Ch. 07 A Gilded Cage

The stinging water pinched the ends of his cheeks, twisted them like one of those medieval wheel-turning machines. The acidity overstimulated his tastebuds, having leapt from the hyper-richness of the honey to the violent sour of the lemon juice, and churned the juice as it peeled down his throat to give it an aftertaste and aroma like urine. Shota only chanced a light scowl in disgusted protest. Incentive granted by Yoko's sharp, "Swallow it down," he forced himself to do just that. The remnant burning of his throat, and to an extent, his nostrils, caused irritated water to coat his eyes in defense. Yoko washed her hands and dried them in her hair. "Don't be dramatic. You're fine. It's good for your throat, especially since you've got school and regional shows back-to-back." On her way out, she tapped an approving kiss to his temple.

As usual, Shota cleaned up. Jong hopped down the stairs and landed heavily on the foyer, the weight of him carrying throughout the house in a boom. He stumbled his way into the kitchen and watched his brother organize the cabinets. "You and that green-haired girl dance good. The play. You guys did good as stupid lovers."

"Stupid lovers?" Shota glanced at his brother leaning on the counter, reaching up over the younger boy's head to the higher cabinets where the honey and tea were kept. "Who taught you that?"

"You, duh. The play was called She Loves Me."

"It's called a musical."

"—How dumb." Jong reached into the Tupperware by the whiskey and brandy trays the boys had bought (under Sheeran's supervision) for Tsubasa's recent birthday. He snagged two of the cinnamon crumble sugar cookies Shota made the night before when he couldn't sleep. Luckily, Tsubasa was out of the house on a work trip that night. Unlike Yoko, he was the one who hounded after the boys for disobeying bedtimes and lingering around where they weren't supposed to during sleeping hours. Yoko tried, but she nursed her weak resolve to parent with swigs of liver-killers and smokes before long. Jong shoved the cookies whole in his mouth, uncaring for the resulting crumbs on the counter. "You were giving her googly eyes the entire time."

"It's acting." Shota stalked from the other side of the kitchen and saw the crumbs, immediately frowning. "Jig, use a napkin. Christ on a bloody bike." He swept the crumbs into the cusp of his palm and tossed it in the sink. When he looked back, he saw that there were double the amount of crumbs on the counter and his brother gave him a smug smile, reaching for another cookie. "You little shit," Shota said, racing through the kitchen toward his brother.

Jong screamed and sprinted as fast as his short legs could carry him up the stairs toward his room. Realizing that he'd trapped himself, he tried to run back out when he saw his brother there. "Stop!"

Shota frowned, hair starting to rise at his wit's end, eyes not yet glowing. "You're so getting it."

"Mom! Dad!" Jong cried, helplessly scrunched on his bed by the cusp of the wall. He held his pillow—his only weapon—between the two of them. In his mind, he calculated how to swing it and to where to incapacitate his brother. Even at eight-years-old, he knew Shota wasn't a fighter in any regard. A complete pushover. Right? He chanced his best card. "I'm telling!"

Shota snatched away the pillow and whacked the side of Jong's head with it, heavily, but ever so gently. He gripped Jong's wrist, which now harbored a little ring of fat that Shota had thought adorable in its early stages, and tugged him to his feet. "You're going back down and you're cleaning your mess. Right now."

Jong tugged at his brother's suddenly sturdy grip, using both hands. "Nooooo! Stop bullying me!"

"Jong," Shota snapped, though quietly, giving his brother pause. Shota gave his best impression of their grandfather's look-here-boy glares. Strangely, it calmed him and his hair collapsed back to its natural, shaggy state by his ears, overgrown bangs dangling just between his eyes. "I said, now."

Jong said something incomprehensible in his fit of juvenile displeasure. The drawl of his tone proved to be the result of that same displeasure, amplified by his screams to be let go and that he would snitch to their parents.

Shota ignored him and simply held onto his wrist. Jong kicked his leg, so he snatched his brother's ear the way Yoko did when she decided to parent. Not hard, but enough to give pause to both of them. "Don't test me."

That made his baby brother cry. The sound made Shota's eyes water, twisted his Heart, cast away Rationality before he could think to reach for it. Jong vigorously wiped at his eyes to no avail, unable to otherwise fight for his ear back or push at his brother's body. Just simply despairing at the hand he held every day on the way to school, that had bounced away his tantrums when their parents didn't give him his way, that always tucked him in at night.

Shota immediately let go, dropped to his knees, cupped Jong's warm, teary face, and hushed the younger child. "I'm sorry, Jiggy. I didn't mean to hurt you." He wondered how their parents disciplined them without a single blink. How the hell did anyone do it? He pulled his brother close to his chest and rubbed his hand up and down his smooth, unblemished back under his shirt. The flawless skin Jong had repulsed Shota, not at the quality of his brother's skin, but at the condition of his own in comparison.

Marked. Dented. Ugly.

Relief, though, granted him mercy from his own mind the more he felt each inch of smoothness on his brother's back. "Big brothers make mistakes, too. I didn't mean to scare you." Knowing his brother would tease him for it later, whether or not the younger boy actually liked it, which he did, Shota kissed Jong's head and tightened his protective embrace. "I got angry. I didn't mean to do that."

"No," Jong sniffled, wiping his nose on Shota's shirt and nuzzling his face into his brother's underarm. As this snuggling failed to satisfy him, the younger brother practically crawled into Shota's lap and shoved himself further into the hug. "I shouldn't make a mess like that. You already said no…"

"I did," Shota said, sitting on the floor and resecuring his hold on his brother. "But messes can be cleaned."

"Oh. Okay."

"Sorry I pulled you, mouse."

"It's okay. Sorry, too."

"Let's go!" Yoko called from the front room, car and house keys smacking into each other. At the delay in response, she paced toward the dining room, which naturally led to the kitchen. A confused scowl reached her face at her sons on the floor. "What're you doing?"

Shota, annoyed just by the sight of her in her time-to-show-off-my-son clothes and makeup, hardly tried to hide his sour tone. "We're handling something." But he instantly regretted it. He might not need Mama to be Mama. But maybe Jong did. He glanced between his brother and his mother before sighing and reattaching his usual, shy, obedient voice to his throat. "We're coming, Mama."

