A/N: Grad school... Sorry for the long delay, but I finally got my editing done. Thank you for reading, as usual. I deeply appreciate the support!

Without drawing it out, please enjoy!

Please R&R!

Chapter 04 A Gilded Cage

"This is stupid."

Mama stubbed out her cigarette in a portable case. In a faux leather pencil skirt and a sparkly long-sleeve that could've complemented a flagpole better than her addiction-based physique, she nearly gave off the impression that her opera career never plummeted at all. Nearly. But the telltale ashen tone of her skin and the nicotine exhaust that followed her announced the truth almost too well. Snapping the small case shut, she barked at him, "Keep complaining like a little girl and you're doing more runs. You're twelve, damn it. Act like it."

"Mama," Shota said in a wondering voice, watching her stash the case deep in her purse. "W-wh— …why do I have to do this?"

"Because I said so." Shota said nothing else, but his mother could tell he saw through her excuse merely as a placeholder for her to come up with a reason. The knowing look in his eyes sufficed as an incentive for her to want to smack him upside the head. But instead, she huffed at him and said, "You have a gift, Shota. I've told you that a thousand times. So, stop asking dumb questions."

Shota grabbed a half-empty water bottle and sat down on the stage's steps, eyeing the droplets that stuck to the walls of plastic. He looked out at the audience, remembering how they each seemed small during recitals. It was the people in them that expanded. Their eyes. Each turn of their lips. He learned to read faces well these past years. He knew which of Mama's frowns translated to her being in the moment as she listened to him, one of focus and passion. Maybe pride. He knew which of her scowls meant she would smack him a bit once he was backstage—or on worst occasions, in the car where privacy was a thing of the past. One frown brought a lively drive home of I-love-you's and you're-so-goddamn-talented-baby-boy's. The other brought silence and the-fuck's-wrong-with-you's, you-selfish-dramatic-little-thing's. She'd tell Tsubasa Shota had humiliated her, as if her career's slaughter was his fault. He knew her a little too well these days. That he knew for sure as he watched her curse at her purse and the lost lipstick stashed in it.

Retrieving it from a tear in the purse's inner bedding, Mama reapplied a bright red shade to her lips. She always had to paint her face during his public practices just in case a scout happened to stumble by. He'd be drawn in by Shota's voice, intrigued by her beauty and history in performance, and then he'd give them a shot at the life they were entitled to. Her dream revived. She scowled down her nose at Shota, who shrugged under her eyes. "You should be grateful for that scholarship."

I'm not. He looked away.

"Not just any kid can sing opera."

I'm not special. He looked down.

"—If you'd only work with it…"

I'm not special. Frowned.

"—you can go miles with that voice!"

He wanted to argue, but said nothing. He wanted to glare through her, make her one of those people who were scared of his mystery Quirk. But because he learned to maintain a still composure from years of watching his mother's wither away, he took a breath and tried to remain as motionless as possible. He yawned, covered it with a hand, and prayed his mother did not think it was because of her rant. Oh, no—it was because she dragged him from bed at four in the morning to practice opera in some rundown music house.

Mama inspected him in an uncomfortable way, a searching way, as one would studying a sculpture for chips or cracks in the presence of a sleep-deprived, starving sculptor. Her eyes, though a giveaway feature the two shared, pierced through each fiber of his every insecurity. "Did you hear me?"

Shota turned his head further away from her, pretending to find something interesting in the concrete floor that was always too cold. "Yes, Mama."

Thankfully, she checked her watch and started walking to the creaking double doors, down the dust-kissed stairs. Her footsteps dragged more today, leaving skid marks on the matted rug on the floor. "It's six-thirty. Come on. You have school."

"Fine." Shota followed her.

"What'd you say?"

"Yes, Mama." Outside gave less relief: a damnable fog creeped in from the bay with no stroke of dawn light to clear it, the faded street markings nearly became a single hue stroke with the asphalt, and the first of returning fishermen bore hauls of tuna, mackerel, salmon, and red snapper whose death-flapping and -gasping punctuated the give and pull of the shore and the occasional drone of cars.

A monologue of silence followed them to the car, where Shota dropped himself in the passenger side and stared ahead, trying to be as still as possible. Mama beat the key to awaken the engine and swerved onto the road, rattling the car and throwing her son around. Potholes caught the tires each time and she didn't make any effort to avoid them. Tsubasa would be irritated, but he gave Mama whatever she wanted either way. "The tires."

Mama lowered the mirror and started applying more lip-stain, dragging the applicator just blow the border of her lips, smashing them together, and checking the color a few times. "What'd you say?"

"The tires." Shota looked out the window at the open bay. Even with specks of distant boats, it remained unconquerable, unapologetic, and unbendable. "They're gonna wear out."

"They're not gonna wear, Shota, or pop. Calm down."

"How would you know?"

"I said, hush."

"Okay."

"Don't test me."

No more was said as she turned onto the calm noise that was Chokeberry Street. The sun-slapped and hail-rattled asphalt paced by faded markings greeted them, as did the wide speedbumps that Mama raced over. Shota kept himself silent. Since Tsubasa, the family had been relocated the suburbs where all roads were pavement and maintenance-d every two Saturdays. And since Tsubasa, the family had been blessed with a baby.

Jong Hoga, otherwise known as the source of Shota's adoration, as well as the source of massive noise and chaos around the house. They were five years apart, but Shota loved him instantly, as did Granddad and Grandmum. The family had been long-since shattered, but Jong was steady. Real. In the mornings, he zombie'd his way around the house, dragging his feet and pushing around anyone who happened to be in his way. Afternoons, he become off-the-walls ballistic and would knock out on his face on the carpet, the remnants of an anti-homework protest. By nighttime, he'd be alert and hungry, bouncing up and down in front of the TV or sitting on Shota's lap with a Gameboy in his pudgy hands. Bedtime… finally, peace. Shota would turn in early just to snuggle up with his baby brother, the two of them comfortably snoring in a twin bed.

"Good morning!"

Shota glared. "Good day."

The principal of his middle school gestured dramatically—rumor had it, he was sniffing Clorox between classes. "Isn't it just wondrous outside with all the sleet and fresh shimmering sunlight, child?"

"Sure."

"He's an idiot." It came from Jong, who stood at Shota's hip and clenched his hand through mittens as they walked.

Shota sent a sharp look his way. "Jig," he warned. "That's not nice. He's just…"

Jong snickered, tugging his brother's hand with all the strength an excited seven-year-old could muster. "You can't even say I'm wrong, huh?!"

Shota, now prone to sarcasm and cynicism that came with his age, couldn't think against the accuracy in his brother's words. Jong's crudeness could be refreshing in the midst of all the feigned politeness of Tokushima's countryside. The lies of his childhood. Unlike his brother, Shota was raised to be painfully respectful—backroad habits—so the thought of a child as young as his brother speaking such a way to adults gave him a nervous heart.

Years prior, Tsubasa's management money had moved Shota and his mother, and the three-year-old Jong, from rural to suburban. Longdon's valley introduced a mix of Big Islanders and Shikoku residents, the former of which containing city folk whom Tokyo or Yokohama had creased with ringing phones and hours on end in standstill traffic. Shota and Jong made sport out of picking out heavy-sighing city folk from heavy-drawling country folks, identifiable by habit of speech being "like" and "dude" versus "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir," how quick glances are shot around or how long an accidental look at a stranger lasts, and even as simply by saying hello to a stranger passing by on the street. Confusion? City. A mini conversation for as long as voices can carry? Country. If anything, Shota, being a polite but horribly shy stranger on the street, was thankful for Tsubasa in that.

