Work Text:
You are two sides of the coin; except you are not a coin nor a side. Perhaps a four-sided die—one for each sibling.
You, Todoroki Fuyumi. The only girl, the strongest. You do not have a mother; sometimes you think Todoroki Rei should revert to her maiden name for all that she spends away. You try not to blame her, because it’s not her fault that her responsibilities fell onto you. Logically, you should blame your father—Todoroki Enji, Endeavor—but the boys have spent their entire lives blaming him. There is nothing beneficial out of your hatred as well. You, as cliché and typical as it is for the girl to have unrealistic hopes and a desire to see the family together, wish for exactly that. You tell yourself to think things through slowly, methodically, cold like your quirk; but you burn inside, passions roaring as you choose your profession. ‘Yes,’ he says, and pays your tuition (the one parental thing he’s done), and you burn, you burn so strong, because you want. You are far too resilient, far too vehement, far too greedy. You burn too strong and you must put this to an end before you are nothing more than another ember on the floor. Remember, the fire should come from within. You are Todoroki Fuyumi.
“Mom never loved Touya, okay? She loved us—you, me, because we’re not like him.”
“She loves all of us, Natsuo,” you say. “You don’t believe that.”
“Of course I do—face it, Fuyumi. She fears our father, just like she fears Touya and she fears that one half of Shouto. Why do you think it was that side she burned? She doesn’t love him—or at least, not anymore, I think, because she fears him. She’s scared. You can’t love and fear someone at the same time, Fuyu.”
“I do—” you begin to protest, because you should say something, right?
“You don’t love him, Fuyu. You love the thought of him; the… the father you think he should be, the father you think he can or will be. You don’t love him, you love the thought of a happy family together with peace and quiet. We’re not a peace-and-quiet kind of family, Fuyumi. You know that. You don’t love him; you love the him you want him to be. But newsflash, Fuyu? He’s not, and he never will be.”
“You don’t know that,” you say, because you don’t either. You hope, though.
“If he was going to change,” he says, “he would have done it already. Before Touya left, or even then, directly after. He doesn’t care. He never will. When will you understand that?”
‘He won’t hurt us,’ you tell yourself, huddled on the corner of your bed, knees bent, head bent. ‘He won’t hurt us,’ you tell yourself, as your mother defies him, foolishly, and your brother talks back in the daring manner that no one else can but him. ‘He won’t hurt us, he won’t hurt us, he won’t—’
You crawl out of bed, and head towards your other brother’s room.
You push the door open, the smallest amount possible, and you peek your head in. His eyes are open, you see.
‘He won’t hurt us,’ you tell yourself.
“Natsuo—?” you begin, quietly. You must be quiet, because then, he’ll hear, right? You don’t know what would happen if he hears, but you don’t want to risk it.
“Are you cold?” you ask, because you can’t take care of your mother nor your elder brother (too cowardly, you tell yourself, grow a spine) but you must be able to protect your younger sibling.
(Shouto is with your mother, you do not see him much.)
The yelling stops, and you freeze. You hear something being thrown, and you flinch even though you are a floor apart. You force yourself to be steady, and to push these thoughts outside of your head, to focus, as much as you’d like to cower under your blankets and think nothing of sheep dancing and the cold, cold, quirk of yours.
Your mother’s quirk, not your father’s. He despises you for it—perhaps despise is a strong word, perhaps rather he belittles you for it (thinks you are amount to nothing, you’ll show him, won’t you?)—but you are nothing but glad. You do not idolize him like your brother does; you love him, certainly, he is your father, and you wouldn’t wish harm upon him no matter what, because then you’d be guilty, but you are glad. You are glad it is not him you look like, because you like people and what would that mean for you if you were like him? Bad at people—because that’s what it is, isn’t it, just an inability to communicate properly?—means that you can’t be happy with them. You are, though. You are happy with people.
You don’t want to hurt people. You don’t want to be hurt, and that’s your problem. That’s why Touya is always hurt, no matter how strong he presents himself to be. It's because of you.
Stupid. I’m so stupid, you curse yourself out, and this, this is where the belittement comes from. It does not come solely from your father, but rather the fact that he is right. He is right that you cannot do anything right, yes?