Luckily, his mother didn't care for much else of an answer and stalked off to the den to fetch Tsubasa. Preoccupied, most likely, by the recital in less than four hours. His recital.

Dismissing the rising tension of her expectations, the town's expectations and assumptions, and Tsubasa's assumptions, Shota savored the quiet of the kitchen after she'd left. Just him and his brother. He squeezed the smaller boy closer once again and pressed his nose to Jong's hair.

His brother, he'd found, still faintly carried that newborn aroma. The signature of his vow to his brother the night he was born: I'll protect you.

Thoughts that carried them. Thoughts that battled stormy nights and ghosts of sleep's mysteries. Thoughts of the reality of the shroud rooftop they shared. Thoughts interrupted by the reappearance of their mother.

Yoko, flurry of

"But I wanted him to not be mad at me anymore…"

"I don't care! Stop it!" Yoko exploded.

Shota gave her a horrified scowl. "Mama, he just wanted—"

"Shota," Yoko snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I said, not now! Shut up!" Shota flinched and hurried his gaze from her to his wobbling brother. Yoko narrowed her unforgiving attention back to the younger child. "Grow up and figure it out yourself like a man!" With that, satisfied, she walked off.

Grow up. Like a man. Shota hated those words. Despised them. If his mystery Quirk enabled him, he'd place a curse on those words and whoever lacked the decency to say them. Especially at children. Especially at his little brother. Shota felt his scalp tingling, felt some locks stroking his chin as they hinted rise. He didn't realize the blissful cruelty on his face or that he was shaking until said brother glanced at him, tugged at his shirt, and murmured his name as if expecting Shota pull his ear again.

Jong looked down at the fabric of Shota's shirt in his pudgy hands. "I… guess I have to… I don't know."

He barely heard his brother, but he'd heard enough. He snatched ahold of Jong's hand and shifted himself to meet the boy's eyes. "No." Shifting forth Rationality and, unbeknownst to him, Heart, passed the Nothing to where he could put his meanness to good use, Shota squeezed his brother's hand. "You got a problem, Jiggy, you give it to Big Brother. You know I'm strong."

Jong stared back at him, tears still running, but eyes wide and attentive. Idolizing the eyes that idolized him almost too easily.

"And I swear," Shota hissed, his tone flexing stone resolve reinforced by bitterness and tangible love. "I'll do whatever I can to make sure nothing hurts you. I can handle it. Never think I won't protect you. Nothing can hurt me, okay? You come to me. Understand?" His blood thrashed in wake, yet his Quirk lay dormant for some reason. It usually activated whenever his emotions dove for the deep end. But what he focused on were his brother's brightening eyes.

Jong nodded quickly after a moment's pause. His brother, his stuttering, shy, unbothered big brother who needed to nag to breathe, now gazing upon him with a sort of protective fury he'd once seen in their grandmother when a stray dog growled at him when he was six. "Okay." And he believed himself, believed his brother, believed in the stubborn, warm brown eyes that stared back at him. "I will!" He wiped his face and gave his own impression of a resolved expression.

In the silence that followed, Shota watched him, eyes switching from Jong's gray eyes, full cheeks that were flushed pink from his tears, his tense chin that held back wobbles, and his upturned eyebrows that reached for his sandy hairline. He cupped his brother's head and pulled him with fierceness to his chest, his arms forming a cocoon of steel, eyes closing as if to seal this new vow with his old.

He opened his eyes to tar-stained socks and a hinted gut tarnishing his peripheral by the dining room archway. He turned to his stepfather, who returned with a disdainful flick of his eyes, studying each part of odd boy before him.

Shota didn't flinch from his eyes. Instead, brought a hand up to wipe his little brother's new tears with his thumb without looking.

Tsubasa squinted. "Jong." The summoned boy peeked from Shota's chest and gave his father a short smile, but remained. "Don't cling. You don't know what your Quirky brother might do."

Shota's stare hardened when he pulled Jong closer, who received the stubborn hug without second thought and with vehement content-ness. Over his head were daring eyes that prowled, waiting for the moment, if prompted by another threat from Tsubasa.

Instead, Tsubasa smirked. He gave an impressed nod and limped on his way back to his den, waving off a sporadic Yoko.

"Yes, you do, Jiggy." Shota kept his eyes on the archway. "I told you what I'd do. I'll protect you."

##

After the awards and crowded backstage of bragging parents, clapping vocal coaches, and beaming singers of all ages, Shota regrouped with his mother, like always, in the hallway by the dressing room. In her suede getup, Yoko took one look at him and went into the small room. Shota gulped; that meant his performance disappointed her, no matter what the result was or whoever said otherwise. Point was, Mama was unhappy. He followed her, dragging the stupid fake-gold first-place trophy near the floor in an uncaring hand, keeping his eyes down as he turned and locked the door.

"What the hell was that?"

The gilded stem of the trophy grew clammy and oily in his grip. He faced her and dodged her eyes. No matter how many times he'd repeated his performance mantras in his head, there was always that incessant chance that Mama would find something to be furious about. No mistakes, he'd say in spite of himself, of her promissory rage. I can bear it. No mistakes.

"Look at me."

He did, dipping his chin to his chest. No mistakes at all.

"You think a shitty performance like that is gonna get you a deal?"

"I won, Mama." Shota watched her gesture in irritation, as if she hadn't cared about that from the start. You're just a voice right now. "I thought that was enough. I thought it meant I did good." Make Mama proud.

"It means you did enough," Yoko snapped. "But my son doesn't just do enough. He excels. Do you hear me?" She snatched his arm and lugged him deeper into the room, ignoring how he snapped his head as far as possible from her. Her quick grabs at his elbow usually brought clips to his ear. This time, nothing. "You're supposed to be leaving those other weak-ass singers in the dust by now! Why aren't you trying?!"

It's too much. When she let go, Shota placed the stupid trophy on the vanity, daring not look at himself or at his mother glaring at him through the reflection. He sat down, facing her, and looked up at her, emptying his head and his heart.