But otherwise, his stepfather was a prejudiced brute.

"You're staring." Jong pulled at his brother's shirt, fingers curling in the fabric. "Don't you think that old man's got a stick up his butt? He's so annoying!"

"He's just loud," Shota said, adjusting his school bag to the front of his body. "And so are you, kid. Up." He picked up his little brother and swung him to his back. Jong laughed and wrapped his arms around his brother's neck. Shota adjusted him, smiling a little. "You're choking me. Easy."

"Choke, then."

"You choke." Shota reached back and tickled his brother's rib, knowing he was wide open. "You ain't talk to me that way."

Jong wriggled around and laughed a little, trying to sound convincing and threatening his brother. "You're not all high and mighty!"

"Yeah, well, I wiped your butt when you were a baby, so don't get all smart." Shota readjusted his hold on his brother again.

"Weirdo!" Jong accused, tugging on Shota's hair. It had grown an inch down his shoulders this past month because Grandmum had been too busy at the accounting firm to trim it.

Shota laughed. "You're the weirdo."

"That's for Mom and Dad to do. You just like being weird, ya Quirky!" Jong was Quirkless, like Tsubasa. The two of them, the too-proud, bitchin', big-talkin' minority of the Hoga-Aizawa family that boasted with enough gusto as an un-silent majority. All were aware and made aware again nearly every waking moment. Quirk users occupied a vast number of the world's population now; but in this house—Tsubasa loved saying that one—in this house, the Quirkless were simply normal human beings. Empathetic, stable, peacefully average, honest, hardworking people. Quirkies—a semi-outdated label—were the oddballs in a basket of lunatics. By biology: dysfunctional mutations of DNA with god complexes. But Shota loved his little brother too much to fault him for what he had been taught. He knew it well: a child shouldn't be judged for the taboos of the parents. Shouldn't, but often were. So, Shota strived to be the exception for Jong—which he was.

But he must have learned to hide all too well from his solitude with Mama; no one noticed. No one noticed anything about him unless he were in trouble. Or singing, in Mama's case.

Jong poked Shota's eyelid as he teased him and in the silence that filled the space. "I'm telling Mom you keep me. No, I'm telling Dad."

Shota feigned an exasperated smirk to hide what he knew to be the truth of his life now. "Yeah, well, someone had to do it while Tsubasa worked and Mama—" was passed out drunk. He frowned, but recovered quickly. In a less playful, more serious tone, Shota tried to formulate his words carefully. "She gave a lot of energy to give birth to you, Jiggy. I'm your big brother, so it's my job to take care of you."

"Whatever."

The two walked on in silence in the chilly air, every few of Shota's steps were complemented by a crunching or crinkling of leaves. An occasional car would slow-roll by, some even beeping at the brothers in greeting, to which they'd both throw an arm up to say their hellos. In Tokushima, everyone was family, everyone was friend, and everyone stuck together. With lengthy traditions of seasonal and fishing festivals, rituals to venerate the gods, a collective adoration of hearty food and music, and a blazing pride in the resident kiwifruit and the brandy made from it, the town of Longdon served as a grand hearth of the prefecture's customs. "The spirit of Shikoku," the town's tobacco-spitting elderly would hum to the wind at every lively festival. Shota would busy himself with chores and studying whenever the announcements for the celebration would go up on powerlines. When he was seven and Jong was two, Grandmum dressed them in matching hakama and yukata for the winter and summer festivals. Shota didn't mind that and he didn't mind that she made him wear his hair out of his face to "look more presentable."

What he minded was the staring.

Being out and about during the ceremonies meant idling by in a crowd of nearly everyone in town. Everyone knew everyone's business. Everyone knew Mama was a failed opera singer. Everyone knew that Daddy left them. Everyone knew that Shota was born out of wedlock, that he was so obviously the step-child in this shifted family. Everyone knew he had a Quirk, as was expected, but all they knew was that his eyes maimed and his hair stood on end. An evil-eye that housed some mystery timebomb. Everyone was waiting for the worst to come when his Quirk emitted… whatever it was supposed to emit. The crimson rays of his eyes were enough for them to foresee some catastrophic, devil-like force to be his weapon of biological choice.

And as he would stand there, holding Jong's hand tight enough to make them both damp with sweat from each other's draping sleeves, the whispers would raise to murmurs. Then points. Then "accidental" bumps.

He never had the stomach for it for too long. He'd give excuses of homework, or some test, or a marinade that needed to be prepped and to sit in the fridge overnight. It worked half the time. Other times, Tsubasa would grab his arm in silence. Shota would freeze. Tsubasa would volunteer him for the most public task of the night: show Jig around the marketplaces and shows by the bay. Last summer festival, Shota discovered something he despised more than the stares and the mean way people walked by him.

The I'm-so-sorry-dear look. That.

The rude ones he could deal with. The silent, gaping ones, even easier. But the ones who approached him, grasped his hand, slipped money into his yukata, and patted his face with palms not too warm or cool. Those ones. Those ones he nearly spat the worst of words to, nearly showed the ugliest side of him, or perhaps the most truthful. But the scars under his shirt from Tsubasa's idea of home discipline rendered him silent. If his stepfather happened to see, it meant hell for Shota. Accusations of a loose tongue and humiliating public reprimands that never seemed to end. Every resident on this southern Japan island was willing to dish out spare bank notes, but none were willing to step in to help.

A nightmare. At ten-years-old, Shota had had a nightmare. He'd wanted help—admitted to it. He'd wanted Mama. Instead, Tsubasa had pushed his way between them. That was the first time. Shota hardly remembered it. Only white-hot agony. Only crying under through-teeth yelling. Only the icy trickle of blood soaking into his pajama waistband. The first scar.

"Shota."

Shota snapped back to awareness without much else than a hitched breath. "What?"

"You're staring again."

"Oh."

"Can we get ice cream on the way home?"

"Sure."

"—Mr. Ichibana's truck parked a little closer to school this time. I heard he sells malt cups every day now!" Jong bounced up and down, the dirt-stained midsoles of his shoes making marks on Shota's shirt. "And snow cones and fudge bars—"

"Jiggy, you get through the day without crying or calling me and you can have three of those."

"No way!"

"Mm-hm."

"Mussels from Mr. Nagisa's shack, too?!"

"We can do that on Friday. Just ice cream today." Once under the polished wood archway, Shota let his brother down gently, placing his Cyclops backpack on those scrawny shoulders with too much care. The two met eyes for a moment of quiet. But Shota refused to look too deeply into his brother's eyes, so he smiled. "Come get it, kid."

Jong rushed into his arms and pushed his face into Shota's neck. "Bye."

"Bye."

"You're gonna come get me, right?"

"Yeah. But remember what Mama said?"

"Where's my gin?"

Shota sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Well… yes. But no." Immediately, as humorous as it was to hear such words laid out on a young child's tongue, Shota's instinctual protective heart skipped five beats in anger at their mother. How she could recklessly allow herself to be swallowed by the very liquid she makes herself swallow was beyond him. How she could expose his brother to such a lifestyle after ruining him was completely irrational. In the public eye, she was a disgrace. But within the house of the merged family, she was worse.

Nothing. Shota felt nothing toward her most days. Only disgust.

"The after-school program?" he said, straightforwardly. To snatch Jong's attention back, he gave the tiny hand another squeeze. "Listen to the teacher and I'll be there before you know it. And yes, we'll get ice cream."

