A/N:
This chapter contains a scene with rape that will be marked where it starts and stops using: [!]. There are also moments you might find to be uncomfortable reading, but these will not be marked with anything. There are also references to eating disorders in this chapter.

Shoto Todoroki
- Month 1, Week 1 -

"Worthless fuck-up." Slamming a bottle of beer against the wall, Endeavor picked up a large, jagged shard of the shattered bottle remnants and pinned me down to the floor in a position as if to use me for his own sexual desires. "I'll brand it with the marking of its master."

The reek of alcohol serves as a punch to my stomach while I bend down to gather the shards of glass. Glancing down at the liquid pool on the floor, I consider using my left half to evaporate the fluid, but I lambaste myself when I remember that it's alcohol. Now on my knees before the lake of fetid alcohol with glass strewn across it, I grasp the shards tinted in a translucent brown.

My sweltering head and frigid palms were both cold to the touch as Endeavor ran his hand across my forehead and through my hair. With a sadistic sneer, he rolled up my left sleeve and turned my body so that my stomach was to the floor. I stared at the shadows beneath me while my pulsating temples burned in anticipation of glass puncturing my skin. The tip of a glass fragment bit into my flesh and was slowly yet malevolently dragged across the back of my shoulder to form a line. I bit back the instinctive screams threatening to erupt from my mouth as the glass continued to scorch my skin.

Tears prick my eyes as a shard of glass slices cleanly through my right ring finger. I want to drag this glass across my own skin. Not like he did. No... I just want to hurt myself as a reminder of how disgustingly worthless I am. Curling back my lips, I precipitously clench my fist holding the glass shards; a multiplicity of familiar needles of flame pierce through my palm and fingers. Worthless. Failure. Disappointment. Thing. It. It doesn't matter. That doesn't matter. I don't matter. Foolish. 'The thing that destroyed my life, my family, and my reputation.' My tears finally wriggle through my unfazed facade and slide down my cheeks as I relax my left fist—the one with the glass shards.

After struggling through the agony of the letter E being carved at a painstakingly slow pace into my shoulder and squirming haplessly as the open wounds were drawn over again and again with the same glass shard, Endeavor finally dropped the sharp object from his hand. The jaundiced sound of glass being rustled, however, instantaneously captured my trepidatious attention. Biting my tongue, I was soon met with glass transfixing my skin in one single point. Jamming deeper and deeper still, that sturdy fragment began to twist in a circle as it was driven down through my flesh like a screw.

Staring down at my quivering hand stained with blood and lacerations with translucent shards protruding from my skin, I continue to pluck more shards from the floor. Now gagging at the volatile assailant to my nose and stomach, I slam my fingers into the glass shards again. I repeatedly wrench my fist open and closed on those glass shards, ignoring the pain that flares up with each time I perform this. Expelling a forlorn sob from my throat, I clamp down my fingers on the glass and apply as much pressure as I can muster up as if to crush the shards.

"OI!" vociferates a harrow-stricken voice.

Once the abject torture concluded, I returned to my room with a glass shard still reeking of Endeavor's anathematizing alcohol. Whining as I felt around the obtrusive lines that reflected the marking of Endeavor, I scribbled my own cuts across it to conceal the fact that it had originally been a letter. Glancing into the mirror behind my shoulder to view my wounds, I grimaced with a throaty growl as I began cleaning them up.

My wrists are held fast by Bakugou's hands. "What the fuck are you doing?!" I shakily struggle against him, pushing my arms in a half-assed attempt to negate his pull. "Stop. Stop, goddammit!" Meekly obeying his command, I limply hang my head as my splenetic tears drip down to the floor.

Even though you hurt me, I deserve it. Even though I hate it when you hurt me, I still deserve it. I haven't begged for you to stop since I was young. I learned to accept that I'm not... That all I am is something for you to abuse. That's what I deserve. I... It was my fault. I asked for this. I didn't stop you. I will be just fine. Hurt me until you're jaded. I was the one and am currently the one preventing you from being happy. If hurting me makes you feel good, then keep hurting me. It deserves it. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It will be fine. It hurts so much. It burns like the flames of hell. But it also feels good—it feels something that isn't this perpetual void of nothingness or livid sorrow—when it hurts the me that it wishes to tear apart to escape from. It'll be fine.

I wish...I could tear apart my heart with these shards of glass. Yet I fear when someone else might do the same. Fear? Is it truly? I don't know. I wouldn't know. Of course I don't know. Bakugou...

Dragging me back from the putrid pool of alcohol with my wrists restrained, Bakugou seethingly snarls, "Open your fist." The lachrymal shivers razing his voice augment my instability from weeping.

"Why?" I sniff, failing miserably to prevent my facade from falling.

His shoulders hug against mine as he lays down his chin on my shoulder. "Because there's fucking..." He expels a swift breath through his lips. "Todoroki. Because I'm asking you to."

Even so... "Why are you a-asking me to?" I sob, mortified by the fact that Bakugou must certainly be feeling the horrific tremors snaking across my body and my intermittent breaths.

After a moment, he releases a dismal sigh. "Your hand is bleeding," he remarks with his pristine composure inviolate.

"And?" I swiftly press, refractory as ever as my fist continues to shake.

"There's fucking glass poking out from and between your fingers," he grumbles assertively. "Don't you dare say 'and?' to me again. I care about you, dammit. I'm not a complete heartless dick. I have emotions, and so do you—even if you act like you don't. I care about you, Todoroki. How many times do I need to say that to burn it into your damn head? Your health is part of you, and therefore I care about that, too. You're destroying your fuckin' health when you cut it with glass. That ain't gonna fly. Now, let go." Having spoken the spiel of his thoughts, he snorts, evincing what I can only assume is quelled vexation.

Then...I don't want you to care about me. "Why?" I question, flinching at the hitch in my uncharitable voice. "Why do y-you care?" My words exude a malicious frost as literal frost begins to crawl across my skin from my right half.

Ameliorate the masks immediately, I internally command myself with domineering authority. Suppress the pain. It doesn't matter. Your puerile insolence shan't be tolerated. It is your choice to choose how you feel. Why can't you feel anything beneficial to those who care? No matter what I feel, it hurts without any tangible trace. This glass in my hand...helps me forget about how I feel inside. It makes me feel something different. It makes me feel better.

"You're my friend." Friend. "Friends care about each other—it ain't truthful friendship, otherwise. Todoroki, I care about you so fucking much that I'm willing to tell you all this. You told me yourself that you wouldn't have believed me to be this kind of person. I hate showing this side of myself, but I'm not a fucking coward—I'll show it when it's necessary, even if I hate it. Yeah, I always show it around you. Why? Because I care, and it's fucking necessary. You think screaming at you and telling you to die and burn in hell like I do to everyone else is gonna help you? Hell no! So don't be looking down on me, either. Now, let go."

I can never win against you, can I? You always know what to say at the end of the day, and you articulate it well. You always seem to know what I'm thinking and what I'll say, and you concede and refute. You craft reasonable, succinct deals that favor my side, but your own ideals are still present in it. And your veracity is something I could only dream of.

Reluctantly releasing my crushing grip on the jagged teeth of a translucent brown, a few loose shards of glass fall from my fingers and into my palm. Streams of crimson trickle from my hand, twisting like snakes across my wrist and slithering across Bakugou's fingers.

As Bakugou releases his grip on my uninjured hand, he cautiously pulls me up to my feet. Guiding me through what feels like an intricate labyrinth of halls before we arrive at the kitchen sink mere feet away, he motions for me to sit on the floor. Hanging my head over my knees, I attempt to stifle my hushed sobs.