"You can do so much better. And yet you go out there and do that." Yoko maimed the trophy with a single glance. "A first-place trophy doesn't even begin to cover how talented you are. Adult singers would kill for a wide range like yours! I would! And yet you selfishly waste it! Imagine what you can do if you just try for once! I mean, damn it, Shota!"

Shota's eyes fogged over with tears, but he willed them not to fall. Begged them not to. Shoved his nails into his palms to chide himself out of it.

"Why do you like embarrassing me?!"

Your expectations are too much.

Yoko pinched the bridge of her nose for patience, and continued in a venomous, bitter tone, "I gave you those cords. Use them."

I can't breathe. He could feel his face threatening to droop, and it took every ounce of willpower to prevent it.

"You're going to rehearse twice a day from now on. Singer's diet to a T. No off-days. It was a mistake letting you have lemonade on Sunday. You need to be focused."

No. Shota's eyes widened at his own voice.

Yoko turned to him slowly. In the eyes they shared, danger swelled the honey-brown to a dark black. "What did you say?"

"N—" Shota swallowed. "I-I said no, Mama." Before she got any ideas of snatching him, he hurried to explain, praying his stutter would have mercy this one time. "I j— don't wanna do this anymore. Please don't make me keep singing. I really don't want to, honestly."

"You have a gift."

"But Mama—"

"How can you be so ungrateful?!"

"No," Shota said, nearly pleading. "I'm not. I just…"

"Just…?"

"Don't wanna do this anymore. I don't want to sing. I don't want to play piano. I don't want to act."

Yoko crossed her arms, sighing for the umpteenth time for patience that frequently evaded her. "Okay. Why?"

Shota looked up at her, somewhat surprised that she'd asked for expansion, that she'd given him a chance, especially when with an already-piqued temper. He hardly knew what he'd done to enrage her this time, but keeping track of every time she'd scolded him on opera and every time she'd pulled him into the dressing room in front of other people made him dizzy and bitter. Mean. So, he didn't for the sake of them. Seeing his mother jerk her arms out with heightened annoyance, he realized he'd zoned out. "I-it's 'cause…" But how should he put it? He didn't know. His mother seemed to exist on eggshells, on thin ice, and on cracked glass all at once. But he had to tell her, somehow, even if it wasn't pretty. He had to try. "It's 'cause… it's too much."

"So, you wanna quit because you're afraid of hard work."

"No, Mama, it's 'cause"—of you—"I don't want you to be mad at me. All the time." Shota stared at her, waiting, testing the water, unsure when to stop, when to continue. "I just want to be with Jiggy and my best friend, and I don't want to…"—be scared of you all the time—"And I want to cook with you again. Like before. We stopped once you put me in opera." Once you stared drinking.

Where he'd wished to see empathy, but also expected to see annoyance, he saw contempt and rising fury. His mother's eyes were his least favorite thing when he displeased her—which he hadn't really yet, but he was smart enough to trace patterns and predict probabilities. Yoko's brown eyes darkened first before igniting in defensive anger. "After everything I've done for you, you just want to stop trying because you think you can just blame me."

Shota's eyes immediately re-watered. He looked away. And it didn't prepare him for his mother's hand. He cried out when she slapped him hard. His ear rang, the pulse in his cheek traveled in waves of heat down his neck, and his eyes only watered more.

All that received him in this hazy world of stinging and shame was his mother's unsympathetic stare. "Stop crying before I give you something to cry about. I barely touched you." She snatched and yanked his elbow for emphasis, ignoring the terrified, dodging eyes that refused to fully meet hers. "Be a man. Quit being dramatic. You deserved it."

But Shota was already far gone in hopeless, dissociative silence. He stared into his lap where tiny stains of fallen tears decorated his dress pants.

"Fine. Be a child about it." Yoko, shoving the trophy into her purse, dragged him along by the arm, strangling her purse and coat, burst through the dressing room door and stormed out the auditorium door. She ignored the other competitors, parents, and scouts who watching the two of them go. Shota's face exploded with red and he covered it with his hand as best as he could. "Don't talk, then. We'll deal with this at home, in your room."

Shota peeked through his fingers at his mother, taking extra care not to chance a look around them at whoever was watching and who was whispering what about them to whom. The remnants of his pride wouldn't be able to take it. Surely everyone in the facility had heard Yoko screaming, had heard the slap and his yelp, and now had seen the aftermath: an enraged parent baby-dragging an almost-thirteen-year-old out to the car in the back. He despised how much people loved to watch. "Mama—"

"Shush."

"But people are staring—"

"I don't care!" Yoko tossed him toward the car. "Let them! They saw your piss-poor performance today! If I told the entire city that I'm about to wear your sorry butt out at home, I'm sure they'd agree with me! Get in the bloody car!"

Shota couldn't have hurried into the vehicle faster, where he tucked himself against the window in the passenger seat. The car ride home was anything but silent. By the time they'd gotten home, he hurried to his room faster than his mother could catch him, closed the door before Jong could see him, and stuffed himself under his desk where he cried himself into an unforgiving migraine. Downstairs, he'd heard the kitchen drawers being attacked, wooden objects clacking into each other, storming footsteps toward the stairs, and finally Tsubasa halting them and muttering, "Give it a bit. You need to cool off."

"You should've heard what he said to me!" Yoko raged.

"And he'll be punished for it soon," his stepfather said, though he hardly knew about the situation to begin with and, frankly, thought that Shota's recital had gone extremely well. Though, he never cared for the arts much. "Jong, come down here with Dad!"

"But I wanted to play my new game with Shota!"

"Come down here. Your brother's in trouble." Once Jong's sulking foot-stomps clattered down wooden stairs and made their rambunctious way to Tsubasa's den, where Spongebob now radiated through the downstairs space, Tsubasa spoke to Yoko again with a gentler tone reserved for her. "You need to take a breath before you start hyperventilating. It's not good for your health."

Shota wiped his eyes, covered his ears, and waited for his door to be torn open. Rationality cradled him in its cold, but familiar arms.

Maybe he did deserve this. Maybe he was ungrateful.

It was only logical to think of Mama first.

##

"She slapped you?"