"Okay." Jong's gray eyes traced the elementary school's structure. Nothing new, but the beginning of school days always made him clutch onto Shota harder. He'd learned an ounce of his brother's nervousness.

Shota hung onto his hand, squeezing it firmer before saying, "You can do it. You'll have fun. You always do."

Jong met his eyes and nodded. That uncertainty remained stubborn in his short frame, evident in his hunched shoulders and lifted eyebrows.

Shota gently straightened his posture, rolled his shoulders back to exude confidence, and said, "Don't let nobody see you do that." The more he talked, the firmer his voice became as he let his rage toward their mother calm into a resolve to protect his brother. "You can't control what Mama does. You can only do better. No other options."

"Okay."

Shota pulled him into a tight hug one more time, hanging onto that apple cinnamon scent of little boy's shampoo before letting go. In his usual softer voice, he said, "Go ahead. I'm watching you."

Jong gave a final sigh and nodded obediently, clutching his backpack straps and turning to the gate. One foot before the other.

Shota, still kneeling, watched his brother's unsure steps at the front gate, a tiny frame bordered by racing miniature bodies and loose hair. Jong looked back, and Shota nodded in support. When Jong disappeared into a classroom, he sighed in relief. The first breath without Jong was always odd. The next: more so a rushed inhale. The strength he had to feign and the bitter mold that tarnished his soul, the part of him he had yet to subdue, combatted in each breath he made alone. He whirled back around—"Jig, I…"—too late.

He glanced at the time on his phone and started making his way to campus. That's when Mama, dressed in a chic, maroon pencil skirt with a matching blouse, pulled up and insisted on driving Shota herself. Her hair, neatly moisturized and bouncy, eyeliner and lipstick so meticulously trailed along her features. The show always went on…

##

Hosubana School of Visual and Performance Arts. An invite-only G.A.T.E. academy.

Mama had kissed him a million times after breakfast, her breath tainted with gin and expectant pride in his education. Shota tried to pull away from her, but Tsubasa held him there by a grip on his shoulder. Told him to be nice to his old lady because she loved him and he better love her back. Jong laughed.

On the drive to Hosubana, she instructed him to make the entire family proud, to show up all those other spoiled kids. At drop-off, the pressure of her expectations tied knots in his stomach and he had to swallow a bunch of times to keep the queasiness down. The other kids walked around the block toward the school or were led from shiny cars by their parents' hands. But Mama barked at him to get out in the middle of the street. The other kids snickered at him, hiding curling smirks behind one hand. Seeing the crowd alleviated the snap in Mama's tone and she said with a feigned angelic hymn-like voice, "Have a good day, baby boy. Remember to thank the headmaster for your full-ride scholarship!"

Shota couldn't have turned from her faster. "Bye, Mama."

He walked through the gates with his head and eyes down, trying to will the persistent noise from his mind. He made it to the administrative office at about fifty-two steps, but by then, he was sure his face was already flushed from enduring the jungle of mocking children. Following the pristine, unblemished signs in a polished hallway, a mound of typing and chattering greeted him in a cold, white-lit room. Six adults stood by in pairs or trios, speaking way too fast and intense for a morning conversation over coffee.

One lady, the one typing at full speed, with soothing gray-green eyes and relaxed shoulders looked up at him. "What'cha need, lad?" Her voice, however, pinched in a sour, what-now tone. She never stopped typing.

If Shota's face had not yet pinkened, her evident premature annoyance gave rise to color across his nose to his cheeks. He toyed with his hands, picking at his palm and shifting his eyes against his will. "U-uh… I'm— Um…"

"You're…?" The woman tilted her ear toward him. "What's it?"

An uncomfortable silence protruded their exchange; the other adults, teachers, probably, muted themselves and turned to Shota, each sporting a curious or confused scowl. Shota shivered. "U-h, I…" He fumbled in his bag for the acceptance form. "Sorry."

One of the adults from the back maneuvered her way around the unyielding crowd. She shuffled with haste to him, or at least as fast as her high heels would allow. On the other side of the high counter, Shota shrunk from her when her red lips parted into a wide smile. She read the letter. "Oh, yes! Aizaw— Oh! You're Janne's child—the opera singer."

Everyone within earshot turned to Shota with newfound interest. He ducked, but nodded. "Yeah." His skin crawled at their automatic judgment. There were loads to say of the recent failed opera singer, of her mystery kid who enrolled in a performing arts program of high regard. Silence, a now-missed virtue. A chase-less round of hide-and-seek suddenly didn't sound like the deaf hell he once thought it to be.

The red lipstick lady raced around the counter and guided Shota by the shoulders out the door. "Turns out I'm your homeroom teacher. I'm Mrs. Deishi."

"Hi." Shades of orange and red and yellow burst from the courtyard. Willow and magnolia trees lined the walkways, a Zen Garden curved along the northern end, each swirl punctuated with smooth latte-colored stone, and a bridge arching flexibly over a fishpond. No real koi, Shota noticed, only painted. "It's really…"

"Serene?" Mrs. Deishi asked, glancing at the boy trailing her.

Japanese. A goddamn tourist trap that screams, 'We're stuck in the Taisho Period.' Shota frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if anywhere in the school had electricity and if the lunches were made on clay and wood burners. "Sure."

Mrs. Deishi added a hop in her step, revitalized by that unfelt agreement. "I think so, too! As one of the most prestigious G.A.T.E. schools in the arts, we take extra care to give our best efforts in representing our culture. International students and native students can find peace in this courtyard to better serve their learning experience here. What is art without Zen?"

Shota tuned her out for most of it, but not because of disinterest. He watched the other children walking around, most in pairs, linked by elbows or nudging shoulders. The bay area of downtown Longdon brought a new wave of aspiring artists each season, and with each wave came the big city folk and their ridiculous fashion trends. They could afford to be seasonal Shikoku residents and fly back to Tokyo or Yokohama during vacation. Tsubasa's promotion and raise could probably support a semester or two out of town. But to Shota, that sounded ridiculous. Shikoku folks tended to be simpler, more content with their surroundings, with who they were. Rabies and sin helmed the Big Island; everyone knew that. Whoever dared to leave the safety of Shikoku died on the Big Island in a matter of weeks.

"You can go in, now." By the awkward way she cleared her throat, Shota knew she had already told him that once. "Your seat's the third seat of the third row. See?" She pointed it out for him.

Shota dared to look and was greeted by many staring eyes. Some mercifully turned their attention to the teacher, who squeezed past Shota to enter and rally the class. Others, the more persistently curious, continued to watch Shota's every move. Or lack thereof.

"Hello, children!" Mrs. Deishi cheered, raising her arms up and waving to each and every student. "We have a new student here with us!"

Shota cursed.

She turned and opened an arm to him, beckoning him to come. He trudged to her, as told, and kept his eyes on the massive belt secured around the drapey waist of her dress. Her nails, he noted, were each painted white with a gooey red dot in the center, or off-center. Seashell bangles shimmied on each wrist. "He's a born-and-raised Shikoku resident, like some of you, and earned his seat here by scholarship." Her hands clapped together and that massive smile expanded. "Want to introduce yourself?"

"I, uh…" His throat folded into itself. "Shota. Aizawa."

The class unified in a supportive, enthusiastic applause. A boy stood from his seat amid the clapping. "Isn't Janne your mom?" His accent hummed, dragged, almost. Kyoto.

Bracing, Shota nodded.

"Cool!" The boy's intrigued smile lifted. "My mom listens to her all the time!"

Another child scoffed, crossing her legs under the desk. "My mom says your mom's a disgrace." Intent and lifted at the end of the sentence—Tokyo. "Why'd she quit her job so fast?"

