Work Text:
“I think I have a crush on Yoarashi,” Shoto had said to the ceiling. It had been a hazy autumn afternoon- the leaves were golden, ready to begin their final treks towards the ground. He was in Izuku’s room, because he didn’t like to be left alone after training- even the pathetic remedial training-, and Hanta had said that Izuku had come back to the dorms upset earlier- and then left and returned again with a crying Mei, which was a double-whammy of they-shouldn’t-be-alone. Izuku and Katsuki had been combing Mei’s hair. Hitoshi had been making condescending comments from Izuku’s desk chair, sitting in it backwards, his phone barely held in his hand. Ochako was still at Ryukyu’s Agency, Tenya all the way in Hokkaido to get interviewed by Yoroi Musha, Momo at her father’s mansion getting prepared for some sort of gala-
The ensuing yelling, however, he didn’t really remember. It really wasn’t an important moment in the grand scheme of things- the only important part of that moment was the fact that it had all been his fault. He’d been the one to cause all of it. He knew that. Maybe one day he could accept it.
He wasn’t even completely sure if he’d even had a crush on Inasa. He didn’t remember any good feelings associated with him, just the bad- and even then, it fogged out around the edges, something that was probably also his fault.
It had taken a week of night courses and four days of full-time courses. While the others were on work-studies, he was doing remedial courses full time, from 8-4, every day of the week, including weekends. He ended up taking care of a lot of daycare classes, helping parole officers, working at a nursing home, and preventing Katsuki from hitting a lot of people, because despite how much he wanted to be a real hero, whatever that meant, he was still temperamental.
Gang Orca was a hard teacher- every answer he didn’t like ended in a body slam, if they weren’t being chucked around the room. They all got really good at landing during that time- Camie even discovered she could use her quirk to fly.
It was only him, Katsuki, Camie, and Inasa for all of it. Katsuki and Camie had become really close- Katsuki was an asshole and a bitch and Camie was a gossip and a whore, so those two becoming friends was only a matter of time, much to the detriment of everyone else.
He remembered hoping that he and Inasa would become more than friends. He remembered looking at his hands, his shoulders, the hair at the back of his neck, studying every piece of him that he could sink his teeth into. He remembered feeling oddly bashful around his wolf-toothed grin, remembered wishing that he wouldn’t pat him on the back, but instead grab the back of his neck and drag him somewhere private-
Okay, maybe he did have a crush. He hadn’t been the only one, anyways.
“We won’t tell our parents. We don’t have to tell anyone, we could just keep this between us.”
Shoto hadn’t really been paying attention to his words, more focused on Inasa’s lips moving as he’d walked him closer to the wall.
“I really want to go out with you, Todo- Shoto,” Inasa had said, “will you…?”
They’d been in the smoking section out behind the nursing home. There had been rats digging through the dumpster to his right, he could hear their bodies bang as they fell into things and the crinkling as their noses dug through plastic garbage for something edible. The air had been dank, stale. Behind Inasa had been a brick wall with something too red to be dried blood splattered on it.
“Yes.”
~
“Shoto,” a soft voice. Izuku’s voice had never really dropped with puberty- he couldn’t talk when he was in Tartarus, and was castrated before he was out of it. He sounded unnaturally androgynous, slightly uncanny. It was worse at night, when he snuck up behind him, “Shoto, show me.”
Shoto turned around. His eye was throbbing, and he wanted to shut them, so he did. He knew Izuku was walking closer, could feel him as he moved, could feel him as two fingers pressed to his jaw, moving his head up.
“That’s strangulation,” Izuku mumbled.
“I consented.”
“He choked you wrong, if that was for sex,” he said, “he wasn’t being safe. He could have collapsed your trachea, Shoto. You’d have died.”
“Maybe he should have,” Shoto said, forcing his eyes open against the pain, feeling Izuku’s hands cup his cheeks. God, he wanted to punch him in the face. He felt Izuku’s thumb gently pressing the bruise under his eye, and saw the way he studied his popped blood vessels through a sea of bleary redness. He wanted to hurt him. It felt like his skin was crawling, ants buzzing through his body somewhere deep, pouring out of his pores.
“Shoto,” Izuku said, again, something that wasn’t even scolding but still sounded that way to his addled brain.
“Oh fuck off, like you’d know anything about safe sex,” Shoto shoved his hands off him. Izuku’s eyes flashed somewhere dangerous, his lip twitching in his urge to snarl, “you’re less than a glorified whore, you’re just a fucking sex toy, so don’t go lecturing me on what my boyfriend does. You don’t get it. He loves me, he’d never hurt me, not really. So- so just- fuck off, with of that.”
He threw his hand up, exasperated, and Izuku flinched, minutely, his eyes watching Shoto’s hand fall before looking back at his face. His pupils were pinned, his expression blank- and oh, how many times had he seen that expression from him, with Toshinori’s arm thrown over his shoulder?
He turned around and walked away, and that felt like a strike. Shoto could feel his hands shaking, his stomach twisting up into his throat.
“Good night, Shoto,” Izuku said, glancing back just once, before disappearing from the kitchen, disappearing into the bowels of the dormitory.
“Wait-” Shoto whispered, reaching out towards nothing but the shadows. His eye hurt. His throat hurt. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t, or he’d wake people up. God, what had he just done? What had he just said? To Izuku? To his- to his friend. To the boy who held his hair back when he’d just started on the fucking Rifiaprazine and couldn’t eat without puking? To the one he gave his fire too? To the one he’d given his soul to? Why had he said that? No, no, how could he have done that, now he would hate him. They’d all hate him. They only tolerated him because of Izuku, he knew that. He knew that if Izuku had never tamed him, he’d be an outcast, ostracized, halfway to death in their world.
Why had he said that?
His hands shot to his pockets, digging through them- no, no, nothing, before he went to his backpack, digging digging digging-
(He needed to be broken. He should take the knife from the block and- no, no, he needed his pills, he just needed his suppressants, then he’d be fine-)
He grimaced, his hands shaking as he fucked with the blister pack, grabbing two pills even though that was technically his daily dose and he’d already taken it. He just needed to- to stop. He needed to go far away, far away where he knew. He needed to be floating, to sleep, to be-
(What was happening? Where was he? Fuck- he- couldn’t-)
His chest was heaving, his body feeling somewhere heavy, somewhere light, somewhere a thousand miles away. He looked around the kitchen, with its barely decorated walls and weird stories. He needed- he needed something more, he couldn’t do this, not without-
(He needed to be so unconscious he was dead. There was no fixing anything, he’d thought it, he’d said it, he’d FUCKING BIT BACK JUST LIKE HE’D TAUGHT HIM TOO-)
Denki had told him where he hid the alcohol for safekeeping- in the pantry, he’d carved out a hole in the drywall, and, yes, there.