In the midst of eighth grade, now inching toward a year into their relationship, Shota and Emi sat underneath a scarce bit of shade on the P.E. field. Around them, sun-scorched blacktop emitted heat that made the air dance and swirl. The rubber soles of children's sneakers nearly sizzled in submission to the heat unbecoming of anywhere in Japan with each clap of their running feet. Usually, such brutal weather would draw a sighing woo from Emi, making her toss that seafoam hair into a messy ponytail, a cap draping over her eyes, and announce—no, demand—ice cream or cartoon popsicles. Wide smile intact and pinkening her cheeks more than the sun's downpouring.

She and Jiggy had that in common, that daily compulsion to shovel sugary cold things down their throats. Shota didn't get it—by simply smelling the sugary fragrance held within the doors of a creamery or taking one look at dripping, colored syrup, he'd be content.

"That might be your mom talking…" Emi had said that when he turned away from an opportunity to sneak a fudgsicle after school. She'd snorted her Jolly Rancher popsicle at the expression he'd made with mirth, covering her face with her free hand. Shota would simply watch her, immersed.

But now, Emi's thin eyebrows drew down in a disgusted, bitter frown. She gingerly cupped Shota's cheek, watching how the remnant pinkness from Yoko's hit tainted the gold tint to his skin. "She seriously hit you. Jeez."

Shota shrugged because he wished that was all his mother had done. But he wouldn't tell a soul that. He hated how country his family was.

"I'm sorry. I know she's your mom." Emi took her hand back. "But I hate her."

"Em, don't."

"I really do. Why is she so mean to you?" Emi leaned forward a bit to match his eyes.

"She's not mean. She's…" Shota glanced away for a bit. "She just… expects a lot from me 'cause I have her gift. I was being—"

"It's your gift. She's just using it for herself."

"That's not fair."

"It's not."

"No. I mean, Mama. Mama's just trying to make me better."

"Shota," Emi insisted, grabbing his hand tightly and gazing with great understanding and worry in her inverted irises. "You're, like, the best son on the planet, and she still smacks you around like you're the worst. When're you gonna see that?"

Shota refused her eyes.

"Hey." The grip on his hand tightened, and a pair of concerned green eyes that were usually bubbling with laughter now gazed upon him with an owlish patience. He finally looked at her and wondered how the hell she had come to be his girlfriend. The Emi Fukukado. His Em. "You deserve better. You know?"

"Suppose that's why you're here." Shota hurried his eyes from her when heat swelled his ears. Made them ring and only allowing her voice to come through. "Not that the universe revolves around me or nothing."

"Shota Aizawa, you flirt."

"Egad."

"Gonad."

They met eyes and burst into a fit of laughter, collapsing into each other, anchored by their clutched hands. "You make zero sense, as usual." Shota listened to her responsive laugh, leaning his head on the top of her head. "D—" His tongue swelled. But he'd learned that going mute was better than attempting to talk when it did that. Took a breath. Thrashed his tongue around inside his mouth to stretch it out or something to pretend that would shake off his disability. "D—… Do you… think that… I don't know…"

"Yes, you do," Emi, already watching him, encouraged in that patient tone he adored. She stuck her finger into his rib to make him laugh, to make him relax. When he flinched away in a surprised laugh, covering his side with his free hand, she smiled and sat and watched him. Watched him glisten with such immediacy credited to the spark of his eyes, of his smile. Across his nose was a natural pink that swallowed the assaulted pink by his cheekbone. "Come on. Don't be shy."

Recovering, Shota swallowed and pushed his bangs from his forehead. "All right. Um… w—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Us. If we… don't… work out. Think we'll still be friends?"

"I think so. We're not mean people."

"For now…"

"Now I'm getting nervous."

"Sorry, I…" Shota sighed. "I don't know what's biting me."

Shota couldn't believe the thought that entered his head. But with how much he loved her, how much they'd been through together, how she'd saved him and never judged him for being weak… it was only rational. "I have an idea." He searched his schoolbag for a lead pencil, letting go of Emi only to do so much before returning his hand to hers.

Emi stared at the pencil with wide, unsuspecting eyes that seemed to also harbor comprehension of what her boyfriend's grand idea was. "I think I know where you're going with this. You're going on about that red thread, aren't you?"

"It's a lead pencil, Em. It's gray—" Shota frowned in understanding. "Oh. Right. Yeah, I suppose. In case we don't"—get married.

Emi looked at him, blinked twice at his pause, and lay her chin on his chest. Shota felt his legs buzz at the sight of her, so he focused on the pencil and rolled it over in his hands. "So, what're we gonna do with it?"

"It's a bad idea. Nevermind." Shota gripped Rationality by the neck and yanked it to stand at attention. How could he ask that of Emi? Of anyone, for him? People make and break every day. His parents did. His now-parents did. It's natural to love and dismiss in the dating game. But why did it yank his soul into two to think of losing Emi?

Emi plucked the lead pencil from him to snag his attention. When he looked at her, she gave him a smirk and rolled the pencil over in her hands. "Let's do it. Don't cry. You're going first to make sure it's safe."

"Safe-ish, sure." Shota nudged her shoulder. "If I die, I'm gonna haunt you and hide your camera."

Emi smacked his chest, biting back a smile. "I'll throw holy water at your face and figure out a way to turn you into that green glob from Ghostbusters." She pushed the eraser of the pencil until a bit of lead came out. "Where?"

Shota stared at the pointed lead, cursing himself and his fear of needles and his stupid-ass idea passing for romance. He slowly isolated his left ring finger, turning it on its side before surrendering it to his girlfriend. "Blimey." He gave a preparatory breath. "Okay, c'mon."

"Okay…" Emi gently took his finger, kissed it softly. Shota watched the lead intensely, trying to force himself to anticipate the pain so that he wouldn't freak out or cry in front of her. "On three. One… two… and—" The lead pierced his skin rougher than vaccination needles did. He jerked a bit, had to bite his lip to keep silent, and frowned so hard, he was sure he'd pop a blood vessel in his forehead. Emi hurried extract the lead, watching the gray residue settle in the underside of his skin before being swallowed by rising red. "I'm sorry. You good?"

Shota inhaled hard through his nose and cupped his hand. "Fine."

Emi watched him.

"Okay, your turn."