"No, she got sacked," another child intervened. A Shikoku native. He looked at Shota, tapping his fingers on a clarinet case. "Your mum's not working now, is she? What's she doing?"

Heart shredding through his chest, Shota frowned. The roots of his hair threatened to rise, the corners of his eyes heated and stung. "Minding her own business." He balled his fists tight enough to press his nails into his palm. Calm down. They're just talking shit. They don't know what Mama's been through.

The murmuring and invasive questions halted when Mrs. Deishi cleared her throat. Immediately, almost robotic silence sealed the room into itself and Shota found there wasn't enough air for all of them. "We do not discuss the faults of our friends' parents."

Shota shot a glance at her.

With all the bangles and multi-hoop earrings clanking into each other, she must have blocked him out. She raised her arms again with her palms upturned, welcoming each and every child to focus in on her… and Shota.

He stepped away from her.

"We instead celebrate the creative differences of all of you, despite the celebrity status some of you may have inherited." The students passed around apologetic glances and submissive sighs, all intended for Mrs. Deishi. A chorus of "Yes, Mrs. Deishi" circulated the spacious room. The teacher turned to Shota and gently nudged him toward the rows of desks. "Go on, lad. To your seat."

He did as told, as usual, but dared not look into the peeling eyes of each classmate. He knew what would be there. It took eight steps to get to his seat, where he sat with his backpack squished between him and the desk. The first pocket of the bag held mundane things: pens and pencils, his bus and ferry passes, should Mama be sundown late at pick-up, a house key hidden in a semi-full pack of gum, and one of Mama's miniatures of bourbon. Unsure why he'd brought it, the only security he had to combat such irrationality remained in his pocket—a multi-use tool equipped with a short knife.

Last resort.

Periodically, he checked his pocket under the guise of a simple shift in position. Morning announcements were given and class schedules were passed. Shota dreaded looking down at his. An alternating, eight class schedule divided by odd and even days. Homerooms stayed consistent throughout the entire three-year process. Only today, the first day of the new semester, would all classes meet for a shorter timeframe, dedicated only for introductions and syllabi. He begrudgingly scanned the paper:

SHOTA AIZAWA:: Grade 6

Period: Course:

(1) HST, Anc. Japan

(2) SCI, Life

(3) PE, PrtnrDance

(4) MATH, PrAlgebra

(5) LIT, EngAuthrs

(6) VOICE, Opera V

(7) THTR, Musical I

(8) PIANO, Adv

(HMRM) C102 DEISHI

Shota sighed. The schedule had Mama written all over it. His stomach churned at the idea of singing and dancing in front of anyone other than Mama—first lessons with Mama were hell to begin with. His heart sped up, his palms perspired, and his vision seemed to center in on the schedule and the schedule alone. I can't do this. It intruded his thoughts in a continuous spiral of insecurity and anticipated humiliation. By now, he knew he had some semblance of talent—it would make sense, given Mama's gift. That, along with years of intense vocal training must have been obvious during the scholarship recital last summer because… well, he was here. Mama's word in the hectic world of performance art was law, and now with the scholarship, her words were even more so the case.

Just as well: he could've also been a case of the infamous one-trick pony.

The other children were going to eat him alive, spit him out, and then eat him alive again. Slowly. Painfully. Publicly. If he played the cards right, if he had patience and made good use of his Mama-inherited stubbornness, he could use turn his situation around. He could slip away during lunch. He could hop the fence during passing period. It's the first day; no one would expect it. All the monitoring staff members were busy directing children to classes and auditoriums and tossing out "hello there, my dears!" Well, Shota could manage himself around a map and by now he'd grown to prefer unassuming goodbyes. He might be able to do it. Money would be an issue, but he could find ways around it. Hop on train to Hokkaido. Live modestly. Change his name. Offer to clean people's houses or hot springs.

Letting his schedule drop to the flat of his desk, he imagined that life, a life so easily attainable…

No.

That was irrational thinking.

##

"Hey, are you… No, I can't say that."

Shota looked up from his notebook.

Against the sun and the sunlight that bounced off the grass, a vibrant green color assaulted his sore eyes. A girl stood over him, casting an angled shadow over his newest poem draft. He held it close to his chest and hovered over it to make it unsnatchable. "Sorry," she said, tugging on a thick lock of hair the color of seafoam, eyes darted to the side in a sort of nervous fiddling. "I was gonna say you have a nice voice. Or… I mean, I changed my mind and thought I should say that instead of what I was gonna before…"

"Thanks...?" Shota looked back down, but at his shoes rather than his paper. Everyone said that. You have a gift. I wish I could sing like that. Are you gonna be a singer, lad? "Ain't that why I'm here? Nice voice, potential, networking…" Fame-ravished parent…

The girl laughed at that, though Shota didn't see where or why his words were funny to her. He looked at a line of black ants circling a broken-off piece of his discarded rice porridge—which made him think: do rich families eat rice porridge, too?

The question immediately kamikazed the moment he finished the thought. This would be where Tsubasa would half-joke, half-scold, "Where're you getting these dumb questions from?" It echoed now in his mind whenever he thought twice about raising his hand in class or contributing to some conversation during free time.

Quiet was better.

"Uh… Okay! Yeah!" The girl stared him down, unsure what to do or say in his occupant quiet. Maybe she broke him. Isao, her elder brother, always teased her about how much she could talk. Apparently, the average person just couldn't keep up with her tongue. But she knew he was just poking at her. In actuality, he thought she was brilliant, told her so every chance he got. But so far, only he had such an impression. She dropped to sit back on her heels, attention fully focused on him. A slight pink blush pinched at her cheeks from the sun. "I'm Emi. I just moved here."

"Hi."

"—My dad's a famous psychiatrist and he knows the headmaster!"

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I'm here on scholarship! No free tickets, Daddy says!" Emi beamed a self-assured grin at the brightness of the sky, to which her hair and her spirit matched, if not outmatched. "I'm really good with a camera—you should see my pictures one day! I do nature and people and animals… Oh," she frowned a bit to herself. "That's probably boring to you. You live out here in the country, so… you see that every day."

Shota hadn't realized until now that he'd been studying her. She had beautiful eyes, but they were also weird. Shota stared into those inverted emerald diamonds and chided himself for dubbing them as much. In the open field where the cafeteria gave way to an open bit of grass and shady trees, she should've blended in—but she didn't. She illuminated the sea of grass with only a blink of her eyes. Shota caved and swallowed a nervous lump. "'M Shota."

"Shota, huh?" Emi looked down at him, now appearing so suddenly grounded and forward-thinking. A different sort of alive than the usual larger-than-life, and later, smaller-than-life, ambition that haunted people frequenting this school. People like Mama, with high-highs and low-lows. Emi's smile merely dabbed her cheeks, a calm sureness. And Shota fooled himself into thinking that sureness was in him, too. "Shota, like soaring? Or Shota, like erasing?"

"Either works." In all honesty, Shota resented the dichotomy of his name. What he was one day was not the same the next day—thriving potential or searing burden—and people treated him sympathetic to that. One day, it's I can't do this right now with you; next, it's you really are something special to me. The irrationality and instability of his name irritated him. But it was his cross to bear—everyone had one. He rolled his eyes to Emi's. "You from the Main Island, ain't'cha? Like, Tokyo?"

"And you're from here. Born and raised?" Emi nudged him with her shoulder.

"I guess."

"Yeah."

"Yep."

"I like your accent."

"I don't have an accent."

"It makes you sound like you're always interested."