You breathe. You pull yourself together, and return to the present; where Natsuo is mumbling.
You move closer to him, and a hand reaches out to his blankets. “Everything alright, Natsuo?” you ask.
“I’m scared, it’s loud,” he says. You find his hand and squeeze it. This is a good deed you’re doing here.
“Shh,” you say, and you move to raise the blankets. Neither your mother nor your father managed to do it for him, and now the responsibility befalls to you. “It’s a little cold, right? Lift your arms and I’ll tuck you in.”
He obliges, and you do as you said. “Can you stay here for a moment,” he asks, and your smile is hidden by facing away from the light.
“Of course,” you say. “What were you scared of, Natsuo?”
You have to ask.
(Satiate the curiosity when you still can; before your passion is ripped strand by strand, bleached through your skin and your speech.)
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know, but they’re loud and they’re mad and it’s late, and they should be asleep, right? Everyone was yelling earlier, and I—”
“Shh,” you say, and you stroke his hair. “Shh, it’s okay, right? They’ll go to bed soon, you just got to be asleep before that, right? You and I, both. We can sleep and they’ll figure it out, and if not they’ll figure it out tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t want to hear it tomorrow morning,” he says. “I want it to be done now, I want them to—to stop. Stop being angry, all the time.”
You breathe, in, out. “Yes,” you say. “I—me too, Natsuo. Me too. But… we just have to wait, right? They’re adults, Mom and Dad. They’re super cool and super smart. They can figure this out, yeah?”
'Are you convincing him or yourself?' you ask yourself.
'This is not the time,' you tell yourself. You are tired; it is past your self-imposed bedtime. You have class tomorrow, you know, and you know you will not want to go tomorrow. This has happened many times before, you know how this will go. Yet, you are still afraid.
“You think?” he asks, and his voice is so small. He is just a child, you tell yourself (and so are you), he should not—he should be full of energy, right now. He should be asking things like, ‘can I get a story?’ or ‘can I tell you something?’ or whining something like ‘I don’t want to go to bed!’ instead of this.
“Yes,” you say, certain. “Yes. You know what, Natsuo?”
“What?”
“If you go to sleep soon, then I’ll ask if we can go to the park tomorrow after school. If we’re both good, yeah? Maybe we can even get Dad to let Touya go with us.”
He nods, tired. “But Dad never lets Touya do anything with us, anymore,” he says. “I miss playing soccer or baseball with him. We can play tag, you think? Touya was always good at that.”
“Maybe,” you say, “maybe. With—well, after Shouto joined us, Touya has been getting a little more free time, right? Maybe we’ll be lucky, tomorrow. Maybe Mom’ll even have enough for us to buy some ice cream, right?”
“Haven’t had ice cream in a long time,” he says, and his eyelids are dropping shut.
“You gotta keep it a secret,” you whisper. “It’ll be our secret; ours and Touya’s.”
You wait a little longer to ensure he is at least trying to stay asleep before returning to your room.
There, too, you have to convince yourself to fall asleep. This time, it is a little easier; you know at least one of your siblings is okay. You just have to be okay, now, right?
(You don’t get the ice cream.)
“Are you going to be a hero when you’re older?” Mika asks. She’s your classmate, she’s two months younger and has a lizard tail for a quirk.
“No,” you say.
“How come?” she asks.
“I am not good enough for it,” you say. “I—my quirk, I guess. It’s not strong enough, and I have too many weaknesses, if I even wanted to.”
“Hmm,” Mika hums. “You have the strongest quirk out of all of us in this class, though. Plus I'm sure your dad has a lot of information to pass along, yeah? And I heard that your elder brother got accepted into a hero school. That’s super cool. You could totally do the same.”
“My brother is not me,” you say, “and I’m not my father, either. I wouldn’t want to become a hero, not when I can—not when I can do anything else.”
“Oh, being a hero is too boring for you, then?” You decide you do not like Mika anymore. She is also your best friend, so there is nothing you can do at the moment.
“That’s—no,” you say. “I just wouldn’t make a good hero, that’s all.”
When do the words that are forever repeated, inked character by character and traced in fine tip sharpie (the kind that’ll hurt if you’re a rambunctious and destructive ten-year old), truly become set in stone? It depends on the person, you suppose, but for you it did not take long.