"Whoa, wait a minute!" Emi held the pencil away from him. "Don't look at me like that! It was your idea! Don't stink-eye me!"

"Was I doing that? Sorry." Shota wiped away the bulb of blood on his shoe. "It's just my face sometimes. I have a mean face."

Emi didn't waver, securing the pencil to herself with her other hand, hiding it in her chest. "You sure? You're gonna make it fast, right, like I did, right? Right?!"

Shota gripped her chin, pulled her face to him, and kissed her gently. Both of their cheeks tinted with the warmth of affection. When they parted, he placed a hand on her thigh, making no indicative movement toward the pencil—in fact, hardly thinking of the thing. Only focused on her. "I won't if you're scared. You don't have to, Em. You know that. So, you can say no."

Emi looked at his hand her thigh, into the homely cusps of his eyes, and then finally at the pencil in her grasp. The blood from his finger stained his other palm, but he appeared to her to have forgotten all about it. "I got this. Let's do it." She shoved the pencil into Shota's hand, lead readied. "We're in this together."

Shota took the pencil with great care and her finger with even more so. Her hand trembled in his, no matter the certainty of his hold. "Are you sure—"

"Just do it."

"Want to hold my hand? Or pull my hair?"

"If I die of lead poisoning," Emi said, gripping the fabric of his slacks with her other fist, leaning her head on his chest, "my dad will kill you."

"Probably. I'd deserve it." Shota held her with every ounce of protective instinct within him, though he had resolved to make the harm he was about to inflict as quick as possible. "I won't hold you in case you get claustrophobic."

"Just do it!"

Coercing himself to make it swift, his own pricked finger still confused between throbbing and stinging, he stabbed the lead into Emi's finger, sucking in his breath and wincing with her. She'd bit back any exclamation of pain that might've been stored inside her, somewhere hidden behind her usual rambunctiousness and easy lightness. She'd bitten her lip, her nails curled in his thigh through his pants, and those green eyes flinched shut. Her long eyelashes halved when she'd squeezed them even harder. "I'm sorry." Shota extracted the lead, switching between watching her face and the slow red pinhead that chased the lead out. "This is the only time I'll hurt you! I swear!"

Emi took back her finger and thumbed away the blood. Restored on her round face that still harbored baby fat was that tomboyish smile. "An eye for an eye, I guess, huh?" With her unassaulted finger, she poked his eyebrow just above where his eye was placed. "Get it?!"

"You're not funny," Shota groaned, taking her bleeding hand back and cradling it in both of his hands. After a while, he led her to stand and toward the nearest water fountain just where blacktop turned to cement leading into the locker rooms, which were shut to force the students from the air conditioning and waterdrops-on-tile silence. With his hip, he pressed the button and positioned their bleeding fingers under the chilly stream. "The day you make people laugh will be the day the moon crashes down on us."

"Yeah, screw you, too."

"Sorry, Ems."

"But for real, that actually hurt. Not too bad. Like a shot, I guess."

"How long is it supposed to bleed for?"

"I don't even know." Emi looked down at their lead-stained fingers under the water fountain stream. Amongst the crisp water were subtle strokes of pink blood. She smiled and looked at Shota, who answered by kissing her. "I think we do have that invisible red string."

"No, it's just blood." Emi smacked his chest with her free hand, causing him to laugh. "I can't believe we're dating." He shook water from his hand and sat back down on the floor.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm a mess and you're just…" He gestured ambiguously.

"Wow." Emi sunk down beside him again, bringing her knees up and raking the lot of her hair to one side.

"Somewhere between beautiful and psychotic. I'm working on it."

"Think our parents'll be mad?"

"Mama's always mad."

"My dad will probably say we're too young. He wasn't happy about your surprise kiss during Phantom, by the way."

"Yeah, Mama clipped my head for that. But who cares." When Emi leaned her head on his shoulder, he leaned his head against her. Their hands met. A comfortable silence eased by them with the two of them simply watching the other kids play and sweat under the May sun. Shota nearly fell asleep when he felt Emi gasp to herself. He moved his head and looked at her, waiting.

"Where would you want to go?" Emi asked with uncontained excitement, kicking her feet out as far as they would stretch. "If you could leave tomorrow— No, right now!"

Shota squished an ant on his thumb. "I don't know… I can't really think of going anywhere."

"Nowhere at all? Hawaii? Thailand?"

"No way. Fuck Hawaii."

"Whoa. What crawled up your butt and died?"

"Oh, sorry. Did I tell you my ancestors were lynched in Hawaii during the 1880's?"

"Whoa. Yikes."

"—If I go, I swear they'll be all like, 'There's another one!' So, hell no."

"Now I'm scared."

"I'm half-kidding. But yeah, no, America. Everyone's always trying to get there. So, it must be a great place." Shota wiped his ant-stained thumb on the concrete. "But a quiet state, like with trees and lakes and stuff."

Emi cracked a wide smile and leaned her head back a bit at a passing breeze. "How'd I know you'd answer like that?

"You? Where'd you want to go?" Shota watched her full bangs lift and dance in the wind before resting back on her forehead with a tenderness he only understood with her, and forgot the moment she left.

Emi thought for a moment before perking up with her answer. "Hawaii. Sorry. If not there, then one of the states on the coast. I like the beach! I'll just have to use a ton of sunblock…"

Shota laid his head on his knees, watching her in quiet adoration. "Yeah, probably."

"But here's cool, too. Maybe somewhere up north though. I don't know if here's really my type of place." Emi nudged his arm a bit. "I'll take you with me!"

"You will?"

She gasped in excitement. "Let's move to Sapporo!"

"What?"

"It has the best Snow Festival! And hot springs! And malls!" She grabbed and shook Shota in all her rush. "Doesn't that sound like fun, Shota?! We can go together, and we can bring our brothers!"

Shota lowered his eyes a bit, but Emi caught it. She always did.

"Oh," she muttered and let go of his arms. "Sorry. Your sister can come, too, but I—"

"I haven't heard from her since I was five, anyway. What's the use of getting sad about it?" Shota forced down his beating heart, the grayness that bordered his vision. He wondered if Chi missed him as much as he missed her? "So, Sapporo? I never been nowhere but here before."