"I'll be back soon, 'kay? I'm getting some stuff to treat that," Bakugou announces, to which I nod my head at.

There are times I wish you could see how much I want to die and how much I want to slash through my skin with every passing second...just to stop the pain beneath my skin. Then, however, I remind myself that it would simply be a daft mistake to save me. Even so, I instinctively desire that help from somewhere beyond my own reach. But I don't deserve it. Even if I've numbed myself to being struck by serrated, malevolent words, it does not erase the memories of why such blades were thrown at me. It does not erase how...how he would touch me and call me 'a shitty toy anyone would get a kick out of using and throwing away.' All I am...

After vacantly staring down at the floor, listening to Bakugou's consoling comments, and threading myself in and out of the barrier of ground and sky, I finally fold my crystalline wings granting me ephemeral liberty, and I return to my place under Reality's command.

The crinkling of a package being opened greets my ears. Swiftly succeeding this is gauze being bound to my skin by bandages coiling around my hand like thread to a spool.

I finally lift my head, causing a rush of loose warmth to flood through my sore neck. "I'm sorry," I whisper, at last thawing the remnants of frost adhering to my skin beneath my sleeves.

Bakugou's ethereal garnet gaze lands on my eyes. "I'm not mad atcha," he maunders in a light growl. "Course, I wish you hadn't done that, but I'm not mad. I'm fucking furious, but it isn't directed at you. Now, what the hell were you doing with the goddamn alcohol?" He releases my hand and helps me up to my feet again.

Then who or what are you furious with? "Thank you—for everything. I don't..." I don't deserve you. "Ah. Endeavor ordered me to dispose of the alcohol. He likely brought more from America. You looked busy."

"Are you shitting me? Fuck that asshole." He runs his hand through his glorious, pluming hair of ash-blonde. "Don't be so damn shy. The hell could I possibly have been busy with that was more important than you?" He mutters something under his breath as his hand creeps over his mouth; splotches of a pale pink dust his cheeks. "Just come and get me. You're not a burden. Don't torture yourself like this, dammit."

How adorable. "I'll consider it," I sigh aridly, clearing my throat and swallowing down a few petals dappled with blood. I need to eat.

"You know, you can show your emotions. I know you have them. I might tease you about being emotionless, but you've probably felt it all to hell and back. You probably don't want to feel all you've felt before. I'm sure that was all filtered down to disparaging feelings. Bet you figure it'd be easier not to deal with any of that, huh? Don't torpefy yourself like that. Sure, some suppression is good when the situation calls for it, but completely repressing... That doesn't counterpoise the pain, necessarily."

I don't like expressing emotion. I don't like feeling emotion. I don't like detecting the emotions of others.

His eyes roll towards my left arm. "It's gotta hurt to feel when I'm sure you haven't been happy in a long time. Guess you could say we're opposites, in that regard. I explode when I can't handle my emotions, but I end up degrading the people around me. You implode, and you take it all out on yourself. Doesn't mean we don't both cross paths, but..." He languidly grasps my left sleeve, and I comply without speaking. "I know these—or, at least most—aren't from that sack of shit. I found out a while ago, but I'm sick of keeping to myself. But you weren't in pain when I touched your arm earlier." He slips my sleeve up towards my shoulder.

Clever. Damn. "How did you know?" I question, reserving my aloofness.

He shakes his head, scrutinizing the scars littering my arm. "God. Fuck. How deep did this one go? Holy shit..." He presses his palm to his forehead. "How did I know? I knew you hated yourself. I knew you were probably struggling with depression. I knew and I know...you probably think about committing suicide a lot, yeah?"

Guilt drills down into my chest hearing that Bakugou knew what I'd scrupulously worked to conceal, but I neither confirm nor deny his self-ascertained suspicions. An agonizing twinge shoots through my head as though boiling water has been shot through my temples. The effervescent snapping of my heart ignites firecrackers through my skull while an intrusive film of white entangles itself with my vision.

You would not be wrong, but I digress. Bakugou, you have been aware of all this? I must be such a fool for such paltry attempts at shielding such a reprehensible truth from him.

"Why the hell do you think I ask you how you're doing every day? How your day is? That I'll see you tomorrow? I didn't want to confront you—I didn't want to break you. Every time I thought I'd mustered up the confidence, I could never do it. Even though I knew about your self-abasing ways before I saw the hole in your arm, I didn't think a whole lot about it. Wish I had. Wish I fucking had... Then I learned more about you, the abuse, why you always ate a feast at lunch... We were nowhere near friends yet, but there was no way in hell I wanted you to go off and hurt yourself, end up starving under him, or...kill yourself. I've never worked my ass off more for fucking friendship in my entire life." He sighs. "I should've just opened my goddamn mouth sooner. Maybe I could've..."

Bakugou... "If I could ask anything of you, I would request that you refrain from falling into the same hole as I have," I utter with a gelid blight wedging into my words.

He releases a groan of exasperation. "There you go—all formal again. Y'know, it makes me feel like shit to know your words get through to me, but regardless of how damn much I try to get mine through to you, they don't. But I get what I want at one point or another. I will beat fucking Deku. I will be the best. I will get through to you. Tch. C'mon, don't look at me with that blank-ass stare." My stomach growls, and Bakugou crosses his arms at this. "Your stomach sounds like a cat. Hungry?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I haven't felt like eating."

Everything I do feels like a burden. It's been increasingly difficult to force myself from my futon in the mornings. Even though my stomach is furious since I've not been eating, all the blood and petals I've been swallowing cause only nausea.

Bakugou offers an uplifting scoff at the next protest from my stomach. "Time for you to man up and eat, then. Damn you, Kiri. You look a bit thinner. I better not have to see your skinny ass sitting at the bottom of the scale again, 'kay? You looked like absolute shit. I don't wanna know the hell you went through from him, but I also do to strengthen my resolve to beat his ass. Tch. I'll shut my damn trap and let you eat. I'll take care of the alcohol. My old hag would probably like it." He smirks like a sly, snickering fox.

What a radiant smile, I think to myself, enamored by Bakugou's striking expression. Why is such an intoxicatingly beautiful smile a knife through the chest?

Although initially rather abstemious, I find myself forcing down the remainder of my soba to recoup from my debilitating lack of eating. Perhaps extraordinarily axiomatic, but I feel atrocious afterwards. Now my stomach snarls not from hunger, but a long-surpassed, surfeited fullness.

"You weren't kidding," Bakugou comments once I've regretfully consumed my meal. "At least it's in you now. Tch. Better stay that way. Now, remind me when that asshole's supposed to get here." His somewhat exuberant smirk fades into a rancorous lour.

Biting my lip, I shrug with my eyes. "Relatively soon? What plan did you have in mind for when he arrives?" I shake my head at my trembling hands and wince at my bandaged hand.

Standing from the kotatsu, Bakugou scoops up both of our dishes. "Lurking in the shadows and waiting to see if I should go in for the killing strike on that poor excuse for a dad." Fury sizzles up from his words as his back turns to me.

Why do you torture yourself with this relentless concern over me? "Stay in my room. If you hear anything concerning, then lurk in the shadows," I propose as my offer.

I can think of a much more efficient method than this, but he would be able to hear everything. I want to eliminate that possibility as much as possible. I feel light-headed simply considering that Endeavor will be returning shortly. How irksome.

"Why not a closer room?"

My fingers glide across my arm. "I can't guarantee where he'll go, but he hasn't entered my room in years," I sigh.

