarette, and leaves the burden of getting it going with touya. he's never really been interested in this sort of thing, but with the hint of smoke curling in the air, he finds that he's interested in it now solely for his brother's sake; what is it that he likes about it? does it taste bad? is he just after it because there's nothing for him to lose?
his own steps are rigid, as he echoes touya's movements, sliding down the steps--his lips purse together, hands sliding down into the pockets of his jacket again as though to hide the clench of his fists. )
I...thought this much would be pushing my luck. ( with a small nod upward, indicating the piercing shop. ) So I didn't...
( a nervous wet of his tongue over his lips: should he even admit that feeling? that he'd been sure that it would be an immediate dismissal, that touya would turn and leave him behind? that he's so perversely elated at the fact that they're still standing here together that he doesn't even know what to say, or what to do? stubborn, his brows knit together.
he can't just give up now. he can't just say that he didn't think of anything, and let touya walk away. so, adamant, his chin lifts again-- )
So we'll go somewhere else. For the night. Until morning.
( a karaoke place, a manga cafe, a hotel--he's lining up all the possible options, as though he'll make a whole list if only so that touya can't refuse entirely. )
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Date: 1/24/25 04:18 (UTC)surely not shouto's hope tonight. he's a fool, but not that much of one. half expecting him to voice an invite, to ask a question from his heart instead of his brain. not knowing at all what came out of his mouth. stupid hero. he's really grown up to become one more imbecile throwing his morals and ideals around the world. just like endeavor. lighting up the world. a subtle "fwoosh" licks up from shouto's hand and swallows his cigarette's tip within.] Good boy. [smolders trail thin white smoke from his little brother's hand to his mouth as he slips the stick between his lips. who cares what he does with his body now? already falling apart and rotting like the memories buried in that garden. putrid burnt drags in with his breath, coiling his tongue and staining his taste buds with an acrid flavor until he exhales it all out into the cold air. wonder what shouto's little classmates'll think if mr. top nominated 2nd place comes back smelling of cigarette waste. guess it's better than smelling like a crematorium.]
Maybe it is. You gonna risk pushing further? [levying his own promise to his face, a night to spend with him, yet how far can he push him until the villain snaps? of course shouto didn't think much further. he has no idea where limits stop, clinging from one moment to the next. each step takes them further from neon lights, shadows stretching longer before them in a grotesque outline merging their separate "bodies" together in puddles of dirty water and grimy asphalt. one hand buried in his pocket, he taps his finger and sends a chaff ember tumbling to the ground before lifting the cancer stick to his lips once more. he should go. already knotted irritation twists in his stomach, sick of this brat's unwavering devotion to him despite knowing he'd interfere. and yet, he's still here. both of them. guess he can choke down a few more minutes of shouto's presence. make him fight for his attention. how's it feel, endeavor's perfect little puppet, chasing someone else's eyes. make it hurt, make his heart beg for his older brother to look at him. just like a damn idiot pleading for his father to stop looking at shouto and turn his eyes to him one more time. irony's cruel, isn't it.]
I know a little place. [before this stupid hero can list off whatever his emotional brain is lining up. there's no point in entertaining naive desires like fun cafes or gaming parlors or shopping malls, crap shouto might go to with his friends. one look at him and those places would empty, bring some self-righteous hero down on their heads. gonna have to lie low with this bastard.] Hope you're hungry.
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Date: 1/30/25 22:53 (UTC)he's thought about it plenty of times, but had there really been anything he could have done? he'd been too young to think of convincing touya, or to try to find some kind of compromise; he'd been too young to really do much of anything, except endure, and he hadn't even managed that all too well. and he's not so ignorant of his own feelings--no matter how much he might want to swallow them down--that he doesn't recognize that's part of why he's here: like he could somehow make up for all of that inability he had, back then, like he could somehow make touya realize that as much as touya had wanted to be looked at by endeavor, he himself would have been content to just have touya there beside him.
he can't live in the past like that--not wholly. if anything, living with his classmates has taught him the importance of acknowledging past mistakes but also moving on from them; he can't change anything about what happened, but he can do all that he can now, even if it's futile. if touya laughs at him, pushes him away, curses him, wishes he'd never been born: he can endure all that. he can handle all that.
he just doesn't fully know how to endure what might come out of his own mouth--or his own body, when he tenses at touya's side, walking beside him. both hands slip down into his pockets, chin tilted down, watching their shadows flicker and merge and mold together; his lips pass a soft sigh. )
I'll push as hard as I can. ( murmured, a little, like it's said more for his own benefit. ) Are you hungry? We can go somewhere else, if you want. Somewhere to...
( a tilt of his head, considering. ) Drink?
( he's too young for it, but there are plenty of places where he'd still be allowed inside--his gaze lifts, focused on the glowing ember of touya's cigarette, enough that he almost trips over a dip in the sidewalk, jerking his head back to keep from knocking their shoulders together.
eyes narrowing in irritation at himself-- )
It's your birthday. ( with a slow puff of breath. ) So we can do anything. I'll do anything. Food is good.