"It's great. We went with my cousins last year. I think you'd like it."

Thumbing the lead-mark on his pinkened finger, Shota asked, "Can I kiss you again?"

"You don't have to ask every time." Emi turned to him fully, crossing her legs at the ankles like a proper lady. Her face was turning red, but she studied Shota expectantly. "Get over here."

Shota had less courage than he'd had the first time, despite the fact that he'd kissed her many other times afterwards, eyeing her from the side with great care. He slowly leaned closer, reaching out to cup her cheek as he approached her glossy lips. She tasted like potato miso and spearmint gum, but so right. Shota gripped her hip with his other hand and pulled her closer. Emi's hands rested lightly on his chest, one of them raking up his neck toward his ear. His neck spiked with goosebumps… And he wanted more. He couldn't explain it, but he did. Their classmates passed by them, some giggling, some flinching, or just whispering. Others pointed and made disgusted sounds.

"Isn't that that rich doctor's daughter?"

"Yeah, and ain't that one Janne's?"

"Pity. They'll destroy each other."

More giggles. But Shota and Emi ignored them.

A sharp whistle and the call of their gym teacher's distant yelling made them part. Shota relished the taste of her, face completely scorched red, and then dreaded that he had had steamed fish for breakfast. The realization made him loathe the idea of turning back to Emi.

But Emi was already sneaking glances, moving her hair behind an ear. "So," she said.

Shota eyed her quickly, playing with his hands in his lap. "Uh… so…"

"Was it okay?"

"Oh, God, no."

Emi frowned at him. She reached over and gripped his bangs, pulled hard. "You don't have to be a complete jerk about it!"

"No, Em. That!" Shota pried her fingers from his hair and hurriedly stood. He pulled her to stand. Emi followed his eyes to the teachers running over. "Shit. You comin'?" He gripped her hand and ran for the open yard out of the blacktop court.

Emi laughed, running behind him with a wide, alive smile. Beautiful, the only word that echoed through Shota's mind. "Go! Hurry!" She sprinted, pumping her legs harder and harder until she matched and slowly passed Shota.

"This isn't funny, Em!" he complained.

Emi turned to him, gripping his hand this time. "You're crying?! Jeez, dude! Run, run!"

"I'm trying!" Shota wiped his face and pushed his legs to charge until they both matched speed. "Think they know who we are?!" He glanced over his shoulder.

"No way! We're fast!"

"Your hair's green and you have the funny accent!"

"You're the one with the accent and crazy hair, Medusa!"

"Medusa's better than a kappa!"

"You're scared of kappas!"

"No!"

Emi looked at him briefly, and he her, before breaking into collective laughter. Against the sun's wink through the dullness of rainclouds, pink treading across his nose, expression open in uncontained laughter, she watched as Shota finally shone. Without restraint. Without hiding his face. Without trying to silence himself into nonexistence. He reached out his hand for her, she took it, and their fingers closed, secured by that red string around their wrists and down to the finger-link.

##

They got as far as the community park before the police came. Dr. Fukukado came out of a trailing Western car, sleek yet sporty enough to boast a luxurious bank account. In a sharp voice, he called, "Emi." Said child nearly leapt from the thunder that hid beneath the professional monotone. "Emi Fukukado."

Emi muttered a curse, untangling her legs from Shota's lap and standing. "Uh oh." Shota stood slowly with her. "Daddy."

Shota stepped back, but reached for Emi's hand. He didn't know the doctor or why the police was there. All he knew was that he didn't appreciate how nervous Emi looked. He knew he had to get her out of there, but he also knew that they were both children doing what they shouldn't. On a school day. So, he froze there, hand outreached and unmet, eyes large in nervous halt and impending dread.

Behind them, a slam of brakes and a car door opening with a creak. Both kids turned as if a ghost had appeared. Mama was there, hair revived and curly. She was dressed in formal clothes. An interview or audition. Interrupted. "Shota Aizawa!"

"Oh, shit." Shota reeled back into Emi's body. She grabbed his hand, turning to see her father coming. But he released from her grasp this time. "Y-you should probably go to your dad. My mum's really mad." His skin crawled, remembering that his mother had no problem doling out discipline in public.

"I'm not gonna leave you if she's that mad." Emi squeezed his hand, chancing a glance to see his mother's anger for herself. It was there, all right. But she couldn't help but be mesmerized by Yoko's exhausted beauty. Aged by a broken heart, now wild with parental fury, but still beautiful. "You wouldn't leave me, would you?"

"Em, please go."

Emi glanced at him—or what she could see of his face, as they were back-to-back. His eyes became hazy and shiny in the screened sunlight. She felt him shivering, heating up and becoming damp through his shirt. What truly shocked Emi was how Shota held his clasping hands to his stomach, dropped his eyes, and, despite his very obvious fear, waited for his mother to come. Emi looked back to Yoko with a newfound gaze of resentment and the urge to protect. Grabbed Shota's hand, locking fingers. She dragged him all the way to her father, who cocked his brow at the stumbling, startled boy that occupied his daughter. This boy who stared at him with eyes nearly as wide and scared as a kitten in a flooding box. "Emi, tell your friend to leave."

Emi squeezed his hand. "Daddy, I'm sorry. I know we were wrong to leave school. But can he come with us? For a little bit."

Shota glanced at her in confusion, at the psychiatrist in panic, and then back at his coming, now-raging mother in a plea to understand that it wasn't him who ran. His mother and stepfather were huge on running away from "well-earned" punishments. You stand there and take it without crying, or so help me. He could only imagine what his parents were going to do to him now. "Em, let go of my hand. Seriously." He pulled from her, and she looked at him in shock. He shook his head, stepping back. "Please."

"Are you crazy? I can help!"

"Don't."

She turned back to her father, who glared down his nose at her. "Daddy, it's not his fault! But his mom's really, really mad, and—"

Dr. Fukukado lowered his chin to her. "Am I'm not? Do you know how reckless this is? I raised you to think."

"But…"

Shota looked at Emi, frowning slowly at the water forming in her eyes and the deadpan of her voice. He nearly said something when he heard his mother snap his name as she kept coming.

Emi's shoulders dropped as she implored her father in a confused, disheartened voice. "We're supposed to help people."