The clunks and clinks of dishes rattling in the sink fill the air. "Fine. The minute I sense something amiss, his ass will be the trophy I earn and throw out." 'A shitty toy anyone would get a kick out of using and throwing away.' "I don't care if he's the top Hero. Nothing gives him the right to do any of what he's done. Nothing, dammit."

Would we not be greater fools for abusing the abuser? Endeavor is still human. He too feels pain.

The crackling itch of flower petals entwined with strands of blood flitting through my lungs stirs through my being. Rising from the floor in an impetuous response to this, I swiftly excuse myself for the bathroom.

A shower of saffron and vermillion drizzle in spurts from my mouth and into the maw of the toilet below. Considering now that Endeavor will likely hold a training session as his gift to me, I stare down at my right hand.

I have been clean for over two years, I cogitate, spreading out my fingers a bit. Even so, I can imagine that his training would be especially strenuous tonight. I will likely be left incapacitated on the floor. Even after I could endure the punches and kicks, I was still terrified. Then I realized that I did not wish to break my reputation regarding that. It was never terribly often, and in fact quite seldom I'd stoop as low as that. The instances of capitulating to it gradually declined over the years. I trained myself to erase the possibility to the best of my abilities, and thus began the construction of my reputation. Even so... I truly am disgusting.

Despite the inveighs drowning my mind in order to maintain my immaculate record known only to me, I cannot resist the enticing urge to purge again. With a sigh in self-reproach, I split my lips apart and steel myself for the imminent revulsion that will arise from my actions. Digging the fingers of my right hand down into my throat, I begin the familiar process of gagging and sporadically forcing my fingers further down from my head jerking about. From my gag reflex alone, I achieve disgorging stomach acid, but after enough poking around with my warm, slimy fingers, I finally vomit everything up while my stomach heaves; the blistering, acerbic flood of my stomach contents burns my sore throat while I do so.

Just as unpleasant as I remember. It felt like I was suffocating for thirty minutes or so, even if it was much shorter than that. My head and eyes are still in a daze. I feel filthy. I feel disgusting. I feel guilty. But I feel better. Even when I retch up blood, petals, and anything in my stomach, I still cannot void myself of the pain. Ah. Damn. They aren't too prominent.

Once I finish washing away the remnants of my revolting ways, I return to the kitchen to see that no longer on the floor remains glass or alcohol. The light bobbing of a precipitous forest of a sandy blonde poking over the nearby counter seizes my attention.

"Bakugou?" I ask with quite the raspy voice.

His eyes and nose lift up above the bend of the counter. "Damn straight it's me. How fucking hard were you coughing?" Now his waist and below are cut off by the counter.

My eyes drift to my right hand. "I'm fine. What are you doing?" I tilt my head as though I had not been shoving my fingers down my throat not long ago.

"I smell bullshit," he scoffs. "But I knew he had to be keeping a secret stash somewhere. Scoured high and low for something. Nothing gets past Katsuki Bakugou." He sneers avidly.

I love his expressions... "I see. Congratulations," I state with exanimate vigor.

"Fuck you and your deadass voice."

A melancholic smile ghosts my tingling lips. "How sweet."

It hurts beneath the surface not simply from... I don't want to remember doing that. My chest aches around you. Your magnificent smile brings me warmth, but it hurts. Your imperial eyes are so comforting, but when I see myself in them, I feel empty. Your voice of placating grandeur embraces me, but I feel alone.

His sneer contorts into a muddled expression tinged in an undertone of cherry. "You asshole," he grumbles.

While the two of us rest up against each other while watching a show featuring a dark-haired protagonist with a love for katsudon and a passion for ice skating, the whirring of a vehicle near the house practically halts my heart before injecting it with a perfervid spark.

"Tch. Here comes the biggest ass I've ever seen," Bakugou acrimoniously remarks, pulling himself up from beside me. "He does anything you ain't comfortable with, you make sure I hear it. I will be pissed if you don't. Don't try lying to me." The austerity of his blazing eyes is rather lackluster compared to Endeavor, but for Bakugou, it's quite the spectacle.

Switching off the television, I apprehensively pace back and forth while scratching my arm before slinking out of view from the front windows. Compose yourself, I fiercely command myself. Calm down. Regain your composure. It is nothing you have not been previously exposed to. Do you not recall the inanity of emotion? Reprimand them. As it is, your naïveté will loosen them. Fetter them down. Exhaling slowly, I fasten my gelid, forbidding mask of titanium to my mien as a soft, hissing, scraping creak of the front door sliding open greets my ears.

"Shoto," calls an aloof, seemingly sober Endeavor. "Come here."

Obey. Gulping down a scorching, dry breath, I walk out to face the Flame 'Hero' himself with my hands in my pockets. "You called?" I sigh without emotion, peering up into two eyes of jade stained with blue.

Endeavor, rather than crossing his arms with cold, crass, murky eyes, he simply stares down at me with a certain solemnity and sober softness to his eyes. "I must apologize to you, Shoto," he sighs, thoroughly bemusing me as he bows to me; a disconcerting twinge of flame whips through my chest. "What I have done is unthinkable. Although I cannot recall the majority of what I've done, I still remember enough to pronounce my actions as abhorrent. I am ashamed, Shoto. Say what you wish to me."

I still can't trust your words. "I have nothing to say to you," I reply, restrained by no emotion.

"I remember...engraving a symbol of some sort on your shoulder."

"Don't touch me." I instinctively draw my hands from my pockets, primed to clasp onto any groping hands.

He notices the bandages wrapped around my left hand. "What happened to your hand?" he questions. In his voice, something wavers.

"It doesn't concern you," I spit.

His brows lower slightly. "You are my son. Your injuries are my concern." What bullshit. "You're thinner."

The fingers of my right hand curl inwards. "I'd say you're delusional. If it's the case that I'm thinner, then this is what you insinuated that you wanted." I shake my head.

"My judgment and reasoning were impaired. I have been sober all day for you. I understand that no words will suffice as a proper apology. No words can serve as atonement for my wrongs. No words can mend the wounds I've left. But I need you, Shoto, to understand that I recognize that. When I went to America, I was required to remain sober more often than not. That clarity... I had the time to reflect on what I could recollect from my heinous decisions while I was intoxicated. I'm sorry, Shoto."

I want so badly to believe you. I want to trust you. But I can't. I just can't. Not yet. I'm not ready for that. My heart hurts. I am fully prepared to be stabbed in the back for trusting your words, but I can never truly prepare myself enough. I would prefer to have anticipated those words to be crushed on the ground and remain detached from any connections to you. I'm sorry as well. Endeavor...I don't know who you are anymore. Anymore? I've forgotten who you truly are for quite some time. I tell myself you do mean well, but now I am extraordinarily dubious of my own initial thoughts. What do I believe?

I shake my head. "Your apology is something I'll have to think about for myself," I mutter, flicking my eyes to the floor to mask the softening steeliness of my eyes.

If you were truly sorry, would you not... No. It doesn't matter. I don't matter. None of it matters.

"Did you do as I asked you to?"

"Yes," I hastily sibilate.

"Good. Then let us train. I will let you be the judge of when to stop," he states while heading up to the training room.

I highly doubt my lungs will sanction the use of the full extent of my abilities. I am the judge, though? Although I am inclined to simply opt out, I must continue to maintain my strength. Ah. I suppose I have nothing to throw up now, but that was the motive that drove me to do that. I still feel guilty. Bakugou would never forgive me if he were to unravel this recondite facet of mine.