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Date: 2/18/25 23:41 (UTC)what would it have been like? if he'd been the one to reach out first? so much of his time was spent thinking of how to kill this perfect meat puppet. he wanted to serve his corpse up to endeavor personally, approach him with shouto's body draped in both arms. wanted to show up to the number 2 hero with his son's head dangling from a villain's fingers tangled in his hair. wanted to string up his immolated corpse across the front doors of endeavor's hero agency. nights putting himself to sleep with possible venues. none of them were enough... he'd never once thought much to reach for shouto and find his little brother's anger. run his fingers across his frozen little heart, curling in abandonment invite to lull the kid off endeavor's precious path. he couldn't force it like that idiot shigaraki tried on the explosive brat; there wasn't enough hate and anger in that kid to be anything but a hero.
but shouto... standing here amid licking curls of dirt street breeze tugging at the rim of his hood, he momentarily lets himself wonder a "what if" he'd so easily thrown aside before. shouto desperately wants his brother back. kinda insane to think he could've offered that at one time. with a catch.
water drips from the sole of his boot as he steps forward, hands falling into his pockets as a faint wisp of steam curls over his shoulders and races down his back. there's no changing the past. he made his decision. killing shouto in any way other than in front of his father has no meaning. he's simply one more piece on the pyre, with the main slaughter still waiting to be thrown atop the pile. it was risky to meet him here tonight. and yet, it was hardly a threat to either of them. he wonders how much of that shouto knows. would it change his view? probably not. the kid's too stubborn.]
It's kinda cute ya think I'm worth the effort. [pointless, but there's something disgustingly charming at how much this guy's intent on him. what a coward. instead of pushing endeavor, he opts to push him. protecting their father from his own failures and mistakes. it's easier for shouto if his older brother changes instead, isn't it.] Nah, don't worry. I'm takin ya to a place you'll like. It's got milk.
[taunting him over his age and inability to drink. why not? he's punched a hole in his little brother's body, yet hasn't offered him a drag of his cigarette and isn't planning on plying him with alcohol. as much fun as that'd be. nah, he has another idea, and he wants his sibling to be as awake and aware of it as possible when it happens. wants to see his eyes flicker with realization, the reaction on his face as raw and truthful as it can be. their next turn changes the light's angle, causing his shadow to swarm over shouto's rather than allow the pair to meld together evenly.
his birthday. his choice. do anything he wants. so ready to sacrifice almost anything to keep his attention and presence. starved for familial connection. turquoise eyes flick to the side, black brows arching in amusement when someone almost takes a stumble on the street. in one motion, the kid saves himself from falling and wrenches to avoid bumping into him.] Careful. Wouldn't wanna bruise ya pretty face.
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Date: 3/16/25 23:43 (UTC)he'd felt it even worse when he'd finally gotten to school, realizing that he had no idea how to interact with anyone his age--realizing that he'd lost so many years being alone, unable to cope, unable to learn how to socialize beyond the manners that had been nearly burned and etched into him. even now, touya has to be at least in his twenties, and he's still lagging behind. there's no way to clear that kind of space, and perhaps someone with a more traditional childhood would hate to be belittled by their elder sibling, to be reminded of all the things they're not legally allowed to do. not being offered a cigarette, or even a drag off the end: not being taken somewhere that serves alcohol, and instead teased with the mention of milk.
sure, anyone else would feel embarrassed, maybe. frustrated. but he feels elated. these are all things he's never really experienced before--and to have touya teasing him, ribbing him a little, just makes him want to smile; he tries to hold it back, but his mouth twitches, and stubbornly he forces his lips to snap together.
one of his hands lifts, warm from his pocket, but it's only so that he can rub over his cheek: the one that would have likely taken the brunt of the fall, if he'd really tripped and fell on his face. )
It's not pretty. ( he says slowly, almost stubbornly; what is this strange feeling? he doesn't like it, the way his stomach clenches, the way he feels embarrassed, the way he doesn't know whether he wants touya to be teasing him, or not. ) Already marked up.
( he doesn't have to point out his scar for touya to know precisely where it is; his own fingertips barely graze it, from where he rubs gently up along his cheekbone, before he drops his hand back down, seeking out the hidden warmth of his pocket again. if it's somewhere touya wants to go, somewhere with milk, then he'll go along with him. even if he's not entirely sure that what he wants to drink, when his stomach is already so tumultuous, is milk.
that, at least, has him lifting his chin--and easing just slightly closer to touya, almost like they'll touch elbows. )
...Are you going to tell me what it is? Or make me guess.
( knowing touya, he's probably not going to do either, and just lead them there without warning. dutifully, he's bound to follow him. )
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Date: 4/1/25 01:41 (UTC)waking up amid sterile lights and white sheets, all he'd done was demand answers from an asshole in a flower costume and a bunch of kids he didn't care about. learning in horror from a cruel man in a screen what happened to him, all he'd lost, his skin, his power, years of his life, even the presumed ability to learn from his own father. what it felt like to have his heart freeze in a scrunching vice behind his ribs, throbbing in fear and incredulous rage over his tragic life. so much gone, ripped away in a roaring blaze and years of black silence. for a brief moment, delirious in hope and heedless of tiny stones and sticks sliced into the soles of his bloody feet, he stood outside his family's home, wanting nothing more than to reclaim any shred of what he'd lost. a foolish little kid wandering bloody exhausted through his familial halls. with no sign of his missing life even recalled... none of them changed... his death meant nothing to any of them. severed from all of them. from endeavor, from his mom, his sister, his brother, shouto.