"Running away from school together is not helping anyone," her father scolded in a professional, you-know-better tone. He shoved his hands into his blazer's pockets. "You know that. It's common sense, Emi. What were you thinking?"

Yoko kept coming closer and closer, stomping in her heels through the used soccer field. "You are washing my heels when we get home, you little shit! After I whip your irresponsible ass blue!"

Shota winced. Behind him, Emi made a small sound of the beginnings of tears, but her father kept on scolding and questioning her. In the white noise of his own terror and desire to run again, Shota had not heard any words from Emi since her comment of helping people.

He saw her wipe her eyes. But her father dropped another I'm extremely disappointed in you on her without even moving to stop her from crying. She started to move away from Shota, letting go of his sleeve. This seemed to bloat Dr. Fukukado in some looming satisfaction, eyes glazing over Shota, up and down in an unofficial inspection.

To everyone's amazement—and Dr. Fukukado's amusement—Shota grabbed Emi and forced her behind him. "Oh, what's this?"

But Shota stared up at him with defensive defiance in his eyes, Emi's circular eyes popping out from around the boy's hair. His arms were out and his center of gravity was a tad lower, ready to pounce. His Quirk had activated and thus his hair stood on end. Everyone waited, the police approached with care, urging him to deactivate. After letting the laser glare of his eyes set in, he obeyed.

Yoko stopped behind the two kids. She watched Dr. Fukukado, slipping closer and closer in case the preppy doctor tried anything on her son. She glanced at the police cars on the street behind the doctor's car, who she knew were only doing their job, and their meticulous eye on Shota. "Shota, come here." But what she saw in her son was a burst of impeccable strength, protective anger… the look of I-dare-you. Because she was his mother first and a spectator dead last, she coaxed him with a beckon of her hand, tone shifted to a softer, more worried-mother one. "Shota, baby."

Shota glanced at her for only a bit—fear rattled how his name slipped from her tongue. He glared back at Emi's father. "You're sc-scaring her."

The policemen gently guided Shota to the side, despite Yoko's yelling. He went calmly, but nowhere near pleasantly with that same steadied glare. Dr. Fukukado came forward and whispered for Emi to take his hand. Before she did, Shota's foot knocked the doctor's head to the side when he started fighting the policeman's grip on him. But he did intend for that one hit to land. Watching the glasses fly off the psychiatrist's face was more satisfying than Shota had thought. The two met eyes right before the policemen tightened their grip on him; Shota smirked.

After retrieving his glasses, the doctor grabbed Emi's hand and dragged her to the car. They were off before long. But no one saw: the policemen had finally fought a struggling Shota to the floor.

"Calm down, kiddo," the officer holding his left arm said.

The officer on his right arm moved to hold his wrists. "Easy. It's over."

Yoko shoved them at them in that moment, as everyone was too amazed by the boy's hidden strength to give much resistance. "Get the fuck off my son!"

They listened after Shota calmed. Then they helped him up and Mama dusted him off. The policeman who had been holding Shota's left arm gave a considering sound and then clapped Shota's back. "You're strong. Consider the police force in the future, kid."

When they left, Shota saw that Emi was gone and slumped his shoulders.

"Want to explain to me what that was?" His mother stood in front of him, crossing her arms, but in a more self-cradling way.

"It was… I was being stupid."

"Yeah, very stupid."

Shota turned his face from her, staring at a tribe of ants prowling along damp mud and dew-sprinkled grass.

His silence annoyed his mother, whose voice reflected not fire, but hissing smoke. "First, you want to ditch singing, then you ditch school. I mean, what's gotten into you?!"

Shota looked at her, his eyes dragging in an exhaustion too aged for his own eyes.

"Is it really all that girl?"

A shrug.

Yoko combed her bangs back with a hand and started fumbling for her keys in her massive designer purse. Her newest obsession. Keys clacking, she turned on her heel. "We're going home. You're in enough trouble."

But Shota remained.

She spun back around. "Sho-ta. Come."

"Mama?"

"What?"

"How do you know if you love someone?"

Yoko watched him for a longer time than before. "Whadd'ya know about love? You're in seventh grade."

"I'm asking, Mama." Shota fidgeted, though not with his fingers or his palm. In his fists. Clenching and unclenching. Flexing each tendon and awakening each hidden muscle in his forearms. Fingers nearly trembling against the suddenness of his strength. Not a single trace of timidness or fear in his disposition.

Yoko took note of this and instantly felt her heart quicken in anxious fear or worry and the denial of worry. "Let's go home. I have to do taxes with your father. And you're going straight to your room to think about what you've..." She saw her son's face downturn ever so subtly. Not in juvenile sulking, but in aged disappointment. So, she sighed and approached him carefully, slipping her arm around his shoulders as he stared at the street. "How I knew… was that I didn't. I didn't know, and you won't know until much later. It's never an in-the-moment thing, pup."

Before long, he pressed his face into Yoko's chest and clung to the edges of her shirt.

Yoko wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back. Shota withheld a flinch, and relaxed when she kissed his neck and lay her chin on top of his head. "I won't say nothing to your father—"

"He's not—"

"But you and I have to have a talk."

##

That night, Shota curled up in bed with country radio on low, pulling the wide collar of his shirt to his nose. One of many shirts Daddy had left behind—some of them still had his fresh rain scent embroidered in the cotton. Oversized and warm by default, he let his mind wander with possibilities of his father, who this Yori Aizawa truly was when Yoko wasn't getting on his ass for one thing or the other. He remembered his father being slow to anger, easy to laugh, and quite casual with affection. This affection not remotely close to the suffocating way Yoko's was these days. But free of alternating intent. Just simple love. The left behind shirts and jackets that Shota hid for his own safe-keeping held that memory, somehow.

The shirt was short-sleeved, but on his twelve-year-old, skinny frame, it could've passed as a long-sleeve. When he pulled his arms inside the body of the shirt, imagining his lost father holding him, being here, taking him this time, he could almost hear Daddy's voice: I'm not going anywhere without my favorite boy in the world.

Without a single thought, he'd say yes. But Daddy had fallen silent too long ago.