“I thought about it for awhile, y’know,” you say, to appease her. “But I don’t think I can deal with injuries and all that stress everyday. It’s just not something I’m suited for.”
“You’re super good at dealing with stress, what are you talking about? I’ve never seen you, like, panic on exams or anything. You’re always on top of your work.”
“Real-life situations are different,” you tell her. That is fact, you know. “I don’t think I’m strong enough—mentally or physically, both maybe—to do what everyone else does. To do what everyone else does, and win, because that’s what it’s about, right? It sucks, but what can you do?”
“You’re really nice, though! You’ve totally helped us all so many times.”
You don’t get why she’s pushing you to do this, but you tell her that it’s pointless. “Everyone has a phase where they’re all into heroes, yeah? I’ve been through mine, that’s all. Plus, being nice isn’t all there is in heroes, right? Look at my dad; he’s not the nicest guy around, and yet he’s still the second best hero, isn’t he? You gotta have something to back you up, and there’s no way he’d let me go through if I'm not gonna aim to be in the top five. Which, y'know, I'm not interested in doing. Personally, I think the whole ranking system is overrated, but what can you do?"
“Sounds hard,” she says. “I totally get you, though—my parents are always on my back about stuff. They want me to go into all sorts of professions and make tons of money or something, I dunno.”
“It’s not that he’s on my back about this,” you begin to say, then stop. There’s no point, yeah? “Anyways. Yeah, you were saying?”
(You don’t think you can be selflessness enough to win; that is tiring, you know. You don’t think you can selfish enough to win, either.)
You lied. You heard the lies.
The truth hits you with a deafening roar, and your hands knot in your hair, gripping tightly at each individual follicle and it is nothing but a mess. You do not care, yes? You see red; you see the flickering remains of gasoline and you see danger. You see warning signs, science hazard labels flashing—stay away, flammable, explosive. It’s red; red for stay away, be careful, but you weren't. Now you’re paying the price.
(In your blood, in your regret, in nothing. You get nothing but guilt and delivered apologies undeserved but it’s all forgotten. It’s all gone. You have more important issues to concern yourself with, yes?)
You played with the fire, now you’re feeling the burn. You are cold.
You are cold, no, you are freezing. Anger is associated with heat but the worst comes after your hair falls out. After you are too cold, and the room is frozen and no one moves. After the disaster strikes, and each block turns to its own ice shelf, melting slowly under the pressure of the elders and their caught greenhouse warming. They fall as your anger cools, because you are a disaster when your hand is forced. You will make that certain, because you too are a Todoroki, and Todorokis do not back down when asked.
You are written off as the quieter one, as the one who assists and that is not inherently untrue. You are not angry, often. You are angry when your baby brother gets attacked and his classmate gets kidnapped. You are angry when he gets injured and the children’s safeties are compromised because when you signed the permission slip for living in the dorms, when you wrote your name and number as his second emergency contact (you could never beat Endeavor, not when it came to Shouto and his hero career, could you? You were just never that), it was on the assumption that that would keep him safe and that that would be a better alternative than living at home. He would avoid what you left to avoid.
Perhaps he did, but perhaps he didn’t.
“I met someone today,” he tells you, and you listen to the story. He does not come to you to speak, often, but it has rattled him enough to turn to you at the end of the month—the promised day where you try to amend relationships—and you listen. You listen, and you do not place the face nor do you place the voice, but you feel. You are good at feeling (cold, cold creeps across your body in an attempt at shivering to generate the heat you are sensitive to, the heat you are lacking) and you tell him to stay away. He does not listen; would you have listened, at fifteen and reckless to no end? You do not have anything to prove to yourself nor to anyone else, at twenty-two years of age, but that was not the case in your younger teens.
(Oh, you’ve grown up too fast.)
You tell yourself to leave the animosity back at your apartment. It has no place here, not when you need to be someone else.
Your father does not meet with the professionally-dressed teachers, for he is too busy saving the world where he still cannot save his family. No, that responsibility falls on your shoulders, and you steel yourself to understand that you will not succumb easily. You are put in charge of children’s needs and safeties every day (you are given their trust and you will not betray them like that) and today is no different, not when this is someone you have lived with for most of his life yet, nonetheless, had a minimal amount of communication. You are sorry (you are always sorry, stop being sorry), but today is the day of reckoning. Today is the day it matters.