Somberly entering the training room, I shed my sweatshirt and leave my long-sleeved shirt on. Endeavor implies that I should remove my shirt as well, but the idea of being alone with the one who is culpable for sexually harassing me is disconcerting enough. Even when his eyes are understanding and his hands are at his sides, I still see the shadows of his salacious eyes staring between my legs and his creeping hands stroking what he saw.

"Don't touch my waist," I fulminate begrudgingly.

Endeavor nods. "What happened?" He crosses his arms in thought.

You...appalled me beyond anything I thought was humanly possible. "It doesn't matter." Yet I allowed you to play with me until you were on the verge of stripping me.

"Am I to blame for this?"

"Yes," I sigh with blatant vitriol being emanated from my glacial words. "You've done much worse." I covertly wince.

I can feel Endeavor's scorching eyes staring at me, and I look up to see bewilderment in his turquoise eyes with an unprecedented malleability. "Such as?" Although his words are sturdy, his lilt is askew.

If I had not purged everything, I may as well have voided it all here and now. "You..." I clutch my stomach as a grimace tears apart my insouciance. "You don't remember any of it?"

"I remember holding you, holding your hand, staring at you, and pulling at your shirt," he admits, unable to meet my eyes. "But I see I've done much worse. Shoto, I am sorry. Again, my words can't reverse what I've done, but I'm sorry. Whatever it is that I have also done is inexcusable." In his eyes flickers what appears to be guilt.

You've forgotten the fact that... That... "Enough," I scoff disdainfully. "What am I to you?" A toy you can spew empty apologies at?

His eyes meet mine. "You are my son, Shoto."

"Prove that without words."

A leaden silence ensues.

As I thought. You would be a fool to prove this through blood and whatnot. So, I will wait until you can prove that to me without any puerile words. Anyone can say 'you are my son, Shoto,' and therefore such a statement is futile. What am I to you, Endeavor?

As expected, in the midst of the training session, I throw in the towel when my knees buckle and I hack up blood with only one or two petals present in the mix. Rolling up a bit of my left sleeve merely to create a gap large enough to concentrate my flames on and expel a swift wave of fire that burns away the yellow petals. Swiftly returning my sleeve to its neutral position, I stagger to my feet.

A hand grasps my shoulder and turns my body around, but I expeditiously react with an ice-infused punch and a razing glacier of serrated ice. "Don't touch me!" I pant simultaneously out of terror and rage while attempting to silence the raging tumult reverberating in my mind and suppressing the entropy of my frantic emotions.

Fearful frost clings to my skin and seeps into my clothing from my right half as I finally wheel around fully with my fist mantled with ice after sending Endeavor reeling back. My azure stallion formed by a preponderance of ice spears jutting into the air slams heavily into Endeavor, who is currently flaring up with threads of fire. A rippling stream of refulgent orange flames is sundered upon seeping up into and shattering my small-scale beast of ice.

"Sorry..." I apologize, evoking acute self-abasement from my habitual apology.

Dismayed and debilitated, I contemplate lending Endeavor my hand before such an idea is struck down by my persona that is blasé about anything daring to scathe it. Departing from the training room, I'm soon met with a fuming Bakugou, but I rapidly shake my head.

"Go back." I mouth, flicking my left wrist and swiping my fingers to their peaks at him; while in the process of doing this, I bite my tongue in regret.

Hobbling into the kitchen, I wash off the blood staining my hand and fetch myself a glass of water. Steadily drinking down the water in the glass, I once again feel like vomiting, so I hover over the sink for a minute or so. When nothing comes back up, I sigh in relief and return to my room to find Bakugou with a wry, sulking scowl.

"The fuck did he do?" he demands, his authority unequivocal.

As splendid as it is to have you here at my side at almost all times, I do still wish that I could convince you to leave me be. "Nothing. I overreacted," I murmur, sinking down into solitude.

He lets loose a piqued sigh. "You don't gotta keep up the act."

It would be phenomenal if this act became the truth. "I see." I glance between my hands. "You should be getting home."

"Oh, shit. The hag's gonna beat my ass if I don't tell her why I've been out. Tch." He whips out his phone and begins tapping away at the screen. "I will. Soon. Just wanna make sure he ain't comin' back for round two or some shit." He scratches the back of his head and glances up at me from sitting on my futon; his somewhat arrogant half-smile falls away. "Your body language gives the impression that you don't feel anything, but your eyes look pretty damn sad."

I press my left hand to my left eye. "I suppose. I don't know... I don't know how I feel." I lean back against the wall and eventually settle on the floor.

"And that's perfectly fine, Todoroki," he assures me, hopping off of my futon and sitting beside me. "Don't be beating yourself up, got it? Talk to me about it. Don't bottle it up." He turns to face me.

Bakugou begins to wrap his arm around me, and although my first thought is of the alleviating warmth it provides, my mind yields to my impulses. Batting away his arm and leaning away, I disconsolately mutter, "Not now. I want...to be left alone." Staring vacantly at the floor, I sigh deeply at my incertitude and balkiness.

I can hear a soft snort from him. "You want me to just leave you here when you sound fucking dead inside? Not happening. Not right now, at least." He pauses for a moment. "Your mood's been all over the damn place today. Just tell me something bad that happened today that I don't already know of."

What am I to you, Bakugou? "I'm tired. I don't know."

Am I the friend of yours with such a poor image of himself that you pity him? Is that it? You could argue that this is quite the incentive to accept help and work to recover, or you could argue that this simply necessitates my desire to distance myself. Even so, even though I know a plethora of things that happened today, nothing I think of can I speak. Everything falls apart. I don't have the motivation to pick up the pieces and form the whole again. I'm tired of feeling like this. I can't describe it well. It feels as though I feel nothing at all, yet the air is peppered with an attenuating guilt of sorts. I don't know.

He sighs. "I think you do know, Todoroki. I won't push it this time. But, oi. Look me in the eyes, Icyhot. Unless you think the floor's superior to me. I wantcha to tell me one thing that was hard about your day, and one thing that was good about it from now on. Got that? Good. I care about you a whole fuckin' lot. Don't be looking down on me like that damn nerd, though." With a forward sway, he gets up to his feet. "See you tomorrow, Todoroki. If he does anything, I expect you to tell me, 'kay?"

Right... I nod stiffly. I do not plan to be extricated from my own predicaments. I will face them myself. I don't need your hand. Even if I want it, I shouldn't take it. I've caused enough harm to you as it is. Such a pernicious ignoramus should have no right to cause...

Drawing myself up from the floor, I catch a glimpse at Bakugou's backpack slipping away into the darkness outside my window. With flickering snaps of tangerine, I can hear a faint thump from him landing on the ground. Walking towards the window, I peer down into the abyss of shadow tinged faintly with the saffron emanation leaking from the glass windows of the house. Sighing as the silhouette below slinks away towards the street, I deeply inhale the fresh, dampened air. Although I'd failed to notice it previously, a deluge of water droplets have been hammering the roof for the past thirty minutes or so.

After shutting fast my window, I force myself to exit my room and surreptitiously slink away to the back deck. Stepping outside into the chilly, wet night of a reposeful storm of belligerent tacks from the rain, I stare up at the sky. Tenebrous smudges of charcoal clouds blot out the majority of the stars strung up beyond their reach. Rusted ribbons of silver stream faintly along the crests of dark-gray cotton. From the wispy hands of the clouds slip tapered teardrops that slick over the ground and rend upon spilling across my skin, hair, and clothing.