(Did he love him? God his head hurt so much, it felt like it was fucking exploding and he COULDN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT-)
He grabbed the bottle of whatever-the-fuck, unscrewing the cap, and chugged.
(He’d just been concerned. That was how Izuku was: consnd-)
It was hard liquor. It burned, horribly, somewhere deep in his lungs. He could feel it on every exhale, could feel it down his esophagus, until he was forced to put the bottle down and throw a hand over his chest, breathing heavily until the burning faded enough for him to breath without gasping. And then, it was only warm.
(Hwntd hsmm. Hdrthr bddthn lthrshm lkths-)
He glanced back at the hole in the wall behind the bags of apples and potatoes on the pantry floor, his eyebrows furrowing, before he forced himself to his feet, tumbling into the wall and smacking his head on the doorframe. He rubbed it, bleary, knowing it would bruise but not even caring, reaching down to the ground and grabbing the bottle, shouldering his backpack. There was a notepad and pen on the counter, something they mostly used for snack lists before banishing someone to the store.
He ripped off a note, the pen shaking in his hand.
Pls bu y more alkohl - T.S.
He grabbed a rubber band from the junk drawer, pulling out his wallet and staring at the bills in his hand, before his bleary mind just went fuck it, and he rolled the bills, wrapped the note around it, tied the rubber band, and walked outside to Denki’s mailbox and put it in, barely remembering to put the flag out so that he’d actually check it. He stumbled back into the dorms, went up the elevator- nearly passing out on the trip up- stumbling to his room. He put his backpack on his desk, left the half full bottle of Everclear on the dresser, and passed out on the floor.
~
They’d done a few things he was pretty sure boyfriends did. They went out on a few dates- twice to the same coffee shop, once to an axe-throwing parlor. Inasa had paid for him- he’d thought that was sweet, even though he’d had more than enough money to pay.
He’d wanted to fuck him, so Shoto learned how to make himself acceptable, and let him. He’d felt trapped, scared, and after it was all over he felt like he had been cut open and emptied of blood, mind, and entrail. He thought that maybe that was supposed to be what it felt like, and didn’t try to learn more- how could he admit such a weakness of his mind and body if it wasn’t normal?
How could he admit that he was sixteen and-
“I won’t, I won’t use my fire, I won’t!” he screamed, and his father grabbed him by the neck, before chucking him across the training room. He landed hard, bouncing off of the wooden floor, forced to roll because of the momentum, trying to cover his face in a weak defense as he sobbed through every pained breath. There were flames all around him, and it was so bright, and so hot, but his father’s shadow still cast over him, his body black against the flames.
“You don’t know how much I am capable of hurting you, boy,” and he’d held him down and stripped him bare and-
God fucking- he was eight! He had been eight when that happened. It stopped two years ago! He should be- he should be over it by now, he shouldn’t be getting affected by this! He should finally feel over it, so why did his body break apart as soon as Inasa’s hands were on him, in him-
He didn’t even have it the worst. He knew that. He knew that there were villains children a quarter of his age who became sexual servants. So why did it break him apart when everyone else was fine?
How was Izuku still able to even touch people with such a raw and persistent wound? How come he wasn’t broken by it? Was there just something- something fundamentally wrong with him?
Fuck, was he- was he like his mother? Like porcelain, easy to break but never able to be the same afterwards. Everyone else could survive, so why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he just get over it-
Inasa wanted to sleep with him, and Shoto let him.
Inasa wanted to try something, and Shoto let him.
Inasa wanted to hurt him, and Shoto let him.
Maybe he deserved it, for being so easily breakable.
~
“You’re taking a lot of those,” Katsuki said, as Shoto slid the orange pill bottle away from his mouth. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly, his mind feeling like water- slipping through his fingers before he could grasp at a single thought. He liked it that way.
“I’m taking my dosage,” he said, “it’s as needed. I need it.”
“It’s a fucking quirk suppressant, jackass. It could damage your quirk, if not kill you if you overdose,” Katsuki scowled, “unless that’s not your Rifiaprazine that you took out of its pack and shoved in a blank pill bottle.”
“Can’t you just fuck off, Bakugo?” Shoto sighed, rubbing at his temples. He could feel a migraine coming on, but he couldn’t exactly leave remedials without getting his ass beat, so here he was. Living the fucking dream, wouldn’t’ya know.
“Tch,” Katsuki said, “it’s your funeral, dickwad. If you’re that mind-wiped go fuck big and wild, I’m sure he’ll be happy to beat you half to death again.”
“Go find someone who gives enough of a shit to listen to you or off yourself, because I’m tired of your bullshit,” Shoto snapped, “I’m taking a break.”
Katsuki opened his mouth to argue, before rolling his eyes and leaning back onto the railing of the shitty, rinky-dink apartment building. The parole officer they were working with glanced back upon hearing someone going down the metal staircase, only seeing one of the students that he was supposed to have as backup for a violent offender on house arrest, his face pinching up.
“I’m enough,” Katsuki said, his palms pop-pop-popping to support his claim, or maybe in warning, “he’ll be back.”
“He can’t just run off,” the officer said, annoyed, “this isn’t a fucking free for all. Tell him to get his act together. No fucking discipline in any of these brats…”
Katsuki bit his cheek as the parole officer started banging on the door.
“Wamai-san, this is your parole officer, Hidekari-san! Open up immediately! Not answering the door after you have been found to not be submitting your reports is grounds for rearrest!”
“Go away,” a voice mumbled from the other side, “I have rights, go away.”
“Open the door, or force will be used!” Hidekari yelled, banging one more time, “Do you want to go back to prison? I hear you had some nice friends there!”
The door slammed open, and the leg monitor started shrieking as soon as Wamai threw himself out the door, grabbing Hidekari by the collar of his salmon-colored pressed shirt, and Katsuki scowled, launching himself forward-
Ice clawed its way up Wamai’s body, a sharp point beading blood at his throat, and Katsuki skidded to a stop, the ball of his foot pressing against the base of the ice prison.
Hidekari slammed his arm down, forcing a shivering Wamai to release him, backing up with his lips pulling, his teeth bared into a sneer.
“Idiot,” Hidekari said, “I’m calling a squad car. The failure to report was bad enough, but I decided to be nice. Now you’re definitely going back to the slammer. Fucking grabbing me like that, asshole…”
He flicked imaginary dust off the wrinkled collar of his ugly shirt, and started radioing.