"Yours sounds like you're on the brink of yelling." Shota readjusted his uniform's tie, tugging on the knot to loosen the choke of it.

"So…" So what? The realms of his mind folded over in search of a topic to pluck from that exchange, of what to say next and how to say it. Something charming. Something witty. Something… real. He disregarded it as his own desperation to no longer be the kid sitting alone during every event of the day.

Emi luckily had a faster mind. She extracted a sturdy, cast iron box from her bag, decorated with stickers of random crap. Cartoons, animals, sayings… Shota nearly made out something under the mess of adhesive décor when she ripped the lid open. Startled, he looked up to meet her eyes that already studied him. "You look like an Oreos guy! I always like the Fudge Stripes better, but my mom says it has too much sugar and it'll make me fat." She dug out a six-pack roll of original Oreos and a plastic tray of Fudge Stripes.

"So, naturally," Shota interjected, watching her unpack her lunch box in something like amusement. "You take both with you to school."

"I know, right?!" Emi laughed, settling on the grass with crossed legs. She smiled widely at him and he could see the hints of a recently-lost tooth by the back corner. "So, we can share!"

Shota squinted. "Wha-wh…" He cursed in his head. "What?"

Unfortunately, Emi stared at him for a moment longer with a slight blow to her beaming smile. Then, she perked up again. "I've been wanting to be your friend since I came! Today's my fifth day!" She showed him on her hand how many days it'd been. "But you always looked so sad, and I never wanted to bother you."

"So, today's… the big day, then."

"Lucky us! Here." She unwrapped both sets of cookies and split them fifty-fifty, handing Shota one serving on the blue wrapper of the Oreos. "Do you like the cream more or the cookie?"

"I don't know. I guess the cookie."

"Cream for me."

"Could've guessed that."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Oh. Okay."

Shota watched her chew away on her share of her midday dessert and looked down at her roasted mackerel rice balls with a squint of confusion. Sheeran and Yoona always made him eat protein first, then vegetables, then starches, and—if he had room; emphasis on the if—whatever sugary treat chanced its way to his selection of food for the meal. And they enforced that rule with pointed stares and threats of extra beets on his plate. "Don't your parents get pissed when you do that?"

"Do what?" Emi asked, taking in another Oreo while unwrapping the Fudge Stripes. She divided those, too, and plopped a serving into Shota's other hand.

Shota looked at the two choices of cookies in his hands, then at her. "Not eat your meat first." He timidly took a bite of one Oreo.

Emi paused. "Oh. Yeah, my mom and dad would be upset if they knew."

"They don't know?"

"Please!" Emi chuckled, stuffing her mouth with an Oreo and a Fudge cookie. Chewing and swallowing with a sort of juvenile grace, she continued, "They'd never stop lecturing me! Especially my dad. He says ladies need to always do things the right way. But my mom says I could do whatever I want as long as I remember my manners. She would be mad if she saw how I eat at school, though."

"My grandparents would knock me into next week if they saw me doing that." Shota ate the rest of the Oreo and chewed in silence when he noticed his new friend staring at him. When he turned to her to see what her problem was, two wide eyes investigated him. Somehow, the wavy rows of his draping hair seemed too short, too thin to shield him from the world. His cheeks burned. To hide them, he frowned. "Something wrong? Don't tell me my face is a mess."

She recoiled. Shook her head. "No. I was… You were joking, right?"

Shota shrugged. "Exaggerating, to be exact."

"Oh."

"They're nice. They just worry."

"Are you happy with them?"

"I'd think so. But I don't live with them."

"So, you're with Janne."

"With, sure." Shota dreaded the upcoming exchange. Everyone, always droning on about his mother's crashed opera career. Best case scenario: they'd say she can try again with a voice like hers. Worst case scenario: they'd blame her early end on his birth. "Mama and I get along." He sucked in some air and waited for the worst.

Emi scooted closer, their shoulders nearly touching. "Is she okay?"

Shota turned to her and held her eyes.

"Your mom. And you. Are you both okay?"

"Fine. Why?"

Emi raised her eyebrows. "People are mean."

"People are nice, too."

"My dad's a doctor and a good one, too. A psychiatrist."

"Really?"

"Dr. Tokutaro Fukukado." Emi said this with pride lifting her voice. But she looked down at her feet, tapping them one by one on the grass, while she said as much. "He could help your mom, if she wants him to."

A shove of offended irritation and protective suspicion stimulated Shota's usually-subdued demeanor and Emi leaned back from him in worry. "That why you came over to me? You think Mama's crazy?"

"Crazy?" Emi, at a loss for words, let her mind sort out his words, his scowl, for a minute. Recalling her father's professional tone of voice toward anxious patients and her mother's sympathetic smile whenever Emi tripped over herself at posh dinners, she soothed herself to speak. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I was just… wanting you to know."

She had to admit that the growling focus in Shota's eyes were intimidating. "Know what?"

"That not everyone thinks your mom's a disgrace."

"So, what then? Feel sorry for us?"

"No!" Emi drew a scowl that equated Shota's, facing him without a trace of intimidation. "I was just trying to be your friend, asshole!"

Shota reeled back, staring at her with a sort of annoyed interest.

Emi looked away, starting to pack up her things and adjust her skirt back over her knees. "You should know when someone's trying to be nice to you. I don't care who you are or who your parents are. You are a jerk!" She stood and stomped away, stopping to turn back to Shota. "And whatever you're here for, I hope you suck at it!" And she was gone.

Shota looked down at the uneaten cookies in his hands. He nearly went after her if not for the other girls and boys swarming around her, linking arms and snatching her attention.

He could never stand a chance. So, he ducked his head, wrote in his notebook, and dodged the other kids in the halls and hid from teachers in the classrooms until the final bell deafened each building.

Walking through the hallways toward front gate, a kid from his history class patted his back. "Great first day, huh, man?" He had a wide smile and sharp eyes.

Shota barely glanced at him. "Yeah. I guess."

"You're Aizawa, right? Shota?"

"I… Yeah." In all honesty, Shota hadn't heard—or cared to hear—any of his classmates' names. He simply raised his hand during attendance and zoned out once the teacher droned on about jidaimono kabuki and some production of The 47 Ronin he had been in recently.

"Janne's your mum, then?"

"Suppose."

"She doing anything?"

"Everyone's doing something."

"My folks say they remember you going to the market by yourself when you were younger. Taking care of your mum." The boy patted his back again, harder this time. "The two of you go along well, don't you?"

"I'd expect so," Shota deadpanned. He noticed the other boy's hand still on his back, so he moved away.

His classmate picked up the pace and waved to Shota one last time. "It's good you have each other. See ya." And he was gone.

With a suspicious scowl, Shota nodded back and averted his eyes. All everyone ever wanted to talk about was his mother. All everyone wanted to see in him were traces of her, for better or worse. And all everyone wanted to do was—

The sound of paper crinkling confirmed it. He reached back, almost too rehearsed in his movement, and plucked a notebook paper tag off his back, looking down at it with a gaze too solemn for a twelve-year-old.

whore's son

Under it, a Post-It on the strap of his bag.

Bastard

##

Once Shota and Jong got home, the latter stained and sticky with various flavors and consistencies of ice cream, the former carrying both of their backpacks and his whirlwind brother on his back, Mama rushed them. She immediately went to Shota as he let Jong down gently on his feet, muttering for the younger child to take his shoes off before doing the same himself. Shota had just organized his shoes beside everyone else's when she gripped his arm and pulled him to make him stand on his own. "So?" she said.