What a pleasant feeling, I think while closing my eyes and feeling as the tendrils of the cool liquid raining down caresses my face. Even though it feels nice to be warm inside, it also feels nice to be cold on the outside. I will have only so many more moments available to bask in his warmth. Two or three months to live... One's dream is another's nightmare.

A familiar gurgle severs the tranquility of the rainy night. I needn't be reminded. I can feel as my stomach practically gnaws at itself. I am very hungry, but I've begun to feel sick whenever I eat. Consuming abnormal amounts of blood every day must certainly contribute to this. Even so... They are correct. This shirt once hugged my skin somewhat tightly, but I can tell that, comparatively, the sleeves are a bit loose. Ah. Damn. Then... Before my condition degrades to the denouement, it is of paramount significance that I force down all that I can. Does he believe me to be anorexic? He did question my body image. I do still eat, but it makes me sick. Although I am guilty of purging, that is to preclude the event of expelling everything while training so that I cannot be punished or humiliated for it. Regardless of the numbers on the scale or my overall width, I will still abhor what I see, however. With or without the scars, I will still cringe seeing my skin. I cannot remove or change the person inside me. Person? Thing? Object? Toy?

Shaking my head, my hair leaden with water slaps my forehead and eyes. While sighing, the sound of the sliding door opening nearly causes me to choke on my breath. Despite my perturbed state, I keep my eyes on the sky.

A sickening, potent smog of a familiar scent wafts towards me. Alcohol. Following the odious odor is the thump of drunken steps. No. Before long, a dusty, dirty voice perforates my ears.

"Shoto..." hums a depraved Endeavor.

He'll beat me if I disobey, unlike when he's sober. "Yes?" I gulp, petrified by the hand now gripping my damp shoulder.

A filthy hand glides across my lower back and wraps around my waist slicked over with a light residue from my water-stained shirt; I stiffen like a deer in the headlights at this intrusive sensation. "Come here," he whispers, dragging me back into his arms while my tumultuous heart bellows in my chest. "I've been looking forward to seeing you today. What did you do while I was away?" His body lightly sways as he holds me tight to his chest.

Perhaps a bit more than tipsy, are we? "Nothing important," I reply, managing to still the stutter threatening to drill into my voice.

The inside of my body blazes with a volatile bath of bitterness as Endeavor's fingers lightly creep around my clothing. My quivering fingers, however, are like icicles protruding from my flesh. With intermittent, dry breaths, I alternate between suppressing rapid hitches in the flow of the air coursing through me and gradually soothing the greediness of my oxygen intake.

I still can't trust you...but I want you to be happy. Just this once... While you still have partial control over yourself, perhaps this is all right. I will still exercise immense caution, but I cannot recall when last you might have sampled even the faintest hint of 'love.' Has anyone extended a hand to you? I would think not. I...revoked my hand. Fuyumi and Natsuo moved out and have not returned since. Mom is still bound by the walls of the hospital. I mutilate myself to mitigate the pain. Is it that, even while intoxicated, you still hurt? Is that why you beat me? Has loneliness and solitude sparked your abrupt desires to touch me? Is that it? I would like to believe that, but I don't know if I can. Just this once...

Hesitantly lifting my arms, my heart resounds as though it is currently undergoing construction as I lay my arms over Endeavor's. "What am I to you?" I ask him again while shifting my weight around on my feet.

The patter of the rain trampling the ground soothes the silence.

I can't forget the hell you've put me through. I will never forget any of it. It hurts. Your words cut so deeply into me that they now circulate through my blood to haunt me. Your abuse and salacity left countless scars on both my body and mind. Your drinking...was Fuyumi's last straw. I can't forgive you yet. Not yet. But...it's okay for me to become a Hero. Heroes save others with a smile. I never saw a trace of a smile on your lips after Toiuya's disappearance. I can still save you. Even Heroes need saving sometimes, I think.

"My trip to America was lonesome," he sighs with breaths reeking of alcohol. "I found you. I see your arms."

He forgot my question? Forgot... "Will you forget who I am?" I query solemnly.

I can feel his head shake left and right a bit. "Where did they disappear to?" Who, or wha—ah! "They are still there." His hand, nestled beneath my moist shirt, rests above my heart. "They belong to Shoto."

I'm not certain I comprehend. Ah! No. Stop. D-Don't touch... A soft, sharp gasp escapes my throat as Endeavor's fingers beneath my shirt clutch at my chest. I don't like this. But... His other hand is now recruited to massage the leftmost circular protrusion from my chest. I feel so filthy. I utterly detest this unwarranted touching. My guts are knitting and being kneaded. But I deserve it...don't I? Even if I want to vomit, I can endure it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but before I can instinctively utilize the serendipitous distraction to break free from Endeavor's wet, filthy fingers fondling me, he begins dragging me backwards towards the house. "Come here," he now commands with a subtle return of his familiar astringency.

Submit. With a flaccid resolve, I comply with Endeavor's command as he yanks me inside from the rain. Would Bakugou not lambaste my decision to submit?

Stumbling back with Endeavor, the rush of air and the increasing distance of everything in my line of sight alerts me with the fact that I'm falling. Too delayed is my reaction to my falling as my head slams into the floor with the rest of my body following suit. An immediate twinge of a pulsing pain darts through my skull as a nebulous haze razes my eyes. The careening screech of reality lancing through my torpefied senses that sound and feel as though they've been submerged in water gradually focuses my vision back into alignment.

The slurred, wildly warping details gleaming in the lenses of my vision are polished enough for me to make out a towering silhouette belonging to Endeavor. As my senses continue to thaw, I flinch at the sensation of a frigid, yet warm pair of hands wrapping around my neck.

"...utiful," Endeavor spits with conviction. "That's what makes you so disgusting. But it's still there." His fingers press into the side of my neck to feel for my pulse.

My mind interprets that as though I should cease to have a pulse. I furtively curl my fingers around Endeavor's wrists. Are you going to strangle me here? If that is the case, I will not protest. If my heart no longer beats, it can no longer throb with agony. So, perhaps...

His grip tightens around my neck; my throat squirms around as my breaths trickle in and out. "I will erase those features. It is amazing how disgusting they are. I waited. I waited all day for you." With a cold sneer on his oily face, his hands fall away from my neck and swiftly wiggle my damp shirt free from my body.

Shit... Overwrought from the inimical hands now tracing along the scars on my arms, my vision periodically swells with a blurring heat. I cannot be certain whether it would be preferable for him to be sober or drunk. His fingers rub back and forth on the most prominent scar visible on my body. Was it an unconscious attempt?

"Most abominable," he hisses virulently, practically splattering his own saliva across my face as he does so. "You would do well to lose weight." He jabs his knee into my abdomen.

I quite enjoy eating, thank you. Even so, I haven't felt like it. I despise regurgitating it, though. Again, it certainly is not beneficial that I feel nauseous when I eat. Besides... I would much prefer my current state to when I physically felt as though I would collapse from exhaustion with each step. Bakugou would never forgive me if I regressed into a similar state again.

As Endeavor's knee practically parts the positions of my guts, he growls, "Up." Sliding out from the weight of his knee pressing into my body, I sit upright. "Off." His eyes are fixed on mine, but he points to my pants. "I said 'off.'" He winds around me to embrace my torso from behind.

What do I do? I frantically ask myself as my hands slowly begin to reach for my belt, hovering over it. Even if he's intoxicated, it would be suicide to endeavor an escape like this. He could simply bend and snap my neck into any position he desires. If I fail to comply... My hands begin their work at unbuckling my belt, shaking horrifically as they pull and push at it. This cannot be true. I cannot be stripping for him. No. What am I doing? He'll touch me. He will do far more than that. No... No. Why? Wh-Why must it have come to this? Even if I were to slug absurd amounts of soap and other, more intense cleaning products, nothing would scrub away this filth inside of me.