The teachers give their spiel; dorms mean they will be monitored and they will be protected.
You say, “You took them on a school trip and they did not all immediately return safe.” You will not mince your words, you tell yourself, but keep your protectiveness back until it is necessary (because then, you're offering them something they can take advantage of). You understand what it is like, now, from the guardian’s perspective on parent-teacher-meeting nights. “You can assure it now, after?”
“We cannot guarantee anything in this field,” one of them says, “not with a known villain organization after one of our core teachers. But we can assure you that they will be safer at school than they will be at your house, no matter what kind of regulations and security equipment you may have stored here.”
“We do not have much,” you admit. “He always thought he was good enough to fight off anyone daring enough to intrude.”
“We know what we are doing,” you are told, later. You inquire about the security risks within the security equipment, because anyone with enough experience and intellect could hack into technology, yes? You have tried it yourself. They tell you that there is nothing to worry about (a lie, you hiss to yourself, be careful of lies), and you ask if your brother agreed. If he wanted to do this. You get a nod and verbal assent when prodded, and you are just about told to think of your younger self. If you had an out when you were fifteen, would you take it? You would. You took it at nineteen, like your younger brother did. You took it three years later than your older brother did, you learn.
(When he was sixteen and you thought he died but no, he just became a villain.
“Why—Touya, why are you doing this? You were so close, you didn’t have to do this,” you ask when you are allowed.
“He is not a hero,” he tells you. “You were always better at taking care of the little ones, so I had to do what no one else would. I’m making things right, Fuyumi,” and isn't it convenient? That everyone always thinks they're right.)
You learn too quickly for a teacher, don’t you? Nothing stays the same, you should know that, yet why is it still surprising when things do? For what reason haven’t you learned?
You agree, and one asks you what made you change your mind. You do not answer; it is not your secret to spill, you tell him. You tell him, though:
“Keep him away from thunder,” you say. “Keep him away from things he asks to be pardoned from, because he does not ask but when he does, it matters.”
“I understand,” the teacher says, and you know he does. It comes and it goes, in the field, yes? Another point to your failed hero career; you are not strong enough for that.
"I know what I want. I have to."
You lie from the tip of your tongue, you lie, you lie, you liar. There is no turning back once it’s out, even when he knows your mistake, because the more he hates failure he hates lies. He hates fraud. If there’s upfront acceptance, he says, there’s at least something you can fix. (You’ve always got to be better, if you want to win, you hear and it is not directed to you but you hear it all the same. You apply it to yourself, too, because you do not want to disappoint and you, somehow, cruelly, miss his attention. You received his attention, once, and you regret that decision, yet once it’s gone..?) You can only hope that the lie holds firm and you are not caught, because then? You don’t know what’s after that because nobody’s gone that far yet.
For once, you are the first in the family. It is not a good thing, here.
(You want the castle to burn, to fall down, to crumble into nothing but dust and ashes. You want the castle to be plundered quietly, look at these stakes, because that means you can rebuild it the way you want, the way it should be.
It was always your responsibility to make things better, wasn’t it?)
“I understand that I haven’t been spending as much time with you or Natsuo,” he says.
‘You understand?’ you want to ask, you want to sneer but you are young and impulsive so you’ve learned to hold it in. After all, he is reaching out to you today, isn’t he? The naïve childishness that still resides after the rest had been beat out through someone else’s punishments sits still and waits. It tells you he will try to get better, and that’s all you want, now. It is hard being a mother, you know now.
(You miss your mother, but you also hate her a little for leaving you because you’re not old enough to understand that it wasn’t necessarily her fault.)
“Okay,” you say instead.
“I think we could pick off your training where we left off all that time ago. My children will be able to fight whether they become a hero or not.”
You don’t like where this is going, but you don’t exactly have a choice, do you? And so, you agree. At least, you tell yourself, it is a day spent on you rather than a day spent on your brothers. You glance out the window, and see Touya lying on the grass in the cut-out middle of the house, and you see the faint littering of bruises and he is breathing heavy. Your father makes him work out every morning, additional practice or not.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s get to it, then.” Better get it over with.