Tsubasa came in. "Lights out." He must have seen Shota jolt in surprise at his voice because he chuckled and came into the room. "Getting too late for little boys to be fake-sleeping."

Shota looked over his shoulder at his stepfather in the dark. The two stared at each other in a brief silence. The door remained open, but the hallway wasn't any brighter—Shota always closed the door at bedtime. Only Jong was allowed to come in. Tsubasa flicked on the light and, still in his work clothes, sat on the bed beside Shota's legs. Out of respect, Shota moved to make room, turned off the radio, and sat up, sending his eyes straight to his hands on his lap. "Sorry." And he hardened his skin. Bedtimes in Tsubasa's house were strict.

But this time, Tsubasa sighed and cupped his kneecaps with his hands, groaning the entire time from a long day of standing on them. "Your mom told me you played hooky today. What's that about?" Shota dropped his chin to his chest, letting his bangs and fringes cover his face in black waves. Thick fingers with callused pads raked through his bangs to move them to the top of his head, strands catching in the half-fallen flakes of dead skin. When Shota, at the sudden touch, whimpered and squeezed shut his eyes, Tsubasa's chestnut brows furrowed with hints of a reprimand. "Don't do that. What's wrong with you?"

Shota, face reddening from exposure and humiliation, felt his eyes starting to water from his stepfather's sharp tone alone. Crying was dangerous in front of Tsubasa, especially when Shota was within reaching distance. So, he chomped on his tongue and drove his fingernails into his thigh to fend off the tears. "I-I'm just… There's—"

"What?"

"A… girl."

"You got yourself a girl?"

Shota nodded. "I… think so—"

"How?"

"I don't know…" Shota toyed with his thumb, pulling on it, wondering how much force it'd take to disconnect the joint at the base. "W—… She's Dr. Fukukado's daughter."

Tsubasa hummed, somewhat interested, somewhat unsure how to respond. "Well, Quirkies do flock together… You and her dating?"

"I just w—… wanted to make her smile. Really smile."

"You're a little too young to know about what makes a girl really smile."

Shota looked up at him in a flinching, but curious, yet dumbfounded way, eyes wide and unblinking. When Tsubasa shook his head, Shota played with his thumb, tugging on it again. Before his stepfather could scold him for looking weak, he stopped and instead shoved a fringe of hair into the corner of his mouth. "Are you and Mama still mad at me?" Shota despised the youth evident in such a question, let alone how his voice was barely audible.

"'Course we are. You can't just pull a dumb stunt like that outta your ass and think we're gonna just let you get away with it." Tsubasa ran a callused hand through his sandy hair, scowling at the kinks in his neck.

Shota watched his hands in his peripheral. "Where's Mama?"

"Drunk. She was angry. Got on the phone to yell at whoever. Got off the phone to yell at me about you and that girl. Then, she snatched the gin."

"Oh."

"Feel like shit yet?"

Pride pinching, guilt crushing, Shota nodded. He felt the pressure building in his eyes again and dug his nails into his thigh again before his stepfather could suspect tears. "I didn't mean to make anyone mad."

Tsubasa snatched his wrist and held it to himself, eyes ablaze. "The hell're you doing?"

"Nothing…!" The water in Shota's eyes rose faster and overtook his entire expression. A flinch to block or evade swelled in his chest, evident in how his other hand had been raised to lie in wait by his chin.

Tsubasa pointed at Shota's thigh. "Don't hurt yourself like that. What's wrong with you?" Shota relaxed a little, hearing this, looking between his wrist and Tsubasa's eyes. His stepfather's grasp rattled him with emphasis. "You understand me? Don't you dare start that. We're just talking."

"You were worried about me?"

"Do I have to repeat myself?"

"S-sorry."

"You weren't thinking logically. You're hardly thinking at all." Tsubasa let go of Shota's wrist and gave an irritated growling version of a sigh. "This time and when you ditched. Use your head."

"I'm sorry, Tsubasa."

"You gotta tell your mom that. When she wakes up." His stepfather let out a long sigh, scanning the simple room in feigned interest. He casually counted the books stacked high and across the width of Shota's dresser. An aimless glance down merited a pair of damp, brown eyes evading his. "What?" Nudging the child, he repeated, "You're always gawking. You got something to say?"

Shota smiled a bit at the light tease, but even then, it only gave him a wave of nausea. That same voice called him a fuckin' idiot when his dyslexia was discovered at eight. "How do you know when you really… like someone? Emi and I… we..."

"Damn, boy."

"I really like her, to be honest."

"Well," Tsubasa said, standing. Shota watched him. "If she's giving you the attention, take her."

"Take her?"

"And be bold."

"Oh."

"But… still go to school. You hear me?"

"Yes." Shota ducked.

"If I hear any shit about you ditching again, you're getting it. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Tsubasa leaned over and pecked Shota's eyebrow, making the latter jolt again with a short gasp. The child, now looking microscopic from where Tsubasa stood, gaped up at him as if expecting to be slapped across the face. The only other time he'd kissed Shota was after the wedding. We're family now, shortie! This time, Shota knew, sufficed as reassurance after the initial scolding—Mama's method. His stepfather sighed and pointed at the pillow. "Lie down." When Shota showed signs of compliance, he walked to the door, flicking the light switch. "Straight to sleep." And he shut the door.

Pulling the covers up to his nose, Shota moved slowly, careful not to make even a creak of noise. From across the hall, even behind two closed doors, he heard Jong snoring with his mouth open. Probably on his side with an arm tossed carelessly over his eyes. Meaning, too, that he was most likely drooling. Even so, Shota wanted his little brother here in bed with him.

Outside the door, he heard Tsubasa whisper, "He's okay. We have a good kid, there. Just a bad day." Then, footsteps toward the stairs.

Fingers too-lightly roaming over where his stepfather had kissed him, Shota, though he'd heard what was said just outside his door, let the odd affection test the waters of his mind. Without a hint or hesitance, his Heart peeked through the cold barricade named Rationality—un-freed, but testing. He remembered Tsubasa's un-faulting gaze, his mellow voice, and his unexpected sentiment.

No. Rationality slammed, and the Heart ran and hid. Don't let him.

Please R&R and F&F! Always appreciated and welcomed!