Katsuki ignored how Shoto’s ice was already melting.
~
He met Hawks when he was seven. The boy had been fifteen, with buzzed hair and persistently pinned pupils. He had large red wings, with sharp feathers, and even sharper talons on his fingers and toes. His eyes softened in a desperate way whenever he saw his father. He was weak to him, somewhere deep in his heart, weak like his mother had been. He had scattered bruises like stars across his body, but was always bruised around his throat like a claiming collar, with dark eyebags and a face that didn’t emote beyond his eyes.
His room was right next to Shoto’s, but Hawks was often called out of it- often slept in his father’s room. Shoto knew what he was- had seen the tattoo across his hip, had been told what a villain mark meant. It meant that someone had no rights to themselves or their body, that they were slaves to whoever bought them.
He pretended he didn’t relate.
Hawks didn’t speak unless spoken too. Shoto didn’t like speaking, too afraid that any noise would lead to ire. The rare moments they spent together, it was nearly always silent.
But his father had been gone that night, and Shoto was so lonely that he just needed to talk to someone, anyone, and Hawks was all he had.
Shoto had been sitting below the open bathroom window when Hawks entered, his eyes narrowed at him. He stared at him like he could decipher everything about him just by looking, and maybe he could.
Shoto patted the spot beside him.
“This is a secret,” Shoto said, quietly, holding out his pinky, “you have to pinky promise to keep it, or go away.”
Hawks glanced down at his pinky, before hooking his own together with it, sitting down in the indicated spot and curling his knees up to his chest, glancing between Shoto and the opened window before stiffening.
“Someone’s outside,” he warned, and Shoto grinned.
“I know,” he said, just as a box of pocky flew through the window, landing on the tile. Shoto’s grin grew wider, and he launched forward, dragging it back to his spot on the floor. A sweet raspberry tea landed on the floor, and finally an opened box of cigarettes. Shoto smiled, gently, dragging both of the items back to himself before pushing himself up, walking to the window.
He waved. Natsuo and one of his father’s bastard children that he didn’t know the name of, on the ground in the gardens below him, waved back, before they started walking back to the house. The bastard child set his cigarette out on the railing of the porch before starting to head around the backside of the mansion, towards where the trail to his father’s private orphanage was.
“What is this?” Hawks asked, as Shoto shut the window, going for the opened cigarette box first. There were only three inside. He sat back down and fished one out.
“My brothers throw stuff to me whenever dad’s gone for the night,” Shoto said, “do you want some pocky? Or tea?”
“I-” Hawks looked between the two items, “I’ve never had either.”
“I’ve only had the pocky,” Shoto said, “I’ve never drank that flavor of tea. I’ve had lemon and peach, though, and they’re really good.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Hawks said, “if you damage your lungs you’d be useless.”
“That’s alright,” Shoto said, burning the end of the cigarette by pressing it against his skin on the fire side, not fully igniting a flame, “I don’t think my lungs can be hurt by the cigarettes, but if I’m useless then it’ll be over. I’ll get to be done. That would be nice.”
Hawks opened his mouth, before shutting it, curling up into a ball. Shoto opened the pocky and offered him one. He took it, his eyes widening and the feathers of his wings going fluffy as he tasted it.
“It’s good,” he said, “it’s not like cake. I thought it would be.”
“I’ve never had cake,” Shoto said, “is that good?”
“It’s soft,” Hawks said, “like a sponge. But a good sponge. A sponge that tastes like this.”
Shoto tried to imagine that, but he really couldn’t. He pretended he could anyway.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Shoto asked, and Hawks shook his head.
“You can taste it on someone when you kiss them, even if they’ve brushed their teeth,” Hawks said, “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Okay,” Shoto said.
“Can I ask you a question?” Hawks asked, and Shoto nodded, “Whose Touya?”
“Why?”
“Your father called me that while we were having sex,” Shoto’s face didn’t change at that information, no matter how much he hated it, “I didn’t know who it was, and he doesn’t like it when I ask questions. I was just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Shoto stared at Hawks for a long moment.
“Touya’s no one,” he said, “he’s been gone for a long time, and I never really met him. My siblings might know more, but I don’t.”
Hawks sighed, but nodded.
Nobody came into their section of the house beyond the servants, and they couldn’t leave. They couldn’t communicate through the servants, as they couldn’t speak to them. Shoto was Hawks’ only chance of gaining information, unless he wanted to ask his father- which nobody did.
Shoto curled his knees up to his chest, a mirror of Hawks’ position. They shared the box of pocky and tea. Shoto didn’t share the cigarettes, hiding the box in his pants to be stowed away in a broken floorboard in his room later.
They only left when dawn started to creep.
~
Shoto was eight with seven months until his ninth birthday when he quit smoking. Natsuo and his bastard brother started throwing him snack packages of different flavored mini-cupcakes instead.
Shoto decided he liked cake, even though it definitely had a texture like a sponge. It helped settle the sourness in his stomach.
~
“Please, please don’t touch me,” Shoto whispered, weakly trying to bat Inasa’s hand away. Shit, where were his pills, he needed his-
“Don’t touch me, please,” he begged, his stomach twisting up into knots, the room starting to feel too large, too consuming, and Inasa- Endeavor- was looking at him and shit, shit, shit, he needed to get away, he needed to hide, he needed to-
“Hey, hey, chill out,” Inasa said, coming closer to him, his eyebrows furrowed, “you’re acting like a fucking weirdo, man.”
Shoto whimpered, his mouth drawing up, and he looked around, his eyes wide and horrified and shit, where was he? This wasn’t his father’s mansion, this wasn’t the halls he was allowed in at least, and if he wasn’t there then where was his father? Had he run off? No, no, he needed to get back, he needed to get back before the punishment got worse-
He launched to the side, trying to get to the door, and his father grabbed him by the arm. He whipped around, horrified, throwing a punch he knew would do nothing, because he’d never been able to hurt his father before but he was so scared-
His father stumbled back, clutching his eye, but his hand didn’t release his arm and fuck, he’d really done it now-
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Inasa scowled, looking at him like he was someone he didn’t know. And maybe he was- he didn’t know who he was, either. Wait- Inasa. Inasa was here, Inasa would keep him safe, maybe, probably, he was something to him, he would be safe, and oh, why was he clutching his eye? What had happened?
“Shoto!” Inasa- Endeavor yelled, “What the fuck is up with you, you’re acting insane!”