He frowns at your comment, as if saying ‘what, you don’t want to do this with me?’ but eventually decides to ignore it. He turns away, presumably heading towards the training room. You wait for a sign indicating for you to follow, and it only comes fifteen seconds later in the form of a flick of the wrist brought up not past waist-height.
You bite your tongue; well, it’s clear your presence is valued, isn’t it?
“Okay,” you say. “I’m coming.”
You are a sum of broken parts, a placeholder, a name that should have been told ‘no’, you are told. You can’t bring yourself to disagree, but you can’t bring yourself to care, either. You are here, nonetheless. You will be here no matter where it is you should be. That is your self-proclaimed duty, because if you are not there, then who will be?
Someone has to win, and you want to win.
‘No,’ you say, ‘no.’
You patch his wounds with fingers too steady, an experience too often, and you understand that this, this, is your life as it is theirs. You will find change, you tell yourself, you will bring it to the family. You will not sit idle.
You tell yourself this as you sit idle, as your muscles itch while you wait and force yourself to patient (because a mission like this won’t happen overnight—no, it will take days, months, years, even, but you refuse to give it up because it will happen, it will, and you will make sure of that. When he comes to the family and apologizes after the ghastly wound reminiscent of your brother’s, you smile and welcome him back, because you know it is your time. You will make it happen, and it is happening.) and your quirk hisses under your skin, and so you tell it to be patient. Your heart thrums, blood pumping, as it waits on you to let it loose and set things right, but this family was bred from violence and cannot be solved the same. No, you tell yourself, and calm your agitation, this must come to an end through peaceful means—ones with communication and understanding. It is the only way it will end where everyone leaves satisfied, you know, and you push aside all thoughts of ‘what if’s’, because you know the alternate options that will be taken. You can see it in his eyes, no matter what pacifying words you speak.
You know when someone deserves what they get—karma—but this, today, is not it.
You try to explain to Natsuo, but he doesn’t see things the way you do. He is angry, you know, and you try (you try so hard) but you accomplish nothing but developing the already wide rift between the two of you. You do not see each other for some time; only to visit Mom and when Father calls upon the two of you.
Eventually, you apologize for raising your voice, and forcing your opinions on him because that’s exactly how you both were raised and you really need to learn because it’s not okay but it is okay to have differing perspectives and you love him, you really do. He apologizes for overreacting, says he should have listened, and you hug it out because let’s be honest here, you’re both pretty touch-starved with the amount of affection that happens around this house (even—especially after he moves out and you stay to help Shouto because fuck if your father’s going to do that) and you’re—you’re friends again, because it’s so easy not to be friends with the people you’ve grown up with, as sad as it sounds.
It’s sad, you think, that you have to fight to have an amicable relationship with your family, when it should be given, yes? Your parents tried for the four of you, right? Then—then, shouldn’t it be—
better?
You swallow and the two of you part ways after another awkward conversation. You resume your marking for your LTO fifth-year class and everything looks good. You are—you are not happy, per se, but you are content. That is enough for now.
(Someday, you think, you will be genuinely able to say you are happy, and that is the day you will no longer have to worry about your family. You still will of course—you are a worrier, so you will worry for your brother’s career and hope that neither of the troublemakers will be getting into too much trouble, but you will not have to worry that something bad will happen when you are not there. You won’t have to worry about another Touya; for at this point you still think he is dead.)
(He is dead for far too long, you think, when you learn.)
You’re like the ceramic melted in the two thousand dollar degree heat, engraved and impressed with a silent dragged stick figure. You’re the one-thousand-four-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, flickering flame at the tip, shaped patiently yet with roughly calloused hands. You’re the mould of which the stone is poured when forging, you’re the hammered blade edge except you’re not a fine rapier, you’re a broadsword or you’re a cleaver; obnoxiously large and present, yet you would not change a thing. You are the second child of the family, and you take your responsibility when it is given.
You are the ceramic—you are brittle and unforgiving, you are hard (strong). You remain sturdy under pressure, and you are weak after shearing. You are weak, when you are pulled apart at the seams—stitch by stitch—longtime suffering from definite tension. It does not go away even if you can label it, the pain, if you can define it. It is still there.
(You’ve never reached that level of apathy, where you can say it will hurt less if you know it is coming.)