it remains even now, a yawning blackened gape between them. only an idiot would think he had the chance to cross it. bridges burned away long ago. as close as his little brother is beside him, so much remains across the chasm. he teases him, wanting to hear the echo of his voice and reaction over their separation. a shadow of their past. when they had the chance to know each other torn away from them by the monster who stalked within their family walls. shouto's under the impression he can reclaim that. running through the forest in his own delirious hope. kinda sickening how similar they are in this stage of life. yet completely opposite.
shouto's happy to be teased. everything thrown to him, he pounces like a starving mutt to scraps. and he keeps tossing them, sitting on a dirty park bench amusing himself with a pathetic animal's antics. no matter how much he tries to hold back his smile, shouto's unable to stop his mouth twitching at the corner, or the slight rise in his chest. right?
a bare hum vibrates in his chest and throat, floating somewhere between disinterested and piqued.]
Halfa Japan doesn't agree with ya. [he's seen them, his little brother's fans, talking about him in store lines, discussing him on the news, a reporter's eye lingering two seconds too long on the hero's face, a petty criminal grunting out what he'd like to do to shouto before blue flames consumed his face and brain. shit kindling.] Some people are fascinated with damaged goods. Makes 'em feel better about themselves when they can pity something.
[he's seen those looks thrown his way as well. sickos interested in his scars, fingers picking at his staples, lips wanting to know his story, and none of them getting much in response. people can be taken with grotesque, as if they're special enough to "fix" the damage or have some perverse idea they can "save" him from whatever fate their hero-bleached brains want to levy on his life. even that green kid from shouto's class had the same idea. feeling sorry for a scar-faced emotionally-fucked-up boy, he just had to reach out to save him from a decision he decided for himself was "bad" for shouto. of course his little brother doesn't see it like that.]
A bar. [as predicted, he does neither. not a name, not an address, leaving the boy to guess more what kind, where at, and so forth. standing close to him, sharing warmth despite their clothes, a faint brush of elbow earns a quick glance to the side, azure eyes almost glowing within his bangs' shadows. when's the last time someone stuck this close to him, not out of fear, but out of comfort? as if his presence offers shouto protection and assurance. he'd never been the "big brother" who gave his siblings that sense of power. another facet of his failures. and yet, this perfect, powerful puppet hangs close to him, because he wants to. because he likes it.] Pretty sure you've gone out with ya little friends, right?
no subject
Date: 4/10/25 22:33 (UTC)in a way, he should be thinking about the same things--there's a kindle of shame there, a tuft of a flame that he blows out with another thought. they're on the outskirts of town, in a place that probably sees less and less support from pro heroes, and what's the worst thing that could happen? he tarnishes endeavor's brand? the great todoroki name?
for not the first time, he thinks: go ahead, i want to.
there's a faint shake of his head, training his gaze in front of them. )
No. Just to karaoke, or shopping, the usual sorts of things...
( he doesn't want to bring up practice, or training, doesn't want to ruin the tenuous string of this conversation; selfishly, maybe, he doesn't want touya to change his mind, or to get in a bad mood. if touya had said they were going to an underground fighting ring where he'd have to battle someone to the death, he would have still followed him. ridiculously, he can understand that he's being stupid--that he's letting his own feelings get in the way, but he's easily blinded by even just the slightest glance that touya spares him, like he's looking to see if he's still following along.
he needs to get a hold of himself. a bar isn't going to help that, either--his idea is that it will be dark, and intimate, loud music playing, and touya looking at him from across a table, staring at him with those unreadable eyes. the thought makes his skin prickle, but it's all in a good way, a terrifying way, and he wants to tell himself it's just the cold, even though he isn't affected by it at all.
so he sticks close to touya's side, measuring their steps together, his hands sunken back down into his pockets so he can clench his fingers together; it makes touya's words circle back, after a moment of silence, like he has to ask: )
...Is that how you see me, too? ( it wouldn't surprise him, but then touya's broadcasted how he feels about him loud and clear; even so, he's grasping at straws like he can't help himself. )
Damaged goods. Is that it?
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Date: 5/1/25 19:25 (UTC)What's wrong? Afraid ya gonna get caught? [taunting, digging, twisting his dare of invitation deeper. he's already come this far down the path. is being with a villain worth risking his status in public, his place at his precious school, his standing as a hero? and what of his friends, his family, his academy? all of them will face a lurid backsplash if this goes public. and all of it will emanate from a single little kid who for one night said "fuck you" to everything he stands for...
there he goes. two-toned bangs wipe gentle cross shouto's forehead and he resumes walking, attention listed back to the path ahead.] Such a good boy. Bet it feels good, stayin in the lines. Keepin ya record neat an' pretty.