I don’t know, Shoto wanted to scream, I don’t know. Everything is too big and I am too small to contain it all and I am about to rip apart at the seams and splatter my viscera onto you like it's something holy.
“Please, please, daddy, please,” Shoto begged, “please let me go, I’m sorry-”
“Oh,” Inasa- Inasa was back, where had he gone?- said, “so this is some sort of role play thing- could’ve warned me, sweetheart.”
Where was he? Where was his father, why was he here now- shit!
“No, no,” Shoto whimpered, a tear falling down his cheek as his father grabbed him by the back of his hair and drew him forward, until they were chest to chest, and he was forced to look up into his eyes, “please, no.”
“Shhh, baby,” his father whispered, “I’ll take good care of you.”
No, his mind cried, before everything felt too far away to perceive.
~
The flames burst from his body-
~
Shoto hadn’t felt cold when he’d lost the Sports Festival. He’d felt boiling hot, overzealous, like a sparking wire. His mind had felt frazzled beyond belief. It felt like there was blood going through his veins the first time, like the frost he’d felt for his last fifteen years of life was just a distant memory.
Under the arena, he’d started giggling to himself.
“What the fuck are you laughing about?” Katsuki scowled, “You have no reason to laugh. You gave in, like a coward.”
“Didn’t give in,” Shoto grinned at nothing, “you didn’t deserve my flames.”
“You lost to me!”
“You don’t deserve my flames,” no, no, the only person who deserved his flame was- was Izuku. He was the only one. He’d always be the only one that deserved his flames. He’d be his weapon, he’d be his knight, he’d serve him to the ends of the earth til the end of time. He’d do it. He’d fulfill the purpose he was born for, he’d use his flames, not for his father- but for him.
“You mother-” Katsuki’s hands popped, “you might as well have fucking seceded, it would have made you look like less of a fucking coward. Knocked out by a single one of my blasts after that fucking show you put on with bitchboy-”
“You’re not him,” Shoto said, “you’re not.”
“So I’m not worthy of such a high regard?” Katsuki snarled.
“Guys-” Fumikage tried.
“You wanna fucking die-!”
Concrete lashed towards the ceiling, a blast hitting the inside as soon as it was up. Shoto didn’t notice, just rocked his head back and forth.
“That is enough,” Cementoss said, Katsuki roaring from where he was trapped in a concrete box, “get on the podiums.”
“I won’t!” Katsuki yelled, “I’m not going to step up there until he treats me to a real fight!”
Cementoss shared a look with Power Loader. Within the next two minutes, he was muzzled and chained to the first place podium, his entire body whipping and fighting. He nearly broke his own shoulder trying to escape, but to Shoto, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the dip of his head to accept the second place medal from All Might, holding it in his hand to admire it.
He didn’t even know why he did it. Well, yes he did. It was because his father was a dipshit.
“Endeavor,” Shoto said, grinning. They were in the maintenance tunnels- his father had been banished here to cool off after the final fight, “I have something for you.”
His father stared at him like he was someone he didn’t recognize- and really, maybe he was. How could he know, with all this energy flowing through him? He felt like a brand new person- no, he was a brand new person. Brand spanking new.
“It’s the second place medal,” he tossed it to him, and on reflex his father caught it, “since you’ve been wearing it for so long, I feel you deserve it more than I do.”
His father blinked, before his flames started lightening, and lightening, and-
“Boy!” He exploded into flames, the medal turning molten in his hand, and Shoto laughed, bolting down the maintenance tunnel. He felt gloriously fast, faster than he’d ever felt before. It didn’t matter that his father was yelling somewhere far behind him-
He had changed owners, and that was the most freeing feeling of all.
~
“I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him-”
Inasa wasn’t answering his phone. Inasa was ignoring him. He knew he wasn’t doing anything today, he’d learned everything about him, he knew everything, he knew he shouldn’t be getting ignored. He loved him, how could he ignore him? He loved him, he loved him, he loved him-
(He didn’t know what he felt, IT HURT, why was it so much?)
He wanted to hurt him so badly. He wanted to scream and thrash and bite. Inasa couldn’t ignore him. He’d given him everything. He couldn’t ignore him. He couldn’t!
Shoto didn’t like the sensation of rocking his body, but rocking his head was something he could do. It made him feel less crazy. He could focus on whatever was in front of him- at this moment, an empty bottle of alcohol that had been sitting in his room for who-knew-how-long- and watch as it got bigger and smaller as his head rocked.
(Please, please, he couldn’t be left alone, he’d tried so hard, so, so hard to be loved-)
He wanted to scream. He needed to- he needed to get this out.
“I love him, I love him, I love him, I loved him-”
He’d given him everything! He’d torn himself apart over and over again for him, he’d destroyed himself, and he was getting ignored?! He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve to be treated like this, he needed to FUCKING KILL HIM-
NEW MESSAGE [23:09]
inasa
I love that character! He’s always super fired uP! IT'S GREAT!
Shoto blinked, staring at his phone.
NEW MESSAGE [23:10]
inasa
ALSO SORRY I WAS IN THE SHOWER I LOVE YOU
Shoto’s hands were shaking. His brain was at war for whether to coo and fall into putty or snarl and thrash. He wanted to kiss him senseless- he wanted to beat his head in. His heart felt like a clocks’ tick, ringing out in his ears in steady rhythm, the only thing keeping him sane. His stomach hurt with how hard he must have been clenching it while he was rocking- or maybe he was about to throw up.
(He’d ignored him.)
(He really hadn’t left him, he wasn’t really alone-)
He didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve him.
He needed to- he needed to escape these feelings.
inasa
Today 22:51
Have you read Local Westies? The main character reminds me of you. [22:51]
I love him! He’s always super fired uP! IT'S GREAT! [23:09]
ALSO SORRY I WAS IN THE SHOWER I LOVE YOU [23:10]
I love you too. [23:14]
His stomach still hurt. His metronome heart, moreso.
He stood up, his face blank, as he walked over to his bookshelf. His fingers tapped lightly on the wood of the shelf as he looked over his options, before grabbing the bottle of peach schnapps and champagne, and a tall glass and possibly-dirty chopstick from his desk, pouring a mixer that was probably too heavy on the schnapps to not taste like wrath served spicy.
It didn’t even matter what it tasted like. All that mattered was how it made him feel.
He stirred it roughly, and swallowed it down.
(Hhtd hm. Lvjst shppn dtbth thrsd fthcn.)
(Hlvdhm. Htrdws jstsr thnth frfbng lngn.)