You are working on that, your weakness; you will no longer let your opinions go unattended. That, you promise.
“No,” he says, and you bite your tongue. You are a foolish twelve and you are rebellious and indignant, holding a resentment that you will carry for far too long. You will never forget that feeling, you know. It does not matter how you feel, you learn, because you were not as badly burned as your siblings or your mother.
“You will hit the target dead-centre before you leave, and you will tear through it. I want a clean hole, I want precision and speed. That is all your quirk may be worth,” he continues, oblivious.
“Yes, sir,” you mutter under your breath, and you raise your arm again.
“Three, two, one,” he counts, and you oblige. On one, you let loose your frustration but you do not control your frustration as you much as it should. You blink after the dust and snow settles and you see the entire target and post frozen solid. There is a large chunk of free-floating ice congealed to the left-hand side, and a large trail leading up to it.
He slaps the back of your head, waits not for you to right yourself after you stumble forward from surprise, and says, “What did I say?”
He sends an equally large blast of fire roaring towards your mistake, effortlessly. “Do it again,” he demands.
“Yes,” you say. It has been hours, you realize as you lose concentration for a second and your vision flickers. You straighten yourself to glance up at the sky, from where you stand in the courtyard. Your fingers are trembling and your teeth just above audibly chattering, but you have no choice, yes?
You tell yourself you will succeed this time (and you do) so that it will be the end of the oddly-placed event.
It does not finish, unfortunately. He comes up with a variety of other exercises to perform under his criticizing eye, and eventually you complete them to some degree of satisfaction (or pity, perhaps, you think. It would be easier to believe if you believed he was capable of pity, but here we are).
Someone calls his cell, and he picks it up with a grunt. “Endeavor speaking,” he says, and waits a moment before answering. The conversation seems to be presented on some sort of equivalence (contrary to those that happen at the house), but takes far too long for you to be comfortable waiting idle. After a few moments of his unrelenting focus on the poor device, you decide to put your time into warming yourself back up.
(You’re too tired to practice.)
“Yes. Yes, of course. I have it under control. I will run the data by Ryuji, and the case will solved before this time tomorrow… yes, of course. Who—no, get out of my office. You’re fired. Who do you think I am? You will not speak to me like that. Yes. No, listen, I told you to book it. You understand? Email the information to me and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow for your resignation letter.”
Eventually, he hangs up, expression fierce as he turns his gaze onto your hastily straightened figure. “Yes? What—what happened?” you dare ask.
He is silent for a few moments, expression undecipherable, most likely trying to understand your own equally complicated one. Or so you hope. “Nothing,” he says at last. “I have to go, but you will come up with something original and satisfactory while I am gone. I will see it tomorrow morning, before I leave. Understand?”
That is the day you are left alone, without contact, in the cool first-day-of-winter air. That is the day you entertain the impossible notion of become a vigilante, swooping in from high fences and windows and creating large impractical weapons made of ice. It is the day, after a frightful hour of worrying about your punishment if you disappoint because you’ve heard what he does, you push it all aside and pretend to be a child. It is the day you stay up too late and regret it in the morning, it is the day you understand Shouto’s thrill at seeing All Might’s cool tricks on the TV.
Your fingers shake and you breathe and you point and tell him ‘no’, because this time, right now, you are the one telling him ‘no’, because he is in the wrong and he needs to understand. You tell him.
“No,” you say, and your voice trembles and you tell yourself, silently, ‘be strong, be strong for—’.
“No,” you say. “That’s—that’s not right, you can’t do that. That’s not fair. Are you—are you insane? You can’t—it’s not his fault, listen to me.”
“Get out,” he spits, and with a single forty-five degree turn of the neck, he glares at you at full force. You don’t flinch, you tell yourself, but it isn’t quite true (another lie). “He broke the rules. He knows what’s going to happen to him. He swore that he would do better, and yet, here he is. A failure. He promised, and what do I get? A fucking lie that ruins my life, everything, all this hard work that I have put in, in making you. In moulding you. My child. What do you think, huh? You think I don’t feel anything from that? That I’m not—I’m not mad? That I’m not going to be fucking pissed and so, so disappointed in you, Shouto? You were supposed to be the good one.”