"So…" Shota blinked at her without an ounce of understanding and stared at her while guiding Jong, who was intent on running off to play the new videogame they'd bought together, with a light nudging hand.

"How was your first day? Did you tell everyone who you are?" Mama looked down at him with such pride, such expectation, such yearning that he'd never seen in her before. Even before Daddy died. Welcoming and loving, sure; but yearning? "Did you tell everyone about me?"

Shota all too soon compressed into himself in the subtlest of ways, gripping his elbow and tossing his eyes around. "I only did when asked," he lied. "I'm just there to… learn."

Mama groaned, rubbing her eyebrow with a hand. "Shota, you're not there to just learn. You're there to shine."

"Yes, Mama." He slung his bag over his shoulder, holding Jong's in his hands.

"Come on." Yoko turned and started to leave the foyer. Shota remained, standing there at the door with an unwilling gaze dimming his eyes. She turned to him and repeated in a lighter tone, "Come on, love. We need to have a talk."

Shota, against his greater knowledge to comply, challenged, "About what?"

"You," Yoko replied with ease. She leaned toward the living room and called, "Tsubasa, honey? Come in here with me and Shota for a moment!"

Shota waited at the table until both parents sat across from him at the table, both having a clear view of him as he sat alone on his own side. He kept his eyes in his lap.

"We're concerned you're not…" Yoko trailed off.

"Trying." It rolled out of Tsubasa without trouble.

Shota's eyes moved back and forth between them as they spoke, attentive yet unexpecting. His stepfather's stare always bore a certain raging eeriness in his irises, but his mother's gaze always gripped for the throat. "I want you to really shine out there, baby boy." She'd said this as if her dream had been his all along, as if his hesitant obedience was a product of his own lack of self-confidence—which, in part, it was. "You have a gift that people would die for. I just want you to know that for yourself."

Shota nodded. "I understand, Mama."

Yoko's expression fell in that brief response. "Right, then."

He saw it. Every fiber of it. Hated it. Hated that he'd been the cause of it once again. Another goddamn once-again. Guilt rising in his expression like hair on chilled skin, he perked up in the seat from not excitement, but the anxious desire to cease wherever her mind began to take her. Where, he did not know; but he knew enough to fathom this trail would end with gin. "We had a solo intro in Opera…" Shota resented the yearning climb in his voice when it came to talking about singing with Yoko. Immediately, the fog returned. His vision tilted and buzzed, and tilted and buzzed again, as he let his words marinate the dining room.

His mother nodded after a moment of heavy blinking away this morning's gin. Then, clear and listening, she gave Shota her best supportive, wide smile and nodded quickly in excited impatience. And there they were. Her expectations, pampered to strict perfection hidden behind affection and nudging like a toddler expected too soon to sleep in a dark room.

Shota shivered. "The teacher made us go around the room to do a mock slate… then we had to… sing something."

She reached across the table and squeezed Shota's hand. "How'd you do?"

"Fine."

"Don't be modest, Shota." Yoko glanced at Tsubasa, who leaned into his chair with ease and studied the child's every movement. "How'd you do? Really."

Her expectations swelled ten sizes, barely held together by the pressed way her smile froze on her face, prohibited from expanding or falling in the silence. Shota once loved her smile. But now, only one thing could prompt a smile from her (besides, a piqued temper). "I…" Shota held his breath for a moment, taking note of how the chamber of his inhale had compressed to make room for Mama's pride and joy. "The teacher said I'm versatile… and I got the widest range in the class… But I doubt—"

The screech of elation Yoko made startled him. Tsubasa gave a short smirk and nodded in approval. "I knew it!" She raced around the table and pulled her son's head into her chest, trapping him there with declarations of their new kind of love. "I knew you were special! I'm so glad you're building your name! Everyone's gonna see how blessed you are!"

Tsubasa cleared his throat. "As long as you land something real. No open mic crap. You better score a deal—a real commitment."

"Yes, Tsubasa." Like a model child, Shota nodded as if that small gesture possessed the power to guarantee the path to stardom. In his gut, though, lived a stone—a stone made not of rock or erosion, but of his parents' fisted resolve. It'd sunk to the pit of his stomach years ago, lying dormant, but just itching for an opportunity to force refuge in the lower chambers of his gray soul. It might've found a hidden route that was much too small when he said, "I'll make you proud, Mama."

The stone began to knead itself against that hidden chamber when Mama returned, "I know you will."

Each roll, he felt. It throbbed. It stung. But there was nothing more he could do to reverse it. Only slow it. "Can I be excused, please," Shota monotoned, finally raising his eyes, but not quite looking at his parents. "I have to make dinner."

Mama and Tsubasa exchanged looks, the former nodding. Tsubasa said, "Yeah, go."

Shota sighed and stood up to leave, appearing in the downturn of his eyes and the corners of his mouth to be more discouraged than the entire day at school had left him, than the Whore's son and Bastard notes had left him. How rude he'd been to that Emi girl… The parents stood with him. Mama went to him first and muttered, "Hey." When he looked at her, she gave him a warm, but gin-infected, nicotine-dusted hug. He accepted after a while, savoring the physical softness that never lasted long. When they parted, she held him by the shoulders, patted and kissed his cheek while he stared at her in a combination of dreadful willingness and the stubborn urge to please. "Go on, baby boy." Then, she and Tsubasa left the room. Before the bedroom door closed for a private talk, she called to Shota one last time: "I signed you up for a competition in two months. The intro recital is on the fourth next month."

"Yes, Mama."

The door closed.

Shota sighed in the silence. Out in the distance, he could hear the robotic, explosive sounds of Jong raging on zombies with a machine gun, his screaming with his friends over a headpiece. Outside, as the kitchen and dining room windows were open, he heard the neighbor's four-year-old splashing around in the pool, screeching in laughter and the swishing sound of dancing water, each giggle from her parenthesis-ed by the amused chuckles of a mother. The jingling bells of a dog's tags out in the front and a casual conversation between someone's son and his grandparents. A crowd of children on bikes racing by, gunning along and announcing to be the fastest. All oblivious that the house with the chimney never used burrowed a canary that longed for only silence and more than an arm's length, and whose slow songs were for food and love rather than for enjoyment. A canary hoping for the stone rather than the rise of the sun.

Stupid thoughts, he knew. So, he went upstairs to stash his bag and change from his uniform before returning to the kitchen to create a meal under the collective name of Filicide. Sukiyaki, heightened with garlic chili paste, but humbled by wet-aged sirloin thinly-sliced after simmering—Tsubasa chided Mama last time she purchased wagyu beef.

Their routine: Shota informs Tsubasa that dinner is ready, Tsubasa announces the meal to the rest of the house while Shota returns to the kitchen and starts serving bowls and platters and moving the pots (a mental game of deduction based on footsteps or doors opening and closing as to who is going to reach the table first), each member sits down at the table while Shota brings them their food, and the meal continues after Tsubasa's first bite. Mama and Jong (sometimes, only Jong) thank Shota.

His family ate Filicide up in routine silence.

##

The silence continued to the late night. The wide, corner house on Chokeberry Street groaned into a creaking slumber, the wind of September caressing the clay and stucco that clung to the same moss that suffocated them and the vein-like weeds that slashed them. The two-story house faced west, sported four front windows, and had been painted white too generous amounts for comfort. Mama had said it would be bad luck. Shota had whispered to her that the house looked like a funeral. A funeral on Chokeberry Street.