“I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, I love him-”
~
Inasa had a personal apartment in Osaka, where Shiketsu was located. The trains to and from Musutafu came often, and went straight there without requiring switching to a new one- the trip took around an hour and a half.
His parents paid for it. They were pro heroes- the Windstorm Duo, Typhoon and Cyclone, currently ranked twelve, both from legacy families- though legacy families much less important than the Todoroki’s. Their agency was located on the northern tip of Hokkaido. It was the reason Inasa liked the heat- that far north it was chilly year-round, if not freezing.
It was large and open, with meager decorations but so much unfinished school work and so many art projects scattered everywhere that it managed to feel cluttered. It persistently smelled like paint and rubbing alcohol, and when they opened a window it smelled like cigarette smoke from the downstairs neighbor ripping through packs.
Inasa had wanted to be an artist. If his parents weren’t heroes, he would have been a good one. But his quirk was good, more powerful than his parents’ quirks, and every legacy wanted to continue, so he was at Shiketsu to become a hero.
(Apparently he hadn’t gone to UA because he thought Shoto looked too much like his father. He stayed awake sometimes thinking about that.)
Because Aizawa was tired of him asking to leave school, he just went ahead and gave him approval to leave whenever he pleased, as long as he was at class on time and didn’t miss a single period. If he did, he lost his privilege and got suspended. Shoto knew better than to waste Aizawa’s grace, not to mention the fact that his father would be notified if he got suspended…
Inasa’s apartment felt safe. Being there felt good. There was always food in the fridge that he could eat whenever he wanted, there was a TV, and they’d gone ahead and broken in nearly every flat and/or comfortable surface in it. They’d even had sex on top of a canvas for one of Inasa’s more personal projects- he’d spent nearly a week trying to get all the blue paint out of his hair, and in the end it was so abstract he didn’t quite understand what the point was beyond ‘sex with paint’. Inasa loved it though, loved painting him- he called him his muse, and Shoto pretended he didn’t feel oddly about every weird abstract bullshit Inasa conjured instead of painting the scar across his face. He knew it was ugly, but it felt… worse, to draw a cube over it, or turn that half of his face into something befitting Picasso, or-
He was just sensitive, he was sure.
(Inasa never painted him normally. Not fully, anyways. He’d paint his body was it was, paint all the bruises he’d strewn over it with great attention and care, and he’d paint the right side of his face in a way that actually made him feel pretty but-)
He was just sensitive.
(Never his left side. Never unscarred, but never as it appeared.)
There was only one other Shiketsu student in Inasa’s complex, another hero’s son with the goal of becoming a legacy. His name was Shishikura Seiji. His father was a Tartarus guard, a Redsie, someone he knew but pretended he didn’t. Shoto often saw him strolling the gardens, or sitting in common spaces. He knew he smoked cigarettes, but Seiji seemed oddly adamant about only smoking in the designated areas. Inasa told him he was a weirdo. He’d been at the Provisional License Exam with them, but hadn’t passed the first part because of Katsuki, Eijiro, and Denki.
“Can I bum one?”
Shoto had made a habit of seeking him out when he felt raw and weak. He didn’t want to say that Inasa was too rough with him, because he could take it- he knew he could. He just- he nearly wished he would shatter to pieces, so it would at least prove that he wasn’t being completely pathetic, so he could prove to himself and maybe someone else that it was actually hurting him.
“Rather nasty black eye,” Seiji said, oftering him his pack, tapping below his eye, “is your ear cauliflowering?”
“I hope not,” Shoto said, fishing one out as Seiji set out his butt and grabbed another. Recovery Girl was no longer treating him for injuries he sustained outside of school. His only prayer was to get injured during Heroics class badly enough that she’d heal all of him.
Maybe she’d heal a cauliflower, though, since it was ugly- but if she didn’t, he’d probably need to get one of his classmates to drain it. He’d seen Katsuki draining one of Eijiro’s before, but he didn’t know if he trusted Katsuki with a needle that close to his face.
“Light?” he asked, and Shoto lit them both, sucking in smoke and praying as he exhaled that all the horrible, awful, no good thoughts in his head would go out with it.
“He’s an awful example of a hero,” Seiji said.
“Hmm?”
“Yoarashi,” he said, “he’s a terrible example of a hero.”
“He’s not,” Shoto said, and after a moment, “he’s better than I am.”
Seiji looked at him for a second that felt like a lifetime.
“I get it, that neither of you had a choice whether or not to become a hero,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have the choice to do good.”
Shoto snorted, nearly choking on smoke, “There is no choice in heroics. You should know that.”
“Not what I meant,” Seiji corrected, “heroes don’t get a choice what they do in their jobs. If they need to arrest a mother, so be it. If they need to topple a building to bring in a ranker, they should do it. Our job is to keep the peace out there. But here,” he gestured towards the building, “here there is no one’s life at stake. Violence is not necessary. There is a choice. If he cannot separate that violence out there from here, then he is a terrible hero.”
Shoto gulped, flicking his cigarette around his fingers, “Why? Why is he terrible?”
“Because, it means violence is intrinsic to his soul and not to his civic duty,” Seiji said, staring out over the gardens, “it means he’s a hero in the first place to extend his stain onto others, instead of to exercise justice. He doesn’t want to serve our nation, protect our people. He wants to see others with bruises and fear in their eyes, just like how he likes you-”
Seiji choked as his collar was grabbed, though not for more than a moment. Shoto’s hands were shaking too badly to hold him up, even though Seiji was shorter, even though he should be stronger-
“I am not-” his voice cracked, “I’m not afraid. I’m not.”
Seiji stared at him, his face carefully blank, maybe even bored. He took a drag of his cigarette, even though Shoto was risking ripping and/or freezing his shirt, and blew it out towards the side, where Shoto wouldn’t feel a lick of the smoke’s steady warmth.
“Have you ever been told why Shiketsu doesn’t allow romantic or sexual relationships between students?” he asked. Shoto’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion- he hadn’t, “Well, I’ll tell you. Shiketsu was founded a hundred and fifty years ago, not even a full year after the Hero Commission was founded, less than a decade after the Hero System was imported to Japan. Now, Shiketsu was the first hero school, the only one at the time since Ketsubutsu wouldn’t be founded for another twenty or so years-”
“I know the history of the hero schools,” Shoto said, his eyes narrowing, and Seiji shrugged.
“All of it?” he questioned, “So you know that Shiketsu was shut down the year after it was founded?”
“Because the public went after it for being a child soldier generator,” Shoto said, releasing Seiji- his arm hurt too bad to hold it up in general, let alone hold anything else.