[bet endeavor's real proud of him. each time he sets his eyes on the only thing which matters, he'll see it shining bright and pure, fiery ambitions swirling within its icy walls. how he wants to wrap his bony fingers around a hammer's shaft and smash it to pieces. nah. one at a time. he's waited this long to enact his plans. he can wait some more. shouto wanted to give him a birthday gift and he's not even aware the additional present he's offering. chances to taint and corrupt the naive hero before he's even graduated. far too late to shove him face-first into the hell he normally walks through. but he intends to send him back to his idyllic world with a few personal injections. no worries of him changing his mind now. this night's turning out more interesting than he thought. just how much is shouto gonna let him get away with under this moon? ... kinda excited to find out. wrapped up in the clothes his little brother bought him, leaving their own mark on his ruined flesh, he'll return the favor.
no one's gonna care if they jaywalk, right? there aren't any cops out here to interfere with them. woulda been funny if there were. would shouto duck behind him, would he run along side him, would he use his quirk? nah, he's a hero. and his quirk's too recognizable. but he wouldn't stand aside and do nothing if he lit up beside him. way to ruin their fun night together. no it's a good thing the outskirts are devoid of police.]
What else are ya? [he's gotten used to the weight of his coat's tails moving with him, so turning around in his casual clothes feels a bit strange. walking backwards, he tugs his hands from his pockets and lazily gestures to himself, head lifted to brazenly shrug off the hood over his head. baring his scars, his own damaged face. fingers touch his chest, splayed in a mocking tenderness at his gestures.]
We're from the same mold, Shouto. Bred to be nothing more than a vessel for someone else's goals. Ya just happened to get luckier than the rest of the spawn. [a lazy smirk tugs his mouth in half, contempt and callous interest mingling on his expression.] Ya don't think you're perfect at all either, do ya.
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Date: 5/15/25 20:14 (UTC)he'll never know exactly what it felt like, to be abandoned like that. he'll never know the complicated fear, disgust, hatred, worry, emptiness that his mother may have felt, looking into those eyes glaring at her; he'll never know the agony of being left to die alone, somewhere, without anyone there to help. he won't pretend to know. won't trivialize something like that by saying he understands, or that he can perceive the feeling.
endeavor sees him as some perfect creature, hand-crafted to be the vessel for his legacy; touya sees him like he sees the rest of them, like damaged goods. that's the reason he's frowning. that's the reason his heart dips, flutters, his stomach twisting with a lurch of discomfort. he doesn't want touya to think of him like that; the more complicated issue is that he hasn't quite figured out how to name the feeling he wants instead. )
No one is perfect. ( softly, lowly, a little petulant, maybe--he doesn't care if they jaywalk, doesn't care if they're in the way of anyone else; he watches touya walk in front of him, walking backwards to face him, and he doesn't like the distance there, either.
he quickens his stride by a step, then another, until they're nearly walking in tandem, like their knees might knock together if he moves in even closer. )
I'm not perfect. I don't want to be. But I don't...
( his breath trails off in a puff of frustration; his eyes skid sidelong, avoiding contact, and for a moment he feels like he can sink back inside of himself, hide away under the cold, let his hair fall into his eyes and shiver back into the pantomime of chilled perfection that endeavor forced him to be.
but he swallows, instead, lifts his chin up again, and reaches in to snag at the front of touya's sweatshirt, using the hold there to forcibly turn him back around the right away. )
You're going to trip if you keep walking like that. ( calmly, though pointedly, he's not looking at him. ) Is it this place up here?
no subject
Date: 6/1/25 02:27 (UTC)what about them now? peering towards his backwards-walking body, rifling emotions behind his mismatched gaze in a flurry of confusion. shouto can't decide which emotion to feel. too much, too new, too confusing. did he hope tonight would be a beautiful sibling reunion, all feelings doffed for the sake of mutual peace? and now he's left trailing behind his sibling's charred corpse. conflicted. determined. like a hand clasped round a coal, burning flesh sizzling in agony as his mind screams for him to let go, yet all the logic in the world can't force his instinctive tendons keeping a burning chunk in his grip. shouto's holding onto him, knowing full well how bad he is for him, his reputation, his life. how much more will he let himself scorch and boil before he realizes there's no future? ya really are nothin more than a stupid little kid.
none of them can know the other. four abominations crafted by a demon in a house of hell. born of the same intent, with divergent failing results. he never cared what fuymi thought; she was a girl, she wasn't a hero, she didn't know anything. natsuo was rejected from the start; once upon a time, he thought his little brother could understand. but he only wanted to bury his head in the mud and ignore everything washing over him. shouto... why would he want to understand the creature that stole his reason for existing? none of them could understand each other in the end. enji's legacy. a madman's heirloom. who could see them as anything else?
... those who knew the truth. standing atop a mountain of flesh and bone, almost tearing his mouth apart at the seams from how hard he grinned and laughed, all the while regaling the world with the truth endeavor and his ilk so desperately wished to keep a secret. not only enji, but each one of them. their burning red blaze of glory and snow white desire to escape their history for a "normal" life. he poured everything out of his soul until his lips dripped with spite, salivating in utter glee above his own racing heart. beating so hard in euphoria it raged in straining agony, all the while bloodshot eyes tearing at their own veins and dilating pupils to see each shred of his family's lives burning black at his fingertips. the world sees you differently now, doesn't it! no more lip service, no more ignorance, not more fawning! each and every one of you can rot in hell with me! where we all belong! fuyumi's little students would look at her in ignorant stupidity, wondering why their trusted teacher knew such a bad man. natsuo's colleagues would draw back in horror at knowing someone they worked alongside was the product of domestic abuse. what sort of pitying looks would all of shouto's friends give him, knowing his disgusting origins? i want the world to hate us as much as we loathe ourselves. rip everything away from all of them, until they had no choice but to return to that house of hell and reunite around endeavor's pyre.]