But Tsubasa had told them to set aside ancient superstitions and think rationally. Continuing to joke with Jong about anxieties over trifles that were natural to Quirk users—another biological inferiority to the Quirkless—he had bought the house the next day and ordered the family to start packing that night. But to ease his wife and stepson, Tsubasa had called some of his painter friends to help him convert the white stucco to gray, leaving the tresses and door the same blinding white that they came.

And in this house tonight was a state of drifting, of not-sleep and not-waking, of… stillness. A nothing state that was nothing and allowed nothing—no movement, no sound, no light, no dreams. A feeling unclear and unerased, gripping enough to prompt immobile weakness. Only two options, remain in the nothing or drift…

…

… Shota knew the moment he let himself drift to the calmer side of this odd in-between that he was perhaps… too relaxed. He could never be this relaxed during the day. If he was, it meant he was doing nothing when he should have been doing something. It meant he had better start on whatever that something was within the moment or else there would be hell to pay. It meant irrationality. But… it was nighttime, he knew that much. What could there to be done? Homework finished, Jong tamed, dinner served, dishes washed…

Warmth. Released warmth.

Probably just the blanket settling on his body.

…and seeping through his clothes—

Shota shot up, staring into the darkness of his room, at the shelves of investigative streetlight through window blinds on the wall. Taking a long, long breath, he muttered to himself, "God, please no…" Repeating this prayer a few times did nothing but increase the anxiety of impending doom.

Thank God Jong chose to sleep in his own room tonight.

He moved the covers of his bed and instantly smelled ammonia. The thighs of his pajama pants were wet, as was the bottom hem of his baggy shirt, the fitted sheet under him, and the light sheet over him. "Shit…" He remained there for a moment, dreading the next few moments that inevitably involved him sneaking his sheets to the washing machine downstairs and passed Tsubasa's reclining room (best case scenario). By the chill of night air on his legs, he knew urine had already eased into the mattress. If he could make it back from the washing machine, shut the door so the rumbling noise wouldn't wake his parents, and slip upstairs again to the bathroom, all he had to do was make and apply a generous amount of hydrogen peroxide, hand soap, and water to the mattress and dab it, hide it with a towel, and redress the bed. Oh, and open the window…

Shota drew in a long breath, running the process over and over again in his head. He glanced aimlessly at the clock. 02:49. Tsubasa and Yoko should be well into their sleep. Jong, probably snoring in a kicked-about fit of sheets and toys and pillows. He probably snuck some Oreos into bed and fell asleep with one cookie half-finished. Sugar crashes always forced the seven-year-old to a stubborn hibernation. He wouldn't wake, or move, till Shota was set to come pounce him in the morning. So, as long as Shota was silent, he could do it. Climbing out of bed, he went first to the bathroom to towel-clean himself, cursing how stupid he had been to commit such a babyish crime at his age, and redressed in clean pajamas. He then went back and opened his bedroom window, stripped his bedsheets and rounded them with his soiled clothes inside. Leaving them on the carpet, he made the mixture and cleaned his mattress before the stains set and dried to permanence, and covered the wet, hospital-smelling part with a clean towel and covered the bed with his comforter to look natural.

Now, the risky part.

In his gut, deep beneath the uncertainty of getting caught and the fear of what his parents might say, he knew he only had so much luck in his life. At twelve—or maybe even at six—he was severely short in stock. So, he started formulating excuses in his head with each step approaching the downstairs foyer and kitchen area.

I pulled my hamstring during P.E. and couldn't get out of bed in time.

I drank too much water while I was studying.

I ate too fast during dinner and threw up on myself.

The cat peed in my bed when I went to the bathroom.

Oh, wait. Shota just remembered: Maisie died last year. Tsubasa buried her by the garden at Shota's trembling request. It was the only time he had cried in front of his stepfather and did not get punished for it. Instead, a heavy, but light hand patted his head and a chewing tobacco-scented sigh poked at the silence.

Shota's feet landed soundlessly on the sand-colored tile of the kitchen. With the blinds drawn and a single dim light hovering over the plants above the kitchen sink, he stalked through the darkness, thankful that tile didn't creak or groan under pressure, and let his eyes adjust to the laundry room's darker dim. Turning on the light would only result in more noise when the old switch was fiddled with. He tossed the sheets and his clothes into the wash with detergent cubes and set the dial on 'Quick.' The machine always distributed the detergent first in a sort of strained frothing hiss, so with at least seven more seconds to spare before water came splashing into the bowl of it, Shota retreated and closed the door as quietly as possible. Hopefully Tsubasa wouldn't notice the door.

He started on his way back upstairs when he heard light movement from the master bedroom. Stalking, awaiting movement. Shota paused dead in his tracks and could only wait in rising panic for his stepfather or mother to burst from the door. Against his will, against his better knowledge, against the rationality of his mind and the fear of his body, he remained there, frozen. Nothing. He chanced a step toward the stairs. Then another. And another. And then one more. Once his soles stroked carpet, he skipped-steps on the way back to his—

"Shota?"

Fuck. His hand fell from the banister and stared at his feet, realizing how just a single word from his mother now caused his toes to cringe to protective curls. "I was going to bed."

"Turn around when I'm talking to you," she ordered this, but in a softer tone than usual. Sleep clung to the natural sigh of her voice. Shota obeyed and looked at her with worried, but passive eyes. In the dim of the foyer, in the middle of a windy night complemented by cricket poetry and fox hymns, Yoko studied how tall Shota was becoming. Last time she really looked at him was two years ago. They were in Tokyo by plane. The final competition of opera performances.

The trophy was taller than he was. Yoko carried it around wherever they went together, her hand locked without tire with Shota's. The trophy shone through the car window at just the right angle to sparkle in the sun. In her other hand was a newspaper from Tokyo with her son's nervous stare on the front page:

Shikoku native, Shota Aizawa, takes home first place in Junior Rising Japan opera competition!

She had tugged Shota around everywhere she went for the next five months, dragging him by the hand, that goddamn newspaper article under her arm. She would tell everyone about his talent, brag about his achievement, make sure every single person knew who he was—and who she was. "Family tradition," she'd said. Each time, Shota shrunk. The awed, or jealous, eyes of strangers were nearly as crushing as the expectant eyes of Yoko. He'd begged her to stop a few times, but she never heard him.

But now, she saw him. When he screwed up, had something to hide, wished not to be heard. "What're you doing up?"

"I… just had a weird dream."

"About?"

Shota cursed in his head. "About… Daddy." The moment he said it, he wished that it had stuck to his throat, choked him, and disappeared back into his body forever. But he couldn't. So, he waited.

Yoko gave a quiet sigh through her nose, oak eyes dropping to the base of the stairs. She moved her hair from her eyes and crossed her arms around her robe. In a quiet voice, she said, "I miss him, too."

"You do?"

"Yeah." Her eyes proved that much—no tears, no anger. Just a dimmed off-center stare that seemed to repeat: I miss him. Shota nearly suggested they find out where Daddy had been buried and visit him, but he stopped himself. That was an irrational thought, just looking at his mother. She cleared her throat and glanced toward the kitchen. "You doing laundry?"

Shota instantly felt heat and water bloating his face and he balled his fists, un-balled them, balled them again, played with his fingers. "I'm… uh..."

Yoko tilted her head at him. Took a moment to take the nervous sight of him in, how his habit of shoving a lock of hair into his mouth still remained after… when did he start doing that? Five, seven years ago? All Yoko knew was that he'd gotten it from her. Yori said that before… during some time… Huh. Lost in thought, she'd forgotten that he still stood there, fidgeting in anticipation of what she might say or do next. "Why don't you go take a bath and go back to bed? I'll take care of the laundry."