With a heavy, metallic thud against the floor, my belt is unraveled. His eyes...are bestial and voracious. I don't want this. Please tell me...that this is a nightmare to punish my insolence. I want to cry. I want to curl onto the floor, weeping until the next part of the play comes to pass. Stop. Please. No! Please... I can no longer control my breathing. A stifled squeak cuts through the thick air as a large, sweaty hand crawls down the front of my pants and gropes around.

"S-Stop." I whimper under my breath, attempting to still my wriggling from how absolutely odious and uncomfortable I feel.

The hand in my pants strokes over the bare protrusion of flesh that sheathes its intricately woven processes from my body, caressing it softly. "Off," he commands me with the slithering, venomous words of a spitting cobra.

I shake my head. "No," I inveigh as frost begins adhering to my skin.

Beat me as much as you please, but regardless of who you are to me, I will not tolerate this. No more. I... I'm being torn apart with every finger you touch me with. Don't. Don't touch me.

"What did you say?" he snaps as though his words are the jaws of a crocodile slamming shut.

Beat me until I perpetually forget and lack the capacity to remember anything at all, but... "No—"

The hand hugging tight against my chest leaps like a leopard, and before I realize it, a hard, crusty finger is inserted into my mouth. Absolutely not. Your filthy finger in my mouth... One finger splits into two belligerent, serpentine foes clutching my tongue. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Thick, damaged nails dig into my tongue from the top and bottom in an attempt to restrain the writhing, slippery beast of pink.

"Disgusting," he sibilates as I prepare myself to bite down on his fingers. "I will remove it." As his fingers crawl along my tongue, I smash my teeth together as if to rend his very bones. "SON OF A BITCH!" Yanking back his hand, the bones beneath the thick layer of skin on his fingers rattle against my teeth.

As Endeavor's hand is torn from my mouth, he claws his other hand that's in my pants downwards, causing my jeans to slink to my ankles. With animalistic impulses, I thrust my right hand back into his abdomen and unleash a piercing lance of ice that digs through his flesh. Whirling around to face him with a wry, emphatic lour souring my countenance, I'm met with something sturdy and large ramming into my stomach. Recoiling back through the air, my head swiftly makes a hefty impact against what I groggily assume is a piece of furniture.

Get up, I scold myself with vindictive ire. Get up before... While blindly and desperately flailing around for something to orient myself with, the odor of alcohol permeates the air of my propinquity. Shit! I can't... Nails pierce the flesh of my shoulders, jerking my body into the air as if I'm a fish flopping haplessly on its fell line. No, no, no! Hastily flashing both of my Quirks, my enraged assailant is undeterred from the maelstrom of ice and fire clashing in the air.

"Weak," he jeers, throwing down my body up against what I believe to be the side of the couch so that my head is buried into the object. "A fucking disappointment." Both of my wrists are restrained by one of his dry, cracked hands. "Worthless. A worthless, shitty toy." My legs feel as though they will snap like twigs from Endeavor's weight crushing them. "Don't struggle—toys like you don't get to."

[! Rape begins here !]

As shards of frost crystallize on my skin and clothing, I can see a repugnant swirl of orange flare up from my dimmed, obscured vision as a scorching heat envelops my boxers.

"NO!" I ululate in a livid, visceral, searing shriek as something firm, warm, and long encroaches on the inside of my body from its unwarranted ingress below my tailbone.

A burning, tearing, grinding rush of grimy, effervescent friction pushes up inside of me. Realizing now the connotations of what I feel jamming inside me, I find myself helplessly hyperventilating as my lips peel back and soft, stifled sobs slip through my mouth.

He's inside me.

Again and again, as though a cylindrical pole is being jammed inside of me and ripped out in a cacophonous symphony of torment, I claw my nails down into Endeavor's filthy fingers. The lascivious beast of insobriety, however, doesn't deign to terminate his relentless, flagrant lancing that drips with a venomous, shuddering warmth.

Again, again. Stop. It hurts!

My abashed grunts and groans are scrambled and thrown askew as my body jerks and contorts from my resistance to Endeavor's grasp and the gnashing, searing sensation of being furiously penetrated by the figure I supposedly know as my father; these odious, verbal cries are entangled with and evidently dominated by the inexpiable moans frothing up from the maw of the beast beating me from the inside. His old, musty claws coil around my flesh, grinding deeper with each thrust until even my blood is contaminated by his repulsive actions. Putrid drips of his sweat and saliva drool down onto my lower back and cool into crusty stains while my eyes are savaged by fuming terror and glacial astonishment.

Stop, stop, stop!

Unable to suppress the ardent emotions boiling up from my being, I unfetter them with a malicious maelstrom of a subzero contortion of the air followed by a sharp, immediate spiral of what resembles that of a solar flare. A crossfire of blue and orange sears my inky eyes as my wrists are released and the suffocating pressure hammering into my body is abruptly yanked out. Scrambling forwards onto the couch like an animal, I fervently gasp in rapid, mind-numbing spurts. My eyes dart to Endeavor, who is reeling back from my final gambit of sorts; dagger-like fragments of ice protrude from his body.

[! Rape ends here !]

I hurt him. He hurt me. What is the right thing to do? I am absolutely terrified. I haven't any clothes on. What do I do? I don't want to hurt him again, but I... I don't know. I don't know. I feel sick beyond my stomach, but I've practically nothing to expel. Sick. I am sick. His actions are sick. We are both sick.

Clinging tightly to the back of the couch in the corner farthest from Endeavor, I covertly scramble towards the floor. My bare body violently trembles from my neck to the tips of my fingers and toes as I watch Endeavor's every move. The filthy Flame Hero seems to be lost in a drunken daze with his spine slouched over on the floor. Sidling up along the wall, my jittering eyes are drawn abruptly to a moving figure from the shadows.

"Holy fuck! " Bakugou yelps in an irate growl, tearing across the floor and standing before me with his eyes likely staring down at Endeavor. "You stay behind me, dammit," he snarls at me before pointing at Endeavor. "You fuckin' asshat! " He begins to creep towards Endeavor, furtively grasping behind his back towards me; a thick book is in his hand. "Ice," he sibilates under his breath.

Why are you here? I ask myself while feebly freezing the book over with ice. Bakugou...I can't stop shaking. Chills are running down my spine. I feel sick. Filthy. Disgusting. Worthless. Mortified. Dismayed. What deprecating emotions. It hurts to feel. I want to cut away that pain. I want to forget. I want to forget that my own father would...

"You think you can do this shit to your son?" Bakugou seethingly fulminates with words imbued with malevolent retribution. "Fuck. No. He's a motherfucking human, unlike you, you bastard! I get what I want, and I want you..." His chin lifts up as he raises the book behind his head. "...to FUCK OFF! " With the swing of the book, Endeavor evades it by the skin of his teeth and expeditiously nails Bakugou's head against the wall.

"Bakugou!" I gasp in a husky whine.

"Stay the hell back," he grunts, launching a precision-based thread of an explosion into Endeavor's neck. "You're going down, you piece of shit! " While his forehead grinds against Endeavor's chin, he harshly knees Endeavor in the chest.

Endeavor sinks his teeth into Bakugou's arm, and while Bakugou vehemently snarls, a massive plume of scarlet and tangerine soaks the air. Like meteors hammering Endeavor's neck and chest, the beast of flame is thrust backwards and sent crashing to the floor.