You were. Once. [calm, cold, bitter, amused. hands behind his head, fingers laced together over the back of his hood, elbows flying to either side in an angular, bony triangle as his feet carry him backwards. putting a distance between them once more, all because he wants to see the look on his little brother's face. determined, petulant, quickening his pace with his head and shoulders tilted forward as if he can weight his momentum for speed. all for shouto to bring his body close and force a shared space once more. as incessant as a burr.]
Ya gonna have to start finishin your thoughts, Shouto. It's rude. [taunting him, fully aware he's the last person to be speaking of rudeness. as if his words can reach forward, long fingers composed of his voice cupping round the balls of his brother's eyes and drawing at them. look at me. you're disgusted by me. you're afraid. is that why ya look away all the time? questions he won't bring to lip, as a strong arm reaches forward and fists his shirt. lacking all threat, the grip of a child clutching at his mother's skirt for reassurance and safety. before it morphs into a commanding pull and forces him to twist on his feet. for a splitting second, memories flash through his mind, a huge hand crushing his shirt and ripping it up his chest to expose his burns to furious teal eyes.]
Yes, dad. [he tugs his sweatshirt down so it's not bunched above his fly and slips his hands inside the pocket, now successfully pivoted front facing once more. falling in step beside his little brother, maligned lips settled into a quiet line.] Yeah. The red one.
[they can take the stairs. a quiet, small narrow place with a single serving center, a few stools staunchly bloomed below the front bar, and thin high-backed two-person booths, somehow making the close intimate space cloistered between each of its distinct partitions. red-papered lanterns hang from black chains and wires, a small candle squatting centered on each booth table for extra light. at least it manages to avoid the "seedy back-alley" atmosphere any sane hero wouldn't be caught dead in.]
no subject
Date: 6/5/25 19:52 (UTC)but it's moments like these. where touya says dad like it's an insult, and the comparison, feeble as it is, makes him immediately drop his hold, as though the touch itself is burning a hole in him, and he wants it to stop; it steels something in him, hits a nerve, rips up some healing scab in his heart and pools the blood out there, unwanted and overwhelming. not even a real insult, just some half-hearted stab, and yet touya's hit him right where he has to: his face falls, then smooths over, an immediate coping mechanism that freezes his emotions into a flat plane of nothing.
wordless, he waits at the bottom of the stairs for touya to start up ahead of him, first, before he trails behind. the staircase is narrow, and if someone were to be exiting, and come down the other side, he would have to get out of the way anyway; better like this, to be at touya's heels, to be sure that he won't run, or turn back, without crashing into him. once they dip past the entrance, he finds that stoic demeanor suiting him: no one offers any kind of challenge, for what few patrons are there, and the staff don't immediately deem him unfit to be here because of his age.
rather, he looks--cold, frozen over, jaw set and lips pressed into a thin line, and instead of letting touya take the lead, he takes it from him, instead. )
We'll sit here. ( quietly, as he edges in the small space towards one of the empty booths. he's not looking at touya: he's looking past him, at the bar, and then slowly swings his gaze to meet his, steely and chilled. ) Get your drink, I'll wait.
( not like he could get away with ordering himself, he thinks. instead, he angles himself down to tuck himself into the booth; like this, there's hardly even enough room for another person, and touya's still, for now, a little taller than him, so he tries to sit tall, pulling his hands into his lap, and then, realizing that likely makes him look young, leans his shoulders back into the booth, one hand on the slender tabletop to tap his fingers there.
it's dark. darker than he expected, but maybe that's the point: his fingertips stretch towards the candle, hardly flinching at the slight burn of the wax that drips onto him when he touches it, before he lays his hand flat on the table and waits. )
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Date: 6/23/25 18:06 (UTC)even thinking about it now drives a quiet thrill of joy through his skin, ticking the undersides of his stapled flesh and churning his sack of venom with hate. that bastard. how many times he sat before his butsudan and thought about his dead spawn? how many times did he regret his actions? how many times did endeavor think "if only" and wish he could have done things differently, turn back the clock's wretched hands, and make a different choice? who knows. not enough. not enough to suddenly find himself with that very same corpse back to life, arms spread and offering a reunion, and all enji could do was call him a liar... didn't even think for a fucking second to be happy his despised mistake hadn't really died.
shouto's reaction to even a sleighted comparison elicits a stupid childish giggle in his brain. it makes him so happy to know all his warming up to their father and enji's attempts to become a better parent mean absolutely nothing. both endeavor and shouto are faking it. grasping at a future impossible to have. there's no recovery from the hellish history they share. not a single one of them gets to escape from his hands. he'll reach into their disgusting house and wrap his charred fingers around each one of them, bones burned black and skin cracking off into ashes. remind them each time how much it hurts, how much it hates, and tear any attempted bandages and scabbing away from those wounds which he refuses to believe, or allow, can heal. shouto still hates his father; he loves the reminder.
leading the way, he takes the steps one at a time in a lazy gallop, pushing with each foot and swinging the next up behind him as his hand lingers on the railing. not to hold it, but to trace his fingers along metal, feeling faint bumps of shoddy paintwork, dips from small chipped damages or dents left by a drunkard tumbling down the steps. zero attempts to question his arrival or the presence of someone so young trailing behind him. his business isn't for anyone here to question, and he has coin enough to keep their focus on their jobs. boots pass stools lined before the bar, refusing to take a single one of those seats as he aims for the personal booths instead. no one gets to sit beside his little brother. shouto's focus belongs completely on him.]