"What laundry, Mama—"

"Shh," Yoko said. A short studying gaze passed from mother to son. She lowered her chin, keeping that knowing stare on him with enough lightness to deter any suspicion he'd had that he might be in trouble with her. "You go clean up better and get to sleep."

"You're not mad?"

"It's not your fault, baby boy." Yoko moved her bangs from her eyes and started braiding the length of the brown waves over her shoulder. A certain melancholy sigh released from her pale lips, the burnt cinnamon scent of dark rum peeping from screens of toothpaste mint. "But don't let this happen again. You're twelve-years-old."

Shota looked away and rubbed his elbow aimlessly. "Yes, Mama." He wished for more of these talks, though. Quiet moments with his Mama always seemed too short, the loud moments dragged on too long. There was no in-between, no safe medium. So, though she was scolding him through a screen of calmness, he held onto how easily she spoke, how effortlessly she twisted that three-strand braid round and round, how she'd called him baby boy. Her baby boy. "Mama?"

Her eyebrows raised in exhausted acknowledgment, eyes lightly shut and shoulders drooping a tad too low for a woman as stubborn and beautiful as she was.

Shota hated the gray exhaustion that infected his mother. Each day, it loomed closer and closer to her throat, palm open and awaiting the moment of strangulation. Today, it remained on her shoulders, howling down her neck. So, he just put on his good-son voice, sported his best content adult expression, and acted like he didn't just have a conversation with his mama about bedwetting. "Can I get you something to eat? Or some juice or tea?" Specifics. Something to drink would only mean a free-for-all. She'd take gin or more rum.

Yoko finished the braid and looked at her second-born with a leveled gaze. No smile. "You, mister, have school." Shota started to ponder his leave when his mother spoke up again, "Thank you, love. Do you…"

He looked back to see her arms crossed and eyes slightly more opened in alert. "Mama?"

"You need company tonight?"

"Oh, uh—"

"You had a bad dream?" Shota nodded. Yoko stepped up the first few stairs. "Come on, then. Mama's got you. Go." She swatted his butt to prompt him to move as told.

Shota gasped a bit at the sudden swat while his mother gave a weak chuckle. A common act of sentiment—when delivered lightly—and playfulness in the family. He moved to the middle of the hallway and dropped his head to his feet. "I gotta make the bed first. Sorry…"

Yoko opened the hallway closet where towels and bedsheets were kept. "Which sheets you want?" She scanned the closet. "I used to like to dress my bed a lot when I was little. Thought it was a new bed each time."

"Seems rational, Mama."

"Suppose." Yoko waited for him to pick one out, though she could see him trying to figure out which one she would prefer. In some time, Shota picked out a serene green one before waiting again, eyes dodging his mother's and pretending like he wasn't stalling. She chuckled. "It's not a puzzle, baby. That one's fine."

"Oh, okay." He eased into his room, knowing his mother's steps behind him, and started to make the bed. He felt a jolt of shame conquer him when he drew back the comforter to reveal a halved towel in the center of a plushie mattress. "D-d—"

"Hm?"

"D—" Shota's face reddened as he battled the knots in his tongue, in his throat. In surrender, he pointed at his desk and its vacant chair, double-taking to make sure it was organized and without crumbs or snack wrappers. No need to try Mama's patience now—not that Shota was ever truly a messy person, but an exasperated parent is an exasperated parent. The worst of the desk was a few balled-up papers, D-rated or failed math tests he could hardly bare to look at. "Look… there instead. Please?"

Without a word, Yoko did so to spare what remained of her twelve-year-old's pride. He came to her and handed her his pillow for safe keeping. She looked at his pillowcase, which was a smooth polyester, based with a gentle yellow and a quaint design that mimicked a green-bordered tatami mat. The center of it and the right side were starting to fade, but only a close observer would notice. "You know the story behind this pillowcase?"

Shota glanced at her, pausing the bed-dressing for a bit. He tucked the light sheet under the foot of the mattress. "Uh… No, Mama." As he dressed, he could hear Daddy's voice echoing in his mind, teaching him the proper way to tuck and angle the folds. The bottom corners: make 'em triangles and then you tuck the bottom of the triangle under the mattress. Next, tuck the top of the triangle under the mattress. Like how Santa wraps presents? Those triangles. Shota sat on his heels and observed the familiar crease in the top sheet, glancing over the rest of the mattress at the hospital-tight spread. The triangles never failed. Finally, he gave his mother his full attention. "What's it, Mama?"

"It was mine when I was a girl." Yoko picked up the pillow and ran her fingers over the edges, smiling at it. "I remember…" Crowded sleepovers, pillow fights with Sheeran and Yoona, gossiping with her best friends during high school, crying after a failed audition, screaming excitedly after her first big break at Shikoku's largest opera house. … … Yori's hand guiding her head to rest upon it and kissing her neck in the still of the night, wedding clothes melting off the both of them. Missing it when it disappeared for a few years somewhere in the old house's folds. Laying Shota as a newborn on it, her hands cupping him and pressing her nose to his plushie cheek, listening to those little quickened breaths and shy whimpers he always made when she went too far away.

"Mama?"

She looked up, then down at the pillowcase that narrated her life. It now carried her son's clean scent. She nearly chuckled: weren't boys supposed to reek of dirt, old food, and God knows what else? Shota only smelled of mint and argan oil. And sometimes, the lavender and chamomile lotion she used to use on him as a toddler. Least to her, he did. "Nothing, baby."

"You can have it back." Shota looked at the pillowcase with neither want or dismissal. "It's yours, anyway."

Yoko put the pillow down on his bed. "It's yours now." She turned and gave her son a direct look, fiddling with the purple jade amulet around her neck. "You're not distracting me, young man. Lie down," she ordered in her parenting voice. She patted the other side of the full mattress—one of Tsubasa's equal treatment gifts to his stepchild. A full-size mattress for a then-six-year-old. It would grow with the boy in time—Shota knew that to be the rational reason for such a gift—but this over-time consideration was a partnered don't-bother-me-again-for-nice-things.

No wonder Shota's Quirk manifested in his eyes…

In automatic obedience, Shota crawled into bed beside his mother, trying not to seem overly excited to be finally beside her the way they used to. No anger. No opera. No expectations. No Tsubasa. But even though his face remained calm and straight, he moved only as much as necessary, and he purposely didn't look at his mother, she chuckled and opened the covers for him to crawl under, patting his thigh once he was settled. Timidly, he lifted the covers for her. When she made her way under the blankets, he tucked his arms back to himself. Laid on top of them.

Yoko stroked his hair in the slow, caressing way he loved, her fingernails grazing where his hair and neck met and raking into his hair. When he opened his eyes and saw her watching his face (and instantly flushed in embarrassment), she whispered, "C'mere." She pulled him closer when he moved to her. Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed his hair and kept soothing him.

"Mama?"

"Shh." Her fingers combed through his waves, laying his short locks on the pillow and watching him in the darkness of the room. She waited for his eyes to sag before she spoke again. "You know you're everything to me, don't you?" Shota groaned in his near-sleep. "I mean it. I'm sorry… if you can't believe me. Just… remember that. Mama needs you to."

Shota hardly remembered answering her.

But in the morning when he woke for school, he was just relieved that she was still there, asleep and tangled in her hair and the sheets. He carefully maneuvered out of bed from her arms, kissed her pale cheek, and retrieved his bag and uniform before shutting the door to take a precise shower. He brought her phone up from the master bedroom, on vibrate, and before he set it on the nightstand beside her, he texted:

You're everything to me, too. Love you, Mama.

Please R&R!