"Hero or not, you don't mess with Katsuki fucking Bakugou!" Mercilessly bashing the solid, leaden book of ice down onto the back of Endeavor's skull, the book shatters into azure shards stained with diamond frost. "DIE, YOU ASSHOLE!" Slamming his foot into Endeavor's chest, he releases fuming breaths while examining Endeavor's fallen body.

Why did you...brazenly attempt to save me? Why did you leap into danger like that? I'm not worth that. Had he not been so dazed on alcohol and lust, he could have fatally wounded you. If he hadn't been...dazed on alcohol...

Slinking down against the wall, I press my right hand against my face as my suppressed sobs seep through my unsteady breaths. My nails begin curling into the skin surrounding my right eye. Breaking apart as my heart is drowned by the weight of the tears flooding from my eyes, I can feel the crystallized frost slithering across my right half.

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! My body aches, my stomach churns, my pernicious, self-degrading mind thinks only of the worst, a-and my heart... I detest its pulse. I don't...want to hear it anymore. It's such a sickening tune. No more... I hate the horrible ticking in my chest. It hurts. Make it stop...

"Todoroki?" Bakugou calls, his soothing voice immediately beside me. "Wouldja let me put my arm around you?" I nod slowly, steeling myself for the warm contact to my body; I flinch at his arm gliding across my skin. "I'm right here. Cry as much as you want—it'll be good for ya. You have every fucking right to cry, Todoroki. Every. Fucking. Right." He intimately rubs the back of my neck. "You wanna...get changed?"

I languidly nod. I'm so incredibly weak. I have every right to cry? 'Men don't cry.' I should not be crying. I should be fighting. Midoriya... Even when the odds are against him, he does it all with a smile. I admire that, even if I don't deserve to smile. I should have fled before he could touch me. I should have aided Bakugou in reprimanding him. I was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't...do anything.

A light clunk and the motion of something entering my peripheral vision startles me, but I appear unfazed. "Want me to get you fresh clothes?" Bakugou's gentle, sonorous voice asks. "I assume you don't wanna wear damp clothes." I nod, rummaging through my pants for my phone; checking it reveals a single unread text message that's from Bakugou. "I ain't leavin' you here, but... Fuck. Here, take my hand so you know I'm here." Offering his hand to me, I glance up enough to see his fingers before grasping his hand.

Your hand is so warm. A good warmth. A sweet warmth. A clean warmth. But I still feel so cold inside. So sick. So rotten. So filthy.

Once the two of us reach my room through the silence shattered by my shaky breaths and soft sobs that I internally chastise myself for, I change into new clothes, benumbed as I do so. The sensation of the clothes sliding over my skin simply reminds me of how they were stripped from my body.

"I'm...done," I sigh with an ineffectual voice. "A-Are you all right?"

He nods while turning to face me. "Nothin' I can't handle. Now, c'mon. I'm taking you home with me. You are not staying here when there's a feral fuckin' animal on the loose." While pensively following Bakugou's feet, I glance up from the floor and grasp his hand of my own volition. "The fuck are... Oi. I'd ask if you're all right, but you're clearly not. Mind tellin' me what he did?" His thumb gently rubs along my thumb.

I...am a disappointment for what I've done today, so you have every fucking right to know. Every. Fucking. Right. "He...touched me," I whisper with a defeated, hoarse voice. "He removed my shirt. He told me to remove my p-pants. I...u-undid the belt. I was afraid. But I didn't want it. Then...he put... H-He reached...down my pants a-and eventually stripped me." Remaining silent for a moment to stabilize my breathing again and endure the recollection of what transpired, I squeeze Bakugou's hand. "He put his f-filthy fingers in my mouth. He... I...I didn't see it, but I felt it. I know h-he... I know he r-raped me, Bakugou."

Bakugou stops in his tracks, and for a few century-long seconds, he remains silent; I lift my head to see his hair half-illuminated by the cascading rivers of saffron pouring down from the nearby streetlight. "You've also..." he whispers before promptly shaking his head. "We're telling someone about this. Know what? Tomorrow morning, we're tellin' Caterpillar Man." Perhaps I simply will not awaken in the morning. "Who knows if any officials would believe me, the most arrogant dick they've seen, and I wouldn't put you through the agony of saying it all yourself. I'm sure you don't want this to happen, but that sack of shit has done enough damage. This just decimated the negative straws he already had. He's lucky I didn't sever his fucking head. Tch. I'm gonna protect you...and make sure that never fucking happens again. Never. I promise that, goddammit." He sighs aridly, yet with solace. "'Side from that, is there anything I can do for you?"

I'm quite hungry...even if I still feel like throwing up. "I'm...hungry," I sigh as a shiver rattles my spine.

"Already? I'd say this is a positive turn of events, but I dunno how much I buy it. Wait. Fuck. You said that that shit stick put his fingers in your mouth. Holy fuck... I feel sick just thinking about that. Oh, God."

There was nothing on the floor, was there? I do not regret clamping down on his hand. I can only imagine the gruesome ramifications if I hadn't. Perhaps I am not so hungry. Still. I need to take what I can before I reach the point of being unable to. Whether that first occurs then or then is something I would not know.

I remain silent to prevent myself from unknowingly or accidentally slipping shards of the abhorrent truth into my words. Lightly scratching my left arm with my right hand, I stare at the bandages covering my left hand. Recalling the wondrous reprieve provided from the glass cutting into my skin, I unconsciously begin to hasten my scratches.

Bakugou's hand that is now interlaced with mine loosens its hold a bit. His thumb traces from hugging against my thumb to brushing over my knuckles and partially over my forefinger. He sighs as I slip my hand away.

"You're doing it again," he informs me, and upon hearing his comment, I pull away my hand from my arm. "Oi. You know I'm always gonna be here for ya, right? If you can't defend yourself, I will. If you can't fight, I'll fight. If you can't take care of yourself, I'll take care of you. Hear all that? I mean it. I damn well mean it. But, hey. Only if you're comfortable with it, I wouldn't mind carrying you to my house since we're going at a snail's pace." He glances over his shoulder and is likely met with a dour frown.

You can trust him, Shoto. "You won't hurt me, will you?" I candidly question.

"Hell no. Not intentionally. If I hurt you, then tell me that so I can set things right. Got it?" I nod, glimpsing into his resplendent eyes. "Good. If anyone else hurts you, I ain't afraid to beat their ass to save you." He whirls around and stretches out his arms to me, so I nod again as he lifts me into his arms. "Just as a reminder, I'm doin' this because we'd take seven centuries to get there if I didn't do this." He now propels into the air with his booming Quirk.

I'm sorry for being a burden of baggage. But... 'Anyone else' includes me. I am that 'someone else' to someone else, and you are that 'someone else' to me. Yet you have been so amiable when you are with me. You should be pushing me away and disparaging me. You believe you can save me, do you? What an asinine way of thinking. To save me from myself... How might you attain such a feat? I am selfish. You reiterate time after time that you don't want me to hurt inside, yet, in a way, all that I do seems to contribute to this inner agony. You want me to be kind to myself, and to treat myself right. I rebuke myself for being alive. I rebuke myself for wanting to die. I hate myself. How I treat myself is deserving only of revile. You don't want me to cut, but...nothing else helps as swiftly and effectively as it has proven to be. I feel so delirious with adrenaline before it is exsanguinated and I instead feel calmer. I forget. I soar into the sky. I want to slice into my skin so badly. So badly...to forget what he did. Even if only for a transient moment. I feel something different—something good. I want to forget that filthiness. That pain. That sorrow. That trauma. Those execrable memories.