“Not just that,” he said, “it was because the first hero class all died.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They don’t exactly go around teaching that in school,” Seiji said, waving a hand, “Japan a hundred and fifty years ago was different. It was dangerous. It was in a constant state of war, with so many people still loyal to the warlords instead of the government. The Americans had us occupied- and brought us their hero system to fight against the warlord loyalists that still remained, and generate support for the new government.”
“What is the point of this?”
“There was a boy who was in that first class, whose name has been lost- but we call him Axe,” Seiji said, “who fell in love with a girl in that class. But these were children that were raised in violence. The girl- we remember her as Cherry Blossom, no idea what her real name is- would come to school day after day with new bruises that looked like cherry blossom flowers blooming over her body, and Axe would show up with cuts and divots all over himself like a tree. They didn’t understand love, and they didn’t understand that they feared instead of loved each other.”
“They killed their class,” Shoto whispered.
“I was getting to that,” Seiji said, “but yes, they did. Quirks, especially trained quirks, respond to fear more than anything else. Their abuse, their disgusting love of each other led to their quirks responding to their fear, going out of their control and,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that- twenty kids and a teacher were dead.”
“I- what does that have to do with me?” Shoto asked.
“I’ve heard from the first years,” Seiji said, “that Inasa’s started turning up with burns.”
~
“I’ll take that,” Shoto said, the servant pausing, her eyes wide as she stared at him like she didn’t know what to do- maybe she didn’t. He didn’t know if there was a protocol for something like this, just that she couldn’t talk to him, “You don’t want to bother him right now. He’s set the entire training room on fire.”
She opened her mouth, seemed to recall the one thing she definitely couldn’t do, before just deciding to hand over the tray. It was a nice meal. Miso soup with seaweed, a rather large slab of fish, blanched bok choy, and a small pot of tea with a smaller, matching serving cup.
“You’re dismissed,” he said, and she bowed and left.
His mouth twisted into a grimace as soon as she was gone, before he turned back towards the hallway leading to the training room. His steps were measured, just on the edge of too fast to be formal, his breathing in time.
The door to the training room was cracked open, and he pushed it the rest of the way with his foot, his eyes stinging nearly immediately from all the smoke choking the room.
“I need you, dad, please, please get up-”
Maybe, just maybe, this was retribution, in some sick, twisted form. Maybe it wasn’t even retribution for Izuku- maybe it was retribution for himself, for his own childhood.
Maybe he just wished he could have a dad he needed.
“Maybe this was a good thing,” Shoto said, “someone like you would have never beaten All Might in any honorable way. It was always a waiting game.”
His father’s shoulders tensed. Just from his posture Shoto could tell he was clenching his fists in front of him, but all he could see from this position was his broad back and bowed head.
“Why are you here?”
“To remind you that you never had a chance of actually defeating All Might,” Shoto grinned, “but of course you knew that. You wouldn’t have had us if you thought you were in any way capable of winning anything against that marvel of a man-”
His father’s fist slammed on the tatami at his side, making a loud noise even through the padding. His breathing was growing heavy. The flames in the room flared, growing larger, more volatile.
“You’re worthless,” Shoto said, “you know you are. If you really think about it, All Might’s retirement was mercy. It’s the only way you would have ever accomplished your endeavor after all.”
His father’s hand, still at his side, was shaking.
Shoto placed the tray down, taking the soup in hand and walking closer.
“You always called Touya a stain on your legacy,” Shoto said, blue flames dancing behind his eyelids at every blink, “but you always saw yourself in him, didn’t you?”
He dumped the soup over his head, miso dripping down his father’s face, his neck, dripping into his wifebeater. His shoulders shook, his breathing coming fast. Shoto laughed, turning on his heels and walking to the door.
“I’ll always be better than you,” he said, his voice soft, gentle- reminiscent of his mother as she tried to comfort him after the beatings- “it’s not like it’s something difficult.”
He slammed the door shut, still smiling wistfully as he walked away.
~
please, stop hurting me, please-
please, dad.
please.
~
The flames burst from his body, and they were alive-
~
“You’re acting weirder than normal,” Inasa said. Shoto, from his position practically curled up in a ball on the couch, glared at him.
“You were talking to that kemono again,” he spat the word with vitriol, and Inasa huffed.
“I don’t see what the big problem is,” he said, “Kohaku’s great.”
“Because you were making out with him last week,” Shoto hissed, “you said you’d stop talking to him. You promised me.”
“Did I?” Inasa said, “Oops.”
Shoto felt rage bubble deep in his stomach, his heart twisting something nauseating in his throat, his eyes turning just on the edge of wildness. Somewhere deep was the pathetic cries of someone much smaller, much weaker. Please don’t leave me alone, that little voice begged, please, I’ve given you everything, you promised.
“Fuck you,” he stood up, grabbing his messager bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Hey, wait-” Inasa said, “you just got here!”
“And I’m leaving!” he yelled.
“Next train doesn’t come until tomorrow, tracks are down after a villain attack- c’mon, Sho, don’t act like this, I’m sorry-”
“No you’re not,” he grumbled, grabbing his shoes from the rack, “you never are.”
“That’s just not fair- Shoto if you leave the house I’m not letting you back inside. Do you want to sleep outside? You don’t have anything but me in Osaka!”
“Fuck off!” Shoto said, slamming the door behind him.
He stared out over the apartment gardens, every feeling in his body washing over with cold water.
Inside the apartment, he heard something break. He let out a breath, before starting to walk.
“Shoto?” Seiji said, having stopped fiddling with the key to his door, now staring at him. He hadn’t even noticed him, hadn’t even realized he had been walking to their usual smoking spot, “You’re looking remarkably unbruised. What’s wrong?”
“Are you coming or going?” he asked, his voice dreadfully monotone.
“Just got in,” he said, frowning, “do you want to come in? No smoking inside, though.”
“That’s… that’s fine,” Shoto said, following him inside. Seiji’s apartment was extremely clean and organized. The furniture was contemporary but tasteful. There were paintings along the far wall, a beautiful series of the same landscape at four different times of day, fitted into bronze colored frames.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Inasa’s still talking to that halfbreed,” Shoto said, “the one I caught him with.”
Seiji snorted.
“I yelled at him and then left,” Shoto finished.
“And the trains are down?”
“And the trains are down.”
“Well, you’re welcome to my couch,” Seiji said, “unless you want to go somewhere else. Tea?”
“Thank you,” he said, pulling off his shoes and staring at the shoe racks. Seiji’s shoes were organized by color, but- oh, there, a guest rack. He hadn’t thought Seiji would have one- or have guests at all. Maybe he’d just gotten it because it matched everything else.