“I—no, yes, no, I tried—” he begins to stutter out, as if voice controlled to activate. His words aren’t working against your father, though, and he only grows more irate. Lie, you will your brother silently, but he doesn’t pick it up. No, say this, that might help, you think, but it doesn’t happen.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” you say, and you finally take the reins yourself. “You’re—I can’t do this. Do you even hear yourself? Yes, you worked your butt off to get here, and you—you what? Push your ambitions on some kid who has never done anything to warrant this? Your son. You do this—you’ve been doing this since he was four and received his quirk, okay, Dad? You’ve been doing this since before he was fucking born, with—with Natsu and—”
You take a moment to breathe. Since when were you so frustrated? His flames burst up into action and you feel your own body temperature growing colder. Good, you think. Good, you are prepared.
“Get out, Shouto,” you say. “I have some words to say to him.”
“Fuyumi!” he snaps (yes, that’s my name, you think), and points to your younger brother who was slowly slinking away. He freezes on the spot, as if waiting punishment. “Don’t fucking move,” he snarls.
“Fuyumi… will you be—” he cuts himself off, eyes wide as he looks at you. It’s probably to reassure himself, because you too, need reassuring.
You offer him a smile (grimace) and nod, assuring him that he may leave. He does; takes the back door exit, and seems to text one of his friends with unsteady hands. You are glad he has friends, now, for he has spent far too long in isolation. For all of you, but still, you believe your father may change. If you—if you can talk to him. If you can make him see reason, perhaps.
“Dad,” you continue, and you remind yourself to calm your tone. He doesn’t like being talked back to, you remember (you feel), much less in a raised voice. “He isn’t your only child, is he? You know, actually, forget that—you know, parents aren’t supposed to try to mould their children, are they? You know, I was talking to An about—and I went over to her house, and you know what happened? You—her family, her parents were nicer to me than you ever were, Father. They offered me dinner, and I would have accepted if not for your stupid house rules.”
“You didn’t say that,” he says, a warning, but you somehow find the bravery to ignore the words he is saying to speak your own mind. “You lied about everywhere you were after school, weren’t you, what did I say?”
“No,” you say, “no. You don’t—You don’t get to do this. You only noticed I was gone because you wondered why the dinner wasn’t made, so don’t tell me it’s for my own good, that any of this is for us. It isn’t my job to make the dinner, and I want to graduate school and—and go to university, and maybe get a teaching job, or something. You’re not the only one with ambitions! You’re—I’m not the only one who wants to do something in their life, and maybe Shouto wants to become a hero, so good for you, but he’s not your puppet, you hear me? You’re just—you’re just selfish and—and greedy! You’re just pissed all the time because you—you, not me, or Natsuo, or Shouto—aren’t good enough, isn’t that right? You gonna tell me that’s wrong?”
“You don’t get to say that!” he says, and you let him, because it’s ‘his turn’ now. “I am your father, you don’t get to say that. I have done everything for you, my children—everything I’ve bought, and supported you with, and you come back with this? You don’t recognize the sacrifices I’ve made (and oh, the arguments you could make) for you? You were supposed to be obedient and listen to me, you should be respecting me. ”
"Oh, please," you snarl. "We're not your second-chances, you understand? We're not a 'supposed-to-be'. You want to be respected? Sorry, but you've beat the mindless obedience to authority out of me and the rest of us. You want to be respected? I love you, but give me something to respect you for, Father."
You don’t go to bed until two am that morning, still angry, still frustrated, but it’s… it’s over. Somewhat.
(It’s hard to make yourself heard, understood, when everyone refuses to listen.)
You are tired, and you have class tomorrow, but you gather what’s left of your courage and you text Shouto ‘where are you, are you okay ’ and he responds with ‘i’m at a friends house’ and that’s—
that’s good enough.
You have a carefree friend who wishes for a world made of candy every 11:11 or shooting star. You know someone else who selflessly wishes for a world without poverty or war. Your wish on those special days is to have peaceful holidays (not even the full year because you know that’s… unrealistic right now). You wish for time spent together with a happy family with siblings bruise-less and awake. You wish for those two-week breaks to be spent together as a family, with genuine smiles and calming evenings, like other families have.