"I didn't know the average human lifespan drastically increased," I say quizzically, finally beginning to hammer down my emotions and reinforce my facade.

I don't believe I will ever be capable of looking at Endeavor without feeling grimy and filthy. Not...when I know what he did to me. Not when I know that he was inside me. I'm shaking again. I truly was destined to be used and thrown away. Even though I have been used and thrown away so many times...I am still here. All because he texted me that day. But I'm sick of living. I'm sick from this godforsaken disease. I'm sick in the mind. I am sick. I'm sick...of remembering how he touched me. How he stripped me. How he rubbed me. How he...

"You're awfully perky all of a sudden," he states with manifest astuteness. "What? Enamored by having the honor of being held by me? Joking, if you thought I was serious." As another one of his explosions smudges his mien with streaks of light, I can make out a vague powder of pink mingling in the mix.

Very much so. "You aren't wrong," I admit as we arrive at Bakugou's abode. "Thank you for...everything, K—" You have never thought of referring to him simply as Katsuki before. "Ah. Could you..." I glance down to the ground, internally supplicating that I managed to create a convincing falsehood.

"Mm," he hums as a soft, throaty reaction. "Oi. What do you wanna eat?" He unlocks his front door and allows me inside first.

"Anything," I answer dejectedly while slipping off my shoes.

Bakugou tilts his head. "'Kay. Need anything for the damage from that asshat?"

I shake my head as Mitsuki rounds the corner and greets me with a jovial, yet bewildered look. "Oh, you're back, Shoto," she chuckles. "You're always welcomed in this house. You've really softened Katsuki up, y'know?" Her pupils devilishly dart to Bakugou.

He twists his lips back. "Believe whatever the fuck you want, old hag," he groans. "Tch. Endeavor was a bitch, as always."

I don't need to be loved to be all right, right? I cogitate, staring down at the floor between my feet. Even if this disease has only one cure—love—I don't want to be loved. If I am not loved, my death will not have as great of an impact as it would if they loved me. Love... I want to give kindness—not love, because 'my love is a poison.' I want them to be happy. But they cannot be happy when I am like this. I've only had an increasing appetite for dragging blades over my skin. Why couldn't I...have died? I wouldn't be forced to question why I couldn't die. I wouldn't wonder why I want to die. I wouldn't be plagued with the incessant beckoning of the command to cut. I wouldn't...have been through what transpired today. His...hands. His fingers. His eyes. All...on me. Piercing through me. In me. Stop. Make it stop.

"...n't do that, old hag! Todoroki? Oi. Oi. Todoroki?"

I slip beyond the crystalline border of ground and sky, plummeting down into a sapphire lake below. Submerged now in reality again, I can feel my body trembling as my tightening chest rapidly inflates and deflates, pushing up and down in a frantic rhythm. As clarity stains my vision mired by my mind, I jerk my head up from being locked on the floor to meet two ruby spheres.

He didn't...aggressively shout to grab my attention. Why is he so kind to me? I don't deserve it, but he holds me close and cherishes the fact that I am alive. I can't... I don't have the right to feel sad, but all I feel is this perpetual despondency and emptiness. Why? He understands how I truly think and feel to such an extent that it is uncanny.

"Deep breaths, Shoto," Mitsuki calmly instructs me.

Shoto, 'you fucking worthless piece of shit.'

Once I've somewhat regained my composure and manage to bury my glaring consternation, Mitsuki demands to hear from Bakugou what happened this time. Bakugou, with the vexed click of his tongue, claims that "that bastard probably left traumatic scars." After Mitsuki gently prods for additional information from me to no avail, I slowly fill my stomach with milk and curry.

"Ain't the curry cold by now?" Bakugou asks, and to which I nod at. "Oh. Guess you'd like it that way. Hey. You look like shit—more so than you were a bit ago. Talk to me." His gentle authority forces my voice from my throat.

My mind is caught in a crossfire of conflicting ideals. "I-I don't feel well," I sigh, forcing down another bite of curry. Anything being put inside me reminds me of...how he filled me.

He ejects a sigh from his lips. "Tch. I can't fucking begin to imagine. Who the hell does he think he is? Goddammit. Oi. You don't have to eat all that." His fingers, with perfunctory movements, rest gently on my arm.

"I have to," I find myself muttering aloud.

"Why?" he queries.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Two or three months... I would certainly desiderate his warmth if I were to lose it. Is such a disease truly so adverse? Or is it everything I've wanted? It is a promise of death, is it not? It hurts. It hurts so much, but I don't want you to know. You almost seem to be au fait about me more so than I am. What am I to you, Bakugou? Ah. A friend. Right. A friend... You are my friend. I would never forgive myself if I loved you as this disease seemingly dictates that I do. I don't. If I did...I would be burdening you with my own anathematizing, frivolous emotions. I already do so enough. I can't thank you enough. So...I can't allow myself to love you.

Kiri...why the hell did you accept the fact that I broke up with you with that endearing smile? You talk so casually to me still. It's like we were never together in the first place, yet you bring up all those good times we had. I wish you...remembered what you did that night. It was my fucking fault for not paying attention, but why was it only your drink that got spiked? Tch. I don't think I can ever be enough of a man to tell you the truth about what happened. I'm the only one who knows, so it essentially doesn't exist to anyone else but me. Even my memory of it is pretty damn fuzzy, but... Yeah. I'd like your smile to stay as fucking blindingly bright as it is right now.

The fuck was that? Oh, shit. Don't tell me that that ass is back already! No doubt that that potent, foul scent is alcohol. Todoroki? What the fuck is he doing?! His hand's bleeding. But what in the living hell was he doing with these damned bottles of alcohol? No way in hell was he was planning on drinking. He's crying. I need to get him away from both the alcohol and the glass. Tch. Yeah. There's glass in his hand. Just his left hand. Stop...hurting yourself, goddammit! You keep hurting yourself again and again! Don't be such a self-abasing sack of shit to yourself. You... All I want is to see you happy. All this time, and I know... Todoroki, if you kill yourself, I will never forgive you, or myself. That's the most offensive fucking thing you could do to me. You better know that. You're not weak or cowardly for wanting to die, but you're a coward for going through with it and succeeding. We're all fighting here. I...I need you here, Todoroki.

Shit. I forgot my sweatshirt at his house. Guess it's an excuse to check on him again. Still, I should get this alcohol home in one piece first. I'll text him. He still hasn't responded. Tch. Endeavor's probably talking to him. What? Why the hell's the back door open? Still goin' in through Todoroki's window. He's not in his room? His phone's not here, either. Huh. I feel bad for sto o ping as low as searching through his stuff, but he's gotta have something he usually uses to cut. I won't take it, but I'm curious. Nothing here. Nope. Scissors? They look relatively dull. Probably not. His bedside table... The hell's this? Antidepressants? When did he start taking these? Has he been taking them for a long time? I'll figure it out later. Well, aren't these some small, nifty scissors? Glass shards, too? How sharp are these scissors? I know how they look in the drawer now, so I better not fucking forget five seconds from now. Ow! Shit. Holy hell. Well, even though I don't see any blood on these scissors, I'm still washing off the bit that touched my skin. There. Looks just—Todoroki?! Did he just fucking scream? Shit! There's that ass! He's a mess on the floor? Where the fuck is Todoroki? Fuck. He's... Don't look at him, Katsuki!