Oh? Aintcha the man of the house now. [giving him orders, making decisions. he drifts to the side, permitting the younger boy to pass him easily, and falls in step behind, faint curves of a lurid grin playing at his mouth's corner. a show of power? a fleck of anger? trying to take back some control between them? could be any of those, and he likes what he sees. ordered to his drink, he simply cants his head to the right and lifts his shoulders in a lazy motion, but refuses to obey. instead moving forward to complete their booth-bound journey. shouto slides into the cushioned seat and he takes his own across from him like a lanky shadow poured into the dimly-lit space.]
It'd be rude of me not to ask ya what you want. [lithe bony fingers wrap over a plastic-coated menu and he plucks it from the stand on the table's edge. a candle's reflection twitches in the blurry reflection as he sets the menu upon the tale, bottom first, and allows it to slide down flat, a soft ghost of air settling it in front of his little brother's face. lists of drinks streak the paper in black chunks, underlined above a blockquote inset of ingredients for each cocktail across from their price. a forbidden realm once more, as damning as a piercing or a tattoo for a whitewashed hero like shouto. not old enough, obviously, but who the hell's gonna care in this place? he rests his elbow on the table, chin atop the back of his cruxed hand, and leaves his eyes on his little brother's face. as if this is some cursed contract offered to him for signature and acceptance.]
Get whatever you want. Ya never forget your first.
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Date: 7/3/25 20:19 (UTC)his gaze lifts, from the candle, to touya, and he finds himself caught there: glancing at him, a little hurt, a little wounded, before looking away again.
no, he doesn't think he could do it. maybe that's a lack of strength of character, on his part--that he wouldn't have been able to advocate for himself enough to hate any of them enough to do it, that he would have rather sacrificed himself, somehow, if he could. lips pressed together, he finds the menu pressed across the table towards him; it feels like he's supposed to sign his soul away on the dotted line.
gently, carefully, his fingertips catch the edge, dragging it a little closer to him. )
They don't have milk. ( there's a strange little tingle in his voice, despite its flatness: an obvious tease, as his eyes roam the list. none of it he understands--he knows the various types of liquor by name only, and some of these have so many different things in them, it's hard to say what's alcohol and what isn't.
he tries, though. he studies it intently, for a moment, wandering his gaze down it, keenly aware that touya is staring at him--it doesn't make him nervous, but it does make his stomach twist, and for not the first time, he's afraid that he's beginning to understand why it feels that way, and why he should avoid it at all cost. )
...This one. ( one slender finger, tapped out against what's noted as a zombie cocktail on the menu: three types of rum, grapefruit juice, grenadine, and a few other things he doesn't understand or recognize, though the mention of a few drops of absinthe is the reason he chose it to begin with. something a little dangerous, especially for a person who doesn't drink.
with a bit of a challenge, cool, in his gaze, he nudges the menu back towards touya. ) Do you want to take my card to pay?
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Date: 7/13/25 00:50 (UTC)lounged back in his booth's side, bony elbow haphazardly tossed over its ratty cushioned ridge, he takes one piece of his answer in at a time. candlelight shadow can't hide endeavor's mark on his brother's face. endeavor's treatment can't hide his mother's gentle heart beating strong and bright inside his pathetic golden chest. what a ruined hero, as perfect as kintsukuroi masterpieces. glacier strength pushing his hatred into a frozen mass plodding inexorably towards his "future" as if he could walk out from under his father's thumb. still squished and squirming in effort to escape when he's trapped even now. because under all his ice, his fire's far too warm. a tender little kid begging for any ounce of his lost childhood. turning from friend to friend to teacher to mentor to even his villainous older brother in silent plea to recapture his gaping hole. he's too weak to fill it on his own. too good... too smart.
funny he's chosen to be stupid tonight. he outta give the kid credit for sticking to his intentions. what'll he get out of these hours? something cozy to snuggle with at night. all he's gotta do is sign right here and it'll all vanish in colored liquid splashing within glass walls. he's looking forward to this.]
Don't cry, Shouto. They can find some. [naive little brat. despite his pain, he's found strength enough to play around. does endeavor know how badly he flawed with this guy? sitting in a shady bar crammed between two buildings across from one of japan's worst monsters, and he notes they don't have milk. he wants to laugh, bubbled in his throat before spilling from his lips in a quiet sound of amusement. shit, he's cute. so naive and stupid, innocent and pure beneath his trauma. really has to give him some credit here. he's gonna be a great hero in his remaining days. fabric scuffs across his leg as he lazily extends it and drops his foot atop shouto's. nothing more than a weight. kind of wants to interrupt his intense focus, irked suddenly his sibling's so rapt on a menu, attention no longer on him. didn't think he'd care so much. look at me... i want you to...]