He slumped down over the table while Seiji turned the kettle on. Electric, thankfully. Shoto didn’t know how he’d be able to handle a stovetop kettle right now.
“I’m so tired,” he mumbled, “I’m so… exhausted, of all of this.”
“Break up with him.”
“I can’t,” Shoto said, “he loves me. Without him, what am I?”
“Ah, so it's that kind of night,” Seiji turned to lean on the counter, “He’s not going to heal your broken parts. All he’s been doing is breaking you more. What’s your liquor?”
“What do you have?” he felt too cold to even dignify his other statements with a response.
“If you’re feeling festive, I have peppermint vodka that one of my father’s friends gave me. I was going to save it for the Shiketsu Christmas party, but that just felt tacky. I’m going to see if I can find cinnamon Baileys to mix with all the goddamn eggnog that the teacher buys. I have Dr. Pepper, for a mixer.”
“That works. Thank you,” he said, instead of saying he really didn’t need a mixer right now.
Seiji poured two drinks, forgoing the tea.
He woke up naked and cold in his bed. He didn’t say anything to Seiji after that.
~
(He couldn’t do this anymore. It just hurt too badly-)
Why was he doing this? Why did he feel this damn crazy?
God, he really was his mother’s son. But his mother never did anything like this-
He stared at the flames and wondered what went wrong.
(It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. It hurt more than the untreated breaks in his clavicle and ribs. It hurt more than his father’s hands and his father’s fists. It hurt more than I’m so sorry, Shoto! and more than Touya leaving him behind.)
(He was acting crazy. He couldn’t even stop. Maybe that was the worst part-)
(No. The worst part was how good it felt.)
The bed was on fire.
Shit, the bed was on fire.
It felt horrifically good for the bed to be on fire. He couldn’t even hide the way the glee shone on his face, the wildness that his eyes contained. This was the bed where Inasa fucked him. This was where all their worthless talks ended in more worthless debauchery. This was-
The smoke detectors went off, and he blinked, suddenly more aware of how the flames were spreading, how fast they were spreading and flaring and-
He tried to reach for his ice, and nothing happened. The flames rose. Shit, his quirk was tied to his emotions, Izuku said, his joy to his flames and his misery to his ice (except for when his misery was tied to his blue flames and his joy to his dry ice, but that was much harder and he didn’t have the mind for it and why was he thinking of this when the fire was spreading-)
He took a few rapid steps back-
“Shoto!” Inasa roared like a lion, all pretentious virtue. His fist slammed into Shoto’s face, where there were already previous bruises. He wasn’t one to be outdone- with his one arm still functioning he threw a slugger, and then reevaluated in an instant, grabbing a lamp and pulling it from the wall as Inasa grabbed him, bludgeoning him over the head with it.
The flames rose, wild and callous in their chase: consumption. They spread, and spread, and spread- eating the walls, the artworks, the books and rugs. Inasa and Shoto rolled around on the floor, fighting more like beasts than man, clawing and biting and scratching. The smoke grew thick and hazy, crueler than even the flames as it choked out the room. Shoto broke his knee backwards with a kick more second nature than cruel, Inasa crushed his sternum with a mighty fist, and Shoto knew that Inasa would kill him. In a physical brawl, Inasa was twice his weight, and had height on his side, not to mention the fact that he had entered without previous injuries. He’d die here. He’d kill him.
(He was fine with that. He wouldn’t serve his purpose to Izuku, the purpose he had promised but- but that would be fine. The dead had no revenge to take.)
The flames followed their nature, his nature, tearing through the room, tearing through the neighboring apartments, tearing through this little slice of hell that he inhabited. Someone was screaming- Shoto could hear it in a sort of far-off sort of way.
(I don’t want to die here.)
He hated himself, for how small that voice felt.
(I’m scared of fire. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want Endeavor to kill me.)
Because, in some roundabout way, he was going to. Fuck, he was pathetic.
(I want mama. I want her to hold me. I want her to tell me it's going to be alright. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want my mom! I want her, please, YOU CAN’T TAKE MY MOM-)
You can’t want her, he whispered, silently, to that little voice, you haven’t even written a letter to her since you started dating Inasa for a reason.
Because you knew she’d see it too, and she’d be horrified.
~
He was on his knees again, battered and bruised again. His ears hadn’t been ringing, they’d been wailing like an out-of-tune trumpet, a wailing he was even capable of hearing over the steady screaming of flames. He was bleeding profusely from a scalp wound, his blood dripping onto the floor and intermingling with his vomit and sweat. He’d been sobbing, he knew. He’d been raw and broken and vulnerable.
It had been his mother’s birthday. January 23rd. By that point- by that point, she’d been in the hospital for just over four years. He’d asked his father- he’d asked him why she wasn’t home yet, why she wasn’t better.
(He was weak like her. Desperate, his father sneered.)
(He wished he could go to the hospital with her. Anywhere would be better than here, even if there was filled with scary doctors in white coats with cold eyes and big needles.)
He hadn’t been able to look at his father, even though he knew he was standing over him. He’d never been able to look at his father without a cold slab of fear cutting him apart deeper than any knife could. He didn’t look at him anymore, not if he could help it, not if he wasn’t grabbing his jaw and forcing their eyes to meet. He looked anywhere, he looked nowhere-
The training door was open, just a touch, barely noticeable. Bare, scuffed feet, but his eyes trailed up, past hospital garb and scarred arms and-
Touya had come to get him. He’d finally come to get him.
He was done now. He could go with Touya now.
He-
Oh.
It wasn’t his time yet.
He hated that he was mad that Touya hadn’t been kind enough to take him back with him. The dead didn’t get choices like that.
He was the idiot. Him, and the stupid body he inhabited that just refused to die.
~
The room was on fire around him, the flames rich and vibrant, and Shoto’s bruised eyes stared up at Inasa, his body flooded with warmth, with joy, with misery, and something visceral and horrible like vomit and shit and sunshine mixed into cheesecake, and he swallowed all of it down. He couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t help it. He felt too much- he just needed to smile.
He burst into white-blue flames on his right side, golden-red flames on his left. And, in the middle of it all, converged into purple. An X streaked across his chest, ripping with white like plasma, his entire body boiling as his quirk shuttered throughout his body, throughout his soul-
And with a burst of strength that fractured his leg, sent Inasa flying into the ceiling, before his body bounced on the floor. He immediately pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear the dizziness and standing only on one leg, finally looking around to see the damage that had been caused, finally seeing the room as everything burned away-
The ceiling gave a creak. A moment of warning.