(You’re just too tired of the constant one-sided slaughter and fighting, and you wish you could just change some things because—because he’s nice sometimes, right? You think he loves you all, somehow, in some odd variation of his. You think he has… the right intentions, kinda? Somehow?
You just are tired of dreading the days you know are always bad, and are tired of being scared for when he comes home because you don’t know if it was a bad day or not.
And you hate it—you hate it, because you’re so selfish, constantly worrying about you because you want you to be safe, and of course you hate it when your brothers are in trouble, but you don’t hate it enough to stop him because at least it’s not you, right?)
It is your mother who teaches you to bake; it is a peaceful scene, you reminisce, the youthful eight-year old you who stands atop a teetering stool in an attempt to grab the honey. You snag the bottle with the pads of your fingers because someone decided the bottle was best placed at the back of the cupboard, and you triumphantly step down and show her your prized possession.
“Look!” you say, and grin so wide. You love your mother, you do.
“Thank you!” she says, and you remember her lesson on politeness: ‘always say your pleases-and-thank-yous’. “You’re amazing, sweetie. Just be careful, though, right? That stool could fall over any time, and we don’t want that.”
“It didn’t, though,” you protest, and her smile turns a little drier.
“Yes,” she says, “yes, it didn’t. Just—be careful, sweetie, okay? Whenever you do something, check around you for danger. Your mama doesn’t want you getting hurt, okay? Any of you; your brothers, too.”
“Yep!” you say, and her smile almost disappears.
“Fuyu,” she says, “can you take care of your brothers, too? Look after them, if I can’t.”
“What do you mean?” you ask. “I mean, like, you’re practically at home all day, right? Where would you go?”
“I don’t know, sweetie,” she says, and brushes your hair back. “I don’t know. But—but if it does happen, will you? Can you promise me that, darling? Take care of yourself, because I love you and you deserve the best you can get, but also, don’t let the boys get taken advantage of. Can you do that, sweetie? Take care of Natsuo, and Shouto, and—and even Touya, if you have to.”
“I can do that,” you say, because you’re a little confused but you don’t like this version of your mama, when she’s all sad, but you haven’t quite pieced things together yet; the anger and the arguments and those repercussions, so you promise (and you remember) to make it go away.
Then, you say, unafraid and honest; “You can take care of yourself, right mama? You’re strong, otherwise Dad wouldn’t’ve married you, and your quirk is super cool, ‘cause it’s like mine, right?”
“Yes, baby,” she says, with a soft smile that you will learn doesn’t mean happiness, “yes, my quirk is strong, and so are you.”
You laugh a little—not sure why—and hug her with your dirty hands, and she pushes you off lightly.
“Come on, now,” she says, “we need to hurry or else it won't bake in time!”
“I named you,” he says, and you wish he didn’t. You wish he didn’t, because what right does he have, if he’s too busy (too busy, too busy doing what, Father?) to speak to you. You’ve had about two conversations (“I’m joining a club after school again so don’t expect me around as much”, and “Will you pay for my schooling?”) with the man, neither of which taking more than five minutes. Is that proper behaviour, sir? Is that what you deserve?
‘Is this what you want, Father? Your children rebelling against you and your so-called legacy? Fuck you,’ you write into your skin. It is yours, you remind yourself. Not his.
‘Fuck you,’ you say after slamming (into the hard walls and you swear you almost break them) down your bowl of now-cold soba, but you refuse to relish in his expression before you storm out because that’d make you like him (how he’d relish the fact of his overpowering dominance when he finally beats the All Might, you’ve heard him rant and gloat drunkenly at three am on Fridays).
‘Fuck you,’ you hiss to yourself, curled up alone on your bed in the dark. ‘Fuck you.’
(And then you look at the harsh blue light of your phone, and your fingers tremble over the ‘text big sis’ option, but you somehow tell yourself that ‘she won’t care,’ or ‘she’s busy,’ or ‘she can’t even do anything,’ and you need someone to talk to, but you’re—you’re just scared.
You’re scared to ask her the simple question of ‘can you do me a simple favour with your quirk because my back is probably bleeding’, but Endeavor wouldn't—won’t—and she’s nothing like him but you are [you aren't like him, but you are, and you can’t get that out of your head] so why should she do that for you?)