Thinkin about comin back from the dead? [he's daring. not a beginner's drink. likely gonna choke and cough on his first sip, if he doesn't spit it across the table in shock. his hand thuds atop the table, dropped bonelessly from its previous prop on his jaw. he splays his fingers and drags the plastic-covered paper to himself.] Nah. I don't want dear old dad knowin where you've been.
[not if questions come up and all this comes to light. as amusing as it'd be, he'd rather not have the bar raided and ruin a good drinking spot. thanks to shouto's clothing trade, his usual slimy shadow slink out of a booth, all black head and fried arms with shadowy coattails dragging behind him, exchanges for a lanky guy in hood and jeans getting up like he's gotta take a piss. how weirdly... normal. leaving his partner behind, he heads for the bar and rests his forearm on it, a quick glance catching the bartender's attention. the man's gonna ask about his partner's age in the booth, and he's gonna tell him to mind his business. in a way suggesting doing so's the safe thing to do, if he wants to make it through this night. alive.
never really been one for fancy drinks. shouto's drink arrives in a taller glass (with a straw on the side) and a cherry
ha hadangling in a sidecar. accompanied by a sake bomb (shotglass of sake dropped in a glass of beer) with said shotglass balanced atop his beer's rim via two chopsticks. and a quaint thick-bottomed cup of nigorizake + milk, because he's not above answering someone taunting him. a backup plan if shouto can't hold his liquor.]Betcha the first one in ya little class to have an adult drink. Makes ya feel real special, doesn't it?
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Date: 7/29/25 20:20 (UTC)he can't do that, as much as he wants to. he's been dancing around touya's boundaries all night, and the last thing he wants to do is make a mistake this close to the end; he doesn't want to put his arms around his neck and ask him not to go, because as ridiculous as it sounds, it's too honest. he can't be that honest.
it does sting, a little, when touya slips out of the booth, and he looks less like his brother and more just like a regular guy--slinking up to the bar, waiting there for their drinks. he tries to pass another glance at the menu, as though he might be able to calculate how much it'll all cost; he knows that touya won't take his money, will likely see it as some kind of pity offer, but he feels like he should at least try.
then again, isn't this what big brothers are supposed to do? he has no idea. natsuo had done his best, but he'd wanted to be out of that house just as badly as the rest of them--he can't really blame him for the distance, there.
when touya returns to the table, it feels like there's a whole spread of things: enough that his brows lift, his eyes narrow, and then he glances from the drinks to touya and then back again. judging by the name of his drink, he can detect which one is supposed to be his--but he reaches, instead, towards that cherry, fingertips nearly grazing the side before he drops his hand down. better for that to be there after he takes a sip of this god awful concoction, a way to flush his mouth out if needed.
instead, primly, he reaches for the straw. dips it down into his glass, gives a firm, twisting swirl, mixing up the contents into a dark, foreboding sort of green. )
I don't feel special. ( softly, as he looks down into his glass--without hesitation, he guides the straw between his lips, settling down around it to take in the smallest, tiniest little sip.
ugh. it burns. he knew it would, but the mixture is so strange that his eyes fall shut, his head twisting slightly to let go of the straw with a hard breath. firmly, he swallows it down--swallows, and then forces himself to look up at touya again, defiant and bland. )
... I'd feel more special if you let me help you. ( such a weird thing, a shot glass balanced on chopsticks--he's nearly holding his breath, trying not to make any errant movements, which is also part of why he forced himself not to react to the taste of his own drink. he can still feel it tingling on his tongue. ) Are you supposed to pour that in...?
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Date: 8/14/25 02:46 (UTC)is this the kind of reunion shouto envisioned? within arm's reach but hesitant to prick his finger. the brother he's wanted to know all his life, finally here with him, and he's afraid to make a wrong move. not surprising. he can still smell his brother's burning hair and clothes as he wrapped him in his arms. the first time he ever embraced his replacement with anything more than his eyes watching him over a crib's rim. felt good, in a horribly wretched way. like tearing a crusted over scab from a glistening unhealed wound festering beneath.
shouto's showing his naivety again, barely perceptible twitch of his brows above a momentary widening-then-narrowing of his eyes. surprise, suspicion, curiosity, all flickering across his face like the innocent little kid he is facing a trio of tickets to the "adult" world he's not allowed into yet. what others way can he corrupt a hero tonight? his lips twitch in an amused smile as slender strong fingers reach for the proverbial cherry dangling in its safekeeping glass. the one thing sequestered from cups full of vice and dangerous unknown. and doesn't take it. smart kid. gonna need that to wash out what he's about to put in his mouth.
bone clunks on wood as he drops his elbow on the table and props his jaw in his half-charred hand, staples digging into his gnarled flesh as his fingers rest shy of his temple. perched and watching with curious quirk tugging his lips in a barest line up. he knows shouto's gonna do it, the kid's already this far. so many heroes drink; it's nothing new. but watching his little brother dump something "bad" into his body lightens his chest with something stupidly giddy. similar to seeing that needle punch through his ear an hour ago. one mark after another left on his heroic body and legacy. doing what his flames couldn't weeks ago. he should be pissed off...]