Inasa fled with a burst of wind that sent the flames flaring blue for a few sharp seconds.
Shoto shut his eyes, broken beyond repair, grinning like a loon.
~
“Mama, what’s a phoenix?” Shoto asked, all of three years old and only understanding the world in short bursts of that wasn’t right and please don’t hurt me.
“It’s a very special creature,” she said, her fingers tracing over the pages of the picture book. The series was called Wondrous Myths, and was about a multitude of pre-quirk fairytales from around the world. He’d only ever gotten the Tale of the Phoenix and the Tale of the Firebird. He liked the story about the phoenix more. It had seemed kinder than the firebird, “They burn themselves to death and then rise from the ashes.”
“Oh,” Shoto said, “like Touya?”
“Don’t say that,” his mother scolded, but her eyes were afraid.
Shoto did continue to think it sounded an awful lot like Touya, with the burns across his body, but didn’t say anything. He hadn’t realized at the moment, that his mother was more worried about the to death part than the burn themselves and rise from the ashes.
~
The flames burst from his body, and they were alive. Tangible throughout his very soul, extensions of himself. These new flames were his alone, his burden, his power.
(After this, he shouldn’t trust himself to have anything. It’d be Izuku’s then. Izuku’s fully, this time. It would all belong to him, as it should have, always. He’d return to his master with his tail tucked between his legs, properly horrified at himself.)
(He hoped Izuku would take him back.)
(He hoped.)
It hurt, to not die. His flames were protecting him, wrapping around him, and he wailed, power bursting out of him and upending the stack of wood and drywall and concrete and metal that was currently trying to kill him with a flash of light, before his flames unfurled. They were a heavy weight on his back, the flames feeling unnaturally scaly from where they were interlocked, wisps flaring off of them and obscuring their shape. They opposed what they should be- a burning blue that should only ever stem from his right now coming from his left, and a brilliant red stemming from his right. Like fluff on his chest, the X remained, so white it was purple and so purple it was white.
His wings flared wide, draconic in shape, and he knew what to do- had watched Hawks too many times in that horrible training room to not know what to do.
He flapped, slowly, feeling the weight of them, before leaping, beating his impossible wings against gravity-
And for the first time, he was free.
~
“Shochan,” Izuku said, his voice like needle pricks, staring at his computer with no small amount of indignation. Tominaga, his law student who was quite possibly more knowledgeable than graduated lawyers, was picking his unnaturally black fingernails as if they were keratin and not scales, “You are aware of the damage you caused.”
“Approximately,” he said. The expression on Izuku’s face did wonders for making him not say anything else, his pupils slitted and eyes glowing, his lips curled faintly into a sneer. Izuku rarely made an expression like that- preferred to pretend to be serene instead of admitting how much anger he was really feeling.
For him to stop pretending-
Shoto dropped to his knees, his head bowed, as a strand of Blackwhip whipped out. If he’d stayed standing, it would have grabbed his throat. More strands were whipping around, pounding at the floor, grabbing at objects and smashing them, trying to pull items off of the shelves. Izuku didn’t even seem to notice that the quirk had gone awry, his eyes continuing to dance over the computer screen. It seemed the computer and Tominaga were the only two things he was not inclined to smash against the wall and the floor.
“Nearly a billion yen in damages,” he said, “fifty-three injured. Seven dead. Shoto, would you incline yourself to explain to me what the fuck was running through your head?”
“I couldn’t stop the flames,” Shoto said, staring at the floor instead of at his murderously angry AO, “Yoarashi was… beating me. Then he fled, and the ceiling came down on top of me. I escaped the collapse only a half-minute before the fire crews arrived.”
“They know it was you,” but Izuku sounded less angry now. His bond to his quirk, at least, was not broken, still influencing his temper, and Shoto’s easy submission was helping. Blackwhip became less violent- less thrashing, more lazy, slow destruction of the pictures on the wall and the items on the shelves, “Yoarashi didn’t tell the police- he told Mano. And now- what he is calling for, it’s practically war.”
Mano Yoshiaki, the principal of Shiketsu, would take any opportunity to hurt UA with a child’s glee to hurt small animals. He couldn’t even blame him, because he’d also love to see Nedzu in a rat trap and then poke him with sharp sticks and leave him to die of dehydration and rot in the sun.
“On Nedzu?” Shoto questioned.
“On me,” Izuku hissed, with familiar temper, “he is calling for the revocation of your license, alongside your payment and arrest. He is shrieking that you attempted to kill his prodigy. He is harrying after a proposed gap in Nedzu’s control.”
“I’m- I’m sorry,” Shoto said, “it’s… it’s my fault-”
“Shut up,” Tominaga advised, snake tongue flicking out again after a moment, “don’t admit that to anyone, either. You aren’t guilty of anything.”
“But, but I was the one who got with Inasa-”
“I don’t care about that, Shoto,” Izuku said, “you have learned your lesson, that is all that matters. Though next time, you will take my advice and remove yourself from any situation that I see fit, whether you are speaking to me as your friend or me as your Almighty.”
“I understand,” Shoto said.
“Give me your father’s number,” Izuku replied, instead of paying any heed to anything that Shoto said- he didn’t care, as long as it was agreement, “I’m going to meet him for lunch,” his gaze, as serpentine as Tominaga’s, informed him that it might not just be lunch, “and I’m going to get you out of this. But for now…”
Izuku pushed himself to his feet, standing above him.
“I, your Almighty, hereby strip you of influence within the bounds of my power,” he said, and Shoto felt it like a blow- no longer was he a high-level executor, an inner circle member, and now, publicly, no longer Izuku’s friend, “and maintain that for as long as necessary until reinstatement is deigned to be established. Do not disappoint me.”
Do not make me banish you. You will be killed by Nedzu or by me if I am forced to do so.
“I understand,” his voice didn’t crack, even though he wanted to sob.
“You’re dismissed,” he said, and Shoto left the room, his steps unnaturally short and fast.
He sobbed, he boozed, he slept, he took too many pills to control his new abilities, and he sobbed and boozed and slept and took too many pills over and over again.
He couldn’t blame him.
It was all his fault, after all.
(The case against him was dismissed. He was banned from Shiketsu, and from working with Inasa ever again. Shoto had been so grateful to Izuku that he’d drank for joy and not sadness or fear. He’d shared his joy with no one.)
It had been his fault. He’d gotten his ass out of it through sheer luck and Izuku’s grace. And none of it should have ever happened.
(Hdrnk, hslpt, htkplls, gn.)