Oy, don't say that. I was payin ya a compliment. [he lowers his arm, head lifting slightly from its previous prop. some of his humor seems to flicker as a candle in the breeze. lowering to focused interest as those pale lips wrap around his straw. pursing ever so slightly, pressing together in a sucking pucker. one drag upward and liquid rushes murky green through the tube like a thermometer's sudden spasm. in it goes.
down it goes. from his tightened jaw to his throat's column dipping in telltale swallow. well well, he's impressed. didn't think shouto would back out at this stage, but some tiny part wavered in question. his little brother would do this, all for him? sullying his perfect image with piercings and alcohol. for a long time, he'd wanted to drag him down to his level, force him into the mud he's known for years now. until his shiny make believe life's saturated with it. now... he gets to watch shouto dip his toes in of his own accord. mostly.]
Bravo, kid. Wasn't so bad, was it? [given his bland face and how he tugged his head aside, he's pretty sure it was. good. he ordered something heavy after all. sliding backwards until his back aligns with the booth's seat, he lifts both hands and takes hold of each chopstick's end. little bastard had to go for a taboo topic. he's pretty damn sure shouto's "help" had nothing to do with a drink.]
And how ya gonna do that? [get him a private audience with endeavor? tie the man up and drop him off in a warehouse? put him on trial after investigating all his criminal activities? each one of those brims a "no" without doubt. why'd he have to go and ruin a scant bit of fun they were having? a hero's nosy questioning can't be muted even for a few minutes. typical invasive.] You know exactly what I want.
[he pulls both chopsticks to the side like an executioner's block and the shotglass falls. bombs away. glass plooshes into his mug and floats towards the bottom in a drowning sway. sake instantly diffuses through beer, both liquids mixing in a downward swirl following his shotglass. sucking out its contents and absorbing them into a much greater whole.]
no subject
Date: 10/12/25 22:10 (UTC)if he killed himself, would touya accept it? no, he'd just be even angrier, and it would mean nothing, anyway. his own death, at this point, can't mitigate everything that happened; it would have been better if he had just never been born at all.
in silence, he watches touya's glass, watches the liquor slosh around, mixing together, diluted into one again; with a soft breath, he reaches for his own straw, forces another swallow--and this time, there's a faint cough, too much down at once, a wheeze of breath before he steadies himself.
it's not the first time that he's felt helpless, tonight, or helpless in general, when it comes to all this, but it is the first time that he feels like he's hit the bottom, unable to figure out some way to pick himself up or dig himself out of the hole. just like the shot, diffusing itself through the beer, his thoughts and his ideas and his determination seems to be drowning out in the weight of circumstance; he forces himself to take another swallow of his drink, his head already starting to feel a little fuzzy in reaction. )
I don't know exactly.
( an answer that serves more than one purpose: he doesn't know how he would help, just as much as he doesn't know, fully, what it is touya wants.
case in point: )
Do you want me dead?
( a glance, up over the candlelight between them--and then back down, as though he shouldn't have asked it, as though his tongue is already too loose, and the hand that snakes up onto the table goes after the cherry, instead, sliding it from the edge of his glass up to his lips, sucking on the artificial sweetness.
he should have just kept his mouth shut from the beginning, but ironically, he'd only wanted to help with the drink. now he can't back away from this conversation, by his own standards; he won't be another person to turn his back to touya. )
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Date: 12/7/25 23:32 (UTC)death won't make everything better, won't make anything better. a long time ago, he wanted to kill shouto and watch endeavor's face when he dropped his precious creation's scorched body in front of him. but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't enough. endeavor would only push forward. relegating shouto to a stepping stone in his insane drive to be a hero. he still had more to give. death wasn't the answer until the very end, when endeavor had nothing left. if shouto thinks he'll be able to see this through without clashing with his sibling, he's a fool.
unless endeavor decides to sacrifice himself for his youngest child... would he? maybe. he's pretty gung-ho on this fake "redemption" arc bullshit. bony fingers wrap round cold glass and he lifts it to his lips. swirling flavors combined as he spills it into his mouth, leaking over his teeth and tongue before entering his throat. how many people will endeavor put on his own pyre until he mans up and takes his rightful place atop the flames?]
Oy, don't choke. Ya supposed to drink it, Shouto. [innocent, naive little idiot. thinking he could somehow bear the brunt of his father's sins. typical hero, expecting himself to handle everything on his own and telling the rest of the world to sit back and let him handle it. so often he wonders what faces endeavor makes at the news of the league's activities, but what kind of faces has shouto made? when he watched that disgusting monster standing over endeavor's fallen bloody body. did he stare in horror at the screen, torn between hope and helplessness? did he run out the door in panic as if he could get there fast enough to save him? or did he sit on his ass and scream at endeavor to move? he sets his drink down with a clunk and clink of glass and ice, half-charred lips quirking slightly at one garish corner in an amused hint.]
Wouldn't mind. I wonder if dad'll snap if ya did. [seeing all his precious life's work fizzle out, everything gone to waste. he slouches slightly as he rests one lanky arm over the cushioned back, fixing shouto with quiet eyes. did he want him dead? not as much as he thought; he's letting him live right now. could've killed him during the war, but endeavor wasn't watching. could've tried to kidnap him in the woods like those other two, but shigaraki wanted the noisy one. his muscles shift, lips dropping slightly.] It's rude to ask a question and look away. What's wrong? Scared of my face or somethin?